5

AS THE DOORS CRASHED shut behind them, I turned to Quinton. ‘What did he mean? What’s the Blood Flower?’

I had sounded more brusque than I’d intended. Quinton scowled at me, his fingers interlocked in front of him as if resisting the urge to point. He was a stocky man, a couple of inches shorter than me, with wide, vaguely froggish features. Nevertheless, I had to admire his tweed suit, which was stylish and well tailored, fitting closely around his shoulders and chest – no easy feat on a man of his proportions. His boots were likewise shiny and fashionably pointed, and his shirt was the purest white. Taken as a whole, the man knew how to dress, and had the capital to match his taste.

‘Mr … what was it?’

‘Stanhope. I’m with the Daily Chronicle.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘And I’m Mrs Stanhope,’ said Rosie, now with an unmistakeable edge of irritation. ‘We’re working together on this. Perhaps you can help us and our readers by explaining what Mr Honey meant. What is the Blood Flower?’

Quinton sniffed loudly. ‘I have no idea.’

Sergeant Dorling put his hand on Rosie’s shoulder, an act more courageous than he could know. ‘Now, Mrs Stanhope, you can’t take the slightest notice of what a person like Honey has to say. It’s like the wind rustling through the trees. It doesn’t mean anything.’

I admit I was surprised. I hadn’t thought him capable of such fanciful imagery. A shame it was employed towards such an unpleasant sentiment.

Olga Brown folded her arms. ‘What do you mean, “a person like him”?’

A look of pure distaste crossed Dorling’s features. ‘I’d keep quiet if I was you. Only Mr Quinton’s good standing is preventing me from putting you on a boat back to Africa. And you said yourself what the lad does for a living.’

Miss Brown raised her shoulders as though she might be about to fly at him, and God help him if she had. But he gave her a little smirk, tempting her to do it, happy to have an excuse to throw her in the cells. She had no choice but to turn away, her jaw clenching and unclenching.

Rosie looked from one to the other with practised innocence. ‘Mr Honey said he was a picture-framer, didn’t he?’

Quinton released his fingers and pointed one at her. ‘It doesn’t matter what he is, does it? The fact is, he had no business mooning after one of my employees. He followed her around like a lapdog.’

Olga Brown glared at him. ‘They were friends. That’s all.’

‘He was in love with her. We both know it. Crime of passion.’ He straightened his jacket, proving how perfectly the lapels were aligned. ‘Now, Miss La La, you should be rehearsing. All of you should.’

The burly fellow looked aghast. ‘You can’t expect us to perform tonight. Not after this. I can barely think, let alone entertain an audience.’

Quinton looked at him squarely. ‘You’ll perform as planned or you’ll be reimbursing my profits from your pay.’ He turned back to Rosie and me. ‘And as for you two, I suggest you clear off before I instruct the sergeant to arrest you for trespassing.’

Outside, I sheltered under the shade of the awning. Rosie seemed altogether more comfortable, basking in the sun’s full glare, turning her face to greet it like some old friend. Her green eyes were glinting.

‘Miss Brown is an interesting person,’ she said. ‘Very talented.’

I sensed that Rosie had taken a liking to the young acrobat. She tended to form instantaneous opinions of people, for better or worse. Usually, she was proven right, but not always.

‘She has the physical strength to commit a murder, certainly.’

Rosie narrowed her eyes at me. ‘She said they were like sisters.’

‘Yes, but people aren’t always truthful, and jealousy could be a motive.’

She gave me a look, at once sceptical and indulgent. ‘Not everyone in the theatrical world is like Mr Black, you know. And what about the boy? What do you make of him?’

I didn’t answer immediately, still considering the talented Miss Brown. To challenge the police, as she had, a woman of her skin colour would either have to be very brave or very naïve. If they ever suspected her of murder, she could not expect a fair hearing. She would be hanged, no question.

For a moment I felt dizzy, and my nostrils were filled with the scent of hot ash.

I shook myself. ‘Sorry. Do you mean Mr Honey? I don’t know. What motivation could he have? He seemed more shocked than anything. Sergeant Dorling certainly seems to think he’s guilty though.’

