The Tumbling Girl E-Book

Bridget Walsh

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Variety Palace Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 447

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

WINNER OF THE HWA DEBUT CROWN AWARD SHORTLISTED FOR THE CWA JOHN CREASEY DAGGER AWARD 'Delicious dark and compelling' Essie Fox, author of The Fascination 'A wry, warm and proper rib-tickling slice of dirty Victorian gothic' Julia Crouch, author of The Daughters 'Neatly weds historical detail and quiet wit' Sunday Times 1876, Victorian London. The feisty Minnie Ward is scraping a living as a scriptwriter for the Variety Palace Music Hall when the body of her best friend is found in a dingy riverside archway. Minnie is convinced she was murdered and teams up with dashing private detective Albert Easterbrook to find justice. Together they navigate the streets of London, from high-class gentlemen's clubs to shady drinking dens. But as the bodies pile up, they must rely on one another if they're going to track down the killer-and make it out alive . . .

Leseprobe

‘A narrative that neatly weds historical detail and quiet wit’ Sunday Times

‘Walsh does a splendid job depicting Minnie’s flea-bitten yet appealing theatrical world and Albert’s monied yet treacherous milieu’ Wall Street Journal

‘Walsh’s diligent research pays off in spades here, and her rich and nuanced portrayal of the period will leave readers feeling like they’re on the soggy streets of London. Imogen Robertson readers will be eager for a sequel to this un-put-downable mystery’ Publishers Weekly (starred review)

‘A sparkling novel and a complete delight to read. The characters and world are wild, vivid and enchanting. A wry, warm and proper rib-tickling slice of dirty Victorian gothic … I can’t wait to see what Minnie and Albert are up to next’ Julia Crouch, author of The Daughters

‘Beautifully evocative, deftly plotted and with engaging characters, it was a page-turner from beginning to end’ Sheila O’Flanagan, author of What Eden Did Next

‘Brilliant … Beautifully written … keeps you guessing till the end’ A. J. West, author of The Spirit Engineer

‘Minnie Ward is a woman you want to follow through all the wicked twists and turns of Victorian London. It had me on the edge of my seat until the final page’ SJ Bennett, author of Murder Most Royal

‘The Tumbling Girl is gripping, dark and thrilling and takes the reader on a rollercoaster journey from music hall to gentleman’s club and back again; all in the company of two engaging protagonists’ W. C. Ryan, author of A House of Ghosts

‘I absolutely loved The Tumbling Girl. Bridget Walsh is a fresh and fabulous new voice in historical crime fiction’ Elizabeth Chadwick, author of The Summer Queen

‘One of the most engaging double acts I’ve read in ages. Delightful, dark and depraved’ Trevor Wood, author of The Man on the Street

‘Walsh’s thrilling debut melds authentic, believable characters with a perfectly executed plot set against the backdrop of a finely drawn Victorian London’ Mark Wightman, author of Waking the Tiger

‘Smart, funny and expertly plotted, The Tumbling Girl cartwheels off the page . . . A cracking start to a charismatic and distinctive series’ Emma Styles, author of No Country for Girls

‘A racy and thrilling ride that doesn’t let up till the last sentence. Superbly done’ Femi Kayode, author of Lightseekers

‘An accomplished crime murder mystery, with an addictively gritty plot and truly remarkable cast of characters … deliciously dark and compelling’ Essie Fox, author of The Somnambulist

‘Walsh resurrects the culture and crimes of Victoriana without cliché or condescension, but with warmth, wit, remarkable texture and rare authority’ Tom Benn, author of Oxblood

For Mum and Dad

It was like meeting again a dearest friend whom one has loved for long years, and missed in silence

Stella GibbonsCold Comfort Farm

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONEPIGRAPHONETHE FIRST STANHOPETWOTHE SECOND STANHOPETHREEFOURFIVESIXTHE THIRD STANHOPESEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENTHE FOURTH STANHOPESEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONETWENTY-TWOTWENTY-THREETHE FIFTH STANHOPETWENTY-FOURTWENTY-FIVETWENTY-SIXTWENTY-SEVENTWENTY-EIGHTTWENTY-NINETHIRTYTHIRTY-ONETHIRTY-TWOTHIRTY-THREETHIRTY-FOURTHE SIXTH STANHOPETHIRTY-FIVETHE SEVENTH STANHOPEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSALSO AVAILABLE FROM PUSHKIN VERTIGOABOUT THE AUTHORALSO AVAILABLE IN THE VARIETY PALACE MYSTERIESCOPYRIGHT

ONE

Minnie Ward wrapped the towel more securely round her hand and took a firm hold of the knife. With one deft movement, she inserted the blade into the hinge of the oyster, twisted it and, with a satisfying pop, prised open the shell. Oysters and beer. Perfect.

A tall young woman in a gentleman’s evening suit, complete with bow tie and top hat, leaned over Minnie’s shoulder, scrutinising her face in the dressing-room mirror. ‘Do you have to do that in here, Min?’ she asked, tucking a few strands of dark hair under her hat. ‘When I’m getting ready, and all? The smell don’t half hang around.’

‘Last one, Cora, I promise,’ Minnie said, sliding the blade around the edge of the oyster to disconnect the muscle. Then she tipped the meat and liquor into her mouth and drained her beer glass, before smiling broadly at Cora. ‘It’s like picking a lock, ain’t it? That lovely little jiggle and you know you’ve got it.’

‘How do you know about picking locks? Or shouldn’t I ask?’ Cora said.

‘Three months as a magician’s assistant,’ Minnie said. ‘Long time ago. I weren’t bad, neither. But me and the doves didn’t exactly hit it off. It got messy.’

Further down the corridor of the Variety Palace Music 14Hall, bursts of laughter and conversation flared out as other dressing-room doors opened and then slammed shut. An operatic soprano struggled her way up and down a scale, occasionally finding one of the notes.

Minnie winced.

