The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  Simmot took a gulp of his beer and wiped his mouth. ‘I was writing. In my lodgings. It’s what I do. I write.’

  ‘Anyone with you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Anyone see you come in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How very unfortunate for you.’

  Davenport sat back, regarding him. Grimshaw had, by now, decided that Simmot was unlikely to make a run for it and had wandered away to find a drink. I could see him talking with one of the regular Rose whores, a rat-faced girl with buck teeth and a large black spot under her jaw. Snowy had stopped swaggering with the pistols and was seated on a chair next to Simmot, idly flicking a crumb of bread along the table. Carter, the oldest of the men, was watching Simmot with Davenport, but the expression on his face suggested he thought he had better things to do with his time. There were real rogues about, cut-purses and thieves to be caught. This man Simmot was ridiculous; his eyes spoke it.

  ‘What manner of man are you, Simmot?’ asked Davenport. ‘What sort of person writes stories about hangings? You don’t look like one of those ghouls who sits at Tyburn scribbling the last words of murderers. You don’t look like the usual scrawny hack. Where are you from? What’s your family?’

  It was what I appreciated about Davenport: his curiosity almost matched my own. Simmot intrigued him. He did not, it was true, conform to the picture of a writer. The scandal merchants of Grub Street had hard faces, hollow cheeks, inky fingers and mean eyes. Simmot looked like an over-indulged child, playing at making a living. It was the question I would have asked, had I been in Davenport’s shoes, rather than tucked into a corner trying not to be noticed.

  Simmot sat up straight, puffing out his chest.

  ‘I come from Lichfield, sir. The same as Dr Johnson. It’s a fair city and has an uncommon number of great men.’ He saw himself in that category. He cut a similar figure to the good doctor, it was true. I knew that Davenport would be struggling not to smirk.

  ‘If Dr Johnson can come to London and make a name for himself, then so can I,’ Simmot said, sounding petulant.

  ‘And your family? What do they think of your hopes of literary success?’

  ‘I am a gentleman, Mr Davenport. I have land, or I will have when my father leaves it to me. I have an education. It is my intention to use it and write plays fit for today’s audiences, rather than squander my life in brothels and taverns, as many men do.’

  Davenport nodded gravely. ‘A noble sentiment, Mr Simmot, but does your family share your aspiration?’

  He was getting to the nub of the matter, and he knew it.

  ‘Regretfully, my father is not a man who understands literature. His idea of a night at the theatre,’ he winced a little, ‘is more about being seen by people of consequence, rather than understanding the play.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I have tried to persuade him that the life of a writer brings fortune of its own, but he holds more traditional opinions about the life his son should lead.’

  Poor Mr Simmot. I could see it now. His father – a fat landowner from the provinces if his son’s form was anything to go by – had sent his son to university and thence to London for a little ‘polish’ and was expecting him to return and take up the reins at home. His son, having had his head turned by the theatre, was writing dreadful plays in the hope of making the same name for himself as Dr Johnson. He had none of that man’s wit or character, although he was doing his best to emulate the great man’s pomposity. There is little to be done for one who has such illusions about his own worth.

  He was an unlikely murderer. Davenport knew it, but nevertheless wanted to establish his relationship with Garrick.

  ‘Mr Garrick doesn’t think much of your plays, sir. Perhaps you should return to your father after all? Live the life for which you are intended?’

  This caused something of an explosion from Simmot. Even Snowy looked up from his crumb-rolling.

  ‘Garrick? Gah. The man has no imagination! He is content only to strut about playing the best parts in Shakespeare, or to offer the most wearisome plays from the last century. Nothing new is commissioned unless it appears like something already known, or else is so light that it is of no consequence.’

  It was all perfectly true: Garrick was known to be wary of performing untried writers, for fear of incurring the wrath of the Lord Chamberlain and losing his licence. It was a common complaint, but it was delivered with such anger that Simmot’s face turned dark red. Davenport noticed his temper.

