The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  I decided that I would favour William Simmot with the one thing I knew he truly desired. Attention.

  I sat opposite him at the table.

  ‘Will you buy me a drink, sir?’

  He looked up and peered at me, appalled.

  ‘Strumpet,’ was all he said, before returning to his papers.

  I said nothing but watched him work. His mouth moved as he formed the letters on the page. Again, he looked up and glared.

  ‘Why are you still here? I’m not looking for company. Go away.’

  Really, the man was very ill-mannered. A night or two in gaol might have done him good, I thought. Or perhaps a tumble with a decent whore would teach him how to behave. I was very nearly desperate enough for money, but not quite. And he had no money. I hoped that wit and boldness would suffice.

  I picked up one of the sheets of paper and read it through, along with his explanatory notes down the margins.

  He gave me a scornful look. ‘Don’t pretend you can read it. Put it back on the table and leave me in peace.’

  I did not. I continued to read for a while.

  ‘For the last time, jade, leave my papers and go away.’

  ‘Oh Mr Simmot,’ I said, ignoring this and shaking my head with exaggerated despair, ‘you’ve given this character a fine speech, but I cannot imagine any theatre in England able to manufacture a golden bird that would carry her off in its beak, such as you have here.’

  He blinked. ‘You can read?’

  I gave the poor creature a soft smile. ‘Your handwriting is almost illegible, sir, and there are too many crossings out, but, yes, I can read it.’

  He was assessing my attire, the meanness of my dress and the lack of refinement I had, puzzled that a servant like me could read.

  ‘It’s too fantastical,’ I said, undeterred by his open-mouthed scrutiny, tapping at the page in my hand. ‘However much Ursula’s flight from the prison of her circumstance is best expressed by her actually being carried through a small window by a phoenix, such a movement would be utterly impossible to stage. You’ll have to find another way around it.’

  He coughed. ‘You understand the meaning of it? Not just the words?’

  ‘Of course, sir. You’ve hinted at it in your marginal notes. Ursula is a woman oppressed by her circumstances – I’m guessing a bad marriage, or else she’s trapped with her father, step-father, or possibly mired in debt.’

  He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. She longs to escape her family. The prison represents this.’

  ‘And the bird is her saviour, carrying her through the smallest window, representing, I think, that the best chance of escape might not be the most readily obvious?’

  ‘How can you know this?’

  ‘The phoenix, I assume, being the bird that rises from the ashes, is somehow connected to a dead hope, a lost love, or something that she thought had been taken from her?’

  He was now, I thought, probably in danger of falling in love with me. I was, it seemed, the first person to understand his play. Perhaps the only person. He shouted to the landlord, waving a hand, and a glass of brandy – my request, I don’t care for punch – was brought to me quickly, while he sat gazing at me like a puppy.

  ‘You see,’ he said, breathless, ‘I knew it would work. If you, a girl, dressed… so…’ he didn’t know quite how to speak of me, concerned now not to be offensive, ‘if you can see it, why can’t a man like Garrick?’

  I put down my glass and laid a hand over his.

  ‘My dear Mr Simmot, I can see what you are trying to do because I am a girl dressed like this, a woman trapped by her own circumstance, forced to live in a manner I do not wish, and longing for escape.’

  He had no idea how true this was.

  He did not quite grasp it.

  ‘You mean, Garrick should be locked up?’

  ‘No, I mean that the people who will best understand your writing are not the gentlemen who sit in the pit at Drury Lane, free to come and go as they please, but the young women like your heroine, Lady Ursula, and possibly young men too, trapped in their family homes and waiting to escape.’

  ‘I don’t see it…’

  It was obvious to me. ‘How might your fantastical, un-performable ideas reach the hearts of impressionable young women, who do not attend theatres, except with chaperones and only then to admire someone else’s bonnet or flirt with their fan?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Mr Simmot, it is very simple. You should abandon plays altogether and at once, and instead turn your ideas into novels.’

