Kitty Peck and the Child of Ill-Fortune (13 page)

Lady Ginger’s sprawling signature curled across most of the bottom half of the sheet. If I brought the paper to my nose I could even smell her on it, her opium at least. The sour-sweet tang of incense laced with tar and vinegar made my hand tremble as I stood there at the end of Pearl Street holding the papers Telferman had given me.

Now they were in my bag. If I opened it the smell of the old cow coiled out like a genie from a bottle. I wasn’t scared of her, at least I didn’t think I was, but I’ll admit it, I was frightened of what she’d been. Sometimes late at night before I put on my gown I moved a candle to the dresser and I stared at myself in the mirror. That was when I wondered about the future.

I thought about the past at those times too. There were questions I wanted the answers to.

Rain was splintering down. It fell so hard it sounded like someone was pelting the roof of my umbrella with tin tacks. The fine day had turned into a dismal, blustery evening. I kicked out – the bottom of my dress was heavy with water and catching round my boots. I could smell mutton rising from the damp wool of it.

The lamps were coming on along Commercial Road as we went west. It was just after eight, but I wanted to talk things over with Lucca so I suggested a walk.

I was beginning to regret that now. This was no April shower.

‘You have written to Joseph?’ Lucca ducked a little so I could hear him under the canopy.

I nodded. ‘The letter went this afternoon. I wrote him everything that’s happened – about the dark-skinned kids – Rosa and poor Ada’s little one – and that business at the station and the man at The Gaudy. I said it was time for Da . . . his friend to make other arrangements.’

Point of fact I’d been sharp with Joey. He was still playing the old game, wasn’t he? Palming off a load of trouble onto the one person he knew he could rely on. He must have thought it was his lucky day when I turned up on his doorstep.

My
doorstep.

I tightened my grip on the ivory handle. ‘I told him straight – said it wasn’t right to put others in danger. I told him it had to end.’

‘Good.’ Lucca stepped sharply to the right as a shower of dirty water splattered from a broken gutter overhead, soaking into the sleeve of his coat. He brushed his shoulder and turned to look accusingly at the jagged pipe pumping out yellow fluid flecked with bits I didn’t like to think about.

‘
Merda!
’
He turned to look again and his eyes narrowed. He shook his head. ‘Then we must hope this David comes soon to take the trouble from our door.’

I didn’t tell Lucca that I’d put a short note in for David Lennox too, telling him his son was well cared for here in London, but that it was best if he came over to fetch him as soon as possible. I wanted to say that if things were to change there would always be a place for a fine ballad singer in my halls. I wrote that three-line note a dozen times in a dozen different ways, but it didn’t come out right so I left it simple.

I struggled to keep hold as the umbrella bucked in the wind. ‘I’ve told Tan Seng not to open up for anyone. Not until I’m back.’

Lucca nodded. ‘The man who called, did he give a name?’

‘All I know for sure is that he was foreign and from Tan Seng’s description he sounded like the man Peggy met in the churchyard later.’

Lucca clamped a hand to his crown as the wind caught the brim of his hat. ‘What else did Peggy say?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t press it. I didn’t want to frighten her.’

We walked on in silence for a moment or two before he spoke again. ‘If this man was also looking for Robbie, why didn’t he do anything in the churchyard?’

‘Peggy said there were other people close by – a young couple. Anyway, she came over all maternal and told him Robbie was hers.’ I paused, thinking about the question I needed to ask. I wasn’t rightly sure how to put it. I wiped my dripping nose with the back of my glove.

‘You heard from anyone in Paris, then?’

Lucca didn’t answer so I piped up again. ‘You were very friendly with . . . with that dancer?’

‘He is a musician, not a dancer. His name is Misha.’ He turned to look at me. ‘And no, I have not heard from him yet.’ Something guarded in his face made me choose my next words carefully.

‘I . . . I’m sure it’s nothing, just coincidence, but Peggy and Tan Seng said the man who called and the one later on in the churchyard had white hair. Peggy said he was a looker. Your Russian friend – he had—’

‘
Capelli biondi
.’ Lucca stopped in his tracks. ‘As do half of the Baltic sailors who put in at the docks – the Swedes, the Danes, the Norwegians – and yes, the Russians too. Are you saying that the man I . . . met in Paris is a child killer, Fannella?’

