by Sarah Rayne
Scaramel said, ‘Good bit of a fun, a sing-song, ain’t it? But you haven’t been having so much fun round here lately, have you? Well, I know you haven’t. The whole of London – the whole of England – knows that.’
There was a faint murmur of slightly puzzled agreement, then Scaramel said, ‘Police ain’t been much help to you, either, have they?’ She appeared to wait, and there were one or two shouts of agreement, and calls about bloody useless peelers, sat on their arses in posh offices. A female voice from the back of the room said the peelers weren’t nothing but mutton-shunters anyway.
‘Move a gel on for trying to make a penny or two, that’s all they do.’
‘Tell you it’s the law,’ added another. ‘Bleeding law. Move you on, and drive you into the arms of him, more like.’
‘You don’t like naming him, do you?’ said Scaramel, looking at the two women who had spoken.
‘Give him a name? I wouldn’t give him the steam off my piss.’
‘I understand that,’ she said, seriously. ‘Give him a name, and he’s suddenly more real. Don’t matter what he’s called or what he isn’t called, though. Because, people like us – and I’m not from so very different a background as yours – we’ve learned to look after ourselves, haven’t we? To look after our own. But how do you look after yourselves with that mad butcher creeping around? You got to go about your ordinary lives, that’s for sure, and do your work – and never mind what kind of work it might be. But the police are never there when you want them—’
‘’cept for mutton-shunting,’ said the disgruntled voice from the corner.
‘And as for sounding an alarm, well, you can’t carry trumpets or bells with you all the time,’ said Scaramel. ‘Anyway, they cost money to buy. It’d be easy enough for me to hand out whistles to you all, but I don’t think it’d work. Whistles get lost, they get pinched, they get forgotten. And even then, would anyone take much notice of a whistle being blown, never mind how loud it was? Folk’d think it was a street fight, or somebody pilfering something. And if he was prowling up on you …’
She paused, and people shivered again.
‘… You’d likely not be able to get the whistle to your lips,’ said Scaramel. ‘Difficult, isn’t it? You saw we got you to give your names at the door here earlier on – that’s so’s we’d know that everyone who’s here is all right.’ She looked round the room, and in a lower voice, said, ‘To be sure there’s no one here who shouldn’t be.’
Several of the females looked nervously about them.
‘Now, here’s my idea. How’d it be if you – the ladies mostly, but nothing to say the men can’t join in – were to be taught a bit of a tune that’d sound an alarm. Only a few notes, nothing difficult. But something easy to recognize, and something that could be sung or even whistled if you see or hear …’
A pause, then, ‘If you see or hear anyone you don’t like the look of,’ she said. ‘Because a song – something you’d all know – would send out a warning. People hearing it would know to run for cover, and also to run to get help. Either to the nearest peeler – if you can find one – or a bunch of your own folks.’
This was unexpected. Nobody had thought of this, but people were nodding. Hadn’t they all of them said the police ought to do something to give them a bit of protection from this mad killer? And had the police done anything? Had they buggery? Somebody from the back called out that the truth was that the police didn’t give a tuppenny fart if a gaggle of prostitutes got murdered, and there was a murmur of agreement.
From the back of the room, somebody said, ‘But what about him? Hear it a couple of times, then he’d get to recognize it, too, wouldn’t he?’
‘I hope he would,’ said Scaramel, at once. ‘Because if he did, he’d know he’d been spotted and he’d know a call for help had been sent out. He’d fear that half of Whitechapel would come running. He’d be off like greased lightning.’ She suddenly walked to the front of the little dais, and in a soft voice that still managed to reach every part of the room, she said, ‘Jack? You in here with us, are you? You here, listening and watching? I wouldn’t put it past you.’ She paused, looking round the room. ‘But if you are here tonight, Jack, you’ll know that we’re setting a trap for you.’
This time the shudder that went through everyone was much more pronounced. People turned to look over their shoulders, and somebody got up to peer through the door.
