They were all there seated on the benches. Mrs Trump sat next to Miss Puce, of whom Jack had seen little as she was forever suffering from one ailment or another. The red blotches on a pallid, haunted face did little to spoil her looks for, in truth, she had little to spoil. Though Miss Puce was now in her early thirties, Mrs Trump took a motherly interest in her health, and their main topic of conversation was the merits or otherwise of various apothecaries’ remedies. Mr Southby took his place immediately behind the ladies. He was reckoning on a long meeting as he had taken the precaution of bringing in two tankards of ale. Further along, Mr Whitlock and Mr Thrapp sat in silence while Angel Bright and Septimus Spong chatted leerily to Catherine Balmore. Jack was vexed because he had wanted to sit next to Catherine himself. Instead, he slumped down beside Southby, who offered him some cheap snuff which he had no difficulty in refusing. The last member of the group, ten-year-old Tommy Morrell, was balancing on the end of the stage, swinging his legs back and forth. Tommy was used for all the juvenile roles, particularly young girls.
Tyler Courtney made his entrance from the side of the stage. He held up an elegant, lace-cuffed hand and called for silence.
‘Thank you for coming. I will come directly to the point. You will be wondering what is to happen to the theatre – and to you – as a result of the death of Thomas Acorn. I am here to reassure you all that the theatre will continue for the rest of the season.’ This prompted murmurs of approval and relief. ‘What is more, I will take on the role of manager as well as remaining principal actor.’ This announcement was also greeted favourably. Mr Whitlock even clapped. So here is one person who has gained from Acorn’s death, thought Jack. The theatre was now Courtney’s, albeit in the gift of Lazarus Bowser, and with it double prestige. Strangely, as Courtney continued to talk about the next two productions and the work that needed to be done to ensure their success after the disastrous Hamlet, he did not seem to be exalting in his triumph. Could it be that his conscience was weighed down by guilt? And if it was not him, who? One thing Jack was sure of, the murderer was here in the theatre right now. Yet glancing around, he could not see in his mind’s eye any of the assembled company committing such a crime, though some had good cause to do so. He conceded to himself that he had not studied human behaviour long enough to know what drives a person to murder. Love? Hate? Jealousy? Survival? Greed? What emotion was responsible for Acorn’s death?
‘We will begin with Fielding’s The Intriguing Chambermaid as planned,’ he heard Courtney say. ‘Very well. We will gather here once again tomorrow morn at eight of the clock.’ Without further ado, Courtney left the stage. The speech had been so short and sharp that Southby hadn’t even finished off his first tankard. After a few moments of silence, several people spoke at once. Their delight was obvious. Courtney was respected, if not loved. Working with him would be infinitely preferable to Acorn, who was neither respected nor loved, save by Mrs Trump.
‘I think this calls for a celebration,’ laughed Southby, smacking an ample thigh and giving Jack an exaggerated wink. ‘Will you join me, young Jack?’
‘I will presently. However, first I have someone I must speak with. If you will excuse me.’
Jack made sure he left by the front entrance. He didn’t want to alert the murderer. Once outside, he made his way round to the back of the building. Close to the rear entrance was a roughly built shed that leant against the rear wall of the theatre. It functioned as a store for wood, which was used for scenery and general repairs. This was where the truculent Tunkle could usually be found. Southby had described Tunkle as the “eyes and ears of the theatre”. Jack glanced around. No one was in sight.
‘What are you deein’ here? ’Twas your bloody silly idea nearly got us killed the other neet.’ He was lolling on a small pile of wood. A flagon of porter lay discarded at his feet. Cantankerous and drunk. This wasn’t going to be easy.
‘I have come to apologise for the other night. I hope your arm is better.’
Tunkle focused his blurred attention on his arm. ‘It’ll bloody mend, no thanks to you.’
‘That is good.’ How to proceed? Jack wasn’t used to wheedling out information. He noticed an unopened flagon on the bench by the door. ‘Would you like another drink? Shall I pass you that flagon?’ Tunkle nodded and drank greedily without offering a drop to Jack. Jack sat down on the bench uninvited.
