Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Fred, a reliable policeman and a fairly affable citizen, ‘tell ’er you did and that me helmet took the blow and saved me life.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Come on, Fred,’ said Billy, ‘let’s ’elp yer get yer trunk upstairs.’

  The job was done, the heavy trunk manhandled by Fred and Billy. The room for rent was entirely suitable for a single man. Of a comfortable size, it contained a small table, one ancient upright chair, one well-worn armchair, a single bed, a wardrobe with a slightly cracked door, a cupboard, a gas ring, some shelves and a necessary fireplace. The bed had been made up. Fred had no complaints. He paid the lad for his time, his help and the use of his barrow, and sent him back to Stepney with two whole shillings in his pocket. A couple of bob would enable any lad to treat himself to fried fish and chips, a seat in a music hall, a hot faggot with pease pudding after the show, and still leave him with change.

  Daisy, to celebrate the arrival of a lodger and five bob rent in advance, made a pot of tea while Billy went out and came back with a hot apple pie, bought from a shop in Commercial Road. Fred sat down with them to share in the treat. Billy pointed out to Daisy that they’d got to talk to Bridget, of course.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be in bed when she comes in,’ said Daisy. ‘Like I usually am.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Billy, ‘I’ll be in bed too, like I usually am.’

  Naturally, brother and sister then looked at Fred. Naturally, someone had to let Bridget know.

  ‘I’ll be in bed,’ said Constable Billings.

  ‘Bridget won’t be in much later than a bit after eleven,’ said Billy.

  ‘I’ll still be in bed,’ said the lodger.

  ‘Swelp me,’ said Billy, ‘we’re all dodgin’ it. What’s causin’ you the problem, Fred, seein’ you’re a copper?’

  ‘Funk,’ said Fred.

  ‘You ain’t afraid of Bridget, are yer?’ said Billy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fred.

  ‘Why ’ave yer come, then?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Had a brainstorm,’ said Fred.

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ said Daisy, ‘Bridget’ll take the front door off its ’inges and hit all of us with it.’

  ‘We’ll all be in bed,’ said Fred.

  ‘That won’t stop Bridget,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I’ll have my door locked,’ said Fred.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Billy, ‘I’ll lock mine too.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know if I can find the key to mine,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Well, I call that ’ard luck,’ said Billy, ‘you’ll get all the wallops. Still, there’s a way of makin’ Bridget see the light of joy and ’appiness.’

  ‘Crikey, you’re pickin’ up funny language lately,’ said Daisy, ‘and I don’t know that Bridget’s in the mood for joy and ’appiness.’

  ‘It’ll be the joy and ’appiness of feelin’ safeguarded by Fred,’ said Billy.

  ‘Some ’opes,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Fred pointed it out to me,’ said Billy.

  ‘It was just a thought,’ said Fred, ‘but I didn’t mention joy and ’appiness.’

  ‘That was yer modesty,’ said Billy. ‘Yes, don’t yer see, Daisy, wiv a policeman as good as Fred livin’ ’ere, the ’ouse and its valu’bles will all be safeguarded. That includes you and Bridget, you both bein’ fearful ladies. No-one’s goin’ to knock you or Bridget out and nick yer ’andbags when the word gets round that Fred’ll be after ’em double-quick.’

  ‘Oh, I never thought of that,’ said Daisy. ‘Yes, that ought to please Bridget.’

  ‘Billy,’ said Fred, ‘you sure we can regard Bridget as a fearful lady?’

  ‘Ev’ryone’s fearful in them stewpots and dens,’ said Billy, ‘and we ain’t far from ’em, so it wouldn’t be a porkie to say Bridget ’as to be a bit fearful at times. Of course, she ’ides it, but it’s what makes ’er quick to be aggravated. So when she comes in tonight, Daisy, you can tell ’er why ’aving Fred as a lodger can give ’er joy and ’appiness.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell ’er?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Me door’ll be locked,’ said Billy.

  ‘You Billy, you’re havin’ me on,’ said Daisy.

  ‘No, tell yer what we’ll do, we’ll leave ’er a note,’ said Billy.

  ‘No, I’ll wait up for her and tell her meself,’ said Fred.

