Two days later, Luke Peveral – and Kitty – discovered that Nemesis had indeed been lurking in the fog that night. But the first person that it overtook, as the yellow murk still lay upon London’s dirty rooftops and crept along her narrow streets, was Spider Murphy.
Kitty it was who found him, sprawled upon her brother’s bed, at first sight apparently once again drunk as a lord and dead to the world.
Then she saw the blood.
‘Oh, my God!’ She ran to him, stopped, appalled at the unrecognizable, purpling mass that was his face. She stood for a moment, her hands pressed tightly to her mouth, quelling nausea. The little man muttered, the words indistinguishable, bleeding tongue lolling on all but toothless gums in a wrecked mouth. His right arm was twisted grotesquely by his side. His clothes were in shreds. There seemed to be no part of him that was not bruised or bloodied. One eye was swollen shut, the pupil a smeared gleam between the puffy lids.
‘Spider – for God’s sake! – what’s happened?’
Her voice roused him. He caught her hand with his left one, half-lifted himself in agitation. Blood and spittle streamed down his unshaven chin as he gabbled. He stank of blood and urine and worse.
‘Don’t try to talk. Lie still. I’ll get help.’ She broke away from him, fled to the door. Where was Matt? Or – Pol! Blessed thought. Pol would know what to do.
She flew up the dark, narrow stairway, burst into the room that Pol and Lottie shared. ‘Pol, quickly! Something awful’s happened to Spider! He’s in Matt’s room. He’s hurt! He’s bleeding – oh, please, come and help—’ She stopped.
Pol, unflustered, untangled her plump, bare legs from the crumpled bedclothes, ran her hands through her bright, tousled hair and reached for a dirty robe. ‘Gawd, gel, where’s yer manners? Didn’t anyone ever teach yer ter knock at doors?’
‘I’m sorry—’ The words were, in the circumstances, perfunctory. The memory of Spider’s shattered face overrode all other considerations.
The naked man at Pol’s side – stocky, dark and hairy as a gorilla – struggled to a sitting position and grunted angrily.
‘S’all right, love,’ Pol said to him soothingly, ‘it’s a friend o’ mine.’ She stood up, belting the crumpled gown about her heavy, lush body, raised only half-amused brows at Kitty. ‘This’d better be good.’
‘I’m – I’m sorry, Pol, truly I am – but – Spider’s in an awful state. He’s been beaten half to death from the look of it – oh, please, do hurry – I came to see Matt, but he’s off somewhere – and Spider – he’s bleeding so badly—’
‘All right. All right.’ Pol’s voice was steady and sensible. ‘I’ll come down an’ take a butcher’s. Oh, fer Gawd’s sake!’ – this to her irate, hairy swain who, in a picturesque state of arousal, had swung his bare feet onto the floor and was complaining bitterly and forcefully at this interruption to his pleasures. ‘I’ll be back. Keep it warm for me.’ She ushered Kitty through the door. Kitty almost fell back down the steep stairs. When the two girls reached Matt’s room it was to find that Spider had somehow dragged himself from the bed and was crawling across the floor to the door.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ Pol said with feeling, ‘you bin arguin’ with a bloody steam roller or somethin’?’
Spider gargled in his throat, his one eye desperate.
‘’Ere – give us an ’and ter get ’im back on the bed—’ Pol and Kitty struggled to lift the little man. Spider fought them every inch of the way, still trying to get to the door.
‘Spider, for God’s sake!’ Kitty was terrified to touch him, in case she hurt him more. ‘We’re only trying to help you—!’
‘Ellerguvner,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Guv – ner.’
‘Yes. What about him?’ Unpleasant things were happening to the hairs at the back of Kitty’s neck.
He stopped struggling. His small, fearsomely strong left hand gripped hers, his one good eye was fixed upon her face. His damaged mouth simply would not obey him. It was agonizing moments before, with a superhuman effort, he enunciated, relatively clearly, ‘Warn – him—’
Kitty’s stomach, already queasy, shifted again. ‘Warn him of what?’ She did not want to warn Luke Peveral of anything. She did not at that moment want anything to do with Luke Peveral ever again. She did not want anything to do with anyone or anything that could reduce a man to this bloody, dehumanized pulp.
‘They know – where ’e is.’ Blood bubbled, pink and frothing. There was another long, struggling silence. ‘I – told – ’em. They’ll – skin ’im. ’E don’t know—’ He could not go on.
‘Shut yer mouth.’ None too gently Pol hauled him almost single-handedly to the bed. ‘You tryin’ ter kill yerself? Kit – we need some rags. An’ some clean water. Be still, will yer!’ This, furiously, to the struggling Spider. ‘’Ave I got ter tie yer down?’
He was still holding on to Kitty’s hand. His one eye was pleading. ‘Tell – ’im! They’ll – kill ’im!’
‘How can I? I don’t know where he is!’
He pulled her to him. Revolted, she put an ear to the bloody cavern of his mouth. ‘Church,’ he said, and shook her. ‘Church!’
‘Yes – I know the church – at least—’
He pulled her close again. ‘Rope.’
‘What rope? Spider – what rope?’
‘Bell—’ He gave an odd, bubbling sigh. His eyes closed. For a second it seemed that he had stopped breathing. Then ‘Go,’ he whispered, and ‘Go!’ he screamed, terrifyingly, with the last of his strength.
She was horrified. She stood, trembling, looking at the unconscious body.
