by Roz Southey
Ridley grabbed at me, caught my ankle. I tugged free, got to my feet. He dragged himself up the wall, ran at me. Straight towards the scissors I was holding. Alarmed, I threw them to one side, tried to duck out of the way.
A hand reached between us and caught Ridley’s cravat. He jerked to a halt, choking, pawing at his throat.
‘Good afternoon,’ Hugh said. ‘You know I always thought it the mark of a gentleman to be armed with a sword. Are scissors de rigeur nowadays? Of course, it could just be that you’re not a gentleman.’
Ridley glared at him.
‘I admit I’m hampered by being one-handed just at the moment.’ Hugh twisted the cravat still further. Ridley gasped, went up on tiptoe to ease the pressure on his neck. ‘But in my experience a little use of the wits usually triumphs over mere impulse. And you’re very impulsive, aren’t you?’ He tut-tutted. ‘Not a good idea.’
Tears were pouring down Ridley’s cheeks. He batted ineffectually at Hugh’s hand, then tried to twist and bring up his knee. Hugh was more prepared and quicker-witted than Nightingale had been; he shifted, exerted more pressure, and Ridley’s face, which had been bright red, started to whiten and turn blue around the lips.
‘Let him go, Hugh,’ I said. ‘We don’t want another death on our hands.’ I dipped for the scissors, to keep them safely out of Ridley’s reach. Hugh released his grip; Ridley fell back against the wall, coughing and spluttering.
‘Don’t stay on my account,’ Hugh said, giving him a little wave of farewell. ‘I’m sure you have lots to do.’
Ridley took a step sideways along the alley wall, scuttling away like a crab. Then with a wordless snarl, he turned his back and strolled insolently away.
‘Well done, Hugh!’ I said, watching him go. ‘You’ve talked him into submission.’
Hugh grinned. He jerked his head after Ridley. ‘So he’s our man, then.’
‘He says he did it,’ I agreed. ‘And he knows things he shouldn’t. But he didn’t do it with these scissors. He’s just bought them – they still have the price attached.’
Hugh gave me a speaking look. ‘Answer the question, Charles! Did he do it?’
I stared after the figure strolling away into Amen Corner. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea.’
Twenty-Six
Good wine and good conversation is the mark of a civilized man; drunkenness is the mark of a ruffian.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, February 1731]
A spirit had told Hugh that Nightingale had been seen the previous night at Mrs Hill’s tavern in the Fleshmarket; as soon as we walked into the inn, we spotted the lady herself on the far side of the crowded taproom; she saw us approaching and folded her arms belligerently. Hugh bowed, with a touch of mockery.
‘It’s always trouble when you two turn up,’ she said. She’s a fine woman on the far side of fifty, and shrewd, a widow who knew better than to remarry and have the business taken out of her hands.
‘Not a bit of it,’ Hugh said audaciously. ‘We’ve spent a good few shillings in here over the years.’
She allowed, begrudgingly, that this was true. ‘But I hold to the general point,’ she said sternly. ‘Musicians are always trouble!’
As if to prove her point, someone started singing raucously in one corner and soon had every spirit in the house singing with him.
‘And my girls have to listen to that filth,’ Mrs Hill said in disgust. A serving girl, walking past, gave me a wink.
‘I’m told there was a London musician in here last night,’ I said, raising my voice to be heard over the singing. ‘He’s pretty unmistakeable. Tall, burly and raucous.’
‘Dressed in pink,’ Hugh added.
‘The songs he knew!’ Mrs Hill said, grimacing. ‘Is he the one killed?’
‘He’s not dead yet,’ I said, yet again. ‘How long was he here?’
She considered. ‘No more than an hour. Early on, maybe around seven.’ She nodded at a customer who walked past.
‘Alone?’
‘Until he started offering free beer, yes.’ She added, with reluctant fairness, ‘He did pay his bill.’
So Nightingale had started the evening with money and set about getting rid of it fast. Maybe that was why he’d none on him when he was attacked. ‘Anyone in particular seem friendly with him?’ A burst of a bawdy chorus drowned my words; I repeated them, more loudly.
