Music Macabre

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘I know. I told her that.’

  ‘Did you ever tell anyone you found my earring?’ said Loretta.

  ‘No.’ Against the swirling darkness, Roland thought: and that was a supremely stupid thing to say! I should have told her there was someone who knew – it would have been safer if I had said that.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, on a pleased note. ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to find out my wife was—’

  ‘A murderess?’

  ‘Yes. And I still won’t tell anyone.’ He could hear the pleading note in his voice. ‘Why would I say anything after so long?’

  ‘You might,’ said Loretta. ‘I can’t trust you not to. I can’t take that risk.’ She took a step back, and Roland tried to calculate if he could spring forward and be through the yawning gap of the open gate before she reached the wheel. But when he tried to move the pain sent him into sick dizziness again.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll get out,’ she said, as if she were considering the matter from all angles. ‘I’ve seen the maps of those underground rivers and the tunnels – the later ones, I mean – and everywhere is sealed off. There’s no other way out, except through this gate. And the gate doesn’t have a mechanism on the inside. I lay awake most of last night working it out, and I know that, as plans go, it’s foolproof. You’ll disappear, and of course I shan’t know where you are. I’ll be the distraught wife, and no one will suspect me of anything. Why would they? I’ve got that meeting with Phineas Fox later this morning, as well, and that’s going to provide a kind of alibi. I’d hardly have killed my husband with someone due for a meeting here in …’ She glanced at her watch, and said, ‘In three-quarters of an hour.’

  Three-quarters of an hour, thought Roland, and a frail hope brushed his mind. Could he keep her talking until Fox got here? He might be early. But he might be late. He tried again to move towards the gate, but the pain grabbed him again and he sank back, gasping.

  ‘Nobody saw us come into Harlequin Court,’ said Loretta. ‘I was keeping an eye out for that. And when Phineas does get here, he’ll find me outside in the square, apparently having just arrived. We’ll come down here, and we’ll talk about his research, and afterwards we’ll walk to the tube together. We might even have some lunch somewhere – I shall pretend to phone you, and let you know that, I think. It’s all going to seem like a perfectly innocent Sunday morning, entirely free of any murderous intentions.’

  ‘And at some point you’ll try to seduce Phineas Fox, I expect,’ said Roland. ‘Because you’ll just have committed a second murder, and you’ll be so turned on by that … Just as you were after you killed Mother,’ he said, with a sudden angry memory.

  ‘You didn’t object at the time,’ said Loretta, at once. ‘It was only later that you … Was it after you found the earring that you went cold on me in bed?’ she said, suddenly. ‘Was that why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Some men would be rampant at the thought of screwing a murderess, but not you. It was when you went out to get a taxi that I did it,’ she said, suddenly. ‘It was pouring with rain, and Wynne couldn’t possibly have heard me. But creeping up those stairs – they were in shadow and I didn’t dare switch on a light – it felt as though I’d stepped into a different world. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was as if the rules had changed. As if what I was going to do wasn’t in the least wrong.’

  Roland saw a faint puzzlement flicker on her face, then she said, ‘When I got up to that landing, I simply knelt down and pulled a bit of the carpet free – just across the doorway – just where she’d come out of her room next morning. I didn’t know if it would work, but it did.’ She made an impatient gesture. ‘D’you know, I didn’t even realize I’d lost that earring until much later – then I thought I must have dropped it in the street, or maybe in the taxi. I suppose you wouldn’t notice it had gone, because I had on that twenties-style hat against the rain.’

  ‘I found it while I was clearing out the house that last weekend,’ said Roland.

  ‘When I saw it in your dressing-table drawer yesterday, for a moment I didn’t understand. I couldn’t think why, if you’d found it, you simply hadn’t given it back to me. That would have been the normal thing to do, wouldn’t it? To say, “I found this – you must have dropped it sometime.” The fact that you never did – that you hid it all these months … Well, I could only think of one reason for that.’

