The back of my legs began to wobble slightly. I sat down.
‘He was in gaol when he died? That’s very sad.’
Ketch’s brow furrowed as he continued packing the food into his bag. ‘It was a travesty.’ His shoulders drooped a little at the memory.
‘Poor woman,’ I said, seeing how it was. ‘That must have been a hard blow to bear.’
‘It was,’ he said, throwing the bag back over his shoulder, avoiding my eyes, his own shining with tears. ‘Molly is strong in her body, but she’s fragile in her mind, like her ma. She needs to leave this place now and find some peace elsewhere.’
‘Are you coming, Ketch?’ Molly came in to the green room. Strong, capable Molly, who walked ropes and drank heavily to escape her ghosts. She raised a hand to me. ‘Time for us to go, Lizzie. I’ll say goodbye, for I doubt we’ll meet again.’
I stood up, as if to embrace her.
‘Is that why you killed him, Molly?’
She cocked her head to one side. ‘Killed who?’
‘The Earl of Hawbridge. Did you kill him for Jack?’
‘What you been saying, Ketch?’ She cast an anxious glance in his direction.
He raised his hands. ‘I said nothing, Moll.’
‘Some years ago, Lord Hawbridge lost a snuff box,’ I said. Molly was rooted to where she stood, a bag slung over her shoulder, her face turning white. ‘He, a man with a vicious temper, beat one of his servants so hard when he lost it that half of his staff walked out of his service. The box was not found, so he accused a boy from a company of travelling players. That was Jack, wasn’t it?’
She said nothing, but her eyes told me that I was right.
‘Jack died in gaol, Ketch said. Gaol fever. I suppose he was waiting for the assizes, which would, surely have condemned him, and your mother, overcome with grief, killed herself.’
She put a hand out to the back of a chair, to steady herself. Then she dropped the bag she was carrying onto a table, as if to ease herself of this added burden.
‘You saw the snuff box, didn’t you? Hawbridge was carrying it on the night he died.’
She ran a finger across the back of the chair. When she eventually spoke, her voice was soft. ‘It was lost, he said. Someone had stolen it. My brother had stolen it, he said and yet, here it was, being flaunted about under my nose. It had never been stolen at all.’
‘So you invited him on to the stage?’
‘Have a care, Moll,’ said Ketch.
She gave a half-smile and said nothing.
Neither of them saw, as I did, the shadow of a figure in the dressing room passageway. He had heard enough already to make him press himself against the wall. He would be listening carefully, I knew. He was blocking their route to the back door, to the cart. I moved to cover their path to the front door of the theatre. My heart began to beat faster.
I looked over at Ketch, who was calmly feeding the monkey on his shoulder.
‘You knocked him on the back of the head and tied his ankles together,’ I said, a little louder. ‘Was that the two of you, or did you do this alone.’
‘Alone.’ She was quick to answer. ‘This was my fight, not Ketch’s.’
‘What happened?’
‘I knocked him out with a hammer. There are plenty of tools lying around if you know where to look. It was dark on the stage, but I’d given him a bit of light, to draw him on. And on he came. I got a good crack and he went down. I pulled him under the girandole and strung him up.’
‘How did you get him on the stage? Did you send a note?’
‘That was easy. I sent a note saying Mrs Hunter wanted to meet him and that he was to come alone.’ She laughed. ‘He followed his cock, like I knew he would. I took the letter from his pocket. As much as Lucy Hunter gave me grief, I didn’t want her to be accused of killing him.’
‘You took the snuff box out of his pocket as well?’
She nodded, a wry smile on her lips. ‘I wanted to look at it properly. See what Jack had died for. See it up close. The trinket that killed my brother and my ma.’
‘You’d already set a rope on the girandole, I think. When you climbed over the beams in the interval.’
She looked impressed. ‘You’re clever,’ she said, quietly. ‘Far too clever for a stitcher.’
I was uncomfortable at that. I pressed on, shifting slightly.
‘Why did you cut his throat?’
