No more than six miles from my new home in Whitechapel, Pall Mall was a different world entirely, more reminiscent of the one I had visited with my father years earlier. It was as though all the wealth and sophistication, all the things that people consider clean and virtuous and wholesome, had been sucked out of the East End and deposited on the western side of the city, to form an atmosphere of cloying smugness.
Even the sun had come out after days of overcast weather. God truly is a capitalist, I thought, as I turned into the newspaper office’s doorway and pulled on the bell next to a pristine, freshly painted scarlet door. A servant ushered me in and led me up a broad staircase. I could hear sound spilling out from the rooms above: urgent, self-important voices, bells ringing, the stamping of feet. We emerged on to a sun-splashed landing and I followed the servant through a door, along a corridor and then through another door, whereupon I found myself in a large room packed with men sitting at desks.
The air was filled with the clatter of typewriters, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, and constant shouting as news flew around the room like some real, corporeal thing batted from man to man. Without breaking his stride, the servant marched towards another, smaller room. It was walled in glass, though the door was closed. I could see Archibald on the other side of the glass. He held a strange contraption against his ear. Turning towards us, he beckoned me in. The servant bowed and vanished.
Archibald indicated a seat but then, ignoring me, started to speak into the contraption held close to his head. Then I realised what it was. I had read in The Times about these things. Of a sudden he was finished. With a curt, ‘goodbye’, he replaced the device, a cylindrical black object, on a squat rectangular box in front of him on the desk.
‘Damned accursed things,’ he said, standing up and offering me a hand. ‘Alexander Graham Bell should be taken out at dawn and shot,’ he went on. ‘A telephone, Tumbril. Seen one before?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Can’t hear a damn thing most of the time. And when I do, all I get is demands from my financiers. We’re the only people who have the bloody things … millionaires and harassed newspaper editors! Still, I suppose that’s progress for you. I’m told that one day every home will have one.’ And he laughed. ‘Come on then, Harry. Let’s go to lunch. I’m famished. Reform Club all right with you?’
It was a short walk. Archibald marched along as though the seconds were passing faster than they actually were and he was trying to fit more into the day than was possible or reasonable. At the Reform Club, he nodded to the doorman and slipped him a shilling before ushering me into the cool, cavernous interior.
As we ascended the grand marble staircase, we could hear voices coming from one of the rooms on the first floor; a peal of laughter followed by the clink of cutlery. A waiter in white tie and tails met us at the top of the stairs and led us into a vast room with huge windows offering a view over St James’s Park. We sat at a table to one end of the room close to the windows and Archibald ordered a bottle of claret. ‘It’s not half bad here, Harry,’ he said. ‘Quite a decent wine list.’
I gazed around me at the opulence and inhaled the scent of wealth and privilege. I was used to such things, had mixed with company far beyond my social standing at Oxford, and there was nothing the Reform could offer that I had not previously experienced at the Oxford Union or High Table at Christ Church. I could tell, though, that Archibald was enamoured of it all. He was a clever, educated man, but had only recently come into money after working his way up the slippery pole to mix with those who ran the country. He confessed to me once that at Cambridge he had been forced to keep to himself and had got by on a meagre allowance because his father was struggling financially at the time.
‘Don’t look round, but we have rather a decent turnout today,’ Archibald said matter-of-factly.
I gave him a puzzled look.
‘Quite a broad spectrum of the great and the good. Over there is Henry James the novelist.’ And Archibald nodded discreetly to a point beyond my left shoulder. ‘Oh, and Henry Irving the actor. Overrated if you ask me. And, well, well, well, what a surprise … there’s Dilke.’
I gave him another puzzled look.
‘Charles Dilke? The politician?’
I nodded and looked down at my menu.
‘I’m astonished the man has the cheek to show his face so soon after the scandal. Oh, well. And … oh, goodness.’
I looked up and frowned. ‘Who now, Archibald? The Queen?’
‘Almost, Harry. Gladstone. God, he looks positively prehistoric.’
I turned at this and saw a very old man sitting at a corner table, two much younger men accompanying him. He was eating a bread roll with such tiny bites I could not imagine how he would ever finish it, let alone make it to the soup course. When I looked back, Archibald was still staring. I gave a brief cough and he broke away.
‘Why have you invited me to lunch?’
I asked. He was about to reply when the waiter appeared to take our orders. The wine waiter then topped up our glasses, and Archibald raised his. ‘To fortunate meetings,’ he said, and there was a silence for a moment as we savoured the fine claret. ‘A bit too sharp at the top end,’ Archibald said judiciously. I searched his face for a moment, thinking he might be making a joke, but he was perfectly serious. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, took another sip of my wine, and it passed.
‘I appreciate the gesture,’ I said. ‘But why did you invite me here?’
‘To offer you a job of course, Harry.’
I was genuinely surprised, and Archibald laughed. ‘Is it really so improbable?’
I shook my head slowly.
‘Let me explain,’ he went on. ‘I want my newspaper to be modern.’ He almost hissed the last word. ‘These fellows,’ and he waved a hand towards the famous men seated around the room, ‘most of them are yesterday’s men. They are rooted in the nineteenth century, while I am a man of tomorrow. I’m already thinking like a man of the twentieth century, Harry.’
