A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  It is over quickly enough. But he turns away too soon for her liking. She pulls at his sleeve.

  ‘A shilling?’

  She says it; he will know the word after all, even if he does not speak English. He turns away, and she grips his arm more firmly. He slaps her and pushes her away, so that she falls to the ground, amidst the rotting detritus and thick brown mud.

  She does not get up immediately; she knows better than that. She waits until he has gone and then feels for the wall with dirt-soaked hands, clambering against it until she can support herself on two feet.

  No-one will have her now, covered in muck. Not unless she is lucky.

  She will have to stay in Gravehunger Court for at least one more night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ACROSS THE CITY, in Doughty Street, a clock chimes two o’clock, echoing in the house’s dark hallway.

  Dr. Harris slowly opens his bedroom door and steps carefully on to the landing, bearing a solitary candle before him. It gives off a meagre light, but, even in the flickering shadows, it is clear that there is something peculiarly exuberant in his expression. Indeed, he creeps past the door of his wife’s room with such a look of barely suppressed glee that, if said party were to wake and catch sight of him, she would most likely assume him to be drunk. His face, moreover, is particularly striking in that it can be compared with a countenance that, in normal circumstances, is generally perfectly composed and almost beatific. It may be that the whole effect is an exaggeration caused by the dim melting glow of the candlelight; but if his wife were to wake, she would, at the very least, observe that he smiles to himself as he passes by. She would, moreover, notice that he cups his hand around the flame to prevent it shedding its light too freely. She would also see that he is dressed to go out.

  But, of course, Mrs. Harris does not stir.

  Once he is upon the stairs, Dr. Harris allows himself a backwards glance, then walks softly down two flights, into the hallway. There he rests the candlestick upon the hall table. He sports an unremarkable black suit and completes his outfit by putting on his woollen coat and acquiring his hat from the iron-work stand beside the door. He does not attempt to open the front door, however; doubtless it presents too great a challenge to his silent progress, with its plush velvet draught-excluder and numerous bolts and Chubb lock. Rather, he takes up the candle and proceeds downstairs to the kitchen. Once there, carefully avoiding the mouse and beetle traps, and the scuttling progress of the ‘black natives’ for whom the latter nocturnal entanglements are intended, he proceeds to let himself out.

  Outside, upon Doughty Street, there is a light mist, though it is not sufficiently soot-blown for any true resident of the capital to call it a fog. It is cold, however, cold enough for his breath to be visible in the air. He pulls his coat collar tight about his neck, and proceeds down the road, in the direction of Gray’s Inn.

  Upon the corner there stands a cab, manned by a cabman dressed in a thick overcoat, and widebrimmed hat pulled down over his ears, such that only his puffing tobacco pipe projects beyond it, and his face is quite hidden from view. Without removing the clay from his mouth, he nods at Dr. Harris and addresses him.

  ‘Usual place, sir?’

  Harris says nothing, merely nodding in return, and climbing into the hansom.

  Even with the doors closed, the vehicle affords little protection from the chill night air. Dr. Harris shivers a little, and watches through the window as the cab passes familiar streets and heads eastwards, turning north by Clerkenwell Green and past St. James’s Church. Still, it is a short journey upon the empty road, and in little more than five minutes he has arrived at his destination, a rather decrepit Georgian terrace hidden amongst the squares of Islington. Indeed, it is not a particularly respectable-looking street; there are signs of disrepair abounding, from cracked paintwork upon window and door-frames, to iron railings that lean ever so slightly in arthritic contradiction to their intended alignment, buckling inwards or outwards. None the less, it suits Dr. Harris to stop outside a particular house, and he alights from the hansom with only two words to the driver.

  ‘One hour.’

  ‘Aye,’ replies the man, and gently provokes his horse onwards.

  There are thick curtains at the front windows of the house in question, upon all of its three floors, and it is impossible to guess whether anyone within might be awake to receive guests. It is remarkable, therefore, as the visitor approaches the front door, that it opens silently almost before Dr. Harris has a chance to set foot upon the threshold; moreover, he seems quite unperturbed by such prescience and walks confidently inside.

  A maid-servant greets him politely in the hallway, closes the door, and takes his hat and coat. He is shown through into a downstairs parlour, but, apart from a pair of matching sofas and a mahogany table and chairs it is barely furnished; indeed, there are only two fading watercolours badly hung above the mantelpiece, a wilting fern under dusty glass, and numerous dents and cracks in the undistinguished wainscoting. It has the appearance of a station waiting-room on a barely used branch line.

  A woman enters, a matronly figure, a similar age to Harris’s wife; she smiles and nods acknowledgement of his presence, then settles herself on the sofa.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Twice in two nights, sir? We are honoured.’

  ‘As I said last night, ma’am, there are now two places begging at the refuge, and I wish to interview as many candidates as possible, before I make a recommendation. You said there was another girl?’

  ‘Oh, several, I should think.’

  ‘A young girl, though.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. No more than thirteen years, I assure you.’

  ‘And virtuous?’

  ‘I can produce a doctor’s certificate, if you like.’

  ‘I do not think that necessary. I have medical experience enough.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure that’s a relief for all parties.’

