by Sam Christer
The door opened. Greybeard and two of his men rushed in, wielding sticks. A flurry of blows followed to my legs and torso but I kept my knees bent to protect my testicles and my hands across my face to avoid major injury.
When they were done, Greybeard grabbed my hair and lifted my head. ‘That’s for who you killed. For what you did and who you are, you offspring of Satan’s whore.’ He spat in my face and banged my head down on the bunk. ‘Now shut up, or we’ll shut you up for ever.’
The door slammed and I heard the locks turn and men march off. Oddly enough, I understood their anger. Like me, they wanted to avenge what they understood to be a terrible murder. My first. One I had committed as a young man. The one that had haunted me all the way to the gates of Newgate.
The year had been 1878 and following my brutal boxing encounter with the Connor brothers, Jeremiah Beamish decided good money could be earned by having the three of us fight children from neighbouring establishments. It was what he called his ‘academy’ project. In truth, it was merely a way to sell tickets and take bets on which workhouse boy might beat the other.
Bosede and Miller continued to train the twins and me; over the next few years, because of our common plight and a mutual hatred of being exploited, we actually grew to be friends.
I fought more than forty times and never lost. Jimmy had a similar record and Charlie was not so far behind. Our victories, and occasional losses, all made Beamish and his cronies a small fortune. But not us. We got the odd copper, some extra food and occasional jug of ale, but nothing more. We were told we had a debt to pay to the workhouse for taking us in and should be grateful for the chance to do it so easily. And we were warned that we’d be unable to discharge ourselves from that hellhole until Beamish considered the debt settled.
Three days past my fourteenth birthday we decided we’d had enough. In the dead of night we made a run for it. The Connors had an older cousin who ran a gang in Southwark, so we made our way there. His name was Hoolihan, Patrick Hoolihan, and he was famous in the East End, or at least he was about to be.
Hoolihan already had a reputation as a fellow you didn’t mess with, someone who always had a plate of hot food and a place to rest for strong young men who could provide muscle for his criminal activities.
When the three of us joined, there were no more than thirty in total. But as time passed numbers grew. Eventually, the Hoolihan group gained notoriety as the Hooli gang or more commonly, the ‘Hooligans’.
Paddy had access to innumerable run-down old buildings on the south side of the river and he used these to store whatever could be stolen from ships mooring on the Thames.
Around ten of us ended up living with him in a large slum in Southwark, mainly to guard the stolen goods that got stored there. He had done a deal with the landlord, collecting rents on his behalf in return for the use of the three-storey end terrace and several cellars that he stacked with poke from his street gangs. There was a brazier down there as well and once a month a fellow called The Fireman would roll up and get it roaring so he might melt down stolen coins, cutlery and jewellery into bars of gold and silver.
Several of the gang were dippers – pickpockets – more accustomed to using their hands to lift the wallets and purses of London’s richer citizens than fight for a living. Their clothes fascinated me, especially the secret pockets sewn into slits in their shirts, pants and coats. They could take a coin from your palm and make it disappear without you even knowing you’d lost it.
There was also a handful of brawny dragsmen, loutish youths who preyed on carriages. They simply pounced on the vehicles and dragged off whatever goods they could get their grubby hands on. Three of the others were seasoned cracksmen. Almost nightly, they crossed the Thames to tiptoe in and out of moneyed cribs in Marylebone and Mayfair.
As the years passed, Jimmy, Charlie and me settled comfortably into this motley crew and as a result we had more clink in our pockets than we had ever dreamed of. We stole from houses and from shops, from rich folk rolling home drunk in their carriages and from pretty much anyone who had anything worth stealing. At night we spread out our haul for Hoolihan, got paid a fair whack for our work and drank and ate like kings.
But all good things come to an end, and our run halted in the middle of a night when everyone was fast asleep in their cribs.
The coppers came – a raid that caught us all by surprise.
