by Alex Reeve
The victor stood, and I could see it was Peter, with a hideous expression on his face, one of boundless satisfaction. He was still holding the knife.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of another figure in the smoke. As it came closer, I realised it was Pallett. I wanted to call out to him, but I was choking. I covered my mouth with my sleeve and shoved the children in his direction.
‘Go!’ I croaked.
Aiden picked up his sister like a sack and tottered towards Pallett. Through the smoke I watched the young constable gather them up and peer towards me, his hand across his brow, and then turn and carry them out of the mill.
When I looked back, Peter was gone.
I scuttled forwards to where Edwin was lying. His eyes were open, flicking from side to side. He’d been stabbed in the gut. I pressed my hand against the wound, but his blood leaked around my fingers, soaking into my sleeve and pooling on the floor.
He clutched my arm. ‘Did I save them?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.
‘Yes.’
He closed his eyes and his grip relaxed as the pumping of his blood slowed and stopped.
I had no time to pull his body from the mill. If I didn’t leave now, I would be trapped. The fire was ravenous. It was like a physical thing, a creature with many fingers, crawling across the walls of the building, exhaling smoke and ash. The carts of raw jute would soon be feeding its appetite. It would consume everything.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to Edwin.
I could feel the draught being sucked in through the open door by the heat. I staggered towards the oblong of pale light and drank in a lungful of cold, wonderful air.
On the embankment, the lamps were lit, reflected in a flickering line across the marshes.
I heard a footstep behind me and ducked just in time to avoid the swing of the knife.
29
Peter grunted at the effort and swung again, spitting and hacking in the smoke.
I stumbled forwards, away from the mill, trying to keep my footing on the marshy ground. My eyes were hot and weepy, and my chest was burning from the inside.
I looked back, and he was following, his hands and face slick with Edwin’s blood.
‘I saw you,’ he called after me, sounding strangely pleased with himself. ‘That evening when we went to the music hall. I saw you skulking around near the house and then trailing after me. It wasn’t hard to find out who you were and where you lived. You told me yourself .’
I turned to face him, walking backwards, shouting over the roar of the fire. ‘You sent the footman after me, looking for Aiden and Ciara.’
He nodded. ‘I thought you’d surrender them before the first punch landed. But you’re such a good Samaritan, aren’t you?’ Still he came forward, and still I backed away. ‘My father was once a great man, Mr Stanhope. Do you know how that feels?’
‘Honestly, no.’
The water was growing deeper, and I had to pick up my feet or wade through it.
‘But he’s become sentimental. It’s that stuff he drinks. It dulls the pain, but it dulls the mind as well.’ He coughed and tried to spit, trailing phlegm across his chin. ‘That Irish whore came to see him. In our house, with my mother in the very next room. The next room! The bloody cheek of it! I assumed he would throw her out with a beating, but he didn’t.’
‘This was while the music hall was happening at your father’s house, wasn’t it? You stole the lion costume. You wanted to get close to Miss Vesta Tilley.’
He bit his lip, embarrassed. ‘I wanted to be in the performance. Was that too much to ask? I wanted to show her I could do it. But Father refused. He said I was being ridiculous. I went to persuade him, and she was there. That Hannigan woman, his whore.’
How foolish I was not to have seen it before. It was obvious. Who but a fifteen-year-old boy would think it was a sensible idea to kill someone while wearing a lion costume?
‘Why did that matter to you?’
‘She’s a bogtrotter, and her offspring likewise. You’ve seen him, that boy. You must know he’s my father’s bastard.’ He laughed, his arms outstretched to the sky, but when he looked back at me his face was contorted in disgust. ‘Some people are born to lead and others to follow. That’s what Darwin discovered. The strongest lines survive, but only if they’re kept pure. We mustn’t be contaminated by the weak.’
I missed my step and fell backwards into the shallow water. He waded towards me, halting a few feet away as I regained my footing.
‘And John? What about him?’
He spun the knife in his hand and grinned, a little of his previous buoyancy returning. How I wished he was still that boy, skipping school, stealing out in the evenings because he’d fallen in love with a music-hall singer.
‘I knew what he was, him and that actor fellow. I caught them in the act, as it were.’ He laughed at his own feeble joke. ‘I invited John to meet me at the stable, away from prying eyes. It seemed an appropriate place, as he did hate it so, but still he came, like a fish to a hook. He was such a bore! Kept whining about the Irish harlot and how sad he was she was dead. It was pathetic. I wondered if he suspected me, but then I thought, why take the chance? He’s a fake Thackery anyway, using our name as if he’s one of us when he was probably born to a trollop in Finsbury.’ Behind him, part of the building’s roof collapsed with a whoosh, blowing out more black smoke and ash. He glanced at it quickly and then back at me, waiting for the noise to fade before continuing. ‘He’d still have stuck his hand out for the inheritance, when the time came.’
I shook my head. ‘John wasn’t interested in your father’s money. He had principles.’
‘Ha! Mr Stanhope, I do believe you’re an idealist. Everyone’s greedy. It’s the natural order of things.’
We were nearing the embankment. I could see the fence stretching away on either side. What would I do when I could go no further?
