He coughed hard and spat into his hand.
We might have been frozen there like living waxworks if Mr Abrahams had not come down the stairs and found us. It was the first time I have ever heard him speak angrily.
'Alfred,' he cried, 'what are you about, man? Nothing at all! You stumer! Off with you now! Work! And you, Bob Chapman, sprawled upon the floor? Do I pay you to greet our visitors like a suck-pot?'
Pikemartin disappeared into the waxwork room, and I heard his heavy footsteps clattering up the back stairs. Mr Abrahams turned upon me again. He was disappointed, he said, though he understood how a man might succumb to drink if his nerves were sorely tried as mine had been. But it was not the answer to my difficulties, and he was sorry to see me in such a state within the walls of this place, the Aquarium, where I was held in such esteem. I was embarrassed and, whilst he watched me with a sorrowful face, I clumsily swept the hall and then fetched the mop and bucket also. I had penance to perform.
Mrs Gifford scurried past me on an errand. Pikemartin did not reappear all day, and when Conn came down to fetch the other bottle of Old Tom, I knew where he had taken refuge. So it was left to me to turn down the lights of that eerie place, starting at the top, and try not to listen to the sound of Pikemartin crying or to see shadows where there were none. I had just reached the waxwork room when there was a sudden loud knock upon the front door, followed by a battery of thuds that made my heart, as they say, leap into my throat.
Will and Trim stood upon the step like a pair of bookends, beaming and breathing hard.
'Get your coat, Chapman!' cried Trim. 'Quickly! Brutus and Nero are found!'
Will took my arm and propelled me along the street, talking all the time.
'Don't get his hopes up, Trim, but Bob, we've heard a rumour that there are some dogs fitting your fine fellows' description in a low place not far from here.'
'If it's a case of professional dog-napping,' put in Trim, 'I think you'll be able to press charges. Talk to my lawyer, Carpenter. He'll take the case for you.'
They were so excited, one good friend on either arm, propelling me this way and that along the dark, wintry streets, talking nineteen to the dozen about their discovery and how delighted they were that those good creatures were found, that I caught their infection immediately and allowed them to lift my spirits until I was almost delirious.
'There,' cried Will, 'he smiles for the first time in weeks, Trim!'
Yes, if I could have shouted and sung with joy I would have risked arrest and shinned up a lamp-post and made a complete fool of myself! And I was so utterly taken with the delight of my two friends' news and my own lightheadedness, that I hardly noticed the direction we had taken until we began to tramp through the mud and around the fencing of a railway cutting on which, when Trim took my arm and pointed, I saw a bill for the Royal Crown Theatre.
'Here you are, Bob! Your name and, what's more important, that of your talented dogs, taken in vain! Someone has stolen your dogs, your name and your show!'
'I've heard of such things happening,' agreed Will. 'Some terror masqueraded once as me in a gaff - called himself Bill Lovegrope or something like! The audacity!'
My heart sank and I could have wept, there and then, in the street. My friends couldn't understand why I pointed to my name on the flapping bill and those of Brutus and Nero, and shook my head. They were old bills, from weeks ago, and not showing a date (they never did - another showman's trick). How could my friends have known?
But Trim was unwilling to give up the possibility. 'Yes, I know it seems a coincidence,' he urged, propelling me down the street, 'but believe me, I write coincidences every day, and they do happen. We will go to this gaff and catch them in the middle of their act, you'll see.'
How the bills had survived being torn down or pasted over, I had no idea, but here they were still on the wall where I had last seen them. The massy letters shouted me loud to all-comers, though I had never seen a sign of my namesake or his dogs in the flesh, as it were, at the gaff. But even though my spirits had been dashed to pieces, I felt a sudden stab of optimism. Perhaps the bills had been left on purpose. Perhaps Chapman (the counterfeit) was simply engaged for a future date and at this very moment Brutus and Nero were performing their tricks on that wretched gaff stage for some tuppenny-halfpenny impostor. It could be! We turned the corner into Fish-lane.
