by Alex Reeve
‘Where did they take her?’ I asked, all innocence.
‘They stuck her on some boat down at Puddle Dock, the bastards. Pardon my language, but that’s what they are. As if she don’t have enough on her plate.’
I knew of Puddle Dock vaguely, one of a hundred little docks and quays along the Thames. Almost everything went in and out through them: goods, raw materials, livestock, gold from Africa, wine from France, flowers from Holland. They were the mouth and anus of the city.
‘And no husband now.’
She rolled her eyes, and leaned towards me. ‘Jack weren’t never any use. He never lifted a finger, except to carry his beer from the table to his mouth. He was charming enough when he wanted to be, I’ll give him that. He used to stand right where you are now and sweet-talk the ladies into buying twice what they needed. Some for a rainy day, he used to say, though why you’d need more pies because it’s raining is a mystery to anyone. But once that door was shut he was different. Used to break my heart, what she had to put up with. Don’t do to say so, and I wouldn’t normally, but it weren’t the worst thing that could’ve happened, him drowning like that. Let’s just say, none of us’ll miss him.’
Mrs Flowers returned with the youngest of her children on her hip, a boy of perhaps two years. He had his arms around her neck and his slimy face pushed up against her bandage.
I fumbled in my pocket for some coins. I had a trick: I could balance ten pennies on the back of my forefinger and, with a flick, catch them all in the same hand. Children loved it. I didn’t have ten pennies, but I had some odd change, a few farthings and halfpennies, and I showed him. As I snatched the coins from out of the air, his eyes widened, and when I revealed them to him in the palm of my hand, he laughed as if it was the best thing he’d ever seen.
‘Very amusing,’ said Mrs Flowers drily. ‘But if you’re not buying then you’d best be going. We’ve a lot to do.’
She put on an apron and started repositioning the pies in the trays just so, as if their exact alignment was important – all of this while holding the child, a skill verging on witchcraft.
‘If you’ll answer a question I’ll buy three; one for me, one for my landlord and one for his daughter. She’d do well to learn what a pie is supposed to taste like.’
She shrugged. ‘You can ask.’ I picked out a mutton, a kidney and a sweet apple one for Constance. ‘Two shillings and threepence,’ she said. It was extortion no matter how fine the product, but I paid willingly.
‘Now, here’s my question. Have you or Jack ever been to Southend-on-Sea?’
‘That’s it? Southend-on-Sea, that’s your question?’ She raised her eyebrows, with a twitch of a smile that lit up her face. ‘Very well, yes, Jack and me went away for a weekend there once, before my first was born.’
‘Nine months before,’ muttered the leather-faced woman, and Mrs Flowers shot her a look.
‘And he kept a postcard of it on his person?’
She stroked her child’s hair and he rubbed his face on her shoulder, leaving a trail of mucus. ‘That’s more than one question.’
‘I bought more than one pie.’
I was shifting the terms of the deal, but she didn’t seem bothered. ‘All right, for all the good it’ll do you. He liked looking at the picture. He said Southend-on-Sea was the best place he’d ever been, but he was brought up at Smithfield Market so anywhere else must’ve seemed pretty special. Then we had Robbie and never went away again. Why do you care, anyway?’
‘I just want to know the truth. Does the word “mercy” mean anything to you, aside from its usual meaning? He had written it on a bottle of ale. Perhaps he was becoming interested in religion, or temperance?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘No. He was the opposite of those things, and anyway, he never learned to read or write more than his own name. And “mercy” means nothing to me, beyond that I could do with some. Now go about your business, and stop cluttering up the place.’
I wrote out my name and address, but I wasn’t certain she could read either. It would probably go straight on the fire. ‘Please take this, in case you think of anything else. Will you be safe now, or will they return, do you think?’
She produced a short, heavy-handled axe from under the counter and pointed it at me. ‘And I’ve got a cudgel upstairs I’m going to bring down too. I’m fully prepared.’
I didn’t doubt it; she was four feet eleven inches of fully prepared.
