The Anarchists' Club

by Alex Reeve

  ‘A boy brought it for you, Mr Stanhope,’ she said. ‘You know what it says. You’ve been given the sack again.’

  ‘Constance!’ exclaimed Alfie.

  I slumped further in my chair. How would I cope without an income or a reference? And how would I find a new place to live?

  Jacob drained his whisky, unknowingly provided by Alfie. ‘It’s for the best,’ he growled. ‘Carrying other people’s bedpans is no task for a man.’

  Constance handed me another envelope. ‘Fortunately, there’s an alternative.’

  I ripped it open, and inside was a short note from J. T. Whitford. I read it twice to make sure of what it meant.

  ‘He wants you to write for the Daily Chronicle,’ Constance announced, beaming. ‘He came in earlier and told us all about it. He said the world is changing, and they have a need for a man who knows his strychnine from his coronary embolism, though I told him you were weak as milk on remedies and know precious little about mixing chemicals.’

  ‘Constance!’ said Alfie again, but she wouldn’t be stopped.

  ‘He insisted you should be given the chance,’ she continued. ‘He said you could be put to good use sharing your scientific knowledge …’ she rolled her eyes at this point ‘… with the grateful populace for their enrichment and elucidation. Those were his very words.’

  ‘It’s just occasional,’ I said, rereading the letter. ‘It’s not a full-time position.’

  ‘But you will do it, won’t you, Mr Stanhope?’

  I admit I rather liked the idea. ‘I suppose I will,’ I said. ‘I have to pay the rent somehow.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Alfie, clearing his throat. ‘About that. The thing is, Leo, we think you should stay here and not move out. Especially now …’ He nodded towards the children and swallowed. ‘I mean, we’d like you to stay.’

  ‘What about Mrs Gower?’

  ‘It’s not her decision. Look, one day she and I may get married. I would like to, but not right away.’ He glanced at Constance, who kept her face neutral. ‘You belong with us, Leo.’

  I wanted to say yes. It would be like falling into a soft bed after a long day.

  Perhaps, though, it was time for a change; a room with my own front door and my own stove, so I wouldn’t have to spend my days deceiving the people I loved.

  But I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with these two. The time will come, I thought, when I will have to tell them the truth. Just not yet.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I would like that.’

  Alfie grinned. ‘Good, because Constance has been miserable about it for days.’

  ‘You have too!’ she exclaimed.

  He accepted the point. ‘Well, who’s going to drink me dry of whisky if you’re not here?’

  ‘I should go,’ muttered Jacob, guiltily pushing his empty glass next to mine. ‘We’ll continue our game next week. Especially as I’m winning.’ He put out his hand and touched my cheek, but I couldn’t feel it through my scarred skin. ‘Do as the doctors tell you,’ he said.

  ‘Will you be all right getting home? Take a cab, for goodness’ sake.’

  He tapped his cane on the ground. ‘Do you think I’m incapable of finding my way to my own shop? You’re worse than Lilya.’

  I watched him trudge out, leaning on his cane, one of his braces dangling below the hem of his jacket. I thought of my actual father, still lying sick in Hampstead, as far as I knew. I wondered whether I should visit him again. I hadn’t been present when my mother died and I thought she would want me to make up for that. When I’m recovered, I thought, I will consider it. If he lasts that long. I won’t pretend to be Lottie or tell him anything of my life, but I might tolerate a short conversation. Truly, was there anything left in him to be afraid of?

  As the clock struck three, I was almost asleep again. The children had gone inside. I heard a sound and looked up to see Erica Cowdery standing over me, silhouetted against the sky.

  She was wearing full weeds and a cotton apron. Her brother’s funeral had been well attended, Pallett had told me, with all the members of the club turning out to bury the parts of him they’d been able to dig out from under the debris. Pallett seemed grudgingly respectful of their efforts, though he had no sympathy for arson and commented that Edwin Cowdery had got his just deserts.

  Miss Cowdery blanched at my appearance, but gathered herself. ‘I wasn’t sure if you got my letter, Mr Stanhope. I mentioned that I was coming today, but you didn’t reply.’

