Death at the Beggar's Opera (26 page)

As well as actors the Principal Magistrate had asked for the stage staff to be present, so that stagehands, many of whom John recognised as peachers, together with painters, milliners, designers and seamstresses packed the place. Polly arrived late, a tremulous smile about her beautiful lips, which lit up as soon as she saw John. Knowing that it would not be honourable to encourage her, yet torn by his violent attraction to the girl, the Apothecary gave her a warm glance then looked away. And at that moment he was saved further embarrassment by the arrival of Samuel, especially invited by the Blind Beak, and full of excitement.

‘My dear John, allow me to present you with one of my cards,’ he breathed noisily, pumping his friend by the hand. The Apothecary stared at the card being thrust towards him. ‘Samuel Swann, Goldsmith, at the Sign of the Crescent Moon, St Paul’s Churchyard,’ he read.

‘You’ve started your own business!’

‘My father completed the negotiations three days ago. That is why I haven’t been able to assist you.’

John, who had hardly noticed his friend’s absence, so taken up had he been with events, felt thoroughly guilty. ‘Never mind that. This is wonderful news, Samuel. We’ll drink a bumper to it later.’

‘Anything of interest been happening here?’

‘Not a great deal,’ answered John, horribly aware of Polly’s glance. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen, can you have a late supper with me? I’m moving out of Nassau Street in a day or so and may not be able to see you after that.’

‘What the devil are you talking about?’

‘Don’t shout. It’s all part of Mr Fielding’s plan.’

‘Oh, I see. What time did you have in mind?’

‘About ten.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good. I’ll tell you everything then.’

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of Joe Jago, who strode onto the stage looking extraordinarily tidy for once. He held up his hand and all voices immediately dropped.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for Mr Garrick.’

‘Fellow actors and colleagues,’ said the actor manager, his mighty voice filling the empty theatre. ‘This gathering has been convened at the request of Mr John Fielding, the Principal Magistrate. He has an announcement of great importance to make to you. It is an announcement that fills me with much personal woe… .’ He paused sorrowfully and John, well aware that he was privy to the entire plot, thought yet again just how good an actor the man was. ‘But though it grieves me to hear anything ill of a member of our company, the truth must be faced,’ Garrick continued mournfully. ‘Friends, I ask you to pay full attention to Mr Fielding.’

Somebody clapped nervously, then stopped, feeling foolish, and into the ensuing silence came the familiar tap-tap of the Blind Beak’s cane. Then, holding Elizabeth’s arm for support, the Principal Magistrate appeared, walking majestically, his whole presence suggesting power and strength and the ability to find a wrongdoer and ruthlessly hunt him down.

The Beak found the chair that had been set for him in the centre of the stage but scorned to sit in it. Instead, he stood beside it, one hand lightly resting on the back to give him a sense of where he was.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of Drury Lane,’ he began, his voice commanding attention. ‘As some of you already know, the part usually played by Miss Coralie Clive in last night’s performance of
Love’s Last Shift
was taken by her sister, Miss Kitty.’

Every eye turned to the elder actress who sat in a stage box looking extremely despondent, another excellent performance.

Mr Fielding continued very quietly, almost in a sinister tone. ‘Alas, my friends, this alteration was not brought about by indisposition as was stated at the time. For the truth of the matter is that Miss Coralie has vanished from her home, perhaps even from London.’

There was a murmur of astonished bewilderment and somebody shouted, ‘But why?’

‘Because, my dear Sir, Miss Clive had been asked to attend me at Bow Street where questions were to be put to her about the murders of Jasper Harcross and William Swithin.’ There was a gasp of disbelief above which Mr Fielding continued to speak. ‘Certain evidence has been found which can only point one way,’ he stated firmly. ‘I can say no more at this stage. Acceding to the wishes of David Garrick, I have told you the truth and now must warn you that any attempt by any of you to conceal Miss Clive’s whereabouts will be considered a punishable offence.’

This was John’s moment, the moment when he must use his eyes and his powers of observation. Slowly and steadily, focussing his pictorial memory so that he could recall the scene later, he looked from face to face.

