by William King
Not all of the women present were what our periodicals like to call “hardened in vice”. Some of them worked in dressmaker's shops or in those factories of clothing manufacture that sweat their labour for 16 hours or more a day. Some of them were there to earn some money on the side. Some of them were so poor that they even had to pay for the rent of their clothes. Hawk-eyed servants of the cold-hearted ladies they worked for followed them at a discreet distance.
There are those who will tell you that such an existence inevitably leads to death and worse. I cannot lie to you, in many cases it does. When I was at Bow Street we would sometimes come across such girls with their throats cut and their money gone. Some are battered to death by pimps. Some waste away from dreadful diseases. Some take to drink and find their ruin there. And many are found floating in the Thames. For some, particularly those not suited to it, it's a terrible life. And that is the side of the story that you most often hear.
But it's not the whole story. I have known many girls who've followed this life for a few years and then married and settled down respectably. I've known a few who followed the life and their sweethearts knew about it and did not flinch from them. In some cases, it was the only way of putting food on the table. In a few cases, it was a way of finding excitement in a life otherwise drab.
I realised early on that there was something going on here that I was in no position to pass judgement on. For I've seen too many respectable women and their children die of starvation to criticise those who seek to avoid that fate. And there was plenty of hunger to go around in the chilly spring of 1841 which is why perhaps there were so many women at the Haymarket that Saturday night.
I walked around, sometimes chatting with the girls that I knew, sometimes exchanging nods with faces that I recognised, all the time keeping my eyes open for Ginger Jim Matthews.
At first, I did not see him. I saw a few pickpockets of my acquaintance who scuttled away when they recognised me. I saw one or two members of Parliament out for a stroll among the loose ladies and I pretended not to know them as they pretended not to know me.
I stopped to purchase a coffee from a vendor who looked as if he was doing very well out of his business. Certainly at the prices he was charging he was being well recompensed for the late hours he was forced to keep. A tall, thin, and very lovely red headed girl eyed me across the length of the stall. She smiled and looked invitingly at me but when I shook my head she moved on to the next potential customer. In such a market, the seller cannot afford to waste time.
As she moved, I caught sight of the familiar looking figure standing at the next stall. He was buying a saveloy to feed to a familiar looking dog. The dog was attracting a certain amount of attention from the girls, which I have no doubt was Ginger Jim's intention. I put down my coffee cup and moved over to him. As he rose from placing the spicy sausage in the dog's mouth, I clapped my hand on his shoulder and said, “Good evening, Ginger.”
His head flicked to one side, quick as a whip and his eyes widened when he saw me. He tried to pull away but I had too good a grip on him.
“There's no need to rush away,” I said. “All I want is a quick word in your ear.”
The two girls who had been standing nearby admiring the dog, looked speculatively at me, as if I might be a new customer, a friend of his who might be persuaded to form a party. Sarah was right. He liked his women green.
“I don't think now is the time, Mr Brodie. I was just going to go for a little walk with these two young ladies and I don't suppose you would like to join us.”
“I'm serious, Ginger. I want a word and only a word and once I've had it, you can be on your way.”
“Very well then, Mr Brodie, have your word.”
“It would be better if we talked in private.”
“What do you have to say to me that you can’t say in front of my friends?”
I realised that he had not recognised me as the man who had accompanied Jane Bullock the other night. Under the circumstances, that was probably a stroke of luck.
“Something that might be to your advantage, if you're sensible.” I could see that he was intrigued now. I had not attempted to arrest him and even if I had wanted to I could hardly do it on my own and under these circumstances. He knew or had heard of certain aspects of my business.
“If you like, we can speak in the corner bar,” I said. He considered for a moment, shrugged and said, “Fair enough.”
We headed off down the street a bit and Ginger Jim’s dog followed us. I led them into a small bar and found a quiet nook and discouraged two or three of the girls who came over to talk to us. They soon got the message that we wanted to be left alone, despite the fact that Ginger Jim showed considerable interest in a fresh-faced young blonde lass.
I ordered drinks for the both of us and I could see he was surprised that I was being so cordial.
“What do you want, Mr Brodie?” he asked once he was certain that I was not going to allow him to talk to the girl.
“I want to talk to you about the Brighton House job.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You've never been there or anywhere near the place, I suppose.”
“You're very exactly correct.”
“That's not what I've heard. In any case, let us imagine, just for a moment, that you did know who did the job. It could be worth your while to pass on a message to them from me.”
“How worthwhile?”
“Enough. If they get the message and get in touch with me.”
“And, if I should run into these very hypothetical persons, what should I tell them?”
“That I've been hired to recover what was taken, no questions asked, fair price paid, and no trouble from the law afterwards.”
“Believe me, Mr Brodie, if I knew who these people were I would certainly pass on your message.”
“I believe you, Ginger, just like I believe that you know the right people in this affair.”
“It's a free country, Mr Brodie, and you can believe what you like.”
