The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘His bark scared me. He threatened to take me to Mr Dinsdale.’

  She snorted at that, got up and lit another candle. ‘That jumped up little prick? Thinks he runs the place, but he’s nothing. Just another traveller like the rest of us. Garrick treats him like a dog, so he kicks the rest of us now and then, just to make sure we know that he’s the top dog. If his wits matched his own opinion of himself he’d be dangerous.’ She gestured to the plate on the table. ‘There’s bread and cheese, if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Very hungry. Thank you.’

  She poured out a cup of wine and we sat and ate silently by the candlelight. The room was chilly, but the little lights gave the sense of warmth and the food was very welcome. I tried not to bolt it down too quickly.

  ‘Joe’s always worrying about something,’ she said. ‘He was worrying about money the other day, about when the men would be paid. He’s been fretting about the accidents and the damage, wondering if it’s one of his men. He’s taken to sleeping in the trap room, instead of his lodging house, so that he can be up and about early, to check what’s going on, make sure everything’s in order. I stay with him there sometimes.’

  The trap room: that was what had nagged my thoughts earlier. If it were possible for an actor to be sprung on to the stage through a secret door, surprising the audience, then it might also be possible for a man to hide there when the stage had been cleared for the night. Dinsdale hadn’t mentioned the trap room to Mr Fielding. Joe Sugden might have been in the trap room when Lord Hawbridge was killed. He had been quick enough to appear when I screamed. Molly had arrived on the stage with him.

  ‘Are you and he…?’

  She shrugged. ‘I tell him I won’t marry him, but he keeps trying. He’s a good man, you know, just a bit pious sometimes, he likes to follow the rules. His mother was a Catholic.’

  ‘What about Ketch?’

  She laughed. ‘Ketch is an old friend. And I mean old. He knew my mother, years ago, before she died.’

  ‘Is that who you were remembering?’

  She gave me a strange look.

  ‘You looked like you were sitting here with ghosts when I walked in,’ I said. ‘Were you thinking of your mother?’

  ‘You’re right. I was thinking of her – and my brother. When he died, the grief killed her.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘Ketch swore to her that he’d protect me, so he’s here with that dreadful monkey. He managed to persuade Garrick to let him have a turn on the stage the other night – it was a disaster. He’s better off at the fairs, but he hangs around, helping out here and there, just to keep an eye on me.’

  ‘I thought he was sweet on you.’

  ‘He’s not interested. Not in that way.’

  She reached over for the wine jug. I realised, from the way she lurched, that she had drunk more than one cup. The jug was empty.

  ‘Shit. I’m out of wine.’ She was bent on drinking, I could tell.

  ‘Lizzie, would you be a good girl and go and fetch us some more?’ She rummaged in her pocket for a coin. ‘Go out to the tavern next door, no, not the Rose, go to the Shakespeare. Ask for John and get us another jug.’

  It had been a long and difficult day. I was happy to end it drinking. An excess of wine would make the couch in Mrs Hunter’s room more comfortable. I took the jug and made my way out of the theatre.

  I returned, nursing the wine as carefully as I could in the dark passageway. Before I reached our room, I heard voices and, by instinct, slowed to listen. This was Lucy Hunter’s dressing room, and someone was inside. It was not Lucy.

  ‘I’m not sure. This death is unfortunate, like I said earlier.’

  It sounded like Dinsdale’s voice, surly and low.

  Someone else responded, but I couldn’t hear. I held my breath and leaned a little closer to the doorway, hugging the wine to my chest. The voice spoke again. George Hunter.

  ‘And I told you I had nothing to do with it. Hawbridge was going to be my new source of income, why should I want him dead?’

  ‘I thought you was fretting over Lucy again.’

  There was a snort. ‘She’s learned to keep her mouth shut and do what I tell her.’

  ‘What are we doing, then?’ Dinsdale asked. ‘I don’t like this waiting.’

  ‘I don’t fucking like it either,’ Hunter’s tone was sharp. ‘It wasn’t what we needed.’

