He feigned not recalling Quatremain’s name, as if the man was of no significance to him, when in fact he had got under his skin.
Doll squeezed his arm, pulling him close to her side. ‘Is Joe just a teensy bit jealous of the elegant Monsieur Étienne? He is quite handsome, isn’t he? But the reason why I didn’t tell them my conclusion was so that the old man didn’t rush off and beat us to it.’
‘Beat us?’
‘To solving the riddle of the hieroglyphs.’
Malinferno’s curiosity overcame his exasperation at Doll’s obtuseness. ‘And how is the riddle to be solved by us?’
Doll stuck her fingers under her turban and scratched her head. ‘Well, it’s only a start, you understand.’
Malinferno growled, and Doll held up her hands defensively.
‘If the Greek text is made up of four hundred and eighty words and the hieroglyphs amount to one thousand four hundred . . .’
‘. . . and ten. You said one thousand four hundred and ten.’
Doll grinned conspiratorially. ‘Oh, I added the ten to my estimate to make it sound more clever. But the point is, bearing in mind that the two texts are the same, then the disparity in numbers suggests that—’
Malinferno broke in. ‘That each hieroglyph is a letter, not a symbol of ideas or a full word.’
‘Give the man a prize!’
‘But it still doesn’t tell us their meanings.’
Doll’s face fell a little. ‘I know, but it’s a start. Now we know each picture is a letter. Let’s go back and see if we can decipher that cartouche. You see, I have an idea.’
They had hurried back to Creechurch Lane, intent on cracking the code. But an exciting message diverted them from even looking at the papyruses left lying on the table. As they climbed the stairs to Malinferno’s rooms, a rotund figure waddled out of the ground-floor parlour. It was their landlady. Mrs Stanhope’s mobcap sat askew on her head, and her face was flushed. When she spoke, her slurred voice betrayed her having imbibed the best part of a bottle of gin, despite it being not yet the middle of the day. She leaned on the doorframe or she might have fallen over, and called up the rickety stairs to her lodgers.
‘Mr Mali . . . Manli . . . Joe, there is an urgent message for you.’
Malinferno descended the stairs, and stood before his landlady. She grinned inanely.
‘A message you say?’ he prompted her.
Mrs Stanhope tilted her head to one side as if pondering the depths of his question. He observed in fascination as her mobcap failed to tip with her head, slipping down until it covered one eye.
‘Yes. From a perfect tadpole of a man. I could have wrapped him in a nappy and had him suckle at my breast.’
Malinferno recognised Bromhead from her description, and cast from his mind the image of Augustus as a baby on his landlady’s large and fulsome tit. He prompted her again.
‘May I have the message?’
Slowly, Mrs Stanhope’s hand went up to her face, where one long finger tapped the side of her nose. The other hand slipped into the pocket of her apron, where it rummaged around interminably. Finally it drew out a slip of paper, which was then offered to Malinferno. He took it, and read it. Excited by its contents, he went back up to Doll, who was hovering on the landing. She could tell by the look on his face that the message bore interesting news.
‘What does it say, Joe?’
‘That we should go directly to the Royal Coburg Theatre, where Augustus Bromhead is casting his play. He says there is a part for you.’
Doll Pocket gave out a whoop, forgetting all about ancient hieroglyphs. This was the chance of a lifetime, and she was not about to give it up. She grabbed Joe’s hand, and dragged him back down the stairs. Mrs Stanhope gave them a befuddled wave as they dashed out into the lane and past the church on the corner to find a cab.
They managed to hail a small fly and, having given the cabby the theatre’s name, they settled back under the flimsy hood. The driver turned south, and they crossed the river by the grand new Waterloo Bridge, named for Wellington’s great victory six years earlier. For some reason, Doll was beginning to have doubts about the scheme. The Thames looked grey and oily as it roiled around the Doric pillars that divided up each of the nine arches of Waterloo Bridge. The journey to the south bank seemed to take for ever, and the far side looked most unwelcoming with looming rain clouds racing towards them. She clutched Joe’s arm.
‘Is this the right choice to make, Joe? I mean, the Royal Coburg is not Drury Lane or Covent Garden. It is south of the river, and is not even allowed to put on serious drama. What is this play of Gus’s like?’
