Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  The first two were bully-boys, enormous, ugly men with the faces of pugilists and bodies that seemed to fill the cellar with their bulk and brutish power. The third man was of medium height, pink-faced, entirely bald and grotesquely fat. He was dressed fastidiously, the quality of the dark, broadcloth coat and snow-white linen obvious even in the ill-lit cellar. In his lapel he wore a single dark red rose. Kitty watched as he took his seat, alone, at a small table upon a low dais at the far end of the cellar, whilst the other two men took station behind him, their brutal faces blank. The fat man laid his tall top hat carefully on the floor beside, glanced about him with a cherubic smile. ‘Greetings, dear children.’ His voice was smooth as syrup. ‘Are we all here?’

  A murmur of assent ran around the cellar.

  ‘Good. Then to business, I think. Croucher?’

  Croucher slipped from his seat and scuttled to the dais. He was carrying a leather pouch which gingerly he set upon the table before the fat man. It struck Kitty that she had never until now seen the boy move with less than arrogance; yet here, beneath the false benevolence of Moses Smith’s flinty smile his cocky confidence had, it seemed, deserted him entirely. He stood a pace from the table, head lowered, and by his side his right hand twitched convulsively, the fingers rubbing and snapping together in uncontainable nervousness. Moses surveyed the boy thoughtfully for a moment before, with a tiny, dimpled hand, delicately upending the leather bag. Coins rang upon the table top. Silence again. Then, with a faint expression of distaste, Moses prodded at the little heap of coins with a small, pink-tipped, beautifully manicured finger, sliding them one from the other, lining them up, his expression pensive. At last then he lifted his head, and it seemed to Kitty that Croucher had to make a physical effort not to cower before the pale, questioning eyes.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Rent, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Rent.’ Cold light eyes raked the trembling boy, then switched to the other children who sat, still as stone, eyes downcast, upon the bench. Moses drew a deep, regretful breath. ‘Rent,’ he said again.

  ‘Business ’asn’t bin too good, Mr Smith. Honest it ’asn’t. There just don’t seem so much gelt abaht in the market, like—’

  ‘Then try somewhere else, Croucher. Try somewhere else. Do you think I run a charitable institution here?’ The voice was soft, the beatific smile still in place. Kitty shivered, and to her own surprise found herself feeling positively sorry for the dreadful Croucher. ‘The South Bank bunch still seem to be doing all right, or so I hear. Isn’t that so, Bobs?’

  The largest of the pugilists stationed behind the chair nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’ Kitty had the distinct impression that he would have chanted the same response had the fat man told him to cut his mother’s throat.

  ‘So—’ The small eyes moved back to Croucher. ‘This is the second quarter running, Croucher my lad. It isn’t good enough. Is it?’

  ‘No, Mr Smith.’

  For a long moment, infinitely menacing, the man held the boy’s eyes with his own. Then, suddenly, he relaxed, leaning back in the protesting chair, snapping his fingers at Bobs, who leaned forward and swept Croucher’s offering into its pouch. ‘One more chance, Crouch, my lad, one more chance,’ Moses said, jovially.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Smith.’

  The chill glance flickered again to the benches and back. ‘You can’t tell me that there isn’t someone here, Croucher, who isn’t ready as paint to step into your dirty little shoes? There’s always someone. Don’t get me encouraging them, Croucher. You wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘No, Mr Smith.’ Tight-mouthed, Croucher turned, to be stopped by small, snapping fingers.

  ‘Wait.’

  Croucher waited.

  Pale eyes searched the room, rested upon Matt. ‘I hear you’ve a new recruit?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Bring him here.’

  Croucher turned, jerked a head at Matt. His expression was ferocious.

  Matt, slowly, stood.

  ‘Here,’ Moses said, gently.

  There was a small rustle of expectation from the watching children. Calmly and in his own time Matt walked the length of the cellar, stood before the table, relaxed, hands loose at his side, dark head tilted.

  Moses looked at him for a long time. ‘They tell me,’ he said at last, pleasantly, ’that you fancy yourself as a bit of a smart fine-wirer, yes?’

  Matt lifted a shoulder.

