The room was cold and damp; the bench hard and unyielding. Not for the first time, Jack stood up, blew into his fingers to warm them, then wrapped his arms around his body. This he did gingerly so as not to hurt his healing ribs. He had been kept waiting for two hours and he was freezing.
When he was ushered into the room, he was met by a blazing fire, but not by Sheriff Ridley. The surly sheriff’s sergeant, Axwell, pointed to a chair at the other side of the large wooden table that served as his desk. The fire was on Axwell’s side of the table and little of the warmth reached Jack.
‘I had hoped to speak directly to Sheriff Ridley.’
Axwell remained seated, curled his mouth at one side and said unpleasantly, ‘You’ll have to speak to us instead, laddie.’ No “Mr Flyford”.
‘I do not think you understand. I have come to see the sheriff about the murder of Mr Acorn. I have vital information which I believe he must act upon immediately.’
The malevolent stare remained. Axwell’s dislike of Jack was as transparent as the sheriff’s. ‘Sheriff Ridley’s a busy man. Tell us what you know an’ I’ll decide whether he should be told.’
‘Look sergeant, it is of the utmost importance that I speak to the sheriff in person.’ Jack was becoming exasperated with this blockhead, whom he was sure would prove to be totally useless. ‘God, man, there is a life at stake!’
‘An’ whose life might that be then?’ Axwell said without enthusiasm.
‘Mine!’ Jack exploded.
Axwell pursed his thick lips and picked at a bulbous, unsightly mole above his right eyebrow. ‘Mebbees you’d better talk to us, for nobody else is gannin’ to listen, leastways the sheriff.’
So that was the choice – explain everything to this numbskull or run the risk of Courtney’s ruffians completing the job properly this time. Jack’s bowels told him it had to be the first option, however hopeless it seemed. So, as painstakingly as he could, in between theatrically blowing into his hands to indicate to the unsympathetic Axwell that he could do with some heat, he acquainted the sheriff’s sergeant with the facts as he saw them. Acorn had come in with someone he knew, the missing letter that gave a motive, Courtney absent from the theatre at the time of the murder, and then the attack on himself by an associate of Courtney’s. The evidence, Jack concluded triumphantly, was enough to put Courtney under lock and key until the Assizes.
Axwell didn’t speak for a full minute. Jack began to wonder whether he had even been listening. Then he said slowly, ‘So you don’t like Mr Courtney?’
‘What do you mean “like”? He has tried to have me killed. No, he is not one of my favourite people just at the moment.’
‘A number of folk have tried to get rid of us, but I don’t hold grudges.’ I’ll be the next on the list to try if he doesn’t shut up and do something sensible, thought Jack.
‘He’s a canny play-actor,’ carried on Axwell, oblivious to Jack’s infuriated scowl. ‘Seen him a few times mesel’ up there in the Bigg Market.’
‘I know he is a fine actor,’ Jack spluttered. ‘He is also a fine murderer, and that makes him dangerous. Do not let his mannequin looks deceive you. Now,’ and here Jack tried to keep calm, ‘are you going to get the sheriff to arrest him before you have to bury me alongside Acorn in St. Andrew’s churchyard?’
Axwell puckered his lips in a half smile. Jack’s hopes were raised, only to be immediately dashed. ‘Nah.’
‘No!’
‘That’s reet.’
This was too much. ‘I do not believe you are saying this after all I have told you. Why? Or is that too difficult a question for you to understand?’
Axwell let Jack’s insolence float over him. ‘For one simple reason, bonny lad.’ The endearment carried no warmth. ‘There’s a hole in your tale that’s as big as the Toon Moor. The time Miss Acorn sez the murder took place was near the half hour past eight o’clock. At that time, accordin’ to a great many witnesses, Mr Courtney was on the stage. I may not have your intelligence, but I find that difficult to explain. Until you supply us wi’ an answer, your story’s not worth an Aztec’s curse.’
‘Ah,’ said Jack. It was time to confess, and he could see by the nasty gleam in Axwell’s eyes that he would risk putting himself under suspicion. ‘There is a reason for that.’
‘An’ what might that be?’ Jack had the distinct impression he wasn’t going to receive a sympathetic hearing. However, he must continue to plough the furrow he had started.
‘Miss Acorn did not give you the correct time. The murder actually took place about half an hour earlier.’
‘So you’re sayin’ that Miss Acorn was lyin’ her pretty little heed off.’
Though Jack took exception to the “pretty little head” reference, he decided this was not the moment to make a fuss. ‘She did not tell the truth exactly. I must add that that was not her fault. I told her to give the incorrect time.’
The implication of this remark did not take long to sink in. ‘If you told her that, then you must’ve been there.’ Now Axwell was sitting up. He knew he was onto something at last. He had been frustrated by Ridley’s lack of effort in solving the case – it was plain that his superior had had no liking for Acorn. Ridley’s year in office as sheriff hadn’t too long to run, so the last thing he wanted was to get involved too deeply in an unpleasant murder. He would be glad to leave the problem to Edward Moseley, who would be sworn in as sheriff in the early months of 1758, and safely return to the council benches to wait his turn as mayor. He had quickly dismissed the business of the drowned woman in the Tyne as an accident, but Axwell hadn’t been so sure; and now a second body connected with the theatre made him think that maybe the dead actress hadn’t just fallen in the river. Unlike Ridley, Axwell was keen to find the murderer. His passage to sheriff’s sergeant had not been an easy one, and now he had achieved the position, he was ambitious enough to build on it. By catching the murderer of a figure in the public eye, he would establish for himself a reputation among the influential citizens of the town, unless – and here he had some nagging doubts – the murderer was one the people he was trying to impress (he knew Acorn had lost his popularity with his own paymasters). Personal pride also played a part. Though he had no crusading sense of justice, he did not like the thought that he was being outwitted, especially if it was by this lump of gibbering actor in front of him.
