Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

  The matron sat down beside her and unwrapped the dressing around Sophy’s head. Without a word, she inspected the wounds.

  “Well, these are healing nicely.” She waved her helper away. “We won’t be needing the dressings. The air will do the wounds good.”

  The girl backed out of the room without a word and disappeared. Sophy could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

  “No fever or chills, I take it?” Mrs. Tibbs asked.

  “None. Just a little weak.”

  “Not surprised.”

  Sophy turned and took the two five-pound notes from under her pillow.

  “The Captain is quite generous with his money, I’d say,” the matron said. “Keep it safe, and don’t make it a temptation for the other girls by flashing it around.”

  Sophy pushed the notes back under the pillow. She needed to know what to do, where to go, and what was expected of her. She looked up at Mrs. Tibbs.

  “Am I to leave today?”

  The woman didn’t immediately answer and looked at her. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “No,” Sophy replied uncertainly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you remember anything more than what you told the Captain the night he brought you here?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Sophy glanced at the window. She could see the brick house next door and beyond it the roofs of the neighboring buildings. She took a deep breath and looked back at the matron. The thought of having to find lodging in a strange city when she barely had enough strength to sit up in bed was terrifying.

  “Would it be possible to stay here for a little longer?”

  “For today. Beyond that, I shall need to send a message to our benefactor and ask his advice.” The woman reached over and pulled the basket from the other bed onto Sophy’s. “But it’s time you made yourself useful. Here is some mending. And there is a decent dress in there that you can change into. You won’t be given a frock like the rest of the girls. That is only for those who are invited to join us here.”

  The matron stood abruptly and started for the door, but then stopped. “You do know how to sew, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Sophy answered as brightly as she could.

  Mrs. Tibbs appeared satisfied with the answer and went out the door.

  Left alone, Sophy took the clothing from the basket, laying it on the bed beside her. She knew what sewing involved, but as she held the three balls of thread in her hand, her confidence wavered about her ability to do the job well. Holding the needle, she realized she was nowhere near as comfortable as she had been holding the Captain’s pistol.

  She changed out of the nightgown and into the dark woolen dress and busied herself with the mending. The room grew dark as the afternoon progressed. She didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, but looked up at the feeling of being watched. It was the same girl who had brought bandages that morning.

  “Supper in the kitchen for us, if ye be wanting it.”

  “Thank you. I certainly do,” Sophy replied, throwing the sewing to the side and following the girl down the stairs.

  Other than Mrs. Tibbs, she remembered three girls who had been frequent visitors to her room. One of them shared the room. Two others had taken turns feeding her and changing the bandage on her head when needed. All three of them minded their own business when they were with her, and there was no deviating from their assigned duty. Sophy was simply another task to them, like hanging out the linen, or washing the floor, or beating the carpet out in the alleyway beneath her window. None of the three had ever asked any questions.

  As she stepped into the kitchen, Sophy could smell the stew simmering on the stove. The other women shifted aside to let her eat, making no overtures to friendship.

  When she was finished, she placed her dish in the waiting tub of water and went out without a word.

  Several rooms opened off the central hall and she saw, as she passed, one of them served as a library, of sorts. She eyed the shelves of books and spotted a newspaper on a table. Sophy slipped in. Picking up the newspaper, she glanced at the year and date.

  “Well, at least I know that,” she murmured to herself as she looked at the headlines and columns. Moving to a window for light, she sat herself in a chair and was soon immersed in the news of London and the empire.

  “Anything interesting in there?”

  Sophy looked up and saw Mrs. Tibbs standing in the doorway. The woman’s normally stern features showed no anger.

  “It is all interesting, thank you.”

  Mrs. Tibbs moved over to her and pointed to a specific line. “Read this aloud.”

  Of all the news, Sophy thought, that was least interesting. She complied, though.

  “Railway Signals. The following circular has been issued by the Great Western Railway. On and after the 4th day of October--”

  “And this line.”

  “Marriages. On Saturday last, at St. George’s Hanover Square--”

  Mrs. Tibbs continued to point to different articles and lines in the newspaper, which Sophy read, knowing this was a test.

  “Who taught you to read so well?” the matron asked finally.

  “I don’t remember.” Sophy folded the paper and looked up.

  “What else can you do?”

  “My sewing is competent enough, I believe,” she said with a smile, hoping to make a friend.

  The matron’s features showed nothing. The older woman picked up a book that was sitting on the table, opened it to a random page, glanced at it, and handed it to Sophy.

  “Go to the desk, if you please, and copy out the first three lines from this page. You will find chalk and a slate in the top drawer.”

  If this was another test, Sophy knew she had passed it, for a few moments later Mrs. Tibbs was looking with open admiration at her penmanship.

  When the matron saw Sophy watching her, her expression hardened. “Go up to your room. I will send for you in the morning.”

  *

  After four days in bed, Sophy was unable to sleep, so she lay on her back watching darkness fill the room. The girl who occupied one of the other beds had come in and was now asleep.

