by Alex Reeve
Black looked from me to Rosie and back again. ‘Murdered? Are you being serious or is this part of your act?’
‘There’s no act,’ said Rosie. ‘We just want to ask you some questions, that’s all. We won’t take up much of your time.’
Black sighed and glanced at the clock on his mantelpiece. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
He took us through a further door and into the theatre itself, which was dark but for a single lamp hanging over the stage. Close up, the trailing vines and painted backdrop were ill-made and old, covered with dust. He perched on the edge of the stage and we sat opposite him in chairs as if we were his audience.
‘I hate that office,’ he muttered. ‘Too hot with the fire lit, but it’s the only one we have, so the others insist. Their poor little toes get cold.’ His features fitted his face, large and fulsome, but he had sad, chestnut eyes, like a dog too old to chase rats. ‘Stanhope, did you say? I’ve heard your name before.’
‘When?’
He took a pull on his cigarette, blowing smoke into the wings of the stage, watching it fade in the shadows. ‘Let’s get to know each other before we divulge all our mysteries, shall we? You were here yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, amazed that he could remember one man among so many.
‘I have a gift for faces.’ He examined a bandage on his right hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. ‘You were sitting behind that cock, weren’t you? He got what was coming to him.’
That was why I recognised Black. It was him under the make-up, dress and petticoats.
‘You’re the shepherdess!’ I exclaimed.
He bowed his head. ‘Peregrine Black, singer and impresario. And a painter too, once in a while.’
He indicated the walls of the theatre, which were hung with large, gilt-framed pictures. The nearest was of a couple gazing into each other’s eyes, and the next was of a singer, her arm extended as she reached for a high note. They were a little florid for my taste, but he had a gift, no doubt.
‘You’re very talented,’ said Rosie, with what sounded like genuine admiration. ‘Is this your establishment?’
His mouth twitched into a smile. ‘No, I’m just the manager. An employee. Who was murdered?’
‘A woman named Dora Hannigan.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
I sat forwards in my chair. ‘Have you heard of her?’
‘I read the newspapers. It sounded awful.’
‘What wasn’t publicised was that her young daughter saw it happen. She said the killer was a man in a lion costume.’
‘Well, that’s even more awful.’ He tapped his cigarette on the edge of a bowl. ‘No child should see something like that.’
‘Who wears that costume on stage? I saw it yesterday evening.’
He considered my question, rubbing his shoulder, which seemed to be causing him pain. ‘It varies. Last night it was Finlay, who does the birdcalls as well. We were short and there was no one else. He hates doing it, but those wretched birdcalls.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If he wasn’t willing to be the lion as well, I wouldn’t book him; I’d rather have another intermission. I doubt he’s a murderer, though, unless you count boring the audience to death.’
‘Do other people wear it sometimes?’
He shrugged. ‘Everything depends on the running order. The role’s not difficult. All you have to do is look fierce and steal my innocence.’
Rosie didn’t blanch. ‘And it’s never kept anywhere but here? It’s never laundered, for example?’
He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Never. We probably should, as it stinks. Finlay sweats like a ham. We used to have a lovely one with proper claws and a horsehair mane. Very realistic.’
‘What happened to it?’ I asked.
‘Stolen, more’s the pity. You really can’t trust performers.’
‘When was that?’ I felt as if I was within touching distance of the truth.
He pondered, smoke drifting out of his nose. His cigarette was sweet, giving the auditorium a languid, other-worldly air.
‘It must’ve been the twenty-third of last month. I remember because the music hall was closed. The owner had some of his friends over and wanted them entertained at his house. The lighting was terrible and there was nowhere to get ready. It takes time and effort for me to become Miss Amaryllis, but nobody cares. They think it’s easy to turn into somebody else.’
‘Who is the owner? And who played the lion that evening, when the other costume was stolen?’
He examined my face, sensing my keenness. I could feel his mind turning.
‘Sir Reginald Thackery owns our little enterprise,’ he said. ‘He bought it last year, more’s the pity.’
