by Alex Reeve
I wrote my reply and turned it round: GOODBYE.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Stay, Leo, please. Have dinner with us.’
‘What?’ said Lilya. ‘Is this why all the scratching and whispering?’
‘I have to leave, Lilya. Thank you for your hospitality.’ I kissed her on the cheek and she held my shoulders, a dusting of flour still on her hands. I looked into her blank eyes. One day, she had told me, even that dim circle of light would be gone.
‘Why you run away?’ she said. ‘I never see you no more.’
‘I have to meet someone.’
‘A woman, yes? Yes. I can tell.’
‘You’re very clever, Lilya. He doesn’t deserve you.’
She smiled a thin, sad smile. ‘Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. But whatever you argue about, you must forgive each other. Always forgive. Sins on both sides. You have a friend and it’s more than gold, but you cannot melt him down and make him into something else. He is what he is.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘And you are his only friend, so …’
Jacob followed me down the stairs and let me out of the door. We stood on the pavement, me in my coat and bowler hat, him shoeless and shivering. I’d forgotten how much shorter than me he was. Was he more stooped now than when I first met him?
He put his hand on my arm but I brushed him off.
‘You’re angry with me,’ he said. ‘But you knew I went there. I introduced you to it, remember?’
‘Not with Maria.’
‘I wasn’t her only customer, was I? Dozens, hundreds, I don’t know. Just pay and she was yours. I tried to warn you. I tried. You were stubborn, and wouldn’t believe me. Anyone could have her, even me.’
‘Even you?’ The thought of the two of them together was sickening. ‘Then why not tell me?’
‘She wasn’t what I thought.’ He hopped from foot to foot to keep warm. ‘I thought she was just another doxie, but she wasn’t. Her mother was Jewish, did you know that? Rachel, her name was, from Portugal.’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ I actually laughed, and almost clapped too, because she was magnificent. Oh bravo! What a performance! What an actress! She had us all entranced, even after the final curtain. ‘And that’s it, is it? That’s all you have to say?’
He hesitated, and seemed about to add something more, but then thought better of it. ‘You’re taking this too much to heart. She wasn’t yours. She was everyone’s, anyone’s, for half a crown. That’s the point, Leo. Don’t you understand?’
‘No, I don’t. I truly don’t.’
‘After all this time, don’t be such a woman.’
‘Goodbye, Jacob.’
I left him standing there, believing whatever nonsense he chose to. Did he think I didn’t know that any man could pay for Maria? Did he think I wasn’t fully aware that each time I was with her, I wasn’t the first that day and might not be the last? I wasn’t an idiot, at least not in that way. I may not have known her as well as I’d thought, but I knew how she earned her living.
By the time I reached home, my anger had hardened into a cold suspicion. I should have asked Jacob whether he knew Augustus Thorpe or Jack Flowers. Was it possible he was involved in some way? For all his bellicosity he’d never struck me as a cruel or violent man.
But now I realised: I had no idea what he was capable of.
I was surprised to see Rosie waiting on the pavement by the pharmacy. From her folded arms and vexed stance, I had the impression she considered me to be late.
‘Good of you to come,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness it isn’t cold or I might have caught my death out here.’ She peered at me from under her hat. ‘Are you all right? You’re all red about the face.’
‘I’m perfectly well, thank you. I’m glad you changed your mind.’
‘I haven’t. I’m not going to the police with you. I came to persuade you not to. You’re putting yourself in danger, and probably me and my children as well. The police can’t be trusted.’
‘Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.’ I could hear her loud tut as the door closed.
I ran upstairs and changed my cilice, which was wet with sweat. As I left, Constance called after me: ‘Who’s that lady, Mr Stanhope? A friend of yours?’
I ignored her.
When I got outside again, Rosie was nowhere to be seen. I looked up and down the street, but there was only a black growler carriage with its door open and lamps lit, creaking back on its wheels. The carriage lurched as Hugo climbed out. Behind him, I could see Rosie’s face, white with fear.
‘Mr Stanhope,’ said Hugo. ‘Best come with us. Mr Bentinck wants to see you.’
