by Alex Reeve
‘What are you saying?’ I asked.
She dipped into her bag for a handkerchief and began dabbing her eyes.
‘If I’m honest, I never thought they would actually burn down that mill. I thought it was a bit of fun for them, like a game, thinking about how they might go about such a thing. But now, I’m not so sure. I think he might actually do it.’
‘We have to find Edwin Cowdery,’ said Rosie, as soon as we were outside on the pavement. She set off at a rapid pace and I had to scurry to keep up.
‘Rosie, what’s wrong?’
‘We have to pray he hasn’t harmed them.’
‘Rosie!’
She turned and glared at me, and I realised her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘You don’t understand, Leo. It’s my fault.’
‘What is?’
‘After we argued about … God, I can’t even remember what. It doesn’t matter now. I thought you were being reckless, allowing John Thackery to blackmail you. I thought it would be best if the police knew that Thackery was Duport, and Duport was Thackery.’
The truth washed over me like the first big wave when you wade into the sea. ‘You told the police about John.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, but I didn’t think … I didn’t realise it would mean they’d release Mr Cowdery.’ She stood up straight, squaring her shoulders. ‘It’s my fault. I told them about Thackery and, because of that, Mr Cowdery was released and was able to kidnap Aiden and Ciara.’
She walked swiftly away from me, and I think I would have let her carry on, would have let her suffer, if she had been right.
But she wasn’t right.
‘Rosie!’ I called after her. ‘Edwin Cowdery didn’t take them.’
She didn’t slow down, but called back over her shoulder. ‘He’s their father and a criminal, and he’s been set free because of me.’
‘He didn’t write that note, Rosie.’
She stopped and looked up at the sky as if calling on God to give her patience. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
I had to tell her. I couldn’t abide the thought that she would blame herself.
‘Because Aiden wrote it.’
I showed her Ciara’s drawing and the kidnapper’s note. Her hand was shaking as she held them. Nevertheless, she examined the lettering with care, peering over the top of her spectacles.
‘They do look similar,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘They’re identical. Look at the “a” here and here. The same bad spelling and grammar too.’
She wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday, instead of pretending you were giving up?’
I took off my bowler and cautiously rubbed my forehead, avoiding the stitches. There was a cool wind blowing down the street, yet still I felt hot.
‘I thought perhaps that Aiden …’
‘Oh Leo.’ She pursed her lips. ‘We’re as absurd as each other, don’t you think? We shouldn’t keep any more secrets. Now I know that Aiden wrote it, the whole thing makes sense. You were brought up as a gentleman, weren’t you?’ She paused, blanching, realising what she’d said. ‘I mean, as a … I mean, educated.’
There was no one near enough to hear us, but I still wished she’d be more discreet.
‘What of it?’
‘You were taught to read and write, but most of us weren’t. I never went to school, not one day. My old man said it wasn’t worth sending a girl and I was more useful in the shop. Most people write the same way they speak.’
She pointed at the note, and I read it again.
Stop asking after the dead lady an looking for the orfans rite now or therell be trubble there lives are at stake
‘See here,’ she said. ‘He’s spelled “looking” right. But “trubble” is wrong, isn’t it?’
She wasn’t absolutely certain.
‘Yes.’ I felt a glimmer of anticipation. Perhaps the note was telling us more than it intended. ‘And look: the first six words are all correct, but most of the rest aren’t. His spelling isn’t so much bad as variable. He can spell “dead”, “looking” and “lives” perfectly well, but not “right” or “orphans”.’
She nodded, poring over the piece of paper, her finger running along the words. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was trying very hard not to weep. ‘And the way it’s written is odd too,’ she said. ‘“Stop asking after” is a strange form of words for a lad his age, don’t you think? He’d say “stop asking about”.’ She looked up at me. ‘I think someone else was telling him what to write.’
