Curious, Slevin thanked the landlady and walked out onto the pavement. A small carriage was waiting there, the driver hunched into his heavy coat and muffler, the doctor seated inside looking impatiently at his watch.
‘You wanted to see me?’ shouted Slevin through the open window.
‘Ah yes. Can I give you a lift, sergeant?’
‘I’m going back to the station.’
‘Very good. I am visiting a patient on Market Street. Please.’
He held open the door of the carriage and Slevin climbed in. As they trotted away from the house, the doctor leaned back and smiled.
‘Well, sergeant. What do you think of our patient?’
‘Mr Koller? We’ve only just met.’
‘Same here. Strictly speaking, he isn’t my patient. But of course, under the rules of the Hippocratic Oath I am bound to say nothing.’
‘I understand.’
‘I will merely make an observation.’
There was a mischievous twinkle in the doctor’s eye, and he placed his hands together, pointing them towards his travelling companion. ‘Well, my observation is this, sergeant – I am reliably informed by his good landlady that Mr Herbert Koller is a very good actor. Do you agree?’
‘Oh, I agree wholeheartedly,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘A very good actor indeed.’
*
Benjamin was glad that Jonathan had knocked on his door and spent the following half-hour in his company. There was something reassuring about the ageing actor. They had known each other for many years, and often, at least until this particular tour, when they were appearing in the same production together, they would find the time to settle down in some corner of a public house, or occasionally take an invigorating stroll and simply enjoy the delights of gentle conversation. He knew that the old man valued not only his company but also the support he had offered five years ago, when his dearest granddaughter had died in such tragic circumstances. Jonathan had stayed with him in Cheyne Walk for a month, and, by dint of often painful conversations and long, meditative silences before a roaring fire, he had helped him accept at least the fact, if not the manner, of her passing.
Now, in the small dressing-room, the conversation had developed along casual and familiar lines until Jonathan suddenly stooped over and gripped his stomach with a heavy groan.
‘Jonathan? Are you all right?’
The old man closed his eyes briefly before opening them once more. This time, there were tears beginning to form there.
‘What on earth is wrong?’
A heavy sigh seemed to draw all the breath out of the man, and he took several seconds to respond.
‘My apologies, Benjamin. I hadn’t intended that.’
‘Intended what?’
‘These . . . moments are becoming more frequent.’
The expression on Benjamin’s face told its own story.
‘I am ill.’ He spoke the words simply, his voice low and tremulous.
‘How ill?’
‘I have a matter of months.’
There was a lengthy silence before Benjamin said, ‘I am so sorry.’
‘No need. You see, in a way I welcome it. It is both a punishment and a reward. Isn’t that a remarkable thing?’
‘How do you mean?’
But before he could answer, there came a timid knock on the door.
‘Yes?’ Benjamin snapped.
The door opened and Norman, the doorman, peered around and looked at the actor-manager with worry etched deep in the lines of his face.
‘Sorry Mr Morgan-Drew. Summat of a problem.’
‘What sort of problem?’ He glanced at Jonathan, who now sat slumped back in his chair, the effort taken to break such shattering news having taken its toll.
Norman bit his lip. ‘Young lad at the stage door. Says Mrs O’Thingy sent him.’
‘Mrs O’Halloran?’
‘Aye. Her. He says she says there’s summat up wi’ Mr Koller.’
‘Up? What’s up?’
‘She says he’s indisposed.’
‘What!’
‘’S’what she says. Tell Mr Morgan-Drew that Mr Herbert Koller is indisposed.’
‘How?’
Norman shrugged. ‘Dunno. Didn’t say.’
‘Where is the lad now?’
‘Gone. Delivered his errand an’ then rushed off. Didn’t wait for no reply.’
He turned to Jonathan, who had remained motionless. ‘Jonathan, I . . .’
‘Of course,’ came the faint reply. ‘I understand.’
‘We must continue this, and you will tell me more. Is that clear?’
Jonathan patted him on the hand and gave a feeble smile. ‘Go!’
Within minutes Benjamin was inside a carriage, even though Darlington Street was within walking distance. He sat on the edge of his seat as he was driven, ‘with all haste’, to Mrs O’Halloran’s lodging-house.
As soon as the carriage pulled to a halt and the cabbie was paid, he rushed through the door and was met by a concerned-looking Mrs O’Halloran, who quickly ushered him upstairs with a promise to bring them both a ‘hot cup o’ tay’. Her Irishness came to the fore in times of crisis.
When he entered, the room was dark and Herbert seemed to be asleep. Taking great care not to step on any creaking floorboard, he moved slowly to the bed, where he sat in the chair thoughtfully provided by Mrs O’Halloran, and sat down. He did indeed look pale.
Gradually, the patient opened his eyes and looked directly at the ceiling. ‘Father?’ he said in a hoarse whisper.
‘No, Herbert. It is I. Benjamin.’
Herbert turned and gazed up. ‘I became very faint. Barely made it back.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘I went for a bracing stroll.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘Oh no. Meandering, you know. Then I found myself staggering around the market, holding my head and almost delirious with the pain.’
