by Sarah Rayne
‘Even if they were, I would never sell them,’ said Madame, very seriously. ‘I shall keep them in his memory, on that you have my word. Another cup of tea, now?’
‘Thank you, yes. And perhaps just one more of your delicious cakes.’
As Daisy washed the cups and plates – doing so carefully, because Madame, for all her generosity and kindness, was a bit of a tartar if her expensive china got broken – she thought about what the visitor had said.
‘When the scores came to me, I remembered you.’ Scores meant sheets of music with all the music notes on them – Daisy knew that. There had been a few times when she had had to fetch Pa out of the Cock & Sparrow, and Bowler Bill was nearly always there, playing the battered old piano for all he was worth, music scores propped up on the stand. People often got up to sing and everyone would join in. Rhun the Rhymer sometimes sang his own versions of the songs, most of which nobody could understand, on account of Rhun generally lapsing into Welsh after the fifth drink.
But all kinds of songs there’d be, and Bill liked to boast that he could play anything that was put in front of him. So Daisy knew what a music score was.
It sounded as if the father of the unknown foreign lady had been famous. Daisy put the scores neatly inside an envelope in Madame’s desk drawer.
Every night she told herself that the man she and Joe had seen could not possibly know where they were, or anything about them.
‘You’re safe,’ she said to Joe, not once but many times. ‘He won’t find us. He’ll be too frightened, because he knows we saw him that night. He knows we can tell what we saw. He won’t dare to kill again.’
But he did.
It was Madame who showed Daisy the news-sheet from one of the street sellers.
Across the top, in thick black letters, were the words, LATEST GHASTLY MURDER IN EAST END … DREADFUL MUTILATION OF VICTIM … LEATHER APRON STILL AT LARGE …
Leather Apron was one of the names given to the killer, and at the sight of it Daisy shivered.
The news-sheet said that Leather Apron had taken a new victim, and told how the victim had been a street woman – that meant a prostitute, of course. Whitechapel – the entire East End – teemed with prostitutes. The whole of London teemed with prostitutes, but the killer seemed to be focusing on those living in the East End. As far as Daisy knew, nobody had been able to explain this.
The news-sheet wanted to know what the police were doing to catch the man.
‘It has been suggested that the police know the killer’s identity, but dare not move against him,’ said the news-sheet. ‘Why? Is he someone in the government? Is he a member of the police force? We say, no matter who this butcher is, the people of London – and very especially the people living in Whitechapel – must feel safe.’
There was a description of how viciously the victim’s throat had been cut – ‘So violently the neck had almost been severed all the way through’ – and how several internal organs had been cut out and taken away. The news-sheet did not speculate as to if this had been done before or after death.
Daisy stared at the black print, her mind tumbling. So it was not over. It never would be, of course, because neither she nor Joe would ever be able to forget what they had seen that night. The man’s features and the glaring madness in his eyes were stamped on their minds. The dreadful thing was that her own features and Joe’s must be stamped on his in turn.
After a few moments she was able to hand the news-sheet back to Madame, and to say how terrible this was.
Madame did not appear to see how violently Daisy’s hands were shaking. She said, very thoughtfully, ‘They talk about protecting people, but they don’t suggest how it can be done.’
‘The police ought to be able to think of something,’ said Daisy. ‘Or people in the government. Clever men like that ought to think of a way for folk to warn one another.’
Madame said slowly, ‘Warn … Warn …’ She frowned, then said, ‘Such as sending out a signal if they think he’s prowling around?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d feel safer from him with something like that, wouldn’t you?’ said Madame. ‘Joe, too. I won’t let Joe see this, you know.’
‘I know you won’t. But how could you warn people about the killer?’ said Daisy. ‘How could there be a signal that would do that? Unless – could people be given police whistles? So as to blow them as a warning?’
‘I don’t think that would work,’ said Madame. ‘Even if they’d spend the money, it’s not … not specific enough. You often hear a police whistle, and you ignore it, because most of the time you know it’s a drunken brawl, or some wretched starving urchin’s stolen an apple or a loaf of bread from a street stall. People wouldn’t take any notice of a police whistle.’ She paused, clearly still thinking, then said, ‘Daisy, do you think a warning could take the form of a piece of music?’
