by Jess Kidd
But Dorcas had decided on a different reward now.
She’d heard that the young master was gifted with learning, although lazy. She asked him to teach her to read and write. This way she could communicate with her dear Della, who had learnt her letters well.
The young master was taken aback, but he agreed.
Dorcas returned to the house. She would transform herself into an eel, not outside, but inside. She needed the traits of that fish. Its ability to sense danger, its ancient malice and, most important of all, its slippery ability to evade capture.
It was surprisingly easy to dispatch the princess.
Dorcas simply told her all about the darling bird’s nest she’d seen. Oh, full of the dearest fluff-topped babies, miss! Like itty grey powder-puffs, miss! Where, miss? Why, miss, just outside the nursery window, miss! On the ledge there, miss! Put your head out and you can see them, miss! A little more, miss—
The driver knocks on the side of the carriage. ‘Gravesend. Sir, madam,’ he calls and not without relief.
Mrs Bibby locks Betty Reckoner and puts her away. She opens the window to the smell of the Thames and the quarrels of water-birds and the river alive with steam packets and barges and watermen. The light is dwindling and a bed at the Three Daws awaits, and another calming draught for the doctor. Then early to the pier with their cargo.
Chapter 15
The pigeons started it. Taking flight as one cooing cloud like the whole thing had long been arranged. The crows watched them leave and then followed, covering the sun with a sudden sweep of night. Then the ravens, the rooks and the jackdaws went too (so that Prudhoe’s flock are the only black birds left in the whole of London, for they would never leave the chemist’s side). Then went the jenny wrens and starlings, sparrows and song thrushes, robins and tits. All gone – scrabbling up into the air, their eyes bright with panic. But the water-birds remain: swans, ducks, herons and cranes, moorhens and cormorants and grebes. Only now they are joined by great marauding flocks of seagulls. And not just gulls, but also storm petrels, oystercatchers and frigate birds, crakes by the dozen, plovers and lapwings. Puffins perch on Nelson’s Column and guillemots prabble over the Houses of Parliament. Kittiwakes roost on rooftops and gannets descend on Covent Garden.
Maybe the water-birds bring with them wetland winds and marine breezes, for the haze begins to dissipate and the sun, very briefly, shines. And the air is lit up visible and is beautiful – soot glitter, smoke dew and the delicate mist of unborn raindrops shine above every Londoner.
Even the omnibus drivers rein in their horses and look up.
Which is just as well really.
For under London, beneath pavement and cobble, garden and yard, the cesspits and the sewers are beginning to churn and boil. Culverts are inundated as water levels rise. Generations of subterranean toshers are swept away in an eye-blink, their lanterns put out and their staffs torn from their hands. They turn and bob in the dark, their mouths and ears and eyes plugged with the unimaginable.
The tributaries of London are waking!
The Walbrook, the dour-hearted Tyburn, the Fleet and the Effra – abused, re-routed, dammed and buried. Some no more than a silty dribble; some great, disease-spreading, far-roaming blackguards. All are beginning to swell and course. Outside every tenement the water butts resonate, in every puddle and pond, bucket and trough there is a quickening.
Fill a teacup, watch it rock.
Now that the rain has abated, the sky above Hounslow Heath is washday-blue and flurrying with gulls. They turn and curse above Bridie Devine as she makes her way across the wilderness. The gibbets and the highwaymen may be gone now, but Bridie sees that the land still has a villainous tinge, although new villages are starting to nibble away its peripheries.
Walking at Bridie’s side, Cora Butter, conspicuous in her travelling cloak and bonnet as only a seven-foot-tall housemaid can be. There is a stalwart set to her jaw and a stern bristling of her eyebrows. Cora the reticent warrior: not looking for battle but resigned to it.
Bridie would not mess with Cora.
She is relieved to have Cora the redoubtable by her side. For Lester Lufkin is known to be lawless and will not welcome questions as to the provenance of his acts. And Bridie is grateful to her friend, for a visit to the circus can only stir up memories of Cora’s painful past.
On Bridie’s other side, a dead man strides, a glimmering sheen to him in the watery air. His topper worn to the back of the head and his face tipped up to the sun, he feels nothing.
Behind them straggles the man who has been following them since they left Denmark Street. In London, among the crowds, he blended in, but on the open heath it’s a different matter.