Mrs Hill shrugged. ‘Everyone who wanted free ale.’
‘Did you see him go?’
‘I did. Full of beer but he looked and talked sober. I thought at the time he could take his drink.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
She shook her head. ‘But I’ll warrant he wasn’t finished for the evening.’
The girl who’d winked at me came past again, bearing a platter of bread and cheese. She said, ‘He was looking for a woman. Asked where he was likely to find one. No sooner he was out the door than he picked up a girl. Twelve, no more.’
‘Wearing a yellow dress?’
‘Yellow as a dandelion.’ She nudged a drunken admirer away. ‘Went up to him the minute he was out the door. They talked a bit – arguing over the girl’s charge, I dare say. Then they went off.’
‘Did you see which way?’
‘Down towards St Nicholas.’
We went outside again, relieved to be out of the heat and noise. The blue sky was clouding over; rain spotted the cobbles.
‘I didn’t think you were serious about the girl.’ Hugh eased his sling and brushed dust from the shoulder of his coat.
‘I agree it’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘But if she’s perfectly innocent, where is she? Why hasn’t she come back to the house?’
‘Maybe she saw something? Maybe she’s just gone off in a temper, back to that hovel she was brought up in. Have you looked there?’
‘No. She wouldn’t go back, Hugh – she’s set her mind on getting out of there and she’ll not give up on that. And remember, she can step between worlds.’
He bit his lip, scowled, waited until a man with a terrier strolled past. ‘Look, if you think she’s there, can’t you just go and get her?’
I shook my head. ‘No. The time difference is the very devil. She’s been gone several hours; I might find myself several days behind her. And I daren’t linger there too long in case I’m mistaken for my counterpart – or even meet him.’
‘So what then?’
‘Did your friendly spirits not give you another clue?’
‘Not one.’
‘Which suggests,’ I said, ‘that he went where the spirits are less cooperative.’
Hugh frowned. ‘The Key?’
‘Or one of the chares off it.’
Hugh glared. ‘Oh, no, Charles, I’m not going down there again! We had some very nasty experiences there, remember.’
‘You can go home,’ I pointed out. ‘I’ll go on my own.’
‘And leave you defenceless in the midst of ruffians? Thank you, Charles, but I’m not a fair weather friend!’
We spent the afternoon making our way down to the Key by the most obvious route, thinking that Nightingale, as a stranger to the town, wouldn’t have known the byways. Finding news of him was not difficult; he’d stopped at almost all of the taverns, drank there until he gave offence and then tottered out. Kate had also been seen once or twice, hovering outside, or sitting on a shop doorstep, waiting for him. We asked after Cuthbert Ridley too but drew a blank. And no one else had apparently taken much interest in Nightingale.
Eventually, we came down on to the Key by the Old Man Inn. The doors of the inn were open, and half a dozen ruffians and sailors were staggering about outside, in a drunken attempt to dance a hornpipe.
‘I keep coming back to this inn,’ I said, standing in the doorway.
‘Ridley keeps coming back to this inn,’ Hugh said.
I went inside cautiously, with Hugh on my heels watching my back. The taproom stank of beer and smoke and worse things I didn’t pause to ident
ify. I saw no one I recognized and was so busy looking about, I didn’t realize for a moment that everyone had fallen silent, staring at us.
‘I’m looking for Cuthbert Ridley,’ I said into the silence. ‘I’m told he was in here last night.’
‘He’s always in here,’ said one man sourly. ‘Never a moment’s peace. And that other one. You’d think we’d be able to get away from you gentry here.’
‘Which other one?’
‘Started tweeting like a bird,’ another man said. ‘Then asked for a ladder.’
‘He dances on it,’ Hugh said.
‘Sure he does,’ said the man in good-humoured disbelief. He lit a pipe.
I was almost choking on the smell of smoke. ‘Was he on his own? No girl with him?’
‘Tried to sweetheart Meg.’
A dark-haired girl straightened from wiping a table at the back of the room. ‘I know what he was after!’
