Trumpets Sound No More Page 6

  Both the ravens laughed.

  “What peephole could we find for him, dear one?”

  The ravens bussed each other mockingly on the lips. The one with the cigar spat into the brass spittoon by the door. Like a police sergeant, she made a hasty inspection of Crabb’s trousers and waistcoat, then jerked her head toward the inner room. “Go on, look lively.”

  A tan and white spaniel opened its eyes and blinked. Beside it on the sofa lay a pair of silk slippers with torn ribbons. Crabb’s eyes took in the sweep of tasselled velvet that led into the inner room, its walls lined with playbills and portraits in faux metal frames. On one side of the room rested a bed. Across from it, a long narrow table stretched. Upon it leaned a mirror framed by rows of oil floats. With no order to them, with some spilling over, others empty, pots of colour, puffs, brushes, powder satchels, pins, rouge sticks, a coal brazier, quills, boxes of lozenges and stained wine glasses. Miss Priscilla Root sat on a stool before the mirror. Here she is, thought Reggie, staring, finding Miss Root still dressed in her riding clothes, a rich top hat with a trailing veil, grey gloves, a long full dress with velvet buttons. Her high forehead was smooth with pearl powder. She was a statue to Crabb, a fairy from a tale. And she was gentle with him, even when she spoke to him with rum on her breath. “Come and sit by me.”

  Crabb obeyed. Miss Root lifted a glass of liquor to her lips and drank. Putting down the glass, she patted her mouth with a silk handkerchief.

  “Were you surprised to see me today, dear little Crabb?”

  “Yes, Miss Root. Mighty surprised I was.”

  Priscilla Root laughed. She was famous for her fluttering hands and her poignant playing of sad heroines in the melodrama. If any of the gossips were to be believed, she was as famous for her rich clothes as she was for her jealous rages.

  “Can you keep a secret, my little Crabb?”

  “You know I can, Miss Root. Surely I can.”

  “Yes, I believe you can, my lad. Now will you help me?”

  “Yes, Miss Root.”

  “Sit as quiet as a mouse beside me. Can you do that?’

  “Oh, surely, Miss, I can.”

  One of the ravens stood in the doorway suppressing a laugh. “What’s this little Peter hanging around for? Let him get on with his cinder bucket.”

  “Hush now, dear one. Our little Crabb is only a mouse. He will not understand, nor will he tell a soul of our visit here today.”

  Miss Priscilla Root leaned toward her reflection in the glass. “He has put me in my coffin,” she said, her voice raised to the raven in the doorway.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” replied the raven. “He was a bluffing prick is all.”

  Miss Root lit a cheroot and drew in deeply. “Go on, Kean, go on,” she said, shooing away the spaniel. “Oh, dear Crabb, what can I do?”

  Miss Root spoke to her own image, but Crabb could hear tears in her voice. He watched the statue breathe in.

  The raven spat into a handkerchief. “Priscilla, buck up, sister.”

  Miss Priscilla Root rose from her dressing table. Her voice shrill with impetuous command, she instructed Crabb. “Take,” she said, handing him an envelope of brown paper. Crabb felt the hard shape of a sovereign inside. He tucked the envelope into his waistcoat pocket. “Deliver this to the gentleman outside the stage door,” she said. “He is waiting in Vinegar Yard. You can tell him by his yellow cravat. Hurry on. But remember to tell no one. I shall give you a sixpence if you do my bidding.”

  Crabb nodded and ran with the envelope. He slammed the door behind him, descended two steps and turned past the scene docks into the shadowy world of the backstage. Then, with his stomach wrenched into a knot, he headed for the stage door. He unlatched its large handle, pulled the door open and gazed furtively around Vinegar Yard. By its arched entrance, a man stood; he was exactly as described: oiled hair, a yellow cravat at his neck. Crabb dashed up to him. He dared not look into the man’s eyes; he handed the man the brown envelope. “Lad,” the man said, his hand up to give a penny. Crabb refused, grabbing a breath, his feet pulling him back towards the theatre.

  When he reached Miss Root’s dressing rooms, the light was out and the place empty and still smelling faintly of Miss Root’s cheroot. “Miss Root?” He waited then sighed.

