by M. J. Trow
‘I fear so. A horrible murder, bludgeoning, blood. The works, in fact. She … well, she saw the body. It turned her head.’
The nurses both stepped back. It was all very well for this rather personable young man to say she saw the body, but the woman was clearly raving. What if she caused the body? The one nearest Grand gave the straps an extra tug and they both scuttled down to the foot of the bed.
‘Stay as long as you like,’ the bun-faced one said, and they hurried away, with the regulation nurse’s walk-don’t-run gait.
Grand pulled up a chair and leaned near to the stricken woman, who now seemed to be aware of him. ‘Hello, Miss Jones,’ he said, softly. ‘Are you feeling a bit better now?’
‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘You were there, weren’t you? There when they found Mr Frederic with the wrong legs.’ Her eyes were widening and getting frantic. She opened her mouth for a wail, but he forestalled her with a gentle finger across her lips.
‘Sshh, Miss Jones,’ he said. ‘Sshh. It wasn’t Mr Frederic. He is well. I saw him before they brought you here. He is very well indeed.’ Grand cast his mind back to the prone body on the floor and thought that perhaps the lie wouldn’t count, being for the general good. ‘Yes, perfectly well.’
She lowered her chin and looked at Grand, truculently. ‘Mr Henry hit me.’
‘Yes,’ Grand had to agree. ‘He did. But it was for the best.’
‘He hit me twice.’
‘Well, I only saw him do it the once. But if you say so …’
‘I do say so! He hit me twice.’ She tried to beckon Grand nearer and realized that her hands were tied. She tugged at the straps but they were firm. ‘Why am I tied down?’
‘You … you haven’t been well,’ Grand said. It was all he could manage at short notice. ‘Just lie still and they will untie you.’
‘Hmm.’ She was dubious, but nothing really had been quite normal so far today, so why should it be any different now? Unable to use her hands, she beckoned with her head for Grand to move closer. She dropped her voice even more to an all-but-inaudible whisper. ‘I never liked him, you know,’ she said.
‘Who?’ Grand needed to be sure. There were three men in the case as far as he knew: Chapman, Trollope and Verdon. It was difficult enough, but it would be a lot worse if the woman insisted on just using pronouns.
‘Mr Henry. He doesn’t deserve to be a partner with Young Mr Frederic, just because his father bought him a share. His father is nothing but a common hack.’
‘His father …?’
‘Trollope.’ A thought occurred to her and she narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you foreign?’
‘American, yes.’
She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Anthony Trollope,’ she said, speaking louder, as one must to foreigners. ‘Barchester Towers? Have you read it?’
‘In a busy life …’ Grand began.
‘You haven’t missed much,’ she said, tartly. ‘He didn’t even buy his dratted son into his own publishers, you might like to take notice. And so he came to Chapman and Hall and he hit me.’ She glowered. ‘Twice.’
This could become wearing. Grand was about to ask her for more detail of what had transpired before he arrived, but he was forestalled by the arrival of a woman carrying a large bowl of water and a rather unappetizingly grey sponge and towel.
‘Step aside,’ the woman growled. ‘I got to bathe everyone what comes on to the ward. Miss Nightingale’s instructions.’
‘But I was visiting …’
‘Sister says you can wait outside. Won’t be long.’ And the woman rolled up her sleeves to reveal water-reddened forearms that wouldn’t disgrace a docker.
Grand felt sorry for Miss Jones, cowering there in the bed, but went for a walk along the corridor outside, trying to ignore the various screams and cries which came from the wards along his route. Finally, on his sixth perambulation, he bumped almost literally into the woman with the bowl, the water within it now just a little more scum-flecked than before.
‘She’s all tidied up now,’ the woman said. ‘Waiting for you to go back. Your dear old mum, is she?’
‘Yes,’ Grand lied. He almost believed it himself by this time.
In the ward, the eyes followed him again and he was soon settled by Miss Jones’s bed. A nurse had taken the opportunity of the bathing to slip the woman a hefty dose of laudanum. The stained glass was still on the side and Grand could tell, drawing on his experiences at Canton Kitty’s establishment, that she had had enough to fell a buffalo. She was still awake, though drowsy.
