The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2)

by William Savage

  ‘It is no place to learn your craft, then.’

  ‘The worst. A young man seeking to do more than bear a spear or speak a single line would have a hard time of it. Nor would the company manager escape unscathed. If the common populace did not wreck his performances, his rivals would send their hired bands to hiss and shout and cause a riot. To be a successful theatre manager in London is to be the object of ferocious jealousy from all the others.’

  ‘They told him this?’

  ‘Not perhaps as I have told you, but yes. They gave him encouraging words and advised him to seek out some provincial company. There he might learn his stage-craft and in time gain the presence to stand before a London audience. Small provincial theatres are the best training grounds, Ash. Most change their repertoire often, putting on different programmes each night of their stay in a town. You might be playing a tyrant on a Tuesday, a melting lover on Wednesday and a noble prince on Thursday. As well, of course, as all manner of other parts in the farces and recitations that fill up the evening.’

  ‘I can see that you must gain experience quickly by such means.’

  ’Not just experience, confidence too. Most actors feel great apprehension before taking the stage. Will you forget your lines or miss a cue? Will you stumble? Move to stage right when you should go stage left? To stand before hundreds of people while they laugh at you – unless that is the object of your part – is the most mortifying of events. And if you are playing a comic role, yet none laugh, you wish the stage to open and drag you out of sight.’

  ‘Is it so bad? Even for you?’

  ‘Especially for someone like me, Ash. I am well known and have a reputation, yet every time I stand before an audience I am risking all again. Have you never remarked to a friend that Mrs. So-and-so is not perhaps what she once was? Or that some famous comedian’s timing seems to have deserted him more often than it did? Such remarks, should the person mentioned overhear them, are as sharp as the slash of a sword.’

  ‘My poor darling!’

  ‘What gets you through all is confidence: the ability to take the blows and cat-calls, yet still carry on. Once lose that and your career is over.’

  ‘I can see well that I have underestimated you, Kitty. I never doubted your ability and talent, nor your beauty. But I have been woefully ignorant of the determination you must show to survive, let alone shine as you do. I doubt our George would have been up to it.’

  ‘Then you would be wrong. It seems he lost little of his enthusiasm when they told him to look elsewhere. Indeed, he accepted the advice and left London at once to seek out a company willing to allow him to learn with them. It seems we have all underestimated that young man.’

  ‘I must own myself the most guilty of all. From what little I learned of him, I had built a picture of a feeble, languid young dandy. I believed him ever ready to blame his lack of achievement on the faults of others. But do you know where he went?’

  ‘All I could learn was that he went to the north. Some said Richmond, some Harrogate and one York. It may have been any of those.’

  ‘And he is still there?’

  ’So far as any knows. Not even the most talented of learners could aspire to join a company in London without five years or more experience in good provincial work. You might need three years’ proper training even to gain a place in an acting company in a great city such as Norwich.’

  ‘I wonder if he met Hinman in those parts?’ Foxe mused to himself. ‘He claimed to come from Halifax, which is not, I believe, so far away. That could explain how he had heard of Bonneviot senior. It may even have been before he arrived here.’

  ‘What are you mumbling about, Ash? Have I not done well enough for you? Do I not deserve my round of applause?’

  ‘Most assuredly, Kitty! My humblest apologies. I was merely pondering a possible link. No, you have been as brilliant as I could have hoped, and you deserve full tribute for it.’

  Foxe stood up at once and clapped his hands, calling out ‘Bravo!’ several times for good measure. Then he darted forward and kissed Kitty half a dozen times with increasing warmth and ardour.

  ’No! No, sir! However much you make trial of my resolution, I must stand firm. Nor would I submit to your embraces without the time to enjoy them to the full. Let me go, I say! Enough! It will never do to arrive at Lady Rootham’s home late or in less than my full finery. Please, Ash! You know I do not send you away willingly, especially when you kiss me thus … nor when you do that with your hand. Have pity!’

