Walking in Pimlico (38 page)

If I ever come to tell this story from its start to finish (though where I will start and how it will finish I do not know and cannot imagine), people will wonder why I haven’t put on my good shoes, tidied myself up and nipped sharpish around to the Station House, and bent the ear of the kindly copper there. I have considered it, and even decided how my story might go when I have Mr Bluebottle’s attention. I will say that I know of a lady, who is at this
moment installed in the Headless Woman as a respectable Lady Pianiste, only she isn’t a regular female at all, but one who dressed up as a young man and killed Bessie Spooner by stamping the life out of her in the yard of the Constellation Concert Rooms, Whitechapel. One person saw it happen, Lucy Fitch and she is dead, and I am sure now he (or she) had something to do with that business. Another person, yours truly, saw and knows too much also, and he too is counting his days, for this young man, Mrs Marsh, Miss Marweather, who, even as I speak, should be entertaining the customers at the Headless Woman, is come here to New Clay after me. For I saw him, like Lucy, and could finger him, and no mistake.

How do you know, asks the imaginary copper, stirring his tea. What does he look like, this young man? Where is your proof that he murdered Lucy Fitch? What makes you believe he means to do you harm? It all sounds very rum to me, and I am much inclined to lock you up for wasting my time. And for public safety.

I cannot blame him. What copper, who is mostly concerned with stray dogs and set-tos between man and wife, could make anything of this tale, so out of the way is it? All I can say is that where there is Mrs Marsh, there also is the young man. That I saw her trunk in Halls’s lodgings and it was full of men’s clothes. That she wears hairpieces to cover up her own, which is short in the neck. That she took the note I left Lucy, and wrote on it, and let me know by saying, ‘Mind your eye, Corney,’ and giving me a look like she did once before. Like one of Doré’s angels. One that said, I’m on to you.

No, it would not hold water, and, like a punishment for even contemplating the notion, my head is suddenly full of thumping pain and my arms and legs ache like they’ve been racked, along with the shivers and shakes. But I am a pro and my thoughts turn to my pieces tonight, this being the first night of the new programme and the first day of the Wakes, when the Vine will be crowded out and
everyone up to the mark. A man in my profession cannot take sick, and indeed that is why so many of us die in harness. I think, as I take some medicinal brandy and button my little coat up as far as it will go, of Bertie Bertram, whose arms and legs swelled enough to burst, but still did his two turns (he was fine ballad-vocalist and no mistake) and only died when he got to the wings, and then after taking an encore. But it is hard, and no mistake, to turn out when you feel so bad. The sweat stands out on my forehead as I plunge into the fair, and the smells of gingerbread and frying fish only make my stomach turn about whereas usually I would be feasting.

The shows are opening up properly now. Showpeople, still sleepy, are stumbling along the street, with their costume over their arm, or covered from head to toe in a heavy cloak to hide the splendours beneath. They shout to each other, jossing or complaining, and slap each other upon the back and shake hands, glad to be in familiar company. I am sorry not to be one of their number, for though I am acquainted with some showpeople, they are a race apart from the rest of us professionals, and like to keep it that way. They are their own family and have a strong feeling for family ties and the like. A show wedding is, I am told, a wonder to behold, with the wedding-feast taking place among waxwork figures or growling lions! But I am not a showman or even the friend of one, and though I have lived with circus people who are also travellers, they consider themselves a race apart and, like oil and water, do not mix with the showfolk. There is no ill-feeling between show and circus, but they are not family, so I understand.

I shiver awhile in front of Colonel Buxton’s Military Show, where the soldiers are stripped to their undershirts, pumping and priming their muscles and calling to the girls to ‘Step up and squeeze!’. The showfront is a picture, painted to look like the wall of a castle, with turrets and cannons (also painted) and a great flag fluttering on the pole. The door into the show proper is faked to look like it is a
massive oak affair, with a knocker as big as your head and a smart soldier in blue and gold and bristling moustache to guard it. Colonel Buxton, tall and slender as a cat’s elbow, is striding about and shouting to one and all to ‘Look sharp!’ and finding fault with everything. Next to the menagerie, which has a steam organ playing and scenes from tiger hunts painted on the front, the military show is the most elegant in the fair, and this is on account of the Colonel being so particular, for he will have everything and everyone up to the mark. There are no muddy costumes here, and all is neat but not gaudy. Now I am not acquainted with the Colonel, for he is somewhat standoffish, but I have enjoyed a glass in the Vine with his men, and they are regular fellows, who have seen much in the way of fighting for Queen and country and so regard the showlife as an easy shop. Two of my pals are on the platform and tip me a nod when they see me, which earns them a cut from their Gov, who then turns about and sees me.

