The Canary Keeper, page 31
Morag nods and, as she does so, the raven caws, flaps its wings and catches a gust of wind. Margaret watches as it flies north-west across the ness. ‘Sometimes the old ways are still useful,’ she says.
Chapter 23
She rolls over on Solomon’s straw mattress and gazes at him lying on the far side of the garret room, a thin blanket pulled up around his chin. He is already awake and watching her. She flushes, aware of the intensity of his gaze, the closeness of his presence. Being with him here these last few days has reminded her that she has more in common with him than she’s ever had with any of Frank’s pals. Including her husband. She came to London in search of the truth about the murder of Tobias and, to her surprise, discovered something else: she’s in love with Solomon. The feeling has been there all along, she realizes now, coiled quietly in a corner like a sleeping cat. There are many things about him which she doesn’t know, yet she is more attracted to his mystery than the familiar certainties of Patrick. Still, there is one question about him that bothers her: what are his feelings for her? She sees desire in his eyes, but she cannot be sure it is for her. He wants to prove her innocence, yet is that to save her, or to prove his worth to his colleagues in the Met? He’s said nothing about the letter from Patrick, and she can only read his silence as affirmation of her own conclusion that the right thing to do is return to her husband.
He stands, brushes his crumpled clothes, walks across the room to the mattress, kneels beside her, their faces level, and gazes into her eyes. For a moment, she thinks he is going to say something about the letter. Her. Them. He blinks and sits back on his heels.
‘So far, all we have is hearsay,’ he says. ‘Overheard conversations and rumours. We still need to find some evidence that connects Vinge and his Master to the murders. It shouldn’t be difficult to slip into this Blessing Ceremony reception tonight – the Beadle said it was open to the public, even if there will be guards on the door. We’ll see what information we can pick up there.’
She stares into the mid-distance, her eyes watering, searching for the answers to her questions. He leans over and tenderly wipes a stray tear with his thumb.
‘We’ll nail them, don’t worry.’
She wants to say I was crying because I don’t want to leave you. Instead she laughs and says she might not be admitted to the Master’s reception at the Skinners’ Hall in her badly fitting reefer jacket and her red knitted cap.
‘You can borrow a suit and coat of mine,’ he says.
*
Solomon spends the day in Scotland Yard, going about his usual business, whatever that may be. She spends the day alone and anxious. He returns in the late afternoon with a beef and stout pie, which they share. He dresses in his best suit, overcoat and bowler. He gives her a threadbare black wool coat, trousers, blue cravat and an old top hat. Everything is too big – she has to secure the trousers with a belt and roll the sleeves of the jacket. The hat keeps slipping over the bridge of her nose and it smells musty. Solomon insists she should wear it.
‘I’ll stand out in this attire,’ she says.
‘There’ll be plenty of people. We’ll be able to hide in the crowd.’
She hopes he’s right.
He points at the truncheon lying in a corner. ‘Though I doubt whether I could get away with taking that.’ He frowns, reaches for a candle and a box of matches instead, and drops them in a jacket pocket. ‘But I’ll take these.’
‘Why?’
‘Just in case.’
‘Out on the town tonight, are we?’ the pieman shouts as they leave.
Solomon waves his hand at him in an ambiguous gesture that could either be interpreted as a friendly greeting or an encouragement to piss off.
‘Don’t stay out too late.’
They turn into Whitehall, busy with gents wearing frock coats and an air of importance. The chill wind is blowing from the north and the temperature is plummeting with the dwindling light.
‘It smells like snow,’ she says as they reach Trafalgar Square, weaving between the couples heading for the theatre and the cabs plying for trade.
Solomon surveys the sky from below the brim of his bowler. Starlings swoop in ribbons around Nelson’s Column.
‘All I can smell is soot.’
She points beyond the National Gallery; the north wind has brought with it a layer of flat, steely clouds. ‘Snow.’
‘In November?’
She squints; she thinks she can see a vast bird of prey hovering above the gallery’s cupola. She must be mistaken. ‘Do you see that bird?’
