Nine Buck's Row (16 page)

“I was very impressed by Lady Cordelia,” I remarked quietly.

“Cordelia's a flighty creature with a head full of nonsense,” he said, “but she's a remarkable woman just the same. Her husband is one of the few sensible men in the House of Lords. He's been of great service to me in my work, seeing that certain statistics were made available, encouraging me to undertake this current report.”

“Lord Reginald Belmount,” I mused. “I think I've seen his name in the newspapers.”

“Undoubtedly. He's quite a reformer, a meek, mild little man but dynamic in his way.”

“You have many important friends, don't you?”

“That depends on what you call important.”

“Millie said she saw you with Sir Charles Warren.”

“Your little friend gets around, doesn't she? I know Warren, yes, but I'd scarcely call him a friend.”

“Is he interested in your work, too?”

“The play's about to begin, Susannah.”

The curtain rose, the footlights dimmed, and I was immediately lost to the world of make believe. Although I was familiar with the novel by Robert Louis Stevenson and knew what to expect, it was still a chilling and disturbing two and a half hours. Richard Mansfield was superb as the gentle, soft-spoken Dr. Jekyll pottering among his test tubes and burners. When he drank the liquid and was transformed into the murderous Hyde I could hardly believe it was the same actor. He stalked with a sinister gait and spoke in a guttural growl, terrifyingly convincing. I sat on the edge of my seat, unconsciously wringing my hands, and when he peered around the drawing room windows and gave that menacing laugh and leaped at his victim's throat, I almost screamed. Nicholas chuckled quietly, taking my arm and pulling me back from the railing.

The play ended with a thundering ovation for the brilliant actor. He took several curtain calls, spreading his arms out and bowing with a flamboyant exuberance. When the curtain fell for the final time and the house lights came on, I had expended so much emotion that I felt depleted.

“I'm sure I'll have nightmares,” I said.

“It was a poor choice on my part. I should have chosen something less frightening.”

“Oh, no. I adored it!”

“Even when he strangled that woman?” he teased.

“That was the best part!”

As we were leaving our box, a slender, vivacious young man with elfish eyes and disheveled red hair stepped nimbly over to us. His head was too large for his body, his face was too bony, and he looked ludicrous in his shabby, too-tight brown suit and vivid green tie. His fingers were ink-stained, his cuffs frayed. I recognized him immediately as a journalist, one of those overworked, underpaid scribblers who dashed about London with incredible energy.

“Well, Craig!” he said briskly. “I never thought to see a sober chap like you at the theater. Are you still working on the new report? Admirable endeavor. Admirable! Are you going to let us publish it in one of our magazines?”

“One of those Socialist rags? Not a chance, Shaw. Are you still agitating the government with your noisome essays? I thought you were supposed to be a music critic now.”

The young man snorted. He seemed about to break into a jig even though he was standing still. He looked like nothing so much as an overgrown imp, I thought.

“Let me present my ward,” Nicholas said. “Susannah, this is George Bernard Shaw, pugilist, Socialist, waspish critic and highly unsuccessful novelist. Shaw, Miss Susannah Hunt.”

Mr. Shaw gave me a quick, irritated glance and nodded his head, shockingly rude. He clearly had no time for anything as shallow and inconsequential as a young woman.

“My novels were masterpieces, all four of them! The public was just too dense to appreciate them. They don't want to
think
. They don't want ideas! They want pablum they can eat with a spoon and spit out at will. I have no patience with them! Tell me, what do you think of the murders?”

People were still pouring out of the boxes, discussing the play, moving toward the stairs. Nicholas looked uncomfortable. I could see that he had no desire to talk about the murders in my presence.

“I think they're deplorable, Shaw. We must be leaving. The carriage will be waiting.”

He took my arm and led me to the staircase. The bothersome Mr. Shaw trotted along beside us like an irritating gnat, following us downstairs, talking loudly and with great relish.

