Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  ‘Don’t talk so bloody daft.’ Pol leaned towards her, readjusted a dark ringlet that had just been taken from its rag and showed every sign of wanting to revert to its natural, rain-straight habit. From the direction of the stage came a sudden burst of laughter and a roar of applause. ‘I’ll never ferget that first night at Smith’s – yer did it then, yer can do it again—’

  Kitty tried to smile with frozen lips. God in heaven, if she were always to suffer this agony of apprehension before she stepped upon a stage, was it worth it? Why didn’t she give up now?

  And do what? a small, drily practical voice that was all that was left of her composure asked sharply. What is there for you if you fail? Whoring? Thieving? Dying, diseased and destitute in a Whitechapel alleyway?

  ‘Corelli brothers. You’re on.’

  ‘I’m next,’ she said, around the lump in her throat. ‘I think I’d better go to the lavatory again.’

  Ten minutes later she stood alone in the wings watching the handsome acrobats with their broad, muscled shoulders, their shining black hair, splendid moustaches and bright, gleaming smiles as they took the plaudits of the audience, bowing gracefully, princes of the moment. They ran lightly past her, laughing and chattering, their dark skins agleam with perspiration.

  The applause died to an expectant, murmuring quiet.

  From where she stood she could see a segment of the audience – lifted, smiling faces, candlelight glimmering in bright eyes. She stood straight and still, awaiting her introduction. The thundering of her heart quieted. Her trembling stopped. Excitement lifted. From one moment to another her raw nerves calmed, her confidence blossomed and there was nothing – nothing! – that she wanted so much as to step out onto the brightly lit stage with its crudely painted backdrop and cheap draped curtains.

  ‘—and so, Ladies and Gentlemen – for the very first time at the Queen’s Music Hall—’

  She lifted her head, clasped her hands lightly before her.

  ‘—give you the Songbird of Stepney—’

  She stepped into the light.

  ‘Miss – Kitty – Daniels!’

  The applause was enthusiastic, but only politely so. She walked confidently onto the apron of the stage, smiled brilliantly at the Master of Ceremonies, then at the orchestra leader, and then, with a lift of pure happiness, at her audience. She felt their reaction, felt the warmth they offered in return for that smile. And as she stood calmly awaiting the first notes of the orchestra she knew with utter certainty that she had found the place in which she belonged, the way of life she wanted above all others. In that moment of brilliant clarity it seemed to her that here was her home, her natural environment; and all she had to do to claim it was to sing.

  She gave the performance of her young lifetime. She sang with a joy and verve that infected her audience and had them banging the tables for more. She caught sight of Pol, in the wings, shouting and clapping with the rest, her face alight with generous happiness. It was over too soon, too desperately soon; she could have stood upon that stage and sung all night. She took a curtain call, and then another. The Master of Ceremonies beamed at her, made a small circle with thumb and forefinger to indicate his approval. On a crest of excitement she left the stage at last, knowing she had succeeded, knowing that the last of her doubts were gone, knowing above all that away from the repressive and violent atmosphere of Smith’s she had lost her fear of her audience.

  ‘Bleedin’ marvellous! Bloody, bleedin’ marvellous!’ Pol threw her arms about her and smacked a kiss on her cheek. ‘What did I tell yer? Blimey, girl, you did a job an’ an ’alf there! I’m proud of yer!’

  Kitty allowed herself to be ushered to the empty dressing room, sat a little unsteadily upon the rickety chair. Her ears were still ringing with the echoes of applause. She looked at Pol. ‘Did I really go down as well as it seemed?’

  Pol laughed. ‘Well, I told yer – it was bloody marvellous! No ’oldin’ yer now, eh?’

  Kitty smiled. Her heartbeat was slowing, the pitch of her excitement dying. A man’s baritone, rich and strong, echoed from the stage. She envied the unknown singer. She wanted to be out there again, beneath the lights, and bathing in the rapt attention of the audience.