Lucca’s voice was low. Through the rain trickling off the brim of his hat I saw the muscles twitch under his good eye.

‘The man who called knew you by name, so I just . . . Like I said, it’s a coincidence—’

Lucca cut my blustering. ‘Because I
know
Misha would be incapable of harming anyone. And for that matter, why Misha? Why not any of the others from The Moika? They all have pale hair and speak with an accent. Perhaps you suspect every man I spoke to in Paris?’

‘But you have to see—’ I began.

Lucca raised his hands. ‘No more.’ He didn’t look direct at me, instead he stared over my shoulder. I guessed he didn’t want me prying too deeply into his private thoughts.

‘Come. We mustn’t keep your grandmother waiting.’ He buried his chin into the folds of the muffler and strode forward. I had to scurry to keep up with him. I glanced up at his face from under the umbrella. I was on his bad side. Raindrops glistened on the furrowed skin of his cheek.

No wonder he was angry, I thought. The first time he finds someone who cares for him I sinuate he might be a monster. There was something there, though. Surely it was more than a coincidence that a white-haired Slav – I was sure that was the accent Peggy had described – had come calling at my house? If it wasn’t Misha, then perhaps it was one of them others from the ballet – Ilya, Stefan or Akady – see, I remembered those names, despite the champagne.

And I remembered that Lucca’s friend was a musician called Misha too, but I didn’t like to let on.

We turned down into Lucas Street. From the corner of my eye I saw Lucca cross himself as we passed the big grey chapel to the right. It was one of his. He was always particular about Sundays, but since that business with the missing girls he’d become even more regular. Sometimes he took himself off to his Italian church up Covent Garden of a Friday.

He pulled his hat down lower as we passed a couple of lopsided sailor lads. In the narrow street the stench of gin rolled off them like steam from a wash tub. It wasn’t even late but they’d already taken a skinful on board. It was a wonder they could stand, let alone walk. One of them caught my arm and slurred out a sort of invitation, although I doubt the word ‘fuck’ appears in many manuals of etiquette. Lucca pulled me away and quickened his step. After a moment he turned to look back to make sure they’d got the message.

‘Always the finest places for The Lady,’ he muttered. Despite everything I smiled. Shadwell was the last place I’d expected to meet my grandmother again. She hadn’t gone far, had she? All this time she’d been sitting on my step like a spindly black spider still spinning her web.

I stepped aside to avoid a puddle of stinking brown muck spouting from a street drain. I had to hold my skirt up to stop it trailing in the foaming scum that bubbled across the cobbles. Lucca was right, this certainly wasn’t the finest corner of Paradise.

Apart from that tart remark about The Lady he hadn’t said a word since we talked about Misha. I needed to make peace with him.

‘I . . . I’m glad you came with me this evening. I couldn’t go alone.’ I paused and tried again. ‘She knew all about you. I think she liked you.’ When he didn’t answer I fought the wind to dip the umbrella to one side and looked up. He was scanning the dreary street behind us. There was only one gas lamp along here and that was thirty yards back.

‘They’ve gone now, Lucca. Anyway, I’ve got you to protect my honour.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not those two. There is someone behind us – someone who doesn’t want to be seen. I wasn’t sure at first, but now . . .’ He folded back the brim of his hat and peered into the wall of rain. ‘I think we were followed from Commercial Road. Look – there!’

He pointed. I turned and tipped back the umbrella to get a clearer view. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘
L’ombra –
the shadow there across the cobbles beyond the lamp. Someone is standing close to the entrance of an alleyway.’

‘People live here. It doesn’t mean there’s someone on our tail.’

‘Doesn’t it? Let’s go a little faster, Fannella.’ He took my hand and began to walk very quickly, dragging me along with him. At the same moment I heard footsteps tapping behind. Lucca picked up the pace and the steps came more rapid.

