by Karen Odden
“That performance you gave at the restaurant the other night—tell me, was that for my benefit or your father’s?”
He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Well, for my father’s. Obviously.”
“What do you mean, obviously? I can’t tell if your story was to make me feel sorry for you, or if I was there as a prop while you confronted him.”
His hand dropped from my arm. “Oh, don’t get all righteous about it. He’s my father, which means he damn well owes me an audience.” A pause, and then he rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, we all perform. You’re not that naive.” He waved toward the music hall door. “Gallius Kovác’s real name is David Goldman—he’s a Jew from some Godforsaken part of Spitalfields, not a descendant of some Romany magician. Lady Van de Vere’s the daughter of a slut, Amalie’s not French, and you’re not a man! This is the world we live in.”
“But this is a music hall, Stephen! People in the audience know it’s a performance. If you take that performance out to the real world—that’s a lie.”
He drew a French-style cigarette out of a silver case and lit it. By the light of the match, I could see that he was unmoved. “You’d have kept up your lie to me about being a man, except that I caught you out.”
I shoved my hands back in the pockets of my overcoat. “We weren’t friends that first night. Friends don’t lie to each other.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Nell.”
“Stephen!” My voice was incredulous. “What about the real reason you were asked to leave the Academy? I heard a rather different story than what you told me.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you did.” His voice was caustic.
“What does that mean?”
“Jack’s hardly going to tell you the truth about that, seeing as he’s the reason I was unfairly thrown out.” He waved his cigarette, the tiny golden ember at the end tracing an arc in the darkness. “You see, he had the story wrong. The truth is, Andrew loved gambling. He wanted to play, came every night for a game.” He shrugged. “He wasn’t any good, and eventually he owed me a fair bit. Not quite so much as the violin was worth, but enough. He didn’t want to admit it to his father, so he gave me the damn thing. He hated it—that’s the irony. He was only at the Academy in the first place because his mother had it in her head he was going to be a famous musician.” He flicked the ash of his cigarette away. “At any rate, the next morning, when he was sober, he thought better of it, so he told Jack that I’d cheated him at cards. Jack went straight to old Bennett, and I was out on my ear.” A hard laugh. “And then I got here, and he didn’t even know who I was. That’s how little he cares about ruining people’s lives. Let it be a lesson to you before you get in too deep with him.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to correct him, to tell him it had been Mr. Bertault who’d gone to the principal; but while Stephen was speaking, I’d noticed how quiet the yard was. This quarter of Soho was nearly empty for the night, and I wanted nothing more than to get away.
He took a last long draw on the cigarette before he dropped it into the dirt. “You see, Nell? There’s always another layer to the story. It’s like an onion. Sometimes you have to peel a bit. Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what—or who—to believe anymore.” I rubbed at my forehead, suddenly exhausted. “Things aren’t clean-cut.”
A pause, and then in a lighter voice: “They can be, you know.”
I gave a short laugh.
“Really.” His face was bent toward mine, with no hint of mockery in his eyes. “Haven’t you ever thought about getting away?”
“Getting away?”
“Of course! You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. Not with your abilities. You could go anywhere.” He took out his cigarette case again. “Leave this place.”
“You mean the Octavian?” I asked.
“Well, yes.” He lit a new cigarette, and I smelled the sulphur and ash. “This place, with its sordid little crimes and petty backstage theatrics. Neither of us belongs here, playing the same tired show over and over.” He grimaced. “But I meant London. It’s a bad place for people with talent. Too many scavengers with their hooks into us, with their own ideas about what we should and shouldn’t be doing.” He drew on his cigarette, then blew the smoke aside. “Even if you get into the Royal Academy, you’re going to hate it. For the first few years, you’ll be in classes, practicing things you’ve already done, the same pieces students have played for years. And you being a woman, they’re going to curb you so hard, you will barely be able to breathe. Believe me, they’ve got their own way of doing things.”
I could hear the faint slur that whiskey had put in his voice. “What do you suggest?”
“Remember I told you my family has friends in Europe? Well, last week my father told me he’ll give me money to leave England. I’ve all but made up my mind—I’m leaving for Paris soon. Why don’t you come with me?”
I could only stare.
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds.” He waved the cigarette. “Oh, I don’t mean as lovers! We’d be fellow musicians. We’d write music, meet other artists, create our own salon on the Rive Gauche.” His voice became persuasive. “You’d get to play in real halls, not second-rate places like this. You could stay with my friend Heloise. She lost her flatmate, and she’d be pleased to have you.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was sincere.
And then I realized that he was. He believed that his deceitfulness could just be waved away like the smoke from a cigarette. No doubt he considered himself generous, and that I should leap at the proffered opportunity.
He reached out, took one of my hands, and held it in his. “God almighty, girl. You’re freezing. That’s another good thing about Paris—it’s warmer there.”
“I’m all right,” I managed.
“What do you think? It wouldn’t have to be Paris. We could try Vienna, or Salzburg, if you’d prefer. It’s just that in Paris, we’d have a place to stay straightaway.”
I heard the warmth and buoyancy in his voice, and with a jolt, I realized that in his mind, he was already halfway to Europe, with me in tow.