  ‘Fred, she’ll chuck you out, and all yer clobber as well,’ said Billy. ‘She’ll use the stew saucepan first, and when you ’it the pavement you’ll be near dead. And near dead can be mortal, yer know. No, you keep yer door locked and let Bridget sleep on ’er problems. She’ll come round by mornin’, after ’er dreams of bein’ safeguarded. She’ll see the advantages.’

  ‘Where does Bridget sleep?’ asked Fred.

  ‘In the upstairs front,’ said Billy. ‘Daisy’s in the upstairs back, and I’m in the downstairs middle. You got the upstairs middle. Crikey, a banana between two passion fruits.’

  ‘’Ere, d’you mind?’ said Daisy.

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ said Billy, ‘do you, Fred?’

  ‘I’m wondering why I’ve moved in, when it’s obvious I’m riskin’ my life,’ said Fred.

  Chapter Nine

  THE NIGHT WAS misty, the river lightly covered, the streets apparently floating. Bridget hurried along from Aldgate, glad to see a few people about, people out late. Reaching Commercial Road, she made good progress. She turned right into Back Church Lane, seemingly a deserted thoroughfare at this moment. But a soft sound intruded after a matter of seconds. Through the mist by the light of a lamp she glimpsed movement on the other side of the street, the movement of someone walking in advance of her. A solitary man, vaguely seen, he disappeared into the night darkness when he left the light behind. She stopped to let him get well in front of her, remembering a silent person who had brushed by her last night.

  She stood quite still for a minute, then went on her way to Ellen Street. The time was eleven-thirty, and she knew the risk she was taking each night was bound to increase. Someone would take note, someone artful enough to lie in wait for her and vicious enough to strike her down, rob her of her handbag and even strip her of her clothes. Everything one had, even the shabbiest garment, was coveted by people poorer than herself.

  When she reached Ellen Street, her spine was suddenly attacked by icy fingers. He was there, still across the street, she knew he was. He had stopped to wait for her, listening to her footsteps. Bridget picked up her skirts and ran. Strong though she was, and fearless up to a point, she knew when it was wiser to run. And she ran like the wind, skirts high. Reaching her front door, she opened it by pulling on the latchcord, flung herself in, closed the door and bolted it.

  The gentleman left behind hadn’t moved. He’d only listened. He smiled and resumed his walk, going south.

  Bridget went through to the kitchen. The gas mantle showed a small yellow glimmer. She turned the little tap and light flooded the mantle. The first thing she saw was a note on the bare table. She picked it up and read it.

  Dear Bridget,

  Fred’s come to lodge, which me and Daisy hope you’ll be pleased about as we agree a policeman lodger is a safegard for us and will keep you and Daisy sound in yore beds at night and happy by day. Fred will make sure you and Daisy is protekted from all comers and come to meet you at night at Aldgate and see you safe home, it’s wot a policeman lodger is for which is good forchune for all of us because of evil-doers being about like they are. You can sleep sound tonight to start with. Fred is safegarding you, Billy.

  Bridget read this homely message a second time before taking the frying-pan off its hook and mounting the stairs at a rush. She thumped on the door of the middle bedroom.

  ‘You in there, Fred Billings, you in there?’ She thumped again. ‘You in that bed, are yer? Well, get out of it and come out ’ere so’s I can knock yer down the stairs. Fred Billings?’ No answer. Fred had woken up but was wisely lying low. Bridget turned the han
dle of the door. It was locked. She kicked it, and it shivered. ‘Locked yerself in, ’ave you, you coward? Some copper, I don’t think. Get out of that bed and unlock this door, you ’ear me, you sneakin’ flatfoot?’

  Daisy, woken up, dug herself deeper into her own bed.

  ‘Oh, lor’, poor Fred,’ she said to herself, ‘even if ’e dodges Bridget now, ’e’ll get it twice over in the mornin’.’

  Her bedroom door opened. Out of the darkness came Bridget’s voice.

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘I ain’t ’ere,’ breathed Daisy.

  ‘You’re ’ere all right, and so’s that ’orrible copper.’

  ‘No, ’e ain’t, ’ow can yer say such a thing?’ said Daisy, voice somewhat muffled since her head was under the blankets. ‘I’m by meself.’

  ‘I know that. I’d spank yer for an hour if you weren’t,’ said Bridget, ‘and then sell you for cats’ meat. Where’s your key?’

  ‘I don’t know, I couldn’t find it,’ gasped Daisy.

