Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  ‘That is tomorrow. Mr Garrick arrives the day after.’

  ‘The other two,’ Jack hurried on, ‘point to a meeting, which I believe to be with a French contact. The seven refers to a warehouse Bowser owns on the Gateshead bank of the river. I followed him there,’ he lied. ‘The last number indicates the time of the meeting.’ (This Bessie had deduced.) ‘If Captain Hogg can see these tonight – and as you can witness, they condemn the man – he must be persuaded to bring troops along to the warehouse and catch Bowser in the act of treason.’

  A little frown creased the milky skin on Catherine’s forehead. ‘Jack, I still do not comprehend why you cannot lay out the selfsame argument to Captain Hogg in person. He will give you a fair hearing.’

  ‘That is possible. However, Bowser has had me followed these past few days. I think I lost his man on the way here. But it might not be so easy next time. If I am seen with the captain, Bowser will hear of it and he will be alerted. If Bowser fails to turn up tomorrow night, we might never prove his guilt.’

  ‘Nay, all these papers you have shown me do that sufficiently.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it is only my word that the tea caddy is Bowser’s. And my word is not highly regarded in many quarters in this town. After all, I stole it. Are they going to believe a man who admits he is a thief?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Even if they did believe me, Bowser would plead ignorance. No one can prove this ever belonged to him. That is why I need your assistance. Catherine, if Bowser is not arrested tomorrow night, I am dead.’

  LIV

  ‘She has agreed to it.’

  Bessie demurely continued with her sewing.

  ‘She says she will speak to Captain Hogg tonight.’

  Bessie dexterously pulled the needle through the material before plunging it back in. The coolness of her demeanour since she had stumbled across Jack’s flight plans upset him. The fact that he knew she was entitled to act so only made it more painful.

  ‘Miss Balmore will tell me whether she has been successful at the rehearsal tomorrow.’

  ‘She will be successful,’ said Bessie without raising her head as she swiftly and methodically mended her dress. ‘That is why it was best that you went to her and not directly to Captain Hogg. I judge that her powers of persuasion are stronger than yours.’ Jack didn’t feel in a position to rebuke her jibe.

  ‘What if she cannot coax him into action? After all, the man is a fool.’

  ‘You have nothing to fear now. All will be well. You have played your part. After the rehearsal tomorrow, you slip away and take your ship. So whether Bowser is trapped or no, you will be safely gone.’ This delay meant he would miss the Malmesbury, but he had heard there was another ship leaving the following night. It was bound for London. But he would be cutting it fine.

  ‘What about Garrick?’

  ‘I will see to that. I have already asked Mr Courtney to visit tomorrow evening, and I will explain to him that Mr Garrick is not coming. I will say that you received a letter saying he was too ill to travel, or some such excuse, and that because you were embarrassed at letting the theatre down, you have left the town. You will be gone, so my story will be believed.’

  The crushing weights that he had borne for weeks crashed from his shoulders. He felt light-headed with relief. If only he could share it with Bessie. They had endured so much together and now, when a satisfactory conclusion was in sight, there was a void between them. He almost found himself offering to stay and see it through with her, until the consequences of Hogg not getting himself involved, or bungling the operation, came home to him with nasty clarity. He had been threatened and beaten up more times than any man should experience in a lifetime – and he had only been in Newcastle four months.

  As he took his leave, Bessie spoke: ‘There is a letter for you. Hilda put it in your room.’

  ‘Knowing her, she will have read it.’

  ‘Fortunately for you, she cannot read.’

  It was from Digges. After all he had endured in Newcastle, Digges’ exploitation of him no longer seemed so shameful. Jack sat back on his bed and found himself enjoying catching up on the gossip from the New Concert Hall and following Digges’ rapacious progress through the society ladies of Edinburgh. The letter concluded: Jack, I am sure you are the toast of Newcastle by now, yet if you see it in your heart, there is once more a place for you here. Your nemesis, Knoxland Dodds, is no longer with us. His dear Mollie at last persuaded him that there was pleasure to be gained from grappling with earthly flesh. Unfortunately, the excitement proved too much and his heart gave out. I am reliably informed that in death, Dodds wore a serene smile upon his face, an expression he never achieved whilst living. Now Mollie’s bed grows cold and is in urgent need of warmth. Dearest Jack, I will welcome you back like the prodigal son and will kill the fatted calf on your return.

