Clavell Street Market, better known as Bird and Feather Alley, wasn’t a market at all but a cobbled lane spanning several blocks of brick tenements where stalls of bird sellers stretched all the way to Commercial Road.
Toby and Collin pressed past a man auctioning cockatiels, another selling starlings, still another peddling smelling-salts made from macaw beaks, in little brown bottles.
“Here y’are lad, four a penny.” A man so bald his head glistened in the sunlight stepped toward Collin, holding out duck eggs in a leather pouch.
Further along, an old woman in a straw hat with a tame rat on her shoulder claimed to be selling nightingale powder that relieved warts in less than three minutes. Toby tugged Collin along by the sleeve.
They made their way past tier upon tier of cages hung on the brick sidewalls, filled with cockatiels, macaws, ducks, doves, canaries, blackbirds, turkeys, swallows, and screaming parrots. The crooked lane was a cacophony of chirps, warbles, honks, and squawks cleaving the air like a chorus of discordant bells.
Toby glanced around. Although he much preferred this crooked lane of bird sellers to the slaughterhouse, he didn’t take pleasure in seeing so many caged creatures.
Not so Collin, who seemed to be immensely enjoying the loud squawking, preening, and bobbing heads of so many birds.
“I say!” Collin beamed. “Rawther like the avian arcade in Regents Park, only tenfold as loud! When we tell Katie what she’s missed, she’ll be madder than a wet”—He glanced up at the roosters perched high above on the window sills.—“chicken.” He laughed. “Jolly good show, this.”
Toby threaded through the crowd, making his way toward a middle-aged woman surrounded by parakeets in wicker cages. Mrs. Fowler, Dora’s mother, was seated beneath a striped awning, and to Toby she looked like one of her crimson-fronted birds. As she cocked her head and winked, Mrs. Fowler’s beaklike nose poked out from a narrow face; and her hair, dyed a garish purple-red, hung in a low swoop across her forehead, dwarfing her features. Next to Mrs. Fowler’s, Collin’s ginger hair seemed almost subdued.
Toby tipped his cap and asked Mrs. Fowler where her extremely pretty daughter, Dora, could be located. Mrs. Fowler, beaming at the compliment, pointed to a parrot stall a block away. “That’s Dora’s kit over yonder, across the way from the rhubarb man.”
Toby thanked her, and he and Collin shot down the street. The air was so chokingly thick with molting feathers and bird droppings it was hard to breathe. To their left, St. Paul’s Cathedral perched like a great broody hen at the top of Cannon Street. Toby chuckled at the image of the most famous landmark in London appearing like a hen. But the images of birds, including that of Mrs. Fowler, were pervasive, the street being chock-full of them. Great ones, small ones, exotic ones, and ordinary ones in all colors of the rainbow.
Shadows bounced off the brick tenement walls behind the bird stalls, swooping overhead like birds of prey. Lengthening his stride, Toby counted seven black-lead boot-scrapers set into the door stoops until he came to the rhubarb-hawk man across the street from Dora’s parrot stall.
As they approached, Dora began batting her dark, silky lashes above enormous velvet-brown eyes, the lids of which shimmered with a paint-pot full of pigments, making them appear brilliant and alive, and as colorful as her birds.
At the inquest Dora had worn the merest hint of makeup. Today she had dabbed on too much rouge, lip-salve, and a thick eyebrow penciling that, together with her sparkling eyelids, made her look like a gypsy queen about to dance below a harvest moon.
“Tobias!” Dora squealed, glancing from Toby to Collin and batting her lashes. She made a delicate attempt at clearing her throat, the air was so thick with bird dander.
“ ’Morning, Dora.” Toby grinned.
“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Dora continued in a cooing voice, the spongy layers of her hair, beneath her large plumed hat, bobbing up and down. “What brings you to me humble place o’ business, Tobias? You being such a grand toff these days. La-di-da. But then, I’m a lady if ever there was one. Saw yer oglin’ me at the inquest.” She cleared her throat again, then, forgetting ladylike manners, coughed loudly and spat onto the street.
“Come on, now. Rest yer plates of meat.” Dora flashed an amiable smile and patted the stool next to her.
With lightning speed, Collin plunked himself onto the stool and stared at Dora like a lovesick calf. Stretching out his lanky legs and clasping his hands behind his head, he gave a half-whistle in appreciation of Dora’s beauty. Several caged parrots returned his whistle in kind, but the sound was disgruntled and shrill.
