13

THE RUBY LAY ON her skin like a drop of blood. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it, nor believe that everyone in the room didn’t immediately turn to look.

I pushed through the crowd towards Quinton. Towards Alice. She was laughing with a man to her left, the jewel moving on her breast, glinting in the light. It was a far deeper red than in Peregrine’s painting. Every other colour in the room seemed grey in comparison – at least, until Alice looked up and saw me. The blue of her irises was undimmable.

Her eyes slid away. I understood. She didn’t want to talk to me in front of her … whatever Quinton was. Her owner.

Quinton himself was occupied with the drab fellow, a banker if I was any judge, speaking earnestly and making boxes in the air with his hands.

I cleared my throat. ‘Here you are, Mr Quinton. Your portrait of Miss Morgan.’

His lip curled when he saw me. ‘You again? All right. Let’s see what my two quid has bought.’

He took the canvas and pulled off the cover, giving it a quick up and down with the air of a critic, turning it to catch the light in different ways.

‘It’ll do,’ he said, and passed it to Alice.

Where did she meet him, I wondered? How did she end up sitting thigh to thigh with him in a place like this?

She held up the portrait, a smile forming on her face.

‘Mr Black is very talented,’ she said. ‘Don’t you agree? He’s made me look far more beautiful than I am in reality.’

I blushed a little. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

Quinton jutted his jaw in my direction. ‘Black still owes me the balance. I’m a stickler for the numbers.’

‘I have a promissory note.’

It had seemed a good idea when I wrote it, but now I was standing there, with Quinton half turned towards me, an irritated expression on his face, and Stephan watching us with his dead eyes, I wondered if I would be the next to be deposited by the bridge like a piece of flotsam. Quinton examined my note in the same manner he’d examined the picture. It was all the same to him.

‘Why are you doing this, anyway? I suppose you’re in love with Black, are you? Or some other damn fool nonsense?’

‘What? No. I’m his friend, nothing more.’

Quite honestly, I was shocked that anyone would think such a thing. Did I give that impression? Surely not. I felt no attraction to my own sex.

Quinton gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Everyone’s someone’s friend in this place.’

‘I’m a married man, Mr Quinton.’

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, if you’re married, then it’s out of the question, isn’t it?’

The banker honked out a laugh like a startled donkey.

I thought of Miranda Black, stuck with a baby in London while Peregrine lived a bachelor’s life on the south coast. I imagined her in their single room, weeping away her evenings. But what did I know? Quite likely, she found her own entertainments in his absence. She might be grateful he was gone.

Quinton tossed my note on the table and sat back in his seat, arms folded.

‘No. I don’t accept this.’

I was confused. I had thought him to be, at heart, a straightforward man. He was surely better off taking a promise from me than getting nothing but fingers from Peregrine.

‘Why?’

‘First, I don’t like people changing the terms of a deal. My arrangement was with Black, not you.’

‘I see. Well, let me assure you—’

He held up his hand and I stopped talking. ‘I said, “first”, Stanhope. That implies there’s a “second” at least, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

He gave the merest nod, acknowledging my apology and, by extension, my acceptance of his authority.

‘Second, I want a down payment to show good faith. Ten shillings to start with. We’ll talk about the balance later.’

‘I don’t have that much.’

He raised his eyebrows. Like many rich men, he had trouble conceiving of the idea of poverty.

‘What do you have?’

I searched through my pockets. ‘Five shillings and some pennies.’ It was the last of my money.

‘I’ll take the five shillings.’ He piled the coins neatly on the table in front of him and produced his ledger from his pocket, inscribing the amount before looking up. ‘Finally, to clear your balance, there’s something I want you to do for me. You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ I could feel my stomach tightening at his mention of my profession.

‘There’s a man named Chastain. A Navy man. He has a secret.’ He waggled his hand towards the dancers. ‘He likes mollys. Has them sent to his ship. One of them was the lad who died. My lad, as it happens; worked for me. Michael Long.’

‘I see,’ I said, trying to act as if I didn’t already know all this.

‘It would make a good article, don’t you think? A grand article. He’d be arrested for sodomy and murder, and the general public would be shocked.’ He leaned forward and pointed his finger at my chest. ‘You’d sell lots of newspapers.’

I supposed he was right. I imagined what Harry would make of such a story: Depravity on the Waves probably, or HMS Deviant. But I had vowed never again to write such tattle.

