by Deryn Lake
The widow frowned. ‘Why do you require this?’
‘Because it is a loose strand that needs to be woven into the tapestry.’
‘How poetically put. But surely you cannot think they can have any connection with this sorry affair? Remember that I haven’t heard from them for years.’
‘Mr Fielding believes that in order to solve a crime one must look into the past, all of the past, even though most of it will not be relevant.’
Mrs Harcross sighed. ‘She was a Mrs Camber of Jews Row, a house overlooking the Hospital burying ground. I don’t know if she is still there. She may be dead for all I am aware.’
‘I shall try to trace her.’ John took her gloved hand between his. ‘You are very cold, Madam, and I believe you should not stand out here any longer. Let us go into your home and rub shoulders with your neighbours. The warmth of their friendship together with a tot or two of brandy, will do you a great deal of good.’
‘You are very kind,’ Jasper’s widow answered and most unexpectedly kissed him on the cheek.
Very proud that he had not flushed, indeed had handled the situation with aplomb, John offered her his arm and together they went down the church path towards her house.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time he got back it was well past midday and tempers were frayed at Drury Lane. David Garrick, he of the magnificent eyes and mellifluous voice, had flown into one of the finest rages ever witnessed, according to the account given by Joe Jago. Declaring that the two murders were obviously aimed at him and had clearly been committed by someone who wished his theatre to ‘go dark’, the technical phrase for shutting down, he had stormed round the place, getting in the way and putting witnesses off their stroke. Only the fact of Mr Fielding growing short-tempered with him had finally calmed the great actor down, and then he had fluttered into a fury again when Dick Weatherby had informed him that three of the stagehands had walked out, declaring that the theatre was cursed.
‘I’ve a mind to cancel tonight’s performance,’ Garrick had roared.
‘No, Sir, you can’t do that,’ Dick had answered soothingly. ‘We’ve a full house, so think of all the money we would have to return.’
Eventually, peace had been restored, particularly when a trio of hulking characters had appeared to enquire about work, having heard a rumour on the streets that there were jobs going at Drury Lane. Thus, when John returned and sent his compliments to the Blind Beak, three of the peachers were in place, diligently making themselves useful.
‘First phase completed?’ John said to Jago, casting an eye in their direction.
‘Not quite. There are two more to come.’
‘And how has this morning’s questioning gone?’
‘Much as expected. Everyone expressed horror that a child should have been done to death. But nobody was near here, of course. Everyone dutifully went straight home after the performance, or out to friends who can vouch for them. There was one interesting thing, though.’
‘What was that?’
‘Dick Weatherby came up with the information that he left something behind and returned to the theatre. He thought he heard the murmur of voices and went to investigate, but there was nobody there.’
‘What do we presume from that?’
‘That Will and his visitor had concealed themselves, I suppose.’
‘But why should they?’
‘Therein lies the mystery. After all, Will would have nothing to hide from his friend Dick.’
‘How strange,’ John answered, and would have dwelt on it had not the door to the Green Room been flung open and the Blind Beak appeared, accompanied by Kitty Clive.
‘She has been cleared of suspicion, by the way,’ Joe murmured. ‘There was insufficient time between her leaving the theatre and appearing at the Comtesse de Vignolle’s card party for her to have killed the boy. She has been here today, in the main, to assist Mr Fielding as well as to make a statement.’
On an impulse, John asked the clerk, ‘What do you think of her sister, Coralie? Could she be a killer?’
Joe shook his foxy head, his wig slipping alarmingly to reveal the tight red curls beneath. ‘No, I don’t think so. Beneath her theatrical ways she’s really a very charming girl, had you not noticed?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the Apothecary, unable to resist giving the Blind Beak’s shrewd assistant a wink. ‘I’ve noticed all right.’
The Magistrate came to join them, Kitty still on his arm. ‘Gentlemen, what news?’
‘A great deal arising from the funeral, Sir, which will take me a good hour to relate.’
