I sighed then shoved the envelope into my pocket and got up to give my sister a hug. ‘There’s always me,’ I whispered, resting my head against Cat’s sturdy shoulder and enjoying her special Cat smell of fresh linen, boiled pease pudding and coal dust. ‘I can take care of Pa and the boys if you want to go.’ I smiled. ‘I know that Ned downstairs is sweet on you and would be glad to hear that you’re thinking of getting wed.’
Cat made an irritated sound and pushed me away but her cheeks were flushed with pleasure. ‘Get away with you,’ she muttered, failing to hide a grin. ‘I can’t be thinking of that right now.’
‘Then nor can I,’ I said with a smile before lowering my voice. This was the moment I had been waiting for. ‘Do you really want to know where I was this morning, Cat?’
My sister shrugged. ‘It’s no skin off my nose,’ she grunted, busying herself straightening pillows and folding up our matching cotton nightdresses, which she had made herself and trimmed with a few stray scraps of left over lace and ribbon from one of her jobs, a wedding dress for a young lady in Islington.
I wasn’t fooled by this display of indifference and rushed on anyway. ‘I went to see the body,’ I announced proudly. ‘The woman who got stabbed in George’s Yard. I went to see.’
My sister whirled around to stare at me, crushing a nightdress to her thin bosom. ‘You never did,’ she breathed, her face completely astonished before she firmly shook her head, looking almost annoyed. ‘No, I don’t believe it. You’re telling fibs again.’
I grinned, not at all offended for I had been anticipating this very reaction. ‘I really did,’ I said before plunging my hand in my pocket and bringing out the envelope but not the necklace, which some instinct warned me to keep out of sight. ‘I took this,’ I said, handing it to my sister. The blood stains didn’t bother me so much now, in fact I regarded them as medals of honour, proof that I wasn’t the same squeamish silly Cora who had gone out that morning.
Cat gaped down at the envelope. ‘Alice Redmayne. Is that her name?’ she asked, transferring her astonished stare to me.
I shook my head, laughing now even though I knew I shouldn’t. ‘You should have seen her, Cat,’ I said, hiding my disgust beneath a charade of light hearted mockery and knowing all the while that I just sounded crass and nasty. ‘Oh, she looked a fright with big fat cheeks and her mouth hanging open and nasty old boots that were coming away at the soles. If she came from Highbury then I’m the ruddy Queen.’
Cat was still clutching the envelope and I was pleased to see there was a new respect in her eyes as she looked at me. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she breathed, clearly not knowing whether to be appalled or full of admiration. In fact I could tell that she still didn’t know if she quite believed me. ‘Who would have thought you of all people would go and do such a thing?’
I preened myself a little. ‘Not you, that’s for sure,’ I said, making a grab for the envelope and putting it back safely in my pocket.
Cat shook her head, as if coming around from a terrible dream. ‘You’ll need to give that back,’ she said with a frown. ‘It’s evidence.’
‘Oh, they won’t miss it,’ I replied, cheerfully patting my pocket. ‘It’s just some old tat the old trull had in her pockets. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Even so…’ Cat said dubiously. ‘You never know. What would Pa say if he knew what you’d done?’ She started to laugh. ‘Lord, can you imagine his face? Poor Pa.’
‘He wouldn’t mind,’ I said, joining in my sister’s laughter. ‘He’s always telling us that he used to get up to far worse when he was a boy.’
Cat purses her lips then. ‘Worse than stealing something off a murdered woman?’ she said with a raised eyebrow before putting the folded nightdress under our pillows and going back to the door. ‘I’d better get back to the boys before they notice I’ve gone and tear the place apart. Mind you put that envelope back where you found it, Cora.’ She gave me one last severe look then left the room.
