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Authors: Gwendoline Butler

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BOOK: Dread Murder
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Now Charlie had something important to consider: just how safe was it in the Theatre? There had been one murder, perhaps there would be more. He knew it depended on the nature of the killer and his reason for killing.
Charlie had lived and worked in a rough part of London by the river where he had seen violence, and heard of much more, so he was informed about death. He remembered one old fellow he met in the house where he lodged in London saying that there was never just one murder; another always followed, and perhaps another still. ‘Remember what I tell you boy,' the old man had said, ‘and it may save your life one day.' Even if Charlie did not believe all the old chap had said, and on the whole he did not, he remembered those particular words. So he told himself perhaps he should be wary in the Theatre. And he had another reason for unease: he thought he might know who the killer was.
He stood watching as the Major, Denny and Mindy walked out of sight, and then he turned back to what he
was beginning to think might be a dangerous sanctuary.
‘I know what I'll do,' Charlie said to himself, ‘I'll write it down. Make a story out of it. Then I might show it to someone.'
 
As Mindy and her escorts approached the Castle, Denny looked up. The first set of windows he saw belonged to Princess Augusta, and next to those were the rooms of Princess Amelia. The two sisters were close in age, unmarried still, and not likely to marry now. The old King, their father, had not encouraged them to think of husbands. They kept themselves old-fashioned in clothes and manner, wearing the hoops and ruffles that the smart ladies of the ‘ton' had long since abandoned. They knew they were out of date, but considered that they looked as princesses should.
A few yards further on, and the lights showed behind the silken curtains of His Majesty's suite.
‘Wonder how he is,' said the Major, looking up.
‘Well, I believe I saw him yesterday,' said Mindy, ‘and he bowed at me.'
‘Smiled at you too, did he?' barked Denny. ‘And blew you a kiss?'
‘No,' said Mindy indignantly, ‘of course not! He is the King. He just bowed his head. He remembers me from my work with Miss Burney; he was always fond of her.'
At the end of the corridor Princess Amelia appeared. She held a hand out to Mindy. The Princesses too had loved Miss Burney, so that now they had transferred the affection to Mindy. But this had its exacting side, as now
she wanted to speak to Mindy and, being a Princess, she wanted a response at once. With a muttered ‘goodbye' Mindy went to her.
‘And not only Miss Burney did the King like,' thought Denny; a mad king and now a drunken rake for a king. He shook his head. ‘But then they were all Germans, not a drop of English blood in them.'
Then he remembered the arrival of the Germans at the Battle of Waterloo, and how well they had fought after their forced march, and the relief it had been to all, including himself and the Major.
‘So we were grateful for Blucher,' he conceded to himself. ‘Of course Napoleon must have felt less pleased. In fact, if it wasn't for the Germans we might all be French by now!' Denny grinned. ‘Not a chance; Napoleon had to go down so we could have our mad king, and our drunk one.'
‘What are you grinning at?' demanded the Major.
‘Just life, nothing more.' As if that wasn't enough.
‘I was thinking about death,' said the Major.
‘We've had a bit of that around,' admitted Denny.
‘I'd like to get someone inside the Unit,' said Mearns. ‘Find out how it works. Check on Felix's progress.' He looked speculatively at Denny. ‘You might be able to do it.'
Denny shook his head. ‘Not me.'
‘Tosser could do it. He'll be helping the Unit anyway on account of holding the dead body.'
‘He's got a bit of Traddles that he might see fit to mention,' warned Denny.
‘We'll have to do something about that.'
‘Like finding the rest of Traddles?'
‘Something like that.'
‘The best person to get inside the Unit is you,' said Denny, ‘no one better, and Felix would take it as a compliment.'
‘You think so?'
‘Do it the right way; ask it as a favour, and yes.'
It was probably true that Felix wanted to get a foothold inside the Castle – be known as a useful man in Royal circles.