‘Pick a key, Selina,’ she murmured, ‘any key.’

‘Wouldn’t make no difference,’ Cora said. ‘She’d still sound like a cat pissing in a tin.’

Pushing the door closed with her foot, she nudged Minnie onto another seat and positioned herself in front of the mirrors. She finished applying her make-up, her tongue peeping out from between her lips with concentration. When she was done, she pushed a copy of the IllustratedLondon Newsover to Minnie, past the pots of greasepaint, other stage make-up and dirty rags littering the table.

‘Here,’ Cora said, ‘what d’you reckon?’

Minnie glanced at the newspaper headline speculating on the identity of the Hairpin Killer, a murderer who had been plucking victims from the streets around Covent Garden and Soho for the past ten years.

‘No, not that,’ Cora said impatiently, tapping her finger on an article further down the page. ‘This fella. Wouldn’t mind him investigating me.’

Minnie glanced at the pencil sketch. A man of about thirty, she reckoned, wearing an evening suit and monocle. The headline blazoned ‘Albert Easterbrook: Champion of the Labouring Classes’. She scanned the article. A gentleman detective whose mission was to ‘help those who cannot help themselves’ had tracked down a pickpocket targeting the elderly and infirm in Bermondsey. The pickpocket was also sketched for the reader, a grisly-looking individual closer to a bear than a man. 15

Minnie snorted. In her experience, the ‘labouring classes’ were well able to take care of themselves without the help of any toff.

‘Not your type?’ Cora asked, wincing at herself in the mirrors and adding a touch more rouge to her cheeks. ‘They never are, are they, Min? Pickiness won’t win any prizes, my girl.’

‘I ain’t after any prizes, thank you very much. Although I do wonder what he does with the monocle when … you know,’ Minnie said.

Cora lifted one quizzical eyebrow. ‘You, Miss Ward, are a very saucy girl, and not the kind of young lady a “Champion of the Labouring Classes” would want to be courting. Me, on the other hand—’

Minnie pushed the paper to one side and eyed the ha’penny bun on the table in front of her. Cora followed her gaze and smiled. Every Saturday Minnie bought herself a cake, a treat for when she got home. Most Saturdays the cake had been demolished long before she left the Palace.

‘Here, Miss Monroe,’ Minnie said, adopting an aristocratic tone and mournfully handing over the cake, ‘remove this delicious confection from my sight.’

Cora placed the cake in a drawer and locked it, throwing the key in amongst the pots and bottles littering the table in front of her.

‘Hardly seems worth it, Min,’ she said. ‘You’ll be out of here in a few minutes, won’t you?’

‘Should be.’

Then, as if her anticipation of leaving the music hall had put the kibosh on the whole idea, she heard her name being called. The voice drew closer, loud enough now that it set the 16jars on the table rattling. Without even the briefest of knocks, the dressing-room door burst open. A diminutive man – no one dared call him short, not to his face at least – sporting a brown velvet suit and an elaborate set of whiskers stood in the doorway. Mr Edward Tansford, owner of the Variety Palace. Known to everyone as Tansie.

‘Where is she?’ Tansie bellowed. ‘I’m running a music hall not a bloody free and easy. She’s late and I’ve got no one to fill her slot.’

‘If you’re looking for a mind reader you’ve come to the wrong door,’ Minnie said. ‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Rose. She’s on the missing list.’ Tansie turned to Cora and shouted, ‘You seen her?’

Cora shook her head and made a show of completing her already finished make-up.

Minnie frowned. ‘That’s not like Rose.’

Rose Watkins was a regular performer at the Variety Palace. A tightrope walker and acrobat, billed as the Angel of the Air.

‘Well, it’s like her tonight,’ Tansie said.

‘Have you asked Billy?’

‘Can’t find him neither. He’s meant to be on the doors in thirty minutes, and he’s nowhere.’

‘Checked the bar?’ Minnie asked.

‘No, I haven’t checked the bar. I’m the bleedin’ proprietor of this establishment, Minnie, not some backstage runner.’

‘I could have a look?’ Minnie offered.

‘Yes, you could, couldn’t you? Quick smart.’

Minnie bridled. ‘I think the phrase you’re looking for is, “Thank you so much for offering to help me, Minnie, when I know you were due out of here ten minutes ago.”’ 17

‘Just find her, Min,’ Tansie growled.

Minnie left the dressing room, navigating her way through the poky backstage corridors. Cigar smoke caught in her throat, its dusty odour always reminding her of burnt coffee. Mingled with the smell of greasepaint and cheap perfume, it felt familiar and safe.

Passing one of the dressing rooms, she heard breaking crockery, followed by quiet sobbing. She glanced at the cards pinned on the door, one of which said ‘Betty Gilbert, Plate Spinner’. Minnie didn’t know her. Must be her first night and, clearly, rehearsals weren’t going to plan. Minnie made a mental note to check on her after she’d spoken to Billy and wondered if she’d ever get home in time for supper.

She came out onto the stage. A tall plant stand, topped with a large aspidistra desperately in need of a drink, was positioned to one side. It was Tansie’s idea of a sophisticated accompaniment to Madame Selina, the unfortunate soprano. Facing the row of unlit footlights, Minnie was reminded for a moment of her days as a performer, the hungry eyes trained on her, eager to be entertained. Her stomach turned, and she dashed off the stage.

The lamplighters were at work. Hundreds of gas burners around the auditorium were being coaxed into life. The candles in the chandeliers were already lit and offered enough light for Minnie to see her way. She weaved through the groups of tables towards the promenade at the front of the auditorium. There were four doors tucked behind the mahogany bar that stretched along the front wall. Minnie tried the first two with no luck, before opening the third to find Billy Walker lolling on a gilt-wood couch upholstered in a vivid shade of pink. 18

Billy leapt up as the door opened, almost dropping his pipe. Seeing Minnie, he relaxed back onto the sofa. He was tall, well-built, as a chucker-out needed to be. Tansie made a lot of noise about keeping a respectable house, and men like Billy dealt with the more unsavoury characters. Leaning back, pipe in hand, he made an impressive sight, with his dark hooded eyes and biceps the size of a man’s thigh. But Minnie knew Billy Walker’s type all too well, and was unimpressed by his charms. She had tried warning Rose when he’d first started sniffing around.