‘We’re being followed,’ says Bridie. ‘Don’t make it obvious.’
Cora and Ruby look round.
‘Now there’s a man at full trot,’ observes Ruby.
‘A man of questionable intent,’ Cora decides.
Bridie glances behind; she would tend to agree with both of them. The pursuer is a stocky pear of a man with a wideness of the arse, who, to his credit, is keeping up with them, for anyone who walks with Cora will necessarily move at speed given the length of her legs. He lifts his bowler hat to wipe his forehead, revealing a receding hairline with a sparse fair froth to the front. A muculent man, of the type who tends to snort, his nose having the bulbous quality of a seasoned imbiber of strong spirits, various.
‘Will I pounce on him and give him a shake?’
Bridie smiles. ‘We’ll wait and see what he does yet, Cora.’
‘He’ll be one of Inspector Rose’s men. That’s a plainclothes bobby.’
Ruby nods. ‘Tell her she’s right, Bridie. He’s a bobby all right, with those shambly feet on him. No ways nimble.’
Cora prods Bridie’s shoulder. ‘He’s sent him to protect you. Your investigations could lead you into peril and Inspector Rose is looking out for you. He has affections.’
‘It’s more likely he suspects I’m holding something back from him.’ Bridie frowns. ‘And we’ll have no more talk about Rose and his affections.’
Lester Lufkin’s banners are flying. His tents have the medieval style and a glisten to them from the fresh rainfall. Everywhere Lufkin’s ensign, his initials intertwined in gold on crimson. It’s a sight, Lufkin’s nomadic circus city. Were it not for the glamour, you would swear he was camped for war; the burley guards on patrol would give that impression.
Bridie and Cora are stopped immediately. They state their business: they are here to visit the circus king. Their names mean nothing. The guard cranes his neck back and takes a long lour up at Cora, who takes a long lour down at him, her eyebrows lowering and her fists clenching. He thinks better of it and beckons them to follow.
They negotiate wooden walkways between structures of flapping canvas. Ruby follows, enthralled.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ he says under his breath.
A caged lion with paws the size of tea trays lies on straw, his coat pale golden-brown in the sun, his mane darker and wildly resplendent.
Ruby is transfixed. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’ He looks as if he might cry. ‘All my life I’ve wanted to see one of them.’
The lion curls his lip at Ruby in a lazy snarl.
‘He sees me,’ whispers Ruby.
‘He’s a lion,’ whispers Bridie. ‘He sees what he wants to see.’
The lion, indifferent, begins to clean his paw, biting between claws as big as steak knives.
‘I might hang around here for a bit, you know, make friends,’ says Ruby. ‘I’ll be right there if you need me, Bridie.’
‘I’ll be sure to roar.’
Bridie and Cora follow the guard deeper into the camp, past circus folk talking and smoking on the steps of painted caravans. Babies are cradled in the dipped hammocks of skirts and potatoes are peeled into buckets. There is the chink of put-away china and the song of caged birds out to air. A macaque dances in a fluted skirt to the tune of
a man with an accordion, a child does cartwheels while a dog watches. A contortionist waves up at them from a mat, his head between his legs.
Cora keeps her bonnet pulled down, focusing straight ahead. Bridie nudges her and is relieved to see Cora’s lovely, sad, splay-toothed smile in return.
Painters are working on signs under an awning. Neptune, with a trident, a ginger beard and a ringmaster’s hat, stands with his arms outstretched; it’s a gesture that introduces all of the wondrous chaos behind him. Trapeze artists dive from on high into white-peaked waves. Penguins run in formations. Clowns with lobster claws for hands grin from every corner.
Over the top of a two-headed dogfish the artist is painting a new design.
A mermaid with white curls and a coy smile leans over the side of an aquarium. Her tail dips into the water below.
Cora raises her eyebrows. ‘There’s a likeness to that photograph of Christabel, surely?’
Bridie nods.
Across the top of the sign golden letters proclaim the wondrous news:
Lester T. Lufkin’s Circus and Travelling Menagerie Presents:
NEPTUNE’S PLEASURE GARDEN
Now with an ASTONISHING MYTHICAL
SURPRISE (to be unveiled)
Marine Curiosities, Magical Sea Creatures,
Daring Aquatic Acts, Etc., Etc.