  There’d been so much in that newspaper that Sophy had wanted to read. She’d never had a chance to look past the front page or search for any report of a missing person. Perhaps she had family out there looking for her right now.

  Urania Cottage was silent and dark. She didn’t know how late it was—and she was certain she’d get into trouble if discovered—but she left the room and crept downstairs.

  The newspaper was where she had left it. The parlor was dark, and she did not dare light a candle. Moving to the window, she pulled a curtain aside, hoping to gain some light from the street.

  Sophy saw her. The young woman dressed in white. She stood on the sidewalk, facing the window, motioning to Sophy to join her outside.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hammersmith was a village of old clergymen and drunkards, churches and taverns, and sometimes it was difficult to tell one from the other. Situated near the river to the west of London, the dark lanes of the sleepy village had been gradually swallowed up by the expanding reaches of city. What had once been a quiet country village was now a dank and sullen huddle of ramshackle dwellings, warehouses, and brothels.

  Edward was told the Broken Oar Tavern was a decrepit place, sitting on the navigable stream that opened directly onto the broad Thames. The ancient inn attached to it had, for a decade at least, been used by sailors drinking up their pay between voyages. The girl who came to his Berkeley Square house late in the afternoon had mentioned that she’d heard talk of a young midshipman who’d taken a room there with his woman for almost two months. Though the sailor came and went regularly, after the first day no one ever saw his girl. There were rumors of her being “quality.”

  It was well after dark when Edward arrived at the tavern. Taking a quick glance, he thought the descriptions he’d heard earlier were far too generous. There ap
peared to be not a straight line or a sound piece of timber in the structure.

  Edward ducked his head and entered a taproom thick with smoke. The smell of stale urine and old ale vied with tobacco for dominance. A lamp hung on a post by a bar and a small fire flickered on a large hearth, but the dark corners hid the faces and the transgressions of those wiling away their hours. Between him and the bar, two dozen faces turned and measured his worth, including several painted women of indeterminate age who sat on laps or hung on the arms of other customers.

  A short man peering from the casks and bottles lining the wooden surface of the bar nodded to him. “First time ’ere, sir, I reckon. So what can I be gettin’ for ye?”

  “I’m told you let out rooms,” Edward said over a shriek of drunken laughter.

  The barman grinned knowingly and jerked his head toward the end of the bar. There, the proprietor was waiting and opened a half-door into a small, stale-smelling parlor beyond. No one occupied it, but the noise of the tavern filled the room.

  “Your office,” Edward commented, looking at the empty fireplace on the far wall and the table and two chairs in the center of the room.

  The proprietor touched his nose with a crooked forefinger and moved around the table.

  “Indeed, sir.” He settled into a chair and motioned Edward into the other.

  As Edward sat, he turned his chair slightly. He had no desire to sit with his back to the door, knowing that more than one man had gone into a tavern like this, only to wake up on some outbound Indiaman with a lump on his head the size of Gibraltar.

  “Now,” the proprietor continued. “What would ye be wishing for as far as the room . . . time wise . . . and what kind of trinket ye like to be having delivered to ye fer yer pleasure?”

  “Trinket?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Do you let rooms without a trinket?”

  “I would be doing that, sir, if ’twas to be made worthwhile fer me.” The man’s face took on a pained expression. “And if I had any of ’em sitting empty. But I am a poor citizen, trying to keep the wolves from the door, as ’twere, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “But a . . . well, trinketless room brings me two pence a night, if I can let it out. Deliver a woman to the door, though, and I’d be making five shillings.”

  “Five shillings?”

  “Well, four shillings for ye, sir . . . depending.”

  “Depending?”

  “Aye, depending on the value of the trinket ye’d be wanting.”

  Edward stared across the table, calculating that there was no way Amelia would have had the money to stay here for all this time.

  “And what kind of girl is worth the five shillings?”

  “Glad ye ask, sir. Indeed, I am.” The man warmed to the discussion. “Nothing like these old buzzards out there, ye can be sure.”

  “What, then?”

  “Exotics, sir.”

  “Exotics?”

  “Aye. Exotics. Straight from the Orient, they are. Granted, none are exactly virgins. We get ’em after the gentlemen of yer sort in London are done with ’em. But fine wenches they are still, sir.”

  Edward glared at the man. “And how do you get these exotics?”

  “Why . . .from Shill, o’ course.”

  “Shill? Who is this Shill?”

  The little man lowered his voice, but there was no mistaking the note of pride in his tone. “I shouldn’t be saying, but he’s the very source of all these quality-type exotics. These ain’t any slut or dolly mop picked off the street, if ye catch my drift.”

  “This Shill fellow must have quite a gang, to be able to make such arrangements.”

  The proprietor glanced at the door of the bar cautiously before looking back at Edward. “I’ve never seen him, sir, to be blunt, but he’s the cock o’ the roost in this business. And I can be arranging a virgin fer ye through him,” the proprietor continued quickly. “I can have her brought in, if ye are willing to pay . . . say, a pound . . . and wait a week for it.”

