by J. J. Durham
‘I may be a while,’ said Pilgrim. ‘If you have to follow her, I’ll see you at the barracks.’ He walked off, into the gloom of the alley.
Dolly settled down unhappily to watch the house.
Pilgrim walked down Brushfield Street, busy with workers coming home from the brushworks and the blacking factory, and others who had already started their night’s drinking or whoring. The fading daylight couldn’t disguise the smoke-stained buildings and rubbish piled in the gutters. He passed an open doorway where a young boy sat naked and filthy among a litter of kittens. The boy stared at Pilgrim with vacant eyes and a mucus-smeared face, oblivious to voices raised in anger in the passage behind him.
Pilgrim walked on.
A woman hurried past on the pavement, dragging a young girl behind her, who struggled in her grip, protesting. Neither looked at Pilgrim as they passed. Directly behind them was a group of boys, who assessed him with ancient eyes, calculating the value of his clothes. He heard one of them jeer behind his back as he crossed the street, heading towards the alehouse on the corner. It used to be the Three Bells, but now a different sign hung outside, and all its windows were either boarded up or filthy. But it was still open for business. Three men stumbled from the doorway, straight into Pilgrim’s path, forcing him to swerve to avoid them. He heard a splash as one relieved himself in the gutter, and shouts from the other two, who had started to brawl.
Pilgrim walked on, turning down another street, even narrower and darker than the first. The sign on the wall was peeling and barely legible, but Pilgrim didn’t need to read it to know where he was. In the doorway of number six Providence Row two figures grappled together in the throes of a tuppenny upright. The girl blew Pilgrim a kiss over the man’s shoulder.
He stopped at a house almost at the end of the street. The door was peeling, hanging off its hinges, and creaked as he pushed it open …
‘Is that you, Harry?’
‘Shhh. Go back to sleep.’
He closed the door behind him, and undressed by the light of the fire dying in the grate. He shrugged off his swallowtail greatcoat and, after taking his truncheon and rattle from the pockets, hung it carefully on the back of the door. Piece by piece he removed the uniform he was so proud of – the heavy leather top hat, wellington boots, and the belt with its massive brass buckle – and placed them on the table. He unbuckled his shirt collar and removed the stiff leather stock. Finally, he stepped out of his trousers and folded them neatly onto a chair. Dressed only in his shift and stockings he went to the range, used a small bellows to fan the fire, and put a shovelful of coal onto it. Then he went to the alcove and pushed the curtain aside.
‘Move over, woman.’
Bess gave a gasp that turned into a cough. ‘Keep your feet off. Did I hear you bank the fire?’
‘A few coals won’t beggar us. It’s like death in here. Look.’ He exhaled into the air, watched his breath curl into the darkness.
‘Hush. You’ll wake him.’
He leaned up on his elbow to look at his son, sleeping on the other side of the bed.
‘He’s been easier today,’ said Bess. ‘The doctor thinks he’ll improve when the weather warms up a bit.’
‘It isn’t the weather that’s the problem, it’s these bloody lodgings!’
‘Don’t curse, Harry.’ Bess burrowed further under the blankets.
He stared up at the ceiling. ‘Now I’m earning proper money we might be able to put something by. We’ll have a house of our own. And a daily if you want one. Give me two years, Bess, and I’ll get us out of here.’
When she didn’t respond he turned his head to look at her. She had fallen asleep again.
‘Two years,’ he whispered to himself …
The table and chairs were gone, and dust lay thick on the floor and on the mantelpiece. The grate was empty. He went to the corner of the room, where a tattered curtain hung from the rail over the alcove. He pushed the curtain aside. The bed was still there, its mattress ripped and stained. He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
Dolly’s eyelids drooped.
‘Dolly!’ He jerked awake again to find Pilgrim glaring at him. ‘Is she still in the house?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m certain of it. I only rested my eyes for a moment.’ He rubbed them. ‘Two women have been to collect little ones. I think she must take them in for money.’
‘If you’ve missed her …’
‘I haven’t, sir. My word on it.’
