That was all the encouragement he needed. He staggered to his feet and ran as fast as he could to the wall. He flung the box over the top. Already he could hear the noise of people in the garden behind him. This time, sheer self-preservation got him over the wall in an instant. He retrieved the box, ran past two large houses, and then scrambled over another garden wall. There in some bushes, he crouched, gasping for breath. Soon he could hear voices in the street.
Then he heard Goosemoor. ‘You two head for the Pilgrim Gate. You go up to Barras Bridge. I’ll start with these houses. He can’t have gone far. Now go quickly!’ he barked. ‘Or Mr Bowser will have our hides.’
How long he stayed in the garden, Jack wasn’t certain. Twenty minutes, maybe longer. It was the numbness that forced him to move – and the fact that it had started snowing again. He reasoned that those searching for him were some way distant and that the thickly falling snow would give him cover. Once in the street, now deserted – though Bowser’s house was ablaze with lights – he kept close to the buildings. He couldn’t risk the Pilgrim Gate, which would be watched all night. He slipped down the side of a large property which didn’t have the inconvenience of a garden wall. He stumbled through a hedge and then into an orchard. After that, he picked his way over some rough ground. The shadow of the town wall ran broodily to his left. Ahead of him, through the thinning snow, he could make out lights in the houses on Sidgate.
It took him a further ten minutes to reach New Gate with its prison looming above. It would have taken him five if he hadn’t pitched into an unseen freezing pool of water and slush on the way. By this time, he was thoroughly soaked. He could hear the wailing of an inmate who had either discovered religion or was being beaten up by a friendly gaoler.
‘Where do you think you’re gannin’?’
Jack stopped guiltily in his tracks. He hadn’t noticed the man in the shadow of the gate arch.
‘Going about my lawful business.’
‘That’s for us to decide. Come here.’
Jack reluctantly stepped into the small guardroom where a flambeau blazed on the wall.
‘Name?’ the man snapped. He looked like a deflated wine sack. He had been fat once but had lost weight, so that his baggy skin hung limply from his body.
‘Mr Torch.’ It must have been the flambeau that inspired him.
The man squinted dubiously. ‘Well, Mr Torch, what’s that you’re carryin’?’
‘A box.’
‘I can see that. What’s in it?’ He was losing patience.
‘That is between me and the owner.’
‘So it’s not yours.’
‘No, I am taking it to the owner.’
‘Mebbees you’ve taken it from the owner. You look in a weary way for a messenger.’
‘I accidentally fell in a pond. I lost my way in the snow.’
The man stared at the object, which Jack clasped protectively to his chest. In the silence, Jack was sure he could hear voices coming from the direction of Sidgate. Could they be Bowser’s men? He must get out of here quickly.
‘I think I better take a look inside.’
‘Impossible,’ Jack blurted out.
‘Why?’ The guard was now deeply suspicious.
‘Because the owner would not countenance it.’
‘A man of influence, is he? But in here, so am I.’ And he made a grab for the box.
Jack whipped it away. ‘It is for the sheriff.’ The man hesitated. ‘It is for Sheriff Ridley.’ The name had the desired effect.
The voices outside became more distinct. They were nearing the gate. Then Jack heard: ‘He’s not passed through the Pilgrim Gate. Ask the gatekeeper if he’s been through here.’ It was Goosemoor issuing the instructions.
‘Pardon me, but I must quit immediately. The sheriff must have this tonight.’ Without giving the man a chance to react, Jack was out of the guardroom in a flash and darting into the shadows on the town side of the gate. To reach Bessie’s, only two minutes distance, he would have to cross the open street. If Goosemoor and his friends spotted him, he was sure to be caught. Pressed against the wall, he heard someone step into the guardhouse. A minute later there was a shout. ‘He’s just been through!’
Fear of what Bowser would do to them drove Goosemoor and the servants through the gate, past Jack’s hiding place, and straight down New Gate Street. When all was quiet, Jack slid out of the shadows.
XLVI
‘Did he touch you?’ Jack was trying to control his temper.
