by Alex Reeve
21
I woke up in the back room of the pharmacy, lying on the table.
Constance was looking down at me, her face a picture of concentration. She hadn’t realised I was awake and was holding my forehead with one hand and a curved needle in the other, a loop of thread hanging down close to my left eye.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, trying my damnedest to pronounce the words, but my mouth didn’t seem to be working properly.
‘Stitches,’ she said, and I could see the needle spearing towards my eyebrow. ‘Hold still. I was hoping to finish while you were still concussed.’
‘Where are Aiden and Ciara?’
Another voice answered, a man I didn’t recognise. ‘I’m sorry. I chased after that carriage, but I was too late.’
I felt a hollowness open up in my stomach. They had been taken from me. How could I have let this happen? I should have found a way to keep them safe. I should have laid down my life.
‘I don’t want stitches.’
I could still feel the smallness of Ciara’s foot pushed up against me while she slept, and could see Aiden’s stern eyes under his fringe.
‘You’re lucky,’ said the male voice. ‘She’s done them very neatly.’
‘It was Mr Stanhope who showed me how,’ said Constance, with a note of pride. ‘When Colly hurt her paw.’ I tried to sit up, but she pushed me down again. ‘One more to go. I have some chloral hydrate, if you’d like. It’ll help with the pain.’
‘No, thank you.’
Tempting as it was, I couldn’t sink into that black water. Not now.
‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘But this will hurt.’
She winced as she pushed the needle through my skin.
The agony opened up like a flower. I welcomed it. I deserved it. When I unclenched my fists, there were red welts in my palms where I’d dug in my fingernails.
Constance tied two knots in the thread.
‘Thank you,’ I croaked. ‘I have to leave now.’
I tried again to sit up, but the room wavered and slid around me. A pair of hands lowered me back down and cushioned my head.
‘Slowly, old man, you need to rest. You’ve had a nasty bash. That copper might’ve killed you if the crowd hadn’t stopped him.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Harry Whitford.’
On his lap, he was holding a brown felt hat.
‘Did you say Whitford? Like the journalist?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, you’ve met my father, J. T., I believe? You can call me Harry. It saves confusion. May I call you Leo?’
‘You’ve been following me, Harry.’
‘You’re an interesting man.’ He gave me a little bow, a gesture of respect. ‘You’ve shown an ability to uncover the truth, even when the police are stumped. My father said to keep an eye on you.’
My head was throbbing as though something inside it was growing and would soon burst out. I gingerly prodded the back of my skull and found my hair was greasy with blood.
‘I’m not interesting.’
‘Our readers disagree.’ He handed me a flask. ‘It’s rough as hell but it does the trick.’
Very slowly, I sat up and took a swig. The liquid tasted metallic in my mouth, burning down my throat. For a second, I thought he’d poisoned me, but then a warmth spread through my chest.
Constance frowned. ‘Salicin would be better. What you really need is rest, Mr Stanhope, like Mr Whitford says.’
She started dabbing my face and hair. Gradually, the white cloth turned pink.
‘Where’s Alfie?’
‘He’s out.’
Her expression of disgust told me he was with Mrs Gower. It was probably just as well. I had promised him I would find a new place to live and instead was having a head wound stitched by his daughter. He wouldn’t be pleased.
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I need to find Aiden and Ciara.’
Harry put his hand out for the flask, tipping it up and swilling the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing.
‘How? Are you going to knock on every door in London? Look at the state of you.’
He was right, of course. They had been kidnapped for a reason, and that reason must be connected to the murder of their mother. I needed to think. But my mind wouldn’t come into focus. I felt as though I was looking at the world through gauze.
‘A couple of questions, if you don’t mind, Leo.’ He had his notebook and pen at the ready. ‘How old are you, and where are you from?’
‘He’s from Enfield, aren’t you, Mr Stanhope?’ said Constance, smiling winningly at the young man. ‘He’s the son of a vicar.’
