by Alex Reeve
He gave me a condescending smile. ‘Yes, but the memory plays tricks, doesn’t it, especially when you’re under stress. Seeing a dead body like that, it’s easy to get confused about dates and times and so forth. Tell them we were together, and I’ll do likewise, so our story is the same.’
He was behaving as if we were close friends concocting an excuse for a drunken night out, but we were virtually strangers, and Dora Hannigan had been buried just a few yards from this little room.
‘I won’t lie for you to cover up a murder.’
‘What?’ He looked genuinely shocked. ‘No, of course not. Good Lord, I had thought … I mean, you can’t possibly think I would do a thing like that, let alone …’ Again, his voice caught, and he had to pause, swallowing hard ‘… let alone to Dora.’
I frowned, not understanding. ‘Then why do you want me to lie?’
Despite having insisted we needed to hurry, he seemed content to take his time, sliding his finger around the top of a teacup as if he were trying to make it sing. I wondered if he washed up his own dirty crockery, or if he was waiting for a maid to come and do it for him.
‘The things my father cares about, they don’t interest me. Did you know he was knighted last year? He’s Sir Reginald Thackery now, never mind that he made every penny of his fortune exploiting the men who work for him in conditions you wouldn’t credit, while he’s never so much as pulled a jute stalk in his life. The new mill’s not like the one you remember. That was almost pleasant by comparison. This one’s in Whitechapel, and it’s vast and black, groaning all day and night. It’s like being in hell.’ He was staring straight ahead, and I had the feeling he wasn’t properly with me at all, but was reliving the memory of standing in that factory, consumed by the ghastliness of it. ‘With the fumes and dust, you can hardly see a thing. And the noise! An hour in that place and you can’t hear your own voice afterwards. And yet men spend their whole lives there.’
‘What does any of this have to do with me?’
He looked at me with something close to amazement. ‘It has to do with everyone! That’s what we’re trying to do, transform our economy. Our society. Henry Hyndman has spoken here, and Johann Most.’ He produced a pamphlet from the shelf, presumably by this Johann Most fellow, and started waving it at me. ‘They are remarkable men. They say that all property is truly theft because it’s been taken from the people by the rich, and the workers will rise up to reclaim what’s theirs.’
‘I doubt it would appeal to me.’
I had no interest in who was in government. Both sides would despise me equally.
He closed his eyes and seemed to be mumbling to himself, like a child trying to memorise a poem. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve strayed from my point, but I feel so strongly that justice needs to be served. It was my father who killed Dora. He murdered her as certainly as if he’d come here himself, although of course he wouldn’t. Even the task of killing can be loaded on to the backs of other men.’
Despite myself, I was curious. ‘What makes you think it was him?’
Thackery wiped his eyes and took a moment to control his breathing. ‘Dora used to work for the family, years ago, before we moved to Enfield. She had good cause to hate him, believe me.’
Sir Reginald wouldn’t be the first gentleman to force himself on a servant, I thought. But that would have to be at least twelve years ago. It didn’t seem a likely motive for murder now.
On the other hand, it wasn’t completely implausible either. Taken in the purely physical, Sir Reginald had been ordinary, of average height and build, losing his hair, not particularly striking in any way. And yet he exuded a sort of confidence, such as I’d never encountered before or since, as though everything he did or said was somehow correct, and even when he expressed an opinion as a mere passing remark, it was something you should listen to and act upon. His certitude was almost tangible. I could still picture him standing in the church after one of my father’s services, greeting his fellow parishioners as if he was a visiting dignitary doing them the honour of a handshake.
Yes, I thought. He might be capable of ordering a murder.
‘The police think some fellow named Duport is involved,’ I said. ‘That’s who they said they wanted to speak to next.’
‘Ah, is that so? They mentioned Duport specifically, did they?’
‘Yes. Could he have been acting on your father’s orders?’
