The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘I have no intention of being beaten by the housekeeper – which is what will happen if she catches sight of me. She gave enough bruises earlier.’

  He didn’t respond.

  I picked at the crumbs on my plate. ‘At least you can deal with Dinsdale and Hunter,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll speak with Mr Fielding, in the first place, and let him have the pleasure of informing Garrick. It will be a dubious pleasure; I’m sure Mr Garrick believes himself to be held in high esteem by every member of the company. He’ll find it hard to hear the truth.’

  ‘He would probably prefer it to being run out of his own theatre.’

  ‘Probably,’ he agreed. He stood up from the table and stretched. ‘It’s been a long day. I’m going home. You’d better return to the theatre for now, before the light fades.’ He offered me a hand up from my seat and watched me as I shook cake crumbs from my apron and re-tied my kerchief, trying not to wince at the soreness of my arm and shoulder.

  ‘You don’t need to return to Hawbridge House,’ he said quietly, noticing that I was in pain. ‘You’ve done everything that I asked of you. Mr Garrick and Mr Fielding will be grateful.

  I started to contradict him, but he held up his hand.

  ‘No, Miss Hardwicke, Lord Hawbridge’s death is my business, not yours. I’ve put you to enough trouble, and I shouldn’t have asked more of you. Besides,’ he smiled, ‘I’m sure that something will occur to me, once I’ve had a decent night’s sleep.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  He was not the only one who needed sleep. I spent the night, unbothered by anyone, on the floor of Kitty Suckley’s room, which was about as comfortable as Lucy Hunter’s couch, until the light of the morning woke me. I had not realised how exhausted I was after such a long and fretful day.

  There was an air of gloom in the theatre that lingered with the scent of smoke. I sought fresher air and space to think. Davenport had told me that he didn’t need me to return to Hawbridge House, but I found myself walking in the direction of St James’s Square, nevertheless, as if my own feet were determined to walk me into trouble.

  It would be risky to enter the house. If I was caught again, everyone would assume I was up to no good and I would have more than Mrs Kemp to worry about. There had to be a way inside. I sat in the garden of the square watching the front door, knowing that the silent rooms inside were holding a secret – willing the house to give it up to me.

  Carts wheeled around the square carrying goods to the elegant dwellings. Some of them turned at Hawbridge House, taking provisions to the back door: baskets of food, milk churns and boxes of wine. The earl’s family was not starving itself in grief.

  The front door remained resolutely closed.

  Having waited for nearly an hour, I decided to give up. Hungry and bored, I scowled up at the house. I could not work out how to gain access. Two stable hands emerged, leading horses. I recognised both the men and the horses. It could only mean that Callow and Astley were inside with Lady Hawbridge. There was a third horse, a handsome grey, that was dancing about. The man I guessed to be Martin Jakes was struggling to hold him along with a more docile chestnut mare.

  I shifted my position, interested again. The front door opened, and the house steward stepped out, exchanging a few pleasantries with the hands as they stood with their horses.

  Mr Astley came to the door with Mr Callow. The young earl and Lady Hawbridge followed them, and it became clear that the three men were going for a ride. Astley, her protector and admirer, leaned in to kiss her and Lady Hawbridge, still becoming in black, gave him her cheek. There was fondness between them, I thought, but he would need to work harder to win her – now that she was not only a wealthy woman, but a widow with a title. A little less stiffness, perhaps. He was overbearing, and, as Davenport had observed, he was more like a father than a lover.

  Callow also leaned in to kiss her. He was more graceful than his friend and his manner was more casual, unconcerned, even, and certainly less like a man looking for rich wife. The men moved to their horses, chatting amiably with the stable hands.

  And then something odd happened.

  Astley mounted. He was on the chestnut mare. The earl’s grey began to jump around as soon as he was up, keen to get moving. Jakes kept a firm hand on the bridle, but the horse was in lively spirits.

