by Jon Redfern
Asking the same question of the stage-door keeper brought the answer that she was at home, resting, that she wished to remain private, that she met fans, like the gentlemen before him, only after her performances in the evening. Endersby thanked the man with another ha’penny and enquired of her street address.
“Not allowed to tell,” said the man, his eyes darting toward the entrance to the stable. “Orders from the cousin.”
Endersby was about to ask again but decided to let the situation lie. True, he wanted to coerce the peremptory man, though he concluded the stage-door keeper was most likely telling the truth. It was not Endersby’s custom to resort to physical means of persuasion. He was not adverse to taunting or even to hitting a man to get information, but only in dire circumstances. London, after all, was a big, hard city. Endersby knew a policeman had to use force on occasion to get answers. He studied the stubborn stage-door keeper once more. Most likely the man had answered more out of fear than belligerence.
On the street, Endersby eased off his spectacles. “Walk with me, Caldwell.”
“You seem vexed, sir.”
Rain dotted the pavement. A gust of smoke from a baker’s oven momentarily shadowed the street.
“You noted how the young hot-head Grisi reacted to my question about his sister?”
“With the point of his dagger.”
“Here, let me see that damned glove.”
Caldwell pulled out the soiled glove and handed it to the inspector. Endersby felt the leather, rubbing it between his fingers. He put it to his nose.
“If this belonged to a horse handler, would you not imagine it would carry the odour of horse? With day-to-day use, I cannot believe it could not. Here, smell it.”
Caldwell took it back and held it to his nose. “There is a faint smell to it, sir. Not of horse, though. Of grease, perhaps. Of oil.”
“Yes, indeed.”
The men stopped when they reached the steps to Waterloo Bridge. A skiff full of fragrant oranges sailed past, and Endersby was sorely tempted to call to the bargeman and haggle a penny for a handful of the sweet fruit.
“I shall go off and ponder awhile, Caldwell. Give me the glove for the mean time. You get back to Aston’s. Rosa Grisi is the one person I sense is most suspicious—so far—in this cruel business.”
Caldwell started off into the afternoon. Checking the clock by the river, Endersby hastened over the great bridge, the churning expanse of the Thames forcing him to think of the flow of time. A murderer still remained at liberty. The clocks of London were ticking.
“Blood will out,” Endersby consoled himself, though he fervently wished the secret to be revealed to him before night fell. He hurried on. He pondered the wherewithal of the Grisi family and the Italian cousin and their possible roles in the drama of Cake’s death. The wind blew colder. With each footstep Endersby’s annoyance grew, for he now reminded himself of a most tedious but necessary duty. As was police custom, he must go and present his evidence—the bloodied glove, in particular—to the local magistrate at Gray’s Inn. Testimonials required review; forms demanded his signature. The magistrate would want a full account of the murder scene inspection, let alone an appraisal of the surgeon’s conclusions. What was most important was Endersby’s personal observations as a policeman on the state of the scene and the condition of the body. The items under scrutiny would then be catalogued and handed back to Endersby for his use in pursuing the felons responsible. “A fussy, paper-busy matter,” grumbled Endersby. He halted, adjusted his hat to the swipe of the wind, and reluctantly raised his arm to attract a hansom.
* * *
The magistrate at Gray’s Inn fell asleep twice during Endersby’s exposition of the crime scene. One hour dragged, with the reading and signing of all the required depositions and affidavits. After much discussion, the session finally ended, and Endersby relieved his mind and his cramped writing hand with a brisk walk. The Strand now shoved, bullied and splattered him. He kicked a piece of broken bottle into the gutter. A man beating a horse found his arm stayed by Endersby’s iron grip.
“What good is beating the beast to death, sir? You go nowhere. Feed it instead.”
The man, so shocked at the interruption, tipped his hat and laid down his whip.