Like many, Axwell thought that Thirsk was the most obvious candidate. However, Ridley had warned him to steer clear of Thirsk for the moment. Thirsk had powerful friends who wanted him left alone – for as long as he remained useful. But Axwell had also harboured suspicions about Flyford. That first night, when Flyford had returned to Acorn’s house from the theatre, there had been something in his demeanour that had alerted him. Nothing solid, just a feeling. Now this young man was concocting a ridiculous story to throw suspicion onto a different party altogether. Surely he could have chosen a more believable suspect! Tyler Courtney was a popular man in the town. And from what Axwell had heard of Courtney, he was not the kind of person who would go around killing people; he had his doubts about whether Courtney would even have the strength to pick up a candlestick.
‘Yes,’ said Jack quietly. ‘I was there at the time of the murder.’
‘So you’ve come here to admit to the killin’ of Mr Thomas Acorn,’ Axwell said in a formal tone as though he were actually charging him.
‘Of course I bloody haven’t!’
‘What new yarn are you aboot to spin then?’
‘I will tell you the truth,’ replied Jack as sincerely as he could because he knew, to protect Bessie, he could not be totally frank.
‘I’m listenin’.’ Axwell could already see the noose tightening around Flyford’s neck.
‘After the fight between Acorn and Thirsk at the theatre, I went back to Acorn’s house.’
‘Why?’ put in Axwell sharply.
‘To pack my possessions, for what they were worth. I had decided to return to Edinburgh the next day to rejoin the theatre there.’ Axwell didn’t even bother to ask for the reason why; he knew this to be a lie because he had discovered that Flyford had bought his passage to Barnard Castle, which was in completely the opposite direction. ‘When I was in my room, I heard Acorn enter with another person; they were talking, or at least Acorn was talking. A few minutes later, I heard the main door close. Miss Acorn must have gone down the stairs, seen the body and screamed. That brought me hurrying from my room to the parlour. I found Bessie… Miss Acorn,’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘slumped over her dead father.’
‘So why the lie aboot the time?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious. In the house when the murder was committed. It might be difficult to explain. It is damned difficult explaining it now.’
‘Surely not,’ – the sarcasm was thinly disguised – ‘after all, what reason would you have to kill Mr Acorn?’
‘Well, none.’ Axwell’s expression worried Jack. Surely the sergeant couldn’t possibly know about Acorn driving him out of town. Or could he? ‘Of course I did not have cause to kill him.’ The protest was too strong.
Axwell stood up, his chair scraping along the floor as he did so. On his feet, he was a large and intimidating figure. ‘Now, I’ll tell you a little tale, bonny lad, an’ see what you think of it.’
He began to pace the sparse room. ‘A young actor comes to the toon an’ is taken in by the manager of the local theatre company. This manager has a canny-lookin’ daughter. The young actor, as is typical of that kind of vagabond, beds the daughter behind his back.’ Jack tried to rise in protest; a strong arm shoved him back down. ‘The manager finds oot and demands he leaves. The young actor gans an’ books his place on a coach oot of toon to say…,’ Axwell paused as Jack shifted uncomfortably, ‘…say, Barnard Castle.’ This produced a nervous tug at the collar. Jack made a mental note never to book a coach using his real name again.
‘Then comes the fateful neet. Durin’ the interlude in the play, the manager returns – by hissel’ – to his home. He discovers his daughter in the arms of the young actor – a farewell romp, mebbees. An argument ensues; the young actor strikes the manager wi’ a candlestick. It might even have been an accident. The daughter, who loves her young actor dearly, lies to protect him. They even invent a mysterious person who arrives wi’ the manager.’ Axwell planted two huge fists on the desk and hovered menacingly over Jack. ‘So, what d’you think aboot me tale, bonny lad?’
Jack didn’t like it one little bit. Too much was uncomfortably near the truth. Now was the time to keep his nerve. ‘Interesting, sergeant. The only problem is that it is completely untrue.’ He realised that he must be bold. ‘And you know as well as I do that it would not sway a judge at the Assizes. You have no proper evidence.’
For the first time, doubt flickered across Axwell’s face. He was sure he had stumbled across most of the truth. Flyford’s reactions confirmed that. Though Flyford was probably the murderer, he was convinced that there were more people involved than just this young liar. The attack on Flyford was too premeditated. Was it a falling out of villains? Arrest Flyford now and he might not catch the others. And the evidence wasn’t tight enough to make him swing. Let Flyford go, have him watched and he would lead them to his accomplices. Flyford might even be working for Thirsk. Now that did make sense. He reckoned he had frightened the young man enough for him to try and contact his fellow plotters. Give him enough rope…
‘Reet, Mr Flyford, that’s all.’
‘All! Are you not going to do anything? You have not believed a word I have said, have you?’ This visit had been a ghastly mistake.
Axwell said nothing and jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. Jack got up and shuffled across the room. As he was going out, Axwell at last spoke. ‘If you venture oot in the dark, be careful; the streets can be very dangerous.’
Jack could still hear Axwell’s rasping laughter after the door was closed.