The Corpse Played Dead Read online

  ‘I knew it. Why did you suggest me? And as a second seamstress, for heaven’s sake? You don’t even know whether I can sew on a button.’

  ‘I made a guess,’ he said. ‘An educated one. From what I know of your life before this…’ he nodded to my room, my bed, ‘…I imagined that you would have learned to sew, or at least know how to hold a needle.’

  I thought back to my attempts to sit quietly and embroider, when my father had tried, unsuccessfully, to contain what he had called wilfulness, and I had called a desire for liberty. Davenport was right: although I had no idea how to create the gowns I wore, I could embroider. I could stitch and mend.

  ‘A reasonable assumption,’ I said, shaking away the thoughts of home. ‘But why put me in the theatre, and not one of the men you use as informers? One of them might act a stage hand?’

  ‘Because women can come and go unnoticed. A seamstress gathering mending can poke about in dressing rooms in a way that would attract attention if a man did it. You’ll be insignificant, beneath notice. Besides,’ he said, looking me square in the face, ‘you pay attention to things. You’re probably the best eyes and ears we’ve got. I’d sooner have you in there than any of the men I know.’

  I am not averse to flattery. This is a serious flaw in my character and I really should excise it.

  ‘When do I start?’

  Chapter Five

  Davenport escorted me to the theatre the next day. It was mid-morning and Covent Garden piazza was full of people buying and selling spring flowers and vegetables. The air was fresh, and I could smell roses and sweet peas as we walked through the market. It was a different place in the daytime; full of natural colour and vibrancy. It was pleasant and wholesome. In the evening, the square turned into an arena of artifice, filled with people dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh and the pursuit of vice.

  By the time we reached the theatre, the sounds of market bustle were behind us. Last night, the streets had been thronging, but now I saw only a few scrawny children, more interested in picking up scraps of discarded food from the ground than waiting to glimpse the leading players or argue about Shakespeare. There were three entrances to the theatre. The main door at the front was used by the grander sort of audience member, making their way to the boxes. We had used it last night, displaying ourselves to the people of consequence. The large door that opened out from the pit was always the busiest. It gave access to the pit benches as well as to the galleries. The passageway to the pit door was, at opening time and at the long interval, a heaving mass of noisy play-goers, all pressing to find the best seats. At the rear of the theatre was the stage door, used by the members of the company. This was where we found ourselves now. The door was closed, as I’d expected at this time of day. Players, like harlots, begin their work late. Davenport banged with his fist and we waited.

  I hugged my possessions. They were wrapped in the dullest shawl I possessed; a few small items that Davenport had allowed me – after much arguing – to bring. A hair brush, two ribbons, and a large slice of apple pie that Sarah, our cook, had given to me. I contemplated the parcel, pressed close against the most dismal gown that I’d ever worn.

  After Ma had been persuaded to let me leave for a couple of days – Davenport had made use of Mr Fielding’s name more than once – the whole house had taken a perverse delight in dressing me like a drab. Emily, older than the rest of us, hard-faced and spiteful as a rule, had been so enthusiastic about this that she had exchanged one of her own gowns with a street walker to ‘help’ me. It fitted badly and had been worn, in my most conservative estimate, by ten others before me. I could smell their lives in the fabric. The shade of this gown lay somewhere between brown and grey – the colour of Thames mud. Meg, the girl who was employed as our maidservant, but who dispensed her fashion advice to us for free, brushed my hair into dullness. The powdered curls had disappeared, and I was left with limp red strands tied in a dirty length of string that Meg had the audacity to describe as a ribbon. I wore no jewels and no rouge, obviously. Polly, usually the kindest of the girls at Berwick Street, had laughed so hard at the sight of me that tears had run down her face. When at last she caught her breath, she slipped me a penny for luck. It was the only coin I carried – and I’d hidden that from Davenport.