‘The crow?’
‘It’s a white owl.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t see it. But I think you’re right about the clouds.’
She looks again and the owl has vanished, though it leaves her with a peculiar feeling. Fear? Excitement? Determination?
‘The Master hasn’t picked the best night for a barge trip along the Thames,’ she says.
‘I doubt he’s the kind of man to let a bit of snow get in the way of his self-congratulation.’
The bells of St Martin’s toll the half hour. They head toward the Strand.
*
Dowgate Hill is alive with the whinny of horses, the crack of whips and drivers shouting obscenities as cabs and carriages compete for the kerbside in front of the Skinners’ Hall. Vinge expected a large crowd and here it is; the street is a riot of gentlemen in fancy jackets, cravats and tall hats, accompanying ladies in silk dresses, velvet capes and ringlets. The wealthy of London are flocking to the reception, despite the coldness of the night.
A pair of guards in red coats and velvet fur-trimmed caps stand either side of the archway, each holding a silver staff in one hand. They are not asking attendees for invitations, though they give everybody the once over as they pass, to check they look the part. No paupers or street-walkers allowed. Solomon and Birdie slip behind a rotund gentleman with his arm around the waist of a pretty woman overflowing from a blue taffeta gown. The guards are too busy eyeing her to take much notice of them as they approach.
‘Please wait in the courtyard to greet the Master’s procession when it returns from the church.’ The red-capped guard indicates the archway with his hand. The silver lynx affixed to the brim of his cap glimmers in the glow of the street lamp. They stroll through the passage and into the grand white-walled courtyard. Guests mingle and lift wine glasses from the laden salvers butlers carry as they weave around the throng. Birdie takes a glass and sips warily, afraid lest the wine goes to her head; she wants to stay alert.
She surveys the crowd, searching to see if she recognizes anybody here. It’s hard to distinguish faces in the melee; the light is dim, with only the lamps from the archway glowing. She thinks she spots the two black-coated men they followed to Garraway’s Coffee House the previous evening, but she can’t be sure – there are so many city gents here. She finds herself wondering how many of these guests have heard the rumours about Hawkes. Most of them, she supposes, given the conversation she overheard in Garraway’s; it must be common coffee house gossip. Though it doesn’t stop them gathering to celebrate his re-election as Master of the Skinners. London’s wealthy and on-the-make are prepared to ignore the stories, either because they are too scared to do otherwise or because they profit from his ventures. She turns her head and, in the corner of her eye, catches sight of an elderly gentleman who looks remarkably like Mr Wolff. When she looks again he has disappeared in the throng. She must have been mistaken; Mr Wolff would not be here. He is far too well established to curry favours with the likes of Hawkes.
As she peers around the shadowed faces, she detects a rustle of interest among the guests standing nearest the entrance. A name is whispered. Mr Dickens. She cranes her neck and spies a dainty gentleman, his top hat perched at a jaunty angle and his hair and wispy beard quite dark against the peacock blue of his coat. His face is lined – perhaps the gloom of the courtyard exaggerates the shadows – though his darting eyes radiate lively amusement. He has a lady on his arm. She gasps: surely, that’s Lady Franklin. It’s hardly surprising she’s here, along with the rest of London society, yet Birdie finds it hard not to interpret her presence as a sign; Tobias wasn’t murdered in the race to claim the reward for information about Franklin, but her own fate is still in some way entwined with the disappearance of his ship and crew. Birdie studies Franklin’s ageing widow, her brown ringlets falling like the petals of an autumnal rose around her fine-boned face, and she feels a sudden stab of guilt. Lady Franklin spent years searching for her husband only to be informed he’d died in the frozen wastes. Birdie believed her husband to be dead and yet the discovery that he is alive and living in St Petersburg hasn’t filled her with joy, as it should have done. As it would have done if she were like Lady Franklin. Indeed, her heart sank a little when she read Patrick’s letter. Birdie glances at Solomon; his gaze is elsewhere. Lady Franklin’s presence here is, Birdie feels, a sobering reminder that she made a promise to be Patrick’s loyal and faithful wife. She cannot waver and simply ignore her own vows.