‘The important thing is that you are here now,’ said Benjamin. He turned his eyes away, unable to maintain eye contact with this most brazen and duplicitous of liars.
‘Yes, it is. You aren’t crying, are you, Benjie?’
‘Only inside, dear boy.’
‘Because I’m quite all right. All I need is one night’s rest . . . I’m sure young Toby is ready and more than willing to fill the breach. Have you broken the news to him?’
‘No. Not yet. I was hoping . . .’ He allowed the word to drift into the ether, like a spirit leaving its carcass behind.
‘And I shall be fit as a fiddle tomorrow night. It’s very good of you to be so understanding, Benjie.’
‘Oh I understand, Herbert. I really do.’
*
Georgina sat facing the door that led into the dining room. It was almost six o’clock, and the place was already filling. Sitting opposite Georgina, Edward was finishing his clear turtle soup.
Over his stooped shoulder, she saw the door open and Mr Jenkins peered in. Was he looking for her? He caught sight of her and gave a small wave.
‘You are determined, then?’ Edward said, glancing up from his bowl.
‘On what?’
‘This outrage tonight.’ He was now staring at her with recrimination in his eyes.
‘It is no outrage to fulfil a promise.’
‘A promise made by your late husband. To continue with this ridiculous slide show is monstrous. He died two nights ago. You are in mourning!’
‘Indeed I am. And what better way to show my devotion than to do exactly what my dear Richard would want, no, expect, me to do?’
Her brother gave a curt nod as the waiter came to remove their soup bowls. ‘I have been informed that some damage has been done to the place.’
‘Damage? Oh, you mean the childish scrawls by some ill-bred local.’
‘It is not ill-bred, as you say, to quote scripture.’
‘It is ill-bred to break into a public building and deface its walls.’
‘Some would argue that is no worse than what takes place during your shows. I mean, really, Georgina! These Phantasmagorias cater for the lowest and the most superstitious. They are as outdated as burning at the stake.’
‘That’s as may be. But they are very well attended.’
‘You mean they are profitable. That seems to have been the thrust of everything Richard did. And you are apparently now infected with that self-same lust.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘I shall stay here tonight, in my room, and read. Tomorrow we can discuss the future.’
‘In what sense?’
‘The sense we have already spoken of.’
‘And you have already been given my answer.’
‘But where else can you go? Surely you can see that as a woman in deep mourning your options are, shall we say, severely restricted?’
‘I have certain plans.’
‘Plans?’
‘Not only to continue with Richard’s business, but to develop it.’
‘Develop? By all the saints, woman, what do you intend to do? Throw in a séance and conjure up the very spirits you now only portray by projection? What about resurrecting the dead and putting them on display in well-illuminated glass coffins? I’m sure that would be a novel development!’
She was about to retort when the waiter brought their main course.
‘What is this?’ Edward demanded of the waiter. He pointed to the contents of his plate.
‘Calf’s head, your reverence.’
‘And what is that liquid?’
‘Piquant sauce, your reverence.’
‘I asked for the dish plain.’
‘But it comes with the calf’s head, your reverence. Says so on the menu.’
Edward sat with his back fully erect. ‘Please take it away and bring me a plain calf’s head. Without the sauce. That is what plain means.’
‘Yes, your reverence,’ said the waiter, with a blank expression on his face.
Georgina reached up to touch the side of her face.
‘The pain again?’
‘Yes. It’s beginning.’
‘Then you must take your medicine. You must take the medicine that was prescribed for you by your doctor and which I have taken the trouble to bring for you all the way over the Pennines. Not that vile mixture Richard obtained for you.’
‘It helped with the pain.’
‘As the Lord can.’
She looked down at the contents of her dinner plate – pigeon with a small selection of vegetables. Her appetite was waning as the pain in her face grew. Suddenly she felt overcome – not by the pain, not yet at any rate, but by the prospect of the coming presentation, and all those people, and the uncertainty of what was to come over the next few months.
One step at a time, she told herself with a long, deep breath. And the first step was tonight, and the arrangements she had made for the show.
‘I shall go to your room,’ Edward said.
‘Why?’
‘For your medicine.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, surprised at the frailty in her voice. This particular attack was threatening to be quite a vicious one. ‘Yes, please, Edward. Hurry.’
*
Slevin sat in the front row of the empty theatre and listened to Benjamin Morgan-Drew talk about the theatre. Although he had been to the theatre on many occasions, both here in Wigan and farther afield, and although he would never admit as much to Constable Bowery, he preferred the more raucous and spontaneous atmosphere of the music-hall, where whatever had been previously rehearsed often took unexpected and hilarious turns, and the entire hall became a palace of pleasure. The theatre was for special occasions, which he and Sarah could enjoy together.
‘It’s been my whole life, sergeant,’ Benjamin said by way of concluding his potted autobiography.
“Do you think Mr Koller will feel the same way?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, he strikes me as someone who might feel . . . less dedicated.’
‘You mean because he is ill at the moment?’
Slevin shrugged. ‘He is an interesting fellow, though.’
‘Interesting?’
‘Well, for one thing, he is acquainted with the widow of the man who was so brutally murdered a few days ago.’
‘What?’ This apparently was news to the actor-manager.