‘Make sure you charge him high!’ pipe man said to general laughter. He puffed out a huge acrid cloud. ‘Plenty of money, that one.’
‘But you weren’t interested?’ I asked.
She cocked her head. ‘He looked rich enough. But he was angry – looked mad enough to slap a girl round a bit. I wasn’t going to take that. And he already had a lass waiting outside.’
‘In a yellow dress? No more than twelve?’
‘Some like them young,’ she said philosophically.
The customers were eyeing us thoughtfully and it wasn’t our conversation they were interested in. There was all too much concentration on our clothes and presumably on how much they’d fetch if they could be sold. ‘You know Cuthbert Ridley too?’ I asked the girl.
‘Aye,’ she said coyly. ‘I know Cuddy. Many a time. In the Biblical sense.’
I smiled politely as everyone laughed again. ‘Was he in here last night?’
‘He was.’
‘Were Ridley and Nightingale in at the same time?’
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I don’t do nothing like that.’
I winced as she grinned and the laughter echoed. ‘I meant, were they in the tavern at the same time?’
‘Nah. I’d sent the singing gent on up to the Castle. To the Black Gate. A man can find anything he likes up there. Plenty of obliging girls.’ She frowned. ‘Cuddy came in later. But he asked for the singing gent, mind. And went out again, soon after.’
‘Did you tell him where the – er – singing gent had gone?’
She shrugged. ‘Why not?’
I gave her sixpence, knowing full well it was a lot more than she expected, and she said saucily that I could come in any time I liked.
We beat a quick retreat to the street. Hugh breathed in the fresh air with a satisfied sigh. ‘If Nightingale ended up at the Castle, it would have been natural for him to come back to the Fleece down that Stair.’
I contemplated the possibilities, looking around at the bustle of everyday life, the sailors, the whores, the respectable housewives, the carrier bustling to and from the Printing Office with bundles of newspapers. Seagulls wheeling and squawking overhead.
And saw a flash of bright yellow.
I took off after her.
Twenty-Seven
Women of the lower orders have frequently been the downfall of many a promising youth; sons, therefore, should be watched carefully and their associates chosen with the utmost care.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, September 1735]
I raced across the road, darting in front of a cart that turned suddenly out of a side street. The driver yelled after me, swearing. I was certain I knew the road Kate had turned down but when I got there it stretched before me, long and straight and empty. I glanced down a side street. Nothing.
I ran on. Street after street. Chances were she’d stepped through to the other world again. I ought to follow her at once. But there were too many people around – I needed somewhere quiet to step through. And she might still be here.
A spirit hovered on a doorknocker.
‘Have you seen a young girl—’
‘No, I haven’t,’ she said stridently. ‘And if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’
Damn. I started off again. The spirit called after me, ‘I know your type – give her fine clothes, bribe her to do as you want.’
So the spirit had seen Kate, in all her yellow finery. I glanced into an alley – and caught a glimpse of a bright petticoat whisking round a corner at the far end. I darted after her.
Spirits danced high up under the eaves. ‘Villain!’ cried one. ‘Ravisher!’ shrieked another. I spun round a corner. Another empty alley. A spirit on a windowsill said sleepily, ‘What’s going on? What’s all the noise about?’
I’d lost Kate.
I looked about. In my mad dash, I’d worked my way westwards across town; I wasn’t far from my own house in Caroline Square. I checked one or two side streets, called Kate’s name, was stared at by suspicious passers-by. No trace of her.
There was only one place she could have gone, and one thing to do – follow her. I ducked into an alley, glanced around to make sure I was alone, and took a deep breath. Footsteps behind me, a woman called out to a friend. Hurriedly, I took one step forward, felt a sudden chill. Blackness.
Then I put my foot down on to grass and a brilliant sunset was dazzling me.
I ducked instinctively, turned my back on the huge bright low sun. Purple spots scattered across my sight. I was in someone’s garden, on a neatly scythed lawn. Close by a clump of trees; I drew back into their shelter and peered through the foliage.
