Rivers of London

  *

  So we had a name – Henry Pyke. Nicholas had hinted that Pyke wasn’t buried at the Actors’ Church but we checked the records, just in case. Nightingale called the General Registry Office at Southport while I scoured for Pykes on Genepool, Familytrace and other online genealogy sites. Neither of us got very far except to establish that it was a common name and strangely popular in California, Michigan and New York State. We convened in the coach house so that I could continue to use the internet and Nightingale could watch the rugby.

  ‘Nicholas said he was an entertainer,’ I said. ‘He might even have been a Punch and Judy man, a “professor”. The Piccini script was published in 1827, but Nicholas said that Pyke was an older spirit so I’d guess late eighteenth, early nineteenth century. But records from that period are useless.’

  Nightingale watched the All Blacks roll right over the Lions’ fullback to score, and judging by his long face the margin of victory was suitably dire. ‘If only you could speak to some keen theatregoers from that period,’ he said.

  ‘You want to summon more ghosts?’ I asked.

  ‘I was thinking of someone who was still alive,’ he said. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Are you talking about Oxley?’ I asked.

  ‘And his darling common-law wife, Isis, also known as Anna Maria de Burgh Coppinger, Mistress of John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich and live-in lover of the famous Shakespearean scholar Henry Ireland. Departed this veil of tears 1802, presumably for the greener pastures of Chertsey.’

  ‘Chertsey?’

  ‘That’s where the Oxley river is,’ he said.

  If I was going to see Oxley again then I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I called Beverley on her waterproof mobile and asked her if she was up for a field trip. Just in case her mum’s prohibition was still in force, I was going to tell her that it was in aid of ‘dealing’ with Father Thames, but I never got the chance to say it.

  ‘Are we taking the Jag?’ she asked. ‘No offence, but your other car stinks.’

  I told her yes, and she was buzzing on the entryphone fifteen minutes later. Obviously she’d been lurking about the West End already.

  ‘Mum’s got me sniffing around,’ she said as she climbed into the Jag. ‘Looking for your revenant.’ She was wearing a black embroidered bolero over a red roll-neck jumper and black leggings.

  ‘Would you know a revenant if you saw one?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  I wanted to watch her tuck her long legs under the dash, but I figured the temperature was high enough already. My dad once told me that the secret to a happy life was never to start something with a girl unless you were willing to follow wherever it led. It’s the best piece of advice he’s ever given me, and probably the reason I was born. I concentrated on getting the Jag out of the garage and setting a course for the South-West and the wrong side of the river again.

  In AD 671, an abbey was founded on the high ground south of the River Thames in what is now Chertsey. It was your classic Anglo-Saxon establishment, half centre of learning, half economic power house and a refuge for those sons of the nobility who thought there was more to life than stabbing people with swords. Two hundred years later the Vikings, who never got tired of stabbing people with swords, sacked the abbey and burned it down. It was rebuilt, but the inhabitants must have done something to piss off King Edgar the Peaceable because in AD 964 he kicked them out and replaced them with some Benedictines. This order of monks believed in a life of contemplation, prayer and really big meals, and because they liked to eat this meant they never saw a stretch of arable land they didn’t want to improve. One of their improvements, sometime in the eleventh century, was to dig a separate channel for the Thames from the Penton Hook to the Chertsey Weir to provide water power for their grinding mills. I say the monk’s ‘dug’, but of course they drafted in some peasants for the hard labour. This artificial tributary of the Thames is marked on the maps as the Abbey River, but was once known as the Oxley Mills Stream.

  I hadn’t told Beverley where we were going, but she twigged what we were up to as soon as we swung off the Clockhouse Roundabout and headed down the London Road for glorious Staines.

  ‘I can’t be coming down here,’ she said. ‘This is off my patch.’

  ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘This is sanctioned.’

  It’s a weird thing that, despite being born and raised in London, there are large stretches of the city that I’ve never seen. Staines was one of those, despite technically not being in London, and to me it looked low-rise and countrified. After we crossed Staines Bridge I found myself on an anonymous stretch of road with tall hedges and fences blinding me on both sides. I slowed down as we approached a roundabout and wished that I’d invested in a GPS system.

