The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Or perhaps the plays are just not very good?’ I said.

  Ketch laughed. ‘He thinks they are.’

  Mr Simmot was fizzing with anger. He strode to where Garrick was making polite conversation with his high-born guests and stood, feet apart, brandishing the papers. The noise of the green room dropped to a low murmur. Even the fog of tobacco smoke seemed to part a little, allowing everyone to watch the confrontation between the overgrown child in pink and the king of the green room.

  Garrick introduced Mr Simmot to his guests, faultless in his conduct, confident in his position. Simmot, confused for a moment by such impeccable decency, shook hands with Lord Hawbridge and the others. He was, it seemed, a gentleman of sorts; his manners briefly returning. Garrick gestured that he should sit with them and Simmot, the wind well and truly taken from his sails, was forced to behave with stiff propriety when he had been spoiling for a row.

  The green room once more began to hum into conversation, at first low, and then gradually back to raucous. Somewhere, a woman was shrieking with laughter. Glasses clinked. I wanted to hear about Molly’s climb over the beams and leaned close to ask.

  Simmot’s voice rose, high and explosive, above it all, before I had the chance.

  ‘Damn you. I’ll see you ruined, Garrick, don’t you believe it. This theatre will be nothing. You’ll be nothing very soon. And you’ll be damned to hell for your arrogance.’

  With everyone else, I watched him throw his papers in Garrick’s face and stamp out of the room, still shouting angrily, nearly falling over the abandoned pistols. Lord Hawbridge opened up his snuff box. This was not his fight and he sat back, content to watch. Mr Astley was more agitated and looked as if he was about to go after the man until Garrick stayed his arm. Mr Callow, the third of the group, looked uncomfortable.

  Garrick stood up, made an open-handed gesture to the company and walked towards the door. ‘Gentlemen, the interval is over,’ was all he said, in the resonant tone he reserved for the stage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I did not get chance to ask Molly about her climb over the beams, or to ask about the damaged girandole, nor even to discover more about Simmot. Once the play ended and the after-piece was done, and the crowds spilled out into the green room, I found that I had plenty of work to do. Molly and I gathered up costumes, or parts of costumes that had been abandoned on or near to the stage. I was genuinely surprised to discover kerchiefs, ribbons and even a necklace when we moved the chairs. A length of lace was snagged under a piece of scenery: Garrick’s cuff. I wished he had let me stitch it properly and grumbled about it to Molly. She simply shrugged and said that wandering on to the stage and losing his cuff was the sort of thing that Garrick would do.

  ‘When he’s lost in a part, Lizzie, especially something like Lear, he won’t even notice what he’s wearing. He could be out here in just his shirt.’

  I could hear the sounds of drunken laughter echoing from the green room but, for the moment, I was unable to spy on the company. The players, their favourite audience members and patrons were there. The stage hands and theatre servants – of whom I was one – were setting things back to rights. Men and women straightened chairs, shifted the benches in the pit, cleared the floors of the boxes and some poor devils swept out the galleries. Having cleaned the green room earlier, I was glad to be spared that task. Molly and I sorted the clothes in the dressing rooms, trying to assess, by the light of a few candles, which needed to be mended or brushed out.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said, as we laid the mending pile on the table of her own room. ‘We’ll deal with these in the morning.’ She picked up a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘We aren’t going anywhere,’ she said. ‘I am going out for a drink with Joe Sugden.’

  I was at a loss to know what to do.

  ‘Get some sleep, Lizzie.’ She gestured to the floor. ‘You can make yourself comfortable here, if you like, or you can go to one of the dressing rooms. You’ll find a couch in Lucy Hunter’s room, and she won’t be back for the night. But don’t crease any of the clothes or there’ll be trouble.’

  I wasn’t ready for sleep but was reluctant to go out alone in this part of town. I had already experienced the reality of how a badly-dressed servant in a theatre was treated by a man of breeding; how she would fare on the street with the drunken culls falling out of taverns made me long for the security of Berwick Street.

