Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “Giulio and Franco beat your sergeant,” Fieno shouted. “But I cannot let Miss Grisi be found. I shall take the blame for her.”

  Endersby was puzzled. He then recalled what the stage-door keeper at the Coburg theatre had told him. “Was Miss Grisi guilty of a crime in Italy? Did she stab a man, as rumour has it?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Come, come Mr. Fieno. Sooner or later, I will find out where she is. She is far too valuable an income investment for you and your family. You will never allow her to escape, being a ruthless man, after all.”

  Fieno clutched his shaking body. Endersby suggested to Stott to drape the man’s fur cloak over his shoulders. “We do not want a man to die on us from ague.”

  The Italian slumped against the wall, gathering his cloak about him. He stood still but would not let his eyes make contact with Endersby’s. Was this man in love, wondered Endersby? If the story of the fatal stabbing were true, English law had no jurisdiction over Rosa Grisi’s fate. So why was Fieno so protective? Jealousy? Passion? The Italian bent over with cold, and Endersby could see in the man’s face the terrible contortions of anger, desire and fear. The man was on the verge of either giving in or allowing himself to be beaten and utterly humiliated. Finally, as Stott and Birken waited, Fieno spoke: “Number 20, Roupell Street.”

  * * *

  Rosa Grisi’s flat was on the second floor on Roupell, a battered-looking alley formed by two rows of buildings of soot-grimed brick. A blacksmith’s, a tailor’s and a number of shuttered establishments completed the neighbourhood. Owen Endersby had travelled widely in the city; he had been from the flash houses of St. Giles to the newly-erected terraces along Brompton Road. Roupell Street was a narrow passage between the grander streets of the Surrey side, a by-way off the New Cut suitable for those who sought anonymity.

  The voice which greeted him sounded exhausted. “Go away.”

  Signor Fieno pleaded in Italian. Rosa Grisi claimed she could not open the door. Endersby stepped up to the polished panels, rather fancy he thought given the premises, and said she must open in the name of the Metropolitan Detective Police.

  “La Polizia?”

  Silence, then rustling behind the door. Birken dashed down the stairs to guard the back entrance to the building, a door of some weight as Endersby had discovered when he and the others had first scouted the place. A moment later, the puffing sergeant returned, recalled by Endersby himself who now stood triumphantly in the open doorway, a maid behind him holding the knob and pointing to Rosa Grisi’s three darkened rooms. The far room contained a large bed, where the woman herself reclined. Beside her was a gentleman with a black satchel, his hands busy winding a stiff cloth around her right knee.

  Endersby moved forward into the chilly morning air of the flat. He later described the place to Harriet as a cave painted in red with leather poufs, mirrors and saddles. Rosa Grisi’s bed was a mound of cloth, a soft hill of satin bolsters. A strong odour of balsam and raw alcohol suffused the far room. The gentleman beside Rosa Grisi claimed to be a surgeon, one well acquainted with the injuries most often suffered by tumblers.

  “Mr. Bennett,” the gentleman said to introduce himself.

  “And this injury, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Most deleterious for the divine Miss Grisi.” Bruises marred her right leg.

  “How so, Mr. Bennett?” Endersby summed up the surgeon as a man in his fifties, an acolyte as well, for his eyes never left Rosa Grisi’s face.

  “Miss Grisi shall not be performing for at least two more nights. This knee is badly sprained.”

  “Impossible,” cut in Signor Fieno. “You say this for three days now! She rode well enough on Friday and on Saturday night.”

  “Recall, sir,” said the surgeon, “that you and Miss Grisi’s brothers were forced to carry your prize performer into and out of her carriage before and after each performance, as she was in too much pain to walk. And remember, sir, how your wondrous Miss Grisi barely stood erect on the back of her horse—on both nights—even though she tried her very best and was able—a superb gesture, Madame Grisi—to wave the great flag as she sang atop her mount.”

  “Pigra! Indolente!” Signor Fieno threw words at Miss Grisi.

  “Assassino! I am not able to ride,” Rosa Grisi yelled back in her defence. “Signor Fieno, he has the idea it is better to earn money than to have me safe.”

  “Bugie!” shouted Fieno, his cloak held fast against the cold.

