by Lee Jackson
‘White!’
The unforgiving voice of Clara’s mistress, as angry and strident as ever, breaks the awful silence. Clara puts the tray down, uncertain what to do.
‘Sir, I am so sorry . . .’
She stammers the words, but the man waves his hand nonchalantly, as if to dismiss the matter.
‘Really, do not trouble yourself. Do you have something to remove the stain?’
‘Cook might have something, ma’am,’ says Clara, eagerly, looking at her mistress for permission to retreat.
‘Hurry and get it, then, you wretched girl,’ says Mrs. Harris, her face fixed into a rigid look of profound displeasure with which Clara is quite familiar enough. She sets off to retrieve whatever chemicals Cook can conjure up, but the young man gets up from the table.
‘Wait a moment,’ he says, turning to his hostess. ‘Ma’am, I’ll go myself, if you do not mind. That will be less trouble, surely? And I can pay my compliments to your delightful cook.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’ asks the doctor.
‘Yes, by all means.’
‘Well, Clara,’ Dr. Harris says, ‘show the gentleman the way. Do what you can for him, eh?’
Clara nods, her face now bright red, and leads the young man from the room.
‘Unorthodox young fellow, isn’t he?’ comments Dr. Harris.
Clara says nothing on the stairs, and it is only as they reach the hallway that the young man speaks.
‘We’ve met before, you know.’
‘Sir?’
‘You don’t remember me? I suppose you were a little flustered. Yesterday, on Serle Street, when you fell down.’
She turns and looks at him, perplexed, as the moment comes back to her. He nods, as if to indicate he understands her confusion.
‘I was dressed a little differently, but it was me, I assure you.’
‘Sir?’
‘I am sorry, I am confusing you. Look, it is difficult, but you should understand that I came here to see you and you alone. But we can hardly talk now. We have ice-cream to dispose of, after all. I just wanted to tell you that I will come back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow, sir? I cannot . . .’
‘Tomorrow. Your master and mistress are at Sydenham, they told me. I will come back in the evening when they are out, and we may talk then.’
Clara looks at him. ‘Sir, I don’t know what you want from me, and I don’t know what Dr. Harris might have said, but I ain’t the sort of girl who . . .’
‘Who follows old women and thieves their purses?’
‘Sir?’ she says, her voice trembling.
‘I followed you from Serle Street. I know exactly the sort of girl you are. That is precisely why you intrigue me. And that is why we must talk tomorrow.’
Clara says nothing, feeling unsteady on her feet.
‘Come,’ he says, taking her arm, ‘I mean you no harm. Know that much. Now, you best go and warn your worthy cook that I intend to meet her.’
She looks at him blankly.
‘Come on. And I am sorry for tripping you, but,’ he says, looking down at his shirt, ‘but I believe I had the worst of it.’
It is ten o’clock when a carriage arrives for the Carpenters. Mr. Phibbs, meanwhile, announces that he will depart on foot, despite numerous protestations from his hosts that he must obtain the services of a hansom. At the door, Clara hands him his hat and coat, and, just for a moment, she can almost swear that he winks at her.
Once all three guests have left, however, there is a lecture from Mrs. Harris; it revolves principally around the many reasons why it is unwise for a housemaid to spill food upon young gentlemen; why a particular housemaid is ungrateful and unreasoning; and why must that particular housemaid induce a migraine in all those who try to help her improve herself?
All in all, the talk does not last too long, since Mrs. Harris declares herself positively exhausted.
Then comes the washing of plates and saucepans, a task Clara shares with Alice Meynell, until the hands and wrists of both women are chapped and aching.
At twelve o’clock, Alice goes to bed. Clara lingers for a moment in the kitchen, thinking about the strange insistence of the young man as he spoke to her.
‘I mean you no harm.’
Then there is a knock upon the kitchen door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CLARA LOOKS UP, startled. In the dim light of the gas, with rain still falling outside, the prospect of a nocturnal visitor instantly fills her mind with unwelcome visions of area-sneaks and burglars, and halfremembered ghost stories. Then it occurs to her that the strange young man has returned. It takes her a moment to realise, amidst the pitter-patter of the rain, that she can hear a female voice calling her name.
