by Alex Reeve
Next, a jolly lady sang two very ribald songs, the second about a man who sought shelter in a barn and was seduced by the farmer’s daughters, one by one, until, sapped and skittish, he attempted to escape, only to encounter the farmer’s lusty wife. We joined in with the choruses, swaying from side to side and holding up our glasses.
All except for Peter.
After her, the master of ceremonies came back on. ‘And now,’ he announced, beaming, ‘something more for your … intoxication and delectation! We are very lucky to have an artist with us tonight who is in demand right across London. The little charmer herself, please welcome, Miss … Vesta … Tilley!’
A youthful person sprang on to the stage dressed as a foppish gentleman in a top hat and cravat, except she was quite clearly a woman. I had read about such performers in the newspapers but had never before seen one. She stood at the front, illuminated by a single lamp, and I examined her face, her hips, the length of her shoes, and wondered if I looked anything like that.
She scratched her behind, and the audience rocked with laughter. She removed a handkerchief from her top pocket and calmly dabbed her forehead with it, and we watched, spellbound. There was none of the jovial give and take of the previous acts; she seemed perfectly self-contained and unaffected, as though she were standing under a streetlamp on Piccadilly.
All our eyes were on her and all our tongues were silent.
And then she started to sing.
Her voice was sweet and light, and she made little attempt to deepen it. In fact, despite her masculine clothes, she was curiously pretty. Her first song was an amusing ditty about herself as a young gentleman, drinking in the taverns, losing money at gambling and trying to seduce a serving girl. At this point she wiggled her hips, apparently taking on the personae of both the young man and his belle at the same time. As she reached the final note, the audience cheered, many of them standing, but she barely acknowledged them, instead gazing downwards, calm and still. Only when there was complete quiet, not a chink of a glass nor a murmur of a conversation, would she start again, this time singing about her lost darling, who possessed such beauty and grace she could never love another.
No, I thought, I am nothing like her. She is singular and deft, holding the gaze of an entire audience, who were mostly drunk by this time, using only a gesture or a heartsick pause. Those clothes were part of her pretence, as inauthentic as the beer bottle she was holding.
As she left the stage, we stood as one, clapping wildly.
I hadn’t been taking any notice of Peter, so distracted had I been by Miss Tilley, but he leapt to his feet as well, waving and cheering, calling out for another song. He even started booing when the master of ceremonies came back on to the stage.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!’ the man bellowed, as if it was him we were applauding.
Peter sighed deeply, still gazing at the side door through which the girl had left.
Now I knew the truth; the poor clod was in love.
I was about to leave when the next act came on, a man wearing a vast pink dress and bonnet, carrying a live lamb in his arms. He didn’t have quite the charisma of Miss Tilley, but he made up for it in volume and scale.
He sang a song about how his poor, innocent sheep had been stolen away in the night by a fierce creature with strong thighs, a deep voice and such muscular intent that, no matter how desperately he protested, he hadn’t been able to repel it. Apparently, this metaphor was too subtle for many of the audience, and they became restless. The fellow in front of me called out, ‘The sheep’s right there, you bunter!’ and flicked the dregs of his drink at the stage.
A few people laughed. The shepherdess stopped singing and carefully put down the lamb. The wag was still enjoying the joke with his friends and didn’t see the shepherdess climb down, picking his way with a daintiness worthy of the best-brought-up lady. The wag was therefore surprised to find, as he turned back, a fist travelling with some force into his face, and he would have landed in my lap if I hadn’t jumped out of the way. As it was, he sprawled at my feet in a puddle of beer, some of which had been mine, with blood already spreading from his nose across his cheek.
His friends pulled him back on to his feet but wisely made no attempt to exact retribution from the shepherdess, such was the latter’s imposing height and girth, made somehow more impressive by the dignity with which he straightened his bonnet and fixed the lace around his neckline. He proceeded back to the stage, accompanied by a great roar from the rest of the audience, who were thereafter fully attentive to his act.
