There was a knock at the door, and a young woman entered, carrying a baby wrapped up in a blue shawl. She stopped and bobbed her head as one accustomed to servility.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Black. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘No, not at all.’ He turned to us. ‘This is Mr Stanhope and Mrs … Flowers, wasn’t it? This is my wife, Miranda.’
She shook our hands. ‘You’re blessed with such a pretty name, Mrs Flowers. Not that I mind being a Black, of course.’
She was rather sweet, I thought, with a hamsterish face and milky smell. She was much younger than her husband; probably not yet twenty. I wondered what she thought of him appearing on stage every night dressed as a shepherdess.
She handed him a purse. ‘For the bar float,’ she said. ‘Mr Johnson’s counted it.’
‘Thank you.’
He kissed her on the forehead and touched the cheek of the baby, who jerked awake, blinked twice and flopped on to its mother’s shoulder again.
After they had gone, Black lay back on the stage, so all we could see were his legs, dangling down.
‘How long have you been doing this, Mr Black?’ I asked.
‘Twenty years, nearly. I started out as a singer with a top hat and cane but couldn’t make a living at it. They always stuck me on first or after the intermission when everyone’s still at the bar. One day someone didn’t show up, so I took his place as a maiden in love, whose beau has gone off to war. Then I was a lusty lady for a while, with a limp husband, and after that a duchess, seduced by her charming coachman. We had a prop carriage for that one and wheeled it across the stage on ropes. The audience loved it. There were two of us in those days, but he died. A little too fond of his opium. So, I was alone again, and became Miss Amaryllis.’ He used his shepherdess voice: ‘Terrified of the powerful lion and what he might do to my helpless lambs.’
‘Do you prefer acting as a woman? On stage, I mean.’
I could feel Rosie watching me out of the corner of her eye. I had strayed from what we came to find out, but I needed to know. What motivated this huge man to perform every night as he did? He appeared almost to despise it.
‘I don’t act as a woman, Mr Stanhope,’ he said. ‘If I did that, the audience would walk out straight away. They’d want their money back, and probably complain to the police. Reality is a bit too sharp for them. Reality isn’t funny.’ He sat up and rapped on the wood with his knuckles. ‘The joke is that I’m a man who’s pretending to be a woman, and not doing it very well. That’s what makes them giggle.’
He and Miss Tilley were the same, in a way, using the incongruity of their gender and their clothing to raise a laugh. What meant life and death to me was mere charade to them.
‘What else can you tell us, Mr Black?’ asked Rosie.
He paused, and I caught that look again; as though he’d been carrying a great burden and was almost ready to put it down.
‘John and I sometimes meet.’ He glanced towards the door his wife had left through. ‘In private, you understand. I want to paint him. His portrait.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not yet. I’ve done some sketches, that’s all. He’s a little reluctant.’
‘Why?’
He sighed and indicated the paintings hung on the walls. ‘Those are just for decoration, to add to the atmosphere. I don’t bring my real work to this place to be swilled with ale. You see …’ he breathed out smoke through his nose, making us wait for the punchline like the stage performer he was ‘… I mostly do nudes.’
‘You want to paint John Thackery … in the nude?’
I could feel Rosie tense beside me, and I supposed I must have reacted as well. I admit I was a little shocked. I had seen nude paintings and sculptures before, of course, but they always seemed to belong to another world, long ago and far away.
‘Oh, Mr Stanhope, Mrs Flowers, there’s no need to be so indignant. It’s art. George Frederick Watts does it, so why shouldn’t I?’ He stared wistfully at his pictures on the wall and sniffed, apparently finding them deficient. ‘John and I were supposed to meet here after yesterday’s performance, but he didn’t turn up. It’s not like him. He seems to have disappeared, like my bloody sheep.’ He smiled, his anxiety hidden beneath the feeble joke rather as a mountain is hidden beneath a scattering of snow.
‘Is it unusual for him to miss an appointment?’ asked Rosie.
‘Well, you know he plays at politics at that vile little club on Rose Street? He uses a false name for some reason, as if anyone cares who anyone else used to be.’
He shuddered, and I thought perhaps he’d remembered that Leo Stanhope wasn’t the name I was born with. But then I caught something else in his expression and wondered whether his parents had truly christened him Peregrine and whether their surname had been Black. No, I thought, you are a construction of your own making. You were someone else, once upon a time.
‘What of it?’ I asked.
‘I’m worried they found out he’s a Thackery and took revenge.’ Despite his obvious concern, he couldn’t resist rolling the ‘r’.
‘I saw him yesterday afternoon,’ I said. ‘He seemed perfectly healthy then.’
I didn’t mention that I’d followed John, nor that I’d lost him near his father’s house.
