by Jon Redfern
Mrs. Croft gathered up the tea things then came over to Endersby with the signed sheets. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. Endersby took the sheets, checked them and put them into his satchel. In the doorway, Mrs. Croft took hold of Endersby’s arm and stopped him. “Pardon me again, Inspector.”
“Yes, Mrs. Croft.”
“I cannot in good conscience let you leave without telling you this.”
“What is it?”
“It was us, sir, the footman and me that made up the story about the dinner. Mr. Dupré came home in a hurry this afternoon and asked us to protect him. He gave us the coins to be sure we would speak ‘straight’ to you about his comings and goings. He was so frightened, sir, he could not speak clearly. He broke down, in fact, in a most sad fashion. You see, Inspector, his life is the theatre, and in the last two days Lord Harwood decided to take that life away from him. I am fond of Henry. I raised him, in a manner of speaking, after his mother died. I cannot say Henry is a practicing Christian, sir, but he is a clever man. He brought in little Jane from a workhouse and gave her a living. Like man and wife they are in some respects, sir. He is not a murderer, as you shall see in our written stories. Please, forgive us.”
For answer Endersby gave but a quick nod. The woman before him was no adversary. What her face told him was a matter of anguish and fear. Stott signaled to Endersby, and the two of them heard Mrs. Croft sigh as she closed the door. Endersby slowly climbed the area stairs to street level. His mind sifted and sorted facts as fast as he could gather them together. Stott stood behind him for a second and allowed him to catch his breath. The two men then entered the street with heads held against the rain. “You go on, Stott. I shall walk apace.”
The route home to Cursitor Street was fraught with barriers. There were private gates at Southhampton Row. A fallen horse and its overturned cart blocked Eagle Street. Holborn presented rain, mud and chaos—and no hansom cabs. Hell itself has become a sea, thought Endersby. The night deepened as he walked into Chancery Lane, his body wracked with pain, his neck sopping. Facts and suppositions clamoured for his attention as if they were a cluster of rollicking schoolboys. But Endersby knew at this point in his fatigue that he must let his mind relax. The rain let up for a moment, and it was as if all motion and fury had come to rest. Endersby opened his coat to shake off the wet. He removed his hat, brushed off the residue from the street.
He was shivering. “You are the wretch, you old boar,” he chided himself. When his feet stumbled forward, Endersby needed to touch the walls to steady his gait. “Murder and mayhem indeed,” he said to the cobbles. After a time, the familiar steps and the welcoming lights of Number 6 Cursitor Street appeared before him. Endersby found his latch key and stumbled into the downstairs hall. “Harriet!”
Endersby pressed his bulk against the railing leading up to the flat. He called again: “Harriet.”
The hall and stairwell filled with candlelight. Two figures came toward him. A frightened face came first, holding up a candle. Behind it came the familiar cap and rosy cheeks of the one woman he knew could give him comfort.
“Embrace me, Mrs. Endersby, I beg of you.”
“Dear Owen, what a state of disarray.” Harriet folded her arms about Endersby’s neck and held him. Releasing him, she turned to the wide-eyed Solange. “Put on the kettle, cut some bread and stoke the hearth in the parlour.” The girl hurried up the stairs, the circle of candlelight rising with her, leaving Harriet and Owen in clammy darkness.
“Now, dear one,” Harriet said. She lifted Endersby’s hat and placed it on the newel post. She relieved him of his satchel and placed it on her own shoulder. “Lean on me,” she said. He held the railing and pulled up. At each step his gouty foot dragged in agony. Harriet slipped on the edge of one stair but kept her balance. “Come, we’ll find our way.”
Once inside the cosy apartment, Endersby fell against Harriet’s breast. “I am weary, my dear one,” he admitted, his breath short from the climb.
“You are also very dirty and greasy from the street,” she answered. She led him to the parlour sofa, where he fell into its softness.
“I am nothing more than a fool, Harriet.” Endersby wiped his cheek.
“Well, you are most certainly a hungry fool at best,” soothed Harriet.
She pulled off his gloves and his filthy boots. Solange appeared with a flannel and soon, with wiping and rubbing and general patting, Endersby felt drier and better. With much delight, he was soon at a table set with knife and fork, a plate of jellied eel and a warmed glass of Spanish sherry. “Fine, indeed,” he said to the two tending women. Solange had taken on a glow from her running about, and for the first time Endersby saw in her a gentle beauty, her hair a soft brown, her curious eyes not without compassion.