  Foxe stood back a little and dropped his hands to his side. ‘See, I am all goodness,’ he said, laughing all the while. ‘Go to your Sapphic lover.’

  ‘Do not say so! Not even in jest. I will not have you putting it about that I might submit to any such relationship. Think of my reputation.’

  ‘As the most shameless little minx and hussy in Norwich … and the prettiest? Very well. You must soon prove the truth of your claims most fully to make me hold my tongue.’

  ‘As you know I will, Ash … and perhaps more fully than you can imagine, for you make me wish to drive you to eat your teasing words. I will speak with my sister, I think, and ask her to help me devise a suitable punishment …’

  ‘Mercy! Mercy!,’ Foxe cried at once. ‘If the two of you plot against me, I will have no chance. You know I am but tweaking your tail a little.’

  ‘Ah, but you are the one with the tail that might best be tweaked, though it hang in front rather than behind.’

  ‘Kitty!’

  ‘Ah, now the teasing is directed at you, it is another matter. Off you go, Ash, before I decide to make good my threats at once. Be sure the punishment is but postponed. I will not forget what I owe you. Nor the proofs you have so ungallantly demanded of me. You will pay in full, I promise. In full!’

  As Foxe made his escape, he reflected happily on his skill as an actor in convincing Kitty that he valued what she had discovered for him. The worth of the discoveries themselves he doubted. He had indeed been wrong about George Bonneviot. Yet it could matter little. If he was somewhere amongst Yorkshire theatrical folk and ever on the road, it was quite likely he had not yet heard of his father’s death. It would not count for much when he did. He had not long past been sent packing from his home, with but a few pounds in his hand. He also had the sure knowledge that there would be no inheritance for him to look forward to.

  #

  Foxe spent the rest of the day dealing with domestic and business matters. He had to make up his accounts and render payments to various traders and those who supplied his home with food and coals. There were small items of correspondence to be dealt with as well. He generally found such matters soothing to his mind, but today it seemed nothing could bring him the rest he craved.

  Even late into the evening, he felt restless and disordered. It was as if something was scratching at his consciousness, yet always just out of his mind’s reach. He tried to read, but found himself looking over the same page a dozen times before he could recall any of its content. When he attempted to compose a letter, the words danced upon the page and became entangled in such labyrinthine complexity none could have followed his meaning. At length, he gave up all occupation. He sat in his chair, staring into some distant place, while his brain filled with fog and his feet and legs grew colder by the minute.

  At ten, he went to his bed, though he was sure he would not be able to sleep. In fact, he fell into a heavy slumber within but a few minutes. Yet even then, his mind could not be stilled completely. He experienced a tumbling mass of incoherent dreams that rendered him tense and afraid. Finally, he awoke with a great start. Some old woman was prowling at the foot of the bed and running her clammy hands around his feet and ankles. But that too was a dream. He had proved so restless that the covers had slid to one side, leaving his feet sticking out into the cold of the bedroom.

  At this point, he grew disgusted with himself and determined to abandon any idea of further sleep. Instead, he would make a thorough
revision of all he knew about the death of Bonneviot. He still felt he was on the edge of discovering those key facts that would make sense of the matter.

  Hinman did not exist. That was clear. That character was a mere phantom, conjured up to conceal the identity of the one he must assume was behind the whole business. But why? Who could that genuine person be? Such an elaborate deception must have had some important purpose.

  Round and round his mind went. He heard the church clocks chime three or four times. He heard the watchman’s clapper. He even heard – or thought he did – the first birdsong.

  Then he had it! Nothing else could explain the extent and depth of the charade that produced Mr. Hinman. It could only be necessary for one reason. The man behind it must be well-known in the city! A genuine stranger would have little need to conceal his identity. He might assume a false name. He might even try to appear richer, or more honest, or even more experienced in matters of the cloth trade than he was. But there would have been no call for him to spend so many hours and days convincing all he met that he was Mr. Hinman of Halifax. Hinman must be someone who would otherwise have been easily known. He had to stay incognito. His whole plan must have turned on that. But why?

