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of London, that he could despatch a set of Brave Fellows in pursuit of a criminal to any part of the metropolis, or even the kingdom, at a quarter of an hour’s notice. Indeed, so confident had he been of this claim that a month earlier, on 17 October, 1754, the Blind Beak had promoted this service in the Public Advertiser, ending with the words, ‘It is to be hoped, that the late success of this plan will make all persons for the future industrious to give the earliest notice possible of all robberies and robbers whatever’. His November advertisement had amended the wording to ‘crimes and criminals’. More aware than most of John Fielding’s power, Samuel Swann, at John Rawlings’s behest, had gladly sprinted the short distance between Drury Lane and Bow Street to seek the great man’s help. Just before his friend left the theatre, the Apothecary had scribbled a note. It simply said, ‘It seems that our paths are fated to cross once more, my very dear Sir. Last night, it being past midnight as I write this, there was a fatality on stage during a performance of
The Beggar’s Opera.
Jasper Harcross, playing the part of Macheath, met his death in highly suspicious circumstances. I will guard the evidence until your Runners come. Meanwhile, I have been forced to indulge in the small falsehood that I, too, am one of your men, though on an ad hoc basis. This was to silence David Garrick who had the air about him that he might throw me out on my ear. Your servant …’ And he had appended his signature.
    ‘Do you think the Beak will come himself?’ Samuel had asked as he set forth.
    ‘I hope so,’ John answered. ‘I can’t see anyone else being able to keep order amongst this torrent of temperaments.’
    Samuel had rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know which is worse, those in hysterics, those weeping, or those in the sullens.’
    ‘Neither do I,’ the Apothecary had answered gloomily. For, truth to tell, the near riot that had broken out after he had given his opinion that Jasper Harcross had been done to death, beggared belief. First to react had been Clarice Martin, who had crashed down so heavily on the stage in a dead faint that one of the boards had cracked in ghastly parody of the fate that had befallen her fellow actor. At this, Mrs Delaney had given a shrill scream of hysterical laughter before collapsing into a veritable tide of tears, while Miss Clive had gone as white as her lace pinner, her eyes glittering in the most unnerving manner. John had gone forward with his bottle of smelling salts, hoping to attend her, but had been plucked to one side by the harpsichordist who had begged him to give succour to his wife. As John had knelt over the abundant curves of Mrs Martin he had again thought about the difference in their respective sizes and had found his mind going down some extremely naughty avenues, quite unsuitable for the occasion.
    Meanwhile, the actor playing Lockit, a craggy-faced individual with alert blue eyes, decided that he would light a pipe to soothe his nerves. This upset Mr Peachum, who declared that smoke was bad for his throat and instantly indulged in an extremely forced fit of coughing. At this Mrs Vine, who had taken the role of Diana Trapes, told him forcefully to be quiet, and an argument erupted between them.
    ‘Can’t we get rid of them into the dressing rooms?’ begged Dick, who had revealed himself as the stage manager and a stalwart character.
    John looked doubtful. ‘As long as none of them tries to leave I suppose it would be all right.’
    ‘Can they change out of their costumes?’
    ‘I think not. I am sure Mr Fielding would like to see them exactly as they were at the time of the hanging.’
    ‘But surely he can’t see, so what is the point?’
    ‘If he comes in person he will bring his eyes with him, namely his clerk, Joe Jago. Not a thing will pass his keen gaze, I assure you.’
    ‘Then I hope they hurry. There is nothing worse than a stageful of irritable