by M. J. Trow
‘The shipping line gave us an address, but there must have been a clerical error. No one lives there; it is simply a gap between two houses in Pimlico. The trail goes rather cold when you have no address.’
Tanner reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper and a stub of pencil. He thought for a moment, tapping his teeth with the pencil lead, then wrote a few lines and gave the note to Warren. ‘Try there,’ he said. ‘I’m not absolutely sure of the number … No, wait, don’t worry. I’ll go and give the sad news. I will need to interview his next of kin, anyway.’
‘Could you let us know as soon as you can, Inspector Tanner?’ Warren asked. ‘Mr Winthrop is beginning to … give offence.’
‘I do understand,’ Tanner said. ‘I think, in the circumstances, that you can go ahead with any arrangements and be ready to get him underground whenever you have an opportunity.’
‘But … the family …’ Warren was confused. Winthrop had been on a transatlantic voyage, nice clothes, apparently wealthy. He didn’t like to annoy the well-to-do – customers didn’t grow on trees, and with the nice weather coming business always tailed off for a month or two, until the drains problem picked up again in August.
‘I believe that Mr Winthrop’s family situation is quite complicated,’ Tanner said.
Warren was amazed. ‘You can tell that just from ten seconds in my shed with he who has passed over?’ he asked, not failing to use his usual euphemisms even in his amazement.
Tanner leaned forward, and their glossy moustaches almost met in the middle. ‘Sir,’ he said, solemnly. ‘I am a detective at Scotland Yard.’ And with that, he made his way back out to the street, humming quietly under his breath.
Richard Tanner made his way through the back streets of Piccadilly as to the manner born. He turned into Cork Street and then into the Mews behind it, looking around him for clues; it was a long time since he had been here, and he didn’t want to miss the door. A rather mangy lurcher sprawled across an entry was all he needed, and he stepped over it carefully, hoping it was the gentle-natured creature he remembered, rather than a more savage descendant. He walked down the dark passage and tapped on a peeling door.
‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice cried out in genteel tones. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ Tanner said. ‘Bill.’
The door was flung open, and it was only with uncharacteristic adroitness that Tanner avoided the large and mouldy cabbage that hurtled out. The vegetable was followed by a head, a pretty head with rather wayward mousy curls, but wearing an expression that it didn’t take a genius to interpret. The fury was replaced by surprise.
‘Mr Tanner!’ the woman said. ‘Whatever are you …? Oh!’ Her eyes filled with tears, and her mouth turned down. Peggy had always worn her heart on her sleeve; that was mainly the reason why her husband didn’t take her with him when he was out on the con game.
‘I’m sorry, Peg,’ Tanner said. ‘Can I come in?’
The kitchen he entered was dimly lit but clean and pleasant. Peggy and Bill Whicker lived as snug as bugs in a rug, with no servants to clutter the place up and make things difficult. Peggy kept things nice, and the children – three of them, all hearty boys – were in very minor public schools on the strength of their father’s dubious earnings. All their headmasters assumed that Bill was a missionary, a role he played particularly well.
Peggy sat down suddenly on an overstuffed armchair by the range and looked up at Tanner, pleading hope dying in her eyes. ‘He’s not coming home this time, Mr Tanner, is he?’
‘No, Peg.’ The inspector shook his head. ‘Not this time.’
For a moment, Peg Whicker’s lip trembled and her bosom heaved. Her husband and Dick Tanner went back a few years, since the plainclothesman had pounded the Whitehall beat with A Division, and he still wore a stove-pipe hat and swallowtail. But he was still the law, one of Peel’s Raw Lobsters, and she would not do her crying in front of him. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘He was stabbed to death,’ Tanner told her, ‘on board the SS Orient on his way back from America. Do you know what he was doing there?’
Peg Whicker found something to do with her hands, working on a sampler she came back to from time to time. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about it,’ she said.
‘Come on, Peg.’ Tanner smiled. ‘You can do better than that. Whatever Bill was up to, he’s past caring now, and I can’t touch him for it.’
‘Who did for him?’ she asked, revenge suddenly replacing grief in the turmoil of her heart.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ Tanner told her, ‘and perhaps the reason for him going to America might give us a clue.’