I studied his face in silence. I was not interested in a single word he was saying, but I had lost none of my ability to fool others.
‘I intend to be radical,’ he went on. ‘Not so much in the political sense, although my convictions do lean that way, I’m thinking more about the style of the Clarion, Harry. The way we report. I want my paper to epitomise the coming age, not pay lip service to an era that is passing.’
‘Forgive me, Archibald,’ I said. ‘But I don’t understand what that has to do with me.’
The first course arrived as he was about to reply. It did not slow him down. Between mouthfuls, he ran on. ‘I’ve seen your work. I like what you do. You have guts. You’re not afraid to represent reality. I want you to be my number one illustrator.’
‘But you already have artists.’
‘I do. But none of them has your eye.’
‘I’m flattered,’ I lied.
He looked at me eagerly, with that ridiculously enthusiastic expression of his, and I felt like retching again. ‘All right, Harry. Let me make it clear. This city …’ And he paused, wiped his mouth and swept out one hand to encompass the view visible through the windows. ‘This city is a most wretched place. Every day we report at least one terrible murder — vile acts from every level of society. I want to let our readers see the reality. I’m tired of pussyfooting around with euphemism and innuendo.’
‘But you must have rules and guidelines to follow?’
‘We do, but there is leeway, my good fellow. The written word is one thing, but I want to capture the true nature of our modern world using the skill of men like yourself. All my artists are competent draughtsmen, but none of them has your sense of realism.’
I was not sure what to say. I studied Archibald’s face and realised for the first time that the man was most probably insane, or at least heading along the road to insanity. He was perfectly able to function and may yet have much to offer the world, but he was becoming unbridl
ed, losing track of himself.
‘What about photography?’ I said after a long silence. ‘Surely that’s the modern way to proceed?’
He exhaled loudly and shook his head dismissively. ‘Have you seen how long photographers take to set up their equipment? And have you seen the quality of their work when they have? No, Harry, the future is all about ideas, not gadgets. It’s like that damned telephone, it’s a gimmick. No, it’s up here,’ he proclaimed, tapping his forehead, his cheeks flushed with excitement and claret. ‘It’s up here. That’s where the future is made. Ideas, Harry, ideas.’
I was about to point out to him that gadgets came from ideas, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. Archibald turned, a puzzled look on his face, and then his expression relaxed. The head waiter appeared at our table. Beside him was a young man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. He had a light fuzz of hair in the middle of his chin, very pale skin and small brown eyes.
‘Sir, this fellow says he has a message for you.’
‘Yes, thank you, Cartright,’ Archibald said, standing up. ‘Please leave us.’
The man took two steps backwards and then turned with a flourish, called over an underling and strode towards the kitchen.
‘Harry,’ Archibald said to me, returning to his seat and indicating to the young man that he should sit for a moment, ‘this is one of my lads from the office — James Shallworthy.’ He turned to the young man. ‘What is it, Jim?’
‘I’m sorry to …’
Archibald waved his hand again. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘Sir, there’s been an ’orrible murder.’
Archibald shot me a glance, then fixed the messenger with a stern stare. ‘Where?’
‘Just down the road in Charin’ Cross, sir.’
It was a double murder. You must have read about it in the newspaper, dear lady; your husband’s newspaper, in fact. It was not an incident to be easily forgotten. A double killing: of the actor Donald Peters and his lover and co-star Mildred Nantwich. The murderer, Mildred’s estranged husband Norman Nantwich, was imprisoned the same evening when he turned up at Charing Cross Police Station to confess to the murder, his hands, face and coat still covered with blood.
Archibald sent his assistant back to the newspaper office and hailed a hansom on Pall Mall. We were at the murder scene within a few minutes. The deed had been done in Donald Peters’s dressing-room at Toole’s Theatre on William IV Street. There was a hubbub in front of the venue with police escorting away theatre-goers who were angrily waving tickets for the cancelled matinee performance.
‘We’ll take the back entrance,’ Archibald said as we alighted from the cab. ‘I know the owner, John Toole, very well.’
Archibald also evidently knew his surroundings, because within a few moments we were inside without a single person preventing us. He led the way through a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs. At the top a corridor led to the actors’ dressing-rooms.
We could hear sounds coming from one of the rooms on the left, and then two policemen emerged. Immediately behind them appeared a tall, well-built man with a massive handlebar moustache. He was heavily jowled and greying. ‘But this is preposterous!’ I heard him say, his voice little more than a growl.
Archibald strode along the passageway towards them. I stood where I was, just watching, intrigued.
‘Toole, old chap,’ I heard Archibald boom.
The two policemen and the theatre-owner turned as one.
‘Thomson?’ the man responded. ‘What the devil …?’
One of the policemen stepped forward with his hand held out to prevent Archibald’s approach. ‘I’m afraid, sir …’
‘Oh really, officer,’ he snapped. ‘I’m a newspaper editor.’
‘I don’t care who …’
‘Look here, Thomson. This really isn’t the time,’ Toole interrupted.
