12
THE TAXICAB HEADED NORTH and west, over the railway bridge and through a tangle of dour residential streets. All the colourful paintwork and gay shops near the beach were left behind, replaced by brown brick and hardened dirt. We took a lane alongside the mudflats stretching across the harbour, and the stink twice made me gag. I’d grown used to the smell of this city, but no one could tolerate this. The entire harbour was a pool of silt and sewage, picked over by noisy gulls and a host of plague-doctor oystercatchers, with pied plumage and crimson bills.
We pulled up behind a queue of carriages. I had spent all the money J. T. Whitford had allowed me for expenses, so I had to dip into my personal capital for the threepenny fare. Rosie would not be happy.
But the driver didn’t put out his palm. ‘Leave it on the bench, mate.’
‘I’m not sick, just visiting someone.’
No need to tell him the someone was dead.
‘I ain’t taking no chances.’
The path up to the hospital was sunken and muddy, and the front wall was scarred by cracks in the brickwork I could have put my hand through. One of them was so wide, an entire section of the building seemed on the brink of sliding away into the harbour.
My scribbled note from Dorling won me a meeting with Miss Squires, the mortuary assistant, who was a cheerful woman despite her ghoulish position. In fact, she reminded me of a younger version of Flossie, whom I had known at the Westminster Hospital; it seemed a hundred years ago.
‘I can show you the body, but I’ll have to stay with you.’ She reread Dorling’s note, her lips mouthing the words. ‘It says here no touching it neither. So.’
I followed her to the furthest-flung tentacle of the hospital, windowless and cold. The corridors were lined with cracked tiles and lit intermittently by sputtering gas lamps, and the smell was, impossibly, worse than ever, the stink of the harbour being rivalled by the nauseating reek of lye.
All in all, I began to feel quite at home.
‘Take this,’ she said, and handed me a muslin bag filled with dried leaves and berries.
‘I don’t need it,’ I told her, as I stuffed it in my pocket. ‘I used to assist a surgeon of the dead in London.’
She shrugged and pushed open the door. ‘Your choice.’
Inside, the mortuary was large and surprisingly full. Twelve bodies were lined up in two rows, each covered with a sheet. Most were men, but at the end, under the skylight, were two women and, worse still, a single corpse on a very short table, its shrouds trailing down on to the floor.
‘This city’s more violent than I thought.’
‘Ships are dangerous.’ She pointed down the line on the left side. ‘Micky Long’s number ten.’
‘Thank you. I understand Natalia La Blanche has been taken already.’
‘Yesterday. A Negress claimed the body.’ She checked her book, running her finger down the page. ‘Here we are. Olga Brown, she said her name was. The coroner gave his permission. I’m praying Mr Long leaves soon too as he’s been here ten days already, and that’s more than enough, if you get my drift.’
Micky Long’s sheet was damply glistening, a stain coming through in the shape of a man, a ghost trapped inside the cotton.
I pulled it back.
One can become accustomed to looking at cadavers: the bloated torso, mottled skin, teeth shrunken in their gums, nails loosened from their sockets – none of this bothered me. Always, I tried to imagine them as they had been in life, with their bodies whole and their laughter strong. Micky’s hair was black, like his brother’s, and he had a straight nose and a firm jaw, but the skin of his face was pocked and torn, and his eyelids missing altogether, giving him a startling, mask-like mien. But these injuries were posthumous, the actions of greedy seagulls. In life, he would have been a handsome fellow, though in a different way from his friend Honey, whose delicate features exuded a tenderness certain to set romantic hearts aflutter. Micky Long’s face was larger and more prominent, with the beginnings of a beard, full lips and high cheekbones.
His neck had a one-inch incision right above his Adam’s apple.
When looking upon death, I’d known people to bow their heads in prayer or cross themselves, even surgeons with years of experience. I didn’t know why. The object lying on the table was nothing but a mechanism, a collection of bones and joints and muscles, absent the spark that made it human. The soul: that was somewhere else. Upon my own death, I had to believe that my male soul would continue while my female body rotted in the ground. None of which explained why I talked to corpses. I just did.
‘I’ll bet you were quite the rogue.’
I tried to imagine the scene; Micky, sitting on the beach, watching night fall on the sea, perhaps lobbing pebbles into the surf, until he feels the chill of metal on his skin, sharp and hard, and falls backwards into the arms of his killer as the world turns black.
To creep up behind someone and drive a knife through their throat was relatively easy, but the result would be messy and irregular. This was as neat as any butcher could achieve. Controlling a victim sufficiently to make such a perfect cut demanded considerable strength and determination. His killer must have held him tightly as he died, and then posed his corpse, displaying him like a specimen. I shivered at the thought of a killer with such discipline.
