by Dilly Court
‘It’s all right with me. Now, will you take a quick look and tell me if Hardiman is still in the taproom. He’s a big, burly bloke with black hair and eyes like chips of coal. He’s got a scar on his lip that makes him look like a mad dog.’
‘Oh my Lord,’ Nell said with feeling. ‘He sounds awful.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ Clemency waited while Ned opened the door and peered into the crowded taproom.
‘Can’t see him. I think he must have gone.’ Ned went to serve the waiting customers who were rhythmically beating their tankards on the bar counter.
Clemency kissed Nell’s lined cheek. ‘Ta, for everything.’
‘You take care of yourself, dearie. And come back soon.’
Clemency blew her a kiss and followed Ned into the bar. She could hear Augustus’s loud voice calling for quiet, as his little nightingale was about to sing. She edged her way through the crowd to where Lucilla was standing on a table, and she sat down on a settle next to Ronnie. He smiled, and handed her a glass of mulled wine. ‘Are you all right, Clem?’
She nodded, sipping the warm spiced drink. ‘Yes, ta.’
‘I thought you was took bad.’
‘I’m all right now.’
‘Who was that evil-looking cove?’
‘Someone best avoided.’
Augustus rapped his cane on the table. ‘Tom, Ronnie! Music, gentlemen, please.’
Ronnie got to his feet and began beating out the rhythm while Tom, slightly the worse for wear it seemed to Clemency, swayed from side to side as he put the flute to his lips. Lucilla began to sing ‘Believe me if all those endearing young charms …’ but no one was listening. Augustus’s call for silence was received with boos and jeers.
‘No one’s dead. This ain’t a wake.’
‘Sing us something cheery, girl.’
Clemency craned her neck to see who had dared to call out, but the taproom was packed with drinkers, and no one was about to own up. Lucilla kept going, and Clemency could only admire her for being such a trouper, but her quavering soprano was lost in the general babble of voices.
‘Come, Lucilla,’ Augustus boomed, lifting her down from the table. ‘Don’t waste your voice on these peasants.’
‘Here, guv. Who are you calling a peasant?’ A drunken man with a bulbous red nose and sandy eyebrows that met over the bridge of his nose lurched towards Augustus with his hands fisted. ‘Say that again, if you dares.’
Augustus attempted to bluster his way out of the situation, but a crowd of angry men converged on them, and, with the fire at their back and the angry punters cutting off their escape, Clemency could see that things were about to turn nasty. She leaned over to whisper in Ronnie’s ear. ‘Play that song you taught me this morning. You know – the one about the workhouse boy what got lost on Christmas Eve and ended up in the stew pot. That ought to get their attention away from the guvner.’
Ronnie’s moustache quivered, as it always did when he wanted to laugh, and he whispered to Tom, who grinned foolishly but somehow managed to take up the rhythm.
Clemency climbed onto the table and began stamping her foot in time to the beat of Ronnie’s drum. It took a minute or two, but gradually the comic words of ‘The Workhouse Boy’ and the cheery tune, turned the angry mob into an appreciative audience. Having dealt with Ma when she was swipey, Clemency knew very well that a drunk could turn in a moment from happy to nasty. She ended by dancing a jig on the table-top with everyone clapping in time to the music.
‘Well sung, boy.’ The man with the red nose attempted to slap her on the shoulder, over-reached himself and fell flat on his back. Much to the amusement of the crowd, he lay there kicking his legs in the air like an upturned beetle, until one of his mates went to his aid and helped him to his feet.
‘Well done, indeed, Clem.’ Augustus murmured, lifting her down from the table. ‘And now I think a hasty retreat is indicated, before the mood of the mob swings back to fisticuffs.’
‘Let’s have another drink, guv,’ Tom said, sliding his arm around Lucilla’s waist. ‘Just a tot to keep out the cold. And you promised us supper. You said …’
‘Never mind what I said.’ Augustus picked up his battered top hat. ‘We’ll get some fish and chips on the way back to our lodgings.’
‘Daddy! I can’t walk all that way,’ Lucilla wailed.
‘I’ll give you a piggyback ride, love,’ Tom said, fondling her buttocks.
‘I saw that!’ Augustus roared, brandishing his cane in Tom’s face.
