Nine Buck's Row (2 page)

Clutching the cardboard box, I hurried down Whitechapel to Osborn. The first tendrils of fog were beginning to swirl in the air, barely visible now but gradually thickening, and all the orange had faded from the sky. I kept remembering tales of the dozens of young girls who vanished each year from this part of London. Millie was quite certain they were bundled off to South America or Constantinople, her eyes wide with fascinated horror as she speculated about such vile abductions.

Reaching the corner of Flower and Dean streets, I hesitated for only a moment. Marietta would be furious if I was much later, and unless I took a shortcut down Flower Street I would have to go around several more streets to reach Garrick's. Holding my head erect, my stomach fluttering nervously, I hurried down the street. The girls were already out, sitting on the doorsteps or leaning against the grimy brick walls. The looked forlorn in the worn velvet dresses and tattered feather boas that were their uniforms, and I felt pity welling up inside of me. Many of these pathetic women were younger than I, barely in their teens, while others were ancient, faces wrinkled, grotesque under the make-up. Although the sight was disturbing, I wasn't shocked. Queen Victoria and her tightly corseted ladies could deny the existence of such women, but the past few years had taught me that these creatures thrived on every side. When you lived in East London, you learned to accept it. Our Queen might impose her strict morals on polite society, but her influence didn't extend to this section of the city.

“What's your 'urry, ducks?” a wrinkled crone called out. “'Fraid th' bogey man'll get-ja?”

“Ain't she sweet?” one of her companions cried raucously. “Such long yellow hair, such dainty features—reckon she's aimin' to move into one uv Black Jack's rooms? 'E'd be 'appy to nab such a young 'un.”

“Watch out, ducks!” the first woman yelled. “If Black Jack were to catch a glimpse uv-ya, 'e'd clamp a scented handkerchief over your mouth 'n 'ave you in one uv 'is parlors 'fore you could say Boo!”

“Leave 'er be!” a hard-faced blonde told them. “Filthy 'arridans! You ain't got nothin' better to do than scare a poor girl? You, lass! Scurry on, ya-hear? Your folks must be outta their 'eads lettin' a chit like
you
roam loose. Get on! Get on 'ome 'fore th' fog rolls in.”

I moved on down the street, painfully self-conscious. Keeping my head down, I hurried on, praying they would let me pass unmolested.

“You better run, lassie!” a girl taunted. “Eddie's after you now. 'E looks like 'e means business!”

I heard the heavy footsteps behind me, and there was the sound of labored breathing. My heart started pounding rapidly, and I must have gone pale. The footsteps grew louder, closer. I broke into a run, stumbling on the rough sidewalk.

Someone seized my arm. I gave a cry of alarm and whirled around to see a bobby with plump red cheeks and a drooping brown mustache. His helmet was fastened under his chin with a leather strap, and his heavy overcoat hung down in shiny black folds. He gripped my arm securely, his blue eyes full of concern. The fingers of his free hand curled around a formidable cocuswood truncheon stout enough to bash in the strongest head.

“'Ave you lost your mind, lass, traipsin' around in this neighborhood? This ain't no kinda place for you to be!”

“You—you startled me,” I exclaimed, breathless. “I thought—”

“Aye, I can imagine what you thought what with all the things 'as been goin' on 'ereabouts.”

“'Ey, Eddie!” one of the women yelled. “Why'n't-cha pick on someone your own size!”

“Yeah,” another called, “like me! Wanna give your feet a rest? Come on up, I'll let-cha put your shoes under my bed.”

“Go on with you, Bessie!” he barked. “'Ave a little respect.”

The women hooted noisily and made rude comments, but the bobby ignored them, muttering something under his breath. His cheeks were flaming pink, and he swung his truncheon fiercely.

“Where you 'eaded, Miss?” he inquired hoarsely.

“I'm going to Garrick's Music Hall. My aunt works there.”

“Garrick's, is it? That's several streets away. You'd better let me escort you so none of this riff-raff'll bother you. Come along now. Don't pay them no mind.”

