Kitty Peck and the Child of Ill-Fortune (16 page)

Sam Collins was the last person I wanted to see, but a promise was a promise.

After that business with the missing girls I owed him. He didn’t know the half of it, I was careful on that score, but me and Lucca had given him enough to make a ‘proper scoop’, as he called it. Now he was sitting in front of me, twitching and drumming his ink-stained fingers on Fitzy’s desk – my desk, I corrected the thought.

He took another sip of tea. ‘This is better than the filth Peters serves up at the office. I swear he’s got worse, Kitty. Or perhaps he’s buying an inferior blend these days – although it’s difficult to imagine anything more disagreeable.’

He grinned and stared around. Apart from Ma’s jug on the mantle the room was still bare, I hadn’t moved anything in yet. ‘This is all something of a . . . surprise?’

‘Is it, Sam?’

I smiled blandly across the desk and thought about what to say next. Tell truth, I was always careful around Sam Collins. I liked him, and I suppose you could say I trusted him, but under all that twitching and bumbling there was a mind sharp as broken glass. It was an act. I knew that now. Like they say, it takes one to know one.

Now, some girls might have thought him handsome, but Sam was too spindly for my liking. He put me in mind of a weed that’s outgrown its strength in straining for the sun. His hair still needed a good trim, I noted, as he flicked that long brown fringe out of his eyes. He was wearing a shabby suit and the stained ends of his frayed shirt cuffs poked out from the sleeves of his jacket.

‘News business good?’

‘You know how it goes, Kitty, one day you’re riding high, the next you fall to earth.’ He placed the cup and saucer on the desk and leaned forward. ‘Between you and me,
The London Pictorial
isn’t exactly riding high at the moment. There’s a lot of competition on the streets. That’s why I’m here.’

He smiled, folded his arms and leaned back, tipping the chair on its rickety legs. It made a cracking sound and rocked to an alarming angle, forcing Sam to grip the edge of the desk to right himself again.

Despite myself, I laughed. ‘I should have warned you about that chair – it’s on its last legs, like a lot of other things round here.’ I glanced up at the ceiling. There was a stain just overhead where the smoke from Fitzy’s stubby cigars had spread across the ceiling. ‘It’s time for a change.’

Sam narrowed his sharp brown eyes. ‘Exactly, Kitty! That’s what our readers want to know. What does the future hold for The Limehouse Linnet? You are greatly missed, do you know that?’

‘Missed by your block boys in the basement and them that want to see a lot more of a girl than’s decent, don’t you mean? You made me look like a penny bangtail in them pictures, Sam Collins. No woman with a shape like that could swing on a trapeze, let alone catch the ropes round those . . . impediments.’

He shrugged. ‘Artistic licence. It sells newspapers – and that’s something
The London Pictorial
needs at the moment. Our investors are nervous.’ He delved into a pocket and brought out a notebook, flicking it open to a blot-marked page covered in fingerprints and scribbles. I couldn’t make sense of them – it wasn’t English. And nor, according to Lucca, was the single word written on the paper in my bag.

I wondered if he was right. We’d find out one way or another later today. I glanced down to the side of the desk. I could see the crisp creamy paper poking out through the metal clasp of the fabric pouch. Just before Sam’s unexpected arrival I’d flattened the thick page out on the desk and stared at the odd letters.

‘What’s that then?’ I pointed at the squiggles in the notebook.

‘Pitman. I taught myself.’ Sam turned the notebook round and pushed it across the leather work top so I could see it clear.

‘It’s the fastest way to write with accuracy. It’s phonetic.’

I looked up.

‘It means sound, Kitty – these symbols reduce whole words to dashes that represent distinct sounds. I can note conversations at speed without missing a word.’

I stared doubtfully at the marks on the paper. ‘You might be able to get it all down, but can you read it back afterwards? It’s just scribble – and your grubby thumb marks cover half of it.’

‘Is that a challenge?’ Sam clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘O, ye of little faith. Here, I’ll show you. Choose any page you like and I’ll read it aloud to you.’

I folded my arms. ‘And who’s to say you’re not just making it up?’

He smiled. ‘Because I will read the same page back to you a dozen times and each time it will be word perfect. If I had the talent to remember so many lines I rather think I’d be performing on one of your stages, Kitty, instead of scratching a living as a scribe, don’t you?’

