Rose Campion and the Curse of the Doomstone

by Lyn Gardner

  Rose turned back towards Campion’s. Edward, Lydia, Billy and Gandini were all standing by the stage door watching her. It made Rose feel uncomfortable. She gave them an awkward little smile and went inside.

  “Where’ve you been, Rose?” asked Aurora.

  “I was talking to the inspector.”

  “It’s so awful about Amy,” said Effie. “I don’t know how anyone could take their own life like that. However bad things got.”

  “I don’t think she did,” said Rose. She gathered the others closer and then she whispered, “I think Amy was murdered. And I’m going to try to prove it.”

  16

  “That’s perfect,” said Rose, taking the picture that Effie had drawn on a sketchpad and examining it closely.

  “You are clever, Effie. You’ve caught Billy Proctor’s likeness exactly. It’s as good as one of those photographs.”

  Rose was on a mission. She had decided that Billy Proctor needed urgent investigation. If Amy had been murdered, as she believed, and her death was connected with the theft of the Doomstone, she was increasingly certain that Billy was the culprit. She had tried to raise her suspicions with Thomas, but he would not be persuaded even when she had told him that she was quite sure that she had spotted Billy at Holloway Prison, and was certain he was going to visit the underworld mastermind known as the Duchess.

  “You are putting two and two together and making five, Rosie,” said Thomas patiently. “You are not even one hundred per cent certain it was Billy you saw outside the prison, and even if it was, he might just have been passing and it could have been a coincidence.”

  “But Julia Devonish said the Duchess was having a visitor. I think it was Billy and that’s why he was at Holloway.”

  Thomas was not convinced. “Even if he was visiting this so-called Duchess, it doesn’t make him a criminal by association. Listen, Rose, I know you don’t like Billy much, and with reason – he does seem particularly surly with you – but gracelessness is not a crime, and although he may have lied to me about his experience as a barman, he is learning and getting better.” He peered at Rose intently. “Don’t tell me that you’ve never told a lie when you’ve felt the need.”

  Rose couldn’t help blushing. She had told quite a few recently. She covered her discomfort by demanding, “Did you even check his references?”

  Now it was Thomas’s turn to look bashful and he shook his head. “No. But I seldom do, Rosie. Gut instinct has always stood me in good stead, and gut instinct told me that, for all his failings, at heart Billy is a decent sort.”

  Rose had come away from the conversation determined to look further into Billy’s background, which was why they were outside the Anchor in Rotherhithe.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” she said to Effie. They stood up and walked to the door and went inside. The place fell silent and the few men sitting on stools at wooden tables turned to stare at them. They didn’t look friendly. Effie faltered, but Rose marched across the sawdust-covered floor to the bar, where a surly-looking man was spitting on greasy glasses to clean them.

  “What do you two want?” he grunted. Rose held out the charcoal drawing of Billy Proctor. It really was very good: Effie had pinned the discontented expression in Billy Proctor’s eyes on the paper.

  “Do you know this man?”

  The barman’s eyes flicked over the drawing. “Who’s asking?”

  “He’s working for my da. As a barman. He had a reference from here.”

  The barman snorted. Rose noticed that one of the customers, a stooped man, thin as a pencil, sitting at a corner table, was gazing at them with interest.

  “He did, did he? Well, it was forged. Never set eyes on him in me life and I’ve bin the landlord here for ten years past.”

  “Ah, well, that explains why he’s so bad at his job. If you had trained him I’m sure he would be more than competent,” said Rose, trying to keep her tone sincere. Billy Proctor may be inefficient, but at least nobody had ever spotted him spitting on the glasses to clean them.

  “Look, if you’ve got what you want to know, get out. We’ve had the Blues buzzing around and enough questions being asked since that girl topped herself in the river. Too many questions is never good for business, an’ I don’t know why they’re so interested. What’s one more child in the river? What was special ’bout that one?”

