Broken Threads

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘No you haven’t. You made up the name of the woman that you were supposed to have given the baby to. You didn’t correct me when I said Dickson instead of Dyer.’

  Massiter sat down on the edge of his bed. He drooped his head.

  ‘Who did you give her to? A passing dollymop? A kidman?’

  ‘No, no … What do you take me for?’

  ‘I dunno why you ask me that ‒ you ought to know you’ll get a rude answer. Come on now, sir, be a good man and tell me the truth.’

  Massiter made a sound that was almost a sob. ‘If I tell you, will you promise to let me alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won’t inform the authorities?’

  ‘I’ve no jurisdiction here, if that’s what you mean. You’re safe from me, whatever you tell me.’

  ‘What I meant was, you won’t tell them where I am when you get back to England?’

  ‘Wouldn’t matter if I did. They can’t drag you back.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Stop thinking about yourself, Massiter. Think about the kid. What did you do with her?’

  ‘I gave her to the chambermaid.’

  ‘The chambermaid. Ah!’ The missing chambermaid. He ought to have thought of that before.

  ‘Alice, her name was. I could tell she was “open to offers”, as the saying goes. I caught her tampering with the locks on my portmanteau a bit earlier, but we settled that amicably ‒ a pretty enough girl, though too much of a Cockney for my taste.’

  Baxter knew the type well. London was full of them. Good-looking, quick-tongued, always on the lookout to make a shilling or two. ‘The landlord said he wasn’t sorry to see the back of her,’ he mused aloud.

  ‘Oh, she was ready enough to go,’ Massiter agreed. ‘I think she was well out of favour. When I came downstairs with the brat she was in the lobby. I asked for a word in private, she took me into a sort of pantry off the main passage. I think she thought I was going to arrange to see her later that night, but she caught on readily enough when I told her I wanted her to get rid of the baby.’

  ‘You weren’t silly enough to use those words to her?’ Baxter said in alarm.

  ‘No, no, I said she was to take the little nuisance home to Galashiels. If she asked there, anyone would tell her where the Corvill house was, and she’d get a good reward for her trouble. I gave her five pounds in gold, and all the silver I had about me ‒ six or seven florins.’

  ‘I’ll ask you again what I asked before: did you think she would do it?’

  Massiter gave it some consideration. ‘I thought there was an even chance,’ he said seriously. ‘I thought the idea of the reward would tempt her.’

  And the idea of a journey to the wilds would put her off, thought Baxter. These Cockney girls, born and bred in the streets of London, they scorned the rest of the country, thought it was peopled by savages. One pickpocket had said to Baxter, ‘I tell yer, guv, it’s no pleasure workin’ the lay norf of St Albans, yer can’t get a civil word from nobody.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Did she say when she would be travelling, whether she’d take the train?’

  ‘I hadn’t time for all that. I had to get back upstairs to Lucy before she changed her mind about letting the brat go. I wanted to be off for Dover ‒ the longer we stayed in London the more chance that someone would catch up with us.’

  They talked for some little time but Baxter’s experience told him the man really had nothing more to relate. Baxter couldn’t help being sorry that Massiter and Mrs Corvill had parted company. From all he could gather, they had been made for each other.

  Athens was ill-equipped for sending urgent messages back to London. Baxter took ship for Ostia, and from Rome sent cables to the Metropolitan Police prompting further search for Alice Yates. He also sent word to Mrs Armstrong that he would be in London within the week.

  When he called at Eaton Square at the beginning of the second week in June, he found her with her husband waiting for him in a different setting. The drawing room was uncluttered, there had been a change in the colours of curtains and chair covers. Mr and Mrs Armstrong in their mourning were in stark contrast to the lightness of the room.

  He told them quickly what he had learnt in Athens and what he had been told by Inspector Simmons since his return. ‘We know now that Alice Yates took Heather. But we still don’t know the whereabouts of Alice Yates.’

  ‘Why didn’t she bring her home?’ Ronald cried. ‘She could have asked for anything by way of reward!’