‘Then let us postpone it until this evening. You’ll take supper at Bow Street?’
‘No, Sir,’ John answered firmly. ‘I know my father will be agog to give you his account of it. He attended, by the way, though there was no need for him to do so. Therefore, if it is not inconvenient and Mrs Fielding will accompany you, I would like to invite you to sup with us.’
‘I accept with pleasure.’
‘Excellent. Now, who is there left for me to see?’
‘Only a couple of people. Two young women were in the theatre last night but unable to attend this morning because of their work commitments.’
‘And they are?’
‘Adam Verity’s sister, Amelia, and Polly Rose, the seamstress. One lives above her shop in New Bond Street, in an apartment she shares with her brother. The other is in Little Earl Street in the Seven Dials. But you’ll presently find her in her workroom in Maiden Lane, where she stitches the costumes.’
‘Shall I go to her first and then to New Bond Street?’
‘A good plan, as long as you remember to send a messenger to warn Sir Gabriel of his forthcoming supper party.’
‘I’ll have a note delivered by hackney, for I doubt he’s even home yet. The last I saw of my father he was reminiscing with Mrs Harcross about the original production of The Beggar’s Opera. They were deep in conversation.’
Mr Fielding rumbled his wonderful chuckle. ‘Perhaps he will learn more in that manner than you or I ever could.’
‘Perhaps.’ John put his cloak back on. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way. Until this evening, Sir.’
‘Elizabeth and I will join you at eight o’clock.’
John bowed. ‘I look forward to it.’
It was as cold as ever and at three in the afternoon there were few hours of daylight left. Hurrying in order to keep warm, John positively sprinted past St Mary’s-le-Strand burial ground, thinking he had seen quite enough of those for one day, picked his way down Russell Court, then crossed Bridge Street and made his way through York and Tavistock Streets to Maiden Lane. Here the houses leaned in closely, and the Apothecary always had the feeling of stepping back in time. Indeed, he enjoyed climbing the rickety staircase to the first floor workshop where he discovered Miss Rose sitting crosslegged upon the floor, her mouth full of pins as ever, stitching some elaborate beading onto a costume that appeared, by its rich beauty, to belong to a very famous actress indeed.
John knocked on the open door. ‘May I come in, please.’
Miss Rose jumped and practically swallowed the pins. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Rawlings, Ma’am. I am assisting Mr Fielding with the collection of statements regarding the tragic deaths of Jasper Harcross and William Swithin. He said you could not attend the theatre so asked me to come and see you.’
She flushed and then whitened, a pretty little girl with an over-large and interesting mouth. A mouth, John thought, that looked both exciting and passionate.
‘I’ve been so busy, you see. This gown is for Miss Woffington. Mr Garrick plans a production of Anthony and Cleopatra, with himself and the lady taking the leading parts. I’ve had no time to rest, struggling to get all the costumes ready, believe you me. But now, with the boy’s death and everything, I reckon the play will be postponed.’
Not quite certain whether to look pleased or sympathetic, John motioned towards a stool. ‘May I?’
‘Oh yes, of course. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I get so involved with my work.’
‘Do you sew full-time for Drury Lane?’
‘Yes, Sir. Mr Garrick and Mr Cecil design the outfits, of course. I just carry out their instructions.’
‘Single handed?’
‘No. Madame Ruffe oversees everything but another girl, Marie, and I do all the stitching.’
‘That seems like a great deal of work for two young women.’
‘It is very hard, Sir, but it’s a regular job and wage, which is more than some can say in these bad times.’
‘How right you are. Now, tell me, were you in the theatre the night that Jasper Harcross was killed?’
The girl shook her head. ‘Definitely not. I only go in if one of the ladies needs help with getting dressed or to do last minute alterations and repairs. I was not called that evening.’
‘But I expect you were the night before, as it was dress rehearsal.’
