1
LITTLE SAM WAS THE first of us to see it, or perhaps Lillian saw it first and nudged him, but certainly Sam was the first to leap up and press both hands and his nose against the carriage window.
‘Look! Is that the sea?’
I exchanged a glance with Rosie, who affected a nonchalant air, as though the sea was something she was perfectly familiar with, even though she’d seen it only once before, on a trip to Southend with her first husband, and was as eager to paddle in it as the children.
‘I believe it is,’ I said.
We crowded at the window with two of our fellow passengers, an elderly couple, and watched the mudflats glide past, glaze-cracked and barren under the blazing sun. The buildings became more numerous as our train arced inland, and we issued a collective sough as the view was obscured behind a row of houses.
The final person in the carriage was showing far less interest, and was instead reading a book, making rapid notes in the margin with a pencil. She was notable not only for her studiousness, but also for her skin. It was the brown of a kestrel’s feather that had once floated down in front of me, fallen from such a height that when I looked up, the bird was just a dot in the sky. She could not be a servant. Her hat was belted in lace too fine to be a hand-me-down from a generous mistress and her dress fitted too well, made from fine taffeta the blue-green of a dunnock’s egg. These clothes were her own.
If I found her presence noteworthy, the elderly couple seemed positively alarmed. Rather than share a bench with her, they had spent the journey crammed together next to Sam and Lillian.
‘Portsmouth Town!’ the conductor bellowed down the corridor. ‘End of the line! Opposite platform if you want the harbour.’
As our train screeched and clattered into the station, a young fellow ran alongside and leapt on to the footplate of our carriage, pulling open the door and swinging inside. On his shoulders he was carrying a pole hung with the plucked carcases of birds, swaying together like a row of convicts at the gallows.
‘Partridges,’ he announced, not even out of breath. ‘A treat for your table.’ He leaned towards me, dangling the birds unpleasantly near my face. Their beaks had been removed, giving them a startled expression. ‘Welcome, my friend. Would your lovely lady wife be wanting a partridge for your supper this evening?’
I’d never been to Portsmouth before and, if I was honest, hadn’t wanted to come on this occasion, but a pretence of familiarity seemed to be part of his patter and he refused to let my glum expression dim his bonhomie.
‘Only fourpence each, my friend,’ he added. ‘Or a shilling for four.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Rosie. She was already reaching up for our bags.
‘They’re the finest quality.’ He held one of them to his nose and inhaled the scent. ‘And fresh. Shot this very morning on my cousin’s farm.’
Rosie cast a brief glance at the birds. ‘They’re crows,’ she said. ‘Not worth a halfpenny.’
The young fellow, who, I now noticed, had a thick neck and grazes on his knuckles, drew himself up. ‘That’s a slander, that is, madam. I’ll thank you to withdraw it.’
The train was coming to a halt, wheezing and popping, sending gushes of steam and smoke over the people waiting on the platform. The door was still open, flapping against the side of the carriage, and I squinted through the miasma, hoping to catch a glimpse of Peregrine’s giant frame.
The fellow took half a step towards Rosie. ‘I told you they’re partridges, and a man’s word is all he has, my old dad used to say.’ He turned towards me. ‘Are you going to let your wife insult me this way? What kind of man are you?’
It was a complicated question, and not one I felt inclined to answer.
Rosie sighed and adjusted her spectacles. ‘Well, my old dad was a butcher. Partridges have red eyes.’ She poked one of the birds, setting it to swinging. ‘Theirs are black. You’ve clipped their beaks, but they’re clearly crows. Now please stand aside.’
She went to move past him, but he moved too, blocking her path. I started to rise – no one will stand in Rosie’s way while I have breath in my body – but the studious young woman with skin the colour of a kestrel’s feather clicked her tongue, folded her book and barged in front of me. She was short in stature, barely reaching the claws of the birds on their pole, but even so, she did not look the slightest bit scared. Indeed, the expression on her face was one of calm concentration, as if she was learning the steps of a dance. The fellow attempted to shove her aside, but as his weight went forward, she arched her back so swiftly and neatly that he grasped only thin air, and stumbled, emitting a low, porcine grunt. I thought he might fall on her, but she sidestepped him, ducking under his arm, and took two steps backwards out of the carriage, landing on the platform with the grace of a dancer. The fellow flopped against the seat vacated by Sam and Lillian, upending his pole and allowing the birds to slide down in the direction of the elderly couple, who bolted out of the carriage like gingered horses.
