The Blue and the Grey

by M. J. Trow

  ‘You can have a feel right here,’ she said, hauling up her tattered dress with a waft of something unspeakable mixed with the cheapest of cheap perfumes. ‘Won’t cost you nothing.’

  His instinct was to hit her, send her sprawling in the gutter where she belonged. But she might scream, and then the copper on the far side of the street would come running, shaking his rattle to summon assistance. And he didn’t need assistance for what he was going to do. He closed his face to hers. ‘I told you, no,’ he said, and he brushed past her.

  The theatre stood in darkness now the night’s show was over. Her torrent of abuse was still ringing in his ears as he walked briskly past its classical columns, plastered with the current bill of fare. The Great Maskelyne was on his way to stun the gasping crowd with his magic at the Alhambra next week. But he had magic of his own, the tight coil of wire in his pocket, and he cradled it again in the palm of his hand as he walked north.

  There she was again – the one he had seen a moment ago. The one with the golden hair. Was this fate? That she had not gone, vanished into the blackness of the London night? Or was it her destiny to wait for him, inviting the caress of the coil of wire, biting like fire and ice into the flesh of her neck? He checked the copper behind him, too far away to come to her aid. He had to be careful, of course; take her into some dark alley, move quickly. There’d be no sound. He’d fumbled it once before, and the girl had screamed. But he’d heard no more about that. There was nothing in the papers. No knock at his door. Girls like these put up with a bit of rough – it was all in a night’s work.

  He walked up to her, confident, alert, ready. They both knew how this worked.

  ‘Hello, dearie,’ she purred. ‘Lonesome tonight?’

  ‘How much?’ he asked her, his voice a hoarse whisper now the moment was here.

  ‘Depends on what you want.’

  ‘I want to tail you,’ he told her.

  ‘What, just like that?’ she trilled. ‘Ain’t you the gentleman! No supper? No hotel?’

  He looked her up and down. The girl was far above the park harlot he had just escaped from. Her dress was velvet with a tight bodice and lace-trimmed sleeves. Her golden hair was piled high under a jaunty cap with feathers, and cheap jewellery flashed from her fingers and at her throat, the throat he was about to cut with his wire.

  ‘I don’t have time,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear.’ She closed to him, resting her hand on his arm, making, as was expected, the first move. ‘Disappointed earlier, were you? Caught in the act? I know,’ she soothed. ‘Annoying, ain’t it? Well—’ for a moment she pouted – ‘I wouldn’t normally let you do me out here. Auntie Bettie would not approve.’ She ran a hand over his crotch. ‘But I can see you’re an impatient sort. So …’

  She let him slide her round the corner of the theatre into an alleyway that led to a backyard. He took her hand and drew her further into the shadows, away from the Haymarket and the patrolling constable and whatever life she had known. He took her away from all that she held dear.

  ‘That’ll be half a crown,’ she said, her voice hard now that she was talking business. He flipped her the coin and let her unbutton his flies. She moved her hand quickly up and down, smiling, looking up into his face, ‘There, now,’ she said. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

  ‘I haven’t paid half a crown for this,’ he said.

  She spun round, legs splayed and hauled her skirts up over her back. There were no drawers, nothing in the way. But it wasn’t her arse he was interested in. She felt his fingers, iron hard in her hair as he jerked her upright. Then there was something cold and sharp around her neck. Her hands came up, fluttering, helpless and her eyes bulged in the blackness. He twisted the loop as tight as he could, using both hands now to help him, and he felt her warm blood spurt over his knuckles as she sank forwards. He kept her upright, bending his back and supporting her weight on his. He heard her boots scrabble on the cobbles, once, twice. Then stillness. Silence. And a dead weight in the Haymarket night.

  He looked up the alleyway. Across the street, the copper was checking locks, blissfully unaware as yet that another girl had died on his patch. In the alleyway, he wiped the wire on the girl’s dress and slipped it away. He fished in her pocket for his half crown and took it back. No more. No less. He wasn’t a thief, after all. He stood up and remembered just in time to do up his flies; this was Victoria’s England, when all was said and done, and he had a certain reputation. People might talk.

