by Alex Reeve
‘We ate our supper,’ she said, ‘but I made bread if you want some. Good for the bones.’
I was never certain whether she knew what I was under these clothes. Even if Jacob hadn’t told her, she must have felt the narrowness of my shoulders and the scantiness of my wrists. Yet she always treated me as the young man I was.
She led me upstairs, still talking. ‘We have cold mutton too, or some cheese maybe, if that crosspatch, my husband, hasn’t eaten it all. He thieves it like a greedy old mouse and thinks I don’t know.’
Jacob stood up as I reached their little parlour. ‘Leo!’
He was already in his dressing gown and pyjamas, but his eyes were crisp and keen under his overflowing eyebrows. His daughter, Millicent, was curled up in the other armchair, knitting what looked like a scarf. She was about Aiden’s age and strongly favoured her mother, thank God, with large round eyes and a shrewd expression. She gathered up her yarn and needles as I came in.
‘Wait, Milli,’ instructed Jacob.
She smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek before scampering away.
Lilya brought through two glasses and a bottle of clear liquid. I had drunk the vicious stuff before, but had no idea what it was called, or even if it had a name. It had been brewed by Jacob’s late brother and, when I last looked, there were a dozen or so bottles of it left in the cupboard under the stairs. One day soon, the last of it would be gone, and his brother with it.
I wondered what had released this flood of melancholy. Surely it couldn’t be the prospect of seeing my father?
‘What is it, Leo?’ asked Jacob, once we were alone.
I told him about Aiden and Ciara, and the lad, Peter Thackery.
‘Aiden and Peter look similar,’ I said, sipping from my glass in a manner Jacob disdained. ‘More than similar. They’re half-brothers, I’m certain of it.’
Jacob shrugged and threw his own drink down his throat, immediately pouring himself another. ‘Nothing surprising there. A wealthy man and a young governess. It’s a common story.’
‘But Aiden’s ten years old.’ I did the calculation. ‘If Sir Reginald is Aiden’s father, it must have happened after Dora Hannigan left his employ. She wasn’t with them when they lived in Enfield.’
Jacob swilled his glass, grinning as he did when he thought I was being naïve. He saw himself as a man of the world.
‘It’s simple. He sleeps with the governess, but his wife doesn’t like it. So, he dismisses the girl and they carry on. She’s his mistress. He probably found a couple of nice rooms in London for them to meet in.’
‘And then she became pregnant.’
‘Exactly. And fat, tired and ill-tempered.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘No one wants a mistress who’s the same as their wife.’
‘So, Sir Reginald killed Miss Hannigan to make sure of her silence?’
If that was true, then Aiden and Ciara were the motive for their mother’s murder. What a terrible responsibility for them to carry.
Jacob snorted. ‘Over some by-blows with a servant ten years ago? More likely she knew something else about him. Something he didn’t want anyone to find out.’
‘Blackmail, you think?’
‘Why not?’
I thought about the two hundred and four pounds I’d found in her room. There was no need to tell Jacob about it. Not from any lack of trust in him – he had no interest in money – but because it was a threat to the children. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.
‘Sir Reginald isn’t the only suspect. I met some unsavoury people at the club on Rose Street.’
Jacob sat forwards, always attentive to new things he could castigate. ‘Tell me more about this club?’
‘They’re radicals and socialists. Believers in the rights of the common man.’
He laughed. ‘Have they met the common man?’
‘It’s more than just talk. They planned to burn down Sir Reginald’s mill.’
‘Shame they didn’t succeed.’
I was amazed at his hypocrisy. ‘You despised them a minute ago, and now you’re supporting their cause?’
He grinned, his eyes glinting. ‘Once, I would have. Oh yes, in the Ruthenian revolution I was quite the rebel!’
‘When was that?’
