‘Damn me!’ Frank interjected loudly, staring intently at the man, before bursting into mocking laughter. ‘Has the world gone mad? You must forgive us, my man. We thought your livelihood depended on the taking of bets. We hadn’t realised that you were selective in your choice of customers. Is there perhaps something wrong with our money?’
James smiled, but the bookmaker’s words had taken him by surprise, made him think. He could see now, all too well, that the stake was excessive. He needed a win and a sizeable win, but he knew nothing of the sport, nothing of the dog’s form, and he had wagered far more than he could afford.
‘There’s no need for that,’ the bookmaker said. ‘It’s just as I can’t carry a bet that big on the favourite. I haven’t got time to lay it off.’
James looked at Frank. ‘The bet was too large. We have the night ahead of us and the card game in a few days time.’ He turned to the bookmaker, ‘Five pounds then. Will you take the bet?’
‘I’ll take it,’ the bookmaker said, as he passed the marker to James. ‘And you?’ he asked, looking in Frank’s direction. ‘The clever one – do you want Captain?’
‘No, I’ll have five pounds on the sixth dog; if you’ll give me odds of three to one or better. I believe he goes under the name of King George.’
The bookmaker snatched the note from Frank’s hand. ‘I’ll give you three to one, but I can’t do better.’
James smiled at Frank and then turned his attention back to the arena, trying to forget his impetuousness. The Master of Ceremonies had left the ring and the young lad had taken his place again. This time he had no broom, but was carrying two wire cages in his scarred hands. They were filled with new rats, enough to replace each of the corpses he had thrown from the arena. The stench from the cages left no doubt as to their origin.
His duties done, the boy bowed, acknowledging the roars of approval from the crowd. One or two threw coins into the ring, which the boy quickly seized on, brushing the rats aside, wincing, but feigning indifference at the occasional bite.
James watched as the rats ran towards the raised mound at the side of the fence, heaping body upon body as they fought to escape, until the mound of earth was covered by a living, moving heap of rats, scrabbling over each other to climb the barrier. The boy walked nonchalantly to the gate and tossed the cages over the fence. Captain’s owner passed the small brown and white terrier to the boy by the scruff of the neck and clambered over the fence into the arena. Then the boy handed the dog back to him and vaulted the fence. The man moved to the centre of the arena holding Captain and as the Master of Ceremonies called out that the time had begun, he released the dog. The rowdy gathering let out a huge roar and money began to change hands quickly.
The crowd chorused, as though with one voice, ‘Blow ‘em! Blow ‘em!’ and James watched as those leaning on the fence, above the mound of rats, stretched over and blew furiously. It seemed to unnerve the rats, causing them to scatter from their defensive mass, making them easier prey for the dog. Bodies flew from the pack as the dog tore into them. Each rat shrieked its own death, as the dog’s jaws snapped and shook.
Then one of the rats bit into the terrier’s nose and clung on, blood soaking its coat and the ground around. A second took hold of the dog’s upper lip. Captain yelped with pain and tried to toss the rats free, but they clung on, and the bleeding increased as the wounds grew deeper. James willed the dog to free himself.
By the time he was free, the dog had lost precious seconds. Urged on by his owner, Captain again tore into the rats, seemingly oblivious to the pain. When the whistle blew, the dog’s owner seized him by the leather collar around his neck. Thirty-nine dead rats were counted in the arena.
A good result, despite the set-back, James thought, but the sport was not to his liking. The dogs and rats might only be following the dictates of their nature, yet there seemed little natural in taking pleasure, and even profit, in such a staged and bloody slaughter. He could see the dog was still bleeding from his nose and mouth and watched as his owner took a bottle from his pocket and poured it over the dog’s face. For a few seconds the scent of peppermint masked the smell of the sewers.
‘I fancy a dousing in peppermint water will do little to help the dog,’ Frank said. ‘The sewer rats have a habit of giving dogs the canker from their bites, and that dog is badly bitten.’