Pol sat back on her heels, looking at her. ‘You goin’?’
‘I – no! I can’t!’
Pol glanced at the gasping Spider, then back at Kitty.
Kitty shook her head. ‘Pol – how can I? It’s nothing to do with me – I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go—’
‘Yer can see the church across the canal from the Rooms.’
‘I know. But—’
Pol looked back at the bleeding, recumbent figure. ‘’E worked awful ’ard ter get ’ere. I s’pose ’e was lookin’ fer Matt to ’elp ’im warn Luke?’
‘I suppose so.’ What had Luke Peveral risked, to see a girl home through the foggy darkness, when he could himself have been safe off the streets? ‘Pol – I can’t go, can I? Not alone—’ She hesitated. ‘Would you come with me?’
Pol shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘Well then—’
‘You’re right. To ’ell with Luke Peveral. ’Elp me with Spider—’ Pol leaned forward. Kitty stood one moment longer. Spider moaned, turned his head, opened one bloodshot eye and fixed it in entreaty upon her.
‘All right,’ she heard herself say. ‘All right. I’ll try.’
She regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth, and as she hurried through the familiar, gloomy streets towards Blind Lane at each step she was on the point of turning back. How was she supposed to find Luke Peveral with only the sketchy information Spider had passed on? What was she to tell him? Supposing he wasn’t there?
Supposing someone else was.
That last thought gnawed like a rat in her mind. The men who had so brutally maimed Spider would surely not waste time in getting to their real quarry? How long had it taken Spider to get to Market Row? She lifted her skirts, half-running. She must be mad. She must be!
The amber sky was weighted to the rooftops by the fog. The light, such as it was, was yellow, as if the world were sunk below the evil waters of a sulphurous sea. People hurried past, heads down, collars up, hands deep in pockets. The whores in the doorways, their lacklustre charms muffled beneath ragged, threadbare shawls, watched her go by with disinterested eyes. She turned at last into Blind Lane. As she had expected at this time of day it was deserted. The far end of the alley, where lay the canal, was swathed in evil, ochre-coloured fog. She was running in earnest now, heart pounding, breath rasping in her chest. And while the question still hammered her – why in God’s name was she doing this? – yet she knew, remembering Spider’s smashed face, the anguish in his one eye at his betrayal of Luke, that there could be no turning back now.
She reached the canal. There was the path along which Luke had led her two nights before, and there, a little way along, hidden by a corner, the plank. And across the water, almost lost amongst the smoke-blackened, mostly derelict buildings, she saw an ancient, squat grey tower with a boarded-up belfry of rotten wood perched upon it. If Pol were right, this was Luke Peveral’s unlikely hideout.
She had to stand for a moment, regaining her breath and trying to control the trembling of her legs before she started across the perilous bridge. A short way downstream the decomposing body of a dog moved sluggishly in the water, set in motion by God knew what disgusting agency. The stench was vile. She edged carefully out along the unstable plank, swayed dangerously for a moment, threw herself forward and in an awkward, scrabbling dash was over. She scrambled up the bank, heedless of the mud and the clawing brambles. In the alleyway beyond she hesitated. Which way? She could no longer see the church. The alley in which she stood, a bare few feet wide, ran ahead between towering, sooty walls for perhaps fifty yards, and then met another running at right angles across it. She flew to the corner. Stopped again. The church had seemed to be to the right – she turned right, ran for perhaps a hundred yards, only to find herself in a cul-de-sac, dark and well-like beneath high, blank-windowed warehouse walls. Panic muffled her heartbeat. Despite the cold she was uncomfortably hot, and sweat channelled, prickling, down her back. On a doorstep a child sat, half-naked in the cold, face vacant, thumb stuck in a mouth that was rimmed with running sores.
‘The church?’ she asked him. ‘Is there an old church near here?’
He stared at her, neither moving nor blinking.
She turned and ran back the way she had come. A raw-boned dog, scavenging in the squalid, streaming gutter that ran down the centre of the cobbled alley, joined happily in the game, tail wagging. Unable to avoid it, she sprawled in ungainly fashion upon the dirty ground, grazing her hands and banging her knee painfully enough to bring the rise of tears. Helpfully, the dog climbed all over her, licking her face.
‘Get off! Get – off – me!’
She scrambled to her feet, dashed a scratched and dirty hand across her face. The choking smell of human refuse rose from the foetid gutter. She ran again, turned left and found herself in a wider lane. In a jumble of rooftops she glimpsed the belfry. Her heartbeat slowing a little, she hurried on, turning corners, followed her nose, losing the landmark of the tower, finding it again – and then, suddenly, there it was. Turning a corner she found herself in a dark, narrow lane, one side of which was formed by a great, windowless grey wall. In the wall was a single, arch-shaped wooden door. She craned her neck. Silhouetted against the grim yellow sky was the derelict belfry.
There was no one in sight.
Heart thumping, she approached the door. Gingerly pushed it open. ‘Hello?’
Her voice sounded frail in the cold silence. Her heart sank. This could not possibly be the place. She was standing in a vast, gloomy porch, shadowed, silent, bitterly cold. The dirty wooden ceiling high above her head was hung with cobwebs, the stone walls gleamed, chill and damp, the place smelled of abandonment and neglect. Apart from the door through which she had entered there were two others – a big one, facing her, which obviously gave on to the body of the church, and a small one to the right which she assumed led to the tower above. Both were firmly and securely boarded up. In the corner, hanging through a trap in the ceiling, were two moth-eaten bell-ropes. To her left, in the thickness of the ancient wall, was an alcove, ornately screened, which looked as if once held a life-sized statue but which was now empty. That was all.