  NINE

  Thornton Leigh Hunt was not having the best of mornings. George Sala was back at the Telegraph, behaving like royalty as usual, swanning into the paper’s offices and carrying out a progress. Yes, he was telling everybody, a knighthood was definitely on the cards. If only someone could persuade the queen out of her self-imposed reclusion, the old trout would be tapping his shoulder with her blade any moment. Sir George Sala – yes, he liked the way that rolled out.

  His editor did not like it. And it was brought home forcefully just how peaceful it had all been while Sala had been in the theatre of war. Stories were coming in thick and fast but all Leigh Hunt had time to do now was to prepare for the wretched homecoming banquet which, in a weak moment, he had promised to throw for the returning hero. And if he was not careful, other papers would grab the headlines.

  ‘Another murder,’ he said to the outer office in general, ‘in the Haymarket. Who was on that? The first one, I mean?’

  ‘Er …’ Edwin Dyer’s old man had once told him never to volunteer, but he was perilously close to it now.

  ‘No, it wasn’t you.’ Leigh Hunt was sure about that. ‘Buckley? You were there, weren’t you? When this Effie Thing died?’

  ‘We both were, sir.’ Joe Buckley stood up like a sacrificial lamb. Everybody knew that when Thornton Leigh Hunt snapped his fingers, everybody jumped.

  ‘But it was Jim Batchelor who found her, sir,’ Dyer said, trying to get his friend off the hook.

  ‘Who?’ For a moment, the cub reporters could not be entirely sure whether their lord and master was being ironic or whether he had already consigned James Batchelor to the wastepaper basket of newspaper history.

  ‘I wasn’t too far away, TLH.’ Gabriel Horner peered over his pince-nez at the man, willing his old eyes to focus.

  ‘No,’ said Leigh Hunt on a sigh. ‘You never are. I want you on the International Exhibition. And what about the Richard Cobden obituary? The man’s been dead for a month.’

  The old man beamed. ‘Working on it, TLH.’

  ‘You two,’ the editor snapped. ‘My office.’

  They stood on Leigh Hunt’s carpet like naughty boys in front of the headmaster. ‘TLH indeed,’ the great man muttered. ‘Learn nothing from old Gabriel, gentlemen; he is a dinosaur. Now, to business. What do we know about the second murder?’

  Dyer and Buckley looked at each other. ‘Not a lot, sir,’ Buckley ventured. ‘It only happened last night.’

  ‘The girl may still be stiff and stark,’ Leigh Hunt agreed. ‘All the more reason to move swiftly. This is C division again, so our friend Inspector Tanner is bound to be called in. Either of you know him?’

  ‘No, sir,’ they chorused.

  ‘Right. Buckley. Get yourself over to the Yard. Find out what Tanner knows. I don’t want The Times stealing this one from us. Or, God forbid, the Ebullient. Dyer – scene of crime.’

  ‘Er … where is that, sir?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, man. I didn’t kill the wretched girl. Find out. You’re supposed to be a journalist. Ask some questions. Knock on a few doors. And gentlemen … keep your hands in your pockets. The Telegraph isn’t made of money, and some of those coppers don’t get out of bed for less than a fiver.’

  Buckley and Dyer found themselves out in the bustle of Fleet Street before they could so much as sharpen a pencil. They adjusted their hats to a more rakish, journalistic angle and checked in their pockets for notepads – to take down the golden prose of Inspector Tanner in
the case of Buckley, and to make lightning sketches of the mise en scène in the case of Dyer.

  Dyer broke the impasse. ‘Right, then. I’ll be off to the Haymarket, shall I?’ He turned away.

  ‘Is that strictly the right direction?’ Buckley asked, tossing his head. ‘Isn’t the Haymarket more over there?’

  ‘Possibly, possibly,’ Dyer hedged. He had been born within yards of Fleet Street and knew the city like the back of his hand. He had hoped to fool Buckley, a country boy come up to make his fortune, but no luck this time. ‘I was thinking of finding something to eat first. Oh …’ He patted his pockets dramatically. ‘I don’t have a pencil with me. There’s one on my desk. I’ll just go back and get it. See you later.’ And he dived back through the double doors of the Telegraph offices and disappeared from view.

