Act of Murder (9 page)

‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ stormed Herbert as Benjamin locked the door behind them. ‘You all but broke my arm!’

‘And you all but broke my heart!’ sobbed Benjamin, who had slumped into the chair facing the looking-glass and, having removed his wig, held his head in his hands, all pretence gone
now.

‘Benjamin. What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you let me speak with you at the interval?’

‘You have been
seen
.’

At that, the young man blinked and steadied himself. This was obviously not what he expected.

‘What do you mean,
seen
? Seen doing what?’

A pained guffaw burst from Benjamin’s lungs. ‘That is hardly a denial designed to reassure me.’

‘But even a man on trial for his life at the Old Bailey is granted a glimpse of the evidence against him.’ He had adopted his usual tone of flippancy, a mask behind which he often
hid when the topic became overly sensitive.

‘You speak of “evidence”. That in itself is interesting.’

‘Look,’ said Herbert, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice, ‘just tell me what this is about.’

‘Who is the
gentleman
whose company you have been keeping?’

‘What gentleman? I can assure you there is no such person.’

‘I have been told – by a reliable source – that you have been seen dining with a man and, shall we say, ensconced with him most intimately.’

‘Ensconced!’ Herbert repeated the word with a heavy intonation. ‘Oh my! Ensconced! And intimately! What does that mean, exactly, Benjamin? Were we rogering each other on the
table between the first and second courses?’

‘Please do not be vulgar.’

Herbert moved towards him and placed a hand at the back of his neck, stroking him lightly. ‘Benjie. This is ludicrous. I may have spoken with a man during an idle moment – in fact
now that I come to think about it, there was such a man who engaged me in conversation only the other day. He too is a stranger here, one of these travelling buffoons still demonstrating those
ridiculous displays of magic lantern slides that terrorise the unwashed of these grubby little northern towns. I thought they had died a death years ago. We swapped stories of our respective
experiences. That is all. And of course we had to lower our voices, and thus give every appearance of intimacy. It would do us no good whatsoever to be overheard denigrating the very people who pay
to see us!’ He paused, allowing his words to twine themselves into a rope that would bring Benjamin back from the abyss.

‘You gave him some money.’

Herbert caught his breath and turned away for a second before swinging around with fire in his eyes. ‘Your spy is, on this occasion, mistaken.’

‘Really?’

‘The
money
that was exchanged between us was, in fact, several of our playbills.’

‘Playbills? But what –?’

‘Where do we perform next on this grand tour of ours?’

‘Liverpool.’

‘Which is precisely where this fellow is headed after
his
show concludes here. He said he would distribute our notices.’

‘That is most . . . philanthropic of him.’

Herbert laughed. ‘Yes, I rather think he is one of nature’s philanthropists.’

Benjamin gave a heavy, shoulder-sagging sigh. It was a gesture compounded of defeat and self-delusion. Finally, after a few seconds’ contemplation, he lifted his hand to clasp
Herbert’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Perhaps I jumped to conclusions.’

‘Jumped? I’d say you hurled yourself with all the frenzy of a suicide from Waterloo Bridge!’

‘Can you forgive me?’

‘Of course. Besides, it does show me how strong your feelings for me are, does it not?’

‘It does, my darling boy. It does.’

He stood up, and they embraced. Herbert looked at his own reflection in the looking-glass, and thought how there was something rather touching about the top of Benjamin’s head, where the
signs of incipient baldness were hidden by a strategic combing of the hair.

*

‘This is splendid! Splendid!’

Captain Alexander Bell was not the sort of man to utter superlatives. He took his position seriously, and the grim zeal with which he pursued his duties was firmly etched in his angular, almost
cadaverous features. Detective Sergeant Slevin, in his more satirical moments, had characterised the fellow as a living
memento mori
, and had more than once fallen foul of his unyielding
views on criminality.

Tonight, however, there was a rare smile on his face. The reception at the town hall, hosted with great aplomb and no stinting of provisions by the mayor, looked to be a grand success. To be
invited here tonight to meet this great troupe of thespians after witnessing such a powerful and moral tale as
The Silver King
, with its vital message of the benefits of temperance and
marital devotion, was a very great moment indeed.

