A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Dr. Harris has told me something of your history, and I have seen your handiwork myself . . .’

  At this, Clara blushes. She starts to speak, but

  Cotton raises his hand.

  ‘Wait. I was going to say, please understand that I have no great wish to see you before the Bench. Rather, it was fortunate that I saw you because you could be so invaluable to my work.’

  ‘I ain’t prigging nothing for you.’

  ‘Lord! Do you take me for some Fagin? Rather, I want your help.’

  ‘I still don’t understand you,’ says Clara, anxiously, glancing out of the front window lest her employers should unexpectedly return. ‘I don’t understand anything you’re saying.’

  ‘Forgive me, I am not making myself clear. Clara, I know your background, your past. I know also that you are a clever girl, who has found a place here with Dr. Harris. And I know you are not averse to lifting a woman’s purse, even now, so please do not tell me you are quite reformed, for I do not believe that. The reason I am speaking to you like this is that I am hoping to write at length about the various evils of our society. Indeed, I believe I can make my name by doing so. But I have found that I can only do so much unaided. I have even disguised myself to penetrate the worst sort of places, and converse with the folk who inhabit them, but my words always give me away the very instant I speak. I confess, it is hard for me to gain their trust, and I can never rely upon what I am told. You, on the other hand, are a unique find. You can help me uncover places and people . . .’ He pauses for breath, as if coming to the conclusion of a complex piece of logic. ‘You, Clara, can show me the underworld.’

  There is a pause, and Clara looks at the young man astonished. He seems breathless and excited, but she cannot help her reaction. It starts as a half-smile, then a wide grin, then an out-and-out laugh, her hands clutching her waist as she steps back, supporting herself against the nearest chair.

  ‘The “underworld”? You sound like some penny dreadful!’ she exclaims.

  ‘Do I?’ he replies, mildly annoyed but almost laughing with her. ‘Don’t you see? That is why I need someone who knows what it is to live . . . well, as you have lived. Someone whose guidance I could rely upon. Just think of it. I might even pay you a little something.’

  ‘Pay?’

  ‘I cannot afford much. But I know you wish to better yourself, otherwise you would not be working here.’

  ‘What about the purse? Will you tell?’

  ‘I saw your agitation before you did it. It was not quite the work of a hardened criminal, I know that. But you know that life, do you not? That is why I need you.’

  ‘How can I do anything like what you want? Mrs. Harris would never hear of it.’

  ‘Mrs. Harris need never know.’

  ‘And I can’t go behind her back. Nor the doctor’s, either. They’ve been good to me.’

  ‘Come, you’ve done it before. Besides, they are out tonight, are they not? I saw them leave, that is why I came now. We have a good three or four hours; come with me.’

  ‘Now?’ she replies, amazed. ‘And do what?’

  ‘Well, let me see. For a start, you might show me the area where you were raised. I believe you had an exciting youth, so Harris told me. Wapping, was it not?’

  ‘To Wapping?’

  ‘To begin with. I will take some notes, and then, for tonight, we are done.’

  ‘What about Alice?’

  ‘You can get round her, surely. I will bring you back in good time, I promise. We can take a hansom, if needs must.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to? Will you tell them, about what you saw?’

  ‘But don’t you want to?’ he says eagerly. ‘It will be a marvellous adventure.’

  She looks at him, undecided.

  ‘Come,’ he says, offering her his hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CLARA SITS BESIDE Henry Cotton as their cab rattles along the muddy cobbles of Wapping High Street, nervously tapping the straw-covered floor of the carriage with her foot. Though it is almost dark, she peers between the warehouses at the river. She can make out the tall masts of ships; in the blackness they resemble the tree-tops of some barren forest, swaying gently in the breeze. Cotton watches his companion, a notebook in his hand, and makes the occasional annotation. Finally, about halfway along the road, Clara bids the cabman to stop; this information is then passed to the horse by means of a shout and a sharp tug upon the reins, such that the vehicle pulls up with a jolt. Cotton smiles at Clara’s discomfort as she is thrown forward by the sudden movement.