‘Run!’ He yanked my arm so hard I yelped. As the pair of us pelted towards the end of the street the heavy drumming sound of someone chasing us echoed off the narrow walls and I knew he was right. I scrabbled to hold my sodden skirt high and clear from my boots and dropped the umbrella. It clattered to the cobbles and blew away, the wind catching under the canopy. I heard it bumping across the stones behind us as we ran on.

At the corner we turned into Shadwell High Street.

It was lively here. People were dodging about trying to avoid the rain and there were others sheltering under the bulging striped shop awnings that had been left furled out. A timber cart rumbled past, splashing more mud up my skirt. A man carrying a tray of day’s-end cabbages on his head pushed between us knocking me sideways into the gutter where a stream of water and God knows what else ran over my boots.

Lucca pulled me into the crowd and out across the road. We disappeared behind a hack pulled up outside a tavern. He tapped the side and the driver leaned down to speak to him.

I watched Lucca press some coins into the driver’s hand and then he turned back to me and hustled me through the lamplit doorway of the tavern. The air inside was thick with the stench of liquor, smoke, wet clothes and sweat.

Keeping hold of my hand, Lucca forced a way to the frosted window letting out onto the street. ‘We’ll watch from here.’ He bent to peer through the parts of the glass where the tavern’s name, ‘The Hop Pole’, was picked out in gold letters set into small clear panes.

He rubbed a spy hole in the steamy glass and pulled me closer. I hunched forward to see out to the street. The hack was still there, but of a sudden the driver cracked his whip and shouted, ‘Right you are, sir, madam.’ He called so loud I heard him quite distinct. The horse whinnied and the hack jerked forward, bouncing over the glistening cobbles.

I nudged Lucca. ‘Well?’

He rubbed the glass and looked through the spy hole again.

‘There – do you see him, Fannella?’ I pressed my nose to the pane. A tall man in a long black coat stood just outside. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a muffler that covered most of his face. In his left hand he carried a long cane. He watched the hack as it rumbled away up Shadwell High Street. There was a flash of silver as something arced into the air beside him. A moment later he smashed the gleaming head of his cane into the palm of his right hand. He stood and stared along the street for a moment and then he started to walk fast in the direction the hack had taken. I cleared a wider circle and saw him break into a run.

‘Did you pay the cabbie to take off empty?’

Lucca nodded. ‘I hoped it would put him off – whoever it was.’

I peered out through the misted pane again. ‘Did you catch anything of his face?’

‘Nothing – you?’

I shook my head. ‘Do you think he’s gone, then?’

Lucca glanced at the bar where a stout, red-faced woman with arms like joints of gammon was leaning across to talk to a punter. Cushioned in her low-cut gown plaited with dun-coloured ribbon, the barmaid’s breasts looked like a couple of ostrich eggs jostling for space in a badly made nest.

His nose wrinkled. ‘We’ll wait here for ten minutes. We’re in good time.’ He nodded up at a fancy gold clock set in a wooden panel over the bar. It was twenty to nine.

As we turned off the Ratcliff into Cannon Street Road a bell went off in the tower. I’m no expert when it comes to buildings, not like Lucca anyway, but there was always something about St George’s that struck me as sinister. It didn’t look like a church, more like someone had been playing a game with a full-size version of one of them sets of building blocks you give to a child – Joey had one, I recall. Nanny Peck only let us break it out of its wooden box and over the rug in front of the fire on Sunday afternoons.

I looked up. All I could make out in the dark was the great black shape of the church over to the right, a jumble of sharp points and turrets – no lights in any of the windows. I wasn’t surprised at that. Who’d want to be shut in there for the night?

Mind you, it was typical of my grandmother, I thought, to choose somewhere so grimly theatrical for a meeting. No doubt she’d arranged it to appear like Old Nick himself in a sudden flare of torchlight on the steps. She was going to give a pantomime performance, was she? Well, I was ready for her.

It was still pelting down. I bent forward to keep the rain out my eyes and saw the poor sodden ghost of a feather from my bonnet dangle limp in front of my face. I clutched my bag to my chest as we followed the line of the wall towards the entrance to the churchyard.