I was bunked upstairs with the twins when the front door was broken down and the fighting broke out. We bolted for a window and almost made it, but a rozzer with a stick started to beat Jimmy and another pulled a knife on Charlie. At first I thought he was bluffing, just trying to frighten him into surrendering, then he stabbed him.
I had no choice but to wade in. Filled with rage, I grabbed the knife, forced the copper flat and stuck it through his neck.
I had killed him. It was as simple and terrible as that. In a single second, a spontaneous action with a knife changed my life. Made me a murderer. Forced me to flee London and brought me under the influence of Moriarty. And in prison I was marked out as a cop-killer, the kind of convict gaolers liked to kill because policemen were their brothers-in-arms.
I rose from my bunk and touched the many places where the gaolers’ sticks had found flesh. There were no breaks, just bruises to count. The moon had moved in the night sky and now caught the wall by the door and the head of the nail I had hidden in the brickwork. It was my only tool. Aside from my hands, my only protection. Tomorrow I would take the nail into my murderous fingers and try again to escape.
Derbyshire, May 1886
Surrey and I spent almost every night together following Michael’s funeral and although I felt something more than just a sexual attraction to her, I did not believe it to be love. And in truth, I suspect she felt the same. Her passion and desire exceeded mine and that discrepancy became increasingly noticeable as time passed.
One day, as we walked in the garden before she went off on a job, she asked out of the blue, ‘Are you growing bored of me, Simeon?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing I say or do seems to amuse you or please you any more.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘I feel it is. In fact I have a feeling that you would rather be somewhere else. Perhaps with someone else?’
‘You are being silly. What makes you say such a thing?’
‘I don’t know. Female intuition, I suppose.’
‘And what exactly is that?’
‘It is a sense. Like smell, or touch.’
‘And only females have it?’
‘No. Men have it, too. Masculine intuition, but it is not as finely honed. It cannot sense emotional and sexual nuances nearly as acutely as feminine intuition can.’
‘For example …’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. Give me an example to prove your point.’
‘Very well.’ She let out a sigh, then continued, ‘I think you still nurture passionate thoughts for Elizabeth, even though the woman is old enough to be your mother.’
‘She is not that old!’ I protested, perhaps a little too strongly. ‘And no, I do not nurture any such thoughts.’
She burst out laughing. ‘You are a liar, Simeon Lynch, and a very bad one at that.’
I turned away, partly out of embarrassment and partly because I feared further interrogation.
‘Are you sulking now?’ she teased.
‘This subject is closed, Surrey. I do not wish to discuss it any further.’ I quickened my step to get ahead of her.
She grabbed my coat-tail. ‘Wait.’
I turned. ‘What now?’
‘Just tell me this. Did you get more excited kissing Elizabeth in the drawing room than sleeping with me?’
I was speechless with shock.
Surrey saw that she had drawn blood. ‘I saw the whole thing, my love. We all did.’
My blood ran cold. I felt a terrible vulnerability. ‘How? How could you have seen an
ything?’
‘Sirius and I were with the professor, when you went through to the drawing room. He called us through to watch.’
‘You watched? From where?’
‘Through the wall.’ She paused and then explained. ‘There are false walls throughout the house. Secret passages big enough to walk through, all with spy holes. They run everywhere and allow the professor to watch us and any guests that visit.’
‘In God’s name! That is terrible. He cannot do that!’
‘Of course he can,’ she laughed. ‘This is the house of Moriarty, so he can do what he jolly well likes.’
A dreadful thought occurred to me. ‘And us? Has he watched us, in bed together?’
‘Most probably.’ She did not sound concerned.
‘Sweet Lord! That first night – did he watch us then?’
‘I don’t know. Most likely.’ She shrugged. ‘If it is any consolation, neither Sirius nor I were aware of this practice until after our initiations. It was only then that Michael told us.’
‘Did the professor know you were going to tell me?’
