by Lee Jackson
Bill Hunt frowns, but acquiesces, and together they proceed down to the Three Cups. Although it is the middle of the afternoon, the smoke-filled room is busy enough: a pair of dustmen, still dressed in their greasy oilskins, sit at one table; at another a bare-armed costermonger downs a glass of pale ale; and several men and women, of indeterminate occupation, are dotted here and there, with blushing cheeks and bleary eyes, talking in gin-soaked accents. Bill makes his way to the bar and orders a mug of purl for himself and a measure of gin for his cousin; together they pull up a couple of stools around a small circular deal table.
‘I’ve been thinking, old man,’ says Tom, clapping his hand affectionately on his companion’s shoulder, ‘about the railway. A fellow might do a decent business on the railway.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘Well, take that girl what was killed, what you told us about. No-one saw nothing, did they? No-one stopped the devil who done it; even though he stuck right next to the bleedin’ body.’
‘So?’
‘Well, don’t get me wrong, it’s a crying shame and all, but it tells you something that he got away with it, don’t it? I bet, for instance, there’s a lot of property what is lost, one way or another, on your blessed railway. And a fellow with light fingers, well, he might do all right out of it.’
‘Nowhere to run neither, is there?’
‘A fellow wouldn’t need to. Not if he had someone looking out for the guard. And I bet you see a few things, working down them stations. I bet many an item goes walking from your works, don’t it?’
‘So that’s your bright idea, is it? Well, I ain’t helping you with that. Forget I said anything. I got enough troubles.’
‘Just a thought, Bill. Perk up. I ain’t never seen a fellow always look so bleedin’ chopfallen as you, I swear.’
‘Maybe I have reason.’
‘Reason? You ain’t got a care in the world, have you?’
‘Just think of something else, that’s all. I ain’t helping you.’
Tom Hunt looks only a little downcast.
‘I wonder where that blasted woman of mine’s got to, eh?’
Lizzie Hunt stands by the imposing wall of Gray’s Inn, near to the corner of Gray’s Inn Lane, watching the traffic. There is something mesmeric in the shifting mass of bodies and vehicles, and she waits there for several minutes before moving on down Holborn Hill. Her face, however, looks tired and wan, and there is a certain listlessness in her movements that is noticeable to anyone who sees her. In her hand she clutches a small purse tied by a piece of cord to her wrist. She keeps a firm hold on it until she comes upon a solitary figure crouched upon the pavement. It is a man in his fifties, a grey-bearded, leather-cheeked old man in patched corduroys, with a little wooden tray set before him containing the sort of knick-knacks beloved by a certain class of pedlar.
‘Anything you fancy, dear?’ he says upon seeing her interest. ‘Nice bit of stuff for a lady, this; set your pretty little head off a treat, it would.’ The old man gestures at a row of ribbons laid out upon one portion of the tray.
Lizzie smiles involuntarily bringing her hand up to touch her touzled hair.
‘How about this one?’ he says, selecting a thin dark red strip of cloth. ‘Genuine silk.’
She takes it and inspects it.
‘That’s your colour, that is, my dear.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ says Bill Hunt to his cousin, an hour or more subsequent to their arrival in the Three Cups. Before them on the table lie half a dozen empty glasses.
‘Already?’
‘There’s work to be done,’ he replies morosely.
‘Always work with you, ain’t it, old man? Well, I reckon I’ll stay here a short while.’
‘I thought you was flat broke?’
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ replies Tom, ‘well, near as damn it.’
Bill takes a deep breath, straightening his back and drawing himself up to his full height; to another man he might seem intimidating, but his cousin merely shakes his hand and wishes him well.
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure sharing a glass, ain’t it? And if you see Lizzie, tell her to find us here.’
‘Aye, I will.’
With that, Bill Hunt stands up, replaces his jacket, and makes his way to the door. Once out into the street he does not turn his step towards Farringdon station, but returns instead to the tenement in which he has his meagre lodgings. His heavy boots echo on the creaking steps that lead to his door; it is never locked, as his few possessions can be readily accommodated upon his person: a razor, a pipe, a box of matches. He is not overly surprised, therefore, to find Lizzie Hunt inside, lying upon his bed. She sits up as he enters the room.