  ‘Loretta – listen, Mother’s death was put down to an accident, and it can stay that way,’ said Roland, desperately. ‘But what you’re doing now – this is different. As soon as people know I’m missing …’

  ‘But they won’t know until at least tomorrow night,’ said Loretta. ‘I shan’t report you as missing until then.’

  ‘They’ll search down here, though …’

  ‘Not at once. It could be days. And even if they do find you, I’ve got that letter about the insurance check on the gates. I told you it was useful, that letter. Actually, that was what gave me the idea for all this.’ Again there was the smile that was so eerily not Loretta’s smile. ‘I’ll suggest that you must have come down here to make sure everything was all right for the inspection,’ she said. ‘But that you must have fumbled the mechanism. It’s so old, anyway, that nobody would have trouble believing me. And in any case, by the time they do open the tunnel—’

  ‘It will be too late,’ said Roland, in a horrified whisper.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ said Loretta. ‘I really am. I liked you, Roland – more than liked.’

  ‘It wasn’t just the money, then?’ This had to be the most bizarre conversation anyone had ever had.

  Loretta said, ‘Oh, the money – yes, of course it was about the money. But really, it was about this place. Linklighters …’

  ‘Linklighters reclaimed,’ said Roland, half to himself. ‘For your ancestor.’

  ‘Yes. There it was, empty, vandalized, slowly rotting away. It made me so angry. I used to sit on that seat near the bookshop, and stare at it. I had to have it.’

  Her eyes were inward looking, and Roland tensed his muscles to move, because if he could just catch her off guard … But even the small effort sent the pain tearing through his ribs again, making him cry out. The sound pulled Loretta out of her strange memories. She frowned, then turned back to the wheel, and bent over, slotting the key in place, then wrenching the wheel around. Roland felt the shudder of movement from the gate, and panic rose up. He tried again to crawl forwards, but this time as the pain engulfed him, nausea rose up, and he bent over to be sick, almost screaming with the pain that the retching caused.

  When he fell back, shivering and gasping, the clanking of the gate was echoing everywhere, monstrously magnified within the tunnel. Slowly and ponderously, the gate began to descend, the shark’s teeth spikes coming slowly down.

  Roland clawed desperately at the brick wall again, trying to get to his feet. Then, from beyond the monstrous sounds of the machinery, he heard a door opening, then a rush of movement from the office beyond the open panel. A man’s voice shouted, ‘Stop! For God’s sake, don’t shut the gate – there’s someone in there!’

  From where he was lying, Roland saw a dark-haired man scramble through the open panel – a man who could only be Phineas Fox. Had Loretta mistimed it all? No, she was too efficient – Fox must have arrived early, and found the street door unlocked. He would have seen the light on and come down here.

  Fox stopped short just inside the panel, staring at the scene, clearly not entirely understanding what had happened. Roland saw the panic flare in Loretta’s face, and he saw her start forward.

  But Fox had already darted towards the still half-open gate, and he was reaching out to Roland, clearly intending to grab his arm and pull him out to safety.

  As he did so, Loretta almost threw herself at him, so that he fell sideways into the gaping darkness where Roland was struggling to stand up. His head smacked against the side of the tu
nnel, and for a breath-snatching second he was on the very edge of the gaping channel. Then Roland managed to grab his hand and pull him to safety. Pain from his damaged ribs tore through him and he cried out again, but he had pulled Fox back to safety.

  Except that neither of them was safe, because the gate’s mechanism, once activated, was coming down, the clanking of the old mechanism echoing through the tunnel, and the dripping iron spikes were only a foot above them.

  The light was draining, and then, with a final dreadful scraping noise, the gate clanged into place.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  London, 1890s

  Daisy often went out to Whitechapel to Ma’s new rooms. They were very smart indeed; Lissy and Vi and their husbands had spruced the place up a treat. And Ma loved being part of the lively street trade, selling and buying at the stall with Peg the Rags, gossiping with local people.