  ‘Pencil!’ snorted Buckley as he turned his steps towards Scotland Yard. ‘Pencil, indeed!’ He wasn’t looking forward to this assignment. He was essentially a desk journalist by inclination, rewriting the execrable prose of lesser men. When a multi-syllabic word was required, Buckley was your man, the whole office were agreed on that. When you wanted something pithy, attention grabbing and mostly inaccurate, it was Dyer. For something to be delivered six weeks after the deadline, Gabriel Horner was definitely the man to seek out. James Batchelor had been a good all-rounder, but James Batchelor was on the scrap heap; no one mentioned him these days, and his seat was hardly cold. Buckley squared his shoulders and set off for Scotland Yard. Half an hour should do it, straight down Fleet Street and then the Strand, but his feet weren’t in it any more than his heart and so it was anyone’s guess when he would get there. Perhaps the famous Inspector Tanner wouldn’t be available; that would be the best outcome. Buckley looked moodily at his feet as he ambled away, out of his circle of comfort, heading west.

  James Batchelor was counting his increasingly meagre store of money when there was a tap on the door, swiftly followed by the dragging noise of that same door over the thin rug he had spread in front of it to try and stop draughts. He turned, scooping the coins and one screwed-up note into his pocket as he did so.

  ‘Mrs B,’ he said, beaming. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be here, Mr Batchelor,’ she said, and the unwonted formality made the hairs prickle on the ex-journalist’s neck.

  He sniffed extravagantly. ‘I have rather a bad cold, Mrs Biggs,’ he said, matching surname for surname. ‘I thought I had better stay at home for a while until it has passed. I sent a note with some urchin; I hope they received it at the office.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I was wondering if perhaps you had lost your position, Mr Batchelor,’ she said and folded her arms under her substantial frontage.

  ‘No, no, Mrs Biggs.’ He managed a hollow laugh. ‘I’m one of the Telegraph’s star reporters. They would never let me go.’

  She didn’t speak for a moment, but when she did it was to utter words to make his blood run cold. ‘I was wondering when you might be able to let me have some rent, Mr Batchelor,’ she said.

  He rummaged in his pocket, showing willing as best he could. ‘How much is owing, Mrs Biggs?’ he asked, trying to sound casual. ‘This cold—’ with another wet sniff – ‘has rather addled my brain.’

  ‘Ten shillings,’ she said, and he rummaged some more. That wasn’t as bad as it might have been. ‘That’s the arrears. With this week’s on top – and you know I don’t usually ask for rent in advance from my better gentlemen, Mr Batchelor, but you have let things slide – that makes fifteen shillings. It would oblige me if you could pay in full. These rooms are very sought after, as you know.’

  He pushed coins around in his hand, trying to make the right money. Finally, it came to fifteen shillings, and he handed it over. With the pound note and few remaining coins in his pocket, his total worth had now shrunk to around just less than twice the amount he had handed over. His money was trickling away even faster than he had forecast.

  His landlady secreted the money so quickly that Batchelor had no idea where it went. A thought rushed through his mind that he had once heard that Edwin Dyer never paid rent, simply seducing landlady after landlady for free lodgings before moving on when his charms grew stale or they wanted to come to a more permanent arrangement. He asked himself if he could ever do that and came up with a resounding: ‘No!’ But Mrs Biggs was asking him something.

  ‘Pardon me, Mrs Biggs?’

  ‘I was asking, will you be able to manage the rent next week, Mr Batchelor? With your having been off from your office, and all. I do have a waiting list, you know. This is a very respectable house and—’

  ‘Mr Leigh Hunt thinks the world of me, Mrs Biggs.’ Batchelor was on his dignity now. ‘He will pay me in absentia.’

  ‘I don’t really care where he pays you,’ his landlady said, turning to the door. ‘As long as I get my rent.’

  She swept out, and Batchelor could have kicked himself. He could see himself being given the keys to the street at any moment, and he hadn’t even had the wit to leave with arrears owing. He was an idiot, and more than that, he was a destitute idiot. Or, in twenty-six shillings’ time he would be. There were more feet on the stairs and another tap on the door. Dyer’s head poked round.