For, if the truth be known, Captain Bell was stage-struck.

During his military service in India, he had been a member of the
Punjabbers
, a dramatic club for the entertainment of the officers and their ladies. There had been something about
adopting the persona of another that seemed like a liberation, a release from the burden of duty for the two hours he spent on the boards.

‘It is a red-letter day, Captain Bell! Such a gathering in the Wigan town hall, eh?’ The mayor beamed at the company. ‘Just think! An hour ago we were giving that fellow over
yonder a torrid time!’

He indicated a suave-looking actor, tall and good-looking, who had played the part of the Spider, Captain Skinner, and who was talking idly to Susan Coupe and James Shorton. To Captain Bell, the
latter seemed somewhat distracted, looking around the room and barely listening to what the Spider was saying. But his attention then focused on the delectable Miss Coupe. If anything, she was even
more beautiful off-stage, divested of the make-up that highlighted her worry lines and the sad droop of her eyes. There seemed to be an innocence about her, more child than woman, as she
occasionally placed a light hand on Shorton’s arm in response to some amusing comment from her fellow actor. The chief constable and the mayor watched in admiration for some time, until they
were joined by Benjamin Morgan-Drew.

‘She lights up the room, does she not, gentlemen?’

The mayor readily agreed. ‘She does that.’

‘She is destined for great things, our Miss Coupe.’

‘Really? Is she that well thought of?’ asked the mayor, whose reading matter did not extend to
The Era
or
The Theatre.

‘She has been mentioned by Irving himself as a rising star. There is talk of her accompanying him when he next sails to America.’

While the mayor looked perplexed, his chief constable explained. ‘Henry Irving is the foremost actor of our time.’

‘I saw his Hamlet in seventy-four,’ Benjamin added. ‘It was breathtaking.’

‘For such a great figure to bestow such compliments on a relatively young girl is an honour indeed,’ Captain Bell averred with a quick glance at the erstwhile Nelly Denver.

‘Ah!’ said Benjamin with upraised arms, ‘you must meet Mr Herbert Koller, another of our young lions of the stage!’

Both men turned to greet the young man who had just entered the room. He seemed distracted, his hair somewhat moistened by the fog, and he smoothed his errant locks in a rather self-conscious
way before accepting a drink from one of the waiters. Captain Bell was immediately – and disturbingly – struck by the handsome features of the young man. He had seen many such men in
India, their smooth sculptured looks enhanced by their tanned skin, and he had had occasion more than once to reprimand them for their over-familiarity with the ladies. Herbert sauntered over, gave
the two men a friendly smile and shook their hands.

‘Herbert will himself be a prominent national figure in years to come,’ Benjamin declared.

He’s like a proud father, thought Captain Bell.

‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we are like blood.’

‘Really?’ said the mayor.

‘We must circulate or die!’ With that, Benjamin escorted Herbert to the refreshment table, where he poured himself a small glass of sherry.

‘Clever chap, that,’ the mayor said with a nod. ‘Wish I could write plays like him.’

It took another five minutes for the chief constable to explain the difference between an actor-manager and a playwright.

*

As they walked the short distance back to the Royal Hotel, Georgina had felt the pain return to her face and refused Richard’s offer of a drink in the hotel bar. Granted,
it wasn’t the most salubrious of venues, but it was far better than the many other hostelries in town.

‘Then I’ll escort you to our room and come back down for a nightcap,’ he said as they stepped into the hotel foyer. ‘I see my friend Mr Jenkins is already in
place.’

A man dressed in a shabby, dust-stained suit that had seen too many train compartments gave Richard a wave that ended with a speculative curl of the hand, the way a Roman emperor might have
summoned his senate for a flagon of wine.

Around the reception desk, several people sat on the few chairs available, reading the day’s newspapers or simply engaging in idle conversation, sharing the day’s experiences of
shopkeepers too stingy even to consider the wares they were peddling, one of them describing in muted tones the benefits of the latest lithographic developments he was anxious to share with the
town’s printers.

