The Corpse Played Dead Read online

  There was uproar in the pit, and in the galleries, as everyone began to talk at once.

  From our box, Ma and Lucy chatted amiably to our neighbours, discussing the merits of the performance so far as though nothing had happened. Their interest lay less in the acting and more in the fact that Mrs Hunter had worn different jewelled necklaces for each act. This was a sure sign – according to Ma – that she had more than one lover on the go.

  ‘Perhaps they came from her husband?’ the neighbour ventured with a titter. Ma’s laugh turned into a cough when she snorted her wine.

  Polly nudged me.

  ‘Something’s happening. Look.’

  On the stage, Garrick had appeared. He was no longer Lear; he was the theatre manager, with a look on his face that lay somewhere between anxiety and anger. He waved his hands in the air to quieten the crowds.

  ‘Honoured guests, ladies, gentlemen, please I beg your attention. I stand before you, no longer a king, but your servant.’

  There were mutterings in the pit. Garrick stepped forward again.

  ‘It is my unhappy duty, as manager of this fine theatre, to inform you that we cannot continue with tonight’s performance.’

  Someone booed noisily from the gallery, as Garrick cut in, ‘There has been an accident. A most unfortunate accident.’

  A ripple of excitement ran around the audience. The men on the stage, more privileged than us and closer to the wings, nodded to one another, knowing, perhaps, what he meant.

  ‘What about our money?’ a voice yelled from the gallery. ‘We paid for a whole play, not half of one.’

  Garrick’s face wrinkled in annoyance. The players had reached the closing scenes of an immaculate performance – everyone knew it had been so. But the audience, this rabble of critics and philistines, would squeeze their pennies out of him for the sake of an after-piece. Anyone could see the conflict in Garrick: he had bared his soul as Lear, and now he was going to have to refund the audience for some nonsense full of lurid innuendo – or risk a riot. The manager weighed his options; the actor delivered his line.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have given of our best and have suffered a shock in the dying moments. If our play has displeased you, or if you feel that you have not had a spectacle worth your coin, then we will, of course be pleased to offer you a refund. I would only hope that we may be glad of your generosity, if you have been glad of our energies in bringing Shakespeare’s genius to life.’

  Some clapped. I clapped. I had no desire to have my money back, even if it had been my money – not when I had secured several guineas for the rest of the night. I’m always careful with my coins, but Garrick was right: they had given us a treat, very nearly. I respected those who worked hard, and the labourer is worthy of his hire, as my father might say. Others, though, were deciding to claim their money, and began bustling to the doors, looking for someone to claim it from. Ma, without a doubt, would have gone with them, but for the fact that the gentlemen in the box opposite, being men of adequate means, were gesturing to us that they were ready to leave without worrying after shillings. They were keen to continue the evening at Berwick Street.

  Lucy, Polly and I nodded and waved, exchanging, behind our smiles to them, our private observations on their likely preferences.

  Laughing along with the others, I soon found myself on the arm of a pleasant creature with a neat face and merry eyes. The elegant cut of his coat, the diamond at his neck, and the bright jewels on his fingers were even more pleasing to see, as they promised a lucrative night.

  Even so, as I giggled and flirted with him in his carriage, I wondered what had happened behind the scenery of Drury Lane. What was the shock that had cost Lear his final embrace with his cherished daughter?

  Chapter Three

  The gentleman sitting in my room at noon the next day was not the one I had brought home.

  My evening guest had been full of gratitude for the hours he spent in my company – and he had spent many hours. He had left in the morning kissing my fingers, after dropping his coins on my table, assuring me that he would return. The diamond pin that I had admired in the theatre was also now mine for a service that, in the harsher light of day, made me queasy to recall. But everything had been done, as it was always done, to build up my private treasure store: my retirement fund. The contribution to Ma had been given faithfully, as usual in our house, but the rest – the coins and gifts I had never declared – were hidden away under one of the floorboards.