“You don't have a theory? You're the only man in London who doesn't. All this talk about a depraved monster, a sexual deviate, sheer nonsense! The man's a social reformer of independent genius! Instead of hurling bombs he mutilates a few prostitutes and immediately the whole of England is made aware of the squalor these women live in! He's put the slums on the front pages in one fell swoop. Even our dotty old Queen has come out of her stupor and acknowledged that wretched conditions do exist. Instead of wasting your energies on another report, Craig, you should hack up a whore on some squalid back street! Not only would you be bringing these things to the public's attention, you'd be putting the poor creature out of her misery as well. Brilliant inspiration! Far more effective than all the speeches and reports in the world. Instead of looking for a fiend the police should be rounding up the underfed radicals passing out pamphlets in Hyde Park! Marvelous theory, what? I think I'll write a letter to the paper and let them on to this.”

“I've no doubt you will,” Nicholas said dryly.

Shaw grinned, his bright eyes twinkling beneath high-peaked brows. He was thoroughly outrageous, deliberately so, and seemed to delight in it. He looked like some naughty child who has just pulled off a particularly mischievous prank. We were in the lobby now, standing near the doors, and the journalist glanced around at all the people who were audibly expressing their enjoyment of the play.

“Humph! You'd think they'd seen something worthwhile,” he said irritably.

“What did you think of the play, Shaw?” Nicholas inquired wearily, knowing full well he'd hear whether he asked or not.

“Rubbish!” Shaw snapped. “Sheer melodrama! Any ass with half a brain cell and a command of the English language could write a better play.”

“Indeed? Then I suggest you write one.”

Seeing someone else he knew across the lobby, Shaw brushed back locks of vigorous red hair, gave us a curt nod and pranced off to seize the fellow by the elbow, bombarding him with talk before the man even had a chance to get his bearings. Nicholas fetched our things from the cloakroom, and we went outside where a line of carriages stood waiting.

“All the Irish have a gift for the gab,” he said, “but I'm afraid Shaw carries it to extremes. Interesting chap, though. Mad as a hatter but amusing in his way.”

The old woman in her gray shawl was still selling violets in front of the theater. Nicholas bought a bunch and handed them to me without a word, his manner crisp and abrupt. I fastened them to my fur muff, not daring to thank him, and we stood waiting for our carriage to move down the line. Ours was among the last, and Nicholas helped me inside, settling down wearily beside me.

“Well,” he said, “have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Very much. I thought the play was marvelous, despite what your friend says.”

“I'm glad it pleased you.”

“It was very like the novel,” I said. “I find it strange that Stevenson should have written such a piece. His things are usually so gentle and charming.”

“His novel was based on fact,” Nicholas said.

“Really? You mean there actually
was
a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

“More or less. He didn't swallow a liquid that transformed him into a monster, yet he lived a double life just as strange, in Edinburgh, almost a hundred years ago. His name was William Brodie, Deacon Brodie he was called. By day he was a highly respected businessman, a pillar of the community, by night a notorious criminal in black suit and black mask, leader of a treacherous gang of cutthroats. Stevenson was haunted by his story, and William Brodie eventually became Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was eventually caught out, finally hanged. People were astounded that this prim city official could be the murderous Black Mask. I feel sure Brodie was just as astounded.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, fascinated.

“Brodie was executed as a criminal, but he should have been committed to a hospital where doctors could study him. His was more than likely a clear case of split personality. He was two men, neither aware of the existence of the other.”

“But—how is that possible?”

“We all of us have two personalities, Susannah. Normally one personality dominates, but deep inside each of us there is another one, dormant, waiting to be aroused. In rare cases, usually after a great shock or some sort of illness, the other personality comes to the surface and takes over for periods of time.”

“That's incredible,” I whispered.

“Each of us is a Jekyll and Hyde, but fortunately Hyde is usually so deeply submerged that he never appears. When he does—well, we needn't go into that. It's quite rare.”

I was silent, thinking about this curious phenomenon. Through the windows of the carriage I could see thick billows of fog swirling across brown brick walls, almost obscuring the dim yellow gaslights. Occasionally there was a brief glimpse of a bobby in slick raincoat and helmet, patrolling his beat. We were nearing the East End now. I could tell by the odors and the narrowing streets.