  There was only one thing against the new rooms as far as Daisy was concerned, and that was that they were a bit nearer to The Thrawl; in fact they were almost in the shadow of the great grim wall that was the Paupers’ Wing. Still, you could not have everything in life, and Ma did not seem to mind. She liked knowing she was still surrounded by the people she had known all her life, she said; the people she had grown up with. It made her feel safe. Daisy understood that, of course. And looked at sensibly, Ma had always lived near The Thrawl; it was part of her life, and even its horrible stories were part of it. The stories had been part of Daisy’s life as well until she went to live with Madame, just as they had been part of the lives of all the children growing up in that area of Whitechapel. She knew the tales of the gaolers who were supposed to trade with the body-snatchers, and who sold the lunatics’ bodies to them for the physicians’ experiments. And when Daisy and her sisters were small, somebody had started a rumour that the devil lived in a deep dungeon beneath the Paupers’ Ward, and sometimes crept out at night and cut out the hearts of the living people to add to his collection. The children had found that terrifying, and everyone had attended church and ragged Sunday school for weeks.

  Later, Daisy heard the adults’ tales. How there were poor souls shut away who were not mad at all. Chained and forgotten and left to rot. And a good many of them as sane as anyone in the outside world. Daisy knew, too, the stories of how husbands used The Thrawl – and places like it – to shut away unwanted wives, or wives to shut away unwanted husbands.

  She knew, as well, about daughters who used The Thrawl to shut away fathers who sexually abused them, their two sisters, and their young brother.

  Daisy could still remember how she had felt when she followed Pa along the canal towpath after she caught him with Joe. She could remember how it had felt to run forward and push him so hard he went straight down into the canal.

  But there was another layer to that memory – the memory of how she had crouched, shivering and shocked at what she had done, grateful for the wall of the empty warehouse behind her. She clung to the knowledge that what she had done had been necessary, in order to protect Ma and girls. And Joe. Above and beyond all of that, to protect Joe.

  She had been about to make a shaky way back along the canal path, and return to Maida Vale as quickly as possible. Nobody had seen what she had done. Pa’s body would be discovered at some point, and it would be assumed he had fallen into the canal while he was sozzled. Daisy was just thinking she felt strong enough to stand up and set off, when something happened that sent fear coursing through her.

  A few yards along from where she was standing, near to a narrow bridge that spanned the canal for the drays, the filthy water was churning violently, and, as Daisy turned to look, a figure came up out of the filthy water, and reached out to grasp the edges of the bank. Water streamed from the figure, tangled weeds trailed from its head, half covering the face, and, as it struggled on to the path, there was a moment when it was silhouetted in the faint phosphorescence coming off the canal.

  ‘Daisy …’

  It was a slurred sound, forced from a mouth choked with mud. Sodden, mud-crusted hands clawed at the ground, and Daisy backed away, one hand at her throat. But already he had managed to climb on to the path, and he was half lying there, coughing and gasping wetly.

  ‘Bitch,’ he said, spitting the words out. ‘I’ll tell them what you did – sly cat you are … They’ll string you up – you’ll dance at Tyburn …’ There was another bout of coughing, and he vomited slime and mud over his boots.

  Daisy shuddered, then thought: if I went forward now, I could push him back into the canal and it would finish him off this time. But she could not do it. Having once screwed up her courage to give that earlier push, she could not deal a second blow. And, ridiculously and illogically, she could not take advantage of the weakness and the helplessness. And yet if she did not, he would tell people what she had done. He would go back to Rogues Well Yard. To Ma. To Joe.

  Barely a foot from where he was lying was a door opening into one of the abandoned warehouses. Even in the dull, early evening light, Daisy could see that it gave straight on to the warehouse’s cavernous interior.

  She had not thought she could bring herself to touch Pa again, but fear was lending her strength and courage, and she seized his arms, and dragged him across the ground into the bad-smelling blackness of the old warehouse. He swore, and tried feebly to resist her, mouthing threats again, but he was still struggling to breathe, and it was easy to shove him into the black interior. He fell to the ground, against the wall.

