Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “Good morning, I thank you at least for your patience. I shall enquire of your stage-door keeper as to witnesses.”

  “Most certainly.”

  The door to the Green Room closed behind him. Endersby thought for a moment before seeking out young Reggie Crabb. The inspector then led the boy downstairs into the lane next to the theatre and suggested he take him for a muffin at the corner. Crabb dashed to tell the stage-door keeper of his temporary absence then rushed back to Endersby, who was already on his way to the steaming wagon and its brass coffee urn. The muffin was round and full of raisins, and young Crabb bit into it with much relish. Endersby sampled the coffee, thick and full of sugar. The two of them then sat flank-to-flank on the kerb, like father and son, and chatted.

  “You like the Old Drury, young master?”

  “I do, sir. A good employ, even if my stage manager is gruff, sir.”

  “An honest man, he?”

  “Most, sir. Punctual, too.”

  “You eat in the theatre most nights. You take supper there?”

  “And tea and dinner.”

  “And Mr. Dupré? He is also fair and good?”

  “Most times. ’Cept when he’s angry.”

  “Does he frequently lose his temper?”

  “Daily, sir. On little things. Him and Mr. Cake had it out. Bad words between them.”

  “When did you last see Mr. Cake?”

  “Friday last. In the backstage.”

  “Did he speak with you?”

  “Not me. To her, the strange lady, and Dupré. And he took a moment to visit with Miss Root.”

  “Tell me of this strange lady.”

  “She came to see Mr. Dupré. In his box. A beauty, and foreign. Very dark hair. Cake and her, they talked, then she left, then Dupré came and he was very angry, then him and Mr. Cake they had very, very angry words.”

  “Can you recall any of them?”

  “Dupré said he would damn Cake. He did blaspheme him.”

  “Did they resort to fists, young master?”

  Crabb now broke into a quick laugh. “They kicked chairs, sir.”

  “You keep a keen eye out, don’t you?”

  “I have to. As call-boy, I daren’t be tardy. I daren’t miss where my actors stand.”

  “You are a good lad, young Crabb. Let me ask you this, then. What is your Mr. Weston like?”

  “Fair and honest, sir.”

  “He played in Rachel on Friday and Saturday last, did he not?”

  “The Prince, sir. Fine playing, too. On Friday night he took late supper with Miss Root. I was there, with him. He was jolly for a time.”

  “I hear Miss Root has a sister. Does she frequent her rooms backstage?”

  “Daily, sir. And her friend, too.”

  “Here is a penny for you, young master. Hold it against a favour I am about to ask.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are quick and bright. I want you to be my eyes for me in Old Drury.”

  “Your eyes, sir?”

  “Keep your eyes upon Mr. Dupré as much as you can. Stay in the shadows. Do not let him know where you hide.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “Here is a shilling. To be yours in two days. Payment for your Christmas duty of helping out the Metropolitan Detective Police.”

  “What shall I do if I see anything?”

  “See that tavern over there, across Vinegar Yard. I shall be there tonight and for two days hence for my supper. Keep an eye out. Let me know who comes and goes each day. If by chance you see something you want me to see immediately, come and fetch me post-haste.”

  “I will not fail, sir.”

  “I know that, young master. Now be off.”

  * * *

  Young Reggie raced back into the theatre, proud to be a lad who now could help the detective police of the great city of London. “Cor,” he whispered. Reggie had a sharp memory; he had to have one to do calls; he was trusted by Mr. Dupré and the stage manager to know who was to be ready, where they were to go, and at what time. Without Reggie Crabb, Old Drury would not run well. Actors could miss their cues.

  “Remember,” he said to himself. And certainly Reggie remembered all he ever heard, all he said in return. “It’s my gift,” he said and wanted to boast.

  Clattering into the wings, he remembered the very words and gestures he witnessed between Mr. Cake and Mr. Dupré last Friday evening. Angry words they were.

  Reggie remembered watching Mr. Dupré enter his private box. Through the crack left open, Reggie saw how Dupré’s eyes took in the orchestra and the bright furniture of the farce, all lemony in the gaslight. As for the silhouette before him…perhaps the light was playing tricks? Where was the slender waist, the dark hair with its coronet of white roses? Instead of the strange woman, Mr. Dupré found a lithe young man in a cloak and beaver. A smell of onion sauce fleshed out this male apparition which broke into a mocking laugh.

