by Jon Redfern
“There is none such.”
The sister again implored. Endersby reluctantly pulled back, staring hard at the actress, whose eyes now shone wide and whose flushed cheeks were glowing as if she had been dancing in drunken revelry.
At last the voice cracked; tears welled up. “I will not say it,” the actress whispered. “You are full of lies.”
“Tell me why you wanted so much to hurt young Cake. You loved him. You wanted him. When the baby died, you blamed him for making you so tired. You made him pay for a grave that belonged rightfully to the father—Mr. Arthur Summers.”
“I will not look on this,” Miss Root cried.
“The grave still stands, Miss Root,” Endersby said. “You played on this cruelty, mocked Samuel Cake, paid your debts at your leisure and took delight in his anxiety.”
The beleaguered woman lay on the rumpled bed and began again to weep. Suddenly, she laughed, wiped her tears, and smiled.
“You see, Inspector, I can fool you, even up close. Some wretch has filled your ear with poison. Has doused the light of your reason. Cake was my lover, true enough. He then found another, we made amends, and I borrowed his money because he was kind and generous.”
“Generous to a point, Miss Root. But what I said to you was not lies. Not fancies. Many other women in London who loved Samuel Cake knew his charm and money were his only compensations for acts he was unable to perform.”
“And why, then, if this was true,” Miss Root argued, rallying a little, “would any of us have wanted such a monster?”
“Why indeed?” asked Endersby. “Whenever you went to visit Mr. Cake in Doughty Street, you wore a veil and were accompanied by your sister and her friend. You took them along as a general might take his colonels to ensure your safety.”
“We went only twice to that lovely house in Doughty Street, did we not, sisters? Cake let us into his fine parlour with his piano and his painted walls and all his statues, and we took tea, and then we departed. A simple call, Inspector. Common in London’s fashionable circles.”
“Except that for you, Miss Root, it was but the lower kitchen you were let into. That was all. Mr. Cake did not allow his sordid business to take place above stairs. Indeed, if he had, you would have seen barren rooms. No statues, no painted walls. I have seen the place myself. And on Friday last, late into the night, did you three go again to Cake’s house? Go, perhaps, to taunt him. To play at sport with him?”
“How novel you are, Inspector. We were here dining. Ask of Mr. Weston, he can tell you.”
“Mr. Cake did not leave his private club in Swan Yard until two o’clock in the morning. There is a reliable witness to that fact—Miss Elisabetta Mazzini—who was there dining with him. He left the club and walked toward his house in Doughty Street.”
“But we were in our beds by two, sir,” blurted out the sister.
“Who can attest to that?”
“Why, all of us, sir.”
“Each for each?” Endersby waited for a reply. Could a maid, a footman ever be trusted to tell the truth on a master or mistress? Could a sister, who might also be an accomplice? How could such an alibi be accepted in spoken testimony? Here was the crux, Endersby reminded himself. To be sure, on Friday last, Miss Root had motive, she had opportunity, she knew two women, manly and thin, who in darkness could be mistaken for men. This moment made Endersby feel he had lost the match. It took all of his sense of reason for him to restore his stance. But now he had to guess. He had to turn the puzzle upside down and see it from another angle. By doing so, perhaps he could discover a fact; he might be awarded a confession.
“You, Miss Root,” he said, confident his new approach would be sound. “You have saved your own neck from the gallows yard at Newgate.” Endersby confronted the three women, now in a row by the bed, the actress sitting up, the two manly companions at attention by her side.
“But how?” breathed the sister.
“Mr. Cake visited you on Friday last, did he not?”
“Yes, he came to this very parlour,” said the sister quickly.
“He came to collect his money, did he not?”
“Who told you this?” asked Miss Root, her voice growing heavy with fear and anger.
“Two reliable men who work here—one your stage-door keeper, the other—not really a man as yet—but a young call-boy who sees with innocent eyes and speaks the truth.”
“Yes,” said the wearied voice of Miss Root. “Yes, and no. He came to get a sum of money owed to him.”
