16
I COULDN’T STAY AT Viola’s house, but I had nowhere else to go. I stumbled down to the promenade and spent twopence on a small bottle of gin, which I drank sitting on a bench overlooking the sea for the rest of the afternoon.
As darkness fell, I knew I was drunk. Gratefully drunk. Passers-by gave me pitying glances and mothers guided their children in an arc around me. I lay down on the bench and for a while, my mind roamed unchecked. I was examining a dead badger in the park, and then I was the badger, trapped in an attic room with a slanting roof, two men gazing down at me with flies buzzing around their faces.
No, I would not conceive of that. I’d locked it in a box and sunk that box into deep, black water where I could no longer find it.
I tried to think of something else: all the names I’d ever had, from the first, the one I was born with, to the last, my own. But what of Rosie? Would she ever be Rosie Stanhope again?
During most of the twenty-eight years of my life, I had been waiting to leave. and at any minute during the last decade or so, I expected to be uncovered and forced to flee, to change my name and live among strangers once again. Mentally, my bag was always packed. Until Rosie. Wherever Rosie was, was home.
And I had thrown it away. I wept; for Rosie, for myself, for an unhappy child in an apron dress.
And finally, I slept, clutching Rosie’s wedding ring in my hand.
I was awoken by a seagull, its cry penetrating my head like an industrial lathe. I was lying on the paving stones, my head resting on my tater sack and my hat over my face. I had a vague memory of being evicted from the bench the previous evening by an older gentleman who seemed to think it was his. He was still there, curled up and snoring, a cotton bag cuddled in his arms.
I relieved myself under the pier, crouching down behind some concrete boulders, and then brushed down my jacket and trousers as best I could. Only one thought was in my head: to catch Rosie before she boarded the train back to London. If I could only talk to her, she might forgive me, and everything would be as it was.
I strode at some speed towards the railway station, ignoring the rumblings of my stomach. Dishevelled as I was, I fitted in well amidst the clamour and chaos of Monday morning. Men were crowding the streets, rushing to their offices and factories, sucking on cigarettes and queueing at the crabmeat stalls. Somewhere, a clock chimed eight times, and the rushing men increased their pace.
I reached the station and pushed my way into the forecourt.
Of course, I had no idea what time she would be here. It might be in ten minutes or ten hours. I hoped it would be soon. She was an early bird by nature, and once she’d decided to do something, she liked to get it over with. I waited by one of the columns in the foyer, scanning from left to right. But there was no sign of her.
The crowd thinned as the morning wore on. I wandered out to the forecourt again, where an air of torpidity had taken over from the previous bustle. The salesmen were sitting on chairs by their stalls, taking a rest from shouting, and the horses were noses down, sweating in the heat or noisily lapping water from half-barrels set alongside the taxi rank. To my right, Quinton’s New Hippodrome loomed, its frontage despoiled by those gaudy letters and lights. The last time I was there, I had been with Rosie. It seemed like a different life.
The crowd ebbed and flowed with the timetable. Those who were in good time sauntered in and joined the short queue for coffee, and those who were overdue hurtled towards the ticket office with their hands on their hats. Noon came and went, and then the afternoon.
Still, I waited.
The sun began to dip, and my stomach began to ache.
It was after six o’clock in the evening when I saw her and the children. They must have emerged from a taxicab on the other side of the forecourt because she already had a ticket in her hand. I dashed after her, but as bad luck would have it, a train had disgorged its passengers a moment before, and I had to wade through them.
‘Rosie!’
If she heard me, she showed no indication of it. I caught her up at the barrier.
‘Rosie.’
She turned and took me in with an expression which chilled my bowels. ‘I told you. I need time to think. Time away from you.’
And with that, she herded Lillian and Sam on to the platform and was gone.
I stumbled out and sat in the shade of the Hippodrome awning, my head in my hands. I had been foolish to come to the station. She’d told me she wanted time to think. I would have to be patient. I had no choice.
‘Mr Stanhope? I thought it was you.’ I looked up and was surprised to see Olga Brown peering down at me. ‘Are you waiting for me?’ That wisp of an accent floated between her words.
‘No. I mean, I’m not waiting for anyone. I just happen to be here.’
‘I see.’ She frowned, angling her bonnet to keep her face in the shade. ‘Is your wife here too? I’d like to speak with her.’
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. ‘Just me.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ She tapped her foot, reminding me of Rosie. I could have wept again, truly I could. ‘It’s quite important. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to spare me a few minutes?’
‘Have you had dinner? There’s a café along the street over there. The owner gives me free food in exchange for the odd spare ticket. She’s a fan of the circus.’
I hadn’t eaten in more than a day and was starving.
‘Of course. It would be a pleasure.’
