Arrowood and the Meeting House Murders

by Mick Finlay

  Molly came charging from behind the counter, shouting for the boss, her black hair flying as she grabbed one of the blokes by the neck and threw him to the floor. I laughed. She was stronger than I thought.

  ‘Get out, Percy!’ she hissed, her face angry and strong, like Boudicca or someone. ‘And you, Tom. Clear off, the both of you!’

  The landlord appeared from the taproom. He helped Percy to his feet.

  ‘Now, are you two gents going to shake hands and sit back down?’ he asked.

  ‘I told them to get out,’ said Molly. ‘You should bar them. That’s the third time this week.’

  ‘They’re only battering each other, love.’

  ‘I got enough to do in here without stopping them killing theirselves every half hour.’

  Percy was already sat back down, stroking his greyhound. I didn’t like the way the landlord called Molly ‘love’, nor how he patted her rumple with his greasy grey cloth as he walked back to the taproom.

  ‘You mind him doing that?’ I asked her as she came back with three empty tankards in each hand.

  ‘I’ll say I do,’ she said, dumping them with a clatter on the counter. ‘They sit there all day buying no more’n a pennyworth, then they kick off like that. Why he allows them I don’t know. They’re only here for the fire.’

  ‘I meant him poking you like that.’

  She sighed and rubbed her brow with the back of her hand. ‘I got a job, ain’t I? Four or five girls come in today looking for work.’ She laughed and pushed me on the chest. ‘What’s it to you anyway, Norm? You jealous or something?’

  ‘Just don’t like to see it.’

  ‘Here,’ she said, taking my mug and gulping it down so fast it dribbled down her chin and wet her grubby blouse. ‘I’ll get you another.’

  I stayed till closing, then she wanted to go dancing at a place on Bankside. We knocked back a brandy within minutes of getting in there, watching as the press of punters jigged to the old fiddler sat on a box in the corner. The tables had been pushed to the wall, a pile of thick coats by the bar with a young girl guarding them. When we’d had another drink, we pushed our way into the crowd and for an hour we capered in the hot filthy steam of the Borough gentry.

  As the fiddler began to play ‘Morning Star’, I had the strangest feelings of joy and regret following each other in waves. My eyes were fixed on Molly, and it seemed she was swallowed in the dance, as little aware of me as the strangers around us. She danced just like my Rita, with the same movements, the same blind abandon.

  I remembered one of the first jollies we went on, to a little dancing place by St Saviour’s Dock where they’d set up two fiddlers in the courtyard of an old stables. It was her and Molly and my mate Nobber and me, and we danced away like there was no tomorrow, until Nobber and me’d got tired and set ourselves down on a hay bale and watched the two of them go at it together for an hour at least, matching each other, collapsing into each other’s arms when each tune finished, then straightening again when the bars of the next one struck up. It was a marvel, all right, watching those two girls dance and laugh, and on the way home Mrs B and me nipped into the churchyard and lay together for the first time, with Nobber and Molly at it somewhere else in the dark. Twenty years later, and I felt the joy of that night fill me again as Molly and me danced on, until I took her arm and pulled her close and placed my lips upon hers. Mrs B used to say to me, ‘We’ll meet again some day, you and me,’ and I never understood what she meant until then. I was meeting her again through her best friend. It was Mrs B I was holding. Around us, all the folk moved and collided and spun while we held each other tight and kissed like we’d found the greatest love. Before the song ended, I took her hand and led her out into the frozen night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We reached Piccadilly Hall at midday, where we waited at the stage door to meet Nick. He was to come out alone, making sure Ralf wasn’t around lest he recognized me from my visit to his old man’s billiard room. As we waited on the street, we listened to three thin soldiers singing ‘Pretty Polly Perkins from Paddington Green’, a cap in front of them on the pavement. One had his face half burnt off, another missing an eye, the last with such a tremble as you could feel it down the street. Folk on their way to lunch hurried past while horses glanced at them, sighing and nodding their long heads. As they neared the end, a hansom drew up on the other side of the road. In it sat Ralf.

  ‘Quick, hide,’ I said, pulling the guvnor behind a couple of horses stood by the kerb.

