She Be Damned

by M. J. Tjia

“They must have been in agony.” I shake my head and place my fork on the plate. “I don’t understand. Why try to help these women but then leave them to bleed out and die?” I want to know more of the wounds the poor girls are receiving, but shy away from discussing their sexual organs with him. The botched abortions are bad enough, but why does this creature also find it necessary to remove their buds too? Is it to inflict pain or to simply deprive them of pleasure? I suddenly remember a discussion at my last soiree in Mayfair – wasn’t there talk of a doctor who was secretly slicing the buds from women to keep them sane? It seemed so ludicrous and cruel. I will never understand it. But I’d drunk a little too much champagne by then, I don’t remember the conversation clearly… What was that doctor’s name again? He had two names. B, B? It always comes back to some bastard of a doctor.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he or she is not well-trained?” Bill answers.

  “She?”

  He places the last bit of meat in his mouth and chews. “Well, yes. Often these back street abortions – these ‘regulating’ operations – are done by women. Mind you, usually the abortion is carried out in a much simpler fashion than the surgical removal of the whole… area.”

  He’s right. Many madams have a rummage around their girls’ insides with a piece of wire or an injection of some sort. Maybe it is a woman mutilating the girls. Silvestre? She did look a bit put out the other night when I questioned her.

  I glance up from my plate and catch Bill watching me closely. “What do you think?” he asks me.

  And I wonder, with a cold rush of dismay, if he considers me a suspect. It would be all too laughable if I didn’t know from hard experience how devious, or even plain inept, our esteemed police force can be. I take too long to answer. I flounder between offering up Silvestre as a suspect and wondering how guilty I’d appear if I protest my innocence.

  Bill continues, as he gestures for the waiter to take the empty plates. “Surely it can’t be carelessness? It really is hard to say, at this stage. I think we need to know more about this Dr Blain, don’t you?”

  “I think you need to know more about him, not we. My only concern is to find my cousin, Eleanor.”

  “But surely you are curious to know if Blain could be our man?” he says.

  I cannot deny a slight twinge of interest, but shake my head. My only mission here is to find Eleanor, and in that I’m doing an abysmal job.

  “But what if he has your cousin right now? What if he is trying to regulate her right now?”

  Mutilate her, he means. “Don’t say that.”

  “I will need to follow him,” says Bill, tapping the table. “It will be tedious work, but he is our only lead at the moment.”

  “That might take you an age until you find anything incriminating,” I say. “It may not even be him.”

  Bill studies my face for a few moments, and I stare back.

  “Lion’s Inn, did you say?”

  “Yes. Apparently he sups there.”

  “Let us summon a cab. We will have a look at this Dr Blain,” he says, standing abruptly from the table. “Come along?” He holds his hand out to me.

  If I object would that seem as though I have something to hide? I’ve nothing to go on with the Eleanor Carter case, and I’m interested to see this Dr Blain, after all. “All right. I will accompany you for a short while.”

  LI LEEN

  It is wretched this waiting to be of use. I might as well return to Limehouse and scrub floors or prepare dumplings until my fingers cramp and become deformed. Even that would be better than being cooped up in this house like a rooster in a straw cage. It is in these idle moments, when there is nothing to busy my hands or tasks to fret my mind, that I remember. I remember the jasmine scent of the coffea flowers. I remember my favourite dish, konro, and the tang of the lemongrass as the soft beef falls from the bone leaving a slick of gravy on my lips. I remember sitting in the shade beneath the guava tree, slicing pieces of the fruit’s pink flesh to pop in my thirsty mouth. Most of all I remember my mother. I remember the smell of her, when she laid her head against my chest to hug me close. I remember how the palms of her small, delicate hands were always rosy and how her breath smelt of cacao seeds. And I will never forget the last words I ever heard her say: You must stop looking at my daughter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Lion’s Inn, with its striking, slate-grey façade and ox-blood trim around the doorway and bay windows, is located on a busy crossroads. It’s sandwiched between a bakehouse and a stable yard and is diagonally across from an upholsterer’s workshop. It’s only mid-afternoon, long before the steady stream of workers begin their trudge home, although the costers are already fervently pushing their products on those who do pass. Bill leaves me by a fruit stall and has a quick look around the interior of the Lion’s Inn. On his return he shakes his head. “He doesn’t seem to be there. The barman said he usually arrives around tea time and sits in that bay window there.” He points across to the window closest to the stable yard.