The café was tiny, squeezed between a cobbler and a wheelwright in a dismal alleyway. It didn’t seem to have a name, just a door and a few tables, every one of them occupied by Negro men, hunched over their plates and conversing in low voices. They turned to look at me as I sat down, and I felt even more out of place than usual.
The owner and – as she explained with a resigned air – cook, waitress and washer-up, was an elderly lady who treated Miss Brown with a mixture of motherliness and awe. She reminded me of Jacob, but while his skin was the colour of raw cod, hers was like the bark of an ancient tree. The only item on the menu was rabbit stew.
I cleared the bowl in two minutes flat before addressing my host. ‘How can I help you, Miss Brown?’
‘It’s about Natalia.’ I could hear the falter in her voice as she spoke the girl’s name. ‘I’ve been piecing together things she told me. I believe she once visited a club owned by Mr Quinton. A disreputable place. Honey and Micky Long took her.’
‘It’s called Papaver,’ I volunteered. ‘When did this happen?’
‘She mentioned it perhaps a fortnight before she died, so I suppose the visit was a few days before that.’
I knew I should ask her some more questions, like why Natalia had gone to such a place and what had happened there. But later, I wouldn’t be able to discuss my deductions with Rosie, wouldn’t be able to watch her turn the details over in her mind and touch upon the very thing I had missed.
Why was I even here? I cared about the deaths of Micky and Natalia, I truly did. I abhorred the thought of their young lives being taken from them. But I also wanted to curl up on one of the benches on the promenade and be picked apart by the seagulls.
Fortunately, Miss Brown did not need prompting. ‘Natalia told me she met a woman at the club. Micky seemed quite enamoured with her, apparently. The woman was very persuasive and was cajoling Micky to do something. To break the law, Natalia thought. She didn’t like it, so she left. I don’t know the woman’s name. If I did, I’d find her and … ’ She trailed off, her eyes filling with tears.
The mysterious woman could only be Alice. She’d started this whole fiasco by encouraging Micky to steal the Blood Flower, and by now she might have died for it.
So many lives lost for that damned stone.
I took a deep breath. Despite my own grief and guilt, I should at least fill in some of the gaps in Miss Brown’s knowledge.
‘I believe Micky did break the law,’ I said. ‘He stole an object of considerable value from a Navy lieutenant named Chastain. But Micky didn’t have it when he was killed. It was pulled off him beforehand.’
‘What was it, this valuable object?’
‘Believe me, it’s better if you don’t know. Two people have already died for it.’
Possibly three, by now.
Miss Brown looked as though she might insist, but then thought better of it. ‘Very well. But regardless of what the object is, I’m certain Micky wouldn’t have taken such a risk if he hadn’t fallen under that woman’s spell. He has a younger brother, you know. Jonathan.’
‘Yes, we’ve met.’
I wished I could do more to help to her, but I felt drained of all sense and feeling.
She glanced at my hessian sack. ‘If I may make an observation, Mr Stanhope, you seem troubled. I don’t know what the problem is, but your wife seems like a wise woman who would give you good counsel if you asked her.’
Now it was my turn to blink back tears.
‘I would, but I don’t have money for a ticket to London.’
‘I see.’ She hesitated, and then reached a decision. ‘Perhaps I can help you with that.’ She dug in her purse and produced a shilling. ‘Consider it a loan. You can repay me when you return.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t know if I will return.’
‘I think you will. You’re the kind of man who cares about the truth, and I very much want to know who killed Natalia. I’m afraid you’ve missed the last train though.’
‘You know the timetable?’
‘My friend Mr Woodson is in London at present, and I like to visit.’
‘Oh. So, you and Miss La Blanche were not … I mean, I had thought perhaps—’
‘No. We were like sisters, nothing more.’ She must have noticed my embarrassed blush because she put her hand on my forearm. ‘It’s all right, I’m not offended. In the circus, love takes all forms.’ She smiled damply. ‘If you wish, you can come and see us perform this evening. You can be my guest.’
The curtain was not yet raised. Miss Brown put me on a folding chair in the wings of the stage, alongside an elderly gentleman with impressively trimmed whiskers. He introduced himself as Lau.
‘I’m a surgeon,’ he confided in me. ‘I put them back together when they fall.’
‘How often does that happen?’
‘More than you might think. Clavicles, carpals, a femur or two. An ilium once.’ He seemed thrilled by the rich variety of injuries he’d been required to mend. He nodded towards Miss Brown, who was now on the stage stretching, dressed in her stage outfit of a sleeved corset and striped bloomers. ‘Never Miss La La, of course. She doesn’t make mistakes.’
‘And Miss La Blanche?’