  It was too late. Ralf caught sight of me and smiled. ‘Mr Barnett!’ he said, hurrying across the road. He wore a checked suit under his cashmere overcoat, his dimples and freckles making him seem younger than his sixteen years. ‘You still looking for the Zulus?’

  ‘I am, Ralf,’ I said. ‘You haven’t heard anything, have you?’

  ‘Dad thinks Madame Delacourte’s got them. Did you see her?’

  ‘The police are going to talk to her.’

  ‘We’re in trouble if they don’t turn up soon. We’ll have to pay the Aquarium out of our own pocket.’

  ‘That’s how the contracts work, is it, young sir?’ enquired the guvnor.

  ‘It always is. You have to pay up for lost revenue.’

  I introduced them. When they’d exchanged hands, Arrowood asked: ‘How much would you have to pay, if I might ask, Mr Capaldi?’

  ‘A lot, that’s all I can tell you.’ The lad’s eyes followed two young ladies as they walked past. ‘They sold thousands of tickets. You here for the show, then?’

  ‘We wanted to talk to Capaldi’s Wonders,’ I said. ‘They came over on the boat with the Africans, didn’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. I just took over as their manager.’ He pulled a booklet from his pocket. ‘Here, you can have one of these. We just had them printed.’

  It was a souvenir pamphlet for the show, with a drawing of the three women on the front. Cost a shilling.

  ‘Thank you, Ralf,’ said the guvnor. ‘I’ll read it with interest.’

  ‘Come in, I’ll take you to them.’

  The man on the stage door waved us through, and we followed Ralf along a corridor with heating pipes over our heads, up some stairs and through another corridor. It opened into a large room full of people carrying props and costumes. A whole brass band sat on the floor looking vexed. In the middle of the room was a cluster of clothes rails, around which chorus girls were changing their costumes. Ralf turned back to us.

  ‘I do like going through here,’ he said with a wink.

  The guvnor poked me in the back, pointing at a clown leaning against the wall with a cigar in his mouth. ‘That’s Polichinelle,’ he whispered.

  ‘Ralf, my dear boy!’ called the clown.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ muttered Ralf as the fellow lurched across the room.

  Polichinelle wore a yellow-and-blue hat, its crown like an upturned cone. His face was unshaved, the tip of his heavy nose hanging low over his wide mouth, around which he’d painted a pair of fat red lips. His narrow eyes were circled with black eye paint, and his neck was hid by a thick, stained ruff. The clown wore a strange yellow coat, stuffed so as his belly stuck out in a horn with big brass buttons down the front. On his spindly legs he wore red velvet plus fours.

  ‘How good to see you, dear boy!’ exclaimed the clown, taking Ralf’s hand. ‘How’s that naughty father of yours?’

  ‘He’s very well, sir.’

  ‘Polli! How many times must I tell you? Call me Polli!’ He took a puff on his cigar. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m managing our freak show. Father’s teaching me the business.’

  The clown laughed. ‘How you’ve grown up. Such a shame. You were such an imp, Ralfie. And so afraid of me.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of clowns anymore, Polli. You know where the ladies are?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’m announcing them, didn’t you know?’

  Ralf nodded, but something about his face didn’t look
so pleased to hear that.

  ‘Along that corridor,’ said the clown. ‘Last room on the right. And who are your friends, Ralfie?’

  Ralf introduced us while the clown looked me up and down.

  ‘It’s an honour, sir,’ said the guvnor, shaking the clown’s hand for too long. ‘I’ve seen you many times over the years. At the Alhambra, Cremorne Gardens, Crystal Palace. You’re one of my wife’s favourites.’

  ‘Ah!’ laughed the clown. ‘A back-handed compliment.’

  ‘No,’ protested the guvnor. ‘I didn’t mean that. I think you’re very funny. I was just saying my—’

  ‘You’re a big fellow,’ interrupted the clown, turning to me. ‘Eat a lot, do you?’

  ‘Enough.’

  His sly eyes seemed to blaze. ‘I bet you do. Eat a lot of rough meat. A lot of flour, eh?’