We walked to the corner and turned up Commercial Street, a wide, bustling artery exploding with life. Hansom cabs disgorged rowdy passengers in front of gaudy alehouses and pubs, horses leaving deposits on trash-littered cobblestones. Gaily dressed women tottered along on the arms of strapping young soldiers. Men in plum-colored frockcoats brushed shoulders with toughs in shapeless sweaters. Beggars crawled along the sidewalks with tin cups held out. Bawdy music poured out of the pubs, hawkers yelled to call attention to wares displayed on rickety carts, newsboys screamed of bloody deeds and waved the latest extras. Shrill discord assailed the ears. Foul odors assailed the nostrils. The street had a raw vitality, an undeniable fascination, yet it was reassuring to have a bobby moving along beside me.

“You tell your aunt to keep you home nights, miss,” he said huskily, holding my elbow in a firm grip. “She 'ad no business lettin' you out this late.”

“You mean the murders—”

“Aye. No one knows when 'e'll strike again. Fancies the ladies, 'e does. A pert little thing like you wouldn't last a minute in 'is 'ands.”

“Surely he'll be apprehended soon. I mean, Scotland Yard is—”

“Doubled th' force 'ere in the East End, we 'ave, but that 'asn't done no good. 'E pops up outta no where, does 'is slashin' and then vanishes into thin air. 'E's a demon!”

I remembered an account of the latest crime I had read in
The Illustrated London News
. Polly Nicholls' body was still warm, the blood still flowing, when she was discovered by a market porter on his way to work at 3:20
A.M.
, yet no one had heard her scream. Neighbors had heard no cries, nor had the three night watchmen on duty directly across the street at Barber's slaughterhouse. Police constables had been patrolling their regular beats in the neighborhood, one of them passing the scene of the crime only a few minutes before the body was discovered. The murder had taken place swiftly, silently, and some of the more superstitious East Enders were claiming the killer had supernatural powers.

The crimes were terrible, true, but I saw no reason for the panic that seemed to grip the city. There had been crimes in the East End before, horrible crimes, but they had been taken as a matter of course, accepted with a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head. For some reason this new abomination had captured the public's imagination, and the newspapers were filled with blazing headlines and gory details where ordinarily they would have ignored the story—after all, what was another crime in the East End? People loved horror, I reasoned, they loved to be frightened. Why else would they flock to the waxworks to see replicas of murderers and monsters? Why else would they tell ghost stories and relish every word of novels full of terror? I had very little patience with such tomfoolery. The criminal would be caught. The crimes would stop. There was no reason to panic.

Still gripping my elbow firmly, the bobby led me across Dorset Street, said by many to be the wickedest spot in England. I averted my eyes, not wishing to look down that sordid expanse with its red lights and dingy pubs and brawling humanity. We walked on down Commercial, passing Christ Church, once a majestic wonder of architecture, now a dark, soot-begrimed pile with drunken derelicts sleeping on the benches around it. Further down the street I could see Garrick's, gold and silver spangles of light already burning, carriages stopping in front to let out elegantly dressed merrymakers. Although located in the East End, Garrick's catered to a higher class of customer. The liquor was more expensive, the entertainment a bit more refined, the fights less frequent and quickly broken up.

“You've been very kind,” I said, disengaging my elbow. “There's Garrick's. I can go on alone now.”

“Glad to be of service, lass. You take care, 'ear? I wouldn't want a pretty thing like you to fall into the 'ands of that fiend.”

“Thank you, officer,” I said, smiling prettily.

I turned down the dark sidestreet that led to the rear of the building. A narrow alley took me to the stage door where Peters sat in a flimsy wooden chair, an unlighted cigar in the corner of his mouth. He got up with a start, peering across the rusty iron railing with frightened eyes when he heard my footsteps.

“Lands-a Goshen, Miss Susannah!” he exclaimed. “You gave me a start, you did! Runnin' in out of the fog like that—I was sure The Ripper was a-comin' after me!”

“Bosh, Peters! A big, burly man like you? Don't tell me you're afraid of him too?”

“Anyone in their right 'ead 'ud be afraid of 'im, Suzy girl, 'n that's no joke. What're you doin' 'ere at this hour, and by yourself! 'Adn't you got no sense at
all
?”

“I had to fetch Marietta's cloak and bring it to her. I suppose she's in her dressing room?”