Apart from the drunk on the steps of the Wretched Fly begging 'a penny for a glass', it was dark. No pie man calling, no cries of 'potatoes hot', only the distant sounds of a row and perhaps fisticuffs, a baby crying, a woman shouting. There was no harmonium on the pavement, no showman's drum, no gaudily dressed youths pressing passers-by to 'Step inside!' The gaff was silent and still.
I had not been there since the night Brutus and Nero 'seized' the Nasty Man and, although I had read that the magistrate had arrested the company and closed the show down, I was still surprised that its doors and windows were shut, and not only shut, but boarded. Usually these gaffs spring open again within days of being closed down, with a new proprietor and a new name, but really nothing changed, including the company. Which is what I had been expecting.
'Where's the theatre, Chapman?' said Trim looking about him. 'I thought it would have been bursting at the seams.'
The gaudy giant posters had been taken down (to be used again elsewhere), but there were remnants of other handbills pasted to the blind windows and plastered all over the door, announcing the Royal Crown Theatre and Chapman's Canines, as well as the waxwork exhibition and all its bloody horrors.
'This very much looks as if we've raised your hopes, only to dash them utterly,' said Will, trying the door. 'I'm so sorry, old friend.'
But I could not turn and walk away, and against the easy tears rose a desperate hope that, in spite of all appearances, my friends were still right and Brutus and Nero were here, in the gaff or the yard. Not to act in a play, but perhaps brought to fight, for hadn't the Growler asked me if they were fighting dogs? I put my shoulder to the door and, with Will's help, it gave, was probably not even locked, and we staggered into the dark hallway and then, feeling our way along the passage, to the exhibition room.
It was open to the roof and that roof had more tiles missing than in place, so that the wintry moon lit up the room like a stage. When I was last here it had been full of waxworks and curiosities, and now it was a shell, utterly stripped bare. There were great holes in the floor, where the boards had been ripped up, and from which a foul smell rose. The walls had been reduced to bare bricks and above, where the upstairs front bedroom had been, the ceiling and floor had been taken up. Will looked about him in wonder.
'What's happened here then, Bob? Have they stripped out everything they could sell, do you think?'
I nodded yes. Every foot of lead, every scrap of timber, everything that might have a value was taken: one man's rubbish was another man's meal.
'I think we should leave,' Trim said, anxiously. This is not a place I want to be found in, alive or dead, and it seems to me very likely that the latter might present itself. What is that dreadful stink?'
There's not a soul here, Trim. Not in the building. We'll leave as soon as we've made sure that Brutus and Nero are not imprisoned outside,' said Will. 'We can't have Chapman wondering whether his dogs were within twenty paces of him and he didn't look for them.'
My hopes rose again. Yes, they could be tied up in the yard, or in the outbuildings next door or - and I balked at the thought - in the stable. We edged out into the passage, and then into the yard where the stable stood, lit by the moon, and beyond it, the cavernous regions of the cutting and the tunnel. Even knowing they were so close turned my mouth dry. But Will and Trim had no such knowledge and no qualms and, tiptoeing about the yard, soon established that there was no one here. And no dogs either.
Will rattled the gate into Pilgrim's yard and opened it easily. I wanted to tell them, 'Nothing here, just a mad man, unless he's run away,' but my friends had already go
ne in. They poked about the yard and disturbed the nesting rats, and Will whispered that he would just peep through the window 'to see if Bluebeard's at home'. But he had no need, for Pilgrim's back door stood open, the very door that he always locked and barred so carefully. And this struck me as so very strange that I held Will's arm to stop him.
'What's up?' he whispered. 'Do you know this place?'
I nodded. Oh yes. If only I had a voice, what tales I could tell!
'And the man who lives here? Are we in trouble?'
I didn't think so, but all the same it was odd to find the door standing ajar. The familiar stink of must and damp seeped out as I went first, groping into the little scullery and then into the passage where it was pitch dark. I ran my hands along the wainscoting and through spiders' webs, disturbing the other creatures that lived in the old place, behind the decades of paper, the years of books. Underfoot was wet and boggy, a lumpy, uneven skin of worn druggets, piled one upon the other, and warping floorboards. I tripped, my foot caught beneath the rotten matting, and stumbled into the shop. It was very cold, and Will slapped his shoulders and sides and stamped his feet; the book towers shuddered and swayed.