‘Yes. Actually, it was his suggestion. He said that given our closeness, I really should.’
I shook my head. ‘Then he has watched us.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ She sounded bored. ‘Perhaps he did so with Elizabeth.’
‘What?’
Surrey laughed again. ‘You are so easy to provoke. You know they are lovers, don’t you?’
‘No.’ I couldn’t help but sound aghast. ‘Such a thing never crossed my mind.’
‘Then you are even more naive than I took you to be. Your precious Elizabeth has been fucking him for years and is no more a lady than I am.’
‘Watch what you say!’
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind. No one but the professor tells me what to say or do.’ She slapped her hands into my chest and pushed me away. ‘Certainly not you.’
‘Surrey, be careful what you say.’
‘You are a fool, Simeon Lynch. Before she began calling herself Lady Elizabeth Audsley, she was plain Lizzie MacIntosh. You should ask her about that, when you are next drinking tea and being her puppy dog.’
‘I’ll ask her no such thing.’
We stared angrily at each other and in the midst of that cold and silent moment it felt like all the warmth we had built up between us with every naked kiss and personal truth had suddenly been frozen.
‘I have to leave tonight on business for the professor, so I will bid you good day,’ she said frostily.
‘And I, you.’ I did not even tell her to be careful, though I wished to.
Surrey walked away, then stopped and turned. For a second, I thought she was going to shout at me. Then I saw she was crying. But before I could say a word, she turned again and ran towards the house.
I watched her go and felt sad and guilty. Surrey did not deserve to be hurt or disappointed by me. But in time she would be. Because she was right.
My heart belonged to Elizabeth.
The following morning, Sirius caught me en route to the library, where I was hopeful I would find Elizabeth and be able to steal a private minute or two with her. If indeed anything approaching privacy was possible in that damned house.
‘Simeon, the professor wishes us to accompany him to London for a business dinner. We must leave within the hour and take a locomotive from Derby to St Pancras. In the capital, a carriage will take us to his residence in Primrose Hill, where we will spend the night.’
London.
I had not been back since fleeing the capital with blood on my hands and fear in my heart.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. It will be a pleasure to go there.’
‘There will be no pleasure in this venture. We are to dine with that creature Chan, along with members of his dreadful clan and their ghastly cohorts, so we will have to be on our mettle.’
‘Is Surrey joining us?’ I asked disingenuously, for I knew she had departed the night before.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘the professor has another assignment for her.’ He half-turned to leave, then added, ‘I meant to enquire, Simeon, do you not find her somewhat boyish between the sheets?’
‘I thought you were a gentleman, Sirius, and would not be inclined to ask such a thing.’
‘Touché. By the way, if I were you, I would beware her temper. Woe betide the man who finds himself out of favour with Miss Breed.’
I brushed off his jocularity and entered the library. Wide wooden boards gave way to seven rows of vast wooden shelves that stretched upwards to the carved bannisters of an upper gallery that encompassed the room. Much as I had expected, Lady Elizabeth was at a table that afforded her views of the gardens, should she wish to lift her divine head from the book she was engrossed in.
‘Good morning,’ I said as I approached.
‘Simeon?’ She sounded surprised as she looked up over the edge of her volume. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Without asking permission, I took the seat opposite her. ‘I have something important to ask you.’
She put down her book. ‘Then ask.’
‘Is your real name Lizzie MacIntosh?’
Her blue eyes widened with concern. Her lips pressed together to suppress a quick reaction. She closed her novel with a thud of pages and stood up. ‘I came to choose some reading matter for our journey. This will suffice. I will see you a little later.’
As she walked past me I caught her wrist.
Fury flared from brow to lips as she tried to pull away, ‘Let me go!’
I held on as I got to my feet. ‘Not until you tell me.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’ Elizabeth shook me off and rubbed her wrist.
‘Are you afraid the professor is watching us?’ I motioned to the gallery above. ‘Does he this very second gaze down upon us like some prying God?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She hastened to the door.