We turned at the gate and Lucca’s hand tightened on my arm. I looked up.

There was a carriage drawn up ahead alongside the double set of curved steps leading into the church. It was lacquer black – neat with glowing lamps, two horses in the traces and a hunched figure up top. One of the horses turned to look at us. It tossed its head and skittered about on the stones.

The huddled driver leaned down to rap on the side.

Immediately the door opened. A narrow set of steps clattered down and a figure in a long dark gown stepped out. The old Chinaman bowed and motioned to the carriage. Of an instant I was minded of the time just before my first night up in the cage when The Lady had taken the trouble to visit me and remind me of my duties. Fitzy had to carry me across the yard at the back of The Gaudy because my slippers wouldn’t take the snow, and then he’d delivered me through the door of this same carriage, practically into her lap.

I took a sharp breath. ‘Lady Ginger might well want to speak to me, but I’ve got a few things I want to ask her as well. Come on then, Lucca.’

We walked towards the carriage, but as we came close the Chinaman stepped forward to bar our way. He drew a hand from a baggy sleeve, pointed at Lucca and shook his head.

I gripped Lucca’s hand. ‘Surely she can’t mean to leave you out here in this! She knows I wouldn’t have come here without you.’ I raised my voice to be sure she’d hear.

He turned the brim of his hat lower against the rain.

‘Of course, but it’s you The Lady wants to speak to, Fannella, not me.’ Lucca glanced up at the brooding bulk of the church. ‘I will wait under the porch. At least it’s dry there.’ He squeezed my hand, released it and loped up the steps. At the top he saluted before dipping into the shadow.

The old Chinaman watched him go and then he bowed again. Now he shuffled aside to let me climb into the carriage. I couldn’t see inside, the curtains were drawn at the narrow windows and the door was only half open. But I could smell her.

I held the bag close to my chest and reached for the gilt handle beside the door. The carriage rocked about as I climbed the steps and dipped my head. The opium came strongly now as I pushed the door.

Firm hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me roughly inside. Something cold was clapped across my face. I struggled and tried to shout, but the cloth smothered my nose and mouth. I could feel bony fingers pressing it tight. There was another scent now – a sickly sweetness with an undertow of the cleaning stuff I’d used with Lok.

I tried not to breathe, but the hand clamped down harder. At the same moment I was hauled deeper and pushed down into the seat. It was black as a cassock inside the carriage. I twisted round trying to make some sense of what was happening, but I couldn’t see anything clear – just shapes and shadows. Someone pinned my arms to my sides and another person forced me forward so that my forehead would have touched my knees if it hadn’t been for the hand in between. Through the soaked rag, the fingers felt like a mask stiffened across my face.

My tongue began to burn and my nostrils stung. The last thing I heard before I went was the rattle of my bag as it tumbled to the carriage floor.

When I opened my eyes it was almost light. An arch of palest purple showed where a thin curtain had been drawn across a window a few yards away. My head was throbbing as if someone was standing over me twisting a fork into my right temple.

I screwed my eyes down tight and opened them again. The room was square with a large brick fireplace over to the right. The remains of a log still glowed in the hearth, filling the air with the rich scent of burning cherry wood. It would almost have been a comfort if I had the first idea where I was.

I was stretched out on my left side, my right hand resting on some thick, rough material. I could feel the embroidered pattern of it under my fingertips. I followed the line of the looped flower with the pad of my index finger and stared at the window.

I couldn’t remember how I got here. The last thing I could bring clear to mind was Lucca standing at the top of St George’s steps. He raised his hand, waved and then . . .

And then what?

I shifted about to see more clearly. I was fully clothed and lying on top of a narrow bed with a sort of canopy overhead. The folds of material above me were pleated into a tent-like affair fringed with tassels. Beyond the canopy I could see a ceiling supported by three broad wooden beams.

The bed creaked as I pulled myself into a sitting position and the tassels up top began to sway. Immediately my stomach turned itself inside out. I tried to swallow the bitterness that bubbled up into my throat, but it was no good. Someone had set a china bowl on the nightstand next to the bed. I took it quickly into my lap and bent forward, spattering clear liquid across the delicate painted flowers.

