Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “And now a prominent—or at least a notorious figure in the capital—ends up in a bloodied state. What with Christmas at hand—this bodes poorly, Inspector.”

  “What would you have me do, sir?”

  “Do? Find a culprit, sir. Surely that is obvious.”

  “Certainly, Superintendent. And shall I then begin my search, as the magistrate…”

  “Yes, yes. By all means. Hardly the best time, with the holiday season. Surely this Cake murder can be looked into within the next forty-eight hours. Surely you can find some angry, jealous fool who was drunk enough to beat the man to death?”

  “That supposition, sir, had entered my own mind for consideration.”

  “Most happy to hear of it, sir,” snapped Superintendent Borne. “But we have no time to suppose. We must search and capture.”

  “You give me permission to proceed?”

  “I want an arrest, Inspector. This kind of violent display will rile the general public. Make them think we are not doing our duty to keep the capital safe from random acts of murder and mayhem. I cannot afford—nay, I will not abide—bad business such as this to harm the reputation of the Metropolitan Detective Police.”

  Borne paused for a second. He clasped his hands behind his back. He stood in a regal-like stance then with a glow to his face, walked around his desk and stood in front of Endersby and Caldwell as if he were a general about to pin on a medal.

  “You have my firm wish, Inspector, that this case be resolved by this Friday. I want evidence, I want arrests. I want to report to the press that such an act cannot go unpunished for long. And I want above all to show that my detective force can work diligently and quickly.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “No hesitations, Endersby. I want you to proceed immediately. Keep this Caldwell on his toes and running, and by Friday, I want Mr. Cake’s villain presented to the courts. You will also continue to investigate the St. Giles fire, although it may turn out to be a more complicated affair.”

  Borne almost saluted his two colleagues. “Until Friday, with warrants in hand.”

  * * *

  Having sent Caldwell to investigate the matters of the found glove and the plug of tobacco, Inspector Endersby found himself in a calmer state of mind by the time he walked through the stage door of the Coburg Theatre. A squat narrow building on Waterloo Road, in a neighbourhood of wharfs and warehouses, its front was decorated with large showy playbills announcing the “blood tub” melodramas for which it was renowned. Tonight the fare was Jack Wilson, The Tar of the Mary Dee; or, Revenge for the Red Fox. A fetching title at least, thought Endersby, as his nose took in the heady smell of oil and sawdust of the backstage wings.

  Endersby had slept for only a few hours the night before. As the stage manager led him down a corridor into a dusty room, the intensity of his fatigue doubled. His gouty toe began to bite into his concentration, even as his natural inclination to be blunt took hold. Endersby pulled off his suede gloves, shook the stage manager’s hand, eased his way into a chair and arranged his questions. The stage manager lit a pipe on sitting down.

  “A most unfortunate death,” Endersby began.

  “Most brutal, Inspector. I am grieved and shocked as are all of Mr. Cake’s colleagues.”

  Endersby was impressed by the man’s expression of sentiment.

  “How long had you been acquainted with Mr. Cake, sir?”

  “Two years, or just under, Inspector. He took on the lease-hold of the Coburg in January of ’39.”

  “He was a successful manager?”

  “Most astute, sir. Good with his staff. Clever with his purse. A fair man, too, when he needed to be.”

  “I understand he owned warehouses?”

  “Your sergeant came by yesterday morning. I told him such. Mr. Cake rented them out to dry goods companies. Made a profit from them, which feeds us here and pays us all good wages.”

  “A man of means, then.”

  “A man of talent, sir.”

  “Where did he keep his money? I mean, did he bank it, invest it?”

  “I only know he kept his accounts in his head. I do not know else. I figured that was Mr. Cake’s business, sir.”

  “Did he have kin?”

  “A half-brother. Mr. Barnwell. Gregorious Barnwell.”

  “Still living?”

  “Most certainly, sir. He is our machinist, and a fine one at that. A genius, I would say, at levers and contraptions.”

  “May I have the chance to meet him this morning?”

  “I have been sent word, sir, that he is off for the day to arrange matters with the gravedigger.”

  “Ah, certainly.”