The heavy peal of St James Garlickhythe announces the end of the Blessing Ceremony. The Master and his procession will arrive any minute; it’s a short walk from the church to the Skinners’ Hall. The atmosphere in the courtyard is expectant, almost fearful.
One of the guards shouts, ‘Stand aside for the Master of the Worshipful Company of the Skinners and the members of his court.’
A ripple spreads through the crowd as guests turn toward the archway. To her surprise, she hears the clip of hooves. The first figure to emerge through the arch is a mounted constable; he has to duck under the hanging lamps. The white horse whinnies and dances, nostrils flaring, skittish in the confined space. The copper on horseback is followed by another uniformed figure; she stiffens when she sees the flat cap and navy jacket. It’s an officer of the Thames Division. What’s more, she realizes with creeping horror as she throws the river cop a second glance, there is something familiar about his imposing form. She glances over her shoulder at Solomon; his face registers alarm. He tilts his head almost imperceptibly, beckoning her into the shadows of the cloister to one side of the courtyard. She edges after him.
‘Superintendent Lynch,’ he whispers.
It’s as bad as she feared: Lynch is the officer in charge of Wapping Station. The cop who removed Tobias Skaill’s corpse from the foreshore of the Thames. She has an urge to run, but she stands her ground.
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘I suppose he’s here as a representative of the Met.’ He says it casually, though his downturned mouth betrays concern. ‘The bloke on the horse is from the City Police.’
She stands on her toes and spies a priest in red, another in black. Behind them, a towering figure enters alone. The guests fall back as he strides across the courtyard. His silver hair is visible below a black velvet hat, a fur-edged cape is draped from his square shoulders and, attached to his belt, he carries a knife in a leather sheath. His eyes sweep the courtyard and send a shiver down her spine. It is the Master. She strains to get a better view of his face, catches sight of the Skinners’ crest dangling on its red ribbon around his neck and recalls the same crest dangling across the desk of Matron’s office. She blanks the image and focuses on the procession; a muster of black-cloaked men enter, each of them displaying a ribbon attached to the crest of the Skinners. The Master’s retinue brandish flaming torches in the air as they pour silently through the archway. The flames leap and dive in the north wind, glazing the white walls with a blood-red sheen and casting ominous shadows on the torchbearers’ faces. These guards seem more like soldiers in an army than participants in a ceremonial procession and the audience can feel their menace; a wave of fear washes over the faces of the spectators, and those standing closest to the torchbearers shuffle back as the procession fills the courtyard.
Vinge appears; he weaves and dives, deterring anybody who steps out of line with an intimidating lunge. The red-caped Beadle enters the courtyard last. He raises a staff in his hand, brings its end down on the paving stones with a resounding crack. The crowd is silent. The only sound to be heard is the crackle of the torches burning.
‘Ladies, gentlemen.’ The Beadle speaks slowly, as if he’s finding it difficult to articulate the words. ‘It is my honour to introduce the recently re-elected Master of the Worshipful Company of the Skinners.’
Vinge shouts, ‘A toast to the Master.’ Superintendent Lynch seconds the call.
‘To the Master’s health and prosperity,’ Vinge cries.
The guests raise their glasses obediently. Another voice interrupts and the steeliness of his pitch silences any chatter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
Birdie cannot see the speaker, but she recognizes the Master’s voice immediately. His chilling tone is amplified in the courtyard. His words boom around the walls and echo in her head. The noise disorients her and sends her spiralling through her memories, searching for another time and place where she stands and hears him speak. Solomon nudges her, snaps her out of the turmoil and brings her back to the crowded courtyard.
‘A few words,’ the Master says. ‘Thank you, good ladies and gentlemen, for braving the cold and coming to this celebration. Thank you to the warden, the court members and the representatives of the City and Thames Police.’
She twists and sees the constable, who has now dismounted and is attempting to calm his horse.