‘Who are you?’ she asked again.
‘A friend,’ he said. He could tell she was at the stage when she didn’t need extraneous detail.
‘You’re very good to visit me,’ she said, smiling. ‘Who are you again?’
‘Matthew.’
‘That’s a nice name. Not like Henry. That’s not a nice name. Frederic, that’s a nice name. Gabriel. That’s a funny name, that is. Like a n’angel, don’t you think?’ Her eyelids flickered and Grand poked her gently on the arm. ‘Who are you?’
‘Matthew.’
‘That’s right.’ She dropped off to sleep for a full five minutes and Grand got up slowly, preparing to leave. Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she stared at him. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘You’re Matthew. In the Bible. Like Gabriel. Henry isn’t in the Bible though.’
‘No. Why don’t you like Henry?’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘He hit me,’ she said as if that were explanation enough.
‘Any other reason?’ Grand was getting into the pace of this now and with any luck would get all the information he needed before she lost consciousness altogether. She did seem to have an iron constitution; his lie to the doctor was not so inaccurate after all.
She shook her head. ‘No’really. Whippersnapper. Young Mr Frederic calls him the idiot.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘But no harm in him, s’pose. He can’t help it if his father’s a postman.’
‘And what about Gabriel?’
She had dropped off again, but he was used to it and waited.
‘Gets a lot of money,’ she said, suddenly.
‘How much?’
She shrugged again and smiled. Grand patted her hand. It was rather like reasoning with a child. ‘More ’n he should get, I can tell you that. The other editors wouldn’t like it if they knew.’ She looked straight at Grand and her eyes were frightened. ‘Is that why they killed him?’
‘Do you know who killed him?’ Now Grand felt he was getting somewhere.
‘Who’s dead?’ she asked. ‘Not Young Mr Frederic …’ She struggled against the straps. ‘It’s Young Mr Frederic’s tea time …’
‘No, no, calm down. Everyone is well and there is no need to do the tea. Umm … Mr Henry is doing it.’ It was a desperate ploy but it worked.
‘I hope he makes sure the kettle boils properly. Mrs Halfbrackett doesn’t always. Young Mr Frederic …’ and she drifted away on pink clouds of dreams of the love of her life.
The gaps were getting longer, but she fought the opium’s grip through the long afternoon. The nurses made it their business to check things down the far end of the ward more often that day than they usually did in a week. Matthew Grand was the most decorative thing that they had seen in there for many a long shift, and they wanted to make the most of him while he was there, the dusty sun just touching the tips of his eyelashes and a curve of his manly cheek as he sat there, holding hands with his dear old mum.
As the sun began to sink below the rooftops, Grand got up and stretched his long legs, reaching above his head with both hands to get some life back into his arms. With a final pat of the woman’s hand, he left the ward, leaving the nurses to twitter and sigh in his wake. He didn’t have much to tell Batchelor, but the titbits he had managed to glean were better than nothing. He had rather enjoyed spending time with his mother, even if only by proxy. That matron would have raised an eyebrow if she had seen her stand-in; but as minor Boston
royalty, she knew how to behave and Grand was sure she would be gracious.
TWELVE
He was still smiling, thinking of his mother, his father and his home on the wild Atlantic shore when he trotted happily along the street towards his other home, Alsatia. Batchelor was pacing back and forth in the road, his watch in his hand, his hat jammed firmly on his head, a couple of evening cloaks over his arm.
‘Matthew! Where in the world have you been? Get your glad rags on; we’re going to the theatre and I have a lot to tell you on the way.’
‘Don’t you want to know …?’ Grand was being bundled up the steps.
‘Later. We need to get going and there’s a lot you need to know.’
As they hurried along towards the theatre, cloaks flying in the warm evening air, Grand could hardly believe his ears. ‘Williamson?’ he exploded. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I’m not,’ Batchelor told him, ‘but Ernest Boulton is.’
‘Who?’ Grand asked.
‘I knew you weren’t listening,’ Batchelor said. ‘The chap I’ve just been talking about. Arthur Clinton’s friend. He’s sure that Dolly Williamson murdered him.’
