Death at the Beggar's Opera (21 page)

‘No, I would rather it were out here, out of earshot.’

The vicar, looking somewhat irritated, stepped away in company with Sir Gabriel and John drew Mrs Harcross into the sheltered confines of the church porch.

‘How much do you know about William Swithin, the murdered boy?’

‘Nothing. I had never even heard of him until today.’

The Apothecary had a moment of agonising indecision. Should he tell her the facts regarding Will’s antecedents or leave her in blissful ignorance? Rapidly coming to the conclusion that the poor woman had had enough to bear, he simply said, ‘Your late husband was fond of the child and it occurs to me forcefully that anyone connected with Jasper could be in danger.’

She looked absolutely astonished. ‘Why, in Heaven’s name?’

‘A bitter hatred in the mind of someone not quite sane can lead to extraordinary events.’ He thought of the vile image in his pocket and said, ‘Mrs Harcross, I truly think there might be someone with a grudge against you. I beg you to be careful.’

Jasper’s widow stared at him blankly. ‘But you said yourself that nobody knows about me. So who could possibly wish me ill?’

The slightly ruthless streak that was very much part of the Apothecary’s make up came to the forefront.

‘Madam, there was a strange woman at the funeral today. She sat at the back of the church, heavily veiled, and slipped out before the end of the service. I followed her and saw her throw something into Jasper’s grave. I retrieved it with my stick. It was this.’

And he handed her the puppet, wishing that he had not been forced to take this unscrupulous step.

Mrs Harcross’s eyes rolled upwards and she leant against him heavily. ‘But this is a representation of myself!’

‘I realise that.’

‘Whoever could do such a thing?’

‘I don’t know, but I intend to find out.’ He shot her a solemn look. ‘Will you take my warning seriously now?’

‘Yes, yes I will. Perhaps I could get my maid to sleep in.’

‘That at the very least, though a man servant would be better.’ The Apothecary paused. ‘Mrs Harcross, I have no wish to go over old and upsetting ground but there is one more thing I would like to know.’

‘Which is?’

‘The name and address of the woman in Chelsea who fostered your two children, that is before the boy went away to his apprenticeship.’

The widow frowned. ‘Why do you require this?’

‘Because it is a loose strand that needs to be woven into the tapestry.’

‘How poetically put. But surely you cannot think they can have any connection with this sorry affair? Remember that I haven’t heard from them for years.’

‘Mr Fielding believes that in order to solve a crime one must look into the past, all of the past, even though most of it will not be relevant.’

Mrs Harcross sighed. ‘She was a Mrs Camber of Jews Row, a house overlooking the Hospital burying ground. I don’t know if she is still there. She may be dead for all I am aware.’

‘I shall try to trace her.’ John took her gloved hand between his. ‘You are very cold, Madam, and I believe you should not stand out here any longer. Let us go into your home and rub shoulders with your neighbours. The warmth of their friendship together with a tot or two of brandy, will do you a great deal of good.’

‘You are very kind,’ Jasper’s widow answered and most unexpectedly kissed him on the cheek.

Very proud that he had not flushed, indeed had handled the situation with aplomb, John offered her his arm and together they went down the church path towards her house.

By the time he got back it was well past midday and tempers were frayed at Drury Lane. David Garrick, he of the magnificent eyes and mellifluous voice, had flown into one of the finest rages ever witnessed, according to the account given by Joe Jago. Declaring that the two murders were obviously aimed at him and had clearly been committed by someone who wished his theatre to ‘go dark’, the technical phrase for shutting down, he had stormed round the place, getting in the way and putting witnesses off their stroke. Only the fact of Mr Fielding growing short-tempered with him had finally calmed the great actor down, and then he had fluttered into a fury again when Dick Weatherby had informed him that three of the stagehands had walked out, declaring that the theatre was cursed.

‘I’ve a mind to cancel tonight’s performance,’ Garrick had roared.

‘No, Sir, you can’t do that,’ Dick had answered soothingly. ‘We’ve a full house, so think of all the money we would have to return.’

Eventually, peace had been restored, particularly when a trio of hulking characters had appeared to enquire about work, having heard a rumour on the streets that there were jobs going at Drury Lane. Thus, when John returned and sent his compliments to the Blind Beak, three of the peachers were in place, diligently making themselves useful.

