A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (e novels to read TXT) 📕

Chapter 18

How bad is it?” I asked several hours later as I settled into our carriage next to Gage.

“Bad,” he replied grimly. “The physician isn’t sure he’ll recover.”

I blanched, turning to gaze out the window at the green of the Queen Street Gardens as we rolled past. “I don’t like Kirkcowan. He’s odious. But . . . no one deserves to be attacked like that.”

Gage didn’t reply, but I could tell he was in agreement.

He had departed earlier with Maclean, insistent he inform him of our dealings with Kirkcowan the evening before, and his fraud and blackmail schemes. Maclean must have then allowed him to accompany him into Kirkcowan’s residence on St. Andrews Lane, for it was now midafternoon. Until Jeffers had told me my husband was waiting for me outside in our carriage, I hadn’t known when he would return.

I watched as the carriage turned right onto Hanover Street. “Where are we going?”

“We still need to find out what was contained in Rookwood’s letter to Mr. Murray with the Theatre Royal.”

I’d noted that Gage hadn’t included that on the list of Heron’s errands that he’d asked Anderley to verify.

“And I think we should find out why Lennox failed to mention his argument with Rookwood the day before he was murdered.”

Even though Gage seemed to be avoiding looking at me, the fact that he’d returned for me when he could have conducted these interviews on his own gave me hope. So I sat quietly, gazing out the window at the smart Georgian architecture and elegantly landscaped streets, determined not to give him any more reason to be angry with me.

Silence had never been a problem for me. I was perfectly content to pass the time wordlessly observing the world around me. During the years I’d been wed to Sir Anthony, I don’t think I spoke more than two dozen sentences a day, and most of those were to our staff.

When we arrived at the Theatre Royal, I turned to find that Gage was looking at me. For how long he’d been doing so, I didn’t know, but he didn’t look particularly pleased. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if I’d done something wrong, but I was worried that would only provoke another argument about my failure to tell him about Henry’s relation to him. So I kept my mouth shut, hoping he would explain his irritation without my having to ask.

Instead he climbed from the carriage as if he couldn’t wait to escape the confines, though he did reach up to help me descend rather than leave the duty to our footman. I suspected he’d only done so for appearance’s sake, for the pavement in front of the Theatre Royal was thronged with people. A number of them gathered around a broadside advertising the theater’s rendition of The King of Grassmarket, chattering about the play.

Gage escorted me around the building to the stage door, where he asked for Mr. Murray. We were then ushered down a corridor whose walls were plastered with old playbills, which smelled strongly of the chalk and lampblack the actors used for their stage makeup. It still being the middle of the afternoon, there were few people about, so a deserted hush seemed to fill the passages which hosted a flurry of activity every night.

The man assisting us rapped peremptorily on a door before opening it to announce us and then hurrying off. Inside sat William Henry Murray, actor and now owner of the Theatre Royal. He had obtained possession of it through his sister, Our Mrs. Siddons—as all of Edinburgh referred to Harriet Siddons, in order to distinguish her from her mother-in-law, the celebrated actress Sarah Siddons. Murray was renowned for his stage management and deserved much of the praise for the success of King George IV’s visit to Scotland in 1822, the first visit of a reigning monarch to Scotland in 171 years. Given these facts, it was no surprise he had staged The King of Grassmarket to such thrilling effect.

Mr. Murray possessed a head of pale wispy hair, a weak chin, and rather round eyes. Eyes which widened even further as he rose from his chair, holding his hands up, palms out. “If ye have an issue wi’ the characters in the play, you’ll have to take that up wi’ my solicitors. I’m no’ gonna discuss it wi’ ye.”

I realized then that he thought we were there to harangue him for his portrayal of Lady Dalby and Mr. Gale in the theater’s adaptation of The King of Grassmarket, and possibly sue him for defamation. A case I wasn’t certain we could even win given the fact that the actors cast as our characters looked nothing like us. A casting choice that I suspected had been deliberate.

“Mr. Murray, we’re not here about the characters or the play,” Gage protested calmly.

His hands began to lower, even as his head tilted suspiciously. “You’re no’?”

“No. Actually, my wife and I saw it about a week ago, and we can certainly understand why it’s a tremendous success.”

“The staging was ingenious,” I added. “And the actor who played Bonnie Brock was inspired.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Aye, Keaton is a marvel.” His arms crossed over his chest. “But I thought ye said this wasna aboot the play.”

“As I’m sure you know, Thomas Rookwood was murdered three days past.”

His brogue deepened. “Aye, sorry bit o’ business. Rookwood was a good sort. Easy to work wi’ and reasonable. I canna say that aboot all o’ his type.”

And by type, I presumed he meant publishers.

“His assistant, Mr. Heron, told us he delivered a letter to you the day Rookwood died. Can you confirm that?” Gage asked.

“Aye. But surely you dinna suspect Heron? That chap is too chickenhearted by far. And he was dashed fond o’ the old fellow, who was fond o’ him in return.”

“We don’t. But much of investigating is following up on each tedious piece of