The Anarchists' Club

by Alex Reeve

  He approached us, stepping adroitly, for so large a fellow, between a man in a judge’s wig and a Chinese woman carrying a baby, which turned out, when she fumbled and dropped it on its head, to be a doll.

  ‘Why are you here?’ He appeared anxious, probably recalling his previous criticism of his employer.

  ‘Two children have been kidnapped. We have some questions for Sir Reginald.’

  ‘Is that how …?’ He rotated a finger around his face to indicate my injuries.

  ‘Yes. They were taken while in my care.’

  It was the first time I’d said it out loud. I pinched myself under my armpit, where my cilice rubbed against my skin.

  ‘Have you seen anything while you’ve been here?’ asked Rosie. ‘Or heard any children’s voices? It’s very important.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone,’ he said. ‘But we only arrived an hour ago. My word, you do have an exciting time, don’t you? Did you find out who killed Dora Hannigan?’

  ‘You remember her name,’ said Rosie, and I could see what she was thinking: that it was odd for someone who wasn’t involved to retain that detail.

  He waved a hand. ‘As I said before, it was in the newspapers.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. It didn’t matter that he was a big man and capable of violence. Nothing would get in my way now. ‘John Thackery told you about her, didn’t he? She was his governess when he was young.’

  Black sighed and closed his eyes, speaking with them still shut. ‘Yes, that’s true. I didn’t know if you’d made that connection.’

  ‘He told me himself. She was the mother of the children that were taken. A boy and a girl.’

  He put his hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, that’s terrible. She’s dead, her children kidnapped, and I haven’t heard from John in days. Have you seen him again?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’

  Black gazed out at the garden, seemingly lost in thought. The grass was barren and brown, cast into shadow by a high, featureless wall at the far end.

  ‘He speaks of her often,’ he said. ‘She was the only one who was kind to him, when he was young.’

  ‘Yes, I heard his father didn’t like him.’

  ‘Sir Reginald used to shut him in a cupboard, did you know that? For hours. Isn’t that hateful? Who would do that to a child? Miss Hannigan used to get bread and honey for him and slide it under the door. She used to read to him too, he told me.’

  I thought of Aiden and Ciara, and shuddered. They might be in just such a place, but with no kindly governess to show them pity. I pushed the thought away; if I dwelled on it, I would go mad.

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  Black nodded, still staring out at the garden, his eyes following the paved path that led to a wrought-iron bench and an arch with plants growing up and over it. ‘He told me that when he was eighteen his father sent him to the Military Academy at Woolwich. He hated it and ran away.’ Black pointed at the featureless wall. ‘There’s a stable behind there, and Sir Reginald locked him in it for three weeks. He punished his own son until he did as he was told and went back to Woolwich. Can you imagine the humiliation?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Almost two weeks ago, I think. We agreed to meet on Tuesday night, after the performance, but he never turned up.’

  ‘This was for you to paint his portrait, was it?’

  He smiled thinly at her. ‘Of course.’

  Why hadn’t John Thackery kept that tryst? I thought back to the day I’d followed him. He had vanished in the square near his father’s house. Where could he have gone?

  I didn’t have time to consider the question further. Sir Reginald came into the room and Black immediately made himself busy near the stage. Sir Reginald watched him go with an expression of revulsion and turned to me, briefly eyeing the sutures above my eyebrow.

  ‘Stanhope,’ he said. ‘I presume you’ve come to apologise. Do you have my guinea?’

  ‘No, Sir Reginald. I need to know, do you have Aiden and Ciara Hannigan? They’ve been kidnapped.’

  ‘What are you babbling about?’ He glared at Rosie. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘This is Mrs Flowers,’ I said. ‘She’s fully appraised of the situation. She’s helping me find them.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘We’re finding them together.’

  Sir Reginald barely acknowledged her. ‘Are you a cretin, Stanhope? How could you be so stupid? Come with me.’

