Mrs Midnight and Other Stories Read online

  Eventually I tracked down a more detailed account of the fire in a local paper called The East London Gazette. Monday December 3rd 1888. In it I read as follows:

  ‘. . . the evening’s entertainment at the Old Essex was proceeding as normal when, towards the end of the bill, there was introduced an act known as Mrs Midnight and her Animal Comedians. In it a lady by the name of “Mrs Midnight”, dressed as a gypsy vagrant (but in reality personated by a Mr Simpson Graham) appears on stage with a number of animals, including a cat, a Learned Pig, a miniature bulldog, a cockerel and a Barbary ape. These creatures under instructions from Mrs Midnight performed a number of astonishing mental and physical feats. Especially notable we are told was the “Learned Pig” Belphagor who was capable of solving elementary mathematical conundrums with the aid of numbered cards. On this particular evening, however, parts of the audience, especially those who had been drinking at the bars, became restive and took against Mrs Midnight. These vulgar objections reached their height while the Barbary ape, called Bertram, was performing the act of rescuing the miniature bulldog, Mary, from the top of a miniature tower of wood and canvas, designed to look like a castle keep. Coins and other small hard objects were thrown onto the stage, one of which hit Bertram, the ape. The animal was so provoked by this act that he became visibly agitated and having reached the top of the tower, instead of rescuing the bulldog, Mary, he bit her head off.

  ‘That disgusting incident, needless to say, only incensed the troublemakers further and a full scale riot ensued. The local constabulary was summoned and the theatre was cleared. The artists appearing on the bill, which included Mr Dan Leno, were led to safety, but Mr Graham remained behind because he was fearful of being set upon by the mob who were indeed calling for him. It was at this point that smoke was seen to be coming from one of the dressing room windows at the back of the theatre, though precisely when and how the fire was started has been disputed. Our reporter who arrived on the scene with the fire brigade was told by one member of the crowd that the reason for the animus surrounding ‘Mrs Midnight’ was that her impersonator Mr Graham (formerly, we understand, a medical practitioner) was suspected by many to have some connection with the Whitechapel Murders, though quite why he should have fallen under suspicion we have been unable to ascertain. The gallant members of the Fire Service, under their leader Captain Shaw, soon had the fire under control and were able to spirit Mr Graham away unseen by the crowd. However Mr Graham is understood to have sustained severe injuries from the blaze and his entire menagerie of “animal comedians” has perished in the conflagration.’

  As I was coming out of Colindale with my photocopy of the article I had a brain wave. My last job before TV celebrity took me to its silicone-enhanced bosom was as Showbiz Editor of the Daily Magnet. There I got to know Bill Beasely, the head of crime news. We had worked together on the Spice Girl Shootings and rubbed along fairly well. He wasn’t a bad bloke if you could put up with his smoker’s cough, and the fact that he smelt of gin and peppermints at nine in the morning. One of his fads was his fascination with the Ripper murders: he’d even come up with a theory of his own about it and done yet another Ripper book. I think his idea was that it was Gladstone and Queen Victoria in collaboration, which is loony of course, but not as loony as that daft American bint who thinks it was Sickert the painter. (I happen to own a Sickert. I’m not a complete muppet.) I thought Bill might know about this Graham bloke if he was a suspect.

  I gave him a ring and he asks me over. I suggest meeting in a pub, but he insists I come to his flat. I don’t want to go because Bill is a bachelor—well so am I at the moment, but you know what I mean—and a bit of a slob and lives at the wrong end of Islington.

  My worst fears are confirmed. There is even some old gypsy tramp woman with a filthy plaid shawl over her head crouching on his doorstep. She holds out her hand, palm upwards for cash. Luckily Bill buzzes me up fairly quickly when I ring the doorbell.

  His flat is on the top floor and is everything I had been dreading, and more. It is all ashtrays, booze bottles and books, plus a sofa and a couple of armchairs that, like Bill, were bulging in all the wrong directions. The books are everywhere. They look as if they’d spread out from the ceiling-high shelves like some sort of self-perpetuating fungus. It is ten in the morning and Bill offers me a Gin and Tonic. He’s barely changed in five years: a bit more flab maybe, a more phlegm-filled cough. I ask if I could have a tea or coffee.

