21

At ten o’clock that evening, I arrived at the penny gaff. It was heaving with people and the noise could be heard from a hundred yards away. Outside, the Othello sign had been painted over, and was now reading:

Wrestling Every Night

The finest sporting contests brought to you by new proprietor

Mr Nicholas Coffey

MEN ONLY

I couldn’t imagine how he’d come to take the place over. By rights, it should have gone to Reggie, which in practice meant to his mother, Elspeth.

I peeked through a gap in the advertisements littering the window, and the place was packed. Two men were wrestling in the ring, locked together like battling stags. They went to ground and one of them forced the other into a neck lock, only releasing him when the poor fellow beat his palm on the floor.

Coffey bounced on to the stage and held up the winner’s arm. He was quite a sight. His old clothes had been colourful, but they were of the type a working man might afford, fraying at the hems and scuffed around the pockets. No longer. Now, his violet jacket was spotless, one sleeve sewn shut at the end, and his trousers were black, not in the normal way trousers are black, meaning somewhat grey at the knees and hems, but coal-tar black, with creases so fine they dropped vertically like a plumb, only breaking as they reached the laces of his shiny leather shoes.

I couldn’t bear to watch him, so I sat on the pavement with my back to the gaff, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark again.

Children were gathering, though I had to be sharp-sighted to spot them. They were crouching behind the wall, peeking around corners and huddling together in dim doorways, their eyes glinting in the reflection from the window. I hoped Coffey would continue Drake’s habit of allowing them to sleep on the floor at night. My plan depended on it.

I had long since made the decision that I would never again wear a dress – not for any reason. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t disguise myself in other ways.

I took off my coat, rolled it up and thrust it into the drawstring bag I’d brought with me.

After our last trip to the park, when we’d been caught in a downpour, I had bought Aiden and Ciara both a complete change of clothes that I kept in my room. Aiden’s were considerably small on me, of course, but that suited my needs perfectly. Thus, Leo Stanhope, upstanding gentleman and diligent reporter, was replaced by an urchin of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, newly sprouted, with wrists and ankles extending pinkly from his jacket and trousers. His face was grubby around the cheeks and chin, and his hair, though more neatly cut than one might expect, was greasy, almost as though someone had combed grease through it.

The first time I had looked this way was a decade and a half previously when I’d tried on my brother’s clothes, striding down the hill towards the park with a spring in my step.

And the last time I had looked this way, my name had been Tom Cobb.

I strode up the road and back again, practising the swagger I’d adopted back then, before I became a gentleman. There was something in the heels, some elevation with each step, and a swing in the shoulders that didn’t care if passers-by had to skip out of my way.

I felt in my jacket pocket and pulled out the syringe I’d taken from Jacob. It was a lovely thing, worth half a crown at least, made of brass with two finger-holes in the plunger and a fine needle. Back at the pharmacy, I’d dissolved some morphine crystals in alcohol and dripped them into the barrel.

The door to the penny gaff burst open and a dozen men came pouring out, many with the sour expressions of punters who’d won fewer bets than they’d lost. One of them, drunk and not looking where he was going, barged into me.

‘Oy! Get out of the bloody way!’

I pressed against the window, the drawstring bag gripped tightly in my hand, and he stumbled onwards, swigging his bottle of ale.

The children clustered closer, skinny as minks, watching for anyone who might approach, whether that was prey or predator. When the lamps inside the gaff were lit again, they formed an uneven line along the pavement.

Unwittingly, I’d taken the frontmost position, though not for long. A heavyset lad of about my height barged in front of me, elbowing me into the street, and the line immediately closed up, affording me no gap to step into. I walked sheepishly to the back, passing all the other children, a dozen or more, each of whom gave me a look of pure derision.

The final few kids were the littlest ones. I felt giant and ridiculous standing behind them but couldn’t bring myself to heave them out of the way.

The door opened and Mr Coffey emerged, standing in the exact spot where Mr Drake had handed out farthings just ten days before.

‘All right then,’ the dandy called out, jingling coins in his pocket. ‘I’ll give you the same deal you had before. But if anyone steps out of line, I’ll have ’em thrashed.’