‘Clara? Are you there? Don’t jump. It’s me. Let us in; I’m soaking.’
Clara looks in the direction of the door. Peering through the kitchen window, she can make out a figure standing in the rain. As she catches sight of the visitor’s features, it somehow takes a few seconds for the face to register in her mind.
‘Lizzie?’
‘Come on. Who did you think?’
Clara unbolts the door. The girl that walks in is somewhat different from Clara’s memory of her. Her girlish face is, undoubtedly, older and wearier, and she is, as far as Clara can recall, also a little taller. Clara stands back and stares at her.
‘Lizzie?’ she says, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Look at you!’
‘Have I changed that much, then?’
‘You have. You look so much like ma,’ she replies, ‘but when she was younger.’
Lizzie Hunt frowns. She unwraps her shawl from around her shoulders, shaking her head, dripping water on the stone floor.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘if you say so. This is a fine halloa. Can’t you start a fire up or something? I’ll catch my death in here.’
‘A fire? Not this time of night,’ says Clara, taking the shawl and draping it over one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Come here, stand by the range; that’ll be hot enough.’
Lizzie does as suggested, standing with her back to the stove, looking round the room. As she does so, Clara notices a large black bruise around her wrist, and another on her neck, partially concealed by her trailing brown hair.
‘Here,’ she says, peering, ‘who did that?’
‘No-one. Just an accident, that’s all.’
Clara looks at her skeptically, but lets the topic rest for the moment.
‘It’s good to see you.’
‘You too.’
‘You’ll get us into trouble, you know,’ says Clara, ‘coming here like this.’
‘Trouble? You’ve changed your tune, ain’t you?’ says Lizzie. ‘Ma used to say you was the fearless one.’
‘It’s just that it’s a good place here. I don’t want to lose my character.’
‘Your “character”?’
‘Maybe I have changed. Maybe for the better, anyhow. What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, as it goes,’ Lizze says, ‘apart from being bleeding soaked.’
‘That ain’t what I mean. I mean, in yourself,’ replies Clara. ‘Where have you been all these months? You could have sent word.’
‘Here and there.’
‘With Tom?’
‘Yes, with Tom.’
Clara sighs, pointedly avoiding her sister’s gaze. ‘And where are you stopping now?’
‘Tom’s cousin’s. He’s got a room, off Saffron Hill.’
‘Has he? Lizzie, tell us, why did you run off like that? Tom Hunt of all people.’
‘He’s been good to me.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it. Does he thump you?’
‘Not much. No more than most, I expect.’
‘That ain’t what it looks like.’
Lizzie scowls at her sister. ‘What do you know anyway? You’ve never had anyone sweet on you, have you?’
‘That ai
n’t nothing to do with it. I just don’t want you to get hurt. I know Tom well enough, don’t I? He ain’t good for you. Nor anyone else, for that matter.’
‘I reckon I should never have come here,’ replies Lizzie, tutting to herself. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see us.’
‘I am.’
Clara sits down at the kitchen table and rubs her forehead with her palms.
‘How are you managing?’ she finally continues. ‘Does he give you money? I ain’t got anything I can spare. Not at the moment, anyhow.’
‘Good, because I don’t need it. I can take care of myself.’
She says it proudly and her sister looks at her from between her fingers, still pressed to her head.
‘How?’
‘How do you think?’ she says, pushing back her hair from her face. ‘I got my looks, ain’t I?’
It takes a moment for Clara to grasp the meaning of her sister’s words; she closes her eyes and mutters an oath to herself.
‘Lizzie, you ain’t serious? How could you?’
‘Easy enough; you know as well as I do, you’ve seen ma do it often enough. Besides, it don’t matter, I’ve got Tom, ain’t I? It don’t matter if you love someone.’
‘You think Tom Hunt loves you?’
‘I know he does. He went and married me. With a preacher, and all.’
