He returns on the day of Wake’s visit. Finds the front door has been left open by Wake as he slips away. He goes in to indulge in a little burglary and enters the library hoping to discover something of value to steal. Instead, he finds Dr Danson groggy or unconscious. Even such a dullard as Stubbings would realise killing him would make his sister a wealthy woman. He could then blackmail her, claiming she’d asked him to do it. The madam at the bordello had told him the brother had tried to sponge off his sister before. Why not do it again?
Evidence! He needed evidence!
He could start by enquiring of Halloran if any of the treasury clerks was not at his post. Probably one who had given no reason for being absent. If the answer was yes, he would send one or two of the street children to where the clerk lived to find out more.
Stop!
He would also need to confront Mrs Danson and demand to know why she had been lying to him.
Foxe groaned loudly. He’d made the mistake of allowing his admiration for the young woman to slip over into something like affection. Now he was going to hurt her badly; maybe even prove she’d had a hand in her husband’s murder. If she had, this action would send her to the gallows — and he would be responsible.
He had no sleep that night.
14
Foxe was glad to leave his bed the next morning. He had spent a wretched night with his mind running over what he knew again and again, like a jungle creature trapped in a cage in some miserable touring menagerie. Either that or an animal caught in a trap; constantly seeking some way out and finding none. Very well. If he had to ruin two peoples’ lives in the cause of justice, he’d best get it over as quickly as possible.
Since trying to eat any breakfast would have made him sick, Foxe went into his library the moment he left his bedroom, telling Molly to bring him a pot of good, strong coffee and nothing else. Next, he sent a message to the manager of the theatre, via Alfred, his manservant, asking Mr Bewell to visit him at noon. He would have liked it to be earlier, but actors, he knew, tended to be late risers. Getting Bewell out of bed to answer an urgent summons would alert him at once that something serious was afoot. The last thing Foxe wanted now was to cause the man to try to make a run for it.
After delivering the message, Alfred should then enquire, as casually as possible, how the previous night’s performance had turned out. If well — especially if Bewell’s performance had been praised — he should say that his master wished to offer his congratulations in person. If poorly, he should offer no explanation of the reason for Foxe’s request. Foxe’s reputation at the theatre was high and the manager would be eager to please a wealthy patron. Bewell would doubtless come as requested whether Alfred had explained the reason or not.
Confronting Adam Bewell and charging him with the killing of Lord Aylestone was risky. There was no doubt of that. He had thought over the alternatives during that long, painful night, and decided there was no other way forward. Halloran had lately been sending Foxe almost daily messages asking for firm information to give to the mayor. Viscount Penngrove was ranting and raving about lack of progress, harassing the mayor to such an extent he had taken to his bed. He’d even told his servants not to admit any more messengers from the viscount whatever the circumstances. There would be no peace until Foxe presented them with Lord Aylestone’s murderer. Did he believe he had enough evidence for a trial and conviction anyway, even without a confession? It was far from watertight, but it might just do.
Charlie Dillon had also been sent early on a mission. His was to collect a suitable number of the street children for Foxe to question again about the man with the gold pendant, the one they called “Uncle”. Rather than go on fretting while he waited for Bewell to arrive, Foxe went to the far end of his garden. There, by the stables where Charlie had his room, he found a gaggle of children already clustered about Charlie.
There was about a dozen of them, most standing, but a few seated on the ground. Foxe judged their ages to range from around five or six up to fifteen or sixteen. Even that early in the morning, the older girls were already dressed in the tawdry finery which marked them out as prostitutes. The boys, whatever their ages, merely looked what most of them were: thieves and pickpockets. The very youngest girls simply looked wretched. Every time he saw these children, it pained Foxe to know the vast bulk of the people of the city thought of them as vermin; on a par with the rats which ran everywhere. Their only desire was to see the city authorities round them up, confine them to orphanages and there put them to work. In the public’s mind, the poor wretches deserved punishment for being what they were. Only a few people like Foxe knew what they really needed was love, help and compassion.
