Читать книгу Death of a Dancer - Caro Peacock, Caro Peacock - Страница 9

The next day, Tuesday, brought no word from Kennedy or anybody else. It was the dreariest of days, the grey sky seeming to press itself against the window, and the smell of sewage coming up through the building along with the damp.

It was raining on Wednesday morning when I went out and bought the Morning Chronicle. The report was there on page three, a column and a half.

Police are continuing to investigate the poisoning on Monday night of the popular dancer, Madame Columbine, who died in her dressing room at the Augustus Theatre. The deceased’s maid, Marie Duval, was arrested at the scene but the magistrate at Bow Street ordered her release yesterday on the grounds that there was no evidence that she was involved in the crime. She was generally believed to be devoted to her mistress.

After her release, Mademoiselle Duval was among those called on to give evidence at the inquest yesterday afternoon on Madame Columbine (whose baptismal name was Margaret Priddy). Mademoiselle Duval’s distress was so evident that the coroner at one point halted proceedings and ordered that she should be brought a glass of brandy and water. Thus fortified, she testified that she had been with the deceased all day, at home and at the theatre. On days when she was performing, Madame Columbine would eat nothing but a cream-and-sherry syllabub, personally prepared by Mademoiselle Duval. After her arrival at the theatre, she had eaten a few spoonfuls in her dressing room. She performed the first ballet of the evening, but was taken ill immediately afterwards. When the severity of her symptoms made it clear that she was suffering from more than a passing indisposition, a boy was sent running for a doctor.

Dr Alfred Barry, who is frequently consulted by the police and lives nearby, was attending another patient and arrived within twenty minutes. He testified that by then there was little to be done for Madame Columbine, who was delirious and slipping in and out of consciousness. He believed that her symptoms were consistent with some form of narcotic poison such as belladonna. Asked by the coroner whether Madame Columbine had accused anybody of poisoning her, he replied, ‘No, sir. She was delirious.’ The coroner asked him if he had examined, at the police station, a bowl of syllabub brought by a police officer from Madame Columbine’s dressing room. He replied that he had, and found in it some flecks of ground-up black seeds. When a small sample was fed to a rat, the animal expired.

Mr Barnaby Blake, the manager of the Augustus Theatre, testified that he had met Mme Columbine on her arrival there and she seemed in reasonable health and spirits. He was also asked by the coroner whether, in his hearing, Mme Columbine had accused anybody of poisoning her. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. To his knowledge, did anybody in the company bear enmity against her? ‘No, sir.’ A stir among the jurors, rebuked by the coroner. Had there been an incident involving Mme Columbine and another dancer on stage on Saturday night? Mr Blake replied that there had been some small misunderstanding in the heat of the performance. Laughter from a juror, also rebuked. When asked the name of the other dancer involved, Mr Blake, with some reluctance, identified her as one Jenny Jarvis. On further questioning, he said he had not seen Jarvis since Saturday night and did not know her present whereabouts.

Police Constable John Morrow, of Bow Street, testified that he had called at the lodging house in Seven Dials where Jarvis resided that morning (Tuesday) but found no trace of her. Efforts to find her were continuing as the police were anxious to question her. After further evidence, the coroner instructed the jurymen on the possible verdicts they might bring in. If they decided that Margaret Priddy had been unlawfully killed they might bring in a verdict of murder. It was open to them to name the person they believed guilty of the deed but, in the absence of firm evidence and in light of the fact that police inquiries were proceeding, he would suggest that a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was more appropriate. After some deliberation, the jurymen gave their verdict accordingly.

‘Is that today’s paper?’ Mrs Martley said.

‘Yes.’

‘Mind the ink doesn’t come off on my ironing. And I wish you’d take that basket of yours upstairs. It’s in my way.’

Her eyes went to the floor in the corner. Jenny’s basket. I’d put it there on the night of the fight and hadn’t given it a thought since. I snatched it up and took it upstairs to my half of the bedroom, slipped the wooden peg from its loop and opened the lid. It was mostly filled with small glass jars and bottles and packages of folded brown paper. On top of them was a little pile of letters, tied with a green ribbon. I hesitated before undoing the ribbon, then told myself that the more I knew about Jenny, the better. The first one was a jolt to my heart, not because of the words but because it was in a hand I knew almost as well as my own.

