Death at the Beggar's Opera (20 page)

‘The crime committed tonight,’ the Magistrate was saying, ‘would sicken the heart of any who saw it. A defenceless boy was set upon, strung up on a gallows and left to die.’

‘Why in Gawd’s name?’ asked one of the ruffians.

‘Well, it may be that the child had inadvertently stumbled across the murderer of Jasper Harcross. There seems to be no other motive that makes any sense.’ John Fielding took a mouthful from his coffee cup. ‘Gentlemen, I cannot impress upon you too strongly the urgency of finding this killer.’

A peacher spoke up. ‘Any whisper whether ’tis cove or dell, Beak?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Can’t be dell, sure, as would kill a kinchen,’ said another.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ answered a third. ‘I’d soon as face a rum customer as I would a spiteful blower.’

It was difficult to follow but this was cant, the talk of the streets, and John listened intently.

‘Be that as it may,’ Mr Fielding said forcefully. ‘We might yet be looking for two killers. Let us say, for the sake of argument, a jealous woman does away with Harcross, a madman with a grudge slays the boy.’

‘Then are they working together, these two?’

‘On the face of it, no. But who knows in a situation as dark as this one?’

‘So what’s the plan, Sir?’ asked the Apothecary.

‘This. Tomorrow, Jago and I will interview everyone connected with that blighted theatre. It is going to be a monstrous task, we can all be sure of it. That is why, Mr Rawlings, when you have returned from Harcross’s funeral, which I want you to observe closely then faithfully report back on to me, I would like you to come to Drury Lane. The young and the nervous I shall leave for you to question. You have such a way with them.’

There was a wave of laughter from the rest of the company.

‘Then, over the next few days, I shall infiltrate our informers amongst the stage staff.’

‘Won’t they be noticed?’

‘Not if we arrange for several people to leave, giving as their excuse the fact that Drury Lane is an unlucky place.’

‘Neat, Beak, neat!’ exclaimed a gruff voice.

‘Furthermore, I have another little plan, but that is not for public consumption. Now, my friends …’ He indicated the peachers by waving his hand in the direction of their voices, perfectly accurately, ‘… there’s a glass of good brandy waiting for you downstairs. Drink it down and be on your way. We will contact you within the next few days. Meanwhile, stay alert. There’s a good reward for the man who nabs this cull and gets him to Tyburn Tree.’

The overwhelming stink in the room diminished as the men trooped downstairs and Joe Jago threw open the windows, ignoring the cold which came just before dawning. Despite the freezing air, Samuel slumbered on, oblivious to all. Then faintly, from upstairs, came the first sound of the servants stirring to get the house prepared for the day.

‘A brandy to warm us all,’ said Mr Fielding decisively. ‘Rudge, would you be so good as to pass the decanter and glasses.’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

‘And then, my good fellows, I will outline to you the little game I intend to play with our lethal friend.’

The village of Kensington on a cold winter’s morning and a stark black cortege winding its way to the church. Hardly the most enlivening sight in the world, John thought dismally as he stepped out of the hackney, doffed his hat as a mark of respect to the departed, and looked about him. As far as the eye could see lay frost covered fields and white roofed houses. The blast of Arctic air that Joe Jago had let into the house in Bow Street to dispel the odour of the peachers had heralded a bitter day to come. And now the icy weather had the land in its grip.

Behind the glass-sided hearse, drawn by black plumed horses, walked one solitary mourner, obviously frozen to the marrow. It would seem that the former Mrs Egleton had come alone to see her murdered husband laid in the earth.

As she walked, a stark, black, veiled figure, she kept her head up and her eyes ahead, looking neither to right nor left but only at the black coffin in its glass carriage weaving a slow and solemn way to the distant church, in the doorway of which the minister already stood, Bible in hand, intoning to himself beneath the sombre sound of a single tolling bell. And then Mrs Harcross slipped, her steadfast gaze not taking account of the frosty ground beneath her feet, and fell onto the rime, as dark as a wounded rook against the white.