Malinferno knew that Doll yearned to be an actress in what she called the ‘legit’ theatres she had mentioned by name. All other theatres in London were restricted to melodrama or burlesque. And it wasn’t as if the theatre they were now approaching was even in the West End. But it was a grand theatre, and had taken its name from Princess Charlotte, King George’s only child with Queen Caroline, when she had married Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. Charlotte’s death in childbirth had been a terrible tragedy, but had not marred the Royal Coburg Theatre’s reputation as a popular place for entertainment. Malinferno tried to reassure Doll.
‘The play is . . . a classic. You shall see.’
He knew it was stretching the truth to call ‘a classic’ the ancient set of mystery plays that he had seen only a brief part of. But it seemed to mollify Doll, and she perked up despite the splashes of raindrops hitting the soft cab roof. Then, as the cabby, who sat behind them to drive, turned off the Waterloo Road into The Cut, she saw the façade of the theatre straight ahead. It was an imposing and classical structure, all arches and pediments. A sudden thrill of pleasure ran up her spine, and her doubts disappeared.
Descending, Malinferno passed a silver sixpence to the driver of the fly, and he and Doll dashed across the pavement in the sudden downpour that blew over their heads. Under the cover of the theatre’s portico, they paused while Doll rearranged her turban with its long ostrich feather. She reasoned she would have to look her best for the audition for the part of Eve, even if the character she might play would have originally been as naked as the day she was born. A sudden thought came to her, and she hesitated on the threshold of the auditorium, grasping Malinferno’s arm.
‘Joe. Was Eve born, or was she created?’
Malinferno gave her a puzzled look. ‘Born of Adam’s rib, of course.’
That still didn’t answer Doll’s question, and she felt full of confusion. How was she to play Eve, if she didn’t even know the slightest thing about her? She saw that this acting lark was not as straightforward as she had anticipated. Well, she would have to rely on her manifest charms to see her through. They had served her well in the past, after all. Resolute once more, she pushed the heavy oak doors open.
Inside, the auditorium all was dark, save for a blaze of light on the stage, which must have been lit by a hundred candles. And in the light was a bevy of pretty young girls, most showing off well developed décolletages. Doll heard Malinferno sigh deeply at the array of cleavages, and suddenly she felt very old. After all, her thirtieth birthday was fast approaching. Someone in the dark of the auditorium called out a name, and the girl first in line stepped forward. She pouted and posed with her breasts thrust out, looking friskily at the huddle of figures seated in the front row of the stalls.
A male voice rang out. ‘No. Next.’
The girl stamped her slipper-clad foot, and stormed offstage. The next buxom offering stepped up, only to receive the same short shrift. This one burst into tears, and ran into the wings. A flurry of ‘no’s accompanied Doll’s walk down the aisle to the front of the auditorium. Malinferno spotted the large head of Bromhead at the end of the front row, and he slipped into the seat next to him. Doll sat too, as the queue of hopefuls was whittled down inexorably. She began to slump in her seat. What hope did she stand if such young pulchritude was being discarded? Bromhead looked at Malinferno, a
nd patted him on the knee. Then he turned to the young man who sat on his other side. He was a well-formed young man with a head of black curls, and was the source of the negative responses to the procession of girls on the stage. He listened to Bromhead’s whisper, and held his hand up as the final girl stepped to the front of the stage. He leaned forward in his seat, and looked along at Doll. A smile broke out on his handsome face. He waved a dismissive hand at the girl onstage.
‘No. You may go, Bess. I have found my Eve.’
‘Gawd, Will. You said the part was mine.’ The girl was clearly annoyed at the man. ‘I even—’
Will rose quickly from his seat, and strode to the front of the stage. He leaned on the edge, and whispered words that seemed to mollify the angry actress. Malinferno guessed that future promises were being made in response to what he assumed was the girl’s amorous offering to Will. She walked away into the darkness of the wings with a disdainful look at Doll, who still sat on the end of the front row. Bromhead rose from his seat, though his doing so didn’t increase his height much from when he had been seated. He took Doll’s hand, and raised her up.
‘Doll Pocket, this is Will Mossop, manager of the Royal Coburg, and producer of The Play of Adam.’