  This new gentleman was sitting stiffly, his body tense, even though he had chosen my more comfortable chair. He was also scowling. Scowling was his expression of choice, I remembered.

  ‘I hope you’ve brought me news from the theatre, Mr Davenport.’ I perched on the second, less comfortable, chair, wishing that I was wearing more clothing. ‘I’ve been desperate for news all night.’

  He looked around the room. Over to my bed.

  ‘I imagine you’ve kept yourself busy, even so.’

  I had done my best to tidy up. ‘Even so.’

  William Davenport was not quite thirty years of age, barely more than ten years my senior, although his manner made him seem older. He had trained as a physician but had set that profession aside after the death of his wife and child and had latterly become one of a small band of men in the employ of Mr Fielding, the magistrate of Bow Street. Fielding’s men were charged with hunting down robbers and murderers as swiftly as possible, and overturning vice and corruption where they found it – mostly among the lower orders. They had done a good job in harrying and disrupting some of the worst criminal gangs, but ordinary brothel keepers like Mrs Farley also fretted at their presence. Davenport was grave, sharp-witted, and he disapproved of my way of life.

  He intrigued me.

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  Most men visit my room to deal with the lusts that are not satisfied at home. Most men do not sit frowning at me. Most men, by now, would have thrown back a glass of wine and shed their breeches.

  Davenport was different. He liked pretty women – I had noticed that – but he was not interested in me. He had once thought me a murderer, and a thief, but I had given him cause to cast that judgement aside when I had caught the killer for him. That was two months ago, and I hadn’t set eyes on him until last night at Drury Lane. He didn’t need to know that I was glad to see him. Or that it irked me to discover that I was glad.

  He unclasped his hands, clasped them again, and cleared his throat.

  ‘How good are you as an actress, Miss Hardwicke?’

  I laughed.

  ‘My dear Mr Davenport,’ I said with a dramatic sweep of my arm, ‘I spend the whole of my day pretending. In this room, I am able to make any man believe that he is the finest lover in the world and that I am dying for his love. But please don’t ask me to recite lines of Shakespeare, like Mrs Hunter – or even to do it as badly as her. I’d be dreadful on the stage. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I need you to act for me.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘What do you mean, act for you?’

  ‘Mr Fielding sent me. He wonders if you’d like a role in the theatre.’

  ‘I’ve just told you, I can’t recite lines.’

  He hesitated. I wondered what was coming next.

  ‘He doesn’t want you on the stage. He wants you behind it. The manager is looking for a second seamstress.’

  ‘Why on earth would I want to be a seamstress?’ I gave him my haughtiest look. ‘It’s a pity that you know so little of my real talent, sir. Perhaps you should enquire of the gentleman who left here not an hour ago, as happy as he was exhausted.’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘Nothing to do with me, of course,’ he said, giving me the impression that it had a lot to do with him, ‘but Mr Fielding needs someone inside the theatre to find out what’s going on.’

  Maddeningly, my curiosity was aroused. He knew it would be, and this made me madder still.

  ‘I thought you wanted to
know what’s happening.’ he said, stretching out a leg and smoothing a crease over his thigh. ‘Don’t you want to know why Mr Garrick has come running to Bow Street? Would you like me to tell you all about it, Miss Hardwicke?’ He paused and looked over at me. ‘Ah, but of course you would. And when you find out, you’ll want to be at the heart of it, I’m sure. So, would you like to play at being a seamstress for a day or two?’

  I folded my arms, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of getting the better of me, but wanting to know what was going on. There was also the matter of income. Davenport had hinted to me before that the magistrate might pay for my work – and a decent sum had, indeed, arrived when I had led his men to a killer.

  ‘Is Mr Fielding going to pay me? I don’t want to find that Ma has let my room while I’m scratching for farthings on the floor of the pit. I have to make a living and Ma’s keen to make the most of my new notoriety.’