  Callow was just about to mount when Lady Hawbridge, laughing, dusted something, a speck, a hair, a thread, from the shoulder of his coat.

  It was such a simple thing to do, such a small gesture. But it was the sort of intimate gesture that a woman would only make towards a man with whom she was very close. And suddenly I saw that it was not Astley who had her heart, but Callow. And I knew that her affection for him was not recent. He was more than an old family friend, I was sure of it.

  Callow jumped up on his horse, which was almost as lively as the earl’s. The stable hand let go of the bridle and the horse lifted its front hooves. Callow was strong enough to control him quickly, but it caused the grey to jolt sideways in alarm.

  Lady Hawbridge took a swift step back, out of their way. As she moved, her hand lightly, instinctively, touched her stomach. Callow shouted to the others, but their horses had already started out of the square. He reigned his horse tightly and bent down to see that she was unharmed, encouraging her to go inside.

  Lady Hawbridge must have spent years in the company of men whose horses were too strong and too spirited for them to control properly. Highly-strung horses, beloved of men who want to show off and race about at speed, have a tendency to jump and strain when they’re ready for a ride and feel themselves held back. She was not, I didn’t think, a woman to be alarmed by lively animals.

  She was expecting a baby. His, I thought. And this put matters in a different light.

  Callow, more than Astley, had a reason for wanting Lord Hawbridge out of the way. It was hardly unknown for members of aristocratic families to have affairs – it was all that they ever did, some people said – but if there was a child involved, then it all became more complicated. She would, I imagined, have tried to pass the baby off as Hawbridge’s. That would be the most sensible option. But if Hawbridge had suspected the affair, then his temper would have been the least of her worries.

  Servants, listening at keyholes or peeping through the cracks in the walls and doors, would have given up the secret eventually, however tightly she had controlled it. Hawbridge, always open to money, would undoubtedly have made the most of her adultery. He would have prosecuted Callow for criminal conversation with his wife, pursued him through the courts – and pressed hard for damages. Callow would have been ruined financially. Lady Hawbridge would have been ruined socially – forced into exile in her parents’ home or in another country. The child, if it survived, would be handed over to an obscure family and raised as their own. It would be considered better for everyone if there was no permanent reminder of her ladyship’s disgrace.

  I wondered whether Lady Hawbridge and Callow had decided to take a different course of action.

  The stable hands were still standing outside Hawbridge House, the countess having gone indoors. They were watching the horses in the distance. I wandered over.

  ‘Lively horses,’ I said as I neared them. ‘The grey especially.’

  They turned to stare. The older man was disdainful, but the younger man, red-faced and bright-eyed from grappling with two of the horses, grinned at me.

  ‘You could say. Take a bit of handling, they do.’

  ‘Are they off for a long ride?’ I asked. ‘It’s a lovely day for it.’

  The man shook his head. ‘Just a short ride in Hyde park, I think. Mr Callow said something about needing to travel home. Shame – his horse could do with a good run.’

  ‘The bay? Yes, I could see he was wanting to go with the others,’ I said. ‘Is his home far?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. He’s over towards Grosvenor Square.

  It had been a long time since I had been
out for a ride. I missed it, I realised with a sudden pang. I missed the wind on my face and the freedom of speed. I missed the horse I used to ride. ‘It’s the grey who needs to stretch his legs, I’d say. That mare won’t challenge him.’

  Jakes’ companion pulled him away.

  I watched them go, having gleaned the information I wanted and made my way to Grosvenor Square. Someone would know Callow’s house, I was sure of it.

  * * *

  I was even more certain someone would point it out to me when, nearing Grosvenor Square, I saw a familiar figure about to climb into a sedan chair.

  ‘Lucy!’

  Lucy Allingham, Berwick Street’s finest, was leaving someone’s house to return home. She would never go home on foot, believing that to be beneath her dignity. Any man she favoured with her charms had to be rich and discreet enough to send her home either in his carriage or chair. She turned her head when I called her, but then pretended not to know me, hurrying to climb into the chair and pull the curtain.

