Death at the Beggar's Opera Page 8

  The white make-up concealed any pallor that might have swept Mrs Harcross’s cheeks, but there could be no denying the frantic glint in her eye, nor the fact that her breathing increased to such an alarming rate she was almost panting.

  ‘I hear that you are startled,’ Mr Fielding went on inexorably. ‘Why is that, Mrs Harcross?’

  She drained her glass in one draught, then stood up. ‘Damn you,’ she exclaimed violently. ‘I wish I had never invited you over the threshold.’

  The Magistrate also rose to his feet and his vast height loomed over the angry woman. ‘I think it would be better,’ he said, his voice as soft as satin, ‘if you put your trust in me. All will come out in the end, be assured of it. Remember, if you are innocent of your husband’s murder then you have nothing to fear. Now Madam, answer me true. Did you kill Jasper Harcross?’

  ‘No,’ she answered, her lovely voice breaking on a sob. ‘I didn’t kill the wretched man. You see, the tragedy of it was that I loved him. And in that lay the cause of all that was to follow.’

  Chapter Seven

  There was a profound silence during which the blind man stood so still that just for a moment John had the ridiculous notion he might have dropped off to sleep. Then the Principal Magistrate spoke.

  ‘Mrs Harcross, I trust you will believe me when I assure you that the last thing I desire is to cause you distress. As I have already said, I was not born blind, and one of the final things I was privileged to see was your performance as Lady Macbeth opposite James Quin. I thought you one of the greatest and most beautiful actresses of the day. I could hardly believe it when I was informed by my brother Henry that you had disappeared to the country at the very pinnacle of your career.’

  The former Mrs Egleton gave a harsh laugh. ‘At the time I had little choice in the matter.’

  ‘Why was that?’ asked the Blind Beak in such a conversational manner that John felt rather than saw her attitude to the Magistrate soften.

  ‘Because I was in love, Sir. So crazily, I made that sacrifice. For that was what Jasper required of me. That I give up my career in order to concentrate entirely on his.’

  ‘What a terrible thing to do,’ John exclaimed thoughtlessly. ‘To ask that of anyone is monstrous, but to demand it of your wife, a celebrated actress, is beyond forgiveness.’

  Mrs Harcross laughed again. ‘That is the sort of man Jasper was. He was, without doubt, the most selfish individual I have ever encountered.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said John Fielding, ‘we should talk the whole matter through. Mr Rawlings, pour Mrs Harcross a glass of wine. Asking questions is an ordeal for everyone concerned, so let us at least act in a companionable manner.’

  The Apothecary rose to his feet with alacrity, marvelling at the ease with which the older man was placating the unhappy woman.

  ‘A little claret, if you please,’ she said, turning her handsome eyes in John’s direction.

  ‘Certainly.’ And he gave an unreciprocated smile.

  There was another moment of quiet during which the Blind Beak listened for the sound of pouring and his hostess settling herself in her chair, as did he. Then he spoke again.

  ‘It would be of great help to me if you could relate your story from the start. Going back to the time before you met Jasper Harcross.’

  ‘But surely that is not relevant to this enquiry?’

  Mr Fielding sipped his wine. ‘In a case of murder, I fear, it is often the smallest detail, a fact from the past that might be considered unimportant, that betrays the identity of the killer. A strange point but for all that true.’

  Mrs Harcross nodded half-heartedly. ‘I suppose you are right.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me something of your youth. Did you live in London as a child? Or are you originally from the country?’

  ‘No, I was born and brought up in Spitalfields. My father was a Huguenot, a weaver, my mother was English. I was baptised in St Mary’s, Whitechapel.’

  ‘And what was your given name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Tessier.’

  ‘So how did you become an actress from that non-theatrical start?’

  ‘My father wove materials for John Rich, manager of the Theatre Royal in Lincolns Inn Fields. Finally won over by my insistence that I wanted to go on the stage, Papa asked the great man if I might go to him for training.’

  ‘So small wonder that you played Lucy Lockit in the very first production of The Beggar’s Opera.’

  ‘Yes, it was staged at the Theatre Royal, as you know.’