  He looks at me as if I’d demanded quail sandwiches and an avocado pear, but wanders into the kitchen to light the gas for the kettle.

  ‘Does that gypsy woman regularly camp out on your doorstep?’ I asked.

  ‘Who?’

  I went to the window to point her out to him but she’s gone.

  Bill managed to make some proper coffee in one of those percolator things, but it was still filthy. When I mentioned what I was here about, Graham and the Ripper connection, he became all excited. What is it about Jack the Ripper and some people? He started pacing round the room, talking enthusiastically and pulling books out of the shelves.

  ‘Ah, yes. Well of course Dr Graham is known to ripperologists, but he comes fairly low down on the list of possible suspects, mainly because we don’t know much about him. But this new stuff you’ve dug up is fascinating. Perhaps you and I could collaborate on a new Ripper book about it?’

  Not wanting to put him off at this early stage, I merely shrugged. ‘You called him “Doctor” Graham?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. He was a doctor. Struck off, if I remember rightly. Of course being a doctor is always a plus when it comes to Ripper suspects. Anatomical expertise, you see. Knowing how to cut up bodies.’ He is leafing through a rather squalid looking giant paperback entitled The A to Z of Ripperology. ‘Where are we? Ah, here we are! “Graham, Dr Simpson S. Date of birth unknown.” That ought to be easy enough to find out. “Medical practitioner with eccentric theories. Devised a treatment known as zoophagy in which patients were treated by being fed organs from still living animals, by means of vivisection.” Bloody hell, that’s absolutely disgusting!’ Bill, the ripperologist, seemed genuinely shocked. ‘ “Wrote a book on the subject: A Treatise on Brain Food, Or the Benefits of Zoophagy Explained . . .” Etcetera, etcetera. “Struck off the register for misconduct towards a female patient. Thought to have been suffering from the early stages of tertiary syphilis . . .” Ah! Listen to this! “Became an entertainer known as ‘Mrs Midnight’ who performed with a troupe of trained animals. The times and locations of his appearance at various East London music halls were said to have coincided with some of the Ripper murders, but this has not been confirmed. It is believed that he died in 1889 or 1890 in an institution for the insane, having been injured by fire in an accident.” He gets two bleeding daggers out of five on the Suspect Rating. Wait a minute, there’s a book referred to here in the bibliography: Quacks and Charlatans, Alternative Medicine in late Nineteenth Century England by Harrison Bews. Might be worth a look.’

  He then asked me why I was so keen on the Old Essex project. I tried to sound genuinely enthusiastic, but I think he saw through it.

  After a pause he said: ‘The thing these restoration nuts don’t get is that some old things are best left buried and unrevived. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s good; quite the opposite sometimes. I come from down that way myself, and my old Dad wouldn’t go near the Old Essex. He never really told me why, but he did say that just after the war they tried to turn it back into a theatre or something. I don’t know what happened exactly, but he said it was a disaster.’

  That afternoon I rang Jill and proposed that we should meet for dinner in the evening at my local gastro-pub, The Engineer in Primrose Hill. I thought dinner at my house might seem a bit forward for her. She accepted.

  Sometimes I’m a good judge, though that’s not what people say about me in I Can Make You a Star, but I thought Jill would like The Engineer and she did. The food’s well cooked and imaginative, all or
ganic of course and that sort of rubbish; but it’s classy and modern without being pretentious and overpriced. She seemed in her element there.

  You know how when you meet someone and you go away and start fantasising about them; then when you meet them again it’s a terrible let down? With Jill, it was the opposite. She was even better. I don’t want to go on about it but everything about her was somehow clear: clear skin, clear eyes, clear laugh. She dressed nicely but obviously didn’t worry much about her appearance. Her hair was mousy coloured, not dyed.

