by Sarah Rayne
He said, ‘I’d like to do the book, but I don’t know if I can concentrate on the current commission and romp through the street life of the nineteenth century at the same time. What about you? Could you balance it with studying anatomy and physiology and all the rest of it?’
‘I’m a mature student,’ said Toby, with dignity. ‘I’m allowed to lapse a bit; in fact it’s virtually expected of me. And I should think Victorian street life will give you a nice change from all that scholarly research.’
‘It isn’t as scholarly as all that, it’s background for a biography on Franz Liszt,’ said Phin. ‘And there’s no need for you to look politely interested. Liszt was a very lively gentlemen indeed. He worked his way through a series of courtesans and minor royalty, and ladies used to throw their undergarments onto the stage when he played. They even called it “Lisztomania”.’
‘Eat your heart out Mick Jagger,’ observed Toby. ‘How about we have a meal this evening, and see if there are any leads? If I could find a phone book I could look up likely areas and restaurants – no, wait an online directory’d be better. Can I take over your computer?’
As he seated himself at Phin’s desk, Phin looked back at the sketch, and without realizing he had been going to say it, he said, ‘Toby, see if there’s anywhere in London called Harlequin Court.’
‘All right. Where exactly might it be?’
‘I don’t know. It might not exist.’
‘It does, though,’ said Toby, after a few moments. ‘Here it is. Harlequin Court. It’s in the St Martin’s Lane area, and it’s only just about marked. It looks as if it’s one of those little alleyways that you walk past without noticing.’
‘Theatreland,’ said Phin, getting up to look over Toby’s shoulder. ‘Of course it would be. Does it have anywhere nearby to eat?’
‘Can’t see anything – hold on, I’ll zoom up the screen … It looks as if there’s a pub on one corner – oh, and a hamburger place, but that’s all, except – no, hold on, here’s a restaurant. It’s called Linklighters, and … What have I said?’
‘Linklighters,’ said Phin, staring at him. ‘Then it’s still there.’
‘What’s still there?’
‘I’ll explain in a minute. But does Linklighters have a website? Or is there one of those “Places to Eat” websites where it’s listed or reviewed? Would you have a look while you’re at the desk?’
Toby tapped a few keys, frowned at the screen, then said, ‘Yes, here we are. “Linklighters Restaurant, restored earlier this year, has good food – all Victorian style – and the décor is a pleasant nod to its former life as a supper room and night cellar.” What on earth’s a night cellar? It sounds like cesspits being drained under cover of darkness. And what in God’s name is a linklighter?’
‘Night cellars were small – or smallish – music halls,’ said Phin. ‘Sometimes called supper rooms. There were dozens of them in the nineteenth century – often in pubs. Mostly under pubs. As for linklighters … I’ll have to check, but I think they were boys who’d light people through those thick old London fogs.’
‘Pea-soupers.’
‘Exactly. They’d have sticks with rags wound around them, dipped in tar and set alight. I only know it because I came across it somewhere recently,’ he said, a bit apologetically. He handed Toby the book with the section on Scaramel. ‘Read this.’
‘Scaramel,’ said Toby, scanning the page. ‘Scaramel?’
‘Yes. Not her real name, of course.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘All I know so far is that she was a music hall performer,’ said Phin. ‘But Liszt refers to her in a letter he wrote to his daughter, Cosima, shortly before his death. He said – hold on, where are my notes – yes, here it is. Liszt said that Scaramel reminded him strongly of the notorious cabaret dancer Lola Montez. Liszt had quite a fling with La Montez in his youth,’ said Phin. ‘He wrote that he recalled Lola dancing naked on a table when he unveiled the Beethoven Memorial in Bonn.’
‘Not something you’d forget,’ agreed Toby.
‘No, and Liszt’s supposed to have said, “Scaramel puts me strongly in mind of Lola. She has the same spirit and the same leaning towards the outrageous, and I have conceived a great admiration for her.” And then he adds, a bit wistfully, that, “sadly, such admiration as I have for ladies these days is a matter of the mind only.”’
‘Peculiar thing to write to a daughter, I’d have thought,’ said Toby.