Black sighed deeply, his concern assuaged a little.
‘If you see him again, tell him to visit me as soon as he can,’ he said. ‘Or at least send me a note. I worry terribly when I don’t hear anything.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But you still haven’t told us who played the lion that night at Sir Reginald’s house or how the costume was stolen.’
‘No one played the lion that night. Sir Reginald told us it was too risqué for his important chums. Their wives would be shocked, apparently. As if they didn’t get up to the same things in the bedroom. Not with their husbands, obviously.’ He smiled, but it was thin and reflexive, not reaching his eyes. ‘When we got back here, the lion costume was nowhere to be seen, so we’ve had to go back to using that old thing. And we’re two guineas out of pocket too.’
Rosie and I made our way out of the alley and into the slums around Farringdon, where the local populace was gathering in doorways or sitting on the pavement, many of them drunk already. Most likely they had no choice but to be outside while their beds were occupied by other people, sharing the rent. No more than a mile from this spot, among the blossoming trees of Mayfair, fat aristocrats were staggering from their carriages and into their homes, ready for a nap before supper. Who could blame men without wages for wanting a little revolution?
We had reached Chancery Lane before either of us spoke.
‘There’s plenty Mr Black’s not telling us, I daresay,’ Rosie said. ‘Could it have been him?’
‘Certainly, although it could also be anyone in the company or the Thackery household, not to mention anyone else who might’ve crept in. That is even assuming the murderer was wearing a lion suit, which is a ridiculous notion. We only have a six-year-old’s word for it.’
‘You’re not inclined to narrow the field just yet then?’
I caught an amused tone in her voice. I supposed I had sounded rather curmudgeonly.
‘Dora Hannigan was buried at the club,’ I said, in a gentler tone. ‘There must be a reason for that. It’s not a coincidence. I think we have to go back there.’
‘She lived in the club, though, and taught their children to read and write. She was one of their own. If one of them did something to her then … well, I don’t know. It would be a true evil, is what I’m saying.’
Rosie had the strongest sense of justice of anyone I knew; if someone had done a bad thing, she wanted them to pay for it, no matter who they were.
‘The wake is tomorrow afternoon,’ I said. ‘Will you meet me at three o’clock at the pharmacy? There’s something I have to do first.’
‘What is it?’ She peered at me from under her hat, her green eyes glinting in the lamplight. ‘You look … scared, is it? What’s wrong, Leo?’
‘No, not scared. I have to visit someone tomorrow and I’m not looking forward to it, that’s all.’
I didn’t tell her it was my father I would be visiting, to fulfil my half of the deal with Jane.
As Rosie and I parted, I found I didn’t know what to say to her. I couldn’t find the right words. A simple cheerio would have sufficed, but instead we shuffled about like two fools, nodding and smiling, until our own ridiculousness overwhelmed us and we walked away in opposite directions. Apparently, we were able to search for a killer together, but not manage the simplest of farewells.
I wasn’t far from Jacob’s home on Shoe Lane. Despite his cantankerous nature, he often had a perspective on things I hadn’t previously considered. Plus, I knew I would miss chess tomorrow for Dora Hannigan’s wake, and he would be miserable without me there. He had no patience with the other members of the club and was unbearable if he had to play one of them, growing restless when they moved too quickly, or too slowly, or wore a scarf he found distracting.
It was Lilya who opened the door, with her little dog bustling around her feet.
‘Hello, Lilya,’ I said.
‘Leo.’
She put out a hand, which I took. ‘Why does he always make you come downstairs?’ I asked. ‘You might trip and fall. He should come down.’
She laughed and smoothed her greying hair. ‘He makes me do nothing. I can’t go out no more, but I can still answer my own door.’
Her face was round and gentle, and her eyes were wise, despite being almost blind. She could tell a bright light from darkness, and claimed she could still see her own hands, although I sometimes wondered if her mind was convincing her that she could discern what she could not. But still, she was able to navigate their home by the tips of her fingers, feeling her way like a cat uses its whiskers, and she could cook as well as ever, and play her guitar. It was one of my great pleasures, to watch her tune it, plucking a note and turning the little screw, her failing eyes closed and her mouth twitching as though the vibration of the string was travelling all the way through her.
‘We ate our supper,’ she said, ‘but I made bread if you want some. Good for the bones.’
I was never certain whether she knew what I was under these clothes. Even if Jacob hadn’t told her, she must have felt the narrowness of my shoulders and the scantiness of my wrists. Yet she always treated me as the young man I was.
She led me upstairs, still talking. ‘We have cold mutton too, or some cheese maybe, if that crosspatch, my husband, hasn’t eaten it all. He thieves it like a greedy old mouse and thinks I don’t know.’