‘That man couldn’t find the shoes on his feet. And did you smell him? Like sour milk.’ She scrunched up her face. ‘We can’t leave this matter to him.’

Part of me wanted to. I could hear a train pulling out of the station, its slow breaths becoming a pant and then a roar as it gathered speed. I longed to be on it. And yet, the deaths of two young people were preying on my mind.

Rosie interpreted my silence as indecision. ‘And the Blood Flower? What do you suppose that means?’

I was having trouble concentrating. My brain was fogged. ‘Could it be the name of a ship, something of that kind?’

She pondered, her lips pressed together. ‘Strange name for a ship.’ Her eyes flicked towards me and away again. ‘I have to go. I said I’d spend the afternoon with Viola at the pleasure beach. The kids are desperate to visit the pier.’

It seemed I would have to remain in this hellhole for one more day, whether I liked it or not. I told myself it was for the best. Not only would I have more time to investigate two murders, but Lillian and Sam would get the chance to play in the sea and I would finally meet my sister-in-law.

‘All right, then. Lead the way.’

Still, she didn’t meet my eye. ‘Why don’t you spend some more time with Peregrine? You know you’ve missed him these last weeks. It’ll give me a chance to talk with Viola properly, while Bill’s at work.’

Bill was Viola’s husband. Aside from his role in her pregnancy, I knew nothing about him.

‘All right. I’ll meet you there later, shall I?’

‘No need. You’ll be bored by the two of us, I promise you. She does nothing but bring up ancient grudges. She still remembers the time I pushed her off a stool and she cracked her skull.’

I wasn’t surprised that Rosie showed no sign of contrition at this act of violence. I knew first-hand how cruel an older sister could be.

‘Very well.’ I shoved my hands into my pockets, hoping she could detect the terseness in my manner. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, I suppose.’

She gave me a stiff wave goodbye and set off on foot, as ever spurning the idea of a taxicab. I knew exactly what she would say if challenged on that: On a beautiful day like this? What’s wrong with your legs? And she’d give me that smile that said she was very fond of me even if I was an idiot. But I was an idiot who would do anything for her. Anything at all. No hesitation, no equivocation.

I was still chewing on my resentment when I realised that I was being watched. On the other side of the road, in the dimness of the alleyway, that naval fellow was leaning against a wall taking a long draw on his cigar.

I considered going over to speak with him, but I was too angry, and I told myself it didn’t matter anyway; I’d be gone from this place tomorrow. Let him watch, if he chose to. More than that: good luck to him!

I cared nothing for him or any of it.

As I plodded up the stairs, Peregrine was resurfacing from his regular afternoon nap – his restoration, he called it – with hair in disarray and a dressing gown scarcely covering his belly. He insisted on lunch together, and an hour later we found ourselves at a fish restaurant with metal tables and nets strung across the ceiling. I would have found it quite amusing had I been in a better mood, and had the place not been worryingly empty for a lunchtime in high summer.

‘Do you know a man named Quinton? He owns the circus.’

Peregrine paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He had ordered scallops, which I considered risky in the circumstances.

‘He’s a hoodlum, or near enough to one.’ He inserted the scallop and started chewing, talking through the masticated mush. ‘He owns a good many buildings in the city, though the Hippodrome is his favourite by all accounts. Aside from Papaver, of course.’

‘What’s Papaver?’

‘A club. A bar, you know. Nothing you need concern yourself with.’

‘You know him?’

‘Only a little. Everyone knows of him though.’ He peered over at my plate. ‘Are you going to eat that?’

My food remained untouched and was getting cold. I’d only ordered it out of habit and wasn’t really hungry. Still, I pronged a lump of hake and put it in my mouth, finding it to have roughly the taste and consistency of wet newspaper.

‘Are you familiar with something called “the Blood Flower”? We think it might be a ship.’

‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’ He thought for a second. ‘What’s the context?’

‘A lad was arrested by the police. He mentioned it.’

‘What lad?’

‘His name’s Honey. Do you know him?’

Peregrine’s eyes were fixed on his food, but his cheeks flushed red. ‘I may have seen him somewhere.’