Peter drained his glass and stood up unsteadily, edging towards the door, ignoring the calls that he and his flashy hat should get out of the way and stop spoiling the view of decent folks who’d paid for their ticket the same as him; though, of course, he hadn’t paid, which I still found curious. I was about to follow him out, when I froze.
The shepherdess had started his song again, trilling about the rampant creature he’d been unable to deny. He extended a long, high note, and shrank back in an imitation of demure fear, his hands shielding his face as the creature itself came on to the stage, growling, stamping and pawing the air, glaring at the audience with eyes that might have been terrifying, had they not been sewn on.
The audience cheered and whooped, but I didn’t. I sat there with my mouth open.
The creature was a lion.
15
The lion and the shepherdess danced around the stage. The shepherdess protected her modesty while the lion thrust and swaggered, at one point twirling his tail in his paw and whipping her behind with it. Finally, she gave in, lying back on the stage, legs spread, while the audience, now all on their feet, screamed their encouragement.
I’d seen enough and blundered out through the foyer, almost falling into the yard. I gulped in cold air and lifted my face to the rain.
Was it possible that Ciara had seen a man in a lion suit? It seemed absurd, and yet there he was, with gloves for paws and a mane made of wool, his real eyes peeping through the lion’s mouth. She had said the creature had been standing on its hind legs. That answer made more sense than an actual lion loose in London.
At the main road, I heard a low groan from under a jerry-shop awning. Someone was curled up in the doorway, and I realised it was Peter Thackery. As far as I could tell, he was fast asleep, hugging his shiny top hat. He wouldn’t stay that way. The first person who came past with ill intent would have that hat, and his wallet, jacket, shoes and anything else that could be sold for more than a farthing. He would be left naked or, quite possibly, dragged off somewhere and stuck with a knife.
I couldn’t abandon him.
I prodded him with my foot, and he stirred, opening his eyes.
‘Oh,’ he said, and was sick on the pavement.
‘Are you all right?’
He raised himself on to all fours, gagging again, this time without production. When he seemed to be finished, I pulled him upright, and he sagged against the wall, sweating and blinking.
‘I think I’ve had too much to drink,’ he slurred. ‘I was at the music hall.’ He thumbed back towards the alleyway. ‘There’s a girl there I want to—’
‘Yes, I’m sure. But you should get home now, don’t you think?’
He shook his head and waggled a finger at me. ‘Not home.’
‘Well, you can’t stay here. You’ll be robbed for certain.’
‘Are you going to rob me?’
He looked quite forlorn and, more than ever, I was reminded of Aiden. It was impossible to believe they weren’t brothers. Or half-brothers.
‘No. Where do you need to go?’
‘School. I should be there now, but …’
He bent down and was sick again. At least it might sober him up, I thought.
‘Where is your school?’
He spat on to the pavement. ‘Harrow.’
‘Oh, good grief.’
Harrow was miles from here, much farther than any cab would take
him.
‘Train,’ he mumbled. ‘From the station. That’s how I go there. By train.’
I remembered that the Metropolitan Railway had recently been extended to the north-west of London, branching into the suburbs like a shoot of wisteria.
He managed to stay standing while I hailed a cab and virtually pushed him inside. He fell along the seat, his eyes closed. I sighed and climbed in behind him.
‘Baker Street Station,’ I called up to the driver.
We set off, joggling over the cobbles.
Peter blinked a couple of times and half opened his eyes. ‘Peter Thackery,’ he said, pronouncing each syllable with studious care. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Leo Stanhope. I noticed you at the music hall.’
‘Ah!’ He sat straighter. ‘You saw her then. Miss Vesta Tilley. Isn’t she a marvel?’
‘Yes, she is. Have you seen her before?’
‘Many times. Many, many times. I want to dance with her. I love dancing, you know.’