'Does a man live here? Ye gods! How could a man live here? It's hell-fire cold, Bob, and smells as if there's a sewer running through it!'
'Who is he?' said Trim, who had opened a blind at the front and was scrabbling around trying to light a candle or two. 'Shall we call him?'
Will hallooed loudly, but there was no reply, no sound at all. My friend wasn't here, I was sure, and neither was anyone else. In Pilgrim's bower, the wall of books laid in good English bond was beginning to show signs of wear. The alcove which had fitted so snugly about his head and shoulders had collapsed, and the neat piles of Histories and Treatises which had formed his seat were covered in the fallen volumes. Nevertheless, I cleared a path and, with Trim's assistance, lit some of the stubs of candles which sat in their own puddles of grease around the bower, and for the first time surveyed the landscape of Pilgrim's shop. The room was much smaller from that low seat, but the flickering candles made the upper reaches even darker and blacker. Pilgrim's cup sat on its shelf - the book, much stained by rings and spills, was Camellia sinensis: the tea-plant, its history and cultivation - and I realized that this, which I called his bower because I could think of nothing more suitable, was also his workplace. From his seat, Pilgrim could reach his cup, his candle and matches, his spare shoes, ledger and pen, inkpot and so on, all perched on promontories and crevasses fashioned from the stacked volumes. A larger book, two even, held his slippers; on a single, fat tome (a dictionary) was his milk can, and in the spaces left by removing a volume here and there, were inserted his envelopes, embossed paper, string, and bundles of quills, stamps and penwipers. I smiled at the ingeniousness of my odd friend, and brought down the book on which a flat candle stub floated - The Life-cycle of the Lampyridae - to examine the arrangement more closely. I pulled out large- size calling-cards (showing a picture of a much younger Pilgrim frowning seriously at a book), letters shrouded in dust and skeins of spiders' webs, writing paper so damp that it was flowered with mildew, seals which crumbled in my fingers, and a dry ink pot. Nothing here had been used for some time.
Then something caught my eye, just at my shoulder. Something moving. I raised the candle and there, pressing its black body between two upright volumes, was a huge spider. It was grossly fat and its long legs, covered in thick hair, pedalled against the spines of the books in an effort to squeeze into the thin crevice. In the stillness of the shop, I could hear the faint rasp of its feet on the leather as it tried to gain purchase on the rough binding. The way it scrabbled and turned itself about, pushing and flailing its legs, was so repulsive that I grabbed the nearest book to throw at the awful creature. I missed by a furlong, but it was startled and lost its grip and fell with a soft plop' somewhere near my feet. The thought of that gross black body and wriggling legs clutching at my bootlaces and clinging to my trouser-bottoms sent me into a panic and I leaped up, and caught my elbow in the turret of books. A wobble and a little shower of leather and dust fell upon me, which I quickly threw in all directions, lest that fat, black creature had a colony of companions.
The candles flickered in the draught and one tumbled to the floor, but was not extinguished, and as I quickly picked it up, being very careful not to grasp the spider by accident, I saw, lying amongst the volumes, a fat packet, carefully tied with string, and sealed. It fell open in my hand.
Inside were photographic likenesses, dozens of them, as real as if the figures were standing before me. They were what showmen once called 'Frenchies', supposedly because the French produce the dirtiest images of naked women that can be bought on the fairground or street-corner. And though I have seen 'Frenchies' - what man hasn't who has been to Barnet Fair? - I have never seen ones quite as vile as these. They were not the usual pictures of a woman undressing whilst a grinning constable watches her through an open window. Nor of a naked, sleeping nymph ogled by a passing swain.
No. These were of quite a different order.
