Mina had not come home last night. Her bed sat empty this morning. That damnable book lying beside it, taunting me.
Mina. What have you done?
Mrs Pugh bustled into the room with a silver tray; one solitary envelope atop. “Your admirer again, is it?” she said, as I dutifully took the missive from its resting place.
“I have no admirers, Mrs Pugh,” I said, noting the familiar handwriting, the Dutch East Indies stamp in the top right-hand corner, and the soft scent of jasmine on the air.
“Piffle!” she exclaimed. “This must be the tenth letter you’ve received.” She leant closer, squinting at the handwriting. The urge to cover the envelope was great. “Nice penmanship, ‘n all,” she commented. “Where’s it from, then?”
“Nowhere,” I said, idiotically.
“Well, then,” she huffed, stepping away. “I shall leave you to it.”
I grimaced as she exited the dining room, regretting my poor behaviour. My eyes flicked across the empty table to where Mina usually sat. It was early, none of the other lodgers had yet risen. I sat alone, and the solitary silence was deafening.
Shaking the maudlin thoughts away, I snatched up a clean knife and tore open the envelope.
My Dearest Anna,
No gifts this time, only my admiration and, I’ll admit, surprise.
You honour me with your continued respect.
For is it not imitation that makes one feel flattered?
I am flattered, dear Anna.
Sincerely.
MM.
I stared at the writing, trying to make sense out of something that was clearly designed to muddle the senses. The jasmine scent was feminine, the handwriting masculine. The sentiment endearing. The hand-drawn image of a bird in the top right-hand corner intriguing. The threat, for there was a threat hidden between the lines, alarming. Imitation. Imitation of what and who? And if I failed to continue to imitate this ghost of an admirer, then what should come to pass?
His anger? His disdain? His ill favour?
I folded the letter and slipped it into my reticule. I was not going to be waylaid by immaterial matters. MM was clearly someone affected by the mental illnesses, and as they appeared to be residing in the Dutch East Indies, their threat was a distant one.
Of course, how someone in the Orient should be acquainted with me…
My Dearest Anna. Such familiarity.
I stood from the table, aware I had hardly eaten a morsel of food and made my way into the entryway. I was reaching for my travel cloak when Mrs Pugh bustled out of the kitchen.
“Off then?” she enquired, none the worse for wear from our earlier conversation.
“Yes. I intend to explore Whitechapel again. Wilhelmina was there, I am certain of it. I just need to ask the right questions.”
“That inspector and fine young sergeant, they ain’t searching for young Miss Cassidy, too?”
“Indeed,” I replied, donning my thick, dark cloak. The weather had not improved one bit since yesterday. Fog had danced upon my windowsill when I awoke and beckoned with its wispy fingers. “However, they concentrate on Lambeth,” I added. And as Inspector Kelly had expressly forbidden me to accompany them, I had to resort to drastic and more surreptitious methods.
“I don't know, Dr Cassidy,” Mrs Pugh said, wrinkling her apron as usual. “Ain’t right to go searchin’ without a gentleman to escort you.”
“I am more than capable of making my own enquiries, Mrs Pugh.”
“I’m sure you is, miss. But Whitechapel is not for the faint of ‘eart.”
“I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
She didn't look convinced. But then she didn’t know the secrets I had squirrelled away inside my reticule and parasol. I ducked my head and looked out the front window. Hardly a day to be protected from the sun. The parasol would stand out, unfortunately. But needs must.
Mrs Pugh rushed forward to the hallway stand and began to scribble down a note in a careful hand. She offered it to me.
“Who is Will Dumble?” I asked, reading the note once received. “And what and where is ‘The Blind Beggar’?”
“’Tis me cousin. And that there is the finest tavern in all of the East End. New, it is. Right proud of ‘imself is William.” She drew closer, lowering her voice as if a lodger might be eavesdropping and what she had to say was scandalous. Or condemning. “Not a thing goes on in Whitechapel that he don’t know ‘bout. Mind you,” she added, drawing away, “not much he don't profit from, neither.”
