Death at the Beggar's Opera (12 page)

Mr Martin looked delighted. ‘Really? Well, that is most kind. I had not thought in the midst of all this turmoil that you would have remembered who I am.’

‘I am a regular theatre-goer,’ John answered smoothly, ‘and always look forward to an occasion when James Martin will be playing the harpsichord.’

‘How very civil.’

‘Sincerely meant, I assure you.’ And the Apothecary smiled even more broadly.

It was a neat figure that he was surveying, a tidy little parcel of a person, sprucely dressed and trimly wigged. Even the features of the face seemed to have been snugly put together, so that there was no jarring note anywhere. Where everything concerning Mrs Martin was large and expansive, in her husband there was only miniaturisation and economy. Where she was fat, he was slim; where her eyes were blue saucers, his were brown and small; where she fluttered like a great vapid moth, he moved briskly like a creature of the riverbank. If these were the two halves of a married whole, John thought, then Cupid had an outrageous sense of humour.

He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Martin, I shall come straight to the point. As you are probably aware, Mr Fielding has requested me to ask a few more questions which might be relevant to the death of Jasper Harcross. So, with this in mind, I wonder if you could give me your opinion of the dead man.’

The musician’s beady brown eyes grew even beadier. ‘Well, I … er … I admired him as an actor.’

‘But not as a person?’

‘Well …’

The Apothecary decided to put the poor man out of his misery. ‘I know all about the liaison that Harcross had with your wife. She has told me everything. So let us converse without inhibition. I would rather suspect that you detested the fellow. Am I right?’

‘Of course you are,’ James Martin replied, with more vehemence than John would have thought him capable of expressing. ‘He almost ruined my marriage with his vile, lecherous ways. Why, to desert poor Clarice when …’ He stopped short, obviously thinking better of what he had been about to say.

‘When what?’ John persisted.

‘He grew tired of her,’ the musician went on, making the Apothecary certain that he was hiding something.

‘And when exactly was that? When did their love affair end? And why?’

Mr Martin’s face looked very slightly disordered. ‘It was nine years ago, that is all I can tell you. I presume Jasper met someone else, but my wife did not confide in me about that. All I know is that she was in an hysteric for what seemed like months.’ He sighed wearily and John’s heart went out to him. Ten minutes of an hysterical Mrs Martin was quite enough for any man to put up with in his opinion.

‘But they remained friends?’

‘Oh yes. I think she is probably still in love with him.’

‘And you were prepared to accept this?’

The musician sighed again. ‘I could have left her, I realised that. But we had once been through a terrible ordeal together. We had a child that died in its cradle. It grieved poor Clarice so terribly that I do not think she ever recovered. It is my belief that she turned to Harcross for consolation.’

‘Did you wish him dead?’

A ghost of a smile appeared round James Martin’s trim mouth. ‘Certainly. I and a legion of others. You’ll be hard put to it to catch his killer, Mr Rawlings.’

‘I am growing increasingly aware of that with every passing hour. But let me ask you one final question. Where were you on the night before the murder?’

The shipshape face worked momentarily and Mr Martin looked extremely ill at ease. ‘Did my wife not tell you?’

‘No, I forgot to ask her,’ John answered, amazing himself at the effortless way in which he lied.

The musician breathed out audibly. ‘Well, the dress rehearsal done, I sent her home in a hackney.’

‘Yes?’

‘Then I went to visit a friend.’

‘Who will vouch for you, no doubt?’

James Martin shook his head violently. ‘No, I’m afraid that will not be possible. You see, he is just a child, an orphan boy in whom I take an interest. He lives – poorly. I give him gifts of clothes and food because I pity his wretched existence.’

‘But surely this child can speak? Or do you not know where he is?’

The musician seized on this like a drowning man grabbing for a rope. ‘No, he moves on. He is just a street urchin. I never know where I will find him next.’

It was such a patent falsehood, yet short of calling the man a downright liar there seemed little John could do about it. He decided that, for the time being at least, it would be wiser to humour Mr Martin. ‘How difficult that must make things for you. Hard enough to befriend such a child without having to look for him all the time,’ he said sympathetically.

‘Er … yes.’