Peg Whicker thought for a moment. ‘Gold,’ she said. ‘Confederate gold. Ever since Atlanta everybody knew the South was going to lose. Bill said there’d be rich pickings. Perhaps he could smuggle people out or at any rate get them to part with their money. I got a letter …’ She rummaged in her sideboard drawer and passed the paper over to the Yard man.
He noted the date – five weeks ago; two weeks before he sailed on the Orient. It was postmarked Washington. ‘May I borrow this, Peg?’ Tanner asked. ‘Who knows, it might give us a hint as to why he was murdered.’
She nodded, and he turned to go. In the doorway he stopped. ‘Are you going to be all right, Peg?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you worry about me, Mr Tanner,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Bill and me had a few bob put by, if you catch my drift.’
Tanner smiled. ‘Oh, I do, Peg,’ he said. ‘I do.’ And the sound of his boots on the bricks of the entry almost hid the sound of her crying.
‘Can I help you?’
James Batchelor had been asked that before and always in that tone. What it really meant was: ‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?’
‘I hope so.’ He smiled at the old man with the slop bucket. ‘Batchelor, Telegraph.’
‘Show starts at half past two.’ The old man brushed past the young one and threw the contents of his pail into the gutter. The young man didn’t look like a theatre critic, but what did he know? ‘The Tempest, by whatshisname.’
‘I’m here about a different kind of show,’ Batchelor said. ‘The one that happened here last night.’
The old man stopped and looked the journalist up and down. He wasn’t a swell, that much was certain. Copper, maybe. Telegraph, my arse, the old man thought. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about it,’ he muttered.
‘Who would?’ Batchelor called after the retreating figure.
The old man stopped. ‘Have a word with his mightiness, the impresario. He owns the bloody place. That’s where the buck stops, don’t it?’
It do, thought Batchelor to himself, but he had noticed, even in his brief newspaper career, that the men at the top hardly ever stopped the buck or carried the can or whatever piece of journalese he cared to name. ‘Where will I find him?’
The old man was moving planking aside so that he could get past. ‘Well, usually, any-bloody-where, but today, your luck’s in. Try the first floor.’
The old man had not been vague in his description. The entire first floor of the Haymarket theatre was given over to its owner. The opulent drawing room was heavy with velvet and brocade, and oils of great actors, past and present, loured down at Batchelor as he knocked and entered. David Garrick looked sourly at him, as did Colley Cibber and Edmund Kean. Only Sarah Siddons had a kind smile.
‘Would I have seen you in anything?’ a voice boomed from behind a screen.
‘Er … hello?’ Batchelor could not see anybody at all.
‘I said …’ A swell emerged from the velvet drapery, a quill in one hand, an inkwell in the other. He was in his shirtsleeves and a vest of exquisite brocade. ‘Oh, no. If you’re here about the Caliban understudy, I’m afraid you’re … well, can I be blunt? Too short. Too short by half.’
‘No,’ the newsman said. ‘I’m James Batchelor.’ He fumbled for his card. ‘Telegraph. I’m investigating the
murder here last night.’
‘Oh, I see.’ The man frowned. ‘Yes, that was dreadful. Quite shocking. I have a Press man somewhere who can answer all your questions.’
‘If you are the theatre’s owner, sir, I was told to see you.’
‘Indeed?’ The swell arched an eyebrow and put down his writing implements. ‘By whom?’
‘An old gent in the alleyway.’
‘Old Lavenham?’ The swell laughed. ‘You mustn’t mind him, Mr Batchelor. Salt of the earth. Worked for my father when he ran this place.’
‘So you are …?’
‘Oh, forgive me.’ The swell extended a hand. ‘Roderick Argyll, impresario, at your service.’
Batchelor shook his hand. ‘And can you help me?’
‘With this wretched girl’s murder? No, I’m afraid not.’ Argyll reached into the pocket of an astrakhan coat hanging on the back of the door. He pulled out a meerschaum of exquisite quality.
‘I almost witnessed the first one, you know.’
