“So long then? Ten days to two weeks? I had supposed it an even shorter time, since the bills went up but a few days ago.”
“You must understand. Sir John, that a production takes time to prepare. Indeed, we rushed this one through. She had wanted to do The Merchant of Venice. Quite out of the question, I’m afraid, since the scenery and costumes were stored from last season, though I admit she does a good Portia. The Scottish play, at least, was done by us at the beginning of this season, so it was not difficult to return it to the boards for this single performance.”
“I see,” said Sir John. “And what about that—how would one call it? An epilogue? An envoi?—which she declaimed after the performance? When was that set?”
“Well, she brought that in but five days ago, of that I am certain. It was set only three days ago, again of that I am certain, for I did a good deal of editing of it, for which you may understand, rewriting. In fact, I supplied the last six lines. Did you not think them superior to the rest?”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
“The bit about resisting the influence of the French, and us having Shakespeare and them having nothing at all? I thought that quite to the point. I insisted upon their inclusion. How was it her version ended? Ah yes, if I may quote from memory: May you continue to give support to those Whose task it is to fill our empty rows.
Empty rows indeed! We never have empty rows. And even if we did, it would not fall to her to call attention to them. Not from my stage, in any case!”
”Quite understandable, certainlv,” said Sir John. “Did she claim sole authorship of her lines?”
“She did not. And she said from the stage, it was in the nature of a collaboration with her ‘friend,’ Lord Goodhope presumably. She was quite open about the affair.”
“And how has she behaved since the advertisement of his death?”
“Like a proper widow! All solemn dignity. It’s a role she enjoys. Sir John, and she has even costumed herself in black, most fashionably in black.”
“Had you ever seen the dress before?”
To that Mr. Garrick gave thought for a moment. “No. No, I had not.”
“What did she give as her reason for leaving? Retirement at her age is surely rare.”
“Oh, she had a good ten years left in her, perhaps more: Though I vow Ld preferred she spend them at Covent Garden. But no, early retirement among actresses is not so rare. I can think of several instances, yet all involved fortunate marriages. Lucy has been quite vague about her reasons and her plans. If I did not know better, I would say she has come into money. Well, we’re well rid of her— she and her affairs! If there is anything I have striven for in the course of my career. Sir John, it has been to elevate the dignity of the theatre. And once Kilbourne was established, she has done her all to pull it down.”
“You mentioned ‘affairs.’ I take it then that Lord Goodhope had predecessors?”
“Oh, a number. Jack Bilbo before him, and before him an even more disreputable individual with a showy name, Balthazar Barbey.”
“Ah yes, a dealer in stolen and plundered goods, though always from the Continent. What became of him?”
“He failed to return from his last trip to France, and that was near two years past.”
“Well,” said Sir John, tapping his stick to the floor, “she has a history, has she not? Nevertheless, I should like to speak with her; that is, if her dressing room is not filled with those wishing her well.”
“No fear of that,” said Mr. Garrick. “She is not popular with the company, and the gentry have avoided her, smelling scandal. If you leave by the stage door, and I’m afraid at this hour you must, you will no doubt find a mob from the pit assembled to wish her a final goodbye. But go to her, with my blessing: last door on your right, as far from mine as possible.”
“Goodbye, then, David, and thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure. And good fortune to you. Master Jeremy. Should you see my valet lurking about the hall and reasonably sober, tell him to come in, won’t you?”
I promised to do so, though once we had exited, I saw no one. The long hall had cleared completely during our time with Mr. Garrick. We walked the length of it. Sir John proceeded silently, his stick elevated and out slightly, tapping to a slow rhythm on the floor as he went. Nevertheless, I stuck close by his side, ready to pull him back from the wall that marked the end of the hall. Yet there was no need. Once again he amazed me by stopping just short of the wall, my hand mere inches from his elbow.
He turned to his right. “Her door should be just here. Have I got it right?”
“Quite perfect, sir.”
He knocked firmly on the door.
“Who’s there?” squawked a voice beyond it. “I ain’t ready yet.” Though pitched a bit lower, it matched Mrs. Gredge’s for volume and unpleasantness. I thought perhaps we’d got the wrong door.
“Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, is come to make inquiries regarding the death of Lord Goodhope.” I had heard this voice from him but once before, and that from the bench. The occasion that presented itself to mind was the appearance of Mr. Bailey’s attacker, Dick Dillon. Sir John had dealt with him severely and in just such a voice.
Whoever was behind the door attended smartly to that voice, for the door flew open, and a woman of no little beauty stood revealed, wearing her shift with hoops and a petticoat below. In my life I had not seen a woman in such a state of undress, save for my mother.
“Why, Sir John,” said she in the sweet tones of Lady Macbeth, “what an unexpected pleasure. Do come in.” This was indeed Lucy Kilbourne! Sir John stepped forward into her dressing room, which was even smaller than Mr. Garrick’s; yet I held back, thinking it improper to visit a woman who was in such a state. Yet she, with a shrug and a wink, beckoned me forward. From that moment, a vague air of conspiracy was established between us. I followed Sir John inside and looked about for the squawking woman who had yelled through the door: She was nowhere to be seen. I could only conclude that she had been Mistress Kilbourne, speaking unawares. Yet which was the real and which the false?
“I have a few questions for you,” said Sir John.
“And I shall be happy to answer them,” said she most winningly.
She grabbed at her dress, black and severe yet as fashionable as Mr. Garrick had described, and she swiftly pulled it on.
“I hear the rustle of clothing,” said he. “Are you properly dressed. Mistress Kilbourne?”
“Why, of course, Sir John. I was merely clearing a chair for you. Won’t you sit down?”
“1 prefer to stand, as will my young companion.”
“As you wish then.”
She gestured toward her back and turned it to me, indicating I was to close the series of hooks and eyes that rose up from her naked back from waist to neck. I knew not what to do. Surely Sir John would disapprove, yet this woman possessed a glamour I found quite bewitching. She threw a smile at me over her shoulder, and the next moment I found myself doing her wordless bidding.
“How long were you acquainted with Richard Goodhope?” he asked.
“For less than a year,” said she. “John Bilbo introduced us. If you are asking, however, when I became his companion—for I make no secret of that—then the answer would be six months ago.”
“You were previously companion to Bilbo?”
“To my shame, yes.”
“Did he take it ill when you transferred your affections to Lord Goodhope?”
“Perhaps you might say so. Yet that is something only he can truly answer.”
“Well taken,” said Sir John. “What drew you to Lord Goodhope? You knew, of course, that he was married and the father of a son? Or perhaps you did not know at the beginning?” He thus offered her a plea, one which she declined to use.
“It was indeed the consequence of his marriage that drew me to him,” she declared quite brazenly. “He was deeply unhappy in it. I did what I could to make him happier.”
“And would you behave in such a way with every man unhappy in marriage? There are countless thousands of ‘em in London alone.”
“Make not light of me, I pray,” said she.
“Damn!” said I.
I had got up in the row of hooks and eyes to the middle of her back. There her body offered considerable resistance. Straining to put the hook into the eye, I had them together, or so I thought, and then suddenly the hook had jumped from its housing, and thus prompted my exclamation.
“Jeremy! What are you up to?”
I hesitated guiltily. “I bumped into a chair, Sir John.”
His head was cocked in my direction. “Try to be more careful,” said he. “Come and stand by my side. I should feel more certain of you here.”
“As you will. Sir John,” said I.
I did as he bade, of course, directing a shrug to Mistress Kil-bourne. She, in response, gave me a fierce look of annoyance. Then she began struggling manfully, if that is quite the right word, to contain her ample bosom within the confines of her widow’s weeds.
“Where were we?” asked Sir John. “Ah yes, you had asked me not to make light of you. I do not. Mistress Kilbourne. I only mean to suggest that others find themselves in that selfsame situation. What was it drove you to Richard Goodhope, in particular?”
She left off her heaving and struggling long enough to say: “It was his wit, his intelligence, his sensibility. In truth, I had never met a man like him, and now, with him gone, I am quite sure I shall never meet another.” This speech she delivered in the sweetest, saddest tones ever heard, though the vexed expression on her face seemed to contradict them.