I munched the mutton pie on my way down to Puddle Dock. The pastry was crisp, the gravy rich and sweet, and the meat fell apart. I was tempted to eat the sweet apple one as well.
The sun had come out, and I saw smiles and even laughter as I passed St Paul’s Cathedral. It always seemed so pale and pure from a distance but, as with so many things, it was a good deal grubbier close up.
I yawned, not having adjusted to working nights. I didn’t mind particularly; there was something delicious about heading off to the hospital when most of the world was finishing for the day, and a peacefulness in crawling under the covers while everyone else was hard at work.
The smell of the river grew stronger at the bottom of the hill. The wharfs were packed together and it was difficult to know which was which, so I wandered along Upper Thames Street towards Blackfriars Bridge until I found the sign, high up on a wall, almost invisible under layers of dirt. The road between the buildings was unmade and worn into grooves by cartwheels, sloping down into the water and effectively forming the dock. Puddle was right: it was small and shallow. And empty.
The dock-master was reading a newspaper in his office. He was a lifer, comfortable behind his desk but retaining that wary twitch from an itinerant career on the docks. I’d seen plenty of stevedores, mostly with crushed heads or split sides, one squashed flat by a two-ton crate. Witnesses always swore it was a terrible accident, and mostly they were truthful, no doubt, but none of them minded one less man at the morning call.
My experience so far suggested that no one would tell me anything voluntarily, so I opted for a ruse.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said, in a brusque, do-what-I-say tone. ‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Ripley from the Metropolitan Police.’
He put down his paper and brushed his hands over his few remaining strands of hair. ‘You ain’t police,’ he said. ‘Where’s your uniform?’
‘I’m a detective. We don’t wear uniforms.’ I was doing my best to sound like a real policeman, combining arrogance with apathy.
‘One of them detectors, is it? I heard about you. What do you want, then?’
I lit a cigarette and failed to blow a smoke ring. ‘Someone was brought here against her will a few days ago. There was a boat in the dock at the time. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Don’t know nothing.’ He glanced shiftily from left to right. He couldn’t have looked guiltier if his hands had been covered in blood.
‘Tell me now and I’ll be on my way. Otherwise I’ll be forced to have a look through all your paperwork, just in case there’s anything suspicious. I’m sure you don’t want that.’
He wiped his nose with his sleeve, and sagged. ‘There might’ve been a lighter here, thirty foot or thereupon. Four nights, no more. But there weren’t no crime.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They never loaded nothing. No cargo.’ Like all dockers he assumed the only crime was smuggling or, strictly speaking, smuggling without him getting his cut.
‘Whose boat was it?’
‘Scraggy bloke. Sometimes a bigger bloke with ’im. They paid cash.’
‘Did you get their names, or the boat’s name?’ I was sure there must be some kind of register of shipping on the Thames.
He shrugged. ‘Paid cash, like I said. But I’ll tell you one thing that wasn’t normal. They had coffins onboard.’
‘Coffins?’
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ He frowned queasily. ‘At first I thought maybe they was bringing them in from overseas, but why would anyone do that? Didn
’t seem right to me, coffins on a boat.’
On my way out of the dock-master’s office, I passed a man leaning against a wall. He was dressed scruffily in the manner of a merchant seaman, but quite lacked the bulk most of them develop over a lifetime of lifting cargo and hauling ropes. He was scrawny and furtive with a thin moustache and a long nose that immediately made me think of a weasel. I tried not to catch his eye, and hurried homewards.
Dusk was falling and I was looking forward to perhaps an hour of sleep before I had to go to work. The streets were deserted, and I watched my shadow overtake me as I passed each streetlamp. My footsteps sounded hollow, and for a moment I thought I could hear a matching set behind me. Probably they were no more than an echo. I pulled my hat lower over my brow and walked faster, but the echo continued.
By the time I reached Little Pulteney Street it wasn’t an echo any more. I could hear breathing. There were no lights on in the pharmacy so I would have to use the back door, which meant going via the alleyway. I spun round before I got to it. Part of me expected some innocent fellow to just carry on past, and part of me feared that it would be another thug trying to steal my wallet.