The drunken man with the red nose, having recovered from his tumble, lurched forward, leering at Lucilla. ‘I’ll give you a ride, ducks.’
Tom made a growling sound deep in his throat, pushed Lucilla into Augustus’s arms and lunged at the drunk, flailing his fists.
‘Oh my Lord, that’s done it!’ Augustus hitched Lucilla over his shoulder and seized Clemency by the hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Ronnie snatched up his drum and just managed to catch Tom’s flute, which had catapulted from his hands as his assailant punched him in the stomach. As Clemency was being dragged unceremoniously out of the taproom, she glanced over her shoulder in time to see Ned vault the bar to hurl himself upon Tom and his opponent. They went down in a flurry of punches. Augustus did not stop until they were outside on the pavement. It was raining.
‘Daddy, we can’t leave Tom in there. They’ll do for him,’ Lucilla cried, beating her fists on his chest and sobbing.
‘Now, now, my little strawberry, don’t take on so. You’ll damage your vocal cords.’
‘Bugger me vocal cords. My fellah is being murdered and all you worry about is whether or not I can sing. I hate you, Daddy. I hate you.’
Augustus released her so suddenly that Lucilla fell against Clemency, almost knocking her off her feet. Clemency just managed to save herself from falling. She set her cap straight, scowling at Lucilla. ‘Here, watch where you’re treading, you blooming elephant.’
‘I’ll scratch your eyes out if you keep making rude remarks about my size,’ Lucilla said, dry-eyed and hissing like an angry snake. ‘I’m the prima donna, not you – you drab little sparrow.’
‘Girls, that’s enough.’ Augustus stepped in between them. ‘This is no way for professionals to behave. Ronnie, go inside and rescue Tom from those ruffians.’
‘You’re bigger than I am, guv. You go in there.’
Augustus puffed out his cheeks, making spluttering noises.
‘Oh, you big sissies!’ Clemency exclaimed, throwing up her hands. ‘I’ll go.’ Before anyone could stop her, she opened the taproom door almost colliding with Ned, who was about to frogmarch Tom out of the pub.
‘I take it he’s one of yours.’
Clemency nodded, speechless. Tom had his hands to his mouth and blood was trickling through his fingers. He had a cut over one eye and the other was swollen and already half closed. ‘Tom! What have they done to you?’
Shaking his head, Tom groaned.
Ned set him down against the pub wall and Tom slumped to the ground. Lucilla screamed and ran to kneel on the wet pavement in front of him. ‘Tom, Tom! My poor Tom.’
‘He took on the wrong one with Swipey Sam,’ Ned said, chuckling.
‘How can you be so heartless?’ Clemency demanded. ‘Your bloke has half killed him by the looks of it.’
‘And he’s one of the best flute players in the East End,’ Augustus groaned. ‘Go and find a hackney carriage, Ronnie. He can’t walk in that state.’
‘And he’s bleeding all over the place.’ Ned pulled a dishrag from his pocket and handed it to Clemency. ‘Best mop him up a bit. Blood on the pavement ain’t good for business.’
‘I’m seeing a new side of you tonight, Ned.’ Clemency snatched the rag and tossed it to Lucilla. ‘And I don’t like it.’
Ned shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘And I could say the same for you, miss.’ He turned to Augustus. ‘See she gets home safe, or you’ll have me to answer t
o, mister.’
He went into the pub and the door swung shut with a bang.
‘Do you know that young man?’ Augustus asked, peering at Clemency through the pouring rain and in the fractured beams of the gaslight.
‘Daddy, does it matter?’ Lucilla scrambled to her feet, holding the bloodstained rag. ‘Who cares if that tart has slept with all the publicans in London? My Tom has lost all his front teeth. He’ll never play the flute again.’
Even allowing for Lucilla’s habit of exaggeration, next morning it was apparent to everyone in the lodging house that Tom’s musical career had ended. His features bore a strong resemblance to a joint of topside rather than a human face. He had two black eyes, his head looked more box-shaped than round, and his lips were swollen to twice their normal size. His front teeth were missing, and as he found it almost impossible to speak, no one liked to ask him if he had swallowed them or had spat them onto the taproom floor for the cleaning woman to find in the morning. One of the ballet dancers suggested that Swipey Sam might have had them strung into a necklace. This remark sent Lucilla off into a bout of hysterics and Mrs Blunt thumped the kitchen table with a wooden spoon, calling for order.
