The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh? How did you manage that?’

  ‘An opportunity presented itself and I took it. I span them a story about being destitute and they took me in.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘You’re a resourceful little liar, aren’t you?’

  ‘Walk me back to the theatre door and I’ll tell you about it, if you like.’

  He gave me an arm and listened while I told him how I had spent my afternoon.

  ‘You sat sewing for an hour?’ He found this amusing. ‘I’m glad to hear that you can, truly, hold a needle, Miss Blunt.’

  ‘I received sixpence for my work, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘I am extremely impressed by this hitherto unseen domestic ability.’

  I forbore the mockery, glad that his humour had been restored.

  ‘I saw Simmot as I was leaving the square,’ I said, telling him how I had seen the man scribbling in the garden. ‘From what he’s written, from what I saw of his pamphlet, it’s clear that he didn’t find anyone willing to share gossip from the house. Everything he says is common knowledge.’

  ‘About Hawbridge and his family,’ he muttered. ‘He was less kind to Mr Fielding.’

  I ignored this. ‘When I was in the house, however, I discovered that the servants’ passageways have a few holes in their walls. It is possible to overhear comments from the drawing room, should you wish to.’

  He stood still. ‘And?’

  It pained me to tell him that I had only heard part of a conversation.

  ‘But I would be welcomed into the house again, I know,’ I said, as he began walking again. ‘And if I can gain Hannah’s confidence, I’m sure she’ll provide information for me. It’ll take some care; she’s jumpy, and I don’t know what’s bothering her. Lady Hawbridge was greatly agitated too. She’s hiding something, of that I’m certain.’

  We had reached the theatre door. The courts around Drury Lane were coming to life in the darkness. Around us the laughing, barely-clad women were emerging from the shadows to pluck the coats of gentlemen and make their irresistible offers. The sirens of Covent Garden were starting to call. Davenport they ignored, knowing well who he was, and who he worked for.

  ‘I should return to Bow Street,’ he said, in a weary voice.

  ‘You’re not going home?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Mr Fielding is vexed by Simmot’s accusations and vicious comments. I need to be doing something, even if it means walking the streets in the vain hope Hawbridge’s killer will fall into my path and announce himself.’

  ‘William Simmot has a lot to answer for,’ I said. ‘A lost night for you, among other things.’

  He growled. ‘William Simmot had better not show his face if he values his skin.’ His hand dropped to his sword.

  The anger had returned. Simmot’s slight had cut him deeply. He had played with Simmot in the tavern, certainly, but he had not been cruel. A lesser man might even have taken him to Bow Street and thrown him into the gaol house, simply to unsettle or intimidate him. Yet Simmot had not taken kindly to the way in which Davenport had made him appear foolish and small. Simmot had taken the revenge of a writer: he had accurately described enough of Davenport’s features to make it clear who he was speaking of – and then added some snide insinuations that would cause his readers to ponder whether they too were true to character. It was clever, even as it was petty and vindictive.

  The fact that Davenport had fared better than Garrick in the attack would be of no comfort: Garrick was always in the press, whether he was praised or pilloried. He expected attention. Davenport was a reserved man and the attention he would receive would be more painful even than the insults.

  I reached out to him and put a hand on his chest, wanting to relieve him of some of that pain, wanting to calm him, soothe him, before he walked the dark streets. I thought that I should tell him that I, at least, held him in esteem. I wanted to say that no one, truly knowing him, would take any notice of Simmot’s comments, but the words wouldn’t come because I did not know how best to say them. He stared at my hand for a moment, and then placed his own hand over mine, holding it firmly against his coat. I could feel his heart beating beneath my fingers. I could feel my own pounding inside my ribs. We stood, neither of us speaking, hands clasped, while all around whirled the yells, shrieks and squeals of men and women finding uncomplicated amusement in wine and one another.

  Then he suddenly stepped back, nodded goodnight and turned away towards the Garden, disappearing into the throng.

  A feeling that I had not known before rose within me as I watched him go, the warmth of his hand still lingering on mine. The feeling troubled me, so I pushed it away.