‘Yes!’ I spun round on the spot, feeling, for the first time, as if we were getting close to the truth. ‘It was written under duress. Someone else spelled out some of the words for him. Someone who isn’t illiterate but wasn’t able to write it for themselves.’
I stared at her, realising what we had to do next. Realising the danger.
‘Rosie, I know who has them.’
26
The cab made excellent pace, diving down side roads and pulling around slow-moving carts, and we reached Gordon Square in less than ten minutes. The curtains of Sir Reginald’s house were closed, and there was a wreath on the door.
‘Wait here,’ I told the driver. ‘We may need you again. There’s another half a crown if you do.’
I was feeling torn in half: delighted that Aiden almost certainly wasn’t guilty of murder, but terrified for him and Ciara.
Rosie pointed at the shapes moving behind the curtains.
‘There are people inside,’ she said.
It was true, but it meant nothing; in rich people’s houses, the servants were always at home.
The footman opened the door, as crisply dressed as before in his pale blue jacket and black, perfectly creased trousers. Instinctively, I felt the bruises on my face.
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘You again?’
‘Is Lady Thackery at home?’ I asked. ‘It’s urgent that we speak to her.’
‘We’re not open to visitors today,’ he said. ‘There’s been a death in the family. And I was given instructions not to let you in.’ He tried to close the door, but I put my foot in the way. ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ he asked, almost casually. ‘I’d’ve thought you’d learned your lesson.’
I took a deep breath and prepared myself, glancing back at Rosie for confidence. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and I edged myself in front of her, hearing her irritated ‘tut’.
The footman raised his eyebrows, and I’m sure it would have ended badly for me, but at that moment another cab drew up. We watched as the door was flung open and Peregrine Black clambered out, tossing a coin at the cabbie and leaping up the steps.
‘What do you want?’ sneered the footman.
Black shoved past Rosie and me without so much as an acknowledgement. ‘Where is that soiled arse? Never mind, I’ll find him for myself.’
The footman tried to block his path.
It was so swift, I barely saw it, like the piston on a railway engine; Black’s fist shot forwards into the footman’s stomach and he went down with a groan, falling to his knees and clutching at the doorframe for support. Black kicked him and stepped over his prone body, taking care to tread on his wrist, seeming pleased by the crack and the footman’s squeal of pain.
Black stormed down the hallway, sweeping pictures of birds and butterflies off the walls as he went, leaving a trail of broken wood and glass.
‘Sir Reginald!’ he yelled. ‘Are you at home? It’s time for a reckoning!’
I followed him into the parlour, where two pale-faced maids were gaping at us from behind a sofa. The room was no longer set out as a theatre, and now contained armchairs, lamps and a table laid for afternoon tea. Above the mantelpiece, two swords were displayed, one long, one short, both clean and shiny as if they’d been newly polished.
The murder weapon had been replaced.
Black turned angrily towards me and I took a step backwards. I didn’t believe he would attack me, b
ut I couldn’t be certain. He was panting like a bull.
‘That fart of a man killed John! His own son!’ He pointed at the garden, sounding close to tears. ‘His body was discovered right behind the house.’
‘Who told you that?’
I had a fleeting fear he might know that I had been the first person to find John’s corpse. I dreaded to think how he might react.
‘Policemen!’ he exclaimed, as if it was obvious. ‘They get drunk and start gossiping worse than …’ He waved his hands around, trying to conjure up the right comparison. ‘Worse than actors!’
He grabbed the longer sword from above the fireplace and marched back down the hallway, ignoring Rosie, who had reversed against the wall. He threw open every door and peered inside until he reached the little library where Rosie and I had met with Sir Reginald. The handle wouldn’t turn. Someone on the other side was holding on to it.
Black rapped on the wood with the hilt of the sword. ‘Come out, you coward!’
There was no reply. He rocked back and heaved his considerable weight against the door, and it burst open.
‘Murderer!’ roared Black, pointing the sword.
Sir Reginald was on his knees on the floor, his face so ruddy it was almost purple.
