Two days later, the coach rattled through Pilgrim Gate and on up Northumberland Street. Passing Bowser’s house, Jack shuddered as he remembered his last bowel-quivering visit. The night before, word had come that Bowser had died of his wounds. Axwell would be upset, as would the town worthies. His hanging would have been the social gloat of the year.
He had been seen off by his fellow actors. Mr Southby had insisted on a drink at the Queen’s Head before departure. Mrs Trump had cried. Only Courtney had not been there. Jack thought it might be embarrassment, but Septimus Spong said he was completing negotiations with Mr Carr, the banker, about next season. The outlook was good. Next winter’s work was secured. No Catherine Balmore, of course. The new leading lady was to be Miss Bessie Acorn. By next season, it would probably be Mrs Bessie Courtney.
The coach bumped along the Great North Road. The trees on the verge of the Town Moor were in bud. The expanse of moorland was deserted. He sighed as he thought of how he had lost Bessie. You never realise what you’ve got until you let it slip through your fingers. He had said his farewells to her at the house. She had hugged him and thanked him for everything he had done. When he had tried to turn the hug into a kiss on the lips, she had demurely slipped from his grasp. He had intended to spend his last night in her bed – for old time’s sake, nothing more. When he had tried her door, it had been locked.
Now he was heading back to Edinburgh. Well, Digges would be happy to see him. This time he wouldn’t be so naïve. And at least Digges was amusing company. Newcastle had left him physically and emotionally battered. Digges, and the buxom widow, Mollie Dodds, would restore his flagging spirits.
His thoughts were disturbed by a familiar smell. He glanced across to the heavily-coated gentleman opposite him. He had a snuffbox in his hand – fancy enough for Bowser to covet. The scent was cinnamon. The sweet smell of murder. The man caught Jack staring.
‘Do you object, sir?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
The man took a pinch, sniffed it noisily into his nostrils, then sneezed.
‘Would you like some snuff, sir?’ the gentleman asked.
‘No, thank you.’
‘It is made from the finest Virginia tobacco,’ the gentleman said reassuringly.
Jack smiled. ‘My sojourn in Newcastle has shown me, sir, that tobacco can seriously damage one’s health.’