‘Don’t I know that name from somewhere?’
‘Yes, I just told you …’
‘No. I’ve seen it written down. But where?’
Batchelor chuckled and slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Just a few more corners to turn and you’ll remember, for sure.’
Grand had a blissful moment of realization. ‘Of course!’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘So that’s why we’re off to the theatre!’
An extremely large man filled the doorway at the back of the Strand Theatre. There were any number of Stage Door Johnnies loafing about, most of them in white ties and elegant tails, but two of them in particular seemed more persistent than the others.
‘I’ve told you already,’ the bouncer said. ‘Mrs Graham and Miss Park don’t give personal interviews. And never after a show.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll see us,’ Batchelor said. ‘We’re all friends.’
‘Alphonse?’ A French accent by way of Bermondsey rang down the passageway. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘These … gentlemen … claim to be friends of Mrs Graham and Miss Park.’
‘Yes, well, that’s what they all say, isn’t it?’ A little man with a shock of white hair bustled past the bouncer and shooed the detectives into the alleyway. ‘You’ll have to excuse Alphonse,’ he said. ‘He’s new. Now, I really must ask you to move on, gentlemen. I’ve had no instruction … Ooh, they’re nice.’ He snatched a bouquet of roses from a Johnnie and smiled at him. ‘Fanny’s favourites,’ he said, and vanished inside with them. Alphonse filled the doorway again and Grand sized him up. He was big, that much was certain, but there was a school of thought which believed that the larger they were, the harder they fell. However, there were other ways to skin cats, preferable perhaps to an international incident outside a London theatre. And he was still feeling a tad tender after that little business in the churchyard of St George in the East.
It was about an hour later that two elegantly dressed ladies left the Strand. The Johnnies had gone by then, denied their audiences, and their cards had been personally ripped up and dumped by Alphonse as soon as their backs were turned. The pair were nattering together, swaying their hips as they came around the corner and they hailed a waiting cab.
‘Thirteen Wakefield Street, heart,’ the taller of the two trilled, and they climbed in. They had just settled themselves when the door flew open and James Batchelor jumped in. He tipped his hat. ‘Room for a little ’un?’ he asked brightly.
It was cramped in the hansom, knees to knees all round, and it occurred to Batchelor that there was less room here than in a private box in the theatre.
‘Do you mind?’ one of the ladies snapped. ‘This is a private cab.’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ Batchelor beamed, and reached up to knock on the cab’s roof. With a jolt, the horse lurched forward and they were soon rattling along the Strand. ‘Left,’ Batchelor shouted. ‘Make for Kingsway.’
‘We don’t give interviews,’ the taller woman said.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Batchelor nodded, ‘but I must admit, you’re very convincing. Now, let’s see; I think introductions are in order.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘No, left. Not there. The next … oh, all right, then, you’ll have to take the first right.’
‘What the bloody Hell is going on?’ the tall one asked. She caught sight of her companion. ‘Am I the only one to have noticed that there’s a maniac in the cab with us?’ she screeched.
‘You can drop your voice, Fan,’ the other one said. ‘This is Mr Batchelor – the detective I told you about.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ the taller one said, several octaves lower, ‘in a manner of speaking.’
‘Now, you, Mr Boulton, I know. You must be …’
‘Frederick Park,’ the taller one said. ‘My friends call me Fanny.’
‘I’m sure they do. Now, Mr Boulton … or is it Mrs Graham?’
‘A stage name,’ Boulton said. Neither man had removed his makeup and showed little sign of intending to do so.
‘Indeed,’ Batchelor said. ‘But it’s your other stage name I’m more interested in. Stella, isn’t it?’
The cab lurched to a halt.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Park hissed. ‘What is the matter with this cabbie?’
A head peered in through the open window and it tipped its hat. ‘He’s foreign, I’m afraid,’ Batchelor said. ‘When it comes to the Knowledge, he hasn’t got any. My associate, Matthew Grand.’
Fanny Park smiled and pouted at Grand. True, he had had a lot of rebuffs in his time, but it sometimes worked.
