The Anarchists' Club

by Alex Reeve

  ‘That’s not necessary.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘When did you last see your brother?’

  ‘My brother?’ He looked perplexed. ‘Oh, you mean John? I haven’t seen him in ages.’

  In my mind, a tiny flame ignited. For the first time since the children had been taken, I was actually thinking.

  Why had Sir Reginald adopted John, if he felt so strongly about his precious bloodline?

  Peter was exactly like Sir Reginald: headstrong and arrogant, though he could be charming when he chose to be. And they shared something in the shapes of their faces and the sharpness of their eyes too. Peter was his father’s son, I was sure of it.

  But he was nothing like Lady Thackery. Nothing at all.

  The tiny flame in my mind grew.

  I had assumed Sir Reginald had simply kept Dora Hannigan as his mistress and not cared much about the consequences. But that wasn’t true. He had cared about the consequences very much.

  And then I was certain. As certain as if I’d witnessed every breath of it.

  Peter was Sir Reginald’s son. And he was Aiden and Ciara’s brother too. Or half-brother. But not in the way I had thought. It was not their father they had in common.

  It was their mother.

  When Peter had gone back inside, I turned to Rosie.

  ‘We need to search Sir Reginald’s stable.’

  She looked horrified. ‘Why? Do you think John might’ve hidden the children there?’

  I thought back to the high wall behind the house and beckoned her to hurry. ‘It’s possible. This family isn’t what it seems.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I explained as we walked. ‘When Sir Reginald and Lady Thackery were first married, no doubt he expected she would soon become pregnant, in the normal way of things. But what if she didn’t? What if the years passed, and there was no pregnancy?’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘It’s not so unusual, is it? One of my sisters is childless.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Mind you, a man like that, it would make him furious, I imagine.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m sure he sent her to a doctor to be examined – many doctors, probably. But it didn’t work, so they adopted John. Lady Thackery doted on him, but not so Sir Reginald. Now, we know why. John was not his flesh and blood.’

  ‘The poor lad,’ said Rosie, her face set hard, her sense of injustice provoked. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘No. And as he got older, he started to resent his father. He left the army as soon as he could and became a radical, determined to overthrow Sir Reginald and everyone like him.’

  We had reached the corner where I’d last seen John, in the shadow of the church. We turned away from the square, walking as quickly as we could without drawing attention.

  ‘What about Peter?’ asked Rosie. ‘If they can’t have children, where did he come from?’

  There was only one plausible explanation. The lad looked so much like an older version of Aiden, they must have a parent in common.

  ‘I believe Sir Reginald wanted a child of his own blood. But his wife couldn’t give him one, so he needed someone else. As it happened, he was employing a governess, Dora Hannigan. She was poor and young, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. The two of them came to an arrangement; he made her pregnant and she gave up the baby for him and Lady Thackery to raise as their own.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of young women having other people’s babes. It’s a terrible thing. They’re not much more than children themselves, but they’re used like heifers and then turned out on to the street.’

  ‘She was well paid.’

  Rosie looked at me sharply. ‘Well, I’m sure that’s fine, isn’t it? No harm done as long as they gave the girl some money.’

  I wondered who else knew Dora had received more than two hundred pounds from Sir Reginald. Probably John, but would anyone else? Her friends at the club might not think so well of her if they learned what she’d done.

  ‘And years later,’ I continued, ‘she had two children of her own: Aiden and Ciara. They look like Peter because they share the same mother, not the same father.’

  We had reached a narrow street, or more properly a mews, that ran behind the houses on Gordon Square, marked at the entrance by a brick arch and stone pillars on either side. The first couple of windows shone with a weak, yellow light, but beyond that it was coal-black.

  ‘The stable must be down there,’ said Rosie, as if she was trying to convince herself.

  I had no time to confront my own fears; Aiden and Ciara might be imprisoned in one of these stables. I stepped forwards into the gloom.