‘You’re back then,’ he says.
‘Halloa, Bill.’
‘Tom’s looking for you. Wants his money.’
‘Well, he’ll get it,’ she says. ‘I saw the deputy downstairs. Says you’ll have to pay extra if we’re staying here.’
‘I’ll set him straight,’ he replies. ‘Are you?’
‘What?’
‘Are you stopping here?’
‘Up to Tom and you, ain’t it?’
‘I’m just asking,’ he says, sitting next to her on the bed. ‘I never know with him what he’s up to.’
She shrugs. ‘You and me both.’
‘If it were just you, we’d do all right,’ says Bill, looking down at the floorboards. ‘He ain’t no good for you, you know.’
‘Good enough, I’d say.’
‘Maybe,’ he replies, placing a hand gently on hers.
She smiles, half-heartedly. ‘No, Bill. Leave it. Not again. What about Tom?’
‘He won’t be back, not for a while. I left him drinking in the Cups.’
‘He’s my husband.’
‘He don’t want you, he just wants some mot earning for him.’
Lizzie scowls, upset by the slur on her husband’s character. ‘That ain’t true. Anyhow, I feel a bit queer,’ she says, shifting away from him a little, ‘I need a rest, Bill.’
He looks at her, his forehead creased in thought. ‘I’ll pay, if you like.’
‘Bill! Don’t be awkward. You’re hurting me.’
Bill Hunt lets go of her hand. ‘No, I’d never hurt you.’
She looks at him, smiling kindly. ‘I know, Billy, I know. Not today, eh?’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘SO, YOUR MA’S gone off again?’ says Alice Meynell, slicing a piece of ham for herself then immediately returning to sweeping the floor. She does not glance at Clara White as she speaks; she is too busy for that. Indeed, although there is no clock in the Harrises’ kitchen at Doughty Street, Alice knows the time full well: Cook has already returned home; her master and mistress have just retired to the upstairs drawing room with a full pot of tea. In other words, it is plain to Alice Meynell that it is nine o’clock or thereabouts, and, in twenty minutes, a fire will be required in each bedroom and the beds turned down. It is, moreover, the only time that Alice and Clara may take their evening meal.
‘Yes, gone again,’ says Clara, absent-mindedly echoing her companion’s words, her face peculiarly pensive. Unlike Alice, she is seated at the kitchen table. She has a slice of bread and butter on a plate set neatly before her but has not touched a single crumb.
‘And,’ continues Alice, returning to spear the ham with her fork as she speaks, ‘after you went and bought that tonic for her. Ungrateful, I call it.’
‘That? Oh, I returned that to the shop,’ she replies casually. ‘That’s all square.’
‘Didn’t make you pay for it? That’s good of ’em. But your ma don’t know that, does she?’
‘I’m not sure she knows much of anything. She ain’t been herself.’
‘She’ll come back, she always does.’
‘And then what do I do with her?’ Alice shrugs. ‘Workhouse?’
‘Alice!’
‘Well, I’m just saying, Cl
arrie. You can’t keep her here in the cupboard, can you? You can’t afford to be keeping her anywhere.’
‘I ain’t sending her into the ’house. It’d kill her.’
‘Fair enough,’ replies the girl, putting down her broom and sitting beside Clara. ‘But there’s something else, ain’t there?’
‘Like what?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Nothing. Well . . . something she said. Or maybe she didn’t even actually say it. I can’t remember.’
‘Lor!’ exclaims Alice, reducing the ham by another slice. ‘Will you ever just say what you mean, plain like?’
‘Well, it was like she knew that girl was dead, even before anyone had heard about it. I even talked to the nurse about it, Ally. But how could she know? It don’t make sense.’
‘You’re giving me goose bumps. Maybe she has the second sight.’
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘I weren’t,’ replies Alice.
