Kitty Peck and the Music Hall Murders

For my husband Stephen, and my mum, Sheila.

On the day of my mother’s funeral Joey had to break the ice in the basin before I could wash my face. And then he had to comb my hair, button me into my one good dress, tie the laces on my boots and force my rigid fingers into Nanny Peck’s old woollen gloves.

My brother had to do a lot for me in them days. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk and I couldn’t even think. After the funeral I just sat on my bed for days staring at a patch of mould on the wall. I was twelve years old.

Nanny Peck had gone the summer before and I reckon that’s when Ma gave up. She’d never been strong, but after we buried the old girl, Ma became hollow. First the laughter stopped, then the singing, then the stories and then everything. I don’t think I heard my mother make a sound in the month before she died.

Eliza Peck was locked up in there somewhere, but we couldn’t find her.

I suppose that’s why Joey was so worried about me and why he took me with him to The Gaudy. You might think that the halls are the very last place where you’d want your little sister to find work, but he knew I’d be kept busy there.

I thought about that patch of mould on the bedroom wall that first day. It put me in mind of the constellation of little black moles scattered over the eyelid and right cheek of Swami Jonah. The old magician terrified me when we was introduced, though the truth of the matter is that the most exotic thing about Swami Jonah was the broad Liverpool he spoke when he wasn’t on stage.

But that’s the way of it, you see, nothing in the halls is ever what it seems – you learn that fast enough, or you should do.

I can see quite clearly now that I didn’t always pay attention, but I was busy building a new family – of sorts – for myself. I discovered back then that the difference between me and Ma was that I’m very good at closing doors in my head and keeping them locked. I still had Joey and soon there were others too – all of us bobbing around in Paradise on the banks of the Thames.

It must have been a hard thing for a lad like Joey to take the place of mother, father –
everyone. My handsome, golden brother gave out that he was cock of the walk, but he was just a boy himself at the time, fifteen, and suddenly responsible for two lives. No wonder it all went so wrong and why it’s me, not him, who’s sitting here now.

But that’s the ending of it, or at least the ending of a part of it. This is the beginning . . .

Lady Ginger’s fingers were black. From the flaking tips of her long, curling nails to the crinkled skin just visible beneath the clacking jumble of rings, her hands were stained like a coal boy’s.

Not that she’d sully her fingers with anything as menial as a scuttle, you understand. Oh no, Lady Ginger was too grand for that.

She lifted the pipe to her lips again and sucked noisily, all the while watching me with those hooded eyes.

The room was dark and the air smelt like Mrs Conway’s special paint box at The Gaudy.

Tell truth, it always makes me feel a bit noxious when I clean up Mrs Conway’s dressing table after a show. That ‘lucky’ cologne she uses honks like a fox in a ’fessional. That’s what Lucca says, and he’s from Italy where the Romans are, so he ought to know.

Anyhow, I just stood there fiddling with the frayed cuffs of my best frock, waiting for Lady Ginger to say something.

After a moment she inhaled deeply, took the pipe out of her mouth, closed her eyes and leaned back into the pile of embroidered cushions that passed for furniture. The bangles on her skinny yellow arms jingled as she settled into the nest of silk.

I didn’t know what to do. I looked over at the man standing guard in front of the door, but he didn’t make a move, just kept staring at the bird cage hanging up by the shuttered window.

I took a couple of steps forward and cleared my throat. If the old woman had fallen asleep, perhaps I could wake her up?

Nothing.

Now I was a bit closer I could see her tarry lips – the fine lines etched around her tiny mouth were black too. It looked like she’d swallowed a spider and it was trying to get out again.

Opium’s a horrible thing. Ma always said it was smoke from the Devil’s nostrils and that it could coil you tighter than a hangman’s noose. Not that Joey had taken any notice of her.

I coughed loudly, but still the old lady didn’t budge. I was beginning to think that she might be dead when the parrot went off.

‘Pretty girl, pretty girl . . .’

Lady Ginger’s eyes snapped open and she grinned up at me – her mouth all wet and dark. No teeth, as far as I could see.

‘You are seldom wrong, Jacobin. She’s a pretty piece indeed.’

I was amazed.

Lady Ginger’s voice was a hundred years younger than the rest of her. All high and fluttery like a girl’s. And posh too – very cultured it was. I’d never been near enough to hear her before. Down at the docks when she visits with her lascar boys there’s always been too much bumping and shouting to hear what she’s saying to them – and, anyway, I’ve kept a distance since Joey went. When she comes to The Gaudy – not often, mind – she’s got her special curtained box near the stage with its own staircase and door to the side alley, so we never see her arrive or leave and we never see who’s with her, neither. It’s best not to ask too many questions in Paradise.

‘So, you are Kitty Peck?’

Lady Ginger shifted on her pile of cushions and pulled herself up into a sitting position. The loose gown she wore swamped her scrawny frame as she adjusted her legs and crossed them. Her feet were bare and now I saw she even had rings on her gnarly toes.

She reached for her long pipe and began to suck again, all the while staring up at me.