  He led us into a small room covered on all four walls with books, row upon row of them. There was no natural light, but a gas lamp was flickering above our heads. He turned it up using a brass knob on the wall, and as the glow blossomed I saw that most of the books were about science, with titles like A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation and Gunshot Wounds, The Anatomy of the Human Body and A Guide to Hydropathy, though some were about industry and government and there was a whole shelf full of journals. On a dainty table in the centre of the room, a monkey’s paw was mounted on a plinth, raised as if about to catch a ball.

  Sir Reginald seemed sicklier than the last time I’d seen him, twice almost coughing, but somehow suppressing it, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the arms of his chair. It was the only one in the room, so we had no choice but to stand in front of him like naughty schoolchildren.

  ‘Do you know where the children might be, Sir Reginald?’

  He looked at me as if I had lost my senses. ‘Me? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I was hoping that, since I didn’t do as you asked, you had taken the task out of my hands.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ His mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘I don’t kidnap people.’

  I was watching him closely, desperate for some sign he was lying. ‘Your man, the footman, might he have done it? Perhaps believing it was what you wanted?’

  ‘My footman? I barely trust him to carry my chamber pot.’

  ‘But you are their father, aren’t you, Sir Reginald?’ I ignored his glower. Necessity was making me reckless. ‘That’s why you’re so interested in their welfare. Your son Peter resembles Aiden quite closely.’

  ‘Don’t be impudent, Stanhope.’ This was a simple instruction, issued without heat. I was so far beneath him I didn’t warrant his anger.

  ‘We’re only trying to understand all the possibilities,’ offered Rosie, in a conciliatory tone.

  He stood up and pulled a book from the shelf: On the Origin of Species.

  ‘Charles Darwin,’ he said. ‘Have you read it?’

  He was only addressing me. He seemed to assume Rosie hadn’t.

  ‘A little.’

  There had been a copy in the vicarage, and I’d read the first few chapters. I had never wondered about that before; a clergyman owning such a book. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought my father open-minded.

  ‘Then you know what it says, what it means. That we progress and progress, and by that progression the strongest of us survive at the expense of the weak.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly—’

  ‘It’s as clear as day.’ He licked his finger and turned a couple of pages. ‘It’s as much about economics as it is biology. Those of us who build something, create something, deserve to rise, and those who dilly-dally and whine about the good of the working man, whatever that means, deserve poverty.’ He shook his head, exasperated. ‘They’re planning a strike, you know, the men at the mill. They’re protesting against God knows what, risking their livelihoods out of pure envy. People like that don’t have the backbone to do anything for themselves.’

  ‘Like your son John, you mean?’ I asked.

  He stopped, his hand shaking. ‘How do you know him?’

  I thought quickly. I didn’t want to admit we’d been friendly, years before. It would encourage questions I didn’t want to answer.

  ‘Miss Hannigan had been his governess. The police spoke to him.’

  Sir Reginald sat down again and opened a drawer in the littl
e table, pulling out his spit cup and a bottle of laudanum.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, eventually. ‘Like John. Weak blood, you see.’

  Rosie looked confused. ‘But he’s your son,’ she said. ‘Your blood’s the same.’

  And then it came to me. John didn’t look anything like Aiden and Peter. And John had said his father hated him for existing.

  ‘Unless he’s not your natural son. Is that it? Is John adopted?’

  Sir Reginald picked at his thumbnail and pulled at the skin with his teeth. All his nails were the same, bitten down, puffy and lacerated around the edges.

  ‘He’s the proof, if any were needed. I tried everything for him, but it was impossible. He left the army having never fought a battle or been promoted. Can you imagine that? He doesn’t come from my stock. His is a weaker strain.’ He tapped his finger on the pages of the book and started to read out loud: ‘“Each new variety, and ultimately each new species, is produced and maintained by having some advantage over those with which it comes into competition; and the consequent extinction of less-favoured forms almost inevitably follows.” Do you see? I have competed, and I have won.’

