Searcher

by T J Alexander

  The drifting scents of the spice stall lead Adah to the far end of the square, where she finds bundles of thyme and rosemary, dishes of peppercorns and dried cloves, shiny brown nutmegs and strings of garlic; and, yes, straps of liquorice, coiled like gleaming black snakes. She is taken aback by the price, which is twice what she was expecting, but she is desperate to find something for Richard’s cough, so she buys three ounces of liquorice and a twist of anise seeds from the dark, leathery-skinned woman with long braided hair who keeps the stall.

  Adah is almost home, carrying her precious purchases in her blue cotton bag, when she sees an ungainly figure tottering towards her from the other side of White Lion Street. Her heart sinks. It is the wretched little vegetable seller, and she realizes with a sudden sense of guilt that, what with all the other things on her mind, she never got around to telling the officer of the watch about the child who has been stealing the poor man’s wares. She knows what the man is going to say even before he opens his mouth.

  ‘Ahoy! Mrs Searcher! Why haven’t you arrested that thief?’ yells the vegetable seller. ‘What’s the world coming to when the law can’t protect a poor soul like me?’

  Adah straightens her back and takes a deep breath. ‘My good man,’ she says, ‘the officers of the Liberty are busy people. They have many serious offences to deal with – murders, forgeries, highway robberies. I am sure they are doing their best to find that thief, but you must give them time to complete their investigations.’

  ‘Investigations, indeed!’ snorts the little man indignantly. ‘I’ll give them investigations! She was here again yesterday, snatching my two best apples from under my very nose. If the officers can’t catch a scamp like her, they ain’t likely to catch no forgers or highway robbers.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to remind them,’ says Adah, with as much dignity as she can muster. ‘I will ask them to give it their most serious attention. But now, please do let me pass. I have a sick child to attend to.’

  The little vegetable seller steps reluctantly to one side, still muttering under his breath.

  As she opens her front door, hoping in vain that she will find young Will home already, Adah is still nagged by a sense of unease. She should have reported the poor man’s complaints, but she was too caught up in the tale of Molly and Rosie Creamer to think of it. The face of the child Rosie still haunts her every day, and she still prays every night for the souls of the dead twins and their poor mother Catherine, though she never feels confident that her prayers are heard.

  She mixes the milk and ale for the posset in the copper pan, consoling herself with the thought that her job was to investigate the death of Rosie Creamer, not to chase apple thieves. And she has done that job well. When she reported her findings to the beadle, Mr Beavis, he was full of praise, pleased and (she couldn’t help noticing) clearly surprised that Adah had managed to find the name of the dead girl and determine how she died. There was some talk of sending a message to the Liverpool magistrates, asking them to help find the surviving Creamer family, though nothing seems to have come of that yet.

  As Adah adds the liquorice and anise seeds to the steaming mixture, the cramped kitchen is filled with a waft of overpowering smells, at once sweet and astringent. This should at least do some good to poor Richard, whose hacking cough she can hear resounding from the upstairs bedroom.

  She has just brought the mug of warm posset to Richard, and is turning to go down the stairs, when she hears the sharp rap at the front door. Will, she thinks instantly. Not young Will himself, because he has a key and would not knock at the door. But someone bringing news of Will. Perhaps bad news … Or Father. Surely not more bad news about Father already? They so seldom have visitors at this time of day.

  She flies down the stairs, heart pounding, and opens the door, only to find – to her utter astonishment – Raphael DaSilva’s manservant Stevens standing on her doorstep, one hand clutching a stout walking stick, with an expression of injured dignity on his face.

  ‘My master, Mr DaSilva, has requested me to give you this letter,’ says Stevens very formally, holding out a folded square of paper towards her in the tips of his long sharp fingers. ‘He has also instructed me to wait for a reply.’