‘Hello?’ She heard the strain in her own voice. This could not, surely, be the place? She had made a mistake. Spider’s warning would not after all reach Luke Peveral, and it was her fault. She stood for a long moment, tensed against the terrible cold of the derelict building, listening. Her knee throbbed where she had fallen, and her hand stung painfully. She put it to her mouth and sucked the sore place. The silence was unbroken, except for the disturbed flittering of wings high above her. The musty, neglected stillness was oppressive. She turned to leave; and as she did so her attention was caught by the faded, coloured bell-pulls in the corner.
‘Rope,’ Spider had said and, ‘Bell—’
Moving slowly she stepped to the ropes. They hung motionless, dirty and threadbare. There were no cobwebs on them. Gingerly she put out a hand and then snatched it away. Metal-tongued giants hung soundless above her, massive in their rotting cages. If she should set them in motion… Her skin crept coldly at the thought. The bell-ropes hung, still as death.
Rope. Bell—
Luke Peveral, at possible risk to his own skin, had seen her safe through an unsafe night.
Bronze monsters waited above to give strident voice to her error – or worse, to burst from weakened bonds and crash down through the rotten fabric of the tower—
She reached to the nearest bell-pull, then at the last moment changed her mind and tugged the other one, hard.
Absolutely nothing happened.
She stood weak with relief and anticlimax. Her heart was thundering in her ears. Absurdly, she was trembling, and though her feet and hands were frozen, sweat trickled again uncomfortably down her back and between her breasts. She waited a long moment. Nothing. No echo of sound, no movement. Emboldened, she reached for the second rope.
‘I really shouldn’t do that. You’ll wake the neighbours.’
She nearly died of shock. She spun round, breath choking in her throat. Luke Peveral stood, grinning warily, in the alcove not three feet from her. As she turned, his quick, narrow glance took in her wrecked appearance and his smile faded, but his voice was cool and pleasant as ever as he said, lightly, ‘Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who said “Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead?” Am I right in suspecting that if you are here half of London has found me?’
She could not for a moment force her voice past her almost paralyzed vocal chords. ‘Something like that,’ she said, shakily.
‘Tell me.’
She took a breath, spoke rapidly: ‘Spider’s at Matt’s. He’s been beaten, terribly. He’s badly hurt. Whoever did it was looking for you, and Spider couldn’t hold out – he told them – he asked me to warn you—’
The smallest of smiles, warm and genuine flickered and was gone. ‘And so you have. Who of the two of us is more surprised, do you think?’
She could not stop the small, shaky laugh that brought.
He stepped to her, took her arm. All traces of levity had vanished. ‘First things first. I want you out of here, and right now—’ He stopped. They both heard it; the sound of running footsteps in the lane outside, a sharp, barking voice.
Luke moved faster than she could think. He caught her wrist and pulled her into the alcove. Cut at right angles into the thickness of the wall, hidden by the ornate screening that decorated the front arch, was a narrow opening, barely eighteen inches in depth. He turned sideways, slid into it, then held out a hand to her.
There were other harsh voices now, outside the door.
She took the extended hand and slipped after him into the shadowed darkness. In a moment she stood upon an ancient-looking twisting stone stairway, winding upwards, dimly lit by high, slit windows.
‘Come on!’ He leapt ahead of her. She bunched her skirts above her knees and scrambled after him. Panting, she almost fell through the small wooden door that he held open for her at the top of the stairs. He slammed it behind her, locked it, pocketed the key.
She gaped.
She was standing in a large chamber, beautifully proportioned, and panelled in wood. At one end was an enormous open fireplace, in which blazed a great log fire. The door through which she had just flung herself was in the corner of the room, set into the panelling, almost impossible to see. A huge, round, beautifully patterned stained glass window lit the room with its jewelled colours. In the wall opposite the fireplace was a huge door, massively barred. But it was the contents of the room that held her for one incredulous moment almost rooted to the spot, and staring. The place was a treasure-house, an Aladdin’s cave; soft, rich rugs glowed upon the floor, luxurious furs thrown over the huge couch that dominated one end of the room, elegant, comfortable furniture glowed in the light of the fixe, as did marble statues, the pictures that adorned the walls, the delicate glass and china.
The ill-gotten rewards of deceit and theft. Even in that fraught, astonished moment she knew it. ‘What is this place?’
Luke brushed past her and in a couple of long strides was across the room and kneeling in front of a massive ebony bookcase. ‘Abbot’s room. This church used to be part of a priory. Ah—’ He straightened, and at the bare touch of his hand the huge piece of furniture seemed almost to float away from the wall, revealing another small, panelled door. He grinned a little. ‘An appropriate time to examine the good priest’s cellars, I think. This way.’ He held out a hand to usher her through the door. From far away came a violent crashing sound. ‘They’re breaking into the church,’ he said, and glanced at the great barred door at the end of the room, ’so at least Spider didn’t tell them about the back door. They’ll have a bit of trouble there, I should think.’ He looked back at her still, frightened face. ‘The guided tour,’ he said, gently, his eyes encouraging, ‘starts, I’m afraid, of necessity in the cellars.’ He moved his fingers, beckoning her into the darkness. The violent sounds from below were louder.