‘The big problem for us,' said Mearns, ‘is Traddles. Where is the rest of his body? Why are only bits of him being sent to us? Of course, Dol's murder might have nothing to do with Traddles' death, but for now we have to consider that they might be connected. How did she come to be in the playhouse? What did the look mean that Miss Fairface cast on Beau? What is the reason for the killing? And who is behind it?'
‘Watch yourself,' said Denny uneasily.
 
The light from the Royal window shone down on the two soldiers as they passed by. Inside the Castle, His Majesty – a late riser, day and night seeming alike to him – was being helped into his silken dressing gown, a rumpled bed hung with brocade behind him, while he considered what he should wear for that evening's entertainment with the lady of the moment. Lady Jersey was no longer prime beloved; nor Mrs Fitzherbert. But their memories hung around, like the others …
The silk of his gown came from China, its execution was French. Peace with France made such luxuries possible. The silk was blue with deeper blue stripes, with embroidered flowers lurking in the shadows between the stripes. The King's favourite scent of jasmine and rose hung in the bedroom.
His two dressers, both men of some muscle as His Majesty was putting on weight, put a hand under each elbow and helped him to the door, out of the bedroom and into his large, well-lit dressing room, which was also a beautifully appointed sitting room.
While he was the Prince of Wales, and then Prince Regent as his father's health grew worse, he had bought fine furniture – some antiques, some made especially for him. He had exquisite pieces of furniture made by French cabinet makers; he had developed and indulged in a love of Chinoiserie. His suite of rooms in the Castle was so sumptuous, so rich in their decoration (this was only one of his homes) that there had been riots in the streets because of his debts.
And as King, George was no less extravagant.
The dressers helped him to a chair by a small round table, just as another manservant appeared with a tray of coffee. Timing is all-important in Royal circles.
King George leaned back in his chair. ‘Those roses are the wrong shade of yellow,' he said petulantly. ‘Get them changed. More white in the yellow, and not so much red.' One dresser picked up the bowl of roses and, with a bow, departed. The man who had brought in the coffee poured it from the silver pot into a delicate china cup,
then he too bowed and departed. The third stood there until the King waved him away.
The Royal manners were usually good; gentle and polite to everyone, but they lapsed on occasion. Early morning, after a night with too much claret, was a bad time. ‘Early morning' with King George often meant, as now, eight o'clock or later in what was the evening for most of his subjects.
His Majesty drank his coffee, then picked up the delicate silver hand bell on his tray.
John, his top dresser, came in bearing a pile of newspapers. The King received them with pleasure. ‘Anything interesting, John?'
‘Not in the papers, Your Majesty.'
‘You are a great news bucket, John, so what is there?'
‘A murder in the Theatre tonight … You might have been there yourself, Your Majesty. You did say you'd go up.'
The old King George III had been a true admirer of the Theatre in Windsor; he went often and usually insisted on his family accompanying him. The present Majesty tried to keep up the habit; although he was more sophisticated than his father, he still went when there was a particular favourite of his performing.
Miss Fairface was so pretty and beguiling that a visit to see her play, either here or in London, often took place.
‘Not when I discovered it was that Scottish play …don't care to see a King murdered.'
‘And you were very drunk, and Lady Webberly was
with you. Drunk also. Her ladyship has departed, if that is of interest to you, Sir.'
‘Who was the victim?' He was interested – or half interested at least.
‘A woman, Your Majesty.'
‘Not Miss Fairface, I trust?'
‘No one you would know, Your Majesty. A woman of the town called Dol.'
Into the pause, the King spoke sadly: ‘Doll Tearsheet, perhaps?'
‘I don't think so, Sir.' John was puzzled.
The King rose and walked to the window; he drew back the heavy silk which covered the pane. Through the glass he could see that the Great Park lay bathed in moonlight. ‘Get me some claret, John.'
John bowed and departed, shaking his head. Outside in the antechamber, he met the other two dressers.
‘Is it the black jacket or the deep red to lay out?' asked one, a pair of dark narrow trousers hanging over one arm. The King's former love of rich brocades and silks had been changed by Beau Brummell into a quieter elegance.
