by Issy Brooke
There followed a supremely awkward silence. Well, Marianne felt uncomfortable, at least. She stole a sidelong glance at Jack and saw that he was staring intently into the fire, his face blank.
She said, carefully, “I could find a suitable wife for you, you know. I’ve been learning all about this marriage market from my cousin’s mother.”
He snorted and continued to watch the flames.
“No, I am serious. Please. I’m not mocking you at all, Jack.”
The use of his name, so personal, so unbidden, startled him. He turned to her. “She would have to be the right sort of woman.”
“You must make me a list of what you prefer. Phoebe knows all the useful women in London. We can do this, you know, if we know your preferences. Short, tall, blonde, dark ... whatever. Accomplished, educated – or not.”
“Is that what you think men want? She can be red-headed and dance like a rock falling down the stairs for all I care. She must understand me. That’s what is important. She must stand by my side and look forward to the same horizon, do you see? We do not need to look at one another. We need to be partners looking to the same future.” He slammed back the remains of his drink and leaped to his feet. “Oh, drat and confound you, Marianne. Let me find some suitable shoes.”
Fifteen
“This is a shoddy, two-bit, run-down, belly-up kind of a place,” Jack said with glee as he helped Marianne down from the cab outside the theatre. He paid the driver and she didn’t object. The cab rumbled away. Jack beat his gloved hands together and gazed up at the blackened edifice down the side street of Soho.
“It seems all closed up. I suppose that they mustn’t be running a show tonight.”
People hurried to and fro, passing the end of the street, dipping in and out of the glow of the street lights and being absorbed into the ubiquitous fog that was crawling its way out of the Thames. The city would be submerged and stifled by the stuff for the next six months, and when it faded away for the summer, it would be replaced by the vile stench of the river cooking in the sun.
Marianne thought that she rather preferred the fog.
She turned her attention back to the gloomy backstreet theatre. “Are we even facing the main doors?” she asked as she examined them. They were large, wooden and had paint peeling from them like strips of flayed flesh, it had been so thickly painted on over the years. Handbills and posters were pasted in a haphazard fashion over every spare inch of wall. The windows were blacked out, and no lamp showed, either outside or within.
“I think so,” Jack said. He strode up and thumped hard on the door with his gloved fist.
The door was flung open almost immediately and Jack leaped back. Neither of them had expected such a prompt response. The man who now faced out from the pitch-black interior looked furious. He was of middling height for a man, just an inch or two taller than Marianne herself, and had a strangely doll-like face, smooth and taut. His large eyes were pale blue, and his cheeks were reddened in a way that would make maidens jealous.
“Now what?” he demanded. “Oh – who in the blazes are you?”
He was addressing Jack, but Marianne stepped up and extended her hand. “I am Miss Starr, and this is Mr Monahan. We were wondering if you had seen someone of some importance, well, of importance to us. A Mr Russell Starr? Tall, imposing sort of man...”
“If by imposing you mean he’s a raving monster with wild eyes and a tendency to lunge, then yes, I have seen him. Starr, and Starr. Relation, is he? Needs locking up. Threatened me. Threatened me!”
“I am so very sorry to hear that,” Marianne said, cringing. “He is my father and he has been under considerable stress lately. He is not himself. I imagine that he was asking for information about the Clay Brothers?”
“The Marvellous Brothers Clay, yes, well, he was, and I told him what I knew, and off he went, but not before breaking a lamp. Your father was he, eh? Well, you can pay for the damage.”
Unlikely, Marianne thought, unless he was going to accept payment in buttons or bottles of useless chemicals. “What exactly did you tell him?”
“Going to pay, are you? Good lamp, it was.”
Jack stepped up to the top step and loomed over the theatre proprietor. It was a very effective loom, and had the other man pressing his back against the doorjamb. Jack also had a pretty good line in sinister voices. He spoke in a low tone, entirely too reasonably to be trustworthy, and very close to the man’s face. Just watching the performance made Marianne shudder as she imagined the hot breath on her own skin.