“You shall make a fine wife, young Solange,” he said, downing a second glass.
The girl blushed.
“I am to take on a new case, Harriet,” he said later from his steaming bath. Harriet sat beside him by the fire, her hand pulling a thread through her needlework screen.
“Yes, I know. Burned bodies. You are worthy of the task.”
“I told you already?”
“Over soup.”
In the study, Endersby hobbled to his table. His hand flew out. In disgust he shoved the French puzzle he’d been working on to the floor. Wooden pieces lay in a heap on the carpet. His mind was full of misgiving. No puzzle, no game is this business, he thought.
Harriet came in. “What have you done?”
Shame reddened Endersby’s cheek. He stood and looked at her, not knowing what to say.
“Surely, dear Owen, only you can pick them up. How can we know what pieces fit where?”
“How right you are,” he said. Harriet stood off and did not move to help him. She held the candle as he bent to the floor, picked up each piece and laid it back on the table. The light glistened on the pieces, and with their glow, Endersby felt suddenly better, as if there was to his tumultuous world the capacity for order. There was no doubt he had the ability to allow reason to gather the terrible bits and shards of the truth he now held in his mind.
“Good night,” Harriet said. She left without another word but with a gentle movement that gave Endersby a sense of calm. At his other table by the window, he laid out the glove; he stared at the dried mud samples he had collected Saturday last. He pondered the sound of the rain, and he prayed that what he knew and what he feared might somehow come together into a truth he could present to the world. It had been a long day, many secrets unveiled. Caldwell would mend, he thought. Rosa Grisi revealed her loyalty to her brothers as well as her innocence with a credible alibi; the sad Betty Loxton and her cruel brother, John the Pawn—where do they fit and what can they reveal? This and the extra promissory note found in Cake’s marvelous cloak were by-ways yet to explore. And what of Miss Priscilla Root? Was her confession merely a lie, or did Reggie Crabb relieve her of guilt with his innocent recollection of a drunken party? Mr. Henry Robertson Dupré—well, here was a case of a man bent on falsehood, on disguise—and yet a man not necessarily given to physical violence.
Owen Endersby breathed out.
Such is the toil, the meandering manner of the detective mind, he thought, congratulating himself on his accomplishments, relegating his doubts to a far corner as he turned to find solace in his bed.
* * *
Betty Loxton raised the skylight pane as far as she could, and when it moved no farther, she refused to be defeated and shoved her head and shoulders through the narrow space, her feet lifting off from the wiggling chair. She found herself lying face down on slimy steep tiles two storeys up from the alley. Holding fast to the window brace, she checked behind her to be sure no light had been lit. The snoring and snuffling from the other room went on unabated. Betty slid toward the gutters; she let go of the brace, and her feet swung down in an arc. Pain racked her back, her elbows, her shoulders. She crawled slowly along. Her feet caught the gutter edge. She kep
t looking up until she found the small jut-out with the broken sash. Inside the dormer, the smells of refuse and the scurrying of rats greeted her. On the floor, she paused and her chest began to heave with great gasps of air. The coins sat safe and sound in her deep pocket. The bonnet was her sister’s, but Betty did not care. Her skirt was the good one she kept for Sundays, though she regretted not taking her dirty one with her. But you can purchase same, she thought. You are free.
She found the door and yanked it open. The stairs screeched under her boots, like they were souls being torn from their graves. Each step was tested; one, then two were missing. Betty held onto the railing and shimmied down two more flights in the inky dark. You are free, she thought again. This, the pain and dark, this is what you must suffer.
Out on the street, she ran so fast, she bit her tongue. She ran toward the great portico of Old Drury. She ran behind the building to the horse stalls, found the metal-covered coal chute and climbed in. Down she slid, holding her nose. The costume room was black. Betty crawled carefully under the hanging garments. She smelled the stove and Mrs. B.’s metal pressing irons. The hearth gave off faint ember-light, and the little girl who tended it was asleep on her pallet. Betty pulled off her bonnet. Lastly, she folded her skirt up and touched her ruined ankle. The chain had rubbed it raw. The vinegar her sister had applied still burned the skin. She tapped the scabs and knew they were not as yet puss-filled. She went to the hearth, found the bucket of water and dabbed the wound. A strip of clean cloth was on the table, so she bound her ankle, her eyes squinty in the dim light.