  Flustered, Adah retreats into the hallway clutching the letter. Raphael has never written her a letter before. She is uncomfortably aware that she should ask Stevens to come into the house, but cannot bear the thought of his disdainful eyes roaming over the threadbare matting and mouldering walls of the gloomy entrance hall. She breaks open the seal of the letter and examines the contents, noticing, with a wave of gratitude and relief, that Raphael has not written in his normal artist’s scrawl, but has spelled out the words out in a large and careful hand, so that she can read them easily.

  Mrs Flint, (she reads)

  I have some information to impart to you concerning the matter that we discussed. Would you do me the kindness of calling at my house around 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon?

  Yrs, R. DaSilva.

  That is all. She stares at the words, as though trying to decipher some message hidden in its three lines. An impatient cough from Stevens brings her to her senses.

  ‘Thank you, Stevens,’ she says, echoing the servant’s formality. ‘Please express my gratitude to Mr DaSilva, and tell him that I shall be happy to call upon him tomorrow at the time he suggests.’

  Another surprise is awaiting Adah when she arrives at the artist’s house the following afternoon, and is again led upstairs by a stern and unsmiling Stevens. The table in the centre of Raphael’s studio, which is normally covered with a jumble of paint jars, brushes, shells, wizened fruit and paint-smeared rags, has now been swept clean; the only things on its surface are several large leather-bound tomes and a large green glass vase containing a bouquet of irises.

  As they wait in the study for Stevens to bring tea, Raphael paces around the room, seeming almost uncertain how to broach the topic that he has summoned her here to discuss. She waits patiently, twisting her hands on her lap, while he embarks on general pleasantries, telling her about a recent sketching trip to Keswick and his long walks in the mountains there.

  ‘There was rain and mist most days,’ he says, ‘but when the sun came out through the mist, shining over those distant lakes, it was a glorious sight to see. Like a glimpse of paradise itself. You should go there someday yourself, Adah.’

  She smiles politely, thinking how unlikely it is that she will ever have the time or money for jaunts to the north of England, let alone for glimpses of paradise. In return she talks about her father’s accident and Annie’s departure for Fulham, and a little of her concerns about young Will, who finally returned the previous evening, with dark rings under his eyes, a sheepish expression on his face, and an unlikely story about having been taking carpentry lessons from his cousin.

  ‘And tell me, Adah,’ says Raphael at last, ‘how did your investigations of the story of the dead child end? Did you determine whether she was in fact the daughter of Catherine Creamer?’

  Adah is slightly taken aback. She assumed that Raphael would have heard the end of the story from Benjamin Beavis, or perhaps from one of the trustees. But then she remembers how rarely Raphael spends time with the trustees and officers of the Liberty, and how hard he tries to avoid the popular Norton Folgate pastime of gossiping about local affairs. So, while Stevens serves tea, she describes, as simply and clearly as she can, her visit to Golden Lane, her meeting with the Creamers’ neighbour, and her discovery that the dead child was indeed Catherine Creamer’s daughter – the twin of the child who had been stolen and who died more than seven years ago.

  As she sips her pale golden tea, Adah notices that this time Stevens has given them matching tea-cups and served freshly baked muffins with strawberry jam. Raphael has been preparing for this visit.

  Her host listens to her story thoughtfully.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he observes, ‘it seems clear enough, though a sorry story indeed. But there is something that tro
ubles me. A week or two after our last conversation, I chanced to be reading some information about a certain court case in the Newgate Calendar, and my eye fell on an account of the case of Catherine Creamer and her stolen child. I must confess that I was surprised by what I read there. It piqued my curiosity. Since then, I have been looking for other information relating to the story.’ He waves his arm vaguely towards the volumes on the studio table. ‘I haven’t yet managed to find the Old Bailey’s record of the trial, though such a record surely must exist. The story I read in the Newgate Calendar about the snatching of the child is much like the tale you heard from Catherine Creamer’s neighbour. But I am puzzled by other parts of the case. There are curious details that a woman may be best placed to understand. That is why I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Curious in what way?’ asks Adah.