‘I haven’t checked that letter’s provenance yet,’ said Phin. ‘But the thing is that I think Scaramel might have been a murderess.’
‘Oh, God. Phin, don’t tell me we’re murder-hunting again …’
‘No, of course we’re not. I think the murder’s almost certainly a myth,’ said Phin, very firmly. ‘Victorian urban legend. Even a publicity stunt. What did you think of the sketch?’ he said, as Toby put the book down thoughtfully.
‘Liszten for the Killer? Good title, isn’t it?’ He regarded Phin. ‘It’s got to you, hasn’t it?’ he said, suddenly. ‘That sketch.’
‘Yes, and I don’t know why.’
‘You’re probably recognizing it from late-night horror films,’ said Toby. ‘Or that Munch painting – The Scream.’ He got up. ‘But let’s try Linklighters, shall we? Three birds with one stone. Your Liszt commission, our street ballads, and a music hall murder … Oh, now that sounds like a good title for a crime novel, doesn’t it? Anyway, at least we’ll be getting a decent meal, if that website can be trusted. I’ll phone and get us a table. Seven thirty?’
‘All right.’
‘They do steak and ale suet pudding,’ said Toby, looking back at the screen. ‘Oh, and beef and oyster pie.’
TWO
Phin would not have been surprised if Harlequin Court and even Linklighters had turned out to be non-existent.
But in a narrow space between two buildings, set into the old brickwork, was the street sign exactly as it had appeared on the sketch. Harlequin Court. The glow of streetlights from Charing Cross Road was dimmer here, and the traffic sounds were muffled. If the ground had been cobblestoned, Phin might even have wondered whether he had stepped into a time warp, or been fed magic mushrooms on the sly, because, either by accident or by collective intent, Harlequin Court was very nearly Dickensian. The square itself had an old gas streetlamp, which Phin thought was in the exact place where the old sketch had shown it. That was where that menacing figure had stood. The other corner was where that terrified figure had been …
If he stood here for long enough would he see those figures printed on the air, like cut-outs pasted on to cellophane? For pity’s sake, said his mind, it was a sketch! It probably wasn’t drawn from reality, and even if it was, it was a long time ago …
But he liked Harlequin Court. The three or four shops all had bow windows with small panes of glass. One sold books, antiquarian from the look of it; another displayed antique jewellery, and a third appeared to be a small printing company.
‘This is one of those tucked-away little squares you sometimes stumble upon in London,’ he said, looking round. ‘Well, in any old city, I suppose.’
‘Never mind tucked-away squares,’ said Toby, ‘there’s our destination.’ He indicated a sign over a door in the far corner. The lettering was crimson on a gilt background, and said: Linklighters Restaurant. Good food. Open from 6.00 p.m. to midnight.
‘It looks as if it’s a semi-basement.’
‘Yes, but it would be if it was one of the old cellar music halls. It’s directly under the bookshop by the look of it,’ said Phin.
‘The bookshop’s called Thumbprints, and it says it was established in 1825. Nice. And possibly useful for our street ballads.’
Immediately inside the restaurant’s door were steep narrow steps leading down. They were carpeted in crimson, and the stair wall was lined with framed theatre posters and playbills. The restaurant was larger than either of them had expected.
‘Very Edward
ian,’ said Toby appreciatively. ‘Fleur-de-lys walls, and a general air of the Naughty Nineties.’
‘It’s quite busy,’ said Phin, looking around. ‘Pre-theatre people, I expect.’
‘Good thing I booked a table.’
Their table was in an alcove, and above it were more of the framed playbills and posters.
‘They had colourful names in those days, didn’t they?’ said Toby, reading them, appreciatively. ‘Dainty Dora Dashington with Dances to Delight You. A couple of comic acts, a juggler … Oh, and a lady billed as Belinda Baskerville, the Gentlemen’s Choice. You’d have to ask yourself if Conan Doyle ever saw her perform, wouldn’t you?’
‘There’s one here of Scaramel appearing in Collins’ Music Hall,’ said Phin. ‘In 1887. That would have been a really upmarket booking in those days. This one’s not so grand, I don’t think – Whitechapel Road. The Effingham.’
