by Jon Redfern
“The army, dear,” Harriet explained. “The man has been called into the French army. For a six-month sojourn in the south of that fine country.”
“Then, all the better for us. We can afford to pay the woman. She can console herself with making fine dishes. All is settled.”
“If you say so, but thwarted love, may I warn you Owen, has a way of finding its own level. Tantrums, pouts, and the like.”
Endersby put down his spoon. His mind had been so full of hatching schemes that he was glad of the respite, of the domestic tragedy before him taking precedence.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Endersby. I have been precipitate. And thoughtless,” he admitted. “You are right, and I shall endeavour to show Solange much gratitude and to offer her comfort.”
“As you shall, Owen. Now on to your dessert and to your duty.”
“Aye, to that. Much planning and much deception, my dear. But I cannot avoid any longer the problems of the fire. St. Giles calls and with a hard voice.”
In his gouty misery and with his stomach still rumbling after his second luncheon, Endersby turned to the window of the cab and the mist of the afternoon. Smoke from bakers’ chimneys, flying slush and mud, the odours of horse and wet wool coats on shoving pedestrians clouded his view of the goodness in the world. The streets closed in, as if their age made the buildings huddle closer in wintry despair; their façades looked sooty enough in their dilapidation. There was a light breeze, enough to wet his face and assault his nostrils with the additional stench of London sewage. In Saint Giles, the horse clattered over wet stones at a slowed pace. Inspector Endersby thoughtfully brought his sharp eyes to bear on each and every thin, haggard, torn-capped, pale-skinned creature that eked out life in this sordid corner of the metropolis. Wooden houses, wracked and cracked with ill repair, sagged, sank and generally seemed to moan under their yoke of poverty. Endersby descended from the cab, the horse giving off puffs of sweaty steam.
He entered the confines of the burnt lodging house at St. Giles. He took time to survey the space before him, observing as thoroughly and precisely as he could, leaving no detail unnoticed. Owen Endersby was convinced this case, chaotic as it was, might prove less troublesome than the Cake murder. After all, two madmen had been seen brandishing flames. Reliable witnesses had made testimony. Cabbies, sweepers, lodgers—those still alive—all could be questioned, the two villains’ identities determined by a thorough search through other lodging houses. But what if the culprits had decided to end it all? To jump into the Thames, knowing their deed had damned them to the fires of Hell?
It was most difficult to think further on the matter when the odours of scorched wood and burnt human bodies surrounded one, when the presence of a short, soot-covered man interrupted one’s musing. Endersby’s mind was now sharp and vivid with supposition. In this way, he followed the sooty man through crumbling ash and broken beam into a large blackened room, partially collapsed, some of the beds of the lodgers still intact, their pallets whole, the singed blankets still upon them.
“You need speak with anyone?” came the question from the man.
“Perhaps, later on. Allow me a moment to ponder.”
“Not a sight for gentle eyes.”
“This is murder, in fact,” mumbled Endersby.
He spent minutes walking, looking, asking the sooty man about habitual lodgers, wondering if there were records he could consult. Where were the survivors?
At one of the burnt beds, the sooty man pointed. “Here rested one of the victims,” he said. “They sleep through drink and smoke. Like they was babes.”
“Sleep of the dead, sir.”
“Doubtless, Inspector. It’s the smoke that smothers them. Here look.”
The sooty man raised up a flaking mattress. Under it was shoved a hat, a pair of boots, a paper, a glove and a quill.
“This one, he was a scrivener by trade. Could pen a fine complaint. He died, but his stuff, see it here, all safe from the flames and smoke.”
“Flames did not consume this pallet nor its hoardings.”
“They all take to hiding stuff under the mattress. Even in here, no one dares to steal from under them.”
“Curious.”
The bed and the mattress took Endersby’s attention for a few minutes more. His stomach demanded an almond. He obliged it and went on pondering but also scheming: how might this sad place help him unravel the knots still left in the Cake case?
