Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “Yes, sir,” the footman added. “Mr. Dupré is a hard worker. Home from the theatre most nights by two at the latest, into his bath and then to his bed. He is an early riser. Up at dawn for his Examiner and his breakfast. We were not amazed, in truth, but it was unusual.”

  “I heard not a sound,” the cook said. “I sleep like a dead woman.”

  One of the servant girls meekly explained: “He greeted me and said he’d been to his club. He said he needed brandy and bath water and then sent me to fetch Jane, here. Didn’t he, Jane?”

  Mrs. Croft shot a worried glance at Jane, the talky girl with the flushed complexion. The footman lowered his gaze. The cook began stirring the pot with a renewed vigour. Endersby marvelled at the abrupt coldness which had befallen the company. He was even more amazed at Jane. She had gradually looked down as if she were searching for a fork on the floor. Indeed, in her attempts to answer his questions, Jane’s lively voice began to squeak. What only moments before had been a jolly girl now became a stumbling child.

  “I-I-I don’t recall. B-But of course. I-I fetched his nightclothes from the dr-drying rack.”

  “And then?”

  “T-T’was all, I r-recall.”

  “Then to her bed, Inspector,” aided Mrs, Croft. “Our Jane is nervous, when she is met by strangers. It is nothing.”

  Endersby stood before the crew a moment more with his face quite openly curious and contracted with concern. “Did any of you hear Mr. Dupré moving about once he’d taken his bath?” Silence as the motley bunch reflected.

  “I believe so, sir,” the footman said. “I removed the tub and water to the courtyard and I assumed, Mr. Dupré took to his chores, then to his bed. One does and does not hear such common sounds, if you catch my drift.”

  Endersby tried a different question. “Was the front door locked when Mr. Dupré arrived home?”

  “Yes, and I locked it after he came in,” said Mrs. Croft.

  “Did Mr. Dupré go out after he’d finished his bath?”

  “But why would he do such a thing?” asked the footman.

  Why, in fact? But then Endersby considered that the household had been performing its rituals for the night, and most likely they would not have imagined, nor had the temerity to admit, that Mr. Dupré was indulging in any untoward behaviour. Mr. Dupré was a man of some influence, both in the theatre and in his own home. Certainly, however, Endersby could not leave the situation entirely as closed.

  “May I ask when you expect Mr. Dupré for this evening?”

  “At half past seven, sir,” said Mrs. Croft.

  “For his relatives?”

  “Yes,” replied the footman.

  “And would you kindly inform him that I would very much wish to visit him later this evening, simply to confirm what you have kindly told me.”

  Mrs. Croft was cordial. “At ten o’clock sir, if that is convenient.”

  “I shall send word.”

  Endersby thanked the assembled company for their time. He discovered on leaving Woburn Place that the winter’s evening was closing in. Gaslights began to sputter. He felt grimy from his exertions today and wished only for a bath and the company of Harriet. “Move on, old gander,” he said gruffly. It was a long walk to Cromer Street and one Endersby did not find pleasure in, as the rain was once more whisking around him in a flurry. But at last—out of professional necessity--he stood before a house that in grander times had been a mansion. It was divided into smaller chambers now, some of its larger passages and foyers converted into apartments, one that contained four rooms leased by Old Drury’s leading player, Mr. William Weston.

  Mr. Weston’s apartment was sad-looking, melancholy in light and space, not unlike its prime occupant, the princely lead actor with the tall body, the pale face and the thinning hair.

  The inspector was met at the front door by a dour older woman with a pursed mouth. “I am Mister Weston’s aunt,” she said in her curt introduction. “Come this way, but please be quiet, as we have an invalid.” The sour woman, her meagre body clothed in black cotton, pointed to a closed door and explained to Endersby that it sheltered the sickbed of Sarah, Mr. Weston’s bedridden sister.

  The reticent, cold-voiced aunt then told Endersby about Mr. Weston’s whereabouts and activities on Friday night last. Her answers had a dry, fatigued quality to them.

