The Anarchists' Club

by Alex Reeve

  ‘Please don’t talk to them,’ she hissed. ‘They’re not your concern.’

  ‘They’re my niece and nephews.’

  ‘They’re Lottie’s niece and nephews.’

  I accompanied her back into the kitchen, saying nothing. What she was doing was hateful and wrong, using her children to punish me, but I still didn’t want them to hear us. If they were ever going to know of me, I wanted it to be in a pleasant way, a joyful surprise, a dear uncle who they didn’t know existed, not as a strange man barking the news at them while their mother tried to shush him.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ asked the housekeeper. When neither of us replied she concentrated hard on her sewing, presumably hoping it would render her invisible.

  ‘My God, Jane. Are you denying now that we’re siblings at all? They are my niece and nephews, regardless of what you say.’

  Her face was as hard as china. ‘You made your choice.’

  I’d had enough of this place.

  She followed me to the front door, where I turned to face her. ‘And where are Aiden and Ciara? You’re supposed to be looking after them.’

  ‘I am,’ she said, surprised. ‘They’re at home. You can’t have expected … I mean, they’re with the servants. You don’t think I would have children like that among my own, do you?’

  ‘What do you mean, “children like that”? Do you have any idea what they’ve suffered?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s why I took them in, and why I clothed and fed them and gave them a place to sleep.’

  She was sounding so reasonable, it made me even more livid.

  ‘What place?’

  ‘In the scullery. It’s perfectly suitable for—’

  ‘Stop.’ I wouldn’t listen to her any more. ‘Giving them to your servants wasn’t what we agreed.’

  ‘We agreed it would be temporary until you found their relatives. Have you done so?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well then. Do you suppose an orphanage would be any more agreeable?’

  I couldn’t see her expression in the dimness of the hall, so I didn’t know if she considered herself justified to have manipulated the terms of our deal or not.

  ‘I’ll collect them from you tomorrow morning,’ I snapped. ‘Have them ready.’

  ‘I won’t be at home. I’ll be tending to Father, doing my duty as his daughter.’

  ‘Then I’ll meet you here. Bring them with you.’

  With a sudden burst of anger, I pushed past her and started up the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She was almost pleading. ‘You mustn’t tell Father about why you left. You promised.’

  ‘You broke your half of that agreement, so I can do as I please.’

  She grabbed my arm, but I pulled away and ran up to the landing.

  ‘Lottie! Please don’t—’

  I threw open my father’s door and shook him by the shoulder. He stirred, his hand groping at his chest for the spectacles that would once have hung there.

  ‘Jane?’ he croaked.

  ‘No, not Jane.’

  ‘Charlotte? Is that you? Is that my little girl?’

  I should have done it. I should have told him the truth.

  I’m not your little girl. I’m not Charlotte or Lottie. I’m Leo Stanhope and I always will be. Nothing of you survives in me. Nothing.

  But I didn’t. He was so frail, his skin like paper pulled thinly over a frame, his hands fluttering towards me.

  I stood there looking at him, my lungs heaving in my bound chest.

  ‘Charlotte?’ he said again.

  ‘Goodbye, Father,’ I replied. ‘I hope you find peace.’

  18

  I strode swiftly and furiously back through the village, ignoring a swan guarding the pond, flapping his wings and extending his neck towards me.

  From time to time in my adult life I had dreamed of confronting my father with what I truly was, but now I found my hatred of him, for so long my North Star, felt less certain. He was at the end of his life, regretting the things he’d done. I might have been able to tell the truth to my father, the monster of my childhood, but I could never tell that blind and enfeebled old man lying on his deathbed, dying of a cancer he didn’t understand, praying for the Lord to be merciful.

  I couldn’t imagine why He would be; God had never shown any kindness to me. Even the gift of my intellect, for which I was occasionally grateful, served primarily to allow me a true and thorough knowledge of the hopelessness of my situation.

