by Jon Redfern
Then the air flowed under Betty’s feet, though she would not look down. Pray the wire is strong, she whispered. Betty Loxton spread her wings. A slight jerk told her the counter balance and the control ropes had taken hold; the lifters guided her down, running the pulleys. Now she looked down; the stage rose toward her as she floated, arms lifted, a fragile sparrow. Miss Root and the chorus broke into clapping. Shouts swelled from the stage hands. The stage manager greeted Betty as her toes touched the stage boards. She stood alone for a second, the harness embracing her skinny chest. As Mr. Dupré walked toward her, the crowd hushed.
“Let her be,” came the harried voice of her sire. Betty curtsied to Mr. Dupré.
“Let the foolish bird fly,” her sire then said, his mouth breaking into a thin but tight smile. “Keep her on, or she will dash her brains out on all of us before we can shout Happy Christmas.”
* * *
Endersby placed the last wooden piece into the centre. Now it was clear. The French puzzle presented a scene in a jungle with an elephant, a rider and palm trees. “Well done, old gander.” His night’s sleep had abandoned him at two o’clock in the morning; in desperation to win it back, Endersby had taken tea, soaked in a bath. Then, by four o’clock, he had given up and retreated to his puzzle table. Every muscle was now aching in the morning light and his damned gouty toe pinged with sharp jabs. Nevertheless, he nibbled at another piece of cheese. He dressed—suede gloves, sombre blue waistcoat, hat. In the kitchen, he procured an apple, wrapped bread and more cheese in a cloth and rummaged until he found Harriet’s cache of candied almonds. Hobbling downstairs to the door, he opened it and was greeted by the clamour of London’s daily business. He hired a cab; it rattled over broken streets, knocking him about from heel to forehead. Half-awake, he descended at Fleet Lane.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
The admittance sergeant led him up to the second parlour. “Much better, are we?” were Endersby’s first words on seeing a revived, shaved and somewhat rosier Sergeant Caldwell.
“Yes, sir, and I thank you.” The lip was still puffy and the bruises were yellowing, but Caldwell stood firm and ready. “You know of the development, do you?” Caldwell nodded and said: “Superintendent Borne has asked us both to come in.”
Endersby threw off his coat and gloves and followed Sergeant Caldwell into Superintendent Borne’s office. The man was scribbling on a sheet of paper. His frock coat was wrinkled, and Endersby noted a small stain—butter, perhaps?—on the left lapel. “I shall be brief, gentlemen.” Borne did not stand. He folded his hands before explaining in a flat tone that Caldwell was to assume the responsibility for the Cake murder case. “Endersby shall brief you on its matters this morning.” The man continued. Stott, who had just entered the room, discovered that he and the inspector were to investigate the lodging house fire and its subsequent calamities.
“No further ado, sirs. I bid you good morning.”
In the hall outside of the superintendent’s office, Endersby gathered Stott and Caldwell and led them into an antechamber which faced the inner court. “As we know gentlemen, time is running down. London is filling up with corpses, and we have serious duties to perform.” Stott stood at attention, his face full of concern as Endersby began to explain. “No word yet from Birken as to the hiding places of the Grisi brothers, but we shall, my good men, bring those ruffians to justice for their attack on you, Caldwell.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Our puzzle is coming together,” continued Endersby. “We have new clues as to the horrible implications surrounding Mr. Cake’s death. I have been asking myself, these past sleepless nights, many new questions. And I have a new tack to offer. May I suggest we work together and quickly.” The two sergeants agreed. “Would either of you care for a candied almond?” asked Endersby. Both sergeants politely declined. “At times like these when sleep denies me comfort, I take to sweets and cheese. But onward.”
Endersby opened the door to the antechamber to check if the hall outside were empty.
“No use taking risks to thwart us,” he explained. “Now, men. You, Caldwell, will go this morning and take this wretched glove with you once again. This time complete your rounds, but go instead to glove makers in and around the theatres. Start near the Surrey side, near the Coburg and work your way toward Old Drury. Ask, too, if the costumers and haberdashers at the theatre have been asked to sew such a glove. Make your presence known as a policeman and force confession if need be. At the same time, call on the cleaners of gloves near all the same establishments and ask if clients have ever appeared with this piece of merchandise.”