‘Because I wanted him dead,’ she said, as if I were stupid. ‘Why should he live?’ She gripped the back of the chair, her voice suddenly rising with a passion I had not seen in her before. ‘You know his sort, Lizzie. They get what they want, and if they don’t get it, they strike out at the people who can’t fight back, or else they take it anyway. Tom Firmin told me what he did to you, you know. Hawbridge. Told me how he’d found you on the floor of the mending room, shaking with fright. You should be glad he’s dead. I did it for Jack and Ma, but I did it for the likes of you too. I wanted people to see him for what he was.’
‘It was quite a spectacle,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even. ‘Him lifted up like that. And all that blood.’
She agreed. ‘The amount did shock me. I didn’t know a person had that much in them.’
‘But you didn’t take the snuff box?’
‘I didn’t want it. Why would I want it? I just wanted him to suffer, like we had suffered. I left it under him, like a sign of what he had done.’
I shuddered. I did not wish to know whether he had been conscious when she cut his throat; exactly how much she had made him suffer. Instead I asked, ‘Were you covered with blood? I was, and I only stood in it.’
‘No, I cut his throat from behind.’ Her eyes widened at the memory of it. It had been a moment of triumph for her. Retribution. ‘There was some blood on me, but I took off my gown and laid it in a trunk, along with the knife and hammer. I can hide anything in that mending room. It’s so full of stuff and no one would have cause to look in a trunk for anything in there, except me.’
Davenport had been more astute than he had realised when he’d said that female servants could walk unnoticed. A female servant could get away with anything, even murder, because she was so far below anyone’s notice. Molly had laid her bloodied clothes and the knife that had killed Lord Hawbridge in a trunk in the dressing room – and no one would have thought about looking there, in the piles of theatre costumes.
Another thought occurred to me. It made me nervous to ask it, but I needed an answer.
‘Was Joe Sugden a party to this? You appeared on the stage together, when I found the body.’
Something like sorrow crossed her brow. She sat down on the chair and clasped her hands on the table in front of her, in an attitude of prayer. ‘You found Hawbridge a bit earlier than I’d expected. I thought the stage hands would find him when they came to open up. I’d forgotten about you.’
‘And Joe?’
‘No. He knew nothing about it. No one knew. The theatre was empty. I checked. You were the only one about, and you were in Lucy Hunter’s room, fast asleep. After I’d done it, I went out to the Shakespeare and found Joe. Told him I’d been looking for him and made it seem like I’d been searching for ages. Then we went back to the theatre and spent a couple of hours in the trap room.’ Her eyes softened at the memory of it. ‘Then we heard your screaming and came up.’
She had been lying with Joe in the trap room underneath the body. That made me feel quite ill.
‘But he found out, didn’t he?’ Even as I asked, I knew the answer.
She nodded. She sniffed back the sob, but her throat was still thick with it.
‘He started asking questions. I told you that I was in Southampton Street, that I saw Mr Callow. He knew it wasn’t true. He guessed.’
Callow’s alibi had been hers too.
‘And then he found the hammer. I hadn’t thought about it, but Joe said a hammer was missing. He was such a rule-keeper. Everything had to be back in its place. He knew it had
gone. He rummaged in the costume room and found it with the knife. I hadn’t dealt with them. That was stupid of me.’
I remembered when Sugden had been angry with me for leaving the theatre, he had been carrying – cleaning – a large hammer when I returned. I had not found it, nor the knife, when I had searched the mending room, but I hadn’t been looking for knives and hammers then, and I’d been too fascinated by the false weapons to notice a real one. And Sugden’s anger at me had hidden a deeper emotion: fear. He had been afraid of what Molly had done.
‘He was trying to persuade me to tell the magistrate about it – said I’d be spared because of what had happened to my family.’
That would have been unlikely, and she would have known it.
‘He was getting agitated. Said that every time I had a drink I might say something. Tell someone what I’d done. He was trying to protect me, but all the time, he kept telling me that I’d done a wicked thing, a sin. That was his mother’s religion talking. It was making him mad’
‘So, you killed him?’