  ‘Mr Simmot, many people in the theatre have named you as the person most likely to have killed Lord Hawbridge. Many people saw you lose your temper in the green room and threaten Mr Garrick. I would have a care about what you say.’

  Simmot shrank back into his chair, but he was not going to be cowed. ‘Why would I want to kill Lord Hawbridge? I don’t know the man – except that he was with Garrick last night. I was introduced to him. I had never met him before in my life. And yet, almost immediately, he was forced to witness Garrick making a spectacle of me, as he likes to do. Garrick is an ignorant bastard, but I have nothing against Lord Hawbridge at all.’

  Even in the bluster, it was clear that Simmot’s argument was with Garrick, not Hawbridge. If Simmot had wished to harm Garrick, he would have harmed Garrick. The best he had done so far was to cause a scene and throw papers at him. He was a silly young man with a vivid imagination but he possessed very little boldness to act on his threats.

  ‘Oh, go away, you foolish boy,’ said Davenport, laughing and picking up his cup to drain his beer. ‘Go and write whatever nonsense you like. You’re free to walk the street, Mr Simmot, but if anything occurs to you about why Lord Hawbridge was suspended over Mr Garrick’s stage last night, please do come and find us at Bow Street.’

  Simmot, now that he was released, stood up and scowled at Davenport. It was not murder in his eyes, but it was certainly malice. He gave a stiff, if slightly wobbly bow, before running through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Fielding’s men melted away into the tavern and Davenport was left sitting alone. One of the serving girls went to his table to collect the pots. She put an arm across his shoulder, and I saw them exchange a few quiet words before she went on her way. He looked over to where I sat and jerked his chin, indicating that I might join him.

  I clapped my hands in applause as I sat down.

  ‘Bravo, Mr Davenport. I enjoyed that.’

  He grunted. ‘I might have enjoyed it more if he had confessed to killing Lord Hawbridge, but as soon as I saw him, I thought it unlikely.’

  ‘He’s not a man who would willingly soil his hands with someone else’s blood,’ I agreed. ‘It would be far too much effort. But you were quite rude to the poor creature.’

  ‘Affected little puppy.’

  I giggled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Garrick won’t perform his plays, so we’ll never know how brilliant he really is, will we?’

  ‘The world may have lost a true genius,’ he agreed with a laugh.

  ‘I began to feel rather sorry for him when you reminded him of the hanging part in his play. But then he became so full of his own importance that I lost my sympathy.’

  The serving girl brought over two fresh pots of beer. ‘He would be better served by a few months rolling around the taverns and brothels he despises,’ I said, savouring a mouthful, still chuckling. ‘I know of one or two places.’

  Davenport’s face lost its laughter. ‘I wouldn’t have thought him your sort,’ he said in a tight voice.

  ‘He’s not. I’d send him to Emily.’

  He stared at his beer in silence.

  ‘I have news about Lord Hawbridge,’ I said. ‘Do you wish to hear it, sir?’

  He lifted his eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Astley was once set to marry the woman who is now Lady Hawbridge.’

  He was interested. ‘How did you come by such information?’

  ‘I went home. Lucy always has the
best gossip and I was annoyed that Mr Fielding chose not to ask too many questions of Mr Astley and Mr Callow.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘That irked me too.’

  ‘People of quality do not commit murders, he thinks?’

  He pulled a face. ‘He is readier to believe that it could be an actor or a stage hand with a grudge against Garrick than a man of wealth and consequence.’

  Mr Fielding’s men had raided brothels and gaming houses in the poorer parts of town and were stringent about upholding the law when it came to the common people. Rich men were allowed to indulge their habits. It was one of the reasons why Mrs Farley was so keen to style our house as respectable: fit for gentlemen of breeding who were able to do as they wished without fear of redress. It lent security to her business.

  ‘Tell me about Astley.’ Davenport was less careful about upsetting people. I liked that about him.