Caldwell did not question Endersby. He took the glove and left the room. Stott stepped forward.
“You, sir. I shall trust you to Covent Garden. Find the stall of John the Pawn Loxton and watch him today. Watch him until the evening. Make sure, if he has a waif with him, you watch her, too. Keep an eye out for his cart and a dame with it. I might also send you to Cake’s gentleman’s club to review the comings and goings of Samuel Cake Friday last. Be prepared to do both. I shall be in Vinegar Yard for supper, as usual.” Stott put on his hat. “I shall fool Borne, mind,” Endersby said. “I shall go to the lodging house presently. If Superintendent Borne asks of your duties, tell him I have instructed you thus. Tell him it concerns the fire. But Cake’s killer must be found.”
* * *
Lying stiff and granite-like in its coffin, the body of Samuel Cake faced upward, its sightless eyes seeming to peer through pine board and piled earth toward the distant sky. In the misty morning the graveyard itself held a suspended deathly breath of its own. A crow in a crooked tree took flight; its path followed the inner-city streets, over parks and turrets, to Number 46 Doughty. Rising high over the mournful house, the bird did not see the man standing on the front steps. The figure paused for a moment to watch the bird’s erratic flight. Mr. William Weston then hurried down the area stairs, broke the police lock on Cake’s kitchen door and entered the basement floor.
He held his hand close to his heart. He called out and listened for possible voices. He walked up to the parlour, where he knew Cake’s body had once lain. The furniture had been stacked against the wall, broken, random. Mr. Weston stared at the blood specks left behind; he stared at the broken shutters. Upstairs, he sat on the smooth bed. Then he began to search. He pulled up the mattress and replaced it. He stuck his head into the hearth. The desk gave out a squeak when he yanked open its drawer. On the third floor, he tapped the floorboards. “Nothing.”
Coming down into the basement kitchen, he was startled by a figure standing in the open door of the area entrance. A short, stocky man wearing a grease-spotted coat. An unfamiliar profile, but he knew from the man’s stance he was harmless. There was a look of awe and bewilderment on the sorrowful man’s face. “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Weston. The short man jumped and grasped the handle of the door.
“Who are you, sir?’ the awe-struck man asked, his question that of a proprietor rather than an uninvited guest.
“I am Mr. William Weston, sir. I apologize for startling you. I am at your service.”
“I am most sorry, sir. Gregorious Barnwell. And your business here, sir?” queried Barnwell who seemed as unsure of his presence in his brother’s house as the great actor’s.
“I beg your leave, sir,” replied Mr. Weston. “I was out walking, as I do often to take exercise after morning rehearsal. I came by the place and discovered the door with a broken lock.”
“You knew my brother, sir?”
“Well, and respected him. I came on a whim to pay respects of a kind. I wanted to see the place one last time. I shall leave you and bid you good day.”
Barnwell waited as Mr. Weston slowly made his way to the street and climbed the area stairwell. Weston turned to see the door shut behind him. He knew of Barnwell casually, from second hand gossip in the theatre, knew him as Cake’s half-brother and as the greatest stage machinist in London. Mr. Weston move
d on to prolong his morning walk, though he felt tired. He felt sorry for the short man. His face appeared to Weston’s inner eye, twisting, accusing, untwisting and twisting yet again. “Enough, enough, demon,” Mr. Weston said to the shadows in the street, thereupon deciding to clear his mind of the matter and vouching never to visit Number 46 Doughty again.
* * *
Upon entering the private club with Inspector Endersby, Elisabetta Mazzini called at once for its director, a homely, easy-going man with chestnut hair. He suggested tea. “I can also offer a light luncheon, sir, or a meat pie at this hour. Would they suffice?”