She ran across the room to him. A waft of freezing, evil-smelling air hit her. After only a moment’s hesitation she stepped through the door and found herself upon a small, flagged platform from which steep stone steps led downwards. Luke followed her. On the wall just inside the door was a dusty shelf upon which lay several candles, one in a tarnished brass holder. He took a box of matches from his pocket and, with a perfectly steady hand struck one, lit the candle in the holder and pocketed the others. Then he turned his unhurried attention back to the bookcase. Using a small handle on the back he guided it soundlessly back so that it concealed the doorway, then he knelt and pulled a small lever. The massive piece settled upon the floor like a rock. ‘Take God Himself to shift that.’ He shut and barred the little door.
‘You’re very well organized,’ Kitty said.
She saw the glimmer of his smile. ‘Be a daft rat that didn’t have a bolthole.’
Darkness had settled about them, momentarily blinding despite the candle. Kitty stood quite still, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Oddly, for all the panic that had preceded this moment she was unafraid. With light, sound too had been cut off. They stood for a moment in a cold circle of stillness. The candle guttered and danced. Luke’s shadow loomed upon the wall, his hawk’s face was limned in gold by the flickering flame he held.
Soundlessly he turned and led the way down into darkness.
She had a brief moment to be amazed at her own calmness. As if this madness were part of the most everyday occurrence in the world she followed him, stepping carefully, steadying herself with a hand upon the damp, rough surface of the cold wall. From below she heard the sound of water dripping. Luke lifted the candle above his head. Shadows lurched upon the curved walls.
‘Watch the steps. They’re a bit slippery.’ His voice echoed eerily within the confined space.
‘Where are we?’
‘We’re going down into the crypt. It runs under the building next door and then joins the sewer that runs under the road.’ He sensed her reaction and she heard the smile in his voice. ‘You’re right. Not the sweetest place in the world. But if you can stand it – and if the waters aren’t too high – it’s a damned sight safer than facing our friends up there.’
She had not missed the qualification. ‘And what if the waters are too high?’
‘Then it’s a bit stickier.’ His voice, though still cheerful, had lost the smile. ‘We choose between swimming and sitting and twiddling our thumbs until it’s safe to go back upstairs.’
There was, she thought, little point in voicing the obvious question as to how they were supposed to know when that magic moment had arrived. ‘Are you sure they can’t follow us?’ she asked. .
‘Certain.’ The word was confident. Luke paused, turned, watched her by the light of the candle. ‘Even if they knew of the existence of the door – which I’m sure they don’t – it’d take a steam roller to move that bookcase. Don’t worry. We’re safe down here.’
‘Am I allowed to know from whom?’ There was a small touch of bravado in her voice. ‘If I’m going to die young, oughtn’t I to know why?’
A cold draught wafted up the stairs, bringing with it a foetid whiff of soiled and polluted water. He turned and started on down the stairs. ‘Some years ago I made some rather – unorthodox – arrangements concerning an ex-partner of mine. He’d tried to gammon me once too often. I thought it might suit us both if he spent the rest of his life in rather sunnier climes. He didn’t appreciate my efforts. Damned ungrateful of him.’
‘You shopped him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was transported.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now he’s back? And is looking for you?’
‘So it would seem. Funny – I’d never have thought he had it in him. Life, he got, so he isn’t back here courtesy of Her Majesty. Botany Bay must have toughened him.’
‘And now he wants to kill you.’
His laughter was grim. ‘That, I imagine, is the least he wants to do.’
‘So he’s not going to give up?’
‘I imagine not – not until—’
‘Until what?’
She sensed his shrug. ‘Not until one of us is dead. That’s right.’
In silence she followed him down into darkness.
A few minutes later they reached level ground. Luke lifted the candle high. They were standing on wet flagstones beneath a vaulted stone barrel of a roof. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of the sewer, that fouled the throat and curdled the stomach. The light flickered upon several ancient stone tombs that were lined against the wall. As Luke moved forward there was a sudden scrabbling sound, and an offendedly indignant squeal. Rats. Kitty’s skin crawled. For one moment she considered seriously the alternative of facing the men upstairs. At least the terror there was in light, and air. The reeking darkness bore down on her like the weight of all evil.
‘Are you all right?’ Luke’s voice held a small, sharp edge.
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, then, this way.’ He led her forward, through a series of low arches. Kitty put a hand over her nose and mouth, trying to filter the foul air. The awful, scurrying rat-sounds were all round them. Small, vicious eyes gleamed, sinisterly red in the candlelight. Her legs were shaking, and her skin was cold as the hand of death. ‘God,’ she muttered, behind her hand, ‘I h-hate rats.’
His cold hand tightened on hers. ‘It’s all right. They can’t hurt you.’
‘I kn-know—’ Her teeth were chattering.
‘Can you go on?’
Glad of the darkness that hid the sudden craven rise of tears, ‘Yes,’ she said.
A few minutes later they had reached the end of the crypt and stood in a long, brick-built, dripping tunnel. By the light of the flame that Luke carried Kitty could see that the curved walls were in ill-repair and covered for the most part in a spectacularly evil-looking slime. She could also see that the slow-moving river of filth that they enclosed reached from wall to wall and even encroached upon the stone floor of the crypt. The foul stuff must have been more than waist deep.
‘Shit!’ Luke said, beneath his breath, with bitter feeling, betraying in the one word his disappointment at the height of the flow.