  Davenport had suggested that I changed my name. I was playing a part, after all. This was less of an injury: I had abandoned my family name of Vessey when I came to London, taking my mother’s name of Hardwicke instead; changing it again caused no hardship and it was wise, given that my name had lately become so well-known. We decided on ‘Lizzie Blunt’ – an amusing choice for a girl with a needle. Meg had found a small needle box for me, reasonably equipped, that gave me the tools for my supposed trade. My real tools, as Davenport had said, were my eyes and ears.

  ‘This gown is itchy,’ I said to Davenport as we waited for someone to let us in. ‘And it smells.’

  He banged on the door again, louder than before, and gave me a withering look.

  ‘Lizzie Blunt, I’m afraid you’ll need to learn to keep your complaints to yourself.’

  I growled at him, already beginning to regret the adventure.

  ‘No one will look twice at me dressed like this.’

  ‘That is the idea, remember?’

  A heavy bolt was drawn back and then the door swung open. A man stood looking us up and down with a surly expression. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and covered in dust. Under the dust, he was swarthy; the sort of cull who needed his barber almost hourly.

  ‘I’m here to meet Mr Garrick,’ said Davenport, already playing his part by ignoring me. ‘I’ve come from Bow Street.’

  The man was carrying a lamp, even though it was broad daylight.

  ‘Aye, he said someone was coming.’ The gruff voice matched his dusty appearance. ‘Who’s this?’ He nodded to me.

  ‘New seamstress, I believe,’ said Davenport.

  The man wasn’t interested in me. He shrugged and gestured that we should follow. We made our way into a dark passage where the need for a lamp became apparent. There were no windows here and it was poorly lit. We were, I imagined, somewhere behind the stage.

  After a while, we emerged from the dingy corridor into a room. It was generously proportioned, comfortable and bright, lit with a few sconces, but enhanced by the sunlight that was shining through the windows. Paintings of theatrical scenes hung on the pale green walls and dotted around the room were small plinths carrying marble busts of eminent men. This was the green room, where actors mingled with favoured members of the audience, even as they waited to appear on the stage. It was a mess. I could see remnants of food and drink, empty bottles, glasses and discarded pipes strewn over tables. There were sundry items of clothing left over couches and on the floor. More than one chair had been knocked over. There was a faint smell of vomit in the air, mixed with stale tobacco. It was like Berwick Street after a lively party.

  ‘I’ll take you to Mr Garrick. His office is upstairs.’

  I looked at the man, but he was speaking to Davenport, not me.

  ‘What should I do, sir?’

  He stared at me, as though the answer was obvious. ‘Put your goods down, girl, and start tidying up,’ he said, waving a hand at the chaos in the room. ‘Gather up the clothes and see what needs mending. I’ll send someone over to you shortly.’

  I nodded and looked for a clear surface where I could lay my possessions. There being none, I shoved the bundle under a chair and wondered where to begin the task.

  The man was already disappearing through a door. Davenport, with a measure of sympathy in his expression, mouthed ‘good luck’ before turning to follow. I pulled a face and mouthed something obscene to the back of his coat.

  I stood and surveyed the devastation for a minute, assessing the worst of it, and then did as the dark-eyed man had ordered and picked my way around the room collecting up stray hats, handkerchiefs, shawls and gloves. I found seven discarded stockings – not an obvi
ous pair among them.

  I was standing with a pile of clothing in my arms when a solid and capable-looking woman entered the room and asked who I was.

  ‘Lizzie Blunt,’ I said, with a little bob. ‘New help for the seamstress.’ I made my voice sound like the servants at home; trying to recall the girl who used to light the fires, and her slightly breathy country tone.

  She stood, arms folded, head on one side, regarding me. ‘Well at least you look like help. The last girl was useless. I’m Molly Bray. Head seamstress,’ she added, because I needed to know my place.

  I ducked my head again, acknowledging my subservience in all matters needle-related.

  She was twenty-four or twenty-five; taller than me, and a great deal stouter. She had wide shoulders and, with her sleeves rolled up, I could see strong forearms. I could imagine her wrestling both of my brothers at the same time – and taking the honours. She was not what a seamstress should be; not neat and delicate, but sturdy and robust with a frizz of pale hair under her cap. Her face, doughy and round, was friendly enough.