  “Mr. Weston arrived home at his usual hour of one.”

  “Were you waiting up for him?”

  “I think not, Inspector. It is my custom to retire early, after tending Miss Sarah.”

  “Had you been tending her long?”

  “Oh, my, yes. I was half asleep after two hours. You see, sir, she has the fits sometimes, and is in one of her periods where she cries and is very restless. She needs to be calmed. I often draw a hot bath for her to control her ranting. Though with our new physician and his sleeping powder, my work is made easier.”

  “Miss Sarah then slept, did she?”

  “She did.”

  “Were you by a clock when Mr. Weston returned for the night?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You said he came in at one in the morning. You were very precise as to the hour. I imagined you were waiting or perhaps preparing something for him and glanced at your clock.”

  “No, Inspector. I was in my bed. I do not prepare for my nephew unless he requests it. On Saturday last, he came in at one in the morning, as I heard his latch-key. And I always hear his latch-key at the same hour.”

  “But you did not see him come in?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  Mr. William Weston at last appeared from a chamber next to the parlour, where the aunt and Endersby were seated. The actor’s face was care-lined, but he had majesty in his straight posture and height. Seeing the actor in domestic circumstances, rather than on the stage, Endersby felt sudden awe. Mr. Weston explained through an apology that he had been preparing himself for the evening. “I beg your leave, Inspector,” he said with much deliberation. “I hope my aunt has been helpful.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Weston.”

  Endersby was further delighted when Weston suggested they walk and talk together. “Would you care, sir, to come my way to the precincts of Old Drury, where I take supper?” the actor said. The inspector agreed. Weston pulled on his overcoat with the fur collar. To Endersby’s eyes he then seemed even more stately. Weston’s beaver hat extended his height: it was as though he carried his own light to show off his high cheekbones. Mr. Weston bid good night to his aunt.

  “Shall you need supper on your late return?” she asked, her mouth thin and tight.

  “I think not, Aunt,” he said. He bid her good night again and led the inspector from the apartment into Cromer Street.

  In spite of the hour, and the fatigue he had been feeling, Endersby found his energy and interest revived by the presence of the pale-faced man who now walked beside him. Mr. William Weston did not hesitate to share the domestic details of his life as the two of them crossed the street and turned their way south toward Drury Lane. He explained that each weekday evening before seven o’clock, he’d walk to the chop house on Hart Street, take a hot meal, then prepare his face for the performance at eight.

  “You have made a great effort,” said Weston. “I mean, you have come to my home to examine me, because you wish to know if I have an alibi for Friday night last.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Weston. I must examine every by-way, and I must talk to anyone who was involved even in a marginal fashion with the terrible event. I have come to you as you seem reasonable, and to check on the alibis of others.”

  “Do you consider me a suspect?”

  “I cannot say as yet.”

  Weston pondered the response for a moment. “Conjecture is the first step in solving a crime?”

  “Always, Mr. Weston. You, as well as anyone I speak with, are in the shadow of suspicion. It is the nature of my profession to cast you there.”

  The two men moved slowly on, Weston control
ling his wide steps out of deference to the limping older man beside him.

  “I can tell you but a simple tale.” The actor then continued, his voice low. In it, Endersby heard a refinement of feeling. “I performed the role of the Prince until ten o’clock on both Friday and Saturday last.”

  “A fine role, indeed, sir, as I was in the box on Saturday night. Most impressive show of remorse in the final act.” Endersby could not help himself. He felt honoured, in one way, to be seen along the streets with such a well-known figure. He could not quell his praise of Mr. Weston’s look of despair in Act Two.

  “I thank you, sir, humbly.”

  Endersby pulled back and re-directed his passion. “And then?”

  “ On Friday, I played in the last piece, a comedy, until midnight and took a late supper with Miss Root and her sisters, oysters of a fine quality. I like to walk slowly home afterwards, to reflect, and so I reached Cromer Street at half-past one and went to bed, my sister having been given a sleeping draught, as is usual.”

