The Trial of Elizabeth Cree (25 page)

Cree was not particularly interested in the young man’s activities, however; he guessed, correctly, that he had recently come down from one of the great universities and was attempting to pursue a literary career in the capital. But the books which he ordered were of some interest—on one morning he had seen him read Longinus and Turner’s
Liber Studiorum
. These were the marks of an authentic sensibility and he became more intrigued by the young man’s work, laid so ostentatiously on the desk beside him. He even went so far as to take a page, after the author had left for his smoke among the pillars, and scan the contents inscribed in a beautiful hand: “However we must not forget that the cultivated young man who penned these lines, and who was so susceptible to Wordsworthian influences, was also, as I said at the beginning of this memoir, one of the most subtle and secret poisoners of this or any age. How Thomas Griffiths Wainewright first became fascinated by this strange sin he does not tell us, and the diary in which he carefully noted the results of his terrible experiments and the methods that he adopted has unfortunately been lost to us. Even in later days, too, he was always reticent on the matter, and preferred to speak about ‘The Excursion’ and the ‘Poems Founded on the Affections.’ Murder may have been his occupation, but poetry was his delight.”

M
y husband was not advancing with his play. He spent so many fruitless hours in his study, sucking on his pipe and taking cups of coffee (from the hand of Aveline, naturally), that I became quite exasperated with him. I urged upon him the virtues of concentration and perseverance but he would sigh, get up from his chair and go to the window that looked out over the gardens. I even believe that, sometimes, he became quietly angry with me for reminding him of his duty. “I try as much as I can!” he shouted at me one evening in the autumn of that year.

“Calm yourself, John Cree.”

“I do try.” He lowered his voice. “But I seem to have lost my way. It’s not like the days when we used to sit in the green room together—”

“That time is long gone. Don’t ever wish it back. It is past.”

“But then, at least, I had a sense of the world which sustained me. When I visited the halls and worked for the
Era
—”

“It was not respectable.”

“At least I felt that I belonged to something. Now I am not so sure.”

“You belong to me.”

“Of course I do, Lizzie. But I cannot make a play out of our own lives.”

“I know. There is no dramatic interest. No sensation.” Even as I stared at him, and pitied his weakness, I formed my own resolution. I would finish
Misery Junction
for him. I knew more
than enough about hall folk and, as for poverty and degradation, was there another writer in the country who had stitched sails in Lambeth Marsh? Had I not also flayed Uncle until the blood ran from his back, and walked through the streets of Limehouse in male duds? I had seen enough. So I would complete the play and then assume the role of its heroine upon the legitimate London stage. I knew the point my husband had reached in the drama, since I read it secretly at night, and had been eagerly expecting Catherine Dove to faint away from starvation in her Covent Garden garret. Then, at the last moment, she is found by her theatrical agent and taken to a private sanatorium near Windsor. But John could go no further. So I purchased a plentiful supply of pencils and paper from Stephenson’s in Bow Street, and began work on his behalf. I must admit I have a certain talent for dramatic composition and, as a woman, found a natural affinity with Catherine Dove; with Aveline as my audience, I would rehearse scenes in the drawing room before committing them to paper and even found some of my greatest effects in improvisation. Already I had determined that Catherine Dove, the poor orphan girl, would be fully restored to health and would go on to triumph over her enemies. But still she had not suffered enough, and so I added one or two little moments of horror to my husband’s version. There was one scene, for example, where in the depths of her distress she drinks gin until she collapses; she finds herself at dawn lying in a doorway off Long Acre, her dress torn and her hands caked with blood, with no knowledge of how she came to be there in such a condition. It was a most powerful idea and, I must admit, it was given to me by Aveline Mortimer: I half-suspected that she had once been involved in something of the same nature, but I said nothing. So I improvised it, and recited it, and walked furiously up and down the drawing room until I had done it justice: “Can this be me, who lies here? No, I am not here. It is someone in my place whom I
do not know. [
Raises her hands to the sky
.] Oh, God in heaven, what might I have done? My sanguineous hands must bear witness to some terrible deed. Could I have killed an innocent child and recalled nothing of the crime? Could I commit murder and know nothing of it? [
Tries to rise but slumps down again
.] Then I would be lower than the beasts of the field who, though they show no remorse, are at least conscious of their deeds! I have some dark life which is hidden from me. I live in the cave of my own horror and am deprived of light! [
Faints away
.]” In my excitement I had knocked over one of the chairs and shattered a small vase on a side table, but Aveline had cleaned up behind me. It was all very inspiring and, when the audience learn that the blood was shed in saving the life of a child from a drunken father, it would be very uplifting as well.