‘Do you indeed?’ He was looking a little pale again, so I pulled down the window on his side. ‘If you’re going to vomit again, do it there.’
‘And then I intend to marry her.’
‘Oh, I see. Does she know?’
He swallowed and sat still, allowing the cool breeze to blow on his face. ‘I haven’t spoken to her yet.’
‘You mean you haven’t spoken to her about marriage, or you haven’t spoken to her at all?’
He took a deep breath and closed the window. ‘At all.’
Youthful love, I thought, is like a leap from a great height. You tumble and spin in joyous descent, but the end is always the same.
‘You’re a young gentleman,’ I said, trying to be kind. ‘Your father may not be happy with such a match.’
‘Do you know him?’ He adopted a mockingly pompous voice, reminding me of a character in a musical play I’d once seen half of, who had wanted to ‘rule the Queen’s Navee’. ‘He’s Sir Reginald Thackery, the most famous industrialist.’
‘I’ve met him, very briefly. He didn’t seem like an indulgent man.’
‘I don’t care. If necessary, I shall join Miss Tilley on the stage, and we’ll travel the land playing to audiences who appreciate our art and our love.’ He attempted to put his hat on, which wasn’t possible in the confines of the cab. ‘Father can go to hell. If he won’t let me marry her, he’s an ass.’ He was unwittingly concurring with John’s opinion of their father. ‘Worse than an ass. He’s the shit of an ass. He’s a maggot in the shit of an ass. No, he’s the shit of a maggot in the—’
‘All right, I understand.’ We were almost at the station. ‘Do you know which train you need?’
‘It’s the last stop on the line and I can walk at the other end. It’s not far.’ He grinned amiably, if rather lopsidedly. ‘I just have to get into the school without them noticing. Frightfully strict.’
I found myself liking this young man, and not only because he so closely resembled Aiden. He seemed to take each minute as it came, with a sort of casual disregard. I envied him his recklessness.
We drew to a halt and he stumbled out, blinking. ‘You don’t think Father … I mean, if I married Miss Tilley … you don’t think he’d cut me off, do you?’
I couldn’t tell whether he was truly serious about all this. Did he really believe he might marry a music-hall singer, or was he just playing at believing it? I looked into his eyes, searching for something truthful in them. They were watery and red, and impossible to read.
‘Does that matter? If you marry her, you can dance with her every night. Do you truly need money, if you have love?’
He stood still for a few seconds, gripping on to the wheel arch, and then handed his pound note to the driver. ‘Take this gentleman wherever he wants to go,’ he said. ‘Anywhere at all. Damn fine chap.’
‘Little Pulteney Street, please,’ I told the driver, as Peter reached in through the window to shake my hand.
‘You’re a bloody good Samaritan, if you ask me,’ he said.
I worked the following day. My foreman said he was glad I had recovered from my fever, though I still looked unhealthy to him. I didn’t find this surprising; I felt exhausted.
When my shift ended, I hurried out into the dusk. I was looking forward to telling Rosie what I’d learned.
By the time I reached her shop, my stomach was starting to rumble in anticipation. She produced a beautiful pie from under the counter, russet and gold with a tiny touch of black where the gravy had bubbled up through the crust. It was still warm to the touch.
‘Pigeon and potato,’ she said. ‘That’ll be sixpence.’
‘I thought you said it’d be half price?’
‘This one’s normally a shilling.’
‘Every other pie in the place is sixpence.’
She shrugged. ‘If you don’t want it, give it back.’
I took the pie.
‘Are you sure you want to come with me, Rosie?’
She looked down, buttoning her coat, and when she looked up again, she wouldn’t meet my eye.
‘Don’t be silly.’
We left the shop as evening was descending, shrouding the streets in cobweb-white mist. I explained, through mouthfuls, about the man in a lion costume, John’s disappearance and Peter’s love for a singer, pausing occasionally to tell Rosie that she truly was the best pie-maker in London.