He shrugged away my question. ‘You don’t want to know. No one cares any more. It was a long time ago in a different country. I was young and stupid, filled with passion. Now I’m old and my leg hurts.’ He stretched it out, grimacing with the pain. ‘Even so, one less mill in the world wouldn’t bother me. And the stupid arses might set fire to themselves as well, so everybody wins.’
‘They might have had a reason to murder Miss Hannigan. Her body was found in the courtyard of the club.’
He jabbed a finger at me. ‘You must be careful, Leo. Blackmail and arson, these are not your concerns. Why not lead a quiet life and let the police catch the criminals for once?’
‘Because … because I’m curious. Because the police are too busy condemning the radicals to see anything else. Because those children deserve to know why their mother was killed, and who did it.’
I realised I was furious, not with Jacob but with the world. Someone had snuffed out Dora Hannigan’s life like a candle and was living their own as if she and her children didn’t matter a jot. It was wrong. It was iniquitous. I couldn’t fix it, but I could make sure that whoever it was faced justice.
I realised that I hadn’t thought that way for a long time. I’d forgotten how it felt.
I was yawning by the time I got back to the pharmacy, though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. I ducked down the passageway that led to the back of the house. My mind was elsewhere, on Peregrine Black and whether he could be trusted, and I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. I didn’t have to. I’d walked this passage daily for three years, and I knew every crack in the brickwork and slippery stone underfoot. I thought little of it when I heard a crunch behind me; probably one of the neighbours heading to their own back yard or the soil men arriving early to perform their filthy chore.
‘Mr Stanhope, is it?’
I turned, and a figure was silhouetted in the passage entrance. He was tall and broad, but I couldn’t see any of his features. He had a scarf wrapped around his face and a bowler hat pulled low over his forehead.
‘I’m looking for two children.’ He spoke without intonation; not a question or a threat, just a statement of fact.
‘Who are you?’
I was trying to sound brave but was all too aware that no one would be able to see what happened in this gloomy passageway, or hear my shouts, muffled as they would be by the close walls and narrow entrance.
‘Where are they, Mr Stanhope?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You put them in an orphanage. I want to know which one.’
Of course, I hadn’t, but I wouldn’t give this man my sister’s address. I would rather be beaten black and blue.
‘I don’t know where they are.’
‘Yes, you do.’
He took a step towards me, and I backed up, feeling the corner of the wall behind me with my hand, making a frantic calculation; could I make it to the pharmacy before he caught me? Probably not. I would need to negotiate both the ninety-degree turn and the back gate into the yard.
‘Tell me what I want to know,’ he said, as if he was asking the price of apples in a grocery. ‘Then I’ll be gone.’
I was about to sprint for the back gate and to hell with the consequences, when I saw something behind him, and heard a voice.
‘Mr Stanhope? Is that you? Is everything all right?’
‘Go away, Constance,’ I called out to her. ‘Quickly now.’
The man turned, and even in the dimness I could see what he was thinking: grab her so I would be forced to answer his question.
That could not happen.
As he took a step towards her, I launched myself at him, hugging him around the neck as if I wanted a piggyback.
�
�Go, Constance! Run!’
She fled, and the man reversed hard into the wall, knocking all the wind out of me. I tried to cling on, but he did it again, slamming the back of my head against the bricks. I fell to the ground and tried to crawl away, but he grabbed my collar, twisting it in his fist, throttling me against the top button of my shirt. His breath was on my neck. Even in that moment, I thought: He isn’t panting. He isn’t excited or panicked or overcome with rage. He’s fully in control. I’d been threatened before by angry men, avaricious and lustful men, but this was something new. This man might murder me this evening and barely remember it tomorrow.
‘Which orphanage?’ he said again, and put his knee on my spine, starting to press downwards.
‘All right, I’ll tell you,’ I managed to croak.
His grip loosened, and I drove my elbow into his groin.
He grunted and let go of me, falling to his knees. I shoved him away and ran, tearing round the corner towards the back gate, pulling at the latch to open it.