Foxe told Charlie to bring him a seat from the stable and he sat himself down amongst them. The group were all dirty and half-starved. They almost certainly all had fleas and lice. Foxe didn’t care. Nor did he fear to come close amongst them. For many years now, Foxe had done what he could for such children, distributing money and making sure his servants provided what food they could to the neediest. On that day too, he sent Charlie at once to the kitchen to ask Mrs Whitbread, his cook, to send out whatever food she could get together.
He came back with two plates heaped with bread and crusts spread with meat dripping and a half-finished cake. Only when everything had disappeared into hungry bellies did Foxe begin his questions.
‘Which of you has agreed to speak for the others?’ he said. A girl of maybe fourteen years, taller than the rest and clothed in an especially gaudy costume, raised a hand.
‘I’m Daisy,’ she said shyly. ‘I’ll speak for them.’
‘Thank you, Daisy,’ Foxe replied. ‘The rest of you stay quiet until Daisy has answered each question I put to her. Then you’ll have your chance to add anything you wish. If you all talk at once, I’ll not be able to listen to any of you properly. If you do wish to say something, raise your hand and wait until I point to you. Behave properly and there’ll be more food and pennies for everyone. Do you agree?’
All nodded eagerly. Some even crossed their hearts in token of making a solemn promise.
‘Good. Now, Daisy. What sort of a man was the person you called “Uncle” — the one whose body some of you found a few days ago?’
‘A lovely man,’ the girl replied. ‘Kind an’ soft-spoken like you, Mr Foxe. Spoke like a rich man too, for all that ’e ’ad no more than the rest of us. The scraps ’e could get were scarce enough to keep ’im alive, but ’e were always ready to share ’em wi’ us.’
A number of heads nodded in earnest agreement to show she was speaking for all of them in what she said.
‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’ Foxe said. ‘Did he ever explain how he came to be begging to survive?’
‘Uncle were a wunnerful teller o’ stories, weren’t ’e?’ Daisy replied. More nodding heads. ‘Liked to gather some of us about ’im at night and spin us yarns.’
‘What about?’
‘We thought ’is mind were wanderin’ see? Almost all ’is tales was about a man like ’himself ’oo lived in this ’maginary world. A place where ’e ’ad servants, a grand house and a stable full of ’orses. That was allus what ’e told us stories about. ’e also warned us to be careful about ’ow we chose to live in the future. No more thievin’ and whorin’ than we ’ad to do to live. What ’e said was it were ’is own fault as ’e had bin brought so low. Aye, an ’e longed to see ’is family again, only that weren’t possible.’
One of the others raised a hand to speak. ‘Folks is allus tellin’ us things like that, they is. Only angry like. ’E sounded sad when ’e said it. Even cried a bit once.’
Another raised a hand to speak, a girl this time. ‘You’ve forgot that other story what ’e came out with that made ’im cry. ’E said ’e had once ’ad a wife an’ a child, but ’is wife ’ad died. It were grief what made ’im go a-beggin’. It were true, if you asks me, an’ all.’
The other children start to mock her at that,
saying she had a head full of romantic ideas and nobody else would have believed such a tale.
Foxe called for quiet, then asked the girl if she could remember any more.
‘All as I can call to me mind is that Uncle said ’e’d started to live rough after ’is wife died cos ’e couldn’t bear to stay in the ’ouse wi’out ’er.’
Their spokesman, Daisy, now stepped in. ‘That’s right enough, Mr Foxe,’ she said. ‘That’s what ’e did say an’ all. I ’eard ’im meself. I believed ’im too.’
‘Did he say where the child was now?’ Foxe said. ‘Or whether it was a boy or a girl?’
‘A boy, as I remembers,’ Daisy said. ‘What else? Yes, ’e also said once as what the child was living with ’is dead wife’s parents. Said as ’ow the lad were better off wi’out ’im, since ’e couldn’t provide for ’im as a father should.’
Other children added one or two details after that, but it was clear they knew very little more. Still, Foxe was well content with what he had. He sent them away with pennies and food as he had promised. Finally, he told them he was willing to pay a significant reward for information on where this child might be. They were to find out as soon as they could and send back word to him through Charlie.