‘He ain’t here,’ said a man.
‘Ain’t he? How d’you know?’
‘Wouldn’t have the balls.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, that’s just what he would have!’ This was Rhun the Rhymer, draped over his table in the corner.
‘Wouldn’t have any at all if I could get my hands on him,’ said somebody else, and this broke the tension slightly.
‘Never mind what he’s got or what he mightn’t have in the future,’ said Scaramel. ‘What about this song?’
‘I reckon it’d work,’ said the man, who had refused to believe the Ripper was in the room. ‘I say we hear it.’
‘Ask me, it’s a bloody good idea,’ called someone else, and a ragged cheer went up.
‘An’ we don’t care if he is here, the evil sewer rat. You sing this tune for us, darlin’. We’ll learn it.’
Scaramel stepped back from the dais edge, and nodded to Bowler Bill who seemed to know all about it, and then to Old Shaky who also seemed to be part of it. There was an immediate hush. The music began, and Scaramel started to sing.
‘Listen for the killer for he’s here, just out of sight.
Listen for the footsteps ’cos it’s very late at night.
I can hear his tread and he’s prowling through the dark.
I can hear him breathing and I fear that I’m his mark.’
She paused, as if wanting a reaction to this, but a number of people – almost all of them women – were nodding, because they knew how it felt to think someone was creeping along after you, and they all knew what a ‘mark’ was. You didn’t live in the East End all your life and not know that. They waited to see what came next.
‘You don’t need much more than those four lines,’ said Scaramel. ‘But there’s another verse if you want it.’
She looked round the room, and for a moment no one spoke. The truth was that most of them wanted to hear the music again, and they wanted to hear the second verse, too. The strange, dark music was like no music they had ever heard; it was music that made you think of tiptoeing footsteps coming at you along an alley or down a passageway. Even creeping under your own window towards your own door, which was a very bad thought. They wanted to seize this idea and hold on to it as a safety line.
But there was a tiny part of them that wanted to push the whole thing away and forget about it, and believe that he would not walk through the night streets again.
The moment hung in the balance. From her corner, Daisy saw Madame looking round the room, and for a terrible moment she thought Madame had made a mistake. But then somebody called out that they’d hear the rest – they’d have the thing in full or not at all.
Bowler Bill and Old Shaky started the music again. By now they were all thinking that it wouldn’t matter if it was sung or hummed or whistled – or even tapped out on the spoons, for heaven’s sake! – you’d only have to hear the first few notes of this and you’d know at once that he was around.
As for the words of the second verse – they were chilling, in fact they were downright bloody terrifying.
‘Now I hear the midnight prowl,
Now I see the saw and knife.
Next will come the victim’s howl.
So save yourself from him, and run …
… run hard to save your life.’
The music stopped and Scaramel looked round the room.
‘Dark music, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘What they call macabre. The man who wrote it thought it was a bit too dark for his own audiences, and it only came into my hands after his death. A
s for the words – well, they’re dark too, aren’t they?’ She sent a grin towards Rhun the Rhymer, and people exchanged glances, because they might have known Rhun would have had a hand in the words, what with him being Welsh and given to spouting poetry at the sniff of a gin bottle, never mind a lady being involved
‘You needn’t even use any of the words, not if you don’t want to,’ said Scaramel. ‘I know words aren’t always easy to memorize – and I’m speaking as one who went completely blank on the stage at Collins’ one night, and had to make up an entire verse! Died the death that night, I did! Thought I’d never go back on a stage after that!’
This went down well. They’d already been feeling friendly towards her, but at this they felt even closer. She really was one of their own kind, and you couldn’t help liking somebody who admitted to what she had called dying the death, and at Collins’, as well, posh hall that it was, not that any of them had ever been there, but they all knew about it.
