Sweet Smell of Murder Read online

  SWEET SMELL OF MURDER

  A tale of slayings, snuff, sex & spies

  A Jack Flyford misadventure

  by Torquil R. MacLeod

  Copyright © Torquil MacLeod

  2014

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the Publisher.

  Published by Torquil MacLeod Books Ltd

  eBook edition: 2014

  ISBN 978-0-9575190-3-9

  www.torquilmacleodbooks.com

  eBook Conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com

  Also by Torquil MacLeod:

  The Malmö Mysteries:

  Meet me in Malmö

  Murder in Malmö

  Missing in Malmö

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Susan for editing and the extra research needed to cover up my historical oversights. I’d also like to thank the Lit & Phil in Newcastle upon Tyne for the peace, the resources and the cups of coffee which helped enormously in the writing of this book. And finally, Nick Pugh of The Roundhouse for another striking cover.

  Dedication

  To Don, Rory, Jan and Angus.

  And to Mike Pickering, who left us far too young. I think this would have made you smile.

  CONTENTS

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV

  Chapter LV

  Chapter LVI

  Chapter LVII

  Chapter LVIII

  Chapter LIX

  Chapter LX

  Chapter LXI

  Chapter LXII

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Mr. Acorn, manager, Theatre in the Bigg Market, Newcastle

  Mr. Bowser, a wealthy merchant

  Mr. Digges, actor/manager, New Concert Hall, Edinburgh

  Mr. Flyford, an actor and reluctant hero of our drama

  Mr. Courtney, Mr. Acorn’s leading actor

  Mr. Southby, an actor

  Captain Hogg, a military gentleman

  Tunkle, theatre handyman

  Mr. Bright, an actor

  Mr. Whitlock, an actor

  Mr. Thrapp, an actor

  Mr. Spong, an actor

  Tommy Morrell, juvenile actor

  Mr. Thirsk, manager, Theatre at the Moot Hall, Newcastle

  Sheriff Ridley, official guardian of the law

  Sergeant Axwell, the Sheriff’s sergeant

  Rickaby, another guardian of the law

  Crindle, a vicious fellow

  Hodsock, a very large fellow

  Goosemoor, servant to Mr. Bowser

  Hilda, servant to Mr. Acorn

  Miss Acorn, daughter to Mr. Acorn

  Mrs. Trump, an actress

  Miss Balmore, an actress

  Miss Puce, an actress

  Hattie, servant to Mr. Bowser

  Citizens of Edinburgh & Newcastle, travellers, servants, ruffians etc.

  SCENES: Edinburgh, October 1757; Newcastle upon Tyne, winter 1757-1758

  PROLOGUE

  Why was this happening? A gust of wind off the river blew her now-tousled hair, but she was too intent on listening for footsteps behind her to notice. Her own feet were now cold, cut and bruised after her shoes had come off in the chase. They had tried to grab her after she had left the tavern, but she had bitten and scratched her way out of their clutches. She had escaped through the darkened streets down to the river, and she had managed to evade them long enough to cross the bridge from Newcastle into Gateshead. She had never been on this side of the river before, and she was now lost among the tightly packed warehouses. Over here, few people were abroad at this time of night, but she knew her pursuers were out there somewhere.

  A loud creak made her jump, but it was only a boat lurching in its berth, its mast swaying above her like a ghostly tree. She had been aware of the two men staring at her as she drank with her friends. The man who had one eye – he sported no patch to cover the lost one – had made her shiver. She remembered her relief when they had left the tavern. She had followed shortly afterwards, for she had an assignation with a secret admirer. The note had been delivered to the theatre. She had nothing to lose – and he might be rich. It was in the quiet street where her admirer supposedly lived that the same two men had tried to wrestle her into an unlit doorway.

  She listened again. Noise from the taverns over the river came floating across the water. There was no sound of footsteps close by. She waited, terrified, for another few minutes. Why attack her? Rape? No, she had been raped before; what actress hadn’t? Most folk regarded them as no better than whores anyway. But this wasn’t the same. It felt different – planned menace. She was quick-witted enough to work out that she had been lured into a trap. But why?

  She decided to gradually head back to the bridge and make for the safety of the house she shared with Mrs Trump. Then she would be on the first coach out of town in the morning. She plucked up her courage and gingerly ventured out from behind the warehouse wall. That’s when her arms were grabbed in a vice-like grip and a filthy-smelling hand closed over her mouth.

  Two days later, the body of a young woman was fished out of the River Tyne by a keelboat on its way to fill up a London-bound collier. Not that the authorities were very interested, but it eventually emerged that the girl had been one of the company of players from the Theatre in the Bigg Market. She was probably drunk when she fell in. No great loss to society. A pauper’s grave awaited.

  Six months later…

  I

  ‘Snuff?’