‘That sounds like the first line of a limerick. ’Twas at the good pub, Effingham, Where everyone was—’
‘Don’t start reciting,’ said Phin hastily, having had some experience of Toby’s facility with impromptu limericks. ‘Or at least not so loudly. And this looks like our waiter coming over.’
‘Snazzy outfit he’s got on, isn’t it?’ said Toby, approvingly. ‘Brocade waistcoat and velvet bow tie. Could I get away with wearing that, do you think?’
‘It’d go down a storm at the rugby club,’ said Phin, gravely.
‘It’d cheer up the ladies on the maternity ward, though. Is this the menu? Thank you,’ said Toby, to the waiter. ‘I don’t know about you, Phin,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to have beef and oyster pie. And let’s have a bottle of red, as well. In fact, let’s make it a couple of bottles. Good for the heart. And neither of us has got to drive.’
‘We’ll ask the waiter to decant us into a hansom cab,’ said Phin, gravely.
London, 1880s/1890s
Daisy would never forget the first time she travelled in a hansom cab. It had been the night it had all started. Later, she came to think of that night as a signpost – but a signpost that was all bloodied and smeary, pointing to the dreadful road she was about to step on to.
Living in Rogues Well Yard, you did not have much to do with carriages and cabs, well, you did not have anything to do with them at all; and on the very rare occasion that a hansom rattled its way down Canal Alley, people peered through their windows to watch, and children ran out to follow it, and try to cling on to the back of the carriage to get a ride for a few yards.
People in Rogues Well Yard walked everywhere, or, if they had to travel a long way and there was enough money, they took a tram. For very long journeys, they went on a train, although when Daisy first went to work for Madame, she did not know anyone who had actually travelled on a train.
Since being with Madame, she had got a bit more used to hansom cabs and such things, although it had been a bit bewildering at first. There was so much to learn. Cleaning and polishing furniture, and washing china so fragile you could almost see through it. Ironing beautiful fabrics – silk and velvet and lace-edged underthings. There was food she had never heard of, and there was the laying of a table. In Rogues Well Yard, you did not lay tables – not many people had tables, anyway.
Then there were the performances at Linklighters Supper Rooms, and at some of the big theatres, as well. Daisy went with Madame, to help her dress and make sure she had everything she needed. Famous people came to watch her – they all knew her as Scaramel. Daisy would not have dreamed of calling Madame that, but when she saw the posters and the programmes with the name in big bright letters she wanted to run all over London and shout to people that this was the lady she worked for.
Scaramel, performing her newest, most daring dance … said the posters. Or, Scaramel, as you’ve never seen her before … Daisy was proud that she could read it all; there had been a lady in Rogues Well Yard who had been a teacher, and she had taught Daisy, and later her young brother, Joe, how to read and write.
Madame lived in the whole top floor of a big house in Maida Vale and they had their own front door. Daisy had never known anyone who had their own front door. In Rogues Well Yard you were lucky if you only shared a landing with two other families. But here there was a green-painted door with a brass door knocker.
It was a lovely house, and Madame was a lovely lady to work for, although you had to be a bit cautious first thing of a morning, because you never knew who you might meet coming out of her bedroom. And you had to shut your ears late at night, too, on account of the giggles and shrieks, and the bed often creaking as if it might be about to break.
And then, after a few months of living there, came the night Daisy would never forget.
She had gone to visit Ma, which she did every week. Ma had had the most wretched of lives, married to that drunken layabout who would not know an offer of honest work if it came and bit him on the bum, and who beat up Ma regular as the Thames tide. He was not averse to a bit of how’s-your-father with other females, either, and when the randy mood was on him he was not particular if he happened to shove his hand up his own daughters’ skirts, and pull their hands down between his legs. He was a nasty old lecher, but Daisy and her two sisters had not grown up in Rogues Well Yard and played in Canal Alley without learning a trick or two. So the second time he tried it, Daisy kicked him hard between his legs, and Lissy and Vi ran for the bucket of cold water from the yard, and poured it straight on to his todger. It had been January so there were lumps of ice in the water. And as for the squeal that Pa gave … Well, you’d have thought someone had chopped his todger off altogether, and a good thing if they had.