Lady Delaney, who had been escorted to the theatre by her elderly husband, looked utterly perplexed and bewildered and turned to him with an expression of disbelief on her face, an expression which seemed to declare that she knew Coralie had not committed the crimes. John wondered what made her so certain.

A similar expression was worn by Adam Verity, who stood with his sister, Amelia, both of them staring in amazement. Studying them in detail, John wondered yet again if they were the Egletons for everything, from their physical appearance to their ages, seemed to point in that direction. And yet, would that answer not be too easy? John remembered the Blind Beak telling him that the most simple explanations were often the truest, and conjectured yet again.

James Martin, pale and drained and obviously deeply upset by all the harrowing events he had recently experienced, remained expressionless, his neat little face giving away nothing at all. Whether he had loved Coralie or hated her was impossible to read from the blank features he was currently presenting. And yet, for all his self-control, a muscle twitched involuntarily beside his mouth.

Melanie Vine, on the other hand, looked glowingly triumphant at the turn of events, and John wondered why. What could Coralie possibly have done that a fellow leading lady should react in such a manner? And why Mrs Vine, who had purportedly disliked Jasper Harcross? Or had that been a lie?

At that moment Madame Ruffe, a formidable grey-haired woman of French extraction, coughed helplessly, so there was a small diversion while Marie, the other young seamstress, patted her on the back and Polly went to fetch a glass of water. Still guilty that he was unable to reciprocate the girl’s feelings in full, John gave her a half smile as she returned and looked in his direction, then wondered if some sixth sense had already told the seamstress the truth about him, for he thought he detected a coldness in her glance. Angry with himself for allowing his attention to wander, the Apothecary continued his surveillance.

Jack Masters, blue eyes very glazed but craggy face imperturbable, was giving nothing away. But John noticed that the actor puffed on his pipe as if his life depended on it and the fingers that held the tinder to the tobacco shook. Tom Bowdler, on the other hand, made no secret of the fact that he was deeply shocked. His knees seemed suddenly to give from under him and Dick Weatherby, fortunately standing nearby, was just in time to push a stool beneath the big man’s descending weight before it hit the stage. Yet could that sudden collapse have been brought about by relief, John considered? Relief that Coralie had been blamed so that either he, or someone Tom cared for deeply, had escaped attention. As for Dick himself, he was sweating profusely, though whether through the effort of saving Tom or because of the shock about Coralie, no one could tell. He was the man supposed to be above having opinions about the actors yet who had admitted to John that he thought a great deal about them, so this all too human response was only to be expected.

The Apothecary looked round him once more. The identity of the murderer lay concealed beneath one of those faces, a chilling thought indeed, particularly as he knew most of them reasonably well. And then he remembered that baleful figure by Jasper’s graveside, the evil symbol it had thrown into the pit, and hardened his heart.

Mr Fielding was drawing the meeting to a close. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your attention. I am sorry to be the bearer of such ill tidings, but know that you will all rest easier that good progress has been made in our efforts to bring a criminal to book.’

There was a murmur from those present, then people began to gather in groups, clearly to discuss the shocking news that they had just been told. John’s moment for observation was over and yet he was no further forward. Feeling both irritated and uneasy he turned to go, only to discover Joe Jago at his elbow.

‘The Magistrate would like a word, Sir.’

‘I’m sure he would,’ the Apothecary answered harshly.

‘I hear by your tones that you believe you saw nothing.’

‘You are quite correct in your assumption.’

Jago smiled craftily. ‘You may be wrong, Sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You may well have observed the truth and not recognised it for what it was.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I’m sure of it. It will come to you, Sir. Mark my words. Sometime when you are not thinking about it, the answer will come.’

It was with a certain amount of reluctance that John rose early, after a late supper with Samuel, during which they had consumed far too much wine. This, in its turn, had loosened their tongues, so that John had found himself telling his friend more than he had intended about his feelings for both Polly and Coralie, and how strangely different those feelings were. Whereas Samuel, for his indiscretion, had expressed a strong desire to meet Amelia Verity, whom he had noticed at Drury Lane and felt irresistibly drawn to.