  Moses frowned. ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes – Mr Smith,’ Bobs said, evenly.

  Matt looked at him, mouth derisive. Kitty held her breath, praying. Her brother left his reply just long enough to make the pause insulting. ‘Yes, Mr Smith,’ he said, civilly.

  Moses smiled, leaned back in his chair. ‘Show me,’ he said, and waved a small, pudgy hand. ‘I’m sure that Bobs must have something about his person that you could – procure – for me?’

  One of the children giggled nervously. Kitty saw an expression close to distaste flit across the good-natured face of the girl Pol. The other girl was leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, taking no interest in the proceedings. Bobs stepped down to face Matt, flexing hands as big as hams. For the first time his expression showed some faint interest.

  Matt backed away from him, grinning placatingly, hands spread before him palms up. ‘Now easy, Mr Bobs – I can see you’re not the kind of feller to take kindly to having his watch lifted—’

  Bobs grunted, and advanced.

  Matt danced away from him. Chairs and benches scraped as, miraculously, the floor area was cleared to something of an arena.

  Moses watched the play, smiling.

  Bobs lunged forward. Swift as a moving shadow Matt ducked beneath a massive reaching arm and came up behind the man, who turned and lumbered after him. Matt dodged again, ducking and weaving, grinning hugely. Not once did the grasping hands come near to holding him. He was enjoying himself. Playing to the watching crowd he led the man a dance up and down the cellar, onto the dais and off again – even once using the still-smiling Moses as a shield – and Kitty was reminded vividly of his performance on the day that Sir Percival Bowyer had arrived at Westwood Grange. And of its consequences. She glanced around, worriedly. The girl called Pol winked at her and nodded approvingly in Matt’s direction. There were smothered grins, the occasional chuckle.

  ‘Here, Bobsy, here I am—’ Matt leapt onto a long bench, ran its length lightly, scattering its occupants, then leapt to the floor. In two swift strides he was at the table in front of Moses Smith. In his hand he held the filthy scrap of crumpled material that served Bobs as a handkerchief. Bobs gaped. With a great pantomime of fastidious revulsion, Matt dropped the thing upon the table. A spontaneous gust of laughter swept the room. Moses too was openly laughing, his pale eyes running tears which he mopped delicately with a scrap of fine lace. ‘You’ll do, my lad, you’ll do. It seems that our Croucher has done something right at last.’

  Matt grinned, half-bowed, mockingly, and turned to walk to his place beside Kitty. Halfway down the length of the cellar, however, the focus of all eyes, he stopped, as if suddenly remembering something. Turned. ‘Ah – I almost forgot—’ Lightly he ran back to the table, made a deft pass with his hands and a watch spun before Moses Smith’s eyes heavily and slowly upon its chain, the gleam of rose-gold warm in the chill, flickering shadows of the cellar.

  The room fell to absolute silence.

  Kitty held her breath. Matt – Matt? Why must you always do it? Why can you never let well alone?

  Very slowly, the smile gone from his face, Moses reached for his watch. Matt held onto the chain for a fraction of a second before, with a regretful twitch of his lips, he let it go.

  Moses surveyed him thoughtfully. ‘Thank you.’ He laid the watch upon the table.

  Matt, apparently totally unaware of the tension around him, walked jauntily back to Kitty and slipped into his seat.

  Moses turned his head. ‘Johnny,’ he said
to the man Matt had called Johnny Sly, ‘I trust your – business – had gone a little more successfully than friend Croucher’s?’

  The slight, dapper man went to the table and tossed a heavy purse upon it. ‘Yes, Sir. That it ’as.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  And so it went on. One after another Moses’ minions paid their ‘rent’ and were congratulated or castigated according to their contribution. Thieves, forgers, beggars, prostitutes; in this part of the city all were under Moses Smith’s protection and all paid dearly for the doubtful privilege. In whispers from the irrepressible Matt, Kitty learned names and occupations. ‘Tha’ss the Bentall brothers. Best fences in the area. And Clanger there – he’s a bit faker—’ He grinned at her expression. ‘Counterfeiter,’ he supplied.