  “But he will be in attendance this evening, for our Jack Wilson. Barnwell is always here to supervise his machines. Might you wish to meet him this evening, I can secure an order or two for you, but they would have to be in our gallery.”

  “I thank you. I would be delighted. On the night of Mr. Cake’s demise, was his brother here in the theatre?”

  “Yes, sir. He stays late as well, to re-set the machinery of the stage. Mr. Barnwell lives in a small room over his workshop.”

  “I am also curious about this particular item. And why it was found in Mr. Cake’s house.”

  Inspector Endersby pulled from his satchel the contract from Lord Harwood. He handed it to the stage manager, who ran his eyes over the details.

  “What a stroke,” the stage manager exclaimed. “Mr. Cake gone across the river? A sea-change for the better. He was a clever man.” These last words caught in the man’s throat, and he paused for a moment before handing the document back to Endersby.

  “You knew nothing of this then? That Cake was to manage the great house?”

  “No, sir. Not a jot.”

  “And what of these? We found these on the floor of his house. It seems Cake lent money as well as made it. Are these names familiar to you, sir? I caution you that I require truthful answers, even at the expense of shaming someone’s reputation. Mr. Cake’s murder overrides any consideration of confidentiality. As I am sure you shall agree.”

  The stage manager sat forward and studied the promissory notes. He sniffed and wiped his mouth.

  “Well, first, I do not know of a P. Summers. At least in our theatre circle. But I imagine these other three notes are all from one man, Mr. Percy Buckstone. He is one of our actors. I am surprised at his need for money, he being one of our better performers. But I reckon he likes his drink and his horses. Yes. No doubt it is he. Though I am surprised Mr. Cake would have been into usury.”

  “Mr. Buckstone may not want to speak to me about these matters. But I must insist.”

  “I shall have him fetched, sir. He comes to the theatre early, as there is rehearsal for the Christmas extravaganza. He is also our Jack Wilson and does a fine hornpipe.”

  The stage manager rose and left the room for a moment. His voice called out, and someone came running. There was subsequent murmuring by the doorway. Endersby went over the facts so far, repeating them twice to set them into his memory. He glanced at the pale morning light seeping in the high window. Mr. Barnwell, Mr. Barnwell, he repeated to himself. The stage manager returned followed by a young boy carrying two pints of porter.

  “Will you join me, Inspector? Mr. Buckstone will be here presently.”

  Endersby took the pewter pint and raised it in a toast.

  The stage manager’s voice cracked again as he spoke. “To Mr. Cake.”

  “To Mr. Cake,” Endersby said, wiping his lips.

  * * *

  Betty Loxton lay on the cold mattress, morning air brushing her tear-stained cheek. She wished she were a cloud like the ones high beyond the smudged sky light. Gone in an instant, gone he was, and sister Clare stirring the coffee only knew him as a name, a Mr. Cake, his murder an oft-told story in the market. A cousin of a friend had been in the public house with the other spectators and seen the bloodied walking stick and the old coroner with skin whiter than a
turnip’s. Smoke filled Betty’s cramped room, curling blue over the hearth and the rickety shelves of white mugs and tin plates. She huddled under the thin quilt. These walls are blacker than widow’s crepe, she thought.

  “Get you up, sis, before mam finds you there. We are all so late this morning.” Clare handed her a steaming cup and a slice of bread with drippings. Betty did not take even a sip of her coffee.

  “I want to die, Clare. All I want is that.”

  “What are you up to?” crabbed Pineapple Pol, suddenly coming in from the other room. Her bonnet framed her scowling face as the doorway framed her threatening body, an arm held up like a club. Betty threw back the quilt. She struggled to the wash basin, pulled on her bonnet and skirt. “Hurry, lazy bones,” her mother’s sharp voice shouted. Pineapple Pol left the doorway, her footsteps soon stamping down the stairs to the open street. Passing into the other room with its table and other beds and its string across the far wall hung with dripping rags, Betty dared not look at the mound of covers where Uncle Thomas had spent the night. The shadow over his bed was like a shroud. Betty wiped her nose.

  “Girl,” her mother shouted up the stairwell.

  “Coming,” Betty hollered back.