‘I can’t imply that Chastain killed Micky Long without proof of—’

‘I’m sure you’ll work out the details.’ He screwed up my promissory note in his hand. ‘If you don’t print that article, I’ll take it out on Black twofold.’ He thumbed towards his vast bodyguard. ‘Stephan’s been looking forward to it. He’s an artist too, in his own way.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ We had strayed from the most urgent point. ‘And I didn’t only come to talk about Mr Black’s debt. You must evacuate the club. I have reason to believe the police will be visiting, probably tonight.’

He nudged the banker with his elbow. ‘As long as they buy their own drinks, why should I care?’

They both guffawed, rocking together red-faced as if Quinton was the greatest comedian ever to grace the stage.

I waited for them to finish. ‘I’m serious.’

I glanced towards Alice, who was gazing at the portrait as if it was a mirror, mimicking her pose, her fingertips touching the Blood Flower. I couldn’t help but stare at it, hanging at her breast. Was it truly magical? Its proximity was making me feel giddy.

Quinton was wiping his eyes. ‘The police only do what I tell them, Stanhope. We’re quite secure, believe me. These fellows, these married fellows, don’t want people prying into their affairs. They buy my expensive drinks and my expensive girls and boys, and I pass on a modest percentage to our hard-working policemen. That’s how it works. They’re quite happy, believe me. Better to keep everything in here where it’s private than let it spill on to the street and worry the good people of Portsmouth.’

‘You aren’t worried I might print that in my newspaper?’

He turned fully towards me, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘You’re a grub. You’ll print what I tell you about Chastain and Long, and nothing else. If I read a single word about me in your stinking rag, I’ll send Stephan up to London to pull out your lungs through your mouth. Is that clear?’

Stephan pushed himself away from the wall and came towards me, his face blank: no pleasure, no regret. Just another chore he had to perform.

Alice stood up. ‘Please, Thomas, let’s not be unkind to Mr … Stanhope, is it? I’m sure he means well.’

Her eyes flicked towards mine and I had a sudden urge to take her hand and run away from this place, from Quinton, from this city, and never look back. In that second, I was two people; one who cared for Rosie, who let little Sam ride on his back around the floor, who read stories to Lillian and helped Robert with his times tables. And another, more primitive being, who wanted to feel that someone might caress him, kiss him, desire him. That creature was kept in check, but only just.

Quinton gave Alice a look, and I realised that I had underestimated his feelings for her. He cared what she thought.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go away, Stanhope, before I change my mind.’

I didn’t know what to do. The room was full of people, the musicians were playing and the drinks were flowing. If Quinton was wrong and the police did come here tonight, all these men would be in danger.

Back at the bar, I was disappointed to find Bill still there, leering and sweaty. He drained his ale and signalled to Louis for two whisky chasers.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘Quinton won’t evacuate the bar.’

‘Hmm. No surprises there.’ He looked around the room, his lips pressed together. ‘I imagine the police will take a dim view of men in dresses and such. Seems a shame. They’re a bit peculiar but they’re not doing any harm, are they?’ He threw his whisky down his throat and climbed to his feet. ‘Leave it to me.’

He straightened his shoulders and headed towards the little dais, bouncing off a pair of spinning dancers but somehow keeping his feet. I watched in horror as he shoved aside the singer, waving at the musicians to stop playing.

The crowd looked considerably irritated at the interruption, one of them yelling, ‘Get down, you horse’s arse!’

I guessed Bill wasn’t the first drunk to consider this the perfect place to make an announcement.

He put his finger to his lips and, miraculously, the room fell quiet.

‘I have some bad news for you,’ he said. ‘We have good reason to think the police are on their way.’ He held up both hands to mollify their fears. ‘Now, let’s face it, most of you are deviants, perverts and addicts, so you’ll most likely be sent off to the clink. Some might say that’s right and proper, and you need to be locked away for the good of society. But not me.’

Stephan was pushing towards him, but found his path obstructed by the static nature of the crowd. One or two were looking towards the exit, perhaps wondering if the risk of staying was too great.

Bill raised his voice. ‘It may surprise you to hear that I’ve some experience of the police myself, a matter connected with goods they found about my person, which turned out to be stolen through no fault of mine. But they never bloody listen, do they? So, here’s my advice. Anyone smoking something they shouldn’t, get rid of it now, because if it’s not on you at the time, there’s nothing they can do. And as for you guys wearing ladies’ clothes … ’ He paused and, remarkably, his audience continued to listen attentively. ‘Well, there’s only one thing for it. When they catch you, tell them you’re putting on a play. A bit of theatre, you see. They can’t touch you for that. And it’s for the best if you all say the same thing, for credibility.’ He waggled his fingers, trying to think of something suitable. ‘How about Little Women? That’s got lots of ladies in it, I should think. If you all say you’re in Little Women, you’ll be home and dry, I reckon.’

