The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘You’ve picked up a lot in one day.’

  ‘It’s not difficult. This place has more gossip than a bawdy house. Tell me about Lord Hawbridge’s injuries.’

  He grimaced. ‘It’s unpleasant. Are you sure you’re ready to hear?’

  ‘I’m not going to faint again, I promise.’

  Even so, he hesitated. ‘He wasn’t dead when his throat was cut. The bruises, the location of the wound – they were enough to knock him out, or stun him, but not to kill him outright.’

  I had promised not to faint, but the news made me feel mildly dizzy.

  ‘Would he have been conscious when he was cut?’ I struggled to get the words out. ‘Might he have woken to find himself upside down?’

  I saw him swallow. ‘I don’t know.’

  We sat in silence.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, standing up and straightening his neck cloth in the mirror, ‘we’d better go upstairs. Mr Fieldling will want to question you, of course, along with everyone else, but try to stay in the green room and watch how people behave. Listen to what they’re whispering, but don’t speak of what I’ve told you. If the person who did this is in the theatre, they will surely give themselves away.’

  I wasn’t so certain. The death was brutal, but it had a careful and considered aspect to it. Whoever killed him was cold-blooded and devoid of mercy.

  * * *

  The green room was quiet and sombre. It was still early – for theatre folk at least – and, apart from Garrick and the servant who had accompanied him, the rest of the gathering was made up of stage hands, Molly, the little girl who lit the fires, and me. The men stood clutching beakers of small beer and muttering under their breath. Molly sat, gazing into thin air, her hands clasped in her lap, saying nothing to Sugden, who was next to her at the table, or to Ketch who was hovering behind her with his monkey asleep in his arms. There were no raised voices, no one was laughing, and the rowdy behaviour of the previous evening was like a dream. Daylight lit the company, and the fire burned merrily in the grate, but the room was dull, cold and still a mess. No one had cleared up.

  The magistrate sat at one table, flanked by two of his men, as if he were about to hold a court session. Except that he needed something to eat first. It was impossible, he was declaring loudly, to ask questions on an empty stomach. I stole over to Molly’s table, while Davenport went to Mr Fielding. He put a hand on the magistrate’s shoulder and mouthed a few quiet words into his ear. Mr Fielding would know that I was present, I was sure of it.

  A round-faced and round-bellied man in an apron pushed through the door carrying a tray. The landlord of the Shakespeare tavern next door, I supposed, given that he was accompanied by the small but capable scrap that I had encountered last night. The boy trotted in with three baskets of warm bread rolls, piled one on top of the other and set one of them down on Mr Fielding’s table and the other two on the side table. The landlord had brought a pot of coffee, along with more beer, and bowed a lot to the magistrate. I expected they were familiar with one another. Fielding knew everyone in the area.

  Mr Fielding suggested that everyone found themselves some breakfast, while he readied himself to speak with them. Davenport pushed the bread nearer to him and filled up his coffee cup as the hum of conversation began, slowly, to increase. Fielding’s other foot soldiers wandered towards the side table for beer. Mr Snow ignored me. The other man was Jack Grimshaw, a mountain of a man, and little more than a thug. I did not like Mr Grimshaw. His size, and the mean look in his eye, had always bothered me. Our paths had crossed before, and I did not wish to build on our acquaintance, even though he, like Snowy and the others, would know that I was acting for Mr Fielding in the theatre. I ducked my head as he passed, suddenly interested in the state of my fingernails. He paused as he reached my chair. It was only the slightest check in his step on the way to the beer jugs, and no one would have noticed it but me, but he wanted me to know that he had marked my presence.

  Mr Garrick was attended by his own man and sat apart from the rest of the company. He looked spent. The man who, hours ago, had enthralled a theatre packed to the rafters and who, in this very room, had exuded such charisma that everyone had wanted to be near him, had no life in him now. He looked for all the world like a man who had just lost his entire fortune on a throw of the dice. If ever an actor wished to study how to portray dejection, then he would only need to look at Garrick. His shoulders sagged, his face was ashen and there was no spark in his eyes. His life’s work lay in tatters.