  ‘And yet you have a sickness, Sir Reginald. It’s obvious.’

  ‘I’m not talking about physical strength, I’m talking about mentality.’ He clenched his fist. ‘Intellect, diligence and determination. The power to lead. My line is strong, which is why it deserves to continue, while others die out.’

  ‘Die out? You truly think that?’

  ‘It’s science!’ He slammed his fist down on the table, making the monkey’s paw jump, and then stiffened, his face blossoming red and his chest heaving. He took a sip of laudanum and closed his eyes before continuing. ‘Adopting John was the worst mistake I ever made. I regretted it the instant I’d done it. He was a feeble boy and grew into an embittered man. No substance.’ He banged the table again. ‘He had the gall to threaten me. That’s why I instructed you to get those two children out of the way.’

  ‘You think John might have taken them?’

  I hadn’t considered the possibility, and yet … at least it would mean they were safe. John had cared about their mother, and I couldn’t imagine him hurting them. Unless, of course, he’d killed Dora too, in which case everything I had thought about him was wrong. It occurred to me that I might have been overly influenced by my memories of him as a boy.

  Sir Reginald nodded. ‘He’s got them somewhere, I’m certain, ready to reveal at the worst possible moment for me. He has no consideration for anyone but himself.’

  That was true enough. John had chosen to blackmail me without a second thought.

  ‘Was that why you wanted them hidden under a false surname?’

  ‘Correct. But you proved incapable of doing the simplest thing.’

  ‘Do you know where John is now?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘I have no idea. And you must stop interfering. No good will come of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because things are in motion. Things you don’t understand.’

  ‘What things?’

  He stood up again, a signal that our meeting was over. ‘Follow my instructions this time, will you? It’s imperative that you do nothing. Lives depend on it.’

  23

  When we were on our own in the hallway, Rosie leaned towards me and whispered: ‘I’m going to have a quick poke around. See if there’s any sign of them upstairs.’

  ‘Rosie! You can’t.’

  She cocked her head and blinked three times quickly, all innocence. ‘Of course I can. I’m looking for somewhere to wash my face, aren’t I?’

  ‘No!’ I hissed.

  I was almost shaking with exasperation, but before I was able to stop her, she’d rounded the banister and scurried up the stairs.

  I couldn’t hang about in the hallway, so I went back to the parlour, now even more resembling a makeshift theatre. Some of the performers had already changed into their costumes and were smoking and passing round a bottle, while others were straightening the chairs or arraying lamps at the foot of the stage. The Union Jack flags had been removed from the fireplace so, for the first time, I could see what they had previously obscured: above the mantel was a long sword, set horizontally and supported on brackets at each end. The hilt was simple and black, and the blade cold and clean. It had a purposeful look, like a hunting dog pulling at its leash.

  Below, two more brackets were attached to the wall, close together, as if a shorter sword had been hung there.

  Except it was missing.

  ‘How do you manage?’ asked Black behind me. ‘Living in secret as you do.’

  ‘I’m just a normal man,’ I replied, a little tartly, not wanting a conversation. Every second spent here was a second not finding Aiden and Ciara.

  ‘A normal man?’ He seemed disappointed by my mundanity. ‘What was your name, before?’

  On the few occasions I’d been asked it, that was the question that enraged me the most. What he was really asking was: ‘Who are you really?’

  ‘Why does it matter?’

  He bowed slightly. ‘It doesn’t, of course. We’re all our own invention, are we not?’

  I was too impatient to be polite. ‘Is that why you got married?’

  ‘I’m a man of appetites, Mr Stanhope.’ He was choosing his words with care. ‘I like gin and beer. I don’t see why I should have to choose between one and the other.’

  His face twitched, and I sensed again a vast sadness … no, it was closer to grief.

  ‘Are you performing this evening, Mr Black?’

  He was not yet changed into his finery.

  ‘No, I’ve been trumped.’