  ‘Indeed. Shall we say the same fee for the interview?’

  ‘Interview? Two pounds, for a full discussion with the young lady.’

  ‘She is not a “lady”, I trust.’

  ‘I believe she is a stay-maker’s daughter, sir, lately arrived in Islington from the country – Tottenham, she tells me. Hoping to make her fortune, or some such nonsense. Full of odd fancies, as young girls are at that age. You know the sort.’

  ‘How many nights have you had her?’

  ‘Five nights and days. She’s accustomed to the house now, I’d say. I don’t think she’ll give you any trouble, sir.’

  ‘I may have difficult questions.’

  ‘You question her as long as you like, sir. Won’t be anyone eavesdropping, rest assured. You ask anything you like of her.’

  ‘I am glad we understand each other, ma’am.’

  The woman smiles politely.

  ‘Tell me, what is your name?’

  ‘Eliza.’

  ‘That is a pretty name. Come, there is no need to be scared of me.’

  ‘I ain’t.’

  ‘Good. This is a nice room, is it not? Fancy sheets, a nice bed. All for you. Mrs. F. is a good woman, is she not, treating you to this?’

  ‘I want to go home, I swear it.’

  ‘Come now, it is a little late for that. And at this time of night?’

  ‘I’d go. I would.’

  ‘Sit a little closer to me. That’s better, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Do you wish to improve yourself, my dear?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Naturally you do. My dear, I know a place where they help women like you, women who have gone wrong. A home for young women, with the promise of a fresh start for those who would care for it, all paid for. I could recommend you to the governors.’

  ‘Fresh start?’

  ‘Emigration. Perhaps to Van Diemen’s Land. A beautiful country, I assure you.’

 
; ‘But I ain’t gone wrong.’

  ‘But why do you think you are here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then I shall show you.’

  ‘Let me go, won’t you?’

  ‘Come, just here.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. Place your hand just here. Don’t struggle. There! That’s my girl.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  NOON.

  Lizzie Hunt wanders through the back streets of Saffron Hill. The sky is covered by a coal-black sheet of cloud, but the rain of the previous evening has lifted and the air is cool and crisp. She turns from the main road into the little alley that leads to her husband’s preferred meeting-place. Indeed, Tom Hunt has become quite a fixture in the Three Cups in the past few days; he has a talent for making himself at home in such establishments, and possesses a particular expertise at ingratiating himself with any landlord or barmaid, whether it is by flattering words or his winning smile. Moreover, the fact that he can make a small measure of gin last for an hour or two is rarely held against him. In fact, once he is settled, his very presence is generally deemed to be something of a testimony to the excellent character of any public house he frequents. The Three Cups is no exception and Lizzie is not surprised to find him there; it is a little more remarkable that he has accrued to himself not only a table, but some writing paper, pen, ink, and inkwell.

  ‘There she is,’ he exclaims, seeing Lizzie approach.

  ‘Here I am,’ she says, pulling up a stool and sitting down beside him.

  ‘How much was it then?’ he says eagerly. ‘Good night, was it?’

  ‘A few bob,’ she says, handing him a handful of coins.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asks, counting them.

  She shrugs; her face looks drawn and tired, and there are dark shadows under her eyes.

  ‘What you doing?’ she says, after a moment.

  ‘Writing a letter,’ he says irritably, dropping the coins in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ says Lizzie, leaning over him, trying to read the words aloud, slowly forming them with her lips.

  ‘Here,’ he replies, perhaps with a little pride, ‘I’ll read it myself. See if it don’t sound a smasher. This, my darling, will revive our flagging fortunes, or I’m a Dutchman:

  ‘Dear sir,

  ‘I address this letter to you, being assured by your renowned compassion towards suffering humanity that you will forgive my presumption in doing so. I am compelled to write by circumstances which would reduce any man to a state of perfect misery and wretchedness, and it is only the thought that a fellow Christian may look kindly upon my appeal that keeps me from absolute despair. It is painful to relate the nature and causes of my embarrassment, and I hope it is sufficient for me to say that though I am a working man, I have suffered the loss of both my mother, father, and wife, all in a matter of weeks. I have three children remaining to me, who are a great burden, and my infant daughter is sick with fever. I now have not even a sixpence with which to buy her either medicine or food. I freely confess I am reduced to abject beggary, and forced to make others my creditor, if I am to keep my little ones from death’s door. I know you will consider me bold when you hear these entreaties, and can only plead the lives of my children as excuse for such an importunate missive. If you have some small compassion towards my unfortunate condition, I beg you to send some token of your feelings addressed, Smith, T. M., Post Office, High Holborn.’

  Lizzie smiles. ‘You ain’t half good, Tom,’ she says admiringly.

  ‘You better hope this fellow replies,’ says Tom, pleased with her praise. ‘I paid Honest Charlie two bob for the name and address. For some of the words and all.’