Jacob stood up as I reached their little parlour. ‘Leo!’
He was already in his dressing gown and pyjamas, but his eyes were crisp and keen under his overflowing eyebrows. His daughter, Millicent, was curled up in the other armchair, knitting what looked like a scarf. She was about Aiden’s age and strongly favoured her mother, thank God, with large round eyes and a shrewd expression. She gathered up her yarn and needles as I came in.
‘Wait, Milli,’ instructed Jacob.
She smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek before scampering away.
Lilya brought through two glasses and a bottle of clear liquid. I had drunk the vicious stuff before, but had no idea what it was called, or even if it had a name. It had been brewed by Jacob’s late brother and, when I last looked, there were a dozen or so bottles of it left in the cupboard under the stairs. One day soon, the last of it would be gone, and his brother with it.
I wondered what had released this flood of melancholy. Surely it couldn’t be the prospect of seeing my father?
‘What is it, Leo?’ asked Jacob, once we were alone.
I told him about Aiden and Ciara, and the lad, Peter Thackery.
‘Aiden and Peter look similar,’ I said, sipping from my glass in a manner Jacob disdained. ‘More than similar. They’re half-brothers, I’m certain of it.’
Jacob shrugged and threw his own drink down his throat, immediately pouring himself another. ‘Nothing surprising there. A wealthy man and a young governess. It’s a common story.’
‘But Aiden’s ten years old.’ I did the calculation. ‘If Sir Reginald is Aiden’s father, it must have happened after Dora Hannigan left his employ. She wasn’t with them when they lived in Enfield.’
Jacob swilled his glass, grinning as he did when he thought I was being naïve. He saw himself as a man of the world.
‘It’s simple. He sleeps with the governess, but his wife doesn’t like it. So, he dismisses the girl and they carry on. She’s his mistress. He probably found a couple of nice rooms in London for them to meet in.’
‘And then she became pregnant.’
‘Exactly. And fat, tired and ill-tempered.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘No one wants a mistress who’s the same as their wife.’
‘So, Sir Reginald killed Miss Hannigan to make sure of her silence?’
If that was true, then Aiden and Ciara were the motive for their mother’s murder. What a terrible responsibility for them to carry.
Jacob snorted. ‘Over some by-blows with a servant ten years ago? More likely she knew something else about him. Something he didn’t want anyone to find out.’
‘Blackmail, you think?’
I thought about the two hundred and four pounds I’d found in her room. There was no need to tell Jacob about it. Not from any lack of trust in him – he had no interest in money – but because it was a threat to the children. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.
‘Sir Reginald isn’t the only suspect. I met some unsavoury people at the club on Rose Street.’
Jacob sat forwards, always attentive to new things he could castigate. ‘Tell me more about this club?’
‘They’re radicals and socialists. Believers in the rights of the common man.’
He laughed. ‘Have they met the common man?’
‘It’s more than just talk. They planned to burn down Sir Reginald’s mill.’
‘Shame they didn’t succeed.’
I was amazed at his hypocrisy. ‘You despised them a minute ago, and now you’re supporting their cause?’
He grinned, his eyes glinting. ‘Once, I would have. Oh yes, in the Ruthenian revolution I was quite the rebel!’
‘When was that?’
He shrugged away my question. ‘You don’t want to know. No one cares any more. It was a long time ago in a different country. I was young and stupid, filled with passion. Now I’m old and my leg hurts.’ He stretched it out, grimacing with the pain. ‘Even so, one less mill in the world wouldn’t bother me. And the stupid arses might set fire to themselves as well, so everybody wins.’
‘They might have had a reason to murder Miss Hannigan. Her body was found in the courtyard of the club.’
He jabbed a finger at me. ‘You must be careful, Leo. Blackmail and arson, these are not your concerns. Why not lead a quiet life and let the police catch the criminals for once?’
‘Because … because I’m curious. Because the police are too busy condemning the radicals to see anything else. Because those children deserve to know why their mother was killed, and who did it.’
I realised I was furious, not with Jacob but with the world. Someone had snuffed out Dora Hannigan’s life like a candle and was living their own as if she and her children didn’t matter a jot. It was wrong. It was iniquitous. I couldn’t fix it, but I could make sure that whoever it was faced justice.
I realised that I hadn’t thought that way for a long time. I’d forgotten how it felt.
I was yawning by the time I got back to the pharmacy, though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. I ducked down the passageway that led to the back of the house. My mind was elsewhere, on Peregrine Black and whether he could be trusted, and I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. I didn’t have to. I’d walked this passage daily for three years, and I knew every crack in the brickwork and slippery stone underfoot. I thought little of it when I heard a crunch behind me; probably one of the neighbours heading to their own back yard or the soil men arriving early to perform their filthy chore.
