by Lyn Gardner
“Hopkin!” said the other man warningly, and his tic twitched alarmingly.
There was something about the duo that reminded Rose of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, the characters from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass. Rose thought back to the duo’s performance at Campion’s. She remembered describing them as being as jumpy as cats. She had thought that they had simply been suffering from terrible stage fright, but after seeing them perform tonight that seemed an unlikely explanation. They had been confident and in control on stage – it was only now that they seemed tense and panicky. And it wasn’t just nerves: if Rose had to make a guess, she would say that both of these men were afraid of something. She recalled that Thomas had said that after their terrible performance at Campion’s, they had left the theatre with such haste it was as if they were being pursued by all the demons of hell.
“Look,” she said. “I imagine you would love to get out of the Victorious and play somewhere more salubrious. Well, we could help you. You were really good today, but I’m guessing that few of the better halls will have you after your Campion’s disaster. Word travels fast.” Both men nodded. “But I could tell Thomas how good you were, and maybe get him to come and see you himself. And perhaps he could put in a good word for you with some of the other hall owners.” The men looked eager. “But I can only help you if you are honest with me. You are both afraid of something, aren’t you? What was it that frightened you so much that you deliberately threw your act at Campion’s so badly that you’ve become virtually unemployable? Nobody does that to their own career unless they are very, very scared.”
The men looked at each other and seemed to come to a decision. Hopkin gave a nod. Dent went to a small box, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. He withdrew a folded sheet of paper and passed it to Rose. She opened it up. The words, written in a fine copperplate hand, said: “Be warned. If you play another night at Campion’s, both of you will die. This is no joke. Remember Desiree, and take note. Your names are already on the bullets.”
Hopkin opened his hand. “These were delivered with the note.” In his palm were two bullets. Rose held them up to the light. On one was engraved a “D”, and on the other, an “H”.
Rose ran up the stairs at Campion’s. She wanted to tell Thomas about their encounter with Hopkin and Dent. She was furious that the investigation into the murder of poor Ivy had been downgraded because of the Fitzcillian and Plockton robberies – as if the loss of a few jewels by the rich was of greater importance than the death of a poor music-hall dancer – and so, on their way back from the Victorious, they had made a detour to Scotland Yard. There they had delivered the threatening note and the bullets into the hands of Inspector Cliff, who had agreed that it was new evidence. But there was something in his manner that made Rose think that Ivy’s death was still not going to be an immediate priority.
She, Effie and Rory had discussed what they knew on their way back, but none of them could come up with a reason why somebody would kill Ivy and then threaten to do the same to Hopkin and Dent.
“There has to be something that connects the two of them,” said Rose. “But when I asked them, Hopkin and Dent said they had never met Ivy, and I don’t think they were lying.”
“Me neither,” said Rory drily, who thought that by the end of their interrogation by Rose it was hard to know if Hopkin and Dent were more scared of her or the unknown person who had written the note. They had passed it and the bullets over to Rose with barely a murmur.
“There must be something else that connects them – something that got Ivy killed, and Hopkin and Dent threatened to the point they felt their lives were at risk.”
“Yes,” said Effie. “The bullets were a particularly macabre touch.”
“A dramatic flourish,” said Aurora.
“A very effective one,” said Rose. She was still thinking about it as she climbed the stairs towards Thomas’s study. She went to put her hand on the door when she realised she could hear voices coming from inside. She paused, her hand on the handle.
She heard Thomas ask, “I assume you have ensured that the emeralds are Grace’s, and belong to Grace alone, and in no circumstances can be claimed by Sir Godfrey.”
“Of course, I have taken legal advice. She will own them entirely in her own right,” said Edward.
Rose turned to go back downstairs. Thomas and Edward were clearly deep in conversation. Now was not the moment to disturb them with her discovery about Hopkin and Dent.