  Except, of course, the English public being what it is, the murder would draw almost as many people to the theatre as Shakespeare. As a rule, the English public loves scandal, especially when it concerns the nobility. Once the stage had been cleaned and freshly painted and the theatre re-opened, the crowds would flock to point at the girandole. Ladies in the boxes would pretend to swoon and declare to their companions that they saw the shadow of the hanging man cast upon the boards. Lively-minded young gentlemen would leave the theatre discussing not the finer details of the play, nor even the charms of the actresses, but the best method of stringing up a man by his ankles. Garrick, so skilful at satisfying the dramatic tastes of the theatre-going public, could not yet see the potential of this death. He would.

  He rubbed his cheeks and pushed his knuckles into his eye sockets. For now, he was concerned, as we all were, only with the horror of what had taken place on his stage in the small hours.

  Finally, when the magistrate had eaten and drunk enough, we began another drama as, one by one, we were called to his table.

  Garrick’s face twitched into life again. He moved to sit with Mr Fielding, as if he too were examining the witnesses. It would, of course, have been thought extraordinary for Garrick to be questioned in front of his stage hands, although I imagined that the magistrate would engage him in private conversation in later, when he had composed his wits. For now, Fielding seemed happy enough to have his company. Davenport sat the other side of Fielding taking notes of what was said. Mr Fielding’s memory was notoriously good, but he would expect a record to be made. The magistrate’s other men seated themselves nearer to the side table, where they could make sure that every person was questioned. They would also be better able to refresh themselves when necessary.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mr Dinsdale, as befitted his status as the stage manager, went first. His easy walk to Fielding’s table gave no hint of concern. Indeed, the slight swagger suggested that he had no qualms about being questioned.

  Dinsdale painted a picture of a well-ordered stage. He had a team of men who were committed – loyal to Garrick and loyal to him. He boasted of this rather loudly, so that every man listening was sure of the line that he should follow when his own time for questioning arrived. It annoyed me that the magistrate was conducting his questions in this way. Far better, surely, to have his men speak with every person privately and then compare the answers? By establishing himself in grand style in the green room, Mr Fielding was imposing – which he liked to be in his own courthouse – but he was also an intimidating person, and this style was unlikely to be conducive to getting at the truth.

  I could see that Davenport thought so. He was chewing his lip. His head was down as he wrote out Dinsdale’s words, as if it wasn’t worth him paying close attention to the man’s face or manner. Like me, he would be longing to observe the stage manager when he was not performing to his own audience. He was relying on me, as he said, to notice what was going on away from this ridiculous charade.

  ‘The stage was left clear, as it always is, after the performance,’ Dinsdale told the magistrate, nodding to Garrick as he said it. ‘I checked it myself once the men had finished.’

  ‘And what does leaving it clear entail?’ Mr Fielding asked.

  Dinsdale seemed perplexed by the question, as if the answer were obvious.

  ‘Any props left out are removed or replaced ready for the next evening’s performance. The audience chairs are tidied
and straightened, and the stage is swept. The last thing I do is lower the girandole…’ he paused, probably reflecting on how it had been used in the night, ‘…and extinguish the candles. I carry a small lamp to see myself off the stage.’

  Mr Fielding leaned forward a little. ‘Do you do this alone? Isn’t it heavy? Can the girandole be lowered by one person?’

  Dinsdale shrugged. ‘It’s heavy, but any of my men can raise or lower it.’

  Davenport looked up sharply at this.

  ‘Not that any of them would have done such a terrible thing, of course,’ Dinsdale added swiftly.

  Mr Fielding betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Instead he asked, ‘And what about the rest of the theatre? Who clears the audience?’

  ‘We do,’ said Dinsdale. ‘While the players are in here, enjoying the good company like they do, my men are dealing with the mess that’s left behind.’ I was certain that neither Dinsdale nor any of his men would want to mingle with gentlemen of quality, but he wanted to make a point to Garrick.

  ‘They’re good men,’ he said, building on his theme. ‘They work hard for little pay and there’s not a rogue among them.’