  Davenport knew that I had not chosen this life. He knew, or believed he knew, the circumstances that had brought me to Berwick Street. He knew that I was carefully saving my money in order that I might leave one day. He also knew of my desire for adventure; but adventure doesn’t keep a girl in food, let alone in hats.

  ‘I can speak with Mrs Farley. It’s only for a day or two and Mr Fielding is prepared to pay you.’ There was a touch of hesitation in his voice.

  ‘How much will he pay me?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Enough to keep your landlady happy, I’m sure.’

  There would be nothing extra for me then.

  ‘It’s the best I can do,’ he said. ‘Mr Fielding is willing to pay informers, but even the money I receive has to be squeezed from the government.’

  He was inviting me to exchange a life of comfort, albeit shared with any man who walked through my door, for a couple of days of labour, dodging the groping hands of many other men and running to the beck and call of insufferable actresses. If I made better use of my wits, I would surely reject his invitation. But my interest was piqued, and curiosity has long been my undoing.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, standing up from my seat and holding out a hand. ‘You know I can’t resist. As long as Ma’s happy to let me go, and she gets paid, you needn’t worry about me. I’ll get by. I’m sure I’ll manage without my jewels and ribbons.’

  He rose from his seat and shook my hand.

  ‘Thank you. Mr Fielding will be pleased.’

  ‘Never mind that. How about we find some food and wine, and you can tell me what’s going on at Mr Garrick’s theatre?’

  Chapter Four

  ‘David Garrick is a remarkable man,’ said Davenport, helping himself to several slices of meat and some bread. ‘The trouble is, he makes a lot of enemies.’

  ‘I’ve heard.’ It was common knowledge that the man who was so brilliant in communicating the full range of human emotion on the stage could be capricious, moody and tight-fisted when off it.

  ‘At the smallest criticism, he takes to his pen and dashes off letters to the newspapers, choosing to air his disagreements in public. He would be better served by trying to soothe his critics, I think.’ Davenport would rather cut off his arm than play out an argument in the press.

  ‘His letters suggest that he’s a man who doesn’t like to let matters rest until they’re resolved in his favour; a man thoroughly convinced of his own approach and opinion,’ I said.

  Davenport looked up, surprised.

  ‘I do read the newspapers, Mr Davenport. I don’t spend every hour of the day on my back.’

  ‘Forgive me, I meant no slight.’

  I poured him a glass of wine. ‘And what you’re going to tell me now,’ I said, ignoring his discomfort and helping myself to a glass, ‘is that some of these critics and enemies are making life unpleasant for him?’

  He nodded, took a sip from the glass, and settled himself in the chair. He had, by now, decided to unbutton his coat.

  ‘Exactly so. The problem is, no one knows which of his many detractors is causing the unpleasantness. This wine is excellent.’

  The wine was good. French wine was over-taxed and expensive, so I settled back into my chair to appreciate it. If I was going to spend days away from the better comforts of Berwick Street – decent wine and the opportunity for quiet conversation in my own room – then I needed to know more. A second seamstress was unlikely to have much chance to sit down, let alone indulge in such luxuries as eating and drinking.

  ‘Burgundy. I’ve no idea where Ma bought it. But tell me about the unpleasantness. What happened last night?’

  ‘A number of fusses about nothing; that’s what we thought at first. Mr Garrick, as you observed, is like a dog with a bone when he thinks he has cause, and he strongly believes that someone is out to ruin him and his theatre.’ He paused. It sounded as though he had not been convinced, initially. Garrick, dramatic, flamboyant and obsessive, was the antithesis of the taciturn Davenport. The thought of them meeting made me smile.

  ‘He began pestering Mr Fielding some weeks ago. Fielding’s not a great lover of theatre – his blindness means it’s of little enjoyment – but he knows a great deal about it and is much admiring of Garrick. They have connections in common, of course.’

  Wealthy, well-known, self-made men working in Covent Garden: naturally they would move in similar circles.