‘Here, you,’ he bawls, in a voice like a steamer’s whistle. ‘Copper-Knob!’

I have not been called that since I was a kid, when I would fight to the ground anyone who dared say it. But in this present circumstance I decide to keep my fists in my pocket.

‘I have a job for you,’ he goes on, shouting when there is no need, for I am in front of him and not walking away. ‘Take these bills and hand ’em out to your customers! Not two at a time, mind! One each. And bull it up.’

I am aching and cold and have no inclination to argue, so I take the bundle of bills with just a nod, and with that comes a wave of sweat and sickness which I struggle to keep down. The Colonel seems satisfied, for without another word to me, he takes a token from the tray and puts it into my hand.

‘A free order, for I trust you,’ he says, and turns away to bellow at the fellows just limbering up.

The bills announce, in large letters on a yellow ground and with figures striding across the top and bottom, that Colonel Buxton’s Military Show is here for the duration of the Wakes, and inside the magnificent pavilion situated on the Market Square can be witnessed demonstrations of marching, swordsmanship, feats of strength and agility, as well as the Mysterious Herculine, who will perform the famous one-armed lifting exhibition on the hour. Don’t miss it! It is well done, a natty piece of patter, flash and uncommonly neat. I fold the bills carefully and stuff them in my pocket, as another bout of shivering takes hold of me.

I am in haste to the Vine, already late and expecting a sour look upon the Bellmaker’s face. But when I get there it is a pleasant surprise to find him with half a smile, and a full bar. In the concert room the one-legged pianist, Topper, is sober and all our company assembled, which also adds to his good humour. So while the ivory-feeler is running up and down his instrument with the Sisters Wallace (a girl and boy turn, and no great noise), and the bird-man Signor Papagenyo sorts out his pigeons, I find myself a quiet corner, wrap myself up in an old curtain and lie down behind the property baskets. I fall asleep almost straight away, and for the first time in some days am not troubled by bad dreams, but sleep like a baby.

I am woken suddenly by a rumble of thunder. Indeed, that is what at first it appears to be, but then I realize it is someone in the hall, knocking against the chairs and tables. I am hot and burning, the fever has picked up my limbs and wrenched them about, and my ears are singing, but not to a tune I know. I creep out of my hidey-hole (and even so small a movement has me shaking), and I peer between the stage curtains.

It is him.

I would know him anywhere though it is months since I set eyes on him in the Constellation.

He is dressed up to impress the girls, and I see his boots shine
and his hair, licked down with macassar oil (which I sniff out straight away), shines also. He wears a natty coat and waistcoat, and carries a thin cane and gloves. He is looking about him, up and down, striding around the place and not caring who knows it. I hear him whistling a little tune, which I know very well, between his teeth.

It is my tune and Billy Ross’s. ‘Sam Hall’. About the man lining up for a stretching-match.

I try to keep very still, but it is hard since I am shaking enough to rattle the roof, and the cough also starts to rise in my throat. I am not eager to discover what he will do if he finds me, for I am sure that is why he is here. He is bold now, and desperate to keep himself from the law, and has come to deliver me up. But I am hot with fever and not at all in my sensible mind, and wonder if he might be talked around, and in certain the Devil (or someone) whispers in my ear that I might call him over, and shake his hand and say to him, in a friendly manner, that I would have no purpose in telling the law what I know, and that his secret is safe with me. I smile to myself, and fancy he might then clap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Your word is good enough for me, Corney Sage. Go on your way. You will not see
me
again.’

But I know that will not happen, for when I see him, through the chink in the curtain, I think I see Mrs Marsh also, sitting before me, with her china cup and saucer, and saying with that smile upon her face, which is no smile at all, ‘Mind your eye, Corney.’

