The Marquis of Granby was a decrepit pile of bricks and wooden pillars that had somehow survived while the rest of Mayfair grew higher and wealthier around it. As ever, it stank. I couldn’t determine the exact combination of substances that permeated the walls and furniture to create such an odour, but they seemed to include stale beer, cigar smoke, lamp oil, blood, bile, flatulence and the vague odour of poultry, making me wonder whether a pigeon had become stuck in the chimney.
Unsurprisingly, the place was almost empty, and what patrons it had were old men at rickety tables, nursing ales and reading brown, curling newspapers. They looked as if they’d been coming here for decades, crumbling along with the plasterwork.
John Thackery was sitting in the most visible spot at the bar, his dented hat in front of him. Seeing him there, I felt strangely fearful. He was like a door into a room I didn’t want to enter. But if I left, I would never find out what he wanted to tell me, and it might relate to Dora Hannigan’s children. I could still picture the little girl’s grin as she pushed the pedal on Alfie’s dentistry chair.
‘What do you have to say to me, Mr Thackery? Or should I call you Mr Duport?’
He peered at me, at my face, my hair, my chin. ‘Call me John, please. We’ve known each other a long time.’
‘We knew each other briefly, a long time ago. It’s not the same thing.’
I wouldn’t pretend we were old friends after he’d so recently blackmailed me into lying for him.
He nodded, accepting my correction. ‘I didn’t want all this to happen. I’m trying very hard to do the right thing, but it’s become rather complicated. Sit down. Please. I’ll get you a drink.’ He summoned the barman and ordered a half-pint of Indian Pale Ale without further consulting me.
I generally avoided stools, but had no choice on this occasion, so I arranged my coat to hang down at the back and obscure my hips.
‘How did you find me? And what do you need an alibi for, if it’s not murder?’
He attempted, unsuccessfully, to straighten his necktie, looking exactly like the young man I had once known. ‘That doesn’t concern you.’
‘None of it concerns me.’ I had spoken too loudly, and two old fellows looked round, unused to having their quietude interrupted. I lowered my voice. ‘Her children are missing. Do you have any idea where they are?’
He took a sip of his drink and gazed at me blankly, apparently having given them no thought at all. ‘I’m sure they’ll turn up. You need to know that I would never do anything to hurt Dora.’ His voice cracked, and he had to swallow to keep it under control. ‘She was very precious to me.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not what you’re thinking, but believe me, I would give anything to have her here again, alive and well. Anything.’ There were tears in his eyes, and one of them ran down his face and into his beard. ‘Dora was my governess when I was a boy. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. She had such belief, such commitment. I didn’t realise until later how much influence she’d had on me.’
I thought back. ‘Your governess? I don’t remember her.’
He shook his head, watching his own reflection in the glass behind the bar. ‘It was before we came to Enfield, when we still lived in London. She came when I was ten, and two years later they packed me off to boarding school. When I got home at Christmas they’d already sent her away.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘I was inconsolable. Afterwards, I discovered what he’d done to her. My father, I mean.’
I felt a clutch in my stomach, and realised I was twisting the bar towel between my fists.
‘What had he done?’
Thackery took a long time to reply, several times opening his mouth as if to speak before closing it again. I sensed he still thought of me as a girl and wanted to protect my gentle nature, which actually brought a smile to my face, albeit of the bitterest type.
Finally, he almost whispered, ‘The worst thing.’ He looked at me squarely for the first time. ‘Worse than you can imagine. That’s how I know it was him who killed her.’
I couldn’t help but feel compassion for him, sitting here in this stinking pub and telling me about a woman he had clearly loved like an aunt.
‘I’m sorry, John, I really am.’
‘She was the kindest person I’ve ever known. She said we shouldn’t force you to cooperate and insisted that I give her your address at that pharmacy. She visited several times before she finally met you.’
‘Why?’
‘She wanted to see if you could be bribed to help us instead. But she decided you couldn’t and demanded that we leave you alone.’ He rubbed his eyes and drew his fingers down his face. ‘Too late for that now, I’m afraid.’
I thought back to our encounter in the shop. She had asked if I would extend her a line of credit in return for a personal profit. Had that been a test?
‘She was right. I’m an honest man.’ I said.
He took a sip of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, accidentally angling his elbow towards my face, forcing me to lean away from him.
‘Was she? Seems to me you lied quite well to that policeman. I suppose you’ve had a lot of practice.’
‘I only lied because you gave me no choice.’ I picked up my hat. ‘This is pointless.’
‘Wait,’ he insisted. ‘There’s something else I have to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
He looked down at his glass, swirling his beer so it nearly over-brimmed. ‘I envied you terribly back then, you know. You and your brother and sister. I would’ve given anything to have had the reverend as a father instead of my own. The reverend and I used to talk in his study, and sometimes he lent me books from his collection.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘John Stuart Mill and Jonathan Swift. I devoured them in days and couldn’t wait to discuss them with him. When we moved back to London, I didn’t miss much about Enfield. Dull little town. But I missed the reverend.’
‘You don’t know anything about him,’ I said, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. My hatred for my father was far beyond shouting and stamping my feet, childish displays aimed at winning sympathy or apology. I cared not a jot for either of those. My anger was a cold, sharp blade, in and out with barely a murmur. ‘When my mother was sick, in her last weeks, Jane told me that he wouldn’t stay with her or speak to her. He wouldn’t even tend to his dying wife.’
‘I’m sure that’s not correct. He’s a decent man.’ He shook his head sadly, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. ‘Look, this should really come from your brother or sister. But you need to know. Your father’s very sick. I’m afraid he’s dying.’