“Precisely. A partial sum, which he had to beg to receive. For there was no reason for him to bring this very promissory note—the one found in Doughty Street—knowing it would remain only half paid. He left it, therefore, at home. He left it until he figured he could tear it up. You paid him some money Friday last, but then something else occurred in this room. Words or threats from him that if you had been in a sporting frame of mind, Miss Root, you could have gone in anger to his house after midnight to smash his things, to punish him more by stealing this last bit of evidence you had between you. If you had thought this way! But the promissory was left lying on the floor in a house you rarely visited and, as your silly lie about its decoration amply proved, was unfamiliar to you and your sisters.”
The three women stared in mute amazement at Endersby’s barrage of words. At his quicksilver deductions.
“Did you and Cake have bitter words Friday last?” Endersby asked directly.
Miss Root stood up, her cheeks flushed. Her sister was about to open her mouth when the actress teetered over to her dressing table. “Sisters, leave me, I beg of you. Leave.” The two other women walked out in silence. Miss Priscilla Root closed the set of French doors that separated her sleeping chamber from her parlour. Standing tall now, her back arched, she turned, faced the inspector and pointed to her dressing table.
“He stood by me there once he had received his money. I had no intention of ever paying off the full amount of the note, and he knew that. But on Friday last, he wore a different face. No longer pleading, no longer like a frightened servant. He stood here, and he threatened me with dismissal if I did not stop taking rum and hashish. ‘Into the street, Miss Root, where starvation awaits you,’ he said. It was that simple. He was to take over Old Drury as its manager, and he warned me if my debts remained unpaid, and if I did not present as professional a behaviour as I could, I would find myself taken into Bow Street. I tried to persuade him. He said he had my promissory note as proof—a legal document with my legal name and signature—which could be used against me in court. I wanted to kill him right there. But I could not move. And I had no idea where he kept his money, where he hid his records. He would gladly put me in my coffin, no less. I spat in his face. I tell you that with little pride, for I did love him.”
The voice cracked, tears and heaving of the shoulders replaced the flat words. In a second, her arm flew out, smashing a bottle to the floor. “That night my sisters and I and Mr. Weston took dinner here and drank ourselves into sleep and oblivion—at least I did.”
“How can I be sure of this?” Endersby then asked, his voice held low, his attention showing respect to Miss Root and her painful confession.
“Go and speak to little Reggie. He is all I have, really. He is a good boy and honest, as you say. He can tell you where I was and what state I was in late Friday. Disgraceful a state, as it was. There, it is all said. Grave deeds and a confession. Need I give you more?”
Endersby, weary and wet, desired to lie down, but he knew the evening ahead required more of his patience. “Not for now, Miss Root.”
Endersby left the dressing room, reflecting on his minor triumph. He set about immediately searching for young Crabb and located him in the downstairs costume room. He asked the boy questions of a different sort this time, mainly to test Miss Root’s veracity. Crabb was honest, and for what he knew and was able to tell, he was valuable to Endersby.
“You are sure, young master?”
“It
was me, it was Mr. Weston, Miss Root and her two sisters. Mrs. B. brought us vittles from the house up Hart Street, boiled bones and oysters. ’Cept I had none of them oysters.”
“What time did your supper take place?”
“Right after the comedy, come midnight perhaps ten minutes thereafter.”
“Can you remember what Miss Root said to you?”
“About what, sir?”
“Any matter, young master. I am hear to listen.”
“They talked about the play and the oysters. And Mr. Weston, he always talks about his sister, how poorly she is.”
“Did Miss Root speak of going home, of going out to a party?”
“No, sir. She never goes out in the night. She sleeps in her parlour because it is warmer there, she says. I see her in the mornings when I come to tend the fire.”
“Can you remember if she was asleep Friday last and remained in her rooms all night until Saturday morning last?”