Rosie and I followed at a slower pace, stepping around the fallen crow salesman and collecting the children and our bags. Rosie scoured the platform for the young woman, but she had disappeared without a word. In fact, she hadn’t spoken at all since she joined the train in London.
Rosie scratched her head. ‘Well! I was going to give her my thanks, but apparently, she’s not one for conversation.’
I glanced back at the fellow in the carriage, who was muttering to himself and rubbing the dust off his birds with his sleeve.
I took Lillian’s hand in mine, and we processed along the platform, resembling a normal family, though we were about as far from normal as it was possible to imagine.
‘Where’s Mr Black?’ asked Rosie. ‘I thought he was going to meet us.’
‘He’s always late. It’s an affectation. Shall we go straight to Viola’s house?’
‘No.’ She hoisted Sam higher on her hip, wincing with the effort. He was five years old now and plump on her pies. ‘We should wait for Mr Black. He’s most likely in the foyer.’
I felt an inner scratch of resentment. I was starting to suspect that Rosie wished to keep me apart from her sister. This was especially galling because I knew they weren’t close, exchanging guarded, formal letters every month, Rosie explaining that the weather in London had been very fine and business brisk, and Viola replying that she was very well, thank you, and in Portsmouth the sun had shone for a few days until the easterly winds brought the rain. But Viola’s recent announcement of a pregnancy – much wished-for but unexpected after eight years of marriage – had prompted Rosie to express a desire to spend time with her sister. And when my work as a journalist required me to visit the south coast, a family trip seemed fated.
I peered around the foyer, but there was no need. If Peregrine had been there, we would quickly have spotted him, and would have heard him before that. Like most actors, his voice carried a certain weight, and his personality was … considerable.
Rosie tapped her foot, a sure sign of worriment. ‘You don’t suppose he’s with the police again, do you?’
Lillian looked up at me. ‘The police? Why, Mr Stanhope?’
She was an earnest girl who liked to join in with grown-up conversations. But still, I wasn’t going to discuss a brutal murder with a seven-year-old.
I leaned down and looked into her eyes. ‘Do you remember the story I told you about the boastful dog who liked to sing and dance?’
She nodded solemnly. ‘His friends were cross with him, so he went to all the other dogs’ houses and entertained them instead. And he was happy.’
Of course, she remembered. I’d told it to her a dozen times at least while she acted it out with her peg dolls.
‘Exactly. Well, that’s like Mr Black. Sometimes people get impatient with him. And sometimes he gets impatient with them too. And then, well … ’ I cast around the room. ‘Anyway, he’ll be here soon, I’m sure.’
But he wasn’t. We waited, pressed against a pillar to avoid the crush, the sunlight slanting down on us through the roof lights, making me feel oddly conspicuous even among a horde of strangers.
Little Sam’s eyes strayed to the stall selling boxes of toffee. ‘I’m hungry.’
He had a sweet tooth, doubly so because Robbie was not with us, having been left with my friends Jacob and Lilya so he could continue his schooling. Sam was looking forward to telling his older brother about all the treats he’d missed.
I pulled out my wallet for some change, but Rosie shook her head. ‘We haven’t the money, Leo. You bought them fudge when we left, and … ’ She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they contained a look of such gentle reproach I was hard-pressed not to take her hand. ‘You’ve a kind heart, but truly, you mustn’t spoil them.’ We gazed at each other, and the distance between us, not five feet in reality, seemed a chasm.
It was another ten minutes before I became aware of a disturbance in front of us, like a quivering in the long grass before a dog bounds into view. It was quickly accompanied by a booming bark, though of the human variety.
‘Let me through! I’m here to meet an important dignitary. Stand aside.’
The populace parted and Peregrine appeared – and what a sight he made. He was sporting chequered trousers, a green velvet jacket and a waistcoat that might have claimed to be tan, but was verging on yellow, matching his hat. Together with his doleful chestnut eyes, he resembled a mastiff that some unkind soul had dressed up for their amusement. He tipped his hat to Rosie and enveloped my hand in his, shaking it so vigorously I thought it would fall off.
‘I’ve reserved a taxicab,’ he announced. ‘Hurry now. We don’t have long.’
‘Until what?’ I asked.