  “Did you and Miss Root speak of anything in particular at your supper?”

  “She told me that the singer, Elisabetta Mazzini, had been in Mr. Dupré’s box and that Cake had stolen her away for the evening.”

  “Did Miss Root say why Mr. Cake had done such a thing?”

  “Cake saved her from the clutches of Mr. Henry Robertson Dupré.”

  “Is he a dangerous man?”

  “He seduces women, sir, and cruelly so.”

  “And Mr. Cake? Was he not also a seducer?”

  “You refer to my Sarah. It is hard for me to judge, since I have seen so much of the aftermath of her infatuation with him. He was most kind to her, and he was most kind to me as well.”

  “How?”

  “He lent me money.”

  “Was he discreet about it?”

  “He was generous and practical. He was a man whose interests lay in building profit.”

  “How often did you visit Doughty Street?”

  “Two or three times. No servants to the place. And I was always kept down in the kitchen to wait.”

  “You were required to sign promissory notes, then?”

  “I was, and I did, and once my debt was paid, I usually tore them up.”

  “So, Mr. Cake returned them to you.”

  “He was fair-minded in that respect.”

  “Were you in debt to Mr. Cake? Recently.”

  “It hardly matters now. But yes, I was. Sixty pounds owing.”

  “Did you see Mr. Dupré at any time on Friday last?”

  “Late in the evening, you mean?”

  “Yes, any time after your supper.”

  “No. I would not have had opportunity, as my dressing room is in the back corridor.”

  “Did Mr. Cake have any enemies that you were aware of?”

  “Other than his rival, Mr. Dupré? No. He was not the type to engender such.”

  “No jealous or vindictive lovers?”

  “I do not think so.”

  When Mr. Weston looked at the glove taken from Endersby’s satchel, he immediately tried it on and expressed both delight and trepidation. “It is a perfect fit.”

  “So it is,” said Endersby quietly.

  “A badly made glove, sir. One not worth wearing. It seems to have been made by an amateur at best. The crime rags mentioned a bloodied glove found in the backyard of Doughty Street.”

  “It was, sir. You were aware there was a laneway?”

  “I once walked about that empty set of rooms and saw the stairs and the gate. I was always amazed that Mr. Cake did not have locks or latches.”

  “Is this glove yours, in fact?”

  “If I say yes, what would that mean?”

  “A difficult question. It is a piece of evidence found on the site. Evidence which could be incriminating.”

  “It is not mine. I must have fine gloves for fencing, sir. Such a glove as this would not be useful to me.”

  “You have sustained an injury?” Endersby noted a long fresh scab on Mr. Weston’s hand as he gave back the glove.

  “A graze from a blade two days ago. A swordsman in the play, by accident. Common enough.”

  Endersby replaced the glove. He had recorded the smile, the occasional pause in Mr. Weston’s dialogue with him, actions innocent enough in themselves.

  “Mr. Weston, do you have any vices such as Miss Root’s?”

  “Do you mean that I take to drink?”

  “Yes, I mean that.”

  “I cannot afford to. I cannot be drunk if I must sword play. I may take a life, and my purpose is to feign violence, not to perform it. Yet, I shall admit I sometimes drink a tankard of ale. Maybe two, to give me strength.”

  “And what of Soho and its dens?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “Even if the desire be there?”

  “You mean the despair. I must be sober enough to care for Sarah.”

  All in all, the words were spoken in rounded tones and with an even pace, and although Endersby’s nature was inclined to wariness, he decided for the time being to let what he had learned about Mr. Weston sit comfortably. The two men stood on the rushing street before the theatre where they had finally come to rest. They spoke further of trivial matters. Of the death of Madame Malibran and the great success of the Italian composer, Donizetti. And of the fires in St. Giles and the state of poor lodging houses, where so many of the less fortunate actors of the capital lived.

  “I bid you good evening, Inspector.”