‘You can’t play music in the middle of Whitechapel at midnight,’ began Daisy.
‘No, but you could sing it. Or even whistle it. A tune – only a few bars, but something unusual that people would recognize. Something that a lone female would recognize as an alarm – as a warning. Run for your life – get to a place where there’s people – because there’s someone prowling these streets tonight who might be dangerous. Someone who might be him.’ She began to walk up and down the room. ‘But what kind of music could it be? What?’
Daisy waited.
‘It’d have to be something nobody had heard before,’ Madame said at last. ‘Something really different. Not anything popular that’s sung on a stage at the moment, or that all the errand boys whistle. Something nobody’s ever heard.’ She suddenly spun round to face Daisy, her eyes bright. ‘How about an unknown piece of music composed by a real composer? A maestro?’
‘What …?’
‘A piece of music that’s never been played in public, because its composer thought it was too dark, too macabre, for its time.’ Madame’s eyes were brilliant, and she was already across the room, and opening the drawer of the little desk. She took out the envelope enclosing the music given to her by the foreign visitor.
‘This is what we’ll use, Daisy,’ she said, holding it up, her eyes glowing with fervour. ‘One of these pieces of music composed by a man dead these two years. He was a wonderful composer, and this is his work. It will be—’
‘Good?’
‘Oh, it’ll be better than just good. He was a genius. And we’ll write words to his music, then we’ll make people in Whitechapel learn it. To use it as a warning.’
‘How can we do any of that?’ This would be no more than Madame off on one of her wild fantasies, and none of it would work.
‘Well, first, we need someone who could play the music,’ said Madame.
‘One of your piano players?’ Madame’s acts were generally accompanied by a small group of musicians attached to whichever hall she was performing in, but she had two or three gentlemen who often accompanied her on the piano as well, and who she sometimes rehearsed with.
‘Well, yes, we could use them, but whether they’d want to risk being involved … We really need someone who would understand – who would want to be part of it.’
Daisy thought: someone who would understand …
She said, eagerly, ‘I know who we can use. His name’s Bowler Bill. He plays at the Cock & Sparrow most nights. Sometimes the Ten Bells, too.’
‘If that isn’t Whitechapel, nowhere is,’ said Madame.
‘I bet he’d do it like a shot. He’d understand – he knows the people there, and he’d do anything that would help. And,’ said Daisy, ‘he reckons he can play any piece of music put in front of him.’
‘Then,’ said Madame, ‘Bowler Bill it is.’
Daisy had not been to Rogues Well Yard since that night she and Joe had seen the killer, but Lissy and Vi made sure Ma was all right. Twice Lissy and Vi had brought Ma out to Maida Vale, where they’d had a cup of tea in the kitchen, and then gone along to Joe’s
lodgings, so Ma could see for herself that he was safe.
But now Daisy was going back to Rogues Well Yard and into the Cock & Sparrow in order to introduce Madame to Bowler Bill. But Rogues Well Yard was part of his hunting ground, and for all she knew he could still be looking for her. Would he recognize her? Stupid, said her mind. Of course he would.
Madame guessed most of this, of course, and said she could perfectly well go on her own, but Daisy was not having that. In any case, they would be taking a hansom cab, and afterwards Bowler Bill or one of the other men would very likely walk along with them as far as the Commercial Road, where they could get another hansom back.
Their cab had to go past The Thrawl, because it was a wider road. Daisy shivered as they approached it, but they rattled smartly past, and then they were pulling up outside the Cock & Sparrow. Once inside, she felt better, because there was warmth and noise and a sense of familiar ground. There were a few people she recognized – several of them called out cheerfully.
Bowler Bill was in his usual place at the battered piano, the hat that was his legend firmly jammed on his head. A tankard of ale stood on the piano’s top, and Bill was playing away, even though it was still early. But that meant the place was fairly quiet, which was what Daisy and Madame wanted.