  He nodded towards a young woman wearing a delightful cream-coloured frock. I didn’t recognise her at first. She looked so different when not in masculine britches.

  ‘Good Lord, is that Vesta Tilley?’

  ‘In the flesh. She has star billing.’

  ‘I thought they didn’t like her kind of act. Making fun of the gentry and all that.’

  Black looked at me incredulously. ‘Oh, they don’t mind it for themselves, Mr Stanhope. They are sophisticated people, able to laugh at their own foibles. It’s the stinking masses that mustn’t see such things.’

  Peter Thackery was hovering near her, clearly desperate to introduce himself. She seemed wary of his intentions and turned away, and his expression soured. When smiling he looked like Ciara, but otherwise he resembled Aiden. It was uncanny.

  I wasn’t sure if he would remember me – he’d been hopelessly drunk last time I saw him – but he waved with boyish bonhomie.

  ‘We do keep bumping into each other, don’t we, Mr …?’

  ‘Stanhope, and yes. I’m looking for two children. Have you seen them? A boy of ten and a girl of six, both dark-haired.’

  He wasn’t properly listening. His eyes were following Miss Tilley and he was swaying slightly, his arms reaching towards her as if he was about to invite her for a waltz.

  ‘Peter!’ I said, a little sharply. ‘Have you seen any children here?’

  ‘What? No, why would I have?’ He peered at the stitches on my head, even putting out a finger to touch one, until I pulled away. ‘My goodness, you have been in the wars, haven’t you? Are those boot marks on your—’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  He leaned towards me and lowered his voice. ‘I really must thank you for the good turn you did me. Best not to mention it to anyone else, though, if you wouldn’t mind. Father’s a bit of a stickler.’

  ‘Of course, I understand.’

  Sir Reginald himself came back into the room, firmly guiding Rosie, whose face was living up to her name.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Peter,’ he said. ‘Stop hanging about here like a love-struck housemaid or I’ll send you back to school.’

  Peter looked aghast. ‘But it’s the Easter holidays,’ he protested.

  Sir Reginald ignored him and surveyed me sternly. ‘I did not
give you permission to talk to my son nor for this woman to wander around my house.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we need to find—’

  He held up his hand for silence and pulled on a brass lever attached to the wall by the fireplace. Somewhere downstairs, I imagined, a bell was ringing. We waited with him like children about to be punished until the footman arrived.

  ‘Mr Stanhope and …’ Sir Reginald waved a hand at Rosie ‘… and this woman are leaving now. Please ensure they do so. And that they do not return.’

  Outside, I set off as fast as I could.

  ‘Leo!’ Rosie called behind me. ‘Where are you going? Slow down.’

  Reluctantly, I waited for her. She grabbed my arm. ‘I checked everywhere I could,’ she said. ‘There was nothing. A maid caught me poking my head into the main bedroom. There were a lot of medical things in there: instruments and one of those bath chairs for invalids.’

  ‘Lady Thackery is very sickly. More even than her husband.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t there.’

  The door to the house opened and Peter Thackery appeared, looking left and right. He closed the door gently, as if he didn’t want anyone inside to hear, and came down the steps towards us.

  He nodded to Rosie but exclusively addressed me, much as Sir Reginald had done.

  ‘I heard Father talking about those children.’

  ‘Do you know something about them?’

  He looked sheepish. ‘No. Only that, well, he said he was going to send a note to that policeman, Hooper. He suspects you of kidnapping and murder. He thinks you collaborated with John.’ He winked mischievously. ‘I say, did you? It would be quite a feat if so.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I didn’t have time for this juvenile nonsense and was already moving away from him. The itch to leave this place was coming up through the soles of my shoes.

  ‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed. ‘Well anyway, I thought you ought to know, as you were a decent chap to me. One good turn and all that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s just that, well, you might be better off …’ He didn’t finish his sentence but made a galloping motion with his fingers in the air. ‘I can provide a bit of funding if you need to get away.’