  I took the train at Hampstead Heath and was surprised when it terminated at Camden Town, still at least two miles from my home. I was in no mood to wait for an omnibus, so I opted to walk, my ire unextinguished by the gentle rain. My mind quickly turned towards Aiden and Ciara. Tomorrow, I would collect them from my sister, and would have to find somewhere for them to go; an orphanage, I supposed, where Sir Reginald Thackery would never find them.

  I had tried everything, but they still kept coming back to me. Stranger still, I found myself pleased at the thought of it, as though I hadn’t realised I was thirsty until offered a drink.

  Was the idea so foolish? When a child is born to a father, he hasn’t lived with the certainty of it growing inside him or felt its kick. He hasn’t squeezed it from his womb. The first he sees of it is a wet, red creature swaddled in blankets, mewling and squawking. How long does it take him to love that infant? Minutes? Hours? Days?

  Why should my attachment to these children – living, breathing, talking children – take any more time than that?

  I shook my head.

  Thinking that way was utter foolishness.

  I was late meeting Rosie at the pharmacy and had to run through the rain, every muscle complaining. She was waiting outside under an umbrella, which she immediately lowered and shook, scattering droplets of water over my trousers.

  ‘I hope you had a nice lunch,’ she said, pursing her lips.

  ‘I went to see my father. He’s very ill.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She attempted to adjust her expression to one of sympathy, with limited success. ‘Well, that is a shame.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She sniffed, and a little shudder went through her. ‘I mean, properly, Leo. I’m sorry. It must be very difficult for you.’

  I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to tell her that his dying didn’t matter, but it would sound unkind, even to my ears. That damned pity again. I was starting to resent it. Hatred is so uncomplicated by comparison.

  Through the window, I could see Constance smirking at us.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Rosie. ‘The club isn’t very far. And my father did tell me one useful thing. He said that Sir Reginald held a strong dislike for John, his son.’

  At the club on Rose Street, a girl was on the door, ten or eleven years old and skinny as a stoat. Her hand was stuck out for payment.

  ‘We’re here for Dora Hannigan’s wake,’ I told her, fumbling in my pocket for a penny.

  Rosie shooed her away. ‘Little wretch!’ she said. ‘She’s making a fine living, isn’t she, charging folks what’s rightfully free.’

  But I had a suspicion she admired the girl’s initiative.

  Inside, it was dark and smelled as stale as before. We followed the babble of voices until we found ourselves in the large room I had passed through with Thackery. It reminded me of the village hall in Enfield, with a lectern at the front and rows of seats facing it. Fifty or more people were standing around, clutching glasses of porter and talking earnestly in groups.

  ‘Quite a place, this,’ Rosie whispered. ‘Never seen anything like it.’

  We collected drinks from the table. They seemed to be free, which was just as well, as I was already short for the week’s rent.

  We stood together near the back, feeling oddly conspicuous. The one person I recognised was Erica Cowdery, who’d escorted me out of the building the last time I was there. She was busily placing pieces of paper on each chair.

>   When she saw me, she smiled and came over to us, standing so close I could smell her violet nosegay.

  ‘Hello again, Mr Stanhope,’ she said. ‘I see curiosity got the better of you after all.’

  ‘I’m here to pay my respects.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad.’ She squeezed my forearm. ‘My brother has something to say to you.’ She cast around the room. ‘Where is he?’

  I introduced her to Rosie, and Miss Cowdery let go of my arm, fidgeting with the collar of her dress and adjusting her mourning hat, a substantial structure resembling the kind of fortress from which one might defend our shores from invading Vikings.

  A smartly dressed man approached us, holding a rather stylish black bowler, and I realised he was Edwin Cowdery, Miss Cowdery’s brother. He exchanged a look with her and then addressed me.

  ‘Mr Stanhope. I wanted to give you my regards,’ he said. ‘I was harsh with you last time we met. There’d been a lot going on, and none of it good.’

  ‘I quite understand. This is Mrs Flowers.’

  He bowed slightly in Rosie’s direction without meeting her eye. ‘Pleasure.’

