Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “Do you recognize this name, sir, this signature?”

  “P. Summers. There was an actor once called Arthur Summers. Four, five years ago, at the Lyceum. Was a feisty man, arrested for striking a footman of Lord Carroll’s. Married an actress across the river, but I never did know her name. Dead and gone now, I believe. This is a note to whom, Mr. Endersby?”

  “It was found in Mr. Cake’s house in Doughty Street. I have yet to find anyone who has an inkling of this creature.”

  “May I suggest old Eleazar on Fleet. Knows most names of the profligate.”

  “I thank you. And do you have any recollection of a Rosa Grisi and her brothers.”

  “A beauty of a kind, I reckon. Very strong acrobat and horsewoman who came by the theatre often enough to see Mr. Cake. She had a temper, I swear. Her two brothers were work, Mr. Endersby. Hanging about and smoking and talking in their foreign tongue. One of them one time struck an argument with Mr. Cake, but nothing came of it. A Peeler was nearby and put the two ruffian brothers off. You think they are guilty, sir? They be the ones who went after Mr. Cake?”

  “I cannot draw any conclusion as yet, sir,” Endersby said cautiously. “There are too many directions I must follow first before I point my finger.”

  “I see your drift. Wise of you, sir. I tell you, I cannot judge others too well myself, seeing I meet most people in passing—coming and going through this door.”

  “A wise perception of your own. But in time, we can see much if we keep our eyes and ears open. I would ask you to do just that for me. If any suspicious character turns up, or if any memory of yours brings you a new take on things, please send me word at the Fleet Street station.”

  “With pleasure, Mr. Endersby. I can rely on my sharp-eyed mother-in-law for many a tidbit.”

  “Indeed, you can. Good day.”

  * * *

  Into a narrow hall in the New Cut, Inspector Owen Endersby was guided by a young girl. The clock at Waterloo Bridge was striking the hour. The house he’d entered was dingy. Numbers on the doors told him the place was let to boarders, but of a respectable and paying nature, not like the vile lodging houses he had recently seen, not like the fire-ridden hell-hole down in St. Giles. After giving the girl a penny, he was brought into the little parlour of Mrs. Percy Buckstone, the actor’s wife. As usual, Endersby needed to verify stories. Was Percy Buckstone a borrower of money? Yes, the promissory notes proved that. Was he one of the frequenters the witness at the coroner’s inquest spoke about? Possibly. One of them wore a red beard. Likely it was Buckstone. But was this agile actor capable of violence or murder? What pushes a man to wield a weapon? wondered Endersby.

  Mrs. Buckstone had arranged herself on a low sofa, oddly placed in the centre of the cluttered room, rather like a large throne amongst the pictures, china dogs, feathers, fans and bowls of boiled sweets. Here, Mrs. Buckstone received. Inspector Endersby introduced himself as a detective. That very word caught the chin of Mrs. Buckstone and raised it to a peculiar angle from which she peered down at his suede gloves and his mud-crusted boots.

  Endersby’s eyes took in a wide woman with a cluster of loose ringlets popping out from her head in a mass of yellow. She had thick ankles; her lace cap had been removed and was perched ominously on a pillow next to her.

  “What?” she repeated.

  Endersby prodded himself to repeat the question concerning the whereabouts of Percy Buckstone on last Friday night.

  The woman moved her mouth into an irritable frown: “At the theatre, surely, sir. Practising his profession. That is his wont.”

  “And after, Mrs. Buckstone?”

  “After? Why, home to supper.”

  “With respect, Mrs. Buckstone, at what time was that?”

  “Time, sir? Oh, my. By ten or so. The usual.”

  Mrs. Buckstone rubbed her chubby hands as if she were in a cold draft.

  “Not later, by chance?”

  “Must I count out the hours, surely? I cannot vouch precisely, sir. No. But near to ten. Percy always comes home near to ten. His habit.”

  “Does his habit sometimes lead him out late at night?”

  “Whatever do you suggest, Inspector?”

  “Does your husband spend some evenings with cronies of the theatre? Does he dine out occasionally with them?” Endersby did not want to lead the woman on. He did not want to mention the gaming table or the debts, as yet.