“Look,” I said, “there's money enough in this for all concerned and this is not the time to be playing games with me. Just pass the message along and you'll get your cut. If you don't, there's witnesses that can connect you to the job. So, you see, I'm doing you a favour. If the goods are not recovered, there will be prosecutions, at least in your case.”
“There's nobody can connect me to that job, Mr Brodie, because I had nothing to do with it.” He spoke with an attempt at booming confidence but I could see that he was rattled. He had no idea who the witnesses might be and how incriminating their testimony was. He could only guess at it just like he could only guess at what exactly I knew, and I flatter myself that that was not evident on my face.
“Just keep talking, Ginger, and you'll find yourself on the hulks and shortly after that outward bound for Van Diemen's Land. Like I said, I am trying to do you a favour but there's a limit to my patience.”
“I really don't know what you're talking about, Mr Brodie.”
“I don't think you'll like Australia, Ginger. It's very hot there and I don't think they’ll let you keep your dog. It would be cruel to take it all that way anyway.”
“All right, all right. You've made your point.” He bent down and patted the dog and said to it, “There's a good boy. Don't listen to the nasty man. I won't be going anywhere. I'll always be here to look after you.”
And that was another thing that was true about Ginger Jim Matthews; he really did seem to love that dog.
“Tell the lads, especially the boys with the guns, that the law still does not look very kindly on that sort of thing. It would be best if they made a deal with me and this thing won't go any further. They'll get a fair price. Tell them to ask around and they'll hear about me.”
All the bluster had gone out of him now and he looked up at me rather sadly. There was a plaintive note in his voice and he said, “If I see the people you're talking about I'll pass along
your message.”
“I can't ask for fairer than that, Ginger Jim. Just make sure you do it soon before things go too far.”
I left him then and walked off into the cold night. I was feeling rather pleased with myself and possibly a little worse for the drink, for I’d stopped for another to celebrate. Sometimes, when it's late and you're tired and paying no attention to your surroundings, you get taken off guard and that's what happened to me. I heard rushed footsteps from behind me and as I turned a very hard fist connected with the side of my head.
Instinct made me flinch away from the blow as I saw it coming out of the corner of my eye. It still hit me hard enough to make sparks flicker before my sight and send me reeling back. I could see that there was more than one attacker, and one of them was even bigger than I was, and that was all I had time to notice before another blow connected and I was fighting for consciousness.
If they really wanted to kill me, I would have been dead. But that was not what they wanted, they wanted me alive, even if I was somewhat damaged.
I aimed a punch at the biggest one and it connected but there was not much power behind it. He grunted and lashed out at me. I deflected his blow with my forearm but that just gave his friends time to rush in and grab me.
I heard one of them say, “I got him, Billy. Bash him on the head now and we'll be away.”
I could see that one of the men held a cosh in his hand and I guessed that he was Billy. I tried to struggle free from their grip but they were strong and the big man, Tiny, was hitting me hard.
I heard another whining voice say, “I told you, didn’t I, Billy. If we kept an eye on the girl long enough we would catch him.”
“We’d have got him sooner if you hadn’t stopped to have your fun.”
“Help, murder,” I shouted. My only hope was calling someone to my assistance. There had been a time and not so long ago when if you'd done that at such an hour in London you could have expected to be ignored, but I heard the welcome sound of a policeman's rattle, and a voice shouting, “That'll be enough of that, lads.”
“Peelers,” said Dave's whining voice. There was panic in it that did not stop him landing a couple of good blows and throwing me to the ground. I took the opportunity to aim a good kick at his knee. Unfortunately that gave them the idea that they should be doing the same and a storm of kicks smashed into my body, and all I could do was curl up in a ball and try and protect my head and vitals.
The rattle was being answered now from all directions, but that did not seem to discourage the men kicking me, in fact it only seemed to goad them on to greater fury. There was real hate behind those blows.
“Come on, Billy,” said Dave's voice. “We've got to get out of here. We can get him another night.”
One of the men, Billy I think, although I could be none too certain through the haze of pain, was bending over me and trying to drag me along. He seemed determined that he was going to do it but the others broke his grip and dragged him, struggling, away. As he went, he said, in a low hate filled voice, “Don't worry, Brodie. There'll be other nights and you and me will have a good long chat yet.”
I don't mind admitting that I wasn't paying too much attention. I was too busy trying to stop the bleeding. He came back and had a last kick at me and then I was not paying any attention at all.
I awoke in a cell that stank of mould and damp and urine. The sound of some drunken Cockney murdering Burns’s “My Heart is in the Highlands” echoed down the corridor and was answered by shouts telling him to shut up, people were trying to sleep. There was the smack of a fist hitting flesh and the singing abruptly stopped.
There was nobody else in my cell, which was a mercy, and when I checked my pockets I still had my wallet and my money. Every part of me hurt. When I tried to sit up I felt dizzy and nauseous. The bench, a mere deal plank held to the wall with chains, shook under my weight. I groaned, tried to get up, tottered a moment and fell back down again, feeling the plank flex under my weight.
