13

I searched Elspeth’s tiny room, which had space for a bed and a chest of drawers, or, strictly, drawer, as all but one were missing. Nothing was left except black mould and insects, so I took a cab home.

In my room, I lay on my bed, for once not resenting the trough that ran down the centre. I was, at least, warm and dry. But still, I was unable to get comfortable. My ribs seemed to be bruised rather than broken, but they hurt like hell. Worse, the sole of Coffey’s boot had caught my right breast. When I unpeeled my binding I almost cried out.

Sleep would not come. Every part of me was aching, and my mind was consumed with concern for Elspeth Drake. She seemed to lack all faith in her future and had gone with Coffey willingly when he asked. Of course, she’d been willing to come with me too, so perhaps that’s just how she was. Perhaps that’s why Drake had married her; a biddable plaything who would do as she was told and could always be replaced if the mood took him. I wondered if she knew that. Probably she did; there wasn’t much that girls who’d lived on the streets didn’t know about men.

At dawn, I raised myself and squatted over my chamber pot, bent forward with my hands on the floor. It took me a further five minutes to stand up and another ten to wrap myself in a clean binding – my cilice, I called it, after the shirts worn as a penance by monks, though they should’ve tried strapping one over a bruised breast if they truly wanted to know what God’s punishment felt like.

To cap it all, my monthly blood had arrived. As ever, I’d prepared a sanitary cloth in advance, but still my nightshirt was tainted with a stigmatic red smear.

I cleaned between my legs with cold water from the basin and used the same water to wash my nightshirt and cloth. By the time I came downstairs to where Constance was preparing breakfast, I felt as though something with teeth had hatched inside me and was trying to chew its way out.

Alfie handed me the morning’s Daily Chronicle. ‘Congratulations.’

There was my story, at the top of the second page, the first one after the advertisements. I would have glowed with pride, were I not crippled.

Constance snatched it from me and started reading. ‘“The Daily Chronicle has uncovered new evidence of the guilt of Sister Agnes Munro in the vicious murder of Oswald Drake at his wrestling club on the tenth of May.” Gosh, Mr Stanhope, is this you? Did you really write this?’

‘I did.’

I opted not to mention that it wasn’t quite what I had written, the subeditors having excised the word ‘brilliantly’, before ‘uncovered’.

She continued: ‘“Our correspondent was the only person permitted into the rooms at the Convent of Mercy, where he found a disguise and a hypodermic syringe hidden beneath a floorboard. Mr Drake was drugged with morphine prior to being hanged, so this new evidence will surely result in the conviction of Sister Agnes Munro, the Butcher of Berner Street.”’

Alfie put his hand out for the newspaper, a broad grin spreading across his face. ‘My word, Leo. You’re becoming quite a man of note, aren’t you?’

I modestly demurred. ‘I don’t know about that.’

Constance seemed about to argue with me, but an acrid smell was emerging from her pan of porridge and she had to attend to that instead.

‘Who’s this fellow, Lampton?’ asked Alfie, having turned the page of the newspaper.

‘A politician.’

His eyes widened as he read. ‘One who seems to have opinions.’

He said this rather in the manner one might say someone had scabies. Alfie cared little more about affairs of government than I did.

‘That’s what politicians do.’

Alfie shook his head. ‘No, I mean he has opinions about this murder. He’s quoted here.’ He scanned down the page. ‘I suppose he does have a point. I mean, it’s not natural, is it, ladies wrestling.’

‘Sister Agnes seemed quite good at it.’

He didn’t look up from the newspaper. ‘Look, I’m in favour of them being allowed to do more, I really am. There are ladies in my profession who I’d gladly hire to work on the female products. They’re better at some things and men are better at others, and that’s just how it is.’

Constance carved a lump of charred porridge from the pan and thumped it on to his plate.

‘Breakfast,’ she declared.

We ate in tense silence until Constance’s curiosity got the better of her.

‘You were asking about a syringe before, Mr Stanhope. Was it for this investigation?’

She seemed thrilled by the possibility.

‘It was.’

I glanced a little nervously at Alfie, who had strict views on what his daughter should and should not be permitted to know about, which certainly excluded murder weapons. Fortunately, he was engrossed in a report about football.

‘It was a wide needle then, like you thought?’

I had forgotten we’d discussed that topic.

‘The hole in his skin may not have been made by a wide needle after all,’ I explained. ‘I now believe it was a narrow one, but waggled about.’ I made the motion with my hand, as if stirring a cup of tea.

