by Karen Odden
I entered the yard behind the Octavian. As I expected, the back door was locked. For the first time since I came to apply for work, I went to the front door, a big black door with a brass knocker. Silently, I turned the knob; it, too, was locked. How on earth was I to get in?
“It ain’t open for hours yet. What be ye wantin’ in there?” I turned and saw a grizzled man of fifty or so, hunched forward at the waist and with a cap shoved back to reveal a thatch of gray hair and a bulbous, red-veined nose.
“What be ye wantin’ in there?” he repeated.
“Oh . . . I . . . I was . . . that is, I heard they were looking for singers.”
The man squinted up at me skeptically. “You lookin’ for work, then?”
I nodded absently and went to the window to the left of the door to look in. But the inner shutters were closed fast.
“You’re a likely lookin’ lass. I know a way you could make more’n you’d make for just singin’.”
I turned. “I beg your pardon?”
His liver-colored lips spread over yellow teeth. “A lass pretty as you could fin’ good work easy. Wouldn’t have to sing, neither. ’Ave you tried over at Mrs. Belvedere’s?”
“Mrs. Belvedere’s? Is that another music hall?”
“Nae. It’s for gentlemen wot be likin’ fine ladies like yourseln, not the common lot—an’ they’re willin’ to pay the extra shillin’s.” His hand shot out as if to grab my arm. “Mrs. Belvedere pays the best of anybody—”
Now I understood, and I jerked back. “Get away from me.”
“Aw right, aw right.” He put his hands up. “If you be lookin’ to work at the Octavian, ye can find Mr. Williams over at the White Swan.” He looked me up and down. “Dare say ’e’ll be glad to ’ave ye, if ye can sing.”
“I’ll come back later,” I said, backing away.
His lips pursed. “Suit yourseln.”
I gathered my skirts and returned to the back entrance, praying that a delivery would come and require the door be opened, or someone would come out the door. A lone tabby cat, its coat matted, came toward me with a mewling sound.
And then I heard the bolt inside slide. I dodged behind a stack of crates and watched. Out came two young men around my age. I didn’t recognize them, but I wasn’t going to miss this chance. They closed the door, but I didn’t hear it lock, and the moment they were out of sight, I put my hand to the knob. It slid against my damp palm. I wiped my hand against my skirt and tried again. This time it turned.
Never mind that it was daytime; inside looked the same as always in the uneven light from the sconces. But absent were the noises of entertainers preparing, the banging and scraping of properties being moved, and the boisterous commotion of the audience. All was silent except for the creak and bang of old pipes.
I hesitated at the stairs that led to the piano alcove. There were no large rooms in this part of the hall. If the boys were anywhere, it would likely be upstairs near where the musicians kept their instruments. I made my way to where the spiral staircase wound to the second story and started up—but then I heard faint noises coming from somewhere behind me. Neither Drummond’s office nor the property room were large enough for a group of boys, but I followed the sounds. Halfway down the hall, I turned to be sure I was alone. The sight of my own misshapen shadow on the wall startled me, and I gave myself a mental shake. For goodness’ sake, Nell, you can’t be scared of that.
I crept past Drummond’s door. There was no light behind the opaque window.
Cautiously, I went to the door of the property room and pushed it open a crack. There was no one inside, only shelves littered with paraphernalia, a ladder with its rungs hanging askew, and trunks, crates, and barrels piled any which way. But the voices were louder here and interspersed with the clink of metal against metal. I closed the door, and when my eyes grew used to the darkness, I could make out a crack of yellow light perhaps a foot above where the floor met the far wall.
There was a room hidden beyond this one. And if the sound was anything to go by, there were at least a dozen people inside it.