  ‘He will,’ says Lizzie, and leans forward to kiss him. As she does so, her arm inadvertently makes contact with the bottle of ink; it rattles from side to side for one moment, and then tips over. Both Tom and Lizzie watch it, unable to move, as the blue-black fluid spills over the table and stains its contents. It seems a slow progress, but there is enough of it to seep across the letter itself, obscuring the words on one side of the page in a dark viscous pond. Tom instinctively tries to pick the paper up, but ink just trickles down the sheet, ruining it in its entirety.

  ‘You clumsy little bitch,’ he exclaims, turning on her, raising his hand.

  ‘Tom! Don’t!’ she shouts. ‘It was an accident.’

  A voice from the bar, the landlord, joins in: ‘Here! None of that!’

  Tom Hunt draws back his hand, and breathes a deep breath. Even the three or four blank sheets that he had nearby are all blotted with spots of ink, spattered from his attempt to recover the letter itself.

  ‘Wasted!’ he exclaims. ‘All bloody wasted, you little bitch!’

  There is a long pause. Lizzie steals herself to speak, though she cowers a little beside her husband, her back and shoulders curled up and tense.

  ‘I am sorry, Tom,’ she says, her voice low and timid. ‘Really I am. It was an accident.’

  Tom Hunt looks at the mess on the table.

  ‘You best go get a cloth to clear this up.’

  Lizzie nods, and stands up.

  ‘What’ll we do now, eh?’ he says, angrily.

  ‘I saw my sister last night,’ she says, eager to change the subject.

  ‘Clara?’ he replies, saying the name almost fondly, looking up at her. ‘How is she doing? Where did you catch her? Prigging some gent’s wallet, was she?’

  ‘She ain’t in that line any more.’

  ‘After all I taught her? That’s a crying shame. She had good hands for it, not like some clumsy little madams I could mention. What’s she doing then?’

  ‘Housemaid.’

  Tom looks astonished and abruptly all signs of petulance and anger disappear from his unshaven face. Instead he laughs, thumping the table with his fist, griming his hand with ink even further.

  ‘Maid? Clara White? You are having me on, my love, ain’t you?’

  Lizzie shakes her head. ‘She’s changed, different from when you knew her.’

  ‘I never heard so much gammon,’ he says, laughing in between words. ‘Here, come here, will you?’

  He leans forward and beckons Lizzie to come closer. She leans towards him, warily, and he whispers to her, ‘What sort of place has she got? Big house?’

  ‘A place on Doughty Street, by Gray’s Inn. Three or four storeys.’

  ‘A gentleman’s house, then?’

  Lizzie nods. Tom suddenly leans a little more and grabs his wife by the back of her neck, pulling her face an inch from his, his mouth by her ear.

  ‘Get this mess cleared up, then come back and tell me everything about it.’

  Lizzie nods; as she goes to the bar for a cloth, Tom Hunt sits back in his chair.

  ‘No-one,’ he mutters to himself, ‘no-one changes that much.’

  He smiles.

  ‘Clara bloody White. Ha!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CLARA WHITE STANDS nervously outside Doughty Street, watching the brougham containing her master and mistress depart to the manifold delights of Sydenham. Once it is out of sight, she returns to the kitchen, where Alice Meynell is sweeping the floor.

  ‘Wish I was going with them,’ says Alice.

  ‘With them?’

  ‘Well, not with them,’ she replies. ‘They’re going to the opera, ain’t they? I’ve never been to the Palace, though.’

  Clara smiles. ‘Well, maybe if you work that broom hard enough, I’ll get some Prince Charming to whisk you off.’

  ‘I can’t even get the baker’s boy to look at me.’

  As Clara is about to reply, the front doorbell rings.

  ‘Ain’t that typical, when they’ve only just gone,’ exclaims Alice. ‘They ain’t expecting anyone, are they?’

  Clara says nothing, but runs upstairs, with a mixture of trepidation and excitement agitating her stomach. She opens the door to find Henry Cotton. He is dressed in a decent suit, though
not the formal evening wear of the previous night, and smiles as he sees her.

  ‘Miss White.’

  Again Clara stands there, uncertain what to say or do. In consequence, the visitor lets himself into the hall.

  ‘May we talk?’ he says, offering her his hat and coat. She does not take them.

  ‘No,’ she replies hesitantly. ‘Alice is downstairs.’

  ‘No Cook? She was a charming woman, I must say.’

  ‘She don’t live in.’

  ‘Perhaps in here, then?’ he says, opening the dining-room door for himself, and walking briskly in, before Clara can object. She follows him, looking nervously back towards the stairs, in case Alice might appear.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ she says in exasperation, once inside the room, closing the door behind her. ‘Alice will know something’s up. She’s no fool. And neither am I.’

  ‘Clara . . .’ he says, sitting down on a chair beside the fireplace, but pausing in his speech. ‘May I call you Clara?’

  She nods mutely; it is not the sort of question to which she is accustomed.

  ‘Clara, I know you must think me a lunatic or worse, but as I said yesterday I mean you no harm. Please rest assured, you have nothing to fear from me. I am, well, for want of a better term, a journalist of sorts. And I believe you can be of immense assistance to me.’

  ‘Journalist?’

  ‘Well, a writer, at least.’

  ‘And how can I help you?’ she says, frowning, disbelief in her voice.