“I see.”
“He’ll do you right, Doctor. Just tell ‘em, Polly Pugh sent ya. Tell ‘em, Polly got her cracker, ’n all, then.”
I stared at the woman and then nodded. There was little else to do; she was trying to help me. And whoever this Will Dumble turned out to be, cognizant of goings on in Whitechapel or not, it was a place to start.
“Whitechapel Road, miss,” Mrs Pugh said, nodding her head toward the paper.
“Anywhere near Leman Street?” I asked.
“A lifetime away and just ‘round the corner.”
“I see.”
Mrs Pugh offered one last nod of her head and scurried back to her kitchen. I could hear movement on the landing above, so I folded the note with Will Dumble’s name and tavern on it, and placed it in my reticule, along with MM’s letter. Then tapped my parasol on the wooden floorboards reminiscent of a certain police inspector and walked out the door.
Hailing a hansom took a few minutes. The streets were practically bare. The fog as thick as any pea soup Mrs Pugh could manage, the air heavy with unmentionable threats. But having eventually flagged down a passing cab, I made good time to Whitechapel. Whose streets seemed a bit more populated, despite the dour weather.
Colour seemed to have leached out of the world, however; vibrancy a word not mentioned here. Young boys dressed in dark clothing pushed oversized carts across filthy cobblestones calling out their wares. Children played in the mud and muck, spinning hoops, kicking rocks, a solitary empty can fought over by barefooted urchins for the right of next kick. Awnings hadn’t been lowered, the sunlight attempting to break through the clouds so dim. Large windows showcased a variety of goods. From J. Sainsbury’s grocers to H. Shaw fishing tackle, to Broom, Reid & Harris photographic dealers, and finally Dick’s Depot full of leather boots. A surprising number of proprietors for what appeared a working class neighbourhood.
But a swift glance down the numerous alleyways that abutted Whitechapel Road and one became acquainted with the real East End. Clotheslines hung across narrow gaps, laden with garments in every shade of grey. Tired looking mothers held scrawny undersized children in their laps as they sat on stoops begging a penny for supper. Fights and fisticuffs broke out in several shadowy corners; all those who passed turning a blind eye. Soot covered children carrying the tools of their trade, walked heads tipped down one after the other. Furtive eyes hidden behind dirty hair, not a smile to be seen on their grimy faces. Their malnourished hunched shoulders striking a discordant note in my heart.
I stood across the street from a tall building, one that had not had the chance yet to slather itself in dirt. Three stories high, red bricks almost gleaming, golden archway atop pristine painted black doors. The Blind Beggar stood out like a shining beacon and an irrepressible representation of hope for the future.
Gathering my nerve to cross the inordinately busy street, I took a step forward only to stop mid-stride at the sight before me.
Henry Tempest, Esquire, checking over his shoulder as he pushed through the door of Will Dumble’s tavern.
A more incongruous vision I had never seen.
Why Didn't You Say So?
Anna
I waited as long as I dared before following. Then crossed the street and pushed through the door. The smell of hops and gin met my nose. My booted feet stuck to the wooden floor. Raucous shouts filled the air, my eyes scanning for their origin. Hard, worn workers sloshed over-filled jugs of ale, their laughter an aberrat
ion when contrasted with such exhaustion on their faces.
The tavern wasn't as full as I'd expected, but then it was early in the day. Still, there were tables overflowing with people playing card games, ladies plying their wares, sitting on gentlemen's thighs, nimble fingers disappearing down open trousers. Money exchanged hands in more than one darkened corner, followed by whispered conversation, eyes warily watching their surroundings.
This was a dark den of sin, but strangely it still held welcome. The warmth of a tall, stone fireplace took up half of a wall. The low light of gas lamps was strategically placed about the room. The odd bundle of dried flowers hung limply from the rafters.
I smiled up at the sight, wondering if that had been Mrs Pugh's addition.