I crept carefully toward the back. Surely there was another entrance to the room, probably from the back alley. But maybe there was a door here as well. I felt in every direction for a knob but only managed to brush some crumbling plaster onto the floor. At waist height, there seemed to be a horizontal indentation an inch deep, but if there was a door, the hinges must be on the other side. Which meant that if I pushed, it would open into the room, and I’d be discovered. Frustrated, I ran my fingers above where the light was emanating and found two indentations, roughly two feet apart. My heart leaped; perhaps it worked like a window. Very gently, I pushed upward and was rewarded by the small crack enlarging. I knelt down and put my eye to it.
Boys. Nearly two dozen of them. Some only seven or eight years old, but most of them older. They looked slightly better fed than pickpockets, most of them, and some even wore clothes that had a faintly prosperous air—but from the way they fit, I’d guess they had them secondhand. Some of the youngest had bowls of what looked like soup with beans and bits of bread, and they were sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over their meals, scooping hungrily. One boy finished his meal and applied his tongue to the bowl as well as the spoon.
“Cor! You got bloody nerve, lickin’ like that,” said an older towheaded boy. He stretched out his hand. “Gi’ me the damn bowl! You be done with it, ain’t cha?”
The younger boy threw him the bowl and spat, “Take it, then!”
The towhead stood up with a curse and took the bowl over to where a boy was doling bean soup from a large pot on a black stove. The server dipped the ladle twice and passed it back.
The boy beside him protested: “I say, he got two dips—”
The one who was serving the mess growled, “And if you brung in what he done las’ night, you would, too. Now shut up about it!”
The towheaded boy came to a spot not far from me, sat with his back to the wall, and spooned the meal greedily into his mouth. As I watched, the scene was repeated again and again, the boys eating and passing on their dish, until everyone had been served.
The young man leaning against the reddish-brick wall was clearly in charge. As the last few boys were finishing their meal, he went to the center of the room. “Aw right, git on! We’ve our four ’ouses tonight, and Peter’s got the lay of ’em.”
The room quieted. My heart was thudding hard in my chest, and my mouth was dry.
A small boy near me took one last swipe with his forefinger and dropped the bowl beside his feet. Then he crossed his legs and sat quietly, looking for all the world like a pupil waiting for his teacher to begin a lesson. He turned his head toward the boy beside him, and I saw the scar on his mouth. It was Gus.
I couldn’t help it; I gasped aloud. Still, with the shuffling and noise in the room, I’d have sworn he couldn’t have heard it—and yet he swiveled around, his eyes scanning the wall. The towheaded boy noticed and followed the direction of his gaze.
Could they see me through the crack? I stayed perfectly still, hoping not—but the towhead pushed up from the floor, his hands already reaching toward the sliding panel, and shouted for everyone to be quiet—
I jumped up, stumbling as my boot caught my skirt. My eyes had adjusted to the light inside the room, and the darkness around me seemed complete. I bumped against one of the large trunks, and in the relative silence of the room beyond, the thud roared in my ears. My dress snagged. I kept on and felt it tear, but at least my sight had adjusted and I could see my way back to the door. As it shut behind me, I heard the scrape of wood against wood. I pulled my skirts above my ankles so I wouldn’t trip, ran down the hallway, past Drummond’s door, right into the back hallway, up the stairs—
Footsteps behind me—and then a boy’s voice: “Wait! Stop! Who are you?”
I pushed open the back door and shoved it closed behind me, my eyes blinking against the brightness of day. Gasping, I ran th
rough the yard and the Mews, toward the shops. There wasn’t enough of a crowd for me to lose myself in, and no chance I could outrun the boys, not in my skirts.
Looking about, I ducked into the baker’s and took my place near the front window, hidden behind a selection of pastries and meringues. From there I could catch my breath and watch.
I kept my eyes glued to the place where the Mews met the street. Twenty seconds, thirty, forty—the entrance to the Mews remained empty—fifty, sixty—surely they’d have come running through by now if they were coming—
Just as I was beginning to hope I’d escaped, three of the older boys and the towheaded one came around the brick wall into the street. One of them was holding my umbrella by the handle, and my heart gave a thump. It was just an ordinary black umbrella with no name on it, but it was their proof that someone had been watching them. The towheaded boy looked up and down the street and shook his head. Talking rapidly, he put his hands up above his head to show my height and perhaps the shape of my hat. The others listened closely. Then the four of them separated in a practiced motion, one into each of the four streets that led away from the music hall.