Reggie Crabb hesitated then said, “Miss Root could not but stay there, sir. She was too drunk to walk. Her sisters were asleep on the floor. Cor, they stunk of too much wine. Miss Root became ill all over her dress. Lord, she was mewling like a baby. I helped her lie down in her bed. I stayed with her for a long time and fell to sleep myself. Yet, she woke me very early just near sun-up, because the window showed pink. Her little Kean had soiled the carpet, and I had to clean her up. Miss Root threw up again, the stink was terrible, sir. Cor, I had to clean that up, too.” Young Crabb blushed on those last words. “I said no secrets. Miss Root will not like it.”
“You have done well, Reggie. In fact, it was Miss Root who bade me speak to you about Friday last. She trusts you as I do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Here’s a penny extra, lad. Remember, I am across Vinegar Yard tonight. Keep your eye out and sharp.”
“I shall, sir.” The boy ran off to do duties.
On his way out, Endersby decided to test another hunch, one that could still implicate Miss Root but more likely would exonerate her in favour of a guilty verdict for none other than Henry Robertson Dupré. It took Endersby a short walk northward, his mind reviewing facts. The club man at Litchfield Street was wearing a black topcoat and his waistcoat reminded Endersby of a Persian carpet.
“You are here to ask about Mr. Dupré?” said the club man. “We are always obliged to serve the constabulary in any way we can.” Dupré’s private gentleman’s club was furnished with private rooms and nooks for supper. It had an inner courtyard with an elm, a mournful cousin to the great trees leading out from London toward the southern counties.
Endersby immediately did not like the club man’s manner. He acted glib, and he cut too quickly into Endersby’s questions with what seemed liked rehearsed answers. Yes, Mr. Dupré was here from half eleven until past two in the morning, early Saturday last. Yes, he was escorted afterwards to his house in Woburn Place, a fashionable address, most respectable.
The club man called out, and the club’s Link Boy was led in. He was sixteen; he removed his cap, his hands dirty from the black pitch of the torch he carried nightly to make his living. He recited the walk he had lighted for Mr. Dupre, from the club northward to Woburn Place, the greeting of Dupré’s housekeeper, and the quality of the weather. All in a halting, practised manner.
“Your receipts, then, sir.” Endersby knew establishments of this kind gave credit and ran up tabulations for special clients.
“Confidential, I am sorry, sir.” The club man smiled stiffly.
“A fee is required, is it?” The club man cocked his head. Endersby did not balk. He undid the clasp on his old satchel. His purse lay in the flap and from it he produced a sovereign. The Link Boy gasped, as if such money were a discovery to him.
“Most preposterous, Inspector,” the club man protested. “Confidentiality is a principle of a gentlemen’s club. I cannot and will not allow such Bow Street vulgarities in this place.”
Endersby replaced the coin, closed the satchel and walked toward the door. “Murder is rewarded, sir, by hanging. As you well know. Those associated with the obstruction of justice and truth fare little better. When a conviction is successful, those people who were deemed willfully associated with the felon are also in peril of punishment.”
The receipt book showed three signatures, all written by the club man, all pertinent to port wine and beef and French tobacco, credited to Mr. Henry Robertson Dupré. “How curious,” mused Endersby. “These entries were penned in at one o’clock in the morning on early Saturday--you are thorough. Which means, if I gather from typical practice, you had closed the club and its kitchen by one and wisely tallied all your receipts for the day. Which means that Mr. Dupré left your premises perhaps a little earlier than you had previously mentioned.”
The club man insisted; the club man argued; the Link Boy was berated by the club man for lying. The Link Boy broke down, slapped his cheeks in fear, told the inspector that it was not so late now that he thought about it, maybe half twelve. “I had to run on the double with Mr. Dupré for the gentleman seemed in such a hurry to get to Woburn Place.” The Link Boy was dismissed.
Endersby snapped shut the receipt book. He walked into one of the empty supper nooks, where he accosted a waiter setting a fresh table. The waiter knew of Mr. Dupré and told Endersby his regular patron had dined on beef and taken French tobacco on early Saturday last. “Very well,” said Endersby. “And was Mr. Dupré in good humour, in your opinion?”
The waiter did not hesitate. “Mr. Dupré is often in good humour. But he was not his merry self Saturday. ” Endersby asked why. “No, reason, sir. Only a surmise. He left long before his usual hour, about half midnight, I’d say.”