  Garrick nodded graciously to Dinsdale and to Mr Fielding. ‘And I am always grateful to them all,’ he said, unaware of the ripple of irritation that ran around the room near where I was sitting. Gratitude did not satisfy in the way that coin did.

  The magistrate, if he picked up the mood, did not show it. Instead he mused, mostly to himself.

  ‘Would it have been possible for someone to have hidden on the stage in the darkness, I wonder? Or in the auditorium? A man might hide on the stage.’

  Dinsdale considered this, trying to work out whether his attention to his job was being called into question.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said, with some deliberation. ‘Yes, it is possible, but I would say it’s unlikely. I’m thorough in what I do, sir, very thorough, and none of the company is allowed on the stage once it’s cleared, without my permission.’ He lifted his chin a fraction. ‘But there is no door between the stage and the back corridors,’ he went on, as though suddenly struck by a new thought. ‘The doors to the street are locked when we close for the night, but anyone could come to the stage from the green room, or the dressing rooms or anywhere else inside the theatre.’

  There was no collective intake of breath, but everyone in the room sat up at this insinuation. It was an unwitting comment. Dinsdale looked dismayed as soon as he realised what he had said.

  ‘No,’ said Garrick, quietly but firmly. ‘No, I cannot believe that this was done by anyone of my company.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, sir,’ said Dinsdale, quickly. ‘Not one of our own, certainly. But anyone from outside might have come into the green room last night. There’s a door to the Shakespeare, for a start.’

  ‘Of course,’ Garrick said, clapping a hand to his brow. ‘Anyone with access here. Anyone…’

  The magistrate straightened his back against the chair and felt for his coffee. Davenport refreshed his cup with a weary expression. He could see, as I could, that Dinsdale’s elaboration made, potentially, the whole of London suspect. If a man could wander in from the street to the green room, then he didn’t need to be hiding behind the wings. All he need do was mingle in the uproar of the party that took place, drink a pint of ale even, and then make his way to the stage when he saw fit and hide there in the dark until later.

  How and why Lord Hawbridge might have gone there to join him, we had no clue.

  ‘Simmot.’ Garrick smacked a hand on the table.

  ‘Eh?’ Mr Fielding paused with the coffee cup at his lips.

  ‘William Simmot,’ said Garrick. ‘Of course. It must have been him. He was in last night, as usual.’

  Dinsdale grunted, as if in agreement. ‘He’s a hot-head, that one.’

  ‘Who is William Simmot?’ Mr Fielding appealed to his friend, even as Garrick was still striking the table, repeating his name.

  ‘William Simmot is, or at least he likes to think he is, a writer of plays. He writes scandal pieces for newspapers and has all of the literary finesse of the lowest hack.’

  Mr Fielding frowned. ‘He has reason to butcher the Earl of Hawbridge?’

  ‘No, no. At least, I don’t think he has a grudge against Hawbridge. He does though, bear a grudge against me and against this theatre.’ Garrick was coming alive again. He was playing to the room as he expanded his theory.

  ‘Simmot threatened me in this very room last night. Indeed, Hawbridge was with me, with two of his friends. We sat there,’ he pointed to a couch, ‘when he insulted me and threatened to ruin this theatre. You’ll find many people who will bear witness to that.’

  There was a murmur of assent. We had all heard Simmot threaten Garrick and say that he would ruin the theatre. He had thrown his papers at Garrick in full view of everyone.

  ‘Why was he threatening you?’ Mr Fielding asked.

  Garrick waved a hand in the air. ‘It was his plays, Fielding, his terrible plays. They were so ridiculous. I could not accept them.’

  ‘He was threatening you because you disliked his plays?’ Davenport laid down his pen, incredulous.

  ‘He was. I refused to buy them. They were dreadful nonsense. He disagreed.’

  Davenport shook his head, unable to understand how a disagreement about the worthiness of a play might lead to murder. To Garrick it was clear enough: Simmot had threatened to ruin him and he had murdered a member of the nobility to do it.