  I had read her letter and thrown it away, spending the last two days pretending it had never arrived.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been keeping up with my correspondence.’

  She seemed awkward, wringing her hands and briefly hovering over Jacob’s old seat as though she might take it, but then not.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure it’ll be a relief to you, getting them off your hands, a single man like yourself.’

  I tried to reply but couldn’t tell her anything without telling her everything, and of course that was impossible.

  She interpreted my silence as agreement.

  ‘They’ll be well looked after,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring them up as my own. Children need a mother, don’t they?’

  ‘You’re their aunt,’ I corrected her, not truly intending to be objectionable, but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘I know,’ she replied, a little haughtily. ‘But I’ll become their mother.’ She searched in her bag and produced a folder. ‘Would you like to see the paperwork? It’s signed by the magistrate.’

  ‘No, it’s quite all right.’ I didn’t need confirmation of what I already knew. ‘Best get it over with.’

  She followed me as I walked stiffly into the back room. I called the children from upstairs, my throat contracting, sending shooting pains into my chest.

  When they came down, Miss Cowdery smiled at them, especially Aiden, no doubt thinking of her late brother.

  I had told them that morning what was going to happen.

  ‘This is Miss Cowdery,’ I said. ‘She’s your aunt, so you’ll live with her from now on.’

  ‘Do we have to go?’ asked Ciara.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Yes. This is the last time, I promise. Miss Cowdery will look after you very well. She’s your family.’

  ‘But I don’t want to.’

  For their sakes, I thought, I can’t waver. I have to be resolute. They should have this new life and they should live it absolutely, through and through.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You must.’

  ‘Did we do something wrong?’ asked Aiden, his face solemn, not meeting my eye.

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll visit you often, and you can visit me. Constance as well.’

  One last hug, feeling Ciara’s hair against my face and Aiden’s head on my shoulder. One last squeeze of their hands.

  I gave a box to Aiden. ‘This is for both of you.’

  Inside was my chess set. It was all I had to give them. I hadn’t been well enough to go out and buy a bright red kite.

  ‘I’m very grateful to you, Mr Stanhope,’ said Miss Cowdery. ‘For finding them and looking after them as you have.’ She put a firm hand on my forearm, not noticing my wince. ‘Not many men would’ve done such a thing.’

  ‘This is theirs too.’ I handed her the pouch. ‘Please open it when you get home.’

  I wondered what she would do when she discovered the money inside. I trusted she would use it for their benefit, but perhaps instead it would help keep the Home for Penitent Females open for another few months. I didn’t know whether I minded that or not.

  ‘You truly must visit us at the Home, Mr Stanhope,’ she said, sounding as though she meant it. ‘I would like that very much.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I smiled, trying to appear less surly than before. I would visit, but not for a while. It would take time for me to gather enough strength to leave them again.

&nb
sp; I waved as they left, watching them as they got lost in the crowd on the pavement. They were like any other family, setting out for the market in the sunshine.

  I didn’t want to speak to Constance or Alfie, so I slowly climbed the stairs to my room and shut the door. Ciara had drawn two new pictures for me, one of Colly and one of a man with a smiling face and his arms outstretched. Aiden had written Mister Stanhope underneath it. He must’ve asked Constance for the spelling.

  I held it in my hands and wept, uncaring of the pain from the blisters on my eyelids. I was sure I would never be able to stop.

  I already missed the children unbearably, and they had only left a few minutes before. I yearned for them like a drowning man yearns for air, except I felt as if I would be drowning for ever.

  There were voices downstairs.

  ‘Leo!’ Alfie called up. ‘Mrs Flowers is here.’

  She was sitting in the back room.

  ‘You’re a sight,’ she said, not harshly. I was becoming accustomed to the many varieties of acerbity she could muster.

  This was the third time I’d seen her since that night at the mill. The first, I’d barely been able to speak, and she’d sat beside my bed knitting a pair of gloves that she presented to me the next time, to keep my hands from the cold, she said, while they were healing. She was considerably better at cooking pies than knitting gloves, as it turned out, and they were much too big and too coarse, making my skin itch.