  “I understand you don’t want trouble,” said Rose sympathetically. “But there is one thing more you could help us with and it concerns the girl. There was a witness, someone who had been drinking here on the night she died, who told the police he’d seen her standing on the Devil’s Steps looking distressed. I’d like to talk to him. The thing is, the girl … the girl who died … she was my sister. I just want to know what happened. The police could tell us so little.”

  The landlord had the grace to look shamed. But he still spoke stonily. “Sorry. I can’t help you. Time you two were moving on. You’re clogging up the place.”

  “We’re sorry to have bothered you,” said Rose politely, although inside she was certain that the shifty landlord knew more than he was letting on. She and Effie walked back out on to the riverside path with as much dignity as they could muster. Once they were safely beyond hearing, Effie said, “Rose Campion, you are such a fibber. Going round telling people that you were poor Amy’s sister. It’s outrageous. You’re so good I almost believed you meself.”

  Rose blushed, and said defensively, “It’s not proper lies. I’m only doing it to try and find out what happened to poor Amy.”

  “I know,” said Effie, “but I do think—”

  There was a low whistle behind them. They turned and the thin, stooped man who had been sitting in the corner of the Anchor was standing on the path. He limped towards them and indicated they should move away from the river path and down one of the alleyways between the houses, where he followed them.

  “It was me,” he said gruffly, a hint of nerves in his voice. “I told the Blues I’d seen yer sister on the Devil’s Steps.”

  Rose smiled gently at the man. “Thank you for talking to us. I’m really grateful. It’s just that the police have so little information about what happened to poor Amy.”

  The man looked at Rose with faded cornflower eyes. “My sister,” said the man, “she died off the very same steps, fifty year ago. She had a smile as sweet as honey. They say she did herself in like your sister. But I dunno. She had got in with a bad crowd.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Rose softly, feeling intensely guilty that she was pretending to be Amy’s bereaved sister. “Are you saying that you think your sister might have been murdered?”

  The man shrugged. “I dunno what to think. It’s too long ago to rake it over, but I saw your sister in the mustard dress that night.”

  “Did you speak to her?” The man shook his head. “But you told the police that she seemed distressed?”

  The man’s nerves resurfaced. “Yeah, but she weren’t alone,” he mumbled.

  “Who was with her? Man or woman?”

  “Man.”

  “Did you tell the police this?”

  The man shook his head. “I didn’t want to get too involved. Bod, the landlord from the Anchor, told us all to keep our mouths shut when the Blues came round. Say as little as possible. He’s worried. He runs a gambling den in the basement. Not just cards, though there’s plenty of that, but illegal stuff: cockfighting, dog-fighting, and the like. So I jest told the Blues I’d seen her on the steps, which I did. It was only when you came into the pub and talked about her being your sister that I thought about me own loss and how if some’un had seen me sister on the night she died I’d like to have talked to them. Your sister, she was upset. She was telling the man to go away, that she didn’t want to talk to him. I thought maybe it was a pa talking to his wayward daughter. I didn’t see your sister’s face, she had her back to me, just saw the mustard dress.”

  “Would you recognise the man if you saw him again?” asked Rose.
r />   “I dunno. It was dark.”

  Rose indicated to Effie to show her sketch of Billy Proctor to the man. The man looked and shook his head.

  “Nah, never seen him before. Weren’t him.”

  Rose nodded. So the landlord had been telling the truth about not knowing about Billy Proctor, and Billy had definitely lied about working at the Anchor. Effie went to close her pad, and as she did so a loose page fell to the ground. It was the one on which she had sketched the faces of those sitting outside Campion’s in the yard on that balmy night a couple of weeks previously, when they had all been eating penny licks. Rose picked it up and went to pass it to Effie, and as she did so, the man stopped her and pointed to a face on the page.

  “I know this one. Him’s Jem – he’s always hanging around the Anchor when there’s a gambling session. They say he has the luck of the devil when it comes to the cards. Not that the luck of the devil makes you popular, mind. Some says he’s a cheat, but if he is, nobody knows how he does it.”

  Rose’s heart sank. “Was he at the Anchor on the night that Amy died?”