‘Mr Stanhope, is it?’
I turned, and a figure was silhouetted in the passage entrance. He was tall and broad, but I couldn’t see any of his features. He had a scarf wrapped around his face and a bowler hat pulled low over his forehead.
‘I’m looking for two children.’ He spoke without intonation; not a question or a threat, just a statement of fact.
‘Who are you?’
I was trying to sound brave but was all too aware that no one would be able to see what happened in this gloomy passageway, or hear my shouts, muffled as they would be by the close walls and narrow entrance.
‘Where are they, Mr Stanhope?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You put them in an orphanage. I want to know which one.’
Of course, I hadn’t, but I wouldn’t give this man my sister’s address. I would rather be beaten black and blue.
‘I don’t know where they are.’
‘Yes, you do.’
He took a step towards me, and I backed up, feeling the corner of the wall behind me with my hand, making a frantic calculation; could I make it to the pharmacy before he caught me? Probably not. I would need to negotiate both the ninety-degree turn and the back gate into the yard.
‘Tell me what I want to know,’ he said, as if he was asking the price of apples in a grocery. ‘Then I’ll be gone.’
I was about to sprint for the back gate and to hell with the consequences, when I saw something behind him, and heard a voice.
‘Mr Stanhope? Is that you? Is everything all right?’
‘Go away, Constance,’ I called out to her. ‘Quickly now.’
The man turned, and even in the dimness I could see what he was thinking: grab her so I would be forced to answer his question.
As he took a step towards her, I launched myself at him, hugging him around the neck as if I wanted a piggyback.
‘Go, Constance! Run!’
She fled, and the man reversed hard into the wall, knocking all the wind out of me. I tried to cling on, but he did it again, slamming the back of my head against the bricks. I fell to the ground and tried to crawl away, but he grabbed my collar, twisting it in his fist, throttling me against the top button of my shirt. His breath was on my neck. Even in that moment, I thought: He isn’t panting. He isn’t excited or panicked or overcome with rage. He’s fully in control. I’d been threatened before by angry men, avaricious and lustful men, but this was something new. This man might murder me this evening and barely remember it tomorrow.
‘Which orphanage?’ he said again, and put his knee on my spine, starting to press downwards.
‘All right, I’ll tell you,’ I managed to croak.
His grip loosened, and I drove my elbow into his groin.
He grunted and let go of me, falling to his knees. I shoved him away and ran, tearing round the corner towards the back gate, pulling at the latch to open it.
It was bolted from the inside.
I could hear him stumbling towards me in the dark. Any second now, he would be on me like a dog on a rat.
I reached through the hole in the fence, pulled back the bolt and dived into the yard, managing to re-lock the gate behind me just as he got there.
In the upstairs window of the house next door, a lamp was lit, casting a thin glow. I could see my assailant’s forehead over the fence, and his hand writhing and stretching through the hole as if independent of his body. His arm was thicker than mine and he couldn’t squeeze it as far. His fingers were groping, touching the edges of the bolt but not quite able to grasp it.
He forced his hand farther through the hole, ripping the stitching of his shirtsleeve.
We were locked in a strange race, him and me. He was straining for the gate bolt while I was fumbling with my key, no more than five yards from him, shaking in my haste to get the door open.
I won the race, but not by enough.
I got inside and was turning to lock the door when he burst through it, knocking me on to my back. I twisted and threw myself under the table, but he grabbed my leg and dragged me out, sending a chair spinning.
I kicked out at him and wriggled free, finding my feet and facing him over the table. He swept an arm across it, scattering bottles and jars, and sending clouds of powder billowing into the air.
‘Where are they?’ he said again. His eyes were blue and cold.
He took a step to the left and I did the same, keeping the table between us, taking me closer to the front door and the safety of the street.
He picked up Alfie’s old scales. I could barely lift them, but he raised them with one hand, like a dock-crane, and hurled them towards me. I sprang out of the way as the metal dishes bounced and spun across the floor. He dashed forwards, and I tried to run, but slipped on the broken glass.
He grabbed me by my throat and slammed me backwards on to the table, pulling a knife from his belt. I felt a cold rush of fear; not of death, but of injury. If I was stabbed, my shirt would be removed to tend the wound and my physical form discovered. At least if I was killed outright, I would be spared that humiliation.
‘Tell me,’ he snarled.
My eyes were stinging but I forced myself to open them. Above me, the ceiling was yellow and cracked from years of smoke from the stove, steam from the tin bath and fumes from Constance’s various experiments.
This was my favourite room in the world.
A fitting place to die.