  Lighting a taper, Crabb began to sweep the hearth, his brush fast like a wind whipping a tree branch. He laid fresh coal in the grate for early evening, stacking the pieces neatly so Miss Root would be pleased. With his blackened hands held behind his back, with his breath held, he moved, finally, on tip-toe to peek one more time into Miss Root’s dressing chamber. What a magical Temple! Crabb then left the dressing room and wandered back down the myriad halls to the rear door. At the outside bin, his stomach rumbled for his tea. He dumped the ashes, the dust forcing him to squint and look up at a chimney across the courtyard. A little sparrow had flitted onto its ledge, ruffling its sooty feathers.

  Crabb thought suddenly of Mr. William Weston’s lonely life. His old aunt, his sparrow of a sister, sick and lost, not at all free like that bird on the upper ledge. And what about Mr. Weston’s strange behavior on Friday night? London’s finest actor had arrived late, his hat pulled on low. Mr. Weston had not been himself for some time. Lor’ bless him, Reggie thought. He remembered how he’d tapped on Mr. Weston’s door that Friday night to cue him for his stage entrance. Reggie heard noises, coarse mumbling. Was Mr. Weston fighting with someone? Reggie called out to him. “Enter,” the actor cried. What a shock to see Mr. Weston all alone, his face made up, with but a broken goblet on the floor.

  Perhaps the great actor was rehearsing lines for a new play, Reggie pondered. Perhaps that was it.

  Young Reggie shivered as he scampered back inside the cavern of Old Drury, its echoes suddenly raising up another story, this one about Mr. Samuel Cake. Reggie stopped to recall: he was out of the theatre, on the streets, running an errand. There, before him, crossing Waterloo Bridge walked Mr. Cake. Tapping his walking stick, Cake wore a red sash; he was whistling a tuneless ditty, a here-and-there jumble of notes. So confident, so sure of his dress—his cloak, his high beaver hat, his brass-tipped walking stick with a handle the shape of a dog’s head. Reggie was proud to be near him. Mrs. B. once said he was a gentleman: “I hears,” she said, “he made his money from American cotton, from ownin’ half the warehouses on Surrey side.” Reggie followed Cake a few blocks into the Strand, onto Catherine Street, where he saw the man stop abruptly by a clockmaker’s shop. Reggie held back, but could see Cake’s reflected face in the glass. A sudden melancholy, the great man’s eyes showing a sadness that made Reggie’s own heart start to beat. Poor man, Reggie thought. What’s he got to be sad about?

  Reggie now brushed away his thoughts—move on, he said to himself–whereupon he ventured across the empty stage, keeping his eyes down to make sure the trap doors were closed Imagine falling through this floor down to the mezzanine, cracking apart on the stage boards below. Five minutes later, Reggie had clambered down the stairs to the basement costume room. There Mrs. B., the costume mistress, was pouring water from the kettle. He told her about the sparrow.

  “Yes, boy,” Mrs. B. said. “Old Drury has many birds—in her chimneys, inside her courtyard and the auditorium.”

  “Do they live here like we do, Mrs. B.?”

  “Some do, boy. Some live and die here. I’m always finding little dead ones even down here, by the hearth.”

  “Do they fly down the chimney?”

  “I suppose,” Mrs. B. said. “They live and they die, just like we do, my lad. And there is not much you nor I can do about such things.”

  Reggie thought about her words. He wondered about birds—were they so free? as he blew the steam from his hot tea.

  * * *

  Inspector Endersby returned from taking the evening air, pondering the case of Samuel Cake. He felt refreshed by his exercise—gentle though it had been—and fatigued at the same time. He made his way to his copper tub to bathe. Aft
erwards, in his small study near the kitchen, he searched in his bureau drawers for a cravat, the penultimate item of his dress needed for this Sunday evening’s dinner with Harriet. Owen Endersby did not think of himself as a fashionable man: he liked colour, he demanded a good fit in both trouser and frock coat, but he was not what the London intelligence might call a “smart” dresser. Simple comfort for him, and care. After all, he was noted for being pointed in judgment, especially in matters pertaining to the “Criminal Mentality.” This last observation was made by his wife, Harriet, a fair woman in all things. Whenever he thought of her, he thanked Fate. Life before Harriet had resembled a ramshackle building, crazy lumber all about, angles out of plumb. But Harriet had brought domestic order, encouraged him to find a respectable roof over their heads. And it was she who gave introduction to the man who provided Endersby the opportunity to become a London detective policeman.

