Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  ‘Come closer,’ says ’Sam. He rubs the silk between his hands. ‘The devil take me. I’ve read about these.’ His words are punctuated by a series of coughs, which he tries to control, with little success. ‘They say the Mongols wore them, centuries ago. They’re made of twenty layers of tightly woven silk. According to legend, they were actually able to deflect an arrow or a sword blade.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure I believe that. But perhaps it’ll bring me luck, so I’ll wear it, anyway. Not around Jane, of course; I’m sure she’d consider it vulgar. Now, if you’re done admiring my waistcoat, I’ll finish reading the essay.’

  The piece brings a smile to the Scarecrow’s gaunt face. ‘Well, now. That should make those damned coffeehouses sit up and take notice.’

  ‘I hope so,’ says Charley. He doesn’t really expect their exposé to make any great difference. Though the better coffee shops have a selection of reading material, he’s never seen the proprietors or the waiters pick up a book or a magazine; as for the owners of coffee stalls, he’d be surprised if very many of them have even learned to read.

  What he fails to consider is that it’s not the proprietors who will peruse the piece and conclude that something must be done; it’s the customers. The fact is, Mr Dickens’ little journal sells in the neighborhood of 40,000 copies each week, and each of those copies reaches the hands of at least three or four readers, a good half of whom are habitual consumers of coffee, not to say addicts. Tamper with a man’s Mocha, and you’ve made a formidable enemy.

  A fortnight after the article appears, Charley once again makes the rounds of coffee shops throughout the West End, collecting samples, even venturing to take a few sips. Though none of them holds a candle to the stuff he grinds and brews for himself, there’s no denying that, in almost all the shops, the quality has increased considerably. As you might expect, so has the price, but usually only by half a penny.

  Charley doesn’t bother to check the ramshackle coffee stalls that are scattered about the streets. He knows well enough that his crusade will have had no effect there; if such places raise the quality and the price of their coffee, the bulk of their customers – the working poor – will have to do without. To improve that situation, a far more ambitious campaign is needed, one that will force employers to pay their workers a reasonable wage. Well, perhaps that battle will be fought and won some day, somewhere, but not here and not now.

  NINETEEN

  Though all this meandering about, collecting coffee and information – a great deal of the former, precious little of the latter – can get wearisome, Charley doesn’t really mind it so much. Certainly it’s far better than being shut up in his wife’s house, or even in his little office – especially when the weather is mild, as it has been lately.

  After winter missed its cue and came on so late, you might expect it to overstay its welcome, blustering and capering about like a bad actor trying to milk the audience. But no, in mid-March it begins making a timely and graceful exit. The gray slush slowly disappears and the streets return gradually to their natural state – a shallow swamp of dirt, horse manure, and unclassifiable matter swept from stalls and pavements.

  Late one afternoon, thanks to a bit of hearsay pried out of an unwilling informer, Charley finds himself in Oxford Street, not far from Soho Square. Though this trail, like all the others, comes to a dead end, at least it has brought him to an interesting spot: just down the street lies the Royal Princess’s Theatre, where, according to Mr Dickens, rehearsals of Faust and Marguerite are in progress.

  The last he heard, his old sparring partner, Perky Grimes, was working backstage, hoisting scenery, mopping floors, keeping overzealous admirers at bay. As we’ve seen, Charley is quite zealous in his admiration of Miss Fairweather; still, he’s not about to thrust himself upon her. (And what, he wonders, would she make of that rather suggestive phrase?) He’d just like to sit in some out-of-the-way spot and watch a little of the proceedings, see how a real play comes together – or at least that’s what he tells himself.

  The theatre has always held a certain fascination for him, ever since he saw his first Punch and Judy show; who knows, it may have been the doggedness with which the Beadle pursued the sadistic Punch that, years later, led him to join the force. He’s trod the boards himself a few times, but only in those police pantomimes. And in the course of his career he’s played all sorts of parts, from a match seller (or ‘timber merchant,’ as he so amusingly called himself) to a blueblood. Wouldn’t it be fun if he were to take on the role of The Inspector in some mystery melodrama? Well, perhaps not. But at least he’d be guaranteed to always get his man – something you certainly can’t say about real life.