I admit I was surprised. Sir Reginald didn’t seem the type to own a place like this; he was far too priggish. But now I thought about it, Peter Thackery had been able to swan in without paying. The doorman had greeted him by name.
‘I didn’t realise Sir Reginald was interested in the music hall,’ I said slowly.
Black laughed. ‘Hardly.’
‘Then why?’
‘To remake the world as he wishes it to be, Mr Stanhope.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Black massaged his shoulder again, wincing a little. He peeled back his shirt at the collar, revealing pale, puffy flesh and a vivid red stripe. It reminded me of the grazes under my armpits where my cilice rubbed against my skin. I realised what had caused it: the heavy brassiere he wore on stage.
He blew another lungful of smoke into the air. I had seen him lay out a man with one punch, and yet he held his cigarette with the delicacy of a child about to release a butterfly.
‘The masses go to church on Sundays and work every other day of the week, so where are they to enjoy a little frivolity, Mr Stanhope? At the music hall, of course. Have a few drinks, a singalong and a laugh at the upper classes and their careless ways.’ He exhaled another puff of smoke. It was making me feel drowsy and I wondered what was in it. ‘Sir Reginald doesn’t like that sort of thing. It doesn’t show due respect to people like himself.’
‘You mean he bought the music hall to make sure there were no acts that criticised the upper classes? That seems rather extreme, wouldn’t you say?’
Black blinked languidly, taking his time. ‘Men like him control the churches and the factories, so why not the music halls as well? Keeps everyone in line. You saw my act? That’s what he wants more of. Brawny lions and birdcalls, and nothing that’ll get the hoi polloi too riled up.’
‘What about the young lady dressed as a man?’ I asked. ‘Miss Tilley. She was mocking the upper classes, surely.’
‘That was because Peter Thackery likes her. He’s Sir Reggie’s other son. Spoony as a turtle dove.’
‘Why do you say Sir Reginald’s other son? Do you know John Thackery?’
A look crossed his face that I couldn’t quite identify: gentle and yet mournful at the same time.
‘Of course. His father owns the place.’
A suspicion started to form in my mind.
‘That’s how you knew my name. John told you.’
‘Very good, Mr Stanhope.’ He inclined his head in a half-bow.
The suspicion moved almost physically from my mind to my stomach, where it hardened like clay in an oven.
‘You’ve been very open with us, Mr Black. Are you not worried we’ll pass on your views to Sir Reginald?’
He snuffed out his cigarette and lit another, taking his time.
‘Well, firstly, he already knows what I think. I’ve never been shy with my opinions, and as soon as he can find someone else to run this place I’ll be out on my arse. And secondly, I don’t think you will, Mr Stanhope.’
He placed a slight emphasis on the ‘Mr’, and my suspicion was confirmed. John Thackery had told him about me.
One more person knew my secret.
One more person might use that secret against me.
16
There was a knoc
k at the door, and a young woman entered, carrying a baby wrapped up in a blue shawl. She stopped and bobbed her head as one accustomed to servility.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Black. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘No, not at all.’ He turned to us. ‘This is Mr Stanhope and Mrs … Flowers, wasn’t it? This is my wife, Miranda.’
She shook our hands. ‘You’re blessed with such a pretty name, Mrs Flowers. Not that I mind being a Black, of course.’
She was rather sweet, I thought, with a hamsterish face and milky smell. She was much younger than her husband; probably not yet twenty. I wondered what she thought of him appearing on stage every night dressed as a shepherdess.
She handed him a purse. ‘For the bar float,’ she said. ‘Mr Johnson’s counted it.’
‘Thank you.’
He kissed her on the forehead and touched the cheek of the baby, who jerked awake, blinked twice and flopped on to its mother’s shoulder again.
After they had gone, Black lay back on the stage, so all we could see were his legs, dangling down.
‘How long have you been doing this, Mr Black?’ I asked.