‘Wait, stop.’ My tightly wound world was starting to unravel. ‘No questions. I don’t want to appear in your newspaper.’
‘Ah, well, it might be a bit late for that.’ I caught a note of something in his voice. He handed me a copy of the Daily Chronicle. ‘My guess is this was what the police wanted to talk to you about.’
I opened it up and he pointed to the front-page story, but I could barely make out the words. Constance took it out of my hands and started reading aloud.
‘“Police Seek Help Solving Murder at Anarchists’ Club”. That’s the headline, Mr Stanhope. “The murder of Miss Dora Hannigan, found buried in a shallow grave at the Rose Street Club, a haven for anarchists and” … is that “foreigners”? Yes, foreigners … “in Soho, remains unsolved. The police appear to have made little progress beyond app-re-hend-ing Mr Edwin Cowdery, a known felon, for different crimes, those of tres-pass-ing at a mill in the East End and plotting to set fire to it.” That sounds awful.’
‘Please continue,’ said Harry. ‘You haven’t got to the good bit yet.’
‘Yes, of course. “Following its own enquiries, the Daily Chronicle understands the police have sought the help of am-a-teur detective Mr Leo Stanhope.” Gosh, isn’t that a thing, you’re an amateur detective! “Mr Stanhope was in-stru-men-tal in solving two previous murders that readers may recall: those of Mr James Bentinck and Miss Maria Mills. In those cases, the per-pe-trators” … does that mean criminals?’
‘Yes.’
‘“The perpetrators were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Mr Stanhope is now investigating the murder of Miss Hannigan and has been seen at the Rose Street Club and elsewhere. The citizens of our city can sleep soundly knowing the murderer will soon be brought to justice now that Mr Stanhope is on the case!” Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
I took the newspaper from her and forced my eyes to focus, reading with a growing sense of dread. There was more, much more, casting me in a heroic light, implying I was poised at every moment to solve crimes the police were too lazy or incompetent to address. I felt sick. This exposure was dangerous; my whole life consisted of secrecy.
‘Did you write this?’ I stammered.
Harry Whitford nodded. ‘My first front page. I don’t suppose the police were very keen on it, though.’ He grinned proudly, unbothered by my discomfort. ‘I know there’s more to the story if you’re willing to tell me. A woman was murdered and now her children have been kidnapped. Not to mention John Duport has disappeared without a trace. You must tell me everything.’
I climbed off the table, feeling unstable, but just about capable of walking.
Constance glared at me. ‘You shouldn’t go anywhere except to bed, Mr Stanhope. But if you absolutely must, I’ll go with you.’
‘Certainly not. Why aren’t you at school, anyway?’
Alfie would be vexed that I had allowed her to stitch my wound, but that would feel like a mild breeze compared with the tempest of his anger if I took her with me to search for two kidnapped children.
Constance folded her arms. ‘It’s lunchtime.’
Harry sucked on his pen. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Never you mind. But if I can’t find Aiden and Ciara, you can write another story for your newspaper, front page, offering a reward. I’ll give twenty pounds for their return, or an
y information about their whereabouts. No, make it fifty. Will that be enough, do you think?’
He made a few more squiggles in his notebook. ‘More than. A couple of months ago, we offered a ten-shilling reward for the recovery of a lady’s pure-bred dog. We got lots of replies.’
‘Good.’
‘Not really. Every beggar in London turned up with some mangy hound. Couldn’t move for ’em. The place still smells of shit and I’m pretty sure I’ve got fleas.’ He scratched his head. ‘And we never did find the lady’s bloody dog.’
As I limped down to Piccadilly to get a cab, every part of me felt sore. Blood kept dripping into my eye. All the time I was thinking: they cannot be dead. They simply cannot. I clung to the belief that if whoever had taken them had wanted to kill them, they would have been shot as soon as they came out of that alley.