‘Sad about Mr Acorn.’ Tunkle didn’t offer an opinion. Instead, he took another long swig. ‘No one seems to have the slightest notion as to who might have committed the murder. What do people around the theatre think?’
‘How the devil should I know?’
‘From what I hear, you know everything that goes on.’
‘Mebbees.’ His indifference was frustrating. Jack quickly decided on another tack.
‘I hope you do, because you could help me win a wager.’ Tunkle said nothing, though Jack noticed a stirring of interest. ‘I have five guineas riding on you knowing something.’ Tunkle’s eyes widened perceptibly at the sum mentioned. ‘Now, if I won my wager, I would deem it only proper that there was a guinea in it for you.’
‘An’ who might you be havin’ the wager wi’?’
‘I cannot tell you that. You might give me a false answer and go to this man and get a guinea out of him – of my money.’ Jack wasn’t sure of the logic, but it seemed to convince Tunkle.
He waved his flagon in Jack’s direction. ‘Gan on then, ask us.’
‘It is like this. I was arguing with this fellow that it would be easy to identify the murderer. You remember that night how Mr Acorn had his fight with Thirsk?’ Tunkle gave him a glazed, pitying look. ‘Acorn then paid for the audience to have drinks while the orchestra played. Now during that time, Acorn left the theatre. What I say is that whoever he left with is the person who killed him. My trouble is that I cannot find anyone who saw Acorn leave.’
‘I did.’
Jack’s heart missed a beat. Slowly he said, ’Who was he with?’
‘’Fraid you lost your wager.’ Tunkle almost raised a laugh. ‘He was by hissel’.’
This piece of information was undoubtedly a blow. Yet it had to be someone from the theatre, for there would hardly have been time for Acorn to run into anyone else that night. Had Tunkle given him a name, then he would have seen out his obligation to Bessie and could take his leave of Newcastle while he still had Thirsk’s and Bowser’s money. He was genuinely downcast.
‘It would seem that I am five guineas the poorer.’ Tunkle gave him an unpleasant smirk. ‘And you have lost a guinea also.’ The smirk vanished.
Tunkle pressed his lips to the flagon. Jack rose. He had gleaned nothing. He took a step towards the door.
‘Course, he could’ve met someone ootside.’ Jack stopped. Tunkle’s eyes narrowed maliciously. ‘Could’ve met you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jack said with some alarm.
‘You left in haste afore Acorn.’
Jack was rooted to the spot. He felt a flush of fear envelop him. ‘I… I was urgently required elsewhere.’ It was as feeble as it sounded.
‘So sez you. Sheriff Ridley might think different, like.’
This was nightmarish. He had got the distinct impression that Sheriff Ridley did not trust or like him. A word from Tunkle, and the trouble could be serious. Jack fumbled in his pocket and pulled out one of Thirsk’s guineas and offered it to Tunkle, who just stared at the open palm. Jack panicked and produced two more. This time, Tunkle accepted. He might have been full of drink, but his faculties were all there.
‘Mebbees I should try this wi’ the others.’
‘What others?’
‘The ones that wasn’t there either.’
‘You mean I was not the only one who left during that interval?’
‘Course you wasn’t. The fat one. He ganned oot the back.’
‘Mr Southby?’
‘Him. An’ that high an’ mighty Mr Courtney. That Trump woman an’ all. She slipped oot straight after him.’
‘After Courtney?’
‘Nah, the deed one.’
‘Courtney and Trump,’ Jack repeated to himself. ‘Did you see anyone else depart?’
‘Nah. Just you four… an’ the manager.’
‘What about Miss Balmore?’
‘Her wi’ the big titties? She was too busy rubbin’ ’em up against her dandy soldier fella.’
‘That is no way to talk about…’ Jack checked himself. He was furious at Tunkle’s lecherous tone yet thrilled that his precious Catherine had been proved innocent. Captain Hogg was there. Now he could allay Bessie’s ridiculous suspicions.
‘Tunkle, you must not breathe a word about our conversation to anyone.’ Tunkle held up his fist and rattled the coins. That was no guarantee. Jack was sure he would be back for more when the money ran out. He only prayed it was enough to keep Tunkle’s mouth shut while he was still in Newcastle.