The Corpse Played Dead Read online

  The Corpse Played Dead

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For Sebastian

  Chapter One

  Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

  May 1759

  ‘There’s little point in being famous if you don’t make the most of it, Lizzie.’

  Mrs Sarah Farley, owner of the finest brothel in Soho, leaned out of the theatre box and waved to everyone she knew in the audience. Being the sort of woman who was generous with her charms, she waved to everyone else as well.

  ‘I’m not certain I want the fame, Ma,’ I said, shrinking back into my seat. We all called her Ma, those of us who lived with her.

  ‘Nonsense. You just have to know how to milk it.’ She sat down heavily, the jewellery jangling in her bosom. ‘You can learn a lot from me.’ She patted my arm. She had taken to patting me now that I was famous, as well as declaring that she had always been fond of me. We both knew that she was fonder of the money that I brought into her house, but neither of us was so impolite as to mention it.

  There were four of us in the box. Ma Farley had decided that we were celebrating my new-found notoriety by parading ourselves in the most public way possible: taking a box in the theatre at Drury Lane. The play happened to be King Lear. This is not one of Shakespeare’s cheeriest efforts, but, as Ma said, we were not here to watch it – we were here to be seen. So here we were, me and Mrs Farley, with two others from our house, Polly and Lucy, each of us dressed, powdered, and made up in our harlot’s best. We had brought a hamper of food and wine to sustain us through the evening of preening and flirting that stretched ahead of us. Ma would make sure that we left in the best carriages with the wealthiest gentlemen.

  I took a sip of wine and closed my eyes for a moment. I had been in London for nearly nine months. Once a gentleman’s daughter, a clergyman’s daughter even, I had fallen spectacularly from grace and landed in Ma Farley’s bawdy house on Berwick Street. The change of circumstance had brought me an income, but not, until recently, the sort of notoriety that had Ma reaching for enough of her own coins to buy us the best box in the theatre.

  ‘It’s not every day that a girl gets her name chanted all the way from Newgate to Tyburn,’ said Polly, pouring herself a glass of wine and knocking it back. ‘Everyone knows you now.’ Her face was already flushed, and a strand of blonde hair had fallen loose at the temple.

  Two months ago, I helped to catch a murderer. Yesterday, they hanged him along with five robbers. I did not go to see it, but my dear friend Polly, like most London harlots, loves a good hanging, and had given such a spirited account of the bodies twitching on the ends of their ropes that my stomach had twisted with horror as if I had been there. Crowds had turned out in their thousands, she told me. Three people had been trampled to death in the crush.

  The murderer had gone to his death raging.

  He had tried to kill me, but this was insignificant in the light of three other deaths. My name had been mentioned briefly at the trial, and I had enjoyed a modest increase in attention as a result, from the sort of gentlemen who read trial reports and fancied the thrill of associated danger. They had satisfied their curiosity, and I had charged them handsomely for it.

  But the murderer had travelled to Tyburn in his cart yelling abuse all along the road at the one person in London who had chosen not to watch him die; the vicious whore who had sent him to his doom.

  Me.

  And now, everyone knew my name. Lizzie Hardwicke: London’s finest.

  * * *

  We could see the whole audience, even without leaning out. We were near enough to the stage that, should we ever wish to cast our eyes on this evening’s play, we might do so. The sconces were bright on the walls, the large chandeliers – the girandoles – were full of candles, and the whole theatre glimmered and glowed, giving us full view of everyone as the musicians began their pre-performance offering.

  ‘The pit’s nearly full already,’ said Lucy. Lucy Allingham, who by established custom in our house barely acknowledged my existence, except to pass a disdainful comment, was, for the time being, also basking in my reflected glory. Lucy Allingham, whose dark eyebrows were permanently arched into an expression of surprised innocence, would never stoop to entertaining a man who sat in the pit, so I assumed she made the remark for my benefit. It was kind of her to offer me the poorer scraps.

  ‘Perhaps they knew we were coming,’ Ma said to me with a wink. She rose from her seat, smiled benignly at the crowd below and waved to a box on the other side, as though she were the queen.

  I thought, perhaps, that the crowds had come to see Mr Garrick, rather than us, but held my tongue. David Garrick, the manager of the Drury Lane theatre, and also its finest actor, had given the world King Lear earlier in the year, to great acclaim, so this was something of a reprise. On the raked seats of the pit gentlemen sat gossiping like market girls. Lawyers, lately well-fed and well-watered at their Inns of Court were seated alongside newspaper men, clergymen, would-be playwrights, and other gentlemen about town. Had they been so moved by Lear’s final scenes in March that they had returned for the thrill of it in May? Every newspaper and journal had spoken of grown men reduced to tears, after all. Or had they caught the rumour, as we had, that Susannah Cibber – so affecting as Cordelia – had given way to Lucy Hunter? There’s nothing like a change of actress to bring out the gentlemen. The hacks would, no doubt, be sharpening their pens, poised to offer their judgements and, even before the next performance, she might be toasted in the taverns and hailed in print as a goddess, or else damned as a pale imitation, unworthy to tread the boards. Much would depend on the name of her patron, of course; even the poorest actress can claim success if she has the right friends.