“That she is, and in a tizzy if you don't mind my sayin' so. I took 'er a cuppa tea a while ago 'n she darn near threw a vase at me! She 'ad a fight with 'er maid and the poor girl came runnin' out in tears. Now 'er Ladyship 'adn't got anyone to 'elp her change costumes 'n she's furious!”

“Oh dear,” I said, frowning.

“I'd step easy if I was you, Miss Susannah. You know 'ow your aunt is when somethin' goes wrong.”

“Indeed I do. Well—wish me luck, Peters.”

“I'd as soon face a cage fulla tigers,” he retorted.

I smiled at his remark and moved on past. I knew exactly how he felt. A cage full of tigers would seem a mild risk when compared to Marietta in one of her states.

2

Backstage was a flurry of activity. Chorus girls in wrappers and cold cream came clattering down the iron staircase, babbling like an aviary of nervous birds. The comedian in checked coat and bulbous red nose leaned against a stack of flats, gulping down a last pint of ale before going on to do his turn. I stepped over ropes and moved past racks of spangled gowns, loving this tawdry, earthy atmosphere. There was a smell of grease paint and dust, an aura of tattered elegance and bedraggled glamor. I could hear customers out front talking loudly and rattling dishes as the band played lively melodies in the pit.

I waved at the stage manager and moved down the back hall. While the other performers had to make do with the tiny, drafty rooms upstairs, Marietta had a lavish suite of her own as befitted a star of her caliber. She had done her time in those jammed cubicles with their murky mirrors and icy drafts and now demanded something much more elaborate. The owners of Garrick's had gone to great expense to satisfy her, and she had plush wine-red carpets and white furniture with gold leaf and many blue satin cushions for her velvet sofa. For all its splendor, the dressing room was always untidy, strewn with feather boas and vivid costumes, spilled powder dusting the top of the dressing table, pots of make-up and bottles of perfume littering its surface. Marietta herself was always perfectly groomed, but she left a wake of domestic destruction. Picking up after her could be a full-time job, as I knew all too well.

I opened the door without knocking. Marietta was sitting at the gold-framed mirror, calmly applying a coat of scarlet paint to her lips. Andrew Crothers was leaning over her, his lips brushing her ear. Both looked up as I entered. Andrew seemed startled. Marietta merely arched an eyebrow and stared into the mirror with deadpan concentration.

“I—I brought the cloak,” I said.

“Put it down somewhere,” Marietta replied. “Andrew was just leaving.”

“Was I?” he inquired.

“You were,” she said coldly.

He scowled. Andrew was the tenor, a strikingly handsome man with a body of a soccer player and the face of a wicked archangel. Although not much of a singer, he was vastly popular with the female customers and had a rather scandalous reputation. Marietta had warned me never to let him catch me alone in the room. As his eyes swept over me now, I remembered her warning.

“Susannah,” he said in his deep, seductive voice. “How charming you look. Getting prettier every day. That dress is quite becoming—”

“Out!” Marietta commanded.

“Jealous, my love? Afraid your niece is going to out-dazzle you? I shouldn't wonder.”

Marietta reached for a bottle, her eyes blazing. Andrew gave her a mocking smile and backed out of the room. I could hear his rumbling laughter as he closed the door.

“The bastard!” she cried.

She leaned forward to examine her face more closely in the mirror, her brow creased. Marietta had a great fear of losing her looks, and every new wrinkle was a cause for panic. The wrinkles were few. At thirty-four, she had a hard, glacial beauty that few would find fault with. She rubbed some violet eye shadow over her lids and, dipping a tiny brush into a pot of paste, began to apply dark brown mascara to her long lashes.

“Did I interrupt something?” I inquired.

“Don't be snide, pet. You
did
, as a matter of fact, and I was quite relieved. Andrew was about to make a touch—or try. He thinks just because he has limpid brown eyes he can ask a woman for anything and get it. He was about to ask for money in this instance. Gambling debts.”

“Would you have given it to him?”

“Not on your life! Men buy me presents, not vice versa. The day I have to pay a man for companionship—well, that day will never come, pet!”

“Do—do women pay Andrew?”

“Several do. These rich, aristocratic women who come to Garrick's for amusement—bitches, the whole lot of 'em! No need to blush, Susannah! You aren't a naive young thing, despite that well-bred background. You've been in London long enough to know what's what.”