Within a month I had completed
Misery Junction
to my own satisfaction, with Catherine Dove’s triumphant return to the stage; I had made a fair copy in my large, round hand and decided to send it at once by messenger to Mrs. Latimer of the Bell Theater in Limehouse. She specialized in strong melodramas, and I explained to her in an accompanying letter that
Misery Junction
was bold and very “up-to-the-minute.” I had expected a proposal from her in the next post, but for an entire week I heard nothing at all—even though I had explained in my letter that several other managements were greatly interested. So I decided to visit the Bell myself, and hired a brougham for the purpose; I knew that it would make more of an impression if it was seen to be waiting for me in the street, and I stationed it just in front of the theater while I marched through the famous stained-glass doors. Mrs. Latimer—Gertie, to her intimates—was in her little office behind the bar, counting out the proceeds from the previous night’s house. For a moment she did not recognize
me in my wifely costume, but then she put back her head and laughed. She was what the comical element would call a “fine-looking woman,” and the fat quivered beneath her chin in a most distasteful manner. “Why,” she said, “it’s Lambeth Marsh Lizzie. How are you, deary girl?”

“Mrs. Cree now, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind in the slightest. But it’s not like you to stand on ceremony, Lizzie. Last time I saw you, you were the Older Brother.”

“Those times are gone, Mrs. Latimer, and a new day has dawned. I have come here about the play.”

“I don’t follow you, dear.”

“
Misery Junction
. It has been written by my husband, Mr. Cree, and it was sent to you over a week ago. Why oh why have you not replied?”

“As the shop girl sighed? I see you haven’t forgotten all your old songs, Lizzie.” She was not at all abashed. “Now let me see. There was a drama by that name, or something of the sort—” She went over to a cupboard in the corner and, when she opened the door, I could see that it was filled with manuscripts and wads of paper. “If it came last week,” she said, “it will be on top. What did I tell you?”
Misery Junction
was the very first play she found, and she glanced through it before handing it to me. “I gave it to Arthur, dear, and he declined it. He said that it lacked a really good plot. We need a plot, Lizzie, otherwise they get restless. Do you remember what happened with
The Phantom of Southwark
?”

“But that was a bit of nonsense. All that moaning and groaning.”

“It almost caused a riot, dear. I was the one who was groaning, I can assure you.”

I tried to explain to her the story of
Misery Junction
, and even went so far as to read out certain choice passages, but she was not
to be swayed. “It just won’t do, Lizzie,” she told me. “It’s all gravy and no meat, dear. Do you know what I mean? There’s nothing to chew on.”

I could have chewed on her, fat though she was. “Is that your final word, Mrs. Latimer?”

“I’m afraid so.” She settled down in her chair very comfortably, now that business was completed, and surveyed me. “So tell me, Lizzie, have you quite given up the stage on your own account? You were ever such a good patterer. We all miss you.”

I was in no mood to be intimate with her, so I prepared to leave. “What shall I say to my husband, Gertie Latimer, who has labored night and day on this drama?”

“Better luck next time?”

I walked out of her office, passed the bar, and was about to make my way to the brougham outside the theater when I was suddenly struck by a very interesting and curious idea. So I marched straight back to her, and laid
Misery Junction
on the table. “What would it cost to hire your theater? For one night only?”