There! He dropped it in, casual as a tom cat sunning itself on a yard roof, all the while keeping watch for a sparrow.

One of your stages.

I sat back. ‘What have you heard, Sam?’

He twitched back his brown fringe and spread his hands wide. ‘This and that. Gossip mainly – I have my contacts, as you know. I’d rather hear it from you, though. Our readers will be most intrigued to hear that their favourite songbird has slipped from the confines of her gilded cage to take up a new . . . perch.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve written that bit already, haven’t you? I recognise your style.’

‘Do you?’ He grinned broadly. ‘That’s very flattering. I never thought of myself as a stylist, but now you mention it—’

‘Stop it, Sam!’ I was angry now. ‘You haven’t come here to make chit-chat, you’ve come here for a story. You’ve heard about me taking on the halls and it’s true – The Gaudy, The Carnival and The Comet – what’s left of it – are mine now. I’m in charge.’

I paused, wondering how much more he knew.

‘But don’t you see, this is excellent news!’ He reached across the desk for his notebook, brushing the handle of the tea cup with his jacket sleeve. It skittered across the wood and fell to the India rug leaking a pool of gritty tea leaves to form a new pattern among the threads.

‘No harm done.’ He snatched it up and replaced it on the saucer.

Flicking to a clear page in the notebook, he produced a pencil from his pocket. The words came rattling out. ‘Now, what I need from you, Kitty, is some background detail. Perhaps you might have some ideas for the future you’d like to share with our readers. Are you, perhaps, working in secret on a thrilling new act? Will you ever perform again? Remember this is all good publicity. It will bring in the punters, I promise. The ceiling over at The Comet won’t mend itself.’

He licked the end of the pencil and stared across the desk, his eyes alert and suddenly quite hard. ‘Let’s start with
how
it came about, shall we? Why are
you
in charge?’

I thought about what readers of
The
London Pictorial News
would like to hear and I gave it to them.

The previous proprietor, I told Sam, had been impressed by my courage up there in the cage night after night. When circumstances of health meant they could no longer play a part in the running of the three halls, their thoughts turned to a successor.

‘There was no family to pass it on to,’ I lied. ‘But they liked what they’d seen and thought I was just the girl who could take on a challenge. So now, here I am.’

Sam nodded. ‘It’s almost like something from a fairy tale, wouldn’t you say, Kitty?’

‘Is that what you want me to say, Sam?’

He looked up and grinned. ‘That would be a very good line to add. The readers will lap it up.’

I raised my eyes to the smoke stain on the ceiling and sighed. ‘Scribble it down then.’

He was right in a way, but it wasn’t the sort of story you’d read to a child at night. I’d found Joey again, just like the girl who followed a trail of breadcrumbs through that wood, but it looked like I’d found something else there too.

‘And Mr Fitzpatrick who used to be here, I understand he’s moved on?’ Sam licked the end of his pencil again. I heard the squeak of lead as his hand flew across the page.

‘He’s still working for me. He’s got an office at The Comet. When we fix it up I’ve a mind to install him there on a permanent footing as chairman. For all his faults he knows his way round the halls. And the punters respect him. You need a bit of beef to keep order in this line of work.’

‘And how does he feel about the, ah . . . new arrangement?’

‘Let’s just say . . . it’s nothing I can’t deal with. But I don’t want you writing that – it’s just between you and me, right?’

Sam nodded, turned the page and paused. ‘Tell me honestly – and this also is just between us not for public consumption – your predecessor must have been very . . . impressed by you, Kitty. Did you have to . . . That is to say, was part of the . . . deal something more . . .?’

I was sharp. ‘There were no personal favours involved if that’s what you’re driving at, Sam Collins. What do you take me for?’

He put the notebook and pencil down on the desk. ‘No, please . . . I don’t . . . I didn’t think. I just . . .’

He flicked back his hair and stared at me. ‘Forgive me. It was a crass question. I happen to know that your benefactor was a woman . . .’

Of an instant it slotted into place. I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw him out.

‘So you took me for a Tom? You wondered if I’d bought my place here through a woman’s bed. Is that it?’

