The following day was very quiet, and on Friday morning Titus crossed his fingers and slipped out without asking, his pocket filled with buns he had somewhat shamefacedly asked Inspector Pilbury for. Big Ben struck eight as he arrived at the workhouse gates. They were open and the courtyard was already bustling. This time people were coming out of the porter’s door, their faces pink and radiant with the determination that they would not return. Before them lay another full day that, if spent well, might set them back on their feet again. Titus held the door open for the Irishwoman and her children who’d been behind them in the queue the night they arrived and she beamed and blessed him.
Even the porter looked cheerful, waving off his charges with wishes of luck and good health. He greeted Titus politely and soon the nurse arrived to take him through to the yard.
They walked through corridors that smelled of a mixture of over-boiled cabbage and bleach until they reached a door. Here the nurse stopped and stood with her back to it. He reached into his pocket and drew out the smaller of the buns.
‘Much obliged,’ she said, snatching it with an acid smile.
This time, to Titus’s relief, Hannah was sewing with the younger girls. Her head darted up the minute the nurse spoke to her. She quickly rolled the fabric up and tucked it into her apron pocket, before following the nurse across the yard.
‘Where’s me bun?’ she said, as soon as they were alone.
She was thinner and paler and a bruise yellowed her cheek.
‘Look, I know you’re angry with me,’ he said, ‘but who do you think I’m doing this for?’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s. Where’s me bun?’
Sighing, he took the little yellow bun from his pocket and held it out to her.
‘Where’s the currants?’
‘I could only get saffron.’
‘I hate saffron.’
‘Very well. I’ll take it back, then.’
But before he could withdraw it she snatched it from his hand and set upon it ravenously.
‘You’d get more to eat if you behaved,’ he said.
She gave him a filthy look but didn’t pause in her chewing to reply, so he took the opportunity to speak to her without getting any backchat.
‘I got a job. With Inspector Pilbury.’
Her chewing slowed down for a moment.
‘It pays thruppence a week. That means I shall soon have the deposit for the room. And as soon as I do I’ll come and get you and we’ll be together again.’
Her response was muffled by the bun but there was no mistaking the sarcasm: ‘Oh good.’
‘And who knows, maybe Pilbury will like me enough to make me a constable one day. Then we’d be laughing.’
‘Ha,’ Hannah said drily, swallowing the last mouthful of bun. ‘Got any more?’
‘No, but I’ll bring you a pie next time. If you can manage to be a bit more civil.’
She sighed heavily.
‘Is that a yes?’
She gave a tight little nod.
‘Good. Right, well, I’d better get back.’
Hannah took something out of her pocket and slipped it into his.
‘What’s that, a present?’
‘Yeah, course, a present for my loving brother.’
He took it out and began to open it.
‘No!’ She stayed his hand. ‘I don’t want to see it. Open it somewhere else.’
He put it away and, before she could stop him, bent and kissed her quickly on the cheek.
‘Goodbye, Hannah.’
He smiled as she stomped away scouring her cheek with her sleeve.
Back in the station, Titus made straight for the bathroom where he scrubbed his hands and face until the workhouse stink was no longer in his nostrils. As he washed, he could hear a man remonstrating with the duty officer.
‘Every minute she’s here she’s missing out on earnings somewhere else,’ the voice snapped. It was somehow familiar.
‘Well, I’m sure Mr Pilbury will not keep her longer than he needs to.’
‘He’d better not or—’
The duty officer interrupted him. ‘Sit down, sir, or I will ask you to leave.’
Heading back down the passage towards the stables, Titus heard voices coming from Inspector Pilbury’s office. It was not unusual for the Inspector to work late, but none of the other officers stayed unless it was their shift, and in that case they would be out on their beats. Some new and important case, perhaps? He paused at the door.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you to make you more comfortable? A blanket? It is a chilly night.’
‘I won’t feel the cold.’
It was a girl’s voice, low and melodic. Pilbury was not speaking to her as a suspect, nor in the businesslike tone he reserved for witnesses. Titus crouched and peered through the keyhole. The room was much darker than usual, and a single small lantern set beneath the table threw so many unexpected shadows on the walls it took him a few moments to realise there were only two people seated inside. Pilbury was not in his usual spot behind the desk, but sitting on the other side of it, his knees almost touching those of a girl. Her skin was pale as milk, her hair coal black. It took Titus a while to recognise her but when she cast an anxious glance at the door he was certain.
‘We won’t be disturbed, will we?’ she said.
‘Absolutely not. My men have only just set out on their beats and the front door is locked.’
‘I’m ready, then. Do you have the clothing?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry it is so dirty, but after a week in the water . . .’
The medium took the grubby rag he held out to her: a threadbare little vest with a butterfly embroidered on the breast, green now, like the rest of the garment. She passed it back and forth through her hands then pressed it to her face and inhaled deeply. Then she flashed one last glance at the door. Titus was momentarily pinned to the spot by eyes so deep and clear you might fall through them and never reach the bottom. He was sure she had seen his own wide eye blinking back but then she turned to the Inspector, placed the vest in her lap and bowed her head.
