by M. J. Trow
Batchelor managed to get past the old man into the alley. ‘Is he away much?’ he asked, to be polite.
‘Nah. He just goes now and again, away for a month or two, then he’s back with his trollops …’
Batchelor, making deprecatory tuts, made for the main road at the end of the alleyway and turned his feet back towards the tall house in Alsatia that he already thought of as home.
Using his key gave him a thrill – Mrs Biggs didn’t hold with keys; only made people secretive, or so she said – and he was soon bounding up the stairs, calling for Grand.
He heard Grand shout, ‘In here,’ from the drawing room, and he opened the door and went in. A stout, bombazined little person was standing in front of Grand, who wore a slightly hunted expression. ‘Just planning the menus for the week, James, if you could just excuse us,’ he said, and Batchelor subsided into a chair.
‘H’is this gentleman the one of h’whom you spoke?’ the woman said.
‘Oh, yes, pardon my manners,’ Grand said. ‘Cook, this is Mr Batchelor. He lives here with me and will be at all meals unless we let you know otherwise.’
‘I shall need to know, sir,’ she said, ‘h’otherwise there can be terrible waste.’
‘Yes, I do understand,’ Grand said. Batchelor could see that he was making a huge effort not to aspirate every word. ‘But if there should be waste at any time, please don’t worry. I’m sure you have family, friends, that sort of—’
The bombazine seemed to grow too small as the little woman expanded with indignation. ‘H’I’m sure that my references was h’all quite clear on the matter, Mr Grand,’ she said, quivering. ‘H’I have never taken so much as a h’egg from a h’employer!’
‘No, no, Cook, I didn’t mean …’
Batchelor stood up and went across to the woman. He was used to her kind. His mother was this kind, for heaven’s sake. ‘Now, now, Cook,’ he placated, ‘Mr Grand didn’t mean anything by it.’ He dropped his voice. ‘He’s foreign; we mustn’t forget that, must we?’
She subsided and looked into Batchelor’s eyes. Such a nice boy. A credit to his mother. Not like that … foreigner. Accusing her of all sorts! With a huff, she left them to it.
When the door had closed just a touch too loudly behind her, Batchelor turned to Grand, who was lying prone in a chair with a hand over his eyes. ‘So, what’s for luncheon, Matthew?’
The answer was faint, but not without humour. ‘I have simply no idea.’
‘But I have lots of ideas about Maskelyne,’ Batchelor said, waving his piece of paper. ‘Just listen to what I have found out!’
‘So, you’ve had an interesting morning, have you?’ The look in Grand’s eye was almost manic. ‘You haven’t been cross-examined by a deranged woman who seemed to think I wanted not a cook but a woman … Well, you’re young, James, and innocent to a degree. Apparently, they have been having some trouble with an Arthur Munby and they’ve had to change their rules. That is why we have Mrs Manciple as our cook. She wasn’t too worried about what I had in mind, although I think it’s safe to say we will be sticking to cooking. But, I apologize.’ Grand hauled himself upright and looked more alert. ‘What did you discover?’
Batchelor unfolded his paper and put it down on the arm of the chair, in case he needed to refer to it, but everything was quite clear in his mind. ‘Argyll was … Remind me to tell you later. He had some woman in his room, he—’
‘Once you start, James, try to stick to the story. You meander off, has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Sorry. Yes, they have. Well, Argyll said—’
There was a thunderous knocking on the door.
‘Will Mrs Manciple get that?’ Batchelor asked.
‘No. As I understand it, opening doors is not one of the extra duties she is willing to perform.’ Grand shuddered.
Batchelor jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. ‘It’s the least I can do, Matthew, after all your kindness to me. Are you expecting anyone?’
‘No,’ Grand said. ‘Don’t be long – I’m dying to find out what you know about Maskelyne.’
On his way down the stairs, Batchelor hoped that Grand wouldn’t be too disappointed. After all, he only knew a little more than he knew before; the smoke still hung in front of the mirror. Before he was halfway down, the knocking came again.
‘All right, all right,’ he shouted. ‘I’m on my way.’ He hauled open the door and recoiled. The smell emanating from the man on the step was almost visible. ‘Who in Hell are you?’