The lad at the front, with a dark complexion and deep-set eyes, took his coin and ducked his head to enter the gaff. Coffey put a restraining hand on his arm.

‘You should be a wrestler, sonny. You’re getting big enough. We should see what you’re made of.’

Six further lads got their farthings before the first girl reached the door. I recognised her from the last time, when she’d given Drake a sarcastic curtsy. She was moon-faced and about Constance’s age, on the brink of womanhood but still a foot shorter than me. Coffey took her chin in his hand.

‘What’s your name, darlin’?’

‘Maria, sir.’

I felt a flush within my veins, bursting into my fingers and toes, stinging my lips and rushing in my ears. I almost leapt forward to pull her away, but Coffey let go and she passed inside. None of the remaining children was stopped until I reached the doorway and put out my hand for a farthing, keeping my face lowered.

Coffey narrowed his eyes. ‘Why ain’t you near the front?’ he demanded. ‘A lad your age should take his right place.’

I allowed my voice to quaver boyishly. ‘Plenty to go round, I reckon, from a generous gentleman such as yourself.’

Coffey laughed and patted me firmly on the shoulder, making me wince. ‘You’ll get nowhere like that. If I’d taken that attitude, I wouldn’t be standing here with my own establishment, would I?’

My own establishment – I wondered what tortuous path of events had made such a thing possible. I couldn’t risk meeting his eye, but I could guess his expression, like a man who’d pocketed a pound note he’d seen another man drop in the street.

Inside, the room stank of smoke and alcohol, but it was warm and dry. Without waiting to be asked, the children spread out. Most seemed to have a favoured spot where they placed their bag or blanket. They wandered around, picking up rubbish from the floor, betting chits and broken glass, and dropping it into a crate. When they found a crust of bread or a morsel of meat, they stuffed it into their mouths, and every bottle was checked for dregs. Even a few drips was a prize. The larger boys searched the most fertile spots, along the window ledges and under the tables where the bookmakers did their business. I followed the lead of the smaller children and scoured the centre of the room and the edges of the stage.

Once the whole place was clear of detritus, one of the younger girls fetched a broom and began sweeping while the rest of them lay down. Some were asleep within seconds.

I sat on the floor with my back against the wall.

The girl next to me opened one eye. ‘You’re new, ain’t you?’

It was Maria, the girl Coffey had stopped. She was sprawled on the hard floor, still in her boots, if they could be so described, comprising more hole than leather.

From memory, boys of fifteen treated girls of thirteen with little respect, and yet I couldn’t summon up the necessary disdain. I didn’t have it within me.

‘Yeah, first time.’ I was trying to mimic her plain vowels and consonants flung out like little darts. ‘I’m in Soho most days.’

‘Snob,’ she mumbled, and closed her eye again.

Apparently, my attempt at an East End accent had not been convincing.

I indicated the low door through to the back of the gaff. ‘Is that locked?’

She nodded without looking. ‘Someone’ll come in soon.’

I climbed to my feet, trying to appear more limber than I felt, and approached the girl who was still doggedly sweeping. She was no more than eight or nine, but she was diligent, doing each floorboard in turn and making neat little piles of dust.

I took hold of the broom.

‘Shall I take over? Give you a rest.’

But she had her task and wouldn’t give it up. She pouted her lips and held on tight to the handle.

‘Why don’t you let me have it?’ I insisted. ‘I’ll do the work for you.’

I hadn’t intended to sound threatening, but I needed that broom. It was my ticket to the rear of the gaff and the hut where the wrestlers got changed.

The little girl pulled on the broom as hard as she could, forcing me to let go. She flew backwards, still holding on to the broom, and landed on her behind in one of her piles of dust.

I dived forward to check she was unhurt, but she squirmed away, glowering at me. The largest of the lads – the one Coffey had suggested should become a wrestler – jumped to his feet. He was my height, but much broader, almost a man.

‘What did you do?’ he demanded, his face flushing.

‘Nothing.’

