To be outside the fairy house, to take gulps of air that had not stagnated in closed chambers, felt to me to be freedom enough. I didn’t ask Mr Crease where we were going, just enjoyed feeling my leather shoes upon the ground, my stride free of skirts. The novelty almost made me forget the morning’s disaster. Mr Crease said not a word.
I thought myself a sailor who had after a lifetime at sea been cast up upon a strange shore. So lost was I trying to make sense of this brave new world that I walked on not realising that Mr Crease had stopped.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘What do you think happened in the long gallery?’
I was at sea once more. ‘You created it all,’ I said without confidence, for in most of Mr Crease’s questions there was a catch.
He slapped me across the face and at that moment I hated him wholeheartedly.
‘Do you need to be so cruel? What, sir, is the purpose apart from your own pleasure?’
‘It is you who are being cruel. You are crueller by far to yourself than ever I am to you. Put aside the hatred you feel for me and listen. Listen.’
I held my head up high and bit my lip.
‘When I came to the long gallery this morning I had decided there was no point to the exercise and I had told Queenie as much. You didn’t hear me enter but neither did you look at the cage for if you had you would have seen the parrot come alive. You would have seen it cock its head to one side, you would have heard it tell you its name and who it belonged to. Instead, you were thinking that you had failed, that you hadn’t anything magical to show me. It is your lack of belief in what you do that causes your gift to be erratic.’ I stared down at my shoes. ‘Look at me.’ He jerked up my face to his. ‘You are a natural shaman. If you were a man you would know it and your conceit would be unbearable. Instead I find this gift in an uneducated girl who doesn’t believe in her own talent and who is obsessed with being bedded.’
It was, I thought, most probably the only compliment Mr Crease would ever pay me. In that I was wrong.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘First, we go to Covent Garden and then I want you to see what a street magician does.’
At the piazza he pointed out St Paul’s Church. ‘Here, at the altar of sex, the congregation is praying: will he want me, will he fuck me, will he pay me. Welcome to the arsehole of sin where anything you want can be yours for a purse of gold.’
We walked on under the arcade which afforded some shade to the women there, dressed in their bawdy finery. Already the day was hot. Shop windows flashed past in a daze of glittering, eye-catching baubles. A street musician, leaning against a column, sung a ditty:
‘The king asked the queen
The queen asked the king…’
The queen was hiding in the shadows and I wanted to stop and find out what she had to say on the matter, but Mr Crease was walking with such a purpose that stopping was no part of it and we left the musician behind. A girl approached us, her face so thickly covered in white paint that her age was well hidden. Letting her shawl fall off her shoulders she showed a pair of pert breasts. Mr Crease brushed her aside.
‘I’m clean,’ she shouted after us.
At the end of the colonnade, Mr Crease stopped suddenly. I near tripped over him.
‘The musician,’ he said, ‘tell me about him.’
The musician as far as I could see was counting his takings. I didn’t know what to say. Mr Crease closed his eyes so that the two painted ones stared at me. He pushed his finger into the middle of my forehead.
‘Use that eye, that eye alone. Try again. What do you see?’ He tapped his cane on the ground.
‘But surely you can see it too,’ I said. ‘As I think can everyone else. It would be impolite to draw attention to the situation.’
Mr Crease banged his cane on the ground. ‘See what?’
I sighed. It seemed so silly to have to point it out.
Taking a breath, I said, ‘His wife is standing in the shadows.’
‘And?’ said Mr Crease.
‘And she is dead. Full of holes.’
‘I would say stab wounds.’
‘Yes. You can see her as well as I. It is nothing remarkable.’
I watched as two ladies passed by the musician who took off his hat and bowed. They too must have seen her for they let out the most terrible screams. The musician, startled, turned round and began to shout.
‘Go away, woman! Don’t reproach me – I never killed you. Are you trying to drive me mad? Why do you torment me?’ Then, even louder than before, he began to sing, ‘The king asked the queen, the queen asked the king…’
By now a crowd had gathered round him. Mr Crease manoeuvred me into the sunlight.
‘You see,’ I said, ‘I was right not to point it out.’
‘Ads bleed,’ he replied. ‘You are either a simpleton or a genuis. Don’t you understand what you can do? You and I can see the dead woman. No one else can until you make her visible to them. Even I can’t do that.’
‘Is everyone blind then?’
I thought about this revelation as we walked across the square. I had never seen so many people all gathered in one place. Was I really to believe that not one of them could see what I could see?
‘It’s not just the dead,’ I said, stopping Mr Crease. ‘I saw a boy called Sam in the grandfather clock at Milk Street and so did Mr Truegood. He told me that was him as a child. What does that mean? And if I can see the dead then tell me, why could I never call my mother back?’
Mr Crease’s voice was softer. ‘Because her spirit is free.’
‘How do you know that?’
A sedan chair was fast making its way towards us through a field of rotting vegetables.
‘Later, Tully, we will talk of this. Not now.’ He moved me quickly out of the way and into a coffee house.
Inside, men of all ranks were sitting at tables and the smoke was so thick that it hung in a grey cloud above their heads. Mr Crease pushed through the crowd of gaudy muckworms, until he found who he was looking for – a robust man, every inch of him made of muscle and spoiling for a fight.
‘Mr Bird,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Sit,’ he said to me and I pulled a chair close to the table.
‘Three bowls of Politician’s Porridge,’ called Mr Bird to the serving girl, the only other woman there.
Mr Crease half closed his eyes as he lit his long white pipe.