‘Thank you, in particular, to Superintendent Lynch for leading, yet again, the Master’s Blessing Ceremony and Procession.’
He’s got the Filth in his pocket as well as half the city. She shudders, suddenly overwhelmed by the spread of the Master’s reach.
She shuffles around as the Master continues his oration. Finally, she has a full view of his colourless face; heavy grey brows above his icy eyes, and a thin, sneering mouth.
‘As you all know, this livery company began many centuries ago as a guild to protect and support those men who made their living by skinning creatures.’
A shiver runs through the crowd; the guests were expecting him to gloss over the nature of the Skinners’ trade; it’s really not their concern. He surveys his captive audience and she suspects he’s enjoying their discomfort.
‘Skinning creatures in a way that best preserves the pelt,’ he continues, ‘is a skill that requires years of training and experience to perfect. Particularly if the mammal to be skinned is large and the skin is…’ He pauses and she feels his gaze scour her cheek. Scared, she drops her eyes and sees his hand grip the handle of his knife. ‘Particularly if the skin is pale and delicate,’ he continues. She daren’t look up, though she can sense that his predatory glare has moved on. ‘And while few of the good people assembled here today are trained in the art of skinning, many of you will have accrued wealth from companies that are dependent on the trade.’
He’s warning his guests, she thinks, reminding them that rumours might well swirl around him, but none of them can afford to gloat because they all have dirty hands. Nobody looks at their neighbour.
‘Of course, while some members of this Worshipful Company are expert skinners, their welfare is no longer the sole purpose of the guild. The Skinners now spread their benevolence more widely and offer charity to many individuals and institutions. It is through the benevolence, generosity and Christian virtue of the members of the guild that we are able to prevent the poor and needy of this great city of ours falling into a tragic life of vice and crime.’
Applause rumbles around the courtyard; city gents may gossip about the Master’s activities behind his back, but none dares demur in his presence.
‘Among the many good causes we are able to support, I would like to mention in particular our orphanage for young girls in Bermondsey and, of course, the excellent St Edward’s boarding school in Rotherhithe for the children of those who have perished at sea.’
St Edward’s? He gestures toward a figure at the back of the courtyard. Heads swivel. She follows the crowd’s gaze and does a double-take because she is certain they are looking toward her one-time school matron. Older, of course. But still recognizable. And her smug expression reminds Birdie of the look she had on her face the day she discovered Birdie in her office. What was it Matron said? One day she’d meet somebody who would teach her the meaning of obedience, even if he had to beat her black and blue to do it.
Solomon whispers, ‘St Edward’s. Isn’t that where…’
She shakes her head. Her mind is foggy. This ceremony is all wrong. It’s dredging up her past, feeding her glimpses of people and places she half recognizes or remembers. Mr Wolff. Matron. And the Master himself. His voice. What is it about his voice? She can’t tell whether she’s heard it in an apparition or in real life. Is there any difference? She sways.
‘Are you all right?’ Solomon whispers.
She nods; she does not trust herself to speak.
The Master has finished his speech.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Beadle shouts from his position by the open doors. ‘There are more refreshments in the reception hall where you might like to gather for half an hour or so. The Lord Mayor, I believe, intends to bless us with his company for the main banquet.’
At the mention of the Lord Mayor, there is a murmur among the guests. This is what they came here for; a chance to hob-nob with the city’s big men. The gents in top hats and their lady companions drift toward the reception. Vinge follows behind, herding people in the direction of the hall.
‘Should we leave now?’ Birdie whispers. She’s had enough, afraid she’s being lured into a trap set with her own peculiar memories.
‘Let’s go inside for a while,’ Solomon says, ‘and leave when the banquet starts.’
She hesitates, then resolves to stick with Solomon, and see this through.
‘Does Lynch know your face?’ she asks.
Solomon rubs his lip with his hand; he is sweating despite the cold. ‘I’ve seen him when I’ve been out and about around the docks. I doubt he knows I’m a detective. We’ll stay away from Lynch, but keep an eye on Vinge.’
