The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

It was Jed Lawless who had spoken out of the gloom where all the ropes for the backdrops came down to a series of cleats on the wall. It reminded Doll somewhat of a ship at sea, with taut ropes holding masts and sails in place. At the Royal Coburg, they disappeared into the space above the stage that she had learned was called the flies. This wing-space was Lawless’s domain, and he was often to be seen hauling on ropes and tying them off again. Usually, his crude comments were spoken sotto voce to his crew of scene shifters, but this time he had aimed his comment at Doll. He had also spoken too loud, and a red-faced Stanley stormed into the wings, brushing against Doll as he passed. He grabbed the unrepentant Lawless by the neck.

‘Make such unfounded allegations again, and I will kill you.’

The stagehand seemed unworried by the actor’s violent behaviour, and simply grinned at him. The even-tempered Harry, who had been playing an angel to Stanley’s Adam, hurried over and prised his colleague’s hand from Lawless’s throat.

‘Come, Morton, let’s get on. We have less than two weeks to opening night.’

Stanley growled deep in his throat, pushing Lawless back against the row of cleats.

As he strode back on to the stage, Doll heard the stagehand whisper to himself, ‘Kill me, Molly? Not before I have killed you first.’

Doll wanted to ask Lawless how he knew about Morton’s preference for boys, but before she could say anything, she heard her cue, and she was onstage. Strangely, the rehearsal progressed well after the altercation. Morton Stanley’s anger appeared to bring his performance to a higher pitch. And when they came to the expulsion from Eden, which was now represented by a field with a large beanstalk in it, he took hold of Doll in a feverish embrace.

‘“Oh, Eve, to see us is a shameful sight.

We both, who were in bliss so bright,

Must now go naked, day and night.”’

As he held her to him, she felt his manhood hard against her thigh. Her eyes flashed at him, and he grinned in a way that belied Lawless’s allegation. Then the spell was ruined as sporadic applause broke out in the auditorium. Doll held out her hand to shield her eyes from the light of the candles at her feet, and peered out to see who was watching. Two gentlemen were seated side by side in the stalls a few rows back. One was rather languid, with curly hair, and handsome in a rather feminine way. The other she recognised immediately. His silver-topped cane and elegant pose gave him away.

‘Why, Mr Quatremain! How did you find me?’

The charming Frenchman, whom Doll had last seen in the British Museum, rose from his seat, and bowed gravely.

‘It is a miracle, Mam’selle Pocket. I was invited by my friend, here… ’ He indicated the man at his side, who nodded her way but remained seated. ‘… to view a play he was funding. He knows I have some interest in the theatre due to my uncle, who was temporarily the commissioner for the Comédie Française in Paris. So I know they call such backers as my friend “angels” in theatre parlance. And an angel he is, for he has brought us together again.’

He walked down the aisle and leaned with his left elbow on the front edge of the stage. His cane remained extended to the right in a foppish pose.

‘And this time I will not let you go so easily.’

A light cough from Will Mossop interrupted the tête-à-tête, and Doll gave Quatremain a winning smile.

‘We shall meet after the rehearsal, Mr Quatremain.’

‘Oh, please. It’s Étienne. And, yes, I shall be waiting. My friend Mr Bankes and I are completely enthralled by your performance.’

He retreated to his seat, sliding down beside the handsome man, who was part-funding Bromhead’s endeavour. His teeth flashed a smile, and Doll turned reluctantly back to the task in hand. Morton was staring out into the auditorium, and she wondered what he felt about Quatremain’s presence. She felt a flush warming her face at the thought of choosing between these two rivals for her attention. Though whether the rampant Stanley, or the suave Quatremain was the devil or the deep sea, she was not sure.

Malinferno, meanwhile, had returned to Creechurch Lane with thoughts of the doom-laden Play of Adam racing around his brain. He had hoped Doll would be back from the theatre, but his rooms were in darkness. The only sound was that of Mrs Stanhope’s gin-soaked snores from below. He lit an oil-lamp, and slumped down at his table, at a loss as to what to do with this new information. Would he put off Doll from chasing her dream, if he mentioned Augustus’ comment about the warning in the old manuscript? Or would she merely laugh at his worries? He idly drew the papyrus sheets towards him, and looked at the cartouche in the centre of the top one again. Recalling that Doll had suggested she had made some progress, where he had signally failed, he reached out for his notebook in case she had written something in it. After the last page of his own notes, there was a single word in her sprawling hand.

– OLE I P KE-KE

It was gobbledegook, and he sighed, having hoped for more. But despite having felt annoyed when she had intimated that she had made a breakthrough, he knew Doll was more likely to solve the riddle than he was. Maybe using her latest idea of single letters for each hieroglyph, rather than Dr Young’s idea of sounds, would pay dividends. He began scouring her other notes for inspiration.

It was only when the oil lamp wick burned low and the room was plunged into darkness, that he realised how much time had passed. And that Doll was still not home. He stepped over to the bow window, which looked down onto the narrow street, and saw two figures approaching the end of Creechurch Lane. Turning in past St Katherine Cree, they were lit momentarily by the yellow light of the new gaslamps on Leadenhall Street. Such illumination had not yet crept down Malinferno’s little lane, and the two people were soon enveloped in darkness again. But he had seen who they were. One was Doll Pocket with her favourite turban perched jauntily on her head of blonde hair. And the other fellow, identifiable from the silver-topped cane that swung on the end of his elegantly clad arm, was surely the Frenchie Étienne Quatremain. As the two figures approached Mrs Stanhope’s house, his fears were confirmed. Quatremain was fashionably dressed in a rich blue tailcoat and brown fall-front trousers topped by a white waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. And Doll hung on tightly to his arm with both hands.

Malinferno stayed by the window but hugged the shadows of his darkened room. From there he observed Quatremain escorting Doll to the very front door of Mrs Stanhope’s house. He doffed his tall hat, and kissed Doll lingeringly on her outstretched hand. Malinferno could see the simpering look on her face from where he stood. As Doll entered Mrs Stanhope’s front door, the Frenchie looked up at the first-floor window, and his gaze locked with Malinferno’s. He smiled triumphantly and turned away, striding down the lane back to the lights of Leadenhall Street.

The stairs creaked familiarly, and Doll, apparently a little drunk, reeled into the room where Malinferno stood. She clutched her head, tilting the turban over one eye.

‘Joe! Are you still up? You gave me quite a shock, lurking in the shadows, there.’

‘I have been working. How about you?’

Doll puffed out her cheeks, and slumped in one of the two dining chairs. It groaned in protest.

‘Oh, it is such hard work being an actress, Joe. You can’t imagine.’

‘So hard that you have to spend the rest of the evening relaxing, I suppose.’

Doll gave Malinferno a peculiar look, until enlightenment dawned.

‘Oh, you mean my drink with Étienne? He was at the theatre, Joe. It would have been rude not to accept his invitation. We ain’t married, after all.’