Will tossed his curly head, and bowed elegantly, kissing Doll’s proffered hand.
‘Mistress Pocket, I am delighted to meet you at last. Augustus has told me much about you, and until you appeared I was fearful that we would never fill the part of Eve. Now I am a happy man.’
Once again, Malinferno witnessed Doll’s simpering. This time it was at Mossop’s complimentary tones, just as it had been when the Frenchman, Quatremain, fell all over her. He slumped sulkily in his seat, and wished some of the buxom young girls were still on display, so that he could simper over them and make Doll jealous. For the first time, he took note of the pile of newspapers and caricatures strewn on the crimson carpet. They were mostly of Queen Caroline and the King. The farce of the Queen being kept out of George’s coronation ceremony, and their independent sexual adventures had caused a storm of cartoons in magazines like John Bull. And printers like George Humphrey had produced a whole series of denigratory caricatures aimed at the royals. Some of them lay at Mossop’s feet now, and he picked one up. It showed a corpulent Caroline sitting at a table surrounded by her advisors, one of whom was Alderman Matthew Wood in the form of a naked, hairy devil. On a pile of books on the table stood a little mannequin Pergami, the Queen’s lover who had been abandoned on the continent. The caption read: ‘The Effusions of a Troubled Brain’.
Since the Queen had been turned away from the coronation of her husband due to their estranged relationship, Caroline had been a figure of great debate. These caricatures lampooned her and her Italian lover, a handsome courtier, who had been bought a defunct baronage by Caroline. The cartoons did show him to best effect, though. In the caricature, as in life, he was tall, with an enviable physique and a full head of curly black hair, luxuriant moustachios and side whiskers.
Malinferno was about to replace the caricatures on the stack of papers, when Bromhead, noticing what his friend had seen, whispered in his ear, ‘Doll will make a fine Queen, do you not think?’
Malinferno was puzzled. ‘I thought she was to be cast as Eve.’
Augustus waved his hand at the cartoon in Malinferno’s hand, his face reddening slightly. ‘Did I not explain in my note to you?’
Malinferno brought out the piece of paper given to him by Mrs Stanhope. He realised that his landlady, in tucking it securely into the pocket of her pinafore, had folded it several times. Malinferno had omitted to open the last fold, and beneath it he read the explanation for Bromhead’s words. He looked his friend in the eye.
‘You are to give The Play of Adam a topical twist to suit the present mood for matters royal?’
Bromhead pulled a face. ‘Yes. It was the only way I could get the play accepted. I tried several theatres without any luck, before Will Mossop suggested that each scene should be brought bang up to date by having the characters resemble the royals. So Adam himself will look like Baron Pergami; the snake will be King George, and Eve, Queen Caroline. Each scene will be performed in that way. The Prime Minister and the Attorney-General will appear in “The Fall of Man”, and Cain and Abel will be George and Pergami once again.’
Malinferno laughed out loud. He realised now why all the pretty girls had been rejected in favour of Doll. They had all been too young to bear any passing resemblance to the Queen, who was over fifty, and overweight. He wondered when the truth would dawn on Doll, and he cast a glance over at where she and Mossop were talking animatedly. As he looked on, he saw her face cloud over, and annoyance spread across her normally buoyant features. She stormed over to where Malinferno and Bromhead sat.
‘I am to play Eve, because of my apparent resemblance to the Queen, Joe.’
Malinferno tried to keep a straight face. Both he and Doll had seen Caroline at closer quarters than most of the common crowd. Only a few months ago, they had been embroiled in a murder and scandal at a soirée on Solsbury Hill. The Queen had attended incognito under the name Hat Vaughan, and they had both received personal thanks from her when they had saved her already tarnished reputation from further scandal. The consequence was that neither could tell anyone of their intimacy with Caroline, having been sworn to secrecy. But they both knew that the Queen’s unusually liberal lifestyle had told on her. Doll had at first taken the buxom and blowsy lady for an aging trollop, employed to amuse the titled gentlemen at the soirée. It was only later they had learned she was the Queen. Now Doll was being selected because of her likeness to Caroline.
Malinferno strove to find words to soften the blow.
‘I am sure it is because of your shapeliness and not because of any reference to her age. The leading lady of a play must still be a great beauty, Doll.’
