by Emily Organ
The lights dimmed and a great fanfare of trumpets and drums ensued. A single spotlight shone onto the stage and into it stepped Mr Taylor, prompting a deafening roar of appreciation from the audience. He was clearly a popular showman.
He stood there with a grin on his face, his arms outstretched. He wore a purple tunic and breeches that glittered with bead trimmings. On his head was a purple velvet hat with three ostrich feathers in it and his hessian boots were decorated with tassels. I guessed he was about fifty years of age. His face was redder and chubbier than before, but his moustache was still bushy and ginger in colour.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
His voice rang out clearly across the arena and I was impressed at his exuberance during what I knew must be a difficult time for him. In fact, he seemed a completely different man from the one I knew.
“Prepare yourselves for the greatest spectacle ever witnessed at Astley’s Amphitheatre! This evening you will witness the largest number of Arab horses ever seen under one roof! Two hundred of ‘em!”
He paused to allow the audience to cheer.
“We also have twenty elephants!”
Another cheer.
“Ten camels!”
More audience appreciation.
“And five lions!”
The crowd applauded once again.
“Accompanying them, we have two hundred boys and girls, one hundred ladies and two hundred men! And among them are fifty wild savages from the Dark Continent!”
Whoops and gasps could be heard in equal measure by way of response to this statement.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Until recently, they were unable to speak in any ordinary language and, despite my attempts to civilise them, they still eat raw flesh!”
More gasps followed.
“But please don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen. I shall ensure that none of them escape into the audience tonight.”
A woman behind me laughed nervously.
“And now, without further ado, I present to you Mr Joseph Taylor’s performance of Sinbad the Sailor!”
Another great cheer rang out and up came the lights. The drums thundered and a river of horses with riders dressed in flowing blue silk and chiffon galloped from the wings onto the stage and then flowed down into the arena.
As the horses and riders galloped back and forth I could see that their movement was intended to be like the waves of the sea, and before long a great, glittering, golden barge on wheels was pulled into the arena.
Sinbad stood on top of it, waving his cutlass above his head. He wore a red turban, decorated with jewels, and a loose white shirt with baggy purple trousers. What followed was an interpretation of the Sinbad story with all of his voyages combined into one. It wasn’t the faithful retelling I remembered my father recounting to me, but I found myself enjoying it all the same.
Sinbad was shipwrecked on an island, where he discovered a giant egg decorated with jewels. From this egg hatched a large bird, which was actually a beautiful Arab bay horse with impressively large wings supported on poles held by several children.
Sinbad flew on the bird’s back to another island inhabited by the savages, and there he was invited to marry the chief’s daughter, who I felt sure was played by Annie. She was dark-haired and dressed in pink chiffon pantaloons with a chiffon blouse that was decorated with glittering sequins.
She and Sinbad rode off together on a pair of horses and, as I watched her stand on the back of the galloping horse and perform an array of vaults and somersaults onto its back and off again, I became certain the girl was Annie. Her skin had been darkened to give her the appearance of a savage, but the shape of her face and her eyes seemed familiar. She must have only recently heard of her mother’s death, yet the girl was able to perform flawlessly. It was nothing short of remarkable.
The crowd showed their adoration for Annie and Sinbad as they accomplished their horseback tricks, and I felt sure Lizzie would have been proud of her daughter.
Had she known Annie was capable of such remarkable feats? Had she ever come here incognito and watched her daughter perform?
I reflected on my conversation with Sebastian earlier that day. He had seemed understandably upset about Lizzie’s death. They had worked closely together throughout her career. It seemed he could offer no explanation for her disappearance or her murder.
Inspector Blakely would need to interview Sebastian, as he had known Lizzie well before she had supposedly drowned. But I couldn’t see what useful information, if any, Sebastian would have for the inspector. He seemed as shocked and bewildered as I was.
I felt a sense of anger that Lizzie had chosen to hide her survival from us all. Why would she do such a thing? She must have known that a funeral had been held for her, and to allow her family and friends to grieve for her when she was still alive seemed like a vindictive deception.
Perhaps she hadn’t intended to upset anyone, and perhaps something had happened which had left her with no choice but to hide. But I couldn’t for the life of me think what that might have been.
Chapter 6
The savages turned on Sinbad, and Annie was carried away on the back of a white painted elephant and locked in a cage surrounded by lions. The audience grew quiet as the lions prowled menacingly around the arena. I felt relieved to be sitting in the upper gallery.
Sinbad wrestled the lions to the ground in a well-rehearsed routine and I was impressed by the skill of the performer as well as the way the lions did as they were instructed. There was an enormous cheer when Sinbad rescued Annie from her cage. When Mr Taylor entered the arena and invited the largest lion to stand on its hind legs, resting its paws on his shoulders, the crowd erupted and everyone stood to their feet to applaud. As I watched Annie curtsy in the centre of the arena, I recalled her as a young girl and felt a lump in my throat. I joined in with the applause, clapping until the palms of my hands hurt.