‘Lady Thackery knew what you’d done, Peter. She took the children to protect them from you.’
He rotated the knife in my direction. ‘It doesn’t matter. She’s confessed to everything and my father will say the same. I’m going to kill you and leave you to burn, and there’ll be no one left to connect those children to my family. I might even let them live.’ He paused, wiping his arm across his brow, smearing it with Edwin’s blood. ‘Or I might not.’
‘You’re wrong about a lot of things, Peter. Sir Reginald isn’t Aiden and Ciara’s father.’
He shook himself, his free hand clenching and unclenching. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve seen that boy. We look exactly alike.’
‘Yes, you do. But it’s your mother you have in common, not your father. Lady Thackery didn’t give birth to you. She can’t conceive a child, so they found someone to bear one for her: Dora Hannigan. Your pure blood, your precious line, is half from your brother’s governess. You murdered your true mother.’
‘Nonsense,’ he declared, with the confidence he was born to. But I could see a tinge of doubt in his face.
‘It’s the truth, Peter. Think about it. You’re nothing like Lady Thackery, are you? Dora Hannigan was your mother. That’s why she didn’t put up a fight; she knew who you were. My guess is you told her yourself, boasting before you stabbed her.’
He charged at me and fell, unable to keep his balance in the marsh, grappling for my legs, swinging the knife wildly. I scrambled away, but my foot caught in a hole underneath the water and I flailed backwards, twisting and grovelling in the mud. I struggled to my feet and ran, half wading, half jumping, back towards the mill.
Ahead, the building had partly collapsed. Flames were leaping thirty or more feet into the night sky, cackling joyously, throwing up sparks that rained down on our heads. There was no way through. I would have to take the other route to the road, the lengthier one, right round the cottages and along the far side of the mill.
I turned, and Peter was emerging from the marshes, blocking my path.
He still had the k
nife in his hand.
‘No one else knows what I’ve done,’ he shouted over the din. ‘Only you.’
‘If we stay here, we’ll both die. You know that.’
He twirled the knife and stood up straighter. A blue fire was shimmering across the mud. Even the puddles were alight. How was that possible?
‘I’ll be back at Harrow in a few days, and when I’m eighteen, Father wants me to go to University College to study law and then enter the business. I’ll be an important man and you’ll be dead. No one will ever know what happened to you.’
Rosie will know, I thought, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I wouldn’t put her in danger as well.
I moved sideways, away from the flames, trying to give myself a route past him, but he mirrored me, narrowing the distance, his arms outstretched as if he was about to tackle an opponent at rugby.
I couldn’t dodge past him, and I couldn’t beat him in a fight either, not while he was holding that knife. I took a breath, feeling the back of my throat burning.
I had one option.
Keeping my eyes on him, I crouched down and scooped water on to my arms and legs, on to my neck and hair. I took off my coat and pushed it down into the mud, fully submerging it, and wrapped it around my arm.
Peter was watching me closely.
‘What are you doing? Stop that.’
I held my sleeve over my mouth and took a step towards the fire.
Even a few inches made a difference. My skin dried instantly and my cheek felt as if it was shrinking on my face, baked by the heat. Every instinct told me to move away, but still I stepped nearer, no more than twenty feet from the blaze. Steam started rising from my coat.
I edged closer. Flames were reaching out to me through the hollow window frames of the mill, and the earth was covered with embers, crunching and hissing under my shoes. The hair on my head was singeing and my skin boiling.
Peter matched me, one hand raised against the blaze as if he would be able to protect himself if the wall fell.
One more step was all I could bear. I took in a single acrid breath so fiery it scorched my insides. I could feel my lungs, the shape of them in my chest, defined by the heat of the air within them.
I had no time left. This was my last chance.
I dashed forwards through the fire, treading in the flames, feeling them grasping for me, clawing at me, biting my feet through the soles of my shoes. I shut my eyes, but still I could see it, glowing red through my eyelids.
A hand tried to grab me, but I beat it away. I heard a scream and trod on something soft, blundering sideways, scrambling over burning wood. Was I alight? I didn’t know. I fell and rolled in wetness and then I was on all fours, crawling into the marsh water, with no other thought than getting away, away, away, as fast and as far as I could.
There was a crash behind me, and I swung round. Part of the wall had broken apart and fallen on the spot where I’d been standing a few seconds before. I shuffled backwards on my behind as a roiling mass of burning jute spewed through the gap towards me.
I was lucky. I had reached the paving by the cottages, and it gave me just enough traction to push myself upright and hobble away.
The mill creaked and groaned and finally, with a huge sigh, crumpled in on itself, succumbing utterly to Edwin’s fire.
Where there had been a building, now there was an inferno of boiling black smoke and flames. I stood watching it, saying a prayer for Edwin under my breath.
I felt something cold and wet on my face, hissing across the marshland: rain.
It set in fast, going from nothing to a downpour in a few seconds. I stood in it, unable to move, every part of me hurting.
I heard a voice. It sounded like Rosie.
‘Leo!’
In the light of the fire, I could see her coming towards me from the far side of the cottages. I tried to answer her, but my voice wouldn’t work. My throat was too charred.