  ‘Pol Taylor. Lottie Andrews,’ Moses called.

  Pol stood alone.

  Moses waved an impatient, pudgy hand. ‘Both of you.’

  Pol’s wide mouth tightened, but she did not argue. Gently she offered an arm to the other girl, who climbed wearily to her feet and made her way painfully to the far end of the cellar. With a faint, scornful flick of the wrist Pol tossed a handful of coins onto the table.

  There was a very long silence. Then, sorrowfully, Moses shook his head. ‘Won’t do, Pol.’

  ‘It’s all we got.’

  He smiled his cherubic smile. ‘I don’t believe you. And neither does Bobs. Do you, Bobs?’

  ‘No, Mr Smith.’

  Pol, for all her bravado, was obviously very frightened indeed. Lottie, barely able to stand, was it seemed beyond fear. She stared, her great violet-coloured eyes blank.

  ‘Lottie, yes,’ Moses conceded. ‘Perhaps it’s understandable—’

  ‘P’raps?’ the word was sharp as Pol’s temper ousted good sense. ‘P’raps? Fer Gawd’s sake, Mr Smith – be ’uman! The girl’s just ’ad a bleedin’ miscarriage! She nearly died! ’Ow much trade d’yer reckon she’s managed in that state? It’s all she can do ter stand on ’er feet at the Rooms. You ask Midge – she’ll tell yer—’

  ‘It isn’t Lottie I’m concerned with.’ It seemed to Kitty that there was some slight warmth in the eyes that the man turned on the sick girl, a shadow that disappeared entirely as he turned back to Pol. ‘But you? What’s your excuse? You’ve had a miscarriage also?’

  ‘I’ve bin lookin’ after ’er.’ The words were sullen.

  ‘I see.’ Absently Moses played with a copper coin, spinning it, watching it until it stilled on the table, the sound still ringing in the ears. He lifted his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t like to think, Pol, that you were trying to swindle me. Doing a little – trade on the side? Pocketing the profits?’

  ‘I swear to yer, Mr Smith—’

  He held up a sharp hand. She fell silent. ‘Just a friendly warning, Pol. Just a friendly warning.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, I suggest that you leave Lottie to take care of herself and get about your own – about my – business. Do I make myself clear?’

  Rebellion died. Pol avoided the small, pale eyes. ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Get off with you.’

  The two girls stumbled back to their places. Moses Smith’s eyes surveyed the cellar, came to rest, unerringly, upon Kitty. Kitty felt sudden cold sweat start upon her skin.

  ‘It seems,’ the man said, pleasantly, ‘that we have another stranger in our midst?’

  Every eye in the room turned upon poor Kitty. She saw a flash of understandable relief cross Pol’s face, tinged with an unexpected sympathy.

  ‘Here, girl.’

  Kitty felt Matt tense beside her. She touched his hand in light warning, then composedly stood.

  ‘Here.’

  She stepped into the open space before the table.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Kitty Daniels.’ She hesitated: ‘—Sir,’ she added.

  ‘And what contribution, Kitty Daniels, are you making – or thinking of making – to our small and happy community?’ The words were peaceful.

  ‘I’ve – only just come, Sir.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ He tapped small, regular teeth with a pink fingernail. ‘But you have, I assume, some – talent’ – the word was faintly mocking – ‘that you intend to put to our mutual good advantage?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘She’s my sister, Mr Smith.’ Matt was on his feet. ‘She – helps me.’

  ‘Helps you?’ Fine brown brows were raised. ‘My dear young man, anyone in less need of help I doubt I’ve ever met.’

  ‘We work together,’ Matt said, doggedly.

  ‘I see.’ The silence was cold. Then, ‘I don’t believe that that is enough,’ the fat man said, regretfully. ‘Indeed no.’

  Kitty kept her head up and her mouth closed. What was there to say?

  Moses eyed her contemplatively. ‘We carry no passengers,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll work,’ she said. ‘I’m strong.’

  He raised his eyebrows again, maliciously expressive. A man laughed.