  At first, I couldn’t see anything at all, though I was aware of Rosie close to me, her shoes click-clacking on the cobbles. But as my eyes grew accustomed, I could discern the wooden sheds on our left, with signs above their doors: a tanner, a forger and a wheelwright, with a coach wheel hanging from the eaves.

  To our right, the stables were lined up like seaside cottages, each one backing on to one of the grand houses on Gordon Square. Most were shut, but the garage doors of one were thrown open, taking up half the width of the mews, awaiting the return of its carriage.

  ‘It’ll be near the end,’ I whispered to Rosie. ‘I counted the houses.’

  The mews finished at a sprawling timberyard lit dimly by the lamps of the university behind us. Opposite that was the last stable.

  The upstairs windows were dark, their curtains drawn back, and the name ‘Thackery’ had been inscribed on a wooden plaque on the wall.

  I pressed my ear against the door and could hear movements within.

  ‘Are you sure we should be doing this, Leo?’ asked Rosie, her voice sounding thin and high.

  She was right, of course. If I was caught trespassing on Sir Reginald’s property, he would exert the full force of the law. I knew what that meant: discovery, humiliation, the loss of everything and, when I refused to be female, medicines and electricity and that ultimate horror, the red-hot iron, burning me away.

  I would kill myself first.

  But I couldn’t think about that now. I needed to know whether the children were being held in the stable. Nothing else mattered.

  ‘Aiden!’ I hissed, as loudly as I dared, but there was no reply.

  I pushed and pulled on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder and kicked it and then beat my fists against the wood, but I wasn’t strong enough to break it.

  ‘Leo!’ whispered Rosie. ‘Stop! You’ll hurt yourself.’

  ‘We have to get inside.’

  ‘I know, but not like that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘We need something long and thin that we can poke through and lift the latch.’

  I was breathing too fast, and it was hurting my chest. I pinched the sore place under my arm where my cilice was scouring my skin into a smooth, leather welt.

  ‘You’re right. Do you have a hat pin handy?’

  I was almost certain she rolled her eyes. ‘No, Leo, I don’t. I own one hat pin for church on Sundays. There must be something else here.’

  I looked around us.

  ‘Wait.’

  The timberyard opposite the stable was disused, a painted sign explaining that the land had been sold to the university. The fence was split and broken, doubtless by thieves looking for wood to sell or burn. I slipped through and searched along the ground until I found what I was looking for: an iron nail, shining in the thin light, almost trodden into the soil.

  I held it up, so ecstatic that I didn’t think about the faintest of familiar smells, nor the mound of newly dug earth.

  Rosie took the nail and poked it between the two garage doors, manoeuvring it until I heard the clunk of the latch inside lifting.

  ‘Jack used to lock me out sometimes,’ she said. ‘I had to wait until he’d drunk himself into a stupor and then do that.’

  I hauled open one of the doors, which was heavy, dragging and rattling over the cobbles, echoing around the mews.

  ‘Keep a
lookout,’ I said.

  Inside, I could hear the nervous movement of the horses’ hooves. I edged around the carriage, feeling something at my feet just too late, dislodging it and causing a huge crash. The shafts of the carriage had been propped on a rest, and I’d inadvertently kicked it away. The horses stamped and knocked against the wood of their stalls, breathing heavily. I tried to shush them as best I could, but they wouldn’t be touched, jerking their heads up and away from me. I was afraid of being bitten and decided to leave them; if anyone was nearby, they had certainly already heard the commotion.

  Beyond the two horses’ stalls was a locker, perhaps three feet wide and the height of my chest. I leaned down to look inside, and it was filled with the horses’ tack: bridles, reins and winter blankets. The wood felt rough under my fingers, covered with dents and scratches as if something had kicked to get out. But the marks were old, and the bolt was rusted and stiff. No one had been trapped in here for many years. This, I guessed, was where John had been imprisoned after he ran away from the army. I could only imagine his fear, shut in this box with no light nor even room to stand.

