Death of a Radical (32 page)

“Ah, Mr. Jefferies!” he said.

“Incapacitated.” With a quick movement of his hand, Greenwood mimed tipping a cup to his lips. “Frequently under the necessity of eating anchovy toasts behind the scenes,” he mouthed in comic parody of a prim old maid.

Jarrett grinned. “To alleviate the fumes of the liquor … ? What a pity. He is a fine comic.”

“When he turns up,” Greenwood replied sourly. Jarrett sensed a long-running dispute.

“Mr. Jefferies is unreliable?”

Greenwood grimaced.

“But you can't deny his talent, Dick,” protested Sugden. “He's a very fine clown, even in his cups. His tricks are excellently comic. That way he has of eating cabbage! It rivals Bullock's fabled mode of devouring asparagus. He'll try anything to amuse an audience, even sleight of hand. He pulls them in better than any clown I have met with …” Mr. Sugden's attention shifted. He took a step back as if struck by a sudden thought. “Bess says you've a singing voice.” His bright black eyes swept Jarrett head to toe. “And a fine figure too, if I may be so bold. Just the right degree of military bearing. A very Captain Absolute! And I dare to think, a beguiling Macheath. I don't suppose … ?” Jarrett saw Mr. Greenwood stiffen.

“No,” he replied firmly. “No. I thank you, Mr. Sugden, but that is not my line.”

“Pity,” said the manager without resentment. “We could do with a novelty.”

Jarrett crossed over to the pile of scenery and props. He lifted the edge of a heavy roll of canvas. It depicted a sand-colored building with Roman pillars. His new position gave him a partial side view of the hamper and the figures grouped around it. He wondered why the screen was deployed in the middle of the stage rather than folded ready for transport like the rest. He felt the eyes of the cast upon him. He took a step toward the back of the stage. His foot disturbed an oversized ring of jailer's keys lying on the floor. Their iron clank resounded up to the rafters of the barn. In a swift movement, Mrs. Sugden stood up with a rustle of skirts. Mr. Sugden's mouth hung half open a moment.

“You are leaving us already?” Jarrett asked idly.

“Ah! Sadly, yes!” The manager darted over to him. “Last night there was not a single person in the boxes! This business of the murder of that young man …” He slipped a hand under Jarrett's elbow, gently steering him back to the others. “Such a tragedy. Dreadful,” he chattered. “And of course these soldiers everywhere. It's not good for business. The
joie de vivre
of the fairs is quite gone. And what with Mr. Jefferies having declared his intention to leave us, we plan to head for Manchester. I have a business acquaintance there who will find us a stage.”

“And where will Mr. Jefferies go?” inquired Jarrett.

“He's had a better offer.” Lucy—for he could not help thinking of Mrs. Sugden in that part—had a trick of
making the simplest sentence sound suggestive. “He has high ambitions.” The actress laughed, displaying her plump bosom before him in a preening movement.

“He's played Astley's, in London, you know,” contributed Mrs. Monk.

“In the old days, when he could hold his liquor,” murmured Greenwood.

“Perhaps you can help me with a wager,” said Jarrett. “The other night, while we were watching your opera, I bet my friend that Jefferies was a Lancastrian. He thought him a Yorkshireman but I think I have the better ear.”

“Jefferies?” Sugden looked puzzled. “Can't say I know where he was born.” He appealed to his companions.

“Liverpool,” Mrs. Monk frowned thoughtfully. “Yes. He was born in Liverpool; he once told me a story about his boyhood there.”

“So do you win your wager, Mr. Jarrett?” asked Mrs. Sugden in her arch way.

“Perhaps.” Jarrett changed the subject. “Have you been together long? As a company I mean.”

“Our little family?” Sugden surveyed his cast with the air of a complacent papa. “We've been together near three years now.” The others nodded and murmured in agreement. “I hesitate to boast, but I don't believe the company has changed a member of it for more than a twelve-month. We are a happy band.”

“Except for Jefferies of course,” said Greenwood.

“Is he a recent addition?”

“He played a season with us a couple of years ago. He
met us again here when we arrived for the fairs. We've been up in Newcastle,” the manager replied.

“A successful engagement?”

“Three weeks of decent houses.”

“So Mr. Jefferies rejoined you only for this engagement?” asked Jarrett curiously.