  ‘I have heard it said that the play made Mr Gay rich and Mr Rich gay. Is it true?’

  Mrs Harcross smiled for the first time. ‘Oh yes. The show was an instant success. The whole of London flocked to see it.’

  The Blind Beak frowned. ‘But by this time you were Mrs Egleton, surely?’

  Observing Jasper’s widow closely, John saw that she had gone as still as death, and the fingers clasped round the stem of the wine glass were unnaturally white.

  ‘Yes, you are perfectly right. I met my first husband when I was just sixteen and had been training with Mr Rich a mere few months. Mr Egleton was considerably older than I was and at first I simply laughed at him. But eventually his constant showering of gifts wore me down and I married him four years later, on condition that he would let me pursue my chosen vocation.’ Perhaps realising that the last remark had made her sound heartless, Mrs Harcross added, ‘I was very fond of him, of course. He was a thoroughly decent man.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Blind Beak said softly. ‘Pray, continue.’

  The former actress gave a humourless chuckle. ‘Of course being so young, and with a head full of feathers, I did not fully understand the possible consequences of married life.’

  ‘Surely you are not referring to children?’ asked the Apothecary, slightly shocked.

  She shot him a look full of bitterness. ‘Of course I am. Nine months after my wedding I gave birth to a son. Mr Rich was so furious that he nearly dismissed me and it took all my pleading to make him keep me on. Then, in 1728, when I created the role of Lucy Lockit, I found that I was expecting another child.’

  ‘You played the part pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a strange coincidence.’

  Mrs Harcross grew even more rigid. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That Mrs Delaney, playing Lucy in the present ill-fated production, is also enceinte.’

  ‘Really?’ said the widow, her voice a rasp.

  ‘Mrs Delaney is married to Lord Delaney,’ the Blind Beak interposed. ‘Enough said, I believe.’

  She shrugged, her whole manner defeated. ‘Perhaps, perhaps. Anyway, I gave birth to a girl whom I named Lucy, more for a joke than anything else. Then I handed the infant into the charge of a maid and returned to the stage. But when my first husband died in 1733,1 placed my children in the care of a good woman in Chelsea and paid her to raise them. Mr Egleton spent more time with them than I did, you see. I felt I had no other alternative.’

  Mrs Harcross held her glass out to John for him to refill. ‘And then I met Jasper and was repaid in full for all my indifference to my young. It was in 1739, when he was twenty and I thirty-seven. Of course I still had my good looks and was considered to be at the peak of my career, while he was a nothing, a nobody, a stage-struck young upstart with not a penny to his name.’ She paused and drank deeply. ‘I can tell you, gentlemen, that there is nothing more obscene than the kind of love Jasper Harcross engendered in me. It was like a sickness, a vile craving. It was almost as if I fed off him.’

  Involuntarily John gave a shudder and the former actress glanced at him.

  ‘Yes, it is a revolting picture, I know. Even I, in the moments when I faced my soul, saw the ugliness of it. But there was nothing I could do. I was caught up in a trap created by lust and passion. A young girl who had entered a loveless marriage, deeply smitten at last. That is why, over all the years, he has been able to do exactly what he liked with me. I g
ave up my career, my children, everything, all so that I could keep him at my side.’

  ‘Even to letting him pretend he was not married?’ the Blind Beak asked, his voice betraying his astonishment. ‘Or did you not know about that?’

  ‘I knew about it full well. Jasper told me that to ingratiate himself with the women of London society, his principal patrons, it was better that he was thought single. And I, fool that I was, believed him. It was not for some while that I discovered my husband was behaving as a bachelor, surrounding himself with whores and doxies, spending his time in town and rarely coming to my side – or my bed.’ Mrs Harcross began to weep silently. ‘Oh, Mr Fielding, if only you could understand what a sickness this love of mine was. I put up with his liaisons, tolerated his flagrant infidelity, just to be thrown an occasional crumb of affection. Dear God, when I think about how low I sank I could die of shame.’

  ‘I do not sit in judgement,’ the Magistrate continued quietly, ‘you must remember that. My one purpose is to find your late husband’s killer.’

