Free Act of Murder by Alan J. Wright Page B

feathers to a duck’s arse, he reflected ruefully as he stepped out of the building and contemplated the prospect, at last, of
a strong, thick-headed pint of stout. And if she refused to squeal on her brute of a father, that left them with bugger all to charge him with.
    He walked quickly through the gates and turned right, lifting the collar of his greatcoat around his face to ward off the freezing fog. Although he could barely see a yard in front of him, he
trod purposefully forward. If he got a move on, he could be in the Royal Oak in ten minutes, and the brisk trek down Wigan Lane would give him a thirst that would need some quenching.
    *
    Detective Samuel Baxter grabbed hold of the swaggering young Cockney Henry Corkett by the collar and hustled him off stage. Or so the stage directions instructed. There was
nothing to suggest anything more forceful than that, certainly no mention of ramming the young ex-convict’s arm halfway up his back and almost snapping his neck back as they made their final
exits.
    Fortunately, audiences never get to see stage directions, and the viciousness of the arrest only served to satisfy the desire for retribution against all those involved in the framing of poor
Will Denver for murder.
    When James Shorton stepped forward as a Will Denver newly restored to the bosom of his family, he spoke the play’s closing lines with great passion and an extravagant display of arm-waving
and heart-clutching:
    ‘Come! Let us kneel and give thanks on our own hearth in the dear old home where I wooed you, and won you in the happy, happy days of long ago! Come Jaikes, Cissy, Ned, Nell – come
in. Home at last!’
    It drew a standing ovation. The company stood before their opening-night audience in a hand-holding display of solidarity, and the audience cheered and booed as the heroes and villains took
their final bows. But the most rapturous reception of all came when Will Denver and his wife Nelly stepped forward. There was a particularly vocal display of appreciation for Susan Coupe –
the entire company applauded along with the audience, for her performance that night had truly been masterful, combining the pathos of a wife bereft of her dearest love with the resilience of a
mother determined to survive and protect her children in spite of everything Fate could throw at her.
    At the final curtain call, Benjamin Morgan-Drew stepped forward and delivered a small speech of gratitude that contained words of admiration for the people of ‘this wonderful town, who
have taken our whole company into its bosom and shown us such unprecedented warmth and hospitality.’
    ‘It was unprecedented in Manchester, too!’ James Shorton whispered to Miss Coupe, who raised a hand to her lips to conceal the smile.
    Yet the beneficent smile that the actor-manager had bestowed upon his beloved audience froze into a hellish scowl the moment the curtain closed for the fifth and final time. The rest of the
company stood around in small groups, congratulating each other on a job well done. Benjamin and Herbert Koller, however, were last seen moving purposefully into the wings and down the steps to
their dressing-rooms.
    ‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ stormed Herbert as Benjamin locked the door behind them. ‘You all but broke my arm!’
    ‘And you all but broke my heart!’ sobbed Benjamin, who had slumped into the chair facing the looking-glass and, having removed his wig, held his head in his hands, all pretence gone
now.
    ‘Benjamin. What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you let me speak with you at the interval?’
    ‘You have been seen .’
    At that, the young man blinked and steadied himself. This was obviously not what he expected.
    ‘What do you mean, seen ? Seen doing what?’
    A pained guffaw burst from Benjamin’s lungs. ‘That is hardly a denial designed to reassure me.’
    ‘But even a man on trial for his life at the Old Bailey is granted a glimpse