Toby raised an eyebrow at Collin, then began to converse with Dora in a flirtatious tone, trying to wheedle information about Mary Ann Nichols. Behind them, a large parrot in a domed cage made sounds like a purring cat.
Dora extended one gloved hand and placed it on Collin’s thigh, but kept her eyes fastened on Toby. “Yer sly as a fox, Tobias. Don’t be trying to sweet talk me. Even clever boys like you ain’t no match for the likes of me.”
Across the street, the rhubarb man sat eating tea biscuits and bawling out the price of his hawks over the heads of the people walking past.
“T’weren’t trying to sweet talk you, Dora,” Toby laughed.
Just then, a portly man in a bowler hat strolled into Dora’s stall. “You got any talking parrots, little lady?” he asked in an American accent.
“Yes, sir! Right here, sir.” Dora directed his attention to a scarlet parrot perched in the nearest cage.
“Hello, Polly,” Dora sing-songed, waggling a gloved finger at the bird. “And how are you on this here fine morning?”
With the skill of a circus performer, Dora began to bluff the customer by imitating parrot talk. “ ’joyed me breakfas this mawning. ‘joyed me breakfas.”
Dora swiveled back to the man. “Pretty Poll says she enjoyed her breakfast.”
“Hello. Hello.” The bird seemed to squawk, but it was really Dora throwing her voice with the skill of a ventriloquist.
“Listen to Pretty Poll!” Dora cried in feigned amazement. “Pretty Poll? What’s yer name? Tell this nice gent yer name.”
“Pretty Poll. Pretty Poll,” the bird seemed to screech. “Take me home ter the Missus. Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!”
Toby flashed Dora a wide grin. Dora’s voice trick, Toby knew, was made easier due to the large bonnet she wore, the ribbon beneath her chin hiding the warble of muscles up and down her throat. Most Cockneys learned to throw their voices at an early age, but Dora had perfected the art. She barely moved her lips.
“Splendid!” cried the American man. “I’ll take her. It’s providence that this bird should know that my wife has been after me for a talking bird. The missus wants company. And now she’ll have it. How much?”
“Ten bob. Twelve wiff the cage, sir.”
“Twelve shillings is a bit steep.” He frowned and shook his head.
“Well, sir! She’s expensive because she talks. Can’t do better than Pretty Poll. Comes direct from deepest Africa. A rare find, she is. And seeing as she’s me favorite . . . if yer promise to treat her kindly, yer can have Polly wiff ’er cage complete for eleven bob. Ain’t none of me birds as talkative as Pretty Poll, ain’t that right, Poll?” Dora turned to the bird.
“How d’do, I’m Pretty Poll. Take me ’ome to the missus. Take me home. Take me home.”
“Delightful!” cried the man, counting out eleven shillings, plus sixpence for seed. “A true bird of paradise.” He clasped the cage and ambled away, talking to the bird all the while. “Hello there, Pretty Polly. Say how d’do to daddy. Say hello. Don’t be shy.”
“Eeeeeekkkkkkkkkkkk!” squawked the parrot all the way down the lane.
Toby roared with laughter and took off his hat to Dora, a true Cockney compliment.
Dora giggled.
Collin rubbed his chin, watching Polly and the man disappear down the street. “You must be sad to see her go. Takes time to train a bird like that. Sh
e went cheap at eleven shillings. You’ll need to be a shrewder bargainer in the future, Dora.”
“Blimey! Not a bit of it!” Dora swatted her hand playfully against Collin’s sleeve. “That bird’s good for nothink ’cept plucking. Can’t say a blessed thing. Dumb as a doorpost. Got six of ’em, I has, what can’t say a word.” She motioned to her birds. “Me smart one over there I calls Prudence, on account of it’s me favorite name.”
“Mine, too!” Collin seemed overjoyed at the happy coincidence.
Toby glanced at the stall next to Dora’s, stacked with yellow cardboard boxes, each holding a dozen newly hatched chicks. In the stall to the left, Minorcas and Leghorns were selling at seven shillings a box.
Toby took a deep breath. Through a combination of flattery and wheedling, it took him several minutes before he got Dora to open up about the murdered girl.
“Me poor Mary Ann was quite a beauty afore Mad Willy knocked her teeff out.” Dora dabbed at her sparkly eyes.