  “Slow-poke, you are,” Pineapple Pol scolded when Betty came into the street. “It’s Winter Reds again for you today, and I’ll hawk bosky pears. Berries and mistletoe, too, if you want ’em, but they’re dear. Keep up, girl, keep up. We are so late today. I don’t want you lagging now, not never, you hear me?”

  The cobbles wore a slick coating of mud. Frost and powdery snow whitened window sills. “Ice coming soon,” Pineapple Pol announced. “Keep your feet dry. Get a bit of canvas to sit on, from your brother. Them lords and ladies at Old Drury like a clean-looking git, you mind. ’Tis Christmas after all,” she laughed. “Merry times for us all.”

  Betty halted. She dropped her basket. Her fists tightened into stones.

  Pineapple Pol reddened and said, “Don’t you gawk at me, you ingrate pox box. I got two of you useless daughters.” She took hold of Betty and shook her.

  Betty pulled away. She kicked her basket and sent it rolling. Pineapple Pol struck Betty hard on her right temple. She grabbed her neck and shoved her toward the basket. “Bend, you. Fetch it!” Betty reached out. Her hand clutched the handle as her temple throbbed and a hoarse whisper burnt her ear: “You’ll starve if you don’t strap, you hear?” said Pineapple Pol. “Scraggy fool, I won’t have you on the scamp. Get along, get.”

  From Longacre they came, Betty holding her eyes down all the way. She refused to gaze at the vast square of the Covent Garden market. Under the archways, shop windows glittered with morning light. Lines of donkey carts reminded her of a funeral parade, and she told herself to “buck up” as she held back her tears. Paving stones slid with cabbage leaves; bags and sacks, like lumpy corpses, held leeks and potatoes and rhubarb. “Need a dozen, sweetie?” the apple-woman cried, her voice singing in an Irish lilt. Pineapple Pol disappeared into the crowd past the hordes of greengrocers in their blue aprons, all of them like dogs of hell, thought Betty.

  She bought a basket of Winter Reds. She spat on them and rubbed them bright on her skirt. Between the pillars were the coffee-stalls where other coster girls sat talking, but Betty wanted none of that rattle today. A flower girl in bare feet dashed by carrying an armful of hardy violets, their trail of perfume streaking after her.

  “How much a bunch?” asked Betty at the girl’s stall.

  “Ha’penny,” was the sharp reply. Betty selected the plumpest violets and paid the girl. They curtsied to each other. Then Betty headed east toward her corner. Old Madge would already be on the opposite side of Russell, her brazier roaring with chestnuts on the grate. The murmur of the market faded as Betty walked under an arcade and hurried along a side alley, where she dodged barrows of piled vegetables. Eventually, she wound her way to the far corner of Brydges, to the very place where her sweetheart had first met her. He had come strolling along, his skin ruddy as a plum’s, his coffee-coloured trousers so clean and pressed. He had tipped his hat and called her by her first name.

  “It is Betty, is it?”

  Betty stopped at the place where his words had been uttered. The gentle hand of memory touched her cheek. Samuel, she said under her breath, take these. She laid the bunch of violets on the kerb, their weak, lonely petals soaking in the muck.

  “No more tears. Keep them close,” Betty whispered. “Think of what you must do. You’ve a load of apples that’ll crick your neck hard enough, you silly lamb. Think of what you want instead.” Betty crossed the street, her little frame shadowed by the bulk of Old Drury. She did not look over to Madge the chestnut seller. She was breathless by the time she found herself under the tall columns of a portico. Hurry on, she cried to herself. Around the corner, down the side lane, past the water pumps, through the open air of Vinegar Yard toward an arched doorway, a red wooden door at the side of the great theatre where a kindly, frizzy-haired gentleman sat in a small booth. His green waistcoat and yellow leather boots proclaimed to the world that he guarded the entrance to a magical world. There Betty Loxton took pause. She gathered her courage.

  “Stand to one side there—what’s your business?”

  “I beg you, kind sir…”

  “Stand aside, girl. Out of the way. And take that basket out, too.”

  “I beg you, sir.”

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Dupré. Good morning. There are twelve letters for you, and I have sent up the coffee boy to the stage manager’s fire.”

  “Thank you Hartley, and a fine morning it is. I shall be taking interviews after midday, as we have arranged. Then I shall need to see the list and the names of the tryouts. The same procedure as last holiday time.”