  Elizabeth Harcross gave a wretched laugh. ‘It will be like looking for a wolf in the midst of a pack. He treated women like dirt, while men despised and envied him. The child that Sarah Delaney carries, it’s his, he told me so. As for that silly girl Clive, she surrendered her virginity to him and even played my role for a while, allowing him to deceive her.’

  ‘Until you warned her to be off, of course,’ John said, wondering why he suddenly felt so heartily sick of the entire conversation.

  Mrs Harcross gave him a look of total astonishment. ‘I don’t know what you mean; I’ve never met the wretched girl, let alone given her a warning about Jasper. She is an adult and capable of looking after herself, as are they all.’

  ‘And at that point we shall leave the matter,’ said the Beak, standing up. ‘You have been of enormous help, Madam.’ He held out his arm for John to guide him. ‘There is just one last thing, though. I take it you were at home on the night before Jasper was killed and that someone can vouch for you?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ answered Mrs Harcross, sounding surprised. ‘I was indeed here but I spent my time alone.’

  ‘Did the maid not see you?’

  ‘I sent her away after she had cleared dinner. She lives locally, you see.’

  Mr Fielding nodded gravely. ‘Of course. It is of no consequence.’ He turned to the Apothecary. ‘Is there anything you would like to ask Mrs Harcross, my friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, as he helped the Magistrate into his cloak. ‘You said that you gave up your children for Jasper Harcross. Yet I could have sworn you also told us that, following the death of your first husband, you fostered them out in order to continue in your profession. Which is the truth?’

  The enamelled face set itself into a mask. ‘When I retired from the stage I decided that at long last I should be a proper mother to the poor creatures. So I wrote and invited them home. But Jasper would have none of it. I suppose he thought a boy of sixteen, as George was by then, would be too critical of the brash young buck his mother had married. My husband told me he would not tolerate my children under his roof and that was the end of it.’

  ‘How did they react to that?’

  ‘I don’t know. When I next went to see them they had gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ asked the Blind Beak, obviously startled.

  ‘Yes, George had disappeared from the home of the carpenter to whom he was apprenticed and taken Lucy with him. Their foster mother had no idea where they were, except that she thought they had made their way to London.’

  ‘There to vanish amongst the hordes of others, no doubt.’

  Mrs Harcross wept again. ‘No doubt. For that crime alone, Jasper deserved to die.’

  ‘Be careful what you say, Madam.’

  ‘No, I have already told you that mine was not the hand that struck him. The hideous love I felt for him possesses me still, even though my brain finally admits that he is dead.’ She gave the most distressing laugh that John had ever heard. ‘After all, a parasite does not kill its host, does it?’

  ‘It is time we left,’ said the Magistrate, feeling his companion give another shudder of revulsion. ‘I thank you for your frankness. Good night to you Mrs Harcross. Should you think of anything relevant to the case, however trifling you might believe it, please contact me at the Public Office.’ And with that he allowed John Rawlings to lead him out into the cold night air.

  Travelling back in the carriage, neither man spoke a great deal, John thinking that despite his medical training, nothing had prepared him for quite such a terrible confession as Mrs Harcross had just made. He tried to imagine being in the grip of a devouring obsession and shied away from the very idea. Almost thinking aloud, he said, ‘God’s wounds, I hope I never become so besotted with another that I sacrifice everything else in life.’

  ‘Nor,’ answered Mr Fielding solemnly, ‘to allow someone else to cloud one’s judgement so greatly that one goes beyond the point of rational thinking.’

  In the darkness the Apothecary felt himself grow hot. An idea that he had been pushing away for some time came back to him and he reluctantly faced it. Despite all Coralie’s protestations that her liaison with Jasper Harcross was at an end, that her love, indeed, had turned to hatred, she had still stood close to the actor on the night of the killing. Casting his vivid memory back he saw again how Jasper had held his leading lady tightly, his arm around her waist, and they had smiled at one another.

  ‘Damn,’ said John under his breath. ‘They say there’s no fool like an old fool – but as far as I can see there’s no fool like a young one either.’