  Chapter Thirty

  Hell was on fire.

  The alarm was raised in the early hours of the morning. The day when we were supposed to be opening again. We would not be opening. I had fallen asleep on Lucy Hunter’s couch after drinking far too much wine and woke to the shouts from the stage hands that there was smoke pouring out of the trap room.

  There were only a few of us in the dressing rooms, but we were all called upon to carry water to quench the blaze. Molly was screaming, running down the passageway banging on all the doors, trying to find extra people to help. Ketch was yelling. I ran, with everyone else, scrambling to find buckets, find water. Market stall holders were prevailed upon to join us and together we formed a chain to pass the water containers hand over hand to Dinsdale and his men to put out the fire.

  The fire had been contained in the trap room and it had not spread. Even so, the theatre was a mess. The stage was stained yet again. This time it was blackened by smoke rather than darkened by blood, but, by miracle and by the dampness of the trap room underneath, it had not caught fire. Instead, smoke had drifted up through the trap doors so that the stage area was a filthy stinking fog. Even in the auditorium, the acrid air caught the back of my throat, scratching at it and making me cough.

  We learned soon enough that the door to the trap room had been locked. Someone – no one knew who – had smelled the smoke and then seen the dark clouds, pouring underneath the door and alerted Dinsdale. He had rattled the door and, finding it stuck fast, had charged against it with two of his men. It had taken a while to break it down, even with his frame cracking against it. The blaze had been fierce enough, but it was the smoke which had sent them choking into the corridors and out onto the street calling for water and for help.

  I saw Mr Garrick, swiftly summoned from his lodgings, throw his coat into the street, roll up his sleeves and call for water. I saw George Hunter, stick tucked under his arm, handling buckets with one hand. I saw Davenport, Grimshaw, Carter and Snowy, pulled out of Bow Street. Everyone who was nearby came to carry water for the men to throw on the flames. When the blaze had been extinguished we all trudged back to the green room where everyone sat, exhausted and stupefied, knocking back cups of small beer that the tavern boy had brought over.

  Tom Firmin flung himself into the green room, still hobbling on his stick, coughing, face blackened by the smoke. He looked terrified.

  ‘Body,’ he croaked.

  Ketch leaped up in horror, eyes wide in panic.

  ‘Oh no!’

  We all ran, every person in the green room. It was Fielding’s men who got there first. Mr Snow, wrapping a wet cloth over his nose and mouth, then Davenport, likewise protected, followed by Mr Dinsdale.

  Someone had been trapped in hell as it burned. People pressed forward to see.

  I did not want to see.

  Joseph Sugden had not been in the green room with us. He had been in the trap room.

  * * *

  Information came to us slowly, and it was a while later that we learned what had happened. Ketch was cradling Molly on his lap like a child. She had said very little, beyond asking for some wine.

  The body had not been badly burned, people said; it was recognisably Joe, although his face was black around the nose and mouth. The silver crucifix he wore aroun
d his neck had survived. If he had not burned to death, then the smoke had poisoned him.

  The magistrate arrived and asked to be taken to the trap room. He was down there for nearly an hour, with his men and Mr Dinsdale. Davenport, I knew, would be examining Sugden’s body.

  In the green room, members of the company speculated on what he had been doing there in the first place, while we waited for Mr Fielding to return. Someone was sobbing – one of the spare horses. A stage hand called Nat said that he thought Joe sometimes slept in the trap room.

  Molly spoke up now. ‘It’s true. He did. He liked to keep an eye on things, he said. I went with him sometimes. Not last night. Not last night.’ She gave a great sigh that turned into a sob.

  Molly had been in the mending room last night, she was slumped in a chair when I left her. Sugden had gone to the trap room by himself. He’d had more to drink, perhaps, and knocked his candle over in his sleep. He would have known nothing about it, surely, which was the only good in such a terrible accident.

