Its glass eyes stared at her uncannily. She touched her index finger to one of the fragile lids and it closed in a lazy wink. She turned it over and ran a finger along the seams. It was poorly patched on the inside. Knotted strings dangled down from the eyes and mouth like chopped ligaments. She pulled one. The eyelid closed. She pulled another. The jaw snapped shut. She thought back to the tiger licking its paw in the auditorium. She had been far away, in the gods but it had looked deathly real, as real as the tiger that had come back onstage, that Foucaud’s men had caught and drugged. Was it possible Ebony had made her escape, releasing the real tiger on her way out as a diversion?
Frankie lifted the empty head closer to her face and probed her nose inside. She sniffed twice, once near the top of the mask, and once at the neck, and then she knew. The crown smelled like brilliantine, pungent and sickly, but at the neck was the light, distinctive scent of poudre d’amour.
Thirteen
Primrose looked up sharply at the knock on his office door.
Chief Inspector Stuttlegate didn’t wait for an invite before swinging into the room. It was after ten o’clock and the office crackled with the quiet hum of electricity and the occasional burst of typewriting on the machines in the corridor. Primrose put aside the sheaf of wispy papers printed in faint blue ink he was correcting – the report on Christabel Pankhurst at Dover – and managed a smile.
The Chief sighed and scraped across a chair. He hitched up his trousers with fat fingers. His knees cracked as he sat. From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small bottle of Irish whiskey and held it up. Primrose nodded politely and reached across his desk for two dirty coffee cups. He had nothing but his handkerchief to wipe the rims with, but Stuttlegate didn’t seem to notice. He poured them each a short measure. When they had chimed cups and sipped he said, ‘I know what you mean, Freddie, I really do.’
Primrose looked down at his fingers. There was a stain of grime and ink settled between the wrinkles on his knuckles, and for a fleeting moment he forgot where he was and mistook it for muck from the dairy.
Stuttlegate knocked back his whiskey. ‘You and me, we just want the best for King and country. You’re a farm boy, I was a farm boy once. We know what’s real. You understand that different men deal with pressure in different ways.’
Primrose placed his cup on the desk. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused offence with my complaint.’
‘Not offence, Freddie, it’s just that, well, we’re a team. If them outside, if they get any whiff that there’s dissent within our ranks, what will it do to theirs?’ He scratched his fingers through his ginger hair. A pungent odour of tobacco and spice was coming off him. ‘Barnes, Wilson, never going to rise above the rank of Inspector, I don’t mind telling you. But filing complaints against other officers, it’s just not done, Freddie. It might have been done in other branches, but here we have to play things a little tighter.’ He brushed his whiskers with a finger.
Primrose coughed weakly. ‘That tightness is undermined when people see us taking liberties. You didn’t see the state of that girl. Unfairness,’ he let his eye slide to the copy of the Police Code in the corner, ‘is sure to bring discredit on those who are guilty of it, sir.’
‘I know, I understand, Freddie, and a rogue police officer’s just about as bad as a mouldy bit of cheese in my book. But,’ he followed Primrose’s eyes to the Police Code book, ‘a zealous officer who is desiring only to call attention to himself is liable to fall into a habit of exaggeration. Page nine, I think you’ll find.’
He let the words settle on the desk.
Primrose couldn’t meet his superior’s eye. ‘You have to understand, Freddie,’ Stuttlegate sniffed and his nose turned for a second into an awful snout, ‘that these are not ordinary women we’re dealing with. They’re rotten eggs, these window breakers, and I’m not afraid to say it. I’m thinking of the reputation of my wife as much as anything when I’m on this type of work. These women, if you can call them that, are common criminals, not ladies. If a bit of rough and tumble goes hand in hand with an arrest, well, that’s the way of it.’ He sighed slowly. ‘I’ll have a word with Barnes myself, but no more filed complaints, eh?’
Primrose said nothing. The Chief sensed the mood thicken and rubbed his hands together, self-consciously relaxed again. ‘All right, where are you now with the arson; did they ever get their hearing?’
Primrose flicked through a pile of brown card folders stacked on the corner of his desk. ‘They did. Today, in fact. Pleaded guilty to attempting to start a fire but claimed it was only the summer house they were after, not the main one.’
Stuttlegate nodded. ‘In that case you have a window while they prepare trial.’
Primrose felt his stomach tense up. He wanted to look at the clock but knew it would be bad form. The dark outside the window and shady sounds of the night from the street below already told him how late it was.
‘There’s a call come in from the West End. Strange business. Acrobat disappeared from a theatre. They’ve looked everywhere but no sign of a body. Stage manager thinks there’s something fishy, her equipment might have been tampered with. We’ve been called to that theatre before. They’ve had some pretty rotten accidents in the past, animals getting loose, girls committing suicide.’
Primrose nodded.
He paused. ‘I don’t think I need to tell you who the girl was mixed up with and why I’m passing it to you.’
Primrose worked to keep his voice level. ‘Suffragette?’
‘Suffragette indeed. Ebony Diamond.’
Primrose frowned.
‘No, I know what you’re going to say. That girl they found yesterday on Tottenham Court Road. It wasn’t her. Guaranteed. I read the report. Landlord misidentified the body, although he swears the clothes belonged to Miss Diamond. And this,’ he foraged in his pocket and pulled out a small sharp object, then tossed it to Primrose.
Primrose recognised it instantly. A tiny portcullis, the size of a tuppence piece, made of black iron. He had seen them hundreds of times over, even before joining the suffragette squad. ‘Found on the body?’
Stuttlegate nodded. ‘Divisional detectives had it until now. The first constable on the scene took it away with him. Now I don’t know if there’s a connection but listen to this.’ He retrieved a notebook from his breast pocket and flattened out the creases where it had taken the shape of his chest.
‘One of our officers says he saw Ebony Diamond yesterday outside the shop of that corset maker who strangled himself, did you read about that in the evening paper? Nasty business, grade A deviant. Don’t know yet if it was an accident and frankly don’t care.’ He gave a shudder.
Primrose brushed his fingers through his thick hair and rubbed a spot on his forehead. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite clear. The murdered girl on Tottenham Court Road and the corset maker on Bond Street: you believe there’s a connection between them and this Ebony Diamond going missing tonight?’
Stuttlegate held up a finger. ‘There might be a connection.’
‘But if it’s murder why hasn’t it gone to Central Office? Why Special Branch, and why—’
‘Suffragettes.’ Stuttlegate held his eye. ‘You see, this is one I would have given to Barnes. But I don’t know about him, Freddie. After what you said. Especially since Miss Diamond was such a well-known suffragette. Twice in Holloway. Don’t know if it’s wise to pass this his way, after, you know . . .’
Primrose felt his jaw go tight. A flush of bitterness rose in him. So this was his punishment for being a rat, was it? Sending Barnes’s cases his way, a bit of overwork would show him not to challenge his comrades. His stubbornness quickly countered his resentment and he sat up straighter, his shoulders flexed.
‘Certainly, sir.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have a team assembled by tomorrow. We’ll start with the stage equipment.’
‘Good. The stage manager thinks it might have been tampered with. Poison registers in local chemists might be a good start. Oh
and one other thing, I thought you and Wilson worked so well together on that arson case, so I’ve assigned him to you on this. Don’t have a problem with that do you, Freddie?’
Primrose swallowed then managed his most pleasant smile of the evening. ‘Not at all, Chief. Not at all.’
Fourteen
Frankie still had her hands on the tiger’s head when she heard the sharp toppling of a dustbin lid on the pavement at the end of the lane leading to the stage door. She snapped her head up to see the ginger-haired boy dodging out onto the main street, one hand clinging to his cap. Tossing the head back towards the old drunk she tore after him. ‘Oi!’