  Garrick stood, looked out across the company and addressed them. ‘You heard him, didn’t you? Those of you who were in here during the interval last night?’

  ‘Aye,’ voices responded, some quiet, some more certain.

  Garrick made an open-handed gesture to Mr Fielding – one that was entirely lost on him. ‘There you are, sir. It was Simmot.’

  The magistrate was not so sure and began to demur.

  Garrick was about to sit again, when he sprang back up in agitation.

  ‘Fielding! It was Simmot, I tell you. His play, the last one he sent.’ Now he was shaking. This, I thought, was real emotion, rather than the studied display we had just witnessed.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It had a hanging. It was ghoulish, I told him so. Utterly ghoulish. But there was a hanging in it – and the man was hanged upside down.’

  Dinsdale thumped the table. ‘That settles it for me, sir,’ he said. ‘A play with a man hanged upside down. That’s what he did to Lord Hawbridge.’

  Molly, at our table, was convinced too. ‘It’s got to be him,’ she said, leaning close to me. ‘Why write such a thing in the first place? And then to do it – it’s dreadful.’

  Sugden agreed. ‘It must be Simmot. Anyone can see that.’

  But the one man who couldn’t see, didn’t quite see it. Mr Fielding appealed for calm in the room.

  ‘Garrick, I will need you to find this play of Simmot’s. And I will speak with Mr Simmot as soon as he can be found, but we must do this in order.’ He took control once more as his theatrical friend sank back into his chair, exhausted by his performance. ‘Mr Snow, would you be kind enough to find this William Simmot? I think we should hear what he has to say for himself.’ Snowy drained his pot and stood to leave. ‘In the meantime,’ said Mr Fielding, ‘we will continue with questions to the company.’

  Garrick begged to be excused. He needed to make arrangements, write to patrons, tell them what had happened.

  Mr Fielding turned to his friend, gave him a kind smile, patted his hand and sent him away to be alone with his thoughts and his pen. The rest of us were afforded no such luxury.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The theatre’s most charismatic member had left the room, but we were still gripped by the drama. Everyone was talking about Simmot. Everyone, it seemed, had known all along how it must be him. He was a disappointed man, a failure, casting around for someone to blame when his work was not well received. Spurned by the mo
st influential man in theatre, he had wreaked a dreadful revenge, based on a scene from his own lamentable play. Even as Mr Fielding called each member forward in order of seniority and rank, and exchanged words with them, they muttered and chattered. Sugden, I noted, at a word from Davenport, drew the snuff box from his pocket and presented it to Mr Fielding. He had wanted to keep it clean for the magistrate, he said, rather than see it kicked over the stage, or lost, when everyone turned up.

  Molly was certain it had to be Simmot so Ketch naturally agreed, as did Sugden. Each of them said so to the magistrate, even as they answered his questions about where they had been and what they had seen when Hawbridge was killed.

  I said nothing, but nodded every now and then as if in agreement. It was convenient that a man they all disliked had written about a macabre hanging in his play. No one imagined that this was anything but a slight against Garrick.

  ‘Lizzie Blunt.’ Davenport eventually called my name. I was nearly the last, being almost the lowliest of the theatre’s servants. I saw him touch Mr Fielding lightly on the wrist – a silent reminder that he was interviewing his own spy.

  There was enough noise in the green room for us to speak seriously, and no one would pay attention to my account, but Mr Fielding knew, as did I, that a lengthy conversation with the second seamstress would excite attention. We had to maintain our roles for now.

  ‘The girl’s been here for only a day, sir,’ Davenport reminded him of the story as I sat down. ‘She’s here thanks to your leniency and generosity. You’ll recall she was last before you for stealing bread.’ He was enjoying this play-acting more than I cared for.

  A hint of a smile crossed Mr Fielding’s lips. ‘Ah yes, I remember. How are you finding the work, Lizzie?’

  ‘The sewing is not difficult, sir,’ I lowered my voice a little. ‘The green room is much like a brothel, so I’m right at home, but I find that I do not enjoy discovering dead bodies or standing in pools of blood.’