‘Perhaps I should tell someone, the police. But then what will they think, with her running off like that?’
‘Hmm,’ replies Alice, her cheeks full of ham and bread. Clara is about to say something else when the front doorbell rings, the sound jingling in the hallway and in the kitchen.
‘There ain’t anyone expected, is there?’ says Clara, surprised.
‘I’ll have a look,’ says Alice, wearily, walking over to the kitchen window, and peering up the area steps.
‘Well, now’s your chance,’ she says, squinting up at the road.
‘My chance?’
‘To tell the police. They’re only here,’ she says, grinning excitedly. ‘Probably come to take you straight to the magistrate, I reckon.’
Clara says nothing, her mouth gaping in open-jawed surprise. After a few seconds’ delay, she gathers her thoughts and hurries upstairs, brushing crumbs from her apron. The voice of Mrs. Harris can already be heard from the landing.
‘Who on earth is that?’
‘Don’t know, ma’am.’
‘Well, do find out.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Clara reaches the hall and pulls back the thick velvet curtain that protects the front door, then unlocks it; there is also a bolt with a tendency to stick, which does not yield immediately to her nervous fingers. Finally the door is opened to reveal the presence of Inspector Webb and, behind him, sergeant Watkins.
‘Ah, Miss White,’ says Webb, laying a rather sarcastic stress on Miss, ‘good evening. Allow me to introduce sergeant Watkins. I am afraid, following our little discussion this morning, we require a few moments of your employer’s time, and likewise of yours.’
Clara hesitates for a moment, then recollects her duty and beckons the two men into the hallway; in her confusion, she almost forgets to take the inspector’s helmet.
‘Perhaps you had better announce us, eh, Miss white?’ suggests Webb, observing her agitation.
Clara nods and hurries upstairs.
‘Very nervy sort, ain’t she?’ remarks the sergeant. Webb nods.
‘With respect, Inspector, this is a peculiar hour to be calling at my home,’ says Dr. Harris, once Clara has ushered the men inside and left the room. Dr. Harris’s normally beatific expression is marred by a slight wrinkling of his brow.
‘Well, with respect, sir, it is a matter of some importance. Perhaps if we could speak in private; it is a little delicate . . .’
Mrs. Harris, seated opposite her husband, visibly colours.
‘I am sure anything you might say to my husband might be said to me, Inspector,’ she interjects.
‘Really, my dear,’ says Dr. Harris, ‘I should think if the gentleman says the matter is delicate . . . well, I mean to say, I expect he knows his own business.’
Mrs. Harris appears shocked by this rare rebuke, however mild, and merely replies with one of the unique wordless exclamations she reserves for such occasions, something between a snort and a cough. None the less, she vacates the room, closing the door behind her with an eloquent thud.
Dr. Harris smiles at this small triumph, his features almost returning to their normal calm composition.
‘Now, Inspector, do take a seat and tell me what can possibly bring you here.’
‘Well, sir, I understand you are a governor of the Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women?’
‘Ah, I see. Some difficulty with one of the girls, is it? Yes, I have the honour of supporting that institution.’
‘Perhaps you know of a girl called Bowker, a Sally Bowker?’
‘I cannot say I do, Inspector. Not all the girls are mine, as it were. Many are there upon recommendation of others.’
‘Other governors?’
‘Indeed. I confess, I believe I know the name of the girl, but I could not say much else. Certainly I could not personally vouch for her. Has she done something to, ah, bring herself to your attention, Inspector?’
‘You could say that, sir,’ interjects Watkins.
‘How so?’
‘She was the girl that was murdered on the railway two nights ago, sir,’ replies Webb.
‘Really? What was she doing there?’
‘We cannot account for it as yet, sir,’ says Webb. ‘And so, to be quite clear, you are sure that there is no particular connection between yourself and the dead woman?’
‘Indeed I am. I must say, Inspector, if that is all you came here for then you might have waited . . .’
‘No, sir. There is a little more to it. You are also the sponsor of a certain Agnes White at the refuge, are you not?’