‘You have to let Mrs Flowers go,’ I said. ‘I’ll come with you willingly, but you have to let her go.’ I stood up as straight as I could. ‘I insist.’
‘I was told to fetch you both.’
There was a part of me that wanted to run. The balls of my feet yearned for it – I could feel the pavement sliding away as I pounded towards Whitehall, shouting for help, skidding into Great Scotland Yard. ‘They’ve taken her. You have to come now. We can rescue her if you act quickly!’
It sounded almost noble, but it was still fleeing.
I took a deep breath and climbed inside the carriage. No one said anything. The driver flicked the reins and we pulled away.
19
The carriage was narrow for three, and I shifted as far from Hugo as I could, pressing my hip uncomfortably against the doorframe. Rosie was on his other side, her face turned away from me. I clasped my hands in my lap but still they shook. I couldn’t stop them.
‘Where are we going?’
Hugo forced his mouth into a smile. ‘Mr Bentinck’s house. And mind your manners when you get there, he’s a proper gentleman.’
Rosie glanced towards me and I tried to look reassuring, but her expression was blank.
The traffic was dense along Piccadilly, and we made slow progress. The pavements were thronged with people, spilling into the gutters, passing so close I could’ve reached out and touched them. At Green Park, a man with a placard on his back was standing under a streetlamp, handing out pamphlets to passers-by. A young policeman was talking to him, grinning, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. He was no more than two dozen feet away and caught my eye as I was staring at him.
I could call out, I thought. I could beckon him over and ask for help. But would he believe me? And anyway, Hugo knows where I live. And worse, he knows where Rosie lives.
We sped up, heading south-west towards Belgravia, rumbling over the wooden paving. I stared at the wealthy houses, so formal, so clean, so symmetrical, with their massive stone walls and heavy doors, their leaded windows and shadowy basement steps. Who knew what went on inside?
Hugo had told me to mind my manners, which suggested a conversation, didn’t it? Not violence. I didn’t want more violence. I closed my eyes, wishing I was back at home, in bed, and that I had never sought to know how Maria had died. Perhaps if I said that to Bentinck, he would believe me, and let us go. Perhaps.
The driver pulled on the reins, and I felt my stomach churn.
Burton Street was a well-scrubbed row of identical four-storey houses set back behind black railings and aspirant columned porches, thin limbs compared with the great, gouty houses on Grosvenor Square and Mount Street, but still a world away from the gaunt alleys and thunderous factories of the slums.
The maid who opened the door considered us with a kind of bored frankness, quite lacking the usual deference of her profession.
‘This way,’ she said, and we followed her, with Hugo wheezing behind us.
The hallway was narrow but finely furnished, with a mirror along one side and refulgent pictures of muscular horses and hunting dogs on the other. Lamps cast icicles of light down the walls.
Miss Gainsford appeared from the stairway, her hand resting gently on the pommel. She was wearing a delectation of a dress; laced, pleated and pinched in at her tiny waist.
‘Mr Stanhope,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s so nice to meet you again.’ She turned to Rosie and introduced herself as though we had all met by chance in the street. ‘Nancy Gainsford. I’m Mr Bentinck’s bookkeeper and general manager. I was sorry to hear of your loss.’ Her eyes flicked down to Rosie’s clothing: no black gloves, no veil, and a purple hat with a black bow at the side that had the air of an afterthought.
‘Charmed,’ replied Rosie sourly.
‘James is in the garden, but it’s freezing out there. Why don’t we talk in the library first?’
She led us to a small room covered on every wall by row upon row of books. It was a lifetime’s reading: Pope, Dickens, Carroll and Collins, Samuel Smiles, Gerard Manley Hopkins and all the works of Shakespeare in order. I wondered if they were just for show. Bentinck didn’t seem the reading type. I’d never been in a room quite like it, and for a pinprick moment I couldn’t wait to tell Maria how marvellous it was.
‘You can leave us now,’ Miss Gainsford said to Hugo.
He frowned and folded his arms. Any tenderness he had was reserved for his bees. ‘Mr Bentinck told me to take ’em to him.’
‘I’ll call you presently.’ She waved a hand towards the door. ‘Now shoo!’