“Why would anyone do such a dreadful thing?” Collin asked, leaning close.
“Mad Willy was jealous, tha’s why. Mary Ann was getting her fair share of attention from a gentleman toff at the tavern where she worked. Proper gentleman toff he was, too. Mary Ann liked to crow about it every chance she got.” Dora’s face darkened. “Tried putting on airs even wiff me, she did.” Dora shifted her position on the stool so her thigh was touching Collin’s. Then she pitched her voice high in imitation of Mary Ann:
“ ‘Look here, Dora!’ says Mary Ann to me, ‘ain’t I a fine lady now? I got right lovely clothes, a goodly sum of the ready, and me gentleman friend says there’s lots more where that comes from.’ ” The faintest shadow of a smile touched Dora’s lips. “Didn’t do Mary Ann no good now, did it?”
“A toff, you say?” Toby pressed. “You know his name, don’t you?”
“I might and I may and that’s really no rum ’n’ coke,” Dora sing-songed the nursery rhyme. “ ’sides, this toff didn’t want to do the nasty wiff Mary Ann, just wanted to talk wiff ’er. Imagine that! What a lark, getting a bit of money for nothink in return.”
Toby produced a shiny coin from his vest pocket.
A glimmer of a smile crossed Dora’s lips. “Two more of them bob and I’ll tell you right proper.”
Toby tugged out one more coin and, flipping it between his fingers, made the pair dance over and under his knuckles. Dora swiped at the coins and pocketed them.
“Toff’s name be Oscar Wilde. Mr. Oscar Wilde. Proper toff ’e is, too.”
Toby’s eyes went round with surprise. “And the tavern where Mary Ann worked, t’was the Fish and Kettle, eh?”
“Not by a long shot. It be the Cock and Bull on Flower ’n’ Dean, near Brick Lane.”
Toby’s face was inscrutable when he asked, “Do you know Dark Annie?”
“Lor’! Course I do. She be my cousin’s bag o’ strife.”
“His wife?”
“Tha’s right. Afore Rufus Chapman got chived, Dark Annie was his wife. She’s a lucky one. Gets me cousin’s soldier’s pension, she does. Lives like a princess wiff her very own digs over on Broom Street. Lucky girl.”
“Dark Annie . . . is Annie Chapman?”
“Course she is, Toby! Lord, you’re as thick as molasses on a frosty morning.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Death Knells and Fate say the Tower Bells of Traitors’ Gate
The Tower of London was built by William the Conqueror in the year 1078. Featuring a wide moat, and inner and outer fortress walls, the historic castle had alternately been a royal palace, a prison, and a place of execution. With few exceptions it looked precisely as it did in Katie’s own time, including the armory, which held the crown jewels of England.
Katie drew in her breath and stared at the imposing structure, its ramparts gleaming white against the startling grey stones of the battlements. Yesterday Toby and Collin had visited Dora Fowler while Katie sat in the carriage. Today, Toby and Katie were alone. Collin was lunching with Lady Beatrix and Oscar Wilde at the Thespian Club, trying to ascertain why the famous writer had been garnering Mary Ann Nichols’s favors before she was brutally murdered.
Toby gestured. “Admission to see the lions in the royal menagerie, behind that gate there”—he pointed—“is the sum of three half-pence, or the supply of a cat or dog.”
“A cat or a dog?”
“For feeding the lions, leopards, and lynxes.”
“What?” Katie gasped. She was pretty sure there were no animals left behind the castle walls in the twenty-first century, except for the ravens.
“Not to worry, luv. Lady Beatrix is heading the committee for animal welfare. She wants to transport the big cats to the Zoological Society in Regent’s Park.”
“I hope she’s successful.” Katie nodded, but couldn’t contain a shudder thinking about feeding time.
“So you don’t fancy going to the West Tower and paying three half-pence . . . or a dog?” Toby laughed.
“That is not funny.” Katie crossed her arms and made a face. “Can we change the subject, please?”
Toby grinned. “Beatrix wants to feed them grain. Imagine! Feeding a lion barley corn and hay! As the guv’nor would say: Bosh!”
“Tell me about Traitors’ Gate and the Tower,” Katie said, hoping to divert the conversation away from lion food.
