by Jon Redfern
Dr. Bennett smiled. “Sir, you are a man of keen perception.”
“Expect me to come calling within two days, sir. I am under pressure myself. I must find witnesses and corral them for the purposes of conviction. Your cooperation will be needed, to the utmost.”
The two men quickly shook hands; Endersby blew his nose; he searched in his pockets for sweets but found none.
What with the hustle of catching Signor Fieno and the bustle of noting all that Miss Grisi had said, Endersby was in quite an agitated frame of mind. The morning had been full of revelations. He needed corroboration of both Rosa Grisi’s and the surgeon’s stories, and so headed his way next door. He found the tailor at his table and his wife beside him, as if they were a matching pair of figurines, both stout, both pulling needles to and fro.
“I am afraid not, Inspector,” said the tailor. “I remember sleeping soundly that whole night.”
“Not I,” resounded the tailor’s wife. “What noise there was Friday last. Up the stairs, down the stairs, the surgeon first knocking here, then the crowd of ’em taking that damned Italian woman into her chambers. Lights on all the night. That younger brother, the loud one, he was down there in the courtyard pumping water every five minutes. The other two spent the night shouting out their windows at him.”
Likewise, Mrs. Bennett, the stage-struck surgeon’s wife—not two streets a way by chance—a fussy, yet phlegmatic woman. “No, certainly not, Inspector. Mr. Bennett spent the nights of Friday and then Saturday with those theatre people. He is too fond of them by half. He told me it was necessary to stay by Miss Grisi, for she was in danger of fever. Posh, I say. He is enamoured of her. I dislike her and her two swarthy brothers. Mr. Bennett paid the older rascal for a riding lesson not one month ago. I fear my Mr. Bennett wants to go upon the stage. Can you picture it? A middle-aged fool in the supernumerary pack of Aston’s Palladium?”
But for all that, there was still the missing Franco and Giulio, thought Endersby. Both felons were still at large. All of detective work, he reminded himself, all of it is knots to be untied. He could not dawdle. Stott and Birken were needed for the rest of the day, and he was now alone. He walked toward the great centre of London, moodily reflecting on the case. Before him opened the winding streets. Hordes of people and carriages and gigs passed him by. His spirits lifted at the merry shop windows; his spirits fell soon after at the sight of the child beggars and the crooked street-sleepers, sad, frightening creatures in ragged clothes scrambling for food.
In Covent Garden market, the central square was filled with hawkers. A family named Barlow— mother, father, two sons—sold lettuce. The tobacco shop facing them displayed pyramids of Dutch cannisters in the window. Endersby entered the place, a bell on the door jingling above his head. There were two attendants, the thinnest a man with a thatch of white hair. The other was a second version of the first, less thin but greying and more nervous in gesture, tapping the counter every second. From time to time, both attendants would look up at Endersby. What they saw was a large man with a belly, pockets bulging with odd shapes, a pair of dirty eyeglasses and a turban tightly wound around his head as if he had but lately risen from bed. This same odd creature smacked his lips as he regarded the merchandise.
“I am a distant relative of the mother, you see, gentlemen,” said Endersby, pitching his newly -accented voice high. “We lost contact, you see. Most sad, as there is the matter of a purse left to one, a Mr. John Loxton.”
John the Pawn, as was his moniker, leased the stall directly across the arcade and sold sundry fruits, explained the two men. In gratitude, Endersby purchased a plug of the cheapest tobacco. “I want to present a gift, you see, to my cousin. He smokes a pipe, I imagine. I want this to be a kind of peace offering.” The thinner attendant assured him the brand chosen was often purchased by coster-men like Mr. John the Pawn Loxton. And for certain, added the other, John the Pawn was an avid smoker, for he purchased this very brand once a week on Thursdays.
In the flesh, John Loxton himself was taller than Endersby, his hands wide as plates. “Morning,” came his perfunctory greeting. Endersby shuffled and pointed first to a pile of costly Portuguese plums. “For my grandchild,” he whispered. John the Pawn wrapped six in a swatch of oiled paper.
