The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  Now, standing in the street, covered in dust and shivering with fear and cold, we were jostled by the usual crowds that gather, some people wanting to look at the debris of the collapsed buildings, some wanting to see if 'anyone's caught it', and some simply wanting to stare at us, and ask 'What goes?' A man brought a horse blanket for Pilgrim and a bandage for Barney's knee, and another, a woman as poor as they, but seeing them looking pale and out of sorts, took them into her home for the night. This contagion of benevolence continued for a whole day, with cups of tea and nips of gin being doled out by rich and poor alike, and then as the dust cleared, the adventurous and curious went closer to inspect the ruins, and to see if there was anything to be had. But it was too dangerous even for these hardened pinchers, and when the police arrived, they melted away. Order was restored, looting ceased and the sergeant sent in his men to see whether there were any 'stiff uns' among the rubble.

  Will nudged me and said, quietly, 'Now's your chance, Bob, to put this terrible business in someone else's hands. It shouldn't be your trouble, old fellow. Would you like me to open proceedings?'

  He looked tired, and there was a cut across his forehead where a falling brick had caught him a glancing blow, but Will Lovegrove, ever the faithful friend, took my arm and together we went to the sergeant, who directed us to the station house. There, Will told all he knew, gathered from me, and I produced the packet which contained George Kevill's letter, and which the sergeant, Bliss by name, read very carefully. Then he looked at the pictures and blinked hard and covered them with a police-blotter.

  Will did not realize, and I could not tell him, that I had fooled the Nasty Man.

  It had been too dark for him to see that the pictures he held in his hand, which he had thought belonged to George Kevill, wrapped up in the letter that should have been sent to magistrates and members of parliament, were nothing more than Pilgrim's elegant calling cards, inside a sheet of his mouldy writing paper.

  It was the first time in all my life I had ever done anything clever or brave.

  And no one would ever know.

  We left the station house as the sun rose on a cold, bright morning.

  'Now then, Bob,' said Will, 'how about we step it out to Garraway's and eat a chop and drink coffee and warm our toes by the fire for a while? Until the hour is more respectable.'

  It was a clever plan. We ate a chop and fell asleep immediately, with our heads upon the table, before the wheezing waiter could arrive with the coffee, and he, good man, left us to snore until the street grew busy and his parlour also. Scarcely three hours' sleep, yet when I woke, I felt as refreshed as if I had slept for a day and a night on a feather bed. And cheered also to see Barney Kevill, scrubbed and neat, swinging his legs on the chair and eating a cold potato. He rubbed his eye and looked at me.

  'I come because I heard what the Nasty Man said to you about your dogs. How they was tied up somewhere. I thought you would want to go and scout about and see - what's what.'

  Will bit his lip - he is an emotional sort - and clapped Barney upon the shoulder.

  An excellent idea, Barney Kevill,' he said. His voice was hoarse and trembled a little. Then he coughed and cleared his throat, and Will was himself again. 'Then will you bring Bob to my lodgings?' He wrote down the address. 'You should put up with me for a while, my friend. My landlady is more amenable than handsome, but as long as you don't see her in her hair rags, you're quite safe!'

  How could I refuse him! He is the best of men and the kindest of friends.

  Barney and I searched the yards and courts around Fish- lane. We inspected the sheds and stables, and tracked, once again, the course of the railway cutting. I steeled my terror and, sure, it faded when I scoured the ground for signs of Brutus and Nero. We covered many miles that morning, but as the church clocks struck midday, I put a hand upon my young companion's shoulder. Barney frowned at me and then nodded. 'Well, we didn't find them today, but we will, won't we? We'll keep on looking and one day - oh joy! - we'll open a gate and there they'll be, a-waitin' an' a-waggin' their tails . . .'

  He broke off, unable to continue, and turned away to wipe his eyes on his sleeve.

  I was glad to be mute at that moment, for had I a voice, I would have cried my agony so loud that the angels in heaven would have stopped their ears.

