Alice pressed harder on the stranger’s arm. “Don’t mind her. She’s moody.”
The piano player thumped out a chord to get attention. The noise in the bar lessened slightly and Ettie began to sing. Her voice was clear and true as water.
“I stand in a land of roses
But I dream of a land of snow …”
The room quieted even more.
“When you and I were happy
In the days of long ago.”
Alice Black leaned forward, beckoned to her companion as if to whisper and slyly licked the inside of his ear.
He laughed. “Hey, that tickled.”
“I’m good at tickling, I am. Here, I’ll show ya.”
She did so, more slowly this time. He didn’t move away. “Did you like that?” she asked.
“Yep. That was real nice, Elaine.”
“Alice. Not Elaine. My name’s Alice.”
He reached over and touched the bead necklace she had around her neck. “That’s pretty. Most unusual. Where’d you get it?”
She caught hold of his bare hand and put one of his fingers in her mouth. “Who cares?”
She thrust her tongue in between his fingers and he grinned again.
“Tell you what, Miss Alice, why don’t you take me somewhere private. Where you can tickle away to your heart’s content.”
She grinned. “Two dollars?”
“You’re dear.”
“I’m worth it, you’ll see. Where d’you want to go, upstairs or to our place?”
“I’ve a better idea. You can come to my dodgy figs. Very private. I’ve got a couple of good bottles tucked away just dying to be opened. Got them in Turkey.”
“You’re on. I’ve never had Turkish brew before.”
“You’ll love it. Come on, pick up your faggot sacks and let’s go.”
She gulped back the dregs of the gin and they both stood up. Quinn was watching Bernadette and didn’t pay any attention. Alice started to lead the way to the door, shoving at the hot bodies that crowded the floor.
“Coming through. Move your carcass, you lumps.”
However, as they approached the piano, Ettie was finishing her song. The piano player tinkled the treble keys. A burst of applause came from those who had free hands. Ettie, flushed and excited, bowed lavishly. The hunchback launched into another song and a burly man whose sooty clothes betrayed his calling started to sing an old ballad.
“Where have you been today, Randall my son?
Where have you been today, my beloved son?”
Ettie was about to join in when she saw Alice. She stepped back.
“Where you going?” she asked, grabbing her hard by the arm.
Alice tried to shrug her off but couldn’t. “With him.” Alice jerked her head in Jack’s direction. He was watching them with his flat cold eyes, but the waiter had stopped to serve one of the tables and he was separated from the two women.
“I don’t like him,” hissed Ettie.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not the one going with him, then.”
“Alice, don’t go. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
“Ha. Since when are you so choosy? If we only went with cullies we liked the look of, we wouldn’t do nothing.”
“What will you leave your mother, Randall my son?
What will you leave your mother, my beloved son?”
The chimney sweep was warbling in a lovely countertenor. All around the room men were laughing, ignoring him.
Ettie scowled. “He’s a liar. He’s no sailor, his hands are too soft. I had a sailor once. His hands were all rutted and hard. He said it was from the ropes.”
“What is he, then?”
“Probably a nark.”
Alice looked over at Jack, still blocked by the waiter, who was having a dispute with one of the patrons about his bill.
“No! He can’t be.”
“Yes, he could. You’ve been babbling all over him about that girl. We’re going to end up in the Mercer if you don’t shut up … And I told you not to wear that necklace. Not yet. We’ve got to be careful.”
Jack finally got around the waiter and came up to them. “Shall we do a heel and toe?”
Alice looked at him and Ettie, then put her arm through his.
“I can’t wait.”
They pushed their way to the door. Ettie watched, then shrugged and turned back to the piano. The chimney sweep reached out his grimy hands to her and theatrically she took hold of them and joined in the ballad.
“What will you leave your sweetheart, Randall my son?
What will you leave your sweetheart, my beloved son?”
The hunchback joined in, his voice rich and deep.
“A rope to hang her, mother,
A rope to hang her, mother.
Oh, make my bed soon for I’m sick to my heart,
and fain would lie down.”
Outside in the street, Alice shivered in the cold and pulled her shawl tightly around her chest. The sailor took her arm.
“I’ve a friend I’d like you to meet. We’ll go there first.”
“I thought it was going to be you and me.”
“Later. Him first.”
“It’s all the same to me,” said Alice.
Chapter Eleven
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13
THE CARRIAGE LURCHED and Alice almost fell forward into the lap of the man seated opposite her.
“Oops. What’d we do, run over a dead dog?”
“Just a lump of ice.”
He pushed her back into her own seat. The sailor had brought her to this man but she didn’t fancy him at all. He was as twitchy as a schoolboy, refused to tell her his name, and had barely said a word the entire ride.
She straightened up and sat back, fanning herself. “It’s bloody roasting in here.”
She started to unbutton her jacket.
“No sense being uncomfortable, is there?” She giggled wildly, then hiccoughed. “What’d you put in that drink? I can’t feel my nose.”
The man sipped at the silver flask he was holding. “It’s just first-quality scotch. Perhaps you’re not used to it.”