  ‘What kind of girl is she?’ Jenny asked. ‘Is she the kind who’d take good care of my baby?’

  ‘We don’t know, Mrs Armstrong. The landlord at the Mitre had employed her for four or five months but was beginning to have doubts of her. He says she was a good worker but had some worrying friends.’

  ‘Worrying?’

  ‘Well, you see, these girls … If she was a pilferer, she probably handed on what she took to somebody else for disposal. There are all kinds of gangs in the rookeries, who organise thefts and fence the dibs. What follows from that is, she mightn’t have been a free agent. It was all right for Massiter to tell her to go to Galashiels, but she might not have been able to do it without asking permission.’

  The Armstrongs gazed at him. The view from this window on the criminal side of London had shaken them.

  ‘Do you think she asked permission and was refused?’

  ‘More likely she never intended to go in the first place. A girl like that, a man hands her five sovs, she doesn’t say no thank you, sir. She pockets it and pleases herself.’

  Neither Jenny nor Ronald dared to ask the next question. Baxter guessed what was going through their minds. ‘She’s a pretty baby,’ he remarked. He had a copy of the tinted photograph taken on her first birthday, held proudly on her mother’s lap. ‘There are people in London who are on what we call the kidman lay ‒ they rear kids for various kinds of work, to take round for begging, and of course the prettier the child the more money they earn. Or girls are brought up to about ten, at which time they can be sent as maid-of-all-work to some good family, and pass the word about portable property.’

  He stopped there, deciding that information about the next possibility for a pretty little girl was not likely to help the Armstrongs.

  What he had already said was enough to drive the blood from Jenny’s heart. ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Oh no …’

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ the detective said, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘No use blinking the facts, though. She’s been missing for almost six months. If she’s alive, it’s because Alice Yates and her friends could see a use for her.’

  ‘Where is she ‒ where would they keep her?’

  ‘With some family, probably in the rookeries.’

  ‘Can you find her?’

  ‘I can try, Mrs Armstrong. If she’s still alive, I can probably track her down. But it might take a while.’

  ‘Do it! I don’t care how long it takes ‒ I’ll never give up until I find her!’

  Ronald accompanied David Baxter out on to the pavement when he left. ‘Tell me frankly,’ he said, ‘do you think my daughter’s alive?’

  Baxter tugged his whiskers. ‘It’s quite possible.’

  ‘Probable?’

  ‘Yes, I’d even say probable, except you’ve got to allow for run-of-the-mill childish ailments. I mean, if little Heather happened to get the whooping cough or a fever, her keepers might not bother too much to save her.’

  Ronald blenched. ‘Goddammit, man ‒ don’t talk like that!’

  ‘You wanted the truth, I’m giving it to you. But from all you told me, your daughter was a healthy, happy little girl. She might stand up quite well to her situation. In that case, she’s probably still alive.’

  ‘And you can find her? Or are you just going on with it to indulge my wife?’

  ‘A bit of both, you might say, sir. I think that poor lady needs something to cling to.’

&n
bsp; Ronald sighed. There was no gainsaying that.

  Jenny insisted on remaining in London. She had the feeling that Baxter might call on her for information or help. Or he might come to the house bringing Heather with him ‒ she couldn’t bear to think she might be in the north if that happened.

  Ronald parted from her with misgivings. The wild swings between hope and despair to which she was subject were very worrying. Her emotional balance was precarious. Sometimes she was desperately in need of him, sometimes she seemed hardly aware of his existence.

  Their lovemaking had been strange since they lost Heather. Jenny would be consumed by an urgent passion but then afterwards she would be ashamed, unhappy. He couldn’t understand it. And she could never explain it to him, for it arose from a feeling of disloyalty to her lost child. If she were to have another baby, it would be like replacing Heather, displacing her.

  Between herself and Ronald there was still a strong bond. Yet now what held them together was shared loss, shared tragedy. The first close and careless love had gone, perhaps for ever.

  When Ronald went north, more than distance separated them.