He hadn’t apologised for being late. He turned towards the entrance and began wading through the crowd. ‘Come along, quickly. There’s been another … ’
I couldn’t hear end of his sentence as he was already lost in the throng. We trailed him outside to the forecourt, a feeble miniature of the one at Waterloo Station in London, as if that most exuberant of squares had accompanied us on our journey, eroding mile by mile until it was merely this, a dull place of function, where one could get off a train and, with any luck, get back on one again as soon as possible. I was missing home already.
Around the edges, pressed against a metal fence, tradesmen were holding up painted signs advertising fresh fish, trips on boats and the hiring of bathing machines for the ladies. Their shouts were quite deafening, and one couldn’t hear individual words so much as a tumult, an assault of supplication on our ears. I felt Rosie’s fingers on my forearm, the gentlest of touches.
‘Keep going, Leo.’ She pointed towards a line of broken-down hansom cabs, their horses stewing in the heat. ‘We’ll be out of this in no time.’
A young man, no more than sixteen, sidled up to us. ‘Looking for somewhere to stay? I know all the right places. No fee neither.’
Peregrine batted him aside without a word and skittled three more – the first offering high-class accommodation, the second, seats at the world’s finest circus and a third, occasional, yet well-paid employment for Rosie – in similar fashion before the rest of them realised we were well defended and went off in search of easier prey.
The cabbie looked up from his newspaper. ‘You never said nothing about kids. I don’t take kids. They vomit.’
Peregrine appeared nonplussed, turning to us and noticing, apparently for the first time, that Lillian and Sam were standing on the pavement next to us.
‘You brought children?’ he exclaimed, his voice rising even above the cacophony. ‘To a murder scene?’
Lillian took a stronger grip.
‘Mr Black,’ said Rosie. ‘Please be more careful with your language.’ She covered little Sam’s ears, although, in fairness to Peregrine, the boy was oblivious.
Peregrine gave her a contrite bow. ‘Of course, my apologies, Mrs Flowers. I mean, Mrs Stanhope, of course. And congratulations, by the way, on your nuptials. Marriage is a marvellous institution.’
One which he had roundly abused, I thought, though perhaps a man can approve of a thing without being inclined to practise it himself. After all, I encouraged truthfulness in the children, yet I deceived them constantly.
Rosie offered him the kind of smile which really ought to come with a warning. ‘We bring our kids with us when we travel, Mr Black.’
He failed to notice the emphasis, perhaps deliberately, and emitted a rumbling sigh, which made the horse widen its nostrils and take a half a step sideways. ‘The thing is,’ he explained, ‘there’s been another … ’ He glanced at Sam and flapped a pudgy hand, trying to think of the right word. ‘Another event. Similar to the first event, I gather. It happened this morning.’ He leaned forward and whispered in a voice louder than I was able to shout: ‘The, ah, the remains, as it were, are in the same place, near the Gosport bridge.’
The cabbie folded his newspaper and started gathering up his reins.
Peregrine pointed a finger at him. ‘You stay where you are.’
I frowned. ‘Another, in addition to the one you wrote to me about?’
‘Yes, exactly. Weren’t you listening? Now, Leo, we have to go. I told the police that a top newspaperman was coming down from London to report on the story. They’re waiting for you, all agog, poor lambs. They think they’re going to be famous.’
‘Of course.’ I was about to climb into the cab when Rosie stamped her foot.
‘What about us?’
She was ever my partner in such endeavours. I could do my usual reporting on scientific discoveries – planetary movements, medicines and new strains of tea – on my own while she ran the pie shop. But, on those few occasions when the subject was murder, we came as a pair.
Peregrine shrugged. ‘There’s no time to lose and you can’t bring children.’
The cabbie stuck out his chin. ‘No, you can’t. Them seats is newly cleaned.’
Rosie looked furious. ‘Very well. We’ll go to Viola’s house and meet you later. I see no other choice.’
‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ said Peregrine. ‘Leo will stay with me tonight, of course. I’ve made arrangements.’
I hadn’t expected this. My preference was to stay with Rosie at my sister-in-law’s house. But before I could decline Peregrine’s offer, Rosie nodded and accepted his card.
‘Good, yes. We’ll stay with Viola and Leo can stay with you. That’s perfect.’
She picked up her neat little bag and handed me the drawstring hessian tater sack containing my essentials.
‘Lillian, Sam,’ she said. ‘Come along. We’re not needed here.’
I watched them head off to the back of the line for a cab, feeling more than a pinch of guilt. They were the most precious things I could imagine, along with Robbie, who by now would be beating Jacob at chess. My friend’s faculties were not as they had once been.