“He was to stay with us for a northern tour, but he has changed his mind.” Mr. Sugden cast a quick glance at Greenwood. His tone turned brisk. “So what can we do for you, Mr. Jarrett? In truth, we were hoping to make a last sally before the fairs are entirely packed up. I spotted a smart jacket with military togs on a second-hand stall. A perfect fit for a lady. The theatrical wardrobe, you know, it must be kept up.”
It's now or never,
thought Jarrett to himself. He took the plunge.

“The night my cousin was found murdered,” he began, “your company was playing
The Beggar's Opera.”
It was as if a steel rope circled those present and he had tightened it.

“Of course, of course,” murmured Mr. Sugden.

“The performance, as I recall, ended at eleven o'clock, or thereabouts. I was wondering, what did your people do after that?”

“Do?” asked Sugden airily.

“Did you go to your beds?”

“Well, no.” The manager tucked his thumbs in his waistcoat. He seemed to plump up, like a bird under threat. “It may seem odd to those not familiar with our profession but an actor leaves the stage exhilarated,” he
expounded. “Even when exhausted by giving one's all, sleep does not beckon directly.” Out of the corner of his eye Jarrett saw Mrs. Sugden and Greenwood exchange a glance, half impatient, half indulgent. “On Thursday night, however,” continued the manager, oblivious, “our generous patron treated us to a dinner.”

“Justice Raistrick? A dinner?”

“Here. At the Queen's Head, in Mr. Bedlington's assembly room.”

“You were all present?”

“The entire company: every one of us down to the call boy.” They all nodded in unison.

“We keep ourselves pretty close in towns like this,” Dick Greenwood explained. “You can never be sure of your reception in out-of-the-way places. You cannot count on a welcome from the natives. If you happen to stray into the wrong tavern there's always the danger of someone picking a fight. And it detracts from the art, you know, if Romeo must make love with a black eye.”

“So Justice Raistrick entertained you. Did he stay long?”

“Quite late.”

“And when did these festivities end?”

“Oh the early hours,” Mr. Sugden replied off-handedly. “I seem to remember the church tower striking three as we made our way to our beds. Is that not right, my dearest?”

“Sugden always likes to be the last one up,” returned his heart's delight, dimpling.

“And you?” Jarrett asked Greenwood.

“Will and I carried Jefferies to his room. He was insensible.”

“Around the same time?” Greenwood shrugged.

“Maybe quarter of an hour earlier. I had drunk quite liberally myself.”

“Can anyone outside your company confirm this?”

“Well, there was Jo …” Will Vaughan spoke up from the floor. The others started as if they had forgotten him.

“Jo?” demanded Jarrett.

“A Yorkshire youth,” Mr. Sugden waxed sentimental, “another young spark who rubbed against the flats and smelt the lamps and lost his heart,” he declared, tapping his breast in the region of his heart with blunt, white fingers.

“To our Bess, more like …” murmured Greenwood. Mrs. Sugden flashed him a warning look.

“He spent the night in the wings,” continued Mr. Sugden, ignoring the interruption. “Do you remember his name, my love?”

“Jonas Farr,” replied Mrs. Sugden serenely.

“I beg your pardon?” exclaimed Jarrett.

“A moth gathered to Miss Tallentyre's flame.” Greenwood's manner was playful. He seemed to be teasing someone. Jarrett thought of the last time he had laid eyes on Bess, Thursday night at the play; the night Grub died. He saw himself attempting to keep his countenance while she postured and ogled him an arm's breadth away, making a laughing stock of them both. Mrs. Monk shifted her weight and the wicker hamper creaked in protest.

“This Yorkshireman, Farr—he was with you during the whole performance?” Jarrett pressed.

“Watched from the wings,” repeated the manager, slipping him a curious look. “Was quite helpful, in fact. Lockit's shoe sprang a seam and he made an excellent repair during one of my exits,” he reminisced, speaking of his part as if the character were a separate entity.

“And Farr remained in attendance throughout the dinner afterward? What time did he leave?” The actors looked at one another.

“Can't say I noticed,” responded Sugden. “I was entertaining the Justice.”

“And when did the magistrate leave?”

“About midnight.”

“A disappointed man,” chuckled Greenwood. Mrs. Sugden glared at him. Greenwood smiled back. “Like many others, he had hopes of our leading lady,” he explained jauntily.