  A chair scraped the floor. Someone was standing up, about to leave the room. I was torn between wanting to hear more and not wanting to be caught listening.

  ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ Hunter was coming towards the door.

  Ahead of me another door opened, and light spilled into the passageway. It was Molly’s room. Joe Sugden stepped out. I gave a start when I saw him. It was only because the jug was clamped tightly to my chest that I didn’t drop it.

  Mrs Hunter’s door then opened behind me and George Hunter limped out. He stared at me briefly, and then at Sugden, but said nothing as he walked back towards the green room, stick thudding heavily on the floor.

  Sugden stood watching me, arms folded, as I hurried to take Molly her wine. I avoided his eyes as I passed him.

  Molly was sitting where I had left her, at the little table under the window, but she had lit more candles, and the room was much brighter now.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said with a scowl. ‘I’m dying of thirst here.’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ I put the wine down on the table and she refilled her cup.

  ‘You want some, Joe?’ She lifted the jug, anticipating his response.

  ‘In a minute, Moll,’ he was still at the door, staring at me. ‘Once I’ve dealt with her.’

  ‘With Lizzie?’

  In two strides he reached me and, before I had chance to breathe, let alone move, he had grabbed me by the hair, lifting my head until I was standing on tiptoe.

  I shrieked.

  ‘Joe! What are you doing? What’s got into you?’ Molly leaped to her feet and slapped at his shoulder. He shook her off and twisted his fist in my scalp. I yelped at the pain.

  ‘Let me go! Let me go!’

  He dropped me and I fell to the floor. For the second time in as many days, I was far too close to a man’s boots.

  ‘Get up,’ he barked. I scrambled to my feet but edged as close as I could to Molly, who stood amazed by his attack.

  ‘Right. What are you about?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Sneaking about, listening at doorways.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Don’t you lie to me, girl, or I’ll make you very sorry.’ He raised a hand to strike me and I shrank behind Molly. ‘I told you I don’t like liars.’

  He didn’t like it that I had told Davenport about the snuff box – that was the heart of it. It takes a thief to call a thief. I’d seen him pocket someone else’s coins from the green room floor. He had intended to keep the snuff box too, I was sure of it.

  ‘Joe, stop being ridiculous. Leave the girl alone.’ Molly put herself between us.

  ‘She went out earlier,’ he said. ‘When I asked where she’d been she gave some story about wandering to the river.’

  ‘What of it?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Ketch says he saw her in the Rose, drinking with one of the magistrate’s men. That one who was taking notes this morning.’

  Molly turned to look at me, pale-faced. ‘Really? What you doing with the likes of him, Lizzie?’

  I decided, faced with Sugden in such a temper and now Molly, my protector, gaping at me, to give them the truth. Well, some of it. I’m not that stupid. The words came out in a rush.

  ‘Mr Fielding found me a position here, as I told you before, when I was sent to him for stealing bread. But he also told me that there were strange goings on in the theatre, scenery falling, and threats being made, and he wanted to know what was happening.’

  ‘A spy?’ Molly started to laugh. ‘You’ve been spying on us, Lizzie?’ I wasn’t sure why this
was amusing, but she laughed heartily. Sugden, on the other hand, remained silent.

  ‘When he asked me questions this morning, he told me to meet with his man at the Rose later. That’s why I was there. And he bought me a beer. Mr Davenport, that is, not the magistrate.’

  ‘Well, there has been plenty going on, it’s true,’ said Molly.

  ‘And what have you found out, Lizzie Blunt?’ asked Sugden, his voice soft and threatening. ‘What have you heard, when you’re listening at keyholes?’

  I tried to keep breathing, tried not to stammer. ‘In truth, sir, not much. I did, as I think you guessed, go walking about early this morning. That’s how I came to be on the stage with…’ I paused ‘…with Lord Hawbridge. Apart from that, I haven’t found anything. I’m not very good as a spy.’

  He was watching me, trying to decide whether I was telling the truth. I thought I would offer just one more scrap of news while his fists were still clenched.