It was neither. It was the weasel-man from the dock.
He scratched his cheek and looked up at the top window. ‘Didn’t know this place was still going. My old man’s gaff was on Bridle Lane and we used to come here for poultices when his leg went gammy. You live here, do you? Got a room?’
The road was empty but for the two of us.
‘Are you following me?’ My voice was higher-pitched than I’d intended.
‘I knew you weren’t a real detective.’
He seemed entirely relaxed, picking at the peeling paint on the pharmacy window frame.
‘What of it?’
‘Friendly warning is all. Stay out of other people’s business.’
I straightened my shoulders, thinking about Constance, probably making dinner while Alfie did his accounts for the day. I wasn’t going to be threatened here, outside our home.
‘I’ll do whatever I like.’
‘Now you see, that’s the wrong answer. I came here with a friendly warning.’
He took a step towards me and I moved sideways, trying to give myself room to dodge around him and escape towards the crowds on Piccadilly. I feinted left and went right, ducking under his reaching arm, feeling his fingers brush my collar, not quite gripping. I didn’t fall – credit those unwanted ballet lessons for that – but I stumbled and felt his hand on my shoulder, pulling me backwards. I swung round and punched him across the mouth. It hurt like hell. I thought my hand would fall off. He staggered back, touching his lip and staring at the blood on his fingers.
‘That was a mistake. I know where you live.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Just a messenger. Mind your own business from now on, if you know what’s good for you. There are important people who don’t want you nosing around. You’ve been warned.’
He left me standing alone, my heart pounding in my chest.
11
‘You must be mad,’ replied Detective Ripley at my suggestion that he should interrogate the dock-master.
It was mid-morning the next day, and we were sitting in the stagnant lobby at the police headquarters on Whitehall, surrounded by complainants, relatives of criminals, drunks sobering up and poor folks just getting inside out of the cold. Only the first group cared about how long things took, and from time to time went up to remind the desk sergeant of their existence, the identifying marks of their stolen property and their disgust at the rising level of crime in the city.
Detective Ripley had met me here as a mark of disrespect; whatever I had to say wasn’t worth a trip to his dank office. He was wearing the same suit as always, still in need of a good flatiron, and his shirt was scattered with the flotsam of his last meal. The costermonger sitting next to him on the bench, stinking of whelks and vinegar, was the better dressed of the two.
‘Go home, Mr Stanhope. And what on earth did you do to your face? Someone finally given in to the urge and punched you, have they?’
I ignored his question. ‘The boat must have something to do with this. An unpleasant fellow followed me from the dock. He told me to stop asking questions.’
‘Should’ve taken his advice.’ Ripley shook his head. ‘You said the boat was gone. So there’s no evidence.’ He stood up and stretched his back, wincing. ‘Too much sitting, not enough walking. The wife says I have bad posture, but I think it’s all this sitting around. I used to walk all the time, miles every day. Now I just fill in forms. Should’ve started a decorating business in Doncaster like my sister said.’
‘Doncaster? Is that where you’re from?’
I don’t know why I asked; I just wanted to know more about this man who thought I was guilty of murder.
He frowned and sucked on his teeth. ‘Originally. Then Nottingham and then here. Three years in this filth.’
‘Is it so bad?’
‘Murder’s murder wherever you are. You’re still dead. The difference is at home we always knew who did it and where they lived. Even if they wouldn’t admit it, we knew. Here it’s everywhere. You never know a damn thing. And whatever you want to do, you need permission from the higher-ups, gentlemen who’ve never once worn through the soles of their shoes.’
‘Of course,’ I said quickly. ‘The same gentlemen who told you to let me go.’
‘Yes, very good, Mr Stanhope, you’re a sly one. Yes, those gentlemen. Someone told them it wasn’t you, so I got the instruction to let you go.’
‘Then let’s find who really committed the crime! Let’s walk down to the docks and talk to the dock-master. No forms, no sitting. Let’s go right now.’