“You attended a number of informal parties at his residence, evenings he termed his ‘impromptus.’ “
“I did, yes.”
“What happened there?”
“Nothing untoward, if that is the implication of your question. Certainly nothing of a scandalous nature. Ignorant tongues wag. Those who were actually present will confirm me in this.”
At last she had got the recalcitrant hook in place. She exhaled deeply and, shifting her arms, reached over her shoulders to attack the rest.
“What is it. Mistress Kilbourne?” asked Sir John.
“What do you mean, Sir John?”
“You seemed to sigh. Was it some memory awakened in particular?”
“Lord Goodhope is always in my memory,” said she.
“Do you believe him to be a suicide? That would confirm his unhappiness in marriage, perhaps, though it speaks little for your ministrations. He left no notes. Did he communicate anything to you of his intentions?”
“No, he did not,” said she a bit sharply. “And as to what I may believe regarding his end, that really matters little. It is, after all, you who are conducting the inquiry, is it not?”
“It is, yes, and I wish to have you available to speak further in it.”
“That may be difficult.”
“Oh? Why so?”
“I’d planned to go off to Bath.”
“Rushing the season a bit, aren’t you?”
“I have a complaint of a digestive nature. I had hoped the waters there might …”
“I must insist that you delay your trip.”
She sighed once more. “Well, if I must…”
“You must,” said Sir John firmly. “I have but one more question for you.”
“And what is that?”
“Who is your dressmaker?”
“My what?”
“I spoke plain enough.”
“But what … ? All right, she is Mrs. Mary Deemey. Her shop and fitting room is on Chandos Street.”
“Ah, good, not far from my court. That will be all. Mistress Kilbourne. You will no doubt be hearing from me again.”
“That will be my pleasure, Sir John.”
She seemed at last to have managed the last of the hooks, for she busied herself smoothing the front of her dress as Sir John turned to go. I made quick to open the door for him, and he stepped quickly into the hall. Before closing the door behind us, I risked a last glance back at her. Our eyes met, and she gave me a bent smile.
Sir John was moving down the hall at a recklessly swift pace. I ran to catch him up.
“That was a waste of time,” he declared. “Or perhaps not entirely.”
“In truth, she had not much to say,” said I.
“Saint Richard, martyr to a bad marriage! Indeed!” He broke off then, brooding silently for a moment as he stormed ahead. “I might have stayed longer and put the screws to her, but I sensed … Jeremy, I know not what passed between you two there, and I wish neither assurances nor an answer from you, but somehow I felt there was an alliance against me.”
“But I—”
“Not a word! Now, where is this stage door we must exit?”
“At the top of the stairs, which stand—just three paces aheadr
He stopped dead then. “Oh,” said he, “thank you, Jeremy.” He put out his stick then and proceeded at a more reasonable step through the remaining distance.
Once out in the alley next the theatre, it was as David Garrick had predicted. A considerable crowd awaited Lucy Kilbourne. Indeed, when I opened the stage door, a cheer broke forth in expectation of her imminent appearance, but it soon died when Sir John stepped forth, though not in unfriendly fashion. A few laughed at their error.
“It’s the Beak of Bow Street,” called out one, identifying him to the rest.
I had earlier heard Sir John referred to thus by the court gallery, and sometimes less considerately as “the Blind Beak.” I knew not the import of the term, yet it seemed well intended, and the magistrate took no offense at it.
In this instance, as we two merged into the crowd, Sir John turned in the direction of the man who had spoken. “Will Simpson, is that you?”
“It’s me for fair, m’lord.”
“Back from your holiday, are you?”
“Newgate ain’t Bath!”
“Nor was it ever intended to be!”
There was general hilarity at this. Sir John himself joined in the laughter. Though somewhat raucous, it was a good-natured collection of cutpurses, pimps, and their bawds who awaited the heroine of this evening. However, as we were still caught in their midst. Mistress Lucy suddenly stepped forth through the portal, and with a roar the crowd surged forward, catching us quite unawares and forcing us back.
Sir John grabbed fast to my arm. “Jeremy, get us out of this, will you?”
“I … I’ll try!”