  ‘You don’t travel by cab too often, I expect,’ he says, opening the door and descending on to the road.

  ‘No,’ replies Clara, tartly, accepting his hand as she follows him. ‘And I can’t believe I was fool enough to come here.’

  ‘Clara, I swear you can trust me.’

  The cab leaves them standing upon the High Street in front of a tavern named the Black Boy. It is a small riverside place, less ostentatious than many of its rivals, with only its sign to herald its function as a place of entertainment: a clumsy representation of a naked black child; he seems content enough, though in constant danger from an unprotected jet of gas that flares directly above his head. Inside, however, the warm glow of a fire can be seen through the steamed up windows and the sound of numerous voices raised in animated conversation can be plainly heard from the street.

  ‘Well, like I told you, I was born here,’ says Clara, gesturing towards the door. ‘By the hearth, so my ma told me. Do you want to go in?’

  ‘Born in a public house?’

  ‘Do you want to go in?’

  ‘No, not for now. We shall come back here. First take me to the house you used to live in, the one by the river. Harris told me of it. He said it was a very curious place.’

  ‘Gravehunger Court.’

  ‘That was the name?’ says Cotton, clearly amused by the sound of it.

  ‘It was. But it’s deserted now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There was hardly anything left of it. It got flooded almost every year we were there.’

  ‘None the less, take me there, if you will.’

  ‘We can’t stay too long, you promised.’

  ‘Clara, we have only just arrived. If I am to make a study . . .’

  ‘You promised,’ she says again, emphasising the latter word, looking nervously around. ‘What if someone sees us?’

  Cotton touches her arm. ‘Please, just take me there. We won’t stay long, and I will get you back, I assure you, in good time. Surely it is not far?’

  She concedes, and the pair of them walk east along the High Street, past the outfitting warehouses, ships’ chandlers, sail-makers, and a dozen more types of maritime establishments that appear upon every corner. Though the road is not particularly busy so early in the evening, they pass men of several nationalities, from Swedes and blue-jacketed Germans, to swarthy Lascars. It is possible that some of these sailors pass ironic comment on seeing such a respectable-lookinggentleman and servant-girl together in such a location, but their words and accents are incomprehensible, even to Henry Cotton.

  After five minutes or so, they finally come to a particular alley; at its entrance, a small row-boat is upturned upon the pavement, smelling of fresh tar upon its meagre hull. For a moment, it appears that this obstruction, the pride of some local river scavenger, is the point of interest for a gang of young boys who loiter nearby. As they draw nearer, however, it becomes apparent that the alley itself is a hive of activity, with a good few locals pushing past them, pressing to gain access.

  ‘I thought you said it was deserted?’ asks Cotton.

  ‘It was,’ replies Clara. ‘Something’s going on.’

  There is something strangely fearful in her voice and, without waiting for Cotton to catch up, she joins the push and shove of bodies that crowd down the narrow passage. Moreover, she moves her way through to the front of the crowd with forceful and colourful langu
age that quite belies any impression given by the neat servant’s uniform beneath her shawl. Cotton follows reluctantly behind, jostled and jeered by several larger men, whom he guesses to be dockers. At some point his hat goes flying; at another, he is sure he feels a hand tugging at waistcoat buttons in the hope of finding a watch-chain. His struggle is rewarded, however, as the alley opens into a courtyard. He recognises the large dilapidated house of Clara’s childhood as soon as he sees it. Moreover, in front of it there is a well in the centre of the yard, a small cylinder of brick work around which stand two men, pulling at ropes that dangle into the narrow shaft. And, nearby, a trio of blue-coated policemen, each with a bull’s-eye lantern. One peers anxiously into the well, the others vainly attempt to keep back the heaving crowd that has gathered. Cotton finds a place by Clara’s side at the front of the mob.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ he asks, but she merely stares at the scene in front of them.