  “These are not the lies, Luca,” Rosa said, her voice suddenly soft and pleading. “Shall I fall again and crack open my head? You can show my body to the public and charge a penny.”

  Fieno was about to step forward, his fist raised. Stott grabbed hold of him.

  “This is the same storia all over again.” Rosa Grisi smiled throughout. Endersby admired the elegant rhythm of her movements, especially when she lifted her muscular arms. He felt a rush of heat come into his face, for she was a beauty with hair short and black, eyes pale green as Spanish grapes.

  “And so, Dr. Bennett, you saw the performance on both Friday and Saturday last?” continued Endersby.

  “I did. Despite her injury on Friday night from falling off her mount in the backstage, Miss Grisi rode magnificently. Her one-legged stance on the haunch of her galloping stallion—she was also balancing the Union Jack on a pole—well, the crowd went delirious both nights with clapping.”

  “How was it you accompanied Miss Grisi to her carriage on these two nights? Were you summoned by her?”

  “By her brother, Franco. He was angry.” Mr. Bennett’s eyes looked towards the hard gaze of Signor Fieno. “Franco Grisi and I had met before, as he had a bad cut on his hand which needed attending.”

  “Subsequently, you tended Miss Grisi at your establishment?”

  “No, Inspector. Here, in this place. On both nights, Signor Fieno, Franco and the older brother, Giulio helped me carry Miss Grisi to this very bed.”

  “Did she pass a calm night on either?”

  “Hardly, Inspector. Have you ever broken a bone? Or sprained muscles? I notice you limp somewhat. From the gout, is it?”

  Endersby smiled and explained that on some mornings he had to hobble with his cane.

  “I hope it is not for me to do so,” said Miss Grisi, suddenly. “I shall not take a stick with me. How can I ride in the arena with a foolish stick?” She tossed her hand into the air as if she were throwing a cane into the sea.

  “Miss Grisi paid me to stay late with her on Friday and Saturday. Franco insisted as well. He would not leave her side and watched me like a wild tiger every time I had to bathe her swollen muscles and bind them. He was in tears the whole time, Inspector.”

  “He is like a child,” Miss Grisi said.

  Endersby thought: yes, emotional and violent as well. “What did you order for your breakfast then on Saturday morning, if I may be so curious to enquire?”

  “What a silly English question,” Miss Grisi answered. “You English have such terrible food—nothing but mutton and potatoes and tea. Dio! I do not remember what we took for breakfast. Niente. Mr. Bennett left us just before dawn each day to return to his loving wife and daughter.” With this last phrase, Miss Grisi teased the physician, fluttering her eyes as if she were a juvenile lead meeting a lover at the garden gate.

  The surgeon blushed. “I felt it necessary to stay with Miss Grisi until she was more comfortable. This is what a surgeon has sworn to do. It is part of our oath.”

  “Mr. Fieno, I ask you of your whereabouts on late Friday night last.”

  “I went to what you silly English call a nanny-house.”

  “He is lying,” said Miss Grisi. “He slept in the hall outside my door, where he always sleeps. He keeps me locked inside. It is true. He shuts me in like I am an animal in a cage.”

  At these words, Fieno raised his chin in an arrogant, dismissive manner, but he remained silent. He had the air of a man capable of doing great harm. A lover then, a man of jea
lous passion, concluded Endersby. It was so evident. Signor Fieno loved Miss Grisi in a suffocating fashion. Perhaps the rumours of her stabbing a man might bear investigation. Was Fieno himself the victim, scarred in other ways by his love for her?

  “Where is Franco?” Endersby then asked. “He helped you for two nights, and then he has run off. Indeed, where is the other brother? Is this the way siblings pay homage to his injured sister?”

  “Hiding,” said Miss Grisi. “He and Giulio has beaten a police. They will hang for that.”

  “In Italy, perhaps.”

  “I cannot let you find him. Or Giulio.”

  “What shall I do, then, Miss Grisi? A crime has been committed. Shall I arrest you in your brothers’ stead?”

  “If you must, you must.”

  “In fact, I am more concerned about your lover.”

  “Which one?” Miss Grisi leaned back on a pillow.

  “Mr. Samuel Cake.”

