Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  ‘No!’ She could not prevent the shocked word.

  ‘But yes.’ His voice was flat, nervelessly composed. ‘And so you see, from very different backgrounds you and I have something in common, do we not? We are both misfits – over-educated, under-capitalized and with expectations beyond our station. And each of us has been born with a talent. You can sing. I can thieve, as a good gypsy should. How can you hold that against me?’

  ‘Is it true? They were your parents?’

  ‘Yes.’ He gave a small impatient jerk of his head, flicking the dark hair from his eyes. She had the sudden impression that he regretted embarking on the story. He turned to her, and his face had changed. The Luke she knew, the man whose arrogance and carelessness had so antagonized her, was back. ‘You want to know the end of the story?’

  ‘No.’

  He ignored that. ‘They didn’t live happily ever after. He killed her.’

  She caught her breath. ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘God had very little to do with it actually. It had rather more to do with strong spirits and a long, sharp knife.’ His bravado had failed him a little.

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sucked her lip. ‘How – how old were you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Eleven – twelve?’

  The thought struck her wordless. She put a hand to touch his. He allowed it to rest there for a brief, oddly courteous moment before, unable to accept her sympathy, he disengaged himself. The candle was leaning a little. Tallow dripped, one-sidedly. Absentmindedly he pushed at it with a long fingernail.

  ‘You must have hated him,’ she said.

  That brought his eyes to hers. He shook his head. His expression was sombre. ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to. For a while I thought I did. But then I realized—’ He poked at the candle again, face shadowed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Then I realized that – no matter what – I loved him—’ The words came painfully. ‘I wanted to hate him. I wanted to kill him for what he had done to my mother, and to me. But I couldn’t. For a word from him I’d’ve crawled on my belly. I did everything I could to make him notice me. He never did.’

  In the darkness that gathered in the corners something stirred and was still, like a small breath of evil. Luke drew one knee up to his chin, linked his hands around it. ‘One day, Songbird,’ he said softly, ‘I’ll have a son. And he’ll love me as I loved that devil of a father. No matter what I do, no matter who I am, he’ll love me. And I’ll show him what it is to have a father. We’ll put it right.’

  She waited, then, ‘What did you do?’ she asked.

  ‘The day after he was killed in a tavern brawl I left. I was good with horses. I’d had a good, if rather eccentric, education from my mother. I talked, thanks to her, like a young gentleman. I made my way.’

  She stretched her legs a little, glad at the lessening of the disturbing tension his story had engendered. ‘So. Here we are – both making our way.’

  He smiled at her, and she saw the gleam of it in the candlelight. ‘And yours, Kitty Songbird, could be a very good way indeed if you play your cards right.’ She got the impression that he was only too pleased to change the subject.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come now – what modesty! What do I mean? What do you think I mean?’ He grinned again. ‘“My soul is an enchanted boat, Which like a sleeping swan doth float, Upon the waves of thy sweet singing—”’

  She laughed delightedly. ‘“And thine doth like an angel sit, Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing—”’ She had capped the quotation before the possible inference of the words had struck her. She stopped.

  ‘What ever would poor Percy think,’ he asked of the awkward silence, lightly, ‘to hear himself quoted in a sewer?’

  She laughed a little. Fidgeted, arching her back to ease its ache. ‘Luke?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘How – how much longer, do you think?’

  He shook his head. ‘Give it a little longer.’

  She nodded uncertainly. The bitter cold was numbing her.

  ‘Tell me something.’

  She looked enquiringly.

  ‘You aren’t thinking of singing for Moses Smith forever?’

  Her eyes were suddenly wary. ‘I – hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘More fool you, then. You’re good. You know you are. You’ve a lot to learn. But it’s coming. It shows.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The words were dry.

  ‘If you ever’ – he paused – ‘when – you want a bit of help moving on, come to me. One good turn deserves another. I’ve got friends that might help.’

  ‘What sort of friends?’ Her voice was guarded.

