by Lee Jackson
‘Yes, sir, it is. I saw a few others, I saw a man, a couple of women . . .’
‘And, of course, you let them simply depart?’
‘They were gone before I knew, sir, really, I had no time to collect my wits. They had already left the station, and this fellow just pushed past me so hard he sent me flying.’
‘Well, I see we must return to this “fellow”. We have a description of this man, do we, sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir, he was—’
‘No need, sergeant, not yet. It is sufficient that we have it.’
Webb sits down on the bench, still looking at the body. ‘I am more interested in the woman. What do we know of her?’
‘She was strangled, sir,’ says the sergeant, following him. ‘Obvious. Marks on the neck. And the limbs ain’t that stiff as yet, so it weren’t too long ago.’
Webb bends down, and gently peels back the woollen shawl from the girl’s neck. In the light of the sergeant’s lantern, dark bruised shadows are visible around her throat.
Webb frowns. ‘It was not a ligature; it was done by hand.’
The booking clerk steps back, his face quite white ‘By hand?’ he echoes.
‘Now, about the man what legged it, sir,’ interjects Sergeant Watkins, ‘he left his hat . . .’
‘And what have we learnt from our study of the hat, sergeant?’ asks Webb, glancing at the article and raising his eyebrow ironically. The hat is an undistinguished black item, which lies upon the seat of the carriage, opposite the woman’s body. ‘Did he perhaps have a big head? Then he is our man, of course! Really, sergeant, do you imagine he is our culprit? Why would he linger on the train, after all? We must find him, naturally, but I really suggest that you keep an open mind.’
‘I was also going to say, sir, that he also left a notebook.’
‘Does it contain something of use?’ asks Webb absent-mindedly, paying Watkins little attention as he walks round to the other side of the body. ‘His address perhaps?’
The sergeant shakes his head.
‘I can only make out some of it, sir. I think much of it’s in some kind of shorthand. But from what I can make out . . .’
His voice trails off as he watches Webb bring his face close to that of the dead woman, examining her features in minute detail.
‘Do you think she was a street-walker, sergeant? I believe that she is wearing rouge, and no hat or bonnet to speak of. She rather looks the part, eh? She could pass for a whore, could she not?’
‘Possibly sir. There is nothing to identify her that we can find. Now, about this here notebook—’
‘Really, sergeant, what about it? I will look at it in good time.’
‘I merely think that it may change your opinion of him.’
‘Who?’ asks Webb, still intent on the body, bending over it from a variety of angles.
‘The man who ran off.’
Webb turns round and faces his truculent colleague. Standing in the carriage, above the woman’s corpse, he looks him in the eye.
‘Change my opinion? Really?’
There is perhaps a hint of irony in his question. He pauses for a moment, as if the possibility that such a thing might happen truly confounds him.
‘Now, sergeant, I must confess, I am rather intrigued.’
CHAPTER FIVE
MORNING.
A girl of twenty years of age stands outside the Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women. Indeed, she loiters upon the corner of Serle Street, just as the sun struggles to surmount the ornate chimneys of nearby Lincoln’s Inn, and throw some light on the dusty labours of legal minds who scratch a living within that red-brick fortress. The girl’s name is Clara White, and she looks quite out of place, wearing her plain cotton dress and shawl. For it is the time of day when, like iron filings, a black-suited mass of clerks, laden with bundles of papers tied in red ribbon, are drawn from their offices in the Inn, to the magnet of the law courts.
‘Mind there, Miss!’
It takes her a moment to realise she is the object of this gruff admonition. It is a man holding a dozen or more paper folders clutched to his chest, a precarious arrangement at the best of times. By taking a single step backwards, she realises that she has almost sent him toppling into the road. She turns to offer a few shy words of apology, but the man has already darted past, not even turning his head; he has no time for such sentiments. And yet, it is so cold, in the shadow of Lincoln’s Inn’s high walls, that Clara has to shuffle about to keep warm, this only makes her more hazardous to the over-laden law clerks. She stands, therefore, a little closer to the railings of the refuge.