  As it turns out, he is, in fact, called upon to play The Inspector. Perky Grimes is long gone, replaced as assistant stage manager by another of the horde of barely post-pubescent youths who appear to be taking over the world. Charley convinces him that he’s on a case – never mind what sort; that’s confidential – and that the lad would do well to cooperate. And so it is that when Madeline, played by Miss Fairweather, scampers off stage left, calling ‘Goodbye, dearest Margaret!’ she collides with Charley, who’s lurking in the wings.

  ‘Inspector Bucket!’ she gasps. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Ssssh!’ says Charley. ‘I’m incognito.’

  ‘You don’t mean you’re investigating a crime?’ she whispers, almost in his ear. Her breath somehow contrives to smell of bergamot, rather like Grey’s tea. ‘How thrilling! It’s not a murder, is it?’

  Her closeness makes Charley feel slightly dizzy, as if he’s being chloroformed, and he draws back a little. ‘No, no.’

  ‘Oh, good. There’s enough of that going on already.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the actors murdering their lines. But you watch; Mr Elton will tell them they’re all doing wonderfully.’

  She’s right on both counts. Charley is fairly sure he could acquit himself as well as most of the players out there, or better. And yet when the rehearsal ends, the company manager, who is also playing Mephistopheles, has nothing but praise. Miss Fairweather sighs and shakes her head. ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Is there a place nearby that serves women?’

  ‘As one of the menu choices?’

  ‘Well, no, I meant as in—’

  ‘I know what you meant; I just wanted to see you blush. Yes, the Horse and Groom kindly permits us ladies of the stage to imbibe – provided we’re accompanied by a man.’

  ‘I’d be happy to escort you.’

  Miss Fairweather flashes her stunning smile and takes his arm. ‘Of course you would.’ As they exit the theatre and head up Winsley Street, she says, ‘You haven’t told me yet how brilliantly I played my part – all nine lines of it.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, no doubt you’ll do better in the actual performance.’

  ‘Oh, not pulling any punches, are we?’

  ‘Just being honest.’

  ‘Well, there’s an unusual approach – honesty. Guaranteed to win a lady’s heart. I’m surprised more men don’t try it.’

  ‘Is that sarcasm, Miss Fairweather? I can’t quite tell.’

  ‘No? Well, perhaps I’ll get it right in the actual performance.’ Her sour mood doesn’t last long; a moment later, she says brightly, ‘You also failed to tell me what it is you’re investigating.’

  ‘Investigating?’

  ‘At the theatre!’

  ‘Oh. Nothing, actually. I lied to the boy so he’d let me watch the rehearsal.’

  ‘So you could watch me, you mean.’

  Well, yes, but Charley doesn’t care to admit it. ‘I could hardly help it, could I, since you were onstage.’

  As they near the Horse and Groom, a cheerful clamor reaches their ears – raucous voices raised in song. ‘Oh, damn,’ says Miss Fairweather, startling Charley a little; though he’s heard far worse words from women, it’s usually doxies and drunks, and Miss Fairweather is neither – as f
ar as he knows. ‘I forgot, it’s Free and Easy Chappy Hour.’

  ‘So? You said yourself, you’re an old hand at music-hall ditties.’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t be content to let me just sing along; they’ll want me to get up and perform. I do quite enough of that.’

  ‘I could just fetch you something and you can drink it as we walk. Or as you walk by yourself. Or ride. Or whatever you plan to do.’

  ‘I was planning to take a cab, but if you wouldn’t mind walking with me …’

  Charley shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh. Very well, then. Since you’re so wildly enthusiastic about the prospect. And you won’t mind paying for my drink either, I’m sure. Brandy, please.’

  ‘All right. Oh, and speaking of paying …’ He fishes a sovereign from his pocket and places it in her palm, using the transaction as a flimsy excuse to take her hand. ‘Mr Dickens paid me my bonus, so you’re off the hook.’

