It was dark behind Toole’s Theatre. The streetlight a block away was broken—again. But just enough light spilled out from the opened back door and twinkled down from the stars so Clara could see a little.
Padding across the alley to a collection of crates and barrels, she sat on a tall barrel and fumbled in her handbag, retrieving a cigar. She brought it to her nose and inhaled its sweet aroma. Clara popped one end into her mouth and slowly rolled her tongue around it before biting off a piece. She spat the bit on the ground, struck a match, and puffed until the end caught. A very good cigar, she thought, though it's not very ladylike to smoke one. “Ladylike,” she laughed softly, as she edged her fingers beneath the gold choker and rubbed her Adam's apple.
Clara was only a lady on stage. When she wasn't performing, she was Conrad–rather he was Conrad. Like the rest of the main performers at Toole’s weekday shows, he was other than he seemed. He was good at his craft, and was getting better, having discovered almost two years ago that working as a male actor in the Theatre Royal would not get him very far and was certainly not getting him noticed. This, however, wearing dresses and wigs and the trappings of women, would make him a star. Conrad thought he looked better as a woman than most women he knew. Perfect, young and beautiful, funnier as a woman than a man. And he was practiced with enough female gestures and mannerisms so the audience really believed he was a woman. But at the close of the show—right after Clara's big finale—all the performers came back on stage, and they took off their wigs or showed their hairy legs or revealed something else about themselves to prove their masculinity—or in the case of the male impersonators like Vesta, their femininity.
And after every performance the audience gasped, except for the regulars. The regulars just applauded. And every Wednesday through Friday when the last curtain call was finished Clara became Conrad. And after a bite to eat with the other performers, with Vesta if he could arrange it, he would sleep until the following afternoon. The weekends were reserved for farcical plays, in which he only occasionally had parts.
Conrad puffed on the cigar, savoring the strong tobacco and fixing his gaze on the crack of light spilling out the back door. He knew there were other burlesque houses in London that would take him on after this engagement, lavish considerable attention on him. There were more women impersonating men than the other way around, and so he would have no trouble finding work. But it was time to go home.
There were pubs on either side of Toole’s, both staying open after the theatre closed so the patrons and entertainers could drink and eat well into the early morning hours. Conrad’s stomach growled in anticipation, and he eased the cigar out of his mouth and sadly watched the red glow fade from its end. Knocking the ashes off, he waited a moment for it to cool, then carefully wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and put it back in his purse. He’d smoke the rest of it later.
Conrad guessed ten minutes had passed. He had a timepiece in his handbag, but it was useless bringing it out—not enough light to see it by. The streetlight needed repair. This district wasn’t prone to much crime, but there were boys who ran in gangs from time to time and broke windows and streetlights and sometimes harassed the entertainers. The police didn’t do much to stop them. In fact, Conrad thought the police were noticed by their absence in the neighborhood. They were more interested in the nefarious goings on of late in Whitechapel.
But one of Toole’s impersonators was killed nearly three weeks ago. A week before that another burlesque house’s manager had been found knifed in a back booth of a brothel ... but that had been in the Whitechapel district. And there were patrons and whores who’d met their demise walking the streets of the entertainment district and getting involved in things they should have steered clear of. The patrons and whores were apparently smarter now.
Besides, the danger now was in the Whitechapel district, where the “Whitechapel Murderer” as the newspaper had called him, “the Ripper,” as another had named him, slashed prostitutes to death. There’d been four women fall to the knife. What was the name of the first victim? Conrad had read the article ... Martha that was it, Martha Tab ... Tab ... Tabram. Thirty-nine times she’d been stabbed, and her throat cut. He’d remembered it because of the “M.” M for Matilda—Vesta—M for poor, dead Martha. It would be good to get back to the United States. New York was not as violent as London. Thirty-nine times at age thirty-five. Conrad thought that old for a prostitute. He’d only recently turned seventeen, and he couldn’t imagine how any man—of any age—would want to have a tussle with a thirty-five-year-old prostitute who was so frequently used and thereby basically used up.