  A bell rang somewhere.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, touching Ralf’s glove. ‘I’ve some lovely cake in my room, Ralfie. Come see me later.’

  ‘I might be busy,’ said Ralf.

  ‘You can make time for me, my boy.’

  ‘How d’you know Polichinelle, Ralf?’ asked Arrowood as he watched the clown totter away, touching the dancing girls on their necks and ringing a bell attached to his belt. The guvnor looked dazed, like he’d just met the queen.

  ‘Dad used to manage him,’ said the young showman. ‘I know a lot of them that’s on the stage. Here, come and talk to the ladies.’

  We followed him to their dressing room. Before entering, Ralf stared at the door, chewing his lip. He took two deep breaths, raised his fist to knock, then dropped it again. His young face had lost its colour. He turned to me. ‘Could you go first, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘What is it, Ralf?’ asked the guvnor gently.

  The young fellow blew out his cheeks. ‘Thing is… well…’ He shut his eyes. ‘I just can’t look at them, Mr Arrowood. I know it’s wrong and they’re just ladies, really, but I can’t do it. They’re monsters. You can’t say it otherwise.’

  ‘You’re afraid of them?’

  ‘I get queasy just to look at them. Can’t catch my breath, like. It isn’t so bad when they’re dressed normal, but… oh, I don’t know what it is. I got to get over it, I know. Grow up a bit. I will get over it, just got to get used to them.’

  ‘Good heavens, lad,’ said the guvnor. ‘Your eyes are too dominant, that’s your problem. There are many ways of being human, you know.’

  ‘I know. Don’t tell Dad, will you? I don’t want him to find out.’ He stepped further from the door and looked back at me. ‘You go on. Go in first.’

  I knocked on the door. Nick opened up, his tight suit freshly brushed, his cap still on his head. When he saw Ralf behind us, he blinked, running his finger up and down his waistcoat buttons. He was scared, I could see it, and Capaldi’s son being there didn’t help.

  ‘These gents just want to ask the ladies a few questions, Nick,’ said Ralf over the guvnor’s shoulder. ‘Can you let them in?’

  Nick nodded and stepped back. It was a small room with no windows. Leonie and Gisele stood by a looking glass. Gisele, the Lobster Claw Lady, had her hair brushed back and hid by an orange scarf. The rims of her eyes were blacked, which made her face seem more orange than before, and she wore a brown top with black specks. Her hands, hid in gloves the last time we saw her, had no fingers, just a wide thumb next to a broad, knotted stick of flesh. She held a brush. Leonie wore a pink dress that showed her short, pink legs up to the knees and had no sleeves, so you could see her little arms too. She’d powdered her face and scalp so it looked whiter, and reddened her nose-holes. I suppose she did look something like a pig, but not unless you’d been told it. Sylvia sat on a sofa by the back wall, her blonde wig on, her eyes red and puffy. She clasped a handkerchief.

  The guvnor introduced us like we’d never met them before. Ralf slipped in behind us and stood with his back to the wall, staring at the floorboards.

  ‘Hello, Mr Ralf,’ said Gisele.

  ‘Hello, Gisele,’ he said, his eyes flicking up to her for no more than a second.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Africans you met on the Dover boat,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gisele.

  ‘I’ll get you ladies some food,’ said Ralf, and hurried out the door.

  Nick shut it behind him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Leonie.

  ‘We ran into Ralf outside and had to pretend we’d come to ask you questions,’ said the guvnor. ‘Mr Capaldi knows we’re looking for the Africans. He even asked us to help him.’

  ‘What’s up with the boy?’ she asked. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘I suspect so,’ said Arrowood as I got the oysters out my bag. Nick looked at them, his lip curling.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. When the guvnor had explained the plan to him the day before, Nick hadn’t wanted to do it, but the guvnor told him there was no other way to get English Dave or one of the other guards to come, and we needed them to tell us the address of the boarding house. The Capaldis had to see him ill, and it had to be so bad they’d have no choice but to bring in another man till he was better. Nick still wouldn’t have it, but Arrowood persuaded him that Sylvia wanted him to help S’bu, and that it was the only way of doing it so Capaldi wouldn’t suspect him of betrayal. He still didn’t like it, but finally he agreed.