My fingers were trembling, but I untied the ribbons of my hat, slipped it off, and let it drop to the floor behind a stool. I looked myself over. There was nothing else I could think of doing to change my appearance. At least my dress was a very ordinary shade of brown.
It was my bad luck that the sharp-eyed leader headed in my direction, up the other side of the street. He pulled his cap lower and stopped to light a cigarette. His eyes scanned the windows of the shops on my side, and I drew back from the storefront, my heart tripping. He sauntered along, the cigarette cupped inside his hand to protect it from the breeze. At each shop, he glanced in through the paned windows and then turned to survey the street. My guess was that he’d work up one side of the street and down the other. He gazed only briefly into the barber’s, ducking his head under the sign “Singeing done here for sealing and strengthening the hair.” Next was the milliner’s window filled with lace, ribbons, and all manner of hats. He peered in, put his hand on the door, and went inside.
Now was my chance.
I dug into my reticule for the few coins I’d put there—thank God I hadn’t dropped that!—and civilly asked for three rolls. I took one out of the bag and munched on it to conceal my face as I walked down the street. Just like any other girl in Soho who’d missed a proper tea.
And then I saw one of the other young men—the one with reddish hair—coming straight at me. He’d just passed a tailor’s shop, barely taking the time to look in. I turned immediately into the next doorway and found myself in an apothecary, such as I used to visit with Dr. Everett sometimes. It smelled like the one near the hospital, a mix of bitter, sour, and sweet. On a high shelf were the dark green bottles with fluted sides for poisons. Below the shelves were cabinets with wooden drawers: Syphovit, Syphomet, Spongic, Subaer, Aluta, Emplastr . . .
The apothecary, a man of about forty, looked up from his bench, where he was using a pestle on some green substance in a bowl. “Can I help you to summat, Miss?”
“Yes,” I said, casting my eyes along the bottles. “Some glycerine, if you please, for my mum.” There was a mirror above the workbench, and in it, I could see the red-haired young man standing outside, peering in through one of the glass panes.
Please just pass by, I thought.
But he remained where he was, even though the apothecary took a long time putting the glycerine in a small vial. And with each passing minute, I felt more like a mouse caught in a hole, with a cat waiting outside.
But I didn’t like being a mouse, and suddenly I was angry. This young man outside would expect me to look guilty, timid, and afraid of being caught. He’d expect me to want to get away from him.
By the time the apothecary finished wrapping my vial up in brown paper, I was ready. I’d seen Maggie Long do it often enough, strutting and winking at the men in the audience, as if she meant it, for half an hour at a time, performance after performance. Surely I could manage something of the sort for a few minutes.
I took the package, paid the threepence out of the last coins I had, smiled brightly at the apothecary, and thanked him loudly enough that the young man would have heard. As I expected, he was waiting for me outside the shop, just to the right of the door. He was taller than I, and his narrowed eyes held an accusation.
“Why, hello,” I said, smiling up at him. I let my eyes rake him suggestively from his cap down to somewhere around his waist and back up. “You look awfully healthy. What might someone like you be wanting in here?”
His eyebrows lifted uncertainly. “Thought I might ’a recognized ye, that’s all.”
“I saw you watching me through the window.” I winked and didn’t wait for his answer. “It’s all right, you know. I don’t mind, only you might have come in and introduced yourself.” I rested my free hand just for a moment on his arm; I didn’t want to overplay it. “I work at Mrs. Belvedere’s of the evenings. My name’s Adele. You can ask for me special, if you like.”
“Sorry.” He stepped away from my hand, his cheeks flaming. “Like I said, thought you was someone else.” He continued up the street, took a quick look in the baker’s window, though the owner was swinging the CLOSED sign into the door. He turned and saw me watching him still. I gave a warm smile and a wave of my fingers before I turned, walking with a sway that made my skirts swing.