Conrad stood, cringing when he met resistance and realizing his dress was caught. He reached behind him and gingerly pulled it free. Running his fingertips over the silk, he breathed a sigh of relief. A small snag, no hole. Good. This is a pricey one, and new. It had set him back a good bit.
Vesta—Matilda—can fix it, like she always fixes things, he mused, unhappy about the snag but happy to have an excuse to seek her out. Conrad brushed off his bottom and started for the door, but stopped when he heard something fall over behind one of the taverns.
Cats, he thought, and then smiled. Vesta—Matilda—often kidded him that the pubs served Siamese with ribs attached. But Conrad heard something shuffling in the debris.
The regulars knew the entertainers came out back between acts to grab a smoke or some fresh air. Relations with someone of the same sex were more than frowned upon in London. A man caught with another man could be sentenced to two years of labor. Still, sometimes such trysts were arranged in this very alley. Conrad peered into the shadows and saw a man, very dark and broad-shouldered, maybe six feet tall.
Conrad took a step toward the back of Toole’s, but the man slid to the side and blocked the door. The figure stooped, remove the whiskey bottle. The door shut and the light disappeared.
The stranger pulled something from under his cloak. By its shape, Conrad guessed it was a shaving razor. The stranger made a slashing gesture.
Seventeen years old, thirty-nine slashes, Conrad thought, his breath catching. That first prostitute had been thirty-five. Twice his age. Twice the living.
“I am not a prostitute,” he said in defense, making his voice as deep as possible. Conrad almost toppled off his heels. “I am no woman. So if a woman is what you are looking for, look elsewhere. Go back to Whitechapel. A lot of women in Whitechapel.” Conrad reached down the front of his dress and pulled out a piece of sweat-soaked padding. “See? I am not a real woman.”
The stranger took another step forward, and Conrad took another one back. The entertainer was sweating profusely now—from the heat, from fear, from thinking about how he could possibly get out of this without a scratch on his perfect body. And why hadn't Robert or Gertrude or Vesta come looking for him? Shouldn’t they be worried that “Clara” might miss the next number?
Conrad eased out of his heels, whirled, and bolted down the long alley in the opposite direction, past Toole’s and a pub. He felt his handbag slip from his sweat-slick fingers, heard the slapping of his own feet against the hard ground, and then heard a louder sound—the stranger's feet pounding behind him.
The entertainer's heart hammered madly as he took in great gulps of the humid air. His lungs ached, and his temples throbbed like his head was being squeezed in a vise. But he willed himself to run faster still. If he could break out of the alley on the other side, he'd be near the park. There'd be people, someone to help him. He grabbed his aching side, then felt himself flying forward, his feet tangled in his silk dress. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he slammed hard onto it.
The stranger had been slower, and was huffing and wheezing, but he caught up as Conrad tried to get up, the dress seeming to argue with the entertainer’s frantic efforts. The stranger’s arm shot out, his fingers closing about Conrad’s ankle. Conrad flailed with his hands, grabbing at the cracks in ground that had not felt rain for weeks, trying to pull himself toward
the end of the alley—closer to the park and to the people who must be gathered there, who were always there even late at night, drinking and laughing and arranging future assignations. He felt his battered knees, his sore ribs, which were probably cracked. But he also felt like he was making some progress; the stranger was big, but not all that strong.
Tears spilled from Conrad’s eyes, and his chest heaved as he was harshly rolled over. Pain stabbed upward from his ankles, and he stared in mute terror as the stranger placed a heavy foot on his silk-covered stomach and waved the razor again and again.
Conrad wailed helplessly and closed his eyes, felt the tears edge out beneath his false lashes, slide down his perfect face. Seventeen years and not a year older.
“Clara!” It was a woman’s voice.
“Conrad!” Robert’s voice.
“Help!” Conrad hollered.
Then there was a shout, and another, followed by the clacking of heels against the hard ground.
The stranger disappeared into the shadows.