A black carriage had been drawn up just beyond the church’s gate, a carriage of which John had taken little notice, automatically presuming that another mourner was awaiting the arrival of the cortege. But now its door opened smartly and a postillion ran round to lower the steps for the occupant, who appeared clad in black, his cloak lined with sumptuous jet velvet, a silver button flashing a brilliant, the only point of light in the entire ensemble.

‘Father!’ John muttered to himself. ‘I might have guessed.’

Moving lithely, Sir Gabriel, hardly seeming to need the ebony cane which today was serving as his great stick, hastened towards the unhappy woman attempting to scramble up as best she could and hurting herself in the effort.

‘Madam, allow me,’ he said, leaning over and raising her to her feet. And then he bowed and offered her his arm, falling into step beside her, so that the funeral procession now consisted of two.

Strangely moved by these solitary figures paying their last respects to a man who obviously did not deserve their pity but, for all that, had answered for his faults with his life, John took his cue from his father and went to walk behind them. At this, a milkmaid, delivering her frozen produce, blue with cold, put down her yoke and buckets and joined the procession. A farmer’s boy removed his cap and did likewise. Then came a carter, abandoning his cart as he read the situation. Doors opened, women with shawls and bonnets appeared. And suddenly it seemed as if the entire village of Kensington had come to support the lonely black figure, making its way to church. As Mrs Harcross passed through the lych gate, Sir Gabriel standing back to allow her to go first, a solid mass of citizens went through behind her, united in their desire to help the pathetic creature who had lived in their midst but had been left to face scandal alone.

Standing near the back, the best vantage point of all, John looked round the church. Mrs Harcross sat in the front pew, Sir Gabriel beside her, a place to which she had obviously invited him, as he would have been far too polite to push in. There was an empty row behind her, clearly left out of courtesy, and then came the villagers in a block. There was nobody from the theatre present, not even David Garrick, but then, John remembered, absolutely all of them would be closeted in Drury Lane at this exact moment so they had very little choice in the matter. And it was then that his eye was caught by another figure which had slipped in quietly behind the mourners and now sat in the pew nearest to the door, almost directly behind him.

Whoever she was, she had positioned herself cleverly, because short of turning round and frankly staring, John had very little opportunity to observe her. And then came the moment for a hymn. Pretending that he had no book, the Apothecary circled and took one from the pew at his back. In those few seconds he saw that the cloaked stranger was female and heavily veiled as if in deepest mourning. A memory of something triggered in his brain but refused to come to the fore, and John found himself singing lustily yet not really concentrating on a word he was uttering. Then, with the excuse that the hymn had finished, he turned again to replace the book and saw that the mourner had gone. Determined not to lose sight of her, the Apothecary quietly rose from his place and went outside.

Because of the intense cold, plumes of icy air were rising amongst the graves, curling round the headstones in an eerie, unearthly manner. If ever a place looked haunted and desolate, it was this one and John shivered violently, not envying Jasper Harcross his final resting place. And then he saw the woman again, weaving her way down the path and staring from side to side, as if she were looking for one grave in particular. Not knowing whether to call out or remain silent, John watched, wishing he could remember what it was about her that seemed familiar.

The woman paused, clearly having seen what she was looking for, and the Apothecary realised with a thrill of horror that it was the freshly dug plot awaiting Jasper. As she hurried towards it he began to move quietly after her but the woman must have heard his approach for all his stealth, for she quickly threw something into the grave’s yawning mouth, then sped away, almost running, to the far gate at the end of the churchyard which led out to the open fields.

John hovered, not certain whether to go after her at full chase, or to look into the grave and see what it was she had hurled in. Eventually he chose the latter course and was glad he had done so. A waxen image lay on the frozen earth, a pin through its breast, its garb and hair indicating that it was meant to be a woman. Horrified, he knelt beside the yawning chasm and, leaning down, managed to retrieve the hideous puppet from the eager abyss by hooking it up on the knob of his cane. Just as he had suspected, closer inspection showed that it was a crude representation of Mrs Harcross herself. The Apothecary just had sufficient time to conceal it in his pocket as the funeral party came out of church. Not wishing to be discovered kneeling by a grave, John made his way to the far gate and stared out over the fields.