‘I won’t have ruffians lodging in my house. This is a respectable establishment, Mr Throop. If he’s going to cause trouble,’ she said, pointing the spoon at Tom, ‘he’ll have to go. And that goes for the lot of you, ladies excepted.’
‘I can assure you, madam,’ Augustus said, with dignity, ‘that the disturbance in the public house was not of our making.’
‘Yes, you old cow,’ Lucilla said, scrunching her face into a mean look. ‘Tom was defending my honour.’
‘Honour! That’s a laugh.’ Fancy wiggled her hips in a suggestive manner. ‘I heard tell as how you lost your honour when you was twelve.’
Lucilla let out a loud screech. ‘Daddy! Are you going to let that slut from the foundling hospital talk to me like that?’ She flung her arms around her father’s neck and began to sob loudly.
Fancy snorted and stood with arms akimbo, as if daring Augustus to take her on. The five O’Malley brothers, burly Irishmen who worked as navigators digging out the tunnels for the underground railways, and three stevedores who had just come off the night shift at the London Dock, all stopped eating and were watching the scene with evident enjoyment, as if anticipating an all-female, hair-pulling, bodice-ripping contest. The two dancers from the Pavilion theatre, and the young lady type-writer who worked in a bank, had ranged themselves behind Fancy. Mrs Blunt stood in the middle, bristling and rolling up her sleeves as though she intended to throw them all out onto the streets.
Clemency went to stand behind Jack, who was sitting on the chair at the head of the table. As she rested her hands on his shoulders, she could feel his muscles tensed and vibrating like a clock spring. She knew she had to say something to calm the situation. She gave Jack’s shoulders a gentle squeeze and cleared her throat. ‘It’s true, Mrs Blunt. Tom was standing up for Lucilla. A randy old sod was making comments that would have made any man want to punch his lights out.’
The O’Malley brothers murmured in agreement, and the stevedores nodded wisely as they munched their bread and cold meat. The girls moved away from Fancy, as if distancing themselves from her and her opinions.
‘Well, we must give the young man some credit then,’ Mrs Blunt said, nodding. ‘But I’ll thank you all to remember my rules. No fighting, no spitting and no hanky-panky under my roof.’
‘Well said, Mrs Blunt.’
A voice from the top of the stairs caused everyone to turn their heads and stare at the well-dressed man who had entered through the baize door, unseen and unheard in the uproar.
‘Mr Stone!’ Mrs Blunt gasped, her thin face flushing red and then paling to ashen.
Clemency’s hands dropped to her sides. She could not move or speak. She stared in horror as Jared Stone came slowly and purposefully down the staircase. She had put the memory of their first meeting firmly out of her mind, but it came back to her now in a wave of anger and revulsion. She stared at him, taking in the details of his charcoal-grey frock coat with its black-velvet collar and cuffs, his tapered, pinstripe trousers and the starched wing collar of his white shirt. He had removed his top hat and his kid gloves, and his hair gleamed blue-black in the gaslight.
Mrs Blunt rushed to the foot of the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, sir. Is anything wrong? Has there been a complaint about the way I runs this house?’
Jared paused on the bottom step. ‘Not that I know of, Mrs Blunt.’
‘I’ve paid me rent. On the dot.’
‘I haven’t come about the rent. I leave that to my agent.’
‘Then, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask, why have you come?’
‘You’re probably aware that I own a couple of the properties on this side of the street?’ Jared cast a dispassionate glance around the room. His question was met with total silence. Clemency held her breath, praying that he would not recognise her.
‘I am, sir,’ Mrs Blunt said, plainly agitated.
‘Thanks to the machinations of the Ripper, property prices in this area are falling. I’ve decided to sell up, before values drop even lower. One more murder and I won’t be able to give these buildings away.’
‘No, sir. No, please don’t sell this house. It’s me livelihood and me home, sir.’ Mrs Blunt sank to her knees in front of him, clutching at his coattails.
A ripple of consternation went round the room. Clemency gripped Jack’s shoulders so hard that he looked up at her, his face puckered with concern, and he patted her hand. ‘Are you all right, Clemmie?’
