The lion and the shepherdess danced around the stage. The shepherdess protected her modesty while the lion thrust and swaggered, at one point twirling his tail in his paw and whipping her behind with it. Finally, she gave in, lying back on the stage, legs spread, while the audience, now all on their feet, screamed their encouragement.
I’d seen enough and blundered out through the foyer, almost falling into the yard. I gulped in cold air and lifted my face to the rain.
Was it possible that Ciara had seen a man in a lion suit? It seemed absurd, and yet there he was, with gloves for paws and a mane made of wool, his real eyes peeping through the lion’s mouth. She had said the creature had been standing on its hind legs. That answer made more sense than an actual lion loose in London.
At the main road, I heard a low groan from under a jerry-shop awning. Someone was curled up in the doorway, and I realised it was Peter Thackery. As far as I could tell, he was fast asleep, hugging his shiny top hat. He wouldn’t stay that way. The first person who came past with ill intent would have that hat, and his wallet, jacket, shoes and anything else that could be sold for more than a farthing. He would be left naked or, quite possibly, dragged off somewhere and stuck with a knife.
I couldn’t abandon him.
I prodded him with my foot, and he stirred, opening his eyes.
‘Oh,’ he said, and was sick on the pavement.
‘Are you all right?’
He raised himself on to all fours, gagging again, this time without production. When he seemed to be finished, I pulled him upright, and he sagged against the wall, sweating and blinking.
‘I think I’ve had too much to drink,’ he slurred. ‘I was at the music hall.’ He thumbed back towards the alleyway. ‘There’s a girl there I want to—’
‘Yes, I’m sure. But you should get home now, don’t you think?’
He shook his head and waggled a finger at me. ‘Not home.’
‘Well, you can’t stay here. You’ll be robbed for certain.’
‘Are you going to rob me?’
He looked quite forlorn and, more than ever, I was reminded of Aiden. It was impossible to believe they weren’t brothers. Or half-brothers.
‘No. Where do you need to go?’
‘School. I should be there now, but …’
He bent down and was sick again. At least it might sober him up, I thought.
‘Where is your school?’
He spat on to the pavement. ‘Harrow.’
‘Oh, good grief.’
Harrow was miles from here, much farther than any cab would take him.
‘Train,’ he mumbled. ‘From the station. That’s how I go there. By train.’
I remembered that the Metropolitan Railway had recently been extended to the north-west of London, branching into the suburbs like a shoot of wisteria.
He managed to stay standing while I hailed a cab and virtually pushed him inside. He fell along the seat, his eyes closed. I sighed and climbed in behind him.
‘Baker Street Station,’ I called up to the driver.
We set off, joggling over the cobbles.
Peter blinked a couple of times and half opened his eyes. ‘Peter Thackery,’ he said, pronouncing each syllable with studious care. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Leo Stanhope. I noticed you at the music hall.’
‘Ah!’ He sat straighter. ‘You saw her then. Miss Vesta Tilley. Isn’t she a marvel?’
‘Yes, she is. Have you seen her before?’
‘Many times. Many, many times. I want to dance with her. I love dancing, you know.’
‘Do you indeed?’ He was looking a little pale again, so I pulled down the window on his side. ‘If you’re going to vomit again, do it there.’
‘And then I intend to marry her.’
‘Oh, I see. Does she know?’
He swallowed and sat still, allowing the cool breeze to blow on his face. ‘I haven’t spoken to her yet.’
‘You mean you haven’t spoken to her about marriage, or you haven’t spoken to her at all?’
He took a deep breath and closed the window. ‘At all.’
Youthful love, I thought, is like a leap from a great height. You tumble and spin in joyous descent, but the end is always the same.
‘You’re a young gentleman,’ I said, trying to be kind. ‘Your father may not be happy with such a match.’
‘Do you know him?’ He adopted a mockingly pompous voice, reminding me of a character in a musical play I’d once seen half of, who had wanted to ‘rule the Queen’s Navee’. ‘He’s Sir Reginald Thackery, the most famous industrialist.’
‘I’ve met him, very briefly. He didn’t seem like an indulgent man.’
‘I don’t care. If necessary, I shall join Miss Tilley on the stage, and we’ll travel the land playing to audiences who appreciate our art and our love.’ He attempted to put his hat on, which wasn’t possible in the confines of the cab. ‘Father can go to hell. If he won’t let me marry her, he’s an ass.’ He was unwittingly concurring with John’s opinion of their father. ‘Worse than an ass. He’s the shit of an ass. He’s a maggot in the shit of an ass. No, he’s the shit of a maggot in the—’
‘All right, I understand.’ We were almost at the station. ‘Do you know which train you need?’
