by M. J. Tjia
The young woman steps forward into the light. She bends down and gives Amah a nasty smile. “Surprise!”
Amah glares at her.
“Ooh, it’s cranky,” she says. “We’ve rattled its cage.” She moves in closer, inspecting Amah’s face, her attire.
“What shall we do with her, my love?” asks a man Amah now knows to be Joshua.
“Undo the tie about her mouth,” she says, hands on hips. “I don’t want to touch her.” She shudders theatrically.
Joshua crouches and pulls the cloth from Amah’s mouth. His fingertips brush her cheeks as he removes the gag, and he looks at the back of his hand with surprise. “Her skin is surprisingly soft, actually.”
The woman gives him a withering look. “Go fetch the ink and paper, numbskull.”
He bounds from the room and they listen to his footsteps scrape up the steps.
Amah tries to lick her chapped lips but her mouth is dry. “What am I doing here?”
“Well, we might ask you the same thing. What were you nosing around Liverpool for?”
“I was trying to raise the money to buy that earring back from you.”
The woman smirks as Joshua returns, carrying an inkwell and notebook. “That’s what we surmised when we went through your reticule and found all your gewgaws and that nasty little dagger. But when we first saw you, down by the docks, my poor Joshua panicked and thought you’d followed us with that bully boy of yours.”
It takes Amah a moment to realise she’s speaking of Taff. Taff! He doesn’t know where Amah’s disappeared to. Has he even noticed yet? Surely, surely. Perhaps he is on her trail right now. But Amah’s rising hopes fade quickly. How could that be? He knows nothing of this repugnant pair and Amah herself doesn’t know where they have brought her.
“Why am I still here then? Keep the jewels if you must.”
“We will. You have a nice little hoard there.” She tilts her head as she considers Amah. “How did one such as you acquire such riches? Did you steal them from your mistress? Or perhaps, just perhaps, they were given to you in return for your silence?”
Amah’s fury uncoils slowly. “I think if we are to speak of blackmail, you might need to look to yourself.”
“Ooh, she’s ahead of us, Joshua. Untie her hands and shoulders but keep her legs bound tight.” She disappears into the gloom of the cellar for a few seconds and returns, dragging a dusty side-table behind her. She sets the ink and book down upon it. “Now, all we want from you is for you to write us a little letter, and we will let you go.”
“A letter saying what?”
“We’d like you to write down who you gave that earring to and why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you should tell me who you had it from yourself?”
The young woman frowns and her mouth screws into a mean pout.
“I’ll give you a name,” she says. “What about Jonathan Anthony Crewe? Have you heard that name before?”
Amah doesn’t move a muscle. John Crewe. Her own John. So these terrible people did get the earring from him. Her heart hurts a little at the thought.
The woman holds the lantern to Amah’s face again. “I can see that you do know who I’m talking about.” Her voice becomes cajoling, whiny, almost. “Come, just write a note to that effect for us. Admit that you knew him and that you gave him the golden earring. And then you can be on your way.” She kneels close to Amah and whispers theatrically in her ear, “Even better. Write about the child you had together.”
Amah looks away, the chair creaking beneath her. Joshua scratches his head; the air whistles in and out of his nose. Finally, the woman climbs to her feet again.
“Fine. I thought you’d be stubborn about it. But there is no hurry after all, so we will leave you. Give you time to come to your senses.”
She tells Joshua to tie Amah up again and, as they make their way to the door, lantern in hand, Amah says, “Can I have a drink of water, please.”
“Demanding old trollop, aren’t you?” she says, as she closes the door.
Amah’s back aches like it never has before, and she can barely feel her bottom where it is pressed into the hard chair. Every so often a spasm of pins and needles shudder up from the soles of her feet through to her thighs. Closing her eyes, she tries to shut out the fustiness of the cellar, the gloom of her surrounds and wonders if John ever thinks of her anymore. Wonders about her, like she does him. He might not even realise the earring is no longer in his possession. This sorry thought pierces her deep.