Conrad watched Mortar draw close to Toole’s Theatre. It was past midnight, too annoyingly warm for the late hour, yet Conrad had wrapped his jacket tight around him and despite his aching ribs had climbed halfway up a streetlight so he could see over the heads of the crowd that had formed.
Robert had ushered the patrons out after discovering Conrad in the alley, giving everyone vouchers for tomorrow night. Many of the patrons had lingered, some disgruntled, others curious about what had transpired, gossiping, and filled with a nervous energy that was keeping them from going home and to bed. There were scattered, harsh whispers that cut above the murmurs of “the Ripper,” and the “Whitechapel Murderer.”
Just joining the mass were four men in soiled coveralls, with satchels over their shoulders and dirt caked on their shoes. Likely sewer workers who had stopped on their way home to get a look at what everybody else was gaping at. Urchins, probably homeless ones, darted in and out of the fringes of the crowd, taunting the people who snapped at them.
There were entertainers, too, scattered in the mix. Conrad noted a second-rate magician from a parlor a street away. A gaudily-dressed big-busted woman, maybe from the magician’s act, was within arms’ reach of the man, the taps on her polished black shoes clicking loudly against the bricks as she jostled for a better position.
“Is it the Whitechapel Murderer come to find new hunting grounds?” This from a tall man Conrad had noticed earlier inside Toole’s. A regular. The man’s voice carried over the buzz of conversations that sounded like cicadas nesting.
They should be in bed. All of them. Where I should be, Conrad thought. Too hot out tonight. But he knew he was too anxious to sleep, he’d come too close to not seeing any farther beyond his seventeen years.
Conrad watched Mortar shoulder his way into the mass. The squat man looked like a bricklayer ... and indeed that’s what he was. But he was also a bit of a local legend, a part-time detective, probably thinking he could climb above his station by being a hero now and then and getting his exploits in the newspaper. The man had a normal name—Josiah Israel, but he favored a work shirt with an “M” on it, no doubt a hand-me-down. Folks in the neighborhood called him Mortar because of the shirt and because he worked with bricks.
Apparently Mortar was a friend of Robert’s. The Toole’s stage manager had sent for him straightaway.
Conrad concentrated on keeping his dinner down. The odor of going too long without a bath clung like a second skin to many of the gawkers, and the miasma of colors was making him dizzy. Bright clothes of Toole’s Theatre entertainers competed with gutter-crawlers’ mismatched shirts and ragged pants. High-heels, bare feet, yawns, wagging tongues. Conrad took it all in, thinking maybe his slasher was in the crowd, observing the controlled chaos.
“Wotter ya doin’ mate? I was ‘ere first!” One of the sewer workers objected to Mortar cutting through the crowd. “An ill-bred bloke you are!”
Conrad watched as a few gawkers rudely jostled Mortar and offered assorted crude comments. A drunk sidled up to the part-time detective and squinted.
“He’s Mortar, he is!” the drunk exclaimed, silencing the crowd for all of a heartbeat. The cicada drone returned louder. “He’ll get to the bottom of this!”
Conrad caught the flash of a glittery dress—Gertrude muscling her way into the middle of the pack to meet Mortar halfway. There was a slight, young Oriental girl in Gertrude’s wake, a prostitute most likely, Conrad thought, come to work this district because it was safer than Whitechapel. The Oriental was heading straight toward Mortar, fluttering her long lashes, wetting her lips, smiling temptingly. She had a heart-shaped face that Conrad envied; she would look good on stage.
The Oriental girl slipped around Gertrude and intercepted Mortar, pressing herself against him, the presence of the crowd helping to wedge them together. She said something, but Conrad certainly couldn’t hear it.
“I could show you things, Mr. Mortar,” Conrad said, pretending to speak for the prostitute. “I could show you all of the theatre district—and a lot more. Show you things you’ve only dreamed about ... never thought to dream about.” He watched the girl wave a thin hand out to her side, indicating a small gap between the bodies, pointing toward the front of the crowd where he spotted the tip of a police hat. “Show you a great many things, Mr. Mortar. Ah, but first ... I know a place we could go, a place where you could lay more than bricks. Away from the police,” Conrad tittered.