I sat back and contemplated my friend. Why exactly had Peregrine insisted I come to Portsmouth to write about the murder of Micky Long? He obviously knew more than he was telling me.

‘At the club you mentioned, was it?’

He glanced at me from under his eyebrows. ‘Don’t try to be clever, laddie. Yes, I saw Long and Honey at Papaver, but I haven’t partaken of either of them. I feel sorry for lads like them, that’s all.’

I decided to believe him, at least for now.

‘I’d like to visit that club.’

‘You wouldn’t enjoy it.’

‘Why not?’

He gave a huff of amusement. ‘It’s a place of … freedom, I suppose. You’re … ’ He spun his knife deftly between his fingers, trying to find the right words. ‘You’re a reliable fellow. You have principles. And I’m very fond of you. But your waistcoat is buttoned too tight for somewhere like that.’

‘You think I’d be shocked?’

‘Well, perhaps, but that wasn’t what I meant.’

Everyone I knew seemed to want to keep me sequestered. Was I truly so unpalatable?

‘Then what did you mean?’

‘I don’t wish to offend you.’ He looked at me squarely. ‘But you wouldn’t fit in. You’re too obviously law-abiding. The patrons would think you were there to collect their taxes or inspect the building.’

I folded my arms; not a position I usually favoured. ‘I can relax, and I’ll prove it to you. We’ll go tonight.’

‘Don’t be prideful. We all have a natural place in the world. I myself would make a poor journalist, believing, as I do, that I’m far more interesting than anyone else.’

‘Wearing a yellow waistcoat doesn’t make you interesting. In fact—’

He held up his hand. ‘Very well. Since you insist, I’ll take you to Papaver. Come and see me in the play tonight and we’ll go after that. I’ll put two tickets on the door for you.’

‘One will be enough.’

Neither of us spoke for a few seconds, until he pointed his fork at me.

‘Where is Rosie, anyway?’

‘Not here.’

‘Obviously.’ His expression changed from jovial to one of concern. ‘Ah. I sense there might be a worm in the apple. Married life not all you’d hoped?’

‘We’re not really married. I mean we are, but … not.’

‘I see. “Things are seldom what they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream.”’

‘What are you talking about?’

He looked up in surprise. ‘From Pinafore. Gilbert and Sullivan. Really, Leo, you should get a musical education.’

‘I had one. It didn’t work.’

He inserted another scallop into his mouth and ruminated on it. ‘So, you never … ’ He widened his eyes at me. ‘I was going to say, you don’t put your pie in her oven. But you’re, you know, pieless, so to speak.’

I sat back, not trusting myself to answer. I didn’t hate my physical self, but I hated any reference to it. For everyone else, their mind and their body were two parts of the same thing, as inseparable as the stars from the night sky. Not me. I was two things, the soul of a man and a body that simply didn’t match. God had made me a thing of contradictions and I would never forgive Him for it.

But Peregrine was more concerned with mechanics than metaphysics, and he continued, oblivious. ‘But there are still ways though, aren’t there? All the delights don’t have to be removed from you merely because there’s no … no actual baking possible.’

I clenched my jaw, feeling almost cross enough to punch him, though his arms were thicker than my legs. Quite apart from the views I held about myself, he was bordering on impertinence towards Rosie, and that I wouldn’t tolerate.

‘It’s not how we are. We got married because she didn’t want any more suitors eyeing up her business. Or anything else. She said one real husband was more than enough, and she’d settle for a fake one this time.’

Peregrine was thoughtful for a few seconds, scooping peas on to his fork and staring at them as if he’d never seen such things before.

‘I suppose it’s convenient for you as well. A bachelor above a certain age tends to get asked awkward questions, doesn’t he? Questions of a Hellenic nature.’

‘Like you.’

‘I’m married.’

‘After a fashion.’

I wouldn’t normally have made such a jibe, but I was annoyed with him. And besides, he was a fine one to judge me. I hadn’t forgotten encountering the young man outside his bedroom the previous evening.

‘I fulfil my husbandly duty, laddie. Yearning for a steak doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a dainty scallop too, once in a while.’ He popped one into his mouth and chewed, making a play of its deliciousness.