When Adam Bewell came into the room, Foxe thought the young man looked as if he had an ague. His face was pale, there was sweat on his forehead and his hands shook.
Foxe had decided to talk with the actor in his library and alone. The constable he’d summoned was in the servants’ part of the house awaiting a call. Probably in the kitchen eating Mrs Whitbread’s cake and washing it down with a small beer. Foxe hoped talking with Bewell wouldn’t take long. He felt wretched enough as it was. Prolonging the agony wouldn’t help him or his visitor.
Before he could say anything, the actor spoke. His voice was shaking. It sounded totally different from the firm, carrying tones Foxe had heard him use during the rehearsal when he visited the theatre.
‘I know this is a trick, Mr Foxe,’ the actor began. ‘I debated with myself whether or not to come at all; but, if I run away now, I’ll be running for the rest of my life. Why did you lie in your message? You weren’t in the theatre last night. I looked for you, as I have been looking for you ever since I heard you were taking an interest in Lord Aylestone’s death. I didn’t mean to kill him, you know. That’s God’s truth, I swear it. If you hadn’t become involved, I might have even got away with it. You’ve taken away my sleep for the past week, Mr Foxe. Now you’re going to take away my life as well.’
Foxe sighed, cursing himself inwardly for his involvement. He should have left it to Viscount Penngrove to do his own dirty work. Too late now. He couldn’t ignore what he knew, nor turn a blind eye to a man’s death, however unpleasant the fellow had been.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘I know you and Lord Aylestone quarrelled at the ball. Then the manager asked you and your companion to leave and you escorted Miss Marsh home. I also know you lied to me when you said you went home afterwards. You’d recognised Lord Aylestone’s costume as a duplicate of the Harlequin outfit in the theatre’s wardrobe, hadn’t you? Maybe the wardrobe mistress even told you about what she’d been asked to do. Either way, you went to the theatre instead. There you put on the duplicate Harlequin costume to replace the one you were wearing. After that, you returned to the Assembly House.’
‘How did you know?’ Bewell asked. ‘I thought I’d been so careful.’
‘No one but a person connected with the theatre would have known where to find the costume in the dark, Mr Bewell. I was suspicious simply because of that. Mrs Vickers told me something later which made me certain. When you took the costume back afterwards, you had forgotten exactly where it had been. As a result, you misplaced it on the racks in the theatre’s wardrobe. You also botched the attempt to clean the evidence off the original costume you’d worn, even though you kept it for some time after it should have been returned. Lastly, I have the evidence of eye-witnesses. They told me someone returned to the Assembly House late in the proceedings and only just before Aylestone’s body was found.’
‘I feared you, Mr Foxe. Now I see I also underestimated you. Everything you’ve said is correct. You might have been there yourself.’
‘You weren’t careless in most respects,’ Foxe said. ‘I know the theatre well and was able to seek out the people I needed, then stitch their evidence together. You did make one mistake, though.’
‘What was that?’
‘You killed Lord Aylestone with his own dagger, then left it under the body. An intruder would have either used his own weapon or taken what he had used away with him. The final piece in the puzzle was supplied by a remark the physician, who first examined the corpse, made to those about him. He said he was surprised at how quickly the body had begun to cool and stiffen. At that time, you see, everyone thought Aylestone had been killed just before he was found. In fact, Mr Bewell, his death had taken place before you and Miss Marsh left. Am I not right?’
‘You are, sir. But it wasn’t murder. It was an accident.’
‘Tell me what happened then,’ Foxe said.
‘As you know, sir, Lord Aylestone had made a spectacle before all the guests that evening. The moment he noticed us, he started shouting and raving. He demanded that such scum — that’s what he called us, the scum of the earth — should at once be ejected. He didn’t stop there, either. He wanted to have us horse-whipped for having the effrontery to attend in the first place. He called Miss Marsh a “painted whore” to her face. Said she used the theatre only to solicit wealthy clients to “wallow in beds of lust and defile themselves with debauchery”. All this with hundreds of people within ear-shot. He didn’t moderate his voice either. No, he shouted and roared like the worst kind of hell-and-damnation preacher.’