‘Ladies,’ Grand beamed.
‘When you came to see me earlier today, you were less than candid, Mr Boulton.’
‘Was I?’
‘Well, yes,’ Batchelor said. ‘For a start, you weren’t wearing a frock.’
‘Dress,’ Park corrected him. ‘The cavalry wear frocks.’
Grand was about to deny it, then remembered that the man was talking about the British cavalry.
‘And you didn’t tell me about the Dickens connection either.’
‘Dickens?’ Boulton frowned. ‘What’s Dickens got to do with it?’
‘That’s sort of what we’d like you to tell us,’ Grand said, and squeezed into the cab as well. ‘We don’t want the world and his wife to overhear this, do we?’
‘No,’ Park said, looking Grand up and down. ‘Anyone passing will just assume that we are a pair of courting couples out for a night on the town.’
‘Fanny!’ Boulton growled at him, and Park subsided, at least to the extent of getting his compact out and powdering his nose. ‘I didn’t tell you about our little peccadilloes because it has no bearing on poor Artie’s death. At least, not directly.’
‘And indirectly?’ Batchelor asked.
‘Indirectly, it gives Williamson his motive.’
‘It does?’ Grand asked.
‘Unaccountably,’ Boulton said, ‘what Fanny and I like to wear in our stage act – what we like to wear during the day – seems to upset some people.’
‘Call us naughty,’ Park chipped in, ‘but we do so like outraging society.’
‘You do?’ Grand asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Park told him. ‘When our case comes up, we shall be wearing all the latest Paris fashions. It’ll turn a few heads, I can tell you.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ Grand said. ‘Tell me, did you wear this get-up on the night you were arrested?’
‘No,’ Boulton said, ‘and there’s the irony. Others in our party that might have already absconded. Fanny and I have decided to face the music. We have a point to make.’
‘That point being …?’ Grand was a little out of his depth. Men dressed in the latest Paris fashion was not yet the coming trend in Washington.
‘That if a man wishes to dress
as a woman, he should be allowed to.’
‘And if a woman wants to dress as a man?’ Grand asked.
‘It already happens, dear boy,’ Park said. ‘On the Row of a morning, you’ll find half a dozen of the grandes horizontales wearing trousers under their habits.’
Grand had heard this from Ouida already.
‘No, it wouldn’t matter what we wore,’ Boulton said. ‘We could dress up as Christmas trees and Dolly Williamson would still be on to us.’
‘That’s why he killed Artie,’ Park said, his lip trembling a little. ‘Why, beforehand, he came to see you.’
‘Like all his kind,’ Boulton sneered. ‘Like the upright copper he pretends he is, he loathes anything remotely different. Finds Biblical quotations to damn our kind. Well, there is a day coming when the Williamsons of this world won’t be able to touch us. Because there will be no law against what we do.’
‘Until then,’ Park said, ‘we must have justice for Artie. We’re relying on you two to bring him down.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Batchelor sighed.
‘How did you know, by the way,’ Boulton asked, ‘about the Dickens connection?’
‘You can thank the genius that is my partner in crime for that,’ Batchelor said, and tipped his hat to Grand. ‘The name Stella came to light in the course of our enquiries into the death of Mr Dickens.’
‘You’re enquiring into the death of Dickens?’ Boulton’s eyes were wide. He fumbled in his reticule for his flask and took a huge swig. ‘My God, the world’s gone mad.’
‘I knew I’d heard that name somewhere before, but I couldn’t place it. We were on our way to the theatre before I put two and two together. James told me that Ernest Boulton had been to see him and it all fell into place. I had seen your handbills and the hoarding outside the theatre – it’s only a stone’s throw from where we live and I pass it most days. “Ernest Boulton is Mrs Graham in ‘Stella and Fanny Go Wild’”. Sorry we missed it, but it is impossible to get in without booked tickets, the box office told us.’
Boulton and Park looked at each other and then at Grand, smiling the smile of the successful actor. ‘It is going rather well,’ Park added, smugly. ‘We’re moving to better rooms shortly, on the strength of it.’