  ‘Go left,’ said Beverley.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re looking for one of the Sons of the Old Man?’ she asked.

  ‘Oxley,’ I said.

  ‘Then go left,’ she said with absolute certainty.

  I took the first exit off the roundabout with that weird sense of dislocation you get when driving under someone else’s direction. I saw a marina on my left – bobbing rows of white and blue cruisers with the occasional long boat to break up the monotony.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘That’s the Thames. Keep going straight.’ We crossed a short modern bridge over what Beverley assured me was Oxley’s river and reached a strange little roundabout. It was like driving into the land of the munchkins, an estate made of little streets lined with pink stucco bungalows. We turned right, parallel to the river. I drove slowly in case some little bugger jumped out into the middle of the road and started singing.

  ‘Here,’ said Beverley, and I parked the car. When I got out she stayed in her seat. ‘I think this is a bad idea.’

  ‘They’re really very nice people,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure they’re very civilised and all that,’ she said. ‘But Ty is not going to like this.’

  ‘Beverley,’ I said. ‘Your mum told me to sort things out, and this is me sorting things out. This is you facilitating me sorting things out. Only that’s not going to happen unless you get out of the car.’

  Beverley sighed, unbuckled and climbed out. She stretched and arched her back, making her breasts strain alarmingly against her jumper. She caught me staring and winked. ‘Just getting the kinks out,’ she said.

  Nightingale had said that eating Isis’s Battenberg cake had been a bad idea, so I couldn’t see him approving of me fraternising with the local water nymphs. So I kept my eyes on Beverley’s round bum and tried to think professional thoughts. Besides, there was always Lesley or, more precisely, the remote hope of Lesley at some point in the future.

  I rang the doorbell and stepped back politely.

  I heard Isis call from inside. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Peter Grant,’ I said.

  Isis opened the door and beamed at me. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ She spotted Beverley behind me, and although she didn’t lose her smile a wariness came into her eyes. ‘And who is this?’ she asked.

  ‘This is Beverley Brook,’ I said. ‘I thought it was about time proper introductions were made. Beverley, this is Isis.’

  Beverley extended a cautious hand, which Isis shook. ‘Pleased to meet you, Beverley. We’re out back – you’d better come through.’ Although she didn’t do anything as undignified as break into a run, Isis did walk at the brisk pace of a wife determined to reach her husband with the shocking news ahead of the guests. I got a brief glimpse of tidy little rooms with floral wallpaper and chintz before we emerged through the kitchen door.

  The bungalow backed straight onto the river, and Oxley had built himself a wooden wharf that projected over a wide spot in the water. A pair of magnificent weeping willows, one at each end, screened the pool f
rom the outside. It felt as cool and timeless as the inside of a country church. Oxley was standing naked in the pool with the brown water lapping at his thighs. He was grinning up at Isis who was making frantic behave yourself gestures from the edge of the wharf. He looked past at Beverley and me as we walked out.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked. I saw his shoulders tense, and I swear the sun went behind a cloud – although that could have been a coincidence.

  ‘This,’ I said, ‘is Beverley Brook. Say hello, Beverley.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Beverley.

  ‘I thought it was about time you met the other half,’ I said.

  Oxley shifted his weight, behind me I felt Beverley take a step backwards.

  ‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Isis brightly. ‘Why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea.’

  Oxley opened his mouth as if to speak, appeared to think better of it and, turning to his wife, said, ‘Tea would be nice.’

  I breathed out, Beverley giggled nervously and the sun came out again. I took Beverley’s hand and led her forward. Oxley had a labourer’s physique, lean and covered in hard, ropy muscle – Isis obviously liked her bit of rough. Beverley, interestingly, seemed more interested in the water.

  ‘This is a nice place,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ asked Oxley.

  ‘Yes please,’ said Beverley, and to my utter amazement she whipped off her jumper and bolero in one sinuous movement, stepped out of her leggings, and with a memorable flash of naked brown limbs, threw herself into the water. Isis and I had to step back smartly to avoid being drenched.