“I have many ways of paying,” Jack said. “Would you like a demonstration, or shall we progress immediately to simply meeting this good lady’s request? Hmm?”
It was strange how one could imply the breaking of bones in such an innocent-sounding way. The theatre manager gave up immediately. His was a world of fake violence, not the real stuff.
“Canterbury Lane,” he squeaked. “Somewhere along there.”
Jack was suddenly all joviality. He clapped the man on the shoulder, told him that he was a “good fellow”, and pushed him back into his own theatre.
Jack and Marianne hurried back to the more well-lit streets. “Do you know it? Is it far?” she asked.
“It’s a nasty little back alley behind the Tottenham Court Road. No, it’s not far.”
She kept pace with him as they pushed through the theatre-loving crowds of Soho. “And how do you know of this nasty little back alley?”
“The usual ways,” he said, laughing. “And you cannot complain while you find my knowledge useful. Actually there is a woman there – well, she is old, now. Very old. But she was a friend of my mother, and I call on her from time to time.”
“Oh...”
“To take her food, and to see if she has enough coal. There, you see, you did not peg me as a charitable man, did you?”
“I did not. But I wager you only do it because she has some use to you, in some way.”
“Yes. She knows people. And she will know these brothers, too, especially if they live on the same street as she does. Let us call in on dear old Judy, and mind you watch your manners. She might not be up to your standard of ladylike, but she deserves respect all the same.”
“I would not dream of treating anyone as anything less than my own self.”
“Hmm.”
They were in the back alley within five minutes, and it stank of rotten food, and the manure of animals. “Can I hear a pig?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” Jack said. “We’re also near a brothel.”
“They have animals?”
“No, of course not! You haven’t heard the sounds of many brothels, have you?”
“I have heard none.”
“And you call yourself educated. Come along. You are going to get your skirts dirty.”
She picked her way along the grimy street as best she could, given that she could barely see, and her boots slipped on soft, slimy things. She was glad she could not see.
They entered a narrow house where even the corridors seemed to have people asleep in them, lying on the floor, huddled to one another for warmth. Jack led her to a ground floor room at the back, a tiny cupboard of a place next to the shared scullery, with only enough room for a narrow plank for a bed and a few twigs of furniture.
Judy was ancient, and bundled up in layers of blankets like a swaddled baby. She sat on her bed, and Marianne and Jack stood. She tittered like a little girl, but Marianne heeded Jack’s words and spoke to her with careful respect. Jack himself fussed around her, setting things straight on the wobbly table, poking at the tiny makeshift fire, bringing her tea with brandy in it, and finally prising out the information that they had come for.
When they left, Marianne felt she had seen a new side to Jack. She said, as they walked the few yards up the alley, “You know, I really shall find you just the perfect wife.”
“Not now, Marianne,” he replied testily, and her good feeling almost vanished. “This is the door. Now, d
o you have any kind of plan, assuming that they are home? What if your father has been and gone?”
She heard shouting, but it did not come from inside the house. She turned and saw a dot of light swinging at waist height, approaching from the far end of Canterbury Lane. It got larger and threw up uncanny shadows on the face of the man carrying it.
“He has not been and gone,” she said, wearily. “Here he comes now.”
“How did we beat him here?”
She laughed, but felt no humour in it. “I suspect I know the answer. He is not used to travelling in London. He would not have known the way, or at least, he would not remember it from his youth. So he would have hailed a cab. But I wager no cab would drive him. Father!”
“Marianne? What in the devil? Do you know, they said I was drunk! Me! I told him, I said, I am a world-famous chemist. And one man said – well, I shall not repeat what he said. The cove! It would sully your ears.”
