by J. J. Durham
Wainwright picked it up.
‘Do you know if she had any gentlemen callers the night she died?’ asked Dickens.
‘Gentlemen callers?’ The widow hooted with laughter. ‘That’s one word for ’em!’
‘But no one in particular?’ pressed Dolly.
‘How should I know? If Clara Donald had a sweetheart, she’d have kept it to herself. Love ain’t good for business in the whoring trade.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fog clung to the cobbled streets, turning them grey and greasy underfoot. The illumination of the streetlamps was confined to haloes, and did little to guide the few chilled pedestrians who were up and about. Shadows moved in the gloom, only resolving into human form as they passed Pilgrim who pulled his scarf up to his nose and picked his way over gutters clogged with ice and rubbish. Although he had slept well in his new lodgings, he had woken before dawn, disturbed by the knowledge of a duty yet to be done. As soon as he had shaved and dressed he set off for St Martin-in-the-Fields.
It was a good half an hour’s walk from Holborn, but Covent Garden was behind him now, the rattle of its carts muffled and flattened by the fog. The chimes of St Martin-in-the-Fields struck nine o’clock, sounding as if the great bell was wrapped in a blanket. He hurried on and came at last to a miserable covered walkway, with a single lamp burning over a gate. The rusted metal gave with a groan and he plunged into the walkway that led towards the burial ground.
He stopped when he reached the end, aware he was sinking into ooze. The burial ground was overlooked by houses, their walls splotched and blackened with mould. In that sodden space, less than 200 feet square, was buried more than 80,000 former inhabitants of the city. He saw he was too late. In a far corner of the ground half a dozen black-clad figures stood among the piles of mud and heaps of broken stones. They were gathered around a pit, no more than a couple of feet deep, in which a bundle was plainly visible. All the figures held kerchiefs to their noses, including the priest, who was coming to the end of his service.
The gravediggers stooped to shovel mud into the hole. The women moved away, and picked their way towards him over boards laid on the slimy ground. As they got closer he saw they were all red-eyed with weeping. The tallest among them lifted her chin.
‘I didn’t think to see you here,’ said Frances. She had her arm around the smallest figure. He recognized Ida by the carrot hair frizzing out from under her bonnet, jewelled with droplets of mist. The two women stopped beside him, allowing the others to pass on either side.
‘I heard you were burying Martha this morning,’ said Pilgrim.
‘We scraped some money together. Not enough for a coffin, but at least she’s not in the common pit.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me she was pregnant?’
‘Would you have found her any faster?’ Frances shook her head, making her black earrings swing against her cheeks. ‘At least she and the babe are at rest now. God have mercy on them both.’
Pilgrim pursed his lips. What would she say if she knew the baby wasn’t with its mother?
‘Frannie … ’ He paused, corrected himself. ‘Frances … ’
She interrupted him. ‘Come on, Ida, let’s get you home.’ She moved away without looking at Pilgrim.
‘I’ll call on you at Gloucester Street,’ he said.
‘No.’ She did look at him now, but her expression was blank. ‘Please don’t.’
He watched them pass down the walkway and out through the iron gate into the street. Another figure appeared by the gate, carrying a pole and a stepladder. He waited for Pilgrim make his way out of the tunnel too, before climbing the ladder to snuff out the lamp. Pilgrim nodded his thanks and hesitated. What should he do now? His feet itched to head to Whitehall, no more than five minutes walk away, but he knew he wouldn’t be welcome there. And he didn’t want to go back to his new lodgings. He turned instead towards Trafalgar Square.
The Square was so wide and featureless in the fog that he could have been standing on the edge of a field. He set off across it anyway. After a few paces, the equestrian statue of Henry IV loomed up in front of him. A little further on, the newly-finished monument to Admiral Nelson appeared, the top of the column vanishing into the air like a fakir’s rope.
‘Violets! Two bunches a penny.’
A flower seller sat by the railings at the base. She wore a thin cotton gown and carpet slippers instead of shoes. A sodden basket lay at her feet. He guessed she was no more than eight years old. Pilgrim swore under his breath. He and the girl might have been the only people left in the city. He stiffened his resolve and walked faster.
‘Violets, sir,’ she said again. ‘For your lady-love.’ She sniffed. The sniff sounded in danger of turning into a sob.
He sighed and stopped. He tossed her a penny, but declined the bedraggled bunch of flowers she offered him. When he met her eyes he saw no gratitude there, only resentment, raw and burning. He didn’t take it personally. He knew how it felt to have every scrap you were given begrudged by those with more. He walked on, his wet overcoat dragging on his shoulders. He was cold to the bone. What he needed was something to warm him up.