As before, she stood just a little too close and looked me straight in the eyes, chin tilted up. I had the same urge that every man must have, that no man could entirely deny, to wrap her up in my arms and kiss her.
‘Why did you bring us here?’
‘I’m sorry for the manner of your arrival. We really just wanted to speak with you. James tries so hard to be a gentleman, but in our business we mix with all sorts. Please do sit down.’ She perched on a little armchair, while Rosie and I squeezed on to the sofa. ‘We’ve been branching out recently, a new venture, doing trade on the Continent.’ She smiled warmly at Rosie. ‘Your husband worked for us occasionally, Mrs Flowers. Anyway, you’ve been asking a lot of questions and it makes us … well, uneasy. It’s a delicate time. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I’m not interested in your business,’ I said. ‘I just want to know what happened to Maria.’
‘Yes, and you spoke to Elizabeth Brafton about that, I believe. I was wondering what she told you.’
I wasn’t sure what to say. Miss Gainsford was treating us like honoured guests, but what would happen if I refused to answer?
‘Nothing of note,’ I said slowly. ‘She believes Madame Moreau committed the murder.’
‘Ah yes, quite right. That awful woman. She deserves to be hanged, don’t you think?’
‘If she’s guilty.’
‘Can there be any doubt? Maria was with child, as I suppose you know. She went to see Mrs Moreau to get rid of it. Something must’ve gone wrong. The butcher.’ She took a minute to compose herself, her hand to her chest, but she was eyeing me keenly. ‘Did Elizabeth say anything else about Maria? Anything at all?’
‘No. We talked about the early days of the brothel. She said she’d brought in a better class of gentleman.’
Miss Gainsford’s face hardened. ‘Yes, well, that’s true, but hardly the whole story. We don’t agree on the point. I’ve told her again and again that she needs more customers, many more, even if they pay a little less each. A hundred men paying a shilling each is better than a dozen paying half a crown, do you see?’
‘I suppose so.’
I glanced at Rosie, who widened her eyes, but I had no more idea about the purpose of this conversation than she did.
Miss Gainsford shot a look towards the window. There was an arc of lamplight on the grass, and we could hear a grunting sound and the wallop of a ball being punted.
‘Well, James is expecting you outside,’ she said.
She rang a little bell on the table, next to an oval bas-relief portrait of a lady. It was chipped and mottled where the glaze had cracked, but I could still make out the expression on her sweet, plump face. Miss Gainsford saw me looking at it, and touched the lady’s cheek with her fingers, almost a caress.
‘It’s lovely, don’t you think? James’s late wife. They were childhood sweethearts. She died years ago, before I knew him.’
‘What killed her?’ asked Rosie, and I could see the suspicion in her eyes.
‘Childbirth. She was weak and wasn’t ready for it.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘Who is?’
I picked up the portrait. She was so limpid and gentle, I felt she might almost speak to me. On the underside was a name, and I squinted at it, trying to make out the letters. When I finally read it, I knew it had to be a coincidence.
‘Her name was Mercy,’ I said. ‘Mercy Bentinck.’
‘Yes, Mercy. I suppose her parents were religious. James had this made to remember her.’
Surely there was no link between this long-dead woman and a word written on a drowned man’s bottle of ale? It wasn’t possible. And yet … that bottle had been smashed in the mortuary break-in. Was that a coincidence too?
‘James doesn’t talk about her any more,’ continued Miss Gainsford. ‘It was a long time ago, and he was a different man.’
‘Is he really related to the Cavendish Bentincks?’
She looked away, her eyes scanning the shelves of leather-bound books, and I caught a glimpse of something I couldn’t name. Something peevish. ‘I don’t know about such things,’ she said. ‘He likes to tell people so. When I first met him he used to say he might be related, and then he must be, and now he is. The truth is like clay: you mould it to what you want, and then it hardens.’
Hugo loomed in the doorway. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and stepped back to follow us outside.
