by M. J. Tjia
His eyes flick around the room. “Have they taken away her body, Mrs Dawkins?”
“Yes, sir, they have. And not a moment too soon, I might add,” she says. “And this lady here is just glancing at the photograph to make sure her dearly loved cousin is not one of the unknown souls brought along to our hospital.”
“Is that so?” He watches as I place the photograph of Nell back onto the table. “And there’s nothing new to report, Mrs Dawkins?”
The cleaner shakes her head. “No, Mr Chapman. We must thank the Lord that there is nothing new here for you to investigate.”
“The Inspector will be pleased to hear that.”
“Well,” I say, clasping my hands together. “I must leave you to your work, Mrs Dawkins. I am so relieved to find it’s not my dear Eleanor. Thank you so much for your assistance.”
She goes to escort me from the building, but Mr Chapman stops her. “No need, Mrs Dawkins. I will accompany the young lady out onto the street. I rather think there might be some questions I’d like to put to her.” With that he takes my elbow, quite firmly to my annoyance, and leads me back out into the dreary sunlight.
“You’re searching for a cousin, miss?”
I nod. What business is it of his anyway? I try to pass, but he keeps speaking to me.
“I believe we have met before.”
I pull my gloves more firmly over my wrists. “No, sir, I am sure we have not yet been introduced.”
“Ah. But I am sure I have seen you before. Did I not see you at a certain establishment on Pearman Street?”
“I don’t think so.”
“At a certain Madame Silvestre’s establishment?”
I pretend a look of mild offence. “Do I look like the kind of lady to be found at a Mme Silvestre’s establishment?”
His eyes take in my frilled bonnet and the blue silk dress and fur tippet. “No, you don’t,” he says, dryly. “Which is exactly what I thought when I saw you there yesterday.”
I allow my dimple to show. “Well, that’s very generous of you, sir.” I tread along the side-street towards the main thoroughfare. “To tell you the truth, I have been searching and searching for my cousin, Eleanor Carter. She has gone missing in this area, so I have approached all the inns and boarding houses, and even some… bagnios, as they’re called. That is how you found me in Mme Silvestre’s house. We are but a small family, so it fell upon me to discover her whereabouts.” My eyes search the road for a cab.
“But surely the police could be of assistance, then,” he says. “Why don’t you come to the station with me and report her missing?”
I wave my hand. “We have done that, of course,” I lie. “But nothing has come of it. And then when I heard of the body of that poor girl in the hospital mortuary I became so afraid that it might have been my Eleanor, I just had to check.”
He regards me for a few moments. “Look, over there is an eating house. I’ve frequented it numerous times. It’s not the most genteel of places, but the tea is drinkable and the bread is sound. Why don’t you join me in a meal and tell me about your cousin and her plight?”
I consider him for a few moments. I don’t like the way he’s watching me but it could be quite useful having a policeman on side. I demur though. “I don’t know who you are, apart from your name being Mr Chapman.”
“It’s actually Sergeant Chapman,” he replies. “I’m trying to become a Detective Sergeant, so I’m doing some of the investigations in my own time. Try to impress the boss, and all.”
I put out my hand, which he takes in his briefly. His hand is calloused, scratches my palm slightly. “Mrs Chancey.”
“But where is your husband? Why is he not by your side while you search for your cousin?”
I drop my chin and stare at the ground. This is my sorrowful look. “He died three years ago.” I lift my face again. “It is very sad, but I have learnt to be strong in the meanwhile.”
“No maid?”
“My circumstances don’t extend to that sort of extravagance,” I say, haughtily, trying to halt his questioning.
He appraises my attire again. He’s not convinced, I can tell. But what can he say?
We weave our way across the busy road, dodging carriages, dogs and street children until we are safely ensconced at a small, round table in Wheel’s Eating House.
Over a plate of fish paste sandwiches and watery tea, I tell Sergeant Chapman my by now well-rehearsed story of Eleanor Carter. He looks grave when I finish talking.
“So, this French fellow threw her over when he realised she was with child?”