  Digges had the damnedest cheek. The prodigal son! It was Digges’ fault that he had to run from Edinburgh in the first place. At least the biblical prodigal son had wasted his father’s money. Digges’ pitiful contribution had hardly lasted the first day. He threw the letter down on the bed. Edinburgh and Digges would have to do without him. His ship was heading south, not north – and if Bowser wasn’t arrested, Edinburgh would be too close for comfort. And also too close to Axwell, for that matter.

  After an uncomfortably silent supper with Bessie, Jack retired to his room. This would, thankfully, be his last night in Newcastle. He hoped Bessie would tap on his door for old time’s sake. No knock came.

  Even Jack managed to get caught up in the excitement of the rehearsal. Everyone – with the exception of Bessie and himself – was eagerly anticipating Garrick’s arrival the next day. Then they would be rehearsing on the same stage as the great man. According to Mr Southby, Mrs Trump had kept off the gin the last few days in an attempt to lose the puffy redness about the face that even her heavy make-up failed to disguise. She wanted to make an impression, Southby murmured with approval. Miss Puce had miraculously recovered from her latest deathbed illness and threw her waiflike figure about the stage with alarming abandon.

  Catherine, of course, was as stunning as ever. Garrick wouldn’t know what he was missing. Most excited of all was Tyler Courtney. He flounced about the stage, nervously shouting instructions to everyone, from the carpenter to the violinist. How Bessie was going to bring him down from such Olympian heights of enthusiasm, Jack didn’t even dare contemplate. It wasn’t his problem any more. None of it was, hence his own relaxed attitude. But he would miss Angel Bright, Septimus Spong, Southby, Mrs Trump, and especially Catherine – and Bessie, of course.

  Aloof though Bessie had become, he couldn’t help a surge of affection as he watched her go through her paces. Though he loved Catherine, she would always be unattainable. If circumstances had been different, then, in time, Bessie would have made a handsome wife. Though a trifle too wilful, she had many other qualities.

  After the rehearsal, he would briefly return to Bessie’s to say farewell (if she was talking to him), attempt to lose Old Faithful, then wait in a tavern until dark before slipping onto a rowing boat, which would take him out to the Rosetta further down the river. When he had found a safe haven, he would write to Bessie and she would send on his things. He wouldn’t risk his belongings, which included his superb, if partially battered and soiled, new outfit, being transported to the quayside. Old Faithful would spot any such activity.

  He gave Catherine the opportunity to have a brief word with him by hanging back in the auditorium while the others left for their midday dinner. The orchestra was still practising, so their conversation could not be overheard. Would he have the courage to say he loved her before he departed? She got straight down to business.

  ‘Captain Hogg will act.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ sighed Jack.

  ‘At first, he would not believe it, though he has nothing but contempt for Bowser. However, the evidence has won him round.’

  �
�That is excellent news. I knew you would do it.’ Trust Bessie to be right.

  Catherine paused while the orchestra came to an abrupt halt in mid-refrain. Charles Avison held up his hand and waved it about. Courtney had brought in Newcastle’s celebrated composer to play one of his own pieces during the interval. Avison was now in middle age. Though not a naturally flamboyant man, his cheeks were flushed beneath his powdered wig with the effort of trying to coax the motley bunch of musicians who made up the theatre orchestra into doing justice to his composition, one of many in the style of Rameau. He had reached the point when he was having grave misgivings about doing this miniature concert in front of what would be an influential audience; Garrick’s name would pull more than the usual rabble-rousing theatregoers. He made a mental note to stick to his subscription concerts at the Assembly Rooms in the Groat Market in future.

  As the orchestra lurched back into the music, Catherine continued. ‘The captain has given me instructions to pass on to you.’

  ‘What?’ Jack stuttered in alarm. He didn’t want to play any further part in this particular drama.

  Catherine saw him blanch. ‘Do not worry. All he needs is guiding to the warehouse.’

  ‘But I do not know where…’ He stopped himself.

