The Butcher of Berner Street Read online

  ‘Is this your place?’

  He nodded, still coiling the rope. ‘Not bad, eh? Not long ago I was doing my act for a few shillings a week, and now all this. Goes to show what a man can achieve with a little ambition and some wise investors.’ He indicated the room. ‘Before me, this gaff was half empty most of the time, or worse. Folks don’t want actors spouting about things they know nothing about, they want a couple of blokes punching each other and the chance to win a few bob. Human nature.’

  ‘And women fighting too?’

  He gave me a wink. ‘Pioneer, ain’t I? Folks like to see some variety, and maybe a lady’s dugs too, on occasion. You’d be surprised how easily their clothes come apart.’ He chuckled. ‘Though Miss Vostek’s fights don’t last long as a rule, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to see her dugs.’

  I gathered my coat more closely around my chest.

  The door opened and the dandy I’d been speaking to earlier walked in. Drake gestured towards me.

  ‘This is Mr Stanhope from the Chronicle.’

  I put out my hand for the dandy to shake, but he didn’t take it. His right sleeve was empty below the elbow. ‘I guessed you was one of the press. You don’t seem like the wrestling type.’ He searched my face. ‘We’re honoured, I’m sure.’

  They exchanged a glance, and I got the sense they were close; cousins, I thought, or boyhood friends. Perhaps even brothers, though they looked nothing alike.

  Drake hung up the rope on a hook and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Why don’t you come and have a look round, Mr Stanhope. I’m a believer in doing what we can for the neighbourhood, and you might learn something interesting.’ He indicated the door through to the back, and I hesitated, feeling a shiver run through me. I knew nothing about these men.

  He clapped me on my upper arm. ‘Come along. Doesn’t everyone want to know what goes on behind the scenes?’

  I steeled myself and followed him, ducking under the low lintel. The dandy, who still hadn’t given me his name, trailed behind, his shoes ringing on the hardwood floor.

  At the back of the hall was a dismal yard full of crates and boxes, and beyond that a substantial shiplap hut erected alongside the road running perpendicular to Berner Street. I could hear footsteps on the pavement just a few feet away behind the wall, quickly drowned by the roar of a train in the distance. I shivered in the drizzle. Would all men be afraid at such a moment, I wondered, or was I especially craven?

  Drake fiddled with the handle to the hut, eventually throwing the door open. We basked in the thin light from inside.

  He seemed to sense my dread and raised his eyebrows. I knew that look; my brother had the same one. Everything was a sport, a contest, with the victor’s hand raised aloft, and the loser slapping the stage in surrender. It was all good-natured fun, as long as he was winning.

  ‘After you, Mr Stanhope.’

  Curtains had been hung from the ceiling, dividing the hut into rooms, and lamps were spitting and flickering in the draught. The top-of-the-bill fighters, Dooley and McMahon, had changed into their normal clothes and were playing Black Peter for tots of gin, throwing the cards down at fearsome speed. They stood up as we entered, though not for my sake. Their deference was for Drake and he took it as his due, indicating they should carry on, much as a colonel favours his battle-hardened troops.

  A curtain was pushed aside and the Hungarian Lady Vostek emerged, dressed in the most garish garb: a bright yellow dress, fitted jacket and blue bonnet. She seemed to have no clue what combination of colours would be pleasing to the eye, which together with her lavish features and the bruise blooming on her cheek, lent her a clownish air.

  Drake held out his arms as though about to embrace her. ‘Ah, here she is! Irina Vostek, our lady champion. She fights every Tuesday, men and women alike, makes no difference to her.’

  She leaned away from him. ‘No putting hand on my arse next time,’ she instructed, cutting the air between them with a sharp gesture. ‘No hand. No arse. Agreed?’

  He ignored her demand, which I thought considerably rash. ‘She’s from Budapest, aren’t you, Irina?’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Always you say Budapest! Budapest, Budapest. Is not true. I am from Szeged.’

  The dandy laughed, stuttering into silence as she threw him a look.

  ‘Well, no one’s ever heard of … that place,’ Drake mumbled, scratching his ear. ‘It’s impossible to remember.’