‘Of course he did. I could not stop that. It was your fault. You were supposed to turn up earlier!’ Bessie didn’t sound too pleased.
‘But did he…?’ Jack had seen Bowser leave. He had hidden in a doorway across the street so he wasn’t spotted. Bowser had been whistling a merry tune.
She rebuked him. ‘You should never ask a woman such a question.’
He couldn’t bear it if Bowser had had his evil way with Bessie, but he could see she wasn’t going to enlighten him one way or the other. He also knew not knowing was going to eat him up.
‘What took you so long anyway?’ she said pointedly.
‘If I told you, you would not believe me. Suffice to say, I am lucky to be here at all.’
‘The letter?’
‘I could not find it or anything else incriminating. I was disturbed. However, I did not come away empty-handed.’
He produced the box with a flourish. In the light of the room, he could see how battered it now was. Well, it had been thrown over a number of garden walls.
‘You think it might have something useful in it?’ She inspected the exquisite oblong artefact. The wood was smooth – richly grained walnut was Bessie’s guess – and there was marquetry inlay of a floral design to the top of the lid and the front side. The handle and escutcheon were brass. ‘It looks like a tea caddy to me,’ she said sceptically.
Now that Bessie mentioned it, the box did have a marked similarity to a tea caddy he had once seen at the home of the Bishop of Worcester. ‘I found it hidden in Bowser’s desk,’ he said hopefully.’
‘He probably hid it so his servants could not steal his precious tea; it costs a fortune, you know.’ Why was she being so negative? There wasn’t a hint of gratitude for the efforts that had left him frightened, battered and soaked.
In annoyance, Jack attacked the lock with his knife and he forced open the lid.
Bessie exploded. ‘I send you to get evidence to convict my father’s murderer and all you come back with is a box full of tea!’
This was too much for Jack. ‘You have no bloody idea what I have been through tonight.’
‘What you have been through tonight! What about me, stuck with that disgusting old man.’
‘It was your idea,’ he retaliated bitterly. ‘Anyway, whatever you have put up with, it cannot have been as awful as what I have had to,’ he added childishly.
‘If it was that dreadful, I suggest a restorative cup of tea will revive your spirits!’
Jack was still cursing her unreasonable ingratitude long after she’d slammed the door on her way out. ‘God, I will never understand the other sex.’ He, in turn, banged shut the lid of the caddy, nearly ripping off its beautifully crafted hinges.
XLVII
The more the drink flowed, the louder the conversation grew. It had been a sticky start. After the final performance of The Relapse, Captain Hogg, in a gesture of largesse, had invited Catherine Balmore, Tyler Courtney and Mrs Trump to attend a post-play gathering at the spacious house he rented in Hanover Square. (Having allowed Miss Balmore the use of his cousin’s rather more run-down home, the captain had made sure his abode was a fit place to entertain society.) Though only the three most acceptable members of the troupe had been invited to mingle with the great and the good (Bowser was one notable absentee), most of the others had tagged along. This had caused some initial embarrassment. Actors could be enjoyed on stage. Meeting them socially was totally different. Sheriff Ridley did his best to
avoid Jack’s eye.
Tensions eased when the bulbous captain had to leave abruptly. News had come in that over twenty colliers had been chased back into the Tyne by two French privateers. Hogg reluctantly had to hurry off to Tynemouth to see if there was any further danger posed by the French ships. Speculation sparked conversation into life. Those who felt mixing with thespians was beneath them – the sheriff for one – took advantage of the captain’s call to leave themselves. Those left behind set about depleting the captain’s cellar.
Early in the proceedings, Jack had been cornered by the wife of a town council member. While she broadly hinted that her life was so dull because her husband neglected her, and gave him exact times when the councillor would be away from home, Jack felt that familiar annoyance at seeing Catherine laughing and making eyes at Hogg. He wasn’t too pleased either at the way that Courtney was monopolising Bessie – or was it the other way round? When the captain was summoned, Jack took the opportunity to escape the councillor’s wife. Under normal circumstances, he would have eagerly taken advantage of the lady’s open invitation, for she was not unattractive. But with Catherine and Bessie both enjoying themselves without him, he could not concentrate. As he excused himself, the lady deftly touched the front of his breeches and whispered her address in his ear. In his haste, he didn’t catch the name of the street.