But then Edward added, “I would not say that Sir Godfrey was delighted by the news, when I told him that I would be settling the emeralds on Grace, and that he would have no claim over them. He said it would look to the world as if I did not entirely trust him.”
“And do you?” asked Thomas.
“I can’t say I warm to the man, and I have no earthly idea what Grace sees in him that makes her want to marry him. But he is very widely regarded and has an impeccable reputation for his good works with the poor and needy. He sits on numerous charity committees and he’s always telling people about how much of his own money he has donated to the poor. So it’s not as if he needs the emeralds. In any case, I had already agreed to give him a substantial dowry – a dowry of which Grace is unaware and which I for one will ensure she never knows about.”
Rose knew she shouldn’t listen any further, but she paused on the stairs, digesting this piece of information. A dowry! Sir Godfrey was effectively being paid to marry Grace. It was almost medieval.
“Did he ask for one before he proposed?” asked Thomas, sounding concerned.
“Not in so many words,” continued Edward. “He danced around the subject, as only a gentleman of his class and background can, but his meaning was quite clear. He said that the money would be used entirely for charitable purposes.”
Rose crept down the stairs. Her brain was buzzing. No wonder Sir Godfrey had been so persistent in his proposals. She wondered if Grace would have ever said yes if she had known about the dowry. She was in such a daze she didn’t notice Perdita waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Rose,” she said conspiratorially. “I just wanted to check that you are none the worse for wear after our adventure the other night.”
“I’m fine – but are you quite recovered from your faint, Perdita?”
“It was nothing. I had simply failed to eat any breakfast,” said Perdita, but she looked pale and anxious. She put her arm around Rose’s shoulder in a motherly fashion and held her tight, as if she feared she might get away. “I wasn’t just thinking of your encounter with that unpleasant young man. I heard about the message from beyond the grave that Madame de Valentina had for you at Lant Street. It must have been unsettling.”
Rose nodded. “It was. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t really think she can talk to the dead and yet … yet…” Rose found herself crying. “I can’t help feeling she may be right, and my mother is dead. I want to believe that my mother is out there somewhere, and has never given up hope that she will find me. But in truth, I know that she is probably long dead.” Perdita enveloped Rose in her arms, and for a moment Rose imagined it was her mother’s embrace. She allowed herself to relax into them as she sobbed quietly.
“So,” said Perdita softly. “Are you going to follow up on the Inspector’s information?”
“I don’t see the point,” said Rose. “It doesn’t matter what Elenora says – in my heart I know my mother is dead. And if I’m wrong, and she isn’t, maybe she doesn’t want to be found. So why bother?”
“You must do what you think best,” said Perdita.
After a few seconds the pair broke apart, and when Rose looked up she saw tears in Perdita’s eyes. She glanced behind them and saw Ella watching them from the end of corridor, with a look on her face that had the furtiveness of a spy – but which was also full of longing.
Rose, Effie and Aurora hurried back over London Bridge towards Campion’s for one last rehearsal of the pantomime before Cinderella opened later th
at night. They had been at Silver Square with Aurora, where they had tried on the frocks that they might wear for the dinner when Grace would be presented with the Easingford Emeralds in two days’ time.
It was another bitterly cold day. Curdled grey clouds bearing more snow hung sullenly in the sky, but there was a real whiff of Christmas in the air too – the scent of roasting chestnuts, and cloves and cinnamon, drifting across the bridge from the stalls selling mulled ale. Rose was feeling much better and had a spring in her step. In some ways she wondered whether Madame de Valentina might have done her a favour. All her life, since she was still a little girl and Thomas had explained to her how she had been found on the steps of Campion’s, she had thought obsessively about her lost mother. Not a day had passed when she hadn’t dreamed about finding her. Madame de Valentina may have been faking it when she said that she was communicating with the spirit of Rose’s mother, but even if it was a lie, Rose felt it had made her face up to reality: she was never going to feel a mother’s embrace. She just had to get on with her life.