  Half an hour later she took the stage again, with the rest of the company, for the finale. As one by one the performers stepped forward to take their bows she found to her horror that she was listening jealously to the volume accorded each artist. To her delight she received not only prolonged and appreciative applause, but a small nosegay of flowers presented with a gallant flourish by the smiling Master of Ceremonies. The curtain came down once, swept up, and down once more and it was over. The artists left the stage, talking amongst themselves. No one spoke to Kitty, though she was the recipient of one or two curious glances.

  ‘Miss Daniels—’

  She turned to find the Master of Ceremonies bearing down on her. ‘Well done, Miss Daniels, wonderfully done!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She stood and spoke with him for a few minutes. In the hall beyond the curtain someone had started playing the piano and the audience was singing.

  ‘—the contract will certainly be extended. And perhaps, next week, when Ventro the ventriloquist leaves us we could give you another spot – an extra song or two—?’

  ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’ She left him. The Corelli brothers swept by her, volatile tempers up, arguing volubly, seeming on the point of blows. Pol was nowhere to be seen. Kitty went into the dressing room to pack up her few belongings. The Bartlett sisters were sprawled upon every chair, half-naked, their discarded costumes strewn all over the room. One of them leaned to the gaslit mirror, wiping her painted face dispiritedly with a piece of dirty flannel. Upon a shelf stood an open, half-empty bottle of gin.

  ‘Wan’ a tot, ducks?’ A woman past the prime of youth, her doll-like face painted on over a skin crazed with wrinkles, her fiery hair darkly grey at the roots, waved a chipped mug a little uncertainly at Kitty. She was naked beneath a soiled robe that had fallen open as she moved and which she made no move to fasten.

  Kitty, picking her way through the room, shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’

  The woman arched sardonic, please-yourself brows, poured herself a hefty drink and passed the bottle on. Another, younger girl walked across the room to proffer her own mug, her bare breasts swinging heavily as she moved. As she passed Kitty she flicked dismissively at the small bunch of flowers that she still held. ‘’Ad a better offer, ’ave we ducky?’ Neither the voice nor the gesture were particularly friendly.

  Kitty shook her head.

  The other girl laughed, unpleasantly knowing.

  Before Kitty could respond the door opened and a spotty-faced boy put his head round the door. ‘Miss Daniels? Some cove ter see yer—’

  ‘What’s ’e like, Spotty? Look a good performer, does ’e? Could ’e manage two of us, d’yer think?’

  ‘’Ere, Spot, lad, come an’ ’ave a taste—’ One of the girls bared a large breast and manipulated the nipple with her fingers, making lascivious kissing sounds as she did so. The others roared with laughter as the lad’s fine, marked skin burned to his ears.

  ‘Never mind ’er, Spotty, take a look at mine—’

  ‘’E don’t like tits, do yer, Spot? ’E’s an arse man. I can spot ’em a mile off! ’Ere, Spot – what’d yer like ter do with this—?’

  Kitty fled.

  Spotty banged the door behind him. ‘Bleedin’ whores.’

  ‘You said—?’

  ‘Over there.’ He waved a hand and left her.

  From the dressing room came a gust of drunken laughter. In the shadows a tall figure moved, stepped forward. ‘Congratulations.’

  An infinitesimal silence. Then, ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Luke Peveral wore an impeccably cut black tail coat and trousers, black satin waistcoat, snow-white ruffled shirt. He carried a cane, top hat and gloves.

  She eyed him dourly, determ
inedly unimpressed. ‘Are you looking for Cinderella?’

  He grinned. ‘That altogether depends on what the time is. If it’s too close to midnight then any old ugly sister will do.’

  She had to laugh. The excitement of the evening was still singing in her blood like wine. In an odd way Luke’s being here did not surprise her, nor did his changed appearance. Violence and death suddenly belonged to another world.

  ‘You got the flowers?’ he asked.

  ‘They were from you?’

  A smile flickered. ‘You’ve got Johnnies queuing up already?’

  She shook her head. Looked round.

  ‘I took the liberty,’ he said, ‘of treating the dragon Pol to a cab home.’

  ‘And she went? Didn’t you have to rope and tie her?’

  ‘I used a little persuasion.’

  She looked a sharp question.

  He lifted a shoulder. ‘I told her it was none of her damned business if you had arranged to come to dinner with me without consulting her,’ he said, imperturbably.