The Holborn Refuge itself is a plain soot-choked three-storey house, the last in a terraced row. Most of the adjacent premises are, in fact, affiliated to the legal profession, whether by providing lodgings, or a place of work. In consequence, the existence of the refuge in Serle Street is something of an anomaly, the result of an idiosyncratic, if not vexatious, bequest from a long-dead benefactor; and the peculiar comings and goings to which such an establishment is inevitably subject are more tolerated than welcomed by its neighbours. Clara White is well aware of this, and looks anything but comfortable.
Finally, nine o’clock comes. The bells of St Dunstan-in-the-West chime out in Fleet Street, and carry across the rooftops. Clara pauses for a moment, then hesitantly approaches the familiar steps that lead to the front door of the refuge. It is painted black, and has a large iron-work knocker, no doubt intended to represent the features of some impressive animal. The breed, however, is quite unintelligible, the iron’s original character having been quite worn away by the demands of its daily existence. In this, the knocker bears some slight sympathetic relation to the house’s inhabitants.
Clara tries striking lightly upon the door.
No reply.
She tries the knocker again.
The door swings open just as she raps upon it for a second time. The woman who stands before her is the lady superintendent herself, Miss Sparrow, in her day uniform of dark blue cloth, a colour not dissimilar to that worn by the Metropolitan Police.
‘Ah, Miss White,’ she says, ‘you realise you are early? The visiting period is from five minutes past nine to half-past, precisely. We place a high price upon punctuality here; I am sure you can recall?’
‘I am sorry, ma’am, but it is rather cold outside, and I thought there would be no harm.’
‘That is all very well, but you know we must all set an example to the girls. Still,’ she says, ‘I suppose you had better come in, now you are here.’
‘Thank you.’
Clara White follows her into the hall but Miss Sparrow comes to a halt even before there is a chance to shut the door behind them.
‘Miss White, before we proceed any further, I am afraid your mother is still rather unwell, or, at least, that is how it appears. And, I am sorry to impart to you that I also have certain suspicions about her conduct.’
‘Suspicions, ma’am?’ Clara’s heart sinks.
‘You will recall our third Golden Rule, no doubt? I fear your mother does not abide by it.’
Clara struggles to recall the particulars of the guidance offered by the refuge. Her answer is not intended to be humorous, and, in truth, she colours slightly as she says it.
‘Chastity?’
Miss Sparrow herself blushes.
‘Really, Miss White! Temperance, Miss White. Temperance is the Third Rule. I entered her room yesterday, whilst she was doing her chores, and believe I smelt gin.’
She waits for the full weight of this statement to impact upon the girl, but there is little sign of shock. Indeed, though there is undoubtedly disquiet in Clara’s face, it is tempered by a long-standing familiarity with her mother’s transgressions.
‘You cannot be sure, ma’am?’ says Clara, hesitantly. ‘Might it be one of the other women?’
Miss Sparrow wavers. ‘At present, I have no proof, that is true. But you recall the view we take of intoxicating liquors, Miss White?
’
‘I do. But, perhaps, ma’am, if that is all, I might see her now?’
‘Yes, I suppose you may,’ replies Miss Sparrow, somewhat grudgingly. ‘You are fortunate to be allowed such frequent visits by your employers.’
Clara nods.
‘Very well. Follow me,’ the superintendent continues, imperiously striding up the stairs, though her guest might easily find her way unaided. At the top of the landing she comes to a halt. ‘Ten minutes and no more, Miss White,’ she says sternly, leaving the visitor by the door and stalking off back down the stairs. ‘We do not want to tire her, do we?’
Clara White watches Philomena Sparrow return to her study, then peers into the room. Agnes White sits upon the side of the bed; she looks small and shrunken, and shudders with each cough, her shoulders tense and her cheeks bulging. The room, no doubt once a library or something similar, when the house was a private residence, now merely contains two iron beds for its residents, and a plain washstand. At first, her mother does not notice her, and Clara merely observes her in silence. Finally, however, Agnes sees her visitor.
‘Clarrie,’ she says, greeting her daughter quite flatly, as if she were merely continuing an existing conversation, ‘I’m awful sick. Did you get it?’
‘What?’