Even well on her way to total drunkenness as she was, Alice picked up the contempt in his voice. She scowled.
“I’ve had good grog before. Lots of times. Just as good as your Turkey muck.”
She was sweating in earnest now.
“Can we open the bleeding window? I’m going to melt, else.”
She went to pull up the blind on the window closest to her but the man caught her arm.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I value my privacy.”
“Nobody’s going to see you out here except the ducks.”
She had lifted the blind enough to see that they were close to the lake, trotting slowly along a narrow spit.
The man leaned over and lowered the wick on the porcelain lamp that hung from a bracket above the door. The carriage darkened, the shadows so deep she could hardly see his face.
“That’s much cozier, wouldn’t you say?”
She shrugged. “I suppose so.”
She’d had all sorts; some liked daylight, some didn’t. She could tell he was one of the play-acting kind. They always wanted you to make out you was enjoying yourself. Ooh and aah and wriggle. When all you could think about was the chops you’d cook for your tea and how long was he going to take to finish the jig. That kind of cully always left red-faced with a couple of dollars on the pillow. “Buy yourself a little present.” Sod the fools. She giggled to herself.
Good thing they weren’t mind readers.
“Can you share the joke, Alice?”
She yawned. She suddenly felt so tired she thought she could fall asleep right there.
“Wasn’t anything. But I’m bloody whacked. Can we go back now?”
“I thought you were enjoying the ride.”
Alice sighed. “’S blo
ody marvellous.”
He leaned forward. He was sweating and there was an unpleasant smell coming from him. Maybe she was his first wagtail. The Johnny Raws were always scared out of their nobby drawers.
“I understand you have information about that girl who froze to death …”
“Did Jack tell you that? It was supposed to be a secret.”
“He tells me everything. Are you going to go to the police and claim your reward?”
“I might, ’cept Ettie’s all miffy. She doesn’t want me to say anything because she thinks it’ll get us into trouble.”
“I don’t see how giving information to the police could get you into trouble. You’re doing your civic duty.”
“Don’t I always.”
“What was it you saw? Perhaps I can tell you if it is worth bothering the police about.”
Alice struggled to make sense of what he was saying. He seemed to be going a long way off.
“Stop mumbling,” she said. “Course it is. They’d love to know. She got into a carriage, didn’t she?”
“Who did?”
“The mort, the girl, who’d you think?”
“Is that so? Where?”
“Yes, it is so, and I saw her on Queen Street. Just past the hotel.”
“When was this?”
“’Bout ten o’clock on Saturday night.”
“Are you sure it was the same person? Could have been anybody.”
“Of course I’m sure. There aren’t two women in the whole town with a hat like that. I saw her get into a carriage right at the corner.”
“That is very strange. On the other hand there are so many carriages in Toronto I’m not sure if your information will be that helpful.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Mr. Know-It-All. This one belonged to a swell. I’d know it anywhere …” Groggily she shook her head. “Shouldn’t be talking … Ettie said not to tell anyone …”
“So you told Ettie, did you?”
“Course I did. She’s my best mate. I love Ettie.”
She was having great difficulty sitting upright.
“You seem so tired, Alice. Why don’t you put your feet up? Here, let me help you with your boots … My, they’re tight, aren’t they?”
He tugged and the boots came off with a plop, the rancid odour of Alice’s dirty stockings filling the carriage.
“It’s sodding hot in here. Look at you, you’re sweating like a pig.” She giggled again. “Do pigs sweat? Can’t say I’ve noticed … Wish you’d speak up. It’s too dark. Are we in the Other Place? You’re not the Devil, are you?”
“Far from it. I’m your Good Angel. In fact, I’m going to send you to Paradise.”
He turned and tugged at a short leather thong attached to the upholstery of the seat behind him. A section came away. Behind it was a built-in cabinet.
Alice lifted her head. “Oi. What you got in there, the family jewels?”
“As good as.”
He took out a glass vial and a burgundy leather case. Then he rapped hard on the roof of the carriage. Alice heard the coachman call to the horse and they stopped suddenly, the well-sprung vehicle bouncing gently. She watched as her companion flicked the catch on the leather case and opened it. Nestled in a pink satin lining was what looked like a steel tube. He lifted it out, removed a long needle lying beside it and fastened them together. He placed the instrument on the seat and pulled the cork out of the vial.
“What’s that?”
“Let’s call it the Milk of Paradise.”
He plunged the syringe into the vial and drew up the brownish-coloured liquid. “Roll up your sleeve, Alice, and I will make you happier than you’ve ever been.”
She shook her head. “Sod off. I’ve heard of that stuff. Sends you batchy.”
“No, it doesn’t, not if used wisely. It’s the nectar of the gods.”
“That so? Let me see you do it, then.”
“I will. But ladies first. Here, hold out your arm.”
He caught her by the wrist with his free hand but she knocked him away. “No. I don’t want to.”
The syringe fell to the floor. The needle broke in half and the brown fluid spread on the beige matting. The man yelped.
“Damn you! You shouldn’t have done that. Heaven is costly.”
Alice saw his rage, saw the intent. Fear surged through her body, every nerve sensing the danger.