He found attendants and interviewed them. Their teary eyes told of the noise, the crying out, the terrible smoke and rush of flames over the shabby roof. He collected confessions and descriptions from those who could write. He paid a penny to lads in the street, the usual loiterers who will sell truth or lies or their own bodies sometimes for a tiny profit. One lad, thin and coughing, told of the two madmen and from where they had come: “Down the alley yonder, big chaps, seen ’em before,” the lad said, “at the Crown and Spit, bad-mouthers, one a rat-catcher by trade. Bites all over’im.”
“And perhaps mad from the rats, you think?”
The lad shrugged. Endersby returned to the entrance of the lodging house.
“A hard afternoon, sir?” said the sooty man on meeting the inspector again. Endersby took note of the alleys leading away from the heap of charred timbers.
“No, indeed,” he answered gruffly. “An afternoon, so far, of revelation. I thank you, sir.”
Endersby bid the man goodbye and returned to the pavement. He moved ahead with purpose, keeping his eyes wide and alert. He would search out the Crown and Spit later on, but for now he had more urgent business. He doubled his pace and watched for frantic rats running ahead of him in the gutter.
* * *
Henry Robertson Dupré stepped briskly along Piccadilly. The sun appeared briefly and noted his polished boots, the nap of his overcoat, the brilliant metal of his gold watch chain. Indeed, passersby would remark on his hair, visible and groomed under his high hat. Recently cut, Henry’s pride glowed with a fresh application of Indian henna. Entering the Burlington Arcade, the manager of Old Drury visited his tobacconist and purchased a packet of cheroots. He was on his way to the Italian Opera to persuade Miss Elisabetta Mazzini to dine with him when he ran into a man stumbling along the cobbles, his mouth reeking of rum.
“For the love of God. William Weston.”
The actor raised his head. Weston drew his ill-met companion into the darkened turn of the passage.
“Ah, my good Dupré. What is your matter?”
“My matter, sir? Why, look at you at this hour of the day. What has brought this on, my lost man?”
William Weston’s face was more pale than usual. His chin was unshaven, and his entire mien was that of a man run ragged. It was as if he were shouldering a great burden on his back, and his entire body was ready to fall into the deepest sleep of oblivion. As a consequence of this sight, there arose in Dupré a curious sensation. Not the expected disdain, but instead a tug of sympathy. In fact, his hands reached out to hold up the teetering Mr. Weston. “Come in here for the moment, Will,” said Dupré. The door to a small chop house stood nearby, so the two men went in and sat together in a booth. A serving man came toward them, and Dupré ordered a pot of hot coffee with milk. He asked the server to make up a plate of toast.
“You are in need of some food above all, Will,” said Dupré.
This sudden kindness on Dupré’s part resulted from his having seen a familiar look on William Weston’s face. The look expressed feelings Dupré had often confronted—both as a young man on the rise and as a successful man of the London theatre. The eyes emptied of light, and the cheeks whitened from a terror in the mind—the death of hope.
“Henry,” said Weston. “I am not much company, I fear. I have done a thoughtless deed. Taken the rum bottle as a friend, and as you can discern, I have been heartily betrayed by my liquid friend’s false promises.”
“Take some of the coffee, Will.”
Weston drank slowly. He went
on to tell Dupré of his fatigue and his sleepless nights over the past few days. He also admitted to Henry something he had feared to tell him in the past. “Henry, you have known me for three years. I have always been one who can learn a part word-perfect. I can play what you or any manager can ask of me. But this past year, with my sister’s illness growing worse, I find myself more and more distracted. I cannot concentrate as I once was able to do. I cannot remember passages well. I am most concerned. Most beleaguered by doubt, I can assure you.”
“I have not doubted your talent, Will. You have infuriated me with your taking to rum. But other than that, you have been sterling.”
“You are kind to say it, Henry.”
“I am a gentleman, sir. We are fellow artists and must defend each other, even to the point of recognizing our misdemeanours.”
William Weston put down his coffee cup. He stared for a long time into Henry Robertson Dupré’s face. He then rose very quickly. He downed the last drops of his coffee. It appeared to Dupré as if a demon had suddenly leapt into the muscles of William Weston to drive him out of the chop house. Indeed, Weston did not stay a moment longer. He did not bid adieu. His transformation was complete: he had returned to his former, distracted, stumbling self, and pushed his way into the street, his cloak unfastened, his gloves held carelessly in his hands.