  He suggests we have a stroll around the immediate area to pass the time. One street over we find a crescent of newly built homes which overlooks a charming park. Bill leads me to a bench and wipes it clean with his kerchief before we sit.

  “Are you quite comfortable?”

  “Yes, quite, Bill, thank you.” I stare straight ahead, watching a sparrow hop on the grass. If I’m silent he will feel compelled to speak. In my long career of tending to men, I’ve found that they enjoy talking about themselves. And although I’m a master of entertaining chatter, as careful as I am, small truths sometimes slip out.

  However, he remains quiet too. Glancing up at him I see that amusement crinkles the sides of his eyes. “You think if you’re quiet enough I’ll do all the talking,” he says. “You really are a loss to the police force.”

  I lift my shoulder. “I wouldn’t enjoy wearing that itchy, woollen uniform in any case.” I look at his suit and ask, “And why do you not wear your uniform anymore?”

  “I’m still on leave from my normal duties to carry out these investigations. Inspector Kelley thinks it is best if I am in informal dress.”

  I turn to face him. “Tell me, how did you come to be a policeman?”

  He takes the hat from his head for a moment and runs his hand through his fair curls. A hardness shifts across his face before it relaxes into its usual complacency. “I was up at St Andrews until a few years ago, but my poor old father could not afford to keep me there. He’s a scientist, you know, up at the Royal Institution, but his last experiment failed, left a hole in the family finances. I was reading law, so rather than become a clerk in the dusty law firm my father had in mind, I joined the police force. Much more exciting.” He taps the skirt of my gown with his hat. “It’s now your turn. You must tell me what you do when you are not searching for your cousin.”

  I watch his hands for a moment. There are scrapes across his knuckles, alongside the inside of his right forefinger. His hands are strong, a worker’s hands. I like men’s hands. I like holding them, moulding them to mine, feeling for the grooves and creases of their lives. I like that a man’s palm is larger than my palm, that his fingers can engulf mine. I’ve found that often, before I discover the intimate details, I can learn much from a man’s hands. His pastimes, his passions… maybe even some proportions. As Bill twists his hat, I can see that his fingers are long. I press my lips together, suppressing a grin, and quickly glance up into the shadows of the oak tree above.

  “The usual things. A little sewing, a little playing of the pianoforte and sometimes, when I become very low and bored, a light supper, a card game maybe, with family.” Nothing more innocuous than a widow on a modest independence, after all.

  I look into his pale blue eyes. If only I could know if he considered me a suspect or an accomplice.

  Placing the looped ribbon of my reticule over my wrist I stand up. “I think we should pass the Lion’s Inn again and see if Dr Blain has arrived yet.”

/>   We make our way back to the busy crossroad, and standing by the fruit stall again, see that a good-looking man is seated in the bay window.

  “That must be him,” I say. “He doesn’t look that evil from this distance.”

  Bill smiles down at me. “You would be surprised.”

  I nod, keeping my face blank. If only he knew what I’d seen. But I’ve left that all behind. I smile up at the policeman and say, “You are right. I am being silly.”

  He rubs his chin in thought. “I must keep an eye on him now. I will send you home in a cab. You won’t be offended if I do not escort you?”

  I peer at Dr Blain through the window. “Surely your plan to follow him will yield no results. And if they did, it might take a long time.” I turn back to Bill. “Allow me to interview him. I might be able to make his acquaintance – see if we are following the right clues.”

  “But in that case I could just march in there, make his acquaintance myself.”

  “Of course you could,” I agree. “But he’d be more likely to let his guard down with me, after all.”

  A troubled frown forms on his face. “I don’t think I can allow you to do that. It might be dangerous.”

  “How dangerous can it be? We will be in the crowded dining area of a public house and you will be right here keeping an eye on things.”