Sinbad the Sailor left me impressed with Mr Taylor’s skill as a showman. Lizzie had often enthused about his work and I regretted not having seen one of his shows earlier.
I left the amphitheatre with the rest of the crowd and walked down the side of the building into a lonely, dark alley where a dim, flickering light marked the location of the stage door. I knocked at the door but there was no answer, so I stood and waited.
Tiny droplets of rain sparkled in the lamplight and a gust of wind blew them onto my face. I wiped the dampness from my cheeks with my gloved hand and wondered whether Mr Taylor had already returned home for the evening. Hugging my handbag to my chest, I peered into the darkness around me, aware that this would be the perfect place for a robber to attack me and steal my bag.
Surely there must be a better place to meet with Mr Taylor. Preferably somewhere that offered light and warmth.
Just then the stage door opened and a shaft of light illuminated the alleyway. A dark face appeared, much lower down then I was expecting. It belonged to one of the savage children from the show. I wondered how many people in the audience had believed Mr Taylor’s claim that the savages were truly wild. The girl looking out at me had most likely been born in London and was nothing more than an ordinary performer in the show, just like everyone else. Her dark eyes stared out at me and I was about to speak when the door was slammed shut again.
“There’s a lady what’s waitin’ for yer, Mr Taylor!” came the girl’s voice from the other side of the door.
This time I rapped sharply on the door, which was opened by a scowling Mr Taylor. His ginger hair was sweaty and tousled from being pressed down under his hat. He had a cigar in his mouth, a drink in one hand, and I could see that his velvet costume was worn at the edges and too tight around his midriff.
“Miss Green. I received your calling card. Do come in.”
“Good evening, Mr Taylor. I must congratulate you on the most magnificent performance of Sinbad the Sailor. I enjoyed it very much. As did the rest of the audience, judging by their applause.” I grinned, hoping my fla
ttery would wipe the frown from his face.
It didn’t.
I stepped through the door and into a small hallway, from which a wooden staircase led to an upper storey. Mr Taylor’s bulk blocked my progress any further. This, it seemed, was as far as I was to be permitted into the building. I heard scampering on the wooden steps as the girl who had previously opened the door ran off up the stairs.
An odour of animal dung lingered in the air.
“Miss Green. You work for the Morning Express.”
“Yes.” I smiled to cover up the lie. “I last saw you with Lizzie five years ago.”
The mention of her name deepened his frown and furrowed his brow.
“Do you remember? She was performing as Cleopatra at the time and I met you backstage one evening.”
“You’re the daughter of the plant hunter, aren’t you? The one that went missing.”
“That’s right.”
“And Lizzie gathered together a substantial amount of money to fund a rescue expedition for him.”
“Yes.”
“Little good came of that, did it?”
“Sadly, it was unsuccessful, but I shall never forget Lizzie’s generosity.” I felt a lump in my throat as I spoke.
“May I ask why you are here?”
“I came to offer my condolences to you and Annie. I have just discovered what happened to Lizzie.”
I saw a flicker in his green eyes, but the frown remained fixed on his face.
“I am shocked. And saddened. I cannot understand how this could have happened to her.”
“And you think I do?”
“Not at all; you must be distraught. To continue with your incredible performance this evening is true testament to your character, Mr Taylor.”
Once again, I hoped flattery would soften him, but I was wrong for a second time.
“I am a professional showman, Miss Green. I have been doing this job since I could walk. Twenty years ago, I watched my mother die and two hours later I was on the stage. The audience had no inkling at all that my world had just ended. The inquest into Lizzie’s death was opened today, but the show must go on.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded sagely.
“Are you planning to interview me for your newspaper?”
“No, the reason for my visit is more personal than that. I considered Lizzie a friend and, having discovered this terrible news, I felt the need to visit the people who were most important to her.”
His face reddened. “By law, my marriage to Lizzie ended when she was discovered drowned on the Princess Alice. I have since found out that we were still married for another five years. My wife deceived me. She wanted me to believe that she was dead!”
His lips twisted in anger and I was relieved to hear footsteps on the staircase. I hoped the presence of another person might help to subdue his temper.
I looked up the stairs and saw Annie descending towards us, dressed in a dark overcoat. I felt a smile pull at the corners of my mouth as I remembered her as a girl. Wiped clean of its stage make-up, her face was pretty and girlish, just as her mother’s had been. But Annie looked pale and sombre. She glanced over but didn’t appear to recognise me.
Mr Taylor pulled the stage door open behind me and peered out into the street.
“Is our carriage here, Joseph?” she asked.
He nodded in reply, closed the door and drained his glass.
“Annie?” I wondered if the girl would remember me. “I’m Penny Green. I knew your mother. I saw you many times in her dressing room. I remember that you liked to dress up in your mother’s costumes.”
The girl eyed me warily and then turned to Mr Taylor, as if requesting his permission to speak to me.
“And what an incredible performance,” I continued. “You are an extremely skilled horsewoman.”
I wanted to add that her mother would have been proud of her, but I realised the comment might have caused upset. I wanted to ask her and Mr Taylor if they had known that Lizzie had survived her supposed drowning, but the guarded expressions on their faces told me not to take the risk. I felt disappointed that the showman was determined to be so hostile.