It took Dupré a moment to gather his composure. He asked for the bill and paid it. He left his seat, his mind quietly recounting the abrupt event which had just taken place. In the crowded street, Dupré tried to orient himself. Mr. Weston’s action had troubled him. The caring sentiments he had expressed toward the actor were not foreign to his nature, but such compassion seldom found occasion for expression in his life and therefore was infrequently indulged. He felt he should shake his head, as if he had just awakened from a dream.
“Damnation,” he muttered to himself. His proud, elegant manner returned. He patted his hair and glanced at a shop window to check the fall of his waistcoat and the angle of his hat. He decided not to think further on the matter and moved on to his destination. At the entrance to the great Italian theatre, he presented his calling card and was led into a small hall by the stage-door keeper’s foyer. The sound of a piano filled the hall as a door opened.
“This way,” said a young woman in a black dress.
With some trepidation, Dupré followed the woman into the room. Was he foolish in coming to her? Might Elisabetta Mazzini mock his attempt at expiation? The room was large and airy, full of sofas and bookshelves. Dupré wanted to exact justice—of a kind—and to present his credentials to her, for Cake had robbed him of his chance at seduction Saturday last. At the piano by the far window stood Elisabetta Mazzini. She acknowledged his entrance with a slight turn of her head. He breathed in at the sight of her black ringlets framing a face still holding a version of its younger self; he wanted to touch her cheeks, the colour of rich cream. As everyone knew, Elisabetta Mazzini’s shoulders were famous in London, and once, years ago, had been compared in their shape and smoothness to the ice cream bombes served at the Café de Paris on the Strand. A moment elapsed; Dupré found himself briefly at a loss.
Miss Mazzini’s silken skirt hissed as she approached. Dupré marshalled his words. I invited you to supper, my dear, he recalled; you betrayed me Friday last by going off with Samuel Cake; yes, I shall forgive you but only on condition you dine with me tonight. Henry Robertson Dupré took one step forward. He opened his mouth to repeat those practiced words aloud, his smile automatically preceding the rise of his voice. Before a sound could be uttered, however, he balked. What appeared up close to him was a woman with a raised hand. Elisabetta Mazzini’s own smile had hardened into a look of contempt. The raised hand moved so suddenly, the force of its slap against Henry’s left cheek sent him back into the edge of the open door.
“Samuel Cake warned me about you,” she said, breathing calmly.
“I beg your pardon,” croaked Dupré.
“Samuel was a good man, Henry,” Elisabetta Mazzini said, speaking with a frank tone. Leaning into Dupré’s face, she said, “He could not help what he was.”
Dupré wiped his mouth. The hand struck him again. This time his upper lip caught the edge of his teeth and he tasted sudden blood.
“You alone are the villain,” Elisabetta Mazzini said, her voice now sharp with venom.
“Now, now, Elisabetta, calm yourself.” said Dupré, calling up his soothing voice, the one he always used to placate angry females.
“Do not cajole me, Henry,” she said, full of warning “But go. Do not ever come near me again.”
“Now, listen here…” But Dupré had no chance to finish his sentence. Two strong female arms shoved him out the door, which subsequently closed in his face with a loud slam.
“Damnation,” Dupré mumbled. “Whatever has possessed that foolish old vulture?”
* * *
Betty Loxton carried the linen wings in her arms as if they were a newborn and hid them in a cluttered corner of the basement costume room. From a storage trunk, she pulled an old gauze gown. It fit her slim frame adequately enough and soon found a place beside the hidden wings. When Betty came afterwards for her soup and bread, Mrs. B. patted her head.
“You can work hard, young rose. You can stay down here for the season and help me, if that is your wish.”
“I thank you. You are a kind woman, Mrs. B.”
“I am obliged is all.”