  He pushed aside the third curtain, where another wrestler was washing blood from his face with a flannel. I recognised him as a loser in one of the earlier bouts. He sat up straight as we entered, and Drake examined his injury, pinching the broken skin above the man’s left eyebrow to close the wound. Without careful attention it would fester. The poor fellow winced, clenching his fists, but he withstood it.

  Drake rinsed his hands in the bowl. ‘You need stitching,’ he said to him. ‘Coffey here will get it done.’

  The wrestler appeared disconcerted at the idea of a one-handed man suturing his face, but he didn’t dare object.

  ‘Let me help,’ I said. ‘I have some experience at stitching. I was an assistant to a surgeon.’

  I didn’t mention that all but one of my patients had been corpses, sewn up like old sacks after their post-mortems. Nor that the single exception was a cat.

  The wrestler looked relieved, the fool, and I sat with him while the dandy, Mr Coffey, dipped the needle and thread in alcohol.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the wrestler.

  ‘Trafford, sir.’

  He was a local lad, from his accent, and a stolid individual, with a drinker’s complexion and creeping baldness, though he was no more than twenty years old.

  Coffey reached into his pocket for a flask. ‘This’ll ease the pain a little, Bert. Wouldn’t want you weeping on the floor like a little girl, would we?’

  I took the flask from him and sniffed, recognising the sickly smell of laudanum. ‘I wouldn’t,’ I advised Trafford, remembering my own past addiction to a similar substance. ‘It’ll give you powerful nightmares.’

  I could feel my heart pattering in my chest. It had been two years since I’d last sunk into that black water, salving my grief, and yet the scent of it could still awaken the craving, almost overwhelming me.

  I compressed the wound as Coffey wielded the needle, and afterwards put my finger on the knot as he pulled the thread tight. Trafford was stoic, gritting his teeth but not flinching.

  I stood back to admire our work. ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t lost your good looks.’

  My humour was wasted on him.

  He swallowed hard and shook my hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Coffey whisked out a dented gold pocket watch on a chain.

  ‘It’s almost eleven,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ Drake was all business once again. ‘One last thing. Come with me, Mr Stanhope.’

  He led me back across the yard to the back door of the gaff and through the hall, which was still covered with the detritus of the evening: broken bottles, empty bags, discarded chits and glistening drivels of spit. I followed him outside to the pavement and was surprised to see a queue of fifteen or twenty children lined up along the street. They were clothed in rags and many were barefoot, some no higher than my hip and others almost adults. All had sharp eyes, darting from each other to Drake, resting quickly on me and then flicking away. They knew I was no threat.

  Drake put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me close to him. He smelled of sweat and talcum, and I tried not to shudder at the sudden intimacy. ‘I like to share my good fortune.’ He beckoned to the first lad. ‘Lead ’em in, Lewis.’

  The lad, heavyset, with the first brush of beard on his chin, accepted a farthing from Drake and nodded his thanks, passing into the hall. Each child followed him, one at a time, and each received a farthing, pressed into their palm. Their fingers closed over the coin as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did. Some were car
rying bundles of clothing tied with string and others sacks or rolled blankets on their backs. Last in line was a moon-faced girl who met Drake’s eye and, as she passed inside, performed a neat little curtsy that seemed almost sarcastic.

  ‘Where are they from?’ I asked, thinking of two orphans I knew well, whose fate might not have been so different, had I not found them. I was looking forward to seeing them again on Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Nowhere.’ Drake waved a blithe hand towards the city. ‘Leastwise, nowhere that matters. We give ’em what little we can; a place out of the rain to lay their heads, a bite to eat if we have it. All we ask in return is that they clean up the place after the punters have left. Small favour to ask in exchange for such charity, see?’ He held up his hands to indicate his empire. ‘This is what we are; decent sport for the paying public and a little aid for those who’d otherwise starve. Surely we’re worth a few kind words in your Chronicle?’