She groaned. ‘I didn’t mean to. It just happened. That night, you’d gone to Lucy’s room again – you were filthy drunk, I remember. I went to find Joe. Then we were drinking in the trap room and he was badgering me about it. He told me he would go to the magistrate himself. Something fizzed in my head and I went for him. I picked up a plank of wood that was lying nearby and I hit him with it. He went down so hard, and I panicked. I thought I’d killed him. And then I saw a way to make it work to my advantage. I went and found the knife, put it under him, gathered the bottles together and made it look like he’d been drinking. I set fire to the newspapers and watched them catch the scenery. Then I walked out of the trap room and turned the key.’
In cold blood, she had made sure that her lover would never tell her story. She had laid him on the bloody knife and made it look like he had committed suicide, and then let Mr Fielding spread the lie to save herself.
Ketch picked up his bag and walked over to her, put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Come on, Molly. I think it’s time we went now.’
She looked up at me. ‘You can tell my story to the magistrate, if you like,’ she said. ‘But wait until I’m over the border to Southwark, won’t you? I can disappear into the mist once I’ve crossed the river.’
‘It’s what travellers do,’ said Ketch. He was looking out for her. He had promised to protect her, and he would.
There was a sound from behind her. Davenport emerged from where he had been standing. He was on his own.
‘I don’t think you’re going to Southwark,’ he said.
Molly sprang up from the chair, eyes wide with fury. With lightning speed, she pulled two pistols from her bag, aiming one at Davenport and one at me.
‘Shit.’ This from Davenport.
I took a step back.
‘Molly, be careful,’ said Ketch. ‘We don’t need this.’ His voice, the voice of her protector, was soft and gentle, as if he were talking to a child.
I took a second step back.
‘Lizzie,’ Davenport said, with quiet urgency, ‘stay very still.’ He raised his hands to Molly and nodded to where I stood. ‘Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot her.’
Molly cocked the pistol in her right hand – the one aimed at him.
From behind me a door opened, and, of all people, William Simmot came in.
His face, at first amiable and even cheerful, turned to horror as he saw what was before him. His eyes widened and, without thinking, he cried out. No word; an animal cry of alarm.
She swung around, the pistol in her left hand now pointing at me, and then at Simmot.
‘Get back,’ I called to him.
But he stood transfixed, unable to move, staring at the weapon.
Molly jerked her head to Ketch, her eyes wild, her head flicking between me and Davenport. She cocked the left pistol. The one aimed at me.
‘Get out of it, Ketch,’ she said. ‘Go to the cart.’
‘Molly, this isn’t a good thing,’ he said. ‘Put the pistols down, eh?’ He walked towards me and stood, the monkey on his head, blocking her aim.
Simmot gave a short laugh. ‘They’re not real!’
I kept my eyes on Molly. ‘What?’
‘Those duelling pistols. They’re not real. They use them in the theatre all the time when duels are called for. There are no bullets in them. All of the smoke and bang from the powder, of course, so you get the effect, but nothing harmful.’
A half-smile appeared on Molly’s face as she listened.
‘She’s bluffing you, Mr Davenport,’ Simmot called in a sing-song voice.
I had seen the actors playing with pistols only three days ago, on the night Hawbridge died. I had watched Garrick play with one, pretending to shoot Kitty Suckley. I had seen her swoon, dramatically, with all applauding her. But something in Molly’s eye made me unsure.
‘Molly, put the weapons down,’ said Ketch again, a stronger hint of warning in his voice.
‘There’s no bullet, I tell you,’ Simmot was laughing now, giggling like a silly schoolboy. ‘Why are you standing there like a coward, Davenport? Why so faint-hearted? Take them from her.’
Davenport relaxed his shoulders a little, but kept his hands up, his eyes still on Molly’s right arm. But he was readying himself to move, I knew it, spurred by Simmot’s taunting.
There was something about the curve of the handles. Something that was wrong. The pistols I’d seen Garrick toy with had a rounder curve and were ornate in the silver tooling. These were plain; straight and smooth, without fancy detail.