  He sat back, crushed. ‘But I do not wish to write novels. Novels rot the mind and corrupt the weak. I want to write for the stage.’

  I took a small sip of brandy and let him grumble for a moment. Eventually he stopped pouting and looked thoughtful.

  ‘But, do you think my ideas would work as novels?’

  ‘I would imagine that there would be more money in novels,’ I said, cautious now, having only read a page of his work, and knowing the reading public to be happier with simple romances. ‘And better a novel that steals into the homes of England and gives courage to every young man or woman who longs to step away from the plans their father has for them, than a dozen plays that are ignored by theatre managers who cannot stage them.’

  I watched him turn this over in his mind. He was imagining himself as a novelist now, and not a playwright. This wasn’t how he had seen his life as a man of letters. He had wanted to be Dr Johnson, but now he was beginning to see other possibilities for his model – Samuel Richardson, perhaps, or Mr Fielding’s late brother.

  ‘You could,’ I said, quietly, laying my hand over his again, ‘return to your own father’s house and behave like a dutiful son. From there, in Lichfield, you could write novels and send them to publishers in London. I would be willing to wager that your fantastical visions will thrill and excite many people. They’ll be the talk of all England.’

  He did not ask how I knew of his own situation; he was too caught up now in his plans for the future – dazzled by them.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘The human imagination is a wonderful thing. And what Garrick cannot or will not put on the stage, I can describe in such detail that my readers will see it for themselves.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘You are a marvel,’ he said, suddenly clutching my hands. ‘An angel of God.’

  I had never been called that before.

  ‘I can return to my father’s house, the prodigal son, and win his approval without ceasing to write.’

  ‘And no longer have to pay rent for lodgings in London,’ I said, now fearing for my hands, as he squeezed them tightly.

  ‘You angel,’ he said again, although this was the punch talking. He had told Davenport that he did not squander his time on women, being a serious writer of plays. Now, filled with liquor and fresh ideas for making his name as a novelist, he looked to be changing his mind.

  I pulled my hands away and finished my brandy.

  ‘What did you see in the theatre,’ I asked, ‘the night Lord Hawbridge was killed?’

  ‘Eh?’

  I repeated my question.

  ‘Why do you ask about that?’ He frowned, confusion all over his chubby face.

  ‘Because I am an angel, of course,’ I said, taking a small risk with his present good humour. ‘Possibly an avenging one. And because I think that a gentleman like you, although blessed with the vibrant imagination that will capture the hearts of many, are also observant and astute.’

  ‘How do you know that I am observant?’ He sat a little straighter, intrigued to hear more about himself. Like every man under the sun, he would condescend to listen to his talents being enumerated by a woman prepared to flatter him.

  I gestured to his papers. ‘You cannot fail to be, sir. It’s in your writing. No one could express Ursula’s condition as a prison unless he had lived that condition, and seen others live it too.’

  ‘Oh, I see it,’ he sa
id, his hand suddenly clasping mine again. ‘You’re right, I do see it. I observe, I note, I write!’

  ‘So tell me what you saw in the green room, masterful observer.’

  He giggled. ‘You’re mocking me,’ he said.

  ‘A little.’ I giggled back, as though we were sharing a private joke. ‘But tell me anyway.’

  He was suddenly serious. He was thinking over the events of that night.

  ‘I was furious,’ he said. ‘Garrick had rejected another play. I had sent him four – including the one with Ursula and the golden phoenix – and this one, I thought, was my finest yet.’

  I had to ask. ‘I understand it contained a hanging. An unusual one.’

  He nodded, glum-faced. ‘Ah yes. That’s why everyone in the company believes I killed Lord Hawbridge. I did not kill him, by the way. It was one of the stage hands. A shocking thing. I heard that the earl’s blood covered the stage.’

  ‘It did.’ I had reason to remember. News of Joe Sugden’s part in the murder had spread quickly.