Thackery went red and picked another volume off the shelf, flipping through the pages. ‘I say, do you remember that bookshop in Enfield, on the London Road? Did you ever go in there?’
‘I suppose so.’
I was shivering and annoyed. Of course I’d been in there; it was the only bookshop in the town, and I’d known every nook and cranny of it. Mr Heffernan had treated me like his own granddaughter. He used to save me slices of cake.
‘I went in a few times. The old man had a fancy for Chartism. Do you know what that is?’
‘Politics.’
A look of impatience crossed his face. ‘It was a movement. It meant treating all men fairly, paying decent wages and providing humane working conditions. The old man had dozens of books about it.’ He sighed at the memory. ‘I don’t suppose he sold many of them in Enfield, all things considered, except to me. I started with Carlyle’s The French Revolution.’ He held up the book to show me the title on the spine. ‘Not this actual copy. It was the first volume, and this is the second.’
‘Is there a point to this story?’
He gave me another impatient look. He really didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t fascinated by the same things as him. ‘I took it straight to the park and sat reading for hours. Such ideas Carlyle had! Such acuity! I’d never read anything like it. I was transfixed.’
‘Good for you, but I haven’t got time for this.’
I put on my hat and stood up. Thackery stood also, placing the volume on his desk and resting his hand on it, as if swearing on a Bible.
‘You should stay. There are things you need to know.’
‘I’ve heard enough.’
As I was leaving, he called after me: ‘Remember, you were with me all of yesterday at the horse show. If you don’t say that, I will tell the police about you. I have proof, if I need it, of who you truly are.’
I stormed down the corridor, intending to put as much distance between myself and John Thackery as I could.
If he did as he was threatening, every friend and acquaintance I had would shun me. Even Jacob, who knew exactly what I was, would have to deny it to avoid incriminating himself.
I would be convicted, perhaps for sexual offences and certainly for fraud. I held a position at the hospital as a man, not to mention my lodging with Alfie. The police would say I had claimed to be someone I was not. I would be imprisoned as Lottie Pritchard in a women’s prison and they would try to cure me. They would administer chemicals to douse my senses and, if those failed, run electricity through my head. But even that wasn’t the worst. On those nights when I awoke sweating and gripping the blankets, my throat hoarse, it was another dread that crawled through my guts and reached its fingers into my throat: cauterisation.
I had heard of doctors burning away the location, the very nub, of sexual pleasure, such that nothing was left, and a woman lusting after other women, as the doctors would believe me to be, would have that urge removed for ever. It was supposed to relieve wicked thoughts and allow the insanity to fade, but how was that possible? How could the doctor know, as he sets fire to another person’s skin, that it is the insanity which dissipates and not something else, something more precious? What if what’s lost is the self, that indefinable thing that makes us who we are?
What would be left behind if my self was burned away?
The thought of it almost made me sick.
I stopped. I had lost my bearings and was in an unfamiliar room containing what looked like a small printing press. I turned and went out through a different door, this time into a hallway leading to a d
ormitory filled with empty beds. An old woman was standing at the window and she started, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘How do I get out of here?’
She shook her head and started babbling in a language I didn’t understand, and then threw up her hands and said what appeared to be the only English word she knew: ‘Italian.’
‘Oh, I see. Excuse me.’
I went to the window, trying to orientate myself. I was looking down on the courtyard, where Dora Hannigan’s body was being carried away on a stretcher by two policemen. Hooper was holding a wad of paper under a lamp and flicking through it, appearing to get more and more furious as he turned the pages. When he’d finished, he shouted, ‘Search every room. The whole place.’
He looked up at the window, and I thought perhaps he’d caught sight of me. I stepped back into the shadows, and hurried out, finding my way through a succession of corridors to the stairs, where I almost careered into Pallett.
‘Good grief,’ I said to him. ‘This place is impossible!’
He nodded solemnly. ‘It’s a rabbit warren and no mistake.’