  ‘Is it always like this, miss?’ I twitched the bundle of fabric in my arms and glanced at a pile of broken glass.

  ‘This?’ The laugh was sharp, but hearty. ‘This is nothing, Lizzie Blunt. We closed early the day before yesterday – you might have heard – and we didn’t open yesterday at all. This is nothing compared with what it’s like normally. The mice have had most of the food I see. That’s a shame.’

  She sighed and collected a bonnet, brushing dirt from the brim and rubbing the ribbon with her sleeve.

  ‘Has anyone shown you around yet?’ she perched the hat on her own head and picked up a coat that lay on the floor.

  I shook my head. ‘Just arrived, miss. A man covered in dust told me to clear up. He took a gentleman to see Mr Garrick.’

  ‘That’ll be Joe. Mr Sugden, I mean. Stage hand. Second only to the stage manager.’

  ‘And the stage manager is Mr Garrick?’ I said, keen to demonstrate my ignorance, being a spy.

  She laughed again, a playful chuckle this time. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn. Mr Garrick’s the theatre manager, lead actor, director and writer of plays and the reason this theatre is still standing. Mr Garrick’s whole life is about being seen – on the stage, in clubs, on the streets, talking with polite company. The stage manager, Mr Dinsdale, and his assistant, Mr Sugden, on the other hand, spend all their time trying not to be seen. Joe’s work is behind the scenery, making sure that everything runs smoothly for Mr Garrick and his cast whenever they decide to step out on the boards.’

  ‘He looked to me as though he’d been under the scenery, not behind it,’ I said.

  ‘That’ll be Joe. He’ll have been crawling about in the store, finding the set of backdrops for next week’s play.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She smiled again, which I took to be a good sign, given that she was going to be giving me my duties. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where we live.’

  Chapter Six

  We carried the clothes back down the passageway I’d come along with Davenport, and then turned into another. This one was also badly lit by a meagre number of tallow candles.

  I could hardly see Molly ahead of me when, suddenly, there she was, leaning out of a doorway with light streaming behind her.

  ‘This is us,’ she said, holding open the door at the very end of the passage as I struggled through with my load. ‘This is the costume room, where we sit and mend for most of the day.’

  We were standing in a room lit, astonishingly, by daylight. I could not immediately work out where I was and Molly, sensing my confusion, pointed out what I had failed to notice: there were windows at the top of the walls on two sides of the room. Molly’s working space was in the corner of the building, but because of the uneven nature of the theatre layout it sat a little below the level of the street. I stood and watched legs and feet walk past the window at the same height as my head. I was separated from the street, from the life and daylight of Covent Garden only by thin glass and lead bars.

  Molly laughed. ‘You get used to it eventually,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure, miss. It’s strange having people’s shoes walking past the top of my head.’

  But I could see why we were in this room. It was hidden from the prying eyes of the public when players came to try on costumes, but, at the same time, the light was very good. At this time of year we could work for most of the day.

  There was a large table in the brightest part of the room, on which lay needle boxes, scissors, a jug, a plate of bread and four drinking pots stacked up together. There were clothes everywhere. Piles of garments lay folded on the floor, and on the corner of the table. The walls were lined with cupboards, wardrobes, and trunks, all filled with cloaks, gowns, coats, shoes and shawls. There were props too: cushions, curtains, feathers, books and swords. This room contained the costumes needed by the company, and probably more besides.

  Molly took the clothes from me and shook them out, tutting as she tried and failed to pair the stockings. I sat cross-legged on a cushion.

  ‘How can they lose them so easily, I wonder?’ I asked as I took out a darning needle from the box in my pocket and began, as best I could, to stitch the holes. It was pretended innocence. I knew exactly the sort of situations in which stockings came loose.

  Molly rolled her eyes. ‘You’re in for a shock, Lizzie, if you think theatre folk just enjoy drinking wine and chattering with one another after a performance. Only last week I saw—’

  Quite what she saw I never discovered, as there was a sharp rap on the door. It opened, even before Molly responded. The man with the scowl and the dark stubble stood in the doorway.