The gent is still before me, listening hard, and looking around him like a beggar in a pantry. I am struggling hard now to keep the rattle down in my chest, and my eyes water and I swallow and swallow, but the fever is upon me and my mouth is as dry as a pot of feathers. I cannot help myself and cough like I was going to die.

How small a thing can be salvation? I am not certain, but sure as the young man spins round to find me, so the Sisters Wallace come
out of the back, calling in unison, ‘Who’s there? Who’s that? What d’yer want? Where are yer?’ like they are reciting in Sunday School. And they find me straight off and cluck and twitter over me, so all I see of the young man is the shape of him standing at the back of the hall, watching. I am shaking and coughing and hot as a whore’s pocket, but a true pro too, and after a brandy for my health and a lie down on their cot (with the Sisters still chirping away and bathing my head), I make myself ready for my turn.

The hall is packed with old and new faces, for the fair brings in throngs of hayseeds from far and wide to sell their sheep and marvel at the shows and drink themselves blind. They are easily spied, with their red faces and wide, stupid eyes. They laugh at anything and clap at everything, and make more noise than a Bedlam holiday. And they laugh at Corney Sage and his old jokes like they have never heard a funny story before. So I am almost finished, and in cert my voice has become a ghost of itself and is echoing in my head, so that I hear my own words like they were coming at me down a long tunnel, and the stageboards feel like they are made of sand which I am about to sink into. My little dance – a fast step-dance in clogs which are dead weights upon my feet – is encored, the hayseeds roaring me on again, but the Sisters Wallace are eager to ride my tide of approval and elbow themselves on, for which I am very glad.

I am out of breath and shaking and coughing and lean against the wall to recover when Toddy’s head pops round the door. He is the pot-boy, small and thin, like a little stick on legs, and dressed in a waiter’s coat and shirt so big for him he trips himself up.

‘How now, Toddy?’ I say, for I’m fond of him.

‘Please, Mr Sage, sir, will you take a drink?’

Will I?!

‘Who from, Tod?’

‘Dunno, but he’s flash.’

‘Is he, by Jove! Then we’ll have a glass with him. And two,’ I say much too loudly, for the fever is making me reckless.

Toddy’s watery eyes blink at me once, twice, and then he is suddenly bringing on the tray with the brandy bottle (not the best) and a water jug. Brandy has never been my drink, but I help myself, as they say, liberally. Very liberally, and after a fourth tumbler, my belly, which has been empty since my bread and butter at breakfast-time, gives a lurch. Another tumbler to settle it, I tell myself, and one to chase that one down, and all the time the fever is twisting my arms and legs, like the bones are trying to escape.

There is an urgent sensation in my belly that demands attention, and though the sweat stands out on my brow and I am shaking, I rattle to the back door, where the cold night wind slaps me and takes my breath away. I am not a drinking man, and will only take a glass of Butler’s Cream of the Valley or Tolley’s Old Gold to loosen my vocals before I go on, so I am obliged to lean for some minutes against the wall and breathe in deep, for the brandy has found its way into my legs also and as they go southwards, I am bound to follow, and slide down the wall and on to the damp yard. There are nasty goings-on in my gut, and my mouth is one moment dry, one moment watering itself by the bucket. The fever is coming on fierce, and I know this is a bad business, for my second turn is due. In cert, I am in a sorry way, sitting upon the wet ground, burning hot and freezing cold and trying to keep the gore down, when I hear a voice, then voices, on the other side of the wall. It is a lowish wall, separating the back yard of the concert room from the back yard of the public house. There is a little gate between the two, used by us pros to come and go to the bar without having to walk through the hall.

But these voices.

One of them is Bellmaker.

‘I don’t know where he is, sir,’ he is saying in that voice he keeps
especially for gents and nobs. ‘Perhaps he’s in the bar. We’re busy tonight, with the Wakes and the extra customers. He’s a popular performer. No doubt someone is standing him a drink.’

‘But can you find him for me?’ says the other. ‘I need to speak to him and the matter is urgent.’

‘I’ve sent the lad out to look for him,’ came the reply from the boss.