‘No need to talk like that, guv’nor,’ the man said, affronted. ‘The name’s Cockling, Arthur Cockling and I’m the cats’ meat man for your area. I come because I heard you just moved in and I didn’t want your little pussies to go hungry.’
Batchelor started to shut the door, but the cats’ meat man was quicker and stuck his foot in the gap. ‘We don’t have cats,’ Batchelor muttered, leaning on the door.
Cockling was aghast. ‘No cats?’ he said. ‘No cats, and you nearly in the river? What’s to be done about the rats?’
‘We don’t have rats,’ Batchelor said, giving up the unequal struggle and opening the door again.
The man laughed, showing blackened teeth. ‘No rats! Don’t make me laugh, guv’nor. Course you got rats. But this is your lucky day.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out a squirming bag. ‘Look in ’ere,’ he said, holding it out for inspection. ‘Best ratter in London, that is. Won prizes, she has.’
Batchelor was not a journalist for nothing and came back with a question. ‘If she’s such a good ratter, why are you selling her?’
The cats’ meat man narrowed his eyes. He loved a challenge – it made the day pass quicker. ‘Run aht o’ rats, ain’t they? No point in having London’s best ratter when there’s no rats. So, movin’ her on. Somewhere where she might do some good.’
Batchelor looked in the bag. ‘She’s rather mangy,’ he said.
‘Sign of a good ratter.’
‘There seem to be rather a lot of teeth missing,’ Batchelor pointed out, having caught the cat mid-yawn.
The cats’ meat man decided to change his tack. ‘Look, do you want this cat or not?’ he said. ‘Because I’ve got other calls to make. I can’t stand here all morning jawing with you.’
Batchelor opened his mouth to give a clever riposte, but there didn’t seem to be one. While he mulled over how to best get rid of the man, who was stowing the cat grumpily back into his coat, but who looked anything but beaten, there was a thundering of feet on the stairs.
‘Oh, look out,’ said the cats’ meat man. ‘Here’s the master to see why you won’t buy this ’ere cat.’ He raised his voice as Grand came into view, struggling into his coat. ‘Here, sir, your man here—’
‘I’m not his man!’ Batchelor knew he would have to improve his sartorial level if this mistake was not to go on and on happening.
‘He won’t buy my cat.’
‘Buy the man’s cat, James,’ Grand said as he hurtled past. ‘Then follow me.’
‘There you are!’ The cats’ meat man was triumphant. ‘The master says buy the cat.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Batchelor said. There was something in Grand’s eye which worried him, and he was already almost out of sight. He shoved the man into the hall and closed the door behind him. ‘Go and ask Cook,’ he yelled through the letterbox. ‘Say the master says she has to buy the cat.’ And he took off up the road, in hot pursuit, knocking over the cats’ meat cart in his haste, to the joy of every animal in the neighbourhood.
EIGHTEEN
Batchelor hurtled around the corner, using a passing nursemaid as a pivot. With her scream dying away behind him, he pounded along the pavement, in time to see Grand jumping into a cab. Despite the blood already pounding in his ears, Batchelor heard him yell, ‘Haymarket Theatre,’ as the cab pulled out into the melee of the Strand.
He ran up to the next cab on the rank and yelled the same. But the growler wasn’t born yest
erday. Anyone who smelled like this man was not likely to have a fare on him; otherwise he would have surely spent the money on a bath. ‘Fare first,’ he said. Batchelor jumped back on to the pavement and rummaged through his pockets.
‘I don’t … I don’t seem to have any money on me,’ he said. ‘But that man, the one who just got that cab, look, that one, there.’ He pointed to where Grand’s cab was disappearing down the street. ‘He’ll pay my fare. When we get to the Haymarket. Please!’
But the growler had his whip already raised, and Batchelor knew a lost argument when he saw one. There was nothing for it; he took to his heels and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. It wasn’t much above a mile, perhaps less, but he wasn’t a man who courted exercise, and it wasn’t long before his lungs were screaming for air and his muscles felt as though they were being stabbed by red hot pokers. He put his head down and ran through the pain – he didn’t know why Grand had run out like that; it could only be something he had missed. But Grand would need him, that much he knew.
‘Now then,’ a voice said, and a hand like a vice grabbed his arm, making him spin round. ‘What’s the hurry?’