It was bolted from the inside.
I could hear him stumbling towards me in the dark. Any second now, he would be on me like a dog on a rat.
I reached through the hole in the fence, pulled back the bolt and dived into the yard, managing to re-lock the gate behind me just as he got there.
In the upstairs window of the house next door, a lamp was lit, casting a thin glow. I could see my assailant’s forehead over the fence, and his hand writhing and stretching through the hole as if independent of his body. His arm was thicker than mine and he couldn’t squeeze it as far. His fingers were groping, touching the edges of the bolt but not quite able to grasp it.
He forced his hand farther through the hole, ripping the stitching of his shirtsleeve.
We were locked in a strange race, him and me. He was straining for the gate bolt while I was fumbling with my key, no more than five yards from him, shaking in my haste to get the door open.
I won the race, but not by enough.
I got inside and was turning to lock the door when he burst through it, knocking me on to my back. I twisted and threw myself under the table, but he grabbed my leg and dragged me out, sending a chair spinning.
I kicked out at him and wriggled free, finding my feet and facing him over the table. He swept an arm across it, scattering bottles and jars, and sending clouds of powder billowing into the air.
‘Where are they?’ he said again. His eyes were blue and cold.
He took a step to the left and I did the same, keeping the table between us, taking me closer to the front door and the safety of the street.
He picked up Alfie’s old scales. I could barely lift them, but he raised them with one hand, like a dock-crane, and hurled them towards me. I sprang out of the way as the metal dishes bounced and spun across the floor. He dashed forwards, and I tried to run, but slipped on the broken glass.
He grabbed me by my throat and slammed me backwards on to the table, pulling a knife from his belt. I felt a cold rush of fear; not of death, but of injury. If I was stabbed, my shirt would be removed to tend the wound and my physical form discovered. At least if I was killed outright, I would be spared that humiliation.
‘Tell me,’ he snarled.
My eyes were stinging but I forced myself to open them. Above me, the ceiling was yellow and cracked from years of smoke from the stove, steam from the tin bath and fumes from Constance’s various experiments.
This was my favourite room in the world.
A fitting place to die.
17
There was a crash as the front door was flung open, and a shout. The fingers at my neck loosened and released. Alfie was hurtling past me. The back door banged, and I could hear footsteps running.
‘Are you all right, Mr Stanhope?’
It was Constance, looking down at me with a concerned expression.
‘I told you to leave,’ I gasped.
She gave me a glass of water, which I used to sluice my stinging eyes.
‘I went to get Father. He was in the square with Mrs Th— Mrs Gower.’
I sat up, and realised she wasn’t alone. Mrs Gower was standing in the doorway, surveying the room as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing: shards of glass glittering on the floor and hearth, Alfie’s old scales broken, chairs on their sides and everything covered in powder. Even the stove.
Alfie came back, breathing hard. ‘I caught up to him but couldn’t keep hold. He’s away towards Piccadilly.’ He scratched his head, frowning first at me and then at the ruin around us. ‘What the hell happened, Leo?’
‘He wanted Aiden and Ciara.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
But I could guess easily enough. Sir Reginald must have sent him, wanting to know where I’d hidden the children. He didn’t want them found and identified.
Mrs Gower cleared her throat. ‘A word please, Alfred.’
He followed her through to the shop.
Constance filled the kettle while I fetched the broom and started sweeping. God only knew how long it would take to clean everything.
When Alfie returned he seemed embarrassed, playing with the lapels of his coat and addressing the cupboard.
‘Constance, I’d like to speak with Mr Stanhope alone, please.’
She glared at her father. ‘He rescued me,’ she said. ‘He was very brave.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘You should be thanking him.’
‘Do as I say, Constance.’
She gave him a hard look and marched upstairs, making sure her footsteps echoed loudly through the house.
‘I’m sorry, Alfie,’ I said.
He righted a chair and sat on it. ‘I warned you about getting involved with things like this, Leo.’