“Right. Let’s see . . . what can I tell a Yank that you wouldn’t already know?” He scratched his chin, but there was a spark of humor in his eyes. “Her Majesty doesn’t reside in the Tower of London, like in the old days, but the fortress is still owned by the crown. The outer stone wall completely encloses an inner barricade wall, creating a double defense against attack. Should an enemy attack on English soil, the Queen will be dispatched here for protection.” Toby cleared his throat. “Prisoners arriving at the Tower were brought by boat along the Thames River, there.” He pointed to the gray swath of muddy water rippling against the embankment they were walking upon. “The condemned would first pass under London Bridge, where the severed heads of the recently executed would be displayed on spikes.” With a mischievous grin, he made a slashing gesture across his throat. “Think of the shock of seeing those dangling heads, knowing yours would soon be one of them.”
Toby pointed to a corner tower rising above the muddy moat. “Behind those walls rode kings and knights in shining armor. Lady Jane Grey’s ghost is said to prowl the grounds of the inner fortress. Can’t you just see the jousting tournaments? Medieval ladies tossing their garters? The blazing torches? The chanting? Cockneys say if you listen closely you can hear the echoes of arrows whizzing past, bugles sounding, and the clank of armor weighing down the horses as they thud across the field. Whenever I’m here I always imagine the prisoners mounting the steps to put their heads upon the chopping block. Anne Boleyn, Sir Thomas More, Queen Catherine Howard.”
Toby swiveled his gaze and pointed. “Look there at those slits for windows in the battlement walls. Makes you wonder at all the prisoners who gazed out, praying for their freedom.”
Katie blinked up to where Toby was pointing and had an instant, terrifying image of severed heads on metal spikes, like the ones at Madame Tussauds. She pushed the thought away.
They were almost at Traitors’ Gate. There was a chill in the air and a mist rising off the river to their right. After the Duke’s carriage had dropped them off at Castle Hill, Toby and Katie had walked down to the river and were moving toward Traitors’ Gate, the waterway entrance into the Tower of London.
“Cockneys believe that on chilly days a smoky mist creeps up from the river showing the faces of the executed, mouths crying out for help. Then these apparitions dissolve upward into the battlements. The last thing a convicted traitor would see before his head came off was the flight of a black raven, sacred bird of the Tower.”
“Are you quite done? Because if you’re trying to scare me, you’re not succeeding. I’ve been here before, several times. I probably know as mu
ch of the history of this place as you do.”
“You only arrived in England last week, luv. I was under the impression that this was your first time at the Tower of London.”
“No. I mean, yes. What I mean is, I haven’t actually been here, here. I’ve read about being here. And . . . well . . . there’s a small re-creation of the Tower of London outside Boston, and I’ve been there.”
“Outside Boston?”
“In Concord, Massachusetts. Right next to the Minuteman reenactment of our Revolutionary War,” Katie lied.
Toby shot her a skeptical look. “A re-creation of the Tower of London?”
“It’s kind of smaller. Like a doll house, only bigger.”
“A doll house of the Tower of London in America? Will wonders never cease. You ham shanks amaze me. Are y’ pulling my leg again?” Toby asked, lapsing into his Cockney accent.
“We Yanks amaze ourselves.”
“Why replicate the Tower of London?”
Katie shrugged. “For money, I guess. They charge people to see it. Don’t look so surprised. Someday we Yanks might even replicate London Bridge . . . or buy it out from under you.”
Toby laughed. “Ham shanks owning London Bridge? When monkeys fly to the moon.”
“That, too,” Katie muttered under her breath as Toby took her elbow and steered her forward down the gravel path skirting the water.
“I’d best tell you about the Oracle of Traitors’ Gate. Her name is Mrs. Traitor.” Toby’s voice echoed against the lapping waves.
“Mrs. Traitor? At Traitors’ Gate? Doesn’t that seem a bit—”
“Fanciful?”
“Coincidental?”
“Not a bit of it. Mrs. Fowler, Dora’s mum, goes by the name of Fowler because she sells fowl, as did her mum and her mum before her. Her family name is not Fowler, nor is Dora’s. It’s the way it works. You have your Christian name and your professional name. Lots of the yeoman warders behind these tower walls are known to their mates as “Mr. Yeoman.” Same for tailors, potters, sailors, carters, wheelwrights. It’s the old way of things. The Oracle of Traitors’ Gate has been called Mrs. Tray, short for Traitor, for so long, no one knows her true name. Rumor has it that her ancestors came here to be executed.”
Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller Page 24