Endersby marched on. He felt a petulant anger rising. It was difficult, after all, to appreciate a day when there were so few answers to his questions. All he could ponder was the memory of Samuel Cake’s bloodied face. He decided not to head in the direction of Fleet Lane, nor to his superintendent, who would no doubt be pursing his lips and wanting an immediate report, nay, a suspect and a conviction by dinner time. Not possible, thought Endersby. Taking a rest by a shop window, he stared in at buttons on display. “A puzzle in themselves,” he said, noting the patterns and lines. He looked at his own reflection. Doubt added its frown to his tired features.
Logic and perception and persistence: these were Endersby’s guiding words. He went over the details, his thoughts first alighting on the redoubtable Miss Rosa Grisi. How, if she were so inclined, did she effect the brutal thrashing of a man she had once loved? Remember the rumour of her stabbing a man in Italy. Perchance Cake had returned late on Friday from the theatre and to his surprise found his former lover waiting for him. They argued; Rosa Grisi lost her temper; the walking stick turned into a murderous bludgeon. Did the smashing then take place after Cake had been killed, a vindictive coda to the sudden act of violence?
So far, logic had brought Endersby to an impasse. He persisted, however. He walked on, and at Brydges Street he stopped to glimpse the crowds lining up to buy theatre tickets at Old Drury. What do you know, old dowager? he asked of the building itself. Indeed, what heinous secrets did all the silent fronts of these buildings shelter? If only the inanimate world could speak. But what musing. Endersby entertained the question of how much of this sordid world could civilized beings bear? Back in the fray of Chancery Lane, he stopped mid-street and looked up at the sky. No relief to be had from that ceiling of grey cloud. With new thoughts forming, Endersby realized he must stake out Caldwell in various places—in disguise— to act the spy. Deception is often the by-way to truth, he reminded himself. That and a little physical exertion. Mind, a roughing up of a villain or two often brings results. His mind flew back to the spoiled Mr. Buckstone then halted at the vision of the Grisi brother with his threatening stiletto. In the end, how does the Italian cousin affect all of this? What configuration in the puzzle fits that arrogant liar? And the sister, Rosa Grisi? She is still a mystery, let alone the other woman, the one from the opera, Elisabetta Mazzini. Perhaps she might illumine the pattern of all the interstices and criss-crosses which form the web of the case.
A nagging breeze of cold air drove Endersby forward until he entered a short street guarded by a large gate and a gate-keeper. Endersby told the keeper his business and was pointed toward the house he had decided to visit before his supper time.
Holborn Row still retained its feeling of grandeur. Like proud galleons, the grand mansions first built in the reign of George the Third held chests of silver and jewels, displayed banners and shields with the crests of ancient families. Greek-styled pillars fronted deep white porches. Endersby pulled the bell at Number 92. When he lifted his gaze toward the shiny door opening before him, there stood a large man in butler’s livery. Endersby explained who he was and what he wanted. Soon he was following the butler across a grand foyer domed by a painted ceiling displaying Roman warriors fighting gods. The butler opened a door to a small room. Gold trim emboldened the stiff chairs. In one of these sat Lord Harwood. Like his surroundings, he was gilt-edged: proper, pressed, pointed in tone of voice.
“A detective force? How novel.”
There was no disdain, no train of contempt in the aristocrat’s words. Merely a haughty curiosity. A moment later, the contract with the broken seal lay in Lord Harwood’s silken lap, its journey from ransacked Doughty Street back to the halls of landed wealth presenting an ir
ony, which temporarily amused Inspector Endersby. Harwood’s aristocratic signature was on it, as were the names of Old Drury and Samuel Cake, side-by-side in collusion.
“But why Old Drury? And why Mr. Cake? Is the theatre not managed already?” asked Endersby.
“By a Mr. Dupré, sir. Henry Robertson Dupré,” answered Lord Harwood. “Practical playwright, among other talents. Thinking of more important matters, I forgot to tell you that Mr. Dupré is also a spendthrift. He indulges in the role of the wastrel at my expense. And despite his recent ‘hit,’ as he vulgarly proclaims it, his rent is grossly in arrears. But then, Old Drury is an eater of coin. What a burden that property has been. Even my father with the great Garrick himself had to call in the bailiff at times.”