Then she spoke in that odd little voice.

‘I had dealings with your brother, Joseph, wasn’t it? Fair like you, and handsome with it. Now what became of him, I wonder?’

I didn’t answer. We both knew what had happened to Joey, even though his body never come ashore.

‘Cat got your tongue, Kitty Peck?’ Her eyes narrowed and she smiled. Then she reached for an ebony writing box next to the cushion pile, the bangles on her arms clacking and jangling as she hauled it onto her lap. Opening the lid so that I couldn’t see inside, she began to rummage.

‘Well, I can’t say I blame you for not wanting to talk about him. A bad business, that was.’

My belly boiled and I had to fight the urge to say something I’d regret.

‘Joey’s been . . . gone for two years now, and I miss him every day.’

‘Do you now? Miss a murderer? What a loyal little sister you are, Kitty Peck.’

Murderer?

He’d worked for The Lady, right enough – and everyone in Paradise knew what that meant – but Joey wasn’t no murderer. He couldn’t even put a half-dead bird chewed up by a cat out of its misery. He’d left that sort of thing to me.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Lady Ginger grinned wider, her eyes glinting in the thin candlelight.

I could see her more clearly now. It was the closest I’d ever been to the woman who put the fear into half of London, and as I stood there I realised with a shock that she was a faker.

All this time I’d thought she was a Chinawoman, but that plait, those fingernails, those clothes, those jewels – they were just a costume. Lady Ginger was as English as I was.

‘Still, loyalty is a quality I value,’ she continued, producing a green leather case no bigger than a matchbox from the depths of the writing box. She flicked open the shagreen lid with one of her long black fingernails and shook three tiny red dice into the palm of her hand.

‘Do you know what these are, Miss Peck?’

I shook my head.

‘They are the future.’ She raised her open palm so that I could see the dice more clearly. Now I looked, these wasn’t like the dice played by men at the back of The Gaudy. Instead of the usual dots, the faces were covered with golden patterns.

Lady Ginger closed her fingers and shook her fist. I could hear the dice clicking against her rings.

Then she spat three times on the wooden floorboards next to her cushions and dropped the dice into the triangle formed by the glistening blobs of black saliva.

She stared down for a moment and then she began to chuckle. ‘Come closer, Kitty Peck, and tell me what you see.’

Now, she’s not a woman to cross. For all I wanted to back out of that stinking room, skiddle down the winding stairs and get as far away from Lady Ginger’s Palace as possible, I didn’t want to rile her. So I bent down and looked at the dice – all three showed the same pattern.

I reached forward to take up the nearest one, but – quick as a limelight flare – she lashed out, scratching my wrist with one of them curled nails.

‘No one touches the dice but me. However, I will allow you to read them. What do you see?’

I rubbed my wrist and cleared my throat. ‘Nothing, Lady. Not numbers leastways.’

I stared hard at the golden swirling shape repeated on the top of the three red cubes and realised that the pattern had a head and what looked like wings.

‘It might be a dragon?’ I ventured.

Lady Ginger swept up the dice and poured them back into the green case. Then she stared at me.

‘You show promise, Miss Peck. Very few people are able to read the I-ching by intuition alone. It seems I have chosen well. And the dice confirmed that – although three dragons warn of an element of
risk
.’

She reached for her pipe and sucked noisily again until the little carved bowl at the end began to glow and a thin trail of sickly sweet smoke coiled up into the air. All the while she looked at me and I was reminded of Mr Fitzpatrick at The Gaudy when he’s assessing a new girl for the chorus.

As it turned out, I wasn’t far wrong about that.

‘How old are you, Kitty Peck?’

‘Seventeen, nearly eighteen.’

‘And what do I pay you for at The Gaudy, exactly?’

‘I work backstage, Lady. I clean up, I help with the costumes and I assist the performers, ’specially Mrs Conway, between her pieces.’

At this Lady Ginger seemed to choke on her pipe, but then I saw she was laughing. ‘Old Lally still at it, is she? I must talk to Fitzpatrick about that. It’s high time we put her out to grass. I’ll not pay for stringy meat and nor will anyone else.’

I shifted uncomfortable like. Everyone knew that Mrs Conway and Fitzpatrick had a special arrangement and I certainly didn’t want to be the cause of any trouble on that account.

‘Mrs Conway is a very popular turn,’ I said. ‘There are Johnnies waiting for her outside every evening.’

Lady Ginger smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly look. ‘As I noted, so very loyal, Miss Peck. Show me your legs.’

Next thing I know, she’s reaching across and poking at my skirt with her pipe. I had to hold it up for fear of becoming incendiary. I didn’t want to be a second Lucca.

So, there I was standing with my skirts pulled up to my knees and Lady Ginger staring. I felt my cheeks blush as red as the rouge in Mrs Conway’s paint box and I looked over at the man by the door. He appeared to have his eyes closed, so at least that was something.

‘Very elegant,’ Lady Ginger said. ‘Can you dance?’

‘I’m not sure. I dance for the fun of it, but not like the Gaudy girls, if that’s what you mean?’