‘Did you really?’ Argyll gestured to a chair, and Batchelor sat in it. ‘I wasn’t in London then. But there was a hell of a stink about it, apparently. It’s bad for business.’
‘That depends on the business,’ Batchelor said.
Argyll looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘I like the cut of your jib, laddie,’ he said. ‘Look out here.’
Batchelor joined the man at the window, which gave an unrivalled view of the Haymarket itself. The bright sun of early May glanced off the gleaming harness of the barouches and gigs that purred past. ‘There.’ Argyll pointed to a cluster of parasols moving as one on the far side of the street. ‘The Haymarket march past.’
‘March past?’ Batchelor didn’t follow.
‘I thought you said you were a journalist.’ Argyll gave him an old-fashioned look.
‘Flower shows, I fear,’ Batchelor said. ‘The opening of a new sewer is an intellectual challenge for me.’
‘Oh dear.’ Argyll tutted, trying to contain his smirk. ‘Well, allow me to enlighten you. The girls under the parasols work for a Madame – probably Auntie Bettie or Lady Eleanor. The thug with them—’
‘Thug?’ Batchelor interrupted.
‘Bully. Protector. Pimp. Call him what you will. His job is to make sure that the girls make suitable assignations. If a gentleman is so minded, he can avail himself of Auntie Bettie’s Tea Rooms or Lady Eleanor’s Snug. In which case the gent in question will choose the girl and off they go. The deal is struck, and Auntie Bettie collects the proceeds. The girl gets ten per cent – fifteen if she’s lucky.’
‘You are very well informed, Mr Argyll,’ Batchelor said.
‘My dear fellow, I was born in this theatre. Well, two floors up, to be precise. I was toddling past ladies of the night before I had more than four teeth in my head. And yes, before you ask, it goes on under this very roof. Respectable theatre by day, Music Hall and bordello by night. The peelers and I have an understanding. Inspector Tanner is very accommodating.’
‘Is he now?’
Argyll leaned towards his man. ‘Oh, I’m sure the Society for the Rescue of Young Women would be horrified to hear me say it, but give me a doxy over an actor any day. So arrogant, all of them. Take Harry Hawk, for instance. Laura Keene was telling me—’ He broke off, sensing that he had lost his audience of one, ‘Look, it’s not my place to teach you the facts of life, sonny, and I would say it’s a little late for all that. But a gentleman on the town seeks, shall we say … diversion. Hence the Haymarket march past and the Haymarket theatre. You’ll find it’s much the same in Rotten Row and the stock exchange. Quite a high ranking clientele for some of these doxies. Heavy swells with plenty of time and plenty of cash. I don’t judge. I just help them spend their money.’
‘And the murders?’ Batchelor said. ‘Two girls dead in three weeks.’
Argyll’s smile vanished. ‘Well, that’s what I mean about being bad for business. I’ve noticed the house takings are down over the last few days. As of today, they’ll probably fall again. Some lunatic is ruining trade.’
‘You were here last night?’
‘I was.’
‘Did you see anything? Hear anything?’
‘My dear boy, the girl died in the early morning. I was in my private apartments next door.’
‘Alone?’
Argyll looked horrified. ‘No,’ he said after a moment.
‘Mrs Argyll?’ Batchelor had the natural tenacity of the news hound; that much was certain.
‘Mrs Argyll disappeared with a cotton planter several years ago,’ the impresario said. ‘The lady I was with on the night in question has, as far as you are concerned, no name at all. Suffice it to say that she is a married lady whose husband believes she is visiting a sick relative. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate.’
‘Er … no,’ Batchelor said. ‘And the scene of the crime?’
‘The alleyway, I believe, alongside the theatre – the way, I presume, you came in. You’ll have to talk to old Lavenham about the details. There’s not much that passes him by.’
It was Lavenham who had washed the girl’s blood away after somebody found her. The old man pointed to the Very Spot. He didn’t like talking about any of this, of course. The dead girl was no better than she should be, but she was somebody’s daughter and old Lavenham had granddaughters of his own. No, he assured Batchelor, who was scribbling away furiously with his pencil on Edwin Dyer’s behalf, he wouldn’t dwell on the horrors of the body itself. Her dress and petticoats had been thrown up, ready for business, so to speak, and her eyes were bulging, the pupils crossed. Her tongue was purple, sticking right out of her mouth through gritted teeth, and her throat above her lace collar was a bloody mess of torn flesh. No, old Lavenham couldn’t talk about things like that.
