The Butcher of Berner Street Read online

  ALSO BY ALEX REEVE

  The House on Half Moon Street

  The Anarchists’ Club

  For Rob and Rachael

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Historical notes

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  1

  The two women climbed into the ring and faced each other as if they were about to dance. Both were wearing long-sleeved buttonless vests, but while one had chosen a long skirt, the other was sporting a pair of linen drawers belted at the waist. The bell rang and they grappled for four, perhaps five seconds, until the one wearing the drawers, who was a fearsome specimen indeed, with hands like chuck steaks and features that seemed too large for her face, wrenched the other sideways, sending her off-balance. From that point on, the bout’s conclusion was inevitable. The soon-to-be victor shook the soon-to-be loser as if she was emptying a sack of flour, before slamming her down and forcing an arm across her throat, causing the poor woman to go pink and slap the floor in surrender, raising a mist of chalk dust.

  The winner leapt to her feet, arms aloft, and accepted the scattered, cursory applause of the crowd.

  ‘I beat her!’ she declared in an accent as thick as her forearms. ‘I beat everyone! I win always!’ The purple bow she was using to tie back her hair bounced up and down as she jumped.

  The referee sprang on to the stage, stepping over the prone figure of the defeated.

  ‘The Hungarian Lady Vostek is our champion!’ he bellowed. ‘All the way from Budapest!’

  I exchanged a look with Constable Pallett, who was standing near the back of the hall, his height giving him a view over the flat caps and occasional bowler. I had suggested to him that he should try to merge into the throng, drinking ale and laying bets as if his week’s rent depended on it, but he was as inconspicuous as a lighthouse. He might as well have been wearing his police uniform.

  The few who had bothered to gamble on the Hungarian Lady Vostek at terrible odds of one-to-ten on collected their meagre winnings while the rest waited for the real match. The ladies’ bout was little more than a novelty, a diversion, and many of the spectators had missed the excitement completely, taking the opportunity to visit the bar.

  But the referee had not finished. He was a handsome fellow with a build that might have made him a wrestler himself, though his pristine face had surely never been pummelled by an elbow or squeezed between a pair of mighty thighs. He drew in his breath and swept an arm across the crowd.

  ‘It’s time, ladies and gentlemen,’ he proclaimed inaccurately, for there were only men watching as far as I could see. ‘Time to see which among you will dare to fight the Hungarian Lady Vostek. She’s taken on all comers for the last six weeks, men and women alike, and she remains unbeaten. Will you be the one? Fame awaits, ladies and gentlemen. Which of you will risk your good health and reputation to battle … a lady?’

  He jabbed an accusing finger at us, and we all looked at each other, wondering whether anyone would be foolish enough to accept such a challenge. There was some good-humoured shoving as a couple of chaps attempted to volunteer their friends, but otherwise the response appeared primarily to be embarrassment.

  ‘Why don’t you do it, Mr Drake?’ shouted someone from the back.

  The referee, Drake, grinned and stood back from the Hungarian Lady Vostek, assessing her top to toe. ‘I don’t think I’m the man for such a task. Anyway, it’s my gaff, my rules.’ He rooted around in his pocket. ‘But perhaps an incentive. Will anyone take her on for a quid?’

  This seemed a far more attractive proposition, and I could see a few men giving the idea some thought, their eyes flicking between the Hungarian and the pound note now being waved in our faces.

  ‘As a fee?’ demanded someone at the front.

  Drake rustled the note between his fingers. ‘As a prize, my friend. If you win.’

  The fellow turned to the crowd with comical incredulity. ‘If ?’

  They hooted with laughter.

  I stood on tiptoe to see the prospective challenger, a local man from his accent, probably a navvy on the railways. He took off his jacket, revealing rolled-up shirt sleeves and a knitted waistcoat straining at its buttons, and placed his glass of ale on a table. The crowd whooped and cheered as he clambered on to the stage and into the ring.

  Now, everyone was watching.

  He set himself as if about to engage his opponent, but then stopped and took her hand, placing a courtly kiss on the back of it.

  ‘Your ladyship.’

  The crowd hooted even more loudly, waving their glasses, some slapping each other on the back.

  The Hungarian Lady Vostek snatched her hand away, scowling, and Drake rang the bell. The bookmakers quickly began chalking odds on to their boards, strongly favouring the challenger. So few bets did the lady receive, the one nearest to me was offering seven-to-one against and still finding no takers. I sidled over to him.

  ‘Sixpence on the lady.’

  He took my coin and gave me a chit without taking his eyes off the fighters.

  The navvy smoothed his hair and started cavorting around the stage, making as if to grapple with her and then standing back, leering all the while. She shadowed him, her face grim and her feet set well apart. They were about the same height, but he was weightier and less athletic, more interested in exchanging lewd jokes with his friends than paying attention to his adversary. Eventually, he capered too close and she clouted him with the heel of her hand. I heard a crack and was unsure whether it was his chin or her wrist which had caused it. He reeled backwards, and she shuffled towards him, taking one flailing punch just below her eye and ducking under another. She twisted and elbowed him twice in the stomach, followed by a downward kick that tore a gash in his trouser leg from his patella to his shin. He went down like a rotten tree.

