Jack found it difficult to concentrate on the rest of the performance. Not that it mattered. The audience was so well fortified with strong drink that they paid little heed to the play. At times, it was almost impossible to hear the actors above the clamour, especially whenever Miss Balmore appeared. Then the place resounded with hoots, whistles and vulgar comments. Miss Balmore carried on as though oblivious to the tumult. Her final, exaggerated curtsey at the end of the play almost sparked off a riot as her breasts fought to free themselves from her low-slung bodice. Tyler Courtney was far from pleased that Catherine Balmore had received louder cheers than himself. Mrs Trump’s look was that of unfettered hatred.
As they changed afterwards, Mr Whitlock asked if anyone had seen Acorn. Jack’s head jerked up guiltily, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to answer.
Mrs Trump came storming in. ‘Did you see that trollop? Now she is outside surrounded by her sycophants.’ She spat out the words. ‘They are like a pack of panting hounds, their tongues hanging down to their knees.’
‘She’s only jealous ’cos her own tits sag down to hers,’ Angel Bright smirked under his breath while giving Jack a conspiratorial wink. Jack returned an unconvincing smile and hurried out. Though he was loath to return to Acorn’s house, he knew he must see if Bessie was coping.
A brutish fellow stopped him at the door. ‘Where do you think you’re gannin’?’ he said roughly.
‘I am living under Mr Acorn’s roof at present. So let me pass.’
‘Not his roof no more.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jack asked innocently
‘He lies deed wi’in.’
Jack managed to muster a look of disbelieving horror. ‘He did not appear to be suffering any illness.’
‘’Tis not illness that killed him, ’twere a blow that split his heed open.’ The man’s glee was unpleasant.
‘Oh, my Lord, I must go in at once.’ Without hesitation, Jack pushed his way past the man and into the hall. There, Bessie sat slumped in a chair. She glanced up as he entered.
‘Bessie, what is this awful news I hear? Are you all right?’ He could see the relief flood into her face; he had come back as promised.
‘Oh, Jack, it is most dreadful. Father is dead.’
‘But how?’
‘A grievous blow to the head.’ The answer was not Bessie’s. ‘And who might you be?’ The owner of the soft-spoken, rather arrogant voice was a small, anonymous man. His dress was immaculate and expensive, though his shortness of stature made his blue coat appear slightly too long. The features were unremarkable save for his lack of chin, which had the curious effect of making his face slide into his stubby neck. His mouth, downturned at each side, heightened his doleful demeanour. Behind Sheriff Ridley stood his lieutenant, Sergeant Axwell. He was broad-shouldered with a bush of straggling, unkempt hair. His face was hard and uncompromising; the battered nose was eloquent testimony to the difficulties of upholding the law on the streets of Newcastle.
‘This is Sheriff Ridley, Jack,’ Bessie put in.
‘Sir, I am Jack Flyford and I am in the employ…em… was in the employ of Mr Acorn.’
‘An actor.’ Sheriff Ridley did nothing to disguise his distaste.
Jack nodded. ‘I have recently come from Edinburgh and while I was seeking lodgings in the town, Mr Acorn kindly let me rest awhile in his house.’
The sheriff showed scant interest in this information. ‘And where have you been this night?’
‘At the theatre. We have been performing Hamlet by William Shakespeare.’
‘I do know who penned the play, sir,’ Ridley replied with some annoyance. For a few moments, he stared at Jack, his creased expression one of dislike. Then he turned to Bessie. ‘I have seen enough. Sergeant Axwell, remove the body. Burial will take place the day after tomorrow.’
‘What of the murderer?’ Jack asked.
Sheriff Ridley continued to address Bessie. ‘Miss Acorn, the perpetrator of this evil deed will swing, have no doubts upon that score.’ He gave Jack a pointed, sideways glance. ‘Now, do you want me to leave a guard upon the door?’
‘There is no need, Sheriff Ridley. I am sure Mr Flyford will keep watch over me this night.’
‘Do you think it is prudent to be alone with this fellow? Can he be trusted?’ By his tone, the sheriff didn’t think so.
‘My father trusted him, therefore I have no reason not to.’
‘Very well.’ The sheriff was not convinced, but he raised no further objections. With a curt bow, ‘I bid you goodnight, Miss Acorn. As for you,’ he looked at Jack, ‘I am confident that our paths will cross again.’