‘But he’s so lovely to look at, Min,’ Rose had said. ‘Those eyes! And his arms!’

Yes, and those fists, Minnie had thought.

‘Well, ain’t you quite the don,’ Minnie said, pushing Billy’s feet off and perching on the end of the couch. ‘Wait until Tansie catches you in here, Billy. You’ll be for it.’

Billy shrugged, tamped down the tobacco and carried on smoking.

‘I mean it, Bill. Tansie spent a small fortune doing up these snuggeries.’

‘Yeah, and for what?’ Billy asked. ‘For gentlemen to entertain their lady friends? Toffs and their dollymops, more like. Having a quiet smoke in here’s nothing compared to what’ll go on later tonight.’

‘Look, I ain’t here to have a go. Rose is on the missing list. You seen her?’

Billy shook his head. ‘Not since this morning. I went round her house just before midday, but she was on her way out. Wouldn’t say where.’

Minnie thought for a moment. ‘What was she wearing?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ 19

‘Might give us a clue where she was going.’

‘I dunno.’ Billy shrugged. ‘Clothes. She was wearing them shoes.’

‘The new ones?’

‘Yeah, the new ones. She must think me a proper muff. She got a right collar on, telling me it was none of my business what she did with her time. Let’s just say we had an exchange of language, and I ain’t seen her since.’

Rose and Billy had been courting for six months, and arguing for half a year. Everyone at the Palace had grown used to hearing them row, but their most recent one had been the worst. Billy had found an expensive pair of cream silk shoes, embroidered with tiny red roses, in the dressing room Rose shared with two other girls. They would have cost several weeks’ wages, and Rose wouldn’t reveal how she’d come by the money. Billy had jumped to the obvious conclusion, and Minnie couldn’t say she blamed him.

‘And you’ve got no idea where she might be?’ Minnie asked. ‘Don’t sell me a dog, Billy. If you know where she is, you’d best say now.’

‘Don’t know. Don’t care. She can sling her hook as far as I’m bothered.’ He stood and stretched lazily. The room suddenly seemed a lot smaller. ‘If you see her before me, tell her to stay out of my way. I’ve got a liking to make it a little warm for Miss Rose Watkins.’ He clenched his fists reflexively. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Min, I’ve got punters to let in, and troublemakers to keep out. This is a respectableestablishment, remember?’

He knocked out his pipe on the snuggery floor and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Minnie retrieved the remains of the tobacco from the 20floor. She had no great fondness for Billy but, if he lost his job, Rose might be the one to suffer. Before she left the room, she took a moment to glance up at a poster adorning one wall of the snuggery. Edie Bennett, the Richmond Rocket. The most famous music hall performer of her age, Edie was the reason Minnie had first gone on the stage. She raised her hand, saluted the image and left the snuggery.

As she made her way back to the dressing rooms, the auditorium was slowly coming to life. The gilt-framed mirrors lining the walls reflected back the dozen waiters in dark suits and clean white aprons who were checking the tables were clean and the tablecloths all hanging at the same length. Tansie was a stickler for detail. The walls were adorned with paintings of exotic landscapes and what Tansie assured her were European cities – Paris, Rome, Geneva. Minnie had her doubts. The paintings were supposed to give an illusion of sophistication, but Tansie’s fondness for pink and gold undermined the effect. He had heard somewhere that pink made people drink more and had applied the colour with a liberal hand throughout the Palace.

She followed the sound of his hollering until she found him backstage.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Did you find her?’

Minnie shook her head. ‘Billy ain’t seen her since this morning.’

Tansie swore. ‘Are you on the square? If you’re lying—’

‘I ain’t. I could nip round to her house?’ Minnie offered. ‘She only lives on Wych Street. There and back in twenty minutes.’

‘No. I need you here. You’re my right hand, Min. I’m gonna have to change the running order, and that’ll set them all off.’ 21

‘I’m a writer, Tanse, remember?’ Minnie said. ‘Songs and sketches, that’s me. If you want me here every night to keep things calm you’re gonna have to pay me for my time. I was due out of here twenty minutes ago.’

Tansie and Minnie had this discussion at least once a week. Invariably, it ended with Minnie agreeing to stay, although vowing it would be the last time.

‘I’m in trouble here, Min,’ Tansie said. ‘The girls don’t listen to me the way they do you.’

‘Well, at least send a lad round to her house. It’s Rose, Tansie. She’s worked here for years, and she’s never once been late. Send a lad.’

Tansie frowned, then nodded. He fished in his pockets and extracted a ha’penny. ‘Give him a flatch,’ he said, handing Minnie the single coin, ‘but only once he’s back, mind.’

Minnie walked to the stage door, where a group of young lads were loitering as they did every night, hoping for some scrap of work. She picked Bobby, the smallest of the boys, who looked no more than five or six, but was probably twice that age.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘14 Wych Street. Ask for Ida Watkins and find out when she last saw Rose. Come straight back with the answer, you hear me? There’s something in it for you, mind. But only if you’re quick.’

At the suggestion of reward, Bobby sped off. Minnie turned back into the music hall and was accosted almost immediately by Tansie. He eyed her speculatively.

‘What?’ Minnie asked. ‘You’re looking at me like I’m the canary and you’re the cat that ain’t been fed for a week.’

‘I couldn’t persuade you, I suppose?’ he asked her. ‘Your old act? The punters loved you, remember?’ 22

Minnie felt the old panic flood her body as memories resurfaced. The paralysis of waiting in the wings, knowing all her words had failed her. She took a deep breath. ‘We’ve had this conversation many times, Tanse. Nothing will make me get up in front of those lights again.’