But, of course, that perfect display hid a devastation within. If had put my finger into the cut, I would have felt the ruptured tube of Micky’s windpipe, which, in his last moments, would have been clogged with blood, drowning him on dry land.
‘I’m sorry this happened to you.’
Miss Squires, who was sitting at her desk by the door, looked up. I gave her a brief, apologetic smile.
‘It’s no matter,’ she said. ‘I do the same thing, talking to ’em. I lack for better company, if I’m honest.’
I peeled the sheet further down. It had become attached to him in places, tearing away the stratum corneum, the topmost layer of his skin, exposing the grey and pink flesh beneath. It was stretched taut by the expansion of his internal gases.
The part of him I wanted to see was the nape of his neck. Forbidden from touching him, I was forced to lean close and squint. The stench became notably worse. The muslin bag was still in my pocket, but I was too proud to pull it out and hold it under my nose, so after another moment of almost retching, I opted to hold my breath.
Sure enough, there was a line, a faint weal which, if it had continued, would lead over his clavicles and down towards his sternum. It was exactly the mark that would be left if someone had ripped a chain from around his neck – the kind of chain from which a jewel the size of a hazelnut might hang.
Before I pulled the sheet over his face again, I gave his forehead the briefest of strokes and smoothed his hair. Miss Squires was too distracted by her papers to notice. It was all I could do for the lad, except one thing.
I leaned down and whispered close to his ear, ‘I will find out who did this to you.’
‘Do you still have that portrait of Alice Morgan?’ I demanded of Peregrine, back at his lodging.
He was lying in his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin.
‘Why do you want it?’
My tone was sharp. ‘Do you have it or not?’
He disappeared further underneath his blankets, so his voice was muffled. ‘There are two telegrams for you. I’ll save you the trouble of reading them. Your editor says you can stay but there’s no more money and you must return to the office on Tuesday without fail. The other’s from Jacob Kleiner.’
I glanced at Jacob’s move: pawn to king’s bishop five. I imagined the board and couldn’t work out his intention. He was allowing me to take his pawn without losing a piece. But for now, I had more urgent things to think about than my friend’s poor chess strategy.
‘The picture, Peregrine.’
‘In the corner.’
I picked it up, admiring the fine brushwork. Examined from an inch or two away, it consisted of nothing more than smears of coloured paint on canvas. But at arm’s length it came to life: Alice in the flesh. I felt a tremble run across my skin. Those blue eyes. Those inviting lips.
Around her neck, a jewel was hanging on a chain, oval in shape, blood red, its facets glinting in the light. That jewel was the Blood Flower. I was certain of it.
‘Was she wearing this when you painted her?’
He didn’t look. ‘What are you talking about? Who cares now?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
His substantial bulk shifted under the blanket. ‘I can’t pay Quinton. I gave him your six shillings and my four, but he wants the rest tonight. I don’t have it, Leo.’
‘Please, Peregrine, concentrate for a moment.’ I held the picture in front of his face and pointed. ‘Was she wearing this jewel when you painted her?’
He peered at his own handiwork. ‘No. She gave me a description.’
‘How detailed was it?’
He rolled over, facing away from me. ‘Very. She said it was exactly the length of my thumbnail. She knew how many facets it had.’
‘I have to talk to Rosie.’
Always, Rosie was my confidante, my first thought whenever I had news to share.
‘What about me?’
He sounded so plaintive I had the urge to cuddle him, the way I did with little Sam whenever he had the flu. I once stayed up all night with the boy, lying on the floor next to the bed he shared with Robbie, unable to sleep for fear his coughing and gasping would peter out.
But Peregrine wasn’t five years old.
‘Pull yourself together. I won’t let Quinton hurt you.’ I ripped a piece of paper from my folio and scrawled a note on it. ‘Give him the painting and this. It’s a promissory note from me for the rest of your debt. I’ll pay him on your behalf.’
He sat up, revealing a blue- and green-striped undershirt. ‘Truly? You’d do this for me?’ His eyes were wet, lending him an even more doleful air. ‘He’ll add interest, you know.’
‘Go and see him this evening, Peregrine, directly after the theatre. It’ll only get worse if you don’t.’
I was tempted to run to Viola’s house, but I generally found more gratification in the anticipation of exertion than in the performance of it, so I settled for a brisk walk in the late-afternoon sunshine.
Bill opened the door and threw it wide. ‘Leo, old man. We were beginning to think you didn’t like us.’
‘Not at all, Mr Broadman. I’ve been busy, that’s all.’