  He rubs his chin again. “You may be right. But what will you discuss with him? How will you meet him?”

  I re-tie the bow of my bonnet at a coquettish angle and arrange the fur tippet around my shoulders. “Leave that part to me.”

  Luckily the dining room of the Lion’s Inn is crowded with folk having a drink after work, early supper or tea. There are no vacant tables so I make my way to Dr Blain’s table, and hesitate. When he finally notices me, I give him my most winning smile and ask, entreatingly, “Do you mind if I sit at your table, sir? There does not seem to be any other room in here to have a nice cup of tea. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  He folds his newspaper neatly into quarters and places it next to his teacup. He blushes a little as he stands up and lifts his hat from his head. “Not at all, madam. Please take a seat.”

  He’s a tall, angular man with a very upright posture. He’s handsome, but his suit is a little too neat, his brown hair and beard trimmed a little too fastidiously. The intensity of his stare under the straight, dark eyebrows is quite disconcerting.

  “Would you care to share my tea?” he asks.

  I glance at the dark tea in his mug and the assortment of cakes on a saucer. “Thank you. That would be delightful.”

  Dr Blain attracts the attention of the waiter and orders another cup and once this is done he opens out his newspaper and continues to read.

  My quarry hides behind his newspaper and, glancing out the bay window, I can see Bill at a safe distance. I pour myself tea into the cup the waiter has placed before me.

  “I see that the news is not so dreadful anymore coming from the Americas,” I say, loudly, peeping around the side of the newspaper to catch Dr Blain’s attention. “War is so distressing.”

  He looks at me in surprise, then shakes out the newspaper and turns over the front page to read. “Ah, yes. Terrible business. I have relatives living in Tennessee. It was a very worrying time for them.” He places the newspaper on the table between us. “I’m afraid the paper is often full of terrible news.”

  I allow for a concerned expression to wash over my face. “It’s not a very happy day, is it? The only reason I am here is because I am waiting for a letter from my sweet, young cousin to be delivered, but every day I return and each day I am disappointed.”

  “That’s no good. Is she not in London?”

  I shake my head, sadly. “I am not sure. She has run away from her family and we are very worried for her safety. She left word that if she desired to contact us she would leave a message here at the Lion’s Inn.” I take a sip of tea. “I’ve taken a house nearby for the duration. My home is actually in Watford. So far away.”

  Dr Blain reaches for his newspaper again. “I am very sorry for your difficulties, madam.”

  “Not at all. It is very kind of you to listen to a stranger’s woes. You must be a very charitable gentleman.” I put my hand out so that he can’t pick up the paper. “Please let me introduce myself. Mrs Heloise Chancey.”

  He accepts my hand in his. “Dr Nicholas Blain,” he stammers.

  I pretend to be struck by a thought. “Maybe you have seen her. Yes, maybe she has been here and you have seen her, sir.” Rummaging around in my purse I bring out the photograph of Eleanor. “Have you seen my cousin?”

  I watch him closely as he gazes at the photograph. He looks at it for a few moments, and rubs his thumb down its surface. “I may have,” he says. “I have a practice near here, I am a surgeon, and she may have been in to see me, but I really cannot remember.” He shakes his head as he passes the photograph back to me. “Maybe I should keep this likeness for a few days? Show it around to my neighbours and patients? Someone else may have seen her.”

  It’s a little difficult to tug the photograph from his grip. “That is so generous of you, sir, but I’m afraid this is the only copy I have and naturally it is something I treasure too much to part with.” I sigh. “I will just have to return here every evening until I hear more.”

  “What a chore for you, Mrs Chancey,” he says. “But I am here most evenings. I will keep you company. Unless, of course, Mr Chancey objects.”

  I look away, just as I always do when I talk of my husband. It’s then that I glance down at the open newspaper and a certain article catches my eye. I pull it to me and read the title out loud. “Ghastly murders of prostitutes in Waterloo. Police baffled.” I don’t need to pretend shock because I didn’t realise the press had notice of the deaths, but I’m quick-witted enough to glance at Dr Blain to gauge his reaction. He frowns and tilts his head to scan the article upside down. His mouth tightens in anger as he reads.

