by Sarah Rayne
Then somebody in the street called in to the driver that everything ahead was at a standstill, and it would be just as quick – and probably a sight quicker – to get out and walk, especially if anyone was bound for Whitechapel, because it was not far off at all.
Grumbling good-naturedly, most of the tram travellers got down, telling each other that they were nearly home anyway, and they could all go along together. But somehow, once out of the tram, they all melted away, and there was only the fog swirling into Daisy’s face. It all began to feel a bit scary, even though she could recognize some of the buildings. The streetlights were being lit, though – they made fuzzy discs of colour overhead. She went cautiously along. Here was the rearing outline of The Thrawl now, with its barred windows and the massive iron gates, just about visible. The Thrawl was a landmark, but people living here hated it. They told how poor demented souls were locked in there – for their entire lives, some of them – and how, on dark nights, you could hear them screaming to be let out. Bad children were told that if they did not behave, they would be taken off to The Thrawl – which was a terrible thing to say to a child. Like saying the bogeyman will come to get you.
Daisy always scuttled past the grim walls very quickly, not looking up at it. Still, at least this meant Rogues Well Yard was not very far, and she would get to Ma’s all right, although she might not be able to get back. She was not sure what time it was, but it must be quite late. But she could stay the night with Ma if she had to. Madame would understand.
Some people called these fogs London Particulars, and told how you could never be sure what might be lurking inside a London Particular. Things sounded different in the fog, as well. Daisy’s footsteps echoed a bit oddly, so that she kept thinking someone was following her – creeping along behind her. Twice she turned sharply round, but each time there were only the other travellers, walking as quickly as the fog would allow, some of them holding on to the railings as a guide. Or had someone darted into that alleyway just then, as if not wanting to be seen? Daisy went on, walking as quickly as she could, trying not to clop her shoes on the pavement so that no one would hear her or know where she was.
But here was Canal Alley, and on her left was the turning into the little lane that went down to the canal itself. She was almost within sight of Rogues Well Yard when a small figure came hurtling through the fog, and almost knocked her over. Hands clutched at her, and a voice she knew and loved better than any voice in the whole world, cried out her name.
‘Joe?’ It was not quite a question, because Daisy knew it was Joe; how could she not know the beloved skin and hair scent, or the feel of his small, thin hands grasping her. He had come to meet the tram as he so often did, waiting patiently for the glimmer of the lights and the clop of the horses’ hoofs, anticipating seeing her with his own self-contained delight.
But he was not delighted now; he was terrified, and it was more than just the fog that was terrifying him. He was shaking so badly Daisy thought he might break apart. In a voice from which most of the breath seemed to have been squeezed, he said, ‘I saw … Daisy, I saw the man—’
‘What man? Joe, what’s frightened you?’
There was a half-strangled gulp, as if Joe might be about to be sick, then he said, ‘Knives, Daisy. There were knives. He had them in a bag. And he had a saw. Like a butcher … He sawed into her … The blood went everywhere … Bits of bone—’
‘Oh God,’ said Daisy, her arms tightening around the small, frail figure, but her heart lurching with terror. ‘But Joe, you’re safe. I’m here now. No one’ll hurt you.’
But Joe was still shaking and clinging to Daisy’s hand. Tears streamed down his face, and then he said, ‘But he saw me. He looked up, and he saw me watching him.’
It was as if something that had been hiding inside the fog crept nearer, and Daisy, still holding on to Joe, looked about her. Rogues Well Yard was some way off – it was beyond the swirling fog, and there was no one about who might hear if they cried out. And they were only one slightly undersized girl and a small boy who was scared half out of his wits.
Keeping hold of Joe’s hand, she began to walk towards the sound of crowds – the horses’ hoofs and the rumble of wheels from hansom cabs and carriages. But the fog was so thick that at every corner Daisy thought they had taken a wrong turn. And there were footsteps behind them now. As they turned a corner, almost blundering into a row of railings jutting blackly out of the mist, the footsteps quickened, coming closer. It would only be someone a bit lost like themselves; at any moment a cheerful voice would probably call out that it was a shocking night, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, and did the lady happen to know exactly where this was?