“I’m afraid so. And now she is all alone. I don’t know what she is to do.”
“Are you absolutely sure she is even still in Waterloo?”
“I’m not sure of anything at the moment,” I answer, truthfully. “I will stay on a few more days but then I am afraid I will have to give up the search.”
Tea being finished, I gather up my reticule and tippet. Sgt Chapman accompanies me back out onto the pavement.
“Where do you plan to search next?”
“I might ask some doctors in the area if they have attended Eleanor,” I say, frowning. “There is one in particular I would be interested in speaking to.”
Sgt Chapman smiles. I like his smile. It’s crooked from where his upper lip is swollen over scar tissue. “I can see you’re quite the sleuth, Mrs Chancey. It’s a pity we don’t have a place for female detectives at the station.”
CHAPTER FIVE
This time I find the note on the front doormat as I let Agnes into the house with a basket of food.
“What’s that then?” she asks, as I open it to read.
Disease consumes your body! It will be cut from thee by force. Let this be a warning.
I crumple it up and shove it into my skirt pocket. “It’s nothing. Just a note from the neighbours. Their cat is missing.”
Leaving Agnes to empty the basket and neaten the kitchen, I return to the bedroom to finish dressing. I take out the note again to re-read. My heart drums so forcefully against my rib cage I can feel it when I press my hand to my chest. What kind of threat is this? Is somebody actually threatening to stab me? There’s something almost churchlike about the language of the note which actually makes me feel worse; the zealots I’ve met who think they’re acting on behalf of God, they’re scarier than anyone. I place the note down next to its predecessor. Someone’s clearly watching me. But I won’t be an easy quarry.
I rummage around in my purse until I find a small handgun. It has an ivory handle, cool to the touch, and a pretty filigree pattern is carved into the silver shaft. It’s served me well in the past. I check that it’s armed and then tuck it safely away.
I walk briskly to a certain lane in Waterloo that I never thought I would have to visit again. The house I’m after is not far from Silvestre’s, enclosed behind a black, wrought iron fence, second from the end of the cramped cul-de-sac. Two women sit on the doorstep of a neighbouring house, watching a near-naked baby play in a puddle and from another doorway a woman throws a bucket of slops into the street. I walk across the cobblestones as I’ve done several times in the past, both by myself or leading another dabber, until I reach its pine-green door. A small sign in the window declares that Dr E. Mordaunt, Healer of General Diseases and Fractures, practices within.
A small bell tinkles above the door as I enter.
A young man finishes writing in a ledger before looking up at me, his face a picture of indifference. His oily, wavy hair is parted in the middle and his suit is made of showy but cheap tan fabric.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Is it possible to see Dr Mordaunt?”
“No,” says the man, in a carefully-practiced, prim voice. “No, the doctor is out at the moment. He won’t be seeing any patients again until tomorrow. Would you like to make an appointment for then?”
I shake my head. “No, I think I will just return another time and hope for the best.”
I le
ave Dr Mordaunt’s rooms and return to the street, but instead of summoning a cab to take me home, I wait around the corner and nibble on a hot potato I buy from a vendor’s cart. Several people come and go from Mordaunt’s premises, but one man in particular, dark and clean-shaven, catches my eye. There’s something familiar about his frame, his gait, but for the life of me I cannot place where I’ve seen him before. He’s attired in a plaid, brown suit with sturdy black boots on his feet and a derby hat rammed low on his head. He hops onto an omnibus, and I lose sight of him before I can work out who he is.
I don’t have to wait much longer before I see Dr Mordaunt’s prissy assistant walk out onto the main road. Tossing the potato skin into the gutter I step forward and watch as he trots briskly down the road, before taking a sharp left-hand turn. I retrace my steps to Dr Mordaunt’s rooms. I rap on the door and hearing nothing, take out my trusty pin and effect a tidy, swift entrance into the reception room. The bell tinkles as it had before, and I stand very still, listening for any sound of life.
