6
WE PARTED WHERE THE beach met the road. I watched them until they turned the corner, laden with paraphernalia. I had wanted to go at least as far as the house, but Rosie detached Sam from my shoulder and gave me a firm goodbye.
For once I anticipated the walk back with grim pleasure, expecting the grey brickwork, pungent fog and general ambience of decay to suit my mood. But I was to be disappointed. The winding streets were lined with terraced houses of all colours, most with baskets of flowers by the door and laundry in their upstairs windows. It was irritatingly cheery. And the people I was forced to ask for directions were polite and helpful, one fellow offering, with no apparent ill-intent, to walk with me in case I got lost. All in all, I arrived at the theatre in a foul temper.
I wasted an hour in the Clarence Hotel, being served two glasses of ale by a fellow with an impressive moustache who told me everything he knew about Papaver.
‘Never been there myself,’ he said, in the tone of a man who was thinking he’d like to, ‘but I hear it’s got all sorts.’ He leaned in close and spoke in a low voice, ‘Music and dancing.’
Well, I thought, that doesn’t sound entirely debauched. From what Peregrine had said, you’d think people were fornicating under the tables.
Refreshed and slightly better informed, but no less morose, I found my place in the theatre to watch Peregrine. The audience was meagre, occupying fewer than half of the seats, so I had plenty of elbow room and an excellent view of the stage, which was crowned by two pictures of reclining muses, one comic and one tragic.
The play was Twelfth Night and Peregrine was Sir Toby Belch, a part which, as it turned out, didn’t place a vast strain on his acting range. Belch lived a life of hedonism and excess, demonstrating an ability to persuade his friends to act against their own best interests. Peregrine strode across the stage like a licentious headmaster, enunciating his lines in a contrived, but very amusing, tenor, and pausing for seconds at a time to stare at his fellow actors in a manner the audience came to anticipate, laughing before he had even done it. And yet, at other points, as when proposing marriage, he was as tender as morning dew on the grass. I never dreamed he could be so affecting. By the end of the first act, I was utterly lost in the play, and as the final curtain fell, I stood and cheered, not simply out of camaraderie with Peregrine, but because the entire performance had been splendid. The actors received three encores and it really did seem as though the applause was warmest for my friend, who bowed low, the feathers in his hat draping down on to the stage.
Afterwards, I waited at the side door, greeting Peregrine with the enthusiasm of a lovesick maiden. ‘What a show, Peregrine! You ought to be very proud of yourself. I hadn’t the slightest idea you were any good as an actor.’
He gave me a sour look. ‘Your acclaim would mean more if it weren’t founded on low expectations.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not my fault. Your every word and action up to now have led me to believe you’d be awful.’
‘I suppose there’s that.’ He stopped and lit a slim cigar, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Look, Leo, are you sure about going to this club? I’m tired. Why don’t we do it tomorrow?’
‘Because I took your advice. I’m having dinner at my sister-in-law’s house tomorrow and the next day I’m heading back to London, so it has to be tonight if I’m to find out more about Honey and Micky. Why are you hesitating?’
He took another puff, taking an age to roll the smoke around his tongue before replying. But I had already guessed the answer.
‘I may or may not owe them a bit of money.’
The club was on a side road not far from the beach. Above ground, it was a wholesale chandlery with stock spilling out on to a covered terrace: rope and chain on rolls, great iron shackles that looked as if they could keep the planet from turning, brass tension gauges and fairleads polished to a shine. One might think such a trove, open to the elements, would be looted in a minute, but the risk was minimal. In amongst this hoard, two armchairs had been set, one of them empty and one occupied by a very large man with short, blond hair and a jacket which, though generous by most standards, was barely up to the task of containing the acreage of his chest. Around him were hung birdcages, seven or eight at least, containing a myriad of finches, parrots and budgerigars, all squawking and chirruping together.
‘Don’t stare, laddie,’ hissed Peregrine. ‘Better if he doesn’t notice me.’
There was no chance of that. Though sombrely dressed by his own standards, Peregrine was a conspicuous presence. The blond man’s eyes followed us as we joined a short queue of people leading around the building and into the darkness. I could just about make out some metal steps down to a basement, and feel, beneath my feet, a rhythmic thrumming.