There was no sign of the woman who had obviously doubled back along the path leading round the churchyard, then on into the village street where she could easily disappear into her own carriage, or even onto the stagecoach itself. Sighing with annoyance, the Apothecary stood apart while the interment took place, then quietly went to join his father as he walked away from the graveside.

‘Mrs Harcross has prepared a wake. She thought the theatrical profession might honour her husband, you see,’ Sir Gabriel informed him.

‘Did you explain to her?’

‘Yes, I told her there had been another accident at Drury Lane last night and that all concerned were in the theatre with John Fielding. Further, I lied and said that I was here representing David Garrick. The poor woman would have been mortified otherwise.’

‘Father, really!’

‘I had no choice.
Honi soit qui mal y pense
.’

‘And do you expect me to say I am here representing Mr Fielding?’

‘Why not? You are, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but as an observer, not a mourner.’

‘What difference does that make? You will come to the house, won’t you?’

‘Yes. I need to speak to Mrs Harcross, though this may not be a suitable moment, of course.’

‘What has happened?’

John lowered his voice. ‘This was thrown into the grave by a strange woman who sat in the back of the church for a while. It is a witchcraft symbol, meant to represent Jasper’s widow.’

‘What is its significance?’

‘That Mrs Harcross will follow her husband into the churchyard within a year, I imagine.’

‘God’s Holy life! Was it the murderer you saw, then?’

The Apothecary shrugged helplessly. ‘That’s the infuriating part of this case. I simply don’t know. Last night, after I left you, Mr Fielding called together all his Runners and peachers – informers – and held what amounted to a council of war. Out of it came the fact that nobody knows whether the killer is a man or a woman or two people working together, or indeed, separately.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of despair.

‘Or whether the targets are randomly picked or whether there is a pattern to it,’ Sir Gabriel added for good measure.

‘Oh, there’s a pattern all right,’ John answered austerely. ‘Mr Fielding thinks that sad Will Swithin confided in the wrong person. But I’m not so sure. Have you heard of the Italian word
vendetta
?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then that is what I think this is.’

‘How very disturbing.’ Sir Gabriel’s voice changed entirely as Mrs Harcross, who had been walking in front of them with the priest, suddenly drew to a halt and turned. ‘Your servant, Ma’am.’

‘Ah, Sir Gabriel, my home is just over there …’ She caught sight of John and paused. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure …’ And then she recognised him. ‘But surely this young man is attached to the Public Office? He visited me in the company of John Fielding.’

‘Whom I represent today, Madam.’ John bowed. ‘He asked me to convey to you his most sincere apologies and to explain that there has been a further development which precludes him from being present.’ He bowed again.

Behind him he heard Sir Gabriel mutter, ‘John, really!’ and grimaced very slightly.

Mrs Harcross flushed. ‘Oh, thank you. It was kind of him to send you. I suppose I should invite you into the house to partake of refreshment.’

‘I can vouch for his good character, Madam,’ said Sir Gabriel solemnly. ‘He is my son.’

‘Oh, dear me. How confusing everything is. Then please to step inside. There will be quite a few people at the wake because I have invited the village folk who were kind enough to support me. But that is of no consequence. I had made provision for quite a few. You see, I had rather hoped that …’

John interrupted. ‘Madam, please don’t be disappointed. Try to see the lack of your fellow actors in context. First of all, your whereabouts, indeed the very fact of your existence, are not known to many. Secondly, the casts of
The Beggar’s Opera
and the
Merchant of Venice
are acting under instruction from the Public Office. They are being questioned today about a particularly revolting murder that took place at Drury Lane last night. I think my father mentioned it to you.’

She looked nervous. ‘He did and I shudder to think about it. But you are right, of course. The wish was father to the thought. Jasper kept me so well hidden during his lifetime he could hardly expect me to be attended by his colleagues in death.’

‘I’m afraid that that is very true.’ John turned his cane in his hand. ‘Mrs Harcross, would it be possible for me to speak to you in confidence a moment?’

‘In my home do you mean?’