After only a few hours’ sleep it had been a great effort for the Apothecary to go to his shop in Shug Lane, yet again delaying his visit to Chelsea. And it was with a heavy heart that he dusted the bottles and jars and wiped down the counter, wishing that he could follow his intuition instead. For if he had had his way he would have forgotten all about business that day and gone in search of Mrs Camber, hopefully still living in Jews Row in a house overlooking the Hospital Burying Ground, under whose roof had once dwelled George and Lucy Egleton, long since disappeared into obscurity. Or had they?

The Apothecary paused, his duster in one hand, an exotically shaped alembic in the other, his eyes gazing into the middle distance. Into his mind he was projecting the image of that sea of faces, all turned towards John Fielding, as the announcement was made that Coralie Clive was most probably guilty of murder. The Blind Beak’s intention had been to lull the killer into a sense of false security, so that, believing himself to be unobserved, he would attempt to strike again at one of Jasper Harcross’s intimates. Yet though some present had most certainly evinced signs of relief when Coralie’s name had been mentioned, what, the Apothecary thought, did that prove? Never the less, according to Joe Jago, someone, during those vital few seconds, must have given themselves away. If so, John considered, he most certainly had not noticed.

However, not all those involved with the case had been present, among them Mrs Harcross and Mrs Martin, to name the most important. John pursed his lips, considering the two women. Could one have killed two people, including her own child, then tried to take her life in a fit of remorse? And what had the other been doing wandering about in a run-down quarter of London on a bleak winter’s night? He shook his head and tried, yet again, to reach some sort of conclusion. And so it was, lost in thought, that John hardly heard the bell which denoted an early customer. It was only when it rang again that he returned to earth, put down the alembic and walked through from the compounding room to the shop to see who had come in.

Polly Rose stood there, looking lovelier than ever, and his heart sank.

She smiled her spectacular smile. ‘Good morning, Sir. Or may I call you John?’

‘I would hope so after what has passed between us.’

‘I thought I should come and see you.’

‘I’m very glad you did,’ he answered.

‘Are you?’ she asked earnestly. ‘Are you really?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and catching her wrist, led her round behind the counter. ‘I have tea and coffee at the back. Would you like some?’

Her skin was like ice beneath his touch and he was aware that she was trembling. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Polly,’ said John solemnly, ‘please don’t be afraid, and please don’t be disappointed in me that I am not all that you wanted.’

‘How would I know that you are not?’ she answered, with a strange little laugh that made him feel thoroughly uneasy.

‘Yesterday, when you returned with that glass of water you gave me such a dark look that I felt you had read my heart.’

‘And found therein a lack of love?’

‘Possibly of the kind you are looking for, yes.’

She metamorphosised before his eyes. The pale cold girl who had come into the shop vanished and in her place stood a lithe wild glittering jewel of a being. Polly laughed again, her eyes taunting him. ‘And how do you know what I am looking for, Mr Rawlings? Is passion, then, the prerogative of the male sex? Could it not be that I, too, enjoyed you for what you were and wanted no further commitment?’

John stood speechless, feeling two inches tall. ‘But how …?’ he managed eventually.

‘How did I know all this? You may have read my expression yesterday, but I also read yours. You looked as guilty as a child caught stealing apples. You were a book for any woman worth the name to read.’

‘But Polly …’

She laughed again, and at that moment the kettle boiled, blowing clouds of steam everywhere.

‘My dear,’ she went on, ‘I may be only a simple seamstress but I have had to fight hard to make my way in the world, humble though my position might be. And during that struggle I learned more about life than many a female twice my age. So feel no guilt that having enjoyed my favours you now do not wish to make an honest woman of me, because I have no wish to be made an honest woman of. As far as I am concerned we can continue to savour passion and leave the situation at that.’

The Apothecary stared aghast, never having heard the like of it, particularly from anyone as apparently fragile as Polly.