  He seemed to have nothing further to say, but wasn’t sure how to leave.

  ‘Such a tragedy,’ I said, trying to fill the silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know anything about why she was killed?’

  He pulled his face into a smile that nevertheless tugged down at the corners of his mouth. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  I got a glimpse of that temper again. His civility was thin indeed.

  Rosie took his arm, which appeared to make him both pleased and anxious at the same time. ‘Why don’t we go and get a glass of something, you and me.’

  She steered him away, towards the drinks table, deep in conversation. I waited with Miss Cowdery, who tried to put her hands into her apron pocket, except she had no apron and ended up folding her arms and standing awkwardly.

  In one corner, a fellow was plucking at a violin. Apparently, there was to be music.

  ‘Are you investigating the murder?’ she asked eventually. ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Did you know Miss Hannigan well?’

  ‘Edwin and Dora …’ She glanced up at me, considering her answer. ‘I don’t live here, so I didn’t see a lot of her. But we were friendly enough, and she used to help us out at the Home.’

  ‘The what?’

  She handed me one of the sheets of paper she was holding, which was printed in plain type with no illustration.

  A special Easter appeal on behalf of the Home for Penitent Females

  at 57 White Lion Street

  From north to south, east to west, their voices reached us:

  ‘We have fallen on hard times and need aid for ourselves.’

  In response to their pitiful cries, the Home for Penitent Females opened its doors to any girl or woman who was prepared to work hard and be respectable.

  Will you, one and all, share this responsibility with us?

  Will you give us something this Easter-time, so we can keep our doors open?

  ‘We’re raising money,’ she explained. ‘I’m the matron. Dora used to visit from time to time, teaching the girls to read and write. Sums too, if they were inclined that way.’ She took a couple of deep breaths and closed her eyes. ‘Very sad for her children, losing a mother like that. Do you know where they are now?’

  It sounded like a casual question, but her face betrayed her: too calm, too reserved. She was desperate to know the answer.

  ‘They’ll go to an orphanage.’

  She stared at me. ‘Surely Dora has family who’ll take them in? Do they have no one at all?’

  ‘Not that I or the police have found.’

  She put down the papers she was holding and wiped her hands on her skirt, though she seemed unaware she was doing it. I wondered if the mannerism was her way of preparing herself for action.

  ‘Please excuse me, Mr Stanhope.’

  She hurried away, and I lost sight of her in the crowd.

  Rosie and Mr Cowdery returned. He was holding a shovel.

  Rosie looked serious. ‘Mr Cowdery here was telling me how it was him who found Miss Hannigan.’

  ‘My dog,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘Best nose in London.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Shortly after midday, I reckon. Took him out to do his business and he started barking and digging. Frantic, he was. Never dreamed we’d find Dora like that.’

  His mouth pulled into a grin-like expression, his only way to avoid weeping.

  ‘And this?’ I asked, pointing at the shovel.

  ‘What he used to bury her, whoever he was.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Rosie’s attentions seemed to have lanced his suspicion of me.

  ‘It’s kept in the shed normally,’ he said. ‘But it was left under the steps.’

  I picked at the spade with my fingernail, and the hard-dried dirt came away, brown dust falling to the floor.

  ‘Why didn’t the police confiscate it?’

  ‘I didn’t tell ’em. I don’t give anything to the coppers as a rule and, besides, it’s the only one we have.’

  ‘Does the shed have a lock?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘No, we share and share alike here.’ He sounded proud, testifying to his creed. ‘No man should control another man’s means of earning a living.’

  ‘Did you see anything else out of the ordinary? Any footprints?’

  ‘No.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘I have to go. Duty calls.’

  I gave the shovel back to him and he strode away with it under his arm.

  ‘Not much help there,’ whispered Rosie. ‘Aside from finding out the killer didn’t use his bare hands to dig the hole.’

  ‘It does suggest a lack of preparation, though, wouldn’t you say? The killer didn’t bring a shovel with him. It was badly planned.’ My mind was clicking through the facts, and I confess I felt a brief twinge of pleasure at putting them together. ‘What do you make of Mr Cowdery?’