Bromhead’s great leonine head nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘Indeed, Doll. You will portray her obvious charms . . . ’ he described two orbs with cupped hands, ‘. . . so well, and win over the mob in the pit, hungry to view great beauty.’
Doll narrowed her eyes, trying to guess whether the two men were mocking her. Satisfied they weren’t, she dipped her eyes in an exaggerated show of modest concurrence with their sentiments. She turned back to Will Mossop, who looked anxiously on. He had, after all, sent away all the other actresses, including apparently one to whom he had already promised the part of Eve.
‘I will do it, Mr Mossop.’
Malinferno could already detect in her tones something of the prima donna, and sighed. She would be insufferable if this mad scheme came off, as well it might. The coronation, so very recent, was already being performed in pageant form at Drury Lane with Robert Elliston impersonating the King so well that it played to full houses. Mossop was all smiles.
‘Excellent, Miss Pocket. We begin rehearsing tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘Oh, yes, the play must open in two weeks’ time, if we are to benefit from the topical nature of its presentation. And tomorrow is when you will meet Mr Morton Stanley – your Pergami.’
Malinferno didn’t like the broad wink that accompanied this declaration from the theatre manager. He felt this Stanley fellow would be another seeker after Doll’s attention. His comfortable position as Doll’s paramour seemed to be under siege from all sides.
If Malinferno had witnessed on the following day the meeting at the Royal Coburg of Doll and Morton Stanley, he would have been really worried. The actor bore a striking resemblance to Baron Pergami, being around thirty, over six foot tall, and with a splendid physique and black curly hair, which extended down into luxuriant muttonchop whiskers. Doll, still new to the ways of theatrical folk, almost swooned away when Stanley gave her an exaggerated bow, and lifted her hand to his full red lips. Her normal perceptiveness was swamped by his manner, or she would have noticed his obvious vanity. He twirled his moustachios, and Doll simpered like one of the young girls she h
ad seen auditioning for the role she was now to perform. Then a deep and resonant voice came from the depths of the auditorium.
‘Ah, I see you have won over another beautiful lady, Stan.’
The young actor’s face contorted into a mask of sheer hatred at the sound. He turned away from Doll to peer into the darkness of the rows of seats, and spoke in a baritone voice.
‘I wondered who Mossop would get to play the part of fat King George. I might have known it would be you, Percy.’
Doll watched as a rotund, and cheery-faced man made his way down the central aisle of the ornately decorated auditorium. The man Morton called Percy did indeed resemble the King, or at least the popular caricatures of George, being portly and red-faced. He lumbered up the steps leading on to the stage, giving Doll a bow and a buss on the back of her hand. He winked conspiratorially at her.
‘Perceval Tristram at your service, madam. But beware, beautiful lady, Stan will break your heart, take it from me.’
Stanley’s face darkened, and he strode off into the wings, calling for Will Mossop.
Malinferno, meanwhile, had called on Augustus Bromhead in his rickety tenement in Bermondsey. The tall, narrow building, squashed between its newer neighbours was a structure from an older age. In fact, its foundations were built on the footings of an even older building. Bromhead’s cellar revealed part of the arched ceiling of the crypt of Bermondsey Abbey. The antiquarian revelled in the thought that his very residence was piled up on the foundations of something so old. It matched his own life, which was built on the quest for the keys to ancient Britain. It was no accident that his study lay at the very apex of the old house, for he saw himself as at the peak of antiquarian studies. He worked surrounded by a very blizzard of old manuscripts and printed books, perched on a high stool to bring him to the height of his sloped work desk, a former accounting bench. Malinferno sat in a more comfortable armchair by the high gabled window that let the sallow light of fog-bound London into the attic room. He had in his lap the printed version of The Play of Adam, purchased from Dole’s Printers. In front of Bromhead the precious original manuscript itself lay open. He had stopped at a point where his fingers had felt a rough spot on the reverse of a page. Peering closer he thought he could see the remains of red sealing wax. The wax had all but gone, leaving only a roughened red patch, but he could also see some faded writing. He turned back the page and read what was written on the correct side. Puzzled, he ran his finger down the page again, before calling out to Malinferno.
The First Murder Page 29