They continued to watch the terrace from the mouth of the alley. Some of the houses took on a deceptively cheery air as lamps were lit inside. People came and went along the street: two drunken women leading a goat, a pack of dogs, a man on crutches. One woman knocked on Mrs Johnston’s door, and collected a child from her. The shadows thickened. A coal cart rumbled down the street, jolting some of its load onto the road as its wheels hit a rut. No sooner had the coals hit the dirt, when an old man scurried out of one of the houses, shirtless, to scoop them up. A second woman knocked on Mrs Johnston’s door and took a toddler from her, the one that had been clinging to her skirt. Five minutes later, Dolly put his hand on Pilgrim’s sleeve.
‘Here she is.’
A woman emerged from the house. Before she pulled a shawl over her head they recognized Mrs Johnston.
They followed her through the terraces of Clerkenwell onto the bustling thoroughfare of Oxford Street, where wooden ramps supported two lines of moving vehicles. Crested carriages driven by liveried coachmen jostled with drays and coal carts. In Oxford Circus an omnibus horse had slipped, tipping the vehicle over and bringing traffic to a standstill. A crowd of pedestrians and passengers shouted encouragement and curses at the driver, who was trying to free the struggling animal from the traces. Mrs Johnston ignored the commotion and hurried on.
Some of the shops were still open, while others were in the process of closing – well-dressed shop assistants polishing door furniture and pushing up the awnings with poles. They passed an organ grinder with a monkey, and a costermonger holding up a spaniel for a lady to inspect. A poodle and a terrier gazed mournfully at them through the bars of their cage.
Mrs Johnston stopped suddenly to look in a shop window. Pilgrim and Dolly were forced to stop too, and turned towards each other, as if in conversation. After a second or two Mrs Johnston hurried on.
Pilgrim glanced at the shop that had caught her interest; a toy shop, displaying brightly painted hobby horses, Noah’s arks, and doll’s houses. Any one of the toys would cost more than she earned in a year. Finally, Mrs Johnston turned off into a residential street, and Pilgrim realized they were reaching the end of their journey.
Upper Harley Street was very different from the terraces of Clerkenwell. Imposing detached houses were protected by high walls, and the pavements were illuminated by gas lamps that spilled pools of light onto the cobbles. There were very few pedestrians, which meant that Pilgrim and Dolly were obliged to put a greater distance between themselves and Mrs Johnston, so that their pursuit didn’t become obvious. She hurried down a back lane. The detectives followed, then watched from the street corner as she opened a garden gate and slipped inside. They went to the gate.
Mrs Johnston stood at the kitchen door of a large, brightly-lit house, where a man in livery had come to speak to her. Pilgrim and Dolly couldn’t hear what was said, but in the light spilling from the door they saw her face grow increasingly anxious. The servant finally shrugged his shoulders and closed the door, leaving the woman standing in the darkness.
Slowly, she returned to the gate.
Pilgrim stepped into her path. Her expression of fright turned to recognition, then defiance.
‘What do you two want?’
‘To buy you a drink, if you’ll let us.’
The Jolly Fiddler was almost empty. Two ruffians scraped a tune from a fiddle and a squeezebox for the entertainment of a single customer and his lurcher. Dolly put a glass of gin on the table in front of Mrs Johnston, and glanced at Pilgrim who h
ad already received his ale. The woman stayed stubbornly silent.
Pilgrim laid the spotted neckerchief on the table. She stared at it.
‘How long had you been looking after him?’ he asked.
Another long pause prompted Pilgrim to take something else from his pocket and push it towards her: Stella Drake’s photograph.
‘When did she bring him to you?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
Pilgrim met her gaze. Her eyes moistened and she blinked. She sighed.
‘She turned up on my doorstep two years ago, when he was just a babe in arms. Said she needed to work. I agreed to board him at a reduced rate, she looked so desperate.’ She lapsed into silence.
Dolly opened his mouth to speak, but Pilgrim gave a faint shake of his head.
Mrs Johnston continued. ‘Everything went smoothly at first. The money arrived every month, just as she’d promised. Then, about five weeks ago, it stopped. I made some enquiries and found out that she’d lost her place. I decided to bide my time a little longer. I heard she’d found another position, so I waited for her to contact me, or send some money.’