‘I thought this was a club of some kind. Why are all these people living in it?’
‘They’re radicals, sir.’
He seemed to think that was explanation enough.
In the courtyard, bats were making patterns in the lamplight above us, snatching insects out of the air. To my horror John Thackery was talking to Hooper. He pointed in my direction. ‘Of course, Detective Inspector,’ I heard him say. ‘I was with Mr Stanhope all day, at the horse show in Alexandra Park, and then we went to the pub. We were there until late, weren’t we, Leo?’
‘Is that right, Mr Stanhope?’ asked Hooper.
I stood with my mouth open for what felt like an eternity. ‘I … which day?’
‘Yesterday. Were you at the horse show or not?’
I nodded, not properly aware I was doing it.
Hooper pulled out his pen and notebook. ‘Didn’t you say before you were with your landlord drinking whisky?’
‘Um … yes, no, I misspoke. That was the day before. I’m sorry.’
He made a note, glancing at Thackery and me in turn.
‘If you’re not telling the truth, I’ll find out,’ he said. ‘I’m going to check every detail. I’ve sent for more men already. This case has become our highest priority.’
‘Why? Was Miss Hannigan someone important?’
Murders were commonplace in the city. I didn’t understand why the police would give this one special attention.
Hooper stepped towards me, seeming even taller. I could see up his nose. ‘You mind your own business. I’ll be seeing you both again.’ He tipped his hat to me and Thackery in turn. ‘Mr Stanhope. Mr Duport.’
Mr Duport?
Once Hooper had gone, I wheeled round and glared at Thackery. ‘You’re Mr Duport? You’re the man the police suspect is the murderer?’
‘Well, yes, that’s true. But I didn’t do it.’
I thumped the wall with my fist. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? And why are you using a false name?’
‘I tried to explain before, but you rushed out. That book I bought in Enfield, by Thomas Carlyle. When I got home, my father threw it away. He told me I must never look at such seditious nonsense again and wrote a letter to the mayor suggesting that the bookshop should be closed down. He thought the owner had known who I was and had pushed the book upon me as a way of making a point. But he was wrong; the old fellow had no idea. The next time I went in I called myself by a different name: John Duport. When I came here a couple of years ago, I didn’t want everyone knowing who I was related to, and I remembered the name. So, you see, we’re not so different, you and me. We both chose to be someone new.’
I stared at him, not believing what I was hearing. I had mentioned the name Duport to him and he hadn’t admitted it was his own alias. He had deceived me, straight to my face.
He produced a pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘Stick to our story and we’ll both be fine. Look, it’s getting late and I have to go, but we must talk properly, and soon.’
‘I want nothing more to do with you,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all. Ever.’
I emphasised the last word by slicing the air between us with my hand. He didn’t notice or, if he did, he didn’t care.
‘There are things I need to tell you. Very important things. We need to talk like civilised … well, men. Come to the Marquis of Granby pub on South Audley Street. Do you know it? Good, I can see that you do. Tomorrow at seven-thirty.’
And with that, he scurried away towards the house, leaving me alone but for the bats and one young constable, who was walking around the courtyard unhooking the lamps.
When he reached the last one, he paused. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
I nodded, and he snuffed it out, leaving me in near darkness.
I had lied to the police about a murder. And I had given an alibi to their top suspect.
3
Somewhere in the distance, a clock was striking the hour. Was it nine o’clock, or ten? I had completely lost track.
Outside, on Rose Street, a man was standing under the eaves to avoid the drips. I recognised him as the journalist who had spoken to me earlier: Mr Whitford. I lowered my face and hurried onwards, avoiding eye contact.
‘Mr Stanhope!’ he called after me, proving that he’d discovered my name. ‘Any comment for the Daily Chronicle? Are you an anarchist? How well did you know Miss Hannigan? When did you first meet her? Do you know why she was killed?’
I just wanted to get home. I was determined not to tell him anything.