  News of the fire had spread beyond the theatre and beyond Covent Garden. Along with the players and stage hands sat men I didn’t know. One of them tried to ask me questions about the fire, about what I thought of Mr Garrick, and Mr Fielding. Scribblers and scandal-mongers, they were hoping for titbits of gossip, even as we mourned. Mr Simmot, perhaps wisely, had decided not to join them. Or maybe he was worn out from yesterday’s exertions.

  There was a groan from the corner of the room. Garrick sat with his head in his hands. ‘Another good man,’ he said, his voice raw from smoke and emotion. ‘We must remain closed,’ he whispered. ‘We must respect Mr Sugden, a good and loyal friend to us all.’

  The stranger next to me wrote down his words.

  When Davenport came into the room, I knew that something worse was coming. I saw it in his face. He was not happy. Mr Fielding arrived with the rest. All of the men drank cups of beer to soothe their throats. No one spoke. We sat, silently, watching them drink.

  Mr Fielding wiped his mouth. Then he spoke quietly.

  ‘A large and bloody knife was found under Mr Sugden’s body.’

  He raised a hand as if ready to prevent anyone from interrupting. No one did.

  ‘Mr Sugden had no wounds on his body and the blood on the knife is not fresh. I believe that he was lying on the knife that killed Lord Hawbridge.’

  Now there was murmuring. Davenport, unable to raise his voice, having taken in so much of the smoke, banged his cup on the table to call for silence so that the magistrate could continue.

  ‘It is my belief that Joseph Sugden, who was thought to be in need of money and who had been heard on many occasions complaining about his wages and encouraging others to complain, attempted to rob Lord Hawbridge.’

  Molly sat, as if transfixed by what Mr Fielding was saying.

  ‘We know that Joseph Sugden took Lord Hawbridge’s snuff box, but he had the sense to hand it to me, perhaps realising that it was unique. I believe that he hit Lord Hawbridge over the head for his purse, panicked at what he’d done and decided to cut his throat.’

  Sugden had been an opportunist. He was the sort of man to scoop up dropped coins or pick up a fallen snuff box if he thought no one would miss it, but the idea that he would kill a man for a purse seemed unlikely to me. He had intimidated me – but threatening a girl and stringing up an earl were very different things. His reaction to Lord Hawbridge’s corpse had been one of utter horror. He had spent several minutes muttering anxious petitions to the Virgin Mary when he had lit the footlights.

  Davenport was looking resolutely at his shoes. He didn’t believe a word of it either.

  ‘Overwhelmed by remorse, he locked himself into the trap room, drank a good deal of wine – bottles were found next to his body – and set fire to something, probably newspapers,’ Mr Fielding concluded.

  ‘You think he took his own life?’ Garrick was incredulous.

  Fielding nodded. ‘I do.’

  No one spoke. Slowly, members of the company turned towards Molly, who sat with silent tears raining down her face. She was shaking her head.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’

  She looked up and saw every eye on her. She wiped the tears with the heels of her hands and sniffed. ‘He’s been so jumpy lately. So…’ her voice trailed away. ‘So lost and angry about something. I don’t know what. He wouldn’t say. But I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Please sir,’ she spoke to Garrick, not to Mr Fielding. ‘I need some air.’

  Garrick waved a hand, unable to say a word, tears in his eyes.

  Her chair scraped as she stood; the only sound as the rest of us held our breath. With a dignity that almost matched Lady Hawbridge, she walked slowly to the door and left us. Ketch followed her, a dark and troubled look on his face.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Gradually, the familiar green room noise returned, as each person expressed his or her shock to everyone else. They had no idea that Joe Sugden would kill for money. Yes, of course they had all heard him complaining about his wages. Had he really taken a snuff box? Yes, they agreed he had, as Molly said, been particularly out of sorts since Lord Hawbridge had been killed, but surely it wasn’t his doing? And suicide? Setting fire to the trap room? Why, they could not believe it.

  I did not believe it.

  Mr Fielding, though, had arrived to find a man dead in a fire and discovered Lord Hawbridge’s killer. Tragic though it was, the matter was solved. It was neat.

