Death at the Beggar's Opera (13 page)

Once outside the theatre, John took a deep breath, but so horrid was the stink from the gutters that he did not repeat this natural response to being cooped up within the confines of Drury Lane most of the morning. Instead, he turned right into the street after which the theatre was named and strode briskly along its not inconsiderable length until he eventually bore right once more into Great Queen Street, then on to the delights of Lincoln’s Inn Fields where the air was indeed much sweeter Suddenly deciding what he was going to do, the Apothecary merely cast his eyes on the Theatre Royal which stood on the south side of the Fields, nowadays quite empty and deserted. Paradoxically,
The Beggar’s Opera
had made its owner, John Rich, so very wealthy that he had opened a new playhouse at Covent Garden. Cursing the railings which had been put up some twenty years earlier, to keep out the beggars and prostitutes who were using the Fields as a place in which to both dwell and work, John made his way through a festering little alleyway into High Holbourn.

Before him lay a straight, long, piece of road, Red Lyon Street, and dimly in the distance the Apothecary could glimpse his destination lying in the very heart of Lambs Conduit Fields, which stretched away, green and fresh and fine, as far as the eye could see. With a pricking of anticipation, John Rawlings set off along the direct route to the Foundling Hospital.

It was a stately building with a curving outer wall in which was set a towered gatehouse. Beyond this wall lay the Hospital itself, as grandiose and gracious as any royal residence despite a slight smack of the institution about it. Well aware that without its presence thousands more children would have died deserted and alone, abandoned in empty rooms or dumped on the streets of London to perish, the Apothecary approached it with a great sense of respect for all the charitable good the Hospital did.

A porter in the gatehouse asked him his business in a somewhat officious manner and John, simply to avoid explanations and arguments, showed the letter of authorisation given to him by Mr Fielding for just such an occasion as this. To the Apothecary’s cynical amusement there was a prompt change in attitude and the next moment he was ushered through the wicket gate and into the large carriage-sweep beyond. On either side of this great arena were walkways leading to the Hospital, which stood imposingly at the far end. Somewhat tired by now, for he had journeyed a long way, John set off on the last lap towards the offices, situated beside the chapel, a classical building running crossways immediately opposite the gatehouse.

It seemed that he was too late to see the governor who had stepped abroad about his business an hour earlier. But after a few minutes’ delay a small birdlike woman with dark bootbutton eyes entered the parlour into which John had been shown. The avine gaze appraised him rapidly, obviously indicating approval of his elegant clothes but mistrustful of his youthful appearance. The curtsey which followed summed all this up to a nicety, not too deep but respectful enough to show that she regarded him as a member of the professional classes.

‘I am Mrs Carter,’ she said by way of introduction. ‘How may I help you?’

John gave a straightforward bow, thus indicating that her assessment of him was correct, and adopted his thoughtful face.

‘Madam, I am here on behalf of Mr John Fielding, Principal Magistrate of London. Here is his letter of authorisation.’

He handed it to her and Mrs Carter read it at a glance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ was her only comment.

‘I am here regarding a child who was deposited at the Hospital as a baby, then taken away some time last year to become a trainee at Drury Lane. His name is William Swithin. Do you know the boy?’

She shook her head. ‘Thousands pass through our doors, Mr …’ Mrs Carter glanced at the letter again. ‘… Rawlings. In the past the flood of mothers with their bastards was so great that we had to introduce a balloting system to permit admission. Can you tell me a little more about this particular child?’

‘Apparently he was deposited here on St Swithin’s Day, 1745, or round about then.’

‘That was the year in which we first opened our doors …’

‘And the year in which the Pretender marched south.’

Mrs Carter ignored this aside. ‘Naturally, we have records. Would you care for me to look him up?’

‘Very much.’

‘Then step this way.’

In the next door office everything was tidy to the point of being clinical, not a speck of dust anywhere, not even a mote whirling in the pallid sunshine. Stacked on a shelf on one wall was a series of volumes, bound in red with gold embossing, each representing half a year in the history of the Foundling Hospital, all of them equally dust free. Mrs Carter lifted down the second and flitted through the pages.