“Annie is tired,” said Mr Taylor, “and she has no interest in talking to hacks. And neither do I. I can see no reason for you to come here, Miss Green, other than to pry. I won’t mince the matter: in short, I find your presence here to be an imposition.”
Any hope I had harboured of finding out more about Lizzie’s death was gone. If Mr Taylor and Annie were not prepared to talk to me, what could I possibly do next?
“I do apologise, Mr Taylor, if I have upset you. It was never my intention, I can assure you. I came here only as a friend of Lizzie’s.”
He opened the door and glared at me.
“Goodnight, Miss Green.”
Chapter 7
I stayed at home the following morning to finish my article on Madame de Staël. I struggled to muster any enthusiasm for it at all after the rebuff from Mr Taylor. My conversations with him and Sebastian kept running through my mind.
How did they really feel about Lizzie’s death? Had they any idea who could have harmed her?
There were so many questions I wished to ask them, but I wanted to avoid causing them any upset. I had already antagonised Mr Taylor and had no desire to make matters worse.
There was a little coal left in the scuttle, but I decided to see how much of the day I could get through without lighting a fire in the stove. Once it was lit I would treat myself to a cup of coffee. Until then, I wore a woollen dress over my nightdress, a pair of thick socks, which had once belonged to my father, and an old overcoat of my sister’s, which was too long and broad in the shoulders. I wore a pair of fingerless gloves and a woollen bonnet, hoping my unusual ensemble would keep me warm for the morning, at least.
Once my article was finished I would receive payment of seven guineas. This would enable me to pay Mrs Garnett for two weeks’ rent with two pounds and seven shillings left over. I desperately needed to find more work. My salary at the Morning Express had been one hundred pounds a year, which had not been a great fortune, but had allowed me to pay my way. The constant worry about income frequently disturbed my sleep and left me feeling tired and dismal.
Perhaps I had been foolish to turn down Inspector Blakely’s offer of payment for helping him. My pride had stepped in and I had spoken without taking the time to properly consider his offer.
I sat at my desk by the window and wrote. The sky was leaden, but there was just enough daylight by which to see clearly. The nib of my pen scratched as I wrote and the ink flowed onto the page and over my fingers. Tiger was lying out on the rooftop, peering in at me occasionally.
Eventually, my article was finished. I put my pen down, lit the fire in the stove and stitched the pages of my manuscript together as I waited for the kettle to boil. That afternoon I planned to dress myself and take the manuscript to the editorial office of the Ladies’ Scholarly Repository in Bloomsbury.
The sound of an argument drifted up the stairwell to my door. I recognised Mrs Garnett’s voice and then the second voice. It was my sister Eliza. I had no choice but to go downstairs and find out what the problem was.
I left my room and made my way down the narrow, wooden staircase and then proceeded down the wider, carpeted staircase. Mrs Garnett and Eliza were facing each other in the hallway. The front door stood open, and half-in, half-out of the door was Eliza’s bicycle. It was a wide contraption with a large wheel on one side and two smaller wheels on the other. At the centre was a small, uncomfortable looking seat and two pedals. The bicycle was steered by two handles either side of the seat. Eliza had suggested in the past that I should have a ride on it, but I had never been tempted.
“I can assure you, Mrs Garnett, that my bicycle can be placed in your hallway and still leave ample room for those coming and going through the front door.”
“It will scrape my wallpaper! Do you know how much this wallpaper cost?”
The two women glared at each other angrily, and Mrs Garnett had her hands on her hips. Eliza wore a smart, plaid skirt and jacket, and beneath her skirt she wore a pair of breeches and boots. She had borrowed a pair of her husband’s trousers to preserve her modesty.
“Ellie!”
My sister turned and saw me on the stairs.
“Penelope! Whatever are you wearing?”
“I could ask you the same.” I glanced at the trousers, which were just visible beneath the hem of her skirt.
“The pair of you,” Mrs Garnett tutted and shook her head, “are one button short. It must run in your family.”
“Mrs Garnett,” I said. “Would you object to Eliza leaving her bicycle by the privy? I am sure it will cause no harm there.”
Mrs Garnett shrugged. “I suppose so. As long as it doesn’t block the privy door.”
“It could still be stolen!” retorted Eliza.
“It is unlikely. The privy is well hidden behind the house.”
“She can leave it there for one hour,” conceded Mrs Garnett.
After steering the bicycle down the narrow passageway by the side of the house and into the courtyard, we went up to my room and had a cup of coffee.
With her height and loud voice, Eliza always seemed to make my lodgings feel smaller. She removed her hat and jacket, hanging them up on the hooks behind my door.
“It’s cold in here. Those coals have only just been lit, haven’t they? I take it you’re wearing that strange concoction of clothes to keep warm.”
She sat on the chair by my writing desk while I settled on my bed. Tiger miaowed at the window to be let in. When Eliza pulled up the sash, she crept in and then dashed beneath my bed.