  Thomas Acorn glanced at the ornate gold snuffbox that was offered to him. The precious jewels encrusted on the lid twinkled in the candlelight. ‘No thank you, Mr Bowser. It is not a habit I am partial to.’

  Lazarus Bowser looked surprised. ‘This dry snuff is freshly grated from the very best Virginia tobacco.’ He tapped the side of the snuffbox before dipping with practise
d ease his knarled thumb and index finger into the box. ‘’Tis from my own tobacco supply, which comes through Whitehaven and I have made up by Joseph Wilson of Sharrow Mills in Sheffield.’ Bowser raised the snuff to each nostril in turn and inhaled deeply.

  Acorn turned away towards the roaring fire. He rubbed his hands together before holding them out in front of him like a man pushing back a crowd. He was seeking the warmth; winter had settled on the town.

  ‘So I can count on your support, Mr Bowser?’

  Behind him, he heard Bowser click the snuffbox shut. ‘I make one condition. That Mr Courtney stays with the company.’

  Slowly, Acorn turned from the fire, a smile upon his lips. ‘Of that you can be sure.’

  Bowser’s eyes narrowed quizzically. The face was rough, with an unsightly, old scar down the left cheek. His big-boned features betrayed an uncompromising life. The fine, elegant clothes showed that hardships overcome have tangible rewards.

  ‘Mr Courtney is the finest actor Newcastle has ever seen. He is the brightest star in your firmament, Mr Acorn. Surely he must have entertained thoughts of gracing the London stage?’

  ‘Tyler Courtney and I have known each other for many years. Indeed, we have acted together since we were young men. My intimate knowledge of him and his past convinces me that he will remain loyal.’

  Bowser took particular note of the reference to Courtney’s “past”, but decided not to press the point. ‘Very well. I am assured. You can depend on my support.’

  Acorn smiled. ‘A glass of claret to toast our partnership?’ Bowser nodded. ‘I believe it is your own.’

  ‘Despite this accursed war, I still have my contacts. I can no longer ship it straight from Bordeaux, but I get it here all the same. At a cost, though.’

  Acorn handed Bowser a glass. ‘I will not pry into your methods, sir. I will just enjoy the results of your dedication.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the prosperity of the Theatre in the Bigg Market. I promise you a season that the good citizens of Newcastle will never forget!’

  The commotion was behind them. Out in the street, there was the usual late-night hubbub. Loud, coarse singing came drifting through the air from a tavern a few doors down. A group of drunken young men dressed like clerks staggered noisily past them. In the close opposite, a whore was angrily negotiating a fee for services already rendered. The shouting became clearer and Digges grabbed the young man’s arm and swiftly ushered him forward. A hundred yards beyond the tavern, Digges pushed him into a dark alleyway. Hurriedly, they mounted a steep flight of stone steps and then rushed along another narrow, foul-smelling passageway between the grim, tall buildings. The young man tripped over a body. Digges caught him as a drunken oath sent them on their way.

  By the time they came to a halt in front of a small wooden door, both were out of breath. All was quiet around them. Digges opened the door and ducked in. The young man lowered his head and followed. The hall was dingy, the only illumination a spluttering candle in the corner.

  Digges put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Jack, you lie low here for a few hours. Then I will get you away from Edinburgh before first light. Now I must go back and see what harm has been done.’

  The door closed. Digges was gone. Jack Flyford stood alone and wondered how the hell he had got into such a mess.

  Acorn refilled Bowser’s glass. The merchant was sitting in a high-backed chair close to the crackling fire. Acorn replenished his own glass before resuming his seat on the other side of the hearth.

  After a few moments contemplating his claret, Bowser looked up. ‘Is Thirsk a serious threat?’ In his attempts to lose his thick local accent, he now spoke in a strange, strangulated halfway house – part Tyneside, part courtly English.

  ‘Not now that you have added your considerable influence to our cause.’ Acorn crossed his legs, the easy movements of one who has learned the craft of acting. ‘Mr Crichton Thirsk is a man of determination and he has his adherents in the town. Your friend Mr Carr is one.’ Bowser gave an anguished snort. ‘I know that he is attempting to set up a rival theatre, in the Moot Hall I believe. It will not succeed. Once it is known abroad that Mr Lazarus Bowser is behind our theatre, Thirsk’s support will melt away like snow in spring.’

  Bowser could not help but smile at the compliment. Though brusque and unflinching in his business dealings, his relatively new elevation in Newcastle society made him susceptible to a silver tongue that confirmed his own feelings of self-importance. Acorn pressed home his advantage.

  ‘Thirsk requires two things to succeed. One, a ready-made theatre. As a result of your good offices, he will not be able to move us from the Bigg Market because we now have the monies to meet our debts and pay our bills of fare in the future. The second is an outstanding actor that the people of Newcastle will flock to see. Thirsk has no Tyler Courtney. I have.’ Acorn’s thin mouth widened into a grin and he nodded to his guest. ‘Or should I say, we have. Your investment is safe, sir.’