  “If you have any other memories, any revelations you feel the need to express, I am at the tavern across from Vinegar Yard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One last request. Is your sister in any state to be questioned?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I am a man searching for the truth, Mr. Weston. It may be necessary for me to ask anyone connected, as I said before. To clear up sudden doubt.”

  “I understand. If you can grant me the courtesy, I shall certainly arrange a time for you to meet her, when she is feeling stronger. She is, however, frequently sedated these days, as our physician has recommended a sleeping cure. To calm her ravings.”

  “What a pitiful situation for you, Mr. Weston. However, even in illness, truth can be spoken. But I appreciate your generosity. I bid you good evening.”

  * * *

  “There you are, at last.”

  “I cannot stay long.”

  “Embrace me, dear Owen. At least an embrace.”

  Harriet was flushed. She had been setting the table. A fresh cap topped her curls. Perfume wafted about her, which Endersby loved—a faint touch of lavender, sweet and womanly. He held her, felt her softness, and as if a balm of oil had been applied to him, his own cranky, paining self dissolved. Evaporated into the air, he mused, kissing his Harriet and taking her warm hand in his.

  “You seem most distracted, Owen. It is that time, as always, is it not?”

  She was referring to the long familiar stand-off between them, the turn in the path of an investigation when he withdrew more and more into his own thoughts, leaving her outside of himself, as if she were locked behind a solid window of glass and could not reach out to touch him.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Pardon granted. Habit is a great forgiver of sins.”

  “Harriet?”

  “Never mind. Solange has made you a fine soup. But, oh, I see resistance. What? You cannot stay? Is that what this look is all about?”

  Endersby was about to tell her he must rush back to Vinegar Yard. It was a few minutes past seven o’clock, and Stott was to meet him. Vital information was forthcoming. There was Samuel Cake’s cloak to be examined, among other facts and findings. Endersby wanted nothing more than to take a bath and lie beside Harriet on the divan before the hearth. And then he felt the need to confess his anger.

  “I have been removed from the Cake investigation, as of this afternoon.”

  “How do you mean?”
Harriet led him quietly toward the dining table. She slipped off his rank coat and pulled at his suede gloves.

  “Borne has commanded me to lead troops into battle. To secure a victory over some vicious creatures guilty of setting the lodging house fire in St. Giles.”

  “He has great need of you, then, Owen. A great need to vindicate the deaths of those children and women.” Harriet held out the chair and gently pressed her hand on her husband’s shoulder, all the while looking toward the hesitant Solange who, with tureen in hand, and who, with sweat upon her forehead, dared to take one step toward the dining table.

  “Indeed, yes. I cannot fault him in the end. It is a noble gesture.”

  The ladle poured a beef-smelling, onion-rich stream into the bowl. Endersby breathed in the aroma of what his mind immediately labeled as ambrosia.

  “Indeed, noble. You are worthy of the task.”

  “I am, certainly.” The spoon rose to his lips; the spoon dipped again and again, and Endersby realized he was at last dry and comfortable and that Time, a wanton and oft-demanding master, could stand and wait until the second full ladle had been downed.

  “Caldwell is to take on the matter of Cake’s murder.”

  Harriet shook out her table napkin, secured it over her bodice, and dipped her spoon. Solange retreated toward the kitchen door.

  “Will he be worthy of such a responsibility?”

  “I cannot say. Well done, Miss,” Endersby spoke to the lurking girl. His mouth was full of a toasted square of bread so heavy with garlic, he needed to dab his eye. He then wiped his chin and rose.

  “I cannot say, but I venture, I shall have to direct him.”

  “He seems a willing enough man for that.”

  “Indeed. I must run to Vinegar Yard.”

  “So, you said, my dear. There is jellied eel for later, when you return.”

  Endersby could hardly contain himself: eel was his favorite dish. Arms outstretched, he bussed his Harriet, and even had the quick wisdom to address the hard-working Solange. “Merci to you, young woman,” he said, and pulled on his coat before struggling to put on his suede gloves with Harriet’s gentle helping.