  I didn’t like to tell him that my articles were mostly about science, appearing on page eleven or twelve at best, and often getting cut altogether when a more amusing story came along: a policeman getting his foot caught in a drain or a dog barking the national anthem. I’d only taken up this enquiry because the letter had been addressed to me personally and Harry had refused to come, saying it was most likely a prank and adding, with a wink at Miss Chive, that he already had plans for the evening.

  Without the promised crime, there was no article worth writing.

  I bade Drake farewell and trudged away along the pavement, my coat collar raised against the chill. All was silence but for the clank of the bolt as the door to the gaff was locked from inside.

  2

  Two days later, I went to see Rosie. Her conversation was generally good, and her pies were always outstanding, especially if they were free of charge. Granted, she would be unwilling to donate a fresh one, which I imagined bubbling and steaming as she spaded them out of the oven, but even one of yesterday’s was better than any other food one might purchase in London.

  The distance from my newspaper office on Fleet Street to Rosie’s pie shop was only a few hundred yards and I took it at a saunter, enjoying the spring sunshine and hoping Rosie’s trade had not been so brisk that she’d completely sold out. I arrived just as St Paul’s was dully announcing one o’clock.

  Her assistant, a leather-skinned woman named Anne, or possibly Angela, I could never remember, informed me that they had but a single pie left over from yesterday.

  ‘Chicken and cherry,’ she grunted, wiping her hands down her apron. ‘Cold.’

  There was only one other customer, but still the little shop seemed crowded. He was leaning his ink-stained forearms on the counter, explaining the workings of a printing press to Rosie, and seemed displeased by my arrival. It must be the weather, I thought. Everyone thinks it’s mating season.

  Of course, he didn’t know that Rosie, as a young widow, brilliant cook and owner of her own business, was accustomed to suitors, and treated them much as a hill treats a wind that wails and sighs but never so much as shifts a pebble on its upper slopes. After a couple of minutes, she threw me a look and I half smiled back.

  I admired the printer’s perseverance and was curious to discover whether his explanation of the mechanics of cylinders under pressure – and this to a woman who operated a mangle twice a week – would yield an encouraging simper. It did not. Nevertheless, I remained attentive despite the tedium, wary in case his disappointment led him towards a more robust approach.

  When he finally gave up and pushed past me into the street, Rosie turned to her assistant. ‘Would you mind taking over for a few minutes, Alice? I believe Mr Stanhope is in need of my advice.’

  Of course: Alice! I made a conscious effort to commit her name to memory. After all, I had known the woman, albeit only slightly, for more than two years. I couldn’t call her “Excuse me” for ever.

  Alice – Alice, Alice, Alice – nodded, her arms folded and her mouth set in a flat, hard line like a schoolteacher disappointed, but not surprised, by her pupils’ disregard for the rules of polite behaviour.

  Rosie pulled on her coat and grabbed her umbrella, and we set off to make a circumnavigation of St Paul’s, as was our habit. When we reached the cathedral, I glanced up at the statue of the long-dead queen spoiling the entrance, what was left of her. She was defaced in every sense, missing a nose, jaw and most of her crown. On her plinth someone had scraped the words:

  Mad Brandy Nan

  Soft In The Head

  Thought She Was A Man

  All Her Children Dead

  Rosie had little interest in such things and was more entertained by my recent humiliation. ‘You honestly thought it was real?’

  She could hardly keep the glee from her face.

  ‘Anyone would’ve been taken in by that letter.’ I ignored the fact that Drake had sent similar ones to several newspapers and I was the only journalist who’d turned up. ‘It was unsigned. I had no way to tell it was from the supposed victim.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  I showed it to her, and she read as we strolled, her expression obscured by the brim of her hat. When she reached the end, she tapped her umbrella on the ground, a sure sign of irritation.

  ‘Who’s Zeus?’

  ‘A Greek god. He placed the heavens upon the shoulders of Atlas, a Titan warrior.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Then you should’ve known it was from a man, at least.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She raised her eyebrows in a manner I knew preceded some sort of a tease. ‘Only a man would think it was another man who holds up the heavens.’

  At that moment, we heard a voice behind us. ‘Leo!’