  ‘When you were last here, and we read the story of Harriet Magnis and Thomas Dellow together’, says Raphael, ‘it brought back to my mind the story of Catherine Creamer’s stolen child, and how I heard that story talked of at the time. It was a famous case indeed. There was much public anger about the crime of child-stealing that year. I didn’t immediately remember, but later, as I thought about the case, the story came back to me more clearly. I recall having a long discussion about it, around the time of the trial of Sarah Stone, with Moulton the gem-cutter and his son who keep that shop on the other side of Bishopsgate. For, you know, the key events in this crime took place very close to here, just across Bishopsgate, in Sun Street. Old Mr Moulton had an indirect connection to the case. He told me that a young servant girl who ran errands for him was an acquaintance of Sarah Stone, and was called as a witness in her trial – though, oddly enough, the account of the trial in the Newgate Calendar says nothing about her evidence. I believed then (and I think most others did too) that this was another crime just like the crime of Harriet Magnis – a tale of a wife deceiving her sailor husband while he was away at sea. But it seems that this was a rather different story.’

  He puts down his cup and walks over to the table, where he opens one of the large books at a marked page.

  ‘The Newgate Calendar tells us that this accused woman, Sarah Stone, claimed to have given birth to the child herself, which of course she would have done, to cover up her crime of child-stealing. But, more surprisingly, it appears that, at the time of the incident, she was living in a room in Sun Street, in Bly’s Buildings, with the sailor, a man named Edward Swaine, who claimed to be the child’s father. It seems that they had lodged in rooms there for some three months, living as husband and wife, though they had never married. Both Swaine and the accused woman’s mother, who was lodging in another part of the same house, insisted that Sarah had indeed been expecting a child in the normal manner, and that the infant was hers. Do you think it possible, or likely, that a woman who was sharing a room with her common law husband as man and wife could fool him into believing that she was pregnant and about to bear a child?’

  Adah considers for a moment. ‘Possible,’ she says, ‘but not likely. A very crafty woman might perhaps succeed, but it would be a difficult thing to do. When I was big with child, both William and my mother-in-law would sometimes place their hand on my belly to see if the child was moving. A woman might fool strangers in the street by tying a cushion under her petticoats, but a husband would hardly be fooled if they lay together in bed, unless perhaps the woman pretended to be ill, or to have become strangely coy, so that her husband never came close to her person.’

  The words about her own pregnancy slip naturally from her lips, but the moment she speaks them she begins to feel hot and uncomfortable. These things are too intimate to be spoken about here. She looks anxiously at Raphael, trying to read the expression on his face. He appears to be avoiding her eyes.

  Feeling flustered, she hastily goes on. ‘Why ever were the judge and jury convinced that this Sarah Stone was guilty?’

  ‘Well, that too is strange,’ replies Raphael, ‘for it seems that on 14 October eight years ago, the very day when the Creamer child was stolen, Sarah Stone set out from home in the morning, to all appearances big with child, and came back that very evening with a new babe in her arms. Her story was that she had gone to Rosemary Lane to sell some clothes, for she was in need of money, and, being heavy with child, had suddenly been taken in labour. She said that a stranger named Mary Brown had come to her aid and brought her to an apartment in White Hart Court, a place called Johnson’s Change—’

  ‘Is this near Rosemary Lane?’ interjects Adah, trying to picture the scene in her mind.

  ‘Yes, just off Rosemary Lane, I believe. This Mary Brown called a man midwife (so Sarah said) and she was delivered of her child there and then, and sent home to Sun Street in a coach. But when, after her arrest, she took the officers from the Lambeth-Street Magistrates’ Office to Rosemary Lane, and pointed out the apartment where she claimed to have given birth, these officers found that there was no Mary Brown living there, only a woman named Elizabeth Fisher, who insisted she had never seen the accused in her life. The officers went to find the only man-midwife who lived nearby, but he too knew nothing of the story. Besides, Sarah Stone’s landlady, a woman named Isabella Gray, testified that when she saw the baby, on the very day when the accused had supposedly given birth, the infant looked unusually large for a newborn child. Another witness, who lived in the house across the street from the place where Sarah Stone and her sailor lived, also described how she saw Sarah return home in a coach on the day of the supposed birth. Let me read you the Newgate Calendar’s account. This witness said that the prisoner did not appear as if she had just delivered: she (that’s the witness) had had children herself, and did not believe that any woman who had only delivered that afternoon could have walked up the court as the prisoner did.’