  ‘My hanging didn’t have blood. That would be very disturbing. But a man is hanged upside down and dies, suspended between heaven and earth…’

  ‘Is he an earl? This man in your play?’

  ‘No. He is wicked.’

  ‘Ah. So hanging him upside down is… something about overturning evil?’ I asked.

  ‘You see? You understand it. You, a mere woman!’

  I let this pass without even raising an eyebrow, I needed to keep his account flowing.

  ‘Was Lord Hawbridge wicked?’ I prompted.

  He sat back.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know him.’

  I leaned forward, stroking his hand very softly. ‘But what did you see? He was there with Garrick.’

  He was silent for a moment, gazing down at my fingers. Then he closed his eyes. I stopped stroking; he was enjoying the sensation too much and I needed him to concentrate.

  ‘I behaved badly. I know that. I’d spent far too much of my money in here, drinking, reading and re-reading Garrick’s letter of rejection and becoming increasingly angry. Finally, I snapped, and marched into the green room, knowing that the whole company would be there, knowing that Garrick would be there fawning over the sort of men who know nothing about plays.’

  He was becoming angry even thinking about it. I risked stroking his hand again, hoping to keep him even-tempered.

  ‘Men like my father,’ he continued. ‘Men like Lord Hawbridge and his friends who turn up to be seen by other people and find flattery when they offer their patronage. None of them ever wants anything but Shakespeare and plays from the last century. Nothing is ever new, except that it looks and sounds like everything that’s gone before, or else it is a frippery.’

  ‘And you threw your very new play at Mr Garrick, I believe,’ I said, trying to move his account on a little.

  ‘He laughed at me. He laughed. Told me to take my “ridiculous little efforts” away. In front of his noble friends he chose to make a fool of me. That was when I decided that if he wasn’t going to buy my play, I would tell him what I thought of him.’ He rubbed his forehead, now creased at the pain of recalling that moment. ‘I probably caused quite a sensation.’

  I smiled. ‘In a room full of players, a little drama is quite acceptable now and then.’

  He pulled a face. ‘I did myself no favours though. I threw my play at him and strode out in what I hoped was a suitably belligerent fashion, but then realised I’d left my best work scattered on the floor of the green room. It was my only copy – I don’t have much money for ink at present.’

  I tried not to laugh and made my face look as serious as possible. ‘That wasn’t wise.’

  ‘No,’ he gave a long groan. ‘It was not a wise thing to do at all, in hindsight.’

  He had yet to tell me anything I didn’t know. I was becoming a little frustrated. I let go of his hand.

  ‘Did you see anything, or hear anything, even in your distress and anger, that was unusual for the green room? Anything at all?’

  ‘It was a riot of players, stage hands and men of fashion, I suppose,’ he said. ‘As it always is.’

  He was quiet, still remembering his embarrassment.

  ‘It was different later on, of course,’ he said, biting at an ink-stained fingernail. ‘When I went back.’

  ‘You went back to the green room?’

  ‘Of course. When I realised that I had left my best play there, and that it would already have been crushed and trampled on by Garrick and his like, I wanted to rescue it.’

  He had returned. I hadn’t seen him, so I could only suppose that this was when I was dressing Kitty Suckley, or when the performance was continuing, and all the players were on the stage.

  ‘Were there many people around?’

  ‘No, I was able to slip in and gather up as many sheets of paper as I could. I didn’t wish to linger, having been so humiliated earlier – and I certainly didn’t wish to encounter Garrick again. I found most of them, although someone had seen fit to use a few sheets as a makeshift plate or napkin. They were covered in grease.’ His shoulders drooped a little at the thought of his great play being so ill-used.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to remember what was in them, when you come to transform your ideas into a highly-praised novel.’

  He smiled weakly.

  ‘Did you see Lord Hawbridge?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I expect he and his friends were watching the performance. They were into the silly nonsense, Love’s Expense, by that time, King Lear having finished. I saw only the stage manager, Mr Dinsdale, one or two of his crew – that dark whiskery one and a young boy on a crutch. Oh, and Mr Hunter was there. He was speaking to Dinsdale over a drink.’