‘Twenty years, nearly. I started out as a singer with a top hat and cane but couldn’t make a living at it. They always stuck me on first or after the intermission when everyone’s still at the bar. One day someone didn’t show up, so I took his place as a maiden in love, whose beau has gone off to war. Then I was a lusty lady for a while, with a limp husband, and after that a duchess, seduced by her charming coachman. We had a prop carriage for that one and wheeled it across the stage on ropes. The audience loved it. There were two of us in those days, but he died. A little too fond of his opium. So, I was alone again, and became Miss Amaryllis.’ He used his shepherdess voice: ‘Terrified of the powerful lion and what he might do to my helpless lambs.’
‘Do you prefer acting as a woman? On stage, I mean.’
I could feel Rosie watching me out of the corner of her eye. I had strayed from what we came to find out, but I needed to know. What motivated this huge man to perform every night as he did? He appeared almost to despise it.
‘I don’t act as a woman, Mr Stanhope,’ he said. ‘If I did that, the audience would walk out straight away. They’d want their money back, and probably complain to the police. Reality is a bit too sharp for them. Reality isn’t funny.’ He sat up and rapped on the wood with his knuckles. ‘The joke is that I’m a man who’s pretending to be a woman, and not doing it very well. That’s what makes them giggle.’
He and Miss Tilley were the same, in a way, using the incongruity of their gender and their clothing to raise a laugh. What meant life and death to me was mere charade to them.
‘What else can you tell us, Mr Black?’ asked Rosie.
He paused, and I caught that look again; as though he’d been carrying a great burden and was almost ready to put it down.
‘John and I sometimes meet.’ He glanced towards the door his wife had left through. ‘In private, you understand. I want to paint him. His portrait.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not yet. I’ve done some sketches, that’s all. He’s a little reluctant.’
‘Why?’
He sighed and indicated the paintings hung on the walls. ‘Those are just for decoration, to add to the atmosphere. I don’t bring my real work to this place to be swilled with ale. You see …’ he breathed out smoke through his nose, making us wait for the punchline like the stage performer he was ‘… I mostly do nudes.’
‘You want to paint John Thackery … in the nude?’
I could feel Rosie tense beside me, and I supposed I must have reacted as well. I admit I was a little shocked. I had seen nude paintings and sculptures before, of course, but they always seemed to belong to another world, long ago and far away.
‘Oh, Mr Stanhope, Mrs Flowers, there’s no need to be so indignant. It’s art. George Frederick Watts does it, so why shouldn’t I?’ He stared wistfully at his pictures on the wall and sniffed, apparently finding them deficient. ‘John and I were supposed to meet here after yesterday’s performance, but he didn’t turn up. It’s not like him. He seems to have disappeared, like my bloody sheep.’ He smiled, his anxiety hidden beneath the feeble joke rather as a mountain is hidden beneath a scattering of snow.
‘Is it unusual for him to miss an appointment?’ asked Rosie.
‘Well, you know he plays at politics at that vile little club on Rose Street? He uses a false name for some reason, as if anyone cares who anyone else used to be.’
He shuddered, and I thought perhaps he’d remembered that Leo Stanhope wasn’t the name I was born with. But then I caught something else in his expression and wondered whether his parents had truly christened him Peregrine and whether their surname had been Black. No, I thought, you are a construction of your own making. You were someone else, once upon a time.
‘What of it?’ I asked.
‘I’m worried they found out he’s a Thackery and took revenge.’ Despite his obvious concern, he couldn’t resist rolling the ‘r’.
‘I saw him yesterday afternoon,’ I said. ‘He seemed perfectly healthy then.’
I didn’t mention that I’d followed John, nor that I’d lost him near his father’s house.
Black sighed deeply, his concern assuaged a little.
‘If you see him again, tell him to visit me as soon as he can,’ he said. ‘Or at least send me a note. I worry terribly when I don’t hear anything.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But you still haven’t told us who played the lion that night at Sir Reginald’s house or how the costume was stolen.’