‘Who’s the lad?’ said Mr Bird.
‘My apprentice,’ said Mr Crease.
‘To be trusted?’
Mr Crease nodded. ‘Is it true that Bethany has left her keeper?’ he asked as three bowls of coffee arrived.
‘True as a Sunday,’ said Mr Bird.
‘Found her in bed with his footman?’
‘Discovered them in a very interesting position that left little doubt as to the point of the exercise they were performing.’
‘Have you anything more for me?’ he asked and put a purse on the table. Mr Bird put his hand out to take it but the purse moved and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t catch it.
Observing this, the dandy at the table opposite said, ‘That is some trick, sir.’
He had with him a small box and inside was a canary that seemed to be dead.
‘What else have you heard?’ asked Mr Crease, ignoring the comment.
‘I heard some news this morning,’ said Mr Bird. ‘Fresh as baked bread it is.’ He did not have an easy way with a story, being given to taking the longest route and disdaining all short cuts. ‘The gentleman you was asking about is as dead as a plump turkey. Murdered, found with his throat slit. Not a pretty picture.’
‘I need more than the obvious.’
‘Of course, Mr Crease, and I am on my way to finding it out if you would just have the kindness to let go of the purse.’
I wanted to ask who had been murdered and might well have done so had I not seen you walk into that unmemorable sea of chattering faces and lopsided wigs.
Wait, wait. I should conjure an orchestra so that it might herald your entrance, the audience standing to give you a round of applause in anticipation of the performance to come. When the rope is round my neck this memory is the one I will hold tight, the moment I saw you. What a striking young gentleman you were: your eyes sky blue, lips generously made for kissing, your nose that of a Roman god. Your enviable hair was your own which was considered most unfashionable yet it suited you handsomely – powdered grey, tied with a black bow, more elegant than the white wool bush that most men had ill fitted upon their heads. Several stared at you for your clothes – a soft, dove-grey jacket and silver waistcoat – were finely cut. It occurred to me that you were used to your entrance causing a stir.
I felt Crease’s cane on my shin as if he knew what I was thinking. He looked up and seeing who had caught my attention he stood.
‘Mr Fitzjohn,’ he called. ‘Mr Avery Fitzjohn, if I am not mistaken.’
The young gentleman, Avery Fitzjohn, smiled and made his way towards us. I kept my head low for fear that my burning cheeks might give away my indecent thoughts.
‘Mr Crease,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you, sir. A long time – and you still recognise me.’
‘Join us,’ said Mr Crease. He handed Mr Bird the purse. ‘Ned, find out what you can and meet me at the house.’
Mr Fitzjohn rested his hat on the table and took Ned’s seat. Mr Crease ordered more coffee.
Close to, this young man was even more desirable than he was at a distance, his face so well drawn.
‘The boy all gone, the man appears,’ said Mr Crease. ‘What brings you back to the metropolis?’
I had never heard Mr Crease talk in such a civil manner to anyone apart from Queenie.
‘My return is due to my uncle being very ill. And I have other business. Tell me, is it true that Queenie is opening a new house?’
‘Indeed she is,’ said Mr Crease. ‘The fairy house – a brothel like no other the metropolis has to offer. It will open with a most spectacular masquerade ball.’
‘Then I have returned to London at exactly the right time. I always said that the old rogue, my uncle, must be good for something. In that I was right. If it was not for him, I would still be in Paris.’
‘What are you doing there?’ asked Mr Crease.
‘I’m studying to be a physician. I have to do something with my days other than look decorative. After all, I am not destined to inherit a title or a fortune so I might as well inherit some knowledge.’ Turning his blue eyes on me, he said, ‘What is your name?’
I didn’t know what to say but Mr Crease said quickly, ‘This is Master Thomas, my apprentice.’
‘Well, Master Thomas,’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘Do you always keep sixpence behind your ear?’
Instinctively, I put my hand to my ear and a sixpence rolled onto the table.
Mr Crease was amused at my astonishment.
‘The only trick you ever taught me, Mr Crease,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, ‘and I have never forgotten it. I use it to intrigue the ladies.’
‘Master Thomas,’ said Mr Crease, ‘what trick do you have to show my friend?’
My heart sank as I dearly wanted to impress Mr Fitzjohn. Then it came to me.
‘Sir,’ I said nervously, ‘I think there is a bird under your hat.’
‘Under my hat?’ said Mr Fitzjohn.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said and looked at Mr Crease, who shrugged.
Cautiously, Mr Fitzjohn lifted his hat. There stood the canary. It started to tweet.
The young dandy whose dead canary it was had paid his bill and was making his way out of the coffee house with the box. I knew that the moment he reached the door the spirit of the bird would fly to freedom.
‘Touché,’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘I can see you are a worthy pupil. Alas, I possess no such skill.’
The bird took flight and he turned and watched as the slash of yellow disappeared into the grey.
‘Magicians and physicians have more in common than either would like to acknowledge,’ said Mr Crease.
‘Dammit, you are right, sir. We both deal in the impossible: the illusion that death can be bargained with.’
Through the window I could see the dandy looking into the small box that contained his dead canary. He threw it away in disgust. Mr Crease saw him too.
Mr Crease stood and bowed to Mr Fitzjohn. ‘I will have an invitation sent to you. Where are you staying?’
I knew then that if I could choose who I would give my virginity to, I would with all my heart choose you. Hope was right. You made me realise that what I longed for was not a tied-on virgin’s delight but the real thing.