‘Agnes White? Oh yes, that is the case; a difficult female. So unlike her daughter, which I suppose is something of a blessing.’
‘Your, ah, maid?’
‘Ah, I see that Miss Sparrow has acquainted you with our circumstances. I can tell you do not approve of me giving such a girl employment. What about you, sergeant? You look uncomfortable.’
‘No, sir,’ replies Watkins, ‘though if you were to ask my opinion, I can only say I never knew any leopard what changed its spots, if you understand me, sir.’
‘I do, sergeant. But, surely, we should allow for the possibility of repentance, should we not?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
‘I see,’ replies Dr. Harris, a little curtly. ‘But, forgive me, what has Agnes White, or Clara for that matter, to do with this awful railway business?’
‘The mother shared a room with Bowker, sir. And she has now gone missing herself.’
‘Agnes, gone missing? Well, I fear it is not for the first time. But I would not read much into that, Inspector. Miss Sparrow will tell you that Agnes White has the most refractory nature she has ever encountered.’
‘And you would disagree?’
‘Not at all. But I believe there is hope, even for her.’
‘I understand she has been given several chances at the refuge? That is unusual, is it not?’
Dr. Harris frowns. ‘In truth, Inspector, it is only for her daughter’s sake that we have persisted with her. If you knew something of the history of the case . . .’
‘Perhaps you could tell me, sir. And, if it is no trouble, perhaps Watkins here could go and interview the girl? I didn’t know about her mother, you see, when I saw her this morning; we might have a few more questions for her.’
‘This morning?’
‘Yes, I met her at the refuge.’
‘Ah, I see. Quite. Yes, well, I suppose your sergeant had best proceed with his business. What do you wish to know, Inspector?’
‘Well, tell me about this Agnes White, sir. How did you come across her?’
Sergeant Watkins quits the drawing room of the house in Doughty Street, and almost collides with the figure of Mrs. Harris, whom he finds nearby upon the narrow landing, standing conspicuously close to the door.
‘Sergeant.’
‘Ma’am. Perhaps you can direct me to your maidservant, ma’am.’
‘White?’
‘That’s the one, ma’am.’
‘I knew it!’ exclaims Mrs. Harris, triumphantly.
‘Ma’am?’
‘That girl, sergeant, has been nothing but a trial.’
‘Really, ma’am?’
‘No grasp of the most basic household business,’ she exclaims. ‘A positive trial.’
‘Really, ma’am?’ repeats the sergeant, showing a polite but well-judged disinterest in Mrs. Harris’s domestic afflictions. ‘I’ll perhaps find her in the kitchen, will I, ma’am?’
‘I’ll show you, sergeant.’
‘No need, ma’am, no need. I’m sure I can locate it myself. You stay where you are.’
‘You ask me about Agnes White, Inspector? ’ says Dr. Harris, sitting back in his chair. ‘Well, let me begin by asking if you know of my own career?’
‘Can’t say I do, sir.’
‘Well, that is understandable. I am hardly renowned for my work. Suffice to say, I was for many years a medical man and gave some of my time freely to the poor.’
‘Commendable, sir.’
‘I am glad you think so. Well, in that occupation, I became cognisant of the vast gulf between the various classes of our great metropolis, a gulf in both their material situation and health, and, worse still, in a gulf in understanding. We know so little of the poor, do we not, Inspector?’
‘I suspect I know more than most, sir.’
‘Well, that is surely so, but you are an exception. In any case, since my retirement from medical practice I have taken it upon myself to study the evils attendant upon the growth of our great city, with relation to the poorer classes, and to enquire into the, ah, darker recesses of the capital.’
‘I’d say that sounds rather like my occupation,’ replies the inspector.
Dr. Harris smiles. ‘Please, Inspector, I fear you misunderstand me; I am no detective. I am, by nature, the most sedentary of men. My exploration is principally of the literary nature. I read, I write letters, the occasional pamphlet. If I am stirred to it, I rail against mankind’s iniquities in the letters page of the Chronicle.’
‘You are a reformer of sorts, then, sir?’