Unexpected hysterical laughter gurgled in Kitty’s throat. Her stomach was heaving. ‘That’s what it is all right,’ she said. ‘At least, most of it.’
He coughed with laughter. Stood for a long moment surveying the disgusting river of ordure. ‘Kitty – do you think you could—?’
‘No!’ She shook her head, gestured at her wide, heavy skirts. ‘How could I?’
‘It’s a few hundred yards, that’s all. Then it empties in the canal—’
‘You go,’ she said. ‘In these skirts I’d drown. And without them I’d freeze to death. You go. Get help—’ She grimaced over her shoulder. A rat scuttled.
‘Plan number two,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
He jerked his head back at the crypt. ‘We make ourselves comfortable and wait.’
She lifted skirts already sodden with the sewer-filth that polluted the floor. ‘We make ourselves what? Truly, Luke Peveral, I’m coming to believe that you must have a very peculiar sense of humour!’
He laughed, gave her his hand. ‘Let’s go and find ourselves a coffin.’
They moved back into the crypt, away from the nightmare stream. The smell, however, followed them, clinging about them, as tangible, it seemed to Kitty, as the London fog that wreathed the streets above them.
‘Here—’ Near the steps down which they had come was a large, flat tomb, ancient, begrimed, littered with rat dirt, the inscription indecipherable in the weak light. ‘Sorry, friend,’ Luke addressed the occupant drily, ‘we won’t be with you for long.’ He took Kitty by the waist. ‘Jump—’ He deposited her on top of the tomb, vaulted up after her. ‘We’ll be dry here at least and out of the way of our four-legged friends.’
‘This—’ Kitty muttered, tucking her legs beneath her skirts in a vain attempt to warm them, ‘is getting to be too much of a habit.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She settled herself as best as she could, her back against the wall. She felt as if a part of her brain had ceased to function altogether. Since the moment she had found Spider, beaten and bleeding upon her brother’s bed, an understandable air of unreality had stalked events.
Luke set the candle beside her, crossed his long legs and rested his hands loosely on his knees. They looked at each other in silence.
‘Now what?’ Kitty asked, her voice fragile in the dripping quiet.
He considered, soberly, for a moment. ‘Well, since this is hardly the time or place for a seduction—’ Mischievously he left a small, half-questioning pause before settling more easily against the wall, long hands resting upon his bent knees. ‘Why don’t you tell me the story of your life?’
‘—and so we came to London. Matt fell in with Croucher at Covent Garden and – you know the rest—’
A rat rustled across the floor. The small remnant of candle burned steadily. Her eyes were used to the light now, and she could discern every expression on his face. Even the vile smell seemed to have diminished a little, though she realized that this too must be because she had become used to it.
She wondered, dispassionately, why in all her narrative she had made no mention of Amos Isherwood.
He tilted his head. He had listened to her story intently, with hardly any interruptions. ‘You’ve had some bad luck.’
She glanced at him sharply. She could not let that pass. For a moment the warmth of comradeship that during the telling of her story had enclosed them as the light from the candle enclosed them, cooled, as the candle might flicker in a cold draught. ‘No. It’s had nothing to do with bad luck. Our misfortunes have stemmed from one thing and one thing only. Matt’s thieving.’
Amos smiled knowingly in the darkness. She ignored him.
‘It wasn’t his fault that old Sir What’s-his-name and his sons drowned.’
‘No.’ Her voice was obstinate. ‘But after that.’
The silence was broken by the irregular dripping of water from the roof. ‘You really do hate it, don’t you?’ he asked at last, quietly.
‘Yes I do!’ Her voice was suddenly violent. ‘All of it. It isn’t even just a case of honesty or dishonesty any more. I hate the squalor. I hate the fear. There’s no pride in any of it!’
‘There’s not a lot of pride in starving either.’
‘There are other ways to eat.’
He cocked a sardonic brow. ‘You think so? You believe, do you, in the pride of honest labour, the commendable sweat of a respectable man who slaves for others to see his children starve?’
Shaken by the depth of bitterness in the words she did not reply.
He shook his head. ‘You’ve got it wrong, Kitty. The people you so easily despise – including me, including your brother – they may be everything you believe they are – they may be vicious, and cruel, and frightened and degenerate. They may be worthless. They may deserve no more than the lash or the hangman’s noose. But think. What kind of society has produced these people? Are they not also, in their way, victims? Victims of a society whose sternest judgement and punishment is visited upon those unfortunate enough to be born poor? What greater crime is there than being penniless? For nothing more than that thousands upon thousands of souls are condemned to the harshest of hard labour, to the most atrocious living conditions that man could envisage, to disease, to hopelessness and to death. They watch their loved ones die – their wives, their husbands, their children. And for their inability to save themselves from the quicksand of poverty into which others have thrown them they are castigated, preached at, despised. Do you wonder that half the population of Stepney is three parts drunk most of the time and on the sharp side of the law all of the time? What else would you have them do? Have you seen the sweatshops? No hard labour in Newgate can touch them, take it from me. Have you seen the girls – girls no older than you – blinded, and stooped like old women? Burned and scarred by phosphorus? Do you blame them, then, for selling their bodies? Have you seen the children making boxes for a ha’penny a gross – and a glass of water and a crust of dry bread stopped out of their wages?’
She was staring at him in astonishment. He stopped. Spread his hands, studying the nails. Lifted his head again.
‘Matt didn’t have to do any of those things,’ she said, quietly.