‘Why on earth would the killer do that?’ she asked.

Then Alfie did look up, frowning at the two of us in turn. ‘I’m sure Mr Stanhope has to go to work now, don’t you Leo?’

‘Of course.’

I climbed gingerly to my feet.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Someone kicked me yesterday. Perils of being a man of note.’

Constance clicked her tongue. ‘Let’s get you something for the pain.’

She filled a cup with water and beckoned me to follow her into the pharmacy, closing the door behind us.

‘I’m investigating Mrs Gower,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘I’m quite certain she isn’t as she appears. Did you know that her husband died with no money?’

‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘One of the clerks at the bank told me. He’s a friend of mine.’

She busied herself stirring a teaspoonful of salicin into the cup and stood watching me drink it like a mother with a sickly child. It was ghastly stuff and made me shudder when I got to the dregs.

I wiped my mouth. ‘Constance, you must desist. It isn’t your business.’

‘It is my business,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s my father.’ And then more loudly. ‘There. You’ll feel better soon, Mr Stanhope.’

I was late to the office. I’d made the mistake of returning to my bed for a few minutes to soothe the pain and ended up closing my eyes for an hour, so by the time I walked in, Mr Coxswain had already completed his first tea round. I eyed with envy the steaming cups and plates of shortbread biscuits on my colleagues’ desks.

Before I could sit down, I was greeted by a fellow whose name I couldn’t remember, if indeed I’d ever known it. He punched me lightly on the shoulder, grinning broadly, taking no notice of my agonised groan.

‘Stanhope! The man of the hour!’

I staggered to my desk and put my head in my hands, ignoring Harry, who was leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. Others were arriving at my desk too: reporters, copyboys and advertising men, all nodding and leering at me as though about to break into spontaneous applause.

‘Two editions already,’ said Harry.

‘A third on its way,’ added one of the men. ‘Sold out everywhere. We’ve had to keep the lads back in case we need a fourth. Never needed a fourth before, not once.’

‘Only seen three editions a couple of times,’ said another fellow. ‘Last time must be five years ago when Father Tooth got himself arrested.’

Harry rubbed his hands together. ‘You’ve done it now, Leo. The Butcher of Berner Street has caught the public imagination.’

‘You named her that, not me.’

He bowed with fake humility. ‘My minor contribution to your masterpiece.’

J. T. joined the party, his mouth stretched into a shape I hadn’t seen before: a smile. He vigorously shook my hand.

‘Good work, Stanhope.’

I thanked him, and whether it was the glow of his approval or the salicin finally taking effect I couldn’t have said, but the pain seemed to have dissipated almost completely.

After five minutes of merriment, including a fresh pot of tea and three shortbread biscuits fetched specially from the kitchen by Miss Chive, J. T. clicked his fingers at us, his expression sagging into a more familiar scowl.

‘You’ve all got work to do. Best get back to it. Harry, you can take Stanhope with you.’

‘To where?’ I asked.

Harry picked a piece of paper off his desk and waved it at me. ‘Lampton’s people are handing out these flyers. He’s going to give another speech, apparently, inciting the masses, that sort of thing.’ He winked. ‘Let’s avoid getting thrown out this time, eh?’ J. T. seemed about to ask what he meant by that, but Harry leapt to his feet. ‘We mustn’t be late. There’s likely to be quite a crowd.’

When we got outside, he turned eastwards.

‘Where is this speech?’ I asked.

He pointed back over his shoulder. ‘Whitehall.’

‘Then why –?’

‘It’s not until this afternoon. I thought we could have a celebratory ale and pie in the meantime. It’s a sin to sit around in the office on a lovely day like this.’

He was right, the sun was beating down on us. Gentlemen were coatless, some even in shirt sleeves, carrying their jackets over their arms. Ladies had dispensed with scarves in favour of open-necked frocks and straw hats.

The short walk to Rosie’s shop raised my spirits and loosened my muscles. I was sure now that my ribs were only bruised, not broken, and even my right breast seemed to be recovering a little, though I had to walk with an unnatural, stilted gait to avoid my cilice chafing against my grazed skin.

As we emerged into the light from under the railway bridge at Ludgate Circus, Harry stopped and turned to me. He seemed boyish and awkward, and I was reminded that he was younger than me by three or four years.

‘Mrs Flowers is a widow, isn’t she? Did you ever meet her husband?’

‘I saw him, once. I spoke to him briefly, as I remember.’

No need to mention that Jack Flowers had been dead at the time.