A dull ache formed in my stomach that grew, almost crippling me. I had to stop and crouch down, fearful I was rupturing something in my insides.
‘Stop being so bloody feeble,’ I mumbled out loud.
Nothing mattered except getting Aiden and Ciara back with me, where they belonged. And I knew I couldn’t do it on my own.
At Rosie’s shop, there was a queue of customers: mothers with small children and working men from the printing presses. Rosie didn’t greet me, and instead showed uncharacteristic patience while a lady dithered between chicken with peas and duck with spinach.
I heard a child’s voice and whirled round, certain it was Ciara, but it turned out to be a small boy, the son of a customer. I had to lean on the counter for support.
‘Rosie,’ I muttered, earning an irritated glance from the ditherer.
‘Wait your turn please, Mr Stanhope.’ Rosie punished me with a formal smile, without really looking at me, and returned to her customer. ‘What about a nice lamb and dill, special for Easter?’
‘Someone’s kidnapped Aiden and Ciara,’ I said.
She looked me straight in the eyes, her previous reserve evaporating. ‘Are they all right? Who has them?’
‘I don’t know. They were taken in a carriage by someone with a gun. I need your help, Rosie.’
‘A gun? Mother of God.’ She undid her apron and hung it on a hook. ‘Why didn’t you say so before, instead of waiting there like an idiot?’
She disappeared into the back of the shop and returned a few seconds later wearing a coat and hat and holding a flannel, which she tossed in my direction.
‘You’re bleeding. What happened to you?’
I wiped the blood from my eye and cheek. ‘A policeman.’
She seemed to accept that answer as part of the natural order of things.
‘We’ll start with Sir Reginald Thackery,’ I said. ‘He might have them.’
In truth, he was the only person I could think of. It had to be him.
Rosie let me get a cab for once. Indeed, she went out to the junction at Farringdon Street and hailed one herself, which proved how appalling my injury must have looked.
For most of the journey we sat in silence, looking out of opposite windows, but as we were passing the Holborn Union Workhouse, I cleared my throat.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you before. It wasn’t fair.’
She didn’t immediately reply, her usual approach when I voiced an opinion she considered obvious, which was at least half the time. But gradually, she grew restless, tutting to herself and pursing her lips. Eventually, she turned to me.
‘You weren’t altogether wrong, is the thing.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘By rights I should be staying at home. I left my children with Albert and Alice, and the shop too. They must be wondering what on earth I’m doing.’
‘I’m sure they understand.’
She pulled a face. ‘I’m sure they don’t. But I meant what I said before. I don’t want the total of what I am to be Jack Flowers’s sad, lonely widow.’
I felt a tremendous urge to take her hand in mine, to comfort her and me both, but I couldn’t. That wasn’t how we were.
‘Are you sad and lonely?’ I asked.
She stared at me, her eyes filled with tears. ‘How can I be? I love my children more than life itself and I’m with people all the time. It’s just … last year when we were hunting for who killed your Maria and my Jack, we were doing something … I don’t know … something more important than cooking pies.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘Something beyond the shop my father left me, and the children my husband gave me.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
She looked out of the window again, speaking without facing me. ‘You say that, but … where did you go, Leo? All we went through, and you disappeared like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter at all. Did you not once think to come and see how I was doing?’
I couldn’t tell her why I had not: that I could never forgive her. Except now, I found myself divided. In my mind, there seemed to be two Rosies – the one who had done me such harm, and the one sitting beside me now, her breath unsteady and her hands fidgeting in her lap.
‘I’m sorry.’
She shook her head, but more tenderly now. It was the same expression she used with her children.
‘I don’t know which of us is the bigger fool,’ she said.
Me neither, I thought, as we drew up outside Sir Reginald’s house in Gordon Square.
Once before, we had entered a rich man’s home. He took us prisoner and … no, I wouldn’t think about it. That was in another room, far away across London, and there it would stay.