What about their rooms above the Walters’ on Henderson Street? Could John really have forgotten? The fragrance of the lilies he brought home to her mingled with the smell of Mrs Walters’ boiling mutton below. The baskets of handkerchiefs and linen Amah embroidered for the ladies and gents of Liverpool. And the cracks in the ceiling left behind by the damp and blistering paint. They used to gaze up at them from their bed, and John traced shapes with his finger in the air, making up stories about the patterns of cracks like they were constellations in the night sky: the blob that was actually a cheerful butcher – see his big ears, wide mouth – who stole children the same size as piglets to roast on the spit; and the stick-men – legs as tall and thin as a winter oak tree stripped bare – who could wade through rivers, saving village folk from terrible flooding. Most evenings, too, John sipped Irish whisky, so that when they kissed, she would taste its fire on her own lips.
John. How did these people know she’d given the earring to John? And how did it come to be in their hands? A frostiness takes hold of her chest, slowly, thankfully, replacing the melancholy, the foolish nostalgia, she has been feeling for the last few weeks. It’s the same frostiness that had fortified her against John’s desertion so many years before. Of course, at first she had been distraught, bereft as only she had been when her mother had died, but with time… with time those tender edges had hardened, had toughened like a piece of buffalo hide.
Amah opens her eyes and breathes in the dank air. Cocks her head towards the door. Footsteps shuffle their way down the basement steps and, again, the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swings open.
She knows from the silhouette that it is only Joshua returned this time, lantern in hand.
“A drop of tea, madam,” he says, raising a teacup to her mouth. “I’m afraid it’s rested in the pot a long while now. It’s become cool, and you might find it a little strong.”
Amah drinks greedily, her thirst forsaking good manners. Some of the tea trickles down the middle of her chin, drips onto her bodice. Only after a moment does she taste the tannin on her tongue, the awful bitterness.
Joshua leaves her for several minutes before returning with another cup of tea. He holds the lantern over the side-table. Nods towards the ink and notebook. “Any chance you would like to pen that letter for us? For another drink?”
Amah gives a tight shake of her head. Keeping a stony expression on her face, she pretends to avoid looking at him by sliding her gaze about the room. She wants to make the most of the feeble light to take in her surroundings. Apart from the doorway, there doesn’t seem to be any other way in or out of the basement. A barrel stands in one corner, covered in cobwebs, and a stack of portmanteaus clutter the other. She glances behind, but the light doesn’t extend but a foot or two across the dirt floor. She’s swift to banish the thought of her spectre – tattered rags, brittle bone – that flashes across her mind. But what if the spectre – that spirit that haunted her childhood – was reaching out to her for help? What if he was benevolent, after all? Amah slumps lower in the chair. What if the spirit was a she? Amah’s puzzled as to why this has never occurred to her before. It takes some effort for her to swing her gaze to the front again, and her head lolls a little as she focuses on that man.
Amah struggles to remember what she was thinking of. John, probably, her beautiful John. He’s no longer with her. How sad. She can’t feel the anger anymore. Joshua is not such a nasty-looking fellow, w
ith that kind smile of his. Not handsome like John was though. Pity this man’s nose is so pointy. Amah smiles. She never smiles. Why doesn’t she smile more?
Joshua unties her hands. “There. That’s more comfortable, isn’t it, madam.” He pulls the table close. “Perhaps you are now in the mood to write that letter? Just tell us of how you came to know Jonathan Crewe. How he came to have that earring.”
Amah’s thoughts drift back to John, to placing the dragon orb into the palm of his hand. Curling his fingers – lovely hands he had; fine, yet strong – over her treasure. She’d lifted his fist and kissed it. Binding them together forever. So she had thought.
“Here you are,” Joshua says, offering her the pen. The slick of ink on its tip glints in the lamp light. “Tell us.”
But Amah can’t even lift her arm, even if she wanted to. She feels like she is melting into the timber of the chair, like hot candle wax into a saucer.