He shook his head. ‘Tempting, but we already have a suspect in the cells.’
‘What suspect?’ He smiled, showing me his broken teeth, but didn’t reply. ‘You can’t keep locking people up until they confess. You need evidence.’
‘We have evidence enough of her depravity, believe me.’
‘Depravity?’ I couldn’t think who he could be talking about. The brothel business was illegal, of course, but he must walk past dozens of them every day. It was hardly depraved. Then the answer came to me. ‘Madame Moreau.’
‘Louisa Moreau, yes. That Brafton woman, the brothel-keeper, told us all about her. We went to her house, me and Cloake, and searched the whole place thoroughly. It’s like a bloody abattoir.’
I thought back to that warm room in Cripplegate. ‘What did you find?’
Ripley gave me a slow look. I could see him wondering whether to tell me it was none of my business. Eventually, he sniffed and stretched his back again. ‘Plenty that could’ve killed the girl. A poker, a billy club, a rolling pin the size of your arm.’
‘All households have those. And anyway, why would she have killed Maria?’
‘The girl got ploughed and Moreau tried to fix her, and it ended bloody. Or something like that. Doing what they do, what can they expect? It’s a bad life and a short one.’
‘Has she confessed?’
‘She told us she was the last to see the girl. Mostly she just sits there in silence. She’ll get a bad back, you mark my words, all that sitting. Though her neck’ll probably give her more trouble soon enough, come to think of it.’
After he’d gone, I sat on the bench for a while, thinking. Could the murderer truly be Madame Moreau? I tried to imagine it, that moment, those long fingers grasping a billy club and bringing it down on Maria’s skull. And that face, hard and lined, clenched with the effort. Is that how it was? Perhaps she was capable, but why? Why would she kill Maria?
Even as I shuddered at the thought of it, the image wouldn’t hold still in my mind. I couldn’t keep it fixed.
On my way to the exit, I passed the door into the cells where I’d been kept. The grim-faced police guard was just coming out, and I could see the bars of the cells and the high window. I wondered if Madame Moreau was in
there.
On an impulse, I stopped the door just as it was about to shut, and slipped inside.
Maybe she was involved in Maria’s murder and maybe she wasn’t, but either way I wanted to talk to her.
The first cell contained two men, neither of them my former fellow inmates who, I supposed, had been shipped off to prison. These two were sullen, glaring at me from under their brows.
The ladies’ cell was separated from the men’s by a brick wall, presumably to protect their privacy, at least on a visual level, though it wouldn’t help with the stink or stop men yelling out improper suggestions. Still, there was something about Madame Moreau, an intrinsic austereness, that discouraged such carnality.
She was seated on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees and her face lowered. Her black and white hair, so dramatic when I’d last seen her, hung down loosely outside her bonnet. I realised she was praying, so for a while I stood silently with what little reverence I could muster, until I grew uneasy, trespassing as I was, and cleared my throat.
‘Madame?’
She looked up, and I took a step back. Her face was bruised and puffy, purple and green across her cheekbones, with one eye half-shut and lips bloody and broken. Her skirt was ripped at the hem, revealing bare, white feet, and she was holding a rosary, spinning the beads in her fingers.
‘I don’t know anything,’ she muttered. ‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’
‘We met at your house, do you remember? I’m Leo Stanhope. What happened to you?’
When she didn’t reply I waited, listening intently for sounds outside, any sign of someone coming in. But there were only the low tones of the men in the next cell.
‘Madame,’ I tried again, ‘I don’t mean you any harm. I just want to ask you a couple of things.’
‘It weren’t me,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I keep telling you. I don’t know who it was, but it weren’t me. Why won’t you believe me?’
‘I’m not working with the police. Was it them that did this to you?’
She touched her cheek with her fingertips and looked around the cell as if there might be a mirror. When I’d last seen her she’d been magnificent, the queen of her own domain, raising a poker to those thugs in the street and scaring them away. But here, in this place, she was frail and desperately small.