Tip-toeing softly down the side corridor, I pause. I want to have a look around Dr Mordaunt’s office, which is to my left, but at the end of the corridor is a closed door, and I know well what’s behind it. The faint, sweet scent of ether assails my sensitive nostrils and I gag. I’m glad the door’s shut. Taking a deep breath I admonish myself to get on with things, and enter the office.
Besides a large, mahogany desk by the window, and two hard-backed chairs, there’s an oak filing cabinet against the wall. I start there, but not really knowing what I’m searching for, besides maybe a file on Miss Carter, I give it up. From what I can see it appears that Dr Mordaunt keeps records of his more usual medical cases, but not of the operations he performs in the dead of night. I discover the key to his desk drawers on a hook at the back of the desk, and rummaging amongst the paperwork, writing utensils and empty bottles of whisky, I finally come across a notebook bound in black leather with a marker of red ribbon. Flicking through its pages, one line catches my eye: Therefore I followed her by foot… when I’m distracted by a rattle from the front door and then the tinkle of the bell above it. I can’t hide as my dratted gown makes it impossible to conceal myself behind anything smaller than an elephant so, shoving the notebook in my pocket, I sit down in a demure fashion on one of the chairs.
I turn innocent eyes upon Dr Mordaunt when he enters the room and reels in shock when he sees me.
“I am extremely sorry, sir, to give you such a fright,” I say. “I have been waiting here for quite a while, for I really need to speak to you upon a very important subject.”
Dr Mordaunt is a tall man with broad shoulders. His face is clean of any whiskers and a pair of thick spectacles magnify his hard eyes. He wears his hair unfashionably short and his jaw is almost always clenched. In other attire he could be mistaken for a paid street brawler. He frowns angrily. “But how did you get in here, madam?”
“I came in earlier while you were out. It seems your assistant forgot I was waiting here,” I answer.
He stares at me over his glasses for a moment and takes the seat opposite. “What is this important business you need to discuss with me?”
“It’s my cousin. She’s simply disappeared from this area. She was not well, so I was wondering if she came to see you.”
“What’s her name?”
“Eleanor Carter,” I say, taking her photograph out. “Have you seen her?”
Dr Mordaunt hesitates a moment over the likeness of Miss Carter, before turning his frown back to me. “What was she unwell with?”
I allow my eyelids to droop as I peer at him. “Let’s say she was… unfortunate.”
“How do you think I could help her then?” he asks, his voice terse.
I shrug. “I have heard that you can help a woman who is in… distress.”
His face reddens. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “I haven’t seen her. Ever.”
I know I’m not going to draw any more information from him so I stand up to take my leave.
“But you look very familiar,” he says, as I reach the doorway.
I stand stock-still, but don’t turn around. “I doubt you know me, sir.” I return to the street, the bell above the door tinkling behind me.
“Of course he didn’t recognise you,” laughs Tilly. “He was concentrating on your back end the last time he saw you.”
I smile too, but shudder at the same time. “My breakfast nearly crept up my insides to be back in that place.”
I take a sip from the tumbler of gin and pull a face. I’ll never like gin, but it’s better than the cheap, fierce brandy the men are knocking back. We’re seated at a tall table in The Old Trout, a tavern not far from Mme Silvestre’s establishment, smoking my elegant French cigarettes. We’re on high stools and our feet dangle below our frilly petticoats, displaying pretty ankles to the appreciative male clientele.
“You’re no closer to finding her then?” asks Tilly.
“No. It’s so frustrating. I’m not sure where to look next.”
“Ready for a bit of carousing, are you? You best come back to Silvestre’s with me, make a bit of pin money. That’ll take your mind off things.” She throws back the last of her gin and hops off her chair. “That said, I’d better get back or she’ll be as mad as a wet hen.”
As we leave the tavern, two men in cloth caps and grubby breeches nudge each other and follow. They’re rollicking drunk, and once outside, they call out to us, between whistles and burps.
“Come an’ gimme a suck, ye tasty tart.”
“Come an’ pull me pipe.”
