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 information, for one never knows where it will lead you,” Gage explained. “Do you mind telling us what the contents of the letter were?”
A spark of levity lit Murray’s eyes. “Aye, is tha’ what yer really after? Rookwood wanted to ken if anyone had visited me in the last fortnight, complainin’ aboot the play.” My puzzlement must have shown, for Murray shrugged. “He dinna explain why he wanted to ken. And I dinna have the chance to ask.”
“And had anyone?” Gage prompted.
He scrutinized Gage, perhaps still uncertain if we were trying to gather information to use against him. “Aye, there’s been plenty o’ complaints. Most o’ ’em outraged at the supposed immorality o’ the play, though that disna stop ’em from comin’ to see it. We’ve had packed houses every night. We also published a note on the broadsides just for the likes o’ ’em, proclaimin’ that ‘depravity, even masked by daring, is certain to result in guilt and imprisonment.’”
I suspected this was a quote he had been forced to repeat more times than he wished to count.
“Though I s’pose the fact that Kincaid hasna yet been made to pay for his crimes does a great deal to contradict that sentiment,” he added under his breath.
While that was in some regards true, I also knew that Bonnie Brock had paid for his crimes in other ways. In truth, the law which had so failed his thirteen-year-old self and his sister had made him into the criminal he’d become. So if there was guilt to be handed out, it went both ways. But no one was going to punish the law or the police for those failures. No one in authority anyway.
“Have all of the complaints been about the morality of the play?” Gage asked, clearly following the scent of something I hadn’t caught. “Has there been anything different?”
Murray rubbed his chin. “Aye, there was one fellow. Cornered me in the midst