Death at the Beggar's Opera (11 page)

‘Stop thinking that Coralie’s a liar,’ he told himself firmly. ‘She might well be speaking the truth.’

His reflection pulled a sardonic face. ‘She had her arm round him, didn’t she?’

‘Perhaps it was for a reason.’

‘Are you talking to yourself?’ called Sir Gabriel, sweeping past the door in his nightrail and turban, a sight to inspire fearful admiration in the minds of all who beheld it.

‘Of course,’ John replied promptly. ‘I am such a fine conversationalist I cannot resist. But tell me seriously, should I leave my shop unopened today or have you found someone to deputise for me?’

‘I have succeeded superbly, my dear. Come and join me for breakfast and I shall tell you all about it.’

As always Sir Gabriel ate lightly, a connoisseur in all things, but John, much to his own surprise, suddenly found himself excessively hungry and consumed large amounts of ham and eggs and pickled herring, just as if he were a hearty country squire.

‘I observe that the pressure of finding a murderer has not diminished your appetite in any way,’ said John’s father, with a certain dry amusement.

‘On the contrary, after a really bad night I now feel half starved.’

‘You did not sleep well?’

‘No, I kept thinking about Mrs Harcross and her mysterious missing children.’

‘Surely not by the handsome Jasper?’

‘No, she was married before. In fact she was Mrs Egleton, the celebrated actress.’

‘Really? How extraordinary! I remember her as Lucy Lockit in the original production of
The Beggar’s Opera
.’

‘Even more extraordinary is the power her second husband exerted over her, a power which led her to leave the stage and disappear into obscurity.’

And John described in detail all that the former actress had given up for Jasper Harcross, and the outrageous situations to which she had been forced to turn a blind eye.

‘He sounds highly unpleasant to me,’ Sir Gabriel commented, spreading a delicate helping of marmalade onto a thin slice of toast.

‘He certainly seems to have done his share of wrecking other people’s lives.’

‘And you say his widow’s children have vanished off the face of the earth?’

‘Apparently so.’

John’s father looked thoughtful. ‘But supposing they are near at hand? Supposing they tracked Jasper Harcross down and are somewhere close by?’

‘Waiting to wreak revenge? But surely if he had seen them he would have recognised them at once.’

‘From what you say I doubt he ever met them. All they would need to do was change their names and their true identities would remain hidden.’

John sighed. ‘Father, do not complicate the issue further. Everyone had a motive for killing the man, or so it seems to me. He was a ruthless philanderer and a selfish cheat. His destroyer could be anybody.’

Sir Gabriel nodded. ‘You are quite right about that, of course. Still, missing children are always fascinating. How old would they be by now?’

‘She said that the boy was born in the year of her marriage, which was 1723. And she was carrying the girl when she played the part of Lucy. That was a real pregnancy you were looking at.’

‘You astonish me!’ Sir Gabriel stared at the ceiling. ‘Now, that would make the boy thirty or thereabouts, and the girl twenty-six, though obviously they don’t have to tell the truth about their ages.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That if the Egletons wished to conceal who they really were they could say they were any age, provided their looks did not belie them.’

Coralie immediately came into John’s mind and he stopped with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth.

‘You look troubled. Why?’ asked his father.

‘Because everything is so complex. What with spurned wives and mistresses, jealous husbands and lovers, and now runaway children. It is like weaving one’s way though a maze.’

‘But there’s the challenge,’ said Sir Gabriel, ‘and that is what you enjoy. Now to other things. I have found you an apprentice lad in the last year of his studies. His Master said he is a fine pupil and in exchange for a remuneration, some of which the lad himself will get, he is quite happy to release him on alternate days, indeed at any time that you might need him. His name is Edward Holby, known as Ned, and he will be here within the hour to get the keys of the shop.’

‘You shouldn’t have spent your money,’ said John contritely. ‘I shall ask Mr Fielding if he will reimburse you.’

‘The Public Office is underfunded enough. Let this be my small way of making a contribution.’

‘I shall mention it to him all the same.’

‘You must do as you think best,’ answered his father, and poured himself another cup of coffee from the delicate silver Gurnsey pot which the footman had thoughtfully placed upon the table.