He sidled up to Catherine, who had just returned from seeing the captain off. ‘It is most unfortunate that Captain Hogg has been called away on such a wretched night as this. I suspect he will get thoroughly drenched.’
Catherine surveyed him, amusement playing in those beautiful eyes, perfectly set off by her robe à la française of blue and silver silk damask brocade and her lightly powdered hair. ‘I am sure the captain would be touched to hear that you show so much concern for his wellbeing.’
They both grinned. With luck, the blubbery captain would catch a fever and conveniently die. Then the way would be open. Jack couldn’t help fantasising. ‘As the good captain is detained, will you need an escort home tonight?’
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘That is most gallant of you, Jack. However, such an offer may not be well received by your admirer.’
Jack turned round and saw Bessie glaring in their direction. She, too, had dressed up for the occasion in her best (and only) silk dress, but it didn’t hold a candle to Catherine’s. ‘Ah, I see what you mean. Maybe on another occasion.’
‘Yes, another time perhaps. Come, refresh your glass.’ Catherine guided him to a liveried flunky, who poured some fine claret into his glass. He was glad the clawing, cheap mulled wine they had been served on their arrival had run out.
The room was still fairly full. The noise of animated chatter and laughter rose under the high ceiling. The portraits round the walls of dull merchants and their equally dull wives surveyed the proceedings with disapproval.
Catherine put a hand on Jack’s arm. It was a move prompted by concern, not affection. The smile had gone and there was an unexpected urgency in her voice. ‘Jack, you must have heard about the robbery at Mr Bowser’s house a few nights past? Do you know anything about it?’
Jack was about to play the innocent. Too late, he realised his expression of horror at her question had given him away.
‘I had a dreadful feeling that it was you after what you told me the other evening. Though it is not common knowledge, Captain Hogg got wind of the story. He believes Bowser’s men have been combing the town for something that was stolen.’ Jack frowned questioningly. ‘No, I did not mention anything of the matter to him. All I say is this, Jack. Mr Bowser is an enemy you can ill afford to have. You must flee the town as I suggested. If he discovers it is you, I fear for your life. I can give you a little money if you need it.’
‘That is kind of you, Catherine, though escaping this place is not a simple task.’
They moved closer to the corner of the room so as not to be overheard.
‘I cannot understand what on earth Bowser thinks he has had stolen.’
‘You did not take anything?’
‘Nothing of any consequence.’
‘What is not of any consequence?’ Bessie was making a habit of barging in on his conversations with Catherine. A few minutes ago, he had been jealous because “his ladies” were talking with other men; now he had the attention of both.
‘Mr Flyford was saying that The Relapse was not of any consequence, yet he thoroughly enjoyed playing in it.’ Jack admired Catherine’s coolness.
‘Yes, I was. I was comparing it to the superior qualities of the higher works which we have performed. And of those I have performed in Edinburgh.’
Not surprisingly, Bessie was unconvinced as soon as Jack started to ramble. ‘Jack, dearest,’ and here she raised her eyebrows in warning to Catherine, ‘I did not realise you were so thoughtful on the subject of high drama. When you are with me, you seem to prefer to talk of lower pleasures, particularly,’ – this time Jack received a mock smile – ‘those laid upon the dining table.’
Catherine stiffened. ‘I must mingle with the captain’s guests.’ She then returned Bessie’s stare. ‘Oh, Mr Flyford, I may take you up on your kind offer to escort me safely to Pilgrim Street this night.’ With an exaggerated rustle of her wide-hooped skirts, she moved off. Jack didn’t know where to put himself.
Through gritted teeth, Bessie angrily whispered, ‘Escort her home! Are you not making rather a habit of that?’
He spat back. ‘How can you make such lewd remarks in front of her?’
‘Easily.’
The volcanic repartee was about to erupt when a loud clapping stopped conversations around the room. Tyler Courtney raised his hands for quiet.