Behind the wicker baskets, the ones full of soiled shirts and stockings, Betty settled herself. She found a velvet waistcoat and balled it into a pillow. She knew she must never leave the building. Not for a long while. She would plead with Mr. Dupré. Of course, he loved her and would guard her. What if he was angry? Angry because she did not show for the rehearsal this past afternoon? But I couldn’t come, sire, she argued as if Dupré stood before her. No, I was clamped and held back. Oh, sire, I am grateful to you.
Betty found her eyes closing. She was so hungry she could eat a piece of wood. Tomorrow Mrs. B. would give her vittles. Betty reminded herself the dearest Jack in London town was Mr. Henry Robertson Dupré. She would risk death for him, as soon fall from a roof as lose his loving attention.
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, December 23, 1840
It was at the hour when old Hartley, the stage-door keeper, unlocked the stage door, at ten o’clock in the morning to be precise, that Betty Loxton opened her sleepy eyes to see Henry Robertson Dupré standing over her. Betty had been curled up, shivering, the velvet costume she had used as a pillow crumpled by the baskets. Dupré was wearing a green frock coat and a frown. He is not pleased with your mischief, she whispered to herself as she stood up to face him.
“Good morning, Miss Loxton.”
Betty curtsied. Reggie Crabb appeared beside Mrs. B., who came up to Betty and took her hand.
“Leave her for a moment,” said Dupré.
“She is cold, sir. And hungry.”
“Leave her.”
Betty rubbed her dirty wrists. Her skin itched and her mouth was dry and bitter.
“What are you doing in here?” asked Dupré.
“Hiding, sire.”
“I can see you have been rummaging in the coal chute.”
“I came down it, sire. Last night.”
“From whom are you hiding?”
“My brother, John, sire. I have run away from him.”
Betty lifted her soiled skirt and showed Dupré and Mrs. B. her scabby ankle. “He clamped me down, so’s I could not run. Said I could not come here again. Said I was no stager and must stay put.”
“Poor rose,” said Mrs. B. “Fetch me water, Crabb, and a flannel.”
“You cannot live here, Miss Loxton,” Dupré said. “Nor can you rush in here every night when you are at odds with your family. May I remind you the street is your home.”
“Yes, sire, I know it was my home. But now, as you know, I wish my life to be here.”
“We have a busy day, Mrs. B. Feed the lass, then send her off.”
“No, sire, I beg of you. I shall be a good girl. You know it. You know I can be.”
Betty thrust her arms out to embrace Henry Robertson Dupré. A stiff cold hand prevented her. A haughty voice addressed her. “Miss Loxton,” said Dupré. “I am not in the habit of feeding and scrubbing coster girls. I am a man of the theatre. I must find someone who can do your duty and not shirk rehearsal, leaving me high and dry.”
Young Crabb put the steaming basin on the table. Mrs. B. knelt, and holding the skirt up, began to dab the ankle wound with water. Betty moaned as it stung. Dupré smoothed the front of his frock coat.
“Crabb,” said Dupré.
“Yes, sir.”
“Call the company, post-haste. We are on the stage this morning.”
“One word, sire, if you please.”
Dupré turned his back to Betty, and pretending not to hear her voice, walked away, passing between the cutting tables toward the staircase. Mrs. B. held Betty’s skirt and dabbed again. “Don’t move, little rose. Now, that’s better. Come and have some tea and a bit of bread.”
“Oh, no. I must go on up.”
“I shall call you,” said Crabb.
“But he is so vexed with me, Carrot,” cried Betty. “He won’t find no one else, will he?”
“Little rose, take my advice. Rest here, drink your tea. By and by, you shall go on up,” said the gentle Mrs. B.
Crabb patted Betty’s shoulder and dashed from the room. Whistles came from above as the stage hands began to set the wings and the cloths overhead. Betty gulped her tea. She was so cold, she ran to the hearth and thrust her head and hands nearly into the flames.