  Besides, I had work to do. The theatre had fallen quiet. I could no longer hear the sound of feet running up and down the corridors; no one called out for players to remove to the stage. The low noise of the orchestra had disappeared. The musicians had long since sloped off to find ale and alternative entertainment. Now, at last, I might have the opportunity to look around. I would begin with the area at the back of the stage. That was where most of the accidents had happened.

  The corridor outside the dressing room was dark again. A few candles burned in the sconces, but some had burned out and not been replaced. I took a candlestick and went back to the green room. The players and their guests had all disappeared. If they had not gone home or to lodging houses, then they would be at a club, or in one of the many taverns or gaming hells nearby, frittering the night away, along with their fortunes. The only people left were a couple of stage hands, men who I had seen carrying furniture, lighting candles, climbing ladders and shifting the great pieces of painted scenery for most of the night. They were sitting amid the mess, playing dice and smoking at one of the tables in the corner. The man with the ginger hair and bad breath was among them. I screwed up my courage and walked in the direction of the stage as boldly as I could – as if I had every right to walk wherever I chose.

  ‘Where are you off to, sweetheart?’ asked one of the men.

  I cleared my throat and stood a little taller. ‘Mrs Hunter’s hat is missing a feather. Need to see if it’s on the stage.’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t do that. Mr Dinsdale’s closed the stage area for the night.’

  ‘I only want to look for the feather. I won’t be long…’

  Still he shook his head. ‘You’re new here, girl. No one goes on the stage once it’s cleared.’

  The ginger-haired man caught my wrist and tugged me towards him. ‘Come and play with us, little wagtail,’ he cackled, the other hand smacking his thigh. ‘Come and sit on my lap and look for your feather. You might find something harder down here—’

  I pulled my hand free and stepped away quickly as he made another grab for me.

  ‘Goodnight, sir. I thank you, but I’ll not stay.’

  ‘Just one kiss, then.’ He leered at me, eyes wide and mocking. ‘To bring me luck.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Sam,’ said one of the others, laughing. ‘Even her kisses won’t turn your luck tonight.’

  I gave the man a grateful smile and fled from the room. Now, I reflected, was not the best time to search the theatre after all. Drunken men and dark passageways were not helpful to my investigations. Perhaps early morning might be better. I made my way back to Lucy Hunter’s room, annoyed at my lack of progress. I could do nothing now but turn over the events of the evening in my mind.

  It was William Simmot’s outburst that had intrigued me the most. A man so full of his own importance, and so full of anger that he felt able to walk into a room and give vent to his fury, regardless of who was present. Was he malicious, though? He was certainly angry, but was Simmot the man who had caused so many unsettling things to happen in the theatre? Would Simmot break a ladder rung, or misplace a candle on the girandole, so that it fell? Would he slash a costume, or ruin a panel of scenery? He had seemed too full of bluster.

  Players and stage hands were anxious. Even a falling candle had been enough to concern them – because it was one incident among a growing number. As Davenport had said, to an outsider such matters looked like nothing, but put together, they suggested a plot to unsettle and spoil. But Gar
rick was not paying their wages properly; if he lost members of his company because they were also unhappy and jumpy, then his theatre would fail.

  And Mr Hunter was certainly no friend of Mr Garrick’s, even if his wife was one of the stars of the company. The look that he had given Garrick had been more than disdainful; it had been contemptuous.

  I took care to lift a pile of clothes from the couch in Lucy’s dressing room. It wasn’t particularly soft, but I removed my shoes, pulled a shawl over me and lay down, thankful as always, even in my bad dress, for a place to sleep.

  * * *

  I woke early; my shoulder and face still sore after my encounter with Lord Hawbridge. The couch had given me very little cushioning, so I now also had a pain in my neck. A small amount of pale daylight was beginning to light the room, giving it a tinge of pink. It was not the light that had woken me, but the throb in my shoulder and the sound of carts clattering over cobbles right next to where I was lying so uncomfortably. Through the narrow window, set high in the wall, I could see wheels and feet hurrying past. It was barely dawn, but the traders were on their way to the Garden to set up their stalls. Above my makeshift bed chamber, market folk were beginning the business of the day. A cabbage fell from a handcart and I saw a man in a brown wool coat stoop to pick it up, unwilling to lose even one precious vegetable from his pitifully small load.