  ‘We could do with an extra pair of ’ands at the Rooms, Mr Smith.’ Kitty recognized Pol’s voice from behind her. ‘’Specially with Lot still poorly.’

  Moses considered, then, ponderously, nodded. ‘I believe you’ve hit it, Pol. See to it.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  Moses heaved himself to his feet. ‘Well, my children, regretfully I must leave you. I have other members of my unruly family claiming my attention.’ Surprisingly lightly he stepped from the dais and past Kitty towards the door at the end of the cellar. His bodyguards, impassive as ever, followed. By Matt, Moses stopped. Gold gleamed in the smoky air. ‘I believe firmly in the rewards of labour’ – the silken voice was pleasant – ‘and I greatly admire skill. I would advise you, however, in friendship, never – ever – to try that trick again.’

  And so he left, leaving Matt to stare, astounded, at the valuable gold watch that had been deposited in his open palm, and Kitty, cold with fear, to wonder at her sudden conviction that she and her brother had flown, like helpless flies, into the web of a great, obscene spider.

  Chapter 2

  (i)

  Smith’s Song and Supper Rooms was very far from being the most salubrious establishment in London, and bore little resemblance except in name to its distant cousins in the West End that were patronized by the Bohemian rich and their idle sons. Smith’s was situated just a mile or so from the teeming alleys of Whitechapel, in Stepney, close to the docks, its entrance in a narrow street known as Blind Lane, a long, cobbled alley that ended abruptly as a dead end in the foetid waters of an ancient, disused canal. Part of the building had seen past service as a warehouse, and it was in this lofty, barn-like structure that the low stage had been constructed, its apron jutting into the large room that had tables and chairs packed closely about the dirty, sawdust-covered floor. At the opposite end from the stage was a long bar, scarred and stained. There were some pretensions to elegance in the cheap glass gas chandeliers that lit the hall and the moth-eaten and mildewed velvet drapes that disguised the stark brick-and-timber structure of the place. Since there were no windows the impression a customer received when he walked through the curtained door and down the wide, shallow steps into the body of the hall, was of a kind of timeless night, always dimly gaslit, always shadowed, and bearing no relationship at all to the realities of climate or light in the world outside. Even at those rare times when the midday sun of summer slid reluctant fingers of warmth into the filthy alley that was Blind Lane, within the rooms the shades of night defied the truth and confused the senses. Not that the frequenters of the Rooms found anything to complain of in that – for most of the criminals, pimps and ruffians that made up the bulk of Moses Smith’s patrons the bright light of day was no more their natural setting than it was for the sewer rats that scuttled below the floorboards and fed from the kitchen scraps, or the bats that roosted in the crumbling belfry of the half-ruined church that could be seen from the end of the lane across the dark stagnant waters of the disused canal. The r
emainder of the clientele were seamen from the ships berthed in the nearby docks, for the most part simple and lawless men, as ready to spend their money as they were to break a head or cut a throat.

  The entertainment that drew them to the place night after night was varied. George Milton, baritone, was a man who had seen better days, most of his professional life having been spent delighting the ears of the favoured rich in the ballrooms and parlours of the fashionable streets of Mayfair until his eye for the ladies led him once too often into temptation and his engagements – and his income – had been abruptly terminated. The only other regular on Smith’s bill was Potty Masters, a stand-up comic with a repertoire of the filthiest jokes in London and a pleasant enough voice in which he rendered songs so coarse that it had been known even for his villainous audience – who liked nothing so much as to join him in his rousing and vulgar choruses – to be occasionally taken aback by the grossness of the words they were singing so gustily. It was normal too – and popular – for a member of the audience to take his turn in front of the footlights – to say nothing of his chances on the mood of his fellows, which could turn from benign to merciless in the blink of an eye. The girls who worked in the Rooms under the eagle eye of Midge Corelli would occasionally give a turn – and by far the most popular of these was Lottie Andrews, whose small, sweet voice and lovely face had been known to quiet the rowdiest of audiences. Sometimes too an itinerant ballad singer, of which there were hundreds roaming the streets of London earning a pittance from singing their own compositions and dreaming dreams of fortunes and famous clients that were rarely realized, might drop in and try his luck.