‘But despite that, Sir, I would like to have a word with the boy when you do discover his whereabouts.’ The musician stood up, presuming that the interview had come to an end. ‘Certainly, certainly. Of course. Naturally.’

John looked at Joe Jago’s list. ‘Now, if you would be so kind, could you ask Will to step this way.’

The musician turned the colour of snow. ‘Will?’ he repeated dazedly.

John stared at him, wondering what could possibly be wrong. ‘Yes, Will,’ he repeated.

‘But he’s assisting with the rehearsal,’ Mr Martin protested, still in the same extraordinary way.

‘That is unfortunate, but I none the less want to speak with him.’

‘Very well, I will see what I can do.’

He made for the door but John beckoned him back. ‘Don’t forget to bring your boy to me as soon as you can.’

‘I won’t,’ James Martin called over his shoulder, and made a hasty exit.

After he had gone, John sat in silence for a few moments, wondering what could possibly have caused the musician’s peculiar change in manner. But before he had had time to think the matter through there was a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ he called.

Will the theatre child stuck his head through the opening. ‘You wanted to see me, Sir?’

‘Certainly. Come in and sit down. There’s nothing to be nervous of, you know.’

‘I’m more scared than nervous if you want the truff, Sir. But I ain’t done nuffing naughty – except for falling asleep when I should have been guarding the scaffold.’

‘That’s hardly your fault. I expect you were tired.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Will answered instantly. ‘It’s my belief me milk was doped.’

John stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Me milk, what was standing backstage in me beaker, I fink it had been interfered with. I never felt so sleepy as after I drunk it. I just couldn’t keep me eyes open.’

‘I’ll come back to that,’ said the Apothecary determinedly. ‘You must forgive me, Will, but I’ve got one of those brains that likes to do things neatly. So let me start with your story. How old were you when you went to the Foundling Hospital?’

‘I dunno exactly, Sir. I was dumped on the steps as a baby. St Swithin’s Day, it was. That’s how I got me name, William Swithin.’

‘But wasn’t it Mr Harcross who took you from there and set you up in a job at Drury Lane?’

‘Yes, Sir, it was. And wiv that kindly action he won me eternal gratitude.’

‘Um,’ said John reflectively. ‘But why did he choose you, do you think? Had he met you before somewhere?’

‘No, Sir. Never clapped his eyes on me.’

‘Then why?’

Will rubbed his squat little nose and John found himself thinking what an unattractive child the boy was, pallid through being constantly indoors, his mouth lined with the grooves of early suffering, his only redeeming feature a pair of large china-blue eyes. Yet even as the Apothecary considered these things, he had a momentary flash that Will reminded him of someone, though by the time it came to the front of his mind, the connection was gone.

‘I dunno, Sir,’ the child continued. ‘Perhaps he just liked me ’andsome face.’ And he laughed heartily, obviously used to making fun of himself.

The Apothecary joined in, thinking how pathetic it all was. ‘Did Mr Harcross treat you well?’

‘Oh yes, Sir. Not in a doting way, you understand. He was more like a rough-and-tumble father. Whereas Mr …’ He stopped abruptly.

‘Mr …?’

Will went slightly pink. ‘Several people treated me like their son. I suppose they felt sorry for me. The ladies tried to mother me too.’

‘But you were about to say a specific name then, weren’t you?’ John had a moment of inspiration and took a chance. ‘Was it Mr Martin?’

The boy had obviously received no acting training as yet, for his jaw dropped and his blue eyes widened. ‘How did you know?’

The Apothecary became ultra casual. ‘Because he mentioned to me that he has a protégé. A boy to whom he gives clothes and food. I simply guessed that it was you.’

Will’s cheeks went a raw-looking shade of red. ‘Well, you’re not to tell.’

‘I won’t. Though why is that?’

‘Cos Mr Martin don’t want anyone to know. But he’s ever so good to me. Brought me extra clothes and food all the time I’ve been here.’

‘I wonder why he wants it kept so secret,’ John muttered to himself. Then he frowned as an unpleasant thought came to him. ‘He doesn’t want paying for what he does for you, does he?’

‘How could I pay ’im? I ain’t got no money.’

‘Don’t come the innocent with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. Does he make any demands on you, demands of any sort?’