  I yawned. I would never sleep for the racket outside, even if my bed had been comfortable. And now, surely, I might have opportunity to poke about.

  I had no idea what I was looking for.

  I glanced at my reflection in the long glass that stood in the corner of Lucy’s room, smoothed my gown and ran her hairbrush through my straggled curls. I found the tattered ribbon in my pocket and tied up my hair. The mud-coloured gown was crumpled. The bruise on my face was beginning to bloom, making my skin look dirty. I was nineteen years old but looked a lot younger without my finery. I rubbed my stiff neck. A few more nights like that and my face would begin to carry the care-worn expression of a servant. I found a candle and a flint box. I knew that the corridors would still be dark.

  I started with Molly’s room. Molly had not returned, so I felt free to look about. Cupboards and drawers were full of clothes and small stage props. A brace of pistols, similar to those being paraded in the green room last night, lay in a box at the bottom of a wardrobe. Five long swords made of painted wood were resting in the corner. A short knife lay with them. This looked real, but when I pressed the tip of the blade, it gave way, retracting itself into the handle: a stage knife that would give a good impression of brutal murder, should the company be performing Macbeth.

  Nothing here told me who was threatening Garrick. Papers I found in the drawers were also for show; empty scrolls rolled up with false seals, love letters with nonsense written in them, kisses drawn in a large hand at the bottom. I found a few receipts for items bought, but nothing of consequence: tailors’ and milliners’ bills, mostly. The room was stuffed with all sorts of things. I could have spent the whole day turning it upside down.

  The doors to the dressing rooms on this passage were all ajar and I peeped into each of them. I learned little, beyond the personal habits of the company’s players. More than one room contained a stinking chamber pot that no one had emptied. I grimaced, knowing that this foul duty would, undoubtedly, be mine. Kitty Suckley had three vases of fresh flowers on her table from her admirers. Nan Collyer had a teapot. Lucy Hunter had left a pair of earrings on her table, as I had already noticed, in among the make-up. A gift from Astley, perhaps. There was no one about. Members of the company did not sleep in their dressing rooms. They left with lovers and slept in vast beds until midday, or else rolled into the lodging houses located a few convenient steps outside. None of the players would be awake at this hour, having been only recently asleep. I couldn’t see any of the stage hands now either and assumed that established theatre servants had lodgings too.

  The green room was empty and in a state of chaos. The dice players had gone; discarded pots and old pipes littered their table. I tried not to notice the mice that skittered about the plates of food, oblivious to my presence. The theatre needed a cat or two. I might even suggest it.

  From the green room, I made my way into the tunnel that ran along the back of the stage. I was not supposed to be here, so would need to work quickly to avoid being caught. It was, as all passageways in the theatre seemed to be, as black as night. I lit my candle and walked carefully, hunting for damaged scenery, or something left behind by whoever was breaking ladder rungs. The darkness wrapped itself around me and my heart began to beat faster.

  When better lit, this was the place where the actors gathered their thoughts, rehearsed their lines, recalled their cues, before emerging from the wings. What was it like to step out on to the stage? How did it feel to emerge into the light with the audience whistling and cheering? I had had a small glimpse of that the other night, when the whole theatre had cheered my part in the downfall of a murderer. Had I enjoyed it, all that adulation? The truth was, I didn’t really know. To be admired, noticed and even feted was, of course, the height of success for any lady of the town, but I was happier to be hidden away at Berwick Street, adored in my own home, and on my own terms, not prey to the fickleness of crowds.