“Careful, foolish child,” admonished Mrs. B., who pulled her away from the heat and circled her with her arms. “You can stay awhile down here. On the floor. I shall get Crabb to make you a pallet. See, our little Judy, our hearth gal. She finds it comfortable, as shall you.”
Betty wiped her eyes. “Sire is so vexed, he is. I must not let him be so.” She bit into the bread; she licked hot lard from her lips. Today was Wednesday, she knew. Her mam would be frantic. Her brother John would be in a swatting mood. Today was a big selling day for fruit, tomorrow would be as well, then the great day of Christmas. Plums, apples, Spanish oranges newly come from the ships with their boxes stamped with red ink, the little oranges all together in straw, shivering like me, thought Betty, and so far from home.
As was her way, Betty managed to pull her strength together. She washed her face. She plaited her grimy hair. Although her leg pained her, and despite the doubt that poked her like a hunger pang, she did not entertain the worry that her sire would stay angry with her. She loved him. He would not beat nor swat her. She knew this as she climbed the stairs to the stage. She knew one other thing as well: she would do what he asked of her. Fly, climb, lie at his feet—for she was his now. As Betty walked through the rushing scene, as she saw amongst the scene shifters the straight posture of Mr. Dupré, she felt hope grow in her breast. The stage opened before her, an immense plane of wood, cracking with the feet upon its surface. Above her spread the high shadowy sky of cloths, ropes and fly drums. Gas jets flickered on the standing side poles. Mr. Dupré was pointing to the back of the stage as Miss Root pulled on her feathered helmet. There, beside the first entrance, stood the majestic figure of Mr. Weston.
“Places all, please, ladies and gentlemen.”
Betty Loxton walked into the crowd. Miss Root stood in front of the mass of bodies. A wooden tree rose through a trap door. Mr. Weston cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted from the wings: “Gooday, Lady Bright, the sun has risen to greet thee.” Like a single wave, the chorus moved, bowing before gathering together to surround Miss Root. When Betty stepped forward with the other actors, she sensed Mr. Dupré’s pair of eyes ready to cut her. Her sire was a partic
ular man. Betty realized she was in danger of being lashed by his temper. She remained stalwart, however; her only desire was that Mr. Dupré might show his kind side to her. If so, she might beg him once more to be his flying maiden in the pantomime. He walked up to her, and his first words were spoken in a quiet manner.
“Miss Loxton, you are to leave the stage, please. And quickly.”
Betty curtsied but did not move. As the cluster of other bodies widened around her, she felt even more alone.
“It is not your place here, Miss Loxton. You are no longer needed.”
He waited for her. Still, Betty did not move. No longer was she the collared dog of her brother. No longer the kicking post for her own mam.
“I can do it, sire. You know it. I shall not leave you.”
Betty Loxton had become bewitched by this stage world, with its oil and dust, its blue fire and canvas vistas. “I shall not ask you again,” said Dupré.
“I can not leave you, sire. Let me show you.”
With a burst of life in her legs, Betty ran toward the back of the stage. She mounted the stairs, two by two. She came to the corner, hung on to the railing, swung herself onto the skywalk, the massive stage below her. The moment she saw the other girl, a red-haired girl from the chorus hooked into the harness, Betty took herself to the edge of the fly walk where she placed her toes over its frightening edge. She raised up her arms. She sang out a song, a Gaff ditty about a Queen and a Tom, and she sang and sang and held her balance. The red-haired girl screamed. The fly-loft assistant leapt forward. The stage manager’s whistle pierced the dusty air. Though Betty teetered, she held herself steady. She drove her eyes skyward. No way, she thought, no way but to hold on. She refused to let fear push her. Each word she sang brought footsteps nearer until a strong, hard arm grabbed her waist and pulled her back.
“We’ve got her, Mr. Dupré.”
“Put the baggage out.”
But Betty was already loose. In a flash, she fell upon the back of the red-haired girl. She unlatched the harness, shoved the crying creature onto the flywalk. Her voice kept on singing, the Queen and the Tom. A fever of desire quickened her arms; she fitted herself into the harness. The cloth bands, the eyes, the hooks, all obeyed her fingers. Betty Loxton was no longer anyone’s servant. No, now she was a bird. An angel. “Here, there,” shouted the stage manager, now coursing along the skywalk. The grump’s face was redder than an apple.