  “I am afraid I cannot say, sir. Surely, my husband spends his time as he will. He dines regularly with me, I can assure you.”

  “Does your husband buy you gifts, Mrs. Buckstone?”

  “You are curious, sir. What are you getting at?”

  Endersby decided on a quick broadside attack. “Your husband plays the gambling tables, does he not? He has debts? He borrows?”

  “He does? I think, sir, you have incorrect information. My husband is respectable in every quarter.”

  Endersby pulled out the promissory notes with Buckstone’s signature. The pink round hand that took them was trembling. The plump face fell on reading them.

  “I think this is scandalous, sir. I cannot imagine what my Percy was thinking when he signed these. I give him an allowance. He has his wages. We always dine at home. Is this a jest, sir?”

  “They were found in Mr. Cake’s house, Mrs. Buckstone.”

  The pink hands flew up and covered the teary eyes.

  “Do you know if Mr. Buckstone had any other kinds of dealings with Cake? Or with other gambling friends?”

  “I cannot imagine, sir. I cannot imagine what the man does on his own time.”

  “On Friday night. What did you have for your late supper together?”

  Mrs. Buckstone pulled on her lace cap. “Prawns in sauce, sir. Costly at this time of year, I can attest. A shilling a half-pound.”

  “You dined together?”

  “As usual. And to bed.”

  “Did Mr. Buckstone rise in the night for any reason?”

  “What reason, sir. To escape? To murder Mr. Cake? Is that what you mean?” Mrs. Buckstone was a belligerent bully now. She stood up and her skirt flounced with an angry swish.

  “Yes, perhaps. Did he?”

  “As far as I know, he remained at home.”

  “You are certain? Your maid did not see or hear him?”

  “My maid? What a dolt. She does not stay in, sir. She is but a daily.”

  “Anyone else in this hall who may know about your husband?”

  “His goings and comings? So I now must play the spy on my dear Percy. Admit that he is a scoundrel?”

  “It is a simple question I ask, Mrs. Buckstone. I am not accusing your husband.”

  “Search them out then. They will vouch for him.”

  Mrs. Buckstone turned her sights toward the smoky hearth, and from the set of her shoulders Endersby decided it was time he departed. He sensed, even before Mrs. Buckstone showed him the door, that she was telling the truth, as much as she knew it. She held the latch, raised her chin, and looked past him into the hall.

  “You might try talking to Elisabetta Mazzini,” Mrs. Buckstone confided, her eyes looking right as she spoke. “She is with the opera. Percy told me Mr. Cake was fond of her. She is a clever one, Mr. Endersby. One not easy to catch. My Percy says she is very good at whist and at the gaming table.” This last admission brought a hot blush to her cheeks. “Good day, Mr. Endersby,” she said, her voice now trembling.

  As the door shut, Endersby heard the woman burst into tears. A piece of china smashed against the floor. Retreating to the stairwell, he saw a man below in the doorway.

  “Caldwell. How did you find me so fast?”

  “The stage door keeper at the Coburg, sir.”

  Endersby was with his sergeant a few minutes later walking out of the New Cut and onto Waterloo Road where they found the eating house mentioned by Percy Buckstone. They entered, checked on Buckstone’s story and found he was a regular. Two glasses of claret were ordered. Endersby was restless, k
icking the floor with his boot. He peered around the room as Caldwell recounted his morning.

  “Seven only, so far, sir. Mostly sellers.” Caldwell was holding up the found glove. The blood stains had darkened. “Most shook their heads. Never seen its kind before. Hardy’s in the Arcade suggested a maker in the City. He was closing up when I got there—a funeral. He said it was a curious bit. Perhaps a French make. Used for coachmen and horse handlers. He wouldn’t swear to it.”

  Caldwell was wearing his hat, and his face was slightly red from his morning exertion. Endersby encouraged him to keep on talking.

  “I will try later today, if you wish, sir. More sellers and makers. They all seemed doubtful. Said mostly the glove was foreign, not English.”

  “How about glove cleaners, Caldwell? There’s a by-way. Cleaners.”

  “Good point, sir. I shall venture there, too.”

  “Play the game. Ask for a mate. Get the cleaners to talk about clients. Names.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And the plug, Caldwell? The cheap chomp?”