John shrugged. ‘Leave it.'
‘How is he then?'
‘Bad,' said John, ‘very bad. He asked for news and I told him about Dol's killing. He didn't like what he heard.'
‘But did he know her?'
‘I don't think he knew her; he has the pick from the top of the pile – which poor Dol wasn't, as we all know
– but I think any drawing near of death disturbs him.'
He knew, as did the other men, although it was never to be touched on, that this King had inherited more than a crown from his father.
 
I have been — between ourselves — very ill indeed
, the King had written to the Countess of Elgin,
and it is little known how ill I have been
. He gave her no details.
He had to pretend, to act a lie, even when he felt mortally ill; for had not the Duke of Cumberland spread a lie that he was mad?
Mad?
But, of course, it was known.
At Court people knew or guessed. It was inevitable that the word should spread around at Windsor, from the highest to the low. But it was risky to whisper the word ‘madness'.
‘Keep a still tongue in your head about it,' John warned his fellow dressers. ‘For I swear I think he will kill anyone who speaks out of turn.'
Or have them killed.
That evening, over several glasses of mulled burgundy (by courtesy of the unknowing but generous King), it was decided that the Major should go down the hill to the Unit, making some excuse which he could surely think up, and have a good look round.
He knew where the Unit was housed; he had made earlier enquiries and it had not been difficult getting the address. Gracious Street, which lay towards the little town of Egham, was not one of the more prosperous or grander streets of Windsor; but nowhere in this Royal town was really poor, so the small houses of Gracious Street were well cared for.
The Unit rented a room at Number Seven.
‘Do you know the landlady's name?' asked Denny.
‘I do. She's Mrs Brewer,' answered the Major.
‘Brewer is it?' said Denny. ‘She were Brown once,' he said reminiscently, ‘besides various other names.'
‘Like that, is it?'
Denny shrugged. ‘I daresay she might have known Dol. Not saying for sure because I don't know for sure.
But that's all in the past. Or I daresay it is,' he finished, hedging his bets. ‘Now she's got Felix in the house it would be better if so,' he ended.
‘You're a well of interesting knowledge, Sergeant, or should I say sink? I must remember that.' But he spoke amiably; he had known for years the sort Denny was – indeed, what he was had made him more useful.
‘Perhaps I should send you down to Gracious Street after all!'
Denny grinned. ‘I haven't seen her for years, and she didn't live in Gracious Street when I knew her.'
‘Don't go on.'
‘I think they knocked down where she did live, turned it into a hospital.'
‘I'll get down there in the morning,' Mearns said. ‘Do you know how they are getting on?'
Denny did. ‘Felix has three helpers, all old soldiers, including John Farmer, who might be useful. Brewer would like them; she always had a turn for soldiers. They go out and walk the town while he stays inside, unless one of them comes back with a tale to bring him out. But sometimes he just goes out – when they're not expecting it, like.'
‘To check up.'
Denny nodded. ‘It's what I'd do. You too, I daresay.' Thoughtfully, the Major said: ‘I'll go to Gracious Street first. Early. Talk to Felix if he's there and then take a walk round the town myself.'
‘I could do that part for you,' Denny offered.
‘No, you stay here. In case another bit or two of
Traddles turns up.'
‘Wonder if Mindy's been down there for a look?'
‘It wouldn't interest her.'
‘No, you're quite right …that's not what interests her.'
The Major bit back the retort that came to mind, while resisting the temptation to give Denny a sharp kick. Instead he said: ‘So I'll be off early tomorrow. Shall I give your love to Mrs Brewer?'
‘She'd never remember me, Major. And you don't think I let her know my real name?'
‘As long as you use it to me, Denny.' He looked into his glass. ‘Another glass of burgundy, please. I don't think His Majesty would grudge us it.'
‘No, he's a generous man,' said Denny, his speech slurring slowly. ‘A gentleman.'