  Oxley winked at me and looked at his wife. ‘Are you coming in too, my love?’

  ‘We have another guest,’ said Isis primly. ‘Some of us still have manners.’

  Beverley surfaced and stood in the river up to her waist with a cheeky grin and bare breasts. Her nipples, I couldn’t stop myself noticing, were large and stiff. She turned her gaze on me, heavy-lidded and suggestive. If her mother had been like the undertow of the sea, then Beverley was as irresistible as a swift clear river rushing through a hot summer’s afternoon.

  I’d already started unbuttoning my shirt when I felt Isis’s hand on my arm.

  ‘You really are the most extraordinarily gullible young man,’ she said. ‘What on earth are we going to do with you?’

  Oxley ducked under the surface. Beverley looked at me with her head cocked to one side, a sly smile on her lips, and then she slipped down into the water.

  Isis offered me a seat at the plastic garden table and then, muttering under a breath, collected up Beverley’s discarded clothes, folded them neatly and draped them over a drying rail by the back door. Oxley and Beverley had been out of sight for more than a minute. I looked at Isis, who seemed unperturbed.

  ‘They’re going to be at least another half-hour,’ she said, and made us tea. I kept an eye on the water as she bustled but there weren’t even bubbles. I told myself they must have swum out of the pool and surfaced beyond the trees somewhere but I wasn’t very convincing, even to myself. She gave me the now standard assurances as she poured and offered me a slice of Madeira – I said no thank you. I asked her if she remembered a Henry Pyke. She thought the name was familiar.

  ‘I’m certain there was an actor of that name,’ she said. ‘But there were always so many actors, so many beautiful men. My good friend Anne Seymour had a mulatto footman who could have been your brother. He was a terror for the kitchen maids.’ She leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. ‘Are you a terror for the kitchen maids, Peter?’

  I thought of Molly. ‘I’d have to say no,’ I said.

  ‘No, I can see that,’ she said, and sat back in her chair. ‘He was murdered,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘The footman?’ I asked.

  ‘Henry Pyke. Or that was the rumour. Another victim of the notorious Charles Macklin.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A most terrible Irishman,’ said Isis. ‘But a splendid actor. He’d killed a man once already at the Theatre Royal in a dispute about a wig, stabbed him in the eye with his cane.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Had that Irish temper, you see,’ said Isis. Macklin had been a successful actor in his youth who retired in his prime to run a gin house which promptly went out of business. Forced back on to the boards, he was an ever-popular fixture at the Theatre Royal. ‘They loved him there,’ said Isis. ‘You always saw him in his favourite seat in the pit just behind the orchestra. I remember Anne liked to point him out.’

  ‘And he killed Henry Pyke?’

  ‘According to the gossip he did, for all that there were half a dozen witness said he did not,’ she said.

  ‘Were these witnesses friends of Macklin?’

  ‘And admirers too,’ said Isis.

  ‘Do you know where Henry Pyke is buried?’ I asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was just a bit of scandal at the time. Though I would have thought St Paul’s, since that would have been the proper parish.’

  She meant St Paul’s Covent Garden, of course – the Actors’ Church. Things kept coming round to that one bloody spot.

  There was a splash, and Beverley came running onto the wharf as if there was a set of stairs hidden under the water. She was as dark and sleekly naked as a seal, and you could have fired a shotgun past my ear and I still wouldn’t have looked away. She turned back to the river and jumped up and down like a kid.

  ‘I beat you,’ she said.

  Oxley came out of the river with as much dignity as a naked, middle-aged white man could be expected to have. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ he said.

  Beverley threw herself into the chair next to mine. Her eyes were bright and water was pearling on her arms and on the smooth skin of her shoulders and the slopes of her breasts. She smiled at me, and I tried to keep my eyes on her face. Oxley padded over and sat down opposite and, without preamble and ignoring a look from Isis, grabbed himself a piece of Madeira.

  ‘Did you enjoy your swim?’ I asked.