‘But you were a natural, Min. A face made for comedy, that’s what I always said.’

‘Thanks, Tanse. Just what a girl wants to hear.’

‘You know what I mean. Your face moves around a lot.’

‘Seriously, Tanse. This much sweet talk could kill me.’

‘Oh,’ he growled, ‘what’s the word I’m searching for? Come on, Min, you’re the one with the words – expressive!’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘You have an expressive face. You were a natural mimic, Minnie. You could have wrung laughter out of a stone. It broke my heart when you decided to jack it all in.’

‘Enough of the codding, Tanse. I had my reasons. I ain’t talking about them. I’m done with all that and much happier for it.’

‘Well, I’m delighted for your happiness, but it still leaves me with a twenty-minute turn to fill.’

‘Can’t you ask anyone to stretch it out a bit?’

‘Already tried. If the dog and monkey act are on stage any longer than twenty minutes Kippy says the dog’ll eat the monkey. Or is it the monkey who’ll eat the dog? Either way, bloodshed. The Mexican Boneless Wonder is already as drunk as a boiled owl, and it’ll be a miracle if he makes it to the stage, let alone the end of his act. And the one-legged dancer muttered something unmentionable when I asked her.’

Minnie arched an eyebrow. ‘Selina’s always keen.’ 23

Tansie gave Minnie what her mother used to call an old-fashioned look.

‘I must have been off me chump the day I hired her,’ he said, a look of genuine sadness on his face. ‘Just hearing her practise gives me the morbs. But if there’s no one else we’ll have to make the best of a bad deal.’

‘Problems, dear boy?’

The voice was rich and syrupy, every vowel stretched to its limits. Bernard Reynolds, a veteran of the theatre, had once specialised in recitations of Shakespeare, but the public had grown tired of his extravagant delivery. Now he termed himself a ‘utility gentleman’, able to turn his hand to anything required, but in truth he was only ever given what were euphemistically termed ‘thinking parts’. Bernard’s most distinctive feature was the few strands of hair he combed over his bald head and fixed with a pomade of his own making, consisting primarily of goose grease. On a warm evening, you could smell Bernard before you saw him.

‘A tiny bird tells me you’re short of an act, dear boy,’ Bernard continued. ‘I humbly offer my services. A little Lear, perhaps? A morsel of the Scottish play? Or would you favour comedy? In the words of the Bard, “I am fresh of spirit and resolved to meet all perils very constantly.”’

‘I appreciate the offer,’ Tansie said. ‘I’m just not sure the Palace punters are quite ready for such sophistication.’

‘One is always ready for Shakespeare,’ Bernard said, affronted. ‘But if you feel otherwise, “I will go lose myself.”’

Faced with a blank look from Minnie, Bernard offered helpfully, ‘TheComedyofErrors, dearest one. Antipholus of Syracuse. A minor part, but one I played with remarkable poignancy according to—’ 24

‘I’ve thought of something,’ Minnie interrupted, before Bernard started reciting his reviews, every one of which had been painstakingly committed to memory. ‘Leave it with me.’

She ducked down the corridor to the furthest dressing room. Five minutes later she was back.

‘Sorted,’ she told Tansie. ‘Betty Gilbert. You hired her as a plate spinner, but the dog and monkey act would make a better fist of it. She only took the job ’cos she’s desperate, and she won’t last two minutes before the punters shout her off, but she can do a full turn as a tumbler. That’s her trade. She’s watched Rose’s act more times than she can think of and knows it back to front. You might need to change the running order, give her time to run through it backstage, but she’s game.’

Tansie reached up, grabbed Minnie on both sides of her face, and pulled down her head, planting a smacker on her forehead. ‘You, my girl, are a bloody lifesaver,’ he said, a rare smile illuminating his face and revealing the glint of a gold tooth. He turned swiftly and headed towards the stage, shouting random instructions at anyone he passed.

Minnie made her way back to Cora’s dressing room. Just as she turned the door handle, Bobby appeared, panting hard. Minnie glanced at her pocket watch. Impressive.

‘She ain’t there,’ Bobby said, catching his breath. ‘Her ma ain’t seen her since early today.’

‘And she’s no idea where Rose might have gone?’

He shook his head.

‘Is it bad news, miss?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Minnie said. But it didn’t feel like nothing. A memory flashed through her mind of the very first time she had met Rose, the other girl about nine and 25Minnie herself only a few years older. Minnie, broken by grief at the loss of her mother. Rose, a little slip of a thing, but smart enough to figure out that cake was the way to Minnie’s heart, stealing penny buns and getting a slap from Ida, her mother, for her troubles.

Minnie turned her attention back to Bobby. He deserved more than the measly ha’penny Tansie had offered. She felt in her pocket and gave him a penny.

‘That money is from Mr Tansford,’ she said. ‘Know who he is?’

‘Little fella. Big voice. Fancy suit.’

Minnie smiled. ‘Exactly. And next time you see him, remember to say thank you. He likes to feel appreciated, and there might be more work he can send your way.’

‘Thanks, miss,’ the boy said, turning to leave.

‘Here,’ she said, moving towards the table and finding the key amongst Cora’s make-up. She unlocked the drawer and gave the cake a last mournful pat before handing it to Bobby. ‘Take this as well. You look like you need it.’

The boy’s eyes widened, and he snatched the cake from her hand. As he turned away he was already cramming it into his mouth with hungry bites. Minnie knew if the other lads saw him with the cake it would be out of his hands in no time, but still she called out after him, ‘Not all at once. You’ll be sick.’

He muffled his thanks through a mouthful of cake and was gone. Minnie turned back to the mirrors and tried not to think about Rose.

THE FIRST STANHOPE

IN WHICH MR MOORE MAKES A DISCOVERY

While Minnie was searching for Rose, outside the Variety Palace Charlie Moore was also on the hunt.