An hour later, John was on his way to Drury Lane theatre, walking through Leicester Fields, past the painter William Hogarth’s home, with the sign of The Golden Head hanging outside the door, and steadfastly ignoring the house of ill-repute which stood discreetly hidden amongst the trees. From there the Apothecary cut through Bear Street, named after some wretched performing animal, then turned left into Castle Street, through the narrow confines of Newport Street, emerging in Long Acre, from where he made his way to Drury Lane. Going straight to the stage door, John stated the fact that he was on Mr Fielding’s business and, feeling somewhat self-important, was granted admittance and directed towards the stage. Here, any idea of glory vanished, however, for all was uproar and not a solitary soul glanced in his direction.

It seemed that the meeting to decide the future of
The Beggar’s Opera
had come down against continuing with the production, for a frantic rehearsal for
Love’s Last Shift
, a sentimental and mawkish play by Colley Cibber, a former manager of Drury Lane, was in progress. Costumes which had obviously been hanging up for some while were being altered on the actresses even while they rehearsed, and David Garrick was using his magnificent voice to order everybody about, simultaneously addressing three different sets of people. John received the strong impression that the play had been in storage, as it were, and had hastily been brought out to fill the gap. Almost reluctantly, his eyes were drawn to Coralie who this morning looked so utterly charming, a little seamstress at her feet turning up the hem of her dress, that John felt that strange leap of his heart which meant he was becoming sentimentally attached.

Seeing him, she called out, ‘Good morning, Mr Rawlings,’ and at that Dick Weatherby, gallantly in charge of all those on stage, left his crew of scenery makers and picked his path through pots of paint to the Apothecary’s side.

‘Mr Jago’s been and gone,’ he informed the new arrival. ‘He said to tell you that he had made a list.’

John grinned crookedly at the news. ‘Excellent. Now where am I to do the interviewing?’

‘In the Green Room. Everyone’s here that you need to see, but as some of them are involved in the rehearsal Mr Garrick is not best pleased.’

‘I am sure that he regards the whole affair as a thorough nuisance.’

Dick smiled ruefully. ‘He certainly does. I think you had better talk to me last when, with any luck, the rehearsal will be over and his temper less frayed.’

‘I’ll do that gladly. Now, who’s to be first?’

‘I’d be obliged if you could see Mrs Martin. She’s walking round looking as if she’s dined on poison, and the sooner she leaves, the better.’

‘Is it really true that she once had a liaison with Jasper Harcross?’

‘About twelve years ago, yes, so it’s said.’

‘Was she as big then?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t working at Drury Lane at the time. I am only repeating hearsay, I’m afraid.’

‘Never the less, it is very interesting,’ John answered, as he struggled across the cluttered acting area and went into the room that Dick had pointed out, only to find that the subject of their recent conversation had arrived in advance of him.

‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Martin frostily, and the look in her pale blue eyes could quite easily have frozen the Apothecary into a solid block of ice.

He bowed politely. ‘Madam, please forgive me for keeping you waiting.’

‘I find the whole thing extremely inconvenient, your lateness included,’ she replied. ‘I have already given an account of myself to Mr Fielding and I fail to see what good can be achieved by going over it again.’

‘Then let me ask you some different questions,’ John answered, as he took his seat behind the table that he was to use as a desk. ‘First, tell me about your relationship with the late Mr Harcross. It was one of great friendship, was it not?’

‘Well …’

He decided to be ruthlessly forthright. ‘Madam, I was backstage on the night of the murder and saw for myself the rapport between you. It seemed to me that you treated him with motherly affection. Yet it has been said to me that your fondness for Mr Harcross replaced something much stronger, in other words you and he were at one stage in your lives, lovers.’

‘How dare you,’ she answered, heaving herself to her feet.

‘I dare because I believe what I say to be accurate. Mrs Martin, knowing that you will have to answer for yourself at the Public Office if you lie to me, I ask you to tell the truth. Were you and Jasper Harcross intimate?’

She burst into spectacular and noisy tears. ‘Yes, yes,’ she sobbed, ‘and I never stopped loving him, never. It was simply that I could not hold onto him without agreeing to become merely a friend. He would have abandoned me long ago if I had refused.’