  She had a small box with her, which she opened and offered to me. ‘Dried cherries,’ she said. ‘I thought a pie might be too hard for you to eat. Where are Aiden and Ciara?’

  ‘Miss Cowdery decided she should look after them from now on. She’s their aunt, so it’s for the best.’

  ‘Oh, Leo. I’m sorry.’ She put her hand very lightly on mine and didn’t mention it further, which was all I wanted.

  I heard the doorbell jangle as another customer came in, and Alfie’s solicitous greeting, and, in the yard, Constance’s singing as she hung out the washing.

  I dozed for a while and, when I awoke, Rosie was still there. We spent the rest of the afternoon that way, side by side in the back room as if it was our own, as if we’d finished our lunch and had nothing better to do but sit together and occasionally boil the kettle for tea.

  Acknowledgements

  A great many highly-skilled people were involved in the making of what you’re now holding (if you’re reading an ebook, you’ll have to use your imagination at this point). I am enormously grateful to all of them.

  Carrie Plitt is the best agent ever and I will brook no argument on that. Without her, the Leo Stanhope books would have remained festering in my brain, and I’m eternally grateful that they’re not.

  Alison Hennessey is Chief of the Ravens, lead therapist for Leo and an absolute genius. She and the whole team at Bloomsbury – including Marigold Atkey, Lilidh Kendrick, Sarah-Jane Forder, Philippa Cotton, Amy Donegan, Maud Davies, the sales teams and many others – are all my heroes. Thank you.

  Greg Heinemann has once again designed a knockout cover.

  Massive thanks to everyone who helped with the research, including the Wellcome Collection, London Zoo, the V&A, the Ragged School Museum, the Geffrye Museum, Wilton’s Music Hall, the Museum of London, the British Library, the National Archives and lots of others! Also, the Beaumont Society, a charity doing important work supporting the transgender community and advising on transgender issues. You can find them at www.beaumontsociety.org.uk.

  My wonderful and beloved sons, Seth and Caleb, contributed nothing whatsoever to the writing of this novel, and for that I thank them, because their ideas are usually rubbish.

  And finally, Michelle. I’m not nearly a good enough author to sum up what she has contributed to my books or anything else in my life, so I’ll just say that it’s big – really, really big – and leave it at that.

  A Note on the Author

  Alex Reeve lives in Buckinghamshire and is a university lecturer. His debut novel, The House on Half Moon Street, is the first in the Leo Stanhope Case series and was published in 2018.

  @storyjoy

  Also available by Alex Reeve

  The House on Half Moon Street

  A Richard and Judy Book Club 2019 pick

  Everyone has a secret... Only some lead to murder. Introducing Leo Stanhope: a Victorian transgender coroner's assistant who must uncover a killer without risking his own future.

  When the body of a young woman is wheeled into the hospital where Leo Stanhope works, his life is thrown into chaos. Maria, the woman he loves, has been murdered and it is not long before the finger of suspicion is turned on him, threatening to expose his lifelong secret.

  For Leo Stanhope was born Charlotte, the daughter of a respectable reverend. Knowing he was meant to be a man – despite the evidence of his body – and unable to cope with living a lie any longer, he fled his family home at just fifteen and has been living as Leo ever since: his secret known to only a few trusted people.

  Desperate to find Maria's killer and thrown into gaol, he stands to lose not just his freedom, but ultimately his life.

  ‘Enthralling, exciting, extraordinary and utterly convincing. Everything a great book should be’ Sarah Hilary

  ‘Wonderfully atmospheric, each page carries the whiff of sulphur and gaslight’ Red

  ‘A wonderfully evoked setting, a fascinating cast of characters, a plot that turns the pages for you and beautiful, intricate writing. I loved it’ William Ryan

  https://www.bloomsbury.com/author/alex-reeve/

  Click here to order

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  This electronic edition published in 2019 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © Alex Reeve, 2019

  Illustrations © Martin Lubikowski, ML Design, 2019

  Alex Reeve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square

  London

  WC1B 3DP

  www.bloomsbury.com

  Bloomsbury is a trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-0416-3; TPB: 978-1-5266-0417-0; EBOOK: 978-1-5266-0418-7

  To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters