Act of Murder Page 4

  He slammed both fists down hard on the table. With muttered curses he stood up and stormed to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Where’s my soddin’ bloody tea then, lady?’

  Silence.

  ‘Tha’d better get down ’ere an’ explain thi bloody self, or I’ll tan thi arse so bad tha’ll be shittin’ through thi mouth for a week! Dost hear me, Violet?’

  But Violet, upstairs, had other worries. Her visitor had insisted on another gallop, in spite of frequent warnings of her father’s imminent arrival.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he had said. ‘I’ll pay the extra if we go round the paddock just one more time. Fast trot, eh?’

  They had pushed their luck too far this time, and the sound of the front door flying open had dampened Richard Throstle’s ardour far more effectively than her warnings had achieved. So now, as he was moving with a sort of terrified speed to climb back into his trousers, she too hastened to make herself more respectable, frantically looking around her tiny bedroom for any means of either concealment or flight. It was hopeless. And then they both froze as they heard the heavy thud of Billy’s clogs on the bare wood of the stairs, thuds that were getting closer and closer, accompanied by the most blasphemous of oaths and the direst of threats.

  *

  ‘Good Lord, Richard! Whatever is the matter?’

  Georgina Throstle ran from the window where she had been standing and helped her husband to the bed. He was pale, his eyes were wide and wild, and he was panting with an exertion that denoted something akin to panic. She saw that his clothing was in disarray, his necktie missing and the shirt collarless.

  ‘Allow me a few . . . minutes!’ His voice was the hoarsest of whispers, as if his tonsils had been scraped with sandpaper.

  He sat on the bed and closed his eyes. She noticed his hands were shaking. What on earth had caused him to tremble so much?

  She went to the small dressing-table and brought forth a half-bottle of brandy, from which she poured a sizeable measure. ‘Here,’ she said, placing the glass in his still-shaking hand. ‘Drink this.’

  Like an obedient child, he placed the glass to his lips and drank it down in one gulp.

  ‘Better?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Shall I call for a constable?’

  This time he shook his head.

  ‘Have you been attacked, Richard? Some footpad? This town is notorious for such things. The people are barely human.’

  ‘I . . . have merely had a shock.’

  She recognised, in the timbre of his voice, the early signs of falsehood and deception. Even in distress, he was saving his skin. Like a man drowning. ‘There must have been a cause?’

  He lay back with his head on the pillow. Small beads of perspiration ran down his pale forehead. ‘I’m afraid I have been rather foolish, my dearest.’

  She blinked. If this was to be a confession of guilt, it would indeed be breaking new ground. ‘In what way?’ The concern in her voice was now diluted by reproach.

  He sighed. When sufficiently recovered, he said, ‘I went into a local hostelry. Just to give you some peace and to allow the compound to work.’

  ‘I am most grateful.’ She couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm from her tone.

  ‘And I fell in with what I thought was an innocent game of cards.’ His voice became gradually calmer. ‘At first I thought it was a game of Pope Joan, but then I couldn’t see a board. So I thought, rummy then. They invited me to join them, and they seemed personable enough chaps, but imagine my surprise and consternation when I discovered the game in question was brag!’

  ‘I can indeed imagine!’

  ‘And you know my dear, they were rogues!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Indeed they were! They managed to lighten my pocket by a couple of guineas until I refused to have any more to do with them. And I foolishly accused them of cheating, upon which the villains threatened to thrash me.’

  ‘They stole your collar and necktie as compensation?’

  ‘They were vile beasts! Manhandled me into an alleyway where I had the damnedest time.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I gave a good account of myself, rest assured.’

  ‘Until you fled?’

  ‘Let’s just say I withdrew quickly,’ he corrected her with a smile.

  *

  It was the Cowburns’ neighbour who sent her son to find a policeman. She had been busy stirring their tea – oxtail stew and boiled potatoes, her Nat’s favourite – when she heard the shouting from next door. It wasn’t anything unusual: Billy and their Violet often exchanged words at some time during the evening, either because of her frequent tendency to turn a piece of steak into shoe leather, or her failure to produce a well-starched collar when it was turning-out time. The rows over the last months had grown more and more bitter.