  The Aquarium, Christmas Eve — Princess Tiny

  and Black Boots

  One of Trim's penny novels could not contain the drama of the days that followed our narrow escape, for it didn't end in the fall of two houses in Fish-lane. One, due to be demolished, fell in upon itself with forty cazzelties and their families sleeping inside. The quantity of brick and stone made it impossible to reach all but a few of them, and their groans and cries for help were, as the newspapers put it, Very affecting'. More chasms opened up in the street, one after the other, as the church bells struck eleven. Religious folk said it was the end of the world. Fish-lane emptied within a week and soon it was one of those streets, so familiar these days, which are the haunts of the desperate homeless those who, in the depths of winter, will sleep anywhere as long as it has a roof.

  Finally, a fire broke out in the ruins of Pilgrim's shop, spread to the next-door gaff, and everything was reduced to ashes. There was no effort to put it out and no attempt to rescue anything. If it had consumed the entire street, I think no one would have cared. We sat long after hours in the Aquarium or in our corner in the Cheese, discussing it. Will was firmly of the opinion that the fire was deliberately started.

  'I've spoken to the landlord of the Wretched Fly, and he swears that a gang of roughs were around the place the evening it went up,' he said. 'It would be just like the Nasty Man to make sure no one found the - evidence.'

  He couldn't say the words - the bodies of the children, murdered, buried in the earth beneath Pilgrim's shop. We had told Sergeant Bliss that he might find them there, and said we were anxious that parents should no longer wonder over their children's disappearance. Perhaps a search could be made in the cellar. But the ruins of the shop, even before the fire, were treacherous, and we knew that he would not risk the lives of his men to bring out the dead children. Even so, we hoped the evil men responsible would be brought to justice, and watched the newspapers for any news of arrests and court appearances. But after our interview, Sergeant Bliss was silent. He had other, more immediate concerns. A young woman had been murdered in a pub yard in Whitechapel and there were fears her killer might be on a spree. Besides, as Will said, tapping his nose, perhaps there were those who would rather keep the matter quiet. Gentlemen who had known Fish-lane and were anxious to relocate.

  So we watched and waited, as they say, but even as the weeks passed, not one of us felt easy. The Nasty Man cast a long shadow.

  It was the night before Christmas Eve. We were invited, Will Lovegrove, Trimmer and I, to the Aquarium to 'cheer in the joyful season'. After our recent adventures and evenings spent in gloomy contemplation, the prospect of paying our best seasonal respects to the Princess and Herr Swann and Moses Dann if he was, as Will said, 'up and shaking his bones', was not at all unpleasant. We were gently tipsy (having already enjoyed the hospitality of the Two Tuns and the Yorkshire Grey) as we slipped and slid along the icy streets, to the accompaniment of The Mistletoe Bough in a jovial version sung by Will with frequent interruptions when he stopped to greet a handsome young woman with his 'Merry Christmas!' and, if he could, kiss her cheek. Narrowly avoiding any mishaps, we fell through the great door of the Aquarium and into the hall, where Mr Abrahams had insisted upon displaying a Christmas tree (despite his adherence to Israel), decked out with sugar ornaments and candles in fancy holders. I drew the bolts quickly: the constant draught from the opening of the street door blew out the candles and it had been my task all day to relight them!

  We stopped to admire it, and even Trimmer could not resist stealing a pink-striped sugar-cane from one of the upper branches and crunched upon it as we hurried up the grand staircase to the first-fl
oor salon. The company was, as it were, assembled: the Princess on her throne, Herr Swann on one side, Barney Kevill on the other, and Moses Dann wrapped in an oriental blanket against the cold. And our new novelties, Professor Long and his two daughters, who gave exhibitions of strength, La Milano, a lady from the poses plastiques profession who could imitate a Greek statue and stand motionless for hours, and Colonel Buxton, the great military swordsman. Even Mrs Gifford was there, hard- eyed and narrow-lipped. Conn, with a glass in his hand (Nightman was already at his work), was joined by Alf Pikemartin, who stumbled through the door some minutes after us. Mr Abrahams presided at a table set with punch, glasses, cake and sweets and served everyone himself. And Em, fair and radiant, with eyes only for Will, and he likewise, I think, straight away taking her arm and walking her up and down the salon as though they were in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. The celebrations had already begun, with Herr Swann at the piano hammering out one of the new polkas and La Milano teaching Colonel Buxton the steps, and everyone clapping and laughing and in good spirits.