  Immediately I wanted to start talking about her and me, but I knew this would be fatal, so I told her about my researches. She gave me her full attention and seemed thrilled by the information I gave.

  I said: ‘You don’t think it’s all a bit sordid and sinister?’

  ‘Good grief no! Fascinating stuff. It all helps to raise the profile. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. You of all people should know that.’

  I could tell she was teasing me, which I liked, but it was in the way you tease a favourite uncle, not a friend, or a lover. Still, I had done well, so I told her grandly that there were a couple of books I thought I would look out at the British Library which might help. She stretched out her hand and touched mine.

  ‘You know, when somebody suggested you to help raise money for the Old Essex, I didn’t like the idea. I thought you would be, well . . . I mean, your reputation, the kind of programmes you do . . .’

  ‘I know. A case of Pride and Prejudice on your part.’

  ‘Well, sort of. Not that I’d exactly describe you as Mr Darcy.’

  ‘You wound me, Jill.’

  We both laughed, but she had wounded without knowing. Then we discussed the practicalities of fund-raising events, television air time, recruiting other ‘names’ to support the cause, and all the rest of it. I realised that by now it was far too late for me to bow out of the Old Essex project, even if I wanted to, but I couldn’t because it would mean losing her. Then at the coffee stage, she said something, though I can’t remember how it came up. Mature people are supposed to take these things better than the young, but I don’t think that’s true.

  She said: ‘By the way, you may as well know, I’m engaged to Crispin.’

  ‘Crispin de Hartong?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you can’t!’ The words were out before I could stop myself. She seemed amused rather than shocked by my reaction.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s a pretentious pillock.’

  ‘Actually, he’s really rather sweet when you get to know him.’

  There was something very steely about the way she said that. I had offended her, so I apologised. Then I told her gently that in my very humble opinion I thought she deserved better.

  ‘Thank you for your fatherly concern,’ she said coolly.

  ‘I hope I’m more than a father to you.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Quickly I said: ‘And what does your father think about it all?’

  ‘My father is dead; my mother lives in Leamington Spa,’ she added, as if that explained the situation.

  ‘I see.’ She giggled. I laughed. The rest of that evening would have been pleasant in a trivial sort of way if I hadn’t felt this great weight on my chest, brought on by her announcement. It was only then, I think, that I admitted to myself how much I felt about Jill. It often happens that when you confess to yourself, your feelings come to be like a physical pain. Call it heart ache if you like; I won’t. Since I stopped working for the tabloids I’ve tried to avoid clichés like the plague.

  Shortly after eleven I put Jill into a taxi outside The Engineer, and kissed her chastely on the cheek. This was not like me at all. Then I walked slowly back to my house. I took a long way round so that I could think, but I didn’t really think at all. My mind was too full of Jill, and what a pillock Crispin was.

  I have a little Georgian terraced house in Princess Road. It was one of those ones with railings along the front and steps going up to the front door. I was quite some way off when I noticed that someone was sitting on my steps. It was no more than a squat black shadow in a long dress from this distance. A ridiculous hope that it might be Jill vanished almost as soon as it came. The figure was motionless. Perhaps someone had just dumped some black bin bags on my doorstep, but no; the form was too precise. It must be a tramp and I would have to give her or him something before they cleared off. The thought enraged me. Hadn’t I enough problems already?

  As I approached I could see more clearly what it was. It was dark of course but there was enough light from the street lamps for me to tell. It was a tramp of some kind, a bag lady, except that she had no bags. She was a big bulky old woman in a rusty black dress. Over her head and shoulders was a plaid shawl, greenish in colour I thought, but so dirty I could barely make out the pattern. It was only when I had come right up to her that I could see the face under the shawl and even then half of it was in shadow.

  It was an old face, jowelled and wrinkled with pale pendulous cheeks and a puckered, lipless, dog’s bottom of a mouth. I could not see the eyes clearly as they were shadowed by the thick overhanging brow, but I sensed that they were looking at me fixedly. Something about the heaviness of the chin and the thickness of the nose was making me suspect that the figure in the dress was not a woman at all but a man. This was confirmed when it thrust out a hand, palm upwards, from the folds of the plaid shawl. It was a big, heavy, dirty man’s hand and there were great scars on it like old burn marks.