‘Good Lord, Peregrine, I heartily wish you’d stop talking in food metaphors. You’re making me feel ill.’

He swallowed and smacked his lips. ‘As I see it, you can either let this come between the two of you, or you can do something else. Home cooking can be charming, but if it’s not available, there are always restaurants.’

‘I don’t want … restaurants.’

Peregrine popped the last of his scallops into his mouth. The flesh looked worryingly pink and translucent, but it was his decision. ‘You know what you have to do, don’t you? Tell her about your frustration.’

‘Maybe. She’s gone to the pleasure beach with her sister, whom I have never met. Rosie’s ashamed of me. Of my … lack of pie, I suppose.’

Even I had to smirk. Truly, the whole conversation was so ludicrous and Peregrine so utterly lacking in normal propriety that there was no point in staying angry. I would be gone tomorrow, and he would be stuck in this town for another month and then be off to the next one as his touring company made their meandering progress along the south coast. He wouldn’t be back in London until the autumn, and I hated to part on bad terms.

He picked up his plate and licked it thoroughly, making me glad we were alone.

‘Do you need her permission?’

Deep down, I thought I probably did, but I didn’t want to admit it.

‘No. You’re right.’

I stood up to leave, but Peregrine placed a restraining hand on my arm. ‘Before you rush off, remember that you and Rosie have something I don’t. Something I envy. The two of you belong together. Don’t lose sight of that.’ His doleful eyes looked almost tearful. ‘And do pay the bill before you leave, won’t you?’

‘I’ll see you at the theatre later, Peregrine.’

As I left, he was tucking into the remains of my hake and potatoes.

I made a single stop at the telegraph office to send two telegrams; one to J. T. Whitford explaining I would be travelling home tomorrow, and he could expect me in the office on Saturday; and the second to Jacob with my next chess move, which was pawn to queen’s bishop four. A bold advance, but it was the mood I was in.

After that, I chose to walk the two miles to the beach, not, like Rosie, because I enjoyed toiling in the eighty-degree heat, but because, having paid for lunch, I was concerned about the cost of a taxicab. I had only about half remaining of the ten shillings I’d been given for expenses, and I dreaded to think what J. T. Whitford would say if I overspent and had to ask for more.

Unlike the parts of the city that I’d seen until now, the beach at Southsea was pleasant and the air clear. Even the sea was different: deep blue and stretching to the horizon, with only a few ships dotted decoratively along it.

I scanned the beach as I walked: families playing on the stones, an old man with a fishing rod and a net, a dog straining on its leash, two dippers smoking on a wooden barrel, their trousers rolled up to their knees. I knew Rosie wouldn’t be pleased to see me, but I hoped I could make the argument that her renunciation was more of a suggestion. And she could hardly acknowledge the truth, could she?

Nearer to the pier, everything became more numerous: more tourists, sitting on the stones beneath windbreaks, and more seagulls, swooping hungrily among them; more bathing machines lined up like huts on wheels at the water’s edge for modest ladies to swim from; more shops selling postcards, and more noise too, from the bandstand and from children whooping and throwing stones at the groynes. I looked closely to see if any of them were Sam and Lillian, but they weren’t. Nevertheless, their gleeful expressions and the rush and hiss of the waves made me want to run into the sea and splash about. I was a decent swimmer, much practised in the ponds and rivers around Enfield when I was young. I missed the water, that enveloping cold and the vast nothingness beneath my feet. Who knew what was living down there. Sharp-toothed fish with human faces, blinking in the darkness and contemplating their existences. Did they have their own piscine god, I wondered, to hate for condemning them to such a place?

I had walked beyond the pier, almost as far as the pond where a few young couples were gliding about in rowing boats, when I heard a shrill voice behind me.

‘Mr Stanhope!’

It was little Lillian, wrapped in an unfamiliar towel, a look of delight on her face.