  “Ah, I see. Mr. Samuel. So sweet. Did you know Luca—Signor Fieno—wanted to kill Samuel?”

  Fieno, who had been sitting down and shivering in his cloak, looked up but did not stir. He shut his eyes.

  “He tried it only once. This last summer. Did you not, Luca?” said Rosa Grisi. “With a dagger. And all by himself. It was not so successful, was it, Luca?”

  Tears formed in Signor Fieno’s eyes. Miss Grisi went on, her words humiliating the man to the point where he seemed to fold under their weight.

  “In August, Luca waited for Samuel and struck at him in the night. It was on the New Cut very late. Samuel was a smarter man than he sometimes let you know. Samuel was quick with his walking stick. The dagger dropped from Luca’s hand. I cannot remember what Samuel did with it. I think he threw it in the river.” A silence attended the final sound of her words. Fieno rose. His skin had taken on the pallor of one who is fatigued from illness and hunger. Endersby now looked and saw a man once proud, now dazed and defeated by his own passions. Fieno walked up to the inspector. He pulled his coat close and straightened, aware that his stance could be either threatening or entreating. Stott and Birken came close, and Fieno, ignoring them, leaned into Inspector Endersby’s face.

  “I am innocent, Mr. Police.” Fieno said. “My Rosa is not telling the lie. I did want to kill stupid Mr. Cake. But I could not. I wanted to hurt him, to cut his pretty face. I could not. He was not worth it. No, he was nothing to me. My Rosa, she is my trust. My only true possession, so yes I guard her every night, every single night, to protect her from this ugly stupid country of bully men like you and your peasant soldiers beside me. This is the confession, Mr. Police. I did not know of Mr. Cake’s death until the Saturday afternoon. Franco was with me, and we laughed. Yes, we laughed. And yes, with Guilio we saw your other stupid police, Mr. Caldwell. I said we must teach these English how to show the respect.”

  Signor Fieno had regained all his height, all his vicious arrogance, his majesty. How sad and yet how wondrous was wounded pride, thought Endersby, looking hard into Signor Fieno’s tired hard eyes. Fieno turned and brushed by Stott. He stood by Rosa Grisi’s side at the bed. “I do not know where Guilio and stupid Franco has gone but I am swearing to you, they had nothing to do against Mr. Cake. On Friday they both was here with all of us.”

  Endersby considered these words for a moment. Were they the truth? Or was this an elaborate Italian charade performed by a master of manipulation and disdain? Mr. Bennett was the clue. He could swear under oath that all the men were with Miss Grisi to tend to her need. But then, what about the beating of Caldwell? This was the strangest notch of the puzzle. Why were both brothers so violent to him? And now they were in hiding out of cowardly fear; as Miss Grisi had said, they thought they would hang for beating a member of the Detective Police.

  “Can you name anyone who might have seen Giulio in the last two days—particularly yesterday, on Monday?”

  Rosa Grisi looked very tired now. She held onto the surgeon’s hand as she sat upright and said: “You have no witnesses to their deed, Inspector. They acted on their own, even if Luca made them drunk enough to give chase. I will not tell you where they are, even if you burn me. I have been in the great prison in Rome and seen things you English cannot imagine. You cannot make me betray my brothers.”

  Endersby resigned himself to Rosa Grisi’s words. There was no evidence, no one as yet who had been found to testify. All that was left for him was to send Stott to investigate the scavengers, those rescuers of Caldwell. His seeking for vindication had come against a barrier—the love of a sister for her brothers. How could reason and English law combat such a primal force? To lose her and any lead she might proffer would divert the direction of the investigation.

  Endersby sat down on a red pouf and stared around the room. Stott, Birken, the surgeon, Miss Grisi, Fieno—all waited in anticipation. Eventually, Endersby placed his hands in his lap and turned to Miss Grisi.

  “I have heard of a man known as Henry Robertson Dupré. He is the manager of Old Drury. Samuel Cake was to replace him in the post of manager.

  “I have never met him.”

  “You, Fieno. Have you had dealings with him?”

  “Once. Giulio and Franco, they trained two horses for his opera spectacle.”

  “And that is all?”

  “He paid us on time. His male lead, Mr. Weston, he was obliging enough, though he was not at all a good rider.”