  “Better luck, Inspector. I went straight to Covent Garden to the tobacconists. Two of them told me the name, the weight and the cost of the grain. One said it was a favorite among costers, for its price and flavour. Definitely not a gentlemen’s tobacco.”

  “Perhaps an actor’s, however. Let us not overlook that possibility.”

  “Certainly not, sir,” replied Caldwell.

  * * *

  By early afternoon, after a very quick lunch, Endersby knew that a confrontation must take place no matter what the odds. Two names whirled around his mind: Rosa Grisi and Elisabetta Mazzini. Both were in the theatre. Both were foreign. Each knew something of Cake that could reveal yet more names, perhaps even the identity—nay, the identities—of those beasts who beat him to death. Endersby decided to choose one of the women over the other. First comes first, he concluded. He discussed the matter with some urgency with Caldwell, and to his delight found his sergeant not only cooperative but in complete agreement. To show this, Caldwell hid his policeman’s baton in his great coat’s inner pocket and hastened to mention that he would gladly go along with any tactic Endersby decided to use.

  Thus, the inspector and his sergeant were once again on the streets of London, south of the great Thames river, marching through winding streets of the Surrey side under the shadow of Shot Tower. As the two men rounded the corner of York Road, playbills announced Rosa Grisi’s name in large letters. Endersby paused by the arched entrance to Aston’s Palladium.

  “Over here,” he said to Caldwell.

  Endersby led his sergeant into an alley beside the theatre. He withdrew into the shadow of the building and hastily opened his satchel. He lifted from it a pair of thick spectacles. He placed them on his nose.

  “Well, Caldwell?”

  “They suit, sir.”

  Endersby then prayed the hairpiece Caldwell slipped on would force the Grisi brothers to trust the two of them as curious spectators, as fans of the horse show. When Endersby returned to the theatre’s entrance, he stood before the gaping hall with his eyes quite squinted in trepidation. Caldwell was walking in front of him with a swagger and addressing the stage-door keeper as to the location of the famous Grisi family. “Out in the yard, in the stables,” came the man’s answer, his palm at the same time receiving a ha’penny.

  “Now listen up, Caldwell,” Endersby said in a conspiratorial voice. “Rosa Grisi and her two brothers are hot-blooded. The story is she attacked a man in Italy and had to flee here to England. Act slow and listen.” Caldwell’s wig sat firm as his legs took confident strides into an open yard of sand and a cluster of horse stables. The two Grisi brothers made an appearance, leading a horse from the stalls. The sergeant made the first move, going up boldly to the men, thrusting out his hand. Out of his mouth sprang a broad American accent.

  “Fine fine show, gentlemen! I want to congratulate you. Most daring. Impressive.”

  The brother with the moustache halted. He was a quick-eyed twenty-five year old with jet hair and a rough-shaven chin. His eyes were a burnished brown. The older-looking brother, holding the horse, was almost his twin, with the same wiry build and intense gaze. The brothers wore black linen shirts and breeches covered in leather chaps. Their sleeves were rolled up, and Endersby scanned their waists for the tell-tale belt and dagger.

  “Che succede?” said the younger.

  “What do you want?” said the older, his eyes on the horse, but his attention riveted to the two visitors in long coats.

  “A darn good show,” repeated Caldwell. “How do you boys manage to keep such a tight circle?”

  “Cosa?”

  Endersby lifted up his glasses. A posh palace accent accompanied his words. “A fine specimen. Spanish, is it? Name is Carlton. Lord Edward Carlton. In the market for a good horse, a performer, for my county fair.”

  “We are not handlers, sir. Nor sellers. I thank you.” The older spoke quickly, dismissing them. Caldwell came closer, and the younger Grisi tensed his shoulders. “Yes?” he blurted out in a halted version of the word.

  “Mighty pleased,” Caldwell said, stressing the “ee” in pleased. He grabbed the young man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “You folks from the south? Spain? Italy?”

  “We are Londoners,” said the older, his voice tired and filling with annoyance.

  “Been in the country long, have you?” chimed in Endersby. He circled the horse, inspecting its legs and neck.