Batchelor dashed the sweat from his eyes and looked up into the face of a policeman, Roman helmet and all. He would rather not be stopped but, if he had to be, this was the boy he needed. He grabbed for the man’s rattle. ‘Call reinforcements,’ he gasped. ‘Haymarket Theatre. Inspector Tanner. Batchelor. That’s me. Tell Tanner.’ And he wrenched his arm free and ran on, almost stumbling but saving himself before he fell.
The policeman looked after him as he went. He hated having to make decisions. That was why he had joined the police, after all. He thought over the consequences. If he called out his colleagues and it turned out to be a hoax, he would look an idiot. If he didn’t call them out, and it turned out to be a real emergency … he would look an idiot and people might be hurt. Might die, even. He dithered and then made up his mind, turning and walking off down the Strand, in the direction from which he had come.
‘Buy a flower, guv,’ the girl said, holding up a sprig in front of the big American. ‘Lucky white heather.’
Grand swept past her. The noise of the Haymarket was rushing in his ears – the street cries, the rattle of the wagons. It was not yet midday, and the march past had not begun. This afternoon was the last performance of The Tempest, the bills said. But culture lovers need not worry – it was to be replaced the next day with Little Susan’s Garter, a play in three acts.
He flung himself against the big double doors at the front of the building, but they were locked and bolted fast. They didn’t even give as he pounded his fists against them. He dashed round to the alleyway at the side. Here he had stumbled in the darkness over the boot of a murdered girl, and he was surprised to find the place so peaceful now, still in the shadow of the day, but giving no sign at all that blood had recently run in these gutters. There was a door ahead of him, and it was locked. He pounded on it briefly. The show was not due to start until two o’clock, and the whole place looked like a morgue. He hammered on the second door, the smaller one to the right, and it swung open under his fist.
He took the stairs that snaked upwards to the right. Somewhere in this theatre lay the answer he had been looking for so long, the answer to a question that had changed his life. At the top of the stairs a plush carpet led along a corridor with various doors off it, and the pale sun streamed through the open one, gilding the theatrical portraits on the far wall. Grand turned into that sunlight and found himself facing a huge desk. The sun hurt the American’s eyes momentarily, so he could only see the figure behind the desk in silhouette. He saw the figure rise and heard the unmistakable click of a revolver’s hammer. Instinctively, he reached inside his coat. Damn. So anxious had he been to conform to Inspector Tanner’s polite request, and in such a hurry to get here, he had left his Colt back in Alsatia.
‘You never seem to be carrying a gun at these crucial little moments, do you, Captain?’
Grand froze. He knew that voice. Knew it like his own. Knew it because it had roared and rumbled through his dreams for weeks. The last time he had heard it, it had said, ‘You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, soldier boy? You didn’t think Johnny would come alone? The Devil’s with him.’ And Matthew Grand was alone with the Devil now, staring at the man beyond the muzzle of his pistol.
‘Tell me,’ the voice said. ‘The gun you hoped you had in your pocket. A Navy Colt?’
‘Point thirty-two,’ Grand said. ‘The Navy bulges a tad.’
‘Yes,’ the voice said. ‘Spoils the line of the coat, doesn’t it? That’s why I prefer a Tranter. So neat. So powerful. So British.’
‘I thought you’d have preferred a Derringer,’ Grand said.
The voice chuckled. ‘I did have my doubts about that, I must admit,’ it said. ‘But Johnny was determined. Said he’d carry the knife for self-defence, but one shot would do the trick.’
‘Who are you?’ Grand asked. He had not moved, rooted to the spot by the realization that his journey was over. The hopeless task was hopeless no more. Here, in front of him, was the needle in the haystack.
‘I am Charles Dundreary,’ the answer came, ‘or any one of a dozen other aliases I had reason to use. My real name, for the record, is Roderick Argyll. I own this place.’
‘What’s your link with John Wilkes Booth?’ Grand asked.
Argyll had moved now, crossing to the front of his desk. The revolver was steady in his hand.
‘A great actor,’ Argyll said. ‘I saw him several times on the stage, both here and in America. His Richmond in Richard III in Baltimore wasn’t marvellous, but he got better. Such a handsome fellow.’
‘What did you have against Lincoln?’ Grand asked.