  “Poor William,” said Miss Grisi.

  “Why poor?”

  “He is an unhappy man. I think of him as a sorrowful man.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Fieno interrupted. “She does, Mr. Police.”

  “Luca, please.”

  “No, Miss Grisi, explain.”

  “I know him because I know of his sister. She is very ill now.”

  “Mr. Cake knew her as well, did he not?”

  “She was delicate and weak. What a foolish man Samuel was at times.” Bitter regret seamed every syllable of her speech.

  “Cake loved her,” Fieno said.

  “And you were jealous of his love for Mr. Weston’s sister, Miss Grisi?”

  “I suppose,” she smiled. Her dismissive manner had returned. “That is why I slapped Samuel once. I am sure your spies have told you that story, of how the Italian puttana struck the handsome Mr. Cake.” Rosa Grisi buried her face in her hands.

  The surgeon, who had been closing up his medicines, came to her side. “Lie down, Miss Grisi. Please.”

  Miss Grisi composed herself. “Poor Sarah Weston was nothing to me. Cake was a liar. He did not mean to lie. We women, we like lonely men. But he was not true in the end. He came and he went always with promises. For Sarah, it was worse than for me. Samuel did damage to other women. Oh, yes, he left you so confused. He left things behind, like a fox leaves the feathers of ducks he has killed. In truth, his cruelty to Miss Root, it was far worse.”

  “Miss Priscilla Root?” asked Endersby.

  “Yes. Go and ask her yourself. She said she hated him. She told everyone in London she hated him. To make things worse, she goes every week to the cemetery on High Holborn to see the little grave. One she made Samuel Cake pay for.”

  Endersby stood up and signalled to Stott. “Take Mr. Fieno to the Yard. Have him write down his confession. Afterwards, sergeant, lead him to Fleet Lane to have Caldwell read it over. I want Mr. Fieno to face the man he has cleverly managed to injure without laying his own cowardly hands on a single part of Caldwell’s body.”

  Signor Fieno did not struggle as he was led from the room. Endersby focussed his attention again on Miss Rosa Grisi.

  “How old was this child of Miss Root and Mr. Cake?”

  “Go see for yourself, Inspector. The grave is small enough. You can see how Mr. Cake, how he could treat those who loved him.”

  “I will keep Mr. Birken here to guard your house, Miss Grisi. I shall send constables from the Scotland Yard office to guard all entrances to Aston’s Theatre. You know why I must do t
his. If your brothers have fled into hiding, we must find them. I shall not let you roam free, Miss Grisi. Neither you nor your brothers. We are law abiding people, we English, and our city must be safe for all citizens, children, actors, lovers—all. London is like my family, Miss Grisi, and so I, too, must fight to keep it safe.”

  The maid let Endersby, Birken and Dr. Bennett out the door.

  “Birken, stand by the corner and keep an eye on both entrances. I will send you a constable when I can.”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  The surgeon placed his hat on his head. Inspector Endersby took hold of his arm. “Mr. Bennett, I must call upon you very soon to sign an affidavit. You will swear an oath, sir, and tell me all that happened to you and the Grisi family over the past three days. You are aware that you are regarded as complicit if the truth lies in a different state of being than what I heard upstairs.”

  Dr. Bennett put down his black medical satchel and as if on cue, he began to wring his hands in a gesture which somewhat amused Endersby. The man was obviously stage-struck—fantasy and romance his most intense interest in life. In a flash movement, Endersby grabbed hold of the surgeon’s two moving hands and held them in his iron grip. “Be assured, surgeon, I am a man of my word.”

  Dr. Bennett pulled his hands free. “I do not hesitate in any way, sir, Mr. Endersby. I am well aware of your position. You, sir, are well aware of mine. We are hard-working, honourable men. If you wish, I can swear at this very moment.” From his coat pocket he retrieved a small professional card made of yellow paper, on which Endersby read the man’s address and, as required by law, his licence number as a surgeon. “Blood-letting a specialty: Sprains, Wounds, Tendons, Muscles—massage and binding. Particular to the theatrical profession.”

  Endersby read the card out loud with some delight. “I see, sir, you have managed a fine profession, so that indeed you may live your life and practice in the very world of which you want to take part.”