I followed quickly and stopped her opening it.
‘Simeon! Let me pass.’
‘Not until you answer my question.’
Her face glowed red with anger. ‘No, the professor is not watching us.’
‘How can you be so sure? Surrey told me all about his world within the walls.’
‘World within the walls?’ Her expression turned to one of bitter mockery. ‘That is most surely your phrase, not hers; that poisonous slip of a girl is not so imaginative.’
Elizabeth stared me down but I could see her bosom rise and fall from the anger and nervousness she sought to conceal.
I don’t know what possessed me. Perhaps it was her defiance. Or the excitement of being so close to her and us both in such high dudgeon, but I felt emboldened enough to kiss her.
At first, it seemed as though she offered no resistance, then she pushed me back and slapped my face. Her blue eyes regarded me for a split second, then she grabbed the door handle. I let her open it and leave.
My face no doubt bore the imprint of her hand but all I could feel was the exhilarating touch of her lips. For close to a minute, I stood petrified and mesmerised, before reluctantly making my way to my room.
It did not take me long to pack. I needed only a few items. Casual garments to travel in. Smart ones for dinner. A gun for noisy despatches, a knife for quieter ones and Michael’s garrottes for absolutely silent ones.
Outside, in the courtyard, I smoked a rollup with Thackeray while we waited for the others. They finally appeared, with servants in tow, carrying their many bags. Alex and the professor remained in conversation but lifted their hats to me as they got into their own carriage, the lavishly furnished former mail coach. I thought about Moriarty surreptitiously watching me and felt resentful. There would come a time when I would confront him about it, and many other things.
I rode out front on a brougham with Thackeray, leaving Lady Elizabeth and Sirius to travel inside. I was in no mood to sit awkwardly among them and be exposed to any un
pleasantness.
Thackeray and I passed time speaking of women and their strangeness. My northern friend, far more experienced with the fairer sex than I, shared many confidences on the difficulties he had encountered in understanding their ways and predicting their behaviour.
There was much bustle and business when we reached Derby, especially at the approach to what was one of the busiest train stations in the country. Carriages jostled for positions close to the entrance and Thackeray got into a verbal confrontation with another coachman who was intent on pulling to a halt in the same space as he did, at exactly the same time.
The inside of the station had quite an effect on me, as I had never even travelled on a train before. The collision of sights, sounds and smells was mesmerising. Oil, grease, coal. Hissing steam, shrill whistles, slamming doors, shouting conductors. Excited children, uniformed staff, parting couples. Everywhere there was vibrancy.
We boarded a Midlands Express and I hung out of the window of a first-class carriage and marvelled at the gigantic drive wheels grinding slowly on the rails, while plumes of smoke chugged from the front of the train and washed back over my face and windswept hair.
The professor secured the door and addressed Alexander. ‘Be so kind as to commence the briefing. Perhaps it is wise to begin with a little background on Mr Chan, so young Simeon understands the situation.’
Alex unbuckled the clasp of an old Gladstone bag that he was seldom parted from and produced a buff-coloured envelope. Inside were several photographs. He handed them to me. ‘The first is of Huiwi Chan. He is a Chinese immigrant who came to these shores with his brothers more than forty years ago. He is now in his eighties and apparently neither speaks nor understands any English. Fortunately, the professor does speak very passable Mandarin. Nonetheless, Chan insists all business communications include his grandson Lee, who is fluent in both tongues. His is the second photograph in your possession. Lee is an extremely dangerous man. We understand he has killed three, perhaps four people who were foolish enough to displease his grandfather.’
I looked at the portrait, as did Sirius and Elizabeth who were now either side of me. It showed the face of a fellow in his thirties with chiselled cheekbones and a strong jaw. What was most noticeable was the look in his eyes. He wasn’t posing for the photographer; he was staring challengingly at the lens, like a lion weighing up his prey.