An OCEAN-FLOODED amphitheatre!
MILLIONS of GALLONS of genuine water!
(The Management will not accept liability for seasickness, drowning, or miscellaneous water-damage to the audience.)
The guards conduct Bridie and Cora to an imposing tent with canvas turrets and bunting flags fluttering above. This, announces their escort, is Mr Lufkin’s feasting hall, within which the man himself is holding court in a space rich with courtiers and tapestries, furs and gold platters.
Mr Lufkin is a gentleman who likes a drop of history.
As a child he dreamt of building a formidable circus empire and looked around for inspiration. He identified King Henry VIII as the best possible exemplar of the qualities requisite for a man intent on making his way in the world.
When Lufkin was younger he wore padding to achieve the right bulk in chest, bicep and codpiece. Now, aside from the codpiece, Lufkin is no longer in need of padding. His portrayal of a monarch past his prime is unfeigned; unfettered indulgence has given Lufkin the wide-bellied, jaded-eyed sprawl of a true gourmand. Lufkin also has a historically accurate case of gout, a beard of improbable red, a steel-trap strategist’s mind and a tendency to cry over haughty women.
The most significant difference between the historical monarch and the circus king is height. Lufkin does not have the statuesque proportions of Old Coppernose, he compensates with a plumed Tudor bonnet and high-heeled boots.
His fourth wife, Euryale, Queen of Snakes, an East End beauty with black hair and a brass corset, stands dejectedly behind him, holding a royal python. The snake, too, is gloomy as it hangs about her neck, its tongue flickering listlessly. Cora, moved by the boundless sadness in Euryale’s kohled eyes, throws her a sympathetic smile. Euryale blushes.
Lester Lufkin shades his eyes with a goose leg. ‘Heavens, is that Bridie Devine?’ His voice is as rich as over-spiced gravy. ‘I’d recognise that horrible bonnet anywhere.’
He waves the visitors to seats. His minions shut the tent flaps and light a few more candles. The paste stones in Lufkin’s tunic twinkle. He gnaws thoughtfully with one eye on Cora.
‘Would you join my circus, big handsome woman?’ he says.
Cora drags her eyes away from Euryale. ‘Not on your life.’
Lufkin laughs. ‘No matter, there’s taller than you, with beards to their knees. Although I’d wager none of them would match you in an arm wrestle.’
Cora glowers.
Lufkin’s eyes meet Bridie’s. ‘Sincere condolences on the failure of your last case.’ He turns to his court. ‘Is everyone here present acquainted with Mrs Devine’s last case?’
His courtiers are nonplussed, unsure if the little king requires a reaction.
‘For those of you who haven’t been paying attention: little boy stolen, ransomed and dead. The kidnappers,’ continues Lufkin, ‘given time enough to consider the net closing in upon them, concluded that a preserved child would be easier to trade than a living one. Heard of this case, courtiers?’
There is emphatic nodding.
‘Of that I’m doubtful,’ he says starchily. ‘Pleasantries over: why are you here, Devine?’
‘You’ve increased your guard,’ notes Bridie.
‘We’ve always looked after our acts. Ever since John Hunter ran the Irish giant to ground we’ve been at war.’ He jabs the air with his goose leg for emphasis. ‘The show folk and the anatomists – natural enemies.’
‘So it seems,’ says Bridie. ‘When you’re not trading stolen, dug-up or contraband curiosities between yourselves.’
Lufkin draws a sharp intake of breath; he is outraged. He puts down his goose leg and holds up his plump be-ringed hands. ‘What are you even saying to me, Mrs Devine?’
‘You have connections, Lufkin; don’t deny it. I’ve heard that nothing comes in or out of this country these days, on two legs, four, or carried in a jar, without you knowing about it.’
‘You think I parlay with the enemy?’
‘I think you’re a businessman.’
Lufkin narrows his eyes. ‘You’ve pitched up at my court, Mrs Devine, in the ugliest bonnet in Christendom, to tell me about my moral failings?’
Bridie takes out the photograph of Christabel and pushes it across the table. ‘This child was kidnapped from her home in East Sussex. I need to find her.’