  The curtains of the wings were light to the touch, which was no surprise, as actors need to slip like wraiths in and out of the action on stage. I nursed the light at my breast, gently pushing away the fabric so that I did not set it alight. I felt the smooth boards beneath my feet and looked down. I was on the stage.

  I passed the chairs where the rich and well-connected men like Lord Hawbridge had sat. They had been so close to the raw emotion of King Lear and I envied them for it. To be so close as to see and even smell the sweat and blood must be a wonderful experience.

  My feet, tapping the edge of the stage, stopped of their own accord. I looked out into the cave of blackness that would be the auditorium. It was hard, without the lights, to imagine them there, all those people. But I felt as though I could smell their presence.

  I sniffed the air. I could certainly smell something.

  A cold and dreadful sensation began to run up from my feet and along the backs of my legs, making me tremble. I did not like the smell. I knew what it was. This was not the scent of an audience, or the smell of a vibrant performance.

  I could smell death.

  As I stepped further onto the stage, it grew steadily stronger and more hideous. I should have turned and returned through the wings to the safety of the green room, but I was drawn towards the smell like a dog to a leg of ham.

  There was something sticky underfoot. I was stepping in a pool of something. The pulsing of my heartbeat began to bang in my ears and I knew, I knew that I was walking in blood. Lots of blood. I could smell blood and piss.

  Something grazed my wounded shoulder and I swung around in panic. It was hanging above me like a carcass in a butcher’s shop. My hand shook as I raised the candle to look. Immediately I wished that I hadn’t.

  The sight of him made me scream, before I could stop myself. I screamed out of sheer fright and terror, realising that no one would hear me because no one was here, and I was alone on stage with a dead man. A murdered man. I screamed again.

  He was hanging upside down from the central girandole, a rope around his ankles. His throat had been cut so brutally that his head was half severed from his neck. The blood had gushed from his body and over his face so mightily that I could only truly recognise him from his clothing, from the pale blue silk he had been wearing last night. That too was destroyed by his blood.

  I was standing in his blood.

  Lord Hawbridge.

  I felt myself gagging. I had little in my stomach to vomit but retched emptily until the taste of bile filled my mouth and nose.

  ‘Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,’ was all I could say over and over as my body bent, noxious liquid slipping from my mouth. Whether the words were a prayer for him
or for me, I couldn’t tell.

  There were lights, suddenly, in the wings. Two figures with candelabra appeared. I had not been alone in the theatre – and someone had heard my screams after all.

  ‘Stay back,’ I shouted in warning, wiping my face on a sleeve, coughing at the acid in my throat. ‘There’s been a murder, a horrible murder.’

  The lights did not pause. Instead, Sugden and Molly emerged through the chairs and held the lights up high, to see what I had wanted to protect them from. The stage was transformed by the increased lighting, and we could see even more of the appalling horror in front of us.

  Molly shrieked – as I had done. One short, sharp shriek and she was done. Flinging out a hand to grab a chair, she sat down before she collapsed, showing remarkable foresight.

  Sugden marched over to me, halting as he trod into the blood and then stepping back, making the sign of the cross over himself. ‘Jesus Christ and Bloody Mary.’ His face was a mix of revulsion and awe at the spectacle.

  I wondered where they had come from. Somewhere close, if they had rushed so soon – and with candles – to the stage.

  Sugden walked back to Molly and told her to compose herself, taking the candle stick from her.

  ‘This,’ he said, solemnly, walking back towards the corpse, holding the candles before him, as if in some sort of religious ceremony, ‘this is the devil’s work and no mistake.’

  ‘It looks pretty human work to me, sir,’ I said, gazing up at the body.

  We looked down at the lake of blood under our shoes. I could feel warm liquid at my toes when I moved them. My stomach lurched again.

  ‘Mr Garrick won’t be pleased,’ said Sugden, who was moving away from his demonic theory and on to more practical matters. ‘The stage is going to have to be scrubbed.’

  ‘Never mind the stage,’ I said. ‘This is the Earl of Hawbridge. There’s going to be one hell of a fuss.’

  Molly was watching us with wide eyes.