The words made James feel uncomfortable. He tried to brush his thoughts aside, reaching into his pocket for more money, but his hand found the letter again and the old concerns came flooding back. Looking at the faces around him, grinning and laughing and noisy, he felt uneasy. He longed for the cool night air outside and some quiet, and time to think. The voices of his conscience and the expectations of others, normally mute when he gambled, were suddenly loud. He counted his remaining money and then thrust it back into his pocket, unable to shake his feelings.
‘You look somewhat ill at ease,’ Frank said.
‘I’ve had enough of this place,’ James replied.
‘Was it that oaf who upset you earlier? Or is it the stink of the sewer rats? I know it isn’t to everyone’s taste, but they put up a better fight than barn rats. It strikes me as a damnably good event.’
‘It feels more like butchery to me, than sport. I am tired and there’s work I need to complete tomorrow, business that I should have attended to long before now.’
‘You can’t leave me to my own company so early in the evening.’ Frank laughed. ‘And if the work has waited this long it can always wait a little longer.’
‘It’s fine for you. You don’t need to work, but work is an increasing necessity for me.’ James held out the marker for the bet. ‘Could you collect anything due me?’
Frank shook his head and put both hands behind his back, smiling. ‘A good stiff brandy will soon set you right.’ He took a hip flask from his pocket and drank, before passing it to James. ‘You can’t desert me, in such an ungentlemanly manner. Stay, at least until we know the result.’
James took a drink and handed the flask back. Frank put his left arm around his shoulder and laughed, and James felt compelled to return his smile. ‘I’d never have suspected when we first met that you would become such a good friend and such valued company,’ Frank said. ‘You spend too much time with people like Dr Wetherby. How such a dreary man attracted such a beautiful wife, or a friend like you, remains a mystery to me.’
‘Richard is a good man,’ James replied. ‘It’s a pity that there is no liking between the two of you.’
‘It is as it is,’ Frank said. ‘Now have another wager, while we see how my dog fares and then we’ll move on.’
‘No,’ James replied, ‘I have gambled enough. The more I try to make good my losses, these last few months, the greater they grow.’
‘You’ve just had a run of bad luck,’ Frank said. ‘It must end soon. At least stay until we know the result. You cannot leave me alone in this mob and I have friends waiting in The White Hart Hotel, influential friends. I promised I would introduce you to them.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure that one of us will win tonight and whoever wins will pay for the remainder of the evening.’
‘Very well,’ James said. ‘I will stay, but I’ll not wager more.’
Chapter 2
Belle Bennett waited in the wings for the others to arrive, as she did every night. It had begun years ago, become a habit, and then grown into a superstition. She had to be in place before she was called, as though if she was ever late her performance might suffer. Those few minutes between curtain-call and taking her place on stage were when she felt most alive. She drank in the heady mixture of apprehension and exhilaration, more intoxicating for her than any wine.
As the others joined her, Belle smiled at them. This too was instinctive, the mutual giving and exchanging of reassurance and support before the show commenced. One or two looked, at first, as though they might return the gesture, but as Cauldfield pushed his way past them, their expressions froze and their smiles died, on
ly half-formed.
Cauldfield winked as he passed her. His breath was rank in her nostrils, as he pressed his body hard against her. ‘I’m sorry that you have such a meagre part again, my dear, but the peasant dress is very becoming.’ He grinned and put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, before sliding it slowly, down her bare arm. The sweat of his palms felt clinging and oily on her bare skin. ‘Your life could be so much easier,’ he whispered. Then he drew back, as if waiting for her to react. Belle struggled to keep the emotion from her face, biting back her words, saying nothing as she scrubbed instinctively at her arm. ‘Everyone is going to The Garrick’s Head for a drink afterwards,’ he resumed, speaking loudly enough for the others to hear; almost loudly enough for the audience in the front row of the auditorium to hear. ‘Will you be joining us?’