Georgina pressed her hand to her face as they crossed to the stairway and muttered, ‘God defend me from travelling men!’

Once they were in their room, she removed her hat and coat and sat at the small table by the mirror. She knew perfectly well why the pain had returned: her assumption had been correct, as she
knew it would be. Richard was once more indulging in those vile practices. Surely it was only a matter of time before he was caught, and then what lay in store for her? He would go to prison, of
course, and she would be left alone and destitute.

‘Here you are, my darling,’ he said, returning from the bathroom with a small glass containing her compound.

What was it called? Chlorodyne, that was it. She recalled the bitter taste and was about to reject it when she remembered how swiftly it had worked, and the oblivion it had rapidly brought.

He stood over her and watched her swallow the analgesic. ‘There’s a good girl!’

‘Good? No, Richard. I think not.’

He helped her undress and then gently settled her beneath the sheets, gazing down at her pale and troubled face. ‘I will be only a short while. A warming brandy, perhaps, and a perusal of
the day’s papers.’ He reached down to kiss her, but her eyes were already closed.

*

The pain had forced Jonathan Keele to make his excuses and leave the reception early. As he stepped out into the chill of the corridor, he caught sight of Benjamin and Herbert
standing by the stairwell, having an animated discussion. He felt a pang of sympathy for his old friend, but realised with a heavy heart that he had done all he could do. And he had other things to
worry about, hadn’t he?

He placed his right hand inside his coat and pressed it gently against his stomach. The bloated sensation was becoming worse, and it had been weeks since he had felt anything like a genuine
hunger for food. Strange, how the disease was even now at work a matter of inches from the flat of his hand, and he could do nothing at all about it.

Once he left the town hall, he held his muffler close to his mouth to ward off the thickening fog. Then, as he clambered into the hackney carriage waiting at the foot of the steps, he smiled at
the futility of such a gesture. What could fog, filthy fog, do to him now? He could do as the witches in
Macbeth
and ‘hover through the fog and filthy air’ with impunity. Such
irony! Disease had made him fearless of death because it had already claimed him for its own.

And the prospect of his own mortality did bring with it the warm consolation that wrapped itself around him far more effectively than any muffler: he would soon see his dearest Catherine once
more. The child would no longer be floating in some dark and dreadful ether, condemned by those who see suicide as an act against God. No. He would take death as an opportunity to seek her out, to
rescue her lost and lingering soul from its Limbo of misery, and give her eternal comfort in his arms.

As the carriage rattled through the dimly lit streets to his destination, he wondered if, when he found her, his granddaughter would still be thirteen, would still retain the flush of youth on
her cheeks, the sparkling smile and the infectious giggle. Or would her face be pale and bloated, the eyes dull and sightless, as they had been five years ago when they fished her from the
river?

*

Georgina Throstle, groggy and disorientated from the effects of the Chlorodyne, had found herself in a foul mood when her husband finally deigned to come to bed. He had fumbled
with his key outside the door and, as on many such occasions in the past, he found the simple matter of unlocking a hotel door quite beyond him. She had struggled out of bed and let the drunken
fool in, and immediately her head began to swim. She had the urgent need to lie down and allow the dizziness to take her back to the oblivion of sleep.

Richard, swaying on the edge of the bed, watched her hold a hand over her eyes, and with a leer he reached out to grab her.

‘Please, Richard, no . . . no . . .’ Her words were slurred, and he felt his loins stirring. She was shaking her head now, slowly from side to side, and he saw her eyes turn white
with approaching unconsciousness.

Damn the woman! It would be just the thing to send him off to sleep. He decided to stroke her for a while. That usually did the trick.

So he lay beside her and caressed her smooth alabaster skin, and as he did so he thought of Violet, and that brute of a father. Was he even now scouring the cobbled streets of Wigan to seek
vengeance for his deflowered daughter? More likely he was lying insensible in his filthy pit of a bed.