Clara laughs; it is a sarcastic laugh that makes her sister glare at her angrily. There is a pause before either of them speaks.
‘I should go,’ says Lizzie. ‘I don’t want you to get into trouble, not on my account.’
‘Don’t be like that. Look, you know ma’s gone off somewhere?’
‘Has she?’ says Lizzie, surprised. ‘I only saw her a couple of days ago. She told us where to find you.’
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘About what?’
‘Anything.’
Lizzie shrugs. ‘She didn’t seem too good; she weren’t saying much at all.’
‘Do you know about the railway murder?’
Lizzie nods.
‘The girl that shared the room with ma, she was the one that was killed. You probably even saw her. Anyhow, the police have been sniffing round. They even came here, asking after her.’
Now it is Lizzie’s turn to laugh.
‘The crushers think ma did it?’
‘I didn’t say that. But all the same, it ain’t good, is it, if they think she’s mixed up in it?’
‘Perhaps she is,’ replies Lizzie, with a hint of drollery in her voice.
‘Lizzie, don’t be stupid.’
‘Well,’ she says, picking up her wet shawl, hardly much drier than when she left it, ‘I am sorry if I am too stupid for you, Clarrie dear. I hadn’t meant to be such a bother, I’m sure. I was going to tell you, my sister, some good news, as it happens, but if I ain’t good enough to be in your company . . .’
‘Go on then, what was it?’
‘Just something.’
‘What?’
Lizzie falls silent, wringing out the water from her shawl, looking down at the floor. Suddenly she seems more serious and less confident. When she does speak, it is in a soft whisper. Unconsciously she puts her hand to her belly.
‘I’m think I’m carrying.’
Clara looks at her in astonishment.
‘You stupid girl. That’s good news, is it?’
‘Don’t call me stupid! And I ain’t a girl no more, neither. I knew you’d be like this. I knew it. I should never have come.’
Lizzie takes up her shawl, and throws it back over her shoulders as she talks.
‘Spite, that’s all it is. You think you’re special, sitting there, do you, Clarrie? Better than me? Well, you ain’t.’
‘At least I ain’t got myself bloody knocked up by . . . well, Lord knows who.’
‘It’s Tom’s baby,’ replies Lizzie emphatically. ‘And if you think you’re so much better than me, how did you swing this set-up anyhow? You in your pretty little Abigail’s outfit, like you were born to it. That’s a joke, ain’t it?’
‘I didn’t go and sell myself, if that’s what you mean.’
Lizzie is at the door now, her face flushed with frustration and anger.
‘Well, ain’t that bully for you. But you’re no better than us. And,’ she says, her voice petulant and childlike, ‘come the summer, I’ll have Tom, and my babby, and what will you have to show for it, skivvying here?’
She does not wait for a response. She is gone, rushing up the area steps, the door slamming behind her.
If she was in her normal state of mind, Clara White might worry that the sound of raised voices would wake those sleeping upstairs and bring down the wrath of Mrs. Harris for the second time in as many hours.
As it is, she merely slouches forward on the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
Outside, the rain still descends, persistent and flecked with the evening’s soot. It is a familiar companion for Lizzie Hunt as she walks through the city streets, and she barely notices it, her head swimming. As she approaches Saffron Hill, however, a man approaches her. Perhaps he mistakes the tears on her face for raindrops, or perhaps he just has something else on his mind.
‘How much, love?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Go on, I’ll see you right.’
‘I said no! Not tonight.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
INSPECTOR WEBB SITS in his office at Marylebone police station, looking over the notes upon his desk, scraps of paper that he has been arranging and rearranging for a good hour or more. There is also a book, Uses of Opium, in Tincture and Solution. His contemplation is once again disturbed by the appearance of sergeant Watkins at the door.
‘Burning the midnight oil, sir?’
‘I think you will find it is gas, Watkins.’
‘That don’t have the same ring to it, though, does it, sir? You been here all day? Seems like it.’
‘You have news, I hope, sergeant? Or did you merely lack for conversation in the mess?’
