And the rest they already knew.
Beasley was about to get up when Marc stopped him with another question: “Do you know any reason why Mr. Merriwether would be in need of money? Desperately in need, perhaps?”
Beasley sat back down and thought about the question, giving no sign that it might have some malign purpose or raise matters that could implicate him personally. “Yes, now that I think back on it, he did.”
Cobb removed his pipe and leaned forward.
“Please, go on,” Marc said. “Strange as it may seem, your response to the question could be vital to this investigation.”
“As you wish. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead-even though I did not like Jason or his arrogance, he gave me professional advice and was not unkind in his way-but just before we set out on this tour, I overheard him talking with a theatre manager named Mitchell, a rival if you will, and they were discussing the possibility of opening a new theatre on Canal Street as joint owners. But it was obvious that, at that time anyway, Jason did not have the kind of capital required. Nor would he ever, I thought, if he stuck to acting for his livelihood.”
“Was this not a betrayal of Mrs. Thedford, who had given him a second chance when nobody else would?”
Beasley was amazed. “You don’t know the theatre world in New York, sir. Mrs. Thedford might have been disappointed in him, but in the end she would have wished him well. When it comes to the crunch, every actor, director, and manager is ambitious for himself. In that regard, Mrs. Thedford is the miraculous exception. But she understands the world she’s lived and survived in now for twenty-five years.”
Beasley was thanked and went back to the actors’ quarters.
“Well, Cobb, we now have a motive for Merriwether’s pathetic attempt at gunrunning: money.”
“Least it ain’t politics,” Cobb rumbled.
“True, though it would be simpler if some crazy Orangeman had broken into the rooms up there looking for the gunrunner, found him already knocked senseless on the floor, stabbed him with Hilliard’s sabre to finish the job, and bolted.”
“Ogden Frank’s an Orangeman, ain’t he?”
“But not a rabid one. And why would he risk ruining himself financially with such a messy assassination in his own nest when Merriwether could have been killed more conveniently elsewhere? Or merely turned over to Sir Francis. Besides, no one seems to have been snooping around the guns but us.”
“Plus the fact none of them actors saw Frank up there till he was summoned.”
“Nor any other Orange lunatic.”
Cobb sighed, accidentally sucked in the putrid contents of his pipe-stem, spat furiously, and said, “We been at this all mornin’, Major, an’ we ain’t found much to ex-culprit your friend Hilliard. I’m beginnin’ to think things’d be a sight easier if it turned out he done it.”
Marc and Cobb were sitting in the taproom with a nervous-looking Ogden Frank, drinking a draught of his best brew, on the house.
“I gotta tell them actors pretty soon if it’s okay for them to start gettin’ ready for tonight. An’ my tapster an’ assistant’ll be comin’ through that door in fifteen minutes to help me open the premises an’ get some heat an’ light into the theatre. And if I don’t let one of the maids up to the actors’ rooms soon, questions’ll be raised about what’s goin’ on. An’ we can’t let that corpse fester an’ stink up there much longer.”
“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.”