  Any stranger opening the door would marvel, I am sure, at the extraordinary setting. Everywhere was a blaze of light, even the alcoves which were usually gloomy. There were candelabra on every surface and lanterns on every window sill. Of course, the curiosities seemed less wonderful in the glare: the Egyptian mummy case was cracked and flaking, even the newly acquired skeleton of a huge bird, suspended by ropes and wires from the ceiling, was less awful. And my friends, all illuminated by the same merciless lights, were revealed, as it were, in their true colours. Many were dark-eyed and weary, and their merriment was strained through their haggard faces and pained movements. The little Princess, in particular, was sallow and frail, and though she seemed cheerful, I observed her frowning and looking anxious and distracted, and nervously pulling at her muff. Perhaps I, too, appeared worried to anyone who cared to notice. Though I did my utmost to fight off melancholy and laughed and drank and was of 'good cheer', my heart felt hollow and all this merriment seemed out of place. I thought of Pilgrim and the Nasty Man, and watched Pikemartin's hand shake as he drank and stared at Em hanging upon Will's arm. I saw the line of Mrs Gifford's mouth draw itself into a thread and watched her pick at her gloves, and even Mr Abrahams' smile seemed forced and his joviality an effort.

  I was not in the mood for merriment, and decided I should leave. I went swiftly and unnoticed down the length of the salon, past the trays of butterflies pinned to a board, the dead kittens playing hide-and-seek among the dead flowers. Out on the landing, shutting the door behind me, the silence of the Aquarium wrapped me up. It is never really silent, of course. Noises from the menagerie drift down the stairwell, and shouts from the street echo up from the hall. Even the stairs creak and groan. I have been up and down them so many times, dragging my shadow behind me, that I know which is the creaking step, which the uneven, the step with a hole in it, the protruding nail and the splintered rail, the stair which groans and cries, just by the shelf on which sits the little house made entirely of shells. I know every inch of the staircase, from the shining wainscoting on the walls to the smooth newel posts and carved spindles.

  The staircase is grandest on the first two floors. They were, Mr Abrahams once told me, the public rooms, those the owners of the warehouse used to impress potential customers, but what it sold or stored I never discovered. These grand salons might have once housed beautiful carpets or furniture from the East, or china or sculptures. Certainly, on the first landing is a marvellous mirror, quite ten feet high, set in an old gold frame carved with bunches of grapes and other fruits. And, coming upon oneself, in the dim light of a winter's afternoon or, glancing into the mirror and half-seeing a figure reflected upon the stairs - well, I long ago learned to hasten my steps. And going up to the second floor, I also scuttle past the strange portrait of a melancholy lady which, now and again, weeps real tears. The legend underneath it, written, I suppose, by Mr Abrahams, reads 'Portrait of a weeping woman, c. 1423, German. She mourns the death of her only child, a daughter disappeared and thought to have been kidnapped by gypsies. On Saints days, a trail of salty tears oozes from the picture and collects in the cup which the lady holds in her hands'.

  I stopped and looked up into the dizzying gloom of the stairwell. I wondered how easy it would be to leap into oblivion from there. Would I perch upon the banister and close my eyes and wait for the cold embrace of the marble floor? Or would I find one of Mr Calcraft's ropes and sling it around the newel post and put the noose, tied with his knot, about my neck? I have thought about it before. Many times.

  Shivering and pulling my coat about me, I opened the door into the salon. It was dimly lit by the low gas lights and the new addition of the Eternal Flame, which danced and flickered in the draught. My little stage, my screen, the boxes, balls and eggs, even my milk can, were gone, packed in a tea chest one morning with Mr Abrahams looking on, and carried by Pikemartin to be stored in the room off the second-floor landing - 'Until you should want it again, Bob,' Mr Abrahams had said, patting my arm. That time would never come. One day, years hence, I imagine someone finding it and looking at the painted board and wondering who Brutus and Nero were, and their master Mr Bob Chapman, and why the china eggs and packets of letters were stored so carefully in a tea chest and, having wondered, shrugging their shoulders and sending it all to the bonfire. But I wanted to look, perhaps for the last time, at the old place, my old stand, though, for I was thinking more and more about Titus Strong and whether he would take me on without horse and cart, and simply as a labourer in his fields. And perhaps Pilgrim, too.