As soon as she has gone, I took the envelope and pendant out of my pocket and looked at them thoughtfully. Of course I knew that I really ought to take them straight back to the mortuary and somehow slip them in among the dead woman’s things again but something stopped me. Maybe it was the message on the back of the locket, or maybe it was idle curiosity about what sort of girl Alice Redmayne was or perhaps it was just a simple and entirely wholehearted desire never to have to go back to the mortuary again but I knew that on this occasion and for perhaps the first time in my life I was going to disobey my sister and do as I pleased.
My decision made, I popped my head around the door to let Cat know I was going out again, an announcement that was greeted with an uninterested shrug as my sister was busy wiping crumbs from Alfred’s hand while he struggled to get back to his battered tin soldiers, hand me downs from our brothers, which were lined up in neat rows on the scrubbed wooden kitchen table. The other boys were nowhere to be seen, which ought to have struck me as ominous but I was too preoccupied to care as, relieved to have escaped another interrogation, I skipped down the stairs with a happy heart and went out on to Commercial Street again.
The sun was properly up now even if a few dark clouds in the distance promised rain later on and as usual I enjoyed the sensation of being part of the crowd, lost in the everyday hustle and bustle of the East End. News of the murder in George Yard had spread far and wide by now and everyone I passed was talking about it, relishing the gruesome details of the dead woman’s injuries and shaking their heads sadly over the steady downward decline of the area that such a thing should happen on their own doorstep. Shamelessly listening in, I discovered that the woman had a name now as well: Martha Tabram and by all accounts she was no better than she ought to have been, rather worse in fact - a mean drunk and a bully. I thought of the corpse’s fat jowls and slack mouth and shivered despite the sunshine.
I didn’t have much money left after our day out in Southend the day before but there was enough to pay for my fare up to Highbury and back on the cheap horse tram from nearby Moorgate Street so I headed straight there, strolling happily along shop lined Brushfield Street then crossing busy Bishopsgate, picking up a warm meat pie gleaming with a shiny egg glaze, from a stall by the police station, before hurrying through the grimy back streets around Liverpool Street station, munching on my pie and wiping my gravy wet fingers on my blue cotton skirt, until I came out on Moorgate, the heart of the City and home to several financial institutions whose gentlemen strolled in groups along the street, several abreast and dressed in sombre grey and black suits, their brows furrowed with concentration as they talked to each other in soft educated voices that sounded like they came from a different world to the harsh East End accents that I was used to.
There was a red painted horse drawn tram just about to leave so I skirted quickly around a group of raucous City men and jumped on board, giving a sigh of relief as I took the last remaining seat next to a sullen faced old lady in shiny black satin, who fastidiously moved her skirts away from me and with a huff of annoyance averted her face to stare out of the dust encrusted little window.
I didn’t care in the slightest about being so obviously snubbed and settled myself comfortably into my seat, fully prepared to enjoy my adventure and looking about me with keen interest at my fellow passengers, who ranged from a sad faced young woman in fashionable clothes with a baby on her lap to a couple of grim looking City men hidden behind their huge newspapers to a white whiskered elderly gentleman in a bright pink waistcoat embroidered with oak leaves and lilies who was completely immersed in the book he held on his lap.
The tram seats were arranged in a row on either side of the straw strewn aisle so that the window was behind me and I had to either peer between the newspapers of the two City men sitting opposite or crane my neck at a painful angle to be able to see anything as we rattled slowly and laboriously through the jam packed city streets, jerkily stopping every now and again to let on new passengers or let pe
ople off. The old lady got off by Old Street and was instantly replaced by a young boy who noisily munched on an apple as he thumbed through a grubby copy of the latest Illustrated Police News that he pulled out of his back pocket. I peeped over his shoulder to see if Martha Tabram was in it yet but of course it was far too soon.
The tram creaked on up New North Road then slowly crossed Essex Road, where we almost collided with several irate pedestrians and cart loaded full of crates containing noisily protesting chickens and geese, then went on to Canonbury Road where the cramped dark houses of the East End gradually began to give way to elegant pale stone terraces of tall town houses and pretty white painted detached villas with short drives separating them from the main road. Even the people here looked different, the women were pale and willowy in their fashionable flower coloured dresses while the men sauntered slowly beside them, clean and well fed with shining pomaded hair and whiskers and even shinier boots.
