Chapter Twenty-One
It had been four days since Damien had run from the house, and in those four days Ava’s guilt had turned prickly, until she found herself walking towards Williamson Square once more, a note tucked safely into the pocket of her coat.
The lodging house opposite Houghton Street was called the Rainbow Hotel – though stepping inside, Ava saw it didn’t quite live up to its cheerful name.
Despite the bright autumn sunshine that dappled the cobbles outside, the parlour was dark, and damp – the only light coming from a lone, flickering gas lamp.
Wallpaper peeled from the walls in great, sinking strips, and the floorboards were chipped and scarred.
The only thing that didn’t look old or weathered was the clerk at the desk – who looked up as she stepped inside, huffing a sigh through his lips.
‘No vacancies,’ he said, his voice a low, disinterested drawl. ‘Try The Clown.’
‘I’m not after a room,’ Ava said, sidestepping a hole in the floorboards that looked the perfect size to swallow her boot. Somewhere deeper in the building she heard a door slam, and a kettle begin to whistle. ‘I thought to leave a note for one of your guests.’
The clerk looked at her as though she’d announced she planned to set the place alight. Although in fairness, it might’ve been an improvement.
‘Room number?’
‘Oh, I don’t have a room number. But I do have a name? Mr Carter. Damien Carter.’
Reluctantly, the clerk pulled a moth-eaten ledger towards him, and began flicking through the pages, licking his thumb with every turn.
Then he snapped the ledger shut.
‘Don’t have no one of that name.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Could you possibly … check again?’
He pushed the ledger to the other end of the desk, and returned to staring at the penny dreadful spread open across the counter.
‘Come back with a room number,’ he said.
Ava glanced towards the narrow hallway. A cracked mirror hung crookedly from the wall, reflecting an oddly warped version of the staircase.
‘I couldn’t just leave the note here—?’
‘Sure you can,’ said the clerk, holding out one hand – though still not looking up. ‘But only I’ll be reading it.’
Ava drew her lips into a line. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said.
‘Thought so,’ said the clerk, as she walked from the door.
Perhaps Damien had left. Perhaps the session had been bad enough that he’d fled the city – a thought that didn’t fill her with confidence as she tracked back towards Park Lane, past the rows of warehouses, the brickwork blackened with soot.
The sun was high now, and the air was thick with the sickly sweet smell of molasses from the sugar works, the stale grain scent from the rice mill.
A ship’s horn groaned in the distance, low across the Mersey, and she heard the bright, metallic thunks from the hoop works answer it.
She wouldn’t blame him if he’d left. How could she? She’d run, too – for all the good it had done her. She just wished she could’ve apologized to him, first. Could’ve explained what had happened in the parlour that day – and why she had pushed him so.
She stepped past the men milling outside the red-bricked church, their dark woollen coats flapping in the wind, pipes clenched between their teeth.
Her mother had never taken them to this church – for they weren’t Lutheran, and nor were they seafarers – but the men tipped their hats amiably as she passed, and stepped towards her front door, only to find someone already there, waiting for her.
Damien.
That was where her mind had leaped to – and she’d felt something flutter in her chest. And then the man turned around, and she realized it wasn’t Damien at all – for the shadow was shorter, stouter, and when she creaked the black iron gate open, he gave her a pinched smile.
‘Apologies,’ the man said quickly, his face hidden beneath the brim of his cap. ‘I merely wanted to inquire as to the rent on your boarding house. I knocked – but there was no answer.’
Ava frowned. ‘This is a family residence,’ she said. ‘Not a boarding house.’
‘Oh?’ The man pulled a small notepad from his pocket. ‘And can you confirm who lives here?’
‘Are you … from the council?’
He didn’t look like he was from the council. In fact, he looked rather out of place on Park Lane – for his coat was trimmed with obsidian silk, and his neck-tie pinned with what looked like a small diamond, cut into the shape of a teardrop.
‘I’m a Compiler, miss,’ said the man, fishing a small square of paper from his pocket and brandishing it towards her quickly – too quickly for her to read the small, squashed print upon it. ‘For next year’s Directory of Liverpool. I am sure you have heard of it.’
Heard of it? Her mother had treated it with the same reverence as one might treat the Bible – for it contained a list of every business in the city, every person who lived here – and, most importantly for her mother, the opening hours of every greengrocer in a three-mile radius.
‘I had this place down as a boarding house, and merely came to update our records on the room price. All of that goes into the directory, you see.’
Ava felt some of the air return to her lungs, and she relaxed her expression. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. No – like I said – this is a private residence.’
The man nodded, flicking back through his notebook. ‘Adams?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I have four names at this address – Mrs Adeline Adams, Mr Arthur Adams, Miss Ava Adams—’ The man’s lips quirked at the edge. ‘Goodness, you’ve a penchant for alliteration in this family, don’t you? And – ah. Mr Oliver Adams?’
‘Mrs Adams passed some time ago,’ said Ava, lowering her voice just a little. ‘But the rest is still correct.’
‘Thank you,’ said the man, tucking the notebook briskly into the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘And be on the look-out for the new directory. Should be coming in December, as always.’
She watched him walk down the small garden path, and though she thought it a little odd that he’d had her mother’s name upon his list – despite her having been dead these past four years – the thought slipped from her mind as she stepped through the doorway, and heard her brother call out to her.
‘How was it?’ Oliver asked, hurrying towards her. ‘Your grand return to the theatre? Was Stanley there? And the Greens? Was Tommy a bastard? Because I swear, if he was a bastard, I’ll go down there myself and—’
‘That’s tomorrow,’ said Ava – feeling how just saying those words made her throat feel tight.
Besides, it wasn’t Tommy she was worried about.
It was Miss Fairchild – for the chances of her accepting Ava’s help with grace were about as high as Ava’s father declaring he had become a fully paid member of the Widows’ and Widowers’ Club.