‘What about your husband, did he know?’ John asked directly.

Mrs Martin poured tears afresh. ‘Indeed he did, pour innocent soul. Oh, what a life I have led that man. I tremble to think of it. Strangely, he found out when it was all over, after …’ She stopped abruptly and blew her nose. ‘Anyway, he challenged me with infidelity and I, like a fool, confessed, burdening him with my guilt.’

‘But as you are still together I presume he forgave you?’

The actress let out a sob that bounded against the walls of the room. ‘The tragedy of it is that he still loves me, with all his heart and soul. In my husband’s eyes I am a goddess.’

John had enormous difficulty in suppressing a smile. ‘How very touching.’

Mrs Martin shot him a suspicious glare. ‘And I love him too. It is simply that Jasper and I found a rare fulfilment which very few couples experience.’

Even though the remark was horribly similar to the words spoken by Mrs Harcross, this statement was said archly, in a revoltingly cloying manner, almost like a boast. John found an expression of distaste crossing his features.

‘Yet even though you saw other, younger, women take your place, you never felt any hatred towards the victim?’

‘Indeed not. I was his mother confessor, there to soothe his brow whenever he needed me.’

‘Did you know that Jasper was married and that there was a lady in Kensington who also soothed that very brow?’

Mrs Martin shot him a look of such pure astonishment that if it were feigned it could only mean she was one of the greatest actresses in the world. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said that he was married and had been for many years, since he was twenty, in fact.’

She rose to her feet again. ‘Is this true?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Martin exploded. ‘Oh the deceiving wretch! How dare he? Why, he deserves to die.’

‘He has,’ John answered drily. ‘Had you forgotten?’

Looking much chastened, Mrs Martin wept once more. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying. You must forgive me.’

The Apothecary shook his head. ‘You are not the first to make such a statement. It seems to me that Jasper Harcross caused havoc wherever he went. You can believe that I feel a certain sympathy for all his ladies. So, remembering that, is there anything further you would like to tell me?’

She hesitated, right on the brink of confession, and John could see the thoughts going through her eyes like swimmers in a lake.

‘Well?’

Caution must have won, for Mrs Martin lowered her lids and said, ‘No, there’s nothing.’

‘Then, for the sake of formality, could you repeat what you have already told Mr Fielding, namely where you were on the night before the murder.’

‘I was at home with my husband. We left the dress rehearsal together and returned to our house by hackney. We live in Portugal Street, overlooking St Clement’s Churchyard. We spent the rest of the night there and did not go out again until morning.’

It sounded plausible enough and John wondered why Mr Fielding had doubts about the story.

‘I see. Well, thank you for being so honest with me.’ The Apothecary stood up, his face adopting a look of bewildered sincerity. ‘Mrs Martin, you are a woman of the world. Who do you think is responsible for this crime?’

She drew in her breath gustily. ‘It could be anyone. Probably this wife of his that nobody knew about.’

‘Quite so,’ answered John, aware that he was going to get no further with that particular ploy. ‘Now, if you would be kind enough to ask your husband to step this way.’

Mrs Martin appeared to swell, an awesome sight. ‘You are not to upset him, d’ye hear? He has had enough to bear, poor being. When he found out about myself and Jasper I thought his heart would break. He sobbed clean through one night. Why, it causes me to weep at the very memory.’ And she did, all over again, her bosom heaving with emotion.

‘Pray calm yourself,’ said John hastily, going to her, salts at the ready.

‘Calm?’ she repeated indignantly. ‘I doubt you and those of your stamp know the meaning of the word!’ And with that she swept from the room, trembling like a blancmanger.

The Apothecary sank back into his seat, dabbing his brow with his handkerchief, and was thus caught unawares as Mr Martin, seemingly the total antithesis of his wife in every way imaginable, came silently through the door and stood hovering.

‘Mr Rawlings?’ the newcomer enquired nervously.

‘Please be seated,’ John answered, recovering himself. He put on his beaming countenance. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Sir. I cannot tell you how much I admire your musicianship.’