I had only seen my father once since I left home, though he hadn’t noticed me. It was shortly after I started as a porter in Westminster, and I was on my way to the late shift, strolling down Whitehall on a fine summer day. Ahead of me on the pavement was a man with a small dog, a terrier such as my father favoured. The dog stopped to sniff something, and the man turned, and there he was. I almost bumped into him. It was as if a memory had come to life.
He mumbled something to the dog and carried on, so I followed him, studying the thin strands of hair on the back of his neck and his bony hand as it held the leash. He was still tall, over six feet, and broad-bellied, but more stooped than I remembered. When I was young he used to walk at high speed, in great strides that I had to scamper to keep up with. No longer. Now, he was stiff-legged, waving his thanks to an omnibus driver who had stopped to let him cross the road. I continued onwards to the hospital, none the wiser about why he was there or where he was going.
And now he was dying, apparently. I searched inside myself, but this new information seemed illusory, a story about another man. I didn’t believe my father could ever die. He was like an old stone wall that might weather and crack but would never crumble away completely.
‘I stayed in touch with him,’ John said. ‘Especially after your mother … well, after she died. I heard he was very sick, so I went to visit him. He seemed extremely weak, I’m afraid. You must visit him soon, before it’s too late.’
‘I won’t do that.’
He wasn’t facing me, but I could see his angry expression in the mirrored glass behind the bar. He took a rapid gulp of his beer, almost slamming the tankard back down on the counter.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Goodbye, John,’ I said, and marched out into the evening.
The following Monday, Alfie returned late, having been out for dinner with Mrs Gower. They had seen a lot of each other over the previous six months; twice weekly or more, having a common interest in walking around parks and admiring the flora, though it was recently acquired in his case.
He shook his umbrella and brushed the rainwater from his new coat, which had velvet lapels and a purple silk lining. He was sporting his new top hat as well, which he had become extremely fond of, often leaving it on the counter where everyone could see it.
‘Shall we have a whisky, Leo?’
He seemed excited to share his news.
A whisky was what I needed. It was one of my great delights, sitting side by side with Alfie, elbows on the counter, talking or remaining pleasantly silent while the light dimmed and the liquid in our glasses grew black. It occurred to me that if John Thackery chose to betray me, I might not be able to enjoy many more.
‘We walked back through the Botanic Gardens,’ Alfie said, as he poured. ‘She mentioned she’d like to be married again, some day.’ He must have noticed my disquiet because he patted my shoulder. ‘You’ll always have a home here, Leo. Nothing will change that.’
‘I know.’
He still thought he owed me a debt of gratitude, crediting me as the author of his financial recovery, following a long period of decline. I had asked a local businesswoman to send all her staff, and those of her friends in the industry, to Alfie to get their teeth fixed. That was more than a year ago, and word of his talents had travelled widely since. Of course, what remained unspoken was the exact nature of the businesswoman’s trade. No one wants to be known as the whores’ dentist. But still, these days he could afford to buy expensive new coats and top hats, not to mention court a widow who owned a house in Pimlico with servants and a horse and carriage.
All the changes happening; I felt as if everyone was on a road to somewhere, crissing and crossing, all except me. I wished everything would stay still.
‘Do you want to be married again?’
‘Yes, I think it’s time.’
‘So, you’re going to ask her, are you?’
His face darkened, and he bit his lip. ‘Not yet. I haven’t mentioned it to Constance. But she’ll be delighted, I’m sure. She needs a mother at her age, and Mrs Gower is a fine woman.’
I almost felt sorry for Alfie’s new belle. Constance’s silences could be wintry, and she was capable of the most formidable politeness, which had been known to reduce seasoned adults almost to tears.
‘You’ll have to tell her soon,’ I said.
He nodded, his mood sagging at the thought of it.
We didn’t talk for a while, each musing on our respective futures, until Alfie raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Constance told me you’d had a lady-friend yourself, a few months back.’
‘Mrs Flowers and I were amicable for a short while, that’s all.’
He chuckled, unable to help himself. ‘I’m sorry, Leo, but it’s made such a difference to me to have someone. It could make a difference to you too. You can’t just sit around all the time. You have to go out and see people.’
‘I do see people. I go to work and I play chess with Jacob every Thursday.’
He laughed again. ‘Chess with Jacob will certainly keep you cosy on those long, cold nights.’
I didn’t laugh with him. At one time, I used to imagine myself coming home to a bustling wife, kissing her and pulling her on to my lap as she told me about her day and I told her about mine. I could almost feel her head on my shoulder and her hair tickling my cheek. But the woman I had loved was dead, and in the unlikely event I ever found another who would overlook my obvious affliction, I would be importuning her to commit fraud, and that would be a poor exchange indeed.
‘I do wish people would stop telling me what’s good for me,’ I said, aware that I was sounding sour. I understood that he wished me to be happy, but his insistence upon the method of it was wearying.
‘All right.’ He was staring at the rows of bottles and packets displayed in the window, but then leapt up from his chair. ‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed, pointing. ‘Those urchins again!’
In the doorway, two figures were huddled together, sheltering from the rain.
‘What difference does it make?’ I asked, curious why Alfie was so bothered. He wasn’t normally one to make a fuss about such things.
‘They were there this morning when I opened.’ He fished his keys out of his pocket. ‘That exact spot. A customer had to move them to get into the shop. It’s a bit much.’
He unlocked the door and threw it open. One of the urchins squeezed closer to the other, and I had a brief view of scared eyes and dark, curly hair. The city was riddled with children like these, sleeping on benches, under trees, in doorways, begging on pavements, rifling through bins for scraps and knocking on doors selling posies of flowers stolen from parks and cemeteries.
‘Please go somewhere else,’ Alfie said, handing each of them a farthing. He wasn’t an unkind man.
They took the money and started to move away, clutching on to each other, shivering in the cold. The smaller one looked back, and I realised who she was. Who they both must be.
They were the children of Dora Hannigan.