“You gave her too much, you stupid man,” comes a woman’s voice from behind him. Amah didn’t notice her enter the cellar. Her voice seems far away, as though Amah hears it through a thin wall. “Joshua, can I not trust you to do anything right? Is this how it will be forever?” The woman’s voice rises in frustration.
“I’m sorry, my love.” He runs his hands through his thinning hair and Amah feels a mellow delight at the sight of a fine strand floating to the ground. “I gave her the same amount as you take of an evening to find rest.”
“Well, clearly the old cow isn’t used to it. Tie her up again. We’ll return to this in the morning.”
CHAPTER 19
I lie in my hard, cold bed, and sleep’s a long time coming. I rub my feet together, willing them to warm.
My mind skips back and forth through the events of the last couple of hours, and I wonder if I’ve left any of it out in my letter to Mrs White.
When I heard the Prussian man call out at number eight, I’d had a hard time of it to not stop and gawk. Instead, I hurried into the house after the others and, after swiftly wishing the other two good night, feigning a sudden need to slumber, I locked myself into my bedroom. Without lighting a candle or lantern, I flitted to the terrace doors and looked across at number eight. The two men – the occupant of the house and the Prussian – entered the living room I spied upon the night before, but almost immediately Mrs Modesto’s ‘scientist’ whisked the curtains shut.
I kept a sharp eye on the front door of number eight, waiting for the Prussian to leave. I knew it would have been better to watch from downstairs, but I could still hear the Modesto’s or the maids moving about. The court seemed even darker with the light from number eight’s living room cloistered behind curtains. A fishmonger paused on the corner, hollering his discounted sprats to the dwellers of Green’s Court, waiting a minute or two before continuing on his way. The sorrowful notes of a barrel organ pressed against the night air, while two women, perhaps even the same two I had encountered the night before, sauntered past, baskets piled high atop their heads. I only had time to take two sips of whisky from my flask when the front door to number eight opened again, and the Prussian stepped out.
Rushing out of my room, I ran down the staircase to the bottom landing. I unlatched the front door and poked my head out onto the street. He wasn’t to my left. Looking to my right, I could just see his figure move through the shadows onto Brewer Street. Closing the door silently behind me, I pursued the Prussian at a smart trot. By the time I arrived at the crossroads, I was quite out of breath. I stood, panting, my eyes searching the length of Brewer Street. A shoemaker stood before his shop, taking off his leather apron. Several stragglers seemed to be making their way home, probably from the hat factory on the next road. A woman stepped down from her carriage outside the veterinarian’s, a spaniel clasped in her arms. But I couldn’t see the blasted Prussian.
I cursed myself all the way back to the Modestos’. I’d lost the Prussian.
It went against the grain having to explain myself to Mrs White in my nightly report. My pen squeaked across several pages as I described the labour meeting Miss Haven had taken me to, and how the American was there. Could these people be the Red Brethren, I asked. And although news of the Prussian – Ernst – should really have been my coup d’état of the day, having to admit that I had lost him fell rather flat.
And now, in my rather uncomfortable bed, my mind keeps flapping between possibilities. Excitement worms through my belly as I think back on the evening, and I have to admit I am rather enjoying myself. Even amongst all the discomfort associated with these detecting jaunts, the thrill of the investigation is almost – perhaps more – satisfying than the gilt-edged life that preceded this period in my life. Not that I would ever give that up either. It’s just that I now have less time, less inclination, to wallow in the envy of other ladybirds who have landed richer gentry or live in fancier homes. I can’t even find the time to feel that twinge of jealousy for the proper young women who enjoy easier, more sheltered, upbringings than I have experienced.
I try to burrow deeper into the unyielding mattress. I must find sleep because on the morrow I will need to watch number eight again. Keeping my ear pricked for any suspicious noises from across the way, I close my eyes and let my thoughts go where they will. Did the American see where I reside? I must be careful of him. And where exactly had Modesto been tonight, with his lamp held high?