‘Wait till you hear my breathing change.’
For some minutes nothing happened. The medium’s breathing continued slow and even, until Titus wondered if she had fallen asleep. Pilbury, on the other hand, was alert as a cat. His breath came in snatches and, in the light of the small lantern, Titus could see sweat beading his forehead.
And then the most peculiar smell filled the room, casting its tendrils through the keyhole to make Titus gag. It was the smell of soot and fish and tallow and rotting vegetables and blood and excrement and all the other myriad smells of the city combined in a briny soup. It was the smell of the Thames.
Someone gasped. Titus’s eye darted around his tiny sphere of vision to discover this third person he had not noticed before, but there was no sign of anyone. The shadows had become remarkably still.
And then a voice, a child’s voice, let out a long, agonised sob.
Titus’s blood slowed to a crawl as he watched the girl’s mouth close at the very same moment that terrible cry petered out. Her eyes were wide, straining in their sockets as they skittered around the room. For a second or two Titus’s heart actually felt like it had stopped as he waited for them to fall on him, but there was too much panic in them to settle on anything.
‘It’s all right, little one,’ Pilbury said gently. ‘My name is William, and I am a policeman. You are safe with me.’
Now the child was weeping.
‘Did somebody try to hurt you, sweetheart?’
The girl froze.
‘Mamma!’
The chilling howl of despair sent Titus scrabbling back from the keyhole.
‘It’s all right,’ Pilbury said.
Returning to the keyhole Titus saw the Inspector lean forward as if to touch the medium, but then stay his hand.
‘Listen to me, child,’ Pilbury began again, firmer this time. ‘If you wish me to find
your mama you must tell me your name.’
The child continued weeping.
‘What is your name, girl?’
The child – the medium – flinched.
‘Come now, answer me. What is your name?’
The medium unbent her head. Her features were stretched into a mask of terror. Even from here Titus could see the halo of white around her irises – they seemed to have lightened, were now more blue than brown. Her lips opened as wide as the jaw would allow and the scream that ripped out of her mouth made Titus grip the brass door handle.
Pilbury recovered himself after a moment and tried to speak, but his words were drowned in the torrent of noise.
Somewhere beneath it Titus could hear the stable doors shuddering, as if the horses were throwing themselves against them. His brain thrummed and pressed against his skull. Soon his eardrums would surely burst.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the scream ceased. Pilbury slumped back in his chair. Titus rested his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
The medium rolled back her shoulders and rubbed the corner of her jaw as if it ached a little.
‘Did you get what you needed?’
Her voice was her own once more.
‘No. She was too distressed.’
‘I’m sorry. Would you like me to try again?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps someone will come and identify her soon. Don’t be upset by what you heard, Mr Pilbury. Remember she’s only recently passed over and in a most traumatic manner, and there are many good and kind souls with her now who will soothe her and—’
She suddenly broke off and made a choking sound.
‘Miss Kent?’
She did not reply. And then her spine suddenly went rigid. A moment later her head jerked back as if it had been forced.
‘Miss Kent! What is it?’
The tendons on her neck bulged and her eyes rolled back into her head. A heaving sound came from the pit of her stomach, echoing around the silent room. Pilbury stared at the medium in horror as she began making the most dreadful choking sounds.
The Inspector did not seem to know what to do. He went to touch her, then pulled back and just repeated her name, imploring her to wake up. Now her throat was bulging, pressing the blue veins to the surface of her skin until Titus could see them pulsing rapidly. Suddenly she gave a last groan, so deep and guttural it was almost a snarl, and something emerged from her mouth.
For a moment nothing moved. The air that trickled through the keyhole to Titus had turned icy cold, the girl was still and silent as a corpse.
Then Pilbury let out a cry of excitement.
‘Ah! Is it you again, my poor little soul? Have you come to tell me who you are?’
It was the same thing Titus had witnessed at the theatre. A strip of white fabric; flattish and long enough to coil around itself, like the dressing for a wound or a winding sheet. It moved sinuously, dancing in front of the Inspector, then reared its head and made a jab at Pilbury’s face.
‘Ah!’ the Inspector pulled away. ‘Now that you are free of our mortal coil you are feeling playful. How I understand!’
The river stench had vanished and the smell that now pervaded the Inspector’s office, creeping through the keyhole into Titus’s own nostrils, was altogether sweeter.
More and more of the stuff emerged from the girl’s throat, coiling around her waist like a winding sheet, then peeping almost coyly over her shoulder, making Pilbury chuckle.
If Pilbury wasn’t afraid then perhaps there was no reason to be, thought Titus. He let out his breath. The serpent went suddenly still. Then it turned its splayed head towards the door and slid noiselessly over the girl’s shoulder into her lap. There it hesitated for a moment over the still white hands and, if it had eyes, they would have been fixed on the keyhole. Pilbury was still watching its every move, a bewitched smile playing about his lips. The hairs on Titus’s neck rose and very slowly he moved away from the aperture.
He only heard what happened next.