‘He went to meet her this morning. I simply wanted to ask him why when I went to see him.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘That he was simply offering her his condolences.’
‘Offering condolences to a woman he did not know?’
‘He informs me he was acquainted with the victim. Mr Richard Throstle.’
He was surprised when Morgan-Drew stood up and walked to the roped-off area where the orchestra would be playing in an hour’s time. He put both hands on the rope and gripped it tightly.
‘Mr Morgan-Drew?’
‘I’m sorry. Of course it would only be natural for him to offer his . . . condolences.’
‘Quite.’ Slevin stood up and walked over to stand beside him. ‘Where was Mr Koller on Tuesday night?’
‘Pardon?’
‘After the performance.’
‘We went to a civic reception. At the town hall.’
‘And after that?’
‘Back to our lodgings. Mrs O’Halloran’s.’
‘You returned together?’
A slight hesitation. A deep breath. ‘Yes.’
‘And he remained there all night?’
‘Of course he did. What are you implying, Sergeant Slevin?’
There was a cough from behind the curtains, and a young man appeared. ‘Mr Morgan-Drew?’
‘Toby? What is it?’
‘Sir, they’re having a bit of trouble finding my cigar.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not in the box.’
‘Good grief! Am I to take over props now? Perhaps I should get a lucifer and light all the footlights while I’m at it?’
The young man withdrew sharply.
‘Problems?’ Slevin asked.
‘That was Herbert’s understudy for tonight. Young Toby Thomas. Good-hearted young lad but nervous as a kitten. God knows how he’ll go on when he lights his cigar. The damned thing’s almost as big as he is – if he ever finds it, that is.’
‘Does he have to light a cigar? I mean, can’t you cut that out?’
Benjamin wheeled around, fully restored to his role now. ‘It’s essential to the moment! Young Corkett – whom Toby will be playing – is a brash young Cockney who has come into some large winnings on the horses. He flaunts his new-found wealth in a public bar by setting fire to a five-pound note and lighting a huge cigar with it. Essential, sergeant! Now if there’s nothing else . . .’
Slevin shook his head, and Benjamin walked quickly to the steps leading up the wings and exited in search of a cigar. He could hear the sounds of activity behind the curtain – objects being hastily moved, curses muffled but heated, footsteps rushing from one end of the stage to another. He decided to follow Morgan-Drew’s example and take a look backstage, telling himself it was purely out of interest and that the prospect of seeing Miss Susan Coupe once more was the farthest thing from his mind. As he squeezed himself past what appeared to be a row of skittles in the bar of a public house, he caught sight of the unfortunate young Toby scratching his head and peering into an open box which Morgan-Drew was holding an inch below his nose.
‘And just what is that?’ he was asking, nodding impatiently at something inside the box.
‘A cigar, sir.’
‘A real cigar, not an invisible one?’
‘A real one, sir. But I could have sworn the box was empty.’
‘When I made my debut on tour, boy, I was physically ill seconds before my grand entrance.’ Benjamin’s voice was kindlier now, more understanding. Slevin wondered if it were relief at finding the missing cigar, or genuine concern for the young actor’s edg
iness. The rest of their conversation failed to penetrate, however, because he caught sight of a colourful dress, patterned with floral designs and swaying slightly as Miss Susan Coupe flitted onto the far reach of the stage.
‘Benjamin?’
Morgan-Drew swung around and smiled. ‘Yes, Susan?’
‘James would like everyone to do him a great favour while he is making up.’
‘And what is that, my dear?’
Slevin saw her face, the smooth ivory perfection, and wondered what it would be like to touch her skin. Soon, he knew, it would be coated with make-up and nature would be spoilt. Her next words broke sharply into his reverie.
‘Well, it should already be inside his coat pocket for the opening scene, but he cannot find it anywhere.’
‘What?’
‘His revolver, Benjamin. It seems to have disappeared.’
*
They found him staggering from an alleyway halfway down Cooper’s Row. He was clutching his stomach and groaning in obvious pain, but when a couple of mill girls went over to him to offer some assistance, he growled at them like a wild animal. As soon as they saw who it was, they backed away.
‘It’s only Clapper!’ one said.
‘What’s up, Clapper? Gut ache?’
They walked off arm in arm, giggling, to catch up with the rest of the girls who had just ended their shift at Trencherfield Mill. The unfortunate Enoch Platt put one arm out and leaned against the wall of the alleyway, taking deep breaths but wincing as the bitterly cold air sliced through his wounded lungs.
‘Bastard!’ he yelled at no one in particular. ‘Two-headed bastard!’ He limped forward, still holding his gut and muttering curses to everyone who passed him by. Some of them moved away quickly, while others stood their ground, one or two even making a tentative move to help, but those who got within a foot of him were afforded the same growl as the mill girls, and they moved on with a shake of the head. ‘Two eyes!’ he screamed. ‘Two eyes! An’ two heads an’ all! Devil’s here, right enough! Devil’s bloody here! Not down yonder any more!’ He raised a hand above his head and pointed his forefinger downwards, saying once more, ‘Devil’s bloody here! Two eyes an’ two heads!’
Act of Murder Page 17