He wasn’t looking for any particular girl – he wasn’t that fussy, truth be told – just someone halfway pretty and willing to take his mind off his troubles for a short while. Here on the Strand it shouldn’t take long. He walked past the Palace, its garish posters advertising mesmerists, mashers to rival Nelly Power, and various acrobatic delights, and wound his way through the crowds, past a group of newly arrived visitors to the city. Fresh off the train at Charing Cross, most likely. Eyes like saucers as they took in the varied delights of the Strand. A group of jolly dogs – gents who’d clearly spent the entire afternoon in their club – barrelled past him, nearly pushing him under the wheels of a carriage. He swore at them, but they’d already vanished in a cloud of alcohol fumes.

After a few minutes a hand rested gently on his arm and he heard a whispered invitation.

He looked at her. Not bad. He’d had worse.

‘How much?’ Charlie asked.

‘A bob?’ she said.

Charlie snorted. ‘You must be joking, love.’ 27

He reached into his pocket, drawing out a meagre handful of coins and carefully keeping the rest of his money out of view.

‘Look,’ he showed her, ‘I ain’t got no more than fourpence.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to go down the Arches. I ain’t walking halfway across London for a measly fourpence.’

Charlie baulked. The Adelphi Arches were a network of tunnels facing onto the Thames. Before the Embankment Gardens had opened, they had made an impressive sight from the river; huge arches topped by the houses of Adelphi Terrace. Since the opening of the Gardens, they were less visible but still impressive from a distance.

Close up was a different story. Anyone with any sense kept well away from the Arches. Unless they were drunk, or desperate. Charlie was both.

And she was only fourpence.

The woman led Charlie down Villiers Street, then through a maze of ill-lit back lanes, the soot-blackened buildings glowering down at them. Charlie kept his hands firmly in his pockets, holding tight on to his money and gripping the life preserver he carried with him at all times. The area was notorious for sharps, pinch-faced cockney pickpockets preying on any innocent flat they could spy. Charlie had just been paid and wasn’t prepared to hand over his hard-earned money for nothing.

They took a final turn, and the Arches opened up in front of them. The smell made Charlie gag. It had been a while since the Thames had flooded, but the stink of raw sewage still lingered. The woman grabbed hold of Charlie’s hand and moved forward relentlessly, as if oblivious to the stench. Heading deeper into the darkness, they passed alcoves and 28passages housing horses, cows and wretched humans. Charlie jumped, as what looked like a pile of rags suddenly moved and cursed him. In the gloom, the floor writhed with the scurrying of rats. One ran over his shoe, and he kicked it into the shadows. He wanted to turn back, but was unsure of the way out, terrified at the thought of getting lost.

And the woman had a surprisingly strong grip.

Occasionally, the dim illumination of someone’s candle offered a respite from the gloom, but then the darkness would descend all the more forcefully. Charlie wasn’t sure which was worse – the blackness or the horrors revealed in those stuttering flares of light.

‘Where are we going?’ Charlie whispered.

‘Not much further, love,’ Fourpence said. ‘I’ve got a little spot just over here. And I’ve got a candle or two, so we can see what we’re about.’

In his pocket, Charlie gripped the life-preserver so hard he could no longer feel his fingers.

Finally, they reached their destination. An archway indistinguishable from all the others, a mound of cloths in the corner that Charlie guessed was the woman’s bed.

‘Here we are, love,’ Fourpence said, giggling. ‘Home sweet home.’

Feeling his way in the gloom, Charlie bumped into a large, bulky object hanging from the ceiling. It swung slowly from where he had collided with it. It was heavy. He backed away.

‘What the hell is that?’ he said. ‘Here, light those candles you said you had.’

‘Hang on a sec, love,’ she murmured. ‘I put me scratchers down here somewhere, now where are they—?’

The match flared, the smell of sulphur briefly cutting 29through the stink of sewage and decay. Fourpence turned, sheltering the candle with her hand.

‘Now, love,’ she said, ‘what was it you were saying?’

Charlie’s eyes lifted to the object slowly swinging from the ceiling.

It was a woman. Her features were distorted. Her tongue, swollen and purple, protruded between her lips. She looked young. It was difficult to make out many details in the half-light.

Fourpence screamed, dropped the candle, screamed again. The last thing Charlie saw before the darkness descended was a pair of shoes swaying in his eyeline. Cream silk, embroidered with tiny red roses.

TWO

Albert Easterbrook stood at his drawing-room window, looking down at the two women standing on the narrow path leading to his front door. One looked to be of middle age, short and a little stout. She was dressed in full mourning, although she had removed her gloves to fiddle with the crape edging on her collar. Even from this distance, he could see the woman’s hands were red and raw-looking.

Fiendish stuff, crape. As if the loss of a loved one weren’t enough.

The other woman was much younger, a little taller, dark-haired, also in mourning. She hung back a little, brushing the dust from her dress. Yet something about her suggested she was the one in charge.

‘They’re still there, Mrs Byrne,’ he said to his housekeeper as she entered the room with extra coals for the fire. ‘Should I go down and speak to them, do you think?’

Mrs Byrne tutted. ‘And what kind of impression will that give them,’ she said, ‘a gentleman opening his own door? Although they might be forgiven for not thinking you’re much of a gentleman.’

She gestured towards his right eye where a bruise was slowly turning from dark purple to yellow, then she joined him by the window, leaning forward and parting the net 31curtains a fraction. Albert saw the older woman approach the front door. She squinted at the brass plaque above the knocker, licked her thumb, wet the brass, and lightly polished it with her sleeve.

‘Well, of all the cheek,’ Mrs Byrne said. ‘As if I didn’t have Mary do that only yesterday.’

‘Fingermarks, Mrs Byrne. Easily done. Maybe that’s why they’re here. A domestic position.’

Mrs Byrne shot him a withering glance.