Dear Miss Jarvis, I think we may snatch a little time for voice practice tomorrow, if you would care to come in half an hour before rehearsal.

No more than that, in Daniel’s handwriting, but she’d kept it. The next treasure was a piece of music manuscript, but the staves had been drawn much wider than usual and the notes were large, as if for teaching a child. Looking closer, I saw that they were in fact tiny feet in black pumps, dancing out their own tune across the paper. I followed them, humming, and it came out as a scrap of a Hungarian Gypsy tune that I knew was dear to Daniel’s heart from childhood. The next letter was thicker and began Dear Jenny … A glance confirmed that it had been meant for only one pair of eyes, and those wide and grey. I tied up the bundle in the green ribbon, trying to ignore an ache in my heart. I’d known he loved her. Why should it hurt to see it written?

I turned my attention to the other contents of the basket. The jars were stoppered with cork and carefully labelled in neat school-girlish writing: ointment of comfrey, ointment of cucumber, marigold lotion. Four narrow bottles that would have held about half a pint when full, now more than half empty, were labelled in the same writing: tincture of mallow, tincture of witch hazel, tincture of feverfew, syrup of woundwort. Most of her stock was in dried form, either leaves or chips of root, wrapped in brown paper packets with the contents noted on the outside: wormwood, fleabane, valerian root, sage, centuary, melissa, elecampane, pennyroyal, Solomon’s seal, selfheal, woundwort. A paper package at the bottom of the basket rustled when I poked it with my finger. It was less tidy than the rest, as if it had been opened and reclosed hurriedly. The writing on the creased paper said thornapple. Inside was a flat meshed thing about the size of a teaspoon bowl, like the skeleton of a leaf, and as delicate as fine lace except for sharp thorns at the tips. Coarse black seeds spilled out from it over my bed coverlet.

While I was looking at them I heard steps coming up the stairs and the boards creaking under Mrs Martley’s feet as she entered her half of the bedroom. The curtain was drawn across and there was no reason why she should come into my side, but guilt and fear made me start sweeping the seeds back into their paper.

‘If you’ve got those damp stockings off, I’ll take them down and put them in front of the fire for you,’ she said.

The curtain quivered and she was on my side of it. No time to hide the basket or its contents spread out on my bed.

Always eager for something new, she pounced on it.

‘I didn’t know you had this. Where did it come from?’

Uninvited, she sat down on the end of my bed.

‘Marigold – nothing better for clearing up ulcers. What’s in the bottle? Tincture of feverfew. That’s good for insect bites. I remember when my cousin’s little boy got stung …’ She was practically caressing the jars and bottles, her voice turned to a purr like somebody meeting a long-lost friend. ‘Valerian root’s good for calming the nerves. I used to make a tea from it for my ladies when they were in labour. Pennyroyal’s for clearing the blood. I’d get them to take it with a little honey as soon as they could sit up, and I never lost one of them to an infection of the blood, not one.’

Since Mrs Martley was a midwife by profession, it should have occurred to me that she’d have a good working knowledge of herbs. I watched as she opened the packets, tipped crushed leaves or shredded roots into her palm and sniffed, closing her eyes with pleasure.

‘You should have told me you were taking an interest in herbs. There’s so much I could tell you, and it’s a thing every woman should know about. Where do these come from?’

‘A friend.’

‘She knows what she’s about. They’re all last summer’s gathering and nicely kept.’

‘They’re all herbs for curing people, then?’

‘Of course, what else would they be for?’

I picked up the crumpled paper with a few black seeds inside it.

‘What’s this good for?’

She looked at the name on it and tipped the seeds into her palm without any special concern.

‘Thornapple’s good for a lot of things. It helps stop coughs if you burn the leaves and inhale them. It’s good for burns and inflammations too, if you grind up the leaves and seeds and mix them with hog’s lard. I always kept some thornapple ointment by me.’

‘A useful thing to have around then?’

‘Oh yes, but you have to be careful with it, mind. More careful than with most of the others here.’

‘Why?’

She folded the seeds back in the paper and put it in the basket.

‘Because if you take too much of it, leaves or seeds, it’s a deadly poison. It’s much the same as belladonna.’

