The second tankard of porter steadied his trembling nerves. He never wanted to set eyes on Axwell again. He cursed Bessie for sending him. Now he was in even more trouble. If he hadn’t mentioned Southby to Bessie, he could have slipped out of Newcastle and made a fresh start elsewhere. Bessie might have been upset, but it would have been a small price to pay to escape this appalling town.
He had the sergeant doing his best to prove him guilty of a crime he did not commit. And potentially worse; if he stayed much longer, Bowser would want either Garrick or his snuffbox back, neither of which he could deliver. Would being locked up in New Gate Gaol be safer than falling into Bowser’s clutches? What a choice!
After the third porter, his tangled thoughts knitted together long enough to realise that the only quick solution was to prove to Axwell, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Southby was his man.
His first chance to do something about Southby did not arise until two days later. Rehearsals had started on The Relapse; or Virtue in Danger by Sir John Vanbrugh. Afterwards, Jack followed Southby in the late afternoon gloom. The snow had been washed away by rain, which had made the streets muddy. Jack splashed and squelched his way up New Gate Street at some distance behind the actor’s waddling figure. The direction puzzled Jack as he assumed that Southby would head straight for a tavern, where he would become ensconced for the evening. Jack had formulated no plan of attack, no clever stratagem which would wheedle a confession out of Southby. The only thought he’d had was to engage him in conversation and, hopefully, Southby would let something slip in an unguarded moment. It would mean a taxing night’s drinking, which he would suffer for the next day, but there appeared no other way.
Southby turned left into Low Friar Chare. To the right were the remains of an old monastery, one of the five that used to thrive within the medieval walls before Henry VIII’s Dissolution. Houses of varying styles and heights ran along the other side of the road, and it was at one of these that Southby stopped. Jack nipped out of sight into a doorway, for the deserted street offered no cover. The door was opened and Southby went inside. Jack walked past the house, an unremarkable stone building. It wasn’t Southby’s lodging – he was staying in a poky room high up in a miserable house in Middle Street near the Bigg Market.
At the end of the street, Jack hung around to see if Southby was going to emerge. This was a pleasant part of town, close to the West Wall. He stepped back to avoid being hit by a sedan and its two panting chairmen as they splattered past and came to a halt outside one of the more elegant houses. The rear chairman lifted the roof as a liveried servant rushed from the house and helped a well-dressed, elderly gentleman alight.
Rain began to plop into the pools in the pitted road. Jack decided there was nothing to be gained by getting drenched. Southby might be hours. The street was nearly dark as he re-passed the house that Southby had entered. There was a light in the first-floor window, which was slightly ajar. He heard the sound of laughter. He recognised Southby’s high-pitched, rattling chortle. Mixed with it was a coarser, deeper laugh. As Jack hurried on, he realised he knew that one too. There was no mistaking the throaty guffaws of Mrs Trump.
So Southby was on friendlier terms with Mrs Trump than he had thought. He had assumed from Southby’s references to Trump that he worshipped from afar. Yet paying her visits indicated that there might be more to the relationship than he had supposed. And if they did mean more to each other, it lent credence to Southby’s violent actions.
It also begged two questions: Was Mrs Trump involved? Could they have done the murder together?