The definition of what made a gentleman, indeed the very idea, had been changing slowly over the last few decades. Certainly not a knight in armour; more a man who had a feeling of respect towards those lower in the social scale. The Major's view on what made a gentleman was one who looked after his men, and cared for them in the battle – and after it – as well as he could. And who would see that their wounds, lodgings and victuals were taken care of before his own.
After all, they did this for their horses, so why not their men?
Judged this way, some officers were gentlemen and some were not. The Major remembered that the great Duke himself, although he thought his army was scum, nevertheless got the badge of a gentleman.
‘Not that we ever thought of it like that, or said so; but we knew it. “He's a good 'un,” we said,' thought the Major.
‘You've gone quiet,' said Denny, as he poured the Royal burgundy.
The Major said slowly: ‘You know the King has not. The King is not quiet.' He drained his glass. ‘Let's have another drink.'
They finished the bottle.
 
The Major awoke late, his head aching (the burgundy could not have been as good as he had thought). But after a breakfast of hot tea and a slice or two of ham, cut thick, he felt better. Denny did not appear, but there were signs that he had breakfasted and gone.
Major Mearns walked slowly down the widening path, out of the Castle and into the town. It was a fine morning, although chill. He was not an admirer of natural beauty; too many rough campaigns had made him sure that all he demanded of the scene was that it should be quiet, warm and dry.
Outside the gate was a small figure, standing there silent and still, as if on sentry duty.
‘Charlie.'
The boy did not answer for a moment, but stared, eyes quiet and interested.
‘What are you doing, boy?'
‘Just looking, Sir.'
‘For anything?'
No answer.
‘For anyone?'
Charlie gave a smile of great sweetness. ‘No one to talk to in the Theatre.' Suddenly his face had a pinched look.
‘Have you had anything to eat?'
‘Theatre people don't get up,' said Charlie regretfully. ‘Don't eat breakfast.'
‘Follow me,' said the Major, leading him down the hill to the coffee house in the side alley.
‘Hot coffee for me – the strongest and the hottest,' he ordered. He gave the boy a questioning look, and continued the order to the proprietor: ‘Same for the lad and some hot bread for him.' Then he turned to look at Charlie again, and added, ‘make it two, he's hungry. Had nothing to eat.'
‘He'll say a prayer for you,' said the proprietor, giving Charlie a steady look, which the boy returned with the look of one who has learnt how to live in the world and to accept breakfast when offered, even if one has eaten much already.
As the Major was drinking his coffee while considering what to do next, a tall, thickset fellow swaggered into the eating house and sat down in the corner near the fire, where he was promptly served with cooked ham and toasted hot bread.
Before he was finished he was given a beaker of ale and, stretching out his hand without a word, was given a small glass of something infinitely stronger. At no time did he utter a complete sentence.
He stood up to go, still not uttering a word. He took a few puffs at an old black pipe, which was then thrust
back into his pocket – still alight as far as Mearns could see. Then he was off.
‘A quick meal,' remarked the Major.
‘And a cheap one,' said the proprietor grimly.
‘Does he come every day?' asked Mearns, who had observed that no money had passed hands.
‘Not every day – just when he can.'
‘But you are always ready for him?' The ham and toasted bread, the ale and the whisky, had all been to hand.
‘It pays.'
‘Who is he?' But he was already making a guess, and asking himself: ‘Why didn't Denny and I think of this?' But of course, in a way they had and did the same, but it was the King they took from, rather than some other patron at a coffee house.
‘Jim Fox – he's one of the Crowners' Unit … You know what that is?'
‘I do.'
‘He's off to see Felix, another fox,' said the proprietor, who seemed a man of literature. ‘Last night's killing made them jerk. Poor Dol … Did you know her, too?'
‘I knew who she was.'
The proprietor's face accurately reflected his view that everyone said that.
Mearns stood up, fastening his jacket. He felt invulnerable when he had that coat on, tightly buttoned. It had seen him through Waterloo, a battle in which he had not actually fought, but in which he had been getting ready to do so when Blucher had arrived and Napoleon had yielded. ‘I'm off.'