Harry scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Do you know if she has any suitors at the present?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. We never talk about that sort of thing.’ Though I couldn’t imagine it. Where on earth would she find the time?

‘Does she like going for walks, do you think?’

‘Oh yes, she walks everywhere. Hates taking cabs. It’s infuriating, quite honestly.’

His expression was one of frustration. I had the feeling I was missing his intent.

‘I mean, would she like going for a walk with me? I was wondering about taking her to see the gardens at Kew. Some flowers for Mrs Flowers, that sort of thing. Would she be amused, do you think?’

‘She might enjoy that, yes.’

I was aware that my tone was unhelpfully non-committal, but in truth I didn’t know how to react. Rosie was … she was just Rosie. Always Rosie. She was like your favourite pair of shoes that might pinch once in a while, but will go with you on every journey, no matter how far. I was certain she wouldn’t appreciate that comparison, but there was no higher compliment I could think of. I was her shoes too. I would go anywhere Rosie wanted to go; no hesitation, no equivocation.

Of course, I was dimly aware that she was a woman and might one day entertain romantic feelings towards a man. But Harry? All at once, I had a picture of it: the two of them among the buds and butterflies, arm in arm, leaning in to murmur a coy remark, sharing a joke and gazing into one another’s eyes as they laughed. He was tall, was Harry, with blue-eyed charm and an easy smile. Women liked him. No matter how much he’d drunk the night before, he was always well groomed and quite rarely stank. But he wasn’t what one might call reliable. He fell in love at the drop of a handkerchief and fell out of it just as quickly; almost as quickly as he fell out of bars, and with rather less of a hangover.

He gave me a concerned look, his head cocked to one side. ‘I’m sorry, Leo. I thought you were simply friends. Do I have that wrong?’

I could have told him that Rosie had murdered two people, one she knew about and one she didn’t, and I’d never told a soul about either of them. Or that she’d saved my life and I’d saved hers. I could even have used the shoes metaphor, but decided against it, especially as my actual shoes were taking in water like holed dinghies. In the end, I just clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Of course we’re simply friends. Come along, I’m getting hungry.’

Rosie herself was wedging open the door as we arrived, her first customers of the day. The plumes of steam flowed over us; heady meat and pumpkin, sweet pastry and sugared dates. I could have stood on the pavement for hours just breathing it in.

‘We’re dodging work,’ I announced to her in as cheery a manner as I could muster. ‘We decided we’d rather eat your pies than sit in the office.’

Harry added what was, to him, the more salient detail. ‘And drink some ale.’

Her mouth was set flat, like a minus sign.

‘You’re proud to be taking a wage for doing nothing, are you?’

I suppose I had been a trifle insensitive. She had probably been baking since dawn.

‘Believe me, I’ve earned it today. I’ve had a success. We’re celebrating.’

‘What would that be, then?’

‘An article in the newspaper. You were wrong about that convent. Sister Agnes is the killer.’

We followed her into the shop, but rather than serve us, she went into the back. Alice appeared instead. She explained to Harry that his usual leek and ham pie hadn’t been made that morning for some reason, and they spent several minutes exchanging opinions about fillings while I mused on what could have made Rosie so peevish. She had no right to be cross with me for taking an early lunch, and she had been wrong about the convent. Rather than stalking off with scarcely a word, I was of the opinion that she should apologise.

Harry bought us each a gammon and broccoli pie and a glass of ale, and Alice was giving him his change when Rosie came back into the shop. Under her arm, she was holding a copy of today’s Daily Chronicle, which made her present incivility all the more remarkable. One might have expected her to congratulate me and perhaps offer us the ales on the house.

‘This is your work, is it? Your success, did you call it?’

‘Yes.’

Something in her expression made me think that congratulations were not about to be forthcoming.

‘You’ve decided this Sister Agnes is guilty then. You called her a butcher.’

‘We found compelling evidence.’

She nodded, but it wasn’t agreement. It seemed more like confirmation of her low opinion.

‘And you’ve presented it to her, I suppose? You’ve heard what she has to say about this evidence.’

I folded my arms. ‘Yes, I have. All criminals claim they’re innocent, Rosie.’

She looked at me as if I was the meanest creature on God’s earth.

‘She’s a nun.’

‘She’s not actually a nun, she’s a …’ I realised the point was probably moot and chose a different line of argument. ‘I’m investigating every aspect of the story, believe me. I visited Drake’s widow and she told me he’d spent all of their money. There’s something peculiar going on at that gaff, I’m sure of it.’

