Page 35 of The Locked Room

Harry ran a weary hand across her face. After the shocking discovery of Polly’s body, the problem of Serafina Eccleston had fallen down her list of priorities. She really ought to relay what Beth had discovered to Seb, so that the family might at least ensure Rufus could not elope with the girl before all the facts were known. The trouble was that she had yet to uncover anything that proved Serafina had nefarious intentions. Her use of an assumed name was questionable, but Harry couldn’t help feeling it was perfectly reasonable – probably even sensible – that she preferred to conceal her identity while working in an illegal club. Hadn’t Harry done the same when she’d visited the Hot Spot? Beth was absolutely right – they needed more information and they needed it soon. ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ she said, sighing. ‘Although I confess I have no idea what to do about it.’

Beth tapped her nose. ‘Leave that to me. I’ve got an idea.’

‘You’re not going to take the job at the Hot Spot, are you?’ Harry said, frowning.

‘No,’ Beth replied. ‘But Serafina don’t need to know that. I’m going to catch her going into the place this evening, see if I can get her to spill the plan.’

Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely she won’t tell you.’

The other woman grinned. ‘Ah, but we’re friends now. And I’m a good listener.’

It wasn’t without risk, Harry thought, but it was a good deal less dangerous than their visit to Solomon Pole’s shop. She dug into her shabby handbag and pulled out a set of keys. ‘These are for my apartment. Obviously, you don’t start your domestic responsibilities until Monday morning but if you need somewhere to stay tonight, you’re welcome to use the settee again.’

Beth took the keys. ‘That’s very generous of you. It shouldn’t be a late night, but I’ll keep it in mind.’ She fixed Harry with a determined stare. ‘So, what’s the plan with Pole? You going to tell Scotland Yard what we suspect?’

It was the sensible course of action, Harry knew, and she thought Oliver would probably agree. But Sherlock Holmes did nothing without data and she was well aware that she had no evidence to present, nothing but the suggestion that Solomon Pole was more than he seemed. She needed something tangible before she went back to Inspector Wells, and there was only one logical place to look. Turning to Beth, she smiled. ‘How do you feel about a visit to the circus?’

After returning to the poster to check the time of the matinee show, Beth suggested they call into the dressmaker she had visited before their visit to the Hot Spot. ‘Just in case the bruiser from the pawnbroker’s shop has a good memory. A different hat might confuse him.’

Recalling the glitter of intelligence behind his eyes, Harry agreed, and took the added precaution of purchasing a new coat for each of them to wear. The quality was excellent and the prices so much lower than those at Selfridges that Harry considered them to be a bargain. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we’ll collect our old coats on the way back from the circus,’ she told the dressmaker, as Beth admired her reflection in the mirror.

‘As you wish,’ the dressmaker said, hanging Harry’s drab brown coat on a hanger as though it was made of the finest silk.

‘I feel fancy,’ Beth said as they made their way back to Liverpool Street to catch the train to London Fields. ‘Is this an ostrich feather, do you think?’

‘Donated by a grouse,’ Harry replied, recognising the cream and brown stripes. ‘It suits you.’

‘My mum won’t know me when I go home,’ Beth grinned. ‘She’ll put my rent up.’

The journey to London Fields was short and uneventful. Hackney wasn’t an area of London Harry knew but she was not surprised to see it was heavily industrialised. Factories dominated the skyline to the east, belching smoke from vast chimneys, turning the grey day even more leaden. Beneath the clouds, dilapidated houses and shops skulked along the edges of litter-strewn roads, as though huddling together for protection. Harry did not need to ask for directions to the circus; the train had been filled with well-dressed passengers and children, many of whom had alighted at London Fields station and were clearly bound for the same place. She and Beth followed the crowds as they turned the corner, and saw for themselves the iron railings of the park gates and the vast green space beyond. In the distance, flags fluttered cheerily from the top of an enormous red and yellow tent, while several smaller, less colourful tents sat nearby. At the park entrance, a young woman on a unicycle was jiggling back and forth, balancing in one spot as she waved the crowds onwards. Just beyond her, a juggler tossed an astonishing number of apples and oranges into the sky, grinning at the gasps of the appreciative audience as he caught the fruit and sent it flying again. ‘See sword juggling and many more marvels at Cuthbert’s Travelling Circus,’ he cried. ‘But don’t delay, today’s our last day!’