A horse skittered backwards, showing the whites of its eyes as Frankie ran across St Martin’s Lane. ‘’Ere, watch it! My mare could have had you!’ She ignored the cries of the Victoria driver and his lady passengers, and scrambled onto the opposite pavement, looking right and left. A flash of red up ahead cut across towards Charing Cross Road. The boy pushed past late-night booksellers’ stalls and rammed men carrying umbrellas out of his way. Frankie had to give it to him. He could dart like a tomcat. The only tag on him was that brush of hair lighting up his head like a fox’s tail.
On Charing Cross Road he headed directly for Leicester Square underground station. Frankie paid for her ticket with the last sticky shilling she had in her pocket, not bothering to wait for her change and skidded into the iron-latticed lift moments before the door slammed.
At the bottom of the lift shaft she saw the boy head for the northbound Hampstead line and lengthened her stride to catch up, feeling a stitch brewing in her side. The platform was packed tight. Ladies in hats vied for space with working men, young women in gaudy dresses, and clerks in bowler hats. There were dogs too: greyhounds, mongrels, pekingeses, underfoot, on leashes, in ladies’ arms.
As the tube rattled towards them, a mad crush swarmed; gatemen held the crowd back until the train halted. One carriage down from where Frankie was standing there came a cry, ‘Hey, he hasn’t got a ticket!’
She turned to see the red-haired boy flash past her towards the rear of the train. As his feet battered the platform she could have sworn he looked right at her. Oh, he knew all right what she was up to. She didn’t care. She managed to squash herself inside just as the train began to shift.
The crush inside the carriage was too dense to even think about moving through it and Frankie pressed her face to the window as the train rucked and jerked through its black tunnels. At Tottenham Court Road a squeeze of people got off, easing up the breathing room. The tube had begun to shift again when a flame-coloured smudge passed by her window. Her chest suddenly seizing, she scrambled to the carriage gate.
The gate was locked.
‘Miss, you can’t . . .’ the gateman snapped.
Outside on the platform the ginger boy was sprinting to the exit. He looked back over his shoulder, his green eyes shining at her.
The train was picking up speed again; the gateman was on Frankie’s back. ‘We’re moving, you can’t . . .’
With a sudden crack the handle gave. Her feet almost tumbled from under her as she hit the platform. She ran towards the lifts but the latticed doors were already slamming, the lifts ascending along with the pale face of the ginger boy.
‘Fuck a barrel.’ Frankie kicked the tiles and pain shot up her toe.
By the time she reached street level there was no sign of him. A forceful driving rain was beginning to wash sideways in the coal-scented gloom. Frankie turned a circle outside the station, looking at every avenue of escape, but the London streets were as good as quicksand for disappearing into once the crowds closed in. She wiped her moistening hair out of her face and let her breath out, feeling furious at herself. He had to be following Ebony; he must know where she was. And why the devil had Ebony not held her nerve and made good on her plea for a meeting? The anxiety in Ebony’s eyes as she’d thrust the newspaper at Frankie that morning hovered in her memory.
Frankie stepped out of the way as a motor omnibus sprayed rainwater and dung-scented muck at her, then stared after its receding back window. She blinked, not quite believing what she was seeing. The bus was headed back towards Charing Cross Road, the direction they had come from. And the boy was on it.
Frankie ran, ignoring the sound of her trouser seam tearing, soaking up the pain as her too-thin shoes hammered the pavement up into her feet.
The traffic was still thick enough to keep the omnibus in sight, and she watched as it continued back on the route they had taken, then swung off right, heading for the edges of Soho. She kept a skittering pace, pausing to dodge a two-step round pedestrians coming in the other direction. The omnibus veered onto Greek Street, then stopped.
The boy hopped off, tearing at a gallop, his weedy supple legs allowing him to run high, low, hurdle over and around the market barrels and breadsellers. He chanced a glance back over his shoulder at Frankie, and that was when she knew for certain: he was trying to lose her.
She kept her eye on him as the distance between them grew, then watched with a dawning realisation as he hurtled down Duck Lane; he was headed for Jojo’s Cocoa Bar.