  ‘Is it safe?’ asked Sylvia.

  ‘He’ll have food poisoning for a day or two, that’s all,’ answered the guvnor. ‘We’ve all had it.’

  ‘I’ll look after you, sugar,’ said Sylvia, coming over to her man and taking his arm. Though it was cold in that room, Nick’s forehead was oily with sweat, his wretched eyes calm for once.

  I opened the first shell with my knife. The smell was foul, and my eyes watered as I dug out the dry, brown flesh and held it out to him. He snorted, shook his hands, then took the shell and tipped it into his mouth. His bristly throat clenched. He shook his head wildly as it went down, then hurled the shell in the bin. Sylvia winced and stroked his back. He swallowed from a mug on the floor, then took the next one and swallowed that too. I held out the third, but he just stood there, his mouth slack, his thin eyes looking at me with hatred.

  ‘Go on, mate,’ I said.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he growled.

  I looked at the guvnor, who nodded.

  Sylvia led him to the sofa and sat him down. He slouched back, shutting his eyes and crossing one leg over the other.

  ‘What now?’ asked Leonie.

  ‘We wait,’ said the guvnor, moving a bucket over with his foot.

  Chapter Twenty

  It didn’t take long. After half an hour, Nick sat up clutching his belly. Five minutes later he grabbed the bucket and rushed out the room. Sylvia rose to follow him, but Leonie stopped her.

  ‘We’re on in a minute, darling,’ she said.

  ‘Norman will look after him,’ added the guvnor.

  As I went to find Nick, I noticed a basket of pig’s knuckles on the floor outside the room. There was a note:

  Have a good performance, ladies. I will come see you after. Ralf.

  I brought it in the room. ‘He’s run off,’ I said.

  The guvnor read the note. ‘Would you send Mr Capaldi a message, please, Leonie. Say Nick’s badly ill.’

  Nick was in the passage that led to the privies, on his knees with his head hanging over the bucket. He retched out a great gush of pink porridge and oyster. After it hit the bucket, he coughed, spitting out a long tail of bile. I patted him on the back.

  ‘That’s it, mate. Get it out.’ I wished I could tell him it’d get better, but we both knew it was about to get a whole lot worse.

  Fifteen minutes later, the guvnor found us. Nick was sat on the privy now, his britches round his ankles. The bucket was on his lap.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Suffering,’ I muttered.

  ‘It won’t last, Nick,’ said the guvnor.
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  ‘Fuck off,’ growled the poor bloke, spitting into the bucket.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’ll want his pig’s knuckle,’ said the guvnor, keeping his distance. ‘You stay with him, there’s a good chap.’ And with that, he hurried off.

  I shut the privy door and went to sit on a crate in the passage. A few moments later, Polichinelle appeared. He was a little sweaty, a little puffed: he’d either just come off stage or he’d been rutting in his dressing room in his clown suit. I’d never seen his act, but everybody in London knew his name. He’d performed for the queen, for Gladstone, for Empress Sisi and her court.

  ‘Hm,’ he said, coming to a stop in front of me. ‘You know, you have the most fearful hue, my friend. D’you suffer dyspepsia?’

  ‘Me and half of London.’

  As more wretched noises came from Nick, the clown bent and inspected my eyes. He smelt of wine and eggs, and close up I could see that he was a lot older than I thought: fifty-five or sixty, maybe. He had a whitish paint rubbed into the lines around his eyes and forehead. He straightened. ‘Pains in the gut?’

  I pointed to the left side of my belly. ‘Are you a doctor as well as a clown?’

  ‘I’ve studied nutrition with Mrs Crenshaw. What did you have for breakfast?’

  ‘A bloater.’

  He nodded in approval. ‘Coffee?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I think you might have a fever in your kidney. Remove fats and farinaceous foods from your diet and reduce liquids. You may eat as much lean as you wish.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He patted my arm. ‘Fennel tea, twice a day. No more coffee, understand?’

  Nick made a long, bubbling groan in the shithouse. ‘Fuck it,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Bad oysters,’ I said to the clown.