4
IT WOULD BE AN exaggeration to suggest that I landed in the building with anything approaching elegance. At least I was saved the indignity of attempting, and no doubt failing, to haul myself up from the ground, as the lad had done. Instead, we had dragged a bin from the alley and positioned it underneath the window for me to stand on. Through the grubby glass, I could see a small room with cupboards, a vase of dead flowers and a Kitchener stove, covered in dust.
Rosie watched me with a smile growing on her face.
‘This was a stupid idea.’
‘Yours, as I recall.’
‘No one’s infallible.’
She was enjoying herself as much as I was, and for those few seconds we were exactly as we had once been: two friends on a quest, linked by a bond of trust that neither of us felt the need to verbalise.
The opening was too small to perform any kind of swivel, so I had no choice but to wriggle through head-first and land on the straw-strewn floor. There was a key in the lock of the side door, so I was able to facilitate a more gracious entrance for Rosie. A connoisseur of kitchens, she gave the room a single, dismissive glance.
‘Come on,’ she whispered, poking her head into the corridor. ‘No harm in looking around.’
I hoped she was right.
I could see some light up ahead, where the entrance must be. Rosie led and I crept behind her, trying to keep the contents of my stomach in check despite the stink of lye in the back of my throat. I could hear sounds: a strange rustling, like autumn leaves blowing across a path, and a metallic squeaking, followed by a brief, truncated shout of encouragement and a woman’s laughter. I shivered, but not from fear; in fact, I was feeling strangely elated. But I was also chilly, after the warmth of the sun outside. My fingers were going pink.
We reached the entrance, facing the locked street doors. If the blinds had been raised, I guessed we would have been looking at the spot where the naval fellow had spoken to us. Opposite, a pair of curtains obscured what I assumed from the scattered laughter coming from within was the main auditorium. I tweaked the curtain aside and, shoulder to shoulder, we peeked through.
We were looking at the backs of rows of seats facing a proscenium stage, which at first appeared splendidly framed by a pattern of gold relief, reflecting the light of four chandeliers, but I quickly realised was painted on. Indeed, the whole vista had a temporary air, aping the opulence of better theatres, as though the building might at any minute be turned back into a factory, brewery or produce market; whatever it had been before.
A group of eight or so people was on the stage, three of them stretching and the rest looking up and pointing at something above their heads. One of them, a burly fellow wearing black pyjamas, picked up a rope that was hung from a pulley, making me shudder with a dreadful memory: the flailing and kicking as they had hauled, higher and higher in the smoke and ash, until a ghastly silence came upon us all.
It was all I could do not to sink down to my knees and weep.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and met Rosie’s green eyes. She gave me a brief nod of understanding and I felt steady again. This was simply a group of circus performers practising their act. No one was about to be hanged.
A young woman, wearing striped bloomers that finished above her knees, took the other end of the rope, looking up at the pulley to check it wasn’t knotted. The burly chap took up the slack and wrapped it twice around his waist, setting his feet well apart.
Rosie elbowed me in my ribs and hissed: ‘Look, that’s her! That’s the girl who was on the train. The one I wanted to thank.’
She was right. The young woman was unmistakeable. Her skin the colour of a kestrel’s feather was amply exposed by her outfit, but it was more than that: just as in the carriage, she had an air of self-containment, even among the other performers.
She gave the rope a shake and, remarkably, put the end of it into her mouth. It terminated with a leather pad, which she bit on, nodding to her accomplice to pull. As the rope grew taut, she angled her head upwards and was lifted from the stage, all her weight hanging from the leather pad clutched between her teeth. Up and up, she went, spinning slowly, arms outstretched, knees lightly bent, with only the strength of her jaw saving her from a fall that would surely be injurious. What muscles she must possess! My teeth ached watching her.
With each draw on the rope, the squeak of the pulley grew louder and higher pitched. When she arrived at the very top, she reached up and I saw that she was holding something in her hand: a brass oil can. She squirted some oil into the pulley and switched hands, attending to the other side also. As she descended, the pulley gave out a last, feeble mew and thereafter worked in silence.