Three children were playing on a terrace in front of a house; a woman, stylish in pale petticoats, came out on to the terrace to laugh and joke with them. Behind her, a nurserymaid cradled a baby. Were these people I knew in my own world? But now was clearly not the time to indulge curiosity. Cautiously I retreated – and came up against a wall. Six feet of it, adorned on the top with broken glass.
Damn. I peered through the tree branches, trying to spot a gate out of the garden. If all else failed, I could step back to my own world, then back again, but that would make finding Kate almost impossible.
There was a gate, across the far side of the garden; I’d have to work my way round the wall to it. At least this world had no spirits in it, to spot me and give warning of my presence.
It didn’t need them. It had sharp-eyed nurserymaids instead. I heard a shriek, glanced round, saw her pointing at me. I started running for the gate. A child leapt up from the terrace, a boy of ten or so, quick, lithe and fast.
I jerked to a halt. Damn, damn, damn. There was a dog too, one of those ridiculous lapdogs, a white ball of fur, yapping as it bounced over the neat lawn.
I turned, took a step, felt the cold, and found myself back in the alley.
Where a fat woman was squatting and relieving herself.
I pulled back into a corner, squeezed my eyes shut. She was singing beneath her breath, occasionally grunting with effort. Resigned, I stepped back again—
And found myself in a street, just outside the garden gate, in pitch-black night.
Facing a tearful Kate.
Twenty-Eight
Children should obey their elders, and be firmly disciplined when they do not.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, May 1735]
She lifted her chin. Tears had traced grimy marks down her cheeks; her yellow dress was grubby and torn around the hem. She said in a voice full of wavering defiance, ‘Don’t want to talk to you.’
I glanced round to orientate myself. We were on Westgate and it looked much the same as it did in our own world, although I glimpsed open ground in gaps between houses, where I’d have expected to see more buildings. A full moon rose high above us; the street was deserted except for a fox slinking across the cobbles a hundred yards away. I moved to the nearest doorway and sat down on the step, patting the stone beside me.
‘Well, come and not talk here.’
She burst into tears.
She sobbed and sniffled, and wiped her nose on the grubby dress then, scowling to make sure I knew she did it unwillingly, came and sat down beside me. ‘I’m hungry.’
I patted my pockets but found nothing edible. ‘How long have you been here? In this world?’
‘Weeks!’ she said despairingly, then, ‘maybe two or three days.’ She sniffed. ‘I went home. Well, not my home. I mean, my home’s back there. In the real world.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was there already.’ Tears coursed down her cheeks again; she wiped them away angrily. ‘With a sailor.’ She glared at me. ‘I was just like ma. Don’t you understand? Here, I’m just another whore and— and—’ Her voice nearly failed her. ‘With child. Big. Huge! And still going with men!’
I sat silent. The fox pattered up the other side of the dark street, casting us wary glances, occasionally pausing, one foot lifted, to scent the air.
‘I ain’t going to be like that,’ Kate insisted. ‘I ain’t!’ She must have known how desperate she sounded.
‘You came back to our world,’ I said. ‘I saw you. Why didn’t you come and talk to me?’
She twisted the yellow satin between her fingers; she was shivering in the chill night air. ‘I hate this dress. Makes me look like a whore.’
‘Why avoid me?’ I insisted.
‘Scared,’ she said, in a muffled voice.
‘Of me?’
‘You’ll send me back to ma.’
The fox had seen prey, was creeping forward.
‘I don’t want to be stuck on street corners, singing ballads for pennies,’ she said passionately. ‘I want proper gowns like your wife has, I want somewhere nice to live. I want money. And I want to earn it proper.’
I winced. Her words struck a chord. ‘Kate.’ I hesitated. ‘About Mr Nightingale.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ she said. ‘He only wants one thing. That’s what all men want.’
‘I don’t,’ I said mildly. Certainly not from her.
‘Anyway.’ The tears were dry now; she stared belligerently at the fox which was nosing in the dark holes under the hedge of the Vicarage gardens. ‘It ain’t going to happen now, is it? He’s dead.’