James Bentinck was on the lawn in his undershirt, splattered with mud. He had rigged up a lamp, and was placing a rugby ball on the ground, preparing to kick it at a large wooden panel he’d erected to stop it shooting off into the neighbouring gardens. Above us, the stars were emerging from the gloom, more numerous than I could count, as if someone had taken a shotgun to the sky.
He held up a finger for us to be quiet, took a run-up and then blasted the ball into the panel. It made a cracking sound like a pistol going off, and the ball ricocheted upwards, spinning end over end. He leapt forward and tried to catch it, but it slipped out of his hands and bounced away into a bush.
‘Damn it!’ He turned to us, embarrassed. ‘Stanhope, isn’t it? I won’t shake your hand.’ He held up his own to show they were thick with dirt. ‘And the fragrant Mrs Flowers, I presume. Do you play rugger, Stanhope?’
‘Not since school.’ A lie, needless to say, though I had some small knowledge of the rudiments.
‘Cricket then?’ He bowled an imaginary ball at an imaginary wicket, and even I could see that his action was poor. ‘Not really the weather for it, eh?’ He grinned and clapped me on the shoulder with his grubby hands, and then made the motion of striking a six. ‘I used to play for the civil service, once upon a time, did you know that?’
I shook my head. What an absurd question.
He swept another invisible ball to the boundary while we shivered.
‘So!’ he barked eventually, breaking off to wipe his hands on a towel. ‘I hope he didn’t make life unpleasant for you.’ He nodded towards Hugo, who seemed about to reply, but Bentinck wasn’t paying attention. ‘You’ve been asking about that young pinchcock, what’s-her-name?’
‘Maria Milanes,’ I replied, certain he hadn’t truly forgotten.
‘Of course. She had a good head on her, that one. Used to listen to my plans for hours. And full of ideas. She had the notion that men might go to the place and not even tup the girls, just watch entertainments. Dancing and singing and so forth. Would you go somewhere like that?’
He was speaking in the manner I imagined a general might, inviting a lower-ranking officer to discuss tactics.
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’ He laughed loudly. ‘Women don’t understand, do they? Anyway, the wagtail’s dead now, murdered by what’s-her-name,
the Frenchwoman, and … ah!’ He looked towards the house, where Miss Gainsford was standing at the back door, a strange expression on her face. ‘Nancy, what is it?’
‘James, I wish –’
He shook his head. ‘No, we’ve had this discussion. Go back to your accounts, this doesn’t concern you. It has to be done.’
I looked at Rosie, and with one accord we bolted into the house, pushing past Miss Gainsford. We ran down the hallway, and I tried the front door, but it was locked. Rosie tried too, tugging on the handle, but it wouldn’t open. I dived through another door, dragging Rosie behind me, but we found ourselves in a small room containing only a desk, a chair and a strongbox with a strange-looking barrel padlock.
We turned as Hugo came in, followed by Bentinck.
I took a step towards him but Hugo slapped me and dragged me back into the hallway, his forearm around my neck. I tried to twist away, but he tightened his grip.
‘Stop it,’ he said and pushed me down on to my knees, forcing something into my mouth, a bottle, stinking of cat piss. Rosie shouted something, but I couldn’t look round because he had yanked my head back by my hair. He tipped up the bottle, and all the time I was thinking, over and over, don’t swallow, don’t swallow, and while I was thinking that I swallowed, and there was an ugly taste in my throat. For a moment I was staring at the tinted glass in their front door, an umbrella hanging on a hook, a pair of brown boots on the mat.
And then I was dropping.
Black water closed over me and I sank into it, my arms floating upwards as I descended. I could have kicked, but I didn’t. I welcomed it. My lungs filled and I felt the heaviness inside me, the crushing cold, and would have laughed if I could. I closed my eyes and let go of all that I was, drifting away from the shore.
A last thought came to me before my mind dissipated like a drop of blood in the water: Thank goodness. Now I can stop.
20
The noise was ceaseless: jangle, thump, jangle, thump, jangle, thump. It was a faulty clock forever trying to tick to the next second. Thump, jangle, thump, jangle. It was a dinghy bumping against the pier, its ropes ringing on its mast. Jangle, thump, jangle, thump. It was a beggar with one good leg, hauling his possessions on a trolley behind him.