But once I’d reached Regent Street, I paused, my hands clutching at the far side of one of the fake pillars. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a breath. There was no doubt that the Octavian was part of the Fleet.
And then came a thought that buckled my knees.
That night at the Bear and Bull, Jack had told me Rob and Gus’s names, and how Gus had gotten his scar. If he knew that much, then he had to know what they were doing at the Octavian, and about the thieving ring that was being run from the basement of his father’s music hall. How could he not?
Like notes in a scale, other hints of the truth fell into place: Jack telling me not to come early to the Octavian, behaving very differently at the music hall from when he was away from it, knowing about netsuke at the museum.
But just how much did he know, and how deeply was he involved?
“Miss, are you all right?” came a woman’s voice close to me.
I looked up to see a woman of about Peggy’s age peering at me in concern. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” I pushed myself away from the pillar and continued on toward home.
Just because the Octavian was a ship didn’t mean all of the ships were in music halls. But if they were, this was the very piece of information Matthew needed. And yet—how could I tell him when it might mean Jack would be caught? Knowing my brother, I was sure he’d figure it out sooner or later—most likely sooner, given that he’d found that man Avery. And if he did, how could I warn Jack without betraying Matthew?
Chapter 21
I made my way slowly up the steps of our house and drew my key from my reticule. The glycerine slid from my numb fingers. As I grabbed for it, I fumbled the bag of rolls, and they fell. No matter, they’d served their purpose. Mechanically, I picked up the bag from the step, turned the key in the lock, and went inside. I set my parcels on the table by the door. The newspaper from the morning was still there, open to the woodcut of the two dead boys. I felt a wave of revulsion, and my hand groped for the banister. Swallowing down my nausea, I climbed one step, then another.
I was halfway up the stairs when Peggy came into the hallway and looked up at me in surprise. “Nell! There you are!”
I turned toward her but said nothing.
Her eyes went wide. “For mercy’s sake, child! What’s the matter with you? You look ill!”
“I’ve a terrible headache. I need to lie down.”
“D’you want some tea?”
“No,” I said, almost desperately, and climbed the last few ste
ps. “I walked too far today. I just need to lie down.”
“Walked too far?” Her voice, skeptical, trailed me up the stairs. “Since when’ve you ever been sick from walking too far?”
But I didn’t answer. I made my way down the hall and into my room, careening toward the bed. The nausea hit me again. I reached for the chamber pot—blessedly empty—and the roll I’d eaten in the street came back up.
KNOWING PEGGY MIGHT CHECK ON ME, I feigned sleep and waited until I heard the front door close before I changed into my men’s clothes. Ten minutes later, I was making my way along the back alley. I didn’t know how I could perform tonight as if nothing was wrong, but I had to see Jack.
I arrived in Soho at a quarter past six, but though I lingered near the yard of the Octavian and circled the music hall, I caught no sight of him. At half past seven, Sid Lowry finally appeared at the back door. I asked him where Jack was. He didn’t know.
Jack wasn’t in the piano alcove, or either of the upstairs or back hallways, or the instrument room.
With fifteen minutes until curtain, I hurried to my place, hoping against hope I’d find him, or some sign of him. But no. It was still empty, except for the piano, its wing down, the fallboard closed. My hands were shaking as I unbuttoned my overcoat and hung it on its usual nail. I lifted the wing and propped it on the stick; then I raised the fallboard. But it fell back down with a slam that made the blood stop in my veins.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get through these next two hours unless I talked to him first. I left my music on the stand and ran back down the stairs. Maggie was in the corridor, her usually smiling face sullen.
“Maggie, have you seen Jack?”
She shrugged. “What’s the matter? You look peculiar.”
I swallowed a retort. “Have you seen him at all tonight?”
“Sorry,” she said sourly, as she turned away. “I got my own bloke to look after.”