  ‘It should be in the little vase on yer mantel-piece,’ said Bridget.

  ‘I forgot,’ said Daisy, and she heard Bridget moving about. There was a little rattling sound. That was the key in the vase Bridget was shaking. ‘Oh, ’elp, what d’yer want it for, Bridget?’

  ‘It opens the door of the middle bedroom,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Bridget, you can’t go in Fred’s room, it won’t be decent.’

  ‘It won’t be peaceful, either,’ said Bridget. ‘If I don’t throw ’im down the stairs, I’ll throw ’im out of the winder.’

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ breathed Daisy, and dug herself deeper.

  Back went Bridget to the middle bedroom. She slipped the key into the lock. That is, she made the attempt but it wouldn’t go forward. The other key was in. She rattled the handle. She turned it. The door opened. The gas mantle was on, but the bed was empty, the clothes turned back.

  ‘Oh, yer bugger, Fred Billings! Show yerself, you coward.’ She looked under the bed. Empty space greeted her. She rushed out of the room. ‘Fred Billings!’

  ‘Oh, evenin’, Bridget, I’m in here, the lav,’ called Fred.

  Bridget turned and hit the lav door with the frying-pan.

  ‘What yer doin’ in there?’ she yelled.

  ‘Just hidin’,’ said Fred. ‘It’s a bit late for an argument. How about if I made an appointment to see yer first thing in the mornin’?’

  ‘If you don’t come out of there inside a minute,’ yelled Bridget, ‘you won’t live to see the mornin’!’

  ‘Bridget, that would be grievous bodily assault and chargeable,’ said Fred.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t, it would be aggravated assault committed on an univited intruder, and such aggravation ain’t chargeable. D’you ’ear me, Fred Billings?’

  ‘If I come out,’ said Fred, ‘would yer mind telling me what’s goin’ to happen?’

  ‘You’re goin’ to get a piece of me mind,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Oh, right. Right. I’ll face up to that.’ The lav door opened and Fred showed himself. ‘Well, ’ere we are, Bridget.’

  The gas mantle in the middle bedroom gave light to the landing and to the picture of Bridget in her hat and coat, and Fred in his nightshirt. Bridget looked flushed and fulsome, and Fred looked ready to go back to bed.

  ‘Gotcher, you bugger,’ said Bridget, and produced the frying-pan from behind her back.

  ‘Not now, eh, Bridget?’ said Fred. ‘Like I pointed out, it’s a bit late, yer know. Save it till mornin’, what d’yer say?’

  ‘You sneaked in behind me back,’ said Bridget, ‘and now you’re standin’ on me landing in yer nightshirt.’ She went for him then. Fred slipped to one side, stuck out a bare foot and tripped her. Down she went. Wisely, Fred disappeared into his rented room. Just as wisely he locked the door, and even more wisely he left the key in. Bridget, up on her feet, hat and hair lopsided, thought for a second about smashing the door down with the frying-pan, then decided against it.

  ‘I’ll get you in the mornin’, Fred Billings, see if I don’t,’ she yelled.

  ‘Right you are, Bridget, see you then,’ called Fred. ‘Oh, ’ave a good night.’

  Bridget had an uneasy first hour, in fact. She kept dreaming about being followed home in the fog by a silent man, she running with all her might but making little or no progress, and finally falling. Each time the fall woke her up. The recurring dream finally ran itself into oblivion, however, and then she slept undisturbed.

  Chief Inspector Dobbs, having gone to bed with his two suspects on his mind, came out of his sleep at three in the morning. He jerked awake and found himself fully conscious, his thoughts quite free of the drowsy patterns of sleep.

  The man known only as Godfrey. He hadn’t come forward, nor had anyone who knew him offered information about him. Why? Because it wouldn’t pay him to show himself, nor pay his friends and acquaintances to give him away? Why, yes, why? Simple. He was a wrong-doer, of course, a wrong-doer of the kind to make informers wish they’d kept their mouths shut. There were London cripples who hadn’t been disabled at birth or by accident.

  Now what kind of wrong-doer would take up with an attractive Irishwoman who was on the game?

  A pimp.

  That was it, a pimp, and of the kind who’d go along with Maureen Flanagan’s wish to retain an air of respectability out of her regard for her family and her ambition to go back to them sometime. She wouldn’t accept the chains of full-time prostitution, and was so determined about that as to keep her job as a laundress.