He looked surprised when I put out a hand for him to shake. I wondered whether night-soil men didn’t often get their hands shaken.
Viola came through from the back room with a cigarette in her mouth and her heinous dog in her arms. ‘Has Mr Quinton been arrested yet?’
‘No.’
She took a deep draw. ‘Weren’t you able to convince the police?’ Her tone suggested disappointment at their paucity of faith in the spirits.
She flinched backwards and I immediately felt guilty. I shouldn’t have been so blunt with her. She was deluded, but well intentioned.
‘I’m sorry, Viola. I agree that Mr Quinton may well be involved, and I’ll speak to the police again soon, I promise. Now, where’s Rosie?’
Viola showed me rather stiffly through to the parlour. Rosie was doing her knitting, which was going to be a hat for her new niece or nephew, though at the speed she was going the child would be born and have celebrated a birthday or two before it was finished.
She scowled when she saw Jack, whom she’d taken to calling Jack-the-bloody-dog when Viola wasn’t within earshot.
‘You look out of breath,’ she said to me, her voice low because Lillian was asleep on the sofa next to her.
‘I rushed here.’
I looked at Viola, who got the hint.
‘I’ll carry on with the potatoes,’ she said, withdrawing and taking Jack-the-bloody-dog with her.
I could hardly wait for the door to shut.
‘I’ve worked it out, Rosie. I believe the Blood Flower is a jewel. It’s bright red and the size of a hazelnut.’
She examined her wedding ring, which was unadorned. Jacob had fashioned it in his workshop, complaining all the while that pinchbeck was a crude alloy and unworthy of our marriage. She told him that she’d rather have a crude ring and a good husband than the other way round.
‘What kind of jewel could be that large?’
‘One valuable enough to kill for. I believe Lieutenant Chastain obtained it while abroad.’
She pulled a face. ‘By foul means, no doubt.’
‘Quite. Micky Long stole the Blood Flower while he was on the ship. I believe Quinton had him killed and took it for himself.’
‘Why Mr Quinton?’
I paced around the room, too full of energy to sit down. ‘He’s involved somehow.’
Rosie put her knitting to one side on the sofa and placed her hand protectively on Lillian’s head.
‘Assuming you’re right, two lives have been taken for a rock dug out of the earth. What a terrible and ridiculous thing.’
‘I know. Even if it’s … ’
‘What?’
Beyond price, Alice had told me. But still, I hardly dared say the words.
‘I think it’s a ruby.’
Rosie looked doubtful. ‘How big did you say it was?’
I showed her with my forefinger and thumb. ‘It’s oval-shaped and cut with facets.’
A ruby of that size would be worth more than either of us could imagine. Men would kill for a hundredth as much. A thousandth.
‘How do you know what it looks like?’
‘From a painting Peregrine did.’ I hoped she wouldn’t see the blush on my cheeks. ‘It showed the jewel, though it was done from a description. Peregrine didn’t realise what it was.’
‘It may be much smaller in reality.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And didn’t you say before that it was magical?’
Her expression suggested that she didn’t believe that for a second, and she was right, of course. Rubies were of enormous value, but to my knowledge, they couldn’t do magic. This was why I needed Rosie in these moments; she never lost sight of those small details. She was my metronome, keeping me to time.
‘Perhaps it’s more a turn of phrase,’ I said. ‘A ruby that size is worth a fortune and might seem supernatural to some.’
Though, if I was honest, Alice didn’t seem the type to entertain such a notion. Nor to overestimate the size of the stone for her portrait.
Rosie resumed her knitting. ‘So, what now, Leo Stanhope?’
‘I’m not sure. The police won’t arrest Quinton without a lot more evidence. When I told Dorling about Papaver, he hardly reacted at all.’
Rosie looked up, a frown forming on her face. ‘That was the promise you broke, was it? Not to tell the police about the club.’
‘Yes, I promised Peregrine I wouldn’t. But it didn’t make any difference as the sergeant obviously knew all about it already.’
Her frown deepened, and I had that feeling when you realise your queen is about to be taken. You thought you had all the moves planned out, but you’d missed one thing.
‘But there’s knowing, Leo, and there’s knowing. You’re a journalist at a London newspaper and he thinks you’re a man of importance. You’ve given him information about a criminal club in his own town. Even if he’s fully aware of it, what do you suppose he’ll do now?’
I could feel the colour leaving my face. ‘You mean the police will raid the club?’
‘They’ll have to, won’t they? A sergeant in the police can’t risk you writing in your newspaper that you told him about it, and he did nothing.’
I remembered the men in that underground room, spinning and laughing on the dance floor, clinching in the darker corners.