She turned and looked at the others. She knew what was expected of her; expected of them all. Actors and actresses had to be seen around town, promoting their current production, bringing in the paying crowds. She was torn for a moment, wanting to join them, wanting to laugh and forget for a while, but she knew she would not be allowed to forget, because Cauldfield would be there. ‘I think not,’ she said. ‘I’ll more than likely go straight home tonight.’
Cauldfield seized immediately on her words, with his by now familiar superior smile, addressing the others as though he was already on the stage with a captive audience. ‘Perhaps Miss Bennett is too consummate an actress to be seen with mere players, such as ourselves.’ He laughed. ‘Though one might have thought that she could at least try to make use of what looks she has, to bring the gentlemen in.’ He turned to her. ‘Or do you think they come to see you act?’
He smirked, as though it had been some innocuous joke. The ever doting Daisy draped herself around his shoulders. He kissed the girl’s cheek and smiled. ‘Don’t prize yourself too highly, Belle, or you’ll only have further to fall.’ Two months ago, or even one, and she might have matched his words, but not now. Cauldfield turned to the others. ‘Our little Belle thinks herself better than us. She truly believes that she has an exceptional talent.’ Then, grinning at her, he said it. ‘I believe it was the very same belief that deluded your father and mother.’
She wanted to rake the smug smile from his face with her fingernails. Instead she said and did nothing. As she turned away their quiet laughter stung her tired mind, yet it did not hurt as much as her own silence. She realised now the extent of the power he held over her.
❖ ❖ ❖
When Belle emerged from the Theatre Royal it was almost midnight. She busied herself fastening the bottom buttons of her coat, resisting the urge to run, as she watched the others troop into The Garrick’s Head. The wind was strong and threatened to tear the bonnet from her head. She took the white glove off her right hand. The cold air stung her fingers and numbed her body. She noticed her hands were shaking as she pushed the strands of windblown hair back into the confines of the bonnet and struggled with the ribbons, pulling them tighter, before retying them beneath her chin.
As the door to The Garrick’s Head swung closed, the square fell back into a dark silence. She listened to her own solitary footsteps, echoing in the emptiness, as she crossed the deserted, cobbled square. Saw Close was flanked by stables and hauliers’ yards and a cattle market had taken up much of the square when she had walked to the theatre that afternoon. Now that the wind had dropped, the air was full of the sweet, sickly stench of the animals. She feared for her shoes and the hem of her dress, but, looking down, she saw that the cobbles had already been swept clean by the scavengers, with their carts and buckets, collecting the cowpats and horse droppings; wasting nothing that could be used or sold.
Walking past the Bluecoat School, she entered the darkness of Bridewell Lane. The top of the alley was poorly lit and one of the houses there was derelict. Its doorway was boarded up; the number ‘nine’ gouged into the wood of the central plank, as though visitors might still be expected at some time. An involuntary shiver shook her body. She struggled to understand. It had happened on previous nights, this feeling of evil, haunting that doorway, as though it still carried the memory of some violent act. She quickened her pace, drawn ever faster, like a moth, to the well-lit lower end of the lane, where the houses were new and all their portals intact and secure.
As soon as she saw the door of number two Bridewell Lane, she felt its comfort. She opened it quietly and crept carefully up the creaking staircase. Turning the knob of the door at the top of the stairs, she silently eased it open. Jenny’s voice greeted her softly. ‘Don’t be concerned,’ she said, ‘Molly’s fast asleep. With any luck she shouldn’t wake now until morning. I knew you’d be home soon, so I put some coals on the fire. Warm yourself, you must be freezing.’
Belle gazed down at Molly’s tiny frame as she lay sleeping, lost in the vastness of the bed. She seemed so peaceful, a blissful three year old, wrapped in the comfort of child-dreams. Belle leant forward and kissed Molly on the forehead, enjoying the scent of childhood innocence. ‘She grows more like her mother, each day,’ she whispered.
‘She’s far prettier than I ever was,’ Jenny replied.
Belle took off her coat and gloves and sat on the corner of the bed, tugging at her boots. The left boot had begun letting in water recently. As she turned it over in her hands she noticed the stitching was coming apart on one side. The sole was worn as thin as paper at its centre, but at least there were no holes, no need for patching yet.