I suddenly felt very self conscious about my faded blue cotton dress, red wool shawl and scuffed boots even if they were clean and in relatively good repair. Pa might not have much money but he liked us all to look decent, just as he placed what my brothers thought was undue importance on boring book learning at school, constantly telling them that it was the best and only way out of the slums of the East End. He willingly paid a penny a day each to send the three elder boys to school and would do the same for Alfred as well when his time came, money that they bitterly resented but knew better than to complain about.
We reached Canonbury Square, which comprised four neat rows of white painted houses around a pretty little patch of greenery, where children played in a well mannered fashion under the eyes of their sombrely dressed governesses, and which was one of the last stops on the route. Pushing aside my last minute misgivings, I followed the other alighting passengers off, pausing to hand my fare to the cheerfully grinning conductor and then giving one of the matching chestnut horses that pulled the tram a friendly pat on the nose.
Following my instinct I went north up Compton Road then asked directions of a passing chimney sweep, who pointed me in the direction of Grosvenor Road, the wrinkles around his eyes and his teeth showing stark white against the soot stains that covered his face. ‘You looking for work, miss?’ he asked with a friendly nod, looking me over. ‘Only I know of a house on Highbury New Park that’s looking for a decent girl to work as a maid. It’s a nice big house with a good lady in charge. I could put a word in for you, if you like?’
I smiled and shook my head. ’I’m not looking for work,’ I said, wishing that I had enough money left to give him a penny, ‘but thank you kindly.’
I carried on, walking briskly up Highbury Grove then turning on to New Park as the sweep had directed. The houses here were huge and I stared about myself in amazement as I went, taking in the swagged curtains that I could see hanging at the massive windows, the shiny carriages waiting in front of glossily painted front doors and the pretty, neatly ordered flowers that filled the flower beds lining the driveways. Everything here was clean and neat and my heart ached with something that felt a little like homesickness as I considered how different it all was to the familiar ramshackle mess and dirt of Whitechapel.
After walking for what felt like hours, I found myself standing in front of number eighteen and if I already felt intimidated by the quiet elegance of the street, I felt doubly so now as I looked up at an imposing detached white painted mansion arranged on three floors with several polished marble steps leading up to the red front door, which was flanked by a pair of tall triple arched windows that looked to me as if they really belonged on a church.
‘Blimey,’ I whispered, staring at the the ivy covered pillared portico that sheltered the front door and the pink and purple flowering rhododendron bushes that stood to either side of the steps, shedding their heavy blooms all over the gravel drive. I put my hand in my pocket and uncertainly fingered the now sealed envelope inside. Had I got it all wrong? The vague idea but very pleasing idea I had been fostering all the way from Whitechapel of Miss Alice Redmayne as an ordinary girl just like myself evaporated like a phantom to be replaced by something altogether less friendly.
As I watched, the red door swung open and I quickly ducked out of sight as a plump lady with greying brown hair and small dark eyes that sank like currants in the soft dough of her face swept out followed by a stern faced butler in an immaculate black suit. ‘Pray do tell Miss Alice that I am sorry to have missed her,’ she said irritably, opening a yellow silk parasol and holding it at an elegant angle above her head. ‘Perhaps another time?’
‘Perhaps,’ the butler said with a polite sneer before firmly closing the door upon her.
I waited until the lady had sauntered rather crossly down the road before taking a cautious step up to the front door. My original plan had been to knock and then ask to see Miss Alice in person but now that I had seen the house and the butler’s scornful treatment of the last visitor, I could feel all my last scanty vestiges of confidence leak away and instead hastily decided that it might be better to simply knock, shove the envelope through the door and then make a run for it before they had me arrested for trespass or worse.