  ‘You spoke?’ asked the Magistrate.

  ‘Thinking aloud, Sir, that is all.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I hope you have good hunting in the theatre tomorrow. Let us see what you make of the rapscallion bunch.’

  ‘Is Coralie Clive amongst them?’ John enquired, then immediately regretted it.

  ‘Most certainly. Her excuses for the night before the murder are amongst the flimsiest I heard. Why do you ask?’

  The Apothecary gritted his teeth. It would appear that despite all his earlier hopes that Coralie was not involved he was going to have to think again about her.

  ‘Only because, as I have already said, it is hard to believe her capable of killing.’

  ‘Remember Mrs Harcross and beware of sentiment, my friend.’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered grimly, ‘I most certainly will.’

  And he stared out of the window into the darkness as the coach made its way through the silent fields towards the city of London.

  Chapter Eight

  He slept very uneasily, waking almost hourly with two unresolved questions repeating themselves again and again in his brain. What had become of the Egleton children, who by now must be fully grown adults? And if Mrs Harcross had not called on Coralie in order to warn her off, who had? A nasty thought crept, unbidden, into John’s brain and he had sat up in bed, feeling very depressed. Could Coralie have made the whole story up in order, perhaps, to detract from her own guilt? Thoroughly confused, the Apothecary had wandered downstairs to sit by the library fire, kept burning all night in this wintry weather, and there he had finally fallen asleep, curled up in Sir Gabriel’s chair, only to wake again as a sullen dawn made its reluctant appearance in the London skies. Knowing that further rest was out of the question, John had gone upstairs to shave and dress.

  Staring into the mirror in the harsh early light, he thought that he looked only one step removed from a savage. His eyes, normally the deep bright blue of flowers, were dull, and there were bags beneath them in spite of the fact he had drunk very little wine the night before. His lively eyebrows were currently set in two harsh lines, while his skin appeared to have a greenish tinge. His mouth, famed for its crooked grin, a characteristic over which he had no control, was positively turning downwards, and sticking out his tongue, John saw that it looked coated and unhealthy. Sighing, he mixed himself a p
otion, vile to the taste but wondrous in its effects.

  ‘Stop thinking that Coralie’s a liar,’ he told himself firmly. ‘She might well be speaking the truth.’

  His reflection pulled a sardonic face. ‘She had her arm round him, didn’t she?’

  ‘Perhaps it was for a reason.’

  ‘Are you talking to yourself?’ called Sir Gabriel, sweeping past the door in his nightrail and turban, a sight to inspire fearful admiration in the minds of all who beheld it.

  ‘Of course,’ John replied promptly. ‘I am such a fine conversationalist I cannot resist. But tell me seriously, should I leave my shop unopened today or have you found someone to deputise for me?’

  ‘I have succeeded superbly, my dear. Come and join me for breakfast and I shall tell you all about it.’

  As always Sir Gabriel ate lightly, a connoisseur in all things, but John, much to his own surprise, suddenly found himself excessively hungry and consumed large amounts of ham and eggs and pickled herring, just as if he were a hearty country squire.

  ‘I observe that the pressure of finding a murderer has not diminished your appetite in any way,’ said John’s father, with a certain dry amusement.

  ‘On the contrary, after a really bad night I now feel half starved.’

  ‘You did not sleep well?’

  ‘No, I kept thinking about Mrs Harcross and her mysterious missing children.’

  ‘Surely not by the handsome Jasper?’

  ‘No, she was married before. In fact she was Mrs Egleton, the celebrated actress.’

  ‘Really? How extraordinary! I remember her as Lucy Lockit in the original production of The Beggar’s Opera.’

  ‘Even more extraordinary is the power her second husband exerted over her, a power which led her to leave the stage and disappear into obscurity.’

  And John described in detail all that the former actress had given up for Jasper Harcross, and the outrageous situations to which she had been forced to turn a blind eye.

  ‘He sounds highly unpleasant to me,’ Sir Gabriel commented, spreading a delicate helping of marmalade onto a thin slice of toast.