  I trotted next to the box as the two strong-armed servants of whichever house she’d left carried her along.

  ‘Don’t ignore me, you old crow. Lucy, stop this chair. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Will you shut up and go away, little strumpet,’ she hissed from inside the box. ‘I do not wish to be seen on the street with the likes of you. Certainly not when you’re dressed so despicably.’

  I pulled back the curtain. ‘Lucy, you don’t need to leave the chair. I just need your help.’

  She gave a loud grumble. ‘Very well, but Ma will hear of this and you’ll be very sorry. I have a reputation to maintain and it does not include stopping my chair to talk to scruffy servant girls.’

  She shouted to the men to lower the box.

  ‘Your chair?’ I said, as she scowled at me through the window.

  She flustered. ‘It is mine while it has me in it. What do you want, Lizzie?’

  ‘Other than to pass the time of day with my dear friend, you mean? I want some information about a man on the square.’

  She sighed. ‘Not this again. You’re running ragged for that magistrate and there’s plenty of work at home.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got no money and I haven’t had a decent meal in days.’

  ‘Be quick about it,’ she said, heartless as ever. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mr Callow,’ I said. ‘I want to know which is his house.’

  She frowned. ‘Why? You can’t possibly be visiting a gentleman in that sort of gown. Unless he has very strange fancies.’

  They would be no stranger than some requests I’ve had. ‘None of your business, Lucy. I just want to know where he lives.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know every house on this square. I don’t know Mr Callow.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is he very rich?’

  That was all she was interested in. ‘I’ve no idea. He must be wealthy enough if he lives here, though.’

  I turned to the servant at the back of the chair.

  ‘Do you know Mr Callow? You work here. Which is his house?’

  The man looked startled to be addressed so presumptuously by a servant like himself. So startled that he forgot himself and said, ‘Yes miss, that’s his house there. Narrow one in the corner with the blue door.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘See,’ I said to Lucy, ‘someone pays attention to their surroundings. Give my regards to Ma and tell her I’ll be home very soon.’ I drew the curtain back to its place before she had time to retort and patted the front servant on the shoulder and bade him take her away.

  My life, when I returned to Berwick Street, would be hell.

  I walked nearer to the house. It wasn’t especially large, not compared with some of the grand places here, but it was perfectly adequate as the London home of a gentleman of means.

  At the end of the square a hackney carriage was waiting, although the driver did not appear to be looking for hire. I wondered why it was waiting here, when everyone in this part of London would have their own transport. I soon saw how it was. The driver was dozing, he’d pulled up for a rest in exactly the location where no one would bother him. I hailed him loudly, reaching into my pockets and bringing out a sixpence. The only coin in my possession.

  After a bit of haggling, I sent him over to Bow Street to collect Davenport and return him to me. The gentleman would, I assured him, pay the return fare and anything extra, and yes, he was to drive the carriage, empty, all the way to Bow Street. He grumbled at this, but took my coin and set off. I settled down to wait – either for Davenport or for Callow.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Callow arrived first. His horse had calmed down after a short turn around the park. He was alone. I watched him hand the horse to a stable lad and disappear into his house. He did not leave it again, and I assumed that he was sitting down for a meal. I tried not to think about food.

  The hackney did not return. Instead, nearly an hour after I had sent the man on his way, Davenport arrived on his own horse.

  ‘You received my message,’ I said as he climbed down. ‘Why didn’t you come back with the hackney?’

  ‘And have my bones shaken to bits? No thank you, Miss Hardwicke.’ He stood, hands on hips, and looked at the houses in the square. ‘You have good reason for dragging me out all this way?’

  I told him what I’d seen. His eyes widened. ‘Callow? I thought Astley was the one we were watching.’

  ‘He was. But I know, Mr Davenport, I know what I saw. If you ask him directly, he won’t be able to deny it.’