Bare wooden furniture glowed in the low light of the room. Straw scattered across the floor, attempting to catch spilt drinks. The smell of pork roasting accompanied by a variety of herbs wafted out of a door behind a long counter. A lone bartender stood behind the bench, his narrowed eyes surveying me from head to toe.
Henry was nowhere to be found.
I straightened my shoulders and approached the barkeep, attempting a friendly smile. He scowled.
"What'll it be?" he asked in an accent similar to Mrs Pugh's.
Which reminded me... "Polly Pugh sent me," I said, watching as his eyes swept over my face and then lowered. "She said you could help."
"Help, you say? Well, then, what form exactly would this help take?"
"You are Will Dumble?" I enquired.
He nodded his head, then leant forward and rested his arms on the top of the bar. His face was a mask of friendliness; I didn't trust it. I'd long ago learned not to trust what was displayed on the surface. It is only when we dig deeper, that truth is revealed.
"I'm looking for news of my cousin," I advised, watching his reactions carefully. "Light brown hair, five foot five, petite and demure."
"Not the place for demure," the man said, his eyes again sweeping over my chest.
I found the move at once vulgar and contrived; I was no more this man's type than Mina would have been. And yet he used the simple action as a means to exert his control.
I smiled; I was sure it was shark-like. I hadn't survived the past few years in the cutthroat arena of male-dominated medicine without gaining a sharp edge or two by now.
Will Dumble stilled, his eyes gaining an intensity that should have alarmed. But here lay the truth beneath the façade.
"You say Polly sent you?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'm thinkin’ me cousin would not 'ave sent one such as you 'ere."
"And yet here I am."
He turned away, picking up a cloth and started to wipe down the bench. It was the only place in this tavern that seemed clean.
"Can't help you, luv," he said. "Never seen such a chit."
I had the distinct impression he was lying.
Mina wasn't a resourceful person, but of late, I had noticed she had become more cunning. Evidenced by her reckless behaviour the day of my graduation.
"She would have been asking questions," I said, attempting to engage the man again. "About Jack the Ripper..."
"All everyone ever talks about."
"...and perhaps the policemen who attempted to catch him."
"Best you attend Leman Street Station, then."
"I have spoken with Superintendent Arnold." Another sharp look in my direction. "He was unable to assist me."
"Never seen a good copper who would."
"But the policemen my cousin would have been enquiring about is a good copper," I said, using his term for the police. "Perhaps you've heard of him? Inspector Kelly."
"Don't know no Kelly and don't know no demure filly, neither."
"Oh, come now, Mr Dumble. Your cousin insists you are the eyes and ears of the East End."
He stopped wiping the counter and pointed the rag at me. "Ain't seen no proper bit of frock 'round 'ere. Best you be leaving."
I bit my lower lip in consternation. Mrs Pugh had been so sure. Without another lead to aid me, I had no idea where to look next. Mina was out there. Perhaps still in Whitechapel. A ripple of fear coursed through. Or in Lambeth. I prayed Inspector Kelly was having better luck.
Pulling my travel cloak closer about me, I made to turn away, and then abruptly stopped.
Reaching into my reticule, I pulled out two shillings, placing them on the bar top.
Dumble's eyes met mine.
He didn't reach for the coins.
"Mr Dumble," I said. "I really am worried for her safety. Please, won't you help?"
He shook his head and kept on cleaning. The money ignored, but I was sure he was aware of its continued presence.
I could have added more coins to the pile, but somehow I thought the bribe was not the issue. I turned my back to the bar and scanned the taproom. No one was paying attention to us; perhaps a necessity in such a location. Everyone kept to themselves, heads down over tumblers of gin, eyes averted, gazes manufactured to look glazed.
I wondered where Henry could have gone to, and if he would have the answers I sought. If he frequented such an establishment, might he not have a more thorough understanding of bartering for information than I did?
I turned back to Will Dumble. He was still there. Still cleaning. Even though his gaze was on the rag in his hand and not me, I was sure he was keenly aware of what I was doing.