  Aiden and Ciara could be in a box like this one, crying and hammering to get out. But I had no time to surrender to that terror, not yet; I had to keep searching.

  I fumbled back along the wall and found a doorway into a small space. From the breath of cool air on my face, I guessed it was a stairwell leading to the upper floor. I shuffled forwards, my hands groping in front of me as if I was playing blind man’s buff, until my fingers touched a banister. I gripped hold of it and tentatively took the first step, heading upwards into complete darkness.

  ‘Aiden!’ I called. ‘Ciara!’

  At the top there was a room with three coffin beds side by side, but only one had any blankets.

  There was no sign of the children.

  Through the window, I could see Rosie pacing in circles. I opened the sash and was about to call to her when I heard a sound from downstairs; a creaking and then a clatter, like the lid of a crate being dropped.

  I stayed completely still, trying not to breathe. There were footsteps and the sound of a match being lit, and then the percussive rumble of the garage door being pulled shut.

  ‘Bloody coachman,’ said a man’s voice. Despite his words, his tone was sweet and gentle. ‘Going off and leaving the bloody door open.’ There was a sound of rustling, and then: ‘Look what I’ve got, my darling. You see? You like that? Of course, you do. Here, I’ve got some for you too. There we are.’

  I knew the voice. It was the footman. I listened for an answer, thinking perhaps this was an assignation with one of the maids or even, I had to consider, more than one, but then I realised he was talking to the horses, giving them treats.

  He laughed. ‘Enough, enough. That’s all I have. No more tonight, my darlings, my beauties. Look, see? You’ve had it all.’

  I was hoping he would go back the way he’d come, but the floorboards were warped and, even as I tried my hardest to keep still, they groaned under my weight.

  He stopped talking and his footsteps grew louder as he came into the stairwell.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Picken? Are you back?’ He paused, listening for an answer, and then called again. ‘Bernard?’

  To my horror he started up the stairs. I cast around, but there was nowhere to hide, no cupboard or wardrobe or even space under the beds. He would see me as soon as he reached the top. The glow of his candle was growing.

  He was far bigger and stronger than me. Even taking him by surprise, I didn’t think I could get past him.

  I had only one choice.

  The window was small, and the sash took up half of it, but I managed to climb on to the sill and wriggle through, so I was sitting on the ledge facing out. My hips were tight against the sides, but I had just enough space to twist round and lower myself down, my feet finding the top of the garage doorframe.

  ‘Mother of God,’ I heard Rosie mutter.

  ‘Someone’s in there,’ I hissed. ‘Hide.’

  I heard her scamper away as I dropped down, feeling the jolt of the cobbles through my ankles and calves as I landed. I backed against the wall, hidden in the shadows, just as the footman leaned out of the window. He swore and ducked back inside, and then I heard his boots pounding down the stairs, taking two at a time.

  I dashed across the mews and through the gap in the timberyard fence, where I crouched down, out of sight.

  The front door to the stable opened and I could hear footsteps.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, the shine of his lamp swinging from side to side.

  I kept completely still, breathing as softly as I could. To my relief, he loped down the mews towards the street.

  I didn’t want to pass him coming back, so I had no choice but to wait. I was alert to every sound: the horses shifting in their stalls, the squeak of cart wheels on the main road and two men talking in the university playing fields behind me. I almost missed it again, the faintest of smells amidst the woody odour, like a few grains of pepper in a plate of scrambled eggs. But it was there. I hadn’t imagined it.

  Putrescence. It was unmistakeable. I had suffered it for hours at a time in my previous occupation, assisting a surgeon of the dead. New corpses reeked of leaking bowels and their first, fleshy decay, giving way after a few days to methane from their bloated stomachs and the putrefaction of their blood and bile. I had grown used to it. I would never be able to forget it.

  A horrifying thought washed over me. I turned and stared at the place where I had found the nail. The soil had been disturbed, formed into a hump, slightly above the level of the rest of the yard.