The owner of the footsteps behind them did not do that, though. The steps were much nearer, and Daisy could hear the sound of someone breathing quite fast and quite loud. She tried to think that anyone, and especially someone elderly or bronchitically inclined, would huff and puff from breathing in the fog. But anyone elderly or bronchitic would not walk as fast as this.
She paused, desperately trying to see where they were. A movement came from behind, and Daisy spun round. The mist parted and a figure stood there. Joe’s cry of fear tore into Daisy’s brain, and his hand clutched hers so tightly she gasped with the pain. In a terrified whisper, he said, ‘It’s him. It’s the man I saw.’
For a dreadful, never-to-be-forgotten second, Daisy’s eyes and the man’s eyes locked and held. Something that might almost have been a smile lifted his lips, and then he came towards them.
Daisy was not conscious of having moved, but somehow she and Joe were running blindly away, into the fog, not caring where they went or if they ran into the paths of carriages and horses. The world whirled and spun around them, but as long as they kept hold of one another, it would be all right …
After several panic-filled moments it began to seem as if it might be. They had come to streets with people and brighter streetlights. The fog was a bit wispier now, and hansom cabs were rattling along. Safe. But for how long? Because if one of you has seen a murder being committed, and if both of you have seen the murderer clearly enough to identify him, you need to get as far away as you can, and you need to hide as completely as possible. They mightn’t be able to get as far as Maida Vale in this fog, but they could probably get to Linklighters. The thought of Linklighters and its lights and bustling people, and of the friendly square with the shops, was so reassuring that Daisy did something she had never done in her whole life before. She stepped into the road and waved down a hansom cab. Incredibly it pulled up, and she told the driver to take them to Linklighters. Clambering inside, half pulling Joe with her, she realized she had no idea what the cab driver would charge. She only had a few pence in her bag, but Madame would be at Linklighters, and Madame would pay whatever it cost. Daisy would tell her to take it from her wages. Then she would send a message to Ma by one of the pot boys or one of the linklighters who lit people through the streets – nothing to frighten Ma or worry her, just explaining that Joe would stay with her for a time, and that she would tell Ma all about it tomorrow or the next day.
What could not be so easily dealt with was the future. Because the murderer had seen Joe and Joe had seen the murderer. That meant Joe could identify him. And Daisy had seen him as well. That meant Daisy could also identify him.
Daisy already knew, without anyone needing to tell her, that this was the man about whom all of London was talking. A man who had killed several times already. It did not matter that the killings had all been women – most of them prostitutes. A murderer who ripped open his victims and dragged out their bowels and their kidneys and their guts would not hesitate to do the same to a young boy and his sister who had seen his face and who could send him to the gallows.
THREE
London, 1880s/1890s
Madame’s generosity on that night and on all the nights that followed was something Daisy would never forget. It was Madame who said Joe could not
possibly return to Rogues Well Yard, and who found lodgings for him two streets away from Harlequin Court with one of the barmen at Linklighters. The barman’s daughter had recently left home to marry, and his wife was a motherly soul who was very pleased to let the daughter’s room.
As for earning his keep, said Madame, to be sure Joe was a bit young to be coping with that, but there were plenty of his age who had to do so. There was no reason why he could not help at Linklighters, afternoons and early evenings, washing up glasses and running errands and suchlike. The money wouldn’t be much, but it should be just about enough.
Somebody suggested Joe might go out with other boys to help light folk through the fogs, as well. It was a tradition of Linklighters, what with the name and everything, and he would earn a bit extra – there were always tips from people who were grateful to be lighted along their way home.
‘Joe won’t go out in the fog, not ever,’ said Daisy, so firmly that it was not mentioned again.