As they drew nearer to the tents, Harry became aware of an array of enticing smells. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had not eaten since breakfast. She glanced at Beth, who was also sniffing the air; they were there to gather information but perhaps it would help them to blend in if they sampled some of the tempting treats on offer. The crowd swelled as they approached the ticket booths at the entrance and it took some minutes for them to purchase two tickets and make their way inside. Immediately, they were approached by a smiling woman in Victorian dress offering to sell them a balloon. Harry waved her away and she moved on. Behind her, a trio of acrobats were tumbling for a small crowd. Recalling Beth’s observation from her previous visit, Harry paused to study them but none of them looked small enough to navigate the tunnel beneath Berkeley Square. For all their skill, they could not hold her attention for long. Everywhere she looked, there was something remarkable to see: a majestic elephant being led towards the largest tent, bedecked in paste jewels and tasselled ribbons, an impossibly long-legged stilt-walker who graciously raised his top hat at those passing by, a pair of glossy-coated, gilt-decorated horses being ridden by a young woman with one foot on each of their backs. A splendidly attired black-moustached ringmaster strode around, whip in one hand and a marching cane in the other as he exhorted people to roll up to the greatest travelling show they would ever see. And dotted in amongst all of these wonders were the food stalls, each seller calling out their wares. ‘Jellied eels! Fresh from Southend this morning, get your jellied eels here!’

‘Meat pies, warm from the oven! Sausage rolls!’

There was no shortage of customers – each stall had a cluster of hungry patrons, keen to buy their wares. Beth tugged on her sleeve. ‘Look at that! It’s so pretty.’

Harry followed her gaze and saw she was staring at a machine that was spinning sugar into candyfloss. The sugar glistened as the seller wound it expertly around a stick and presented it to a waiting child. ‘Would you like some?’ Harry asked.

Beth shook her head. ‘Nah.’

‘Are you sure?’ Harry joined the edge of the crowd. ‘I’m having a stick.’

A flicker of indecision crossed Beth’s face before she gave in. ‘Go on, then.’

Harry had not noticed any undue scrutiny as they mingled with the crowd – most people seemed to be too busy taking in the spectacle around them – but she felt better camouflaged behind the swirl of candyfloss. Checking the time, she saw they still had quarter of an hour before the matinee was due to begin. ‘Let’s try to sneak behind the main tent,’ she murmured to Beth. ‘We might learn more backstage.’

Affecting casual curiosity, they moved to the edge of the milling crowd. Children’s delighted screams rang out as they whirled from the top of the helter-skelter. Harry allowed her gaze to roam past the brightly painted tower to the cluster of dingy cream tents behind the big top. These were not part of the spectacle, plain and unadorned to render them invisible. Nevertheless, she saw they were guarded; a heavy-set, well-muscled man stood with arms folded and legs akimbo as he surveyed the scene. From behind her candyfloss, Harry watched a variety of circus folk pick their way through the maze of ropes that held the tents in place, calling out and pausing to exchange words. There was no sign of the man mountain she had encountered earlier that day, nor did she spy the smaller acrobat Beth had mentioned, but it was clear she had little hope of venturing further without being challenged. Reluctantly, she turned back to Beth. ‘Guarded. I wonder why.’

Beth took a large mouthful of candyfloss and chewed. ‘Probably to make sure some nosy kid don’t get their head bitten off by a lion. It’s bad for business when that happens.’

‘I can imagine,’ Harry said, trying not to picture that particular scene. ‘In any case, we should probably take our seats.’

The ring inside the tent was vast, separated from the audience by a circle of low blocks. The ground was lined with sawdust – the pine scent of it tickled Harry’s nostrils as they shuffled along the row to an empty space on one of the wooden benches arranged like a giant horseshoe behind the barrier. Overhead, two empty trapezes had been tethered to the sturdy tent poles. At the back of the ring, a pair of golden curtains tumbled from on high, hiding what Harry assumed must be the grand entrance for the performers and animals. The air crackled with expectation as the benches filled with men, women and children. Silence fell. Every face turned to the golden curtains. An unseen band struck up a vibrant, rousing cascade of notes that Harry recognised immediately as ‘Entry of the Gladiators’. Trumpets blared, drums thudded and the curtains were drawn back to reveal the portly, red-coated ringmaster. He marched into the ring, beaming and waving his cane in perfect time to the beat, the band following. Behind them there was a stream of dazzling colour: jugglers led acrobats, clowns capered ahead of lion tamers, four glossy horses walked placidly beneath their riders and bird-of-paradise trapeze artists turned somersaults in front of large-muscled strongmen. Automatically, Harry’s gaze flew to their bare forearms. None bore the same tattoos as the man they had encountered in Solomon Pole’s shop.

‘The kid ain’t there either,’ Beth murmured as the acrobats passed in front of them.

‘We will have to be patient,’ Harry whispered, with a reassurance she wasn’t sure she felt. She could be about to waste an afternoon when time was of the essence.