On handing him the coin, Endersby noted the man’s knuckles and thick wrist. The brown tip of his pipe stuck up from his coat pocket. “A fine day,” Endersby said, but John the Pawn did not respond. A young girl appeared behind him. She had ivory-coloured skin and blue eyes. On the right side of her face, a blue bruise spotted her temple. She wore a shawl but no bonnet; black mud darkened her skirt.
“Put ’em here,” John the Pawn said to her. The girl curtsied and set the box of pears on the stall. “Git,” he said. The thin waif sat down not far from John the Pawn’s stool. To his surprise, Endersby discovered her ankle all bloodied. A stretch of thin chain wound about it, choking it; the chain snaked toward a spike to which it was locked, the spike protruding from the wall behind the baskets of green.
“Extraordinary,” came the word from Endersby’s mouth.
“She’s a bolter,” explained John the Pawn. “She has a tic, and she bolts,” he said. “Thinks her right is to run scaggin’. To the theatres no less,” he said, his voice harsh with tobacco cough. “She has a tic,” he said again, now turning his attention to a new customer. The girl looked into Endersby’s eyes. She did not show fear. Standing up, she curtsied as if she were taking a bow before a curtain. Oh, how charming, how clever she looked—she slid from her boot a short knife and waved it brazenly at the detective as if to dare him to snitch.
“I have not seen, as yet, the great play at Old Drury,” he addressed her, meekly. “I hear it is called Rachel, and it is remarkable.”
The girl’s face broke into a smile. “So they say,” she answered.
John the Pawn snapped his fingers. “Git, come ’ere.”
The girl moved obediently, tucking the knife back into her boot. She held out a piece of oiled paper as John the Pawn filled it with a dozen of the costly plums. Once the transaction had been finished, the girl returned to her post, dragging her clamping chain behind her. She leaned forward to Endersby. “I can dance, you know. At the Gaff near St. Paul’s. I also got a piece in the panto. At Old Drury.” She placed her finger to her lips to signal to Endersby to tell no one.
“Betty,” snapped John the Pawn. “Come, get the cloth and wipe this down.”
So, this is little Betty Loxton, Endersby concluded. The girl who fell from Cake’s contraption. Endersby ventured one more quick foray. When Betty bent down to wash out the cloth in a bucket, he handed her a penny. “Where can I see this Gaff?”
“Wednesday, ten o’clock, in Earl Street.” The girl took the penny, and before John the Pawn could see, she hid it in a fold in her pocket and resumed her washing.
* * *
Dried mud like broken pebbles dirtied the stage-door foyer to Old Drury. A woman in black knelt on the floor and scrubbed its stones with a thick brush. Like the other great theatre of London, Covent Garden, Old Drury was a patent house licensed by royal decree to present Shakespeare and classical works as well as opera, melodrama and comedy. Old Drury was a building of grand arches and white walls, and every time Endersby passed by it in daylight, he asked himself if all its phantoms were resting until sundown, when they could come to life under the gaslight. Inside, at the door leading to the great stage, Endersby buttoned his suede gloves. His satchel was once again worn outside his coat, and the spectacles had been hidden away. The turban was folded into a back pocket, and he reminded himself to wear it the next time he met Betty Loxton.
“Come this way, please, Inspector.”
The stage-door keeper moved past the flats of the side wings. At the Green Room door, the keeper tapped twice. “He is in conference at the moment, sir. Please take a seat.” The old man indicated a wire chair by the railing, and Endersby sat down. The backstage area was as large as the stag
e itself, reminding him of the great hall in Covent Garden market. There were docks of scenery to one end full of gigantic canvas forms, each varnished with a faint gloss, each with part of a scene: a tree, a pillar, a timbered house. The floor of the stage ran from front to back on a steep tilt. Cut into its oak boards were trap doors, like window shutters, one of them open so that Endersby was able to see below to a platform on which a chair was placed, ready to spring up on cue. He marvelled at the quiet, at the rows of canvas sky-cloths hanging over the deep expanse of the playing area, rather like a host of sails on a clipper ship, he thought. It was Endersby’s first glimpse of Old Drury’s mechanics of magic, and permeating his delight was the pedestrian smell of oil from the lamps, sawdust and damp rope.