  “Very good, Mr. Dupré. Good morning to you. Stand aside, young one, stand off. What is your business?”

  “I come, sir, to the call, sir. I heard it told in the market.”

  “For the panto, you mean? We want dancers and singers, youngster, not coster girls. Stand aside. Mr. Dupré shall be receiving very soon.”

  “Sir?”

  “What again, foolish child? Can you not see I am a busy man? This stage door is not for sellers and hawkers.”

  “But sir, the call. Can I have my name put on? I beg you, sir. I sing, I dance a hornpipe as well as any.”

  “Why really, you have come too early, and I have so many this morning to oblige.”

  “But, kind sir, I can wait. I can see the manager when he is free. And the dancing master.”

  “You are a saucy girl. You must not stop here, crowding the foyer. Can you write your name?”

  “I can initial, sir. Right quick.”

  “Then take this….ah, Miss Root, a good morning to you.”

  “Dear Hartley, what a chilly day it is. Any letters?”

  “I have sent Crabb with them already, to your parlour.”

  “I thank you, dear Hartley. How is your leg?”

  “Rheumatism is a burden, Miss Root. But I manage. I can sit most times here, by the door. Mr. Dupré has allowed it.”

  “You dear man. And what of my interview?”

  “This afternoon, Miss Root. In the stage manager’s chamber.”

  “And who are you, young miss, may I enquire?”

  “Miss Betty Loxton, mum.”

  “What a sweet face. How much for the Winter Red?”

  “Penny, mum. But I come not to sell. I want to sign for the call. For the panto.”

  “Can you sing and dance? Mr. Dupré will like your pretty face. But we shall need quick bodies for the fairy chorus.”

  “I can sing, mum. I dance at the Gaff near St. Paul’s, Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons.”

  “Hartley, take this sweet girl. Here, take Hartley’s quill and sign. There. There you are. What time does Dupré see the supernumeraries, Mr. Hartley?”

  “I believe at six this afternoon, Miss Root. Yes, at six on the dot.”

  �
�Good morning to you.”

  “Good morning. As for you, get along now, saucy girl. That’ll do, you’ve got what you want. Come sharp at six. Be on the spot, you hear, with the others. Wash your face and hands before you come. Mr. Dupré is not in the habit of hiring mud hens for his stage chorus.”

  * * *

  A tall man with red hair and a large red beard appeared in the doorway. “Sir, you have a request?” The man sounded winded. His face was sweaty, his freckles so thick he seemed like a countryman with a field tan.

  Endersby stood and introduced himself, and the man’s eyes looked down to the floor then toward the hearth, as if the simple invitation to meet a policeman had caused some pin-prick of guilt to surface.

  Percy Buckstone was thirty years old, tall and muscular. His orange hair and beard formed a striking frame to his high cheekbones. He had the face of an actor, thought Endersby. The lips a little too large for real life, but ample to show in the wavering of footlights—a telling face, as his Harriet would have said.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Buckstone.”

  “I prefer to stand if I might.” The voice was cooler now, resistant. Mr. Buckstone’s right hand was sheathed in a thick rawhide glove, yellow in color.

  “May I see your glove, sir?” Endersby replied. The actor pulled off the glove. It was leather through and through. The found glove had been smaller, yet as flamboyant in design. “What do you use this for, sir?” the inspector continued, his pitch and tone full of genuine curiosity.

  “Fencing. In rehearsal only. I fight off villains, sir, every night of the week but Sunday.”

  Inspector Endersby smiled. “Do you, Mr. Buckstone? Admirable.” The actor pulled on the glove. “Does this glove have a mate, Mr. Buckstone?”

  The actor looked bewildered then answered: “I never use it, sir.” Percy Buckstone pulled the mate from under his shirt, clean and new-looking.

  Endersby examined it and handed it back to the actor.

  “Will there be much else, sir?” Buckstone asked, relieved. “I am rehearsing the middle of a scene.”

  “Tell me about these, please.”

  Percy Buckstone looked at the three promissory notes containing his signature. He fidgeted. “I am sorry to hear of Mr. Cake, sir,” he stuttered.