  Neither of the two galleries was full. It was only six o’clock and, unlike the gentlemen, the working men who would fill those seats had not had leisure to eat. Many would arrive after the third act, on their half-price tickets, bringing baskets of bread and cheese and bottles of porter to share in companionable fashion with wives and children. I envied the conviviality and the anonymity of the lower gallery but knew that the likes of us would be unwelcome there.

  Far above us was the upp
er gallery. I couldn’t see much of it, and I didn’t care to. No one wants to spend an evening watching the common sort jostling for space, but we could certainly hear them. They hadn’t started throwing fruit at each other yet, although I had seen a curl of orange peel fly through the air into the pit. They were making a tremendous noise, but I couldn’t catch the words of the song they shouted out.

  It was the people in the other boxes that we had really come to watch, just as they watched us. Polly nudged my elbow and nodded to the box directly opposite. Three gentlemen were arriving, laughing with one another as they took their seats. A servant emerged from the shadow behind them and placed a large basket on the floor. He began lifting out the contents, wine and food, and laying them on the cloth-covered table. The men – young, wealthy and ready to be parted from their money before the evening was out – raised their glasses to us in salute. We knew far better than they how to play this game and gave them our prettiest looks and returned the salutes before coyly turning away. My smile, Ma tells me, can charm birds from trees; it certainly earned a response from a man whose diamond pin was so large and bright that I could see it from across the theatre. We had attracted their attention early in the evening, now we needed only to wait until the first interval before beckoning them over. A few teasing fondles while the dancers and tumblers entertained the galleries and we could be certain that they would drive us back to Berwick Street for the night, ready to lavish their affections – and their guineas – upon us. We were content to enjoy the theatre’s entertainment – being certain of how the evening’s sport would end.

  The chairs on the apron of the stage were beginning to fill with the privileged members of the audience; those with enough money or connection to mingle with the players in the green room and sit nearest to them as they performed. Some of these were noblemen, charmed by the latest pretty actress, wanting to sit so close that they could smell the scent of her gown as she moved, or gentlemen of letters keen to breathe the air that Garrick exhaled, ready to be overcome by his majestic presence

  I swept a glance over the theatre, this vibrant house of play and illusion. We were all playing, in truth: the jovial fellow, the serious critic, family man or coquette. But, for a moment, in company with other players, we could lose our daily reality and give ourselves up to the fantasy that all was well and that we were gods or kings.

  A man in the lower gallery caught my eye; a gentleman I knew well was looking up at our box. He was sitting at the edge, near to the balustrade, his wig pulled back into a low tail with a simple black ribbon. He was wearing a brown coat with unfashionable loose-fitting shoulders. The coat, I knew, enabled him to run and climb and to fight, if fighting were called for. He had a slender frame, but he was strong and wiry, like a cat. Yesterday’s hanging would have been a duty. He would have had no choice but to attend and would have taken no pleasure in it. This was one of the magistrate’s men. I wondered what he was doing here. From our previous acquaintance, I thought it unlikely that he nursed a secret passion for theatre.

  He was watching us. I tilted my head to acknowledge him.

  He held my gaze for a moment, gave the smallest of nods, and then turned his eyes back to the stage. The players had arrived.

  ‘Good evening to you too, Mr Davenport,’ I said, under my breath.

  Chapter Two

  There were two incidents of note in the performance – beyond anything that happened to Lear and his daughters.

  After the third act, during the long interval, the audience numbers swelled as those bearing half-price tickets made their way into the auditorium. There is usually a moment of tension when this happens, as those who paid the full two and six for a place on the pit benches are forced to squeeze in for the latecomers who have parted with smaller coin. There is always some grumbling. Those on the cheaper tickets are deemed to be philistines by the serious-minded critics in the pit. They have come only for the end of the main play and to see the after-piece – the frivolous little play tacked on to the performance. After-pieces are usually nonsense, but they draw the crowds. We, who had not come to see either play but rather to parade ourselves, did not judge.

  The greater noise came from above, where the galleries now began to fill. The mood was cheerful. Garrick had already demonstrated his magnificence, and there was a general sense of satisfaction with the performance. Lucy Hunter was proving very nearly equal to the task of stepping into Mrs Cibber’s shoes with a sweet, if slightly garbled rendering of Cordelia. Indeed, she was so pretty and delicate and she flashed her eyes so adorably that the gentlemen of the pit were happy to ignore a little stumbling over the words. I decided that her patron must be either wealthy or very notable.