‘It’s the last stop on the line and I can walk at the other end. It’s not far.’ He grinned amiably, if rather lopsidedly. ‘I just have to get into the school without them noticing. Frightfully strict.’
I found myself liking this young man, and not only because he so closely resembled Aiden. He seemed to take each minute as it came, with a sort of casual disregard. I envied him his recklessness.
We drew to a halt and he stumbled out, blinking. ‘You don’t think Father … I mean, if I married Miss Tilley … you don’t think he’d cut me off, do you?’
I couldn’t tell whether he was truly serious about all this. Did he really believe he might marry a music-hall singer, or was he just playing at believing it? I looked into his eyes, searching for something truthful in them. They were watery and red, and impossible to read.
‘Does that matter? If you marry her, you can dance with her every night. Do you truly need money, if you have love?’
He stood still for a few seconds, gripping on to the wheel arch, and then handed his pound note to the driver. ‘Take this gentleman wherever he wants to go,’ he said. ‘Anywhere at all. Damn fine chap.’
‘Little Pulteney Street, please,’ I told the driver, as Peter reached in through the window to shake my hand.
‘You’re a bloody good Samaritan, if you ask me,’ he said.
I worked the following day. My foreman said he was glad I had recovered from my fever, though I still looked unhealthy to him. I didn’t find this surprising; I felt exhausted.
When my shift ended, I hurried out into the dusk. I was looking forward to telling Rosie what I’d learned.
By the time I reached her shop, my stomach was starting to rumble in anticipation. She produced a beautiful pie from under the counter, russet and gold with a tiny touch of black where the gravy had bubbled up through the crust. It was still warm to the touch.
‘Pigeon and potato,’ she said. ‘That’ll be sixpence.’
‘I thought you said it’d be half price?’
‘This one’s normally a shilling.’
‘Every other pie in the place is sixpence.’
She shrugged. ‘If you don’t want it, give it back.’
I took the pie.
‘Are you sure you want to come with me, Rosie?’
She looked down, buttoning her coat, and when she looked up again, she wouldn’t meet my eye.
‘Don’t be silly.’
We left the shop as evening was descending, shrouding the streets in cobweb-white mist. I explained, through mouthfuls, about the man in a lion costume, John’s disappearance and Peter’s love for a singer, pausing occasionally to tell Rosie that she truly was the best pie-maker in London.
‘There must be more than one lion costume in the city,’ she said. ‘There are dozens of theatres. It could be a coincidence.’
‘It could,’ I agreed. ‘That’s why we’re going to the music hall. We need to find out for certain.’
When we got to the alley, the music hall hadn’t yet opened for business. We waited outside in the patch of light coming from an upstairs window, where two amiable young women with deeply scooped necklines and bare arms were watching us.
After a few minutes, a man arrived in a cloak and top hat. It took me a moment to realise he was the master of ceremonies. He’d been so dramatic, so larger than life, on the stage, it was peculiar to see him here, in this dull alley. He was shorter than me and, close up, his cloak was fraying, and his tailcoat was old and tatty.
He doffed his hat to us and unlocked the door. As it swung closed behind him, Rosie darted forwards and caught it.
‘You see?’ she said. ‘I told you we were better at this together.’
She slipped inside, so I was spared having to admit she was right. The truth was, she thought of things I didn’t and was able to see the world in a different way; a bull-headed, infuriating way, to be sure, but it did sometimes yield results.
There was a narrow hallway and stairs leading up, presumably to apartments above. Ahead of us was an open door. A man came through it, so stooped that his back was higher than his neck. He wasn’t wearing a shirt or undershirt, and his chest was matted with thick white hair, like a goat.
‘Auditions were this afternoon,’ he said.
‘Oh no, we’re not—’
But Rosie interrupted me. ‘Of course. We’re very sorry. We were delayed. Is there someone in charge we could speak to about a future date?’
‘We’ve got all we need. What’s your act?’
We exchanged a glance.
‘Singing,’ I said.
‘Everyone’s a bloody singer. Nothing for you here.’
‘This is different,’ I insisted. ‘She dresses as a man. I’m her manager.’