  He gave a small bark of laughter. ‘Not the sort to worry you. Perish the thought. I do have some law-abiding acquaintances, you know. Have you ever heard of a man called Patrick Kenny? He opened a place called the New Cambridge about – oh, eight months or so ago. It’s doing very well.’

  She nodded. ‘George mentioned it. But don’t be silly. Patrick Kenny wouldn’t be interested in me.’ She hesitated. ‘Would he?’

  His chuckle brought a blush of mortification to her cheeks. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ He reached into his pocket, took out a watch, tilted it to the light of the candle. Then he slid to the floor, held out his hands to help her down.

  Her heart had started to thud uncomfortably. ‘Now?’ she asked.

  ‘Now,’ he nodded.

  (iii)

  He tried to leave her halfway up the stairs, with the candle and instructions to wait.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Kitty – please don’t be stupid. You know as well as I do that there’s a chance they’ll be waiting—’

  ‘So – what good will it do me to be trapped like a rat when they come down here—?’

  ‘There’s no reason they should.’

  ‘Unless they guess you’d been warned. Don’t you think they might check? I’m not staying here alone. I’m coming with you.’

  He argued no further. Silently he led the way to the top of the steps. ‘At least,’ he whispered, his eyes sardonic in the candlelight, ’you’ll allow me the doubtful privilege of going first?’

  She did not bother to answer.

  He blew out the candle, set it down and very, very gently lifted the bar of the door. Noiselessly then the door swung open. The warm, acrid smell of burning seeped into the tunnel. Luke was hunkered down, feeling for the lever of the bookcase. Very carefully he pulled it. Fractionally the enormous piece of furniture lifted from the floor. Kitty thought her heart must stop beating altogether.

  There was no sound.

  Infinitely slowly Luke eased the bookcase from the wall. When the gap was a few inches deep he stood for a moment, head cocked, listening, before sliding his lean frame into the narrow gap.

  Kitty’s knuckles were at her mouth. She heard the faint rustle of Luke’s movements, smelled again a drift of fragrant smoke, then almost jumped from her skin in terror as there came a violent flurry of movement, a choked cry and then silence. She stood as if turned to stone.

  ‘It’s all right. You can come out. But don’t scream.’ Luke’s voice, very quiet.

  She pushed the bookcase. It floated as if on air away from the wall. ‘Why should I—?’ She stepped into the room, and stood aghast. It had been utterly wrecked. Furniture and pictures were smashed, books and papers ripped and smouldering in a heap in the fireplace. Broken glass and china crunched underfoot. Cheated of their prey, Luke’s enemies had indulged in a mindless orgy of destruction. There was a strong smell of urine. But what riveted her eyes was the horror that lay sprawled upon the bed, still twitching, the blood pumping from a gaping hole in his throat.

  She opened her mouth.

  Luke tossed the bloody knife he was holding onto the soiled bed and was by her side in a second, his blood-smeared hand clamped on her shoulder. ‘Not a bloody whimper
!’ he hissed, and jerked his head downwards.

  Her eyes widened. ‘They’re here?’ Her voice was a breath.

  ‘Almost certainly. Waiting downstairs. They’d left him here in case they missed me.’

  Sickly she turned her back on the ghastly thing on the bed. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘What we should bloody well have done in the first place,’ he said. ‘We’re going through the sewer.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. Wait.’ Swiftly and quietly he strode to a wardrobe in the corner of the room. The doors had been smashed open. Clothes lay like heaps of rags on a market stall, strewn upon the floor. He bent and sorted through them, tossed her a shirt and a pair of trousers. ‘Here – put these on—’

  She stared like a halfwit.

  ‘For God’s sweet sake, girl!’ The words were taut with edgy impatience. ‘You said yourself – you’d never get through that muck in those skirts. Get them off!’

  The good sense of his words was apparent. She thought of her heavy, full skirts dragging her down into that mire and shuddered.

  ‘Hurry!’