Here were men in the robes and uniforms of judges and bishops and admirals. The judges wore their wigs, the bishop his holy hat, lords in their ermine cloaks and garter robes, a musician, I guessed, in his pique wig, a military man in a dark uniform and cocked hat. Neither were they play-actors, No, I could put a name to this lord and this reverend gentleman, to that temperance man and minor royal, all using young women and children in the crudest and most violent manner. Here was my Lord X, who only last week had been seen with the Queen on his arm, as he bent to his task of flogging the bare arse of a fair-faced young woman. And here His Grace the Bishop of Y, dandling upon his knee a naked little girl. The very same bishop who had recently christened a royal babe and opened a foundling hospital. And a much- decorated general, not long back from the wars, enjoying a curly-haired boy. Here was the Duke of Z belabouring a maid whilst another encouraged him with a whip across his back. Picture after picture showed do-gooder and banker, knight of the realm and clergyman, in their ceremonial and garb, and the poor objects of their lust captured in images so sharp and real that to look upon them was like parting the curtains and peering through a window. My hands shook and I dropped one which hit my foot and turned over. It showed a booted and buttoned general in the act of violating a child, whose look of fear and pain was in awful contrast to the grim intensity of her abuser. They were arranged upon an elegant chaise (I recognized its twisty legs!), and there was drapery in the background, torn and creased, and the bare wood of a wall.
But there was another, separate packet, smaller, carefully tied. Inside it, a letter and five photographs, evil pictures of a child and a man I have never seen before.
I sank to my knees, unable to stop myself, and Will and Trim came to my rescue. They were cheerful, if cold, and had been marvelling at the chaos and repulsed at the blooms of fungus which were sprouting around and behind the shelves.
Trim laughed, catching my arm. 'Careful, Bob,' he said, 'you'll be buried under an avalanche of - I say - what's the matter? What is it?'
They stood over me, rubbing their cold hands and holding their candles up to look with interest, and then with horror, at what I had found. I unfolded the letter and it handed to Will. He read it slowly,
Pictures taken by me, George Kevill, on this day, Saturday, 11th October 18 - at Kevill's Photographic Emporium, Fish- lane. Child is Alice Corcoran, aged 10. Man is –
'I know him,' cried Trim, shaking the picture. 'He is always at the races and at the ringside! He lent me money, only the other month. He was generous - with the amount and with terms. I never thought—'
'Hush! There's more,' said Will. 'Listen to this.'
All pictures signed on the back and dated by me, George Kevill. Three children murdered by this man - Patience Rhodes, Mary O'Malley, Polly Evans. Other children taken and killed by accident or purposely. Their bodies—
He stopped and looked at each
of us, horrified. 'It says, "by arrangement, but never by permission, with John Bunyan Pilgrim, buried in the cellar of his bookshop, Fish-lane".'
He went on, but I didn't hear him. George Kevill gave Pilgrim the pictures and the letter which would send this wicked man - perhaps this was the uncle that Barney had spoken of - to the gallows. But my friend hid them among his books, knowing that they were dangerous, like fireworks in a haystack. Why did he not get rid of them? Send them to the police, magistrates, the prime minister? Or simply destroy them?
Will and I had the same idea at the same time. In the cellar. We should look.
Pilgrim — the Nasty Man — Descent into
Darkness
There was a door, unlocked, and steep steps descending into darkness: I counted twenty to keep myself from running away in fear and panic. The foulness which had struck us when we first pushed open the door and which hung about Pilgrim's shop was much stronger now, borne on gusts of cold air. Will wrapped his scarf over his face. We reached the bottom where our flickering candles showed a long, low cellar (Will, who is quite six feet tall, had to duck his head, and I could touch the roof easily) stretching in both directions - under Pilgrim's shop, but also next door, under the gaff and theatre, for the holes in the floor above were dimly visible where the moonlight shone through them. It was a cellar which, at one time, long ago, must have served a single large house, and now still ran, uninterrupted, beneath two.
'This accounts for the dreadful stink, then,' whispered Trim. 'Nasty and damp. It's a wonder your friend didn't get the cholera.'
'And rats, too,' said Will who, I know, has a horror of the creatures. 'There must be hundreds of them down here.'
The Newgate Jig Page 20