Rosie turned and glared at me, but it did the trick. The old fellow looked us up and down, nodding thoughtfully, his gaze resting longest on Rosie. ‘You might do, darling. Ladygents are very popular these days.’ He waved a hand in my direction, without removing his eyes from Rosie’s chest. ‘Ask for Mr Black. You can’t miss ’im.’
The corridor was quiet. A couple of doors were open, one revealing a girl lying across an armchair, one foot on the floor and the other propped up on a cushion, exposing the white flesh of her calf. She looked up at us briefly and went back to inspecting her fingernails.
The last door bore the letters ‘P. B.’ and was closed. I knocked quietly.
Inside, a voice called: ‘Come in.’
A large man was sitting at a desk with his back to us, occupying his chair like a loaf of bread overflowing its tin. On his desk was a bottle of Vin Mariani, half full, and he took a swig directly from it.
‘Mr Black?’
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
His desk was covered with costumes and props: a fan, a lamp, some wooden owls and a china doll that made me shudder. Underneath, the lamb was fast asleep. Behind us, a metal pole had been lodged horizontally between the picture rails, and costumes were hanging from it: a vast frock, an apron and a light brown coat with a fur collar.
Rosie tugged on my sleeve and pointed.
She was right; what I had taken for a coat was actually the lion costume.
Mr Black still had his back to us, so I quietly spun the costume on its hanger. The head was a sort of hood, stuffed in the cheeks, pinched along either side of the nose and folded into little circles for ears. The stitching was poor and oft-repaired, and the material was scuffed and threadbare.
Mr Black turned, taking a deep breath that seemed to flow through his whole body. I thought I recognised him but couldn’t think from where.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, his hand enveloping my own. ‘Please tell me you’re not singers.’
Rosie gave me a severe look and a brisk shake of the head, indicating that under no circumstances was I to maintain the pretence that she would perform as a male impersonator.
‘I’m Mr Stanhope, and this is Mrs Flowers,’ I said. ‘We have some questions about a murder. The killer may have worn a lion costume like this one.’
Rosie shifted in her chair and pursed her lips, apparently of the view that I had been too blunt, as usual.
Black looked from me to Rosie and back again. ‘Murdered? Are you being serious or is this part of your act?’
‘There’s no act,’ said Rosie. ‘We just want to ask you some questions, that’s all. We won’t take up much of your time.’
Black sighed and glanced at the clock on his mantelpiece. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
He took us through a further door and into the theatre itself, which was dark but for a single lamp hanging over the stage. Close up, the trailing vines and painted backdrop were ill-made and old, covered with dust. He perched on the edge of the stage and we sat opposite him in chairs as if we were his audience.
‘I hate that office,’ he muttered. ‘Too hot with the fire lit, but it’s the only one we have, so the others insist. Their poor little toes get cold.’ His features fitted his face, large and fulsome, but he had sad, chestnut eyes, like a dog too old to chase rats. ‘Stanhope, did you say? I’ve heard your name before.’
‘When?’
He took a pull on his cigarette, blowing smoke into the wings of the stage, watching it fade in the shadows. ‘Let’s get to know each other before we divulge all our mysteries, shall we? You were here yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, amazed that he could remember one man among so many.
‘I have a gift for faces.’ He examined a bandage on his right hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. ‘You were sitting behind that cock, weren’t you? He got what was coming to him.’
That was why I recognised Black. It was him under the make-up, dress and petticoats.
‘You’re the shepherdess!’ I exclaimed.
He bowed his head. ‘Peregrine Black, singer and impresario. And a painter too, once in a while.’
He indicated the walls of the theatre, which were hung with large, gilt-framed pictures. The nearest was of a couple gazing into each other’s eyes, and the next was of a singer, her arm extended as she reached for a high note. They were a little florid for my taste, but he had a gift, no doubt.
‘You’re very talented,’ said Rosie, with what sounded like genuine admiration. ‘Is this your establishment?’
His mouth twitched into a smile. ‘No, I’m just the manager. An employee. Who was murdered?’
‘A woman named Dora Hannigan.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
I sat forwards in my chair. ‘Have you heard of her?’
‘I read the newspapers. It sounded awful.’
‘What wasn’t publicised was that her young daughter saw it happen. She said the killer was a man in a lion costume.’
‘Well, that’s even more awful.’ He tapped his cigarette on the edge of a bowl. ‘No child should see something like that.’
‘Who wears that costume on stage? I saw it yesterday evening.’