  I leaned back against the fence, feeling the splinters like pins against my skin.

  ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Please, no.’

  All I could think about was a grave, with two little bodies inside.

  24

  I couldn’t dig, not yet. It would make too much noise. I had to wait in an agony of dread until the footman came back, spitting curses, and slammed the door shut.

  My heart was beating so fast I feared it would tear itself apart.

  I scrabbled frantically with my hands, scooping the earth and stones to either side, uncaring of my clothes, wiping my face with grubby fingers, barely able to see in the dimness. I knew the grave must be recent because the level of the soil was raised. Older corpses form a dip in the ground as the flesh is eaten away and dirt falls between the bones.

  It wasn’t long before I touched woven material. I pulled on it, and it was a jacket lapel. Further and further down I went, scraping the dirt from his arms, his shoulders, his neck. When his face emerged from the earth, I stopped, and sat cross-legged beside him.

  ‘Thank God,’ I whispered.

  How heartless I was. It took several seconds for my elation to be tinged with shame. He was only twenty-seven years old or thereabouts. Not yet half a life.

  ‘Damn it, John.’

  I touched something else, cold and metallic, buried next to him. I pulled at it and withdrew a short sword, or perhaps a long dagger, eighteen inches of tapered steel with a leather-covered hilt and ornate guard.

  I brushed more earth away, lower down his torso, and found what I’d expected: a gash in his waistcoat, through his shirt and vest, and into his skin. I didn’t doubt that it emerged on the other side.

  I had been through the routine many times before. I examined his eyelids and fingernails, wiggled his teeth and manipulated his jaw. It was difficult to say exactly how long he’d been dead; a few days, I estimated. Almost certainly before the children were taken.

  I heard a sound and nearly jumped out of my shoes, but it was only Rosie.

  ‘Leo! Where are you?’

  ‘Here,’ I called quietly. ‘In the timberyard. I’ve found John Thackery. He’s dead.’

  She came through the gap in the fence, and gasped when she saw what I had dug up. I remembered how, in my earliest days at the hospital, I’d been sick at the sight and
stench of a decaying corpse.

  ‘Oh no,’ she muttered, looking back in the direction of the mews as if intending to rush away and raise the alarm.

  ‘Rosie, we can’t tell anyone. We might draw the attention of the murderer and end up being buried next to him.’

  ‘We can’t leave him there to be found, though,’ she said. ‘It’s not right. It’s not the Christian thing to do. He has a mother. We have to tell the police.’

  ‘We can’t. They’ll be even more curious about me than they already are.’

  She lowered her head, and I thought she might be praying, or perhaps deciding between her loyalty to me and her Christian duty to the dead.

  ‘So, what’s to be done?’ she murmured.

  I looked at his face, grey and still, and tried to remember the boy I’d known. He had been clever and kind, imagining a fairer world even before the seeds of his dogma had taken root. He would’ve hated the thought of ending up here, so close to his father’s home. I shut my eyes and sent a message of solace to him across the miles and years: I’m sorry, John. You don’t deserve what I’m about to do.

  ‘We have to leave him and the sword here. Someone will find him tomorrow. The smell will get stronger.’

  ‘Mother of God, Leo.’

  ‘I know.’

  I crossed his arms over his chest, smoothed his hair from his forehead and put his hat over his face.

  That was how we left him, lying on the ground as if he was worn out from digging a hole and had decided to take a nap under the stars.

  Once we were safely among the crowds on Gower Street, I brushed the soil from my hands and clothes.

  ‘That poor, poor man,’ said Rosie, shaking her head. ‘You were close to joining him too. Where did that footman spring from?’

  ‘There must be a tunnel from the basement of the house. I think I heard him open it. Sir Reginald doesn’t want his servants traipsing across his garden to get to the stable. He doesn’t even want them looking out on to his garden. Did you notice, there’s no door or window on that side of the stable, just a sheer wall.’