Elijah’s Mermaid (35 page)

I gasped. ‘Osborne Black has put her away!’ And then, thinking back to Dolphin House, all the pictures I’d seen in its dingy hall, when looking again at the mermaids adorning the brothel walls, I found the style familiar and asked in disbelieving tones, ‘Did Osborne Black paint these?’

‘He did indeed,’ Tip Thomas replied. ‘No doubt they are worth a small fortune now, with the artist achieving such recent fame. If only we could find some way to remove the plaster, to frame it up and sell it on. But alas, he has diddled us there as well.’

‘When were they painted?’

‘Once upon a time, long, long ago, before
you
were a twinkle in
anyone’s
eye. He’d taken a fancy to one of our whores, quite a favourite with several young artists about . . . though most would not care to admit that now, become such
respectable
gentlemen.’

Tip Thomas walked towards one of the walls, scratching a talon over its surface. ‘This one, this is her . . . the one Osborne Black was obsessed with then.’

Half hidden between some rocks and reeds I saw a mermaid, staring out, her eyes a vivid emerald green, her waving hair like strands of gold which glistened around the shell she held, holding it cupped against one ear. Really, it was remarkable, how much she looked like Pearl, but an older Pearl, more voluptuous.

‘So,’ I was trying to understand, ‘was this mermaid, this woman, related to Pearl?’

‘She gave birth to her and then she drowned.’ Mrs Hibbert’s answer was brusquely made, to which I gave my shocked reply, ‘You sold her child to the very same man who had also painted the mother before . . . a man who paints nothing but mermaids
and water?’ I was thinking again of that tent in Cremorne and how Pearl had swooned when she saw the tank – the mermaid within like a mummified corpse, like something exhumed from a watery grave. I tried to imagine what Pearl had been thinking – when Tip Thomas’s voice slashed thin and sharp, ‘Things in this house are different now. It’s time to bring our mermaid home.’

He laughed with his mouth, but his eyes were cold when he spat on the carpet and pursed his lips, making a sort of kissing sound. His monkey then rolled back its lips. It might have been smiling in sheer delight, chirping, singing a pretty song. And while that display was going on Freddie was looking murderous, standing again, his voice booming out like a great bass drum, ‘Where is Elijah? I must insist you give him up. If not, I will see you both in court.’

Such an outburst made the monkey cringe, its tiny hands lifted to cover its eyes.

‘Will you calm yourself, Mr Hall!’ Mrs Hibbert’s voice sounded different then, somehow less guarded, less composed. ‘Are
you
so pure and righteous a man? Could you swear to
that
in a court of law?’

For a moment, Freddie looked confused, staring hard at the apparition in black, and meanwhile Tip Thomas carried on, ‘I dare say that many would be shocked to hear of Mr Frederick Hall’s involvement with the literature available in shops in Holywell Street . . . some fine examples of which reside on this establishment’s bookshelves, very popular with the clientele. I myself like a bit of
The Lustful Turk
. For Miss Lamb I might offer
Fanny Hill
. But then who is to say what is moral, what not, and who are the most respectable . . . those dealers in the galleries who pimp naked flesh to the great and the good, or the book vendors who ply their trade somewhat more illicitly. Oh, the quandary of such hypocrisy!’

Freddie’s mouth was gulping open and closed, like a fish being dangled on a hook. His response was simply to sit back down almost as if he’d been physically winded, pulling a
handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbing it over his brow and neck, where the flesh now gleamed with beads of sweat.

‘Gentlemen, please . . .
Comportez-vous!
’ Mrs Hibbert snapped to break the spell, as irate as a governess admonishing two disobedient pupils, after which she said more levelly, ‘Tip, show some manners instead of contempt. Will you pour Mr Hall a cup of tea . . . or something stronger if he desires. Stay here and entertain our friend while Miss Lamb is escorted to visit her brother.’

‘Take as long as you want,’ Tip Thomas replied. He sounded just as sly as rat. ‘Mr Hall and I will be happy enough discussing literature and art. And while on the subject of storybooks I might sit here beside the fireside and tell Mr Hall a tale or two. There might even be a ghost involved; a death still haunting him today, the soul he thought buried away in his past. What a white-knuckle business this living can be . . . don’t you agree, Mrs Hibbert?’