‘No he don’t,’ Will answered hotly. ‘He’s good and kind, so he is.’

‘Tell me about the night of the dress rehearsal,’ answered John, unruffled. ‘Who was the last to leave the theatre?’

‘Dick Weatherby. He always checks that everything is clean and tidy before he goes ’ome.’

‘And did you help him?’

‘I swabbed out the dressing rooms, then straightened round. Then I come downstairs and he was just getting ready to leave.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I ’ad me milk, Mr Garrick always insists I do that, then I went to bed. I’ve got a place where I sleep in the properties room.’

‘And did Mr Martin come in once everyone had gone?’

‘Yes, he did. But please don’t tell on me for saying so. He wanted the meeting kept quiet.’

‘It’s strange that he’s so secretive regarding your friendship.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I never really thought about it.’

‘Ah well! So let us proceed to the night of the murder. You say that you believed your milk was tampered with.’

‘Yes, I do, Mr Rawlings. You gave me the job of guarding the mobile, that’s the technical term for the wheeled platform bearing the gallows. Well, I’d ’ave never let you down normally. But I was ever so thirsty, what with the shock an’ all, and after I drank the stuff I just couldn’t keep awake a moment longer. That proves it was doped, don’t it?’

Remembering that evidence in the shape of Lucy Lockit’s bow had been planted while the theatre boy slept, John considered the possibility of a sleeping draught having been slipped into his drink.

‘But who could have done such a thing?’

‘Anyone, Sir. Me beaker stood backstage for all to see.’

‘Um,’ said the Apothecary again, wondering if the boy had drunk the milk too early and was really meant to have slept deeply all night long.

‘Do you want me for anything further, Sir?’

‘Only to ask Miss Clive to step this way.’

‘I’ll go and fetch her.’ Will hesitated in the doorway. ‘You won’t say nuffink about Mr Martin, will you?’

‘I’ll do my best to be discreet.’

‘Gawd bless you,’ the boy answered, and disappeared.

Tremendously aware that he must share all this information with the Blind Beak soon, John decided to call in at the Public Office before he paid a visit to Mrs Delaney, and was just envisaging Mr Fielding’s reaction as he heard the latest strange twists in the tale when there came yet another knock on the door. Certain that it was Coralie, John straightened his wig and brushed at his coat, only to feel rather foolish when David Garrick came into the room.

Today, to John at least, the great man was the very essence of charm itself, urbane smiles flashing, eyes kind and considerate, every movement of his body exuding tolerant good humour. He made the Apothecary a courteous little bow.

‘My very dear young friend, may I throw myself headlong upon your mercy?’

‘By all means. How can I help you?’

Garrick gave a smile, the quintessence of the word deprecating. ‘Nobody could understand more than I the necessity for the murderer of Jasper Harcross to be found, and quickly at that.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yet despite this, alack, the theatre must remain open. It is the great tradition of we thespians that the play continues whatever the odds.’

‘Of course, I quite understand.’

‘But do you? So I must ask myself.’

John saw a glimmer of light. ‘My questions are getting in the way of your rehearsal, is that it, Sir?’ Garrick made a dismissive moue. ‘I, you must believe me Mr Rawlings, am the very last soul alive to impede the course of justice. But the decision to abandon
The Beggar’s Opera
has created its own set of difficulties. We must bring another play into the repertory with haste.’

Wishing that the actor would say what he actually meant, the Apothecary attempted to do so for him. ‘You would like me to go away for a while, perhaps? To leave you in peace for a few hours?’

The great man’s eyes shone with humble gratitude, assumed, the Apothecary felt certain. ‘Oh how well you understand, my dear friend. For someone so young and …’

John stood up. ‘How long would you like me to be absent?’

David Garrick seemed on the point of tears. ‘Would four hours be asking too much?’

The Apothecary looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the other people I shall return to question them at three o’clock.’

The actor-manager gave a florid bow. ‘Certainly, but of course.’

‘Then I will say
au revoir
,’ John answered, irritated despite himself at the break in his concentration.

Striding across the stage, he gave a flamboyant bow to the rest of the company, called out, ‘Goodbye everyone. I shall return,’ and made his exit to an audience of startled faces, wondering exactly how he was going to spend the next few hours productively.