She prodded at the newspaper. ‘But this doesn’t mention any of that.’

‘I only found out yesterday evening. You clearly don’t know how journalism works.’ She frowned deeply, so I opted to explain. ‘It’s always a day out of date. We write the news one day and print it the next.’

‘So, you wrote this before you knew all the facts? You’re happy to write something untrue and change your mind later.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Harry took a sip of his ale, watching the two of us. ‘Seems she does know how journalism works after all.’

Rosie briefly narrowed her eyes at him, before turning back to me. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Leo Stanhope, instead of standing there smirking like an idiot.’

‘I’m not smirking.’

‘You are smirking. You like to smirk when you think you’re clever. But there’s nothing clever about calling a woman a butcher.’

‘I know.’

I glanced at Harry. After all, the Butcher of Berner Street was his idea. But he chose not to volunteer that information.

Rosie followed my look. ‘And as for you, Mr Whitford, are you the co-author of this figment?’

He hastily shook his head. ‘No, not at all. I wrote the article on page three about Mr Lampton. He’s opposed to wives having financial independence, or any independence really.’

She nodded. ‘Now there’s a subject worth writing about. That bloody man telling women how they should behave. He’s a pompous bully, is what he is.’

Harry smiled. ‘I’m doing my best, Mrs Flowers. We were on our way to watch him speak this afternoon, and I’ll be looking out for any sign of pomposity or bullying, I assure you.’

She turned back to me; her eyes fiery. ‘There. You see? You can learn something from Mr Whitford.’

The sheer injustice of it was dumbfounding.

I could tell from Harry’s smile, twitching his moustache at the corners, that he was about to press home his advantage. ‘Actually, Rosie,’ he said. ‘It’s a topic I’d love to discuss with you further. I was thinking we could go to Kew Gardens on Saturday evening, and you could tell me your ideas on the matter?’

She looked at him, her chest still heaving with rage at me, and I thought she would laugh bitterly or just shake her head. But she didn’t. She drew herself up to her full almost five feet and shot me a single, piercing glare.

‘Yes, Harry, I would like that very much.’

I insisted on taking a cab, pleading that my injuries demanded the gentlest treatment, and gazed out of the window as we described a gentle arc along the Strand, around Trafalgar Square and down Northumberland Avenue. There, we halted, and the driver called down to us that we could go no further because a crowd had gathered with, in his opinion, the specific intention of preventing hard-working cabbies from earning a living.

‘I suppose this is it,’ grunted Harry, and we got out.

The crowd was two hundred strong at least, and mostly men, spreading across the lawns of Whitehall Gardens and on to the Embankment itself, gathering in groups and leaning against the river railings, blocking anyone from walking past. One might have thought they were here for a picnic or some other pleasant diversion, but for the dourness of their faces and earnestness of their conversations. The fog was sitting heavy on the Thames, making the gardens seem other-worldly and isolated, an island set apart from the streets and houses of London. It was a world away from the cosy intimacy of the Beaconsfield Club.

‘So many people.’

Harry laughed. ‘It’s a movement now. That’s what makes it news. Come on.’

I followed him into the throng as he held up his card and barked ‘reporters coming through’ at anyone who got in his way. We joined our fellow gentlemen of the press at the point where the gravel paths intersected at the centre. They were a sallow-looking bunch in heavy coats despite the warm weather; evidence of their natural pessimism.

For half an hour or so, we performed that most typical of journalistic functions, we waited. In my case, I spent the time sitting on a bench, hunched over because, I told Harry, my bruises hurt like hell. This was partly true, but the greater agony was from the injury God had caused me: the cramping from my monthly blood. I could scarcely keep myself from curling up on the ground. It was not normally this bad, and I wondered whether He was punishing me more than usual. Perhaps my article accusing a Sister of Mercy of murder had vexed Him.

Eventually, a murmur flowed through the crowd and Lampton appeared, flanked by two large fellows, one of them the upmarket thug who’d tossed Harry and me out of the Beaconsfield Club. They processed to the centre of the gardens, accompanied by whooping and cheering as if Lillie Langtry herself had arrived wearing nothing but her underclothes. Lampton raised his arms for quiet and was about to speak, when I noticed two familiar figures in the crowd: a man in a silk top hat and a lady in a black taffeta dress and black bonnet, a veil covering her face and a bundle held in her arms. The man was the last to finish cheering, and I realised he was Nicholas Coffey, his expression agog, drinking in the moment like a rosebud opening in the sunshine.

And the woman was Elspeth Drake.