Blood and thunder, he mused, then a memory whisked him back to the age of twenty-five, when he had been taken to this same theatre to see the great Edmund Kean. The actor was performing in one of his “raging” roles, in which Kean struck a pose, hands held up to the sky, calmness suddenly bursting into an agony of remorse, as if all his passion had been forced into his knees and his astonished mouth. It was here as well, in Old Drury’s pit, that Endersby had first seen Harriet. She had been with her sisters, both of them spritely, lovely girls, whose faces wept and laughed as easily as the curtain rolled up and down. It was Harriet’s whole movement of body which had first attracted him. Endersby touched the edge of the chair. This place would have charmed our little Robert, he thought. He quickly shoved the idea away, got up from the chair and headed toward the door of the Green Room. He knocked and waited and called out the name, surprised at last to see the door open and the man himself in waistcoat and frock coat looking haughty as any aristocrat.
“What may I do for you?” said Henry Robertson Dupré, his right hand suddenly lifting to pat down a stray wisp of henna-coloured hair.
In the room stood a table. There was a young lad in a cap and waistcoat clearing the inkwell and books. He tipped his cap to the inspector and was about to leave.
“I’d like you to stay, if you do not mind, young chap.”
“He is but our call-boy, Inspector. I can’t quite remember your last name, sir, please pardon my sieve-like memory.”
“Endersby, Owen. Metropolitan Detective Police.”
The young lad’s face registered a gentle amazement. “Pity,” he blurted out, “about Mr. Cake, sir.”
“Pity indeed, Crabb,” rejoined Dupré. “Inspector, need I ask anyone else to come in? I assume you are here to ask questions? I suspect you are very curious about Mr. Cake and his connections to us here, at Old Drury.”
“I am, sir. Most curious. I shan’t take long. Lad, I shall talk to you as well, in my time.” Reggie Crabb sat down on a chair by the door. He placed his cap in his hand and responded quickly to Endersby’s request for his name. “Crabb, sir. Reginald Crabb.”
“Now then,” said Dupré. He held an authoritative stance as he set a chair for the inspector. Dupré’s right hand slipped into his waistcoat pocket. His mood was cool, but cooperative; he never stood still long as he spoke, moving continuously around the small room. Whatever seething spite he may have harboured in his heart was not displayed in his calm features. Endersby rather liked the way Dupré proffered information, liked the way he explained before any actual questions were asked.
“It was all a matter of profit and loss,” Dupré explained. “Lord Harwood believes in instantaneous returns, a fatal expectation, sir, in a theatre as large as ours. The London public is a hungry maw. Sensation is what they devour. Mr. Cake ran a rollicking success on the Surrey-side, and Harwood took a notion that such fare might fill our coffers here. I have no doubt Mr. Cake could have been efficient in his management. Old Drury, however, is a cruel mistress. Even John Philip Kemble himself went bankrupt here twice.”
“Were you, Mr. Dupré, in attendance here the night Mr. Cake was beaten to death?”
“I was, sir.”
“And later, after the performance of your fine Rachel. Where were you?”
“I did not imagine that your questioning would veer so suddenly, Inspector. Am I really considered a danger in this matter?”
“All who knew Mr. Cake are in imminent danger, if you wish, of being stamped suspicious.”
“’Lor’ bless me,’” interjected young Crabb from his chair by the door. “I hope I be not one of them.” The young boy’s face tightened into a perturbed frown.
“The sun shines in all corners, young master. It can reveal to us many things if we just keep our eyes open,” said Endersby.
“Really, Inspector, I do not see the logic of this.”
“My needs are simple, Mr. Dupré. A man was murdered on Friday last. I have been speaking with many theatre folk about the matter. You have been named as one who knew Cake. Indeed, I do not often bow to gossip, but it is a profitable by-way in my profession to listen to it. And I have found you to be named as a rival. There is an idea that you bore him a grudge.”
“I admit it. I had many sour words with Cake. He was an upstart. He stole Old Drury from under my nose. He had a way with his lies and tricks, Mr. Endersby, that I am sure the gossips have also told you. He was wily. Who would not have feelings toward such a man? I did not kill him. I could not. I would not see the purpose.”
“Crimes of passion and revenge hide their purpose, at times, behind the fury of their actions. It is only later that reason provides us with motive.”