Conrad had heard enough prostitutes to know their speeches were all filled with teasing, tempting promises. He would never dally with one himself, fearful he might pick up some sordid disease. But he used some of the dialog in his comedy routines.
He watched Mortar shake his head, and the girl back away, squirming between the bodies, her heart-shaped face receding into the crowd. The part-time detective politely worked his way to the front rank of gawkers, and Conrad slid down from his perch, worming his way through the bodies.
There was a police inspector at the front of the crowd, just outside the brass-handled doors. Conrad had already given that man a report. The police inspector spoke briefly to Mortar, and Conrad hurried to catch the conversation. He was no doubt the subject of it, but he arrived too late to overhear anything.
“If Gertrude—Gerald—had not looked in the alley, Clara—Conrad—would be dead,” Robert explained to Mortar. He opened the door and Mortar entered, taking off his hat and squaring his shoulders. Gertrude followed, and Conrad managed to squeeze in before the door closed. Behind them, some of the gawkers pressed close, looking through the glass, ignoring the policeman who was trying to keep them back. Conrad could hear the buzz of conversations, only slightly muted by the doors, as they walked through the lobby.
“The police have the alley blocked off,” Robert said. “So as not to disturb any evidence. Oh, excuse me. Mortar, this is Conrad.”
“Conrad, Mortar.”
The detective turned, extended a hand, and Conrad caught the power of the man. He was solidly built, physically powerful. He looked midway into his thirties, probably twice Conrad’s age, and his eyes were clear and dark like beads, his nose seeming a little too long for his face. There was a quiet intensity behind the eyes. A crow’s eyes, Conrad thought, not meaning the comparison in any uncomplimentary way, but rather a flattering one. Crows had keen vision and were cunning.
“Pleasure,” Conrad said, taking the hand and shaking it. The detective had a firm, dry grip, and kept the physical contact brief. “I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. Mortar. All of it good.”
The detective offered no reply.
Conrad followed the detective through the doors that led to the auditorium. The house lights were up, and two boys were working at the front to gather up dropped playbills and cigars.
“Robert was worried about the evidence in the alley; I am also concerned with the evidence here.” Mortar raised a hand and caught the boys’ attention. “That will be enough for the moment, please
excuse yourselves to the lobby. And tell no one else to come in. Conrad and I need to work uninterrupted.”
Conrad liked the sound of that: “Conrad and I.” He was teaming up with the local-legend Mortar to find the man who’d went after him with the razor. He felt he should say something to Mortar, anything. “So you know Robert, the manager here. You’re friends? He’s hiring you or are you—”
“I do not do this for money.” The detective straightened, and Conrad realized the man was actually quite a bit taller than he’d first thought, more imposing still. Did Mortar realize he possessed an actor’s gift for changing posture and presence? Did the detective know to use that to his advantage, one moment seeming indistinguishable from a common man in a crowd, the next practically towering and requiring attention if not respect? Mortar had been saying something, but Conrad had been so caught up in studying him that he’d missed it.
“Pardon?”
“I said, yes, Robert and I are acquainted. We met when this building changed ownership and he came to work for Mr. Toole. A patron of theatre, I have seen several of Mr. Toole’s performances, on two occasions in the company of Mr. Dickens.”
Charles Dickens, Conrad thought. “Yes, John Toole still performs here, but usually only on Saturday and Sunday, and in scripted productions.” Conrad puffed out his chest. “I’ve been in the theatre for three years.”
“Ah, but only in the past two of them dressed as a woman, and only recently in London. I trust you are finding more engagements through your impersonation routines.”
Conrad felt the color rising to his cheeks and he looked down at the floor when Mortar turned his full attention on him.
“I will need you to recount the incident, Conrad. All of it. From your performance until the attack.”
Conrad started the frightening tale.
“And in detail, please.”
Conrad started again and put in everything he could think of.
“As I said, I will need your assistance in uncovering the culprit.”
A Hero By Any Other Name Page 15