I had to go inside. This was my single hope.
If Sir Reginald doesn’t have Aiden and Ciara, I thought, I have no idea who does.
22
The door was opened by a footman. He was very tall and broad, wearing a uniform of military precision, his jacket the exact blue of a jay’s feather. You could have put a ruler to the crease in his trousers, and any deviation from the straight would be the fault of the ruler.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, not bothering to hide his disdain. ‘Are you with the music-hall people? Downstairs and through the basement.’
He went to shut the door, but I put my hand against it. ‘No, I’m Mr Stanhope and this is Mrs Flowers. We need to speak to Sir Reginald urgently.’
‘I see.’
Something was nagging at me, chewing on my nerve endings and scratching at the palms of my hands. It was him. I recognised his voice and those calculating eyes. This was the man who’d attacked me at the pharmacy. I knew it. And what’s more, he knew that I knew it.
‘Are the children here?’ I demanded. ‘Do you have them?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
He surveyed me from his great height, almost sneering, challenging me to take it further.
I didn’t know what to do. Even if I’d been able to beat the answer out of him, which I certainly couldn’t, it would hardly be possible here.
My only option was to beg.
‘Please. Was it you in the carriage? I only want to know if they’re safe, that’s all. Just tell me that much.’
He blinked and rubbed his face with his hands, before glancing over his shoulder into the house. He seemed to be struggling for the right words.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said, in a low voice.
Of course, he might have been lying, but something in his reaction suggested he wasn’t. His initial smirk had been deliberate and arrogant, but when I’d told him the children had been kidnapped, he’d been genuinely surprised. He didn’t have them.
‘Then it’s absolutely urgent that we speak to Sir Reginald. It cannot wait.’
‘All right, I suppose you’d better come in.’
‘Rosie.’ I stared at her intently, hoping she would take my suggestion as an instruction. ‘You should stay here.’
She blinked twice, fully understanding me and not giving a damn. ‘No, I’d rather not.’
Inside, the walls of the hallway were covered with dozens of sm
all pictures of birds, butterflies and lizards, mostly hand drawn, but without any sense of the beauty or vitality of the creatures they depicted. They were anatomical, a product of science rather than art, and the birds, at least, were in something approaching taxonomical order, with eagles and buzzards nearest to me, thrushes and finches chasing each other up the stairs and woodpeckers perching over the door lintels. The whole effect was unsettling, like being trapped in the Hunterian Museum.
The footman indicated a room at the end of the hall. ‘You can wait in there with the others. I’ll call you if Sir Reginald becomes free.’
‘Very well, but I beg you to be quick.’
Through the open door I could see people moving about. A man was calling out instructions in an authoritative tone: ‘Higher! Higher! A bit more. Now hold it there. Right there. No, no, no! You’re drooping, man.’
I recognised the voice, and then saw the fellow himself, Peregrine Black, his attention fixed on something within the room.
‘The actors are preparing for their performance,’ scoffed the footman. ‘They’ll be entertaining members of the Board of Trade after dinner, so I’m told.’
The room turned out to be a substantial parlour with an elaborate gasolier hanging from the ceiling. There were Union Jack flags either side of the mantelpiece, and at one end a platform had been erected, perhaps eighteen inches above the level of the floor and three yards by two. Hanging over it was a banner bearing the legend: ‘The Calcutta Music Hall Touring Company’.
A slack-shouldered stagehand was trying to prop up the single piece of scenery – a fake tree – so the branches would drape attractively. Even at this he was failing, and the poor fellow was receiving the most frightful scolding from Black.
‘It must stand up on its own, you utter disaster! When did you last see a tree that couldn’t support itself?’
Black spun on the spot, overcome by the man’s incompetence. He was about to resume his hectoring when he saw us.
‘Mrs Flowers!’ he bellowed. ‘And … my word, is that you, Mr Stanhope? What on earth happened to your face?’