  By the time our cab rumbles up to the house on Frazier Street the rain’s falling heavily. Bill shrugs out of his jacket and stepping down from the coach he holds it high so that I can shelter beneath it as we run to the front door. Once under cover I brush raindrops from my hair and peer quickly onto the dark street. There’s no dark carriage lurking in the shadows.

  Bill smiles at me crookedly, and the steady gleam of admiration in his eye gives me a thrill of pleasure. I thank the sergeant for his assistance and sweep through the doorway. I press my back to the closed door and grin. No nasty note has been put through the letter slot and I’m pretty sure the sergeant has taken a liking to me despite himself. It’s been a good day.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning dawns glorious and warm, but I wake with a headache, the tail-end of a dream weighing upon me. I remember trying to run, run away, but my feet couldn’t make purchase on the ground, my legs swimming through the air. It’s left me feeling unsettled, so I enjoy a leisurely lie-in followed by a light breakfast of tea and raspberries while Agnes dusts the living areas. The girl lingers most mornings, finding inane tasks with which to fill the time. I reckon, from her chatter, she has a poor time of it in Silvestre’s house, between the bossiness of the cook and the disdain of the working girls. I half listen to the girl’s complaints of the brothel’s bed sheets as I write a quick letter to Sir Thomas outlining my progress in the investigation.

  “Two days ago wus the wust,” she says. “Look at me ‘ands, from all that scrubbing. All chapped they is. Those sheets ‘ad all kind of muck on ‘em.” She wrinkles her nose at the memory.

  I place the sealed letter and some pennies into her outstretched hands. “That’s terrible, Agnes. Why don’t you post this note for me and have a short rest. Treat yourself to a bun or tart.”

  I leave the house not long after Agnes. Birds peck at the sparse patches of grass and quarrel over space in the tree branches. I let my shawl slip to my elbows and revel in the feel of the warm rays of sunlight caressing th
e back of my neck. I come across Chat who’s sitting in the gutter, scraping at a splotch of stubborn mud. Despite the sunshine the roads and walkways are still damp and clogged with refuse.

  “Ah. It’s my saviour from the other evening.” I smile down at the boy. His stubby fingers are smudged with filth but his bright, grey eyes beam clear from his dirt-streaked face. “What are you scraping up there?”

  He holds up two rag bags. “I got some dog turds in ‘ere, and this one I keeps for rubbish nobody wants no more but me da’ can sell.” The stench from the opening in the bag wafts up and my stomach squelches in revulsion. “Bu’ whatever the tanners give me for the dog gems I get to keeps for me self.”

  “Is that how you make your money?”

  The boy resumes scraping at the mud of the street and shrugs. “The renters sometimes give me a few coppers for cleaning up the road. It’s enough for me da’ an’ me.”

  I bring out three halfpennies from my purse. “In that case, please take this,” I say, offering the money to the boy, before moving off. “I appreciate you keeping the path outside my house so clean.”

  The curtains are drawn at Silvestre’s house, and chaos ensues outside The Old Trout where the brewer’s dray has become ensnared with a donkey cart. The man with the dray is being harangued by the tavern keeper while a costermonger pushing a barrow of radishes joins the affray on behalf of the donkey cart owner. I’m tempted to pause and watch the fun, as insults are exchanged between the men while two female vendors fling curses from across the way.

  Turning onto a wide thoroughfare lined with majestic plane trees and a park to the side, I inspect some pastries displayed in the window of a bakehouse. I remember the days when a soft, sugary bun was the surest reward for a long day on the street. I can almost taste the cinnamon glaze, but it’s so hard to squeeze into my corsets as it is, I resist the urge to buy myself one. A barker shouts to passing shoppers, extolling the virtues of his ginger beer and three horseback riders race noisily down the wide lane, so it’s no surprise it’s a few moments before I realise someone is calling out to me. Looking over my shoulder I notice a short woman with wiry brown hair beckoning to me from the other side of the street. I wave back and hitching up my skirts, weave through the horse and carriage traffic until I join the other woman.