Lissy and Vi had left home soon after that – they’d never really taken to the bit of teaching the old schoolmistress had given Daisy and Joe. Not for them, they had said, and scoffed when Daisy tried to talk like the schoolmistress, and said, Blimey, hark at our Daise, and, Who does she think she is, Lady Muck?
It was all good-natured, though. Lissy and Vi got factory work in Wapping, with decent regular wages, and left home. ‘Can’t stand Pa no longer,’ Lissy said, apologetically. The two of them shared a room near the factory, and after a time they both got hitched to decent blokes, who respected them. Daisy had been pleased about that, although Vi had told Daisy much later that her wedding night had been a nightmare: ‘And a good many nights afterwards, too,’ she had said. ‘On account of what he done to us when we were kids. You know what I mean, Daise.’
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’
‘Had to grit my teeth that first night I was married,’ said Vi. ‘Found I was clutching the bedrail, too, till it was over. Same for Lissy. Don’t think Lissy ever really got over it. I did, though. Not sure what happened, but – well, somehow it got to be all right for me.’ She winked. ‘Matter of fact, it got to be pretty good.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Daisy, fervently.
‘You an’ me both,’ said Vi, grinning.
Vi was all right, and although Lissy was not really all right, and probably never would be, she seemed to be coping.
But Joe was different. He was so much younger than Daisy and her two sisters, and somehow he was never quite able to cope with the world and the kicks life could give you. Daisy would always look out for Joe. Even when she got the work at Linklighters, which meant going right across London each day, she went home every night, never mind how late it was. Lissy and Vi said it was mad, Daisy ought to find a place nearby, a room somewhere, and not traipse across London on trams at such hours. You never knew who might be about. But Daisy could look after herself, and she did not trust Pa. He might set about Ma again. He might even start on Joe, if the mood and the drink took him that way. Anyway, she liked tram journeys. They were lively and friendly. You could get sixty people in one carriage, and all it took were two horses to pull it along the lines, and it was only a penny a mile.
Linklighters was like nowhere Daisy had ever seen. It was all lights and dazzlingly dressed people and unfamiliar scents. Everyone
rushed round and shouted, and there was music and dancing and men hammering bits of wood that turned as if by magic into trees or castles or ships. As for the clothes the women wore …! Daisy told Lissy and Vi and Ma that you wouldn’t believe the half of it unless you saw it for yourself.
After a bit, though, she got used to it, and although the work wasn’t much at first, just washing-up and a bit of cleaning, she hadn’t minded. But then had come the real piece of luck – Madame had taken a fancy to her, and said how about going to live with her as maid and to be her dresser.
Daisy had hesitated because of leaving Ma and Joe with Pa, but she could visit them every week, and Lissy and Vi were nearby. Between them they would make sure Pa didn’t get up to his viciousness. And living with Madame meant Daisy could often take a bit of money out to Ma. Sometimes Madame gave her clothes to take, too, saying they were things she no longer needed. They were not clothes Ma would ever dream of wearing, of course – walk along Canal Alley in scarlet satin or a black and pink feather boa, and you’d be a laughing stock, or you’d be the butt of a dozen rude suggestions from the men coming out of the Cock & Sparrow. But the clothes could be sold to Peg the Rags for a few pence so it all helped.
The time went along. Daisy got used to being in Maida Vale, and she began to think life was not so bad.
It was even better when Pa went, falling into the canal, pissed as usual. Nobody mourned him and nobody missed him, least of all Ma. Soon afterwards, Ma got into the way of helping Peg the Rags; they’d pick over the clothes folk brought in, and Peg would give Ma a coin or two for the work. Sometimes they had a nip of gin while they did the picking over, and why not? Ma had a bad enough life, and Daisy was glad to think of her having this companionship. Next time she visited Rogues Well Yard, she took along a peck of gin for the pair.
Then came the night in October when she was a bit later than usual setting out to visit Ma, and the tram got stuck in fog. Daisy hated fog. It had been a night like this when Pa fell into the canal. She peered through the tram’s misted window, trying to see where they were. Ma and Joe were expecting her – Joe often came to wait for the trams so the two of them could walk back to the yard together. So Daisy was not going to turn back and disappoint him.