‘I know.’
‘I have to think of Constance. It’s not fair to put her in danger.’
‘Of course. I understand. I’ll find somewhere else to live. Give me a few days.’
I began picking up the larger pieces of glass, gritting my teeth to keep from weeping. I had expected Mrs Gower’s arrival to lead to my eviction eventually, but not so soon. I had grown comfortable here. I liked the fraying rug and uneven table and patches of damp creeping around the edges of the window frames. I didn’t hear the creaking of the floorboards any more, or the scrape of the pans on the stove or the jangle of the pharmacy doorbell, no more than I heard my own breathing. The walls and ceilings were part of me … no, part of us: Alfie and Constance and me. They smelled of us and sounded like us. I even liked Constance’s cooking – or at least, I liked teasing her about it. No one else boiled mutton in quite the way she did, thank God.
This was the only real home I’d ever known.
The following morning, I once again sent a note to my foreman, explaining I had suffered a relapse. Despite the soreness in my back and my neck, I could think of at least three reasons why I would have preferred to go to work. Firstly, the nurses would have offered me salves and sympathy, both of which I felt in need of; secondly, I couldn’t afford the continued loss of wages; and finally, a day spent hobbling around the ward with towels and sheets was much preferable to what I actually had to do.
The sun was bright on Little Pulteney Street and I took a route through the alleys to avoid it shining in my eyes. I could hear footsteps behind me with a distinctive squeak but thought little of them until I stopped to buy an apple. When I continued on my way, they were still there. I turned abruptly, and a man in a brown felt hat passed me by.
I was certain he was the same fellow who had followed us at the zoo. I hadn’t been able to see him clearly then, but now I could. He was younger than I had thought, with a slim face and tidy moustache. He paid me no attention and carried on towards Wardour Street.
‘Hampstead,’ I said to the cab driver on Piccadilly. ‘Church Row.’
My father’s house.
When I was eleven years old, my father bought Oliver a kite. He
arrived home with a brown paper parcel and the whole family gathered in the parlour to watch my brother open it. When the kite emerged, flame-red with a silk tail and a string wound tight round a wooden reel, we gasped in admiration.
‘Can we fly it right now?’ Oliver begged, which was the response my father had hoped for.
I started to pull on my shoes, but Mummy stopped me. ‘No, Lottie. Let the boys play.’
I looked at Jane and could tell she was disappointed too. Why couldn’t we learn to fly the kite? I was four years younger than Oliver, but Jane was the same age as him, born the same day. And it wasn’t their birthday, so why was Oliver getting a present and not us?
Oliver and our father returned three hours later, flushed and happy. The kite had flown well. Oliver couldn’t stop talking about how high it had risen and how hard it had pulled. He demonstrated over dinner, pinching the string between his thumb and forefinger while our father held up the kite like a trophy.
That night I lay awake.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jane insisted, her voice emerging from the darkness like the better part of my impulses. ‘It’s just a toy.’
‘Don’t you want to have a go?’
‘Of course, but it’s Oliver’s.’
I couldn’t resist. The following afternoon while Oliver was at school, I took the kite from its place of honour on his chest of drawers and crept out of the house before anyone could see me. We went down the hill to the park, that kite and me, and we didn’t pass a soul on the way. Such was the strength of the wind I had to lean forward with one hand on my hat, and tuck the kite into my coat so it couldn’t escape. Finally, I stood on a wide stretch of grass, legs apart, the reel clutched in my hand.
I hurled the kite into the air and it leapt upwards, thrumming and whipping its tail as the breeze caught hold. It was flying! I unravelled the string as it climbed, bucking and swooping. Some instinct told me to pull harder, sending it higher and higher, hovering and shivering above me like a great, red kestrel.
A gust came, and the reel was wrenched out of my hand. I chased the string as it danced ahead of me, hurling myself forward to catch it as it went slack.