  Edward felt faintly sick. Dockside whores were common in every port he’d ever dropped anchor. The military stationed abroad, he knew, even made arrangements for women to be brought in and made available to their soldiers. But this was different. This smacked of slavery, and of the vilest kind. Human trafficking of women from the Far East, from Africa, from the islands of the West Indies. Legality and morality be damned; there was money to be made. So, too many simply chose to ignore the situation. As he himself had been ignoring it for his entire life.

  And the Broken Oar was no different than dozens of other places he’d visited these past few weeks while searching for his niece.

  He forced himself to focus on why he was here. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a shilling. “That is not for a room or a trinket. But for some information.”

  The coin bounced on the table only once before disappearing into the little man’s pocket.

  “Do you have a sailor, a midshipman, who’s been hanging about?”

  “Hanging about, sir?”

  “Yes, a young man who has been renting rooms from you for the past couple of months?”

  “Indeed, no, sir. I been telling ye my prices. I have many a returning customer, but mostly none that can afford to stay more than a couple of nights.”

  “I had a girl come to my house today claiming that a midshipman named Henry Robinson has been keeping rooms here for several months.”

  The man shook his head slowly. “I know of no such fellow, sir.” He scratched his nose thoughtfully. “What was the girl’s name who would be telling such a tale?”

  “Jemima.”

  “Jemima . . . with the white mark like a cloud in one eye?”

  “That would be the girl.”

  “Say no more, sir. Everyone in this place knows the slut. She has a terrible wicked tongue and a more terrible weakness fer the sauce, if ye be getting my drift.”

  “I do.”

  “This Jemima used to be a reg’lar ’ere. A complete waste of a woman. Why, she’d get a fellow or two to be buying ’er drink after drink until she got so dead drunk that they’d carry ’er off and have their way with ’er fer nothing. No profit to nobody. . . ’erself included.”

  Edward was afraid the man was telling the truth. The woman’s language had been so coarse when she’d come to his house that his doorman had nearly turned her away. And when Edward had finally spoken with her, he could smell the alcohol on her.

  “She was bad fer business, and we had a falling out, ye might say. Took four of us to throw ’er out, and I should tell ye that the whole crowd enjoyed seeing ’er sitting splay-legged in the mud of the lane. Ye never heard such language coming from a woman. Like a jack tar on a bender, she was. The long and short of it, sir . . . she’s banned from coming into the Oar. Indeed, now ye understand why she’d be saying such things. Anything to be bringing me trouble.” He shook his head forlornly. “And me, a poor citizen, just trying to keep the wolves from the door.”

  This was nothing more than what Edward had expected. Another dead end.

  He tossed another shilling on the desk. “I’ll be looking about the village for a while. Find me if you think of anything else.”

  “My pleasure, to be sure, sir,” the man said, brightening up. “And if ye see something ye’d like and decide to be staying an hour or fer the night, ye just let me know.”

  Moments later, Edward was glad to be breathing in the damp air outside. Foul as it was and heavy with the smell of the river, it was still more to his liking than the air of the Broken Oar.

  At the upper end of the way, he knew his carriage was waiting for him. Perhaps this is all a waste of time, he thought, listening to the muffled noise of the taproom behind the shuttered windows. He looked up at the three-quarter moon above and shook his head.

  As he started up the lane, he heard the soft cries of a struggling woman mingled with grunting of a man. The sound was coming from a narrow alley next to t
he Broken Oar. At the end of the alley, Edward saw a wharf in a clearing. It was not difficult to imagine a women being taken by force there. He made a quick decision and went quietly down the alley. Beyond the wharf, the short mast and patched sail of a boat were visible, bobbing up and down at the end of a rickety dock. The scene unfolding in the open yard, however, made him freeze momentarily in his tracks.

  A cloaked woman—wielding an oar that was longer than she was tall—strode to where a grunting ox of a man had his struggling victim pinned beneath him. Edward moved quickly across the littered yard. Before he could reach them, however, the woman swung the oar, striking the attacker on the side of the head with enough force to knock the man unconscious.

  The assailant lay slumped over his victim. And as the woman with the oar raised it again, Edward recognized her in the light of the moon.

  “Sophy!” he said. She whirled to face him. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Captain Seymour?” Sophy would never have recognized him if he hadn’t spoken.

  “Bloody hell,” he growled, moving briskly toward her. “Did you just kill this man?”

  “I certainly hope so,” she replied, looking down at the breathless woman, still struggling to free herself from the dead weight of her attacker. Grabbing the man’s hair, Sophy yanked his head back. He slid to the ground in a heap. “No. He’s breathing. Too bad.”

  The victim was young, a tiny thing, and she was shivering violently. Tears were pouring down her face, reflecting streams of moonlight on her dark skin, and Sophy pointed to a shadowy corner against the building.

  “Over there, where you won’t be seen.” The woman seemed to understand, and she quickly moved into the shadows.

  “What are you doing here, Sophy?” he asked, more sharply. “I was told you were still at Urania Cottage.”

  “I am still at the Cottage,” she said quietly. “Three men have just gone into that long shed attached to the tavern with the other women they have brought. Do you have your pistol with you, Captain?”