She led me down the beach, to where Rosie was sitting under a parasol with her back to us, dressed exactly as when I’d last seen her. She waved in greeting, though not to me: a woman was coming up from the sea, her loose frock whipping around her legs, scattering droplets of seawater in all directions. She could only be Viola. Her likeness to Rosie was uncanny; the same dark hair and round face, the same sharp eyes, though I could already see that Viola’s were more forthcoming, less reserved. Her smile was broad and came easily to her mouth, as though it was her most common expression. Behind her, a rather portly fellow was huffing and puffing in a billowing bathing suit, his hair sticking to his scalp.

Sam leapt from Rosie’s arms and ran to me. I picked him up, and Rosie turned, her motherly expression quickly curdling.

‘Mr Stanhope is here,’ announced Lillian unnecessarily. Always it was ‘Mr Stanhope’, not ‘Father’. I supposed it was a compliment, as their actual father, dead these last three years, had been a brute. Robbie and Lillian still blanched whenever they caught sight of my belt hanging in my wardrobe.

‘Leo,’ said Rosie, without affect. ‘I thought you were remaining with Mr Black this afternoon.’

‘I came for a walk.’

Viola had made it to within hailing distance of us, her hands clutched to her rotund belly. ‘Mr Stanhope, I assume! What a joy to meet you!’

‘Of course, Mrs … ’ I realised I didn’t know her surname.

‘Well, fancy not knowing!’ she chuckled. ‘Truly, Roisin, have you told your husband nothing of us? Well, it’s Broadman, but you can call me Viola and I’ll call you Leo.’

I was confused. ‘Roisin?’

Rosie closed her eyes. ‘In Ireland, yes. No one can pronounce it here.’

Viola threw her head back and laughed harder, sending a spray of water over Rosie and me. ‘Not only do you not know our names, but you don’t know your own wife’s name either.’

She was right. It seemed that my Rosie had been born Roisin Dolan and had become Rosie Dolan, Rosie Flowers and then Rosie Stanhope. She’d had almost as many names as me.

The portly fellow thrust out a hand. ‘Bill Broadman,’ he said. ‘Please forgive her, she’s as giddy as a schoolgirl, being in the motherly way.’ He had a strong Welsh accent and a pleasant face, with cheeks like apples and a drinker’s red nose. ‘You must come swimming, mate.’

‘Thank you, but I’d prefer not.’

He clenched his fist and I thought he might punch me on the arm in a jovial, yet potentially painful, way, but instead he just motioned it towards me. ‘Come on, man. Can’t you swim? I do it most days, winter and summer.’

‘I’d rather remain on the beach, thank you.’

Viola frowned. ‘But why? Bill can go back to the house for some things, and you can change under a towel.’ She nodded to her husband. ‘Why don’t you go anyway, in case Leo changes his mind. He can always just paddle.’

She had the kind of manner that liked to jolly people into things. I imagined in her youth she’d got a good many men into a good deal of trouble.

‘Really, Mrs Broadman, it’s not worth the trouble. I’m competent at swimming, but I have no wish to at present.’

Of course, this was a lie. I longed to swim, to feel the water around me, duck my head underneath and search for those wicked fish. But how could I? A soak in the sea and that other part of me, my female physique, would become all too apparent. I was only able to appear masculine through precise choices of clothes: tall hats, overlarge shoes, boxy jackets, loose-fitting trousers and, most of all, the binding of cotton I wore around my chest. My cilice. It was my saviour and my torturer, abrading my skin with every breath.

Viola pressed her lips together. ‘Well, you are a pair, you and Roisin. You stay here then, and we’ll take the kids. At least they know how to have fun.’

Lillian and Sam cheered and ran ahead of them, leaving Rosie and me alone.

‘You may as well sit down,’ she said.

‘Why aren’t you swimming?’

I knew she could if she chose. We shared an intimate knowledge of when the other’s monthly blood arrived.

‘I don’t feel like it.’

We had little to say to one another, so we watched the children skipping and jumping in the surf, annoying the horses. Viola was sitting on the edge of the shore, legs stretched out in front of her, water lapping around her thighs. She truly was quite daringly modern, exposing the bare skin of her calves and arms.

When they returned, Viola clapped her hands. ‘Of course, you’ll come to dinner tonight, won’t you, Leo? We need to know everything about you. Roisin has told us almost nothing.’