  Ethel Grundy had some sympathy with Billy, whose wife had brought disgrace on the whole street by running off with yon soldier, but she didn’t much care for that young lass of his. All uppity now, she was. Somewhere along the way she must have come into a bob or two, to be able to afford some of those clothes she’d been swanking around in, unless Billy Cowburn had suddenly become a lot more generous. And that, she told those who would listen in Rosbottom’s shop at the end of the street, was about as likely as a pig winning the Derby. No, there was something about the way Violet sauntered down the street that said to Ethel: ‘That lass is headin’ for a bloody big fall. See if I’m wrong!’ Nevertheless, she hadn’t expected her dire prediction to come true so literally. The shouting had been followed by the heavy clomping of clogs and the bellowed imprecation that made even Ethel feel faint. Then she heard the front door fling open and saw a blurred shape move so quickly past her window that she couldn’t tell if it were man, woman or beast. Then she heard Violet scream out, ‘No you won’t! You leave him be, you big bastard!’, swiftly followed by Billy’s snarling growl of ‘Thee let go or I’ll brekk thi filthy little neck!’

  Evidently she hadn’t obeyed, for immediately after the warning came the sound of crashing and screaming and the splintering of wood and a series of dull, heavy thuds. Then, as Ethel managed to sidle up beside the curtain to take a peek, she saw Billy Cowburn come hurtling out of the house with a heavy poker in his hand.

  Once he had disappeared, she judged it safe to go outside. From next door she could hear a low whimpering, and a weak voice cry out, ‘Help me . . . help.’

  By this time others in the street had ventured forth. Several women, flanked by their children, now stood on their doorsteps, casting furtive glances in the direction of Billy’s vanished form. Ethel saw her son, Zander, appear from the alleyway across the street where doubtless he had been playing pitch and toss.

  ‘What’s goin’ on, mam?’ he asked. He had both hands in his pockets and she could hear the rattle of loose change.

  Ethel gave him a frown but said nothing. Instead, she leaned into the doorway of the Cowburn house and pushed the half-open door with her hand.

  Then she stood back with a gasp. There, lying at the bottom of the stairs, lay poor Violet Cowburn, her body twisted out of shape, with one arm splayed out at an impossible angle and her legs stretched obscenely apart and resting on the lower steps. Her face was half-turned towards the doorway and blood was pouring from a head wound. People gathered round, not daring to venture beyond the lintel. Yet despite the fading light, they could all make out the smear of blood that ran in a wavy line all the way down the wall beside the stairs.

  ‘Bloody swine’s pushed her downstairs!’ said one of them.

  ‘Always did have a temper on him,’ said another.

  ‘Not fair, though, takin’ it out on the lass.’

  ‘Should’ve been that wife of his.’

  A murmur of assent rippled through the group.

  Ethel stepped carefully over the threshold and leaned over the poor girl, stroking her bruised head gently. ‘I’ll send for the doctor, lass.’

  It
wasn’t clear if she’d heard. Violet’s eyes were flickering, occasionally showing only a sickly pale white as her consciousness began to fade.

  Ethel stood up and went quickly over to her son. ‘Alexander!’

  The boy, who was almost twelve, flinched at her public use of his given name.

  ‘I want you to go to Dr Hallard’s. Tell him Violet Cowburn’s fell downstairs.’

  He turned and set off on his errand, but he had only gone a few yards when she called him back, glancing around at the other women for their tacit compliance. ‘And then go find a bobby.’

  ‘Aw mam!’

  ‘You can tell him summat different.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can tell the bobby Violet Cowburn was pushed downstairs.’

  They all nodded in agreement. Some things couldn’t be swept under the carpet. Zander Grundy ran down the street, bumping past a small group of miners who were on their way home after their nightly livener. They exchanged curious glances at the unusual sight of their womenfolk standing in a cluster at the very time they should be laying out their steaming hot plates, and their quickened pace implied a desire for an explanation.