Mrs Hibbert stiffened and then replied, ‘I believe we have had revelations enough!’

‘Ah, well. All in good time. But the truth has a habit of outing itself, whether sooner or later, who can tell? First, we must take care of Pearl.’

The truth? What could this villain mean, and why the vicious smirk on his face when he arranged the folds of his coat as he sat in a chair beside the hearth, pushing the monkey down to the floor and withdrawing an object from one of his pockets. At first I thought it to be a knife with which he meant to threaten us, but he only used it on himself, one dull ridged side of that metal blade rasped back and forth between his hands as Tip Thomas filed and sharpened his claws; a vision sinister, threatening.

Meanwhile, a soft black hand took mine and led me away from those muralled walls, back out into the gloomy hall, where I followed Mrs Hibbert as she began to climb the stairs, a labyrinth winding up through the house, where many small landings had rooms leading off, from which women stared out
from doors ajar, and those rooms exuding pungent aromas, so dense that I felt myself dizzy and sick. It was like being trapped inside a dream, all thoughts of Tip Thomas forgotten by then in the anticipation of seeing my brother – my brother, in this very brothel.

The low hissing gleam of lamps on walls offered much too little light, and more than once I stumbled, my feet snagged by holes in the runners worn through by how many feet before, though Mrs Hibbert seemed to know exactly where to place her own, floating above me quite effortlessly, leaving me gasping and panting behind, my lungs become too constricted, and that pain in my head growing worse every moment, much relieved when we finally came to a halt – having reached the last of some narrow stairs and then passed between two Chinese jars, with thick velvet drapes hanging either side. It was there, in a dark narrow corridor, that Mrs Hibbert paused and turned, and I had the distinct impression that she might be about to reveal her face, for her fingers played at those black veil hems before dropping down to her sides again.

I asked, ‘Why do you hide yourself? You have been in mourning a very long time. When I saw you before, one day in Cremorne, you were wearing veils then as well.’

‘You saw me in Cremorne?’ There was a question in her voice before she went on more forcefully, ‘I mourn because of the curse of deception . . . because of the stain of sin.’ And with that cryptic pronouncement made she walked towards a door near by and said, ‘He is here. But he must remain calm. Your brother has been most gravely ill.’

‘What is wrong with him?’

‘He was found by the mudlarks late one night, wandering the shore beneath Battersea Bridge. He kept repeating the same three words . . . “black” and “Pearl” and “mermaid”, which caused his finders to assume that he had some association here, carrying him to our very door. Who knows how long he spent in the water, what filth was swallowed down from the sewers. And there is a wound to one side of his head.’

‘A wound?’ My own head was pounding when I demanded, ‘How long have you had my brother here?’

She placed a hand upon my arm, the lightest touch, hardly there at all. ‘For weeks . . . for months. At first, he was often insensible, not even knowing who he was. But Elijah is strong. He recovers well. I have prayed and God sends us a miracle. But . . .’ She paused. ‘The devil is never far off. Tip only decided to let him live thinking Elijah would lead us to Pearl. He knew him, you see. They had met before. And now . . . with this news about the asylum, Tip’s need has grown more urgent.’

She let out another heavy sigh. ‘I cannot bear to think of her there . . . but never imagine that Tip has a heart. He wants Pearl for the wealth she will bring to his coffers. Your brother is nothing more than her ransom. Tip would have thrown him back into the Thames if not for this bartering game he plays. I cannot say what he might do if . . .’

‘If what?’

Her answer came slow and resigned. ‘If you fail to bring Pearl back again.’

‘But you sold her before, to Osborne Black. Why do you suddenly want her back?’

‘Since she left us the business has faltered. With Pearl, Tip will lure the best gentlemen back. She will be the House of the Mermaid’s jewel.’

‘When I saw her, last week in Osborne’s house, she mentioned your name. She said you would help. She said Mrs Hibbert would set her free, and she spoke of some papers . . .’

‘Papers? Ah, that explains it. Tip has turned this house upside down with his searching.’ She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Let this be our secret. Tell nobody else. If there are legal documents, then . . .’ She seemed to be trying to work things out, as if her memory failed her. ‘Then he may have no need for Elijah.’