Back in the entrance foyer, Endersby again confronted the club man who remained adamant, hard-edged, stubborn but nervous, for his hands could not stay still. “I have an old watch, sir,” Endersby began. “To my perpetual delight, it keeps perfect time.” Endersby slid out the watch and fob from his waistcoat pocket, and as he spoke he gazed at it fondly, smiling with pride. “Now, I spoke with Mr. Dupré this afternoon. He told me he left the theatre for this club at five minutes past midnight. His stage-door keeper, however, remembered him leaving earlier, before the curtain dropped on Dupre’s hit play. You claim he arrived here at the club at half eleven. I am bewildered, sir.” Endersby stared hard into the club man’s darting eyes. “Indeed,” Endersby continued, still turning the watch in his hand, “both your Link Boy and waiter agree it was half twelve when Dupré left—not at two--which would jibe with your own receipt entries at one o’clock. Do you wish me to go on?” The club man remained silent. Endersby raised his eyebrows, put away his watch, and listened to the club man sigh. Endersby did not wish to prolong the agony of the situation. “How much did he pay you to lie, sir?”
The club man hesitated and looked over his shoulders to be sure he and the detective were alone.
“Two sovereigns,” he whispered. “I knew not of any matter, sir. I still do not. It is none of my business to know. We often prevaricate for our members to avoid curious wives, creditors, nosy relatives. A club, Inspector, is a man’s last bastion of retreat.”
“So it seems,” answered Endersby. “Certainly that is true for scoundrels.”
* * *
The hackney cab almost ran into a wagon on its way to the house of Henry Robertson Dupré.
Woburn Place was an elegant street with newly planted trees set between the paving stones. Along both sides stood rows of houses painted in white stucco. The kitchen entrance to Number 12 was shaded by the front steps. Endersby was curious to see Dupré’s abode, having met with him twice already this day. The housekeeper introduced herself. She was in a nervous mood and Endersby, examining her face, worried she might become his adversary. He raised his hat and stepped across the threshold.
“Is Mr. Dupré in, by chance, Mrs. Croft?”
“Hasn’t been all day. Not since he left for the theatre this morning.”
“I am honoured, sir.” Mrs. Croft’s face betrayed one feeling—worry—but her voice was welcoming . “This is about the terrible death of Mr. Cake? We read about it in the paper not a day past.”
A clatter from the kitchen interrupted Mrs. Croft. She turned her face from Endersby to shout for quiet, but the noise did not cease. “I beg your leave, sir. But do come in. I can offer a cup of tea at this hour, although we are preparing for six gentlemen at half past eight, as Mr. Dupré is entertaining cousins from Shropshire.”
Endersby watched Mrs. Croft’s quick movements. Her irritated face softened a little. He had the impression her ire could be easily raised, but then her kindly side could just as easily reappear. He followed her into the broad, bustling kitchen. What a space it was, worthy of a theatre manager of Old Drury: two servant girls, a cook, a footman, all at the long wooden table, the footman with his silver polish, the servant girls at their chopping blocks, and cook, robust, merry, her large arm stirring a pot. One of the servants with a bright complexion was talking merrily.
Mrs. Croft introduced the inspector. The servant girls bowed, the girl with the bright complexion turning a brighter red. “He will want honest answers,” she explained. Endersby thanked Mrs. Croft and outlined briefly the story of Mr. Cake’s murder and the subsequent search for the culprit guilty of the crime. “Terrible, terrible,” muttered the cook.
The questions were simple: “Tell me, please,” said Endersby, “of the events that took place in this house on the night of Friday last. Who was here? What time was supper served? What were your duties? At what time did Mr. Dupré return home?”
Mrs. Croft answered the last question. “It was early for him, sir. At between half twelve and one o’clock. I was up then, doing accounts, and I noticed a link boy coming up the street with his torch ablaze. Mr. Dupré was behind him, and in a great rush from the way he was walking. The night was very dark, and I was surprised to see him at that hour.”