  “She’s left, Dupré.”

  “Cake.”

  “She’s left you. Gone to the Strand, to supper.”

  “On your purse, no doubt.”

  Samuel Cake raised his young chin and his mouth curled slightly.

  “Doing your rounds, are you?” Dupré asked.

  “Fresh meat for the pit, Dupré. Requires me to go out hunting each night.”

  “Commendable,” replied Mr. Dupré. “You actually pay that little orchestra of yours? You support a roster of actors, do you?”

  “None in this city is so extravagant as you, our Prince of Cleverness. But my dear Dupré, I hear Harwood remains displeased. He does not like failures. Small houses. No rent. Even with your Rachel, you are still in danger. So say the gossips.”

  “Envy has a crooked tongue,” smiled Mr. Dupré.

  “Your Rachel has been called for by audiences each night. London demands more performances. Fifteen repetitions so far and no booing.”

  “Twenty-four repetitions, in fact. And a mention in The Times. A veritable hit.”

  “A fine title. Rachel; or, the Hebrew Maid. I like it.”

  “She’s a little heady for your gallery of costermongers.”

  “Heady? No. Your Rachel—I beg your pardon—is too slow. Old hat. Too many speeches.”

  Reggie watched how Mr. Dupré shoved his quivering left hand into his pocket. “So, Cake, the diva Elisabetta has left me. Gone to supper, you say?”

  “Fickle is as fickle charms,” Cake answered.

  “And pray, what brought you into my private box?”

  “Yours, my good Dupré? But for how long?”

  Mr. Dupré puffed out his chest. “Has Harwood told you?”

  “I, too, received a letter,” grinned Cake. “You have dined too long on Harwood’s mercy.”

  “Then it is you, Cake. You, of all people, you upstart. No doubt London will howl when it hears a mud lark has been offered the lease to Old Drury.”

  Samuel Cake tipped his beaver hat in mock salute.

  “The truth is”—Mr. Dupré hesitated to make sure Samuel Cake paid attention—“that you yearn for reputation and to eschew that cock-pit you run across the river.”

  “Oh, mercy,” Cake cried. He crossed his arms, shoving his cloak brusquely aside. “Not cock-pit, dear old Dupré. You must see it. A money-pit, a shilling sack. I sup on champagne paid for by my hungry dogs.”

  Mr. Dupré bowed his head, though Reggie saw how his teeth were held tightly. Samuel Cake strolled past him and stood at the door.

  “Dupré, do these hens always treat you so poorly? Perhaps your Italian beauty was too ripe for you?”

  Dupré flicked the lapel of his frock coat. “They are dust, Cake. A penny-a-throw.”

  “That frock coat becomes you. Come January, will it keep you warm, I wonder?”

  “Damn you, Cake.” Here it comes, thought Reggie—Mr. Dupré cannot hold back his fury. Samuel Cake placed his hands in the air as if to beg for mercy, but then broke into a taunting grin. He kicked over one of
the gilt chairs in the box. “I shall have to rid myself of these. Old Drury will have a different kind of crowd come New Year’s.”

  “Get out!” Dupré shouted. He bolted forward.

  “Beware, Dupré,” Cake said, retreating. “Her Majesty may admire you for the moment, but you are no longer the doyen of our grubbing fraternity of players. You, too, shall fall.”

  “I’ll damn you first, Cake.”

  Henry Robertson Dupré waited as his rival headed toward the stage door foyer.

  Reggie shivered, remembering how he had tentatively approached his master, how his own eyes had burned from what he had just witnessed. “Sir?”

  “What is it?” growled Mr. Dupré.

  “Permission to leave and do calls?”

  “Indeed, Crabb.”

  Reggie had stood at attention with a worried look, his cap held in his hand.

  “Do not fret, Crabb. We are not undone as yet. Not undone at all.”

  As Mr. Dupré spoke, Reggie wondered how his master would recover from his anger. “Not undone perhaps,” Dupré swore, as he waved to Reggie to go and set the gilded chair in its rightful place.