He considered my question, rubbing his shoulder, which seemed to be causing him pain. ‘It varies. Last night it was Finlay, who does the birdcalls as well. We were short and there was no one else. He hates doing it, but those wretched birdcalls.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If he wasn’t willing to be the lion as well, I wouldn’t book him; I’d rather have another intermission. I doubt he’s a murderer, though, unless you count boring the audience to death.’
‘Do other people wear it sometimes?’
He shrugged. ‘Everything depends on the running order. The role’s not difficult. All you have to do is look fierce and steal my innocence.’
Rosie didn’t blanch. ‘And it’s never kept anywhere but here? It’s never laundered, for example?’
He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Never. We probably should, as it stinks. Finlay sweats like a ham. We used to have a lovely one with proper claws and a horsehair mane. Very realistic.’
‘What happened to it?’ I asked.
‘Stolen, more’s the pity. You really can’t trust performers.’
‘When was that?’ I felt as if I was within touching distance of the truth.
He pondered, smoke drifting out of his nose. His cigarette was sweet, giving the auditorium a languid, other-worldly air.
‘It must’ve been the twenty-third of last month. I remember because the music hall was closed. The owner had some of his friends over and wanted them entertained at his house. The lighting was terrible and there was nowhere to get ready. It takes time and effort for me to become Miss Amaryllis, but nobody cares. They think it’s easy to turn into somebody else.’
‘Who is the owner? And who played the lion that evening, when the other costume was stolen?’
He examined my face, sensing my keenness. I could feel his mind turning.
‘Sir Reginald Thackery owns our little enterprise,’ he said. ‘He bought it last year, more’s the pity.’
I admit I was surprised. Sir Reginald didn’t seem the type to own a place like this; he was far too priggish. But now I thought about it, Peter Thackery had been able to swan in without paying. The doorman had greeted him by name.
‘I didn’t realise Sir Reginald was interested in the music hall,’ I said slowly.
Black laughed. ‘Hardly.’
‘Then why?’
‘To remake the world as he wishes it to be, Mr Stanhope.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Black massaged his shoulder again, wincing a little. He peeled back his shirt at the collar, revealing pale, puffy flesh and a vivid red stripe. It reminded me of the grazes under my armpits where my cilice rubbed against my skin. I realised what had caused it: the heavy brassiere he wore on stage.
He blew another lungful of smoke into the air. I had seen him lay out a man with one punch, and yet he held his cigarette with the delicacy of a child about to release a butterfly.
‘The masses go to church on Sundays and work every other day of the week, so where are they to enjoy a little frivolity, Mr Stanhope? At the music hall, of course. Have a few drinks, a singalong and a laugh at the upper classes and their careless ways.’ He exhaled another puff of smoke. It was making me feel drowsy and I wondered what was in it. ‘Sir Reginald doesn’t like that sort of thing. It doesn’t show due respect to people like himself.’
‘You mean he bought the music hall to make sure there were no acts that criticised the upper classes? That seems rather extreme, wouldn’t you say?’
Black blinked languidly, taking his time. ‘Men like him control the churches and the factories, so why not the music halls as well? Keeps everyone in line. You saw my act? That’s what he wants more of. Brawny lions and birdcalls, and nothing that’ll get the hoi polloi too riled up.’
‘What about the young lady dressed as a man?’ I asked. ‘Miss Tilley. She was mocking the upper classes, surely.’
‘That was because Peter Thackery likes her. He’s Sir Reggie’s other son. Spoony as a turtle dove.’
‘Why do you say Sir Reginald’s other son? Do you know John Thackery?’
A look crossed his face that I couldn’t quite identify: gentle and yet mournful at the same time.
‘Of course. His father owns the place.’
A suspicion started to form in my mind.
‘That’s how you knew my name. John told you.’
‘Very good, Mr Stanhope.’ He inclined his head in a half-bow.
The suspicion moved almost physically from my mind to my stomach, where it hardened like clay in an oven.
‘You’ve been very open with us, Mr Black. Are you not worried we’ll pass on your views to Sir Reginald?’
He snuffed out his cigarette and lit another, taking his time.
‘Well, firstly, he already knows what I think. I’ve never been shy with my opinions, and as soon as he can find someone else to run this place I’ll be out on my arse. And secondly, I don’t think you will, Mr Stanhope.’
He placed a slight emphasis on the ‘Mr’, and my suspicion was confirmed. John Thackery had told him about me.
One more person knew my secret.
One more person might use that secret against me.