“Indeed. Most kind of you,” answered the delighted Endersby. Madame Mazzini had arranged the interview at Samuel Cake’s gentleman’s club in Swan Yard to accommodate Endersby’s request to check her alibi. There also appeared to be a curious story about a tall man that required detail. Once the food was brought in, Endersby began in earnest, keeping in mind that time was flying. A tin clock tick-tocked in the corner and rang out twelve chimes.
“Most simple, sir,” replied the club director to the inspector’s first question. “He was a tall man in a costly cloak, and he refused to give his name. He enquired after Mr. Cake and was told he was taking a late supper and could not be disturbed.”
“You had never seen this man before?”
“No, Inspector. I am occupied with much work here. I rarely venture forth beyond Somerset House.”
“Cake and I dined in room three,” said Elisabetta Mazzini.
“Beef and oyster pie, if memory serves,” said Endersby with a smile.
“To your odd notions and your capacity for recollection, Inspector,” said Madame Mazzini, her face rosy and smiling as she toasted Endersby with her tea cup.
“Yes. And then Cake left at two o’clock to walk home to his house in Doughty Street.”
“On Friday last, this tall gentleman came at what hour to enquire after Mr. Cake?” asked Endersby.
“Around half one o’clock in the morning. He was most insistent, and he had been drinking some draughts of rum, I believe.”
“What did he do when he was refused by your keeper to be let in?”
“He demanded we hire him a cab, sir. Which we did and with some relief.”
“Why so?”
“Why, he became suddenly belligerent. A most haughty man. Well groomed, I might say, but showing an arrogant streak in ’im. We run a calm establishment here. Gentlemen are expected to act properly.”
“Even those with rum on their breath?”
“Even so, Inspector.”
“And, by chance, would you have noted the cabbie’s coach number?”
“Of course, sir. He is one of our regulars. He stalls his horse here in our very yard. Night shifts only, of course, to service our clients.”
“Most convenient and fortunate. Please welcome a Sergeant Stott later this afternoon. He will come by to ask some more questions. I am especially interested in what your cabby can tell us. Before I leave, would you kindly afford me a fuller description of this arrogant man in the cloak. A sketch, if you will, and please be certain of his hair colour, size of cloak and, if possible, his gait and tone of voice.”
“I’d be honoured to oblige, Inspector.”
* * *
Young Reggie Crabb held the basin. Mrs. B. washed Betty’s wound again and bound it with a clean strip of flannel. “What a way to treat your own blood and flesh,” Mrs. B. said. Afterwards, Betty and Crabb drank a cup of broth by the hearth.
“He’s let me back, Carrot,” Betty said, her face beaming. Crabb looked into her sad, cold face. He read in her eyes not joy, but loss. What did Betty—the sparrow—want after all, he wondered? A tap on the bannister leading to the stage above called him, and he set down his cup. “I shall return, wait here,” he said. Betty Loxton grabbed his sleeve. Her face was now streaming with tears. “He don’t love me, do he, Carrot?”
“What you mean?”
“Is all for naught. He said he did, but he don’t. Not now.”
“Come, come,” Crabb tried to comfort, using words he’d heard Mrs. B. use.
“No, it is no use. What am I to do?”
“Who is crying here?” said Mrs. B., walking into the hearth light. “None of this, young rose. I want you up on your feet. Come, come. Off you go Crabb. To your duties. You, rose, come here, and I shall set you a task.”
Crabb reluctantly left Betty Loxton and climbed upstairs. At Mr. Weston’s dressing room door, he knocked twice then entered. A rum bottle sat on the actor’s table. Crabb placed the letters from the stage door keeper on Mr. Weston’s desk. “I am his eyes, and his feet,” Crabb whispered to himself.
“Hallo, sir?” Crabb called out and waited.
But the room remained quiet. Crabb took in a breath. He remembered that evening, knocking on Mr. Weston’s door, hearing Mr. Weston shouting and angry, and Crabb thinking there was someone with the great actor. No one was here now. “Lor bless me,” Crabb said and looked over the top of the dressing table. He looked under the chair, behind the screen. Footsteps approaching made him scurry, and he was able to get out of the dressing room before the steps turned and came down the hall. At Miss Root’s dressing room door, there hung the sickly smell of sweet smoke. He tapped twice, and when the door slid open, it was Miss Root herself, still wearing her feathered helmet from the rehearsal earlier that morning.