  He wanted money. Well, that was simple enough. I fished for pound coins in my pocket. Even so, the idea of coming close enough to this thing to give them filled me with loathing. I stretched out my hand to be able to drop the coins into his while remaining as far as possible from him, but just as I was about to let the money go he gripped my wrist.

  It felt like a handcuff of ice. I screamed like a girl. I felt dizzy; I suppose I must have passed out; drink I suppose, but it had not been my imagination because when I came to I looked for the coins. They and the bloke in the dress had gone.

  From that moment I became a driven man. The following morning I went to the British Library and ordered up Quacks and Charlatans, as well as A Treatise on Brain Food. In the B.L. catalogues I noticed that Simpson Graham M.D. was also credited with another book entitled Mother Midnight’s Chatechism, so I ordered that as well.

  Research is like fitting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Quacks and Charlatans had only a few pages about Graham, and was completely ignorant about his Music Hall Career, but it gave me this:

  He had been a brilliant if erratic medical student and early showed an almost insatiable desire to make his mark in the world. . . . Dr Graham developed the idea that ingesting organs, in particular the brain, from a living animal was extraordinarily beneficial to human health. Several times he gave a demonstration before an interested and alarmed public in which he trepanned a fully conscious dog or cat, an operation which can, if skilfully done, be executed without much pain to the subject. He would then proceed to dip a spoon into the brain pan and devour the contents until the wretched animal finally lost consciousness. Many colleagues poured scorn on his unorthodox methods, but very few of them objected from an animal welfare point of view. . . . After his disgrace, he continued to give lectures and demonstrations on what he called zoophagy (the eating of a still living being), often doing so in female dress for no apparent reason. Doubts as to his sanity naturally grew and he was finally consigned to an asylum.

  I only skimmed though A Treatise on Brain Food, Or the Benefits of Zoophagy Explained by Simpson Graham M.D. Something about the very act of reading it, even in the antiseptic surroundings of the B.L. seemed poisonous. I did gather from a cursory glance that Dr Graham was no stylist and did a lot of boasting. All the same, I couldn’t help noting down one passage which comes towards the end of this tedious little book.

  If we could only overcome the contemptib
le prejudice against using our fellow human beings in such experiments I am convinced that the benefits would be extraordinary. At present criminals, condemned by law and society, are either executed or left to languish in unhygienic conditions, an unconscionably wasteful practice. How much better for us, and indeed them, if their living, palpitating organs and brain cells were to be used to refresh and rejuvenate a select few. With the skills that I have perfected, the suffering of the reprobates in question could be kept to a minimum; or indeed prolonged and exacerbated, if required, to point a necessary moral lesson. By ingesting these living substances and fluids the health and sanity of our finest men (and women) of genius would not only be enhanced but also greatly prolonged. Through this use of ‘living brain food’ as I term it, human lives of two or three hundred years might in the future, I sincerely believe, become a commonplace.

  The third book, Mother Midnight’s Chatechism was subtitled Zoophagy Explained to the Young. Graham did not claim authorship on the title page, and I am not surprised. It is printed on cheap paper and decorated with crude, muddy woodcuts. Nearly all of it is in verse. It begins:

  How can you be big and strong?

  Hear then Mother Midnight’s song . . .

  Then there were a number of stories or anecdotes told in verse.

  Edward ate a living mouse

  And he learned to build a house;

  David downed a wriggling rat,

  And so he grew big and fat . . .

  Concluding with the moral:

  Make your meal off breathing things

  And become as great as kings.

  The final set of verses tells the story of a boy called Alfred who catches his sister out in the act of cheating him at cards. Thereupon he ties her to a chair and proceeds to cut her open with his ‘trusty knife’. It was all told in a light-hearted almost humorous way that was very difficult to gauge. How serious was the man being?