  For Joe Sugden, it was more than tragic. To be condemned as not only a murderer, but also a suicide, was grossly unfair. His body would be cast into unhallowed ground; his soul would fare even worse and no one would pray for it.

  Dinsdale was wandering the room; there were pale tear-streaks down his blackened face. He looked lost, unable to do or say anything.

  The hacks all suddenly needed to be elsewhere and made their apologies, offered their condolences. The newspapers would be full of it later.

  Davenport, in deep conversation with Carter and Snowy, must have felt my glare boring holes into his back. He turned, saw me, and glanced over at the door that led out to the Shakespeare. I understood his meaning and went outside.

  I didn’t have to wait long – for which I was glad, as the morning was turning grey and chilly. I had left my shawl in the dressing room. Out in the daylight, I saw that he was nearly as dirty as I was. The smoke had ruined his neckcloth and his face was covered in a film of black. He was in need of a shave.

  ‘Joe Sugden didn’t kill Lord Hawbridge,’ I said as he approached.

  He gave a heavy sigh and leaned against the wall next to me. ‘Mr Fielding says he did.’

  ‘Mr Fielding wants the newspapers to say that it was Sugden,’ I said, trying to fight the fury that was rising inside me. ‘This is not justice. This is not truth. This is something to keep the hacks happy while Lord Hawbridge’s real murderer walks free.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said, his voice still rough. He leaned a little closer, favouring me with the stink of smoke on his coat. ‘It’s worse than you think.’

  I held my breath.

  ‘There was no key in the door.’

  The importance of this comment was lost on me for a second. Then, I realised.

  ‘Someone else locked the door? From the outside, you mean?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Unless I discover that one of the stage hands has taken the key from the lock, for whatever reason.’

  Not a suicide. Not even an accident. A second murder. I felt sick.

  ‘Mr Davenport, I don’t like what’s happening here. A man with his throat cut hanging on the stage and a second left to burn to death underneath it.’

  ‘I know. I don’t like it either.’

  ‘Does this have anything to do with Lord Hawbridge’s death?’ I asked. ‘I can’t see how.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t see it either. Someone
inside the theatre did this, I think. Someone who knew where the trap room was, knew Joe’s habit of sleeping there, knew where the key would be.’

  I shuddered. He was right.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be here any longer,’ I said. ‘This is more than just scenery falling over and costumes being torn, Mr Davenport.’

  He chewed his lip. ‘It’s useful to have someone here, even now. You’re safe. You’ve not had time to make any enemies.’

  I was useful, again. Frightened, but useful.

  ‘If I’m burned to death, or hanged, or found dead in any other way, then you will be responsible. I will haunt you for the rest of your days.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to hope that no one will kill you.’

  We stood, unspeaking, side by side, leaning against the wall, tired from the morning’s drama, glad of fresher air.

  ‘Mr Fielding has asked me to go to Hawbridge House,’ he said, after a while. He sounded weary.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘You? Why?’

  ‘He’s needed at Bow Street this morning, but he wants Lady Hawbridge to know about Sugden as soon as possible, before she reads it in the press. I am to say that her husband’s killer has been discovered and that he is dead. He thinks I’ll deal better with the countess than Carter or Grimshaw.’

  ‘I am sure she’ll be glad to hear the news,’ I said. ‘There’s comfort in lies, sometimes.’

  He said nothing.

  I eased myself away from the wall.

  ‘You’d better have a wash and a shave first, if you want to appear like a gentleman. And change your clothes. You look grubbier than Mr Dinsdale.’

  ‘I am a gentleman,’ he said, with a degree of indignation. ‘But you’re right,’ he inspected the backs of his hands, ‘I can hardly arrive at Hawbridge House like this.’

  ‘I want to return there myself,’ I said, rubbing my arms against the chill wind. ‘Whatever the reason for Joe Sugden’s death, as I said last night, I’m convinced the answer to Lord Hawbridge’s murder lies in his own family, not in the theatre. There are secrets there, and I want to know what they are.’