‘You know why they’re here. It says so, clear as day, on that brass plaque that isn’t good enough for madam down there. “Albert Easterbrook: Private Detective”. They want your help.’

‘Well, I wish they’d hurry up and knock.’

The younger woman glanced up and saw Albert and Mrs Byrne at the window. She nudged her companion in the small of her back, said something and pushed her towards the front door. Within moments there were two sharp raps, a little louder than necessary. Nerves, Albert thought.

‘I’d put that away somewhere,’ Mrs Byrne said, pointing at his pistol as she bustled out of the room. ‘You don’t want to go scaring the horses quite this early on.’

Albert slid the gun into the desk drawer, and took up position by the fireplace.

‘Mrs Ida Watkins,’ Mrs Byrne sniffed as she showed the two women into the room, clearly not yet having forgiven Mrs Watkins for the impromptu brass polishing, ‘and Miss Minnie Ward.’

Face to face, Albert could see the elder woman’s mourning dress, made of a thin bombazine, was worn shiny at the elbows. Not her first loss. She pushed up the black veil on her 32bonnet; her features were pinched and fell into hard lines. Albert glanced at her hands and noted the wedding ring cutting into her flesh, the finger grown fat around it. Mrs Ida Watkins. She followed his gaze and buried her hands in the folds of her skirt.

The younger woman, Miss Ward, had an open, expressive face, with a curious kind of asymmetry that just held her back from beauty, the mouth a little full, the eyes small and dark. Her brow was clear, her eyes darting round the room with an air of curiosity. Life had not yet disappointed her. But then, she was young. Twenty, he guessed. Maybe a little more. At her throat, she wore a mourning brooch of jet.

Albert offered the two women the couch, a rather threadbare chesterfield. He positioned himself opposite them on his Aunt Alice’s chair. It was exceptionally uncomfortable, a rickety item with the seat so low he felt as if his knees were under his chin. But he’d been particularly fond of Aunt Alice, and he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

Ida perched on the edge of the chesterfield, as if ready to take flight at any moment, and distractedly scratched at the crape that trimmed her dress.

‘How may I help?’ Albert asked.

Ida narrowed her eyes, and looked at him sceptically. Albert understood the confused reaction when people first met him. His voice betrayed his public-school education, but he had the build of a pugilist, tall and broad-chested, with a boxer’s flattened nose and heavy hands.

‘Are you sure you’re Mr Easterbrook?’ Ida asked. ‘You don’t look nothing like your picture,’ and she turned to Minnie, who withdrew a dog-eared copy of the IllustratedLondonNewsfrom her bag, opened to the page with the ridiculous pencil drawing of Albert sporting a top hat and monocle. 33

He winced. ‘The journalist who wrote the piece felt the story would “sell” better if he portrayed me as some kind of ridiculous toff. It’s been so long since I wore a top hat I fear the moths may have made it their home. And I certainly don’t own a monocle. As for that ridiculous headline—’

‘So you ain’t a toff?’ Minnie asked. ‘’Cos you certainly sound like one.’

‘Accents can be acquired, Miss Ward,’ he said. A memory flashed through his mind: his arrival at public school, and the swift realisation he would need to change the way he spoke if he planned on surviving his school years.

‘Wouldn’t fancy your chances with a monocle at the moment,’ Minnie said. ‘Quite a shiner you’ve got there.’

Albert raised his hand to his eye. ‘Perils of the job. An elderly lady with a surprisingly impressive right hook.’ He pointed at the newspaper. ‘I consented to that interview in a moment of folly. But, since you ask, I am indeed Albert Easterbrook. What can I do for you?’

‘I need your help,’ Ida said.

Albert nodded and waited for her to continue.

She glanced nervously around the room, her eyes lighting on a copy of TheTimeson a side table by Albert’s chair. The front page carried a large image of Lionel Winter, a local businessman who was running for Parliament at the next election.

Albert followed her gaze. ‘They’re making much of the story,’ he said. ‘A welcome distraction from the Hairpin Killer, I suppose.’

Ida sniffed. ‘Not all news gets in the papers, does it? My Rose ain’t on the front page.’

‘Rose—?’ Albert asked. 34

‘My daughter.’ She paused, breathing deeply. ‘She was found on Saturday night. Hanged under the Adelphi Arches.’

‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ Albert said, the platitude rising swiftly to his tongue and failing to convey his genuine sympathy.

Minnie shot him a look.

‘And Rose was your … sister?’ he asked Minnie.

‘No, just a friend. A close friend.’

Her voice was pleasant, the pitch low and melodic, the accent a little more refined than he might have expected.

‘There’s something we need to settle first, Mr Easterbrook,’ Ida said. ‘Your costs. I don’t imagine your services come cheap.’

Her voice was firm, but her fingers compulsively twisted her wedding ring.

Minnie placed a hand over Ida’s. ‘We’ve discussed this already. We’ll find the money.’

‘That we will,’ Ida said. ‘But money is money, and it’s always best to get these matters sorted out fair and square right at the start. So everyone knows where they stand.’

She turned towards Albert. ‘Minnie tells me you did a job for next to nothing, or at least that’s what it said in the newspaper. I ain’t a wealthy woman, Mr Easterbrook. I’m sure that much is obvious,’ she said, instinctively placing her hands over the worn elbows of her dress. ‘But I don’t take charity. Before he died, Rose’s father put some money aside for when she got married. She won’t be needing it now. I need to know if it’s enough.’

‘Might I suggest you tell me why you are here,’ Albert said. ‘Once we’ve established whether or not I can be of any assistance, we can discuss payment. Any charge will be 35within your means, Mrs Watkins. You have my word. So,’ he continued, ‘your daughter. Rose.’

‘The police are saying it’s suicide,’ Ida said, reaching in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘But I know my girl, Mr Easterbrook. She didn’t kill herself. And now they won’t bury her, you see, in the churchyard. Well, not in the consecrated part. If it weren’t suicide, I could have her moved. And that would mean a lot.’