Bill was charmed to meet the famous Scaramel, standing up and even going so far as to take off his hat, which he did not do for many people. He shook Madame’s hand, and said he knew all about her; in fact he had seen her perform at the Canterbury in Lambeth last year, and at the Effingham, too.
‘You did “My Grandfather’s Clock”,’ he said, and Madame nodded delightedly.
‘So I did. They liked it, didn’t they?’
‘Two encores,’ agreed Bill.
‘It was a good night,’ agreed Madame. ‘Now then, Bill, to business.’ She sat down next to him on the piano stool, and Bill listened as she explained what they had in mind. He nodded a few times, frowned, then said, Blimey, that was an idea and a half, and he’d bash out tunes until kingdom come if it’d act as a warning and stop that madman butchering any more victims.
‘Good. This is the music we’ve got,’ said Madame, spreading out the four music scores.
‘Classy stuff,’ said Bill, studying them. ‘These weren’t written by a hack musician.’
‘No, they weren’t, but never mind classy, can you play them?’
‘It ain’t my sort of music,’ said Bill, ‘but I’ve never seen a piece of music yet that I can’t play. Give us that top one and we’ll have a go.’
He propped the first piece on the piano stand and played it straight off, only hesitating a couple of times, and that very briefly. Daisy thought that – even played on Bill’s jangly old piano – the music was beautiful. The notes floated into the smoky bar.
‘Real class,’ he said, again. ‘Thought it would be. Drawing-room stuff.’
‘Yes, but we don’t want drawing room,’ said Madame. ‘We want something that’ll yell to people to run for safety.’
The second piece was different, and Daisy looked hopefully at Madame.
‘Better,’ said Madame. ‘Bit like footsteps, but—’
‘But more like marching footsteps,’ said Bill. ‘And you don’t want marching, like an army’s coming down the street. This ain’t a band of soldiers we’re dealing with. Let’s try number three.’
This time the music did not float and it did not march. It seemed almost to prowl its way into the room, and Daisy felt as if an icy finger had traced its way down her spine. This was music that made you think of hunched-shoulder figures tiptoeing through shadows, pausing in narrow alleyways. It made you think of hands clutching glinting knives, and faces twisted up with madness … Of one face in particular – the face that had glared through the swirling fog that night, and the face Joe had seen bent over the killer’s grisly work. Daisy would never lose that memory. Joe would not lose it, either.
‘That’s the one,’ said Madame, when Bill stopped playing.
‘It’d frighten the life out of you to hear that of a night,’ he said. ‘By God, you’d know you were being sent a message about danger, wouldn’t you? Send old Leather Apron to the rightabout, as well, I shouldn’t wonder. Daisy, no need to look like that, he ain’t here tonight.’
‘Course he ain’t. But we’ll have a drop of porter to cheer us along.’ Madame waved to the barman.
‘And now what?’ said Bill, after the porter had been brought.
‘The music’s exactly right,’ said Madame, slowly. ‘But I reckon it’s a bit too long.’
‘I reckon so, as well. You only want something the women can sing to warn everyone. Like a verse of a song. No more than three or four minutes, say?’
‘Can we shorten it?’
‘Course we can. Easy as kiss your hand.’ He pointed to the music. ‘We could skip from that bar there down to here. Only needs a chord or two adding here to make a transition. I can do it while you wait, if you like.’ He felt in his pockets and produced a stub of pencil.
‘What about words?’ asked Madame.
‘Ah, now, there’s the thing. I’m not good on words. There’s Rhun the Rhymer, though. He’ll be in soon – well, if he can tear himself away from his current lady, he will.’ He sent Daisy a wink. ‘But he’ll probably be able to come up with something. If he can’t, it’d be the first time in his life. He’d be glad to be part of it, too.’ He looked back at the music. ‘We could get Old Shaky in on this, too,’ he said. ‘He’ll be along soon, looking for his supper ale and a pie to go with it.’
‘And his banjo,’ said Daisy, smiling.
‘Yes, give him a pie and a glass of something and he’d play for the devil himself, Old Shaky would.’