‘No. And neither, if you’re asking, did I.’ The unusual passion had died as quickly as it had flamed. ‘Of course, you’re right. Matt and I – we’re the other kind. Born to hang.’
‘Don’t say that!’
His brows lifted. ‘Sorry.’
She shrugged.
‘Matt can’t help it,’ he said.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Believe him. He knows.’
‘I don’t understand it.’
‘No. I don’t suppose you do.’
‘It would have broken Father’s heart.’
Silence.
‘I promised I’d look after him—’ she said, her quiet voice all but lost in the still darkness.
‘And so you have.’
‘Not well enough.’ She was fidgeting with her sodden woollen skirt, pleating it with her fingers, smoothing it out.
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t agree with you.’
She could not repress a smile. ‘What’s so different about that? Matt agrees with very little I say.’
They fell to silence. After a moment, a little defiantly, she said, ‘Your turn.’
‘What is?’
‘The soul-baring. I’ve told you about us. Now it’s your turn.’
‘You mean – what’s my excuse?’ The tone was bantering.
‘If you like.’
‘I can think of more interesting subjects to talk about,’ he said, a little tentatively.
She maintained an obstinate silence.
‘Very well.’ He dug into his pocket and produced a fresh candle, lit it from the guttering remnant in the holder. As he carefully forced the new candle in the melted, dying stub of the old she studied his dark, closed profile. He sat back. The candle stood, tall flame bright and steady between them. His eyes were fixed upon it, thoughtfully. For a moment she thought he was not going to continue. Then, ‘Once upon a time,’ he said, ‘there was a princess, fair and very beautiful.’ His voice was light. She did not know if he mocked her or not. ‘She lived in splendour and comfort in a great house in the country. She dined off silver platters and drank from the finest crystal. Dressed in silks and in satins, she rode in a carriage behind the finest pair of matched bays in the county. She was kind and she was gentle, and she was very much loved.’ He paused. Kitty sat, watching and waiting, still and quiet as a mouse. ‘But yet – there was something missing in her life. She did not know herself what it was, you understand – she only knew – something missing – something important—’ The dark, deeply shadowed eyes lifted to Kitty’s face. ‘And then the gypsy came.’
It occurred to Kitty that he had told this tale before. She waited.
‘He was handsome – oh, yes, the finest-looking man the princess had ever seen was the gypsy. And proud as Lucifer. And wicked as the hounds of hell.’ His eyes had drifted from her and were fixed once again upon the candleflame. ‘But of course the princess didn’t know that. She saw the handsome face, the splendid body, the proud glance and was stricken with’ – for a second his long mouth twitched into an entirely mirthless smile – ‘lust.’
He fell silent. When the silence lengthened Kitty could not resist saying, as she knew she was expected to, ‘What happened?’
‘Don’t be silly, Songbird. What do you think happened? She lay with the gypsy one night under the stars. And for one night of pleasure reaped a short lifetime of misery. When it was discovered that she was carrying his child she was turned from her father’s door. Naturally enough she fled to her lover. And he beat her and humiliated her and treated like a dog the child that she bore him.’
‘No!’ She could not prevent the shocked word.
‘But yes.’ His voice was flat, nervelessly composed. ‘And so you see, from very different backgrounds you and I have something in common, do we not? We are both misfits – over-educated, under-capitalized and with expectations beyond our station. And each of us has been born with a talent. You can sing. I can thieve, as a good gypsy should. How can you hold that against me?’
‘Is it true? They were your parents?’
‘Yes.’ He gave a small impatient jerk of his head, flicking the dark hair from his eyes. She had the sudden impression that he regretted embarking on the story. He turned to her, and his face had changed. The Luke she knew, the man whose arrogance and carelessness had so antagonized her, was back. ‘You want to know the end of the story?’
‘No.’
He ignored that. ‘They didn’t live happily ever after. He killed her.’
She caught her breath. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘God had very little to do with it actually. It had rather more to do with strong spirits and a long, sharp knife.’ His bravado had failed him a little.
‘You were there?’
‘Yes.’
She sucked her lip. ‘How – how old were you?’
He shrugged. ‘Eleven – twelve?’
The thought struck her wordless. She put a hand to touch his. He allowed it to rest there for a brief, oddly courteous moment before, unable to accept her sympathy, he disengaged himself. The candle was leaning a little. Tallow dripped, one-sidedly. Absentmindedly he pushed at it with a long fingernail.
‘You must have hated him,’ she said.
That brought his eyes to hers. He shook his head. His expression was sombre. ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to. For a while I thought I did. But then I realized—’ He poked at the candle again, face shadowed.
‘What?’
‘Then I realized that – no matter what – I loved him—’ The words came painfully. ‘I wanted to hate him. I wanted to kill him for what he had done to my mother, and to me. But I couldn’t. For a word from him I’d’ve crawled on my belly. I did everything I could to make him notice me. He never did.’
In the darkness that gathered in the corners something stirred and was still, like a small breath of evil. Luke drew one knee up to his chin, linked his hands around it. ‘One day, Songbird,’ he said softly, ‘I’ll have a son. And he’ll love me as I loved that devil of a father. No matter what I do, no matter who I am, he’ll love me. And I’ll show him what it is to have a father. We’ll put it right.’
She waited, then, ‘What did you do?’ she asked.
‘The day after he was killed in a tavern brawl I left. I was good with horses. I’d had a good, if rather eccentric, education from my mother. I talked, thanks to her, like a young gentleman. I made my way.’