‘I have no idea. I gave the police some help, that’s all.’
I set off down the passageway, picking a path between the curled figures sleeping under blankets. Behind me, I could hear Whitford in pursuit. He caught up with me at the corner of Greek Street, which was as hectic as ever.
‘They sent Hooper, their senior man. He doesn’t generally soil himself with this sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ I hated that I was intrigued.
He took off his hat and beat it against his leg, sending a sparkling spray of water over his shoes. ‘Hooper prefers taking his carriage to Mayfair and dealing with a better class of criminal as a rule, especially when the top brass want things kept quiet. He has a reputation for being … how shall I put this? A prudent man, you might say. Or a lackey of the wealthy and powerful perhaps, depending on your point of view.’
‘I wish you luck, Mr Whitford. Good evening.’
He kept pace with me as I lengthened my stride. For a fellow of such ample girth he was surprisingly energetic.
‘See, that’s what’s got me inquisitive, Mr Stanhope. They sent Hooper to make sure the right story gets told. Right for them, of course. It’s a matter of note, you see, a murder in the house of socialists and anarchists. Either the victim’s one of ’em, which is a warning to all, or the murderer is, which is better still. Or both, of course, which is best of all.’
‘I have nothing to do with any of this. Please leave me alone.’
He grabbed my sleeve, not aggressively, more earnestly, trying to convince me. ‘I want to find out the truth, Mr Stanhope. The police found some papers. I was told they were plans to commit an act of vandalism on a large scale. A very large scale indeed. Was Mrs Hannigan part of it, do you suppose?’
‘Goodbye, Mr Whitford.’
I pulled my hat low over my brow and crossed the road between two carts queuing behind a donkey that was tail up, depositing its load while a boy caned it mercilessly.
‘You’re an interesting chap, Mr Stanhope,’ Whitford shouted. When I didn’t reply, he shouted louder: ‘I’ll find out the truth in the end, you know.’
The truth is not so simple, I thought. The truth is that I am a man, from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. I have a man’s thoughts and a man’s desires. And yet, if you were to look at my skin, Mr Wh
itford, heaven forbid, you would think I was female. That would be your truth. Whose truth is more important, do you think: yours or mine?
Such self-obsession I had. I hardly warranted it. He wanted a story about murder and scandal for his ghastly newspaper. None of us mattered to him; not me, not Dora Hannigan. Not even her children.
I had forgotten about her children.
I hurried back to where Whitford was still standing, writing in his notebook.
‘There’s one thing,’ I said, cursing myself for almost escaping, but not quite.
‘Changed your mind?’ he said, looking up. ‘Good for you.’
‘Dora Hannigan had two children. A boy and a girl. She had their pictures in a locket. Do you know where they are now?’
‘A boy and a girl,’ he repeated. ‘How old and what are their names?’
‘I don’t know. The brother’s the elder, perhaps nine or ten.’
‘Just nippers.’ He paused, sucking his pencil, and then wrote some more. ‘Could’ve been taken, I s’pose. Or worse.’
A fearful image formed in my mind of another shallow hole in that courtyard.
‘How did the police find their mother’s body?’
‘A dog dug ’er up.’
I nodded. ‘All right. Good.’
He looked at me quizzically. ‘Why is that good?’
‘If the children were buried there, the dog would’ve found them too. There’s a reason why cemeteries have deep graves.’ I was thinking professionally again. It was a comfort, like streetlamps on a dark night. I could see my way. ‘Ask around, will you? If they’re lost, the police need to start looking for them.’
‘I will.’ He blew out his cheeks and we were both silent, contemplating two small children lost in the city.
We shook hands, and this time I really did walk away, crossing over quickly and causing a cab driver to pull on his reins and bark abuse at me. I strode swiftly onwards, a man among all the other men, rushing home or spilling out from the pubs on to the pavement, talking, laughing and whistling. I was exactly like them, as far as anyone could tell.