“I commend your analysis, Mr. Endersby. I can attest to witnesses, if you so need them.”
“Young lad, were you here on the night of Friday last?”
“Till late, sir.”
“And did you closely observe the comings and goings of your superior?”
Reginald Crabb hesitated.
“Go on, Crabb. Quite so. Be forthright,” Dupré told him bluntly.
“No, sir. I ate my supper too late, sir.”
“With whom?”
“Miss Root, sir.”
“Let me proceed in a different direction for the moment.”
Endersby pulled the glove from his satchel and asked if either had ever seen it before. “It is of cheap manufacture,” said Dupré, shaking his head. “Many of our actors have gloves similar.”
“This one I do not know,” answered Crabb.
“You are a good lad, young master.”
“I am, sir?”
“Do me the courtesy of waiting outside on the chair by the railing. I will not be long.”
Crabb left the room. Endersby rose from his chair and shook out his right leg, which had fallen asleep. Dupré moved behind the table. All the while, the hearth log crackled. Between Dupré and Endersby, smoke floated in a wave and for a split second obscured Dupré’s features. Endersby cleared the air with a whip of his hand. “I do not wish to alarm you, Mr.Dupré. I have little evidence at my disposal as to who may have been Mr. Cake’s murderer. I must, by needs, talk with Miss Root and others, and I need your full approbation of this.”
“You shall have it.”
“Here, kindly glance at this promissory note. It was found on Mr. Cake’s premises at Doughty Street. Have you, by the way, ever been to Doughty Street?”
“Never, sir. Why would I? The man and I had ice between us, if I may resort to metaphor. He was hardly one to consort with in a private manner.”
Dupré read the note. He handed it back to Endersby. He did not hesitate in his response.
“It is Priscilla Root’s. Plain and simple.”
“Your lead player.”
“Our leading actress. Please take a seat. I will be brief. And this is fact, not gossip.”
Henry Dupré spoke slowly and with a sense that his honesty might redeem anyone guilty of an association with the late Mr. Cake. “Priscilla Root was once married to an Arthur Summers. A brute. He abandoned her. Left the country, it was assumed. She kept his name and signed contracts as Mrs. P. Summers. All legal in the eyes of the courts. Her promissory notes to Cake were personal, but she mus
t have felt they were, in one way, legal tender and so required her official married name, not her stage name. Hence, P. Summers.”
“Did you know of these visits to Cake?”
“No. I knew they had once been lovers. And that she claimed she had borne him a child. Not so unusual an event in our profession. I ask that you remain discreet in these matters.”
“Discretion is only one part of our valour as detective police, Mr. Dupré.”
“An apt turn of phrase, Mr. Endersby. I congratulate you.”
“Here is another. ‘Lord, lord, how this world is given to lying.’ Henry the Fourth, sir. An admirable play.”
“I do not see your thrust.”
“What witnesses, Mr. Dupré? Whom may I speak with that can vouch for you without fear of reprisal?”
“You have taken a turn, sir. A blaming tack.”
“ Rumour is a pipe blown by surmises, Mr. Dupré. A quote from the same play, and indeed, it well expresses the sentiment I hold to. I surmise there is more to your involvement with Cake. Will your witnesses claim as much, do you think?”
“This is preposterous baiting, Mr. Endersby. I am clear of such a crime. I have nothing to hide.”
“You are the only man in London who would have been most severely compromised by Mr. Cake. You more than anyone had the most to lose. Your reputation, your income. Your very self as a man of means.”
“I am not given to beating my rivals to death with sticks, Mr. Endersby. Such was the way the crime rags described Mr. Cake’s demise.”
“You had strong motive to do so, nevertheless.”
“I am not a bear in a pit, Mr. Endersby. You may prod me, but I shall not fight.”
“Lord Harwood does not think you a capable man.”
“Lord Harwood is indolent and naïve.”
The two men sat looking at each other. The hearth kept fuming with smoke. Dupré rose, went to the door and called for a boy to come and tend the fire. Without hesitation, he extended his hand to Endersby, and with an even tone asked him to return again at his leisure. For a moment, Endersby begrudged the peremptory dismissal, but his instinct prompted him to accept it temporarily. He walked to the door and even shook the man’s hand.