  ‘My money and your actor. ’Tis good fortune that has brought us together, Mr Acorn.’ Bowser drained his glass and belched. His alehouse manners did not appeal to Acorn, but he was ready to put up with anything to protect his theatre. Bowser rose from his chair and put the glass firmly on the table. ‘I must be gone for I still have business to attend to.’

  ‘At this late hour?’ Acorn asked in surprise as he also got to his feet.

  ‘In the world of commerce, no man can stand still. For if he does, he finds another in his place.’ He picked up his large cocked hat from the table and made his way towards the door. As though a thought had suddenly struck him, Bowser turned. ‘I hear there was some trouble at the theatre this morning.’

  Acorn stopped and looked hard at the merchant. ‘You are exceedingly well informed, sir.’

  ‘When I become involved in a matter that concerns my money, I like to know what is afoot.’

  ‘I had to dismiss one of my players. For some time, I have been concerned that intelligence of my plans was reaching the ear of Mr Thirsk. My suspicions began to rest upon Mr Winkle, who has but recently joined the company from Chester. I had him followed. Last night he met up with Thirsk in the upstairs room of The Eagle.’

  ‘No man can serve two masters,’ observed Bowser.

  ‘Now he has but one. Fortunately, he is of no great loss, for his talent was limited and his mannerisms too showy for the minor parts he played.’

  Bowser perched his hat on his bewigged head and patted it into place, dislodging a little flurry of white powder in the process. ‘So another actor is required.’

  ‘Actors are as plentiful as fish in the Tyne, Mr Bowser. Have no fear, it will not take us long to catch ourselves a replacement.’

  It was still dark, though it wouldn’t be long before the wintry, early-morning light broke through. And it was cold as only Edinburgh can be cold. The wind cut through the gaps it could find in the packed jumble of high, stark stone buildings, and each time the two men turned a corner, they caught the vicious blasts. Up the bank from Cowgate then down past the brooding pile of St. Giles’ Cathedral. Not far ahead of them, they could see lights moving and hear the impatient neighing of horses. There was activity round the inn doorway. Two men came out and hoisted a large chest onto the top of the coach. A gentleman in a closely wrapped cloak supervised the operation.

  Only when they were near the coach did Digges stop. He glanced around uneasily before he spoke. ‘You have got the letter of introduction?’ Jack Flyford reassuringly tapped the bag he was clutching. ‘Good.’

  Digges then fished about in his pocket and produced a handful of coins and pressed them into Jack’s hand. ‘This will keep the wolf from the door awhile. I have already paid for the coach.’ As an afterthought: ‘Inside, of course.’

  Jack felt a lump in his throat. Digges was so good to him. All he could mutter was an inadequate, ‘Thank you.’

  Digges’ handsome faced creased into a smile. It was a smile that never failed to charm. ‘E
dinburgh is not a safe place for you, my dear Jack. However, when this unpleasantness has blown over, I will send for you. That I promise.’

  A harsh voice behind them shouted, ‘Step aboard.’

  West Digges and Jack Flyford hurriedly shook hands. Digges melted into the darkness. Jack disappeared inside the coach.

  II

  1757. Britain was at war. George II was on the throne. Thomas Pelham was Prime Minister. William Pitt, later Lord Chatham, was the King’s reluctant choice for Secretary of State with the task of conducting the war. That winter, the outlook for the state of the nation was as bleak as the Northumbrian countryside which the stagecoach trundled through. The French and their allies were being fought on five different fronts: in America, the prize was the Middle West and Canada; the Caribbean had the acquisition of bountiful sugar islands as bait; skirmishes along the African coast were determining who would be the dominant colonial force; the British and French East India Companies were battling for the enormous trading riches offered by the sub-continent; while in Europe, regularly changing alliances were to see Britain join forces with Frederick II of Prussia against the combined might of Louis XV’s France and Maria Theresa’s Austria.

  News from the far-flung theatres of war had been disheartening so far that year. The British fleet in Canada had been destroyed in a storm. In Europe, Frederick II was roundly beaten at the Battle of Kolin. George II’s son, the Duke of Cumberland, was defeated a month later by the French at Hastenbeck. The final blow of the year was the complete failure of an expensive expeditionary force sent to Rochefort on the French coast.

  More worrying still was that Louis XV’s alliance with Austria meant the French had access to the ports of the Austrian Netherlands, which provided them with another jumping-off point for the invasion of Britain. The country was on constant alert and diligent eyes kept a wary lookout for invading troops along England’s southern and eastern coasts.

  National security was the last thing on Jack Flyford’s mind as the wheels of the stagecoach splashed through a large rut in the road, sending a muddy spray into the nearby hedge. The four inside passengers hardly noticed the lurch – they had been rocked unmercifully ever since they had left Edinburgh the previous dawn.