Charlie swallowed his mouthful. ‘Can I come too, Sir?'
Mearns strode away without answering, but Charlie followed. No one had asked him, but he had learnt lately that a cheerful smile together with a polite voice opened doors. And he was curious, very curious.
Deep inside him, so deep it was almost unconscious, was the feeling that events had a shape, and if you followed the first event then you would see the shape. The story.
He followed Mearns' broad back down the hill into a part of the town he did not know. Nice enough little houses, though; he had seen enough of the back streets of London to know what made a slum.
The Major strode on and Charlie had to step out to keep up with him.
He wondered what sort of story he was making up inside himself now. Well, a woman had been killed; that was a start. He frowned; he thought he'd like a bit of laughter somewhere in any story that was his, and it didn't feel as though there was much of that in this killing.
Looking ahead, to his surprise, he saw Mr Pickettwick apparently coming out of one of the houses down the road. Pickettwick advanced towards the Major, holding out his hand in greeting.
The Major responded by taking his hand with a good shake. Charlie could only see the Major's back, so he could not see if he was smiling, but he guessed he was. Mr Pickettwick was smiling, anyway.
‘He's a good smiler,' Charlie thought; they were genuine smiles. He was beginning to assess smiles, although what Mr Pickettwick's smile meant this morning, he was not sure.
It really wasn't a morning to smile, in his opinion – not after a murder.
Once they were talking, Charlie kept his face down, staring into the gutter, until the two men began to walk on together – almost as if they had met by plan.
He went on watching them with interest, his mind busy arranging them into his story. In his tale, the two men had met to call at a house down this road.
Mr Pickettwick broke off his conversation on the murder of Dol, the whore of Windsor.
‘Is the boy with you?'
Mearns did not answer for a moment. If he had said anything straight away, it would have been ‘Yes' or ‘No'.
‘He is following us,' observed Mr Pickettwick.
‘He could be,' agreed Mearns. He took an unobtrusive look. ‘Take no notice. Ignore him.'
‘Seems like a nice boy, speaks well, some education … He ought to go home.'
‘If he has one.'
‘Where's he living?'
‘In the Theatre, I think. It can only be temporary. Are you staying in Gracious Street, Mr Pickettwick?'
Pickettwick gave his sweet smile. ‘No. I have been visiting a friend in Ellen Street.'
The Major mentally assessed the inhabitants of Ellen Street. He kept a kind of an address book in his head.
The Barret family in the first house. Miss Macaulay in the second; a highly respectable lady, she had taught in the schoolroom of the younger Princesses. Even he did not know who owned or lived in the next house, which had recently been sold. The last house in the row was the dwelling place of Amy Delauney, and he certainly knew who she was: the beautiful, elegant, more-expensive equivalent of poor dead Dol. Not a bad house visit if you fancied it. She was lovely and willing – very willing the gossip said – but she was also willing to use a little blackmail if necessary. Some thought it worth it, as she was not unreasonable. It depended on how you felt about that sort of thing. ‘Miss Macaulay,' went on Mr Pickettwick, ‘a friend of my daughter.' The Major remained silent with his thoughts.
‘Ten minutes with her and then how long with her near neighbour of the lustrous hair and friendly nature?' thought the cynical Major. ‘Wonder how the two women get on?'
‘I'm on my way back into town,' Pickettwick explained. ‘No more news about the sad killing last night? No, I thought not. You would have said.'
‘Don't you believe it,' thought the Major, ‘I keep my own counsel.'
‘I have promised Mr Thornton a drink of some good Madeira this morning …he will tell me what he knows.' Mr Pickettwick held out his hand.
The Major shook it. ‘Take the boy with you.' Mearns turned his head to look behind him.
The boy had disappeared.
There was no difficulty in finding out which was the house from which the Crowners' Unit managed its affairs, because Felix's head was visible through the window. He had his back to the window, talking to a man inside, but he turned around, still talking. Then he saw Mearns.
BOOK: Dread Murder
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