Daisy said, eagerly, ‘It’d make it a bit more of an evening, as well. Kind of thing folk’d come along to hear.’ She glanced at Madame. ‘And we want as many people to know about it as possible, don’t we?’ she said.
‘Yes, we do. Can we wait for them now – Rhun the Rhymer and the banjo man?’
‘Course you can.’
‘In that case we’ll all have another drop of porter,’ said Madame. ‘And a couple of those meat pies, as well.’
FOUR
‘Isn’t it lucky that you found this place,’ said Arabella Tallis, delightedly facing Phin over a table in Linklighters, three nights after Phin and Toby’s visit. ‘I bet you’ll find masses of leads here that you can follow up.’
‘I’m hoping so,’ said Phin, and thought, not for the first time, that one of Arabella’s many attractive traits was her enthusiasm for almost everything.
‘But I’m sorry I got my heel stuck in the grid outside just now,’ she said. ‘Although I expect it was my own fault for wearing boots with four-inch heels. You wouldn’t have thought it would take three people to prise a stiletto heel free, would you? Aren’t people helpful?’
‘Will you be able to get it put back on to the boot?’ asked Phin, as Arabella contemplated with pleasure the plate of food which had just been placed before her. ‘And what’s that you’ve ordered?’
‘Fricasseed chicken. It was either that or something called pork griskin, which I thought sounded like the name of Snow White’s eighth dwarf. What did you have – oh, you had beef and oyster pie, didn’t you? It looks good. I think the heel can be stuck back on my shoe. I rescued the actual heel, after all, and the leather’s only torn the very smallest bit. Although at one point I thought the entire boot might fall all the way through the grille, and end up in one of London’s lost rivers. D’you know, Phin, I’ll swear I could actually hear water somewhere below that grid, glugging and sloshing.’
‘Not impossible. London’s got quite a few forgotten underground rivers.’
‘Isn’t the Fleet one of them? I’ll bet if my boot had fallen all the way through that grating it’d have been the Fleet where it ended up,’ said Arabella. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people have prophesied I’m destined for a debtors’ gaol, although I think
they’ve usually meant the Fleet prison rather than the Fleet river.’
Phin was never sure how far to believe Arabella’s flippant claims of impending bankruptcy and her extravagant stories of bailiffs about to camp out on the doorstep. It was strange how you could become extremely intimate with someone on practically every level, but still find the subject of money awkward. Set against the possible bankruptcy was the fact that Arabella was always wanting to share the bill for a meal or the theatre and usually appeared to have sufficient money to do so. Phin nearly always managed to override her, but she tended then to cook him a lavish meal a few days later, or suddenly announce that she had been given two tickets for a concert or a film which she thought they could enjoy together.
‘It was worth a broken stiletto to come here, though,’ she said. ‘And I love Harlequin Court – that marvellous old streetlight. It’d have been gas originally, wouldn’t it? When I get back from France I’d like to spend an entire day, if not longer, wandering around the shops in the square. Will you wander with me?’
‘To the ends of the earth and back again.’
‘Ah, one of the last real romantics. But if we’re going as far as that I’d better remember not to wear four-inch stilettoes.’ Arabella surveyed the restaurant. ‘Whoever did the renovations here made a good job of it,’ she said. ‘It’s just enough to make you feel that you’re dipping a toe into the Naughty Nineties. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Edward VII walk past our table – smacking ladies on the bottom as he goes, the old goat. Or should we make it the ghost of Henry Irving? How close are we to the Lyceum? I’d like to think of Sir Henry popping in here on matinee days for something to eat. Did music halls serve food, do you know?’
‘Jellied eels. Whelks. Oh, and pickled oysters?’
‘Honestly?’
‘It’s a known fact that Irving wolfed down whole barrels of pickled oysters between Richard III in the afternoon and Othello in the evening,’ said Phin, solemnly. ‘Although I don’t think he was greatly given to smacking bottoms. Arabella, I do wish you weren’t going away for a month. Apart from everything else, I’ll miss all the inconsequential talk.’