However, no matter how grand the house and the mysterious Miss Alice clearly were, it still felt only fair to offer some sort of explanation for the envelope’s sudden arrival and after a moment spent mulling this over, I felt in my other pocket and pulled out a small blunt end of pencil with which I clumsily wrote ‘From Whitechapel’ in my best hand on the envelope, pressing down hard so that the letters would be legible. Surely that would be more than enough information for someone who lived in a house like this?
‘Here goes,’ I said to myself, feeling almost dizzy with fright as I lifted my hand to the door knocker which was shaped like a giant lion’s head. The sound as I dropped it against its metal mount was terrifyingly loud and in a panic I scrunched the envelope through the flap before almost tripping down the steps in my desperate haste to get away. I heard the door open behind me as I plunged on to the street and a young female voice called out for me to wait but I did not dare turn back and instead gathered up my skirts above my knees and ran as fast as my legs would carry me towards Canonbury Square and safety.
Chapter Four, Alice, August 1888
I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself laughing as I hid behind the morning room door and listened to Swift, my father’s butler and, since childhood, one of my closest conspirators, summarily dismiss Mrs Snaith from the premises with his customary disdainful aplomb. It wasn’t that Mrs Snaith was a bad woman really, she was just intensely dull, incredibly persistent and overly fond of trying to push her opinions on others and I am afraid that, short of patience as I am at even the best of times, I was in no mood to deal with her right now, not with two dozen guests due for dinner that evening and goodness only knew what else I had to deal with.
Swift coughed discreetly from the hall once the unwelcome visitor had departed and I peeped out from behind the door. ‘Thank you so much,’ I said with a smile, stepping into the hall with a show of reluctance as if Mrs Snaith might still be lurking there, perhaps hiding behind one of the marble statues of ancient martyrs arranged against the walls. ‘She really is quite dreadful isn’t she? Last time we let her in, she stayed for almost two hours, talking all the time about a séance she went to in Bloomsbury and trying to persuade me to go to one with her.’ I gave a sigh of amused impatience. ‘Everyone knows that it isn’t polite to stay for more than fifteen minutes on an afternoon call. I would have thought that someone like Mrs Snaith, who is so fond of talking about the decline of modern manners in the young, would know that.’
‘She brought leaflets with her this time,’ Swift said, gesturing with clear disapproval towards a pile of pamphlets that had been left littering the round table in the centre of the hall. ‘Shall I dispose of them?’
I suppressed a shudder as I looked at the pamphlet that lay on top: a lurid illustrated tract
about the physical benefits of making contact with the Spirit World. ‘I think that is an excellent notion, Swift,’ I said briskly. ‘The incinerator is by far the best place for them.’
I was just turning back to the morning room when there was a knock on the door, followed shortly afterwards by a crumpled envelope falling with a soft thud on to the floor. ‘What on earth..?’ I instinctively put out a hand to stop the butler and swiftly picked the envelope up myself, frowning a little when I saw the rusty dark stains around the edges and then giving a small cry of surprise when my eye fell on the address and, with a pang of shocked delight, I recognised the hand with which it had been written.
‘Miss Alice?’ Swift took a cautious step towards me, his elderly face creased with concern. ‘Are you quite well? Should I ring for tea?’
I shook my head impatiently. ‘Never mind that,’ I said before running past him and wrenching the door open. Having spent the entire day indoors, lazing about in the morning room with a pile of poetry books, I was blinded for a second by the bright sunlight so that everything was a soft blur as I ran down the steps and out on to the street. In the distance I could just about make out a young girl in a blue dress and red shawl running down Grosvenor Road as if the hounds of hell themselves were snapping at her boots. Her long auburn hair had unravelled from a careless bun beneath her bonnet and was tumbling about her shoulders as she ran. ‘Wait! Come back!’ I cried, waving my arm but the girl didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. I sheltered my eyes against the sun and peered down the street, looking for a likeness or something, anything, familiar about the fleeing girl but hardly daring to think that I might see anything that I recognised. The hair was all wrong for a start but then dyes these days were really quite remarkable so who knew?
From Whitechapel Page 4