Polly Rose turned the shake to a nod. ‘Oh yes, I was there for that.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual?’
‘No, I was concentrating on the clothes.’
‘And were they all in order?’
‘Yes, Sir. We pride ourselves on our workmanship.’
She stated this with a certain defiance and John smiled to himself. She really was a lovely thing and that mouth was one of the most interesting he had ever seen. Realising that he was frankly staring, he said, ‘You know that the bow from Mrs Delaney’s sleeve became detached during the performance.’
She looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, someone did say.’
‘Do you think it could have been deliberately severed? As your stitching is so good, I mean.’
Polly’s discomfort turned to anger. ‘Are you being sarcastic, Sir?’
John adopted an extremely contrite expression. ‘Indeed not. I asked in good faith. It just seemed suspicious that something should drop off a well-made costume.’
The ardent mouth tightened. ‘Yes, you are right, of course. It must have been tampered with.’
John’s crooked smile lit his face. ‘Now, there’s a useful piece of information which adds another aspect. Could anybody have done that?’
Polly frowned enchantingly. ‘The costumes hang in the dressing rooms on a rail. They are not guarded in any way. I suppose that anyone could damage them if they so desired.’
John produced Coralie’s glove from his pocket and handed it to Polly, who stared at it, somewhat startled. ‘Do you recognise that?’
‘Yes, it’s Mrs Delaney’s. She wears it in Love’s Last Shift.’
‘Actually, it belongs to Miss Clive, you can smell her perfume on it.’
Polly sniffed cautiously. ‘There is certainly a distinctive aroma but all the actresses wear fine scents. I could have sworn that it was Sarah’s.’
‘Well, there are you wrong. I am an apothecary by profession and make up my own perfumes. My sense of smell is finely attuned. There can be no doubt whatsoever that this is Coralie Clive’s.’ A thought struck him. ‘But if you could make that mistake so might someone else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This glove was found at the scene of the crime when poor Will Swithin was hanged by the neck, which led Mr Fielding to believe that someone was trying to incriminate both the ladies. But supposing the murderer made the same mistake as you and thought it was the property of Mrs Delaney?’
Polly looked bewildered. ‘It certainly is a tangled web.’
John stood up. ‘And not easy to unravel. But you have been very helpful, Miss Rose. I am grateful to you.’
‘Are you finished with me?’ she asked, also scrambling to her feet.
‘All but for one question, which is your whereabouts last night.’
‘Well, I was at the theatre helping Miss Kitty. When the performance was over I hung her costumes up and cleaned the hems, then I hired a linkman and walked home.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see Will at all?’
‘Of course, he was round and about as usual.’
‘There was nothing in his manner that suggested anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No.’
‘Ah well,’ said John and clapped his hat on his head, then turned in the doorway. ‘One final thing, Miss Rose.’
‘Yes?’
‘Forgive me asking this but as a member of the fair sex, of whom he seemed particularly fond, I would like to know your opinion of Jasper Harcross.’
The fervent lips compressed and Polly shook her head, her features oddly blank. ‘I did not like him at all, Mr Rawlings. I found his womanising unbearable and uncouth. He kissed me once, backstage, and when I came home I scrubbed my mouth until it was raw. That was the effect he had upon me.’ She laughed thinly. ‘I know this is an unusual view of the man but I thought it best to be truthful.’
‘I find that very courageous of you, you are not only beautiful but brave,’ John answered, then turned to get one last look at her as he went down the spindly staircase and out into the raw November evening.
The note to Sir Gabriel having been written, John hailed a hackney to take him to New Bond Street then deliver the letter on to Nassau Street. Not wanting to be late home, the Apothecary made good time, for the streets were empty. A freezing fog had settled over London during the late afternoon and most of its citizens had retired indoors, to seek the comfort of their hearths. Looking out of the carriage window, John was particularly struck by how little light could be seen as they bowled down Long Acre, then through a labyrinth of alleys to Leicester Fields, where only the candles in the houses threw tiny points of light to gash the gloom. Finally, though, they were in Piccadilly, where the bulk of Burlington House and its many chandeliers lit the scene before they turned off into Old Bond Street, which ran into New, past Evans Row where John had been apprenticed to Richard Purefoy, Apothecary.