"I say," I said, "Mr Dumble. I recognised a fellow who entered your tavern before me. A friend. Would you be so kind as to point me in his direction?"
The barkeep stopped his ministrations; not that I believed they were genuine in any case.
"No one entered before you, missy. Now, 'tis high time you were gone."
The note of aggression in his voice had me clutching my parasol tighter. Gone was the affable barkeep, or even the grudging one. In its place a man who lorded over his surroundings. Safe in his knowledge this was his domain, and all who entered did so only under his suffrage.
A sudden rush of anger surged through me. If I was to have any luck in finding Mina, I needed somewhere to start. Something to go on. A name. A place. A whispered word. Anything.
In an uncharacteristic show of aggravation, I stomped my booted foot on the wooden floor.
"Polly said you'd help!" I exclaimed. "Said you were the one to approach for such information! I am desperate, Mr Dumble. My cousin does not fare well on her own. She needs me. Please! I beg you. Have some compassion."
"Compassion don't last a minute in Whitechapel. Best you learn that fast."
But...but..."
"I've said me piece. Be gone."
"Polly and her bloody crackers," I muttered, turning away.
"What did you say?" Dumble demanded.
"Nothing. Nonsense." I kept walking toward the door.
A shadow fell over me, blocking my path. "What exactly did Polly say?" Dumble demanded.
I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin, offering a glare to the man before me.
"For your information, sir, she said something along the lines of 'Polly has her cracker, too.'"
A slow smile stretched his lips, changing his angry visage to a much more pleasing one.
"Well, then," he murmured, cupping my elbow. "Why didn't you say so?"
And then he led me back to the bar, placing me on a stool.
Was This A Game?
Inspector Kelly
Much like H Division, L Division did not take kindly to visiting detectives. Superintendent Cox sat behind his overlarge desk and stared daggers at Blackmore and me. His gruff personage was fitting for the streets of Lambeth. A grizzled greying beard took up most of his face and narrowed dark eyes peered out above a gin-soaked reddened nose.
I could smell the drink on him from here.
"We're merely chasing up a lead," I said, repeating myself for the umpteenth time. We'd made no progress on Wilhelmina Cassidy's disappearance, so I had chosen to pursue a private matter instead.
/>
"And like I said, Inspector, what lead would that be?" the superintendent asked.
"Your poisoner," I ventured. "Is a match for ours."
Blackie shifted in his seat but didn't say anything. Sooner or later, I would have to confess all my sins.
The notion sat uncomfortably upon me.
"You think our murderer from the Antipodes?" the superintendent asked.
How to answer that?
"I think him remarkably similar. Perhaps we can share information. Aid each other on this one occasion."
Cox studied me for a suspended moment and then nodded his head. This poisoner must have been causing immeasurable trouble for the superintendent to contemplate letting a foreign policeman in.
It was with a sense of disquiet that I realised I was indeed foreign. New Zealand my home now, and not this rotten landscape. There was little to compare the two locales. London was old and weary, despondent and downtrodden. Auckland was a breath of fresh air.
I rolled my shoulders as Superintendent Cox stood, and then pushed myself up to standing to follow him.
"We've had two more," he said, as he headed toward the rear of the building. "Found this morning in their rooms. Young lasses," he announced, a returning glint of compassion entering his pickled look. "Just one-and-twenty and eighteen."
"Prostitutes?" I enquired.
"Yes. Aren't they always?"
"Too often, I fear."
"Indeed."
Cox led us into a surgery and to a stopped figure complete with leather apron, elbows deep in the innards of a cadaver. The man glanced up at our entrance, a sour look on his bespectacled face.
"What's this then, Superintendent? Are we to charge admission now?" he said.
"Come now, Parson. You've never been gun-shy before this."
"I'm not a circus act," the surgeon complained.
"And yet you physicians insist on theatres for your performances," the superintendent shot back.
For all his shickery, Cox was a formidable policeman.
Breathless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 2): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series Page 5