She turned away. Albert waited quietly.

‘Could you tell me a little about her?’ Albert asked eventually, leaning forward in his chair and immediately regretting it, as the wooden frame groaned ominously under his weight.

‘Like what?’ Ida asked.

‘Anything you please. Her age? Children?’

Ida looked at Minnie. ‘She was nineteen. Four years younger than you, weren’t she, Min? Not married, although she was seeing a lad. Billy Walker. No children, thank God. Lived at home with me. Worked at the Variety Palace, tightrope walking, acrobatics. Her and Minnie worked together. Like sisters, you were, weren’t you? It was Minnie who suggested I come here today,’ she continued, her voice growing louder. ‘Said she’d read about you in the paper and thought maybe you could help.’

Ida stopped abruptly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I’m speaking too much, ain’t I? I’ve been like that since … it happened. Nothing to say, and then too much.’

Albert nodded his understanding.

‘Had there been any change in Rose recently?’ he asked.

Ida looked at Minnie again. 36

‘We’ve been thinking about that,’ Minnie said. ‘She had been a bit quiet lately. But it weren’t enough to make her do away with her own life.’

‘People can hide things,’ Albert said carefully. ‘Rose may have been unhappier than you realised.’

Ida shook her head. ‘Like I said, I know my girl. She didn’t kill herself.’

‘What do you believe happened?’

Ida took a deep breath and then spoke in a rush. ‘I think she was killed, Mr Easterbrook. Murdered. I mean, you can’t accidentally hang yourself under the Adelphi Arches, can you? Someone did that to her, and made it look like she took her own life.’

She looked at him defiantly, as if waiting for him to laugh, or tell her she was mad. She even moved further forward in her seat, ready to leave, or spring at him in defence of her child.

But Albert did not laugh. ‘Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?’ he asked.

Ida shook her head. ‘No one. But there were some odd things the police found.’

Again, she looked at Minnie.

‘There were marks on her wrists and her ankles,’ Minnie said, fingering the mourning brooch at her neck. ‘Like she’d been tied with a rope, but really tight. Her skin was broken and she was badly bruised.’

‘How did you learn of these marks?’ Albert asked. ‘Did the police inform you?’

Ida snorted. ‘The police ain’t told us nothing, Mr Easterbrook. I’m surprised they even bothered to tell us Rose had died. We identified her. Had to go see her body, lying 37there on a slab, cold as the grave, all her dignity taken from her. That’s how we know about the marks.’

She turned away again, burying her face in her handkerchief and reaching out blindly for Minnie with her other hand. Albert waited for a few moments before asking his next question.

‘Did the police offer an explanation for the bruising? The broken flesh?’

‘They said it was part of her work,’ Ida said. ‘You know, the acrobatics and that. They said she must have been doing some new turn for the halls that meant she had to be tied up really tight. You know how it is these days, every hall’s trying to better the others, come up with some new trick or turn no one else has done before. The police reckon she were working on something like that. But I worked in the halls myself, years ago,’ she said, raising her voice and leaning forward. ‘I know you wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but I was once a tumbling girl, just like Rosie. And I know there ain’t nothing you can do in the halls that would leave marks like that. People pay good money to see beautiful girls, not cuts and bruises.’

‘Could she have got the marks some other way?’ Albert asked. ‘You said she had a sweetheart. Might he have hurt her?’

‘I think Billy hit her once or twice, but she always denied it,’ Ida said. ‘When she was found, I went straight round to his rooms for an answer, but he swore up and down it weren’t him. Said he never laid a finger on her.’

‘Which is a lie,’ Minnie said sharply. ‘He’d hit her in the past, I’m sure of it. I saw the bruises. Billy’s a doorman at the Palace. He’s handy with his fists. Can’t always distinguish between those who deserve it and those who don’t.’ 38

‘Could he have done this?’

The two women looked at each other.

‘Maybe,’ Minnie said. ‘But the bruises weren’t the only thing.’

She nodded at Ida, who removed a small gold ball from her bag and passed it to Albert.

It was delicate, no more than half an inch in diameter, and heavily engraved. A golden link was inserted, as if for wearing the piece on a watch chain or from a bracelet. Despite its delicacy, Albert felt the weight of the piece as he turned it over in his hand. He looked up at Ida.

‘We found it in her belongings,’ Ida said. ‘Some gimcrack I thought it was when I first saw it. But my neighbour works in Hatton Garden and he reckons it’s gold. Now, what would she be doing with a piece of gold like that, with all that fancy work?’

‘A present?’ Albert asked.

‘Who from? Billy couldn’t have afforded nothing like that.’

‘Might Rose have had another sweetheart? An admirer from the music hall?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Ida said, her face flushing. ‘My Rose weren’t like that.’

Minnie reached across and patted her hand. ‘He ain’t saying she was, Ida. Lots of girls in the halls have admirers, don’t they? It don’t mean nothing.’ She turned back to Albert. ‘There was somebody else,’ she said slowly. ‘We don’t know who. But he had money. Bought her a pair of beautiful shoes that cost more than a month’s wages.’

‘And she never said who he was?’

Minnie shook her head.

Albert turned the gold ball in his hand, then held it close to his eye, rotating it slowly. He lowered the piece. 39

‘I’m happy to take the case, Mrs Watkins,’ he said, reaching for a slip of paper on the table beside him and writing down his terms. Something about Ida had touched him, her determination, her defence of her child, all the more important now the child could no longer defend herself. She reminded him of his Aunt Alice. The figure he wrote down was a tenth of what he would normally charge, but Ida was not to know that.

He folded the paper and passed it to her. She looked at the figure and nodded her agreement before handing it to Minnie. Minnie shot him a penetrating glance but said nothing.

‘Mrs Watkins, would you mind very much if I kept this item for a few days?’ he said, holding the golden ball in the palm of his hand. ‘The markings on it are very distinctive and I may be able to discover more about its origins.’