She looked away from me, and I could tell that she was doing her calculations very rapidly. “You mean something in the way of a benefit, dear?”

“Yes. And you will be the beneficiary. All I require is your stage. You will lose nothing by it.”

Still she hesitated. “I do have a space between
The Empty Coffin
and
The Drunkard’s Last Farewell
 …”

“I need only that one night.”

“At this time of year, Lizzie, my takings can be considerable.”

“Thirty pounds.”

“And all the wet money?”

“Done.”

The money came from my own modest savings, which I
kept in a purse concealed behind the mirror in my room; I returned with it a few hours later, and we shook hands on the spot. We agreed upon a night, in three weeks’ time, and she promised me all the props and scenery I required. “I have a very fine Covent Garden,” she said. “Do you remember
The Costers
? It was used for the burlesque, but it will make a very good forlorn scene. And there is a lamppost in the wings which you can lean against, dear. There may even be a dust cart somewhere from
Oliver Twist
, although I have the strangest feeling that Arthur exchanged it for a flying carpet.” I thanked her for the use of the lamppost, but in fact everything I needed was within my own self.

I already knew my part by heart, while Aveline had taken on the role of my wicked sister to great effect, and we needed only three walk-on males to complete the cast. They were easy enough to find; Aveline knew an unemployed prestidigitator who was an excellent study as the drunken husband, and I found two cross-talkers to play the parts of the theatrical agent and the heavy swell. They all came quietly to the house while my dear husband wasted his time in the British Museum—I wanted him to know nothing about my plans until I could reveal them to him “on the night.” What a delightful surprise that would be! My only difficulty was the audience. Naturally I wanted to play to a full house, but how was I to obtain one without the benefit of bill posters or newspaper paragraphs? Then Aveline hit upon a solution—why not invite all the loiterers and dawdlers of Limehouse, as well as anyone else we could find who was unoccupied on the day? I was a little hesitant at first, because I had wanted to perform in front of a better class of person, but I saw the merit in her plan. It would not be a select house, but it would be a good one. We both knew the area well enough and, on the very morning before the performance, we distributed our own handwritten tickets with the promise of free entertainment. There
were so many hawkers and street sellers and porters who wanted to be amused
gratis
and for nothing that we realized we had filled the theater in less than an hour. “Don’t forget,” I said to each one of them. “Tonight at six. Sharp, mind.”

I had asked Mr. Cree to return home early from the Reading Room that day, on the pretext that I needed his assistance with an impudent plumber, and I was waiting for him at the door with such an expression of joy and affection that he stopped short on the steps. “Whatever is the matter, Lizzie?”

“Nothing is the matter. Except that you and I are going on a journey.”

“Where?”

“Say nothing more. Just be pleased that you are traveling with one of the immortals of the stage.”

The cab was waiting for us at the corner of the street, the driver knowing our destination in advance, and we set off at a good trot. “Lizzie. Dearest. Can you please tell me where we are going?”

“You must learn to call me Catherine tonight. Catherine Dove.” I was so bursting with anticipation that I could keep the secret from him no longer. “Tonight, John, I will be your heroine. Tonight we are going to Misery Junction.” Still he had no conception of what I meant; he was about to speak, but I put my forefinger up to his mouth. “It is what you always wanted. Tonight your play will live.”

“It is only half-written, Lizzie. Whatever are you talking about?”

“It is complete. Done.”

“I do not understand a single word you have told me since I came home. How can it possibly be complete?”

I might have become angry at his tone, but nothing could stop my enthusiasm now. “I finished
Misery Junction
on your behalf, my love.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I saw how you suffered with it, John. I knew you considered yourself a failure as a writer, because you could not finish it. So I set to work myself. Now it is done.”

He sat back in the cab, as pale as a sheet; he put his hands up to his head and clenched his fists. For a moment I thought he was about to strike me, but then he rubbed his eyes savagely. “How could you do this?” he whispered.

“Do what, my love?”

“How could you ruin everything?”

“Ruin? What ruin? I have simply completed that which you began.”