‘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?