“Ears can’t be sullied. You’re a scientist. You know that. And I’ve heard the sounds of a brothel already tonight, so I’m probably already doomed. I still think it might have been pigs,” she added, glancing at Jack. “Anyway, father. You have come here to speak to the Clay Brothers, is that right?”
“It is. Is this the house? Oh – oh! Hello, sir. I remember this cad. Jack. You broke into Price’s study!”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance once more,” Jack said, extending his hand like they were in a comfortable club.
Russell slapped it away. “I warned you. I can’t remember what I warned you, but the warning still stands. I will not hesitate to shoot you. Or worse.”
“If I...?”
“If I feel like it. Now, as for these brothers. Are they home?”
The three of them regarded the door. Jack started to say, “Well, there is a light up there in the window...”
Marianne sighed, and simply knocked on the door.
“You’ve blown our secrecy.”
“We are standing in the middle of the street and talking loudly. How furtive could we be? Did you have a plan?”
“I was formulating one.”
Their bickering was interrupted when the door opened and a young man stood there, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He had an angular face, all planes and edges, and a wisp of a dirty brown beard that failed to cover his pink, blotched skin.
“Mr Clay?” she asked.
“Um. Maybe?”
“Are you one of the famous Marvellous Brothers Clay?”
“Oh, yeah, I am. Um. Jeremiah’s in the back.”
Jack laughed. “You’re not brothers, are you?”
“Nah, but it sounds good.”
“Are you even called Clay?”
“Yeah, I am. I’m Tom Clay. He ain’t.” Tom twisted his head around and yelled, “Je-ere-miah!”
Russell moved without warning, taking the chance to leap forward and grab Tom around the neck while his attention was elsewhere.
Tom, in spite of his underfed frailty, slammed Russell against the wall, trapping his fingers, making Russell yelp and let go with one hand. It was enough for Tom to be able to shake free and he ran along the dark and dingy corridor towards the back of the house, yelling, “Jerry, arm yourself! We are under attack!”
“Damn.” Jack launched himself after them, closely followed by Marianne and Russell who was muttering curses under his breath.
They cornered Tom in the kitchen at the back of the house. It was a steamy, foetid room, with damp washing hanging on a wooden frame from the ceiling, and a smell of over-boiled potatoes in the air. Tom had grabbed hold of a long-handled metal ladle, and was brandishing it with a still and steady hand. That was far more terrifying than any flamboyant waving. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The other man, that they supposed to be Jeremiah, was holding a carving knife. He was taller than Tom, with the same slenderness except for a pot belly and fat, bulging eyes with a thick neck that looked strange on his wiry frame.
Russell noticed him and pointed a finger. “Iodine,” he said. “I wager that you feel cold all the time, don’t you?”
“Huh?”
“You need to eat seaweed or you’ll die.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not yet. That was just friendly advice. Where’s the cabinet?”
Jeremiah and Tom looked at one another. “The cabinet? What are you talking about? We don’t even know who you are.”
“Come on, stupid boys. I am Russell Starr.”
That brought no reaction but confusion.
Russell sighed. “Imbeciles. You bought a magic cabinet from Simeon Stainwright, and then omitted to pay him. So we’re here on his behalf to obtain the payment.”
“Oh, so you’re a bailiff?”
“I am a chemist.”
“What?” Tom shook his head. “Well. It’s broken anyway.”
“What have you done?”
“For God’s sake.” Tom threw the ladle down on the table. “Look, the cabinet’s knackered, all right? It never worked from the start. Honestly, I reckon we ought to ask for our money back.”
“You can’t ask for your money back when you haven’t paid him in the first place!” Marianne spat out.
“Yeah but it’s the principle of the thing, ain’t it? Are you a lady bailiff? That don’t seem right. Not quite natural. But anyway, it were broken so we don’t owe nobody nothing.”
Her head whirled with the nonsense of it. They seemed to believe that they were in the right. “Where’s the cabinet now?” she asked.