  The deal with Bonneviot to sell his stocks of cloth overseas had also never existed. It too was an illusion, most cunningly produced from hints, assumptions and rumour. Why was that necessary? Until that night he realised he had never even asked himself that question. He had begun by believing in the supposed deal, like everyone else. Yet even when he suspected it was a falsehood, he had failed to ask why.

  He laid it all out for himself again. The character of Hinman had been invented to conceal the identity of one who must otherwise be know to all. The matter of the deal with Bonneviot had also been made up, this time to hide the true purpose of the conspiracy. But if that plot had not been to persuade Bonneviot to enter a binding arrangement with Hinman, what was it for?

  Oh, Good Lord! What if it had only ever been about seizing ownership of those specific bales of cloth? The ones that were already known to be stored, unsold, in Bonneviot’s warehouse?

  Why had Hinman, whoever he was, been so insistent that the fake bill of sale be dated exactly three weeks before it was forged? It must, of course, have born a date before Bonneviot’s death. Yet why that precise date? Had the mastermind known about the real arrangement with Master Burford? Had he wished his counterfeit contract to appear to have been made before the genuine deal had taken place? Yet how had he known, when no one else save Bonneviot and Burford were aware of it? And why did he allow that arrangement to proceed, since it had already resulted in the sale of some of the cloth he was trying to steal?

  Foxe could not believe that Hinman had known of Burford. If he had, he could have brought about Bonneviot’s death earlier, thus removing any complications to his claim to be the prior owner of the cloth. Bonneviot had to die to stop him from denying the authenticity of the bill of sale. That was clear. They had all assumed that his death had been arranged only after Hinman had arrived in the city and somehow learned of the unsold stocks of cloth. But if Hinman was, in reality, a local man, he could have been present the whole time. The delay between learning of Bonneviot’s problems and arranging the conspiracy would be accounted for by the time it must have taken to set all in motion.

  He had to find a forger, an assassin and establish the credibility of Hinman’s identity. Only then could he move forward. He had also needed to get money from Beeston. Don’t forget that, Foxe told himself. His need for cash to support his deception proved that, whoever he was, he was not a wealthy man. Perhaps he was a weaver whom Bonneviot cheated out of his wages and planned this elaborate revenge? It was difficult to believe that an artisan could have been able to bring off such a deception. Especially since it demanded he should pass himself off as a person of some means. Could a mere weaver have convinced the entire city that he was either the younger son of a gentleman, or at least one of the middling sort? Could he have paid someone else to do it for him?

  Foxe decided that the only way to resolve such matters would be to speak with the alderman as soon as possible. He might at least be able to suggest persons capable of passing themselves off as Hinman. It seemed they had little enough chance of laying hands on the man himself. If Beeston reached him first, he might not even survive to tell his tale. If not, he would probably get clean away. They must rely on their own resources to solve the mystery, even if that meant their answer could never be more than the product of careful reasoning and educated guesswork.

  Rising from his bed, Foxe lit a candle, wrapped himself in a warm dressing-gown, found his slippers and made his way downstairs. No sense in waking the rest of the house. When he reached his study, he found paper and pen to write two notes that Alfred should deliver that morning. Then he returned to his room, got back into bed and slept most peacefully, untroubled by worries or dreams.

  21

  Death and Illumination

  Foxe awoke with the uneasy sense that someone was standing by his bed. He opened one eye, then two. The presence by the bed was Alfred, who appeared uncertain whether he should shake his master awake or make a noise to attract his attention.

  ‘Alfred?’ Foxe mumbled. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘A little after seven, Master. Mr. Brock is downstairs and was most insistent that I come to wake you.’

  ‘Brock? At this hour? Whatever for?’

  ‘That I do not know. He came to the back door about five minutes ago. Fortunately, Mrs. Dobbins and the maid were already about and had lit the kitchen fire. I believe they have made him coffee, Master. Would you like me to bring you some?’

  By this time, Foxe was – at last – awake. He rarely rose so early and was quite unused to the pale light in his room and the pervading sense of chill. His small fire had gone out hours ago. The maid would usually make it up and light it again in good time to warm the room before he ventured from his bed.

  ‘No, Alfred. I will take it in the dining room. If Brock is here so early, he must be the bearer of bad news. Tell him that I will be down shortly. Then find me the warmest dressing gown you can – and my slippers. Confound it all! I should have another hour or more of sleep before me, at least. Oh … another matter, Alfred. You will find two notes on the desk in my study. Please have them delivered as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Just one more thing, Alfred. Is the fire in the dining room lit?’

  ‘I will attend to that myself, as soon as I have informed Mr. Brock of your wishes. The heavy curtains there seem to hold in the warmth. It is not so cold as it is here. Do you wish to wash and shave before coming down, Master?’

  ‘No. Brock will have to take me as I am. Now, away to light that fire!’

  True to his word, Foxe came into the dining room in scarcely more than the five minutes he had promised. There he found Brock seated at the table, staring into a half-empty dish of coffee and looking even more miserable than usual.

  Foxe held up a hand to prevent Brock from coming out with his news at once, whatever it was. He needed first to sit down and drink some coffee. Such an early start was a severe shock to his system. Since Brock’s face seemed to presage yet more upsets, he needed to prepare himself.

  At length, after he had drunk a whole dish of Mrs. Dobbins’ excellent coffee, he signed to Brock that he might begin.

  ‘Beeston got to ‘im first, Foxe, as I feared ‘e would. The constables found ‘im about first light, face down on a dung-heap at the end of some filthy alley near the river.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘As a brass doornail. One of the constables is an acquaintance of mine. He knew I was seeking the man, so ‘e sent word as soon as ‘e could.’

  ‘We are talking of Hinman?’

  ‘We are. I’ve seen the body. It’s ‘im, right enough. By the look of ‘im, Beeston had ‘is men encourage ‘im to explain himself first. Then, probably because the explanation was not to Beeston
’s liking, they were let loose to exact punishment. Hinman wasn’t a heavily-built man, Foxe, nor one used to rough treatment, I’d say. Whether their actions were meant to kill ‘im, I couldn’t tell you. That they did is plain enough on his body.’

  ‘So. That is an end of it.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say? I still clung to the hope that we might somehow find him first. That’s why I’ve been scouring this city night and day. This wretched business ‘as caused me more loss of sleep than enough. Now I’m never to know what it was all about.’

  ‘Be of good cheer, Brock. Hinman may be dead, but I still hope to find the answer. Now, sit quiet and drink some more coffee. I have a letter to write. Alfred!’

  Foxe suspected his man would not be far away. He was proved correct, for Alfred came in almost on the instant.

  ‘Your papers are on their way, master.’

  ‘Excellent. Now bring me paper, pen and ink. Then, when I have written this further letter, be ready to take it yourself to the address I will give you. It must reach the person to whom it is addressed as quickly as possible.’

  Brock stared, unable to reason why Foxe was so calm in the face of what seemed to him to be the wreck of all their plans. Now, while he waited for the letter to be finished and Alfred sent on his way with it, Foxe asked him another question he could not have expected.

  ‘Do you know where the constables have taken Hinman’s body, Brock?’

  ‘Um … think so. Yes … that’s right. One of ‘em said they’d take it to the undercroft of The Guildhall. It’s cool there all year. I don’t imagine the coroner will hasten from his bed to see the corpse of someone who’s a stranger to the city.’

  ‘No, I don’t imagine he will. Nor would he have done for a local man. Unless the dead man had been the mayor himself. Maybe not even then. Once you are dead, you stay dead, so haste is not necessary. Good, good. That works to our favour …’ Foxe bent his head and returned to writing his letter. A few moments later, he looked up and beckoned Alfred over.