Owen Endersby noted each step of the narrative, his eyes never leaving the well-fed face of a man whose lineage, he was certain, stretched far back into the fog of time to the era of Elizabeth I herself. Lord Harwood was not only an owner of theatres but also other lease-hold properties in and around London.
“But why Cake, your lordship? I ask you again.”
“I beg your pardon. Letting my mind wander to lesser things—a habit of mine. There was the simple matter of a bold offer. Mr. Cake was buoyed by his own arrogance and his investments. Not a scurrilous man, not a dishonest one. Most unfortunate demise, for Cake was a self-made gentleman, as the saying goes. I admired that in him—but I am wandering. I believe it was early December.”
Endersby shifted his gouty foot. The afternoon was passing slowly, and the pain was beginning to bother him. “Not to put to fine a point to all of this,” droned Lord Harwood. He then proceeded to outline the story of Samuel Cake and his offer to pay the back rent on Old Drury on condition of a new lease to be awarded to him and to him alone, in January next; to take over the management of the great house; to enliven it and enrich its coffers with spectacles not unlike those humble ones he presented in the Coburg—a clever idea, no doubt—money being the only object in sight, for the roof of the old place needed repair, and Cake was the man with the means.
“And Mr. Dupré?”
“Summarily dismissed, sir. Goodbye to the prodigal. A fine talent and a man with a good eye, but a man without discipline for money. Pondering his actions—a daily toil of mine, I confess—I made a decision. Out I sent him with a prompt letter of dismissal. It is our way with such a lease. Each manager is given a year, and delayed payments. But none, it seems, can ever pay. Except for the promise of this poor murdered Cake, I believe no man in London could have done it.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cake?”
“A week or so ago, I believe. He came with his offer then.”
“You had no other word with him after that date?”
“No, sir. I sent my manservant to deliver the contract. And I had no need to see the man again, nor he me.”
Endersby remained silent, thinking over the facts at hand.
“Dupré is a vindictive man, however, sir,” Lord Harwood pronounced suddenly. “I have had many a nose-to-nose with him, as the vulgar saying goes. He has the pugilist in him. A touch of Lord Byron—that same arrogant nonsense.”
“Is he capable of murder, your lordship?”
“Mr. Cake’s calamity has been examined by the coroner, has it, Mr. Endersby?”
“Yes. It was brought to verdict yesterday afternoon.” Endersby found himself folding his hands together in a kind of submissive gesture.
“Better early than never, I say,” concluded Lord Harwood. “Murder proclaimed then? Beyond doubt?”
“Most surely, your lordship. Do you wish the details?”
“A knife, a bludgeon of some kind?”
“A walking stick.”
“How extraordinary. Allowing my imagination free rein—a habit of mine—I can picture the horrible event. The victim struck down. The cries. And as Macduff nobly wept: ‘O, horror, horror. Murder and treason.’”
“And Mr. Dupré, your lordship?”
Lord Harwood lowered his arms, which a moment before had been raised in thespian despair in front of his widened eyes. He composed himself. “Capable of murder? What a question. Capable of deceit, perhaps. Indolence, certainly, as he has never replied to my letter of dismissal. I would venture to claim he is a man who may give you a clearer vision of Mr. Cake’s finale.”
“I thank you,” said Endersby. The butler led him out through the expansive halls, and when he was outside on the mansion’s grand steps, the inspector stopped to repeat facts as was his method. He had honed his mind to draw traces as well, like tracks in sand or like lines in a pencil sketch which in time would form a portrait. In the light of this afternoon, among the houses of the rich, he came up with the idea that Dupré, perhaps, might be the fourth man in the murder case, the man seen by the neighbor scuttling out the back entrance of Doughty Street…but no, do not jump ahead of yourself, Endersby cautioned. “Taking a leap too soon,” he said to his reflection in a polished urn on the steps of Lord Harwood’s house.
He chuckled. “A habit of mine.”