‘Hmm. Bad business, that. Tragic. No, she never fell either, though that was more to do with Miss La La than any skill of her own. She never misses, you see. Caught her every time. On and off stage, you might say.’ He made a motion with his hand like a fish swimming. ‘Natalia was prone to going her own way. Only turned up half the time. Olga, Miss La La that is, kept having to find her and bring her back.’
‘I dare say that annoyed the rest of the performers.’
He considered this for a second. ‘You’d think so, but no. They were fond of the girl. It annoyed the management though. Thomas Quinton was livid.’
I was going to ask him what he meant by that, but the curtain went up and the audience burst into anticipatory applause.
The show was quite magnificent. First, the burly fellow lifted a woman above his head with one hand and proceeded to lift another with the other hand. The two women sat up there as neatly as if on a park bench, and then fell backwards into flips, causing the audience to gasp, but they landed on their feet, arms outstretched. Then a fellow swung from the trapezes, somersaulting from one to the next, and another fellow juggled with knives. As he came off stage, dashing past Lau and me, I saw that the edges of the blades were filed down to bluntness.
The audience welcomed each act with a decent amount of enthusiasm, but when Miss La La appeared, they became positively enthralled. All eyes were on her, including mine. First, she walked on a piece of rope strung taut and high between two pillars. The audience shuddered as she wobbled and recovered. Then she did it again, this time juggling the knives, and then a third time, juggling lit torches. I could only watch between my fingers, so sure was I that she would fall or burn herself, and yet she did not. The flames whirled so fast between her hands they became a circle of fire, and I found myself shrinking back in my chair.
Lau leaned towards me. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Next, Miss La La repeated the act I’d seen before, being pulled up by her teeth, and finally, what they had all been waiting for. A cannon was wheeled on to the stage. I could tell from the effort required of the burly fellow and the rumbling from the wheels that it was truly a heavy thing, made from cast iron. A harness was fixed around it and a member of the audience, a young fellow in a flat cap, was invited to come on to the lime-lit stage and test its authenticity.
Up until that moment, the audience had seemed like a single, many-headed creature sprawling in the dimness. But now I looked more closely, my eyes fell upon Thomas Quinton and Alice Morgan in front-row seats. He was as dapperly dressed as ever, and she was a vision in a sky-blue frock and matching feather fascinator. The two of them were talking, occasionally smiling, their faces so close together that if they’d each turned a little further, they would be kissing.
I couldn’t believe it. Alice was not dead, nor apparently had she been punished for losing a gem worth more than this entire auditorium and all the jewellery and wallets within it. She appeared utterly forgiven. But why?
Once the young man had averred that the cannon was genuine, Miss Brown bit down on to a piece of leather attached to the harness, and dangled upside down from a trapeze by her knees. The trapeze was slowly raised on two ropes by no less than six men, while the cannon first tipped up and then left the stage altogether, hanging freely, held aloft only by the grip of Miss Brown’s teeth. Still, she ascended, until the cannon was the height of a man above the stage, demonstrated by the juggler fellow, who was brave enough to stand below it and even lie down, so if her bite had failed, he would have been crushed.
The audience stood and clapped as one, while Miss Brown unhooked one knee from the trapeze and extended her free leg and arms, hanging from just the other knee. It was remarkable, unfeasible, and yet my attention remained fixed on Alice and Quinton. I was certain she had genuinely lost the Blood Flower and had feared for her life. Or was that simply what I wanted to think? Was I afraid that if she had lied about that, then she might have lied about other things as well? She might never have been interested in me at all.
And then, without meaning to, I caught her eye. She blinked several times, unsure it was me, hovering at the edge of the stage. She nodded a fraction, still looking, so we were, for those few seconds, locked together, communicating … something. I didn’t know what. Regret, maybe, and a hint of fear? Perhaps we both saw what we wanted to see.
Quinton followed her gaze. He squinted at me and back at her, and then clenched his jaw.
Miss Brown started her descent, and the spell was broken. The cannon was guided down to the stage, and she slipped off the trapeze and performed an elegant curtsy to rapturous applause.
The curtain came down.
When it was raised again for the troupe’s bow, Alice and Quinton were already leaving. He was pulling her by the hand up the aisle.
‘Well, that was splendid,’ said Mr Lau, attempting to hide his disappointment.
I waited for Miss Brown to return but saw her only briefly. She seemed exhausted and said little to me before she left, only reiterating the well-meant, if unnecessary, advice that Rosie was a wise woman, and I should do my best to stick with her.
Afterwards, having nowhere else to sleep, I wandered out to the station and lay down on one of the benches. I was alone until a fellow from the railways approached me with hostile intent, declaring that I could only stay if I bought a ticket right there and then. He looked astonished when I agreed.
And so, after a fitful night, I was awoken when the platform started filling with yawning commuters for the seven-fifteen train to London.