‘But she didn’t,’ said Pilgrim.
‘No.’ Mrs Johnston picked up the neckerchief and ran it through her fingers. ‘I dressed Louis in his best clothes and took him where I’d heard she was working, in Upper Harley Street. She wasn’t pleased to see us. She begged me to take him for another week, but I refused and handed him over. Then she fretted about what he would eat. I told her he would eat anything. He was a good boy like that.’
‘You left him there?’
Mrs Johnston’s face crumpled and she thumped her fist onto the table. ‘What would you have me do? She was his mother. I can’t afford to feed an extra mouth for nothing.’ The fire died in her eyes, just as suddenly as it had flared. She sighed. ‘I admit, too, that I don’t like being played for a fool.’
‘When was that?’
‘Last Tuesday.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
‘I went back on the Friday to see how she was getting on. She told me he was staying with a friend. I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? I asked her to kiss him for me, and she said she would.’ She drained her glass. ‘I did my best.’
‘Has she left Harley Street?’
‘Without notice, so that cocky footman says.’ She handed the neckerchief back to Pilgrim. ‘I have to get home. My Ruth’s a good girl, but I don’t like to leave her too long with the little ones.’ She rose and left without looking again at the detectives.
Pilgrim gazed down at his beer, still brimming on the table.
Dolly drained his own tankard cheerfully. ‘I suppose we should get off home now, sir.’
Pilgrim searched the constable’s face. There was no sign he had been at all perturbed or moved by Mrs Johnston’s story. Dolly had many qualities, but the ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes wasn’t one of them. It was probably just as well. Empathy wasn’t necessarily an asset in their line of work.
‘I need to take these back to the office,’ he said, folding the neckerchief and putting it into his pocket with the vest.
‘Would you like me to take them for you, sir?’
‘No. Go back to the barracks. Get some sleep.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Having guessed he was facing another sleepless night – one of what Queen Bess dubbed her ‘white nights’ – Dickens decided that his best plan of action was to expend as much energy as possible before he went to bed. He set off from Devonshire Terrace as soon as he had dined at eight o’clock, and was still walking two hours later.
He put his watch back in his pocket and looked up to see he was less than two hundred yards from Whitehall. He wondered whether any of the detectives were still at work.
‘Evening Mr Dickens, sir.’ The Duty Sergeant recognized him immediately.
‘Good evening, Sergeant Phelps.’
‘May I say, sir, how much I admired your latest edition of Household Words, sir? I am particularly enjoying the “True Story of a Coal Fire”.’
‘Thank you.’ Dickens felt a familiar glow of pleasure. No matter how far his fame had spread – and some had dubbed him ‘the most famous man in England’ – he was always gratified by words of praise.
‘I was wondering if any of the detectives are still upstairs?’ he asked.
‘Sergeant Tanner came in not above five minutes ago. Go straight on up, sir, if you’d care to speak with him.’
Dickens nodded his thanks and climbed the staircase.
The detectives’ office was empty, but there were signs of life: an oil lamp lit in the corner of the room, and the window open to the night air. Dickens wandered over to it and looked out at Scotland Yard below.
Tanner came into the room, rubbing his face with a towel. He didn’t see Dickens until he stepped into the light.
‘Bloody hell!’ Tanner jumped as if he’d been scalded.
‘Sorry if I startled you, Sergeant.’
‘Startled me? You damn near did me in!’ He made a belated attempt to master his shock.
‘You’re working late,’ said Dickens.
‘Someone has to. What are you doing here?’ He amended his tone. ‘Is there something I can do for you, sir?’
‘I was wondering if you had had any luck with the glove cleaners?’
‘Not much.’ Tanner finished drying his face and dropped the wet towel onto the sofa. ‘I’ve worked my way through that list you wrote, or most of it. They all agree the gloves have been cleaned, but no one can tell me who did the job. I still have two left to visit, on Bond Street.’
‘I have an appointment with my tailor on Albemarle Street tomorrow afternoon. That’s just round the corner. I can take the gloves with me, if you like.’
Tanner shrugged. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the gloves. Dickens heard something hit the floor. He picked it up and held it to the light.