‘Let me see now. St Swithin’s Day, 1745. Ah yes, here it is. Baby boy found outside gatehouse, guessed to be about six months old. Healthy. Baptised William and given the surname Swithin.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Only a list of the items he was wearing. Shawl, bonnet and so on.’

‘Oh dear,’ said John, suddenly deflated.

‘The note attached to him has been stored, however, though his clothes have long since been passed on to some other poor mite.’

‘A note?’ asked the Apothecary, a ray of hope returning.

‘Yes, it will be in one of those boxes over there. Would you like to see it?’

‘Indeed I would.’

Marvelling at the efficiency of their record keeping, John watched in admiration as Mrs Carter, after looking at an index of some kind, went straight to the box in question and lifted it down.

‘All the notes and letters for that year are kept in here.’

‘Does every abandoned creature have something with it, then?’

The snapping eyes looked at him sharply. ‘Of course not, only those with a kindly heart bother about their young. Most mothers can’t wait to get rid of the evidence of their shame.’

‘What a depressing thought.’

‘Here it is. Swithin, W. Note attached to basket and a man’s handkerchief dropped nearby.’

‘May I see them?’ And suddenly there was a ring of excitement in the Apothecary’s voice at the thought of what he might be about to discover.

‘This is still with Mr Fielding’s authority?’

‘Certainly it is.’

‘Very well.’ And Mrs Carter handed him the items in question, each bearing a label with the theatre boy’s name written upon it.

He looked at the letter first. It simply said, ‘Care for this poor child, William. His mother cannot keep him with her. It breaks my heart.’

He handed it back to Mrs Carter. ‘What do you conclude from this?’

She studied it carefully. ‘Well, it sounds to me as if the mother did not write it.’

‘Precisely as I thought.’ John unfolded the handkerchief. ‘Where was this found exactly?’

‘It says on the cobbles. A foot from the basket. Someone with foresight picked it up in case it happened to be relevant.’

‘Then thank God for them, for it bears a set of initials.’

The bright eyes peered. ‘Why, so it does! J.M. I wonder whoever that might be.’

‘I think,’ the Apothecary answered slowly, ‘that when the answer to that is provided we will have advanced somewhat in untangling this extraordinary web of deceit which threatens to ensnare all those who try to unravel it.’

It was only after a great deal of reassurance that John persuaded Mrs Carter to release the note and the handkerchief into his safe keeping. Furthermore, he was asked to guarantee that the items would be returned as soon as Mr Fielding had finished with them, and to promise that he would be personally responsible for taking the evidence back to the Foundling Hospital. Even so, there were receipts to be signed and a written pledge to be made. Yet finally, well pleased, John left the Hospital, the note and the handkerchief in a small parcel beneath his arm, and, tired by the long walk and lack of food, climbed with relief into a hackney carriage which was by the gate house, plying for hire. Leaning back against its somewhat uncomfortable upholstery, he sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

‘Where to, Sir?’ called the driver from the seat above.

‘The stage door, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,’ John called back, and received an inquisitive glance from the cabman, who obviously thought he was an actor. ‘I need to be there by three o’clock,’ the Apothecary continued, and added mysteriously, ‘rehearsals, you know.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ the driver replied, clearly impressed, and cracked his whip.

But willing as both he and his horse obviously were, there was not much that could be done about the teeming streets, and it was a good half hour before the conveyance stopped outside the theatre. Glancing at his watch, John saw that it was almost three o’clock and congratulated himself that everything had turned out so well. And indeed, on setting foot inside, he saw that the rehearsal was still going on and tempers were getting even more frayed. In fact everyone turned towards him with a sigh of relief and there were cries of, ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings, you’re back with us.’ Thinking that the break might actually have done good, and that sheer relief at getting away from the play could make everyone more cooperative, John hurried into the Green Room.

