by Alex Reeve
‘They haven’t found whoever killed Dora,’ John said, staring at his feet. ‘I don’t believe they’re trying, quite frankly. They care about my father’s bloody mill, but not a human being.’ His voice cracked, and he wiped his eyes. ‘I miss her, you know, all the time. She was clever and funny, and she believed in a better world, in her own way. She held classes, you know, for the children from the club. All of them, no matter where they were from or how brief a time they were staying for. She said that they must receive an education, or they’ll end up as labourers, living and dying at the whims of their masters. She saw the future, you see, more than any of us. I can’t believe she’s gone.’
I was certain his grief was real. I recognised it. Even a year on, I sometimes imagined I might see the one I had lost, that she would come through the door and embrace me, or I would turn and there she would be, blowing kisses from an upstairs window.
‘Dora’s wake is on Thursday at three o’clock,’ John continued, wiping his eyes, leaving shiny smears on the backs of his gloves. ‘It’s at the club. You should go.’
‘I only met her once.’
‘You’ll hear about what we’re doing. Well, what they’re doing. Edwin Cowdery will be giving a speech and he’s worth listening to. I won’t be able to attend, I’m afraid. I’m utterly distraught about it, but I’ve had to leave the club. Permanently.’
‘Why?’
‘The thing is, I was seen at the mill. Spotted, you know.’ He put his hands over his eyes, shutting out the world. ‘The police will arrest me if they find me. I have no choice but to vanish.’
‘What do you mean, vanish?’
He gave me a thin smile. ‘Well, not me exactly. But John Duport is no more. I’m sorry.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
‘But you’re my alibi as much as I’m yours!’
‘Yes, quite. That’s why I’m here; to tell you to stick to the story, no matter what. You really don’t have any choice as far as I can see. I mean, you can’t change your mind now, can you?’
‘I have other considerations now.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘What considerations?’
I realised I had said too much. It would be best to keep the children out of this completely.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It certainly does matter.’ He was sounding more and more like his father. ‘If you don’t stick to the story, you’ll be arrested for conspiracy, at least. And I can expose the truth about you, remember. We both know that underneath that suit and hat, you’re just a woman.’
I was damned if I was going to listen to him making threats after he’d abandoned me to the very lie he’d forced me to tell. Perhaps Rosie had been right after all. Why should I keep this man’s secret?
‘If you do that, I will inform the police about who you are too,’ I replied, almost spitting out the words. ‘John Thackery, whose childhood governess was murdered and who’s been lying about his name. The son of the very man whose mill he was plotting to burn.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ he snapped, as if I was the one being unreasonable. ‘I just came here to advise you to stick to what we agreed. It’ll be best for both of us.’
Of course, he would say that. He wanted me firmly attached to the lie. And then, when it suited him, he could recant his story to the police and I would look even more guilty. I was utterly trapped.
‘Have you visited your father yet?’ he asked.
‘No.’
He sighed deeply, like a teacher whose worst pupil has failed a simple test.
‘Why not?’
I didn’t want to discuss my family with him. I didn’t even want to think about them.
‘That’s not your business.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He looked at me earnestly. ‘I never did, to be honest. Why would you leave that way? You had everything: a good family, a kind father—’
‘You don’t know anything.’
‘I know you didn’t deserve him. You think the reverend was strict, and sometimes I’m sure he was angry with you, but you have no idea how fortunate you were. I would have given anything to be part of your family instead of mine. My own father was …’ He briefly took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘He was truly cruel. He never forgave me.’
A woman came out of the church, humming a hymn under her breath. She nodded to us and I nodded back, waiting for her to pass out of earshot before continuing.
‘He never forgave you for what?’
John laughed briefly and looked away. ‘For existing, Leo. For existing.’
Neither of us spoke for half a minute, and then a realisation crept over me. ‘Is that why you felt entitled to use me as your alibi? Because you were envious, and resented me for leaving my family?’
He closed his eyes and bowed his head as if praying. ‘It wasn’t personal. The greater good, remember? You left a decent family who treated you well, and this was your chance to make up for that.’
‘Like a penance?’
He stood and pushed his hat more firmly on to his head. ‘You’re choosing to be argumentative. You were always intelligent, but your father thought you were far too wilful, and it seems he was right.’ He checked his watch, which was attached to his waistcoat on a chain. For the first time, I noticed how much better dressed he was than before, in a morning coat and ascot tie. ‘Six o’clock. I have an appointment. Don’t forget what I said, will you? Stick to the story and we’ll both be fine.’
He strode away, leaving me in the churchyard, wondering what would happen next. I felt as if I was slipping into a hole, and everything I tried to grab hold of was withering in my hand.
I knew for certain I couldn’t trust him. He would desert me and think it justified, even virtuous; a punishment for the sins of my past.
I decided I had to follow him.