As she approached the club doors, noises of merry-go-round music and laughter swelled up into the street. The red glow from inside the basement diluted the lane’s darkness, casting half-illuminated shapes and moving shadows.
There was no sign of the boy, but as she reached the railings a man in a black cape and top hat stepped into her path. ‘Sixpence if you want in.’
Frankie was out of breath. The damp air caught on her throat when she tried to speak. ‘I need to see the boy. The one with the . . .’ she gestured to her hair. ‘You know, the ginger-haired boy. He came in here.’
The man looked over his shoulder and exchanged an eyebrow raise with a short woman in striped trousers, propping open the door and smoking an enormous cigar. She coughed and laughed.
‘Sixpence,’ he repeated, and held out a fleshy palm.
Frantically Frankie checked her pockets, inner and outer, and her shoes, remembering she had left her change at the tube ticket office. Nothing. ‘Please, is Ebony Diamond there?’
‘She’s not on tonight. She’s at the Coliseum.’
‘She’s not. She’s gone. I’ve been there. Please, it could be life or death. I need to see the boy.’
The large man looked greatly amused. ‘If you want to see a boy,’ he said, nodding with a glint at Frankie’s crotch, ‘believe me it’ll cost you a lot more than sixpence. Even round here.’ He laughed, showing the huge cavern of his maw, and gestured out towards the main road where the red shadows were denser and darker. ‘Now, be off with you.’
Frankie tried to peer over each of his shoulders, but both times he blocked her view. The warmth of the club was creeping through the open doors, damp and full, and she wondered whether once inside she would even have any chance of finding the ginger boy among the hive of revellers.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow, you mark me.’ She pointed a finger towards the man’s weathered face. Through drink or age some of the large veins had popped on his nose, giving his skin the look of blue cheese. He flicked her finger away.
‘Tell that boy . . .’ she started.
‘Oh, I will.’ He winked salaciously.
Shivering with the cold, the wet, and her rage, Frankie retreated back down the street. She took a moment to gather her breath, then deciding there was nothing more for it, began to pick her way back through Soho, for the second time in as many nights, towards home.
Frankie’s fingers were still trembling as she bent over a pail of steaming water in the bathroom and scrubbed the back of her neck. It was past midnight. Her body tingled with electricity, thoughts swam in her head. Ebony Diamond had seen her own death that evening, as surely as she had seen that tiger prowling below her. She must have loosened the trapdoor hatch herself, prepared a landing, said a prayer. Nobby’s notes had said she was a tiger tamer. Animals could be predicted; animals could be trusted in
a way humans could not.
The carbolic soap stung her scalp but it felt good getting rid of the dust, the tobacco smell around her and the oil in her hair. When she finished, the water was grey. She picked her clothes up off the damp floor and wrapped herself in a towel then padded back to her bedroom. The floorboards groaned as she settled at her desk, pulling the Blickensderfer towards her. She had no fresh sheets of paper left so she uncovered an article about single women’s cookery she had never submitted and loaded it in back to front.
‘Exclusive: Ebony Diamond Escapes Murder.’ She hesitated as she typed the word ‘murder’. Then her tongue ran to her missing tooth. She remembered the day it had been pulled. The darkness of the waiting room, the smell of blood, the rub of the surgeon’s finger on her gums. That taste, that distinct numbing of cocaine solution. She had felt it on the leather strap, soaked through. If Ebony had caught it, it would have taken only seconds before her mouth was numbed beyond holding on. What was it she had said? ‘I must be a cat; I must have nine lives’? Someone was after her and she knew it.
Frankie continued to type, not caring how much noise the keys made, not caring if she was making sense. When she finished, she whipped the paper from the machine and shut the box. Dumping the two sheets on her desk without bothering to read them through, she stumbled over to her bed and crawled between the blankets. Before she knew it, she was in a deep, nightmarish sleep.
Fifteen
3 November 1912
The Hourglass Factory Page 11