  ‘You found her then,’ he said, nodding over at me. I jumped up from the cushion.

  Molly put an arm around my shoulder.

  ‘Seems I have a new assistant, Joe. This is Lizzie Blunt. Lizzie, this is Mr Joseph Sugden.’

  I gave him a small curtsey, lowering my gaze meekly as I did so because I was a servant here, and not a brazen harlot.

  ‘Mr Sugden.’

  He eyed the grubby gown that was too large for me, the straggly red curls and the needle and thread in my hand. He had no idea who I had been only hours ago. If nothing else, his disinterest told me that my disguise was good. I wasn’t used to disinterest. It was an odd experience, not to be desired.

  ‘I’ve noted that you began to clear the green room, as asked, Lizzie,’ Sugden said, unsmiling.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sugden.’

  ‘It’s not clean, though. You’ll need to go and finish what you started.’

  ‘She’s with me, Joe. You leave her be,’ Molly said. ‘Send Mary up, as normal. We’ve brought the clothes away to mend. That’s our job.’

  The look on Sugden’s face told me that he was unhappy at being contradicted.

  ‘Mary’s not in. Her mother’s having another baby and she’s been called away to help. Lizzie will go up and do it. You can help her.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time to clean,’ Molly said, her voice soft and soothing. ‘They won’t be in for hours yet. You know what they’re like.’ She pulled a chair for him at the table and poured a pot of ale.

  ‘Garrick’s in – and you know what he’s like,’ said Sugden, grumbling into the cup that she handed to him.

  I supposed that ‘they’ were the players.

  ‘When do the actresses come in, miss?’ I asked, keen to avoid the chores and needing to discover more about the people around Garrick. ‘I’m longing to see them, Mrs Cibber and Mrs Hunter especially.’ I could play the excitable admirer easily enough. These two, who worked behind the stage, might supply some useful information about those who walked upon it.

  Molly rubbed a hand across Sugden’s shoulders, encouraging him to sit at the table with her. ‘They’re supposed to be in by two o’clock when it’s an ordinary day,’ Sugden said, as he acquiesced and sat down. ‘They’ll rehearse the evening’s performance for an h
our or two and then get themselves ready to greet their guests before the play starts.’

  ‘They perform with only two hours of rehearsing?’ I asked, easing myself back to the floor and picking up my needle. I was genuinely impressed. I had, after all, seen a performance the other night.

  ‘Only if it’s a play they’ve been doing a while,’ said Molly. ‘If it’s new, or if there’s a new player stepping in, then they should be here at eleven.’

  ‘They never are,’ said Sugden, frowning. ‘Garrick shouts and stamps, but they drift in when they fancy.’ He was not impressed by such casual behaviour, I could tell.

  ‘There’s stage hands know the lines better than some of them,’ said Molly with a shrug. She picked up a soft cap from the floor and turned it in her hands, examining it for tears. ‘I don’t know why Garrick doesn’t put us on the stage instead.’

  ‘You’d be a wonderful Cordelia, Moll,’ said Sugden, with a sudden look of genuine affection. ‘Ophelia too. You should perform for him one day – show him what you can do.’

  Molly blushed as she snorted.

  ‘You talk such shit, Joe Sugden,’ she said. ‘I’ve got shoulders like a man’s and arms like a bear.’ She started to laugh. ‘And that’s before you get to my face…’

  ‘It’s better than mine,’ he said. ‘My face is just right for behind the scenery.’

  Molly threw the cap at him, still giggling.

  I asked again about the players, Davenport’s instructions in mind. Sugden was not slow in his criticisms.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough what they’re like,’ he said. ‘The women are thought to be attractive, but it’s a miracle what the paint can do to make plain girls look appealing. The men all hate each other. They’re all jostling for position with Garrick.’

  ‘That’s true of the women as well, Joe,’ said Molly. ‘You don’t see as much of them as I do.’

  ‘I see plenty of them in the green room,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘You can hardly move in there without seeing them displaying themselves like whores on the streets.’ He looked at me. ‘I hope you’re not easily shocked, Lizzie Blunt.’