  We turned in unison, and to my surprise, Harry Whitford, my colleague at the Chronicle, was hurrying towards us, his coat flapping behind him and his hand clamped on to his brown felt hat.

  He arrived, puffing, and had to bend down, his hands on his knees, to recover his breath. For a fellow of barely twenty-one, slim and apparently healthy, he was woefully lacking in youthful vigour. He believed in living well, did Harry, and rarely stinted on ale, cigars and, I had no doubt, other diversions readily available in the bars and back rooms of Soho.

  He introduced himself to Rosie between gasps. ‘You must be Mrs Flowers.’

  She acknowledged that she was while I waited for him to finish his puffing.

  ‘How did you know where we were?’

  ‘The woman in Mrs Flowers’s shop told me. Alice, is it? She was very helpful.’ He held up his hand, and I stepped backwards, thinking he was going to puke, but he regained control of his stomach. ‘Sorry. I was out celebrating last night. I’m not yet ten out of ten. A six at best.’ He belched and clutched at his chest. ‘Possibly a five.’

  ‘What were you celebrating?’

  ‘Eh?’

  He seemed confused by the question, so I changed the subject back to the more pertinent one.

  ‘What do you want, Harry?’

  ‘Right, yes, of course. There’s been a death at that penny gaff you were at last Tuesday evening.’

  ‘What?’ I exchanged a surprised look with Rosie. ‘Who?’

  ‘Does the name Drake mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s the owner of the place. Is it him?’

  Harry nodded cheerfully. ‘Hanged. Dead as a doornail, apparently. We got a telegram. I mean, it was addressed to you, but you weren’t in the office.’ He beamed at Rosie. ‘Your pies are quite something, Mrs Flowers. I’ve been meaning to try one.’ He thumbed in my direction. ‘Stanhope brings them back from time to time and they smell divine, but he never shares them. Mean-spirited, if you want my opinion. I shall have to come to your shop and choose one for myself.’

  Rosie replied that he would be very welcome, going on to explain with an uncharacteristically warm smile that her pies were baked fresh every day, not like some places, and were a steal at ninepence apiece.

  Again, I h
ad rather firmly to redirect the conversation.

  ‘Was Mr Drake murdered?’

  Harry grinned. ‘Of course. A vicious crime in the East End, maybe a link to gang warfare, none of us are safe in our beds, you know the sort of thing. Practically writes itself.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s actually dead? He has a trick of hanging himself by the neck that he uses to take advantage of people’s decency for the amusement of himself and his customers. He might have faked his own death so he can be miraculously resurrected. The world would come flocking to his door, no doubt, with wallets at the ready.’

  ‘Truly?’ Harry looked impressed. ‘I must confess I love all those entertainments, bending iron and lifting weights and so forth. I wish I could come with you, but Father said he wants you to write it.’

  Harry’s father, J. T. Whitford, had been newly promoted to the position of Assistant Editor at the Chronicle. He tolerated his son’s occasional lateness and less occasional insobriety with a patience bordering on despair. But Harry was possessed of some finer qualities too: he wrote succinct prose and had a knack for unearthing a good story.

  ‘I see. Did he say that you should come as well?’

  Harry leaned in to whisper to me without Rosie hearing. ‘The thing is, Miss Chive knocks off at six and her landlady comes home at seven, and I’d rather we didn’t run into her again, after last time.’ He rubbed his upper arm, pained by the memory. ‘You know how it is. I’m sure you can handle this without me.’

  He waved us goodbye and I was surprised to see Rosie raising a hand in response, and afterwards remaining silent as we hurried back to her shop.

  When we got there, she exchanged a brief word with Alice and turned to face me.

  ‘I’m coming with you, Leo. You plainly don’t know what’s what without me.’

  There was no arguing with her, and in truth I was grateful for her company.

  When I explained to the cabbie where we wanted to go, he groused that I had no business escorting a lady into an area like that. Only after Rosie protested that she was willing, indeed eager, to take the risk did he agree to carry us the full distance, all the while complaining that we would certainly be slain, and his horse cut up for meat. He seemed mostly concerned for the horse.