  From there, the poor fellow didn’t stand a chance. She dropped to a crouch and sank her knee into his stomach. The crowd leaned forward eagerly, making a communal low of disappointment when they realised he wasn’t disembowelled, but was rolling to and fro on his back, cupping his manhood in his hands. They shrank back, wincing with an empathy they hadn’t hitherto appeared to possess.

  The Hungarian Lady Vostek raised her arms above her head and roared. The crowd, even those who had backed her opponent, cheered and waved their chits. A couple of men removed their hats and proffered exaggerated bows.

  Drake handed her a robe to cover the drawers and shirt she was extravagantly occupying, and held up her hand.

  ‘Victory to the Hungarian Lady Vostek! Maybe next time she should fight two men!’

  She shot him a glance which would have panicked a less confident individual, but he grinned and winked at her, even taking the liberty of slapping her behind as she left the stage.

  The cigar smoke in the room was getting thicker, catching in my throat and stinging my eyes. I peered through it at the constable, who checked his pocket watch and held up ten fingers. He’d only promised to stay until ten o’clock as he had a new wife at home and was doing me a favour attending at all. Berner Street was far to the east of hi
s usual patch, slotted among the slums between Commercial Road and Cable Street, and this penny gaff had not been easy to find. The sign propped up outside was still advertising a production of Othello, the place having made a natural progression from Shakespeare to wrestling, affording the audience a more sporting outcome and fewer speeches.

  I collected my winnings from the ratty-looking bookmaker, who was counting his money and smirking. He might have found himself in difficulties with his less gleeful punters had Pallett not stepped forward, speaking to the fellow from the side of his mouth, making him more noticeable than ever. Saving smug bookmakers from a beating was all very well, but not what we had come here to do.

  We had come to prevent a murder.

  Even so, I was more than ever convinced we were wasting our time. The letter I’d received that morning had been circumspect to say the least. When I’d shown it to Harry Whitford, my colleague at the Daily Chronicle, he scoffed and went back to his conversation with Miss Chive, who was taking a break from her typewriting duties to giggle and touch his shoulder, occasionally expressing the opinion that he was a proper rogue and no mistake.

  And yet, there remained the possibility that it was true, and someone at this event was about to be killed.

  I slipped the letter out of my pocket and held it close like a betting chit.

  Dear Mr Stanhope.

  I am writing to confide in you a matter of the highest urgency. Though we have not met, I have read your newspaper articles and applaud you for their extraordinary clarity and erudition. Indeed, I believe you to be …

  I was briefly distracted by the memory of Harry’s response to this claim, which was to state that the author was clearly mad or, alternatively, a close relative of mine. He said all this with a smirk, and read the passage aloud to Miss Chive, his tone at first sardonic and then disbelieving as the letter’s meaning became clear.

  … a man of unusual curiosity and rigour, who has on occasion solved crimes unfathomable to the police. I therefore place this burden upon you, as Zeus once did to Atlas, with faith that you will have the strength to endure it.

  The penny gaff on Berner Street in Whitechapel is an excellent establishment with honest sport and tasty food and ale at modest prices. It is generally agreed by all the good people of the neighbourhood to be in every way beyond reproach. Yet this most well-reputed venue will, this evening, become the scene of a tragic death. And not merely a death but a cold-hearted murder.

  I can say no more. I beg you to attend.

  With my kindest regards.

  There was no signature. And no murder either, at least not yet.

  The stage was empty in anticipation of the next match, and the room had become hot, lacking proper ventilation and packed so intimately I had long since given up apologising for treading on other men’s heels. Earlier that evening, a fellow had leaned on my shoulder to bawl at a wrestler whom he judged to be insufficiently combative, spraying my ear with spittle. He had no right to be so demanding as he was skinny and something of a dandy, wearing a blue velvet jacket, matching waistcoat and a satin opera hat which made him considerably unpopular with those standing behind. To avoid further intimacy, I had adopted a pillar to lean against, but despite myself, by the second or third bout, a reckless good humour had overcome me, and the dandy and I were opining together on the relative merits of reach and strength as if we were old friends. Perhaps it was the alcohol. I might actually have enjoyed myself had my mission not taken precedence.

  The fight at the top of the bill was a challenger, Dublin Dick Dooley, taking on the local man, Electric Jimmy McMahon, who was the Whitechapel champion and enjoyed a good deal of local support. McMahon was carried through the crowd on the shoulders of two lads, leaning down to shake the hand of everyone he passed. When the bell rang, the two men embraced each other in a statuesque fashion, seeming at first so equally matched that neither could shift the other no matter how hard they stressed and strained. But, after half a minute or so, Dooley began listing to the right like a badly laden cargo-boat and, finally, having no choice, he collapsed to the floor. McMahon fell upon him and energetically pounded his kidneys until the Irishman cried out, ‘Enough! I give up!’

  Mr Drake leapt on to the stage once again and held up the winner’s hand. ‘Electric Jim McMahon! Still undefeated!’