“The—the fiend,” I said, “the man who killed Marietta. He could be a—a perfectly respectable man, couldn't he? He could lead a normal life, going about his business just like everyone else, and when the other personality takes over—”

“Possibly,” Nicholas said.

“They say he's a toff. They say he speaks in a cultured voice and—”

“Really, Susannah, I was only making conversation. I should have known better.” He shook his head. “Forget about what I said. You've had a very pleasant evening. Don't spoil it by thinking about such things.”

The carriage stopped in front of Nine Buck's Row, and Nicholas Craig paid the driver and sent him away. Maggie had left a lamp burning for us in the parlor. It was warm and cozy, soft light bathing the worn wooden surfaces and picking up faded colors. Nicholas decided to have a glass of brandy. He poured it and moved over to stand in front of the fireplace, fingers curled around the large goblet.

“You must be tired,” he said gruffly. “I think you'd better go on up to your bedroom.”

“It's been—I want to thank you for—”

“You don't need to thank me for anything. Go on up to your room and get out of that absurd dress!”

I rushed upstairs, angry, upset, filled with conflicting emotions. He was impossible. Completely impossible! I took off my clothes and hung them up in the wardrobe, shivering in my petticoat. As I reached up to set the muff on the shelf, I saw the bunch of violets I had fastened to it. I wanted to toss them out the window. I wanted to throw them on the floor and stamp on them. I did neither. I placed the fragile bouquet on my bedside table. Later, in the darkness, as I nestled under the covers, the scent of violets pervaded the room.

11

I went to see Millie twice in the week that followed, eager to tell her all about my evening at the theater, but she wasn't at the flat on either occasion. Both times I had waited around, expecting her to return, but it had been futile. I found this vaguely alarming. Where could she be, and why hadn't she come to visit me at Nine Buck's Row? I remembered how strangely listless she had been the last time I saw her, that sparkling vitality subdued, a pensive expression in her eyes. Was Millie involved in a new romantic intrigue? If so, why hadn't she told me about it? Was she pining over Jamie Caine, genuinely in love and finding it quite different from her capricious flirtations?

I saw very little of Nicholas Craig either. He took no meals with us, and he was gone most of the time. When he was in the house he was usually in his study, doors firmly closed, daring anyone to intrude.

“He'll be a different man once this report is finished,” Maggie said. “Then he'll be able to relax a bit and get a proper amount of sleep. He's always so
involved
with these projects.”

“Was he this way when he was writing about the sweatshops?”

“Oh yes, dear. He spent a great deal of time in those terrible places, you know. He wasn't
allowed
to interview the workers or explore the buildings—gracious, the men who ran them wouldn't want anyone snooping around, would they?—so he affected a cockney accent and dressed himself in shabby clothes and actually
worked
in several of them.”

“His report stirred a great controversy, didn't it?”

“I should say so! Reforms were made, new laws passed. Nicky became a sort of hero of the working classes.”

“Do you have a copy of the report?” I inquired.

“You want to read it? Dear me, I'm not sure it's at all suitable material for a young girl to read. No, I haven't a copy, but there's bound to be one in Nicky's study. You'd really be much better off with Miss Austen, dear. I was rereading
Pride and Prejudice
just the other night—”

His study was across from the parlor, his bedroom adjoining it. I had never been in either of the rooms, and I was nervous as I pushed open the study doors. I felt like an intruder. This was his sanctum, and he would be furious if he found me here.

The room was small and incredibly messy. A worn Persian carpet covered the floor, tall bookcases stood against the walls, crammed full of battered volumes, and there was a lumpy green chair with worn nap and sagging cushions. A huge golden oak desk with peeling varnish dominated the room, its surface littered with papers, folders, books, and newspaper clippings. Bulging cardboard files stood beside the desk, and the place smelled of yellowing paper and sweat and leather, peculiarly male odors that clung to the heavy brown curtains.