‘He’s a snob from Soho,’ offered Maria, unhelpfully.

The lad approached me with hostile intent, his fists clenching and unclenching. No one else moved. I was determined not to take a step backwards. Any sign of weakness and he would be on me.

I kept my hands at my sides and my voice steady. ‘I don’t want to fight you.’

He grabbed my lapel at chest level, something I had good reason to dislike. I chopped his hand away, but he made another grab for my jacket. I twisted and ducked under his swinging fist, but he whirled round, nimble on his feet, and pulled a jack-knife from his pocket.

I held up my hands. ‘No need for any of this. I just want a place to sleep.’

He opened up the blade. ‘You got no business here.’

Everyone was awake and watching now, but none looked as though they were about to help, on either side.

The lad took off his cap and switched the knife to his right hand. He had the advantage in strength and reach, and that made him dangerous, but he also had a temper. I could use that. It was the only chance I had.

I smiled.

‘What are you grinning at?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, just a thing in my head. Kind of a joke. I’m thinking you wouldn’t get it.’

‘What joke?’

I laughed again, waving my amusement casually away. ‘It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Tell me what you think is so bloody funny.’ He spat out the last word.

‘Oh, all right. I was just thinking how silly you’d look in a petticoat and bonnet.’

Baiting did the trick. The boy lunged forward, all his weight on his front foot. I stepped sideways and punched him, aiming for his right kidney and finding instead his lowest rib, the twelfth. He hunched over, wheezing, so I hit him in the face with the heel of my hand, not wanting to risk breaking my fingers with another punch. He crumpled, dropping on to all fours, still holding the knife.

I was about to bring my boot down on his fingers when he rolled and kicked out twice. I dodged the first but the second caught my knee and I went down on to my back. He was on me like a fox on a rabbit. I flailed, twisting from side to side and banging the ground like a wrestler signalling his surrender, but nothing would dislodge him.

One of his hands was gripping the knife, blade upwards. I needed both of my hands to stop him slashing at me, so my throat was exposed, and his other hand was squeezing it. I could feel my breaths getting shorter and more painful as his fingers dug in. I tried to wriggle free, but his grasp was like a vice. I looked up at him and his lips were pulled back into a grimace that seemed like a smile.

His would be the last face I would ever see. All the fear, fire and chloral, the rope and the black water, all of that, and I would end up being killed by a boy whose name I didn’t know, with whom I had no argument, for no other reason than because he didn’t like the look of me and I’d accidentally caused a little girl to fall on to her behind.

Something scratched at me, some memory I was sure was important, if only I could bring it to mind.

I let go of his wrist with my left hand and he tugged the knife free, spinning it once so the blade was pointing down. He seemed to be calculating where to stab first.

His hold on my throat was tight, but he was more intent on stabbing than throttling me, and I was able to force a thin rasp of air into my lungs.

I fumbled at my pocket and found what I was looking for. I almost dropped it but managed to turn it in my hand and get a tight grip.

It was the most satisfying thump. I buried the syringe needle into the meat of his thigh and depressed the plunger, releasing a third of an ounce of morphine into him.

I hadn’t mixed the stuff with the intention of using it. I’d wanted it to be easily detectable by the police, so it was a fiercely strong concentration.

The lad stared down at his leg, muttered something I didn’t understand and raised the knife again. But his heart was no longer in the battle. His face changed from bare-teethed fury to confusion as the rush of morphine suffused his bloodstream, slowing his mind and numbing his senses. I pulled the syringe out of his leg and shoved him off me.

Breathing hard, I climbed to my feet. Some of the children were also standing, exchanging nervous looks. I had no idea what they might do, but at that moment, the back door opened, and Bert Trafford reversed through it, whistling and pulling a trolley.

I dashed forward to hold the door for him, hiding my face in the shadows. As the door swung shut, I poked my shoe into the gap, preventing it from closing completely.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, without really looking.

He wrapped his arms around the crate, hoisted it on to the trolley and placed the broom carefully on top. His eyes scanned the room.

‘Mr Coffey told me one of you might make a decent wrestler,’ he said. ‘We should have a try-out. Which of you is it?’