Perhaps it made it easier to be grateful for what she did have: Thomas’s warm, unconditional love, a home at Campion’s that she adored, and all the warmth and friendship of the Campion’s family. So many of those working at Campion’s were, like poor dead Ivy, entirely without ties. Some were estranged from their families and others, like Rose, had never known them, or lost them at some point along the way. She was not unusual. The streets of London were full of orphaned children who hadn’t had her luck to be abandoned on the steps of Campion’s and found by someone as caring and tender-hearted as Thomas. She knew she was fortunate, and from now on she resolved to stop daydreaming about her mother and instead appreciate her good luck.
The girls stopped to buy chestnuts, and across the bridge Rose saw John, the eldest Tanner Street boy, looking at them. Very slowly, Rose met his insolent stare with a grin, and in a nimble gesture raised her hand and pointed it at him like a pistol. He dropped his eyes and skulked away. Rose suspected she would have no further trouble from him.
“What was that all about?” asked Effie, who had noticed the fleeting encounter and Rose’s odd gesture.
“Nothing,” said Rose.
“The Tanner Street boys haven’t been bothering you since they were banned? If they have, you should tell Thomas sharpish,” said Rory.
“Oh, I don’t think they will be any further trouble,” said Rose. She knew that John wouldn’t want his encounter with Perdita to become common knowledge around Southwark. It would make him a laughing stock and do nothing for his hard-man reputation. “In fact, I may ask Thomas to give the Tanner Street boys an early Christmas present and un-ban them. They’ve never missed a Campion’s pantomime. There was one year when a couple of the youngest of them tried to storm the stage mid-performance to have a ride on the panto horse. It was very funny.”
They walked on further past the stalls and the homeless beggars asking for alms who huddled along the side of the bridge. Suddenly Rose broke step, and turned and walked back a short distance, stopping by two small figures sitting on the ground hunched against the cold. She bent down.
“It’s Florrie and Col, isn’t it?” she asked. The pair nodded miserably. The last time Rose had seen them they were up on the stage at Campion’s, having been summoned there by Madame de Valentina – willing participants, or victims, depending on your point of view, thought Rose – in her hypnotism act. Then the youngsters had had a glow about them; they had been flushed with love and optimism. Florrie’s hair had been glossy, and Col had looked spruce. Now Florrie’s hair was lank, and Col had the frayed look of one who had been living on the streets for several days. Effie and Rory had walked back to join them.
“What are you doing here? What about your positions at Lady Plockton’s?” asked Rose, appalled by their transformation.
“We were let go,” whispered Florrie. “After the robbery.”
Rose frowned. “But why? Surely if the police think you were involved in any way, they would have arrested you?”
“Mud sticks,” said Col gloomily. “Two of the other servants said that Florrie wasn’t in her bed on the night of the robbery, and because the police think it was an inside job, of course it looks suspicious.”
“And were you up and about in the middle of the night?” asked Aurora.
Florrie shook her head and her face crumpled. “If I was, I can’t remember it. As far as I know I went to bed at ten o’clock, fell fast asleep and woke up again at five o’ clock in the morning, when I was called to make up the fires. All I can recall is that I had a dream in which I heard a bell ringing. But Nancy and Jane swear blind that they were both awake during the night and that my bed was empty. They thought about coming to look for me. Even worse, it was around the time that the police think the robbery took place.”
“Do these girls have any kind of grudge against you?” asked Rose.
Florrie shook her head and tears ran down her cheeks. “No, that’s the horrible thing. They were both my friends. We all stuck by each other.”
“You don’t think they’ve got a reason to lie – that they could have been involved in the robbery in some way?”
Florrie shook her head again. “They were the sweetest, most truthful girls, as honest as the day. Before this happened, I’d have trusted them with my life.”
“So how did you end up on the streets?” asked Effie.
“The butler sent for me and said I was to be let go on the orders of Lady Plockton herself. Without references.”