She stretched her legs a little, glad at the lessening of the disturbing tension his story had engendered. ‘So. Here we are – both making our way.’
He smiled at her, and she saw the gleam of it in the candlelight. ‘And yours, Kitty Songbird, could be a very good way indeed if you play your cards right.’ She got the impression that he was only too pleased to change the subject.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come now – what modesty! What do I mean? What do you think I mean?’ He grinned again. ‘“My soul is an enchanted boat, Which like a sleeping swan doth float, Upon the waves of thy sweet singing—”’
She laughed delightedly. ‘“And thine doth like an angel sit, Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing—”’ She had capped the quotation before the possible inference of the words had struck her. She stopped.
‘What ever would poor Percy think,’ he asked of the awkward silence, lightly, ‘to hear himself quoted in a sewer?’
She laughed a little. Fidgeted, arching her back to ease its ache. ‘Luke?’
‘Mm?’
‘How – how much longer, do you think?’
He shook his head. ‘Give it a little longer.’
She nodded uncertainly. The bitter cold was numbing her.
‘Tell me something.’
She looked enquiringly.
‘You aren’t thinking of singing for Moses Smith forever?’
Her eyes were suddenly wary. ‘I – hadn’t thought about it.’
‘More fool you, then. You’re good. You know you are. You’ve a lot to learn. But it’s coming. It shows.’
‘Thank you.’ The words were dry.
‘If you ever’ – he paused – ‘when – you want a bit of help moving on, come to me. One good turn deserves another. I’ve got friends that might help.’
‘What sort of friends?’ Her voice was guarded.
He gave a small bark of laughter. ‘Not the sort to worry you. Perish the thought. I do have some law-abiding acquaintances, you know. Have you ever heard of a man called Patrick Kenny? He opened a place called the New Cambridge about – oh, eight months or so ago. It’s doing very well.’
She nodded. ‘George mentioned it. But don’t be silly. Patrick Kenny wouldn’t be interested in me.’ She hesitated. ‘Would he?’
His chuckle brought a blush of mortification to her cheeks. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ He reached into his pocket, took out a watch, tilted it to the light of the candle. Then he slid to the floor, held out his hands to help her down.
Her heart had started to thud uncomfortably. ‘Now?’ she asked.
‘Now,’ he nodded.
He tried to leave her halfway up the stairs, with the candle and instructions to wait.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Kitty – please don’t be stupid. You know as well as I do that there’s a chance they’ll be waiting—’
‘So – what good will it do me to be trapped like a rat when they come down here—?’
‘There’s no reason they should.’
‘Unless they guess you’d been warned. Don’t you think they might check? I’m not staying here alone. I’m coming with you.’
He argued no further. Silently he led the way to the top of the steps. ‘At least,’ he whispered, his eyes sardonic in the candlelight, ’you’ll allow me the doubtful privilege of going first?’
She did not bother to answer.
He blew out the candle, set it down and very, very gently lifted the bar of the door. Noiselessly then the door swung open. The warm, acrid smell of burning seeped into the tunnel. Luke was hunkered down, feeling for the lever of the bookcase. Very carefully he pulled it. Fractionally the enormous piece of furniture lifted from the floor. Kitty thought her heart must stop beating altogether.
There was no sound.
Infinitely slowly Luke eased the bookcase from the wall. When the gap was a few inches deep he stood for a moment, head cocked, listening, before sliding his lean frame into the narrow gap.
Kitty’s knuckles were at her mouth. She heard the faint rustle of Luke’s movements, smelled again a drift of fragrant smoke, then almost jumped from her skin in terror as there came a violent flurry of movement, a choked cry and then silence. She stood as if turned to stone.
‘It’s all right. You can come out. But don’t scream.’ Luke’s voice, very quiet.
She pushed the bookcase. It floated as if on air away from the wall. ‘Why should I—?’ She stepped into the room, and stood aghast. It had been utterly wrecked. Furniture and pictures were smashed, books and papers ripped and smouldering in a heap in the fireplace. Broken glass and china crunched underfoot. Cheated of their prey, Luke’s enemies had indulged in a mindless orgy of destruction. There was a strong smell of urine. But what riveted her eyes was the horror that lay sprawled upon the bed, still twitching, the blood pumping from a gaping hole in his throat.
She opened her mouth.
Luke tossed the bloody knife he was holding onto the soiled bed and was by her side in a second, his blood-smeared hand clamped on her shoulder. ‘Not a bloody whimper!’ he hissed, and jerked his head downwards.
Her eyes widened. ‘They’re here?’ Her voice was a breath.
‘Almost certainly. Waiting downstairs. They’d left him here in case they missed me.’
Sickly she turned her back on the ghastly thing on the bed. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘What we should bloody well have done in the first place,’ he said. ‘We’re going through the sewer.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. Wait.’ Swiftly and quietly he strode to a wardrobe in the corner of the room. The doors had been smashed open. Clothes lay like heaps of rags on a market stall, strewn upon the floor. He bent and sorted through them, tossed her a shirt and a pair of trousers. ‘Here – put these on—’
She stared like a halfwit.
‘For God’s sweet sake, girl!’ The words were taut with edgy impatience. ‘You said yourself – you’d never get through that muck in those skirts. Get them off!’
The good sense of his words was apparent. She thought of her heavy, full skirts dragging her down into that mire and shuddered.