‘A pretty thing.’
It was an earring, made of black enamel with a symbol etched in gold, which glinted in the light from the oil lamp.
Tanner scowled. ‘From the girl in the cab. It was in one of her ears. The other ear had been cut off.’ He ignored the look of horror from Dickens. ‘An octopus is a ruddy peculiar thing to put on a piece of jewellery. Still, there’s no accounting for a woman’s taste.’
Dickens peered more closely at the design. ‘I don’t think it is an octopus. I believe it is a hamsa, or the Hand of Miriam.’
‘Eh?’
‘A sign to ward off the evil eye.’
‘Didn’t do her much good, did it?’
Dickens gave him a level look. ‘I’d say your victim was probably Jewish.’
‘A yid, eh?’ Tanner flushed. His embarrassment was making him careless with his choice of words. He looked again at the earring, but without any real interest. ‘Makes no difference now, the case is closed.’
‘Closed?’ Dickens frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Appler killed himself yesterday.’ Tanner tossed the earring back into the drawer. ‘And good riddance to him.’
‘What about the girl?’ said Dickens. ‘We still don’t know who she was.’
Tanner shrugged.
Dickens took the gloves from him. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on in Bond Street tomorrow. Good night, Sergeant.’
He tucked the gloves into his coat pocket on his way down the stairs. He was unsettled, irritated. Detective Sergeant Tanner certainly didn’t improve on further acquaintance. He nodded to Phelps on his way past, and bumped shoulders with someone coming in through the double doors.
‘I beg your pardon.’ He peered more closely at the other man. ‘Sergeant Pilgrim!’
If the detective was surprised to see him he didn’t show it. His expression was as impassive as ever.
‘I have just been discussing the Grimwood case with Sergeant Tanner,’ said Dickens. ‘We touched on the Appler case too. Would you care to
walk with me a while?’
Pilgrim hesitated, then nodded.
They fell into step together on the pavement. In spite of the hour the street was still bustling with people on foot and in carriages, returning home from their evening entertainment.
‘Isn’t it a little late to be promenading?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘I often take a stroll through the city at this time of night. Set me down on Waterloo Bridge at ten o’clock in the evening and there is no happier man on earth.’ He paused. ‘I heard about Johannes Appler.’
‘Your “Hackney Cab Killer”? Yes. It’s a pity.’
‘A fait accompli if ever there was one. And yet,’ Dickens was obliged to dodge around a chestnut seller before continuing, ‘I believe there is more to the case than meets the eye.’
‘Your article in the Chronicle didn’t present it that way,’ said Pilgrim. ‘You were judge and jury, as far as I could see.’
Dickens glanced at him. ‘In my defence, my readers appreciate a firm view on a subject.’
‘And your editor too, I imagine.’
‘Quite so.’ Dickens nodded. ‘Did you know I went to visit Mr Appler after his arrest? My intention was to sketch his character. It takes a most singular kind of person to kill another human being, not to mention dismembering one in such a fashion. Appler protested his innocence. Most convincingly, I have to say, and I flatter myself that I’m usually a fair judge of such things.’
Pilgrim said nothing. They walked on.
After a minute or two, Dickens spoke again. ‘If Appler was innocent, then the note I received and passed on to you, the “tip-off” I think you call it, was a false trail, laid by someone with a vested interest. Perhaps even the real murderer. There was something about that note … do you still have it?’
‘It’s in my office.’
‘You might consider sending it to a graphologist. I can recommend …’
Pilgrim halted, forcing Dickens to stop beside him.
‘A man is dead.’ Pilgrim’s tone was cold. ‘His throat is cut. We cannot mend it. And, with respect, you should leave police work to those better qualified to do it.’
Dickens looked into the other man’s eyes, and after a moment, nodded. ‘Inspector Field’s opinion exactly. Of course, he has never actually said as much, but I am aware he has been instructed to indulge me.’ Dickens paused. ‘Have you taken any supper yet, Sergeant? The Lyceum Theatre is just across the way. We can enjoy a pie and a shilling’s worth of entertainment, and I can highly recommend the restorative qualities of its punch.’