  ‘You – what?’

  ‘You heard. Shall we go?’

  ‘Supposing I say no?’

  ‘Then you’d be a fool. You’d also miss one of the best dinners London has to offer. It isn’t every day you’ll find yourself invited to Whistler’s, my girl.’

  ‘What’s Whistler’s?’

  He shook his head, tutting mockingly. ‘Such ignorance! Such shocking ignorance! The only way you get to find out is to come. I’ll show you.’

  * * *

  Whistler’s was a restaurant. It was more than a restaurant – it was the night-time haunt of the rich and the famous and of those who liked to rub shoulders with riches and with fame. On seeing the discreetly elegant façade of the place, with its gleaming, gaslit windows, its brass polished to gold and its uniformed lackey waiting impassively to hand her from the hired hackney, Kitty shrank back, genuinely terrified. ‘I can’t go in there!’

  ‘Of course you can. Don’t be such a baby.’ Casually Luke gestured as the cab door opened and the poker-faced doorman held out a white-gloved hand. ‘After you.’

  Silently she stepped onto the pavement. As he joined her and took her arm she hissed at him through clenched teeth, ‘Luke!’ He took no notice. With a bland smile and a hand firmly upon her elbow he steered her through the door and into the elegant and crowded interior.

  At the top of a shallow flight of steps they were met by a splendid personage, smooth-haired, smooth-faced and dressed every bit as fastidiously and expensively as Luke himself. ‘Ah – M’sieu Peveral! So nice to see you again, M’sieu! Your table waits—’ Shrewd eyes flicked to Kitty, summed her up and found her wanting. ‘Ma’mselle.’ His bow was brief and chilly.

  She nodded and, head high, followed Luke between the crowded tables, astonished at the number of people who lifted a hand or called a greeting to him. She was painfully aware of the scuffed velvet of her gown and of the cheap brilliance of her gaudy stage jewellery. But when they reached the table and Luke, turning to her with a warm smile, brushed aside the supercilious mannikin’s half-hearted attempt to settle her in her seat and solicitously saw himself to her comfort, her self-conscious unease vanished like a mist in sunshine. She was Kitty Daniels; the new Kitty Daniels. Today she had stood upon a stage and held a thousand people in the palm of her hand. She did not need diamonds. She glanced up at Luke and caught a look of amused appreciation in his eyes.

  ‘Something to drink, M’sieu?’

  ‘Of course. Champagne,’ Luke said.

  ‘Of course.’ The disapproving maitre d’ handed a large leather folder to Luke and managed to deposit one in Kitty’s hands with the air of a man knowingly casting pearls before swine.

  She opened it. Sat frozen, with all her facile self-confidence oozing from her. She lifted panic-stricken eyes to Luke over the huge, elegantly decorated, floridly handwritten, indecipherable menu. With easy charm Luke reached across the table. ‘You’ve done quite enough hard work for today. I insist that you do no more. You’ll allow me?’

  She let the menu slip from her fingers. ‘As long as you don’t intend to drink my champagne for me as well,’ she managed, half-heartedly, and was rewarded with a quick smile. As he spoke rapidly to the maitre d’, the old Kitty stood suddenly by her shoulder, scolding, aghast – what in heaven’s name was she doing in a place like this with a man she did not like – a thief, a killer and God knew what else besides—

  She watched him pour the golden, frothing champagne into two tall glasses.

  A man she did not like?

  He too was watching the sparkling stream, face intent, hand steady.

  A thief, and a killer.

  Somewhere the mocking shade of Amos chuckled, and warned caution.

  Too late.

  * * *

  She drank much too much champagne. The food was the most delicious she had ever tasted, the atmosphere heady, the high-strung excitement of the day had already wreaked havoc with her usual good sense, and the undoubted danger that lurked across the table, smiling and patient, added a zest to the evening that urged her to recklessness. The excitement of her small triumph at the music hall had not died – it bubbled through the occasion as did the bright sparkle of the champagne that she found herself drinking as if it were lemonade. And why not? she found herself asking – it sharpened her tongue and her wits, drowned the embarrassment of shoddy velvet and shoddier paste. Drowned too that tiresome warning voice to which she was tired of listening. With what more appropriate beverage could she celebrate the birth of the new Kitty Daniels?