‘The medicine what the doctor said. Did you get it?’
‘Medicine?’
‘Sorry, I think she means this,’ says a nurse, who appears in the hallway from the adjoining room. ‘I was up with her last night. Carried on something awful, didn’t you, Aggie?’
Clara looks round at the nurse. The girl, not much older than Clara herself, holds out a brown medicine bottle: ‘Balley’s Patent Quietener, The Finest Extract of Laudanum’.
‘She’s been downing it like there’s no tomorrow, ain’t you, Aggie? I thought we had a little bottle or two put by, but she’s had it all.’
‘Does it do her good?’ asks Clara.
‘It stops the coughing, helps her sleep, but we can’t get no more this month. Miss Sparrow says we can’t afford it.’
Agnes White coughs again.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asks Clara, glancing pityingly at her mother. ‘Do you think I could get some for her myself?’
‘Of this? If you like, if you can afford it. I don’t see how the Missus could say no. Anyhow, I’ll leave you be,’ says the nurse, smiling sympathetically, and then turning back down the corridor, ‘I must see to the others, but I think she’ll be all right. You’re a tough’un, ain’t you Aggie?’
Clara thanks her, and turns to look at her mother once more.
‘Little madam,’ says Agnes White, watching the nurse depart. ‘She’ll have it herself, that one.’
‘Your medicine? I do not think so.’
‘Mark my words. It’s too late for me, anyhow. It’s my time. I’ll be the next to go.’
She gestures at the empty bed opposite her own. Anyone who did not know the room would not recognise her meaning, but it is clear enough to her daughter. The bed is freshly made, and the odd little ornaments that belonged to her room-mate, and once sat neatly arranged on the wooden table, have been tidied away. Clara frowns at her mother’s morbid thoughts.
‘I had better go,’ she says. ‘They will be missing me. I just came to see that you are all right.’
‘Will you come again tomorrow?’
‘I suppose so, if I can get away.’
‘I’ll be gone by then, anyhow.’
‘Ma, don’t be ridiculous. The doctor said it ain’t anything.’
‘Doctors don’t know nothing. I’m dying.’
‘I really must go.’
‘Well, Lizzie knows I’m right. She knows it. She agreed with me.’
‘Lizzie?’ says Clara, perplexed.
‘I says, “I’m dying, ain’t I?” and she says, “Yes, poor dear, I fear you is.”’
‘Don’t fret, I’ll be back tomorrow, ma. You will rest up, won’t you?’
Agnes mutters something in reply, but her daughter does not stay to question her further. Instead, she goes directly downstairs and knocks on Miss Sparrow’s study.
‘Come in.’
Clara goes into the room, and finds Miss Sparrow at her desk.
‘Ah, Miss White? How do you find your mother?’
‘May I ask something of you, ma’am?’
‘If you wish. If you can be brief. I have work to finish.’
‘It is just something she said, my ma. I know she will talk nonsense, but has she had another visitor?’
‘Yes, indeed. I think your sister came and saw her yesterday.’
‘Lizzie?’
Philomena Sparrow looks in her notebook, and peers back at her. ‘Yes, Elizabeth. I have a note of it here. Is there something wrong?’
‘It’s just that we . . . I have not seen her for a year or more.’
‘Well, I am sure your domestic affairs are very pressing, Miss White, but I must get on myself. Send my regards to Dr. Harris, if you please.’ She looks at Clara pointedly, pushing her spectacles up her nose.
‘I will,’ replies Clara. ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’
Clara curtsies, and retreats back into the hall, where she finds the same nurse standing there who spoke to her outside her mother’s room.
‘Don’t mind her,’ the woman whispers, relishing the sharing of a confidence, ‘she’s upset about Sally.’
‘Sally?’
‘You know, Miss, the girl what was sharing with your mother.’
‘The red-haired girl? I never saw that much of her. When did she die? Was it sudden? It ain’t catching, is it?’
‘Oh Lord, bless you, she’s not dead. She just didn’t come back last night, skipped the curfew. She’s as likely laid up in some gin-shop in the Dials as anything, if I know Sally Bowker.’
‘My mother thinks she’s dead.’