“Ah, my goodly boy. Letters?”
“None, Miss Root. None this afternoon. I come only to see if you need anything.”
“What a lad. Do I need anything? I wonder, I wonder.”
Miss Root stood still and in a daze. She held up a little brass pipe from which the smoke curled.
“No, I think not,” she said, and with a nonchalant brush of her arm, she closed the door.
Crabb ran down the hall and up the long sets of stairs, passed the fly drums and the sky cloths and came to Henry Dupré’s attic office.
“Go away,” was the curt answer to his tapping.
“Crabb, sir. Letters.”
“Damn you, Crabb.” There was scuffling, then a muffled cry. The door flew open, and Crabb glanced the dashing bare legs of a young girl. He could not see her face. She hid behind the door, and Dupré, waistcoat open, trousers buttoned crookedly, snatched the letters and held up his right hand as if to box Crabb’s ear.
Taking control, his breath even, Dupré said, “Thank you, Crabb. Quite. Send up for coffee. I shall go to the Green Room presently.” Like a stiff breeze, Crabb hurried back down the flights of stairs, across to old Hartley, told Hartley of the coffee request, was handed a slip of paper on which Hartley had scrawled the word “Coffee”, took the paper and descended into the warm, busy air of the under stage and Mrs. B’s domain.
“Coffee order, Mrs. B. From Mr. Dupré.”
Betty Loxton was passing a hot iron over a set of linen fairy wings. She rubbed her nose.
“Careful, rose. Do not stain ’em. I’ve enough running to do without an extra wash.”
“Hallo, Carrot,” Betty whispered.
“I can go to the muffin man, if you wish,” said Crabb.
“Tomorrow, you shall see a new sight, Carrot.”
“How do you mean?”
“I shall be a new gal. One you will see once and not again.”
Crabb wrinkled his forehead. “Betty, what mean you?”
“You shall see. Come tomorrow. But come now and sit here.”
“I have errands. I can stay but a minute, no more.”
“Sit and let me tell you a tale.”
“Will it be long?”
“Long enough. But someone must know it. You can keep a secret, can you?” Reggie nodded and sat closer to Betty so she could whisper. “So, Carrot, only you shall hear of it. I regret to tell it, but I must.” Tears filled her eyes. As Betty began her tale, Crabb listened, held his breath, widened his eyes and knew he had to remember every word she spoke.
* * *
“She came down wi
th the chills and a hot forehead just after breakfast. After you left.”
Endersby held his wife’s hand and looked upon the sallow face of the cook, the young Solange. Her hair was damp. Little tremors shook her body and made her lips quiver.
“Had she taken anything?”
“Not that I know,” Harriet said. “She could not say. Suddenly, she fell to the floor. Your luncheon soup, I am afraid, fell with her and scalded her ankle.”
A red patch of skin was shown.
“And the physician?”
“My brother has run to fetch him.”
“There is no fear of cholera, Harriet, if that is what you were thinking.”
“Was I, my dear? Cholera was not on my mind. But fatigue and love-sickness were.”
“Love-sickness?”
“A note was delivered last night. By hand, by a relative who spoke no English.”
“A note for Solange?”
“Yes, dear Owen. You need your luncheon, even though you have eaten us out of home with your sleeplessness and appetite. I have pork pudding and a cold potato with vinegar for you.”
At the dining room table, the note was proffered for Endersby’s inspection. Even though he had taken food with Miss Mazzini, he indulged his appetite which, in these days of work, sleeplessness, and general toil, had grown more demanding.
“It is in French.”
“Yes, dear one. And my capable brother has translated it. It seems the marriage for little Solange has been temporarily postponed.”
“For what reason?”
The potato was bitter and salty, and the pudding too small. Endersby nibbled at the cheese set for dessert between bites of the pie.