  ‘There were a few incidents of theft and petty destruction. A costume or two torn, a piece of scenery slashed, an important item of furniture for a play missing and then found broken. It was, by and large, unimportant stuff, but taken all together it began to look like a deliberate and calculated attempt to unsettle the theatre people. They’re all prone to fantasy and superstition. These things were making them skittish. Garrick called almost every day last week – as if we don’t have enough to do. Then, two days ago, he claimed that one of his actresses had been poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned? Not Susannah Cibber? She was supposed to be playing Cordelia last night. Lucy Hunter took her place.’

  ‘Mrs Cibber became unwell in the night. Complained of stomach cramps. Garrick says that she’s been poisoned.’

  I snorted with laughter. ‘She’s notorious for falling ill. Why did he think she was poisoned this time?’

  ‘Is she? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You should pay more attention to the gossips and scandal sheets, Mr Davenport. One may learn a lot from tittle-tattle – even more than from the newspapers, you know.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘This is why we have need of you, Miss Hardwicke. I knew there had to be a reason for my being here, other than this excellent wine.’

  ‘This is a house of pleasure, sir. We like to please our guests in every way, as you know.’

  He took another mouthful of wine.

  I wondered, as I watched him relax, what his own particular pleasure would be, if he were to pay for it, or ever seek it with me.

  I pulled my mind back to our conversation. ‘Tell me more about Mrs Cibber’s poisoning.’

  ‘Well, Garrick believed she had been poisoned, at least. That’s why I was in the theatre last night. He was extremely exercised about it. I was to be in the audience, to watch for anything suspicious.’ He smirked. ‘You put in a very good performance, by the way. You were even better than the monkey.’

  I saluted him with my glass. He was, slowly, becoming better company. ‘Perhaps I’ll pick on you next time I spy you hiding behind a pillar. Why was there so much screaming at the end of the play? A “most unfortunate accident”, Mr Garrick called it, I think.’

  ‘You’ve a good memory.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It turns out that was all it was, an unfortunate accident. One of the stage hands fell from a ladder. He’s broken a leg but is otherwise perfectly fine.’

  ‘So why all the screaming? Why stop a performance when it’s nearly ended just for a broken leg?’

  ‘At first I thought it was just an actress getting over-excited – I told you they were skittish. The man ha
d fallen badly, twisted his leg and knocked himself on the head as well. When she found him, it looked to her as though he was dead.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ I said. It’s not pleasant to encounter violent death. ‘That still doesn’t explain why—’

  ‘When I reached him, he was beginning to come to. His leg was causing him a lot of pain, but he didn’t seem to have damaged his head too badly. Even so, next to where he lay there was a note.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now I was truly interested. I leaned forward, the fabric of my gown slipping a little at my shoulder.

  Davenport looked away, concentrating on his plate. ‘The note was a threat to Garrick and his players. It said that more accidents would happen until Garrick left the theatre.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, hitching my gown back to a more modest position.

  ‘I have no idea. Garrick had no idea, either, but the players refused to continue. There was something close to mutiny behind the scenery. Thankfully, the audience members were talking so loudly I doubt anyone heard the arguments back stage.’

  I hadn’t heard them, but then, I had been in a box with Ma, Polly and Lucy. I would not have heard the roof falling in.

  ‘That explains the expression on Mr Garrick’s face,’ I said. ‘He was furious.’

  ‘He was, although whether he was furious with the note-writer or the players, I couldn’t tell.’

  I drained my glass and set it down. ‘So where do I fit into this pantomime?’

  He laughed. He didn’t laugh often, which was a pity. His brown eyes twinkled when he was cheerful, but the grief he carried, and the murky aspects of his work made him far too serious.

  ‘Yes, I was coming to that. Once he had dealt with the audience Garrick strode off to Bow Street to find the magistrate, demanding that Mr Fielding do something. Fielding was in an imaginative frame of mind and suggested that he might put a man into the theatre, behind the scenes, to see what was going on.’

  ‘A man?’

  He scratched his cheek and pulled a face. ‘I suggested you.’