The Newgate Jig (33 page)

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

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

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

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

And
no one would ever know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The
Aquarium, Christmas Eve — Princess Tiny

and Black Boots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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