‘But if you can’t remember the words, you can remember the tune,’ she said, and in fact people were already trying it out, humming and la-la-ing. Bill and Shaky played it over once again, and then again. It was surprisingly easy to get your head round, nor it wasn’t something you’d mistake.
‘Sing your own words to it if you want,’ said Scaramel. ‘Never mind if they’re a bit saucy, neither. Whistle it if you’d rather. Well? What do you think?’
What they all thought was that this was a very good idea indeed; it was setting up a simple alarm network they could all use. It wasn’t foolproof against him, nor would anything be, but it’d mean looking after their own a bit, yes, and sticking out their tongues at the police as well.
‘But listen to me,’ said Scaramel, ‘there’s to be no cheating. You’re never – never – to sing it unless you believe he’s around. There’s to be no scaring of people with it. You’ve got to agree to that. You’ve got to promise.’
‘Agreed!’ shouted the room. ‘Promised!’
‘I’m taking it to a couple of other pubs,’ she said, and, picking up a comment from one of the tables, said, ‘Yes, I know about the Ten Bells. That’s on his patch, isn’t it, and it’s all been arranged. Next Friday night. Come along again if you want. Bring people with you. You’ll all have to sign in like tonight, but that’s only as a bit of a safeguard. And I’ll go to anywhere else you want to suggest. Any other pubs in the area.’
‘Horn of Plenty,’ called out somebody.
‘The Princess Alice,’ said another. ‘And anywhere in the Commercial Road.’
‘Good,’ said Scaramel. ‘I’ll go to both those places if they’ll have me.’
A wit at the back of the room called out that he reckoned anyone would have her, and he’d be first in the queue.
‘I’ll book you in for special treatment,’ she said at once, quick as you like, and they all cheered, pleased that she could give as good as she got.
‘No charge at any of the pubs for this,’ she said. ‘Tell everyone that. And tell them that, like tonight, I’ll be putting a few sovereigns behind the bar, so folk can have cheap drinks for the evening. In fact, now I’ve said that, we’ll have another round on me.’ She nodded to the barman, who leapt forward.
Daisy was so fiercely proud of Madame during the days that followed the Cock & Sparrow night that she wanted to run all over London telling everyone about her and what she was doing.
They were calling it the ‘Listen’ music by now, and Lissy and Vi came along to the next evening, which was at the Princess Alice pub on the corner of Wentworth Street. Lissy was wearing a new bonnet – very smart it was. Daisy was pleased Lissy had taken the trouble, but of course Lissy had always been one for nice outfits.
They had brought their husbands with them. Madame had met Vi and Lissy when they came out to Maida Vale, but she hadn’t met their husbands, so Daisy had to do introductions. Madame, of course, was as nice and as friendly to them all as you could have wished.
‘She don’t make out she’s something she ain’t,’ Lissy said afterwards. ‘I noticed that the first time.’ Vi said they were all glad to think that their Daise had such a good place and that Madame was looking out for Joe as well.
Shortly after the night at the Princess Alice, Madame told Daisy that someone had let the police know what they were doing.
‘About “Listen” and the pub nights, I mean.’
‘Do the police mind?’ asked Daisy.
‘I don’t give a farthing fart if they do. Not costing them anything, and we’re not breaking any laws. Matter of fact, I think they thought it was worth trying,’ she said. ‘And it’d be grand if it ended in them catching him, wouldn’t it?’
‘As long as he don’t catch us first,’ said Daisy. She hesitated, then said, ‘He’ll know about it by now, won’t he?’
‘I should think so. But I can’t see he can do anything about it.’
‘He might try to stop us – I mean you and me – from teaching more people the song.’ Daisy did not voice her worst fear, which was that through all of this he would find where she and Joe lived and come after them.
But Madame understood at once. She said, ‘Daisy, he doesn’t know where you live nor where Joe lives. He can’t. I’m watching out. You’re both perfectly safe.’