  Chapter Eleven

  The weeks went by. David Baxter came back from time to time to give his report. It was very difficult, he explained ‒ Alice Yates had sunk out of sight at the very beginning of the inquiry, and now he was having to go over old tracks. People were warier than ever.

  ‘At first the police were looking for a missing chambermaid to ask her a few questions. Now, you see, we’re looking for her as a participator in an abduction. That’s a hanging matter ‒ and word’s got round so your normal rampsman don’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘But you won’t give up,’ Jenny begged.

  ‘Not so long as you want me to go on.’

  She looked at him with anxiety. Was he saying she ought not to go on?

  ‘She isn’t dead, you know,’ she said, clasping her hands in fervour. ‘I’d feel it if she were dead.’

  He nodded. It wasn’t so unlikely as some might think. But what he couldn’t bring himself to say was, she may be alive but we may never find her.

  ‘Keep trying,’ she urged. ‘Please.’

  ‘All right.’ He left with his faltering determination renewed.

  And two days later he was back. ‘Mrs Armstrong, would you come with me to look at a child?’

  She went utterly white. He thought for a moment she was going to faint. She swayed slightly in her armchair. Then she said, ‘Where? When?’

  ‘This evening. Wear something plain, not to attract attention. We’re going into a rough neighbourhood.’

  ‘You’ll come for me?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘Can’t we go now?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, the party I want to see won’t be home until the evening. I’ll come about eight.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  It was September. At eight daylight was thin and without strength on the London streets. The lights on the cab flickered in the gloom as she came out to join Baxter, in a plain black poplin gown and cape, with a bonnet heavily veiled.

  As soon as she had entered the hansom, the driver moved off. He had already had his instructions, had been well-paid to go into the district where they were headed. It was a neighbourhood he avoided.

  They rattled over the paved road into Grosvenor Place and then to the new and handsome Victoria Street. They seemed to be heading towards Westminster. ‘Where are we going?’ Jenny demanded in surprise.

  ‘It’s an area known as Devil’s Acre ‒ behind the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘Behind Parliament?’

  ‘You’d be surprised, ma’am. I dare say when you go out and about you go in a carriage or, if you go on foot, you stick to the high-class roads. But if you just turn down an alley off the Charing Cross, or take a walk behind St Pauls …’

  The cab was moving more slowly now. Westminster Abbey was behind them, they were passing Sir Charles Barry’s House of Commons whose stone was still new enough to glow in the evening light. But darker buildings loomed, they turned one way and another, street lamps became fewer, the noise increased, and the driver pulled on the reins.

  ‘You said I didn’t have to go no further, guv’ner.’

  ‘Right you are.’ To Jenny, Baxter said, ‘We get out here, ma’am.’ After they were on the roadside he said to the driver, ‘Now, remember, you got ten shillings for bringing us here and waiting. If you’re still here when we get back you get a sovereign.’

  ‘It’s a bargain, guv ‒ but don’t be long ’cos they’ll steal the ears off my hoss if you’re more than a quarter of an hour.’

  Baxter took Jenny’s arm and began to walk up a narrow, muddy lane. Shops and taverns were open for business, people were pressing by on either side of them.

  ‘Now the situation’s this,’ Baxter said into Jenny’s ear. ‘We’re going to wait for a woman to come home ‒ she generally gets in about half-past eight. She’ll have a baby with her. I want you to look at the baby. If it’s Heather, press my arm. We’ll go in after her. Don’t say a word ‒’

  ‘But if it’s Heather I ‒’

  ‘Don’t say a word, Mrs Armstrong! If they know you have a particular interest they’ll put the price sky high.’

  ‘The price? We’re going to buy the child?’

  ‘Why not? She was probably bought or hired off somebody else in the first place.’

  ‘What?’ Jenny said, aghast.

  ‘This woman ‒ her name’s Mrs Thomas ‒ she’s on what they call the wurdy-woman lay: that’s to say, she gives herself out to be a worthy woman, widow of a decent tradesman, left destitute with a baby to provide for. She begs in the toff part of the town. Naturally she has to look a bit decent and it helps if the baby’s small and pretty. So she changes kids every year or so.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ breathed Jenny.