These were not stage props. These were the pistols that I had seen in her costume room, down in the bottom of the wardrobe. These were Molly’s own. Or Ketch’s. To keep them safe as they travelled.
And I had no idea whether they were loaded.
Then everything happened very quickly.
Behind me, behind Simmot, Fielding’s men, Grimshaw and Snowy, came in through the door at the front of the theatre, expecting to collect Dinsdale and Hunter, or at the least, to wait for them with Davenport.
Molly, distracted by the sound of them, dropped her right arm a little and Davenport, believing it to be unloaded, moved to grab the pistol.
I launched myself at Davenport, running in front of him with a shout and pushing him back as I heard her shriek in anger, and at the same moment, Ketch leaped towards her, the monkey clinging to his hair.
There was a very loud explosion, a gust of wind and smoke, and the monkey screamed.
Ketch tumbled to the floor.
‘Ketch!’ I yelled, abandoning Davenport and running to him.
His shoulder was a mess. There was blood beginning to seep from his chest into his shirt.
‘Molly, what have you done?’ I could not believe that she had shot him.
Neither could she. She stood, horror on her face, the smoking gun dangling from her left hand.
She dropped the spent pistol and now stood with the other, swinging about, aiming it at all of us, any of us, a wild look on her face. No one wanted to go near her. I held Ketch in my arms, on my lap, still gasping in fear, clutching at him, willing him to live, knowing that he would not.
Ketch groaned, as he raised half-closed eyes to Molly.
‘Oh God, Molly. No.’ He was not crying for himself. He cried for her.
I looked from him to her and saw that she had turned the pistol up under her own chin.
‘Time to go now, Ketch,’ she said, and, with a twisted smile, squeezed the trigger.
It wasn’t just the monkey who screamed this time.
Chapter Forty-one
There was a good deal of confusion. The sound of not one but two loud reports brought people running; players and stage hands. I had no idea where they had all come from. I only knew that I was covered in blood. I didn’t even know whether it was mine or Ketch’s or Molly’s. It was just more blood.
I sat on the floor, cradling Ketch in my arms, wh
ile the little monkey ran around the green room squealing. Ketch was trying to call him, words cracking in his throat. The tears ran down my face as I half called, half sobbed for him too. His name, I learned only then, was Jack. Like Molly’s brother.
The monkey calmed down, finally, and sat on Ketch’s lap, snuggling into him and crying like a tiny baby.
Ketch put a hand on the monkey and stroked his head. He gave a small judder. And then he was very still. I started screaming again, but no sound was coming out of my mouth.
The runners were standing around Molly’s body. They had come, believing that they were escorting two men to Bow Street, but had, instead, witnessed a woman blow her own head apart. There was blood everywhere – over the floor, over the tables and up the walls. There was blood on the ceiling and even a great splatter across the mirror. Everything in this room would need to be replaced. Snowy and Grimshaw were covered in blood as well.
The room was beginning to throng with people and their cries of horror and surprise filled the place.
I sat with Ketch’s body, unable to make any more sound, his blood on my hands and all over my gown and apron.
One of the stage hands came to me and, kneeling, gently rolled Ketch’s body off my lap. Someone took the monkey. Strong arms lifted me from behind.
‘Come on, up you come,’ said Davenport in my ear. ‘Come away now.’
He turned me around to face him. Then he pulled me to his chest and held me tightly, stroking my blood-streaked hair and hushing me like a child as I began shaking.
When the shaking stopped, I eased myself from his shoulder. His arm was still about my waist.
‘I’ve made a mess of your lovely coat,’ I said, putting a hand on it, making it worse. ‘And your shirt. I’m sorry.’
He glanced at my hand on his chest, as if seeing the blood for the first time. ‘As long as it’s not your blood, I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘You ran in front of me, you know.’
‘What?’
‘When she aimed at me. You ran in front of me. I thought she’d shot you.’ He took hold of the bloodied hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘It was a foolish thing to do, you know.’ His voice was very soft.
The Corpse Played Dead Page 25