‘Really? Lor! Whatever gave her that idea?’
CHAPTER SIX
IT IS NEARLY half-past the hour when Clara White takes leave of the Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women, and makes her way past frost-bitten Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She skirts the square, and then walks along the refuse-laden alley that links it with High Holborn. It is not, however, a simple matter to cross this great thoroughfare. The only persons who brave the traffic, and seem to move about with casual impunity, are a gang of street Arabs – half a dozen ragged boys and girls who dart with apparent ease between passing carriages. She stands and watches them for a moment, as one child performs cartwheels, in the hope that a penny may be discarded in her direction, an ambition that appears destined to remain unrealised. Then, a bus pulls up sharply by the side of the road, obstructing her view. The horses snort in exhaustion, and twenty men or more alight, streaming past her on both sides. They are the typical suburban clerks, in neat suits, some in silk hats, and several spring down from the top deck in merely two or three steps, like trained acrobats. They do not even catch their breath. Instead they turn around, this way and that, like human spinning-tops, finding their bearings, then plunge straight into the crowd. There is no ‘good morning’ or ‘how d’ye do’ to be heard; no chance acquaintance can hope to interrupt their progress. Indeed, Clara herself cannot hope to stand still for long, and so falls in with the foot-traffic, jostled along until she comes to the corner of Gray’s Inn Lane. There she finally manages to cross at the junction, dodging the mud as best she can, until she stands before a small, old-fashioned shop, Pickering & Co. Druggists and Chemists &c.
The shop window looks particularly ancient, comprised of two dozen or more small panes of green-tinged bullion glass. It contains, moreover, shelves bearing translucent bottles of green and blue hues, guaranteed to attract the attention of passers-by, a particular favourite of local children. Indeed, a couple of street boys linger by the door, but Clara quietly brushes past their entreaties and goes inside. Within she finds an old gentleman, the aforementioned Pickering, sitting behind the counter. He stands up and nods in a business
-like manner as Clara enters.
‘Morning, Miss. Nice to see you again.’
‘Good morning.’
‘And to what do we owe the honour, Miss?’
‘The usual mixture for Mrs. Harris, if you please, and also,’ she continues, struggling to recall the name, ‘do you have a bottle of Balley’s Mixture?’
‘Balley’s Quietener?’
‘Yes, that is the one.’
‘Why, yes, Miss,’ he says, surprised, ‘I do. Now, the mixture for Mrs. Harris, I’ve some prepared; but, how much of the Balley’s would you be requiring? Bottle or half-bottle? Mrs. Harris feeling nervy, is she, bless her?’
Clara merely nods. Perhaps she reasons that an unspoken deception is better than an all-out lie. At all events, she does not contradict him.
‘A bottle would be fine, thank you.’
‘Very well, Miss, you wait there. I’ll just be a moment.’
The old man disappears beneath the mahogany-topped counter, and can be heard to open several drawers and cupboards. When he finally rises again, he holds a blue-green jar for the benefit of Mrs. Harris, and a clear glass bottle of the patent drug, labelled ‘Balley’s’ in bold black type. He takes a smaller, empty bottle, and measures out the viscous dark brown liquid.
‘Strong stuff this, Miss,’ he says, squeezing a stopper into the bottle, and placing both containers in a paper bag, padding it with a wrap or two of crushed newspaper. ‘You tell Mrs. H. to be careful – not more than a few drops after a meal.’
‘I will tell her,’ Clara says.
‘And I’ll put it on the account?’
Clara pauses for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ she says at last.
‘Good day then, Miss. Perhaps you could remind Mrs. Harris, the account is due next week?’
‘I will,’ she replies nervously, as she takes the little parcel. ‘Good day.’
Clara opens the shop door and steps once more into the busy street. On the corner of Gray’s Inn Lane there is now a boy selling penny sheets, with a little crowd gathered about him, the newsprint dirtying their eager hands. Their talk is of ‘murder’ and ‘the Underground Railway’, but she does not take it in as she passes by. Rather, she makes her dash across Gray’s Inn Lane, hoisting her skirts as high as decency allows, running as fast as she can.