Rose felt anger well inside her gut. You were supposed to be innocent until found guilty, and Florrie hadn’t even been arrested, let alone charged with a crime. Yet being let go without references was a punishment that would follow poor Florrie for the rest of her life. She would never find another position without references.
“He said it was regrettable, but that Lady Plockton did not trust to have me in the house. I was made to leave immediately.”
“What about you, Col?” asked Rose, turning to the boy. His face was one of pure outrage.
“The butler called me in and said that if I wanted to keep my job I was never to see or have any contact with Florrie again.” He took Florrie’s hand and clutched it tight. “But I know my Florrie. I know that she is no thief, so I walked out with her there and then.”
With no references either, thought Rose. She admired the boy’s loyalty to Florrie, but loyalty wasn’t going to help them eat for the next fifty years.
“Have you no family to take you in?” asked Rose.
“Mine are all dead. Florrie only has her dad, and he’s a demon when he drinks, and he drinks whenever he has money in his pocket,” said Col. “I’ve tried to get work. First few days I walked all over the city. But now we have to store up our energy against the cold.” He gave a cough – a nasty, painful sound.
“So there’s no one you can turn to?”
“I have an aunt – my late mother’s sister,” said Florrie. “She lives in Shadwell. She might provide shelter. She rents a little house there. Her husband was the stage-doorkeeper at the Imperial Grand before he died of the consumption, just before the place burned down.”
“The Imperial Grand?” asked Rose sharply.
“Yes,” said Florrie. “He was there for the fifteen years before he died. When I was a little girl he used to tell me about all the shows and the actors and actresses who appeared in them. He knew all the gossip.”
For a moment Rose allowed her mind to drift. She was talking to somebody who had known somebody who had almost certainly known her mother. So close. Yet so far.
“Did he ever mention a production of The Winter’s Tale, and an incident with a baby going missing during the run?”
Florrie shook her head. “If he did, I don’t remember.”
A blast of arctic air howled over the bridge, and Col’s hacking cough brought Rose back to the situation in hand.
“So why can’t you stay at your aunt’s?” she a
sked.
“She’s not there,” said Florrie. “House is all locked up. I asked a neighbour. Said she had gone to visit her late husband’s sister in Tunbridge Wells. She may not be back until after Christmas.”
Rose stood up and held out a hand to Florrie, pulling her up.
“Come on. You are coming back to Campion’s with us. With the pantomime starting tonight, we’ll need all the extra help we can get. Florrie can top-to-tail with me, and Col can kip down behind the bar. We’ll send a note over to your aunt’s house to find on her return and tell her where you are.”
“We don’t want to be any trouble,” said Col.
“You’re not trouble,” said Rose firmly. She waved an arm at the other huddled figures on the bridge. “The trouble’s not you – it’s that we live in a city where some have so much and many have so little. Come on, don’t dawdle, there will be hot pies at Campion’s, and a fire.”
They arrived back at Campion’s just as Madame de Valentina was arriving to do the early show. Tonight, the panto was top of the bill, at the end of the second show of the night, but it wouldn’t run every show, or every day, ensuring that those who wanted to see Madam de Valentina’s act would still have plenty of opportunity to do so. She was still drawing a huge crowd, with her heady mix of hypnotism and conversations with the dead, although Rose had noticed that this part of her act was getting ever shorter.
She swept towards the stage door, already dressed for her performance as she always was, arriving and leaving in the same clothes that she wore on stage. Rose and the others had talked about how odd it was. For most hall folk, changing clothes and getting into a costume and ready for a performance marked the division between reality and the theatre. They needed the moment of transformation, both before the show and then after it. But Elenora wore the same clothes on stage as she did off it, which made Rose wonder whether her entire life was one big act, for which she was always wearing a costume. There was something about Elenora’s invincible confidence, as she put her hand on the stage door handle, that made Rose call out to her.