  My corner had been swept and dusted and in place of my few things stood a case of stuffed owls, and a very large wooden cabinet, black and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and painted with strange signs and symbols - the Magical Cabinet of Dr Dee. Pinned to the wall where my picture of the Queen had been was one of Mr Abrahams' neatly written signs which read 'Temporary Exhibition'. And that reminded me -1 could not remember putting my picture of Her Majesty in the tea chest with the other things from the stand, so I ducked behind the case of owls to see if it had been dropped or left. There it was, wedged between the Magical Cabinet and the wall. It was a tight squeeze, but I was determined to have it and was crawling behind the owls - a large glass-fronted case showing the cream of the taxidermist's art - when I heard a footfall on the creaking step and the door to the salon opened and someone came in. Thinking it was probably Trim or Will come to find me - they were planning a late supper at the Cheese - I smiled to myself, planning how I might jump out and surprise them!

  But I wanted first to get the picture and, though I strained and stretched, it was just out of my reach. And I could see something else there as well: one of Nero's china eggs, gathering dust and spiders. I would have them both. I put my shoulder to it, and tried to move the cabinet, but it was solid and very heavy, though it would shift with another pair of hands. I was about to summon my friends when I stopped; I realized that the footsteps slowly pacing around the salon were those of someone looking at the exhibits and pausing in front of the cabinets. A customer, in fact, unfamiliar with the Aquarium. Not one of us. I peered around the cabinet. Whoever it was, kept to the other side of the room, in the shadow, though I could see his feet under the table with its little display of ceremonial swords and daggers and the new centre-piece of the Eternal Flame. Black leather boots, a cane with a silver tip, a long, black Benjamin, beautifully tailored and wet around the bottom, but not sodden, where it had dragged in the snow. Not the Benjamin of someone who had walked the streets, even a short distance. More the Benjamin of someone who had arrived in a carriage and just stepped out.

  But if it was a visitor, I reasoned, they must have come in through the back door, for I had thrown the bolt behind me. I held my breath. There was danger in the air and I was unable to escape unheard or unseen.

  Then there were more footsteps, light and quick - and unmistakable. Under the table appeared a pair of miniature pink shoes t
ied with pink ribbons.

  T can't stay here long,' said the Princess in a strange dry voice. 'My friends will miss me.'

  'I'm hoping our business won't take long,' said the other. A deep voice, refined. Not at all familiar.

  'It's very simple,' she said. 'I want my money. The Nasty Man said - well, that I should apply to you.'

  There was a silence. The toe of the black boot tapped on the floor.

  'George Kevill must have left a tidy amount and I want my share.'

  Again there was silence, until the Princess sighed with irritation.

  'There must be. Ever since we started the business. I bought the machines and George made the photographs.'

  'Of course. An investment, then. A partnership.'

  'Yes,' said the Princess.

  Where was her foreign way of speaking? Her Italian words?

  'And you trusted Kevill completely, no doubt?'

  'George Kevill was a good man. We had an agreement. We would share.'

  'Of course you would. Georgie makes pictures of sweet kiddies, playing find the mouse and—'

  'No,' she said, quickly. 'He made cabinet photographs for gentlemen and portraits in the studio. He worked the fairs with his travelling machine and in his studio in the off-season. I paid the rent.'

  Black boots laughed.

  'Such a surprise, this, Princess. I had no idea. Cabinet photographs, you say. For respectable gentlemen. A genteel sitting, I expect, among the ferns?'

  'Yes, of course. They weren't cheap. Good quality and artistic, we agreed that from the beginning. Sometimes they came here to the Aquarium to collect them.'

  'Yes, I know. And these respectable gentlemen. They paid Georgie did they?'

  'Yes, you know that was the agreement. The coin first. George said that you can't trust anyone. Not even gentlemen.'

  'Oh, indeed. How true, Princess.'

  I think Black boots was laughing.