‘No one played the lion that night. Sir Reginald told us it was too risqué for his important chums. Their wives would be shocked, apparently. As if they didn’t get up to the same things in the bedroom. Not with their husbands, obviously.’ He smiled, but it was thin and reflexive, not reaching his eyes. ‘When we got back here, the lion costume was nowhere to be seen, so we’ve had to go back to using that old thing. And we’re two guineas out of pocket too.’
Rosie and I made our way out of the alley and into the slums around Farringdon, where the local populace was gathering in doorways or sitting on the pavement, many of them drunk already. Most likely they had no choice but to be outside while their beds were occupied by other people, sharing the rent. No more than a mile from this spot, among the blossoming trees of Mayfair, fat aristocrats were staggering from their carriages and into their homes, ready for a nap before supper. Who could blame men without wages for wanting a little revolution?
We had reached Chancery Lane before either of us spoke.
‘There’s plenty Mr Black’s not telling us, I daresay,’ Rosie said. ‘Could it have been him?’
‘Certainly, although it could also be anyone in the company or the Thackery household, not to mention anyone else who might’ve crept in. That is even assuming the murderer was wearing a lion suit, which is a ridiculous notion. We only have a six-year-old’s word for it.’
‘You’re not inclined to narrow the field just yet then?’
I caught an amused tone in her voice. I supposed I had sounded rather curmudgeonly.
‘Dora Hannigan was buried at the club,’ I said, in a gentler tone. ‘There must be a reason for that. It’s not a coincidence. I think we have to go back there.’
‘She lived in the club, though, and taught their children to read and write. She was one of their own. If one of them did something to her then … well, I don’t know. It would be a true evil, is what I’m saying.’
Rosie had the strongest sense of justice of anyone I knew; if someone had done a bad thing, she wanted them to pay for it, no matter who they were.
‘The wake is tomorrow afternoon,’ I said. ‘Will you meet me at three o’clock at the pharmacy? There’s something I have to do first.’
‘What is it?’ She peered at me from under her hat, her green eyes glinting in the lamplight. ‘You look … scared, is it? What’s wro
ng, Leo?’
‘No, not scared. I have to visit someone tomorrow and I’m not looking forward to it, that’s all.’
I didn’t tell her it was my father I would be visiting, to fulfil my half of the deal with Jane.
As Rosie and I parted, I found I didn’t know what to say to her. I couldn’t find the right words. A simple cheerio would have sufficed, but instead we shuffled about like two fools, nodding and smiling, until our own ridiculousness overwhelmed us and we walked away in opposite directions. Apparently, we were able to search for a killer together, but not manage the simplest of farewells.
I wasn’t far from Jacob’s home on Shoe Lane. Despite his cantankerous nature, he often had a perspective on things I hadn’t previously considered. Plus, I knew I would miss chess tomorrow for Dora Hannigan’s wake, and he would be miserable without me there. He had no patience with the other members of the club and was unbearable if he had to play one of them, growing restless when they moved too quickly, or too slowly, or wore a scarf he found distracting.
It was Lilya who opened the door, with her little dog bustling around her feet.
‘Hello, Lilya,’ I said.
‘Leo.’
She put out a hand, which I took. ‘Why does he always make you come downstairs?’ I asked. ‘You might trip and fall. He should come down.’
She laughed and smoothed her greying hair. ‘He makes me do nothing. I can’t go out no more, but I can still answer my own door.’
Her face was round and gentle, and her eyes were wise, despite being almost blind. She could tell a bright light from darkness, and claimed she could still see her own hands, although I sometimes wondered if her mind was convincing her that she could discern what she could not. But still, she was able to navigate their home by the tips of her fingers, feeling her way like a cat uses its whiskers, and she could cook as well as ever, and play her guitar. It was one of my great pleasures, to watch her tune it, plucking a note and turning the little screw, her failing eyes closed and her mouth twitching as though the vibration of the string was travelling all the way through her.