Ten years of penal servitude.
‘I have to go. I need to warn them. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.’
As I entered the hall, still looking back at Rosie, I cannoned into Bill, who leapt backwards with a cry.
‘Good grief, mate, what are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry. I was—’
Mr Hapsworth appeared holding a candle, a worried look on his face. ‘What’s happening? I heard a shout.’
Bill glowered at him. ‘Go back to your room, it’s no business of yours.’
Hapsworth retreated so quickly the flame went out. I heard his involuntary squeak.
‘I apologise, Mr Broadman,’ I said.’
Bill rubbed his shoulder. ‘Leaving without saying goodbye again, are you, Leo? Seems to be your habit.’
‘I have to be somewhere urgently.’
He sidled close to me, and I could see him deciding whether to ask me something. Whatever it was, I didn’t have the time. I put on my hat and coat and was about to pull open the door when he cleared his throat.
‘A quandary, I suppose.’
I sighed, my desire to exit being held back by a cotton-thread-thin anchor of politeness.
‘What is?’
He squinted, one eye almost closed, as though he could only bear to half look at me.
‘The Blood Flower.’ When I didn’t immediately reply, he continued. ‘You mentioned it in the séance. I was curious.’
‘It’s nothing. I was … ’ I threw out my hands, a picture of honesty. ‘I was mistaken.’
His eye closed completely, his mouth twisting into a lop-sided smirk. I had the feeling he thought he was sharing some great secret that no one else should overhear.
‘Opium, I thought. A red flower, see?’
‘I have no idea. Goodnight, Mr Broadman.’
I arrived at Papaver as it was opening for the evening. Indeed, I was the first customer across the threshold. The barman was putting bottles on the shelves and two of the musicians were on the dais, tuning the strings on their instruments.
The place looked very different empty of its clientele: the ceiling was smoke-stained yellow, the walls were rank with beer and the plush sofas at the edges of the room were not a fiery red, as I had thought, but a patchy puce, bleached in spots by substances I had no inclination to guess at.
I sat on a stool; not my favoured furniture, but my coat hung down behind me, obscuring my hips.
‘You need to close for the evening,’ I said to the barman, a young fellow who was prematurely bald, lending him a trustworthy air.
‘Do we?’
He didn’t hurry to shut the place up. In fact, he seemed to be carrying on as normal, wiping each glass with a cloth and lining them up precisely in rows.
‘I said you need to close. I have reason to believe the police are coming here.’
‘Is that right?’ He was taking no more interest than before.
‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’
‘Possibly.’
I sighed. Clearly, the man lacked the authority, or inclination, to take action.
‘Are you expecting Mr Quinton to be here this evening?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And Alice Morgan?’
‘You never know. Will you be wanting a drink?’
Might as well, I thought. I felt nervous knowing the police could arrive at any minute, but they could hardly arrest the person who advised them about the club in the first place. And what choice did I have, but to wait?
‘An ale, please. And a chess set, if you have such a thing.’
He produced one from behind the bar, and while I waited for my irritation to subside, I played out my game against Jacob. For the life of me, I couldn’t work out why he’d moved his pawn into danger.
The barman was watching me, resting his chin on his knuckles. ‘Bit daft, that.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you want a game?’
I interlaced my fingers. ‘Certainly. And if I win, will you tell me what I want to know?’
He examined me with a mild expression. ‘If I win, will you endanger your livelihood and risk your health in exchange?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Well then. Shall I be white?’
I eased my impatience by concentrating on the game as the club filled up with people. The barman’s name turned out to be Louis, after his French grandfather, he said, who’d taught him to play. He turned out to be very competent, and I was glad to win our second game after losing the first, though he was handicapped by having to plan his moves and serve customers at the same time. During his absences, I kept an eye out for Quinton and, I must confess, for Alice. The thought of her sent flutters across my skin.
‘Is Mr Quinton married?’ I asked Louis, as we started our third game, the decider.
He grinned and moved a pawn. ‘Might be.’
I heard a voice beside me, a familiar and unwelcome Welsh growl. ‘Pale ale, mate.’
Bill was leaning on the bar, a shilling in his hand. He grinned at me in a conspiratorial manner.
‘Quite a place this, isn’t it?’
‘Why are you here, Mr Broadman?’ I thought for a second, putting together the sequence of events. ‘Ah, of course. You followed me.’
‘I was intrigued.’
The way he extended the second syllable of the word ‘intrigued’ made me think this was no momentary curiosity. He received his ale from Louis and took a sip, closing his eyes as though every waking hour without alcohol was a waste.
‘Do you know what your wife said about you, Leo?’