Tilly turns to fling some choice insults back at them, but I tug her forward and walk her briskly to Mme Silvestre’s. When Mr Critchley opens the door to our strident knocking, he appears half asleep with his collar askew, his trousers loose at the waist.
“Can’t a man have a rest before work?” he moans. “Good evening, Hell.”
“Good evening to you too, love,” I say. “We’re in a bit of a hurry to come in because we have two loose buffoons on our trail.” I nod towards the men, who hesitate by the front gate.
“Oh, no,” says Tilly. “They’re not coming in, are they? That’d be just my luck to have to entertain them.”
One of the men clamps his hand on his crotch and yells, “Come on, I’ll fuck your tight cunny,” while the other doubles over.
“He’s heaving his guts up in Silvestre’s rose bushes,” says Mr Critchley, sternly. “She won’t like that.” He storms down the path, growling. The first man turns tail and staggers off but Mr Critchley just reaches them in time to kick the vomiter in the pants.
He returns, satisfied. “We don’t entertain that sort at Mme Silvestre’s. You know that,” he says as he ushers us into the hallway.
I follow them to the back of the house, where we find the other girls in the kitchen. I take a chair next to Tilly and join her in a supper of mutton soup washed down with watery gin. Mostly the women banter with us, although the French woman with the rich, brown curls and the Dutch girl, as pretty as a china doll, keep to themselves, rarely even speaking to each other. It’s not long before I fall into swearing and cheap talk, all my elocution lessons cast away for the moment. And although I would murder someone before I’d be trapped back in a place like this – it makes my blood quicken to realise the truth of this statement – I’d forgotten the fun, the closeness, of working within a group of dabbers. But finally, despite lewd pleas to stay the course of the evening, I leave, remembering that I have Dr Mordaunt’s notebook to inspect.
It’s quite dark when I reach the street. I’m a little muddled from the gin, so I look around for a cab. A woman’s selling hot milk from a make-shift stall, while a small crowd of workers on their way home swarm around a man selling meat-puddings. In the distance is Katie Sullivan’s coffee stand and directly across the way from me is a glossy, black carriage drawn by sleek, chestnut horses. But there’s no cab.
Walking in the direction o
f my temporary home, I step deftly over food scraps and manure. A short distance on I get that creepy feeling that someone is watching me, but looking over my shoulder cannot spot anyone who displays the slightest interest in my movements. I walk a little more briskly, keeping pace with those who are rushing home. I hug my shawl around my upper body so that my pendant is covered.
A grubby girl begs me to buy some onions. Normally I’m pretty nifty at avoiding street vendors but I’m distracted, and when I pause to consider her wares, I notice the black carriage has moved along the street too. The coachman, his top hat shiny in the lamp light, pulls his horses to a halt. I resume walking, and the carriage’s wheels roll again, rumbling along the road behind me. I can’t be sure if I’m imagining that the carriage is following me, so I stop in front of an old lady who crouches on the ground, selling posies of flowers which are spread out on a blanket. I buy a small bunch of impatiens and straightening up, notice that the carriage has stopped again. A tremor of apprehension tickles up my spine as I stare at the red curtains across the windows of the black carriage. Who’s inside? I can almost feel their gaze crawling over my skin.
I reach my street and the road is quite deserted. No vendors, no coaches, no stragglers. I can just about see the tiny house I need to reach on the next corner, but dread walking the gloomy distance with the carriage in attendance. How stupid to be so careless in this area. I’ve become too complacent living in Mayfair, too complacent with my personal safety. I glance back at the carriage. Maybe it contains the person who’s been leaving me the threatening notes. And what of the person who’s cutting up prostitutes? Am I to be next? But almost worst of all – what if the carriage contains men waiting to yank me off the pavement, ready to force from me what I’m not willing to give? My stomach twists with sick fear. I remember an evening, a very long evening, from years before. The memory of that black night ebbs and flows with every action and thought I ever have. The ripping pain. The smell of blood, their musk and their brutal body odour, the smell of the leather seat my face was rammed into. Most of all I remember the humiliation. I pick up the skirts of my gown and run as fast as my cumbersome petticoats allow.