  “Come along, old gander.” He stood before his bureau, reprimanding himself for dawdling. He lifted up several cravats, inspected them for grease spots, and decided on the violet with stripes. For an instant, the stripes reminded him of the cloak of the dead Mr. Cake. He paused to remember: such a loss. Searching for a cravat pin, he recalled putting it in a drawer of his writing desk. The drawer squeaked as he pulled it open. Beneath the pin box lay the citations from the Police Division, their words deeming him a highly respected working member of London’s law and order establishment. These paper accolades, however, raised in him a cold reminder of the bloodied skull of Mr. Samuel Cake. What a cruelty, Endersby thought. A forlorn house, a gentleman’s body mangled in anger by whom? A mere intruder? Endersby raised his head, whisking away his present thoughts. “Now hurry up,” he mumbled.

  The last maid had broken his looking glass, so he had to guess the effect of his dressing. He looked down. “Belly needs attention.” To his wardrobe in haste, since time was pressing. Here before him was the collection of wear he favored most—the treats of his private closet. Owen Endersby’s waistcoats complemented his ample stomach with pomp and sartorial authority. He chose green for the evening and placed his arms slowly into the waistcoat’s form before brushing its front to smooth the wrinkles. “There, you are set,” he mumbled.

  “Mr. Endersby?” called his wife.

  “I come within the second.”

  Passing by the parlour into the kitchen, Owen realized that despite the evening’s promised merriment, he had not been able to hold back a vexing confusion of feelings. Not only pity for Mr. Cake but others. Guilt, regret, remorse—all were lurking like a gang of vicious street boys ready to attack his peace of mind. All were brought about by the cruel shade of memory, which this winter’s day—December 20—cast upon the contented light of his marriage.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Owen Endersby’s maid had a Scottish accent and a face round as a pot lid.

  “It is the twentieth once again, I fear,” Owen said, facing the maid and the cooking hearth.

  “Yes, sir, it is.” The maid lifted up a small parcel wrapped with fancy white paper. “I shall place it on her pillow, as usual, sir,” she said in a soft voice, “once you have begun your soup.”

  “Thank you. And the ribbon, of course.”

  “Certainly, sir,” From another small packet, the maid pulled out a blue silk ribbon. Owen touched it briefly as if to bless it then watched as his capable maid folded and tied it into a bow. “There, sir. Like always. His little cravat.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Owen stared for a moment more at the ribbon.

  “Come, sir, let me arrange this for you since Mrs. Endersby is waiting.” The maid’s words stirred Endersby from his sudden melancholy. Do not let this bully you, he thought. Owen had trained his heart to counter this harsh souvenir of loss, realizing that later this evening he would have to gird himself and hold back his tears when the hour of reckoning came.

  “You visited him not four days ago, sir, on your own?” asked the maid.

  “Still as tiny as ever. But the whole place is in shambles. Stones tipping over, many graves heaved up. It is worse than last year, as it seems the city keeps burying one on top of another. The green of eleven years ago is hardly in sight.”

  “Terrible, sir. But your wee Robert lies at peace, safe and sound.”

  “I believe so. I thank you for your kind words.” Owen left the kitchen and decided to clear his mind of this sorrow.

  * * *

  After dinner, Owen Endersby studied his wife’s face. It held a smile; it presented a brave gaze to the warm room around them. “Never an easy day,” he mumbled.

  “What, dear?” asked Harriet.

  He reached out and patted her arm. “Haddock superb,” he complimented. “As was the tart.”

  Harriet blinked and let out a quick breath. “It is time,” she said in a low voice.

  Darkness greeted them on entry to the hallway. Harriet lit a candle and walked alone to the bedroom while Endersby retired to his study to get the blue ribbon. Afterwards, with his shoes safely off and his night dress and cap on, he strolled back to the bedroom door. The blue ribbon bow lay clasped in his left hand. “Mrs. Endersby?”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  Owen heard the coverlet of the bed being pulled away.