  There is a shout, and the policeman stands back. One of the men on the ropes leans over and grabs hold; a wet and twisted bundle of rags is dragged from the mouth of the bricks and laid carefully upon the ground. All three of the policemen shine their lights upon it.

  Clara White recognises the face of her mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘CLARA! WAIT!’

  Henry Cotton calls out anxiously as Clara turns and pushes her way back through the crowd. She does not hear him, or chooses to ignore him. Whichever is the case, she does not wait. Instead, she fights against the surging tide of men and women, all keen to witness what the police have found, until she finds herself once more back on the High Street. There, with nothing to struggle against, she halts.

  ‘’Ere, what’s all this?’

  A woman stands before her, dressed in ragged clothing, nodding in the direction of the alley.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replies Clara, brushing her aside and walking blindly down the street. ‘Leave me be.’

  She stumbles along until she comes to another alley. In this case, however, it leads down to a set of steps, and then to one of the old wharfs by the river. Picking her way down the mossy stones, she continues on to the platform, where a half-dozen small boats are tethered. There is no-one else to be seen; and the only sound is that of the river lapping at the wooden supports. She sits down and looks into the black water. All along the bank, the lights of the warehouses and pubs are visible, but the water does not so much reflect them as absorb them, dissolving their brilliancy in its silt depths.

  ‘Clara!’

  There are footsteps behind her and she turns her head to see Henry Cotton, hesitantly picking his way along the slippery timbers of the wharf. It takes him a little while to come up next to her.

  ‘Why did you run off like that? Did you know that wretched woman?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Lord,’ says Cotton, stammering. ‘I am so sorry. I did not mean to . . .’

  He stops short, looking down at her, quite lost for words. Clara takes pity on him, and breaks the silence.

  ‘I used to come here,’ she says, looking out along the curve of the river. ‘Or, at least, not far from here, when I was a child. I used to think the river was beautiful at night.’

  ‘It is beautiful, after a fashion,’ says Cotton, unsure of himself. Gingerly, he sits down next to her.

  ‘No, it’s just mud and dirt.’

  ‘Clara, look, I am awfully sorry. I can’t begin to . . . Perhaps I should get you home?’

  ‘I’m all right. I thought I’d done with Wapping, you see? I thought ma would be fine in the refuge, and that was that. But she had to come back to it, didn’t she? I should have known she’d be here.’

  ‘But why did she come here? How . . . ?’

  Clara shrugs.

  ‘Here,’ he says, getting up. ‘Take my hand. I will take you home. Unless you want to . . .’ His voice trails off; again he’s uncertain of the words, merely inclining his head in the direction of Gravehunger Court, further down the river.

  ‘No, I don’t want to go back there,’ she says vehemently. ‘I don’t want to go back there ever again.’

  He nods, and offers her his hand. She takes it and he helps her upright.

  ‘My own mother died when I was a boy,’ he says, feeling that he should say something appropriate to the situation. Immediately, however, he feels it is quite inadequate. Clara, for her part, looks up at him. Then the blank mask of her face cracks and she begins to cry, tears welling in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, releasing her hand. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here, take this.’

  But she does not take it; rather, she just stands still, sobbing. For a moment, he fears she might faint, and takes hold of her arm. Nervously he reaches out and dabs her cheeks with the cloth.

  ‘Here, I am sorry. Please.’

  She takes the handkerchief from his hand, and collects herself enough to wipe her eyes. Without thinking, she mutely offers it back.

  ‘No, please, keep it,’ he says, looking at her face in the darkness. ‘You may need it.’

  She shakes her head, but she is still crying. He puts his hand to her cheek, wiping away a tear.

  Then, without a word of warning, he leans down and kisses her.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘WE THEREFORE COMMIT her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection . . .’

  A wet wintry day in February.