  The man nodded. “I think summat happened with him too. But I don’t know what. Best to turn a blind eye to what goes on downstairs.”

  “Do you think that he could have been the man you saw with Amy that night?”

  The man shook his head. “He were at the Anchor for sure, but no, it weren’t him I saw on the steps. But if I was a betting man, I’d say it was this one,” he said stabbing his finger. “This is the one who I saw with your sister.”

  Rose and Effie starred at each other in shock. The picture that the man’s gnarled finger was pointing at was of Aurora’s father, Edward, Lord Easingford.

  17

  Rose turned the corner and walked down the side of the Pall Mall Theatre towards the stage door. She was going to join Aurora at the theatre to watch a rehearsal of Macbeth, which was opening the following week. She was looking forward to seeing Aurora, who had been at Silver Square with Edward for the last three nights. But she was apprehensive too. Aurora had sent a note the previous evening to say that she couldn’t return to Campion’s as expected. Her absence meant they had to take the bicycle act off the bill, which had made Rose fret again that Aurora was growing away from her and Campion’s.

  Effie had seen Rose’s frown when she had read the note sent by Aurora, and she said quietly, “You’ve got to let her go, Rosie, if that’s what she wants. Poor Ror’s caught between two worlds. It’s eating her up. I can see it in her face. She doesn’t know whether she’s one of us or one of them toffs. She’s got to find out for herself which she wants to be, or find a comfortable way to move easily between the two. If you try and force her to choose between being a lady and Campion’s you’ll drive her away for sure. Be patient with her.”

  Rose knew that wise little Effie was right, but it didn’t stop her feeling as if she, Thomas, Effie and her beloved Campion’s had somehow been judged and found wanting by Aurora. Maybe by Edward too, particularly now that he was deeply involved with Lydia, with all her airs and graces. Then there was the issue of Edward being spotted on the Devil’s Steps at Rotherhithe with Amy on the night of her death. She and Effie had discussed it at length.

  “Look, Rosie,” said Effie. “I can’t believe our Eddie would have anything to do with anything bad.”

  “But what was he doing at Rotherhithe with Amy on the night she died?”

  “Well, not murdering her, of that I’m sure. If he was there at all,” she added darkly. “Maybe that bloke from the Anchor was mistaken. Rosie, I know you reckon that poor Amy was done away with, but don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself? If the inspector thinks she drowned herself maybe he’s got good reason. Let it go.”

  “But there’s something else,” said Rose. “Edward lied to Lydia the night Amy died. I heard him tell her he had business with Thomas, but he didn’t. Thomas went straight to bed. Amy left Campion’s almost as soon as the hansom had left with Lydia, and I saw Edward leave shortly after. Maybe he followed Amy.”

  “Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t,” said Effie, “and maybe if he did he’s already told the inspector. Listen, Rosie, leave it to the police.”

  Rose had nodded reluctantly but she felt like a terrier with a bone that she couldn’t let go of.

  She dawdled for a moment by a shop, trying to delay the moment when she faced Aurora, in case her friend was going to tell her that their days as a double act were over. She glanced towards the stage door and to her surprise she saw Gandini leaving. She almost called out to him, but she saw his grim face and hesitated, and he didn’t even notice her as he strode by on the opposite side of the road. She watched his retreating back and wondered who he had been visiting at the Pall Mall.

  She was about to cross the road when she saw another man come out of the stage door. It was the man with the handlebar moustache wearing the peacock-blue waistcoat who had spoken to her and the others at the Pall Mall on the night of Edward’s debut as Hamlet, and told them all about Lydia and the Doomstone. He had also been at Campion’s when the Doomstone went missing, and then again when she had seen him exchanging a nod with Edward, before he disappeared without a trace. Once again he was dressed less flamboyantly today, in a dark suit and silk top hat, but with a telltale vivid flash of blue in his tie and handkerchief. The man turned the corner and was heading up towards Piccadilly. Rose pulled her hat down over her face, relieved she was wearing one, and set off in pursuit.

