The first performance had gone very well. Not that Jack’s contribution had aided that success. As soon as his swollen eye had been spotted, it became the focal point of many shouted jests from the audience. Jack had hardly noticed, as the events of the day occupied his thoughts and he had only gone through the motions. Which was just as well because he could only see out of one eye and, without cocking his head from side to side like a demented chicken, quite often the other actors were only partly visible, if at all. Courtney had been pleased, though he pointedly remarked to Jack that if he was going to get into fights, could he do so after the last night and not before the first performance?
Jack escorted Bessie home. She was full of exuberance. She had been roundly wolf-whistled on her first entrance and had done her utmost to outdo Catherine Balmore in the battle of the revealing curtseys at the end.
‘They liked me, did they not?’ said Bessie with girlish delight as they crunched their way through a freshly fallen layer of snow.
‘You mean when your breasts fell out at the final bow?’ Jack replied, not a little tetchily.
‘Not at all. That had nothing to do with it. The applause was for my performance. Tyler was most pleased, even if that madam of yours was not.’
The jibe irked him. He hit back. ‘So ’tis “Tyler” now.’
‘Well, I have known Tyler Courtney since I can remember. Why should I not refer to him as “Tyler”?’
‘No reason,’ Jack responded sulkily. This was going to spiral into a full-scale row. ‘Anyway, Miss Balmore is not—’
Bessie cut him short. ‘Look!’ They had reached the steps to the house. Footprints were clearly visible leading up to the door. They belonged to more than one person and there were none coming out again.
‘The maid?’ Jack ventured.
‘She is only allowed to use the tradesmen’s door. And not even Hilda has feet that big.’ How did Bessie notice these things? wondered Jack admiringly despite his annoyance.
This was another nasty moment for Jack, who had already experienced enough for one day. Who was inside waiting to strike him? Surely not Thirsk and Hodsock. Courtney was at the theatre and Crindle was dead. Yet Crindle had used others in the attack on him.
‘Bessie,’ he commanded, ‘stay here. I will go and fetch help.’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’
‘All right.’ He was being shamed into action again. ‘I will go inside. If a fight breaks out and something happens to myself, do not spare a thought for me, but run for your life.’ If he was about to meet his Maker, best to go out with the undying gratitude of an attractive young woman.
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Bessie huffed and walked straight up to the door. She turned defiantly. ‘If someone enters my house, I want to know the reason why.’ In she barged, followed by a fretful Jack.
Hilda was in the hall. ‘You’ve guests, miss,’ she said snidely. ‘Put ’em both in the parlour.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Sheriff Ridley an’ his sergeant.’
‘Fetch refreshments, and be quick about it.’ The mistress of the house was taking charge.
Sheriff Ridley rose from a chair by the fire when they entered. Axwell hovered moodily by the window.
‘Miss Acorn,’ the sheriff drawled, ‘I am sorry to have to visit you at such a late hour.’
‘Not at all, Sheriff.’ He took her hand and guided her to the other chair by the hearth.
Not a word, nor a look, did he throw in Jack’s direction. ‘We would not have waited for your return if the matter was not of the utmost importance.’
‘I am sorry that I was not here to welcome you, sir. I was at the theatre this night.’
‘So your servant informed me.’ Axwell fidgeted impatiently during the unnecessary pleasantries.
‘Do you bring me news of your investigations?’
‘I do, Miss Acorn. In fact, I may go further. You may be able to bring this sorry business to its conclusion.’
‘Me, sir?’ Bessie was most surprised. Jack threw an enquiring glance across to Axwell. Silent hostility was all he got in return.
‘May I?’ said Ridley, seating himself back down without waiting for an answer. ‘This very afternoon, my sergeant here found the dead body of a man called Crindle.’ Bessie was unprepared for this, as Jack, not wanting to deflate her excitement on their way home, had not got round to telling her of his adventures that day. ‘He had been murdered.’
‘And this man…’ she searched for the unfamiliar name.
‘Crindle,’ the sheriff supplied helpfully.
‘Has this Crindle a bearing upon the matter?’
‘That, Miss Acorn, I hope you may confirm.’
‘If I can,’ Bessie answered uncertainly.
Jack was intrigued. A quick solution and he would have fulfilled his obligation to Bessie, and he could make a sharp exit from this dangerous town. Yet he had the nagging feeling that whatever conclusion the sheriff reached, the name Tyler Courtney would not be mentioned.
‘After the murder of your father, did you discover anything missing from this room?’
‘Why, yes. Not straightaway. But later I discovered something had gone.’
The sheriff clicked his fingers. Axwell picked up a large, heavy sack and placed it unceremoniously on the table. He then proceeded to take out a number of objects from the sack and carefully laid them out for inspection.
‘Do you recognise any of these? They were recovered from Crindle’s…’ he fought for an appropriate description, ‘dwelling.’
There was the usual assortment from a pickpocket’s plunder – a couple of pocket watches, cheap snuffboxes, a number of delicate ladies’ handkerchiefs. Larger objects included pieces of china, four silver candlesticks, an ornamental knife of Indian origin, a single duelling pistol and an ornate clock. ‘Quite a magpie, our Crindle,’ commented the sheriff wryly.
Yet it was the plain, oblong, wooden box that arrested Bessie’s attention. Compared to the other items from Crindle’s storehouse, it was worthless. Bessie slowly got to her feet, reached across and ran a slim finger along its smooth, arched lid. There was a hint of tears in her eyes when she spoke. ‘This is my father’s box.’
‘Just as I had hoped,’ the sheriff smacked the arm of his chair triumphantly. ‘I must confess I thought it would be something more valuable, but no matter. I think we can say without contradiction,’ – here he gave Axwell a knowing look – ‘that this box connects Crindle directly to your father’s murder.’
Jack wasn’t really listening; he was watching Bessie. Was the letter still in the box? If it was, he could vindicate himself in Axwell’s eyes by proving that his story about Courtney was true. Bessie slowly opened the box in Jack’s full view. It was empty.
Ridley stood up abruptly and began to pace the room. ‘Crindle follows your father into the house – or at least he finds a pretext to come in and talk with him. Then, when his back is turned, Crindle strikes the fatal blow. He then steals the box.’
Despite his disappointment, Jack felt he must say something. ‘Excuse me, Sheriff Ridley. If he murdered Mr Acorn so that he might rob him, why did he only take a plain wooden box when there are other things in this room that are obviously more valuable?’
He could see that his thoughts were echoed by Axwell, who for the first time took an interest in the proceedings. The sheriff was not flummoxed for long. ‘The explanation is simple enough. Crindle was disturbed by the sound of Miss Acorn above. He made quick his escape before he had time to plunder any more.’
Bessie, preoccupied, was quietly cradling the box. Jack couldn’t believe that the sheriff could be satisfied with such a feeble explanation. Yet it was increasingly obvious that he was. Jack tried one more time. ‘Sir, if Crindle killed Mr Acorn, who killed Crindle?’
The sheriff brushed this aside as an irrelevance. ‘Another of the low forms of humanity who inhabit Sandgate.’ And that was that. ‘Miss Acorn, I will submit my findings to the Council, then this painful episode will be laid to rest. I am heartily sorry that the scoundrel Crindle will not swing for his crimes, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that God’s natural justice has been done.’