  ‘Shocking, you think. They do a lot worse, ma’am. But my point is, this kid she’s recently got is a looker, so she won’t want to part with her for a low price. But if you let on you think it’s Heather, not only will she put the price up ‒ she’ll have you followed when you leave and might even take the kiddie away again in the night.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Jenny cried, putting her hands over her ears. ‘Don’t. No one would be so wicked!’

  ‘Think not? There was a grocer had his little boy taken a couple of years ago. The police got him back, but the kidmen took him off twice more. They sent demands for money and the poor cove paid up. In the end he had to sell up and move, to be in a safe place.’

  By now they had passed a grog-shop where the light spilled out and the noise of raucous singing filled the air. Smoke and the smell of cooking battled with the odour of spilled beer and unwashed humanity.

  Baxter stopped at a corner. Two tall houses made a narrow entry, over which a ramshackle bridge had been built to allow access between upper stories. On most floors there was what was called a nethersken, a low lodging house run by a landlord who rented space from some other man, who in his turn rented the building from another, who rented it from the owner who well might be a rich and reputable gentleman.

  In these crumbling tenements there was little or no proper sanitation, lighting was poor, cooking facilities meant only a fire stoked with what wood the inhabitants could steal or scrounge, beds were on the floor and shared by two or three. The upper mob, the heads of the gangs, might have a room for themselves and immediate family. But a common thief, a pickpocket or someone on the smatter lay, had only a corner.

  Mrs Thomas lived in a building whose doorway was the clubhouse of a gang of children, aged between eight and twelve. They were gambling for ha’pennies with a pack of greasy cards. There were girls among them as well as boys. From behind her veil Jenny stared at them in horror. To this Heather might come, if they didn’t find her.

  Baxter nudged her arm. A woman in a dark skirt and grey shawl was trudging towards the door, dragging after her a toddler who trotted
as fast as she could to prevent being pulled over on her face.

  Let it be Heather, prayed Jenny. Oh, please, let it be Heather.

  The child was small, in sturdy little boots but no stockings. Her frock had once been of good smocked linen but it was torn now, one sleeve coming out of its shoulder. Her hair was golden, curling up in a soft mass held back by a draggled blue ribbon.

  As they reached the doorway, Mrs Thomas kicked right and left to clear a path among the gamblers. They scuttled out of her way, knocking into the baby. The child fell over, banged its head on the cobbles, and yelled in pain and fright.

  Jenny started forward to pick her up. Baxter grabbed her arm. Mrs Thomas took hold of a part of the child’s dress, yanked her upright, threw her up to her shoulder, and carried her indoors.

  But before she vanished into the dark entry Jenny had a full-face view of the child weeping over the woman’s shoulder.

  It wasn’t Heather.

  ‘Well?’ said Baxter.

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  ‘You sure? Bear in mind that eight months have gone by ‒ children change a lot in that time.’

  She went on shaking her head. She was sure. Heather’s hair grew high on her forehead, that child’s hair curled close down towards the brows. Heather’s eyes were set wide apart, that child’s eyes were closer together. A pretty child.

  But not Heather.

  They turned to go. The young gamblers, sensing profit, closed in on them. ‘Hi, lady, give’s a downer! Give’s a gen! Look, Dickie ‒ flash clob ‒ ain’t she the swell! Give’s a gen, lady!’

  ‘Clear off,’ growled Baxter.

  ‘Who’re you? Think you’re ream, don’t you? Come on, guv, part with it ‒ give’s a duce!’

  Knocking aside the first two, Baxter led Jenny along the alley. The children followed, shouting, begging, clutching at their clothes. Jenny felt the edge of her cape being dragged at ‒ it only needed the fastening to part at the neck and it would be gone into the hands of the beggars.

  Baxter produced from an inner pocket a handful of coins. ‘Here,’ he called. With all his might he threw them back the way they had come. With a yell the children turned and ran for them. A moment later they were scrabbling in the road like mongrels over a bone.