  ‘Anyone at home? I gather from your landlady you have a cold in the head.’

  ‘Dyer?’ Batchelor jumped up off the bed and went forward, grabbing the man’s hand. ‘Are you here from the office?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Dyer said, sitting on the room’s only chair.

  Batchelor looked at the man and didn’t speak. Dyer was not his favourite person, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. He decided that he could wait until Dyer chose to say why he was there.

  ‘I’m after a favour, James,’ Dyer eventually said.

  ‘I’m not in a position to lend you any money,’ Batchelor said, shortly. How typical of Dyer to ask for a loan when he had nothing to his name.

  ‘I am in a position to give you some, though,’ Dyer said, shoving a hand into a trouser pocket and coming up with a tightly folded five-pound note. Batchelor had to restrain himself from grabbing it. ‘All I need is a little work from you, off the record, we might say. There was a murder in the Haymarket last night …’

  ‘Another one?’ Batchelor was aghast.

  ‘Yes, another one.’ Dyer could tell this might be hard work after all. ‘Hunt has sent me and Buckley off to look into it but … I won’t beat about the bush, James, it doesn’t suit me, this kind of work. I thought you could do my bit. Look around the scene of crime, talk to people. You’re good at that. The common touch, you might say. Then you could write it up and give the copy to me to file. What do you say?’

  Batchelor wanted to pace the room awhile, pulling his lip thoughtfully before turning the lazy bastard down. But this was not the time for niceties. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

  Dyer pocketed the banknote. ‘Wonderful.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Well, I must be going. If you could send the copy round this afternoon that would—’

  ‘Money up front,’ Batchelor said quietly. He knew Dyer of old.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, old chap. Money on delivery.’

  ‘No delivery, then,’ Batchelor said. ‘I must have the money up front. There will be expenses, you know.’

  Dyer stood, irresolute. He really didn’t want to do this job. On the other hand, he really didn’t want to part with the fiver. With the couple of hours this bought him, he could nip back to his lodgings and give his landlady a treat – that should buy him a few more weeks; the woman was old and ugly but she was getting restive. A little spontaneity would stand him in good stead. He took out the note again. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me down, now.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Batchelor promised, pocketing the cash. ‘I’ll have five hundred words with you this afternoon.’

  Dyer opened the door and turned. ‘By the way, your landlady …?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No!’ Batchel
or was quick to disabuse him. ‘I just pay my rent.’

  Dyer shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘What a waste,’ he said. ‘You should use the equipment God gave you and then you wouldn’t be desperate for money. Must go. Make sure you don’t let me down.’

  Batchelor heard him slam the street door and sat down on the bed, in shock and relief. Some time. He had bought some time. And all for doing a job of work that would have earned him a few shillings when he worked for the Telegraph. If Dyer wanted to throw his money away, who was he to stop him? He pulled out his penknife and sharpened his pencil. On the hunt for a story; it was what he did best.

  TEN

  Batchelor was hunched over on the bed, drafting his story. He hadn’t been to the scene of the crime yet. In his experience, it never paid to go out without planning what you wanted to hear from eye witnesses – they were all just as likely as he was to make it up anyway. So the bare bones were there – the sad unfortunate, separated from life so cheaply; the eye witnesses, shy and frightened, being persuaded by the journalist to part with their scraps of information. The City of Eternal Night. The Modern Gomorrah. Oh, yes; he hadn’t lost his touch.

  Again, he heard footfalls on the stairs. Again, there was a tap on the door.

  ‘It’s not done yet,’ he called, folding the paper over.

  ‘What’s not done?’ Buckley’s voice came from the doorway.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Buckley. Nothing. Nothing. Just a little something I was writing for one of my fellow lodgers.’ Batchelor sat firmly on the paper. ‘Can I help you somehow?’

  Buckley sat down on the only chair. ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour, Batchelor?’ he said. He held up a hand. ‘Not money. No, not a loan, more of a job. Subcontracted, as it were.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t expect you will have heard, but there was a murder in the Haymarket last night. Hunt has sent me and Dyer off to cover it, but to be quite frank with you, it isn’t really my cup of tea. I went to Scotland Yard but the man who seems to be dealing with the murders …’