I recognised where I was at once, for I have been familiar with the cells inside a police office for almost half my life, one way or another, and I wondered how I had got there. The last thing I remembered was a very hard boot making contact with the side of my head. I decided that rest was what I needed, during which time I could ponder the mysterious way I had arrived in the cells.
Someone must have noticed I was awake though, for shortly thereafter the door creaked open and Tom Barker strutted into the room the way his sergeant-major father must have swaggered across the field of Waterloo. He was not a big man, he just seemed that way, for he was heavy-built, with the muscular presence of a great ape and a spring in his step that would have done credit to the worst bully in St Giles. His uniform looked dirty and unkempt although there was nothing you could quite put your finger on that made it so. It must have been the man in it, with his huge jaw that always looked unshaven and his fierce deep set cave-dwellers eyes. He took off his top hat, by regulation so strong that a man could stand on it to look over a wall. His looked like it had been used for that purpose more than once.
If I have managed to give you the impression of mindless brutality then I do the man a disservice, for there was nothing mindless about Tom Barker’s brutality.
He and I had worked together many times in the past. He had been one of the first Metropolitan policeman inducted after the 1829 Act. He'd been on the force ever since, and worked his way up through the ranks to Inspector with a fierce, self-willed energy. He cocked his head to one side and looked at me with the same combination of friendliness and aggression that he always did.
“You’ve looked better, Jack,” he said. He was speaking softly for him, which would have been a shout for anyone else. It should have been disturbing but his voice was very musical and, in fact, he was the prize singer of the Harmonic Club at the George and Dragon.
“I’ve felt better, Tom,” I said. “How did I get here?”
“Two night shift lads carried you in. Said you had taken a beating along Dollymop Street. Fortunately for you, I recognised you for the battered old dog you are, and got you put in here so you could sleep it off without being robbed. How do you feel? Not pissing blood I hope.”
“I haven’t made the attempt yet.”
“Well, do me a favour and don’t try it until I am out of here. I haven’t eaten yet. I'm surprised though – that you would take such a beating. I saw you fight once, must have been twenty years ago, you were sparring with Swift and you held your own too. Why did you give up the fight game, I always wondered?”
“I didn't like getting battered.”
He ran his eye up and down my body and raised an eyebrow. “You must be pleased that your new career allows you to avoid that.”
“There's no need to be sarcastic, Tom.”
He loomed over me, blocking out the light. It wasn’t a deliberate attempt at intimidation, just force of habit. “I thought better of you, Jack. There was a day when no amount of Seven Dials monkeys could have done this to you. Now look at you. You’re getting old.”
“We’re all getting old.”
“And ain’t that the truth. You want to tell me what happened?”
“There were three of them. They came at me out of a side alley. The biggest of them gave me a punch before I knew it and the rest decided to dance a hornpipe on my ribs.”
“An understandable desire for anyone familiar with your winning personality. Any particular reason why these boys might want to do it?”
“No.” I decided to keep things to myself, in case I found it necessary to settle accounts with Billy on a permanent basis.
“Was one of them Billy Tucker, perchance?”
“Bold Bobby Tucker’s brother?” I tried to put a measure of surprise into my voice.
“The very same.”
“Well, well-- there’s a name from out of the past. I never expected to hear it again. The last time I saw him he was en route to New South Wales. Why do you bring him up?”
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“He’s been back for a few months, and is the suspect in some particularly tasty break-ins. More to the point he got drunk one night in the Rat’s Nest and shot his mouth off about what he’s going to do to you. Blames you for killing his brother -- which is understandable, given the fact that you threw the man off a roof.”
“He fell.”
“He certainly did -- five storeys.” He sounded amused and admiring rather than appalled by the prospect. I rather suspected that he wished he had done it himself.
“I didn't push him.”
“Whatever you say, Jack.” I could see that there would be no convincing him. He seemed to believe that I'd done it despite the fact that he gave evidence to the contrary at the hearing. So many people were telling me that I'd thrown Bobby Tucker off a roof that I was starting to believe it myself.
“I’m starting to understand how Billy had got the impression that I murdered his brother.”
“Well, if I see him I’ll make him wish he’d stayed in Australia. The only people who give out kickings on my patch are me and my lads. Any particular reason you were up at the Haymarket tonight- looking for a little female company, were you? Shame on you, and you with two bonny bairns and all.”
He said the last part of the sentence in a stage Scotsman’s accent. “You missed your calling, Tom,” I said. “You should have been a comedian, you’re a regular Charlie Mathews.”
“A man of many talents, me. You never know I might take your advice. It’s bound to be better than being a Bobby.”
“Things that bad?”
“We’re stretched too thin, a few thousand men to keep a lid on millions. Too much hunger. Too few jobs. Too much agitation. And if we fail, its troops out of barracks and fix bayonets, lads; revolution or massacre, and either way blood on the streets.”
“You really think so?”
“Nah, it’s late and I’m tired and the words just came out. It’s nip and tuck these days. Sometimes we win some, sometimes they win some. Of late I’m thinking they win more than us. It’s a bloody war out there- bad as the one my old dad fought against the Frenchies.”