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps you’re something of a gentleman after all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  When Charley emerges from the tavern with his pocket flask full of eau de vie, the Free and Easy crowd are belting out ‘The Bill Sticker,’ and Miss Fairweather is singing along softly:

  Holloway’s ointment and Paris pills,

  The last a great reformer,

  I plastered to Miss Kemble’s tail

  The first night she played Norma.

  ‘Do you know Miss Kemble, then?’ asks Charley.

  ‘Why, yes, of course,’ replies Miss Fairweather haughtily. ‘Both Misses Kemble, in fact.’ Then, true to her mercurial nature, she changes moods and gives him a sly sidelong glance. ‘Oh, that’s right, we’re being honest, aren’t we? Well, honestly, Fanny Kemble wouldn’t know me if she fell over me. Her sister, however, once did.’

  ‘What? Fell over you?’

  She smiles and nods. ‘I was in the chorus of La Sonnambula; I forgot my blocking and flitted in front of her just as she was making her grand exit. She went off limping rather badly, I’m afraid. But at least it got a good laugh from the audience.’ With a laugh of her own, she takes a swig of brandy directly from the flask. ‘Of course,’ she adds, more soberly, ‘the next day, they gave me the heave-ho.’ She passes the flask to Charley and then, to his delight, links her arm with his again. ‘I’m afraid I’m taking you out of your way.’

  ‘Honestly, nowhere is out of the way for me at the moment. I’m in the midst of scouring the city for a fugitive.’

  ‘Ooh, a fugitive! What has he done, then? Performed poorly in rehearsal?’ To make her little dig more emphatic, she pokes her elbow into his ribs.

  Charley is not amused. ‘He’s killed at least one woman,’ he replies irritably, ‘and probably a second.’ Ordinarily, he can take a good deal of joshing, but she’s struck a sore spot – not literally; even though his ribs are still tender, he barely felt her jab, thanks to Mr Poppy’s protective vest. No, it’s the canker of guilt that he’s carried about ever since Eliza Grimwood’s murder and that has flared up again with Rosa’s death.

  He expects Miss Fairweather to be put off by his peevishness, but she actually seems concerned and contrite. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of it. I didn’t imagine that private enquiry agents actually investigated such things; I thought it was the job of the police.’

  ‘Well, when the first murder was committed, I was with the police. I should have put the killer away back then.’ Just thinking about it, he needs another healthy dose of brandy.

  Miss Fairweather gives his arm a sympathetic squeeze. ‘I’m sure you did your best, Charley.’ It’s the first time she’s called him Charley; although it’s a perfectly mundane sort of name, it doesn’t seem that way when she says it.

  ‘Maybe. But I’ll have to do better. I can’t let him get away with it this time.’

  ‘You make it sound as though it’s personal.’

  ‘It is.’ Despite his determination not to talk about the case, somehow the details just spill out of him. He’s seen that happen with criminals; they so often feel compelled to confess their deeds, as if that will somehow exonerate them. One thing he deliberately fails to mention is the séance; if he tells her that his search for William Hubbard was set in motion by a message from the spirit world, who knows what she might think of him? And isn’t that a curious thing for him to worry about – what someone thinks of him? It’s never bothered him much before.

  ‘I’m sorry about your … your friend,’ says Miss Fairweather. ‘Prostitution is such a dangerous trade.’

  ‘She meant to get out of it; she was saving up to start a millinery shop.’

  ‘Perhaps I should consider that. When my face and my figure go, I’ll have to make a living somehow.’ She takes her turn with the brandy flask; she doesn’t seem to mind swapping saliva with him. Charley’s fine with it, too; though it may not be very hygienic, there’s something intimate, even sensual about it.

  ‘You could always marry one of those many admirers you mentioned.’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. Don’t you know, actresses aren’t for marrying? They’re for playing around with. Just ask your friend Mr Dickens; he can tell you all about it.’

  Charley chuckles. ‘Yes, he does have an eye for the ladies. I don’t think it ever goes beyond that.’

  Miss Fairweather laughs, too, but there’s little humor in it. ‘Perhaps you should re-examine the evidence, Inspector – question a few witnesses.’