Surprisingly, Joe liked Linklighters. He liked the life and the colour and the music, and being with people all the time. He usually walked home with the barman after they locked Linklighters up, but Madame made sure that neither Joe nor Daisy ever went home alone. Daisy repeatedly told herself that the mad killer could not possibly know where they were or anything about them.
And presently Joe found little nooks and crannies in Linklighters – tucked-away corners that people scarcely knew existed – where he could disappear. It made him feel safe, Daisy explained to Madame, not admitting that she too sometimes darted into one of those places if anyone resembling the killer came in.
In the quiet spells at Linklighters, Joe did what he used to do in Rogues Well Yard. He drew little sketches of all the people who came and went and the various performers. He would curl into a corner on the side of the stage, with a folded-up piece of old velvet curtain as a cushion, out of sight of the audience, but able to watch the artistes who danced and sang and performed acrobatics across the stage. He was wide-eyed with wonder, and Daisy sometimes thought it was as if he was peering through a half-open door into a magical world he had never known existed.
When Madame saw some sketches which Joe had done on a bit of wrapping paper, she bought him a sketchbook and pencils. A real artist’s sketchbook it was; Joe stroked the satiny paper almost reverently, and would not let it out of his sight. After that he drew everything he saw. Sometimes the people who came to watch the shows called Joe over to their tables so he could do sketches of their wives or sweethearts. Joe drew them all – not like posh painted pictures you saw hanging on rich folks’ walls, but lovely, lively sketches. The people he drew were very pleased and gave him a few coins or bought him a pie and mash supper.
The Linklighters owners were very pleased as well, because this was something different, and it would mark them out from all the other supper rooms and halls. They encouraged Joe and gave him a bit of extra money so he could buy more sketchpads and pencils. He bought a set of coloured pencils from Thumbprints in the Court, and began to add colour to the sketches. This brought them even more vividly to life.
There did not seem to be any way of repaying Madame for all this, except to work as hard for her as Daisy could. And there was plenty of work to be done, not only making sure Madame’s beautiful costumes were clean and pressed and at the theatre or the club for each performance, but also in her home. Madame enjoyed inviting people to the rooms at Maida Vale – it was usually for lunch, because most of her friends were at theatres or music halls in the evenings, as Madame was herself.
Ladies were often asked to what posh people called afternoon tea. This was not the kind of tea Daisy’s family had in Rogues Well Yard, where tea was eaten when the men were home from their work, and where the meal might be onion soup, or stewed ox cheek, if you were lucky enough to have a stove. Even Pa used to say there was nothing so grand as a plate of ox cheek of a cold night. Or it might be a kipper or jellied eels, which were cheap enough from a street stall. Daisy and her sisters used to fetch them. Vi always insisted on buying whelks, because she liked the boy who helped at the whelk stall.
Afternoon tea at Maida Vale consisted of delicate little sandwiches with the crusts cut off and fillings of watercress, or cucumber sliced so thinly you could almost see through the slices. There had to be cakes, generally from Fortnum & Mason’s, which was a palace all by itself, and which Daisy had at first been terrified to enter, handing in Madame’s written order to a lady who looked at Daisy as if she might be something to scrape off her boot. Daisy glared, and when the woman turned away, put out her tongue.
Food at the afternoon teas had to be served on the best china, and the ladies would sip tea, and tear to shreds the reputations of people who were not there. Madame never tore anyone’s reputation to shreds; she was kind and tolerant and she saw the best in almost everyone. The only exception was a lady called Belinda Baskerville, who performed what were called poses plastiques, which in plain terms meant she stood absolutely still on the stage wearing draperies so flimsy she might as well have been stark naked, and trying to look like the statues in the British Museum. Madame said Belinda Baskerville was a greedy, blood-sucking harpy, and was not to be trusted from here to that door.
‘And we once fell out over a gentleman, Daisy. Someone the creature wanted for herself.’
