Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

“You serve a good ale,” Cobb remarked affably.

“We must wait for word from the governor,” Marc said, “and, if I’m not mistaken, I can hear the martinet tread of Lieutenant Spooner approaching at this moment.”

Spooner obliged by pushing open the tavern door, eyeing Frank and Cobb with distaste, and strutting over to their table. He remained standing.

“Is it yes or no?” Marc said.

“It’s yes,” Spooner hissed.

Every person in the building who knew something about what had happened in Tessa’s room had been summoned to the stage area of the theatre. Here they were seated on stools and a bench hoisted up from the pit, all facing Marc. To his evident relief, Wilkie had been posted beside the bar in the tavern to ensure that no one entered through the door there. Frank had instructed his staff to carry on with the regular opening of the pub, then joined his wife and the others onstage. Spooner stood aloof and rigid in the wings, making it clear to anyone who cared that he was not a party to the insane scheme about to be proposed by Lieutenant Edwards and inexplicably approved by an increasingly unpredictable governor.

It was nearly two o’clock. Cold sandwiches had been delivered to the actors by Madge Frank at twelve-thirty, Mrs. Thedford had been permitted to keep her luncheon date with Owen Jenkin and, then, in a plan worked out between Marc and Spooner, everyone necessary to the scheme had been brought here. It was Marc himself who had led Mrs. Thedford from the dining-room, then returned quickly to explain to Jenkin that he and Hilliard had been given a special assignment by Sir Francis, and would be absent for the next few days. The fact that both Marc and Rick had worked as security officers for the governor last year mitigated the quartermaster’s surprise at this news. Rumours of rebellion had been sweeping through both provinces for the past week or more. Jenkin’s ready acceptance of his explanation was also the assurance Marc required that Mrs. Thedford had kept her word and said nothing about Merriwether’s death. Marc said good-bye to his dear friend, unhappy to have lied to him, but determined to do his duty by uncovering the would-be rebels and their attempt to arm themselves with Yankee rifles.

“I know you are all wondering why I’ve brought you here,” Marc began. “You’ve been through hell and its chambers since midnight. You are grieving the death of a colleague. You are puzzled why I have not been content to have Ensign Hilliard charged with murder. Perhaps you are even looking at one another and wondering. And to my great astonishment you are eager to carry on with your theatrical commitments. First of all, let me say that the governor himself has asked me to inform you that he wants you to continue your performances, at least until Wednesday and possibly to completion on Thursday evening.”

“You might have told me sooner,” Frank said. “I been pullin’ my hair out since breakfast.” The fact that the only hairs on his head were in his ears did not diminish his dudgeon.

“Sit down an’ keep yer trap shut,” Cobb said. “Any questions’ll come after the lieutenant’s done.”

“But there are conditions attached,” Marc continued, “absolute conditions that must be obeyed to the letter. First, for reasons which have to do with affairs of state and therefore are no concern of yours, Sir Francis Head does not want anyone to learn of Mr. Merriwether’s death until Thursday at the earliest. Do not assume that there will be any attempt to protect his assassin: the prime suspect is in custody and I am to submit my report on the investigation at noon tomorrow. The killer will be charged and hanged. Secondly, you are to be confined to your quarters as you have been today, in particular because we cannot take a chance that any stray remark you might make in the tavern or dining-room or elsewhere might give away the secret we are endeavouring to maintain. In a short while, after I have examined the murder scene, Mr. Merriwether’s body will be taken out to Mr. Frank’s ice-house and kept frozen there until Thursday, when it will be released to the company.”

Marc paused to study those before him. There was genuine puzzlement on the faces of the actors and a stoical veneer over the strain and fatigue, but nothing beyond expected curiosity. Thea was signing the information to Jeremiah beside her. Tessa, oddly, looked less strained than any of the others, much of the innocence still aglow in a face designed for it.

“You wish us to present our programs tonight and tomorrow night?” Mrs. Thedford asked, staring at Marc quite intently, it seemed. “We will be happy to do so, as it will provide some relief from the tension and doubt we are now suffering. We also need the funds that such work will bring us.”

“Does this mean I must play housekeeper for another two days?” Madge Frank demanded, aghast.

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Frank, for two reasons: Mr. Merriwether’s absence is sure to be noticed and Tessa’s room is covered with dried blood. The carpet will have to be removed and burned. But I’m sure the actors will co-operate by doing their own tidying up. They have a bathroom up there and a water-closet. It’s mainly their meals we’re talking about.”

“But Thea hasn’t got a room up there, she’s been stayin’ with us,” Frank said on behalf of his wife.

“Mr. Armstrong can move in with Mr. Beasley, and Miss Clarkson can have his room. I want to keep the murder room and Merriwether’s empty for the time being. Tessa can bunk in with Mrs. Thedford.”

“Now, see here-” Armstrong protested.

“Button yer lip!” Cobb said.

“I ain’t emptyin’ no chamber pots!” Madge cried.

“What’ll I tell my housemaids?” Frank said.

“Tell ’em actors are finicky an’ temper-mental, ” Cobb suggested.

“That should do it.” Marc smiled.

“There’s still a problem, though,” Mrs. Thedford said.

“I know,” Marc said. “You are due to perform excerpts from Shakespeare tonight, a playbill in which Mr. Merriwether was heavily committed. And tomorrow night you are to repeat the farce, where, again, Mr. Merriwether is not only a principal player but the entire company is required to make it work.”

Mrs. Thedford beamed a smile at Marc that discomfited him more than he let on: “You seem intimately acquainted with the ways of the stage.”

“I have done some amateur acting years ago in London,” Marc said, “and I hung about the wings and back rooms of the summer playhouses and, once or twice, Drury Lane.”

“You will know, then, that we are capable, at short notice, of rearranging our playbill.”

“I was counting on that, ma’am.” Mrs. Thedford made a moue at the word ma’am, but Marc continued. “If you could come up with that potpourri or oleo you mentioned earlier, we’ll spread the word that Mr. Merriwether is ill and incommunicado and delay the Shakespeare till tomorrow night, then-”

“But I have patrons to think of!” Frank cried, almost rolling off his stool. “I’ve put notices in the papers an’ tacked up handbills everywhere.”

“And I’m sorry for that,” Marc said. “And I’m sorry you’ve got a murdered actor upstairs. But you have little choice. I am relaying here the explicit orders of the governor. If you refuse to co-operate, which is your right, then the Bowery Company will be sequestered elsewhere as material witnesses to a crime, and your brand-new theatre will be darkened, leaving your patrons free to speculate on your reliability as an impresario.”

“You bastard!” Mrs. Frank exclaimed on behalf of her husband, who winced a smile at her and patted her hand. She jerked it away.

“We’ll do whatever Sir Francis requires,” Frank said.