  ‘Oh? Has he made advances to anyone you know?’

  ‘Someone I know quite well, in fact.’

  Charley is about to ask who, but he sees the answer in her dark eyes. ‘Yourself.’

  She shrugs and takes another sip of brandy. ‘Why do you suppose he raked our acting company over the coals as he did?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He’s naturally hesitant to say, Because they were terrible actors?

  ‘Well, I do. It was his way of getting back at me. “Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, Nor Hell a fury like a man scorned.”’

  ‘Well, he mustn’t be carrying much of a grudge, or he wouldn’t have got you this acting job.’

  Miss Fairweather stops in her tracks and gapes at him. ‘It was his doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’

  ‘No! I was foolish enough to think it was because I’m such a marvelous actress. Why would he do that for me, especially after I tried to ruin his show?’

  ‘He’s a generous man. I’m sure he thought you’d be grateful to have the work.’

  ‘Oh, I am. But I’d rather have got it on my own merits, and not because Mr Elton had his arm twisted.’ Miss Fairweather finishes off the brandy and gives a delicate burp. ‘I believe I’m just a little tipsy. Luckily, I’m almost home.’ She returns his flask and unlinks their arms. ‘I’ll be fine from here. I think I can at least do that on my own.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s safer if I see you to your door.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s more dangerous, actually.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because. Then you’d know where to find me.’

  ‘I won’t plague you with unwanted attentions, if that’s what worries you.’

  Miss Fairweather laughs softly, ironically. ‘It’s not. What worries me … what worries me is that you’ll see what I’m like when I’m not putting on a performance.’

  ‘But I already have.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘You can’t tell me that the whole time we’ve been together, you were playing a part.’

  She sighs, as if he’s being hopelessly naïve. ‘It’s what I do, Charley. Actresses are no different from whores, really. We’re continually making ourselves over, into whatever our audience desires.’

  ‘How do you know what I desire?’

  ‘I see it, every time you look at me. You think detectives are the only ones who can read faces?’ She’s so near him now that her breath, turned to fog by the brisk eveni
ng air, mingles with his. For an unbearable second or so, he’s sure that their lips, too, will mingle. But in that small space of time, she undergoes yet another change. Backing off a step, she says wryly, ‘You’re easily satisfied, Inspector, I’ll give you that – all it takes is a bit of sympathy, a bit of sweetness, with a touch of sauciness thrown in to spice things up. I wish all men were content with so little.’ She shivers slightly and pulls her cloak about her. ‘You can come and see me at the theatre any time, Charley. But for now, just go on home, all right?’

  There’s nothing Charley can say; he simply nods.

  ‘Promise you won’t follow me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  And, though it’s difficult, he keeps his promise. He walks away without looking back. He doesn’t head home, though, not to the Holywell Street house. He goes only as far as his office, where he brews up a cup of strong coffee to console himself. Though he knows it’ll keep him up half the night, it scarcely matters; he would have lain awake, anyway, brooding about his scene with Miss Fairweather, wishing he’d played it differently somehow. But what’s the use? No matter how many chances he got to do it over, he’d never get it right.

  As he’s undressing for bed, removing the silk waistcoat, in spite of his gloomy mood he can’t help chuckling a little. According to Poppy, the gift was supposed to protect him, but apparently that applies only to arrows and swords, not to the subtle blows delivered by women and aimed at the heart.

  Despite all the Mocha and the misery, Charley is at some point visited by good Queen Mab, who brings him blessed sleep. At some much later point, another visitor arrives to disturb his slumber. When he first hears the sound of knocking, he can’t quite sort out the source of it. It seems to belong not to the real world but to the dream he’s having.

  In the dream, he’s attending another séance, conducted not by Professor Sledge but by Miss Fairweather. There’s no spiritual telegraph, either; the spirits communicate by rapping on the tabletop – once for Yes, twice for No. Supposedly it’s Rosa’s spirit doing the rapping, but this time Charley is certain that it’s no such thing; it’s clearly just Miss Fairweather putting on another performance.