Everyone’s eyes turned to the lad. He had crawled to the edge of the room and was curled up there, unmoving but for a twitching in his face and hands.

Trafford squinted and went over to him, crouching down. He picked up the knife and felt the blade.

‘What happened to ’im?’

All eyes probably swivelled towards me, but I was already on my way, flitting through the back door and into the yard between the gaff and the shiplap hut. I had only seconds to find a hiding place. I squeezed between the hut and the high wall that ran alongside the street, cobwebs tickling my face.

I couldn’t see the door to the gaff, but I heard it open, footsteps on the stones and the squeak of trolley wheels; Trafford again, hunting for the boy who’d won a scrap and immediately scarpered.

I tried to hold my breath but had to gasp in air, so hard was my heart pounding in my chest. I was certain he would hear me.

The door to the hut opened as well, bathing the yard in a thin light. A man’s shadow was cast grey against the back wall of the gaff, his hat at a jaunty angle like a puppet.

‘Any problems?’ asked Coffey.

‘No, sir,’ I heard Trafford say. ‘There was some quarrelling among the boys, but that’s no bad thing.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Quiet as mice.’

‘Good.’ Coffey’s shoes shuffled pensively in the gravel. ‘You’re a loyal man, Bert, and I appreciate that. You’ll go far if you stick by my side. I’m the new Oswald, and you’re the new me, in a manner of speaking.’

‘Yes, Mr Coffey. I’m very grateful for the chance, sir.’

‘You should get off home, Bert. Your missus’ll be wondering where you’ve got to.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Coffey. She was soaking some barley as I left, and I fancy there’ll be some soup waiting for me.’

The gaff door opened, and the two men left. I was alone in the yard.

The clear sky meant a cold evening, and I could see my breath in the thin light. I wrapped my jacket more tightly around myself. Where was my coat?

I realised I’d left it inside the gaff, still in the drawstring bag. I couldn’t go back for it, not after what had happened. There was nothing to be done. One of the kids would doubtless find it and be warmer through the winter than they otherwise would’ve been.

I waited.

I knew I ought to go home. The wall was taller than I was, but I could use the crate as a stepping stool; over and gone in a minute, and no one any the wiser. But then what?

Agnes Munro would hang.

I crept out of my hiding place and wiped the cobwebs from my face. Very softly, I put my ear to the door of the hut. I couldn’t hear a sound from within, only the distant rumbling of a coal train heading into the city. I turned the handle and slipped inside, my heart now beating so strongly I thought it would leap out through my mouth.

The hut was as I remembered it, with curtains hanging from the ceiling, dividing the space into makeshift rooms. On my left was where Trafford had been stitched, and on my right was where Irina Vostek had changed her clothes. Ahead was a further area, the glimmering candlelight making strange patterns on the drapes.

I carefully pushed aside the left-hand curtain, revealing two wooden chairs, a table with a basin of water and a dresser containing the case of catgut and needles.

The back wall had been decorated with pencil sketches on sheets of paper. None were terribly good, but I recognised Coffey from his empty sleeve and opera hat, and Irina Vostek from her burlesque features and breasts even more gigantic than in reality. Another was of a girl with a gaunt face, spindle-thin arms and voluminous, pregnant belly. My first thought was Elspeth, but the hair was wrong; thin and straight where hers was curly. No, this must be Peggy. Her expression could have been a smile, but the picture wasn’t well enough drawn to be certain. The other drawings were of various wrestlers who all looked much the same, and at the top there was a single, empty nail.

I froze as the door opened again.

Two people came in, a man and a woman, passing by me so close I could have put my hand against the curtain and touched them. I could feel myself shaking, my skin prickling as though spiders were crawling over me. I eased back against the wall of the hut, trying not to allow the smallest squeak to escape from the floorboards.

There was the sound of someone clearing the table, groaning as he straightened up. Coffey, I was sure of it. The woman remained standing. I could make out her silhouette against the curtain.

The chair creaked.

‘You seem very comfortable,’ said the woman, not meaning it politely. I recognised her voice. It was Elspeth Drake.