  She snatched the clothes, turned her back on him. He did not even notice. He had turned from her and was surveying, hard-faced, the wreckage of the once-lovely room. She scrambled awkwardly out of her own clothes and into his. Lean as Luke was, the waist of the trousers was inches too big and the legs too long. She bent and rolled them up to her ankles, then stood clutching the loose waist of the trousers. Luke turned, and his strained face split into a quick grin. ‘Here—’ He tossed her a wide leather belt. She buckled it tightly about her waist, bunching the trousers. They felt very strange, stiff and heavy and confining. She picked up the jacket he had tossed her. ‘I’m ready.’

  He was watching her, the smile softer. ‘You make a handsomer lad than your brother,’ he said. ‘And as game a one too it seems. Right. Off we go.’ He slid back behind the bookcase. Feeling incredibly ungainly in the unaccustomed clothes, and with the dead man’s eyes boring like hot needles into her back, she followed.

  Beyond the crypt the sewer breathed its poisonous miasma at her. She stood trembling, shaking her head. Luke’s hand, cold and strong, held her steady. Breast-high the filth invaded her. She sobbed a little, biting her lip.

  ‘Not far. It really isn’t far. Hold on. We’re nearly there.’ Luke sounded as sick as she felt. ‘Hold on—’

  She could not. She knew she could not. It was impossible to keep her footing. She would fall, she knew, and drown in the unspeakable obscene darkness – for the dozenth time she slipped and only Luke’s strength prevented her from plunging into the stinking depths. Her hair, unpinned, hung down her back and plastered itself across her face, heavy with filth. She retched. Her limbs felt trapped by the nauseous quagmire.

  ‘Steady – see – we’re almost there—’

  Ahead, incredibly, was light. Sobbing, she almost stumbled again. Floundering, she regained her balance, and the part of her mind that remained clear of the blindness of panic thanked God and Luke Peveral that she was not wearing the clinging skirts that would have undoubtedly dragged her down. The candle that Luke held, head-high, blew out. Faint grey light invaded the stinking tunnel.

  ‘We’re nearly there – nearly through – that’s a brave girl—’

  She did not feel brave. She felt defiled. Defeated.

  Long minutes later, hardly daring to believe it, she found herself wading between the beslimed banks of the canal. Never had the fog-heavy air of Stepney seemed so pure.

  Convulsively she gulped it into her lungs. The stagnant canal-waters that had so revolted her earlier might have been the crystal spring-waters of Eden. She retched violently. Luke was coughing beside her. When her stomach had ended its rebellion she splashed her arms and her clothes, trying to clean off the worst of the filth. She was suddenly aware that she was freezing cold and shivering violently, her teeth chattering in her head. Luke, as bedraggled and dirty as she, and in as bad a way, held out his hand. ‘Just a little further. Blind Lane isn’t far. Midge will see us right.’

  They clambered with difficulty up the slippery bank and stumbled upstream. Kitty had lost one of her boots. Brambles tore at her, broken glass lay in ambush for her bare foot. ‘Luke, please – wait!’

  He shook his head. ‘Keep going. We’re almost there.’

  She followed him blindly. Fog still wreathed Blind Lane. She leaned against the wall, exhausted, as Luke’s fists thundered upon the door of the Rooms. ‘Open up! It’s Luke Peveral! Open up, for Christ’s sake —!’

  ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell?’ Bobs stood, blinking in astonishment. He turned from them, wrinkling his prizefighter’s nose in disgust. ‘Christ’s bleedin’ teeth!’

  Luke pushed roughly past him, dragging Kitty with him. ‘Get Midge! Quickly, man!’

  Kitty snatched her hand from his, sank onto the nearest chair and covered her filthy face with her even filthier hands. She felt indescribably befouled. Tainted. She would never be clean. The dead man’s eyes bored still into her brain.

  She could not even cry.

  * * *

  An hour later, bathed, fed and with a quarter of a bottle of Moses’ best brandy poured unceremoniously down her throat, she was in bed. Moments before she drifted into brandy-induced, nightmare-ridden sleep it occurred to her that she was almost certainly the first of Midge’s girls ever to sleep in one of these beds alone. And probably the last.