I heard another voice, wordless, close behind me. It was Peter, except it wasn’t any longer. He was limping, one side of him black and raw where his clothes had burned away. His right leg, arm and side were seared meat, and half his face too. Most of his hair was gone. He had one eye open. I wasn’t sure the other was still in its socket.
In his hands, he was clutching the knife.
I staggered backwards and fell, looking up at him. I knew I would soon be dead.
Fleeting thoughts ran through my mind; all the things I had yet to do: see Constance grow up and become a doctor, teach Ciara to read and write, get a dog for Aiden, sit with Alfie for many more glasses of whisky, play endless games of chess with Jacob, have one more argument with Rosie.
I wished for five more minutes, just for that.
Peter seemed to say something, but I couldn’t tell what. He raised the knife, but his leg buckled and he collapsed sideways. I heard a crack as his head hit the paving, and he lay still.
Rosie rushed forwards and knelt beside me. ‘Mother of God!’
I put my hand to my head and could feel my scalp where the hair had burned away. I managed to climb to my feet and breathe. She put her arm around me, and I leaned against her, before remembering she was injured herself. The blood on her sleeve was shiny and dark in the reflection of the flames.
‘I can walk,’ I whispered hoarsely.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Are Aiden and Ciara all right?’
‘Yes. They’re with Constable Pallett.’
I looked down at Peter, surprised to see his chest rising and falling. The fire had gathered in ferocity, unhindered by the rain, and would soon take the cottages too.
If we left him, it would kill him for certain.
‘Give me a hand,’ I croaked. ‘Let’s get him away from this.’
‘Why?’
She was looking me directly in the eyes, rain streaming down her face.
‘He’ll die otherwise.’
‘So? He’s murdered two people.’
‘Three,’ I said, thinking of Edwin.
‘Three then.’ A note of irritation entered her voice even at that moment. ‘Do you truly think they’ll convict him, Leo, the son of a gentleman, injured in an attack on his father’s property? They’ll give him a medal. Trust me, it’s better this way.’
She was right, of course, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave him to die.
The wind had picked up, sending the flames surging first one way and then the other. We didn’t have long.
‘If you won’t give me a hand, I’ll do it on my own.’
I started pulling him, feeling as if my skin would slough off my bones and slop into the mud. I had managed to move him a yard at most when Rosie joined me, and so we dragged him away from the blaze.
I was dimly aware of Pallett arriving, and words being exchanged, and him picking up Peter in his arms and carrying him away.
Finally, I was able to pass out with only one thought in my head: Aiden and Ciara were safe.
30
Two weeks later, I was sitting in the yard of the pharmacy, a blanket over my lap. The sun was out and a blackbird was heartily announcing that spring had properly arrived and it was time to get busy.
‘Check,’ said Jacob.
He had opted to come to me for our weekly chess match, as I wasn’t yet well enough to travel. He drew on his cigar, the end of it shining orange. I touched a fingertip to my eyebrow without thinking, but it had gone.
The side of my face felt hard and tight like grease-paper. The doctor who had visited me said he wasn’t sure the hair on that side would ever grow back, but ventured that I still had enough to cover the bald patch. He sold me some ointment for the burns and had wanted to perform a more thorough examination, but of course I couldn’t allow that.
I looked at the board and was indeed in check. I hadn’t been concentrating. I moved my king a square to the left.
A copy of the Daily Chronicle was lying folded on the table, next to the board. On the front page was t
he whole story. I’d written it down as accurately as I could remember. Harry Whitford had come to the pharmacy and sat with me, asking questions, at times disbelieving, demanding the names of witnesses to corroborate my tale. In the end, it had been printed mostly as I’d originally written it and had sold out all across London. Everyone was talking about the shameful Thackery family: the industrialist sickly and not expected to live, his wife arrested for kidnapping, one son a murderer and the other so hating his father he’d conspired against him and died as a consequence.
Hooper got most of the credit. Of Dora Hannigan there was little mention, and of me, thankfully, none at all.
Inside the newspaper, a small report at the bottom of page two told how Mr Peregrine Black, a man of some renown in the music hall, had been given thirty days in the clink for assault. The judge had initially sentenced him to three months, but had been moved, the report said, by the tears of Black’s young wife in the gallery. I smiled, as best I could, when I read it. I was sure he would think thirty days a small price to pay, and I vowed to call on him when he got out. Constance was always telling me I needed another friend.
‘Look at me, Mr Stanhope!’ Ciara was lying on the ground, nose to nose with Colly, Constance’s cat.
I was about to tell her to stand up before she made her dress more filthy, but stopped myself. Why shouldn’t she roll around in the dirt? Dresses can be washed.
With a wry smile I contemplated how easily we echo our parents; we don’t even think, we just regurgitate what we’ve been told, no matter how corrupt or unfounded, just like Peter Thackery. Despite the evil he had done, I preferred to think of him as a boy who enjoyed dancing and had fallen in love with a music-hall singer, but who had taken his father’s views too much to heart.
Inside the house, the clock struck two, and Constance came out into the yard, still in her school dress, followed by Alfie. She handed me a letter with the hospital’s crest on the front.