  ‘What do you mean? You told me you followed Bowser there.’

  ‘Of course I did. What I was going to say is that I do not know where the best place to meet is.’

  Catherine eyed him for a moment. ‘There is no problem. He says he will bring his men to the churchyard of St. Mary’s in Gateshead. He will meet you there at a quarter past seven of the clock.’

  This was a complication. He had never been on the Gateshead side of the river. Bessie would have to tell him how to find the warehouse. Could he then guide Captain Hogg and his men in the dark? More importantly, would he then have time to make it to the Rosetta?

  ‘One last point, Jack. Captain Hogg says that you must lose Bowser’s man or else you will give the game away.’

  Jack could see the sense in that. But it meant one more headache.

  The music shuddered to a discordant halt. Avison was close to tears. Jack turned to Catherine in time to see her bunched skirts disappearing through to the back of the theatre. She had gone without a word. Another ‘God speed’ would have done.

  Jack slipped into a well of loneliness. He would never see Catherine again. That smile would live with him forever. If only she had flashed it one final time so he could have consciously fixed it in his mind to call forth whenever he needed consoling! Without her, he suddenly felt like a rudderless ship meandering aimlessly, no destination in sight. He would go after her, speak to her one more time, tell her he loved her above all others. Even as he stood up, he knew he wouldn’t. She would be embarrassed. Best to remember her as she was during their last few meetings. She had shown him affection; he could ask for no more. And it was her money that would see him safely away from Newcastle. Maybe she was too overcome to say a proper farewell. Her demeanour had been subdued when they spoke. Yes, she would miss him. If he was going to enjoy wallowing in unrequited love, he must think positively.

  Now he had one more parting to undertake, though first he must get Bessie to describe how to find the warehouse from St. Mary’s Church.

  LV

  ‘Is it clear in your mind?’

  ‘Back down the hill and first right along High Gate. Where the houses finish, there is a line of warehouses. It is the last building at the end of that section of the waterfront,’ said Jack, repeating the instructions.

  ‘Even in the dark, you should not miss it. Bowser’s is also the tallest building in that row. And, unlike the two before it, his warehouse is constructed of wood. It cannot have been built that long ago. It has its own wharf on the river.’

  This was unnecessary detail as Jack had already made up his mind that he would pass on the instructions to Hogg and then immediately disappear over the bridge to catch his ship. There was nothing in the world that would make him go anywhere near the warehouse. Much as he wanted Bowser to be arrested, he didn’t want to be around just in case it all went wrong. Even if Old Faithful found him again on the way to the Rosetta, it would be too late to report to Bowser, who would be otherwise occupied. And Jack was confident that if Old Faithful tried to stop him at the waterfront, he was big enough to see off his scrawny shadow.

  ‘Well, I had better take my leave. I have to lose Bowser’s man before I meet with Captain Hogg.’ It was now six. Jack hadn’t returned to Bessie’s straight after he left the theatre. He had sought out Southby, who was comfortably settled in his favourite Flesh Market tavern. He wanted to see Southby one last time so he could repay the money he owed him out of Catherine’s escape fund. Southby was surprised and immediately insisted that he buy Jack a meal – ‘The capon is particularly delicious.’ – followed by drinks. At least he wouldn’t have Southby on his conscience.

  A softness came into Bessie’s face. She too was beautiful. He had always unfairly compared her to Catherine. He was saying goodbye forever to the two most important women in his life (other than his sister) on the same day. She held out her hands to him. He took them warily. Though each of them was touching the other, Jack still felt there was a gap between them.

  ‘I hope tonight goes well for both of us. That at last my father’s murderer is brought to justice, and that you get away safely. I will never forget what you have done for me – and, if all is resolved, for my father. You have lived with danger ever since I involved you in this sad business. In my heart, I do not attach blame to you for leaving now.’

  She was melting. Carry on like this and she would be in his arms. Would he have time for one last gallop?

  ‘I am sorry for my coolness this last day or so.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Jack trying to ease himself closer.

  ‘My thoughts will be with you.’

  ‘And mine with you,’ muttered Jack, the old familiar urges returning to his loins.