She managed a wobbly smile and nodded. The last thing she wanted was to draw Stone’s attention to them, even though he seemed fully occupied as he attempted to free himself from Mrs Blunt’s frantic grasp.
‘Please, madam. Control yourself.’
‘It’s all right for you, mate.’ The eldest of the O’Malley brothers got up from the table and shook his fist at Stone. ‘But what about the likes of us honest, hard-working men? After a day’s digging out the London clay, all we wants is a hot meal and a clean bed for the night.’
‘It’s right he is.’ The youngest, and usually most talkative, O’Malley brother jumped to his feet. ‘And that ain’t so easy to find round these parts. Ma Blunt might be a stickler for the rules but it’s a fine cook she is. Sure, you’d be hard put to find any bugs in the beds here.’
Stone held up his hand for silence as everyone began to speak at once. ‘I’m pleased to hear that I have such a good tenant in Mrs Blunt. But I’m sure you will all find alternative accommodation, and that is your problem, not mine.’
‘Oh, please, sir.’ Mrs Blunt sobbed, shaking her head so that pins shot out of her bun, flying in all directions like small arrows. ‘Don’t do this to us. Won’t you reconsider?’
‘It’s a business matter, Mrs Blunt. Nothing personal. My inspection is to ascertain the value of each property. In future you will be dealing with my agent. We will not meet again.’ Stone flicked his coat free and started back up the staircase. Halfway up, he paused, looking down at the grumbling lodgers. Clemency tried to hide behind Augustus, but it was too late. She saw a gleam of recognition in Stone’s eyes. He pointed at her. ‘You, girl. Come here.’
‘No, Clemmie.’ Jack twisted round to clasp her hand. ‘Don’t do it. He can’t make you.’
She was not so sure about that. Clemency lifted her chin and met Stone’s gaze with an unflinching stare. He beckoned to her, but she shook her head.
‘I said, come here, Miss Skinner.’
Augustus turned to her with a curious glance. ‘Do you know this fellow, Clem?’
‘Never set eyes on the cove in me life.’ Clemency stood firm, determined not to go near Jared Stone ever again. Just as it seemed she had won the battle of wills, the baize door opened and Edith wandered through it, standing at the top of the stairs with a bewildered look on her fac
e. Clemency sucked in her breath; she could tell by Ma’s unkempt appearance, and the dark shadows beneath her eyes that she must have got hold of liquor last night, and this morning she was much the worse for wear. Clemency could almost smell the stale gin on her breath, even from this distance.
‘What’s going on?’ Edith leaned over the banister rail, waving her hand at Clemency. ‘What’s going on? I could hear the din from the top of the house. And me head’s aching something awful.’ She went to pass Jared on the stairs, but he caught her by the arm.
‘Do you know that girl?’
‘Know her?’ Edith’s head wobbled on her neck, as if she could not quite support its weight. Her lips curved in a tipsy smile. ‘I should say I know her. Clemmie’s me daughter.’
Jared kept his hold on Edith and he beckoned to Clemency. This time, there was no refusing him. She started forward but Jack caught her by the hand.
‘Don’t,’ he said in an undertone.
‘Let me go. There’s nothing to worry about,’ Clemency replied with more confidence than she was feeling. ‘I can look after meself.’
‘You have to, because I can’t.’ Jack’s tone was bitter. ‘I’d give anything to be able to walk across the floor and demand to know what that bastard wants with me sister.’
Fancy pushed one of the ballet dancers out of her way in her hurry to reach Jack. She laid her hand on his shoulder and nodded to Clemency. A flash of understanding passed between them. Their tacit agreement needed no words to seal the bargain. Clemency knew then that Fancy would stand by Jack, no matter what.
‘Let me go.’ Edith slapped ineffectually at Jared with her free hand.
‘What’s to become of me?’ Mrs Blunt wailed.
Jared ignored them both. He stood, immobile as his name, waiting for Clemency to make her way through the now silent onlookers. As she mounted the stairs, he released Edith, who staggered and clutched Clemency’s arm. ‘Don’t go near the brute. I seen his type afore, Clemmie. He’s a bad ’un.’
‘He won’t hurt me, Ma. You look after Mrs B. She’s in a bit of a state.’
Edith opened her mouth to argue, but a warning look from Clemency silenced her.