  “Calma, calma,” the older said, patting the horse. The younger came around the back side of the animal and crowded close to Endersby.

  “I understand you have a sister. She is the Muse in your spectacle of the Waterloo? Splendid, I understand.”

  “Sister?” questioned the younger. He cocked his head.

  “Sorella,” translated the older. The word reached the younger’s ears. Without warning, his colour deepened. His mouth pulled into a sneer. Stepping back, Endersby had only an instant to pull in a breath before he saw the glint, the line, the honed point. Triangular in shape, the knife point was abruptly held up and shoved close against the taut skin of Endersby’s throat. One extra thrust, and the blade could easily slice the flesh of the inspector’s respectable second chin.

  “Perche? Chi sei?” the enraged younger brother spat into Endersby’s frozen face.

  In a bound, the older rushed to his brother, hand out, mouth open but voiceless. Out came his arm then his fist to yank the knife away from fulfilling its bloody duty. The younger brother pulled back, panting. The knife fell and thumped into the dust of the sandy yard.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the older brother apologized. “Go, please, my brother and I, we are busy. Lots of work.”

  “Well, I declare,” exclaimed Caldwell, “you are a hot-headed bunch.” The sergeant forced a laugh, and Endersby backed off from the younger brother, making a quick mental note: neither brother was wearing gloves, one was the handler of the other. Calming, taking in safe breath, Endersby also noted that the younger had a recent injury to his hand—a cut, as if from a knife like the one he brandished.

  “Can I help you, signori?”

  A tall man in a fur cape was walking into the stable yard. The shadow of the theatre at first darkened the features of his face, but as he moved into the pale afternoon light, Endersby saw he was Italian or Spanish and that he had an air of authority about him.

  “A lavoro,” he commanded the two Grisi brothers, who immediately bowed in obedience and led the horse into another part of the yard. The man introduced himself as the agent of the Grisi family.

  “Hiram Melville,” said Caldwell, shaking the man’s hand with vigour.

  “Lord Carlton,” replied Endersby. He broke into a polite smile, quickly assessing the Italian man’s gesture and the look in his eyes.

  “People admire my family. Yes, I am a cousin. The brothers and their sister are well-known here in London. It is a privilege to perform before such fine gentlem
en as yourselves. Why have you come here this afternoon?”

  Caldwell smiled, and before he could come up with a response, Endersby spoke: “We are admirers of good horsemanship, sir. I understand the Grisi family is one of the finest in the capital for performing tricks and stunts. I understand there is a sister, and I would very much like to meet her.”

  “For what reason?” asked the man. His voice betrayed no suspicion. He was smiling and polite, and his outstretched arm suggested the three of them walk together from the yard into the central ring of the emporium.

  “I want to hire her,” said Endersby. He hoped his quick response would interest the man and waylay any further doubtful suspicions he seemed to have about the visit.

  “How gracious, Lord Carlton,” he answered. “But Miss Grisi is not a private performer. Not even for a grand fee. And she has many bookings until the spring, here and in Paris and Vienna.” One of Endersby’s beliefs was that if a man was lying, there was a hard tone to his voice. The Italian cousin’s words took on that tone, its steely nature shaping the pace of the words. For a moment, as the three of them surveyed the rows of seats rising in tiers, the Italian held his stance. Then a flicker came into his face, a hint of fear.

  “But of course, we can negotiate a special time for you, Lord Carlton. If you will allow me.”

  “May I meet with Miss Grisi?” Endersby asked. He half expected the man to refuse on the spot.

  But the man responded: “With pleasure. I shall meet with my cousin this afternoon and arrange an appuntamento. Please, you can call again tomorrow, so I can give you her answer. She will be most honoured, sir.” The tone had returned and with it a touch of malice in the use of the Italian word.

  “Good day,” the Italian then said, bowing a little before returning toward the stables.

  “I thank you, sir,” twanged Caldwell. The Italian swivelled around, waved for a second before turning to go outdoors.

  “Keep an eye on him, Caldwell,” Endersby said in a rush. “Walk around this place. Find out when the Grisi brothers go and come. Stay close by as much as you can, but out of sight, if possible. The question remains as to where in Heaven is Rosa Grisi?”