‘Hurry!’
She snatched the clothes, turned her back on him. He did not even notice. He had turned from her and was surveying, hard-faced, the wreckage of the once-lovely room. She scrambled awkwardly out of her own clothes and into his. Lean as Luke was, the waist of the trousers was inches too big and the legs too long. She bent and rolled them up to her ankles, then stood clutching the loose waist of the trousers. Luke turned, and his strained face split into a quick grin. ‘Here—’ He tossed her a wide leather belt. She buckled it tightly about her waist, bunching the trousers. They felt very strange, stiff and heavy and confining. She picked up the jacket he had tossed her. ‘I’m ready.’
He was watching her, the smile softer. ‘You make a handsomer lad than your brother,’ he said. ‘And as game a one too it seems. Right. Off we go.’ He slid back behind the bookcase. Feeling incredibly ungainly in the unaccustomed clothes, and with the dead man’s eyes boring like hot needles into her back, she followed.
Beyond the crypt the sewer breathed its poisonous miasma at her. She stood trembling, shaking her head. Luke’s hand, cold and strong, held her steady. Breast-high the filth invaded her. She sobbed a little, biting her lip.
‘Not far. It really isn’t far. Hold on. We’re nearly there.’ Luke sounded as sick as she felt. ‘Hold on—’
She could not. She knew she could not. It was impossible to keep her footing. She would fall, she knew, and drown in the unspeakable obscene darkness – for the dozenth time she slipped and only Luke’s strength prevented her from plunging into the stinking depths. Her hair, unpinned, hung down her back and plastered itself across her face, heavy with filth. She retched. Her limbs felt trapped by the nauseous quagmire.
‘Steady – see – we’re almost there—’
Ahead, incredibly, was light. Sobbing, she almost stumbled again. Floundering, she regained her balance, and the part of her mind that remained clear of the blindness of panic thanked God and Luke Peveral that she was not wearing the clinging skirts that would have undoubtedly dragged her down. The candle that Luke held, head-high, blew out. Faint grey light invaded the stinking tunnel.
‘We’re nearly there – nearly through – that’s a brave girl—’
She did not feel brave. She felt defiled. Defeated.
Long minutes later, hardly daring to believe it, she found herself wading between the beslimed banks of the canal. Never had the fog-heavy air of Stepney seemed so pure.
Convulsively she gulped it into her lungs. The stagnant canal-waters that had so revolted her earlier might have been the crystal spring-waters of Eden. She retched violently. Luke was coughing beside her. When her stomach had ended its rebellion she splashed her arms and her clothes, trying to clean off the worst of the filth. She was suddenly aware that she was freezing cold and shivering violently, her teeth chattering in her head. Luke, as bedraggled and dirty as she, and in as bad a way, held out his hand. ‘Just a little further. Blind Lane isn’t far. Midge will see us right.’
They clambered with difficulty up the slippery bank and stumbled upstream. Kitty had lost one of her boots. Brambles tore at her, broken glass lay in ambush for her bare foot. ‘Luke, please – wait!’
He shook his head. ‘Keep going. We’re almost there.’
She followed him blindly. Fog still wreathed Blind Lane. She leaned against the wall, exhausted, as Luke’s fists thundered upon the door of the Rooms. ‘Open up! It’s Luke Peveral! Open up, for Christ’s sake —!’
‘What the bleedin’ ’ell?’ Bobs stood, blinking in astonishment. He turned from them, wrinkling his prizefighter’s nose in disgust. ‘Christ’s bleedin’ teeth!’
Luke pushed roughly past him, dragging Kitty with him. ‘Get Midge! Quickly, man!’
Kitty snatched her hand from his, sank onto the nearest chair and covered her filthy face with her even filthier hands. She felt indescribably befouled. Tainted. She would never be clean. The dead man’s eyes bored still into her brain.
She could not even cry.
An hour later, bathed, fed and with a quarter of a bottle of Moses’ best brandy poured unceremoniously down her throat, she was in bed. Moments before she drifted into brandy-induced, nightmare-ridden sleep it occurred to her that she was almost certainly the first of Midge’s girls ever to sleep in one of these beds alone. And probably the last.
No one saw or heard from Luke Peveral for the best part of ten days. Having delivered Kitty to Midge and seen her safely cared for he had left, and disappeared, so it seemed, from the face of the earth.
Four days later the bodies of two men were fished from the Thames. They had been neatly garrotted, apparently by the same hand. No one came forward to identify the bodies.
Three days after that a man was found hanging beneath Blackfriars Bridge – a man in his thirties, the police surgeon hazarded, with skin darkened by a foreign sun and the shackle-scars of a convict on wrists and ankles. No one enquired too closely into his death, either.
Spider smiled painfully at the news, delivered through the obscure grapevine of the underworld, and applied himself with more appetite than normal to the mash that Pol pushed between his crushed lips.
A few days later Luke Peveral sauntered into the Rooms as if he had never been away. Obviously aware of the buzz that ran around the hall at his appearance, he grinned, greeted a friend, joined Moses at his accustomed table.
Lottie shrieked and flung herself upon him. Over her head he looked to where Kitty sat, death-still and suddenly pale as ivory.
‘Good evening, Songbird,’ he said, gently. ‘Not too late for the show, am I?’
It was just a week after that, that Oliver Fogg first appeared at Smith’s Song and Supper Rooms. And set in motion a chain of violence and death that was to affect them all.