The warmth of the room wrapped itself around her like a soft blanket, enveloping her in its sanctuary. She looked around, breathing in the reassurance of familiar surroundings. It was a simple room; not large, but comfortable enough for the three of them, dominated by the large bed at its centre. Two chests of drawers stood in the recesses on either side of the fireplace; one for herself and one for Jenny and Molly. There were three upright chairs, one on either side of the bed and the one on which Jenny was sitting at the small work table beneath the window. The only other furniture was a small dressing table and a wash-stand and between them stood her travelling chest.
She walked over to Jenny and put a hand on her shoulders. ‘If Molly grows to be half as pretty as her mother, then she will be a true beauty.’
‘It’s you who turns all the heads, whenever I’ve been out walking with you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Belle replied, embarrassed yet enjoying the compliment.
She studied Jenny’s face, deep in concentration, the tip of her tongue protruding slightly between pursed lips, as she threaded tiny jet beads onto the cotton, and sewed them with intricate precision into the neckline of the bodice she was finishing. ‘You make me feel guilty. I wish you would stop working. You were sewing when I woke this morning and you’re still at it now. Your eyes must be tired, working in the candlelight.’ Jenny was in her early twenties, as was she, but her face seemed older. Belle watched her stand, her spine at first refusing to straighten, until, hands on hips, she arched her back into comfort again and stretched, before tidying her work.
‘I’m not the only one who looks tired.’ Jenny said, studying her. ‘You look worried. Has that Cauldfield been bothering you again?’
‘No.’ The lie came without thinking. ‘I’m just tired. Cauldfield’s too busy with one of the other girls now, to pay much attention to me.’
‘Not that Daisy girl from Wells, her with the big chest?’
Belle smiled. ‘She’s the one. And whatever she may lack in wit, she more than makes up for in the willingness of her disposition, as I’m sure several members of the company could vouch – the men, that is. But, if she keeps him occupied and meets his needs, it’s all to the good.’
Jenny grinned. ‘Would you mind if I left my work things out, so I can start first thing in the morning?’
‘Don’t worry on my account.’
‘I washed your grey dress and hid the fraying hem with some ribbon I’d saved.’
‘You do too much for me. I don’t deserve it.’
Jenny walked over to the bed, undoing her dress. ‘You do deserve it and more, but still, we must be grateful for what we have, and help each other how we can.’ She leant over and kissed Molly’s forehead. ‘I heard today of a poor young girl who was drowned the other night in the river, and her father with her. He must have been trying to save her.’
Belle shivered. ‘How awful, and you’re right of course. We should be grateful.’ She hesitated, wondering if she had the energy to say what needed to be said, and to deal with its inevitable effect. She took off her earrings and placed them on the dressing table, catching her reflection for a moment in the mirror. Tired, blue-grey eyes stared back at her, as though it was a stranger she was looking at. She remembered sitting with her mother, talking, and taking it in turns to brush each other’s hair, the silk, auburn strands caught in the bristles of the brush, mother’s and daughter’s indistinguishable. Now her hair was a mess of shapeless tangled knots, but she did not have the energy to brush it, though she knew she would regret it in the morning. Turning away, she poured water into the bowl on the wash-stand, and dabbed what she could of the surplus powder from her face. ‘I’d hoped we might talk for a while,’ Belle said, ‘but we’re both probably too tired.’
‘You talk while I get ready for bed.’
‘The theatre was half empty tonight,’ Belle said, trying to lay the ground. ‘There was a concert in the Pump Rooms and some awful ratting contest in Avon Street. And I’ve no work tomorrow either. There’s a touring operetta company appearing in the theatre.’ She hesitated, feeling her way. ‘I may not have enough to pay all my share of the rent this week.’
‘We’ll manage somehow. You’ve paid more than your share when I’ve been short. Have you seen anything recently of that gentleman friend of yours?’ Jenny asked, getting into the bed. ‘You never speak of him.’
Avon Street Page 2