He crossed over the road, pausing to light a cigar in the shelter of a doorway, and then turned right and left and right again, taking a zigzag route northwards. He seemed to be in no particular hurry, stopping twice to relight his cigar and once to stroke a dog the size of a small pony. As the streets became wealthier, the cadaverous tenements of Soho gave way to townhouses, and the rumble of industry was replaced by birdsong and wind in the trees. After a mile or so, he reached a strip of grass with houses set either side of it like rows of dentures. He kept his head down and became markedly more cautious, peering nervously from side to side and burying his chin in his scarf. In truth, he could hardly have looked more suspicious, though I was just as bad, and had to scuttle behind a tree when he glanced back over his shoulder.
As he reached the corner, I lost sight of him in the shadow of an imposing church with a rose window like a great eye watching me. I rushed forwards into a square consisting of a small park surrounded by houses, four storeys tall and three windows wide. Each had a porch with steps down to the pavement and a balcony from which one might wave to an adoring crowd.
I looked up at the road name: Gordon Square. It sounded familiar, and then it came to me. I pulled Sir Reginald’s letter from my pocket and, sure enough, there it was in his letterhead. Sir Reginald’s address was 34 Gordon Square.
John was going to his father’s home.
Rosie had been right.
But still I couldn’t see him.
I found number 34, and the door was closed. Surely, he hadn’t been far enough ahead to enter the house without my noticing?
I checked the streets leading out of the square, but there was no sign of him. He must have gone into one of the other houses or perhaps the park.
It was well kept, divided by paths into lawns where, in warmer weather, nannies could push their perambulators in the shade of the trees, and dotted with benches where a gentleman might read a newspaper between engagements. Not today; it was empty, and a drizzle had drifted in, whispering through the branches of the trees and glistening on the iron railings.
I settled down opposite numb
er 34, wedged between a tree and the fence, feeling oddly detached from the world. The rain was pattering on to the grass, but I was dry under the leaves. No one knew I was there. I could remain in this spot, I told myself, for as long as I wanted, and then I could go. I could escape to some other town, far away, and adopt a new name, just like John. I could become a laboratory assistant in Oxford or a shipping clerk in Southampton. I need never think of Dora Hannigan or her children again.
After half an hour or more, I was jolted to alertness by the rattle of a shiny blue carriage drawing up.
The door to number 34 opened and a lady came out. It took me a few seconds to recognise her. When I had last seen Mrs Thackery – or Lady Thackery as she was now – she had been brisk and bossy, thinking nothing of giving instructions to my mother on the proper way to decorate the church. Now, she was leaning on a stick and hobbling as if each step caused her pain.
Behind her was a young man of about fifteen.
I almost gasped.
He was the absolute image of Aiden.
14
The young man was older, longer and broader than Aiden, but his face was the same triangular shape and his hair was the same too, jet-black and curly, his fringe falling around his eyes. This was Aiden in a few years’ time, approaching manhood. Even the reserved way he attended his mother, with minimum eye contact, his attention parsed and rationed, was exactly like the boy I knew.
This must be John’s little brother, a child I had given no thought to back in Enfield. Then, he had been a small, round object that fidgeted a lot during sermons. I couldn’t even remember his name.
Lady Thackery called back into the house: ‘Peter needs to go now.’ Her voice was far stronger than her body. ‘He mustn’t be late.’
Sir Reginald came out on to the step and shook his son’s hand, and I could tell the young man was pleased that his father was treating him as an adult and a gentleman. Sir Reginald didn’t wait to see his son off but returned inside.
Peter took his mother’s arm, and they walked down to the pavement together, their shoulders touching. She didn’t concern herself with the rain or look up at the clouds, but concentrated on the slippery steps. I could see her hand shaking as she slid it down the metal handrail.
I huddled behind my tree, out of sight, remembering her keen gaze. Once, at the market in Enfield, she had spent five minutes scolding me for laughing when Jane had slipped on an uneven flagstone and fallen on her behind. But it had been funny, and I knew Jane would have laughed just as hard if our places were reversed. Afterwards, we linked arms all the way home. Jane may have been cross that I had laughed, but absolutely no one was permitted to rebuke me for it but her.
Peter said something to his mother, and she put a palm to his cheek and said, ‘God bless you.’ She fished into her bag and handed him what looked like a pound note. He shoved it into his pocket, and I could see him thanking her, and then he watched her shuffle back into the house while the driver opened the carriage door.
Peter climbed inside and off he went.
The likeness between him and Aiden surely confirmed why Sir Reginald was taking such an interest. He had employed Miss Hannigan as a governess when she was quite young, probably only fifteen or sixteen. It was hardly unusual for the master of the house to take advantage of a girl’s innocence, and he must have resumed the arrangement when the family moved back to London, with inevitable results.
I was about to start for home when the carriage stopped again, having done no more than turn the corner. Peter jumped out, and I heard him bark an instruction: ‘Take my things to the school, will you? Leave them with the porter and I’ll pick them up later.’ The driver seemed to be raising an objection and the boy shook his head impatiently. ‘That’s not necessary. I’ve made another arrangement.’
He strode off down the pavement, his long coat flapping behind him. I admired his impudence.
As it happened, he was going in the same direction as me, so I followed him. This seemed to be my day for surveillance.
He walked swiftly past Russell Square, stepping around a group of people sheltering under a shop awning. At Theobalds Road he crossed over, heading eastwards.