  Pimps were a peculiar and degenerate breed of men, charming to newcomers but vicious if established women cheated or tried to break the chains.

  Godfrey, as Flanagan’s pimp, would have given her use of a room for the entertainment of clients she either picked up herself or he found for her. Her agreement with him would have allowed her to work only at intervals, say two or three times a week, and only during the evenings. That would be in keeping with what one had discovered so far about her outlook and her character. It was on the cards that she sent most of her part-time earnings to her family, allowing for what she had to pay the pimp.

  ‘That’s it, the bugger’s a pimp. Did Flanagan try to escape him?’

  Daphne turned in the bed.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Woke you up, did I, Daffie? Sorry. I woke up myself and talked out loud. Sorry.’

  ‘Mmm,’ murmured Daphne, and curled up and went back to sleep.

  Chief Inspector Charlie Dobbs, not unhappy with his assumptions and conclusions, relaxed and let himself fade away.

  Bridget, up and dressed by eight the following morning, pounced as Fred emerged from his room. He was now every inch the uniformed constable, helmet on, rolled cape under his arm.

  ‘Mornin’, Bridget,’ he said.

  ‘’Aven’t you forgotten something?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘Have I?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, yer luggage,’ said Bridget. ‘Get it out of that room and take it with you.’

  ‘Could I leave it till later?’ asked Fred ‘I’m due at the Commercial Street station in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I read a note left by Billy last night,’ said Bridget, standing in Fred’s way. ‘What’s all this stuff about you safeguardin’ me and Daisy?’

  ‘I’ll make that me conscientious duty,’ said Fred.

  ‘If that’s a joke, it ain’t funny,’ said Bridget. ‘Where was yer safeguardin’ self last night when I ’ad to run from a bloke who stopped to wait for me in Back Church Lane last night?’

  ‘What sort of bloke?’ asked Fred.

  ‘Well, as I can’t see in the dark, I don’t know if ’e was square or round or what. But I know ’e was there, on the other side of the street, waitin’ for me, and breathing ’eavy.’

  ‘Bridget, that wouldn’t make ’alf a reasonable complaint. Who’s goin’ to believe you could hear his ’eavy breathing from across the street? Did he follow you?’

  ‘
Course ’e did,’ said Bridget.

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Me female intuition,’ said Bridget. ‘Some copper you are, some safeguarder too, lyin’ in a bed you wasn’t entitled to while I ’ad to run for me life.’

  Fred frowned.

  ‘I don’t like you havin’ a job that keeps you out late,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you don’t, don’t you?’ said Bridget.

  ‘No,’ said Fred, ‘it shouldn’t be ’appening. Around here, there’s demented characters on two legs that come up out of holes in the ground at night lookin’ for young women like you. Now, this suspicious bloke, you’ve got some sort of a description, ’ave you?’

  ‘No, course I ’aven’t, I told you,’ said Bridget. ‘I only caught a glimpse of ’im in misty lamplight. And listen, don’t make up yer mind that you’re lodgin’ ’ere. You’re movin’ out this evening, and just for now you’d better go off to yer job quick before I do you an ’orrible injury.’

  Fred wisely departed without more ado, thus challenging the popular concept of the time that all coppers were brain-dead.

  Bridget went down to join Daisy and Billy at the breakfast table. Breakfast was just porridge and tea. Bridget helped herself to what was left of the porridge and put sugar on it.

  ‘I’ve got something to say to you two,’ she said.

  ‘But you saw me note, didn’t you? said Billy, who’d slept through last night’s racket.

  ‘I saw it all right,’ said Bridget, ‘and you both ought to ’ave yer heads examined. That copper safeguardin’ us? Who thought that up?’

  ‘Fred,’ said Billy.

  ‘He ought to be arrested, then, and put away somewhere quiet so’s ’e could count buttercups and daisies,’ said Bridget.

  ‘But a policeman lodger could be a sort of guardian,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Oh, we need a guardian, do we?’ said Bridget. ‘I ’ope you two didn’t connive at gettin’ Fred Billings into this ’ouse while my back was turned.’

  ‘Us?’ said Daisy.

  ‘Us?’ said Billy.

  ‘If you did, you can connive at gettin’ ’im out again,’ said Bridget.