  “May I come in?”

  He entered the room without waiting for her reply. Banked coal twinkled in the hearth. Shadows danced on the walls from the light of six candles. Harriet was in bed, the canopy curtains drawn back to admit more candlelight. She sat with her hands folded, her nightcap placed high on her curls, her face cleaned of tint. She looked at him with that same look she had given him for eleven years. Could the little creature who was once their son feel the sorrow in this room? Would God himself listen to their tears and one day grant them peace?

  “I thank you for the brooch, Owen, dear.”

  Harriet held up the small cameo she had unwrapped. The fancy white paper still lay on the pillow beside hers. It was close in the room, and Owen wished time could somehow speed up. He handed Harriet the blue ribbon bow. She placed it with eleven others in a small book kept in her side table.

  “Please, Owen, sit here, on the edge.”

  Owen Endersby moved to the bed and sat facing the street window. Harriet leaned toward him. “Our Robert is fifteen as of this day. Fifteen and among the angels.”

  “He is indeed, Harriet.”

  Both had said it now. Both welcomed the silence, each of them staring into the space of the room.

  “Are you comfortable, Owen?”

  “Yes, thank you. My toe has ceased biting me.”

  “I feel most elated tonight,” Harriet said.

  Owen bent forward. Tears fell from his eyes. He sat back, and Harriet passed a handkerchief to him. He blew his nose. “I beg your pardon.”

  “More comfortable, now, Owen?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “Do you wish something to eat? I can warm you some soup.”

  “What I need is sleep, most of all.”

  Harriet smoothed out the counterpane. “Come then, stay with me tonight. Come along.”

  “I am so sorry, I…”

  “I have been stalwart this evening, Owen. I don’t know why. Perhaps time is healing me, as the sage says.”

  “Sometimes, Harriet, I think it is all in vain.”

  “Come, Owen. You are tired. You are a strong, good man. Come and be beside me.”

  Owen moved himself farther onto the bed and carefully crawled under the covers. He lay close to his wife for a few moments. Harriet smiled at him, reached to her side table for the book and showed him the array of blue ribbons. “Cheers me up,” she said softly. “I shall wear my new brooch the next time we go to Old Drury. Would you like that?”

  “I would.”

  “I shall say good night then, Owen.”

  “Shall I put my arm around you?”

  “With pleasure, Mr. Endersby.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, December 21, 18
40

  “Bludgeoned?” Superintendent Borne had a pinched face and a long neck. The early morning meeting in his Scotland Yard office found him standing before his inspector and sergeant. It appeared to Inspector Owen Endersby that his superintendent had been in a rush before the meeting: Borne had mussed hair, and a button was missing from his frock-coat. Frost speckled the windows behind the superintendent’s broad desk. Owen Endersby knew Borne could be an impatient man who liked to find cause for conflict.

  “Beaten with his own walking stick,” explained Endersby. “A most savage scene.”

  “What the devil,” complained Borne. He shot a cranky glance at Sergeant Caldwell. The sergeant held his head up, his back as stiff as the gallows post in Fleet Prison.

  “Well, I don’t like this at all,” Borne went on. He sat down at his desk. He folded and unfolded his hands.

  Endersby sensed the man’s weariness and bewilderment. He, too, had awakened early, his entire body aching from tossing and turning. His brown waistcoat suited his sombre mood this morning. He regretted having refused a tin of candied orange from Harriet, recalling his shameful and thoughtless eating of chestnuts over the body of Samuel Cake. But now he was hungry. This nudge of appetite would grow insistent through the day. Pity, he thought, snapping to attention and speaking: “It is most urgent, sir, that we move on this case,” Endersby said, looking directly at his superintendent’s tense mouth.

  “Move, sir? What a vulgar expression. Most certainly we must proceed in our investigation, as the coroner has pronounced.”

  “Indeed,” said Endersby, sweetening his tone.

  Borne sat restless in his chair, his hands now picking up papers and putting them down. He then jumped up. “We have little choice, Inspector Endersby. You, in fact, have no choice at this point. I am already vexed enough with the St. Giles fire. I still need from you a report due today, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. We have but little to go on as yet.”