‘There must be more than one lion costume in the city,’ she said. ‘There are dozens of theatres. It could be a coincidence.’
‘It could,’ I agreed. ‘That’s why we’re going to the music hall. We need to find out for certain.’
When we got to the alley, the music hall hadn’t yet opened for business. We waited outside in the patch of light coming from an upstairs window, where two amiable young women with deeply scooped necklines and bare arms were watching us.
After a few minutes, a man arrived in a cloak and top hat. It took me a moment to realise he was the master of ceremonies. He’d been so dramatic, so larger than life, on the stage, it was peculiar to see him here, in this dull alley. He was shorter than me and, close up, his cloak was fraying, and his tailcoat was old and tatty.
He doffed his hat to us and unlocked the door. As it swung closed behind him, Rosie darted forwards and caught it.
‘You see?’ she said. ‘I told you we were better at this together.’
She slipped inside, so I was spared having to admit she was right. The truth was, she thought of things I didn’t and was able to see the world in a different way; a bull-headed, infuriating way, to be sure, but it did sometimes yield results.
There was a narrow hallway and stairs leading up, presumably to apartments above. Ahead of us was an open door. A man came through it, so stooped that his back was higher than his neck. He wasn’t wearing a shirt or undershirt, and his chest was matted with thick white hair, like a goat.
‘Auditions were this afternoon,’ he said.
‘Oh no, we’re not—’
But Rosie interrupted me. ‘Of course. We’re very sorry. We were delayed. Is there someone in charge we could speak to about a future date?’
‘We’ve got all we need. What’s your act?’
We exchanged a glance.
‘Singing,’ I said.
‘Everyone’s a bloody singer. Nothing for you here.’
‘This is different,’ I insisted. ‘She dresses as a man. I’m her manager.’
Rosie turned and glared at me, but it did the trick. The old fellow looked us up and down, nodding thoughtfully, his gaze resting longest on Rosie. ‘You might do, darling. Ladygents are very popular these days.’ He waved a hand in my direction, without removing his eyes from Rosie’s chest. ‘Ask for Mr Black. You can’t miss ’im.’
The corridor was quiet. A couple of doors were open, one revealing a girl lying across an armchair, one foot on the floor and the other propped up on a cushion, exposing the white flesh of her calf. She looked up at us briefly and
went back to inspecting her fingernails.
The last door bore the letters ‘P. B.’ and was closed. I knocked quietly.
Inside, a voice called: ‘Come in.’
A large man was sitting at a desk with his back to us, occupying his chair like a loaf of bread overflowing its tin. On his desk was a bottle of Vin Mariani, half full, and he took a swig directly from it.
‘Mr Black?’
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
His desk was covered with costumes and props: a fan, a lamp, some wooden owls and a china doll that made me shudder. Underneath, the lamb was fast asleep. Behind us, a metal pole had been lodged horizontally between the picture rails, and costumes were hanging from it: a vast frock, an apron and a light brown coat with a fur collar.
Rosie tugged on my sleeve and pointed.
She was right; what I had taken for a coat was actually the lion costume.
Mr Black still had his back to us, so I quietly spun the costume on its hanger. The head was a sort of hood, stuffed in the cheeks, pinched along either side of the nose and folded into little circles for ears. The stitching was poor and oft-repaired, and the material was scuffed and threadbare.
Mr Black turned, taking a deep breath that seemed to flow through his whole body. I thought I recognised him but couldn’t think from where.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, his hand enveloping my own. ‘Please tell me you’re not singers.’
Rosie gave me a severe look and a brisk shake of the head, indicating that under no circumstances was I to maintain the pretence that she would perform as a male impersonator.
‘I’m Mr Stanhope, and this is Mrs Flowers,’ I said. ‘We have some questions about a murder. The killer may have worn a lion costume like this one.’
Rosie shifted in her chair and pursed her lips, apparently of the view that I had been too blunt, as usual.
