The first visitor next morning was Lazarus Bowser. He saw Bessie alone. Later, she related how Bowser had been most kind and sympathetic. He had assured her that she could stay on in the house and he would pay for the rent. He explained that Acorn’s debts had already been met when the partnership was struck.
‘How has he taken the events of yesternight?’ Jack asked her. This was in the dining room as Bessie could not bring herself to enter the parlour.
‘I think he is badly shaken. He and my father had been partners only a short while.’
Jack was astonished at how Bessie was so in control of her feelings. The spontaneous flood of grief that had poured out when she had found her father’s body had now been dammed up. She showed little outward emotion, which Jack found unnerving in one so young. Yet, he reflected, in many ways she was older than her years.
‘Will he continue to back the theatre or will he give way to Thirsk?’ What was to become of her? Jack wondered. She had lost the one stable element in her life. At least Bowser would see to it she was cared for in the short term. But thereafter?
‘He did not say directly, though he did mention that he had people to see concerning the theatre.’
She looked so appealing with her hair tied back. The effect was of the classical elegance of the Greek statues he had seen illustrations of in books at Oxford. And behind the green eyes, an inner strength he had never noticed before.
‘If Bowser can persuade Courtney to stay, then he will have a business that makes him a profit.’
‘He asked about you.’
‘Me?’ Jack’s exclamation came out higher than he intended. Had Acorn had time to expose him?
‘When I said that you would not be leaving, he appeared pleased.’ Jack puckered his lips trying to suppress a smile of relief. ‘Was I right to say such a thing?’
Those green eyes were trained on him. ‘Of course. Of course you were.’ He hoped his reply carried the conviction he did not feel. He wanted to leave that minute. Murder was a stranger that frightened him. It was making him face up to the fact that his life had always been shielded from unpleasantness and real sorrow; he had been too young to be greatly affected by his mother’s death. He didn’t like what he was discovering about himself. Running away had always been the easiest solution, though he knew, deep down, he could not abandon Bessie just yet. Not out of love or even affection, for he felt little of either; it was his damned conscience.
As he was committed to staying in Newcastle, for a while at least, he would require funds. To earn them he would have to act. If Bowser kept the theatre going, it seemed that his position was secure. However, if Bowser did not, should he make overtures to Crichton Thirsk? Trotting out his Garrick story would be sufficient to win over the rival manager. Unfortunately, Bessie would see that as disloyal. Yet he couldn’t live on her charity as she was living off Bowser’s. Well, not for too long. The key was Bowser.
Jack started to walk round the big oak dining table. ‘Why ever did Bowser throw in his lot with your father? It cannot be the best way to make one’s fortune.’
‘Lazarus Bowser has no need to make his coin from the theatre. He makes so much more from all his other enterprises. My father said it was out of revenge.’
‘Revenge? I do not understand.’
‘Bowser is a man of new money. He has risen from obscurity. The old families of commerce in the town do not like him and, I suspect, the way he does business. They have stood in his way and done much to stop his social advancement. One man in particular, Mr Ralph Carr. Two years ago, Carr set up a bank in Pilgrim Street. I am told it is the first of its kind outside London. Carr needed partners in the enterprise to raise the necessary capital. Bowser was keen to join. Carr snubbed him and sought partners elsewhere. Bowser has never forgiven him, especially as the bank has turned in a most handsome profit, so my father said. And the mayor-making of Mr Bell. All the people of importance in the town were summoned. No invitation was issued to Bowser. Mr Bell is one of Carr’s three partners.’
‘But the theatre?’
Bessie smoothed out her skirts. ‘Two summers ago, father was invited to bring his company to Newcastle by Crichton Thirsk, who was then the manager of the Theatre in the Bigg Market. We were at York at the time. It was only for a week to coincide with Race Week on the Town Moor, which attracts people from all over the North. The week was a great success and we were invited back last summer. Then it was an even bigger success. Father decided that instead of letting Thirsk make capital out of his troupe, why did he not forsake acting and become manager of the theatre himself? It would at least give us a settled life, and father a position of importance in the town. Ambition always burned brightly in his heart. He set about courting men like Carr and the other wealthy merchants who supported Thirsk. He soon outmanoeuvred Thirsk.’
‘No wonder Thirsk has… had no love for your father.’