‘He’d had plenty of practice,’ Foxe said quietly. ‘Go on.’
‘As you can imagine, poor Catherine Marsh was reduced to tears. Even before the manger spoke to us, she begged me to take her home. By ill-luck, as it turned out, in fetching our outdoor clothing, I encountered Lord Aylestone a second time. We had arrived late, you see, and the servant who took our cloaks said the usual place for them was already full. He would have to put them on a table in that unused room behind the ballroom.’
‘Which was where Viscount Penngrove took his son to rebuke him for his behaviour,’ Foxe said.
‘Exactly. Everyone knew they were in there. The viscount was yelling at his son by this time, threatening him with dire consequences if he didn’t curb his temper and return to the ball, as he had been ordered. While that was going on, I couldn’t get our cloaks.’
‘You waited.’
‘I did. I had no choice. It was a chilly night, Mr Foxe. Miss Marsh needed her cloak to avoid taking a chill on top of all else. All actors are mindful of their health. To be ill is to miss your place on stage and lose your wages. Fortunately, the row between father and son was soon over and the viscount strode from the room and returned to the ballroom. Everyone assumed his son would do the same. Naturally, I moved away at that point, not wishing even to lay eyes on the fellow, in case he returned to heap further insults on me. I waited out of sight, then returned to get the cloaks. By the time I ventured into the room, I was sure he must have gone.’
‘But he was still there.’
‘Yes. Striding up and down, waving his arms and muttering to himself. I tried to dart in, retrieve what I wanted and get away, but he saw me almost the moment I stepped through the door. As I feared he would, he began his insults and threats again. This time, his voice alone terrified me, that and the staring eyes and flushed cheeks. He spat out his words at me, Mr Foxe, keeping his voice low and waving his fists to emphasise his fury. Called me “the spawn of Satan” and “an abomination on the face of the earth”. Said I should be treated “as God had treated the evildoers who dwelt in Sodom and Gomorrah”. Then he pulled the dagger from the sheath at the belt of his costume and st
arted jabbing it in my direction. I thought he had lost his mind.’
‘He probably had at that point, Mr Bewell. Please go on.’
‘In the end, he rushed at me, Mr Foxe, waving that little dagger and shouting something about “the avenging sword of the Lord of Hosts”. I thought he was going to kill me.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I backed away as far as I could, but the door was shut behind me. I knew that, if I turned my back, he would strike me in an instant. In the end, I tried to grapple with him and get the weapon from his hand. That was when it happened. Somehow, as we struggled, he managed to stab himself in the chest with that little blade he’d been brandishing at me. One moment we were locked in a desperate struggle, the next he’d slumped in my arms. I knew he was dead at once. All I could think of then was how to get away.’
‘You didn’t call for help?’
‘The man was already dead. Don’t ask me how I knew it, but I was quite sure I was right. What would have happened if I’d gone to call someone and admitted I’d been with him in that room? Just the two of us alone? I was dishevelled, out of breath, and I’d got blood on the sleeve of my costume. Who would have believed my story? Certainly not the viscount! He would have had me taken away at once, already branded in the eyes of all as a murderer.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Foxe said. ‘So, you took up the cloaks and went back to take Miss Marsh home.’
‘I did, but first I thought to hide the body to prevent anyone finding it until I was clear of the place. There’s a sort of large alcove in that room, Mr Foxe. You probably know that. It’s usually covered by a curtain. I dragged Lord Aylestone’s body behind the curtain, tidied myself up as best I could and left. If I still appeared shaken and upset, no one would be surprised. After the treatment that disgrace to the nobility had subjected me to before everyone else, I was bound to look flustered. To my relief, Miss Marsh was almost silent as I escorted her to her lodgings. All the way, my mind was working at a feverish pace, trying to see how I might escape the noose. After all, it had been self-defence, even if I couldn’t prove it. That’s when the idea came to me, Mr Foxe. If I could impersonate Lord Aylestone and convince all he had been alive and well long after Miss Marsh and I had gone, no one would think I had any hand in his killing. Except you, and I knew you weren’t in attendance that evening.’
A Sickness in the Soul Page 15