  ‘As he told you, he’s known Hawbridge since childhood. I don’t know that they were friends, but they knew one another well enough. Hawbridge married, had two sons and then his wife died.’

  ‘The present Lady Hawbridge is his second wife?’

  ‘She is. Pretty thing, isn’t she?’ I said.

  The colour rose in his cheeks. ‘I didn’t pay much attention. And she had a veil.’

  ‘Liar. You were hanging on her every word. As I say, she’s very pretty. But she brought other advantages to the marriage.’

  ‘I’m not a liar. Don’t provoke me. Go on.’

  ‘The Earl of Hawbridge didn’t need another wife, having bred his heirs, but apparently he does have something of an addiction to gambling and women. He needed money. His title carries weight with creditors, of course, but it doesn’t pay the bills.’

  ‘And now you’re going to tell me that Lady Hawbridge had an impressive fortune.’

  ‘You are so very clever, Mr Davenport. Always one step ahead of me.’

  ‘I told you not to provoke me. Where does Astley come into it?’

  I repeated what Lucy had said. He was thoughtful.

  ‘You think Astley bore a grievance against Hawbridge and killed him for it? Why wait so long? Why such a public death, such a spectacle?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll wager this has more to do with the lovely Lady Hawbridge than the weeping widow act suggests.’

  ‘She wasn’t weeping. She behaved with great dignity.’

  ‘She was bred for dignity. You may depend upon it.’

  He gave a short sigh. ‘Well, I’ll discuss it with Mr Fielding, see if I can go and speak with Astley. He was, after all, at the theatre last night, whether he was an admirer of Lady Hawbridge or not.’

  ‘He was also Lucy Hunter’s patron,’ I said. ‘And Lucy Hunter was all over Lord Hawbridge last night.’

  ‘Aha. Another woman leaving him for Hawbridge, you mean? You think his jealousy got the better of him?’

  I bit my lip. ‘I don’t know, Mr Davenport. I don’t know.’

  Across the tavern, the company was becoming lively. A gathering of men had ordered a large bowl of punch to share. I had no desire to linger in the Rose tonight. I would hardly have my pick of the customers dressed like this and sporting a black eye.

  ‘I have news of Mr Callow too,’ I said, moving my chair nearer to the table. ‘Molly saw him.’

  ‘In here?’

  ‘No. She and Mr Sugden came here after the performance, and after we’d all cleared up, but, like Mr Callow, she didn’t care to stay long. She says that they walked together down Southampton Street and she saw him in the Bedford Head.’

  ‘Was he alone? Did she see anyone else?’

  I shook my head. ‘Molly Bray spends her days with clothes and costumes. She recognised Mr Callow by his bright green coat but paid no attention to whether he was alone or with a companion.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Ah well, at least we may be sure that his coat was in the Bedford. I’d prefer to speak to whichever girl he picked up, but I expect she would be impossible to locate. He probably won’t remember her name, or even what she looked like.’

  ‘Or I could find you half a dozen within spitting distance who would swear they spent the night with him – if you gave them a small payment,’ I said. ‘You’re right. But Molly has a clear eye for coats and trimmings. If she says it was his coat, then it was Mr Callow.’

  He folded his arms and frowned. ‘So we have Astley going home, but possibly nursing a grudge against Lord Hawbridge, Callow spends the night with a whore from the Bedford, and William Simmot is alone in his room writing bad plays. What am I missing?’

  ‘There’s something going on in the theatre – beyond the murder, I mean. Garrick has cause to be alarmed.’

  ‘I know. That’s why you’re in there.’

  ‘Mr Dinsdale is up to something, I think. And George Hunter too.’

  ‘You think this is about Lucy Hunter?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I think something else is going on. I saw Dinsdale with Hunter out in the street just now. They were discussing something and looked very thick together.’

  ‘They’re involved in Lord Hawbridge’s murder?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. They’re up to something, though.’

  He smiled. ‘You’d better go back to the theatre and find out what it is, then, Miss Blunt, hadn’t you?’