“Parlour. We ain’t even got it to the theatre. Would have left it there if we had. Useless piece of junk, taking up space.”
“Well, we’ll take that back with us, too,” Russell said.
“You can’t. It’s ours.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous and you are wasting my time,” Jack said, interrupting the farcical conversation. He picked up the ladle that Tom had put down, and smacked it hard on Jeremiah’s knuckles, causing him to drop the knife. “How much were you supposed to pay for this thing?”
“Three pounds,” Jeremiah said, sucking at his bruised hand and scowling.
Marianne winced. That was a lot of money, almost three guineas. She knew that Simeon’s rent was only five shillings a week. Three pounds would keep Simeon in food and materials for a while, even after he had paid her back.
Such blatant robbery seemed to rile Russell and Jack even more, too.
Jack took up the knife. Now he was armed in each hand, if you counted the ladle, and he waved them both vaguely in the air. “Very well, then. Let’s have the money, lads.”
“No, you can’t just...”
Jack thrust the knife at Jeremiah. He jumped back with a squeak. “I can. I’d rather take payment in cash than, I don’t know, ears.”
“Ears?”
“You heard me. So get us the money while you still have ears to hear me ask for it.”
“Jerry, don’t do it.”
“I’ll wave the knife at you, too, and that should change your tune.” Jack did exactly as he promised, and Tom too pressed back in horror.
“Yeah, well, all right. But this ain’t right. Jerry? Go on, then.”
The money turned out to be hidden in an envelope under a metal canister of flour. It was passed to Marianne who counted it, and tucked it away in her handbag. “Thank you,” she said. “We are done.”
“We’re not. If this thing is broken, we’ll take it off their hands too,” Russell said.
“What?” Jeremiah and Tom chorused.
“Yes, what?” Jack added, equally bemused. “I thought you were joking.”
“I last made a joke in 1867 and no one at the Royal Institution laughed so I vowed to make no more.”
Russell left the kitchen and Marianne hurried after him, clutching her bag firmly to her chest. She heard scuffling behind as she left, but she didn’t even bother to look around. Jack could handle Tom and Jeremiah.
The parlour was the room
at the front of the house, but there was no feminine touch here. It was not a room kept for best, with layers of lace and embroidery, and fancy decorations. Instead it was being used as a general store room with lumber everywhere, and in the middle she spotted the long wooden box that Simeon had made.
“This is it.” She went over to it and opened the lid. The mechanism slid smoothly back but something jarred at the very apex of the movement. She wiggled it, but the brothers were correct; perhaps there had been damage caused in transit. No matter, she thought, and closed the lid.
Russell picked up one end. “It is light,” he commented. “You can manage this.”
“I am a lady, father,” she complained, dutifully, but she pushed her bag’s handles over her forearm and took hold of the other end of the box.
“I did not raise you to be a lady,” he said. He began to walk backwards, unsteadily. “I raised you to be a useful human being.”
“Did you imagine we would be roaming the streets of London at night, together, threatening stage magicians?”
He smiled. “I did not. I wish you had met my own mother, Marianne. This would have amused your grandmother mightily. She was quite remarkable, you know; she had the ear of the Prince Regent, it was said. When I was a young man, she would take me and my brothers travelling all across Europe. She had no time for being told what she could and could not do.”
He huffed as he shuffled backwards, and they angled the box to get it out into the hallway. “She always sounded most amazing,” Marianne said. “Would I ... do I live up to her expectations?”
“She would be proud of you. So very proud. But as I grew up, the world seemed to change. Society closed in around her. The new Queen brought a new way of life with each child that she had. My father was embarrassed at my mother’s independence. He stopped her doing the things that she loved. He had to, you know. To keep his place in society.” Russell shook his head. “Society can go to hell. None of it is worth a fig. Steady now! Here comes that ruffian.”
She turned and saw that he meant Jack, who was coming down the corridor backwards, his arms out to keep Jeremiah and Tom away from him.