She alighted on the stage arms outstretched, like a butterfly on a lily.
No wonder she’d proven adept at eluding the crow salesman. She was an acrobat.
In the front row, a broad-shouldered gentleman started clapping, his bald pate bobbing up and down like an egg in boiling water. ‘Bravo, Miss La La!’ he shouted. ‘They’ll be queueing all the way to Fratton for tickets.’
The young woman performed a minimal curtsy and disappeared into the wings.
Rosie nudged me. ‘I’ve heard of Miss La La,’ she whispered. ‘She’s famous. On posters.’
‘Truly?’
‘For a journalist, you’re not very observant.’ She pointed to the edge of the auditorium. ‘I bet you haven’t noticed him either.’
Crouching by the wall, out of the view of the front-row applauder, was the lad who’d broken in. He wasn’t exactly hiding, but he seemed keen not to be noticed, keeping his head down, his flat cap barely showing above the seat backs.
‘I’m going to talk to him,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the girl had a connection to this place.’ I gestured towards the stage. ‘“Born to fly” seems appropriate, wouldn’t you say?’
A voice came from behind us. ‘What do you know of “born to fly”?’
I was holding on to the curtain and was so surprised I almost pulled it out of its track. I turned, and Miss La La was standing there, now wrapped in a dressing gown, her head cocked to one side. Her approach had been utterly soundless; neither Rosie nor I had heard a footstep or a breath. And she didn’t seem nervous to be confronting two strangers either, half-dressed though she was.
Rosie essayed a polite smile. ‘We’ve met before. On the train from London. Do you remember?’
Miss La La shrugged. ‘Yes, certainly. You didn’t want to buy one of those birds.’
I detected an accent in her voice, reminding me of my friend Lilya’s, except fainter, only present in her intonation and a slightly extended sibilance in the word ‘yes’. I surmised she had left her home as a child.
‘Exactly.’ Rosie nodded enthusiastically to show she was friendly and therefore harmless. ‘You saved us. I wanted to thank you, but you rushed away.’
Miss La La looked at each of us in turn, a frown forming on her face. ‘Is that why you followed me here?’ Her eyes strayed to the closed and bolted doors.
‘Oh no,’ Rosie’s fanatical nodding turned quickly to shaking. ‘No, we didn’t know you were here. We’re seeking information about … about someone who might be from the circus. A young man broke in and we … well, we wanted to ask some questions, not to follow you.’
‘Or steal anything,’ I added, earning an eye-roll from Rosie.
The other gave a deep sigh. ‘Someone from here. Of course, I should have known straight away. “Born to fly”. Where is she? What’s she done?’ She closed her eyes wearily. ‘Do you want money? You can keep her. I have no more money and no more patience. None.’
I shook my head slowly. ‘We didn’t come for money.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, what do you … ’ She faltered as the awful possibility seeped into her irritation. ‘Has something happened to Natalia? Is she all right?’
I swallowed hard. In a previous job as assistant to a surgeon of the dead, I had occasionally been required to impart bad news to relatives: the dead body, bloated beyond all recognition and gnawed at by fish, was indeed that of their beloved father, husband, brother, whose presence at the Surrey dock, barefoot and trouserless, could not easily be explained. But at least those families had a degree of preparation, waiting in the hospital chapel, fearing the worst. Telling this young woman, who had no clue until this moment that her friend might be dead, felt altogether different.
I took a deep breath and spoke as gently as I could. ‘Did Natalia have a tattoo?’
She pulled up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo in exactly the same spot on her forearm as the deceased: Urodzona by latać.
Born to fly.
We sat in the back row as the troupe of performers gathered round. They wanted to know every detail of the murder scene and asked, tears making tracks through their chalk face powder, why anyone would want to murder little Natalia La Blanche? Yes, she was a wild one, but also sweet and kind, and she could charm the stars down from the sky. Sometimes, they said, she would leave them for days at a time, fall in love and return heartbroken, only to do it all again a fortnight later. She loved to fall in love. And when she couldn’t find someone for herself, she would matchmake for everyone else. Two of them, the burly fellow and an almost equally well-built woman, briefly touched hands and smiled, their eyes wet.
When they had asked all their questions and accepted that we had no more answers, they drifted away, sitting in twos and threes on the edge of the stage or in the front row, talking in whispers – all save Miss La La, whose real name turned out to be Olga Brown.
‘I’m only Miss La La on the stage,’ she explained, her voice halting and cracked. ‘Or other names. Olga the Negress, Olga the Mulatto, the African Queen. I’ve never even been to Africa.’ She shot a fierce look towards where the bald gentleman had been sitting, but he was no longer there. ‘Whatever sells tickets.’
‘Was Natalia an aerialist too?’ asked Rosie.
Miss Brown smiled, though her face was still wet with tears. ‘Oh yes, on the trapezes. There was no one to match us, not anywhere. Natalia was light and strong, and she had no fear. She would fly and spin and I would catch her. Sometimes she used to close her eyes, knowing I would be there. And I always was.’
She put out her arms and closed her own eyes to show us how it was, and I imagined being at the top of a perfect parabola, and that fraction of a second’s panic until those hands took hold of mine. Miss Brown opened her eyes again.
‘We were called The Flying Sisters. Foolish, I know, given … ’ She indicated her skin. ‘But we were like sisters. We came over from Prussia together.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘Back when there was a Prussia.’
‘To Portsmouth?’
She shrugged. ‘To everywhere. Portsmouth, London, Amsterdam, Paris. We’re here for the summer and after that … I don’t know.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘When I said you could keep Natalia, I didn’t mean it. I hope you understand. She frustrated me, that’s all. I’ve got used to not knowing where she is. Sometimes I’d wish she’d go home and … ’ She ceased speaking and lowered her forehead into her palms, her shoulders shaking. Eventually, she lifted her face and glanced anxiously around the auditorium. ‘Where’s Honey? Does he know? Oh, God, what will he do when he finds out?’
‘The young man. The one you followed into here. They were friends.’
She stood up, spotting the young man still crouching by the wall. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, and I could tell he knew that Natalia was dead. I wondered whether he had known before he came in or had simply overheard us.
I exchanged a glance with Rosie. In truth, we’d gathered all the information I needed. My article might be promoted from page 14 to 12 on the basis of the dead girl’s profession; the gentry of London did enjoy being shocked by the flutter of skimpy clothing and, by implication, skimpy moral virtue. But a provincial story would never make it to the front page, so there was little point in staying any longer. Uncovering the killer might take weeks or months or might never happen at all, especially with Sergeant Dorling on the case. If we were quick, we could catch a train and be back to our normal lives by that evening.
But something was still tugging at me. Not knowing the truth was like leaving a book half read. And here we were. What harm would it do to find out just a little more?
‘Miss Brown, when we first saw Mr Honey outside, he seemed to be running from someone. A gentleman. Do you have any idea why that was?’
‘Always, it’s men.’ She pulled a face. ‘Always. He’s probably the one who killed Natalia. You should write that in your article.’
‘Do you know who he is or why he was chasing Mr Honey?’
She blinked quickly and dropped her eyes. ‘I have no idea.’
I hoped for her sake that she was better at acrobatics than she was at lying.
I was about to suggest we leave when there was a sound behind us. Sergeant Dorling was striding into the auditorium accompanied by two constables in ill-fitting uniforms, each with a billy club in his fist. They were followed by the bald-headed fellow who’d been watching earlier, a look of grim satisfaction on his face.
‘That’s him!’ he shouted, pointing at Honey, who was still crouching by the wall.
Olga Brown turned and gave the fellow a look that would have bored through rock. ‘What are you doing?’
Dorling’s mouth turned downwards in an ugly sneer. ‘Arresting him for murder, not that it’s any of your business.’
Olga Brown stood in the way. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’
Dorling sucked on his teeth. ‘Jenks, move this … obstacle aside. If it objects, stick it in the Black Maria.’
I felt a rising rage inside me. I might have been called ‘it’ as well, in other circumstances, but I was human and so was Olga Brown.
‘Now, look here—’ I began, but she shook her head.
‘There’s no need,’ she said.
A youthful-looking constable stepped forward and attempted to shove her sideways but found himself grabbing air as she swivelled and ducked under his reach. He raised his billy club but was restrained by the bald gentleman.
‘Oh no, matey,’ he said. ‘She’s on stage tonight. Star of the show. You don’t touch her.’
Dorling cleared his throat. ‘Apologies, Mr Quinton. I’d forgotten she was here on your bidding. We’ll arrest Honey and be off.’
Miss Brown glared at them both and raised her fists, and the confrontation seemed likely to take an unpleasant turn. I knew I shouldn’t intervene, but I was irritated by the arrogance of these men.
‘You should at least tell us what the evidence is against Mr Honey, before you remove him.’
Dorling turned and, from his expression, he was not one bit pleased to see me. His mouth hung open for ten seconds before any sound emerged.
‘Ah, Mr … Winthrop, was it?’
‘Stanhope.’
The bald fellow, Quinton, vibrated like a simmering pot. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Dorling forced a facial expression that might have been described as a smile, had the person doing the describing never seen a real one. ‘Mr Stanhope is a journalist from London, Mr Quinton. He’s taken an interest in recent events, for which we’re all very grateful, I’m sure.’ He pulled his face into a still greater deformation, adding a display of blackened teeth. ‘As you can see, Mr Stanhope, we’re apprehending our suspect and will be questioning him at the station. All very right and proper.’
‘And I’m Mrs Stanhope,’ announced Rosie, who hated to be left out.
Olga Brown shook her head. ‘This is ridiculous. Timothy would never hurt Natalia.’
Quinton pointed a finger at the lad. ‘Nonsense. He was always mooning around after her. And he knew the boy who was murdered too. He’s the link between the killings.’
For the first time, Honey himself spoke. His voice was light and oddly detached, as though he was vocalising thoughts in his head rather than addressing anyone in the room. ‘Everyone knew Micky.’
Dorling took him by the chin. ‘You harboured lustful thoughts about Miss … about the victim. And you murdered her. She rejected you is my guess.’
Olga Brown snorted loudly. ‘That’s even more ridiculous. You know full well what he does for a living.’
Dorling shied away from Honey like a horse from a dead cat in the street. ‘I was told—’
Honey interrupted him. ‘I’m a picture-framer. And you don’t really think I killed him.’ He turned to me, his pale eyes looking right into mine. The skin was so taut on his face, you could see the architecture of his skull beneath. ‘Are you truly a journalist? You should ask some questions of Mr Quinton. He knows what’s true and what isn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, but before he could reply, Dorling interrupted.
‘If nothing else, Master Honey is guilty of trespassing here. Take him away, lads.’
Olga Brown looked up despairingly at the corrugated ceiling above our heads. ‘I won’t let this stand. I won’t.’
Quinton, seemingly a habitual finger-pointer, prodded her forehead. ‘You’ll stay out of it, Miss La La. You’re due on stage tonight. It’s in your contract.’
The constables dragged Honey away towards the entrance, squashing him tightly between them, deliberately impeding his feet so he was forced to hobble and trip.
‘Wait!’ I called after them. ‘Mr Honey, what did you mean earlier? What truth were you referring to?’
I could see that he’d heard me. His head came up sharply and his flat cap fell on to the floor behind him. ‘Ask Mr Quinton,’ he said. ‘Such a fine gentleman. Ask him how far he’ll go to get his hands on the Blood Flower.’