‘Is this really the girl from the river, or are you a different spirit?’ Pilbury continued in a low voice that suddenly became harsher. ‘Do not play games with me. Swaying your head like a cobra will not scare me. You are wasting valuable time that could be spent discovering the identity of one of Rancer’s—’
But he did not finish. There was a quiet shoosh, like a stone flying by your ear, and then the policeman gave a strangled cry and retched violently. Chair legs screamed over the floorboards and there were muffled thumps and knocks as if two large men were fighting. All the while the ghastly retching went on and on.
Then it stopped.
Titus leaped to his feet and kicked the door open. The medium was slumped senseless on the chair. Pilbury lay on the floor at her feet, his face white. There was no-one else in the room and the serpent thing had vanished.
‘Sir?’
He flung himself down and grasped the Inspector’s hand. It was ice-cold.
‘Can you hear me?’
A bubble of bloody spittle appeared in the corner of the policeman’s mouth. At least that meant he was still breathing.
Titus vaulted the desk and began rifling through the drawers and cupboards for smelling salts or snuff or brandy. In his haste papers fluttered across the room and ink pots spilled on the floor.
And then, without warning, Pilbury jerked awake with a cry, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare.
He swallowed, grimaced, then blinked once or twice.
‘Sir? Inspector? Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m all right. What the hell are you doing, boy?’
The policeman sprang to his feet without the slightest wobble.
‘You seemed . . . unwell. I was looking for smelling salts.’
Then the medium gave a faint moan.
‘Me? Look to the girl! She is in need of immediate medical attention. Run to Doctor Hadsley at once!’
By the time Titus returned with the doctor the medium was awake and sipping milky tea that smelled of whisky. With her was the manager he’d seen at the Palace who, Titus now realised, had been the man complaining to the duty officer.
‘This is exactly what I warned you about,’ he barked in the girl’s face. ‘Now you ain’t got the energy to visit Lady Berkley’s so that’s fifteen bob down the swanny.’
In his anger the upper-crust accent had entirely disappeared.
Doctor Hadsley was disapproving in his diagnosis that she would be wise to restrict her spiritual wanderings to Sunday mass. Pilbury told the doctor to restrict his opinions to those concerning the body and to leave the soul to those who knew better. The doctor replied that a police officer should be a man of science not superstition. Titus busied himself tidying the papers and doing his best to clean up the ink that had already stained the floorboards.
Eventually the doctor departed, shaking his head.
‘Right, come on then,’ the girl’s manager snapped, gripping her arm and pulling her towards the office door. But at the threshold she wriggled free of him and turned back to Pilbury.
‘Are you sure you saw nothing untoward?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Pilbury said.
She nodded, hesitated a moment, then turned to go.
Titus was sent after them to unlock the gate and hail them a cab. He was surprised to hear the man give the driver an address in Fulham. The Inspector must value her very highly to bother with the time and expense of getting her here. After all, mediums were two-a-penny nowadays.
As he helped her into the carriage she hesitated, searching his face. Titus smiled politely and she smiled back, frowning a little as if trying to place him. There was a little more colour to her cheeks now and her hand was warm in his own. She stepped inside and he shut the door.
Returning to the stables he found the Inspector standing in the courtyard, gazing up at the night sky. The moon was high and Titus had not seen so many stars since they left the country.
‘Such a clear night will be a cold one,’ Pilbury said. ‘Are you warm in the stables?’
‘The straw is enough.’
Pilbury looked at him for a moment and then back up at the sky.
‘I am sorry if I was sharp with you in there. You did nothing to deserve it.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘It can be an eerie business, this detecting, and I was very glad of your help when the young lady was ill.’
He lifted a hand and patted Titus’s shoulder.
‘Very glad.’
The hand dropped back to his side.
‘Well, goodnight then, lad.’
At the door to the kitchen he paused, turned round and took off his waistcoat.
‘Here. This might keep the chill off.’
The night’s proceedings had badly affected the horses and, before Titus could go to bed, he had to clean a wound in Leopold’s flank where Beatrice had bitten him, and then clear the blood from Beatrice’s split nose where she had repeatedly butted the stable door. For at least an hour Titus stroked them and sang them nursery rhymes until their eyes no longer showed the whites and the beating of their hearts was no longer visible between their ribs. As they finally began to doze he settled down on his own hard bed. Even with the stalks of the straw digging into his back and the rats scratching at the other side of the planks he felt content. The waistcoat was snug and smelled deliciously of pipe smoke and frying sausages. There was not the merest hint of honey.
11
The next morning Titus remembered Hannah’s gift. Perhaps she didn’t hate him quite so much as she made out. He took it from his pocket and squeezed it. It was soft enough to be material. Could it really be a piece of embroidery? A sampler, perhaps, or some Bible quotation to remember their parents by? Eagerly he tore open the package.
It was her hair. Her precious hair. So much that it must have been shorn almost to the scalp, and all held together by a noose of oakum. It slipped from his fingers and flopped into his lap.
Inside was a note. Thanks to him, and in the teeth of her strident opposition, Hannah could just about spell her own name, so she must have asked one of the older girls to write it for her.
The Hanged Man Rises Page 9