  ‘He’s shy of women, I’d say, that one. But he was sweet on Dora Hannigan. Very sweet.’

  ‘Enough to be jealous?’

  She sipped her porter and looked away from me, remembering, I supposed, her late husband. She had good reason to be wary of men.

  ‘Perhaps. My guess is things can make him angry, and quicker than they should. He’s like a spill of oil that could catch light at any time.’

  I was glad I’d brought her. She was good at talking to people. They opened up to her. I just seemed to make them cross.

  The room was filling up and guests were starting to seat themselves. We headed for the back row, but by the time we got there, all the chairs had been taken and we had to join the dozen or so others who were standing. They were mostly men; in fact, the whole room was mostly men. From where we were, it was a field of flat caps and bowlers, with a few ladies’ taffeta hats dotted among them like glints of anthracite in a coal cellar.

  The room fell silent, and I didn’t know what to expect; perhaps a minister of some kind, to bless us and pray for the soul of the dead. I certainly didn’t expect Edwin Cowdery to get up and stand behind the lectern.

  ‘My old man was an engineer,’ he announced, his eyes scanning the room until everyone was quiet. ‘And I followed in his footsteps, apprenticed at twelve year old to the Hatcham Iron Works making jackscrews and pistons. That was twenty-two year ago.’ He paused, standing quite still, and you could have heard a feather fall. I was bizarrely reminded of Miss Vesta Tilley at the music hall, holding an audience similarly attentive, though she and Mr Cowdery had little else in common. ‘As most of you know, and a few were there to see, it wasn’t a good life. Not good at all. The owner, Mr England, he was a hard gentleman, and his men worked all hours, breaking their backs, breaking their hearts, so he could get rich.

  ‘If a worker lost a hand in the machinery, and was unlucky enough to live, he would be without a wage, wit
hout a home, without a cot to lay his head. Even though it wasn’t his fault, he’d be gone, and most likely starve to death. It wasn’t fair, my friends, it wasn’t fair at all.’ He grimaced as though the memory of it was a physical pain, and then settled himself, holding his palms together as if in prayer. ‘But me, I was an apprentice engineer, on track to become an engineer in my own right, directing men to work to my demands. In due course, I would’ve become a senior engineer with two-score men to toil and die in the factory while I eat cake …’ he slapped his belly ‘… and purchase silk waistcoats in larger and larger sizes. I couldn’t do it, my friends. I couldn’t abide the injustice. So, what did I do instead, do you suppose?’

  There was a murmur from the assembly, but I couldn’t catch the words. They all seemed to be saying different things.

  Cowdery put his hand to his ear. ‘I can’t hear you?’ he called out, in a theatrical manner. ‘Did we buckle under that yoke? Did we let Mr England treat the workers like animals, worse than animals, like carrion? Did we? No, we did not.’ His voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I got the men together, and we fought back. We took our labour away. We found out how many locomotives he could make with an empty factory. And how many was it, do you think? How many?’

  ‘None!’ the audience called back to him, delighted to know the answer this time.

  ‘Exactly. None. He wasn’t getting so rich now, was he? Had to up the men’s wages and agree to contracts, and if a man lost a hand, or lost his hearing from the noise, he had to find him other work, sorting bolts or sweeping up, which wasn’t much, but it was better than starving.

  ‘Of course, he gave me the sack, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to work for him or anyone like him. Because I’d learned my lesson, hadn’t I? You don’t buckle. You don’t give in. You demand justice from the owners, and you keep demanding it until they treat you with respect, because it’s ordinary men who dig the earth, toil in factories, haul on sails and chip away in the mines. So, it’s them that deserve protection and decent wages. Not the likes of Mr England, my friends. Not him.’

  Cowdery removed his bowler and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He gazed to his left where the shovel was propped against the wall, remaining silent for so long that the audience began fidgeting in their seats. I could see puzzled glances being exchanged.