‘First phase completed?’ John said to Jago, casting an eye in their direction.

‘Not quite. There are two more to come.’

‘And how has this morning’s questioning gone?’

‘Much as expected. Everyone expressed horror that a child should have been done to death. But nobody was near here, of course. Everyone dutifully went straight home after the performance, or out to friends who can vouch for them. There was one interesting thing, though.’

‘What was that?’

‘Dick Weatherby came up with the information that he left something behind and returned to the theatre. He thought he heard the murmur of voices and went to investigate, but there was nobody there.’

‘What do we presume from that?’

‘That Will and his visitor had concealed themselves, I suppose.’

‘But why should they?’

‘Therein lies the mystery. After all, Will would have nothing to hide from his friend Dick.’

‘How strange,’ John answered, and would have dwelt on it had not the door to the Green Room been flung open and the Blind Beak appeared, accompanied by Kitty Clive.

‘She has been cleared of suspicion, by the way,’ Joe murmured. ‘There was insufficient time between her leaving the theatre and appearing at the Comtesse de Vignolle’s card party for her to have killed the boy. She has been here today, in the main, to assist Mr Fielding as well as to make a statement.’

On an impulse, John asked the clerk, ‘What do you think of her sister, Coralie? Could she be a killer?’

Joe shook his foxy head, his wig slipping alarmingly to reveal the tight red curls beneath. ‘No, I don’t think so. Beneath her theatrical ways she’s really a very charming girl, had you not noticed?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the Apothecary, unable to resist giving the Blind Beak’s shrewd assistant a wink. ‘I’ve noticed all right.’

The Magistrate came to join them, Kitty still on his arm. ‘Gentlemen, what news?’

‘A great deal arising from the funeral, Sir, which will take me a good hour to relate.’

‘Then let us postpone it until this evening. You’ll take supper at Bow Street?’

‘No, Sir,’ John answered firmly. ‘I know my father will be agog to give you his account of it. He attended, by the way, though there was no need for him to do so. Therefore, if it is not inconvenient and Mrs Fielding will accompany you, I would like to invite you to sup with us.’

‘I accept with pleasure.’

‘Excellent. Now, who is there left for me to see?’

‘Only a couple of people. Two young women were in the theatre last night but unable to attend this morning because of their work commitments.’

‘And they are?’

‘Adam Verity’s sister, Amelia, and Polly Rose, the seamstress. One lives above her shop in New Bond Street, in an apartment she shares with her brother. The other is in Little Earl Street in the Seven Dials. But you’ll presently find her in her workroom in Maiden Lane, where she stitches the costumes.’

‘Shall I go to her first and then to New Bond Street?’

‘A good plan, as long as you remember to send a messenger to warn Sir Gabriel of his forthcoming supper party.’

‘I’ll have a note delivered by hackney, for I doubt he’s even home yet. The last I saw of my father he was reminiscing with Mrs Harcross about the original production of
The Beggar’s Opera
. They were deep in conversation.’

Mr Fielding rumbled his wonderful chuckle. ‘Perhaps he will learn more in that manner than you or I ever could.’

‘Perhaps.’ John put his cloak back on. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way. Until this evening, Sir.’

‘Elizabeth and I will join you at eight o’clock.’

John bowed. ‘I look forward to it.’

It was as cold as ever and at three in the afternoon there were few hours of daylight left. Hurrying in order to keep warm, John positively sprinted past St Mary’s-le-Strand burial ground, thinking he had seen quite enough of those for one day, picked his way down Russell Court, then crossed Bridge Street and made his way through York and Tavistock Streets to Maiden Lane. Here the houses leaned in closely, and the Apothecary always had the feeling of stepping back in time. Indeed, he enjoyed climbing the rickety staircase to the first floor workshop where he discovered Miss Rose sitting crosslegged upon the floor, her mouth full of pins as ever, stitching some elaborate beading onto a costume that appeared, by its rich beauty, to belong to a very famous actress indeed.

John knocked on the open door. ‘May I come in, please.’

Miss Rose jumped and practically swallowed the pins. ‘Who is it?’