‘Keep it as long as you need.’

‘And could you give me a description of Rose?’

‘We can do better than that,’ Minnie said, burrowing in her bag and retrieving a small portrait photograph which she handed to Albert. ‘All the girls have them now, in the halls. For publicity.’

He looked at the image. Rose was gazing off to one side of the camera, her hair up, with a few artfully trained blonde curls brushing her forehead. An earring dangled from her left ear, and a decorative fan was just visible, holding up her hair at the back. The image was carefully contrived, an illusion of sophistication. But it didn’t fool Albert.

‘She looks young,’ he said.

‘She was,’ Ida replied. ‘And now she’ll never get any older.’

A silence descended on the room, the only noise the ticking 40of the clock on the mantelpiece and the logs stirring in the fire.

‘How does this work, then?’ Minnie asked briskly after a moment. ‘Do you tell Ida when you’ve found something? Or does she call on you again?’

‘I shall keep you updated on my progress, Mrs Watkins. I normally send a weekly written report but, in a case such as this, where you are so intimately involved, perhaps you might prefer it if we met?’

Ida looked at him then, and a glance of understanding passed between them. He had been right in his assumption that she couldn’t read, although she knew her numbers. She nodded her head slowly, holding his gaze.

‘I could call again next week?’ she said.

He agreed and rang for Mrs Byrne to see the two women out of the house. She appeared with surprising speed, and Albert suspected she had been listening at the door again. Her manner towards Ida had changed. Albert noticed her giving the other woman the gentlest pat on her arm as she led her out of the room.

He went to the window and watched the two women disappear from view. Mrs Byrne appeared at his side. ‘So,’ she asked, ‘how much are you charging this time? Or should I say, how little?’

Albert gave her an apologetic look.

‘Albert,’ she said firmly.

He winced. He always knew he was in trouble when she used his first name in that tone of voice. Not for the first time he wondered if it had been wise, hiring his old nanny as his housekeeper.

‘You were a delightful child,’ she continued, ‘and you have 41grown into a most agreeable man. But you have to charge more money. The butcher has started offering me the cheap cuts without my even asking.’

‘I will. I promise,’ Albert said. ‘But there was just something—’

‘I know, I know. Something about this one.’ She patted his arm resignedly and left the room.

Albert removed the golden trinket from his pocket. A Stanhope, unless he was much mistaken. He traced the markings on the surface, what looked on closer inspection like an entwined G and C. Raising the Stanhope again to his eye, he focused on a tiny hole on the surface, barely bigger than a pinprick and easily missed. Neither of the women had noticed it, he was certain. Inside the hole was a minuscule lens. It magnified a photograph of a man who, for all the world, looked just like the image of Lionel Winter on the front page of TheTimes.

THE SECOND STANHOPE

IN WHICH MR WINTER IS INCONVENIENCED

Lionel Winter took his hat and coat from the doorman of his club and headed out into the crisp October night. He turned westwards on Piccadilly, ignoring the line of waiting cabs. It was only a three-mile walk home, and he needed time to think.

Even at nine o’clock, Piccadilly was busy. Lionel turned up Half Moon Street and onto Curzon Street. It was a little out of his way, but he liked the walk through Hyde Park.

He thought back over the previous evening’s events. He had misread the situation; that much was becoming clear. A week ago, the fellow had appeared to listen to his concerns and promised to do something about them. A misunderstanding, he had said, and then he talked of supporting Lionel’s campaign for Parliament. Generous support. Two days later, Lionel had visited the Palace to tell Rose there was nothing to worry about. But he had been greeted with ashen, grief-stricken faces when he had asked for her. Hanged herself, they’d said.

She’d been scared when they’d last spoken. Perhaps the fear had got too much for her. But no, that wasn’t quite right. She’d been angry as much as scared. Something was amiss. 43

So, he’d asked to speak to the chap again last night. Made quite a fuss about it, truth be told. But he was met with silence. Not available, they’d said. Away on business. Which Lionel knew was claptrap; he’d seen the fellow’s carriage outside his house only this morning.

He crossed over Park Lane, entered Hyde Park, and turned left down the broad walkway towards Rotten Row. It was a different place at night, nothing like the rush and bustle of the daytime. A solitary carriage headed away from him in the distance. As he walked, he glanced to his right over the expanse of the Serpentine.

Sometimes young lads would sneak in and take a pleasure boat out on the lake in the dark of the night, occasionally with young women in tow, squealing with delight and the pretence of fear. Not tonight. The wind murmured in the trees, and little waves lapped against the sides of the boats, as if coaxing them out into the water.

He looked at his watch. He’d left the club early, unsettled by the lack of response to his request. If he went straight home, Maud would still be awake. He would linger for a while, avoid the inevitable confrontations and accusations. But it was too cold to hang around in the open air. He’d find himself a pub and take refuge there for an hour or so.

He heard the brisk clip of a horse and carriage turning onto Rotten Row behind him. Going a little fast, he thought, even if there was hardly anyone around. The carriage was coming towards him and sounded as if it was gaining speed. Some fool in a hurry to get somewhere, or showing off for a girl. He stepped to the edge of the roadway. Best to be out of harm’s way.

The carriage was racketing towards him now, a brougham 44drawn by a single horse. From this distance, and in the dark, he couldn’t see if there were any passengers inside. The driver was cloaked and wearing a large hat. Lionel stepped back further from the roadway and raised his cane in a gesture of rebuke, shouting at the driver to slow down and take care, his voice crushed beneath the thundering hooves.

And then, although he could not have said how, he realised the brougham was heading straight for him. Deliberately. The driver was leaning forward, his gaze fixed on Lionel, wheels rattling over the bricks. The carriage passed under a street light, and Lionel caught a glimpse of the sheen of sweat on the horse’s flanks. He raised his cane again, realising as he did so the futility of the gesture.