  ‘Now,’ Bessie said, letting go of his trembling hands, ‘I must prepare for Tyler Courtney. He will be calling soon. I have the most difficult task of informing him that your friend, Mr Garrick, will not be making an appearance tomorrow.’

  That was it. Not even a goodbye kiss. This was not one of his better days.

  LVI

  Losing Old Faithful had been easier than he thought. Jack had dived into a tavern at the bottom of The Side, slipped out the back door, down a narrow lane and back into the throng that milled outside the Guildhall. Dark it may have been, but the unseasonable mildness of the weather had brought many onto the streets. The taverns would be bulging tonight.

  Before he ventured over the bridge, he nervously glanced around. No shadow, though it was difficult to be sure in the gloom. He walked beside a cart to shield him from view. The driver had imbibed too much on his visit to market and was in imminent danger of plunging off the front. Fortunately, the horse seemed to know its way. Now positive that he was on his own, Jack left the cart on the Gateshead side of the bridge and strode quickly up the bank towards St. Mary’s Church. He had a bag over his shoulder containing his essential belongings and Catherine’s money. How much would he have to slip the captain of the Rosetta? What would he do when he got to London? He would have time enough on board to work out his plans.

  Out of the darkness, the church loomed up in front of him; a shaft of moonlight caressing the tower. Up here, the air was clear; stars twinkled above as though silver paint had been flicked across the sky. On the other side of the river, Newcastle was wreathed in smoke, through which a thousand lights winked blearily. There was a great deal of activity along the quayside; flambeaux moved to and fro like will-o’-the-wisps. All along the further shore, from the outskirts of Sandgate to as far as the eye could see, the fires from the Ouseburn glassmakers and riverside foundries burned brightly. They would sparkle and spit all night. And somewhere below him, among the dark warehouses, Bowser would meet his fate.

&nb
sp; Jack hung his bag over an upright gravestone and sat with his back to the cold slab. It was too dark to read the inscription. From this vantage point, he could see the entrance to the churchyard yet be out of sight himself. He wasn’t taking any chances at this late stage.

  The church clock struck seven times. Only another quarter of an hour and Hogg would be here. Jack hoped he would bring a well-armed force with him. Bowser had enough bruisers of his own to put up quite a fight.

  Time seemed to stand still. How long was it since he’d heard the clock chime? Easily fifteen minutes. The last thing he needed was the pompous ass to be late. He would get up and wait at the gate. He shivered as he stood, clapping his arms across his chest to restore his circulation and calm his rising twitchiness. Suddenly, he was aware that figures were close to him. He started to utter the word ‘Captain’. Then something crashed down on the back of his head and blackness rushed in.

  LVII

  The lights were blurred in front of his half-opened eyes. Jack closed them again quickly. His hand automatically felt for the bump on the back of his head. He didn’t have to touch it to know it was giving him a throbbing headache. Once again, he opened his eyes. An evil face exuding foul-smelling breath was pressed close to his.

  ‘Mr Flyford has decided to join us.’ Jack snapped his eyes shut. The face belonged to Lazarus Bowser. What in God’s name had gone wrong?

  He was yanked roughly to his feet. ‘Tie him to that chair,’ Bowser commanded. Strong hands bound Jack tightly and then he was left, though one of Bowser’s thugs, armed with a pistol, was ordered to keep an eye on him.

  Gradually, he began to get his bearings. This must be Bowser’s warehouse. By the light of the numerous flambeaux, he could see wooden crates piled high one upon another, and bales of cloth stacked against one of the massive walls. There were also trays of spices, the smells from which made him feel sick as his head continued to swim. Steps led up to a second level where he supposed more goods were stored. Where Jack was sitting, in the empty area that wasn’t taken up by the fruits of Bowser’s business empire, two long tables were stretched out end to end in front of him. At the head of these, Bowser was in deep conversation with a small man with a prominent, beaked nose. His movements were quick and orderly compared with Bowser’s cumbersome oafishness. The man accepted Bowser’s snuff and after inhaling, raised his fingers roofwards in a dramatic show of appreciation for its quality. This was surely Bowser’s French contact, a fact which was soon confirmed when Bowser came lumbering back up towards Jack, the man following in his slipstream.