  ‘I saw Fielding’s men speak to William Simmot in the Rose.’

  ‘Simmot?’ Molly was interested. This would stop them from quizzing me.

  ‘They were quite rough with him at first, but I don’t think they see him as a murderer. I don’t know if he’s been causing scenery to fall over, though, to frighten Mr Garrick.’

  Sugden nodded slowly. ‘Aye, it’s Simmot. That’s what we all think, ain’t it, Moll?’

  ‘It was Simmot that killed Hawbridge. They’ll see it eventually.’

  I stepped out from behind Molly, but still held her arm for protection. ‘I’m sorry for lying, sir. I don’t like lying. I didn’t know what else to say to you when you asked.’

  ‘What did you hear at the dressing room door?’ he asked. ‘The one George Hunter came out of?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I heard his voice, but not what he said. I just stopped to listen and then you opened the door and I was frightened.’

  I shrugged at Molly. ‘I’m not a good spy, am I, miss?’

  She laughed again and handed me a glass of wine.

  Sugden didn’t say anything, but he didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t believe me, I knew.

  I had seen that he had sticky fingers as far as coins and trinkets were concerned. He might also be a killer. I recalled the hammer under his arm with a shudder. I would have to be careful, even as I watched him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  For the second morning in a row, I woke early and with a sore neck. This time, I was on the floor of the costume room. It was deserted. Molly had been very drunk by the time we finished the jug of wine, and Sugden had almost carried her away. She had drunk fast, telling stories about the people she had known at the fairs, giving wild impressions of characters I didn’t know, but whom I, being also merry with wine, had applauded. Then she became morose, as people do when they’ve had too much to drink and began to wail about her brother and her ma. She didn’t mention her rope-walking father at all, so I guessed that they had not been close. That was when Sugden decided she needed to sleep. I had made a bed of some curtains and cushions.

  The sun shone brightly, and shone early, as it had yesterday but there were no street traders because it was Sunday. Instead, the bells began to clang. I got up and tried to stretch my shoulders. The bruise on my face was, as I inspected it in the glass, now purple, yellow and brown. It matched my gown.

  Mindful of Sugden’s comments, when Molly returned, I asked if I could leave the theatre to get some air. Molly was nursing a headache and waved me out, telling me not to worry and that Joe Sugden wouldn’t bother me as long as I was in her care, and that yes, she would be sure to tell him.

  ‘You seeing that man from the magistrate’s again?’ She asked, as I was half-way out of the door.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not unless he sees me first.’

  In truth I had no plan for the day, other than to find some breakfast and work out how I might discover more about Mr Astley. Of all the people who had a grievance against Lord Hawbridge, Astley must be the most significant. But I could hardly walk into his house and ask him questions. Certainly not dressed like this.

  I looked down at the crumpled brown fabric, stained with blood, dust and now also wine. I looked, and I felt, like a girl from the streets.

  Force of habit took me west and, ten minutes later, I stood at the doorway of a decent coffee house in Soho, one that ordinarily would have welcomed my custom – and the custom I would have lured in even on a Sunday morning. A man in an apron made it very clear, by the scowl on his face, that I was not welcome. He did not recognise me and, even if I had told him my name, he would not have believed this drab was the famous Lizzie Hardwicke of Berwick Street. I tried one or two other places before lowering my standards. The hovel that called itself a coffee house was not clean. I gave up Polly’s lucky coin for a bowl of coffee that was almost undrinkable. The woman who brought it to my table had greasy black curls and several warts on her fat face, one of which was sprouting coarse hairs. I dodged three offers of business in the space of ten minutes, from the sort of men who liked their whores grimy and partly-battered and who don’t like to pay more than a shilling. To one I said I was meeting someone, to another I said I was poxed, and the third man I told to go and fuck himself, because I was heartily sick of being bothered.

  I left half of the coffee and moved on, penniless and in a bad mood.

  As I rounded the corner, someone grabbed my elbow.

  ‘Come to church with me.’

  ‘What?’ If this was a proposition, it was certainly a new one.

  ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’

  ‘Well, a very good morning to you too, Mr Davenport. Why am I going to church?’ I hadn’t been to church for many months, except when Ma dragged me to a service, in her bid to appear as an honourable and law-abiding woman of business. ‘I’m not sure I attend church.’

  ‘You’ll attend today. Astley is going to be there. One of my men brought word.’

  Davenport had spies all over London; men and women who gave him titbits of information in return for a small coin or two.

  ‘Mr Astley? And is Lady Hawbridge going to be with him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t we find out?’

  My foul mood lifted almost immediately at the thought of the adventure, and the fact that he was sharing it with me. I looped my arm through his and grinned.

  ‘Where are we going to church?’

  ‘St James’s.’

  ‘Piccadilly? A very fashionable haunt,’ I laughed. ‘You won’t want to sit too close to me. I fear I smell quite dreadful.’

  ‘Miss Hardwicke, we are not sitting together. I am a gentleman, and one of the magistrate’s men. You, however, are not a respectable woman, and I wouldn’t sit with you even if you were in your best gown and smelling deliciously of roses.’

  I stumbled and very nearly fell, but he had my arm.

  He had noticed my perfume.

  But we would not be sitting together. He was right. I was not the sort of woman a gentleman would sit with in church. In a tavern, or a coffee house, yes. In the theatre, possibly, if he was happy to parade a lover. But church was for sitting with wives, sisters and mothers. Not with whores – however delicious they might smell.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ he said, as we neared the entrance, passing a line of carriages drawn up along the street. Sir Christopher Wren’s red-bricked building, its windows immaculately dressed in pale polished stone, loomed above as we walked up the path, as if to remind me of everything that I had lost. My past, my family, my respectability, and the possibility of sitting with decent people.

  ‘Rough night.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘Not that sort of rough,’ I said, irritated. ‘I slept on a hard floor and my shoulder aches.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re useful where you are. I hope you can bear it.’

  There it was: I was useful. My mood did not get better when we parted at the door, pretending not to know one another. He went to sit with
the gentlemen and their ladies; I sat with the servants, who were up and out of sight in the gallery, when they were not being useful.

  Davenport faced resolutely forward. He did not have as good a view of Mr Astley as I did. Astley arrived with a woman who was not Lady Hawbridge. In fact, as far as I could tell, he was in church with his very elderly mother. Lady Hawbridge, heavily veiled, arrived with three others. The first was a young man of around twenty-five, who, from his manner, colouring and figure, could only be his father’s eldest son. He was studiously practising seriousness. He was doing this by nodding gravely whenever someone spoke to him. This was the new Earl of Hawbridge, plucked from his life of undoubted leisure and ease to take over his father’s estate many years before he imagined he would need to, and in a manner that would make even the merriest of hearts become quickly sober. The second man was Mr Callow, who looked as though he were already assuming the role of adviser to the young earl, even though he was barely older than him. The third was a stout woman who was covered in black and veiled like Lady Hawbridge. From the bustling and presumptuous manner of this person, I could only imagine an older relative, an aunt or cousin, had arrived to offer condolences and advice to the new widow.

  Throughout my childhood, and until last year, I might have sat in the boxed pews occupied by the ladies below. In my father’s church, I would have worn my best bonnet and tried to look interested in his sermon, even though he would have rehearsed its finer points over dinner for most of the previous week. I would have cast surreptitious glances across the rest of the congregation, keen to know who was sitting with whom from the village and alive to any gossip or scandal. All of this I had learned to do without attracting the notice of my father – who expected immaculate behaviour from his offspring, and particularly from his daughter. I was supposed to set an example to the girls of the village.

  Now I was sitting with the servants in the gallery, I realised that no one was following the examples of their betters. Instead, we had a jolly time drawing pictures in the dust that covered the book ledge and sharing small items of food. They were a friendly lot, and they welcomed me in as one of their own. At least, dressed as I was, I looked more like a servant fallen on hard times than the sort of painted strumpet that even they would have declined to sit with.