‘Mr Black,’ said Rosie. She put her hand gently on the big man’s shoulder. ‘You can’t do this. Think of your wife and child. What will happen to them if you’re hanged?’
Black inhaled deeply and repositioned the sword in his hand as if he was about to drive it home, but then breathed out slowly and lowered the point to the floor.
Sir Reginald fell forward on to all fours and retched so excessively I thought his lungs and guts would come up as well. He spat a couple of times and wiped a stream of viscous liquid from his chin.
‘I didn’t kill John,’ he rasped. ‘Why would I?’
‘You despised him,’ I replied. ‘He’s not of your blood.’
He pulled himself into his chair, groping on the table for his laudanum and dislodging the monkey’s paw. He took a swig from the bottle and closed his eyes.
‘John was weak,’ he said eventually. ‘He was my shame, but I never wanted him dead.’
‘What about Miss Hannigan?’ I demanded. ‘I know what she did for you. Did she ask for more money, was that it? Was she blackmailing you?’
His hands were shaking. ‘No, not money. She would hardly spend what I’d given her before. She wanted to meet Peter and talk to him. It was a ridiculous notion. He’s my blood. Dora was just a … container for nine months, that’s all. But I would never have hurt her. For all her foolish beliefs, I was quite fond of her.’
‘What about Lady Thackery? She was upset, wasn’t she? Jealous. Where is she now?’
He shook his head. ‘I won’t tell you. But it’s not what you’re thinking. It’ll be better for everyone if you stop this nonsense right now.’
Black rested the point of the sword against the old man’s sternum. It would have taken the slightest of pressures to pierce his skin. ‘Answer the question.’
I heard a voice behind me. ‘Stop that! Move away immediately!’ It was Peter Thackery, sounding remarkably commanding for a lad of fifteen. ‘Mr Stanhope, what’s happening here?’
‘We need to know where Lady Thackery is.’
‘Why?’
‘She kidnapped the two children I’m searching for.’
He stared at me as if I was mad. ‘You think my mother is guilty of kidnapping? My mother?’
Black pressed a little on the sword, forcing Sir Reginald backwards in his chair.
I felt a hand on my arm, one of the maids. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and was still holding a feather duster.
‘Mister,’ she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. ‘I know where Her Ladyship is.’
‘No,’ said Sir Reginald, his voice constricted and hoarse. ‘Don’t tell them anything.’
I could see the tussle going on in her mind, whether to disobey her employer or save his life. Common sense won the day. ‘Bernie told me …’ She stopped, her eyes flicking from side to side. ‘He’s the coachman, or he was. Mr Picken, I should call him.’
‘Please get on with it.’ I was trying to be gentle but couldn’t keep the impatience out of my voice.
She nodded and swallowed. ‘He told me Her Ladyship made him drive the carriage and snatch two urchins off the street. She had a gun and she shot it at someone, though he was sure she missed. He didn’t know what to think. I told him not to worry and it wasn’t his fault, but he was scared. He left his position and went back to his brother’s without so much as a goodbye. No references neither.’
I almost begged her. ‘Where are the children now?’
She looked up at me, straight in the eyes. ‘He took ’em to the mill, so he said. That’s where they’ll be.’
‘Thank you.’ I turned to Black. ‘Peregrine, please don’t hurt Sir Reginald. I don’t think he did this, and we may need to talk to him again. But stay with him and don’t let him send anyone after us.’
He seemed disappointed. ‘If I must.’
Rosie pulled on my sleeve. ‘Come on, Leo. We may not have much time.’
The footman was sitting at the bottom of the stairs taking short, sharp breaths. His jacket was at his feet, smeared with blood, and he had rolled up one of his shirtsleeves, exposing his wrist, which was hanging at a strange angle. He didn’t look up as we passed.
We were out of the door and hurrying down the steps to the pavement when Peter shouted after us. ‘Wait for me, Mr Stanhope. I want to make sure you don’t hurt my mother.’