  *

  The longer he spent applying the make-up, the calmer he became. A small, gilt-framed portrait of David Garrick took pride of place on his dressing-table, positioned strategically so that, as he prepared himself before the looking-glass, he could catch the reflected half-smile from the father of the theatre and a glimmer in the eyes that would signify approval, support, and – he liked to think on occasion – admiration. The portrait went everywhere with Benjamin: it gave him a sense of continuity, of his place in the scheme of things.

  There was, as always, a professional tidiness about his dressing-room: to his right, within easy reach, lay the scissors and nail parers; to his left a compact side cabinet with three drawers, the top one of which was open to reveal a small row of diminutive gallipots filled with the colours he would be applying; beside that stood a squat tin containing crêpe hair for the various moustaches he would be sporting throughout the tour, and a tall wooden box that held the powder he always applied to his boots to indicate that he had travelled along dusty roads.

  He looked at himself in the mirror and gave a wan smile. He had a sudden longing for London, for the familiar sights and sounds of Cheyne Walk. And that longing quickly became tinged with a sharp stab of loneliness. For it was true that, even in the capital, he had very few people he could call his true friends, his closest companions. Certainly the theatre was his world, his raison d’être, and his circle of acquaintances had the stage as its nucleus. But it was a terrible thought that, if this world of splendid fakery were ever forbidden him, why, he would be nothing more than a soul in Limbo. Jonathan of course was his oldest and dearest friend, but even that lacked the frisson that he desired. Perhaps Herbert, dear Herbert . . .

  He smiled wanly once more, shook the thoughts away and resumed his preparations in the knowledge that others of the company, occupying the row of dressing-rooms down from his, were even now contemplating the approaching performance in different, highly personal ways.

  Jonathan Keele, for instance, whom he had given the part of Jaikes and who was in the next room to his, had recently begun suffering the most agonising stomach cramps before every performance even though he had been treading the boards for over fifty years, while Susan Coupe, who had been allocated a room across the corridor, made every effort to conceal her highly-strung disposition by lying down on a small chaise-longue with a cold flannel pressed to her forehead prior to make-up. Belle Greave, who was sharing lodgings with Miss Coupe, would be taking her nightly glass of brandy to ‘steady the ship’. James Shorton, next door to Jonathan, would stand before the looking-glass and recite the Tennyson poem ‘Sir Galahad’, extending the full range of his voice from whisper to thunderous indignation. Benjamin could hear the modulated tones of his nightly ritual shifting from tenderness to chivalrous defiance:

  ‘How sweet are looks that ladies bend

  On whom their favours fall!

  For them I battle till the end,

  To save from shame and thrall.’

  And of course there would be Herbert, dear, confident Herbert, full of the swagger of youth and beauty, who despite his sang-froid in all matters temporal, habitually had an attack of the shakes that only completely vanished once he had spoken his opening lines.

  Benjamin saw his eyes grow slightly moist as Herbert’s image presented itself. He too was across the corridor, next to Miss Coupe. Was it possible he would, even at this nervous moment, be thinking of Benjamin? Sometimes it was difficult to gauge what the boy was thinking, and although he returned tendernesses with professed ardour, Herbert rarely initiated them. And that disturbed him somewhat. Or was that merely his own insecurity once again rearing its head, as it always did? Why shouldn’t the boy be thinking of him at this very moment? It was a warm thought.

  From a distance, he could make out the muted sounds of an auditorium slowly filling. The thrum of conversation was underscored by the strains of the orchestra making their final, seemingly tuneless, preparations.

  Someone knocked at the door, breaking into Benjamin’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  No answer.

  He frowned in the looking-glass. ‘Who’s there?’

  Again, only the usual sounds of bustle, of backstage shufflings and muttered comments. He glanced up at Garrick’s portrait. Was the great man frowning also? Benjamin slowly pushed back his chair and walked over to the door, which he always kept locked. ‘Hello?’ he shouted through the flimsy wooden panelling. Even though there was no reply, he could have sworn there was someone standing no more than a few inches away on the other side. He cursed himself for his sudden attack of nerves and reached down to unlock the door.