I detected a brief splutter from Rosie’s direction.

‘I would like that very much,’ I said. ‘But I have another appointment this evening.’

‘Oh no.’ Viola looked aghast, as though I’d declined an invitation to the Palace. ‘Tomorrow then. Please say you’ll come.’

Having expended so much goodwill with Rosie to meet my sister-in-law, it seemed perverse not to accept an invitation to spend more time with her, even at the cost of remaining another day in this godforsaken town.

When I acceded, I honestly thought Viola would rush up and kiss me. She seemed exactly the type. But I dare say something in my manner discouraged her, and she restricted herself to jumping up and down, her belly and breasts remaining curiously unmoving as if determined to counterbalance her enthusiasm.

Rosie folded up the blanket and thrust it at me. ‘It’s time to go.’

That decision made, we gathered their belongings and headed up the beach to the common. The children were barefoot, and they danced over the pebbles as though on hot coals. In the end, I picked up little Sam, wet to the skin though he was. He put his head on my shoulder.

As we walked, Rosie’s expression shifted between impatience and irritation, a nuance with which I was familiar. The internal conflict was such that her face became quite purple, like Sam’s when he needed the toilet. In the end, she tapped the end of her parasol on the stones and looked up at me.

‘What appointment do you have tonight?’

‘Two, actually. First, I’m going to watch Peregrine in his play. Shakespeare, I believe.’

Rosie shuddered. We had previously acknowledged that neither of us believed Peregrine would be any good. The music hall was one thing, but a proper play with a director who would prefer his actors not to attack members of the audience or invent their own additions to the script didn’t feel like Peregrine’s forte.

‘Afterwards,’ I continued, ‘I’m going to a club Quinton owns called Papaver.’

‘Why?’ She knew I hated clubs.

‘Honey and the dead boy, Micky Long, both went there, working I presume. I think it’s a place where men—’

She held up her hand to stop me. ‘Thank you, I know what they do.’

‘And someone there may be able to tell me more about Micky. Why he was killed. We don’t have much to go on.’

She nodded, her eyes narrowing. ‘And?’

I pulled a face. ‘And Peregrine implied I wasn’t suited to a place like Papaver. He said I wasn’t sufficiently … relaxed.’

Rosie’s answer didn’t come as quickly as I would have preferred. ‘Well, I’m sure that’s not true at all. But please be careful. Pride can get you into trouble, and I’ve been thinking about Mr Quinton. He was entirely dishonourable, if you want my opinion, forcing those nice people at the circus to perform tonight when they’re grieving for their friend. Not to mention how he bossed around the police. It was him who set them on young Mr Honey.’

I was glad that we were once again communicating, at least on this topic. For us, it was not at all strange to discuss a murder with dispassion, yet be unable to broach why Rosie wanted to keep me apart from her sister.

I realised that Viola, who was a few steps ahead, had been listening to our every word. She spun to face us, a smile on her lips.

‘Did you say Papaver?’

‘Yes. It’s a club.’

I was perplexed. It was unlikely that she knew the place, given what it was, and yet she seemed about to burst with excitement.

‘Well, you know what Papaver is, don’t you? Oh, Roisin, you must remember. Were you truly more interested in meat than flowers?’

Rosie pursed her lips. ‘I had to help Father in the shop. While you were dangling on Mother’s knee and making daisy chains, I was slicing ham and selling it by the ounce.’

‘Well, perhaps if you’d listened more, you’d know. It’s poppies. Papaver means poppies.’

I’d worked for a surgeon of the dead, and I knew all the ways by which a person could ruin themselves. Poppies were used in the making of opium.

The same thought had occurred to Rosie. ‘Mr Quinton is a powerful man,’ she whispered, as though he might have spies hidden among the pebbles. ‘I wonder if he got rich through legal means or some other way.’

I was working through the sequence of events in my mind. ‘Honey implied that Quinton knows something about the murders of Micky Long and Natalia La Blanche. Perhaps it has something to do with the sale of opium. Ah, of course! The Blood Flower.’

Rosie and I stared at each other and spoke simultaneously. ‘The Blood Flower is opium.’