  At that second, the lights went out. We were thrust into almost complete blackness. There was a general muttering in the room but no great panic. This was the East End of London, not Westminster. The gas went off all the time.

  I put out a hand for the pillar to orientate myself, feeling reassured by its solidity. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I could see figures on the stage, and then the spark and glow of a match flame. A lamp was lit, and a slow gasp rippled backwards through the crowd.

  Above the stage, a rope had been slung over a beam and made into a noose. Hanging from it by his neck was the referee, Drake, as limp as a puppet, swinging gently from side to side.

  Pallett was the first to react and I followed in his wake. We jumped up on to the stage and he lifted Drake’s legs, trying to relieve the pressure on the man’s neck, in case he was still capable of breath. I ran to the cleat where the rope was tied off and frantically tried to free it, but it was jammed tight.

  ‘Help me!’ I shouted to the dandy, who had joined me on the stage, but to my horror, he started laughing.

  ‘Leave off,’ he said. ‘You’ll do ’im an injury.’

  I saw a movement in Drake’s body: a wriggle and shake. His hands reached up and he gripped the rope. The muscles in his arms tautened and he started to rise, slackening the noose, leaving a red weal on the skin of his neck.

  He took a breath.

  ‘That’s better,’ he croaked, and pulled his mouth into a fierce grin.

  He jerked his head backwards out of the noose and landed on the stage as neatly as a dancer. The audience broke out into wild applause.

  He bowed deeply. ‘Thank you. That’s all we have time for tonight, my friends! I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening and we look forward to seeing you all again soon.’

  With that, he dropped nimbly off the stage and went out through a low door to the back of the gaff.

  Some among the crowd were chortling and pointing at us, enjoying our discomfort. Others were already settling up with their bookmakers.

  ‘My goodness!’ I exclaimed to Pallett. ‘What right do they have to laugh? At least we tried to do the right thing.’

  The constable was more sanguine. ‘I think they’ve seen the trick before, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’ And now I felt foolish twice over, once for being humiliated and once for not realising that everyone else was in on the joke.

  Pallett checked his pocket watch again and glanced towards the door. ‘Never mind. It’s no bad thing to be blessed with a kind nature.’ He tipped his hat. ‘I’ll be on my way now, sir. You might do well to come with me. These streets aren’t safe for a gentleman.’

  I was touched at the nomenclature, but he was mistaken. No gentleman would’ve walked here rather than taken a cab, nor had to count out five halfpennies for our ales, nor, if the truth were told, have chosen to visit this penny gaff in the first place. What he really meant was that I was better spoken than the average man and had been kind enough to knot his Ascot tie for him on his wedding day.

  ‘I’ll stay, thank you. I want a word with Mr Drake.’

  Ten minutes later, the last punter had shoved his winnings into his pocket and scurried out with cap pulled low, no doubt wary of men who’d had a less rewarding evening and might seek to recoup their losses.

  Finally, Drake appeared again, now in more regular attire than the white jacket he had been wearing, and began unhooking the rope, humming under his breath. From that and his jaunty manner, I had the feeling he considered the evening a success.

  ‘What the hell were you doing?’ I demanded from across the room.

  He chuckled, not even looking up. ‘My party piece
. It’s been a while and I have to admit it hurts more than it used to.’ He cleared his throat productively. ‘I was a strongman, see? Exhibitions and such. People love a good hanging.’

  He put out a hand for me to shake, but didn’t bother walking to where I was standing. He expected me to come to him. When I did, he pumped my hand so hard I thought my elbow would dislocate.

  ‘Oh, don’t look like that. You’ve got to allow performers their tricks. Come on, it was a bit of fun, don’t you think? Your face was a picture.’

  ‘I presume the letter I received was written by you.’

  He slapped my shoulder. ‘A bit of publicity, see? None of you lot from the newspapers ever come out to the East End, so I thought I’d do something to persuade you. You’re the only one who showed up, Mr …?’

  ‘Stanhope. The Daily Chronicle.’

  His eyes flicked to my left cheek which could, in certain lights, appear burnished and pink where it had been scorched by a fire the previous year. I had become used to people’s glances and frowns, as if they were unsure whether I was disfigured naturally or by calamity. His face, by contrast, bore no blemish at all that I could see. Where his chin was supposed to be clean-shaven, it was, perfectly so, and where it was supposed to be bearded, dark hair sprouted with eager fullness.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of you. You solved some murders in the past, so I thought you’d be game.’ He smiled broadly, showing me his teeth. ‘Oswald Drake. I’m sorry for the false pretences, but I’m glad you’re here. I hope you’ll write charitably in your newspaper about my little venture.’

  ‘I don’t like being deceived.’

  ‘I prefer to say “entertained”, Mr Stanhope, but you’re the man with the vocabulary, not me. I’d be willing to put something your way for the right words in the right order, if you know what I mean. Words like “honest establishment” and “sporting contest” are the sort I have in mind. And “well-priced ale” wouldn’t go amiss, neither.’

  He had a peculiar charisma, this man, like the lead dog in a pack of strays. I didn’t trust him, but at least he was honest about his dishonesty, which was more than some could say.