There was about ten seconds of silence. Then, one of the smokers tossed his pipe under a chair, and the clattering noise reverberated around the room. Another followed suit, and before long, the club was filled with men buttoning their shirts and looking for their hats. Those in dresses were pulling bags from under the sofas and rifling through them, tugging on jackets and trousers even as their crinolines bumped against their ankles.

Bill hopped down from the stage just as Stephan arrived there, and things might have gone ill for him.

But the main door banged open, and all hell broke loose.

Three policemen rushed in with billy clubs raised.

The first constable grabbed a fellow in a blonde curly wig and hurled him on to the floor. He lay prostrate while one of the other constables started kicking him. I lost sight of them as the world filled with people running in all directions, barging into one another, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

I heard Quinton bark an instruction over the din, but no one was listening, not even the banker, who was crouched behind the table, squealing, ‘I was invited.’

I felt a hand in mine. ‘Come on. Quickly. There’s a back door.’

Alice wasn’t the only one with that idea. A minor crush was developing, people squeezing to get through the narrow gate that led behind the counter. I was squashed together with a small fellow, wriggling and elbowing to get ahead of me, urgently looking back over his shoulder and wriggling some more.

‘Be patient,’ I said to him. ‘It’ll be quicker if we don’t all push.’

‘I don’t really come here,’ he muttered, perspiration shining on his forehead. ‘It’s not fair, do you see? I don’t really come here.’

The lights went out. Someone had cut the gas.

I could feel limbs and shoulders all around me, knees and hands, quickly becoming less polite, reaching and pulling, clawing towards the bar. I felt detached, as though I was watching someone else stuck in this mass of people, hearing blows, kicks and screams behind me.

Still, Alice’s hand was in mine.

My eyes grew accustomed to the thin light coming in through the back door. We reached the counter and Louis the barman was there, perched on one of the stools.

‘We never got the chance to finish that game,’ he said. ‘Perhaps next time.’

‘You should leave,’ I told him. ‘It’s not safe.’

He shrugged, apparently indifferent to his fate. ‘Can’t.’

There was something odd about how he was sitting, his coat wrapped closely around his knees. He seemed too high, somehow.

‘You’re on the cash box,’ I said, struggling for breath. ‘Staying with the money.’

He inclined his head, his eyes flicking towards Alice. ‘You too, apparently.’

I lost sight of him as we were squeezed peristaltically through the gate and deposited on the other side.

‘Come on, Leo,’ Alice shouted, and we ran.

We emerged into a stable yard, watched by the horses in their stalls. The rancid air of Portsmouth seemed fresh after the sweat, smoke and terror of the club, and I sucked in lungfuls of it. The small fellow who’d been beside me in the crush brushed past, puffing and panting as he scurried towards the side alley that must lead to the road.

I followed Alice, our pace slowing as we reached the pavement. Running would draw unwanted attention, but walking, we were the same as any other couple, enjoying the warmth of the evening and the sunset.

She linked her arm in mine.

I looked back along the pavement towards the club, and for a moment, was certain I saw Viola. Her face was angled towards me, her mouth open as she remonstrated with a police constable. I could guess why she was there. Rosie must have told her the club would be raided, and she’d come to drag Bill home before it happened.

I turned away immediately. If she saw me with Alice, she might tell Rosie. That was unthinkable.

A bolt of shame ran through me, top to toe. Why was I doing anything I wouldn’t want Rosie to know about?

I glanced back again and wasn’t certain it had even been Viola. Probably, I’d imagined her. Whoever it was, she was now obscured from view.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Alice.

‘Yes, of course.’

If it had been Viola, I thought, she was safe enough. She’d done nothing illegal, and anyway, the police would never arrest a pregnant woman.

I took a breath and settled into our stroll. The evening was pleasantly humid, and we ambled our way through the back streets towards the sea. I could hear it, washing on to the beach and sucking on the shingle as it retreated. I wondered if we’d go swimming again. I would like that.

But as we reached the formal garden, Alice stopped, her hands to her chest. She stared at me.

There was no gold chain around her neck.

The Blood Flower was missing.