  As he swung it open, he was more than a little surprised to see Jonathan Keele standing there, already fully made up and looking every inch the kindly old servant who sacrifices his peace of mind to stay with poor Nelly Denver and her children after her husband is falsely accused of murder.

  ‘Jonathan? This is most unusual.’ They were less than half an hour from curtain-up.

  The ageing actor gave a slight bow, already bearing himself in a subservient manner. There was, however, a pained expression on his face. Something told Benjamin that the cause was not solely his stomach cramps. ‘May I speak, Benjamin? It’s a rather delicate matter. I’ll be brief.’

  Benjamin, both curious and alarmed at the use of the word ‘delicate’, stood to one side and allowed his older colleague to enter.

  Keele still moved with some athleticism. Benjamin had often admired the lithe, casually confident way in which he glided through rehearsals, his ageing frame miraculously transforming itself into stooping and feeble old age when the part demanded. As Jaikes, he had to combine selfless devotion with the steely resolve of a faithful retainer, and he was indeed one of the great successes in the group, bestowing an avuncular gravitas upon the whole company that prompted the younger ones, perhaps missing the solace of home, to seek his advice and value his worldly wisdom. It was no more than his due that Benjamin had decided to grant his old colleague a benefit performance in the last-night show. But despite his long and distinguished career on the boards, an aura of melancholy hung around the fellow’s shoulders like a cloak.

  As he turned to face him, Benjamin wondered if Jonathan had been the recipient of some secret, some confession, which he now felt the need to share with the manager of the company. His first words therefore came as something of a shock.

  ‘I have never judged you, Benjamin. In all these years.’

  ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘We both know that the theatre is a broad-minded and indulgent world.’

  Indulgent. The adjective made him blink, a stone hurled into a tranquil pond. ‘I speak as a friend now, Benjamin. As an old friend. And as such I may be bold enough to take a few liberties. You understand?’

&
nbsp; ‘But of course.’

  Keele nodded. ‘You are . . . fond . . . of Herbert.’

  It was a statement, not a question. The old man’s eyes contained no censure, Benjamin was relieved to notice.

  ‘I am. He is a fine young man. And one day he will be the finest of actors.’

  A sad shake of the head. ‘Oh I think he has already become that.’

  From beyond the door, people were now rushing along the corridor from the communal dressing-rooms, the close swish of material quickly followed by muttered curses, nervous laughter, louder than usual greetings.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Jonathan Keele gave a heavy sigh, the very facsimile of the sound he made on stage when the loyal servant Jaikes refuses point-blank to leave poor Nelly Denver to her poverty-stricken fate. ‘You must be very careful with that young man.’

  ‘Why?’ He coughed to clear his throat. The question had slipped out like a hiccup, hoarse and involuntary.

  ‘Let’s just say he may not fully appreciate the meaning of the word “fidelity”.’

  The gentle way he spoke made Benjamin feel quite weak. He was also more than a little disturbed to hear him articulate some of what had earlier been on his mind. ‘Do you speak with knowledge, Jonathan, or through mere suspicion? I ask again. Do you speak with suspicion only?’

  A reluctant and barely susceptible nod gave him the straw to cling to.

  ‘Benjamin, I saw him in earnest conversation with an older man.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Grill Rooms here in town.’

  ‘Who was this . . . person?’

  ‘I have no idea. But it was the way Herbert continually looked around . . . the way one does when the conversation is . . . sensitive.’

  Benjamin responded with a forced smile. ‘There could be any number of reasons why Herbert should be with this man.’

  ‘Is there any reason why Herbert should give this man money?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw him hand something over. Secretly. It looked like money.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  Immediately Benjamin walked over to his table to complete his make-up. It was more a gesture of despair, in case the old actor should decide to speculate on the reasons for such a deed.