After soup, Betty left the basement and climbed up to the highest fly loft over the stage. Leaning out from the wooden guard railing, she counted the heads of the scene shifters and carpenters far below. Tops and toes meandered over the dusty, boot-marked boards. The height played a game with Betty: she imagined the gaslit depth of the stage as a pool of restful water. Here—up in the loft—was the perfect place for her deed. It would be Christmas Eve; she would be like an angel. I shall, I shall, she smiled to herself. Having decided on her plan, she flew like a breeze down two flights, ignoring the cruel attic door of Mr. Dupré’s office; down further she raced through the side stage and again into the basement by the hearth, where Mrs. B. was sitting and pulling a thread through a pair of britches.
“Take up your needle, child,” the kindly woman said.
Presently, young Reggie Crabb appeared.
“In a pickle, Carrot?” said Betty.
“I needs to speak with you,” he whispered in her ear. Mrs. B. smiled. “What has got into the two of you?” she said. “Young Crabb, go and fetch a chair and sit with us.”
“I must—and I beg your pardon, Mrs. B.—but I must speak with Miss Betty alone.”
“Why then, go to it, lad,” she said.
Crabb took hold of Betty’s wrist and led her behind the racks of shields and helmets in a far corner of the room. “I been pondering,” he said.
“My tale, you mean?”
“Yes, your tale.”
“You must keep it secret. You swore.”
“I know. I shall. But you must tell it again.”
Betty was coaxed into the darkest part of the basement room, where above her head hung carnival masks with leering faces. There, Reggie Crabb explained himself a little more, filling in details, giving Betty names. She listened patiently; she held in her tears when Reggie mentioned the name of Samuel Cake.
“I am his eyes and ears, Miss Betty.” Reggie said. “I have to honour him. And his case.”
“Carrot? You are shaking all over.”
“You must do this, you must,” Crabb pleaded. “I beg of you to come with me.”
Betty worked her arm free, pushed past dusty trunks and broke into open space by the cutting tables. Reggie pursued her, desperate to grab her elbow. Betty scolded him, her ire rising. “I will not budge.”
“Now, it is your turn to promise,” pleaded Reggie, not unaware of Betty’s scowl and her planted feet.
“What?”
“Promise to follow me and tell your tale one more time.”
“You are making me the fool, Carrot.” Betty slapped young Reggie playfully on his shoulder.
“I beg of you. Just this once.”
Betty hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder at the round figure of Mrs. B. by the fire’s light. “Will I do you harm, if I do not promise?” Betty asked.
“Yes, yes. Please!”
“Then I promise.”
Triumphant, Reggie clutched Betty’s cold hand. He waited for a second, checking her gaze to be sure her eyes were not full of fear, then he yanked her up the stairs. “Wait!” she cried. But to no avail: Reggie drove her through the stage-keeper’s foyer and into the din of Vinegar Yard, across which they ran until they entered a tavern full of pipe smoke. Betty was coaxed like a reluctant pony up to an empty table, where Reggie begged her to sit down.
“Now, Miss Betty,” Reggie said, breathless, still shaking, his voice taking on a sour tone. “Now remember where this table sits in this room. Will you?”
Betty nodded, but her eyes kept peering around at the other tables, the scattered men and women drinking and eating cheese and bread. “When the time comes, you will stand with me at this table…”
“Whatever for, Carrot?” Betty interrupted, rising to return to the theatre across the way.
Reggie took hold of her right elbow. “What for?” he said. “Why to tell your story to Inspector Endersby.”
* * *
“This way, sir. It is close by.”
The young constable from the City proceeded down the alley, followed by Sergeant Birken and Inspector Endersby. Under an archway, the young City constable, his face made jolly by a large, curly beard, stopped and pointed to a second-storey window, its outer shutters closed tight.
“There, sir. Both of them,” the constable said.
“Cautiously, gentlemen,” replied Inspector Endersby.
Slowly up ten inside stairs, then down a corridor on soft feet. The three—the constable, Birken, Endersby—approached the door of a small room in a crumbling house fifty paces from St. Paul’s. Sergeant Birken afforded the door a swift, brutal kick. Feet dashed about behind it. Once again, the burly sergeant’s body performed. This time his left shoulder smashed wood and groove to greater effect, and the door fell from its hinges to reveal a bare room inhabited by two men, one with a moustache, both with black hair and in shirts and trousers hastily pulled on. Each man brandished a dagger. The single window now gaped open. The shutters thrust aside let in creeping mist.