  ‘There are things down there you wouldn’t believe, Peter,’ she said.

  ‘Your hair’s wet,’ I said.

  Beverley touched her straightened hair, which was beginning to frizz. I kept watching as she suddenly remembered she was stark naked. ‘Oh shit,’ she said, and gave Isis a panicked look. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Towels are in the bathroom, dear,’ said Isis.

  ‘Laters,’ said Beverley, and ran for the back door.

  Oxley laughed and reached for another slice of cake. Isis slapped his hand. ‘Go and put some clothes on,’ she said. ‘You appalling old man.’ Oxley sighed and went into the bungalow, Isis watching him fondly as he went.

  ‘They’re always like that after a swim,’ she said.

  ‘Do you go swimming too?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Isis, and blushed ever so slightly. ‘But I’m still a creature of the riverbank. There’s a balance in them between the water and the land; the more time they spend with us, the more like us they become.’

  ‘And the more time you spend with them?’

  ‘Don’t be in a hurry to go into the water,’ said Isis. ‘It’s not a decision you want to rush into.’

  Beverley was quiet all the way back up West. I asked her whether she wanted to be dropped off somewhere.

  ‘Can you take me home?’ she asked. ‘I think I need to talk to my mum.’

  So I had to drive all the way across town to wonderful Wapping with Beverley too subdued to talk, which was unsettling in its own right. When I dropped her off outside the flats she paused before she got all the way out, and told me to be careful. When I asked her what I should be careful of she shrugged, and before I could stop her she kissed me on the cheek. I watched her walk away from the car, the hem of jumper clinging to her backside and thought – what the fuck was that about?

  Don’t get me wrong, I fancied Beverley Brook but I was little suspicious, not least because both her and h
er mother seemed capable of getting an erection out of moss if the mood took them. Isis’s caution about getting into the water with somebody who wasn’t a hundred per cent human was just the icing on the cake.

  Rush hour was starting to build as I drove back to the Folly. The day had clouded over and rain began to spatter the windscreen. I was fairly certain that Oxley and Beverley had made a connection. When I’d seen them standing side by side in the river, they’d looked … comfortable was the best word, or maybe familiar in the sense of cousins. Bartholomew, who could bore for England on the subject of genii locorum, was adamant that the ‘nature spirits’, as he called them, would always take some of the characteristics of the locus they represented. Father and Mama Thames were spirits of the same river – if I could edge them closer together, then their true nature should take its course.

  And if that meant spending a few days watching Beverley in the river, then that was a price I was willing to pay.

  I considered checking in with Lesley, but instead I locked up the garage and walked across the park to Russell Square tube station. I bought some flowers from a stall by the station and, for no apparent reason, headed in to catch a train somewhere else.

  The Judas Goat

  I’d got the tube all the way to Swiss Cottage, and was a quarter of the way up Fitzjohn’s Avenue when I started to question what I was doing. It wasn’t just that I’d abandoned my motor for public transport, it was also that I was walking up one of the steepest hills in London when I could have taken the train to Hampstead and walked down the hill instead. It was still bright, and the afternoon sunlight cut through the gaps between the trees that lined the avenue. The flowers in my hand were roses, a purple variety that were so dark as to be almost black. I wondered who they might be for.

  It was warm enough that I unclipped my tie and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. I didn’t want to arrive sweaty, so I took my time and ambled along in the shade of the plane trees planted along the pavement. It was the kind of day where a tune gets stuck in your head and you can’t help singing it out loud; in this case it was a blast from my past, ‘Digging Your Scene’ by the Blow Monkeys. Given that it was released when I was still in nappies, it was a wonder I knew all the words. I’d sung, ‘I’d just like to be myself again’ in the third chorus when I reached my destination. The house was a tall gothic confection with a mock tower at each corner and sash windows painted white. Marble-clad steps led up to an imposing front door but I ignored them and made my way to the side gate – I knew where I was going. I checked my jacket was straight and rubbed the toes of my shoes on the back of my calves; satisfied, I pushed open the gate and stepped through.