  Luke ordered more champagne.

  Around them handsome men and elegant women conversed, flirted, laughed and argued. Kitty tried not to stare. The glittering gowns, the fire of gemstones dazzled her. Jewelled hair and jewelled bosoms, jewelled wrists and jewelled fingers – she glanced at Luke. With unerring instinct he leaned across the table, picked up the posy of flowers and held them to her cheek. ‘Better than diamonds,’ he said, and for once he was not smiling.

  She saw a lovely, well-dressed woman at the table next to them glance across, her eyes wide and interested on Luke’s face.

  Kitty tried not to wonder if Luke had ever brought Lottie here – Lottie who would stand out, a beauty in any company.

  ‘You sang the wrong songs tonight,’ he said, pleasantly and musingly.

  She could not have been more surprised had he dashed cold water in her face. ‘I – beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said you’re singing the wrong songs. Your voice is too good – too strong – for those wishy-washy parlour songs. You need something of your own – something with a bit more character—’

  Quick irritation flared, fuelled by champagne. ‘I see. My performance lacks character?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘It sounded like it.’

  He did not give an inch. ‘If that’s what you want to hear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shook his head. ‘Let’s change the subject.’

  ‘Not until you tell me what you mean.’

  ‘I think that had better wait till you’re in a more receptive mood. I don’t fancy being brained by a champagne bottle, thank you. Especially not when I’ve paid Gaston’s exorbitant prices for it. For the moment let’s leave it that you’re obviously the best thing that’s happened to that fleapit for years, and I shall be very surprised if friend Kenny doesn’t know it by tomorrow. I should shut your mouth, if I were you,’ he added mildly. ‘There’s a cab coming.’

  ‘You – you liked me?’

  He sighed. ‘You prickly idiot! Of course I did! How could I not? Would we be here if I didn’t?’

  ‘That rather depends on what we’re here for,’ she snapped without thought, and regretted it the moment the words were out.

  His expression was solemn, his eyes pure malicious mischief. ‘I don’t think I understand what you mean?’

  She flushed. ‘Well – I mean—’ All at once
she found herself questioning whether champagne were quite the wit-sharpener she had felt it to be.

  ‘You mean,’ he asked gently, ‘that my intentions might not be strictly honourable?’

  She struggled with good manners. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right. They aren’t. Not in the least.’ His eyes were wary.

  An orchestra, hidden in a verdant jungle of palms and aspidistras, had started to play. She watched them for a long moment, as if they were the most totally absorbing sight in the world. Then she brought her dark eyes to meet his.

  He nodded, regretfully. ‘I’m afraid so. I’m just the bastard you thought I was.’

  For perhaps the first time in her life she was utterly dumbstruck.

  He waited, politely, for the space of a few moments. ‘Aren’t you going to say something? Throw something? Walk out?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well,’ he said lightly. ‘Am I supposed to know if that’s a good thing or a bad?’ His face was intent, the narrow black eyes disturbingly steady.

  She hunched her shoulders a little, and looked down into the glass that she was holding as fiercely as if it were an anchor in a suddenly storm-blown world. Furious with herself, she tried to control the sudden lunatic hammering of her heart, the savage rise of excitement that, surely he must see, must sense thundering through her body.

  The silence stretched on.

  ‘Kitty?’ His voice was soft. She recognized that persuasively caressing tone; Luke Peveral was an accomplished expert in a field in which Amos Isherwood had been a raw novice. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  In desperation she wished she had not drunk so much champagne. That there were not so much noise ringing about them. That she did not so much – so very much – want to be alone with him. To touch him. To have him love her. She shivered at the thought, confused, afraid and aching with need for him. ‘The other night—’ She found herself speaking the thought aloud, and stopped.

  His face closed. ‘Yes?’

  She lifted her eyes to his face. ‘You killed a man,’ she whispered, and the sound, all but lost in the noise about them, echoed in her head like a clap of thunder, accusing and unforgivable.