  Cor, Reggie thought now. I must say these words again. Save them for the Inspector. For I am now his eyes. And his ears, too.

  * * *

  Although the morning was waning, Endersby was still sufficiently curious to wander back to Old Drury and continue his questioning. What to think of Dupré, he wondered? If young Reggie Crabb could be trusted, Dupré’s fight with Samuel Cake sounded suspicious. Damning the man, kicking chairs? And now there were new leads to question and new doubts to mull over. Crossing Vinegar Yard, Endersby pondered the life of a detective, its ins and its outs, its daily round of probing. To this philosophical turn, Endersby submitted his mind with the same ease that he would slip his bulky body into a hot bath. He enjoyed the calming effect of his pondering; he let argument and rebuttal wash through his imagination. As he approached the arched entrance of the theatre, his thoughts emerged from an idea about guilt, an idea which drained away into the depths of his inquisitive mind the moment he raised his eyes.

  There at the door stood Henry Dupré. With sudden eagerness, he presented his right hand to Endersby. “I have had second thoughts,” he said, shaking hands. This sudden turn intrigued the inspector—his instinct again affording him patience, for Dupré bore watching. What had come over the man? Beside Dupré, under the open arch, stood the doddering Mr. Hartley, the stage-door keeper.

  “There, sir,” announced Dupré. A folded note thrust at him from Dupré’s left hand mentioned a man’s name and an address not far from Old Drury.

  “My gentleman’s club, sir. On Friday last, the night of Mr. Cake’s demise, I went there at five minutes past midnight, took a cold supper, and remained until two or later. My club man can verify my comings and goings. Hartley, can you recall that same late hour when I bid you good night? I was on my way to my club.”

  “I think so, sir. Yes, if you wish.”

  “Come, Hartley. This is Detective Endersby. He shall want ‘the whole truth and nothing but’ from you.”

  “If you wish, sir.”

  Mr. Hartley invited Endersby to step into his small unheated room by the theatre entrance. Alone together, the older man provided some brief narratives of the people who had come and gone on Friday night. “I am clear on most matters,” Hartley said, clear on the dark foreign lady, Miss Elisabetta Mazzini, who arrived at seven o’clock on Friday to visit with Mr. Dupré. “Elisabetta Mazzini.” Hartley held up her calling card. “A singer at the Italian opera. No formal address given.” He also recalled Mr. Cake coming in unannounced. Hartley complained of his brusque manners.

  “How long did Mr. Cake stay at the theatre?” Endersby asked.

  Hartley pondered the question. “Not long, perhaps a half hour. He paid a visit to Miss Root, so I heard. And had words with Mr. Dupré. He left alone, I remember. But before he left, the dark foreign woman—Miss Mazzini-—left wrapped in her cloak. She was dressed for the evening with flowers in her hair. I believe she wears them always, sir. It is her signature from her great role as Norma at the Italian Opera.”

  Endersby smiled at the sharpness of the man’s diction. But how reliable was his memory? Endersby tested the man with his usual questions about food and luncheons and the poor old man got muddled.

  Hartley then brightened. “On Friday, yes, it was Friday, Mr. Dupré did leave. He ran out of the theatre before his Rachel had ended. Odd, too, he did not wish me his usual good night. Moreover, he wore a long old cloak, one he hasn’t put on for a number of winters now.”

  Endersby thanked the old man and walked back into the dark hold of the stage. The breeze that so often set the canvas scenery to shudder reminded Endersby that this great theatre was indeed like a ship at sea. And what a tempest-tossed ship it was as well, he thought. This cold December morning had been full of revelations. And it was time, as was his way, to recall the witnesses’ testimonies at the coroner’s enquiry on Cake’s murder. The three men in caps. The lone figure in a cloak at the back entrance to Number 46 Doughty Street. The frequenters—a veiled woman and two men. Who were they? Perhaps the threesome had been Rosa Grisi and her two brothers. But they had alibis for Friday night, as did Mr. Buckstone, the actor. There was Miss Root, who must be questioned, and the elusive, mysterious Elisabetta Mazzini. There was also the matter of Cake and the little grave in Holborn cemetery. Above all there was the suspicious Mr. Dupré—arrogant and secretive, perhaps protesting too much to prove his innocence. In the corridor leading to the Green Room, Endersby found Miss Priscilla Root by chance walking down a branch corridor which led to a row of dressing rooms. She was alone, dressed in a cloak and a bonnet covered in feathers. Her hands were covered in fine leather gloves.