  ‘He may well deny it. And we have him in the Bedford Head at the time of the murder, so he didn’t kill Lord Hawbridge, even if he was bedding his wife.’

  ‘I still think you should ask him about his relationship with her. It may be significant.’

  He chewed his lip and said nothing.

  ‘I’ll happily ask for you, if you’re squeamish,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not squeamish. Just… cautious. Mr Fielding does not like to upset these people. They fund his work.’

  ‘Even when they turn out to be adulterers, liars and murderers? He’s not so forgiving of the inhabitants around the Garden, though, is he?’

  He said nothing. I knew that Mr Fielding’s manner of operating did not always sit well with him.

  Our conversation was interrupted by the clatter of a carriage. The coat of arms and the blue livery announced that it had come from Hawbridge House.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Lady Hawbridge, do you think? They’ve been apart for less than two hours.’

  ‘Might be the earl,’ he said.

  It was Lady Hawbridge, accompanied by her maid.

  ‘It’s Hannah,’ I said.

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘The maid. She’s been in Lady Hawbridge’s service for a long time. She was frustratingly tight-lipped about her mistress.’

  He shook his head. ‘If you were ever in need of a ladies’ maid, you’d want her to be discreet.’

  ‘The things I get up to would make Hannah’s hair stand on end,’ I said.

  We watched as the door opened. Callow’s steward answered the door, but Callow himself came out to greet them. He embraced Lady Hawbridge warmly but in a manner that would cause offence to no one. He said something we didn’t hear and then glanced down at her stomach. She put a hand to it again and they both smiled.

  ‘There,’ I said. ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘I did see it,’ he said. ‘I believe you’re right. She’s not far gone. A few months, maybe. Not enough to show through the gown.’

  He was watching her now with the eyes of a medical man, and as a man whose wife had born a child, before they both died.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I think it’s time we found out the truth of it.’

  ‘We?’

  I pulled a face. ‘You can’t leave me out here while you tread cautiously around the pair of them.’

  He sighed. ‘Very well. But you mustn�
�t speak. I’ll have a hard enough time explaining your presence.’

  ‘Not a word, I assure you, sir. I only want to watch them.’

  He tugged on his horse’s reins. ‘I’d better see to him first,’ he said, and walked off to find the stables.

  When we were admitted, Davenport didn’t explain me at all. He gave his hat to the servant at the door and I followed quietly. The thing about houses like this, I considered, is that no one will ask questions if you behave as though you were born to be there, and you offer no explanations. Davenport was sitting calmly in one of the high-backed hall chairs, taking in the paintings on the walls and the pleasantness of his surroundings. He, like me, had been born to such a life. He had abandoned it to pursue his medicine, and then his work with Mr Fielding, but that life was still his, if he chose it. I wondered whether his own house was as elegantly furnished. I knew that he lived in Soho, not far from where I did, but our paths only crossed in the grime and the dirt, in the taverns, or in the brothel at Berwick Street.

  These days, I only sat waiting patiently in such a fine hallway when I had gone from a tavern to a gentleman’s house, rather than to my own place. There, I would wait to be summoned, when he was ready to receive me, conscious of a servant’s eyes somewhere, peeping through a crack in a doorway at the painted harlot fidgeting in anticipation.

  But I remembered how to sit neatly. I had not lost my good manners entirely when I arrived in London.

  I caught Davenport’s eye and wondered what he was thinking.

  The steward returned and took us through to the drawing room, where Mr Callow and Lady Hawbridge were waiting for us.

  The drawing room was small, but exquisitely decorated. Not fussy, but charming enough to contain Lady Hawbridge. She had probably helped him furnish it.

  Davenport introduced me simply as Miss Hardwicke and I sat down without a word where I was directed as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a harlot dressed as a servant – who had lately been a theatre seamstress – to be sharing a room with a countess and her lover.