We shuffled forward behind three gentlemen in high spirits who had clearly spent some time in a pub.
Peregrine was becoming agitated. ‘It’s a shilling to get in. Each.’
‘Good Lord. What do you get for that, aside from bankruptcy?’
‘You’ll see.’ He bit his lip. ‘Look, Leo, I owe them one pound four shillings. I wouldn’t ask you normally, but we’re here at your behest and if they demand it … I mean you’ve seen Stephan back there and I’m sure you can imagine. I may need you to extend me a loan.’
‘How did you build up such a debt?’
I loved Peregrine, but why did he have to get himself into trouble all the time?
He gave me a furtive glance. ‘This and that. Will you help me or not?’
I could believe he’d spend such an amount on drink, given enough time, but surely the establishment wouldn’t let him run so high a tab. Could it be gambling? I’d never heard him mention cards or horses. I opened my wallet and counted the coins.
‘I don’t have that much. You can have what I do.’ He looked disappointed when I only gave him one shilling. ‘For the entrance. I’ll give you more if they demand it from you.’
‘You’re a suspicious man.’
‘And one free of debt.’
The entrance was a low door into the basement, where a sallow-looking chap was sitting on a wooden chair. He took our money and supplied us each with a ticket crudely printed with the name ‘Papaver’ and a picture of a poppy.
Peregrine ducked his head under the lintel and went inside, and after a moment’s hesitation I followed him, pushing through a heavy curtain. Instantly, the sound became louder, and we were suffused in thick, sweet smoke.
The place was surprisingly small, perhaps forty feet in length and width, and had a low roof, no more than a few inches above my head. The lamps were easily set to swinging, creating an eerie sense that we were in the bilges of a ship, pitching and tipping with the waves.
It was crowded with men. Some were huddled together in groups near the bar and others stood glumly in the centre, trying to gain the attention of the few women, who were notable for their colourful frocks and exaggerated bashfulness as they flitted from one fellow to the next.
Peregrine leaned down to me and bellowed in my ear, ‘If you want to dance with one of the ladies, you have to pay.’
A band was playing on a small stage to one side – fiddle, banjo and drum – and a fellow was standing in front of them, apparently threatening to sing. The performers were flamboyantly dressed in the American style and their faces were coal-tar black. They started up as we pushed through the crowd, but their music was smothered by the babble, reduced to a dull thump and the higher-pitched notes of the fiddle. The singer could hardly be heard at all. He was pulling all sorts of facial expressions, from ebullient to heartbroken, but for all I could hear of him, he might as well have been mouthing the words. As we got closer, I realised the musicians’ faces were painted with boot polish, which was dripping as they sweated, creating pale lines on their cheeks and stains on their shirts. Only the singer was truly dark-skinned.
We found the bar and I ordered two pints of ale and two whiskies, which we downed quickly. The whisky was as rough as a cat’s tongue, but that was fine by me.
Perhaps it was the effect of the alcohol, but the more I watched, the more I realised that this place was not exactly what I’d expected. The women who were spinning and laughing with their partners were no more physically female than I was physically male. Their hair and powder were perfectly presented, and their corsets and stays were squeezed in, or pushed up, as needed to form a feminine shape, and they’d learned to resist and relent like the most coquettish of maidens. But most of them, I surmised, were not like me. They were playing a game, or giving a performance, rather than correcting a wrong. When the evening was over, much like performers in a music hall, they would wipe their faces, pull off those wigs and be men again.
But a couple of them seemed otherwise. I couldn’t be certain, of course, but something in their expressions, in their stance and the way they picked at their sleeves, spoke of another kind of craving. The disguise they wore was during the day, rather than in the evening. I wondered how it was, to be like them: a woman in a man’s body. It seemed a harder road than mine, not least legally; the minimum sentence for what the courts called ‘the abominable crime of sodomy and buggery’ was ten years of penal servitude. How ridiculous that was. The whirling dancers were laughing and shouting, flirting and teasing, leading thoroughly delightful lives. Not as the world would expect, perhaps, but love was still love, and who had the right to deny them?