‘There has been a murder here, has there not?’
‘Well, yes, but …’ the theatre-owner blustered.
‘Sir,’ the policeman said again. He stepped forward and placed a restraining hand against Archibald’s chest. The newspaper man simply looked down at it and then gave Toole a hard look.
‘If you want an accurate report on this incident written by a friend, John, I would suggest you let me in.’
Toole gazed back at him. From where I stood, I could see the lines of strain on the theatre-owner’s face, and his eyes looked wild. He was clearly struggling to contain his panic. I could sense the fear in him. It was quite a heady sensation, actually.
‘Officer,’ Toole said, ‘the gentleman has my permission to remain.’
‘That’s not really the point, sir,’ the policeman began, but Archibald was already in the room. In all the commotion, I too approached the door to the dressing-room, completely ignored, and stepped inside.
I shuddered and must have made a sound because Toole noticed me then.
‘And who the hell are you?’ he snapped.
‘He works for me,’ Archibald interceded.
I ignored them all, intent on soaking up the scene. It was a beautiful thing to behold. Both victims had been stabbed. The woman lay over the dead man. A knife was still embedded in her back. She was wearing a petticoat stained red. The walls were splashed with blood, the mirror over the dressing table was crimson-spattered, as though an artist had taken a brushful of paint and flicked it randomly. It took me only a moment to record the entire scene in my mind, every detail noted.
Toole was shaking his head. ‘All right, Thomson,’ he was yelling, ‘that’s quite enough, old chap.’
One of the policemen grabbed me by the arm and I saw the other take a grip on Archibald’s shoulder.
‘You really should talk to me, John,’ Archibald insisted as he was turned towards the door.
I caught a glimpse of Toole as I was escorted through the doorway to the corridor. He had lowered himself on to his haunches in the corner of the room, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly.
It was growing dark by the time I reached my lodgings on Wentworth Street. I lit the single gas lamp, moved my table directly beneath it and began to sketch.
I was so absorbed in my work that I completely lost track of time. When I pulled out my watch and looked at it, I was amazed to find that it was past midnight. It was only as I returned to the real world that I realised how cold and hungry I felt. But I was indifferent to my own condition. Staring into space, I relived the delicious scene at Toole’s Theatre. The sketches of it were very good. I was pleased with them. And then I began to think about Archibald, and our conversation at the Reform Club. Suddenly it all seemed to fall into place. What glorious serendipity it had been that I should meet your gracious husband, dear lady. What delectable good fortune that he should have seen my sketches from the Pav, and liked my work. What a splendid coincidence that he should want to have an artist working on his newspaper in the way in which I worked. He had unwittingly put me in the perfect position to facilitate my plans. For, during the course of the two days between meeting Archibald and going to lunch with him, I had drawn up my list of victims. I had catalogued their movements; ensured that they would each be suitable models for my work. And now, thanks to my new friend, the half-mad newspaper proprietor, I had a perfect excuse for being at the scene of any murders that might — by pure chance, of course — start occurring in and around Whitechapel. What a splendid prospect that was.
Chapter 32
London, Monday 26 January, evening
The theremin concert was held in one of the smaller halls of the Barbican. It was sold out. Pendragon had been secretly sceptical before the event, but after a few minutes he found himself enjoying it. He had heard of the theremin, though he knew very little about it. He remembered reading once that it was the only instrument played without any physical contact being made between the musician and the instrument itself. Instead, the performer moved their hands close to a pair of antennae, which modulated both sound and volume. But, not w
ishing to seem ignorant, he had done his homework in a spare five minutes at the station, reading what Wikipedia had to say about the instrument — how it had been a spin-off from a Russian government-funded experiment into proximity sensors. The instrument had become quite popular in the 1930s then fallen out of fashion, though Robert Moog, inventor of the synthesiser, had attributed his youthful fascination with the theremin as a key influence on his own innovation.
Tonight’s theremin player was the leading proponent of the art, a French woman named Francoise Guillaume. It helped that she was strikingly beautiful with long blonde locks and what was obviously, even from eight rows back, a magnificent figure. But the repertoire was also brilliantly eclectic — versions of Mozart, Grieg, Miles Davis and Jimi Hendrix, which were all perfectly recognisable but cleverly altered.
Leaving the theatre, Jack said nothing. He waited for Gemma to break the silence, but she seemed to be lost in thought, only turning to him when he suggested a drink at a little wine bar he knew on Beech Street. Outside, it was freezing and they pulled their collars up against the biting wind and strode through the car park and on to the main road. The wine bar was busy, but they found a quiet corner away from the theatre crowds where they could at least hear each other speak.
‘So, what did you think, Jack?’
‘I have to confess, before it began I was sceptical, but I really enjoyed it.’
‘Good. It’s healthy to push yourself outside your comfort zone occasionally.’
Pendragon nodded and took a sip of his wine. ‘When you get to my age, it’s all too easy to play it safe.’
‘Listen to you! “When you get to my age”! You’re what? Early forties?’
‘Yes, Gemma,’ he mocked.
She looked at him, serious-faced.
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