James Batchelor sketched the alleyway when the old man had gone, still smacking his lips over the salacious details he couldn’t talk about. The wall of the theatre rose to its four storeys to his right, and there were gutters and drains along the alley at regular intervals. To the left was stabling for carriages, but the double doors were locked and the padlock rusted. It looked as though no one had used these premises in a long time. The alley was a cul-de-sac of death, ending in a locked door into the backstage area of the theatre. The door that Batchelor had entered by was off to the right, and Lavenham had told him that this was Mr Argyll’s private entrance. Everybody else went in to the theatre via the front doors, which were opening, as Batchelor left, for the afternoon’s performance. The journalist measured out the alleyway. It was the same width as that on the other side, a mirror image of the place where he had stood not long ago, stumbling over the still-warm corpse of Effie, the girl from paradise. For a moment, the poet lost somewhere in James Batchelor’s soul looked up at the Haymarket Theatre, like some great and grim altar on which two girls had been sacrificed.
ELEVEN
Willis’s Supper Rooms had never been so crowded, not even when they’d founded the Liberal Party there. The great and the good of the world of Fleet Street squeezed themselves into their tail coats and white ties, and the champagne flowed with the good talk, and the music swelled with the collected egos.
It was George Sala’s night, paid for by the Telegraph, and the speeches were long and gushing. Thornton Leigh Hunt did not stay long after the entrées; Willis’s had just had the decorators in, and the man was allergic to paint. Rather than pant and sneeze his way through the turbot, he made an excuse and left. Which was just as well because had he caught sight of the uninvited guest, there may have been a scene.
George Sala himself had invited James Batchelor, but he was on nobody’s guest list and the major-domo had squeezed the ex-journalist in between Buckley and Dyer, each of whom had cause to be eternally grateful to their former colleague, so they tolerated the proliferation of elbows at the lower table.
Matthew Grand was also there – and he did not want to be there at all. He had realized during hi
s first few days in London what an experience it was not to be known. In Washington, the uniform had a cachet of its own – the famous red tie of the Third Cavalry of the Potomac even more so. Here, in the largest city in the world, he was Mister Nobody. Until tonight, that is. Sala had asked the band at Willis’s to strike up something American when he called upon Grand to say a few words, and Sala died a thousand deaths when ‘Hail to the Chief’ blasted through the assembly rooms. Diehard journalist that he was, he scribbled a hasty note on a menu to the bandleader – ‘“Hail to the Chief” is only played in the presence of the President of the United States. Rather bad taste considering Lincoln. Play something lively.’
The band leader was mortified that he may have given offence, and his baton switched pace, whirling furiously in the air as he mouthed, ‘Dixie!’ at his startled orchestra.
They were not so startled as Matthew Grand, however, who smiled wanly at Sala. ‘Cheer up, Mr Sala,’ he said, hearing his host groan. ‘Song of the South it may be, but it was written by a Northerner.’
When the speeches were over and Willis’s Rooms were thick with cigar smoke, Batchelor inevitably turned to murder. ‘So, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Where are we on the Haymarket horrors?’
Both his ex-colleagues shot glances at each other, neither prepared to declare their shortcomings openly. ‘It’s a maniac,’ Dyer said at last, cutting the end of his cigar. ‘Pure and simple.’
Since no words of wisdom came from Buckley at all, Batchelor took the man to task. ‘There’s nothing pure about murder, Edwin, and in my experience it’s hardly ever simple.’
‘What are your thoughts, then?’ Buckley asked.
‘Someone down on whores,’ Batchelor said, thinking aloud. ‘He likes them young. He’s personable …’
‘How do you know that?’ Buckley asked.
‘Because two of them have willingly gone into alleyways with him. He must appear to be a regular punter. Flashes the gold, I shouldn’t wonder.’