I nudged Peregrine. ‘Do those fellows know who they’re dancing with?’
He shrugged. ‘Does it make any difference?’
After that, I started to notice more oddities. As well as regular fellows like us, drinking and watching the merriment, there were men sitting on sofas around the edges of the room, holding long pipes filled, I assumed, with opium. Many were slumbering, resembling those cautionary illustrations in magazines, but others were chatting and even swapping pipes, nodding in approval like aficionados. In the furthest corners, pairs were writhing together, hands reaching into jackets or down the fronts of trousers in slow and steady movements. One man was shirtless, his head tipped back as a young fellow in a ringleted wig lay in his lap.
‘Are you shocked?’ asked Peregrine.
‘No,’ I lied.
I knew such practices existed. One cannot work as a journalist without hearing of every kind of practice humanity can invent to pleasure itself. And I occasionally spent an evening with the Chronicle’s court reporters in a pub near the Inns of Newgate, where lawyers told stories about their clients, few of which were ever aired in front of the magistrates. But even so, to see such acts for myself was a little startling.
On the other hand, I thought, they might be shocked by me too, if they knew the truth.
‘Mr Black,’ said a voice, and we both turned.
The huge man we had seen outside was looming next to us. He was wearing a smile that might, in one of the sensation novels Rosie was fond of, have been called deceptive, but was not, in fact, deceptive at all. It was intended to be menacing, and it was.
‘Stephan,’ Peregrine responded in a level tone. I had never seen him looking so nervous.
‘Mr Quinton would like a word with you.’
‘Of course.’
We followed the giant to an area tucked alongside the bar, where some red velvet armchairs had been placed around a table. Sitting facing us was Quinton, wearing a perfect pinstriped suit, and beside him was a woman. She looked up at us with an enquiring expression, and I recognised her instantly. This was the woman whose portrait Peregrine had in his room. The rendering was uncanny, though not an exact likeness; she was a fraction older and a hair’s breadth less pretty than the painting. But it captured her clear eyes and amused, inquisitive mouth to perfection.
Quinton didn’t acknowledge us, but pulled out a notebook and ran his finger down a column of figures. ‘You owe me four pounds.’
Peregrine smiled warily. ‘One pound four shillings, I think you’ll find, Mr Quinton.’
The hoodlum checked his ledger, pretended to do some adding up and held up his hands as if to say there was nothing he could do to avoid the inevitable.
‘One pound four shillings for the boys, I think. And I paid you two pounds for the portrait of Alice, which you haven’t yet delivered. The rest is interest and something for my trouble. Surely, you haven’t come here empty-pocketed. That would be very rash, Mr Black. Very rash.’
‘The portrait’s finished,’ insisted Peregrine. ‘It’s drying in my room. I can give it to you tomorrow.’
The woman, Alice, gave him a smile, tiny lines appearing around her eyes. ‘How do I look?’
I couldn’t stop myself from answering. ‘Beautiful. It’s a remarkable piece. You’ll love it, truly.’
Quinton puffed out his cheeks, making a note in his ledger. ‘That still leaves two pounds.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘You’re the journalist, aren’t you? You were there when Honey was arrested.’
‘Stanhope.’ I put out a hand which he seemed in two minds whether to shake, eventually deciding there was no harm in maintaining the social niceties. ‘Has Mr Honey been charged with the murders?’
He sat back, a smile settling on his face. He liked to be asked things. It recognised his power.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Honey will be let out tomorrow, and by the evening he’ll be back at work, where he belongs.’
Alice picked a glass of wine from the table and took a sip, her eyes never leaving me, resting fleetingly on my face, my chest, my hips and my crotch.
‘Why are you here, Mr Stanhope?’ she asked.
‘I’m vouching for Mr Black.’ I fished out my wallet, glad of the distraction. ‘I have four-and-six. Perhaps it could be considered as a down payment on his debt?’
‘I see.’ She smiled at Peregrine. ‘So, this is your friend, is it? The one you mentioned before?’
It was Peregrine’s turn to flush red. ‘Yes.’