Perfectly safe. As the days went along and nothing happened, Daisy began to believe that Madame was right. And then came the night at the Ten Bells.
EIGHT
1880s/1890s,
A great many people came to the Ten Bells.
‘Word’s got round,’ said Rhun the Rhymer, pleased.
‘So it should, all the posters stuck up in pubs and everywhere,’ said Bowler Bill.
‘They’ve spelled it wrong,’ said Rhun, ‘silly devils. We said to call it “Listen for the Killer”. But they’ve put a z in listen, which oughtn’t to be there.’
‘That’s what Madame told them to put,’ said Daisy, who had taken Madame’s costume along to the pub ahead of the evening, and had stopped to share a meat pie with Bill and Rhun. ‘“Liszten for the Killer”, that’s what she wants it calling. Something about it being a nod to the bloke who wrote the music years ago.’
Bill observed that most folk wouldn’t know the difference between an extra z and the entire alphabet on a poster, anyway.
Bill would be playing the music for the Ten Bells night, and Old Shaky was coming as well, pleased to be included. Rhun the Rhymer was going, too. Madame had said Rhun felt a personal interest in the song on account of writing the words for it. Daisy thought Rhun felt a personal interest in Madame as well, but she did not say so.
The evening started well. Daisy found a seat just inside the door of the big upstairs room. She could see everyone coming in. Ma had come along with her friend, Peg the Rags. Peg was decked out in what looked like the best pickings from her rag shop. They waved to Daisy, and found themselves seats on one side of the room. Daisy thought she would get a couple of glasses of gin sent over as soon as she could. But the room was already crowded, and there were so many people that the two men in charge were having quite a struggle to get all the names. There was some jostling and pushing for tables nearest the stage, and Daisy was glad to have this small corner table to herself. It was all very good-natured, though, because people wanted to hear the song that was meant as an alarm signal if Leather Apron was creeping around. Also, there were half-price drinks.
But as the room filled up and the gas jets flared and popped, Daisy felt a trickle of fear. She remembered how Madame had come to the edge of the dais that first night, and said, very softly, ‘Jack? Are you here?’
It was stupid to wonder whether he might be here tonight, but she looked nervously round the room. The point of getting names at the door was to know who was here, but people could give false names. And he was clever; he would know how to blend in. He might be disguised – wearing a false beard, for instance. Or he might have a hat pulled over his brow like the dockers over in that corner. Or a grimed face fro
m having just come off a shift at one of the factories. There were quite a few of those. And she would recognize him, even through a disguise. Or would she?
With so many people turning up, the performance began later than planned. The first two songs went well; in fact they went so well that people were soon cheering and raising their glasses. A couple of the women got up to do a bit of a dance between the tables, causing the men to whistle and shout rude comments, and dig one another in the ribs and say would you just look at that Rosie Grady showing her drawers for all to see, saucy creature.
The room was becoming very warm. It was thick with cigarette smoke, and there was the stink of clothes that didn’t often get washed, and also of bodies that didn’t often get washed, either. Daisy tried to remember that if the only tap you had was down in the yard and you shared it with six other families, you were lucky to get even a bit of a sluice down in the morning. Before she went to work for Madame, Daisy had never noticed things like that. Living with Madame meant you did notice, though.
But this was disloyal. Daisy had lived among these people – or people very like them – and when she had, she had probably smelled just as bad.
Madame was starting to tell them about the ‘Listen’ song, and it was then that Daisy sensed a movement to one side of her table, by the door. She looked round, thinking someone had come up to speak to her, then realized the movement had been the opening of the door. But it was not opening in an ordinary way; it was being slowly and quietly pushed, an inch at a time. Daisy’s heart began to race. Most likely it would be somebody’s nippers, who had crept giggling up the stairs to see the famous music hall singer. She twisted all the way round in her chair to look.
The door was still only open a very little way, but it was possible to see the shadowy landing beyond. It was possible to see the figure who stood there.