Bess was playing hard to get, was she? So Raistrick had not bedded her yet. At least there was some satisfaction in that.

“And when did Jonas Farr leave?” Jarrett asked. He had a flash of memory. Miss Lippett's servant turning up his face as Bess made her entrance on the gallery in the yard outside. Mischief hitched up the corners of Greenwood's mouth and eyes.

“We-ell,” he began.

“Dick Greenwood!” Bess's voice rang out. “That's more than enough from you!” The screen wobbled and folded
back upon itself. Her cheeks flushed and arms akimbo, Mr. Sugden's leading lady confronted her mischievous Macheath. Her eyes slid to Jarrett. She bit her lip.

“La!” she exclaimed, with an exaggerated gesture, as if they were playing a scene from some farce. “We are discovered!”

“Now that's what I call an entrance,” murmured Dick Greenwood.

Jarrett was staring at the figure that stood a step behind her: a medium-sized young man, dressed in a low-crowned hat and a long-waisted coat.

“Mr. Jarrett,” Miss Lippett's manservant greeted him.

“Mr. Farr. I've been looking for you.”

Jarrett sought some privacy at the back of the barn by the door, where Duffin joined them. Bess tucked her hand under Jonas's arm and would not be separated from him. The rest of the company, left behind on the stage, clustered, with their backs turned, around the hamper murmuring to one another. Farr glanced at the woman at his side now and then; a mild astonishment glossed his face, like a man in a dream he did not care to wake up from.

“The magistrate, Colonel Ison, is looking for you, Mr. Farr,” Jarrett said. His breath misted in the cold air between them.

“Looking to arrest me. I know it, Mr. Jarrett. But you must believe me: I am no murderer.”

“Of course he's not! He never left this inn that night.”
Bess tossed her copper curls over her shoulder, holding Jarrett's eye defiantly. He noticed her squeeze Farr's arm. “He was with me. All night.”

“All night,” echoed Jarrett. Bess always had had a tender spot for lost dogs.

“All night,” she repeated defiantly. He turned back to Farr.

“Your mistress left the evening's entertainment early. She had a headache. She did not go to the play but returned home by Quarry Fell. Surely you escorted her?”

“Miss Lippett dismissed me,” he said with an uneasy glance at Bess. “She'd hired a coach. She gave me permission to stay at the play.”

“You are a playgoer?” Jarrett's manner was skeptical.

“When I can, sir.”

“I did not see you.”

“And yet I was there. They can all vouch for me.” He indicated the actors huddled on the stage.

“And will,” stated Bess violently. Farr flicked a startled look at her then back to Jarrett. “What is it, Captain Fred?” Bess's voice was sugar sweet. “After all we've been to one another, don't you trust my word?”

“Stay out of this, Bess. This is not one of your games,” Jarrett said low. He had rolled naked with this woman. How could he ever have been so unguarded? She heard the iron in his voice. Her jaw tensed, almost as if she was going to spit at him, then she subsided.

Farr was staring down at the hat he held in his hands. It was of good quality, with a fine glossy nap. It had been
well cared for although the shape was a bygone fashion. The cut of the coat, too, was out of style but well made. Jarrett glanced at Duffin.

“These are the clothes the man wore?”

“Aye,” replied the poacher.

“So how do you explain that?” Jarrett asked Farr. “Mr. Duffin here saw a man on Quarry Fell that night not far from where my cousin lay dying. That man wore the clothes you wear. That hat, that coat …”

“That is a lie!” Bess's face flushed red. “He was with me!” she insisted.

“So you say,” Jarrett threw out dismissively. “But how can you answer that, Mr. Farr?”

“I cannot, but I tell you—”

“Hold on, now,” Duffin interrupted. “Hold a piece.”

“What is it?” snapped Jarrett. The poacher leaned forward. He reached out grimy fingers and pinched the lapel of Farr's coat.

“Man I saw had his coat buttoned tight. It was a bitter night as you'll recall. And his sleeves covered half his hands. I saw that from the way he held the lamp. Now look at this young fella here, and look at them sleeves.”

The coat hung open over Farr's chest. He made no complaint as Jarrett attempted to draw the coat together. It would not button up—and the sleeves were tight. They stopped at his wrists.