* * *
Henry Robertson Dupré stood by his desk in his attic office in Old Drury. He read Lord Harwood’s words of dismissal for the fifth and final time. “Ridiculous,” he said, and tore up the letter, gathering its pieces in his hand and tossing them out the round window. He watched the paper flutter away in the wind and felt a joy in his throat as if he’d just taken a long drink of fine French claret. He patted his hair. He was only too aware that as the manager of Old Drury, he must now concentrate on matters at hand. Serious matters, he thought. And then he smiled. Henry Robertson Dupré reminded himself he was a lucky man. As such, he had to keep up his appearance. For certain he must visit his barber this evening for his once-weekly treatment. Indian henna kept his hair young-looking. “Nothing like it,” Henry murmured contentedly, “for brushing out the grey.”
He sat down at his desk. This sudden blush of confidence and momentary joy afforded him a moment of imaginative reflection. He raised his quill pen and crossed out the first hesitant lines of his revised script for the pantomime. The simple approach, he thought, is the only way: begin again at the very beginning. The scratch of his quill on the paper inspired his thoughts, but as it did, his inner voice repeated a singular phrase: finally, finally. After a few pages of furious writing, the scenes pouring out of his mind as water does from a pump, he sat back, scanned the new lines, and nodded with satisfaction. A new promptbook cover lay open, and into it he sorted the freshly written sheets.
And so it is thus.
Henry smiled again. He arched his back. His fine nose and elegant figure seemed even more regal—even more magnificently serene—than ever. He was still a young oak, unbreakable, impeccable.
Henry rose from his chair. His frock coat and pantaloons carried a shine to them, cleaned and pressed earlier this very day by his housekeeper. He patted his hair once more to make sure it was still neatly combed then left his attic office and locked its door. The short flight of stairs to the stage manager’s chamber clattered with his footsteps. Surrounded by the general commotion of the stage, Henry Robertson Dupré felt a driving desire to perform his duties. To say he was vain might be to insult him. At forty, his legs were well formed from years of long morning walks. Ask any one of his fellow theatre managers in London about his talent, and all would agree he was diligent and clever. His hirelings admired him; frequently they likened him in his efficiency to a stiff wind stirring up dust. But to run a theatre like Old Drury at a profit was impossible. No wonder he felt vexed at Harwood’s sudden dismissal. It was as if he’d found himself in a duel and been given neither pistol nor dagger to defend himself.
“Never mind,” he said aloud, “the letter now is null and void.” At five minutes to four o’clock in the afternoon, he entered the stage manager’s chamber, a cheery place to conduct his managerial chores. There was a crackling hearth and a small window to let in daylight. It was but a few steps to the table set u
p for the interviews to secure contracts for the pantomime with his principal actors. Without further ceremony, Henry seated himself. He pondered again the thoughts which had visited him during the night. The prime threat to his professional life was no longer of concern. He tried to dampen the glee he felt in his heart. He then attempted to suppress the deep fear his soul embraced at the same time. To trump Harwood—that was the easiest of his tasks. To trump the world at large was quite another matter.
The door opened and the stage manager poked in his head. “Mr. Weston is here, sir.”
“Good heavens,” Henry said. “You startled the life out of me.” He waved his hand in dismissal. The actor Mr. William Weston came through the door, his skin its usual milky pallor. A beaver top hat, thin kid gloves, a frock coat and a French-style manteau with fur collar summed up his outward dress. He sat down across from Henry. Weston’s body contained its usual nervous rigidity, his back as stiff as a flagpole. When the actor removed his hat, Henry recoiled at Weston’s thinning hair combed over in a patch of oily strands.
“Good afternoon, Weston.”
“And to you, Mr. Dupré.”
“May I enquire after your sister. How is her health?”
“Much the same, Mr. Dupré. I thank you for your concern.”
“Nervousness, weakness, the fever?”
“With due medical attention, these shall subside.”
“You have a new doctor, then?”
“Shall have, Mr. Dupré. Monday fortnight, my aunt and I shall have funds from a sale of my sister’s necklace to pay for a new doctor recommended by Miss Root.”
“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Weston. Nasty business with the Cake affair, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mr. Weston paused for a second. His face seemed to whiten even more, turning to a chalky hue. He yanked off a glove. “Most pitiful, sir. Yet, he was a clever man.”