  “A detective?” she said.

  She then burst into tears and ran to one of the doors. She took out a key, and when Endersby tried to be of some assistance, she shoved him away.

  “Miss Root, please, let me help you.”

  “No one can help me, sir. How dare you come here this very day, so soon after…”

  The door was finally opened, and she rushed into the darkened room beyond. Endersby remained at the threshold. From the dark came the sound of a glass breaking. Miss Root cried out: “Leave me, please. I cannot see you now.” A moment later she appeared, wearing a tear-stained face. She slammed the door in Endersby’s face.

  “Ah, me,” he whispered and waited. Weeping filled the inner room. “Best not,” he grumbled and rightfully concluded to his own satisfaction that it might be prudent to let her calm down. Even so, he remained alert to the inkling that both Mr. Dupré and Miss Root were reluctant to speak. Hesitant and angered at being approached. Moats and walls, thought Endersby, to defend a besieged castle. But what are both of them hiding beyond those barriers? He nodded sagely to himself and wandered a little, talking to stage hands and to the gruff stage manager, who claimed he had no time to watch for the comings and goings of visitors, let alone his master, Mr. Dupré.

  “Thank you in any case,” said Endersby. He left Old Drury still dissatisfied, with many questions unanswered. “Time and patience will out,” he quietly reminded himself.

  The heart of London had become green with holly around windows, wreaths of mistletoe and boxwood on door knockers. Endersby’s foot had not been paining him as severely this morning, and he was glad of that. He took a quick luncheon on the Strand, standing in a public house with a rum and hot water in his hand. A light rain was falling by the time he passed through Pickett Place. His hat was dripping by Shoe Lane, his boots soaked through when he finally reached the entrance to Fleet. He had been on foot for over seven hours, and during that time had humiliated a man, bribed a child and been rejected by a star player in the capital’s finest theatre. He shook his coat in the vestibule on his way to the second parlour of the Fleet Lane station. Caldwell was still sleeping on the sofa. The admittance sergeant asked Endersby t
o follow him to Superintendent Borne’s chambers. Now, as he heard his own footsteps tread upon the floor, Endersby smelled the soot-thick rain of London on his skin, felt the grime of his livelihood on his clothes.

  A faint glow of light brightened the office of Superintendent Borne. When Endersby had first met the man, he had not liked him. Fussy and preposterous were two of his favourite words for him, but others were frequently less complimentary.

  “Please, do not sit down, Endersby.” Borne’s voice seemed hollowed out by the rain. He circled the table and faced his inspector. “I need your advice.”

  With no mention of anything but the filthy weather, Borne led Endersby out to the slippery courtyard of Fleet Prison, which stood but a few paces along an arched passageway. The scene before them was oddly calm and innocent at first glance. Barrows were covered with thick cloths. Borne instructed a sergeant to pull them off. Endersby gazed at the blackened faces, the mounds of cindered clothing. Seventeen bodies from St. Giles: the reek of fire and the rot of flesh drifted through the sheet of rain.

  “What to make of this?” Borne said. “Look on these, Endersby. I had them brought here to Fleet so our surgeons could be sure of the initial coroner’s decision. Witnesses have claimed they saw two men with torches run into the place after one o’clock in the morning. The two appeared ragged, street-sleepers no doubt, too mad and penny-pinched to afford a pallet in the foul place. The Chronicle has written up that we have been slow and negligent. Not interested in the poor but rather in nabbing thieves for the rewards. But this is murder on a grand scale.”

  Borne remained still, his eyes panning over the soaking bodies. “Well?” he said finally. “This is a calamity, Inspector. On top of this we have the wretched murder of Mr. Cake to solve. What have you found?”

  If Borne were thinking of closing down the Cake investigation, a great deal of effort would have been wasted. Endersby decided to answer carefully. “Two men, dangerous sorts, are still at large. I fear they may attack innocent people. The two Grisi brothers are foreigners. One pulled a knife on me while in the midst of a simple conversation about his sister.”