Before he could stop her, she pushed down the handle and thrust open the door and half fell, half rolled to the ground. Desperately, she scrambled to her feet, oblivious to the sharp ice beneath her unshod feet. They were on a desolate strip of shore. She could see the outline of the distillery to the west but it was too far away. Even if she screamed, she knew nobody would hear her. She began to run, not realizing she was heading out on the frozen lake.
The man leaned out of the carriage. “Stop her!” he shouted to the coachman. The order was unnecessary. Jack understood the situation immediately and leaped down from his seat and plunged after the fleeing woman. Even in his heavy cape, he caught up with her easily.
“Hey, wait. Where’re you going?”
She turned, gasping, “He’s a sodding lunatic …”
“Don’t be silly, course he’s not. Come on, you’ll catch your death.”
Alice looked over his shoulder and for the first time she could see the carriage completely. The moon was full and gleaming on the snow. It was easy to make out a burgundy chassis. The grey horse shook his bridle and pawed at the ground.
“My God, it’s the same bloody carriage. It was you … you’re the ones who picked up the girl …”
She saw the expression on the man’s face but before she could move, he caught her shoulder with one hand, twisted her around and slipped a rope noose around her throat. Alice toppled backwards as he pulled tighter.
Chapter Twelve
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14
JOE SEATON GOT OUT OF BED IN A HURRY. He’d forgotten to pull down the alarm lever on his clock and had slept an hour longer than he should have. The window was already grey with the coming of dawn. He pulled on his trousers, lit his lantern and, rubbing hard at his head to wake himself up, clambered down the ladder to the stable. The horse whinnied softly in welcome and thrust his head over the gate of the loose box. Joe offered him the dried apple he’d pinched from the kitchen the night before, and Silver took it delicately between his big yellow teeth and ground it to pulp. Joe stroked the soft upper lip with its stiff whiskers and the horse nuzzled into his hand in the hope of finding more apples.
“That’s yer lot, greedy guts,” Joe said affectionately. “Come on, move over. I’m late. They’ll be on at me good if I don’t get cracking.” He pushed the animal aside and went into the box, where he forked some fresh hay from the bale into the feeding trough. Silver was a young horse but sweet-natured and biddable, and Joe was grateful for that. The big Morgan on the farm where he’d first lived in Canada was ornery and unpredictable. He’d landed such a kick on Joe’s thigh once he’d near broken the bone. “’Twas yer own fault,” said the farmer and cuffed the boy for good measure.
He shivered even though this part of the stable was warm. There was an oil heater in the corner, kept on a low burn, and the horse’s body heat helped. Joe’s room was up above in the loft. There was only a single layer of wood between it and the elements, and the cracks were so bad, snow sifted in at the corner.
He left Silver to his hay and climbed back up the ladder. The frost on the window shone like silver filigree as the winter sun grew stronger. He put his candle on the wooden dresser, reached under his narrow bed and hauled out the tin strongbox that had come with him from England three years earlier. That, a set of wool underwear and his navy-blue suit were all that remained of his original endowment from Dr. Barnardo’s Home. The suit was small for him now. His wrists protruded from the cuffs of the jacket and he was ashamed to wear it. The sturdy boots had gone too, traded to another boy at the Fegan Boys’ Distributing Home for a b
ook now stored safely at the bottom of the box.
He lifted the lid. Inside was his scanty clothing, one-piece flannel underwear, two jerseys, a flannel shirt, all neatly folded as he had been taught. Underneath everything was the precious book, A Handbook of Physiology and Phrenology. He took it out and laid it aside carefully on the bed, giving it a little pat as if it were a live creature. Although there were a lot of words he couldn’t understand, he’d been well schooled in basic reading in the orphanage, and he studied the thin volume at every opportunity. He’d even shown it to Therese and they’d looked at the illustrations together, giggling as they determined that the high bony forehead of Edith Foy was a sign of excessive pride and John Foy’s bibativeness, his fondness for liquids, as the book called it, could be clearly seen above his prominent zygomatic arch.
In the far corner of the box, tucked beneath the jersey, was a twist of newspaper which he unfolded. Inside was his hoard of treasures, a gold cufflink, part of a broken onyx earbob, some coins, including two shilling pieces he’d once found on a London street, and a small wooden crucifix. He removed this reverently.
When he first knew that Therese was a Roman Catholic he was afraid. At the Home the word “Romanist” always sat in the same sentence as “wicked” or, at best, “misguided.” Once one of the bigger youths had discovered a new boy clutching a rosary, and a group of residents soon gathered, whispering together, solemn and afraid as if they had found the Devil himself in the cupboard. They informed the warden and the poor newcomer was sent away. “To his own kind,” said the supervisor. But the incident had shaken everyone and special prayers were offered for the soul of the depraved departed.
Therese was always unobtrusive in her observance, but he’d seen her touching the glass beads on her rosary, muttering in a strange language. Then she’d kiss the little wooden cross that hung from the necklace. She’d shown it to him, the seminaked body of Jesus Christ, arms outstretched, head drooping. The agony of that tiny figure had fascinated Joe.
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