A minute later it came again, but after that second bout the cramping settled. I set the bowl back on the nightstand, pulled up my knees and stared at the panelled room around me, taking more of it in now in the thin light. There was a padded chair next to the fire and my bag and bonnet were on it, the ribbons of the bonnet had been laid flat over the arm so that the fire could dry them. My feet were bare – someone had removed my stockings and they were now hanging from the mantle. I saw that my boots had also been set neatly next to the hearth.

Something like this had happened before. I thought of that time I woke in my bed at Mother Maxwell’s to find James Verdin curled up next to me. He was naked, point of fact we both were – my clothes were flung around the room like a bomb had gone off in a laundry. It wasn’t a thought I liked to dwell on. I pulled at the stiff hem of my skirt, rifling through the cotton petticoats to check my unders. I was wearing my drawers. Apart from the stockings and boots I was still buttoned up tight.

Over to the left there was a door. I slipped from the bed, freezing up like one of them museum statues Lucca likes to draw as the old boards beneath my feet betrayed me. It didn’t seem to matter where I stood, they groaned as if an elephant was tramping about on them. I made my way over quiet as I could and tried the handle, turning it gently so as not to make any more of a racket, but it was locked.

My hair had come loose somewhere along the way. I pushed it back and knotted it tight at my neck. My head was still bad, but it was more of an ache now rather than the stabbing pain I’d woken to. A memory swam into my mind and I tried to net it before it vanished into the depths again.

Darkness – a carriage?

I frowned, leaned back on the door and stared at the unfamiliar room. And then, of a sudden, it all came back. The Chinaman, the hand over my face, the drug-soaked cloth.

Where the bleedin’ hell was I?

I walked over to pull back the curtain. A dew-soaked garden several floors below was silver green in the early light. Rows of hedges romped off across a well-tended lawn towards a bank of trees. Some of the hedges had been clipped into shapes. There were balls, pyramids and great lumpen things that put me in mind of a herd of animals standing guard.

I could hear gulls making a racket, but that didn’t mean much. You get them on the river and they follow the carts round Billingsgate, yowling and diving on the boxes like cats with wings.

I pressed my forehead against the glass, my breath misting the latticed pane. I rubbed it clear and caught sight of a lead pipe running down beside the window. I could climb down and sprint across the grass and into the trees and then keep going.

I listened for a moment. Except for the ticking of a clock set on a chest against the wall there wasn’t a sign of life. I tested the window, quietly at first so as not to draw attention, but after a moment I was scrabbling at the lattice work and rattling the curled iron handles.

It was no good. Like the door, it was locked. I was a prisoner.

I went over to the fireplace and took my bag from the chair. I snapped it open. The letters were still inside along with my purse – and David Lennox’s broidered ’kerchief.

None of this was making sense. Was this where The Lady was waiting for me or had I been drugged and taken to someone else? I thought about that night at The Gaudy and brought my hand up to my ear. There was still a crust of blood where the dangling jewel, a ball of faceted green glass, had been ripped away.

I glanced up at a painting over the hearth as if I might find an answer there. A young couple sat together on a bench in a landscape full of sheep. The man looked very pleased with himself and his livestock. His hat was set at a jaunty angle and his hand rested in a lazy, proprietorial manner on the shoulder of the girl with him.

If I was the fanciful type I might have said that she had the look of Ma about her. She was dainty and fair with large dark eyes that seemed almost too large for her small pointed face. Her stockinged feet, encased in prettily ribboned shoes, poked out from under a bell-shaped skirt. They weren’t the kind of shoes a girl could walk far in.

I moved my bonnet, reached for my own stockings and sat down heavily in the chair to put them on. If I was going to make a run for it at some point I would need my boots.

The clock on the chest cleared its throat and began to chime.

On the sixth and final stroke there was a jangling sound as someone unlocked the door. It swung open and the old Chinaman who’d come with the carriage last night shuffled into the room. He bowed once and gestured to the door. He coughed and dabbed his mouth on his sleeve, before speaking.

‘The Lady will see you now.’