‘No.’
And I genuinely didn’t. Probably that I was an idiot, her usual opinion.
‘That you were the finest man she’d ever met. What do you think of that?’
Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. It seemed quite unlike her. I mumbled that I was certain she had a lot of respect for him too, but he scrunched up his face, which was arguably already quite scrunched up, even in its resting state.
‘She thinks I’m a scallywag, and I am. Or I was. And she thinks I’m bad for Viola too, but she’s wrong about that. I’m what Viola needs. She’s not like you and me. Her feet don’t touch the ground, you know?’
‘Perhaps the spirits keep her aloft.’ I was unable to stop myself.
‘Very good.’ He took another sip. ‘Roisin told me you’d worked out my little ruse.’
He didn’t seem the slightest bit ashamed. He was leering as though he’d played a minor prank on me, much as my colleague Harry was prone to do, putting a red ink ribbon into my typewriter or sugar into the salt cellar.
‘It’s fraudulent. Not to mention, you’re deceiving your wife.’
‘Not really. Viola truly does have a gift. But it’s unreliable, is the thing. If you’ve got some rich old widow sitting there with a pound note in her handbag, you can’t say “I’m sorry, but your late husband’s feeling a bit shy today.” People expect a result. We’re doing them a kindness, giving them comfort in their time of grief.’
‘You’re taking their money at their most vulnerable moment. It’s dishonest.’
‘It’s commerce.’ He cast an eye over the chessboard. Our conversation had interrupted the game. ‘Never played, myself. Is this why you’re here?’
‘Yes.’
He gave me that squinting leer again. ‘Ah, you see, mate? You’re not above a bit of dishonesty yourself.’
I spun round on my stool, facing the room, hoping this fool would leave before Quinton and Alice arrived. I recognised a familiar face. Peregrine was pushing through the crowd towards us. At the very second that he saw me, the musicians started playing, rather giving the impression they were accompanying his entrance.
Under his arm, he had the portrait of Alice half-covered with a cloth. I’d completely forgotten he would be coming to the club this evening and cursed myself doubly. I couldn’t bear the thought that he might be arrested, especially as it would be my fault.
He gave me an odd look and bellowed above the noise. ‘Leo, I wasn’t expecting you. Are you here for the entertainment?’ Before I could answer, he clicked his fingers at Louis. ‘A beer. And will Mr Quinton be in later?’
Louis and I exchanged a glance and I answered for him. ‘Might be.’
Peregrine pulled up a stool and lowered himself on to it, enveloping the thing completely with his substantial behind.
I pointed at the portrait. ‘I thought I’d take over for you. Speak to Quinton on your behalf. I’m concerned that he might not believe my promissory note if I don’t deliver it to him personally.’
He scratched his head under his bowler, which was a ridiculous item, made from some kind of green corduroy.
‘That would be very kind. But what if he doesn’t accept it from you either? I’ll stay in case I need to soothe any trouble.’
I patted his shoulder, not something I would normally choose to do. ‘My dear Peregrine, when have you ever soothed trouble? You’re far more often the cause of it. Anyway, I’m a journalist and there are witnesses. Leave it with me and I’ll handle everything. He can’t break your fingers if you’re not here.’
My friend’s eyes strayed towards two fellows whirling around on the dance floor. ‘I’ll think about it. Let’s have a drink first.’
I glanced at the chessboard and wondered how it would be if, like people, the pieces constantly raised objections and complaints when they were required to move from square to square.
Peregrine frowned at Bill, realising he was listening to our conversation. ‘And who are you?’
Bill introduced himself as my brother-in-law, which I supposed was true, technically.
Peregrine raised his eyebrows at me. ‘You brought the family, did you? Is Rosie here as well? And the kids?’
I had the feeling Peregrine didn’t much like the idea of socialising with Bill. When his ale arrived, he downed it in successive gulps.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you two to your cosy chat.’ He handed me the picture and my promissory note and headed for the door.
Bill leaned towards me with his one-eyed leer. ‘Why did you really want him out of here?’
‘The police are likely to be raiding the club this evening.’
He grinned lopsidedly. ‘And you didn’t want the big guy to know that.’
‘For his protection. He’s been in prison before. You should go home too.’
At that moment Quinton entered, locked in conversation with a drab-looking fellow in a grey suit. Stephan loomed behind them, on guard as ever, and behind him, I caught sight of a pink silk hat.
My heart started pounding in my chest.
Alice smiled as she passed people, polite but disengaged, for all the world like a duchess amidst the proletariat. Around her neck, a vivid red jewel was hanging from a gold chain.
The Blood Flower.