A drink was poured, and the stopper replaced in the bottle. Coffey took a gulp and set his glass on the table. I could imagine him sitting back and surveying her.

‘Don’t be like that, Elsie.’

‘By rights, this business is Reggie’s, which means it’s mine. If there’s any chance of making a profit, it should come to me. You’ve no right to start running it again.’

‘That’s the thing though, ain’t it? Oswald had debts. You know he did. And you know who the creditor is. You know very well.’ I could tell from his tone he was sneering at her, making some point that she clearly understood. ‘That money’s owed, and it seems I’m the one best placed to repay it.’

She turned her back on him. ‘So, you can be the big man, do you mean, now Oswald’s gone? Didn’t think you was the envious type.’

‘I ain’t. My eyes have been opened, that’s all. If a man like Oswald can be snuffed out by some Hungarian bitch, then what’s life about, eh? We’ve got to look out for ourselves.’

She was breathing hard, trying to contain her fury. ‘Look, Nick, I understand that a woman can’t manage the gaff on her own. But I should be an equal partner.’

He downed his drink, and I heard the sound of the stopper being pulled out of the bottle again and a new measure being poured.

‘Partner?’

‘A business arrangement. You referee the bouts and gee up the punters, and I’ll do the books. We’ll share any profits, once the debt’s down to nothing. It’s more than fair.’

He sniffed. I couldn’t see his expression, but I had the strong feeling he wasn’t taking her seriously. She was persuasive and determined, but also young and female.

‘’Course, there’s another solution, Elsie. One I’ve been considering for a while, and I hope you’ll find amenable.’

‘And what would that be?’

I could tell from the timbre of her voice that she already knew the answer.

‘Obvious, ain’t it? Marry me. We’ll run the gaff together.’

I could see the shadow of her hands fidgeting like starlings as she tried to find the right response.

‘I’m recently widowed.’

He clicked his tongue. ‘It’s the modern age. A new world. Six months is enough these days. Not long for us to wait. A pretty thing like you can’t be expected to stay on the shelf.’ I could tell he was attempting charm. ‘You’ll get dusty.’

She turned to face him. ‘Why don’t we be business partners first, as I’ve suggested. And then, in six months, we’ll see about a marriage.’

He whistled through his teeth. ‘How do I know you’ll go through with it? No, I’ve been put in charge now, as you well know. And you ain’t winkling me out.’

She exhaled deeply. ‘I must get back. Mrs George is expecting me, and I don’t want Reggie keeping her awake. Please consider my offer of a business arrangement.’

He stood up and I feared the worst, but his voice changed to a more plaintive tone. ‘I’ll make a good husband, Elsie. It won’t be like with Oswald. I’ll look after you.’

‘I have to go.’

She turned, and he followed her to the door. I heard it open and close, and the sound of their voices diminishing. He was still pleading with her in the yard.

I felt a brief alarm that the key would be turned in the lock and I’d be trapped in the hut until morning, but I heard no such sound, or any sound save the flickering of the candle flame in the draught.

I crept around the curtain to where Coffey had been sitting. There was a mattress, two ragged armchairs with straw bursting through their arms, a knitted scarf on the floor, a table and a lidded wooden box with the candlestick set upon it. The candle was still lit.

I hastily removed it, taking all possible care not to extinguish the flame – my matches were in my coat – and opened the box. Instantly, I reeled back. It contained Coffey’s old clothes, stinking of sweat, beer and camphor. I sorted through them, shuddering at the stench, finding three bottles of Lacey’s Liniment and a pouch containing a razor and brush.

No syringe. Coffey must have disposed of it, knowing it would incriminate him.

Never mind. That problem could be solved.

I fished into my pocket and withdrew Jacob’s syringe. It was empty of morphine now, but would still lead the police to the only logical conclusion: Coffey had murdered Oswald Drake to steal his wife and his business.

I tucked it closely into Coffey’s jacket, put the jacket back into the box and closed the lid.

That syringe would set Agnes Munro free.

I crept back towards the door of the hut just as it started to open again.