Lady Ginger nodded. ‘Fitzpatrick tells me you have a voice. Drop your skirts now.’

It was true I loved to sing. Whether I was sewing costumes up in the little room at the back of the stage or clearing glasses and unmentionables from the hall and the boxes, I couldn’t work in silence. Sometimes Lucca calls me Fannella – which, apparently, means linnet in Italian, though I don’t like to be compared to one of those sad little brown birds kept in cages.

‘Do you have a head for heights?’

Well, that flummoxed me. I’d never really thought about it, but then I remembered the time me and Peggy Worrow was sent up the rope gantry at The Gaudy to drop paper petals over Mrs Conway as she sang about lilacs and bluebells – all got up like a shepherdess she was. Peggy went whiter than a cod fillet and had to be helped down again by three of the hands, while I’d stayed up there for the view.

So I nodded. ‘Yes, Lady – I think I must have.’

‘Well, Kitty Peck, I have made my decision.’

Lady Ginger laid down her pipe and reached to the back of her neck for her plait. She pulled the thick grey snake over her right shoulder and began to twist it. For the second time that afternoon I was struck by her peculiar girlishness – not just the voice, but her mannerisms too. They wasn’t what you’d expect of an old woman.

‘Your brother was a sharp lad. Some might say too sharp for his own good. I wonder if you are as intelligent?’

I knew that wasn’t possible. Joey had been the cleverest person I’d ever known. He’d had all his letters before he was six and he taught me to read too. He had Ma’s way about him when it came to a story – he’d start to speak and everyone in the room, whether it was a stand-up gin house down by Pennington Street or backstage at The Gaudy after a show, would gather round and listen. I’d watch the looks on their faces, proud to have a brother who could charm words out of the air like Swami Jonah could magic cards from his empty hands.

Joey knew about every country in the world and what’s more he could pick up a foreigner’s way of talking as fast as most men could pick a brawl. And it wasn’t just words neither, he had a head for business. He must have done, because after Ma went he’d made sure we wanted for nothing. He was out working all hours and sometimes he’d bring me back a gift – perhaps a ribbon, some lace – pretty things for a girl to treasure.

Lady Ginger was wrong, my brother had been a wonder. There was no one who could touch him.

I looked down at the floorboards and wrinkled up the material of my skirt in my left hand. I didn’t want her to see my eyes.

‘Fitzpatrick tells me you are a bright little puss. He tells me you have . . .
potential
.’

She stopped twiddling her plait and reached out to her writing box again. The candlelight in the room caught the moony glow of the mother of pearl pattern on its ebony lid. I still couldn’t see what was inside, but I heard her fingernails scrabble and the bangles clatter.

Eventually she took out a small leather pouch and then passed it from hand to hand as if weighing its contents.

‘Clary Simmons. Esther Dixon. Sally Ford. Alice Caxton.’

She said the names slowly, clearly and distinctly each time she weighed the pouch, and I shuddered. Everyone in Paradise knew those girls.

Clary had worked the chorus at The Comet, Esther and Sally were dancers at The Carnival and little Alice had done general duties at The Gaudy. All four of them worked at music halls owned by Lady Ginger and all four had gone missing.

Now, you might think that’s not unusual for a theatre girl, and sometimes you’d be right, but not with these. Esther had a baby and Sally looked after her old dad who was crippled after an accident down the docks broke his back. Neither of them would leave Paradise of their own accord.

And then there was Alice. Both her parents had been taken by the diphtheria last winter, leaving her an orphan at twelve like I was when Ma died. But Alice didn’t have a brother, just me and Peggy at The Gaudy.

We did our best – I’d got her a room at my lodgings so I could keep an eye on her, and Peggy, who was what you’d call a natural maternal type even though she was just a year older than me, was always finding her warm things from the back of Mrs Conway’s closet.

Alice needed us, but we was glad to help. Skinny as a new-born chick she was, with round glass-green eyes and a plait of dull hair wound about on the top of her head so it looked like a mouse sitting up there. She worked hard, but even though she often did the rounds as a tray girl, dodging between tables full of drunken gents at The Gaudy, she wasn’t the sort to draw attention, if you get my meaning. Tell truth, I doubt that a man would have looked twice at her bony little body.

She’d gone missing three weeks or so back now and it didn’t make sense.

Alice had no one except me and Peggy – and Lucca who took her to his church on Sundays. If she’d gone away somewhere she would have taken her things with her, but her room – two floors down from mine – was exactly as she’d left it that night of her last shift.

It was the smallest room at Mother Maxwell’s, more like a cupboard really, but that’s all Alice could afford.

Ten of us lived there in all, all of us girls, and all of us clean and decent – Mother Maxwell was most particular about her boarders. That is to say, most particular about boarders who could pay up weekly. When Alice didn’t come back the old codwife made me go through her room for pennies, but there was nothing there except a Bible and her clothes. A thick brown skirt Peggy had taken for her was laid out on the bed with half its hem taken up and another yard still to go. The needle and cotton was on the wash stand.