‘My name is Rawlings, Ma’am. I am assisting Mr Fielding with the collection of statements regarding the tragic deaths of Jasper Harcross and William Swithin. He said you could not attend the theatre so asked me to come and see you.’

She flushed and then whitened, a pretty little girl with an over-large and interesting mouth. A mouth, John thought, that looked both exciting and passionate.

‘I’ve been so busy, you see. This gown is for Miss Woffington. Mr Garrick plans a production of
Anthony and Cleopatra,
with himself and the lady taking the leading parts. I’ve had no time to rest, struggling to get all the costumes ready, believe you me. But now, with the boy’s death and everything, I reckon the play will be postponed.’

Not quite certain whether to look pleased or sympathetic, John motioned towards a stool. ‘May I?’

‘Oh yes, of course. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I get so involved with my work.’

‘Do you sew full-time for Drury Lane?’

‘Yes, Sir. Mr Garrick and Mr Cecil design the outfits, of course. I just carry out their instructions.’

‘Single handed?’

‘No. Madame Ruffe oversees everything but another girl, Marie, and I do all the stitching.’

‘That seems like a great deal of work for two young women.’

‘It is very hard, Sir, but it’s a regular job and wage, which is more than some can say in these bad times.’

‘How right you are. Now, tell me, were you in the theatre the night that Jasper Harcross was killed?’

The girl shook her head. ‘Definitely not. I only go in if one of the ladies needs help with getting dressed or to do last minute alterations and repairs. I was not called that evening.’

‘But I expect you were the night before, as it was dress rehearsal.’

Polly Rose turned the shake to a nod. ‘Oh yes, I was there for that.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual?’

‘No, I was concentrating on the clothes.’

‘And were they all in order?’

‘Yes, Sir. We pride ourselves on our workmanship.’

She stated this with a certain defiance and John smiled to himself. She really was a lovely thing and that mouth was one of the most interesting he had ever seen. Realising that he was frankly staring, he said, ‘You know that the bow from Mrs Delaney’s sleeve became detached during the performance.’

She looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, someone did say.’

‘Do you think it could have been deliberately severed? As your stitching is so good, I mean.’

Polly’s discomfort turned to anger. ‘Are you being sarcastic, Sir?’

John adopted an extremely contrite expression. ‘Indeed not. I asked in good faith. It just seemed suspicious that something should drop off a well-made costume.’

The ardent mouth tightened. ‘Yes, you are right, of course. It must have been tampered with.’

John’s crooked smile lit his face. ‘Now, there’s a useful piece of information which adds another aspect. Could anybody have done that?’

Polly frowned enchantingly. ‘The costumes hang in the dressing rooms on a rail. They are not guarded in any way. I suppose that anyone could damage them if they so desired.’

John produced Coralie’s glove from his pocket and handed it to Polly, who stared at it, somewhat startled. ‘Do you recognise that?’

‘Yes, it’s Mrs Delaney’s. She wears it in
Love’s Last Shift
.’

‘Actually, it belongs to Miss Clive, you can smell her perfume on it.’

Polly sniffed cautiously. ‘There is certainly a distinctive aroma but all the actresses wear fine scents. I could have sworn that it was Sarah’s.’

‘Well, there are you wrong. I am an apothecary by profession and make up my own perfumes. My sense of smell is finely attuned. There can be no doubt whatsoever that this is Coralie Clive’s.’ A thought struck him. ‘But if you could make that mistake so might someone else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This glove was found at the scene of the crime when poor Will Swithin was hanged by the neck, which led Mr Fielding to believe that someone was trying to incriminate both the ladies. But supposing the murderer made the same mistake as you and thought it was the property of Mrs Delaney?’

Polly looked bewildered. ‘It certainly is a tangled web.’

John stood up. ‘And not easy to unravel. But you have been very helpful, Miss Rose. I am grateful to you.’

‘Are you finished with me?’ she asked, also scrambling to her feet.

‘All but for one question, which is your whereabouts last night.’

‘Well, I was at the theatre helping Miss Kitty. When the performance was over I hung her costumes up and cleaned the hems, then I hired a linkman and walked home.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see Will at all?’

‘Of course, he was round and about as usual.’