‘No.’
The cab was waiting. Rosie climbed in and I was about to follow when I heard another shout from the doorway. Peter was standing on the steps. He held up a set of keys and jangled them.
‘There’s a strike on,’ he called. ‘The mill will be empty. How will you get in without these?’
He put the keys into his jacket pocket and folded his arms.
I didn’t have time to argue any further. ‘Very well, come on then. But you must be quick.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’
It was Rosie who answered. ‘Because there’s a man with a grudge who wants to set light to the place.’
27
When the cabbie heard where we wanted to go, he demanded double the half-crown he’d been promised, and Rosie agreed to pay him on condition he broke every rule of traffic in his efforts to get there quickly. To his credit, he did, whipping his horse brutally as we weaved along the road, at one point tipping so far over as we hurtled round a corner I thought we might capsize.
Peter seemed exalted by the whole experience. His eyes were shining. Several times, he put his head out of the window and whooped at people as they dodged out of the way.
‘Master Thackery,’ said Rosie, in a rare moment he was seated. ‘Are you not concerned by what we’re doing?’
He grinned. ‘This is all a waste of time, I’m sure of it. Mother has never done anything dangerous in her whole life. She can’t even walk without a stick.’
The paving ran out at the docks and our cab had to slow down on the muddy tracks. The bridge was the same as the last time I’d been there, lined with beggars unsexed by their emaciation, slouched against the wall or sitting on the ground, hands out for farthings.
We disembarked and hurried down the lane towards the mill. In the shadow of the railway embankment and surrounded by marshes, the buildings resembled ships marooned on a windless lake.
A crowd of a dozen or so men and women were huddled around a brazier of red-hot coals. The mill itself was grim and silent.
Two of the men stood up.
‘There’s a strike,’ one of them said.
‘Let us by,’ I told him, in no mood to be delayed. ‘Our business isn’t with you.’
He shrugged and watched us pass, the only noise coming from the squelching of our shoes in the mud.
Peter unlocked the main door a
nd threw it open. I led the way through the anteroom. In the eerie silence, I could hear pigeons trapped in the building, flapping against the skylights.
Our eyes slowly adjusted. The long lines of machines were dormant, half-chewed jute spilling from their mouths. Where in this place might Aiden and Ciara be? They could be locked up in a storeroom or gagged and bound in a cupboard, and I might never be able to find them.
‘Aiden!’ I shouted. ‘Ciara!’
All I wanted was to hear their voices; a cry, a sneeze, a cough – anything would do. I strained in the forbidding silence, but there was nothing.
We searched as thoroughly as we could, walking up and down the lines, looking from side to side, peering under tables and trolleys, opening crates and chests, always thinking: this is the place. They will be here. Rosie stayed close to me, two lines along, matching my pace, but Peter roamed across the building. At one point I caught sight of him climbing up an immense rack of shelves the height of a cottage, sitting at the top and surveying his father’s empire.
Twice, out of the corner of my eye, I was sure I saw movement. The second time, I dashed quickly round the corner to where I thought it was. The dust on the floor was covered with boot prints and skittering trails of rats’ paws, and I couldn’t tell which were recent and which were old.
‘Edwin?’ I called out, but there was no reply.
My one comfort was the mechanics of the search: lifting lids, turning handles, occasionally calling out their names. I will do this for ever, if necessary, I thought. I will search inch by inch and hour by hour until I find them.
I did something I’d only done three or four times since I was a child. I prayed under my breath: No matter what you think of me, oh Lord, please let Aiden and Ciara live. Please. I will do anything. I will pretend to be Lottie again, if that’s what you want.
The stillness was oppressive. I noticed that Rosie was searching more gingerly than me and in smaller spaces: stock boxes, cupboards and rubbish sacks. I had the feeling she wasn’t looking for two grateful children, but for two tiny bodies, curled up.