‘But you got him?’ Daisy dared to say, and Madame gave her sauciest wink.
‘Of course I did, and Baskerville’s never forgiven me for it. A very nice man, in fact. He went on to do very well for himself. But there was once a New Year’s Eve party – wild gambling all night, and Baskerville was there, throwing out her lures. It didn’t do her any good. Still, it was a splendid party,’ said Madame. ‘I remember, I danced on the card tables later on,’ she said, reminiscently.
There had not, however, been any enmity or reputation-clawing with the lady who had come to the house that autumn. Also, she had been so different from Madame’s usual visitors that the visit had lodged in Daisy’s mind.
‘No names,’ Madame had said before the visitor arrived. ‘She prefers not to attract any attention – she’s only in London for a short time, anyway. So just call her Madame – like you do with me – and bring her into the drawing room. Then serve tea and bugger off back to the kitchen.’
Madame could be quite refined when she had to, but occasionally a touch of earthiness slipped through, and there were times when her language was what the schoolmistress had called ‘street urchin’.
Daisy said, forthrightly (they were on those kind of terms by now), ‘I hope you won’t use language to this visitor if she’s that important,’ and Madame had laughed and said of course not, what did Daisy think she was, and now please sod off and don’t forget lemon slices with the smoked salmon sandwiches.
The lady was foreign, which was not unusual – Madame knew all kinds of people. She was not especially pretty, but Daisy thought the word for her was elegant. She wore black, which either meant she was in mourning for somebody or that she simply liked wearing black. Ladies often did; they thought it flattered their figures.
Daisy did not listen at the door, of course, but going in and out with plates and hot water meant she could not help hearing a bit of the conversation.
‘I have brought you a small souvenir in memory of an old gentleman who admired you,’ the visitor said.
There was a silence, then Madame said, ‘You mean your father.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t need anything to remind me of him,’ Madame said, quickly. ‘I remember him very well indeed. It was an honour to meet him – it was after a performance I gave. He came to my dressing room afterwards. We had a glass of wine together – if I’m honest, we had more than one glass. And there were a few other nights when we had supper together.’ Daisy heard the reminiscent smile in Madame’s voice. ‘Even at the age he was then, your father was remarkable – there was such energy and such intelligence. Also,’ she said, and now there was unmistak
able affection in her voice, ‘also there was a decided smile in his eyes.’
‘He never lost that,’ said the visitor. She sounded pleased. ‘He told me that you brought back to him the memory of a lady he had known in his youth – a dancer. Rather a wild lady, but she—’
‘Became the mistress of Ludwig of Bavaria?’ said Madame.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought that was who you meant. We’re talking of Lola Montez, aren’t we?’
‘We are. My father admired her – if I am to be honest, I think he did more than just admire her. Ah, we are women of the world, the two of us – we do not need to pretend. But yes, there was a brief liaison between Lola and my father. When he saw you dance, all those years later, he told me that he saw much of Lola’s spirit and mischievous rebelliousness in you. It revived some pleasant memories for him. That is why I have brought you these small souvenirs.’
‘Then,’ said Madame, ‘I am greatly complimented and very grateful.’ Madame always found the right words, no matter how unexpected the situation.
There was the rustle of papers; Daisy was carrying out the tray by then and she did not like to turn round to look, but as she went out, she heard the visitor say, ‘He composed these pieces around the same time as he composed the Mephisto Waltzes – those are filled with devils dancing and all manner of abandonment, and they were brilliant, of course. Well received by everyone. These pieces I have brought to you were written on the crest of that success, but my father said afterwards that they were not as good. They were too dark, he said, and he refused to allow them to be performed. I never heard them, but as you know, he was a maestro. His wishes were honoured when it came to these pieces and they were never performed in public. But when the scores came to me, I remembered you. I think he might have liked you to have some small memory of him. Perhaps one day they can be brought into the light. Perhaps one day they might even be worth large money.’