‘But then he would give my brother back!’ The hope I felt was soon depressed when her answer came so stridently. ‘No, I
have told you . . . you
must
believe. Tip Thomas does not have a heart. You could cut it out . . . he would not bleed.’

I was afraid, hearing those words. I can hardly describe the turmoil I felt, at first barely able to do much more than to press my forehead against the door – the door that would lead to my brother’s side. I spread my fingers against the wood and listened for any signs of life, hearing nothing but silence from within. Was he really there? Or was this a trick? Mrs Hibbert and her accomplice, Tip, intending to lock me up instead, to blackmail Freddie for
my
release? You do hear of such things going on. Ellen Page had warned me often enough – and thinking of her and Papa again, both of them waiting for news of Elijah, I stifled my panic and gathered my courage and placed my hand on the cold brass knob.

It was like being six years old again, standing perfectly still in that doorway, looking into the room where my brother lay, but inhaling those scents of the sickroom, the faint tangs of vomit, ammonia, carbolic, and something else, something cloying, metallic. The room was very dim indeed, though leaking faint through some bars at the window there dribbled the last of the dreary day. A fire burned low in a small iron grate, the occasional hushing of a coal, the crackle and spit of a flaring log that afforded my eyes sufficient light to register the rosebud walls – so like my own in Kingsland House – and the shelves full of books and magazines. Hanging on a hook to one side of a mirror was a little circlet of flowers and shells. When taking a step farther into the room I noticed some pictures pinned to a wall, and recognised one immediately – a scene from
A Christmas Carol
it was, which Papa once read to us every year. Another two were posters to advertise days out in Cremorne; one depicting the flight of a hot-air balloon floating up high in a starry sky, the other the sketch of a pleasure boat, emblazoned with a legend that read,
The Citizen Boat Company
. That jaunty vessel was decked in flags, and much like the one we’d travelled in – that day when we visited Cremorne – that day when my
brother’s fate was sealed – my brother now lost in a shadowy gloom as dark as that in the mermaid tent.

I made out a table. A jug. A bowl. A razor. A towel. A bar of soap. A bottle half full of some syrupy mixture which I guessed must be an opiate, for it looked like the potions prescribed to Papa. There were brown sticky stains on the sheets of the bed, where some of that liquid must have spilled, beneath which lay a sleeping man – but a man who was a stranger to me – not my brother – not Elijah at all! Since when was Elijah so pale and gaunt, the bones in his face much too prominent? Since when was Elijah’s hair cut short, one area having been shaved away, a fur of new stubble growing in through which you could clearly see a scar, the livid wound above one ear extending almost to the crown – where I’d felt such a stabbing of pain in mine. That man looked like a living corpse, with the dark bruising hollows beneath closed eyes, and his breaths so shallow that, as I stepped nearer and dared to peer down, I really did think him already dead, jumping back in alarm when his lids flickered open, eyes blinking before they closed again. But that was enough for me to see, even if they were swollen and rimmed with red, shining too bright in that wasted face; those eyes still belonged to my brother.

My heart gave a lurch to see them. I lifted both hands to my mouth, stifling a sob while crying out, ‘Oh, Elijah! Elijah! What have they done?’

He answered by giving a heavy groan, parting lips crusted white with saliva, and when his eyes opened up again he seemed to be afraid of me, trying to rise on the pillow when beset by a sudden coughing fit, and his brow breaking out in a running sweat. He was straining to catch any breath in his lungs. I didn’t know what to do to help, looking back in a panic to see Mrs Hibbert, who walked to the other side of the bed, where she lifted a cloth from the metal bowl, wringing it out, then dabbing his brow, her voice soothing and mellifluous. ‘Ssshh. There is no one to harm you. It is not him, not Tip. It is Lily. Lily, your sister.’

‘Elijah . . .’ I said his name again, taking one of his hands in mine as he slumped back down on the pillows, and although his coughing abated, from somewhere deep inside his lungs there came a squeaking, scratching sound, as if a rat was trapped there, scrabbling around in the cage of his ribs, trying to escape through his living flesh. I placed my other hand on that breast and felt the fast beat of my brother’s heart. I said his name again and again, at which he looked up and answered, ‘Pearl?’

‘He has forgotten me!’ I looked at Mrs Hibbert again. ‘Can he really be as ill as that?’