‘Unfortunately, Father had a disagreement with Carr. Thirsk, encouraged, formed a new theatre down at the Moot Hall. With the return of his supporters and with Father’s mounting debts, it appeared our days would be numbered. That is when Lazarus Bowser came to our rescue. The debtors were paid. The season could continue.’
‘So by helping your father, Bowser thwarted Carr and his associates.’
‘I believe it has caused them much aggravation.’
‘Then your father’s…’ – Jack couldn’t bring himself to say ‘murder’ or even ‘death’… – ‘it has come at an untimely moment. Bowser has much self-esteem to lose and, from what you say, that matter is more important to him than any other. For that reason, he will find a way to keep Thirsk at bay. I am also sure he will not rest until the man who committed this vile crime is caught.’ He now stood behind Bessie. Gently, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Without looking up, she raised her hand to touch his and squeezed it tightly.
The wind whipped up the hems of the coats. Those with hats had difficulty keeping them in place. The ribbon that secured Bessie’s flapped against her neck, while the wide brim tried wildly to break free. Not that many had braved the bitter blasts to see Acorn’s body laid to rest in the churchyard of St. Andrew’s.
The medieval church stood squat and aloof. The dark expanse of town wall, broken only by dashes of lighter stone – evidence of hasty repairs carried out during the rebellions of 1715 and 1745 – shielded the north and west sides of the churchyard like a cloak. To the right, ran New Gate Street, the passers-by never venturing a second glance at the burial party as they scurried about their business. Just beyond could be seen the chunky, imposing New Gate, northern entrance to the town, which also doubled as home to incarcerated local villains and vagabonds.
The frozen ground underfoot was like unforgiving rock, and Jack wondered how the gravediggers had managed to make such a large hole. He stood next to Bessie: she wore a dark dress and cloak, and had tied a crape ribbon around the crown of her straw bergère; and, like all the mourners, she was wearing white chamois gloves. His own garments were plundered from the theatre for the occasion. On the other side was Tyler Courtney, tall and straight. Opposite were Mrs Trump, Mr Southby, Mr Whitlock and Mr Thrapp – all the older members of the company who had been with Acorn for some years. Catherine Balmore was said to be too upset to attend. The only representative of the local community, apart from the parson and the gravediggers, was Lazarus Bowser. With the exception of Mrs Trump, who from time to time dabbed her eyes with a dainty handkerchief, no one seemed to be shedding any tears. Not even Bessie. She fixed her gaze upon the roof of the church beyond.
The shivering clergyman went through the motions with unseemly haste, and the coffin was quickly swallowed up by the ground. One by one, the mourners pulled themselves away from the graveside as though it was still difficult to break free from Acorn’s hold over them. Then a figure not far distant caught Jack’s eye. Jack wasn’t sure if he was the first to see him. Certainly Courtney and Bowser did within seconds. Leaning on an upright gravestone was Crichton Thirsk. In the light of the day, he was even smaller than Jack remembered. The expression on his pitted face was passive. No hint of gloating to see a rival out of the way. He was on the point of leaving when Bowser shouted his name.
‘Come here to admire your handiwork?’
‘Sir, what do you mean by that remark?’
‘’Tis not you that has put Acorn in that hole?’
‘Pray be careful what you say, Mr Bowser,’ entreated Courtney.
Bowser was having a problem suppressing his anger. ‘Sir, you shall never have the theatre.’ Courtney made an effort to pull Bowser back. His restraining hand was flung aside. ‘Your murderous scheme has failed.’
Thirsk remained calm in the face of this outburst. ‘I have no reason to resort to your low methods, sir. I do not need to stoop to conquer.’ What a great title for a play, thought Jack.
‘Murderer! You should be rotting in yonder New Gate Gaol.’
Thirsk smiled. Bowser launched himself towards the manager and caught him a glancing blow on the chin. Thirsk lurched backwards, hand cupping his jaw as Courtney and Jack each grabbed a Bowser arm.
‘Go Thirsk, go now,’ commanded Courtney breathlessly as he and Jack struggled to contain Bowser. Thirsk obeyed without a further word and quickly stepped out onto New Gate Street.
Bowser shook himself free and yelled after him, ‘I will see you swing upon the gibbet for this!’
Silence followed as the shocked burial party stood around, hiding their embarrassment. Then Bessie began to cry softly.