  I gave him my nastiest scowl.

  His expression suddenly changed. He caught my chin in his hand, turning my head to the light of the candles.

  ‘You’ve a bruise on your forehead. And on your cheek.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  He didn’t let go of my face but leaned across the table to get a better look. He touched it and I pulled away.

  ‘Ow. Don’t prod it.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ he said. ‘Did you bump into the scenery, or do I need to break someone’s arm?’

  I stood up to leave, unwilling to tell him anything more.

  ‘I can take care of myself, Mr Davenport.’

  * * *

  It was dark now. Posters along the theatre’s walls announced that the evening’s performance was cancelled. There were no crowds queuing for seats, no young men hoping to catch the hand of actresses, no families laughing and joking on a night out. Without the audience, the theatre was just a building like any other, gloomy in its darkness. The back door was unlocked, so I let myself in.

  I was hungry. I made my way to the green room, in the hope that there would be some bread at least. All that I had eaten since this morning were candied fruits. A few candles flickered in the passageway to light my way. The green room was brighter and the fire was burning, but it was deserted. Garrick, I assumed, had given the stage hands a night off. If there was no performance, then, as long as they had completed their tasks – including repainting the stage – there was nothing to do. No lights to be lit, no scenery to be moved, no chairs or benches to set straight.

  The side table had been cleared of food, which was a great pity. My stomach gurgled loudly.

  ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’

  I jumped at the voice and turned to find Joe Sugden standing in the doorway, sour faced, a candlestick in one hand and a large lump hammer in the other.

  ‘Mr Sugden?’

  ‘I said, where have you been? Who gave you permission to leave the theatre?’

  I hesitated. I had slipped out in order to avoid explaining where I was going.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sugden, I thought that we were allowed to leave once we’d completed our work. Miss Bray and I finished with the linens and folded the clothes and she said I could rest, but I went out for a walk.’ I gave him a little curtesy. ‘I hope that I did no wrong, sir.’

  He glared at me. ‘You should have asked Mr Dinsdale before leaving. Or me.’

  I ducked my head. ‘I think Mr Dinsdale was out, sir.’ I knew he had been out. I had seen him.

  He frowned. ‘Molly said you were asleep. Then she
couldn’t find you and began worrying, and some of us have been looking for you.’

  I said nothing, judging it best to keep silent. He tucked the hammer under one arm, lifted the candlestick and looked me up and down. I turned away, not wanting him to see the bruise on my face.

  ‘I don’t want to ask again. Where have you been?’

  ‘I don’t really know, sir,’ I said, uneasy at his tone of voice. ‘I’m not so familiar with London. I looked around the market and I walked to the river to watch the traffic.’

  It sounded far-fetched, even as I said it. Who walks to the river to look at boats?

  His eyes narrowed. ‘That’s a fine tale,’ he said. ‘I don’t like little liars, any more than I like little thieves. You’d better get down to the dressing room before I take you to Mr Dinsdale and let him deal with you. Move!’

  I moved, skirting past him out into the corridor and down to where Molly would be waiting. I had no idea what being dealt with by Dinsdale would involve, but I didn’t want to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Molly was sitting in near darkness. A single candle lit her face making her cheeks glow. They were red from wine already. She was just sitting, staring into space when I entered.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Lizzie,’ was all she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, I went for a walk when we finished and lost track of the time. Mr Sugden’s already given me a right scolding.’

  ‘Joe?’ She looked lost. I had interrupted deep thoughts.

  ‘He said you were worried about me. That people were looking for me. He told me that I should not have wandered away without asking permission.’

  Her eyes were hazy, bloodshot as well. ‘You shouldn’t. I don’t know what you’ve been used to, Lizzie, but around here you ask first. Here now,’ she said, as I dropped my head, ‘don’t worry about Joe Sugden. He’s very particular about people doing as they’re told, that’s all. His bark is worse than his bite.’