She stood up heavily.

‘Now, do you want me to dry those stockings or don’t you?’

Once Mrs Martley had fussed her way out, I put the jars and packages back in the basket, much as I’d found them. After that, I sat on the bed for a long time, thinking. The conclusion was that Daniel had to know. I found a dry pair of stockings, put my damp cloak back on and told Mrs Martley I’d return later. I kept Jenny’s basket under my cloak as I walked along Piccadilly. When a police officer on his beat happened to glance at me, my heart pounded as if he could see through wool and wickerwork to the black seeds inside.

At the corner by Bond Street half a dozen people were looking at a poster tied to a railing. I was walking past when my ear caught the name ‘Columbine’. The poster looked fresh from the printers, paper not yet ruckled up by damp, printing as black as tar. I read over the shoulder of a street urchin who was trying to puzzle out the words.

It went on to describe Jenny as about twenty, of medium height and striking red hair. A solicitor’s name and address were given at the bottom of the poster for anybody with information to offer.

Between there and Bloomsbury Square I saw a dozen similar posters, each with a little group of readers. One of them was on a railing just two houses away from Daniel’s lodgings, so he couldn’t have missed seeing it. I knocked on his front door and waited for what seemed like a long time before it was opened by the maid, Izzy. She looked alarmed when she saw me, as if she’d been expecting somebody else.

‘Is Mr Suter in?’

For reply, she jerked her head towards the first landing. The studio door was closed and no music was coming out of it, both unusual circumstances when Daniel was at home.

‘I’ll see myself up,’ I said.

She looked as if she wanted to protest. I felt her eyes on my back as I went upstairs and knocked on the door of the studio.

‘Who’s there?’

Daniel’s voice, sounding annoyed.

‘Liberty.’

‘Wait a minute.’

It felt like more than a minute before he opened the door. His hair was ruffled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and there were dark circles round his eyes.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

It was hardly a hearty welcome and it looked as if he meant to keep me standing in the doorway.

‘May I please come in?’ I said. ‘We must talk about Jenny Jarvis.’

He stood aside and gestured to me to take a chair. I opened my cloak and put the basket on the table, beside his piles of music.

‘Hers?’

‘Yes. Remember I took it home? I never had the chance to give it back to her.’

It seemed as if he couldn’t take his eyes off it. I sat down.

‘You’ve seen the posters?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘They don’t look like police posters. Who do you suppose is putting them out?’

‘Rodney Hardcastle.’ He said the name like a curse.

‘You know that for sure?’

‘It’s what the town’s saying.’

‘But he hasn’t got a hundred pounds. He owes tens of thousands.’

‘By the time anybody discovers that, it will be too late. The damage will have been done.’

‘You mean Jenny will have been arrested?’ I said.

‘It’s not even true. The posters say she’s wanted for Columbine’s murder. The police haven’t said that.’

‘They want to question her. That’s not surprising in the circumstances, is it?’

I said it as gently as possible, afraid he’d flare up at me. Of all people, I didn’t want to quarrel with Daniel.

He sighed, tore his eyes away from the basket, and sat down on the piano stool.

‘Was that what you wanted to talk about, the posters?’

‘There’s something else. I opened her basket and –’

Somebody was knocking at the front door, heavily and repeatedly. Daniel’s body went stiff.

‘Who is it this time?’

We heard the door open. Izzy let out a screech. Daniel jumped up.

‘Libby, keep them out. I’ll go and –’

Heavy feet in nailed boots were coming up the stairs. There were at least two pairs and they were in a hurry. Below them, Izzy was wailing. Daniel had his hand on the door knob when the door burst open. A large police officer shouldered his way in, followed by another even larger. Daniel was thrown backwards.

‘Keep out of here,’ he shouted at them. ‘You have no right.’

‘We have reason to believe that you are harbouring a wanted fugitive,’ the first policeman said. His voice was as deep and dismal as river mud. He added, as an afterthought, ‘sir.’

As he said it, the larger policeman was trampling heavy-footed across the room. Daniel regained his balance and moved to intercept him. The policeman simply shouldered him aside. He was making for the only possible place of concealment in the studio: a tall cupboard built into an alcove, where Daniel and his friends stored music stands and piles of scores.