  ‘Well …’ says Adah slowly. ‘A complicated tale indeed. Officers from Lambeth Street Magistrates’ Office, you say. Does the account of the trial give their names?’

  Raphael consults the tome on the table again, ‘Ebenezer Dalton, it says. Yes, an Ebenezer Dalton and a Samuel Miller.’

  ‘Ah,’ cries Adah, ‘I know those names. William knew them both. He had little regard for the work of the Lambeth-Street office, but he was on quite good terms with Sam Miller. I believe William helped Miller out with one or two small matters a few years back.’ She cannot help wondering what William would have made of this – he who always prided himself on being able to unravel even the most complex criminal mysteries.

  ‘Rosemary Lane is close enough to the Commercial Road, where little Molly Creamer was stolen,’ she continues pensively, ‘so I can understand why a jury might have doubted the strange tale that Sarah Stone told, and believed her to be the kidnapper. But how did the officers find her and arrest her? I heard from the Creamers’ neighbour Lizzie Murray that it was a full six weeks before they made the arrest.’

  ‘The Newgate Calendar says that Catherine Creamer had hand bills made.’ Raphael pauses, running his eyes over the page again. ‘Here’s the passage: Poor as she was, the prosecutrix immediately had advertisements and hand bills published, with a description of the prisoner, for which she paid seventeen shillings. It seems (although no details are given here) that someone, perhaps Sarah Stone’s landlady, Isabella Gray, must have seen the hand bill and given information to the magistrates. Then six weeks after the kidnapping, the magistrate took Catherine Creamer to a ship moored on the Thames, where she saw the baby in Sarah Stone’s arms and instantly recognized it as her own infant. Of course, she also recognized Sarah Stone as the woman who had snatched her child.’

  ‘That may be true enough,’ remarks Adah, ‘but as for the hand bills, Catherine Creamer’s neighbour told me they were ordered and paid for by the magistrates. She had kept one of those hand bills, and gave it to me. I have it at home. Printed on fine paper by Nelson’s Printery. Where would a woman who had to beg for pennies in a churchyard find seventeen shillings to pay for something like that? Not to me
ntion the reward. The hand bill spoke of a twenty pound reward.’

  Raphael falls silent for a while, reflecting on the strange twists in the tale.

  ‘This case is certainly a puzzle,’ continues Adah, ‘but I doubt that we can solve it. It was long ago now. Catherine and her twins are dead. Sarah Stone must surely be at the other side of the globe, serving her sentence in the colonies, or maybe living as a free woman there, for I suppose her sentence must almost be complete.’

  Raphael sighs. ‘No doubt you are right. I don’t know why it troubles me so. I’ll see what more I can find in the records, but perhaps this is indeed a puzzle with no solution. May I contact you again if I discover anything more?’

  For the first time today, he looks Adah straight in the eye. She smiles back at him.

  ‘Of course you may,’ she says.

  And as she rises leave, he adds softly, ‘And maybe, if you come again, you might like to bring your daughter Sally with you.’

  May 1822

  Sun Street and Rosemary Lane

  She tells herself that they are just taking a little walk. Sally has had another chill, and been playing restlessly indoors for the past few days. The children need fresh air. So, leaving Richard to keep an eye on Amelia, she ties Sally’s little brown cloak around the child’s shoulders, lifts Caroline into her arms, and sets out along the road with the two children. Yet she knows in her heart where they are going, and wonders what draws her there. My task, she reminds herself, was to investigate the death of Rosie Creamer, who died in our own Liberty, not to re-examine the disappearance of her twin sister, years back and in another part of town. And yet, having become so enmeshed in one part of this tangled mystery, she finds it hard to resist the temptation to explore it further.