‘We’re still waiting on the transcript of the diary, sir.’
‘I know that all too well. I thought it was to be today?’
‘My man had some business at the Commons suddenly, sir. Says he can’t neglect his work.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Almost definitely, sir.’
‘I hope there is more, Watkins. I can see from your face there is. Please tell me.’
‘Wapping has just sent us word about Agnes White,’ says Watkins.
‘They’ve found her?’ asks Webb, interrupting the sergeant.
‘Well, in a manner of speaking. They found her dress washed up near the Tower. They reckon she’s drowned. Quite fortuitous, as it happens; some mudlark or scavenger found it, took it to some clothes-man, and the fellow there had heard we were looking for her.’
‘One moment, sergeant; it is remarkable, but I confess you are racing ahead of me. How do they know this article is White’s dress?’
‘Ah, now that foxed me, sir, until I saw it. It’s the refuge’s uniform, a sort of gown, ain’t it? Got her name sewn inside.’
‘We have it here?’
‘They sent it over, sir. No use to the Thames boys, really, is it?’
‘Well, for God’s sake, bring it in, Watkins, show me.’
Watkins leaves the room, and swiftly returns with a bundle of cloth wrapped in brown paper. He loosens the paper, and lays out the refuge’s distinctive blue and white uniform upon a nearby desk. It is sullied by mud and dirt, and slightly torn in several places, but the pattern is quite clear, and the sergeant pulls up the hem, showing his superior the neat name tag that has been stitched on to it.
‘What do you make of that, sir?’
‘It has not been in the river long, I suppose.’
‘I suppose not. Why do you think she did it, sir?’
‘What?’
‘Killed herself,’ says Watkins.
Webb looks at him, raising hi
s eyebrows skeptically.
‘“Deeds to be hid which were not hid.”’
‘Sir?’
‘It is a quotation, Watkins. Never mind. How do we know she did kill herself? We only have the clothing, after all. Doesn’t it strike you as curious that a dress became detached from the body so easily? It is pretty much of a piece, after all,’ he says, fingering the still-damp material.
‘It could happen, sir.’
‘It could. But what of the body itself?’
‘Might have sunk down. Or drifted further on. We don’t find ’em all, do we, sir?’
‘True.’
‘You don’t seem convinced yourself either way, if I may say so, sir.’
‘You may, Watkins, because I am not at all sure of anything at present. Except that we are still quite in the dark.’
‘Come now, sir,’ replies the sergeant. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I’d say you should go home and get yourself some sleep.’
‘That is my intention. By the by, did you hear anything from the refuge about the other matter, sergeant?’
‘The refuge? Sorry, sir, I forgot to mention it. You were bang on there. At least one bottle is missing of a patent mixture – containing laudanum, as it happens.’
Webb smiles. ‘I thought as much,’ he replies, looking at the tattered clothing. ‘I do not think we will find Agnes White, sergeant.’
‘If she’s in the river, you mean?’
Webb shrugs. ‘I do not think she is in the river. Check with Miss Sparrow if she had a regular outfit of her own clothes, as well as the uniform. I should think she did, and I’ll warrant she took them. She wants to give us the slip, sergeant. I do not think she wants to be found at all.’
Wapping.
The alley is a dark, foetid place, a narrow path with a watery channel running along the middle that serves as collective sewer for the surrounding buildings. It runs from Wapping High Street to the London Dock, but ends as a cul-de-sac, against the dock’s high brick wall, which protects the warehouses and ships within. Agnes White knows it well enough; she follows the man halfway down, as the location is his choice, to an abandoned doorway with a nearby window-ledge on which she can balance herself against his body. She looks at his face, trying to remember what he looked like in the gas-light of the main road, as he raises her skirt with grubbing hands; he is dark and tanned, she remembers that much. She wonders idly if he is a Greek, or perhaps the son of some Ottoman pirate, the sort that kidnap decent girls and place them in some distant harem for the amusement of a brooding sultan; she has seen them in the three-act plays at the penny gaffs in Whitechapel.