‘Lincoln? My dear boy, this had nothing to do with Lincoln. No, it was all about Johnny. He had those eyes, hypnotic in a way that makes Maskelyne look like a conjuror. He cast a spell over us all – Atzerodt, the Surratts, Powell – we were all under it. If Johnny had planned to fly to the moon, we’d have followed him. As it happened, he chose to kill the President. Well, what does it matter? They’ve got another one now, haven’t they? And the world’s still turning. My problem is what to do with you. The cab idea was a shambles.’
‘The cab? It was you?’
Argyll laughed and croaked out an oath. ‘I’m the man of a thousand voices, Grand, and my wardrobe here is stuffed with a thousand costumes. It’s easy enough to grime up the face and hands, and you can hire a gig for a trifle.’
‘But how did you know I was in London?’ Grand asked him.
‘You, keep back!’ Argyll snarled in a Cockney rasp that was not his own. ‘This is police business.’
‘You were the copper in the alleyway on the night that girl was killed?’
‘Not exactly.’ Argyll smiled. ‘I happened to be outside the theatre, and I was carrying a bullseye lantern. As soon as I saw your face I recognized you. I had to think fast and get rid of you – “Get back. There’s a woman butchered!” It worked. And when the real coppers and the girl laid you out, well, I knew I was safe, at least for a while. Your coming here like this has saved me a lot of work, and I’m grateful. But before I end this, satisfy my curiosity. How did you know where to find me?’
‘I didn’t,’ Grand said. ‘My friend Batchelor scribbled down some information at his last meeting with you. He’s a journalist – he always needs something to scribble on; he doesn’t trust his memory. It was the back of a shipping-line ticket. The Inman company’s Orient. In the name of Charles Dundreary.’
Argyll tutted and shook his head. ‘Lavenham,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘The old boy who cleans up around here. He was supposed to have burnt all my American papers as part of his duties. Obviously, he overlooked that. You really can’t get the staff these days.’
‘Why did you kill Winthrop?’ Grand asked.
‘That was unfortunate. He was lodging with George
Atzerodt in a hotel in Washington—’
‘The Kimmel House,’ Grand said.
‘That’s right,’ Argyll said, chuckling. ‘You’re very good at this, Captain. You’ve lost your vocation somewhere along the line. I met Atzerodt and the others there several times. Couldn’t stay there myself, of course. I mean, the Kimmel House … how perfectly ghastly. I was at the Kirkwood, much more salubrious. As soon as I saw Winthrop on board ship I recognized him. And he me. It occurred to me the frightened idiot might panic and blurt out what he knew, or thought he knew, to the captain. I couldn’t take the chance. Now, it’s been fun, Captain Grand, but I do have a show to start shortly, so perhaps you’d be so good …’ He waved the revolver towards the door.
‘Where are we going?’ Grand asked. Somehow he had to get that gun from Argyll.
‘You’ll see. Turn slowly and walk along the passage to your right. I shall be behind you all the way, and you won’t know by exactly how many paces. As a military man, however, I’m sure you know the range of one of these things. And I’m sure you will have realized, too, that I know every inch of this theatre, every nook and cranny. Why don’t we go up to the royal box? You can relive the moment you should have caught Johnny.’
Grand walked out of Argyll’s study, out of the sunshine, into the dark.
‘Right,’ the impresario barked as they reached a door. ‘Open it.’
Grand was following orders now as he had followed orders for the last four years. Other than the click of the lock and a slight squeal from the hinge, the theatre was silent. The silence hung there like a cloak, and the wafts of lavender and beer and lime all hit Grand at once. He was standing now in the Upper Circle of the Haymarket, with rows of plush seats laid out in readiness for the afternoon’s show.
‘Be so kind as to walk down the steps, Captain,’ Argyll said, his gun arm extended, his nerve steady.
Grand began the descent, hearing his boots pad on the carpet. The only light came dimly from the stage, where the sun filtered in through an undrawn blind in the wings. He saw the orchestra pit and the rows of seats that fronted it. Instinctively, he glanced to his right, to the fashionable boxes of the well-to-do. For a moment he saw Henry Rathbone there, smiling and waving on the arm of Clara Harris; Henry Rathbone, before he had gone mad. He saw Mrs Lincoln holding the gloved hand of her husband, old Abe, the lines of sorrow and exhaustion etched on his face.