Lufkin wipes his fingers on the tablecloth, extracts a monocle from the pocket of his tunic and makes a performance of putting it in.
Euryale rolls her eyes and Cora hazards another smile. Euryale smiles back, showing charming dimples in her cheeks. The python unravels a little.
Lufkin angles the photograph towards the light and makes a big point of looking surprised. ‘Pretty Polly,’ he says.
‘Bears a resemblance to the headlining act on your sign, wouldn’t you agree, Lufkin?’
‘Coincidence, Mrs Devine.’
‘She’s bad business; one corpse already in her wake.’
‘Then I should be frightened, madam?’ Lufkin hands back the photograph.
Bridie draws herself up in her chair. ‘Remember that spot of bother you had a few years back, with the constabulary, specifically with Inspector Valentine Rose?’
Lufkin polishes his monocle on his slashed leg-of-mutton sleeve. ‘I’ll thank you not to speak that name in my great hall, madam.’
‘The evidence I unearthed let you off the hook, Lufkin. Would you like me to remind you of the particulars of the case?’
‘I wouldn’t. What you’re saying is: remember you owe me a favour, Lester, dear.’
‘I’m asking for your cooperation, Lufkin. The last thing you need right now is a police raid scuppering your Cremorne plans.’ She pauses for effect. ‘Inspector Rose is showing interest in this case.’
Lufkin flinches. ‘He knows the ins and outs?’
‘If he doesn’t he will soon, and you’re not exactly his favourite ringmaster.’
Lufkin grunts and slips his monocle into his pocket. ‘I shall keep my eyes peeled for your missing poppet.’
‘Do you know a nurse called Mrs Bibby? Bad legs, rough ways?’
‘I don’t. Has she been stolen too?’
‘Disappeared alongside the child, likely involved.’
‘As I said, eyes peeled.’
‘Don’t even think about trying to put one over on me, Lufkin.’ There’s a quarrelsome set to Bridie’s chin and steel in her brigand’s eyes.
The effect is thrilling. Lufkin is thrilled, preferring, as he does, a woman of fiery temper and contemptuous demeanour beyond any other. He could adore a woman who would treat him with such unbridled scorn. Lufkin’s heart begins to soar
with the growing realisation that Bridie could well be the Anne Boleyn he’s been hoping for.
He selects a halved pomegranate from a golden platter on the table and takes a bite with as much virility as he can muster, chewing pips and gazing at Bridie with passionate intent.
He considers growling, but instead he asks, ‘Have you plans for dinner tonight, Mrs Devine?’
Under Bridie’s scathing glare his heart goes pit-a-pat.
‘I’d rather eat my own eyes, Lufkin,’ she says.
Euryale, Queen of Snakes, is beckoning to Cora from behind the tent with a grass snake around each lovely ankle.
Cora nods politely and scratches her whiskers.
Euryale winks. Cora giggles.
Bridie looks to the heavens. ‘Go and see what she wants.’
Cora returns directly, bright-eyed. ‘She wants us to go to her caravan, she has dirt on Lufkin.’
They all sit together in Euryale’s cramped caravan, Cora with her legs out of the door, Bridie with her ugly bonnet on her knees.
Cages of snakes line the walls and there is the musty smell. Now and again Bridie catches sight of forked tongues darting between the bars. Or hears the dry rasp of scales on scales as the snakes shuffle themselves, like reptilian decks of cards. Several grass snakes are coiled around a broom handle and several more lie stretched out along shelves. Chicks hop in the bucket at Bridie’s feet. In a cage by the doorway white mice wait for a fairy godmother to turn them into footmen and carriage horses, happily unaware of their real fate.
The Queen of Snakes boils a kettle on a tiny stove with a python draped over her shoulder. ‘Lufkin has a big deal on, that much I know, ma’am. It has cost him dearly; everyone is saying that he’s calling in his debts,’ Euryale says, in her soft, hissy, lispy voice.
Bridie wonders if she spends too much time talking to snakes.
Euryale busies herself setting the tea things; Cora watches her every move, a growing flush of colour on her face. She smoothes down her whiskers and straightens the ribbons on her cape. Bridie catches her eye. Cora’s blush deepens.
‘This will be the biggest show he’s brought to London and he’s found the biggest spectacle to match.’