I withdrew my hand gently and put it in my pocket. “Stephen, that wouldn’t work. You know it wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
I heard the surprise in his voice and didn’t answer at first. Somewhere in the back of my mind a warning sounded; I needed to handle this delicately. I had seen how he responded to rejection and ridicule.
He took a quick breath. “You can’t mean you care for Jack Drummond! I saw the two of you together—but it seemed you were merely waiting him out. You didn’t make any move to stop him when he left.”
“It’s not that,” I said and managed a small laugh. “For goodness’ sake, Stephen! Paris? I don’t even speak French.”
He frowned, and it was as if he hadn’t even heard me. “You can’t fall for that man. If you knew the truth about him, you’d know why.”
“The truth?”
“Yes, the truth.”
“Well, as you said, maybe it’s like an onion. Maybe what you know about him is only the first layer.”
“No.” His voice was definite. “He’s dangerous all the way to the core. Listen to me. His father’s a criminal—and so is he.”
Stephen knows about the Fleet, I thought.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Goodness, you sound like a character in a penny dreadful.”
He bent his head toward me in a way that was almost intimate. “This is no cheap novel, Nell. Drummond runs a thieving ring. He and Jack have a team of boys who live here during the day and go out and rob houses and shops at night. All these boys you see around here? They’re nothing more than his little slaves.”
“But that’s his father,” I said weakly. “Jack wouldn’t do that.”
His smile was sardonic. “Oh, they’re cut from the same piece of cloth. Don’t think they aren’t.” He dropped the last bit
of his cigarette into the dirt and pressed the stub with his toe. “He’s as deep in this business as his father—and only going to go deeper. I’ve seen the logs of what they take in—and Jack’s the one who writes them out.” A pause. “I’ve heard he’s been offered his own ring to run, someplace down in Lambeth.”
My stomach lurched, even though Stephen was as likely lying as not. “How do you know all this?”
He didn’t answer.
I pretended to be coming to a realization and let my eyes go wide. “You’re in this with him, aren’t you? And don’t lie, Stephen. You said we’re friends.”
“All right. You want proof of my honesty? I’ll tell you how I’m in it. Drummond’s been paying me because I know some of the big houses.”
I stared. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected him to say. “You mean the houses he’s robbing?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised. My family moves in good circles. I’ve been in plenty of them.” He shrugged. “Including my father’s.”
“You told him about your father’s house? So the boys could rob it?”
“It’s one of the easier ones. There’s a small garden out back”—he jerked his head—“with a trellis. Family dines at eight, which means the bedrooms are deserted from eight till ten. A hidden drawer in my father’s armoire contains his jewelry. There are some diamond cuff links in my brother’s room. And there’s a particularly fine painting in the upper hallway by an Italian master. Not large, easily portable.” He gave an easy smile.
Dear God. His own family.
My instinct was warning me not to let him see my disgust. I kept my voice steady, even light. “Well, that’s one way to square things with your father. What is Drummond giving you for your information?”
“A share. A trifle really, but then again, I’m not risking anything.”
Yes, that’s the way you do it, isn’t it? I thought. Let other people take the risks. But I said merely, “And that way, you can’t get caught.”
He shrugged again. “I’m not a fool.”
“Well, Drummond may be a drunkard, but you should be careful. He’s no fool, either.”
“I can get away from Drummond any time I want.”
I let him see my skepticism. “How? Once he has his hooks in you, as you say, he’s not going to let you go.”
“Well, that’s partly why I want to leave for Paris. And yet another reason you might want to get away from here, too. You’ve been playing for months. Who’s to say the police might not think you have something to do with his schemes?”
I sighed. “Stephen, I can’t leave London. My brother’s here—and Peggy and Emma—people I love—”
He tipped his head. “But you lie to them.”
“What?”
“You sneak out of the house, and none of them know.” He gave a knowing smile. “Not that it’s a bad thing. If you can lie to people who love you, in the service of your ambitions, that’s a real skill. I mean it.”
Suddenly I was filled with revulsion. Maybe if I’d been smarter, I’d have dropped my eyes, pretended that he wasn’t making my skin crawl. But he saw my expression before I could hide it.
For a moment, hurt shone in his eyes. Then anger swept like a wave over his face, distorting it. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The streets were all but silent. I was alone in this yard with a man who calculated everything in terms of his own gains. He must have seen the fear in my face, for he began to laugh unpleasantly. And then his two hands flashed to my shoulders, and he shoved me hard against the wall.
“Let go of me!” I tried to pry away his fingers, but they were rigid as iron. “Stephen, let go!”
He leaned in, close enough that I smelled the tobacco and whiskey thick on his breath. “Do you want me to tell you about your ambitions?” he hissed. “Because I know. I saw girls like you at the Academy, desperate to make up for their lack of talent with hour upon hour of practice, pounding the keys like monkeys. And you know the reason for all that pathetic striving? Because you haven’t anything else to fall back on.”
He pulled me away from the wall, toward him, almost as if in an embrace. But instead he gave me a shove. My head smacked the bricks behind me, and I felt a blazing heat at the back of my skull.