I was faced by a choice. I could persist in battling through the worsening rain after him, or I could go the other way, where a warm towel and lit fire would be waiting. Naturally, I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept him in view.
When he was almost at Holborn he turned left into a narrow alleyway, which was thankfully more sheltered. The buildings were mismatched and sagging but decorated with brass door knockers and colourful curtains in the windows. My guess was that, on drier days, those doors would be open and young women would be leaning out of them, entreating passing gentlemen to pay a visit. I wasn’t judging Peter, not a bit, nor the young women either. I had no prejudice against people making a living.
But he didn’t stop at any of the houses. He carried on, head down against the weather, turning right at the end. I hurried forwards, and the alleyway opened into a brightly lit yard. Peter had joined a queue of three or four people waiting at an entrance, where a man was taking payment. Above them, a sign was written in large, ornate letters: THE CALCUTTA MUSIC HALL.
When Peter reached the front of the queue, the doorman doffed his hat. ‘Master Thackery, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’
The lad lowered his face and glanced around the yard. ‘Keep it to yourself, all right?’
The doorman nodded and gestured him through. I noticed he hadn’t demanded any money.
I was next in line. ‘One and three,’ he said to me.
‘That lad got in without paying.’
He affected not to have heard me and continued to hold out his hand.
There was really no reason to go inside, and yet I found myself keen to know what Peter Thackery was doing in a place like this. And it was still pouring with rain.
I paid the man, mourning the coins as I handed them over. My resources were growing thin indeed, especially as I would be docked today’s wage. I dreaded asking Alfie if I could postpone paying my rent, not because he would decline, but because he wouldn’t.
Inside, the tiny foyer was dark and smelled of rot. I pushed through a curtain and entered the theatre, if that was the right word. It was hardly bigger than a school classroom and the stage was formed from crates pushed together with planks laid on top. The audience was crammed in on wooden chairs around little tables, talking loudly among themselves, and the air was thick with smoke, swirling and mixing with the steam lifting from our damp skin and clothes. There was no one on the stage, but the lights were up, shining on a footstool in the shape of an elephant and a painted backdrop of a blue sky, sandy ground and a few vaguely Indian-looking buildings.
A fellow at the back was selling glasses of beer. I could ill-afford one, but I would be conspicuous without a drink, so I bought a half-pint and sat down. The atmosphere was so dense I could hardly see Peter, though he was only a few feet away.
I wondered if he was meeting someone else here, perhaps from his school, absconding as he was. But he didn’t speak to anyone, just drank his beer and occasionally craned his neck to see past the men and women in front of him. He was quite out of place in this crowd. His coat alone must have cost five times as much as all of our clothes combined.
Everyone clapped as a fellow came on stage wearing an absurd red tailcoat. He swept his arm across the audience: ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the exotic and mystical city of Calcutta!’ He put one foot on the elephant footstool and beckoned for us to come closer, although, of course, we couldn’t. ‘It’s a land where anything can happen!’
The crowd chortled. They knew the routine. But Peter didn’t join in; he just sat and watched impassively.
‘Where the women are beautiful,’ continued the master of ceremonies, ‘and filled with eastern delights!’ This didn’t make much sense to me, but the rest of the crowd accepted it with an ‘ooh!’
‘When they sing
their songs and dance their mystical dances,’ he continued, ‘they lure men and women alike into their arms. But beware.’ He put his finger to his lips and dropped his voice. ‘In the dead of night, in the heat of passion, as you writhe among them in …’ He spread his arms and roared the next words: ‘in ecstasy!’ The crowd shrank back in mock horror and the pianist played a dramatic chord. I must say I found the whole thing preposterous. ‘You may find yourself a victim of their sorcery, helpless and entranced!’ He stared around the room, wide-eyed, and the audience gasped and clapped, exchanging delighted grins. This was what they had come for. ‘And I certainly hope you’ll be entranced this evening, ladies and gentlemen, because we have a wonderful show for you. First on the bill, please welcome Mr …’ he paused for what seemed like an age ‘… George …’ another, longer pause ‘… Galvin!’
He left the stage and a young fellow bounced on and started telling jokes. He was rather long-winded, and the audience quickly grew bored and began talking. He left hastily with a red face and was followed by a short, plump man who imitated the whistles and chirrups of birds, and then a woman carrying a bunch of flowers and singing about her lost love. She was moderately entertaining, and the audience sang along with the last verse.
All except for Peter, who glowered at his beer.
Next, a man with a dog came on stage, the latter arrayed as a soldier, complete with a glengarry cap through which his little ears were protruding. The animal could perform all manner of tricks, including saluting with his paw and marching in time with the music while we clapped along. It was quite marvellous, and the pair were applauded off rapturously. After that, an unassuming man in a grey suit entertained us in a remarkable way, holding a comical conversation with someone locked in a trunk by his side. Except when he opened it, there was nobody there! It was empty. He’d been producing both sides of the exchange himself, one normally and one without moving his lips. I was so absorbed that when I looked for Peter, his chair was vacant, and I panicked that I had lost him. But he returned with a beer in his hand, which he drank swiftly, placing the empty glass under his chair with the others.