‘Please forgive me for interrupting this merriest of gatherings.’ From the flushed face, Jack could see that he had been punishing the captain’s carefully gathered wine stock. ‘Lords, ladies and gentlemen… and members of the theatre, of course.’ His joke elicited laughter from the worthy citizens and wine-filled scowls from the thespians.
‘I am sorry that Captain Hogg has been taken away from us on His Majesty’s most urgent business. However, I think this is an appropriate time to make a couple of announcements. As you know, our last production will be Dr Young’s The Revenge’ – polite applause – ‘which I know you will all want to come and see. The good news is that we will be playing again at the Theatre in the Bigg Market next season, beginning in October.’ The applause this time came from the relieved actors. At least they had employment to look forward to even if it meant a lean summer, though some might find work in the months ahead with groups of travelling players at county fairs and improvised theatres in taverns. One thing Jack was sure of, he wouldn’t be within a hundred miles of Newcastle come October – or even for the performance of The Revenge.
‘But the most exciting piece of news I have,’ and Courtney waited to create the maximum effect, ‘is that very soon our humble theatre will play host to none other than Mr David Garrick.’
At first there was silence. Then what Courtney had said began to sink in. Cheers, delighted claps and excited chatter burst out all over the room. The exceptions were Bessie and Jack, who mentally put aside their differences and exchanged fretful glances. ‘The fool has had too much to drink,’ Jack hissed bitterly.
‘You are going to have to write that letter mighty quickly,’ Bessie muttered back.
Courtney was waving his arms again as though trying to attract someone’s attention from a great distance. Quiet descended once more, though an inebriated buzz of anticipation bubbled close to the surface. ‘It is none other than my colleague and great friend, Mr Flyford,’ (since when had they become great friends? Jack wondered) ‘who is responsible for this fabulous moment for the citizens of Newcastle. It is he to whom we must offer our heartfelt thanks. Tell us, Jack,’ Courtney wobbled with the effort of pointing in Jack’s direction, ‘when do you hope that Mr Garrick will be with us?’
Courtney may be drunk but the scheming
bastard was deliberately putting him on the spot – and it couldn’t be at a more public occasion. The guests craned their necks to see Jack and hear his answer. There was only one thing he could do. He grasped at the fancy choker about his neck (he was wearing his expensive and fashionable ensemble), made a feeble gurgling noise and collapsed on the floor. He just hoped the dust and spilt wine wouldn’t ruin his beautiful blue jacket.
XLVIII
‘It was so embarrassing; I did not know where to put myself.’ Bessie had adopted her mistress-to-servant voice.
‘What was I supposed to do?’ Jack answered reasonably. ‘I could not say that it was a tissue of lies.’ He ruefully held up his prized jacket. There was a red stain down one sleeve and the gold cuff was now maroon. His fall had been so spontaneous that he hadn’t noticed the servant coming up behind him with a tray of drinks. The servant had been bowled over along with the glasses, all full.
‘Could you have not made up some story? You are very good at that!’ Bessie too was undressing. She was not so peeved that she had banished him to his room. They had gone straight up to her bedroom as soon as they had entered the house. ‘I hope Captain Hogg does not demand recompense for his broken glasses and that clock; those French ones are most expensive.’ The servant’s flying drinks tray had done that. Christ, more money I owe, Jack thought dejectedly.
He had started to plot his escape as he lay on the floor feigning illness. Courtney had rushed over and roughly loosened his choker – now that was ruined, too – and others had lifted him into a chair. He gave it a few minutes before he came round. Manfully, he recovered – ‘must be the heat’ – and, with Bessie as support, departed quickly. Fortunately, everyone was too drunk to notice or worry except Catherine who, behind Bessie’s back, indicated a bag of coins. Money was available. He had decided to take up Catherine’s offer despite his feelings for both her and Bessie. Admiring them from the grave was not as romantic as lovesick poets might lead you to believe, Jack concluded. In disgust, he threw his ruined jacket over the large clothes chest in the corner.
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 23