  At Piccadilly the man waited to cross the street and then entered a commanding building. It was a bank. Rose smoothed her gloves, thankful that her determination not to show Aurora up in any way had made her put them on, adjusted her hat and walked briskly towards the door. A doorman opened it for her, and although she didn’t feel at all confident, she sailed through as if she was always going into banks. The man from the Pall Mall was talking to another very smart man in a tailcoat, who Rose guessed might be the manager of the bank. Rose moved behind a pillar and watched them.

  “Can I help you, madam?” said a voice. A snooty-looking clerk peered down at her as if doubting her right to be in the building. Rose tried not to feel intimidated.

  “I think I was supposed to meet my father here,” she said in her poshest voice. “But maybe I was mistaken. Perhaps he meant for me to meet him at Coutts.”

  “On the Strand, madam,” said the man.

  “Of course,” said Rose. “How silly of me. But tell me, who is that gentleman over there? He looks very familiar.”

  The man glanced over. “That is Mr Augustus Drover, madam. One of our best customers.”

  “I think he’s a friend of my father’s,” said Rose.

  “Does your father trade in diamonds?” asked the man.

  Rose shook her head and said innocently, “Is that Mr Drover’s business? I must be mistaken then. My father is in shipping.” The lie fell off her tongue so easily that she felt quite queasy about the way she had developed such a facility for deceit. But she added, “Diamonds! How exciting.”

  “Indeed, madam. To think that some of the most flawless gemstones in the world have passed through his hands. He is one of our most valued customers.”

  “I mustn’t keep you. I ought to go and find my father. Thank you for your help,” said Rose sweetly, and she left the bank. Outside, her heart beating very fast, she set off back to the Pall Mall. She slipped through the stage door and said hello to Grumbles, the stage-doorkeeper.

  “I saw Mr Gandini leaving.”

  Grumbles grunted and nodded. “’im supposed to be a wizard but he don’t ever seem to be able to magic me up a tip.”

  “So he’s been before?” asked Rose.

  “Yes, to see Miss Duchamps, and today she looked most put out to see ’im.”

  “There was another man here, he left about ten minutes ago. Handlebar moustache, wearing a top hat and dark suit with pinstripe trousers. His name was Mr Drover,” said Rose urgently.

  “Oh, �
�im,” said Grumbles grumpily. “He walked all over me freshly washed floor.”

  “Who did he come to see?”

  “His Lordship. He came to see young Edward.”

  Rose’s heart sank to her boots.

  18

  “What’s the matter, Rosie?” asked Aurora, who was dressed in the sapphire silk tea gown. Her hair had been curled. “There’s something bothering you.” They were sitting together on the chaise longue in Edward’s dressing room, but there was an awkwardness between them. Edward had gone out to see his tailor.

  “It’s nothing,” said Rose, but she couldn’t quite meet Aurora’s eye. Her mind was working furiously. Could Edward really have had something to do with the disappearance of the Doomstone? Or, if not its initial disappearance, with whatever had happened to it subsequently? It was ludicrous to even contemplate such a thing. Why on earth would Edward, who already had money, position and success, risk it all? But surely it was too much of a coincidence that two men who had both been present the night the Doomstone was stolen were meeting together so soon after the mysterious disappearance of Amy. Could they be involved in her murder? Could Edward be implicated in something so foul?

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Rose,” said Aurora, standing up and putting some distance between the two of them. Rose stiffened at Aurora’s use of Rose rather than Rosie. “Things have changed. I’ve got to think of the future. We’re growing up. I want to stop doing the bicycle act. It’s just not right for someone in my position. It’s not befitting any more.”

  Rose’s throat constricted and her eyes felt gritty. The effort to stop herself from crying meant that her words were spat out, making her sound angry when she only felt hurt and sad.

  “What do you mean – ‘befitting’?” she said. “Why is it befitting for me and not for you?”

  Aurora sighed. “Don’t make this hard for me, Rosie. You know why. It’s because of my change in circumstances.”