Even Catherine Balmore’s enquiry at the rehearsal the next morning as to his wellbeing failed to lift Jack’s depression. How could he have courted so much trouble in so short a time? He promised God that he would read the Bible that night and pray for forgiveness. He even harboured thoughts of reconciliation with his father; a cloistered existence around Worcester Cathedral now seemed rather appealing. If God extricated him from his present mess, he would seriously consider the quiet life in the church that his father had planned for him.
‘That is the glummest expression I have ever witnessed on a young man’s face.’ Southby puffed up his cheeks in mock despair. ‘What you need is to quaff large quantities of ale and enjoy some good company. I will pay for the former and provide the latter.’
Jack meekly followed Southby down the Bigg Market and into the Flesh Market, one of the finest meat emporia in the north. They had to push their way through the crush. The inconveniently narrow lanes were always packed on market days. The tavern itself was heaving with sweaty, thirsty butchers, heavy with the reek of the blood and entrails of freshly slaughtered animals. Southby explained his choice of watering hole: he was mightily hungry and this particular tavern served up the tastiest roast mutton and hasty pudding in the town. So as Jack took his place opposite Southby, he realised that fortune had dealt him a good hand at last. Instead of seeking out Southby, Southby had sought out him. Now he would have to take his chance.
‘You know,’ said Southby as he joyously dissected his mutton, ‘that man over there – the big, bald fellow – ate a live cock at Swalwell Hopping last summer. He consumed the feathers, the entrails, the lot.’
Jack pulled a face. ‘What an awful thing to do.’
‘Well, if a cock cannot fight, you might as well eat it,’ Southby reasoned with glee as a massive slice of meat disappeared between his thick lips.
‘It would have tasted better if he had waited for it to be cooked.’ It was a banal response, but Jack had spent the last half hour trying to turn the conversation in Acorn’s direction. No door had opened as Southby chatted on in his own jolly fashion. Most casually, too, considering the murders he had committed, thought Jack. His frustration grew. Suddenly, he realised he was coming straight out with it: ‘Did you kill Acorn?’
Southby stopped mid-chomp. His puffy eyes opened wide. Then he resumed his chewing until the meat was swallowed. He took a long swig of ale then wiped his lips with a handkerchief he had tucked in the cuff of his coat. While he was doing all this, he never took his eyes off Jack. By the time he had finished, Jack realised what he had said and felt a deep embarrassment.
‘Yes. I killed Acorn.’
Southby’s frankness momentarily took Jack aback. As he didn’t elaborate, Jack felt he had to say something. ‘I am not sorry that Acorn is dead, but I am saddened that it turns out to be you that committed the murder.’
Now that Southby had confessed, Jack relaxed. Sitting there, large and flabby, he was not a threatening figure. His admission was apologetic. Jack’s confidence grew.
‘Are you still in possession of the letter?’
For a moment, Southby looked perplexed. ‘The letter? Ah, the letter. It is in a safe place.’
‘And when did you first suspect that I was a danger to you?’ The memory of that terrible beating was still unnervingly fresh.
‘Only the other day – in the tavern. When you said you knew the identity of the murderer.’
Why was he lying now? He had just admitted to the murder, so why not the beating?
‘Did you kill Crindle or did you get someone else to do it for you?’
‘Crindle? The man they say killed Acorn? What has he to do with me?’
‘Everything. Why deny the connection now?’
‘I will happily die for the murder of Thomas Acorn, for he was the very devil, but I will not swing for this other man. I had never heard of him until his name appeared in the Newcastle Journal. That is God’s truth.’
This was most baffling. Jack knew that Crindle and Acorn’s murderer were in league. Acorn’s box proved it. Yet from Southby’s tone, he realised the portly actor’s denial rang true.
‘But the connection is obvious. The letter and the box. They join you and Crindle.’
‘I said I have the letter. What has a box got to do with it?’
‘The letter was in the box!’ Was Southby deliberately trying to confuse him?
Southby paused. ‘You are right. The letter was in the box. This fellow must have stolen the box.’
‘You are a poor liar, Southby. Let me ask you another question.’ Southby was uncomfortable under this interrogation and turned his attention to another thick slice of meat. ‘How much money have you extorted from Tyler Courtney?’
This time Southby was totally bewildered. He put his meat back onto his platter. ‘I have had no financial dealings with Mr Courtney other than payment for my theatrical services. The same as you, I presume.’
‘Not those financial dealings; the ones you used Crindle for as your go-between.’
‘Young Jack, I have admitted to the murder. That should be enough to satisfy a judge and jury. It should be enough to satisfy you also. You talk of Crindle, Courtney and the Lord knows who else. Report me to the authorities but, until then, please let me finish this excellent mutton. Even the condemned man should enjoy one last hearty supper.’
‘Why are you so calm about admitting to the most serious crime a man can commit, yet reluctant to confess to lesser misdemeanours? Not that blackmail, grievous attack and a possible second murder are much lesser.’ Jack wasn’t sure about his grammar here.
‘If it makes you feel better and you will let me finish my meal in peace, I will confess to whatever you accuse me of.’
This was ridiculous. Was Southby playing some clever game? ‘Right, I will strike a bargain with you. I will let you finish your meal without further interruption or accusation if you will answer one more question.’
Southby seemed relieved. He nodded and then stuffed some more food into his mouth.
‘How did you kill Acorn?’
Southby dealt with his food before answering. ‘That is common knowledge. I hit him over the head with a candlestick.’
‘And where did you strike the blow?’
‘On his head, of course,’ he replied with rising exasperation.
‘At the front or from behind?’
Southby glanced at the remains of his meat. ‘I am not sure. I was angry, confused. I think I hit him on the side of the head.’
‘And the letter? Where was the letter?’
‘As you said, in the box.’
‘So where was the box?’
‘Oh, I do not know. It all happened so quickly. I think it was in his bureau.’ Southby shifted uneasily on the bench. ‘No more questions?’
‘No more questions.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that! May we have some more ale? And please, let us talk about other matters. I do not want to spend my last day of freedom cataloguing my grievous sins. Landlord!’
Jack sat back against the hard wooden bench and mentally kicked himself. I have got it wrong again! It’s not Southby either.