And then, at last, he let go. I landed on my knees and pitched forward into the dirt with a cry. I heard the creak of the back door and his voice, thick with contempt: “Don’t come back. They won’t want you.”
He dragged the door shut behind him and threw the bolt. I lay there for a moment, my breath coming in ragged gasps, until the sharpest pain in the back of my head began to fade. Carefully, I touched my scalp. Already there was a thickening, and a stickiness that could only be blood. I lurched to my feet, clumsily, and looked at the door that would never open for me again.
I wouldn’t have cared a bit, except that Jack was behind it. And despite what he’d said, and what I’d learned, I still didn’t want this to be all there was.
Chapter 22
When I woke, I could tell from the hollow quality of the house that Matthew had already left, and I was alone. I’d washed the blood out of my hair last night, but the back of my head felt bruised, and the pain seemed to wrap like a claw around to my temples. I dressed with a dreary sense of loss and loneliness. Moving gingerly in the kitchen, I made myself a cup of tea and nibbled some toast, but I felt no better. I moved slowly into the parlor and lay down on the couch with Peggy’s usual remedies, a woolen blanket around me and a damp cloth infused with vinegar on my forehead.
For some hours, I slept, and sometime after midday I woke to the sound of knocking. I fumbled my way out from under the blanket and opened the front door. It was a boy with a message. I gave him a sixpence and opened the missive.
My dear Nell,
Marceline has vanished. The police have arrived, and it’s been my first opportunity to send for you. Please come if you can.
Yours, in haste, Dr. E.
I reread the few lines. “Vanished,” I said aloud. Did that mean she’d been taken, or gone of her own free will?
With a sinking feeling, I put on my coat and walking shoes and started for the hospital. The additional sleep had done away with the worst of the pain and queasiness, but I couldn’t remember ever being so low in my mind. It was the day before my audition. By all rights I should have been excited, or anticipatory, at least. Instead, I was overcome with the darkest thoughts, swamped with a sense of the futility of striving for anything for myself or of trying to help anyone else.
When I arrived at the hospital, I glimpsed two police constables searching around the outer wall of the hospital wing; they seemed to be inspecting the bushes and grounds. I entered the foyer and saw Mr. Oliven, his face earnest, answering questions being directed to him by a plainclothes detective. Matthew wasn’t there, for which I was grateful. I didn’t think I could bear his scrutiny.
“Excuse me,” I said to one of the nurses I knew by sight. “Where is the doctor?”
“In his office, Miss Hallam.”
I went to his office and knocked.
“Come in.” His voice was irritable, higher pitched than normal, as if he’d said those words too many times that day.
I opened the door.
“Oh, thank God.” He sighed. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Did she say anything to you about leaving?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing.”
He peered at me. “What’s the matter? You don’t look well.”
“I’ve a headache, that’s all.” I paused. “Does it seem she left of her own volition?”
“It looks that way, although I’ve no idea how she managed it in her condition. Maybe she fashioned herself some wings, like Daedalus.” He stood and put on his coat. “Come with me.”
He led me up the narrow back stairs to the fourth floor, which was used only for storage. The few times I’d been up there, the air had been musty and still. This time it was fres
h. He entered a small room, and it became clear where the draft was coming from. A windowpane had been broken, the hasp turned, and the window swung open on its hinges.
I stared at the doctor. “You don’t think she climbed out this way, do you?”
“I’m forced to believe it.”
“But why would she have broken the window, when she could simply have undone the hasp?”
“I believe she had an accomplice.”
Of course, I thought. Sebastian. Unless . . .
“Are you certain it’s an accomplice and not an abductor?” I asked.
“There was no sign of a struggle in the ward, the nurses heard nothing, and all of her things are gone. The only thing missing is a pillowcase, which I imagine she used as a makeshift satchel. So I believe she went willingly.”
I went to the window and leaned out. There was a drainpipe, with sturdy metal brackets fastening it to the bricks. Sebastian could have navigated this easily. But Marceline, with her injuries?
“Whoever it was, was clever,” Dr. Everett said. “No doubt he’d observed the hospital for some period and realized that Mr. Oliven stays at the front gate, and the back of the building is poorly lit. Given that the floor below is mostly empty at night, no one would hear the glass breaking up here.” He pointed to the bed frame at the bottom of the stack. “The police found a rope fastened there. The weight of the beds served as an anchor.”
“I just hope she didn’t reinjure herself climbing down,” I said.
“I just wonder why she no longer felt safe here,” he replied.
I felt a sickening regret that I’d told Sebastian about the man who’d come looking for her.
“Maybe it was because Matthew came to see her.” He rubbed his forefingers into his temples, as though it would help his brain work out what had happened. “She really wasn’t well enough to leave, and if she fell down and hit her head a second time, she could do permanent damage.”
“Did you send for Matthew this morning?”
“I sent round to the Yard. A different inspector came. I spent the morning answering his questions.” He gave one last look out the window and put a hand on my arm, so I had to face him. His eyes searched mine. “Nell, you didn’t know about her leaving?”