  * * *

  No one saw or heard from Luke Peveral for the best part of ten days. Having delivered Kitty to Midge and seen her safely cared for he had left, and disappeared, so it seemed, from the face of the earth.

  Four days later the bodies of two men were fished from the Thames. They had been neatly garrotted, apparently by the same hand. No one came forward to identify the bodies.

  Three days after that a man was found hanging beneath Blackfriars Bridge – a man in his thirties, the police surgeon hazarded, with skin darkened by a foreign sun and the shackle-scars of a convict on wrists and ankles. No one enquired too closely into his death, either.

  Spider smiled painfully at the news, delivered through the obscure grapevine of the underworld, and applied himself with more appetite than normal to the mash that Pol pushed between his crushed lips.

  A few days later Luke Peveral sauntered into the Rooms as if he had never been away. Obviously aware of the buzz that ran around the hall at his appearance, he grinned, greeted a friend, joined Moses at his accustomed table.

  Lottie shrieked and flung herself upon him. Over her head he looked to where Kitty sat, death-still and suddenly pale as ivory.

  ‘Good evening, Songbird,’ he said, gently. ‘Not too late for the show, am I?’

  * * *

  It was just a week after that, that Oliver Fogg first appeared at Smith’s Song and Supper Rooms. And set in motion a chain of violence and death that was to affect them all.

  Chapter 5

  (i)

  Kitty, her sensitivity heightened by the horror of that bizarre day of bloodshed and murder, noticed straight away that Luke Peveral had a wary eye upon the unsettling stranger who sat alone at a table in a corner near the bar, one bony hand nursing a half-empty glass, his expressionless, cadaver’s face in shadow. When the two men’s eyes first met in the smoky, dimly lit atmosphere she was certain that she detected upon Luke’s face that faint flicker of surprise that denotes unexpected recognition; then in the blink of an eye it was gone, but she noticed that Luke turned his chair a little, to keep the gaunt stranger in his field of vision. He said nothing, however, and no one else seemed to know the man. For a week or so he was a regular visitor – spending little, eating nothing, sitting all night nursing a single drink, never speaking, his eyes coming back time and again to the table where Luke sat with Moses. He and Luke rarely exchanged glances and never a word, and yet more and more strongly as the days passed Kitty became convinced they knew each other. And always, it seemed to her, they faced each
other, watching.

  It was one day a couple of weeks after Luke’s reappearance at the Supper Rooms that Moses at last noticed his guarded gaze and sensed his distraction. He turned to follow the direction of Luke’s gaze and frowned. ‘That the cully Midge was talking about?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘Midge?’

  ‘Sits all night, she reckons, dumb as a duck an’ don’t spend a tanner.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Something in his tone caught Moses’ astute ear. ‘You know him?’

  Kitty, her first performance done, sipped her watered wine and listened. For a variety of odd and, even to herself, confusing reasons she had hardly spoken a word to Luke in the past couple of weeks. The strange camaraderie of those hours in the foul-smelling crypt had for her been brutally overlaid by the violence of the events that had followed. Her worst, and strongest, recollection of those nightmare hours were the staring eyes of the man that Luke had so apparently casually killed, and the awful, scarlet spread of his blood. That three other men had died since had drawn a curtain of horror between herself and the man with whom in such strange circumstances she had exchanged confidences and quoted Shelley, one she found impossible to draw aside. She found herself, often, watching his hands; narrow, dark, strong. Hands that had killed – how many times? He had tried to thank her for her part in his narrow escape. She had accepted his thanks so woodenly as almost to constitute an insult. He had not bothered with her again. He sat now, pensive, long steady fingers wrapped around the slender stem of his wine glass.

  ‘Well?’ Moses was puzzled.

  Luke nodded. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I think I do. His name, if I’m not much mistaken, is Oliver Fogg. He is – or certainly was when last I came across him – a policeman of no great repute.’