  The interval entertainment, by contrast, was miserable. A man was standing on stage, trying to coax a small monkey to jump between poles and ropes in time to music provided by the orchestra. Half of the orchestra. The other half had decided to disappear to the tavern next door for a beer and a pipe. The monkey was not interested in being entertaining. It sat on top of a pole and washed its face, looking up occasionally to stare at the audience before resuming its meticulous cleaning. If the monkey was not interested in us, then neither were we interested in the monkey. Its handler was growing increasingly anxious as we became restless. The noise from the audience began to drown out the music.

  The people in the upper gallery began to throw fruit on to the stage – which did interest the monkey. It leapt from the pole and began gathering up apple cores and orange peel, to the exasperation of his owner and the amusement of the crowd. Finally, it gave us all a withering look, showed us its arse, and then scampered off the stage into the wings, the owner running out after it, mortified with embarrassment. We cheered loudly.

  Polly, who was bored with the Shakespeare but jolly with wine, shoved her fingers into her mouth and whistled her appreciation – much to Ma’s disapproval. Despite her profession, Ma disliked vulgarity. The whistle had the effect of causing one or two of the men in the pit to look up, so Polly began to blow kisses, to their evident enjoyment. One man, a lawyer a little to their left, glanced up and saw me. He began waving enthusiastically and shouting my name. At some point, since the trial, I must have entertained him, although his face was only dimly familiar. He, though, had not forgotten me.

  Ma gave me a sharp poke in the ribs and nodded for me to acknowledge him. I played my part, waved back and favoured him with what I hoped was a warm smile.

  But my name was, as of yesterday, known to the whole of London, thanks to the murderous man sent on his way to Tyburn. A few others began to shout it out, delighted to see the woman responsible for the downfall of a notorious killer. And then, suddenly it seemed as though the whole of the theatre was shouting, every head was turned in my direction while my name was chanted across the galleries.

  I ducked my head down, praying for them to cease.

  Ma was having none of this and hauled me out of my chair so firmly that I nearly tipped over the balcony.

  ‘Wave!’ she hissed at me. ‘Smile at them!’

  ‘Blow them kisses,’ Polly advised, giggling, ‘they’ll love it.’

  I waved and smiled and nodded as best I could. The crowd went wild.

  ‘Lizzie Hardwicke! I think I’m in love!’ Someone yelled.

  ‘My wick’s gone hard, that’s for sure,’ shouted another, standing up on a bench and rubbing his crotch. This set off roars of laughter.

  ‘Careful lads,’ another voice rose up from the pit, ‘from what I’ve heard, if she falls in love with you, you’ll be on your way to Tyburn within the month.’ The man who shouted was fat-faced, wart-covered, and the wrong side of forty. He thought it funny to lay the blame for a hanging at my feet. That was unfair. I glanced across to the gallery and saw Davenport’s scowl. He knew what that death had meant to me.

  ‘Don’t you worry about it, sweetheart,’ I said, now leaning out over the balcony and addressing the joker below, ‘I only ever fall in love with men who are
very rich or at least middling handsome. You, dear sir, have nothing at all to worry about.’

  The crowd roared with laughter and the man, now a dark shade of red, sat down – to be slapped on the shoulder by his friends.

  Davenport had covered his face with his hands.

  I did not like the attention, even though Polly, Ma and even Lucy were revelling in it.

  Mr Garrick could not have appreciated it much either, for the orchestra members were being harried on to the stage. The music drowned the laughter and shouting and heralded the final act.

  I sat down and handed my glass to Polly.

  ‘I need another.’

  I drank it in one gulp and held out the glass for more, desperate for the play to resume.

  Mr Shakespeare, I am reliably informed, gave King Lear a miserable ending. Garrick, having a much better idea of what pleases the crowds, re-wrote it to make more sense. Why would anyone want to see Lear die in grief, after all? Far better to know that the traitors would be punished, Cordelia and Edgar would rule in prosperity, and that Lear would enjoy a tranquil retirement.

  We were just coming towards the final scene, and the wrongs were being beautifully righted. Mrs Hunter had found her confidence at last and the quaver in her voice now seemed almost deliberately designed to tug the hearts of her audience. Mr Garrick was beginning a tender speech in praise of filial piety when suddenly, off-stage, there was a scream.

  This gave rise to the second incident of note – a more devastating one for the performance than my own repartee with the audience.

  The scream might not have been heard at all had the audience not been so gripped – and thus nearly silenced – by the closing lines. Above Garrick’s intense, whispered words we all heard it. Then it came again; louder and shriller. A woman was screaming murder.

  I saw the back of Davenport’s coat as he sped from the gallery.

  Garrick faltered. The screams continued. There was nothing he could do but stop speaking, gesturing to the orchestra to play as he and the actors ran into the wings.