  Heavy rain bounces off the black umbrella held aloft by Henry Cotton. He looks down at the lowered head of Clara White, who stands by his side, under its protection; together, they listen to the clergyman complete the last few words of the simple funeral service. When he is finished, the man nods, pulls up the collar of his coat, and dashes away along the muddy path that leads out of the churchyard.

  The churchyard itself is an old, run-down place, situated east of the Limehouse Basin, by the side of the Bromley Canal. Although it is not a quarter-mile from the grand church of St. Anne’s upon the nearby Commercial Road, it bears no relation to that wellknown edifice. Instead, the plot maintains a peculiar freedom from any such ecclesiastical attachment. The small country church, to which it once belonged, was, in fact, levelled long ago, although whether this was achieved by the ravages of time or the work of a speculative builder, no-one can recall. Now the plot merely abuts the backyards of a hastily constructed row of cottages, and, to all appearances, is quite neglected. The land itself is, however, property of the parish of Wapping, though the circumstances under which the parish made such an acquisition have, likewise, slipped from popular memory. None the less, a wooden sign testifying to ownership, and addressing various cautions to trespassers, is posted upon the stone gateposts. Likewise, the churchyard is girded around by iron railings, to ensure its tombstones and solitary weeping willow are free from the unwanted attentions of local children, or any passers-by who might wish to loiter amongst the graves. But no provision has been made to protect the place against greedy Nature, and the spread of weeds and briars that accompanies the passing of each year. In consequence, what must once have been a neatly kept patch of consecrated earth resembles the unworthiest piece of wasteland. It is, regardless, the best resting place that the Parish of Wapping can provide for Agnes White, and, if truth be told, her grave is better than many a pauper’s lot. True, all the coffins that reside within it, half a dozen or more, are made of unplaned wood and stacked with only an inch of earth between them; but such are the pitfalls of relying upon the Parish.

  In any case, once the clergyman has departed, a grave-digger, who has been lingering by the gate, comes forward wordlessly, spade in hand. Although the rain still falls in dense black sheets, he begins to fill in the ground, shovelling in the clay-rich clods on to the wooden lid, which itself rests only a couple of feet below the surface.

  Clara, meanwhile, raises her head, covered by a tatty bl
ack bonnet, and looks up at Henry Cotton. He stands there silently, observing the man at his work.

  ‘I must thank you for paying for the service, sir,’ she says, her voice quiet and subdued. ‘I cannot think why you should, but I thank you.’

  ‘It was the least I could do,’ he replies. ‘If I had not taken you to Wapping . . . well, besides, the man hardly said a couple of dozen words.’

  ‘Still, it was more than I could do for her.’

  ‘Surely Dr. Harris might have made some arrangement?’

  Clara frowns. ‘No, not even a kind word. I had to beg him to let me come here.’

  Cotton raises his eyebrows, but says nothing in reply. A minute or two passes.

  ‘Shall we go then?’ he says at last. ‘It sounds as if you will be missed before long, even today. Were you expecting any others to come?’

  Clara hesitates, looking at the grave and the simple wooden cross that marks it.

  ‘I had thought my sister might be here. Perhaps Miss Sparrow.’

  ‘Miss Sparrow?’

  ‘The superintendent of the refuge. She was at the inquest yesterday.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. I would have gone myself, but I had business to attend to.’

  Clara stares at the grave.

  ‘Still, I do not think anyone is coming,’ says Cotton, observing that his companion still seems rooted to the spot.

  ‘No, it seems not,’ she replies. ‘We ought to go.’

  Cotton takes Clara’s arm, and leads her gently away, through the gateway to the churchyard. From there, they take a track that joins the footpath by the canal, and leads back towards Limehouse. The canal path is empty of traffic, as no-one else is promenading in such weather. None the less, Henry Cotton looks anxiously about before he speaks.

  ‘Clara,’ he says, ‘I hope you do not think too badly of me?’

  She says nothing, but it is plain from her face that she does not fully understand his meaning.

  ‘Why should I?’ she asks.