I realised, with a sudden ache in my stomach, that he’d told her about my affliction. All the agonies I suffered to keep my secret hidden, the sores from the binding, the blisters from my shoes, the endless, endless watching of myself, every word, every gesture rehearsed and then questioned as if I were constantly auditioning myself for a part in the play of my own life – all of that, and Peregrine had told this woman as if it was nothing. I wondered if they’d laughed at me.
It wasn’t only a betrayal of our friendship. Divulgence of my secret put me in danger as well. I could be arrested and sent to prison, a women’s prison, in a frock and bonnet, denied my gender and made to pick oakum from ropes and weave jute threads into sacks. Or, worse still, I could be sent to an asylum to be cured of my material disjunction and become hollow, a doll, without purpose or thought. And what of Rosie? What would her life be like then? She would be exposed and shunned, a topic of gossip and ridicule. Everyone would know she had married a pretence. Not a man, not a woman: a creature. I would rather die than condemn her to that.
‘I was mistaken,’ I said. ‘I can’t spare any money for Mr Black after all.’
Quinton raised his eyebrows. ‘A sudden change of mind, Mr Stanhope.’
‘Leo, please … ’ began Peregrine, but he trailed off.
A look passed between Quinton and Stephan.
‘Are you sure you’ve finished that portrait, Mr Black?’ asked Quinton in a pleasant tone that promised worse to come.
‘Oh yes, absolutely. It’s finished and ready.’
‘Good.’ Quinton shut his ledger with a bang. ‘In that case, you won’t be needing all your fingers.’
‘What?’
Peregrine’s voice, usually a rich cello, had become a vibrato violin. He reversed two steps, bumping into a fellow behind us, who shoved him back irritably.
Stephan pulled a stubby bone-handled paring knife from his belt. ‘Which finger can you afford to lose? Please don’t say your little finger. Everyone always does and it’s so dull.’
I saw a look settle on Peregrine’s face. I recognised it. The Peregrine of the everyday, with his oh-so-genteel manners and velvet frock coats, was melting away, to be replaced by someone else. This version was accustomed to fights and believed they should be won fast and permanently. I had seen him hit a man with a chair, over and over, until it was nothing but blood-soaked splinters. His victim’s crime had been to make a quip about a beggar boy in the street.
But Stephan was almost as large as Peregrine, and he was made of muscle rather than fat. He also seemed worryingly relaxed, like a man who didn’t expect to lose.
I couldn’t let it happen. No matter what he had done to me, I couldn’t see my friend risk his safety for the sake of four-and-six.
‘Stop,’ I said, holding up my wallet once more. ‘Please stop. Here’s what money I have. We can bring the rest soon.
Quinton contemplated my offer, working his mouth from side to side, his bald head shining under the lamps. Before he’d made his mind up, Alice whispered in his ear. He shrugged and shook his head at Stephan, who stood back, his eyes still fixed on Peregrine.
‘Very well,’ said Quinton, taking my four-and-six and making a note in his ledger. ‘But I’m a stickler for the numbers. You still owe me one pound, fifteen shillings and sixpence, Mr Black, plus the portrait. And it had better be good.’
He turned away from us and returned to his conversation with Alice. We were dismissed.
We slouched back to the bar.
‘Christ almighty,’ muttered Peregrine. ‘I thought you weren’t going to do it, I really did. I need a drink.’
‘I haven’t any money left,’ I said. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t buy you anything.’
He wiped his hands down his face and met my eye. ‘I know why you’re cross, and you’re right. It just slipped out. She was sitting for me for two days and you have to talk about something. She’s interested in certain subjects, curiosities of a particular sort, and I suppose I wanted to impress her. I’m sorry.’
I looked away from him towards the musicians, who were still trying to make themselves heard on the stage. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Peregrine.’
‘Oh, come on, Leo—’
‘No. Not tonight.’
‘Very well. But don’t forget, I said I was sorry.’
He pushed away from the bar and shoved through the crowd.
I took a deep breath, trying to settle my heart, which seemed to be trying to jump out through my ribcage.
‘Would you like a drink?’ said a woman’s voice, and I was amazed to find Alice perched on a stool beside me, a quizzical look in her eyes.