A dull clunk from below wakes me. Morning light streams through the glass of the terrace doors, for I haven’t drawn the curtains. I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, wiggling my toes against the cold floor boards. Scrambling into my gown, I glance across at number eight but, just as the day before, it’s shut away from prying eyes.
I skip down the stairs. I’ve thought this through and decided I will watch out for the Prussian from Mrs Modesto’s sitting room, if possible. It’s closer to the front door and will give me more time to chase him again, if need be. I catch hold of the maid and ask her to take my letter for Mrs White to the nearest receiving house as soon as possible, giving her an extra shilling for her trouble. Peeping into the sitting room I see that it’s empty, so I make my way to the back of the house where the breakfast things will be laid out in the dining room. I’ve missed Haven and Beveridge again and, to my relief, Mr Modesto isn’t present either. Only Mrs Modesto is seated at the table. Her left hand crumbles a piece of bread while her right hand is lightly clasped about a teacup.
“Good morning, Mrs Modesto,” I greet her. “I have a terrible headache. Do you mind if I—” My speech is cut short when she turns to look up at me. The left side of her face is crimson and the flesh across the tip of her cheekbone is quite swollen, encroaching upon her eye.
“But what happened to you?”
“I hurt myself,” she says. Her face is expressionless. “It is nothing.”
I think of the clunk that had woken me. I also remember the pounding I’d heard the day before coming from the sitting room. I swear, before this case is through, I will stab that man right through the heart. Well, maybe not the heart – but into the fleshy part of his thigh or buttocks or somewhere else satisfyingly fleshy.
Her dark eyes are still on me.
“I have a terrible headache, Mrs Modesto. Would you mind terribly if I rested by your fire in the sitting room with a nice cup of tea?”
She pushes her chair back and slowly takes to her feet, careful with her movements as though her bones ache. “Yes, Miss Charters. That is fine. I join you soon.”
“Where is Mr Modesto this morning?”
She shrugs. “He went out. I do not know where.”
As she clears plates and dirty cutlery, I pour myself a cup of tea and carry it into the sitting room. Standing by the window, I gaze out onto Green’s Court, which seems to be simply crawling with people. I frown to see the organ grinder loitering by the steps of the rag shop. Strange to see him so often in this part of London. I have heard organ grinders quite haunt the streets of Clerkenwell, but this fellow
seems to spend much of his time here. A stream of factory girls walks past, followed by a youth lugging a basket of live poultry. I position one of the armchairs at an angle so I can keep a lookout.
It’s not long before Mrs Modesto joins me, bringing a saucer of bread and butter that she sets on a little table next to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “You’re very kind.”
She shakes her head imperceptibly, taking a seat in the other armchair. Picking up her Bible, she scans a few lines, flips through to another page. Her lips move as she reads to herself.
She’s just gathering up another stripy bonnet – yellow, brown and green this time – when the Prussian man wanders past the window and knocks on the door of number eight again. Springing to my feet, I lean against the window sill and say, “Looks like it might rain, Mrs Modesto.” I pretend to gaze up at the sky but, really, I keep my eyes on Ernst until the ‘scientist’ opens his front door, ushers his guest in.
What can they be doing? I try to think of some excuse to beat on their front door – I could declare that I’m searching for a pet dog or cat, perhaps? Or can I say I am selling something? Something that necessitates me entering the house. My eyes dart from the closed front door to the dark windows.
“I believe fresh air might help relieve me of my aching head,” I say to Mrs Modesto, who leans over to read a sentence from her Bible. “I might just try a gentle stroll of Green’s Court.” She nods, returning to her knitting as I leave.
I step out onto the front step, tying the ribbon of my bonnet. Heavy clouds press down on the street. My heart jumps as number eight’s front door yawns wide, depositing Ernst onto the front mat. In the ashen light, he appears younger than I first supposed. His cheeks are sunken, and I can see by the angularity of his wrists and neck that he is skinny indeed, and yet his oversized overcoat makes him seem of more heft at first glance. His eyes are hidden beyond the reflection in the glass of his pince-nez.