  Joe Sugden and Tom Firmin had been there. It made sense that Tom hadn’t moved; he wouldn’t go far on his crutch and wasn’t able to help. Sugden was probably resting for a moment before the play’s end when he would be needed to clear the stage. I would have expected Dinsdale to be nearer the stage, overseeing the movement of scenery or arrangement of lighting, but perhaps he had everything in order. George Hunter having a drink didn’t seem surprising, but here they were again, together, talking quietly.

  ‘They are on very friendly terms, Mr Hunter and Mr Dinsdale,’ I said. ‘They are often talking together.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Of course they are,’ he said. ‘They’re cousins, I think. At least, they’re related.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know this.’ They didn’t look alike. At least, they hadn’t appeared to be alike. Now, I began to wonder whether there was a likeness in the squareness of the jaw and the breadth of the shoulders. Dinsdale’s broken nose had distracted me from seeing it.

  ‘Yes, cousins, or something like it,’ he was saying. ‘They worked together too, years ago when Hunter was acting in the provinces. He was thought to be quite the rising star in those days, but then his temper got the better of him and he got into a fight at Jonny Rich’s theatre.’

  ‘I heard about that.’

  ‘Dinsdale was something of a fixer. Sorted things out for Hunter and made sure he got the billing he deserved. I don’t know where he was when Hunter had his famous fight, but if he’d been in the same room, you could be sure that Hunter wouldn’t have been injured. Dinsdale’s always ready to jump in with his fists.’

  This was becoming very interesting.

  ‘You’ve seen his broken nose, I imagine? Dinsdale’s face?’

  I nodded.

  Simmot was warming to his tale now. ‘He got that in Lichfield, in a tavern I know,’ he said with a touch of pride. ‘A theatre manager wanted to put another man above Hunter on the play bill, just because he was a local. Dinsdale went in to sort this out but the disagreement turned ugly – hence the broken nose.’

  ‘What happened? Were they forced to leave? Did Hunter take second billing?’

  He laughed. ‘Ha. Not a bit. Dinsdale might hav
e got a broken nose, but the manager was so badly beaten that he was in bed for a week. The bills were changed and printed before he was conscious, and the play was a roaring success by the time he was walking. And the drama of it all meant that the theatre was packed every night, with people coming to see the famous George Hunter.’

  So Hunter and Dinsdale were related and their history was colourful and violent. I began to wonder what their intentions were in Drury Lane.

  ‘It must pain Mr Hunter a great deal, not to be on stage, I think,’ I said to Simmot, who was now rubbing at the ink stains on his thumb with his shirt cuff, dipped in punch. This was having no discernible effect on the stain, and it was not good for the cuff.

  ‘He’d like to be in Garrick’s shoes, I’d say,’ he said. ‘He can’t act anymore because of his injury, but he’s a theatre man to his fingertips. He might have taken over from Rich at Covent Garden one day, had he kept his fists in check.’

  ‘That is a great pity,’ was all I said, now beginning to see that the accidents that had befallen the theatre had been part of a dangerous plan.

  ‘But aside from these people, you didn’t see or hear anyone else? You gathered your play and left.’

  ‘As much of it as I could find, as I say. No, there was no one else – apart from a girl who came in to talk to the whiskery fellow. Large shoulders – not my sort at all.’

  That would have been Molly.

  ‘She was in very high spirits, laughing a lot. He was trying to make her shut up and calm down, but she was very jolly.’

  I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t been aware of her drinking in the dressing room, certainly not when we had Kitty and Lucy with us, but she must have found some liquor somewhere. Sugden had tried to stop her from excess.

  Thinking of Molly made me want to return. She’d been out with Ketch, drowning her sorrows. I felt a pang of guilt that I had left her.

  I reached out and squeezed Simmot’s hand. ‘I need to go, sir. Thank you for the drink.’