  Daisy said, ‘I’ll get help.’ She had no idea if he believed her, or even if he heard her, but she sped across the floor. Once outside she wrenched the sagging door shut, wincing as the hinges shrieked like souls in torment, but seeing gratefully that it finally closed.

  And now it was a matter of speed – of getting to the one person in all the world Daisy trusted, and doing so as fast as possible.

  She ran towards the Commercial Road, and blessedly and thankfully a hansom came rattling along within minutes. Daisy climbed breathlessly inside.

  Madame listened as Daisy gabbled out what had happened, and what she had done. It sounded confused and muddled, but Daisy knew Madame had understood. She had no idea if she was about to be thrown out into the street, or if she would end up in Newgate, or …

  Madame said, ‘Daisy, listen carefully. You’re not going to be punished for this – I won’t let you be. But that man must be …’ She thought for some moments, then said, ‘Yes. I see a way.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said Daisy, as Madame whisked into her bedroom and snatched a long dark cape from the cupboard.

  Madame had flung the cape around her shoulders, and thrust her feet into button boots. When she looked back at Daisy, there was a light in her eyes. ‘There are times,’ she said, ‘when having led a somewhat disreputable life – and having known a few gentlemen of influence – comes in useful.’

  The afternoon was darkening as their hansom cab rattled through the streets, and pulled up outside a large white house just off Eaton Square.

  This was a part of London Daisy had never been to, and she found it daunting. But Madame walked briskly up the wide, white steps and rang the bell. Challenged by a uniformed servant as to her business, she said, ‘My business is with your employer. Please give him my card and say I want to see him at once. I shan’t take up very much of his time.’

  It was the first time Daisy had seen Madame use a visiting card. Posh ladies and gentlemen had them, but she had not realized Madame had, too. The servant nodded, and as he padded away, Madame glanced at Daisy. ‘Surprised to hear me being posh?’ she said. ‘But I can talk as posh as anyone if I have to. Don’t worry, Daisy. Just agree with everything I say.’

  The servant returned, took them across a large hall, and showed them into a warm, comfortably furnished room, with book-lined walls and a fire glowing in the grate. Behind a big leather-topped desk was a man with silver hair and a thin face. He came across the room and took Madame’s hand.

 
; ‘Scaramel,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘After all these years.’

  ‘After all these years,’ agreed Madame, composed as a cat. She sat down and studied him, in her turn. ‘The years have been remarkably kind to you, Charles.’

  ‘It would be in the nature of an insult to say they’ve been kind to you,’ said the man, seating himself opposite to her. ‘Because you’re ageless, Scaramel. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Madame smiled. ‘Do you recall that I once helped you in a difficult situation?’ she said. ‘And that you said if ever you could repay that favour …?’

  ‘I do remember,’ he said. ‘Three hundred guineas was the sum in question. A gambling debt.’

  ‘Yes. I daresay three hundred guineas is a mere fleabite to you now, but in those days—’

  ‘In those days it was more than I had in the world,’ he said.

  ‘So it was. You gave the other players a draft on your bank, knowing it would not be honoured.’

  ‘I did. I was very young and very foolish – and very much in love with you, if you recall that, as well?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, softly. ‘I recall that.’

  They both seemed to have forgotten Daisy’s presence. She did not dare move.

  ‘You gave me the money,’ said Charles. ‘The draft was honoured, and I got away with it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now you want that – that favour to be repaid?’

  Madame paused, as if deciding on her next words. Then she said, ‘Yes, I do. It’s asking a good deal of you, but since you’re who and what you are nowadays, I think you’re the one man who can help me.’

  ‘My present position sounds better than it is,’ he said, and Daisy suddenly liked him for saying this.

  ‘Nevertheless, you’re very high up in the police service, Charles. With a particular responsibility for the city’s mental institutions, yes? And I hear there’s a knighthood in the wings.’