‘Stop daydreaming and hop in,’ said Peregrine. ‘The police are expecting us.’
The cab seemed crowded even with only the two of us. Peregrine took up a great deal of space, both physically and conversationally, prattling on about the play he was in and complaining that the local audiences weren’t nearly as receptive as they’d been in Brighton and Margate where, he claimed, they’d begged for three encores. I was only half-listening, watching the narrow streets glide past, stunned by the smallness of everything. In central London, most buildings were six or seven storeys tall, but here they were two at most, and I felt as if I could step over them like dolls’ houses and stride my way home across southern England.
Peregrine pulled down the window, allowing a light breeze into the cab.
‘Wake up, laddie, for goodness’ sake.’
The stink of fish and salt, which I had assumed was limited to the stalls at the station, grew stronger. The whole city must reek of it.
‘I’m sorry. Tell me about this murder.’
His expression darkened. Beneath his bravado and, it must be said, occasional tendency to violence, he was a soft-hearted man. Indeed, his anger was only ever engaged in service to that soft heart. He couldn’t bear injustice. He’d once remarked that we had that in common, though I wasn’t so sure. If my experiences had taught me anything, it was that injustice was the natural way of the world and could come upon us any minute, any second, without warning or purpose. No resistance or readiness would help. If the cab were to throw a wheel, I could split my head on the doorframe or be pierced by a stray wheel-spoke in a second. My life would have no more meaning than that of the fly presently crawling across my knee, and could be swatted just as easily.
‘I don’t know much about this one,’ Peregrine acknowledged, waving a fist at the fly, which had flown up towards his face. ‘The body was left in the same place as the first. A girl this time, I believe.’
‘How did you hear about her death?’
‘My landlady, Mrs Mackay, told me just as I was coming to meet you. She said the police were swarming around the place, asking questions of everyone. Naturally, I went down there, but they wouldn’t let me anywhere near. They’re all in a tizz. I mentioned you to the chap in charge, and he seemed rather impressed.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘What on earth did you tell him?’
‘Top man at the Daily Chronicle, knows all the best people, that sort of thing. I may have mentioned the Home Secretary.’
‘You may have what?’ I sat back, marvelling at his cheek. ‘I’m a science writer. I don’t know anyone important. I’m lucky if I get one article in the paper a week.’
He sniffed. ‘Truly? Oh. Well, that is disappointing. I was under the impression … well, anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? This is the provinces, after all. He doesn’t know you’re a nobody.’
Our cab was delayed by a queue of traffic. Alongside the road, a great work was being carried out, men crawling over a pile of rubble the height of a horse and breaking it further with sledgehammers, passing lumps of rock – each the size of a loaf of bread – from hand to hand along the line. Around them, other men were standing in bowler hats, carrying what I thought, at first, were rolled-up umbrellas – hardly necessary in this weather – but then realised were rifles. The labourers were linked at the ankles with leg irons and chains, making their work precarious and slow.
Peregrine eyed them with pity. ‘They’re building yet another barracks, I’m told. The Navy owns this town.’
We rounded the junction, passing a formal garden, bountiful in the sunshine, and more military fortifications bearing masts and flags. From the saline smell and the weeping of the seagulls, I assumed the sea lay beyond, out of sight. As the street broadened out, the buildings became more colourful, and the people more numerous and better dressed.
Peregrine rapped on the ceiling to catch the cabbie’s attention. ‘On the left here.’
We threaded between warehouses to where the road ended at an open metal gate wide enough for three carriages to pass through side by side. Beyond it lay a stony beach and a grey expanse of sea.
‘Can’t go no further,’ the cabbie called down. ‘Sixpence halfpenny, including the wait.’
We climbed out, but Peregrine made no move to produce his wallet. ‘I’m merely your guide. I assumed the newspaper would be paying.’
My boss, J. T. Whitford, had been resistant even to covering my train fare, hinting that my reluctance to visit the seaside in the middle of a heatwave was an elaborate bluff. Only after I had come into the office as normal that morning did he relent, instructing Miss Chive, who looked after the cash box, to give me ten shillings, not a penny more, and to make darned sure I signed a chit.
I paid the cabbie, half-choking from the wretched stench of the shoreline. Above us, the sun, which had previously been clear and bright, had become a hazy disc, ringed with green. I put my sleeve across my mouth and followed Peregrine towards the gate.
‘Christ,’ he croaked, as I caught up to him. ‘What a place to die.’