As luck would have it, he caught Miss Amelia Verity shutting up her shop and was, having introduced himself, able to accompany her up the stairs to the very stylish apartment she occupied with her brother. And the style did not end there, John thought. For Miss Verity was as beautifully turned out as any fine lady of the town, and had worked so hard on her face and hair that she appeared lovely though, in fact, she was not naturally blessed. Taking in every aspect, the Apothecary struggled to find a resemblance between her and Mrs Harcross and wondered if there was a faint similarity about the mouth.
It seemed to be the day for mouths, he reflected, for the voluptuous beauty of Miss Rose’s lips haunted him still. And though Miss Verity’s was very different, a little flower of a thing with a mercurial smile never far away, it was equally arresting in a totally contrasting manner.
Placing him in a comfortable chair by her gleaming fire, Amelia, unexpectedly, took the conversational lead.
‘Now I know you have come to ask me questions and I shall do my best to answer them. But, to save time, I have prepared an account of my movements which I thought might be of help to you.’ Crossing to her desk, she fetched a piece of paper covered with words written in an elegant flowing hand and passed it to John.
He cast his eyes over it and gleaned that she had not been in the theatre on the night of Jasper’s murder but had attended the dress rehearsal for a while. She had come home before her brother and they had then shared a late supper. She had made hats for Mr Harcross and treated him in an entirely professional manner, even though she had little time for him as a person. She had created some new headgear for Kitty Clive, which she had taken to Drury Lane while the performance of The Merchant of Venice was still on, but had not stayed until the end. She had seen Will but had not had a conversation with him.
John looked up, somewhat amused by her business-like style. ‘This seems very comprehensive. I don’t think I have anything left to say.’
‘Then would you like a glass of sherry?’ she asked, and crossed to a sma
ll table which held a decanter and two glasses.
‘Very much indeed.’ The Apothecary gazed round him. ‘May I say how greatly I admire your taste in decor. This apartment really is charming and so beautifully furnished. Don’t think me rude, but it seems to me that you and your brother do very well for yourselves.’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered smilingly, passing him a small crystal glass. ‘We make a comfortable living between us.’
‘You have always lodged together?’
Amelia’s face clouded. ‘No, we were separated for a short while when we were children. My brother and I are orphans, you see, and were brought up by a foster mother.’
‘Where?’ said John, innocently.
‘In Chelsea, actually. Why do you ask?’
‘Mere idle curiosity. You were saying?’
‘Well, he was sent off to be apprenticed – those were the months we were apart – but as he had always longed to go on the stage he ran away to Ipswich to train with Mr Giffard. Happily, he kidnapped me and we went off together into the darkness of night, not telling a soul. It was enormous fun.’
John laughed. ‘It must have been. And you have stayed with one another ever since?’
‘We are very close as we have shared misfortune from an early age. Now we intend to stay as a unit until one or other or both of us marry.’
‘Is there any likelihood of that?’
Amelia smiled delightfully. ‘I am a good catch, Mr Rawlings, as is Adam. He is handsome, young, and an actor. In fact he is currently having an affaire de coeur with a Duchess, older than he is, of course. Her husband does not know, by the way.’
John laughed again, deciding he enjoyed her company. ‘And what about yourself?’
‘As I said, I have several suitors, most of them with one eye on my excellent business. This puts me off enormously and I am therefore waiting until I meet someone who can match my professional acumen. When that day comes we shall unite our trades and be very successful.’
‘I wish you luck,’ said John.
‘Another glass of sherry before you go, Mr Rawlings?’
‘How very kind of you, I should be delighted.’