The response to his return was so quick that he was still sorting through his papers when the first knock came and Adam Verity entered almost with alacrity. Giving the actor an appraising glance, John saw that he was somewhat different from how he had remembered him. Whereas, taking the role of Filch, he had been dirty and tousle-headed, today, as the young male lead, Adam appeared handsome and sleek. He was also, seeing him closely, a little older than John would have thought, probably around thirty.

The Apothecary started his questioning with his usual stratagem, asking Adam’s opinion of Jasper Harcross.

‘I really had very little to do with him. I acted with him, of course, but never socialised.’ The actor pulled a quizzical face. ‘I think I was the wrong gender as far as he was concerned.’

‘Am I to take it from that that you disapproved of his womanising?’

Adam shook his head, looking noncommittal. ‘You may take it in any way you wish. The truth is that I neither approved nor otherwise. You see, I rarely thought about Jasper. He did not enter my consciousness.’

‘Then, obviously, he was no particular friend of yours.’

Adam gave a rather charming smile. ‘Yes, that statement is fair.’

The Apothecary changed the subject. ‘Is it true you ran away from a foster home? It fascinates me how people start a career on the stage. Were you a theatre boy like Will?’

Adam’s smile broadened. ‘Well, yes and no. I was sixteen when I approached Mr Giffard for a job. I was about to sign indentures with a truly dreary artisan and, to cut a long story short, I packed my few belongings and took off to Ipswich where Henry Giffard was in charge of the theatre circuit. Mr Garrick was completing his training there at the time and when he left for Drury Lane, so did I.’

‘I see,’ said John, then added casually, ‘by the way, does the name Egleton mean anything to you?’

Well aware that he was dealing with a professional actor, he studied Adam’s face closely but not a flicker of shock passed over it. Eventually, though, the young man’s eyes lit up and he said, ‘Wasn’t that the name of the actress who created the part of Lucy Lockit?’

‘Yes, it was. You never met her I suppose?’

‘Somewhat before my time, actually. I did not have the honour.’

The reply could have been utterly genuine or a brilliant performance, and there was no way of telling which. Once again, John changed tack.

‘Can you tell me where you were on the night before the murder?’

‘Yes, I was at home. I share an apartment with my sister, who is quite a successful milliner in New Bond Street. She can most certainly answer for me because she awaited my return from the dress rehearsal and then we shared some food and a bottle of wine.’

‘A sister?’ asked John, surprised. ‘Was she then also a foundling?’

‘Oh yes,’ Adam answered, his voice relaxed. ‘The only difference between us is that she stuck with her apprenticeship while I abandoned mine. She supplies hats for this theatre, incidentally, as well as running her own shop.’

‘A prosperous woman indeed,’ the Apothecary murmured. More loudly he added, ‘Someone will call on her regarding the matter, but meanwhile I can only thank you for your co-operation. You have been most kind.’

Adam stood up, then headed for the door. ‘Who do you want to see next?’

‘Perhaps Jack Masters could spare me a moment of his time.’

‘I’ll try and extricate him.’

The door closed behind him, leaving John in a quandary. The similarity in age between Adam Verity and the missing Mr Egleton was too close to be ignored, added to which the actor had a sister. Yet his performance when the name was mentioned had been superlative. Either he was totally innocent or brilliantly concealing something sinister.

‘I wonder,’ said John, speaking aloud as Jack Masters came into the room, causing the older man to stare at him and say, ‘Eh?’

‘Nothing of importance. Now do pray take a seat.’

‘I trust you are not going to keep me long. The rehearsal is still going on, I fear.’

‘I have no intention of doing so, for I have only one question to ask you. But I must warn you that if you refuse to answer it I shall keep you here until you do. Then, if you persist in that folly, Mr Fielding assures me he will have you in his court on a charge of impeding the course of justice.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ asked the rugged-faced actor, lighting a pipe with much deliberation.

‘Certainly,’ answered John succinctly. ‘The time has come to stop mincing words. For the final time, where were you on the night before the murder?’

‘I’ve already told you. With a lady friend.’

‘Her name and address, if you please.’

There was a pause while the actor blew blue smoke into the air. ‘If I tell you, do I have your assurance that the information will go no further?’

‘It will go to Mr Fielding, obviously.’