Sam flicked at the edges of his notebook. I could tell he was embarrassed so I let him stew.

When he finally spoke he didn’t look at me. ‘I know that in the theatres such things are common. People turn a blind eye. Lucca and you – it’s a front, isn’t it? You appear to be a couple, but I know he is . . . his interests lie elsewhere.’ He looked up from his notebook now and stared across the desk. He’d taken on the look of a whipped puppy.

‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but I am right, aren’t I?’

I laughed, I couldn’t help myself. On the one hand Peggy thought me and Lucca were a regular pairing, and on the other Sam Collins thought us a most irregular couple.

‘You’re right about one thing at least – it’s none of your business. But as you’re a
gentleman
of the press you might as well hear it straight to stop any rumours flying about. No, I’m not a Tom – and you can take that down in your Pitman and shove it.’

I was surprised at what happened next. Sam reached across the table and caught my hand in his.

‘I’m so very glad to hear that, Kitty. You have no idea how . . .’ He stopped himself and released me. Taking up his book again he opened it at the notes he’d been taking during our conversation. I recognised the thumb mark at the top of the page.

‘No idea what, Sam?’

He smoothed the paper and took up the pencil. ‘I merely meant to say . . . you have no idea how these rumours can spread and the effect they can have on a business.’ He swallowed. ‘I will endeavour to make the situation very clear whenever I hear gossip about you.’

Something became very clear to me just then. He was sweet on me, I was certain of it.

Now, here’s a thing. It wasn’t Sam’s feelings I thought about just then, it was mine. Of an instant David Lennox’s dark face sidled into my mind. How would it be, I wondered, if he was sitting there in front of me now making a sort of declaration? Would the skin of my hand prickle where he’d just touched it? Would he look at me with his fine green eyes and lean across the table to stroke my face with his long fingers?

Of a rule, I’m not one to daydream, but it would have been sorely easy to carry that one along.

I dug my nails into my palms. It was ridiculous. Get a grip on yourself, girl, I thought.

I looked at Sam’s straggly fringe as he bent over his notebook and I thought about fetching my workbox, taking out my scissors and giving it a neat trim by way of a peace offering.

We sat there in uncomfortable silence. From the hall outside I heard the sound of voices and a couple of seconds later there was singing. I nodded at the door and started to speak, but the words came tumbling out too fast.

‘It’s the new routine. “The Sailor in Peril”, you should go out and see it – give it a write up for us in
The London Pictorial.
I’ve been running through it with them this morning and we’ve made a couple of changes to sharpen it up. It’s fresh. The punters will go mad for it – all them girls dancing barefoot. And it’s funny too – it’s not the sea he’s got to contend with, it’s his wives. All of them furious and all of them waiting for him to come ashore.’

Sam grinned. ‘Poor chap. I wouldn’t want to do battle with an angry fish wife. I’ll mention it in my article about you. Do you want me to read it all back to prove I can read my scrawl?’

I shook my head and snatched the notebook from his hands.

‘That’s too easy! Anyone could remember what I’ve just told you word for word. I’ll choose and you can read it to me
twice
. I’ll know if there are any changes.’ I flicked through pages dense with curling symbols searching for a particularly complicated section of Sam’s coded scrawl. They all looked the same, except just occasionally a proper word, written in English, stood out.

Of a sudden I stopped. I recognised a single word printed neatly (for Sam) halfway down.

‘What’s this?’ I pointed at the letters. Sam took the notebook from my hands and scanned the page.

‘Sometimes I write a word in full if it’s unfamiliar or foreign. Pitman isn’t foolproof, you know.’

‘You’re not a fool, Sam, whatever else you might be.’

He glanced up. ‘Do I detect a compliment?’ He frowned. ‘You’re very pale, Kitty, and thinner than last time we met. I noticed that when I came in. Is everything . . . all right?’

I fiddled with the ball of hair at the back of my head, pressing the pins deeper to hold it in place. ‘I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Now, are you going to show me your party piece or not? Read that page.’ I pointed at the notebook.

Sam looked down. ‘Ah – this was at the end of last week. I talked to a representative of The Ballet Moika. Apparently Moscow and Paris are too small for them now, they wish to conquer new worlds. Have you heard of them?’