‘News, guv’nor?’ A vendor popped out of the fog and thrust a paper at him as he reached the other side of the Square. ‘Sixpence a sheet.’
He bought one and took it into a coffee house. As he settled himself in an armchair and ordered a hot chocolate he wondered whether this was how gentlemen of leisure filled their time. It felt strange to the point of absurdity to have nothing to do at that time of the morning. He had nowhere to go, and no one to see. He picked up the newspaper, the Illustrated London News, and opened it. Towards the middle of the paper, past the foreign news and the reports from the Royal Court, between an article about a boiler explosion on Lilly Lane and an account of the Gala at the Royal Academy, was a smaller article.
DEATH OF A CHILD MURDERER
The horrid slaughter of an unknown child and his unnatural conveyance to the dwelling of the Reverend Horace Bonwell in the hamlet of Great Barrow, near Chelmsford, on the morning of Saturday week has been mentioned previously in this Journal. The child was but four years old, his tender life passing from babyhood into boyhood, when he fell into the pitiless hands of an assailant who choked the breath from his lungs, and then submitted his unshriven body to be delivered by parcel.
We can now reveal the assailant as none other than the boy’s own mother – Stella Agnes Drake. There is no need here to dwell upon the abhorrence that such a vile and unnatural act will provoke in every Christian breast. We may be consoled, however, that the culprit has already been brought to justice, for while being pursued by a member of our own Detective Police in the early hours of Tuesday morning, Stella Drake fell beneath the wheels of a steam engine and died there. And so, by attempting to evade earthly justice, she met headlong the implacable will of that great Protector of Children, the Almighty Himself.
A post-mortem was performed and Death Certificate issued by H. R. Fairweather MRCS.
Beneath the article was another that Pilgrim found interesting:
DROVER’S YARD MURDER – DETECTIVES BAFFLED?
We reported last week the discovery of the body of another young woman at the notorious slum Drover’s Yard, the third such unnatural female death in as many weeks. One would imagine that this latest grim discovery would inspire our Detective Police to redouble their efforts to unmask the person or persons responsible.
But an inexplicable hush has fallen on Whitehall. Questions are being whispered in those illustrious corridors, questions that this humble journalist will not dare to repeat, for danger of undermining the public confidence. However, we question the wisdom of our own Detective Chief Inspector, who, with these recent murders yet unresolved, has nevertheless permitted his most successful and celebrated detective to take leave of absence. We can only hope that the Chief Inspector may revoke this decision, and rally his troops to prove himself equal to the challenges presented by these gr
ave and dreadful times.
Pilgrim snorted, causing several of the other coffee shop customers to glance at him. What would Charley say when he read all that?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘What do you mean he isn’t at the buggering barracks?’
Dickens could hear Charley Field before he reached the top of the staircase. Not wanting to see the Inspector at that particular moment, he veered away, and ducked into a doorway to listen.
‘He just … ain’t there, sir,’ replied Wainwright. ‘We ain’t seen him since the morning he caught the baby killer. The morning you … well, you know.’
‘That was three days ago. Did no one think to mention it to me? What about his things?’
‘Gone, sir.’
‘Gone?’ There was a beat of silence as Field cast around for someone else to vent his displeasure on. ‘Do you know where he is, Adolphus?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Where’s Tanner?’ demanded Field.
‘He said something about talking to Dr Fairweather again, sir,’ said Wainwright. ‘About the poison what killed Clara Donald.’
‘Damn it all! If Mr Dickens turns up, be so good as to show him the door, or you might very well have another murder on your hands.’ Field strode out of the office.
Dickens turned hastily away so the Inspector wouldn’t spot him, and waited until his footsteps had faded down the stairs before heading into the office.
‘Good morning, gentlemen!’
Dolly and Wainwright both turned to look at him, their eyes round.
‘Mr Dickens, sir!’ said Dolly. ‘The Inspector’s out at present, and I … um … wouldn’t wait around for him, if I were you.’
Dickens pulled a face. ‘It wasn’t me, you know, who spoke to the News.’
‘If you say so, sir. I haven’t seen the article.’
‘I need to talk to Sergeant Pilgrim, most urgently. I’ve been to Holborn, but they tell me he’s not staying at the barracks. Do you know where I might find him?’
‘No idea, sir,’ Dolly’s eyes slid away from the writer.
He narrowed his gaze. He had seen the constable attempt to lie before; the boy had no facility for it. ‘It’s almost luncheon,’ he said, conversationally, ‘do you have plans, Adolphus?’
‘No. Yes.’ Dolly gazed around. ‘I’m … um … going for a walk.’
They both looked out of the window, where the fog had surrendered to a hard rain that pounded the glass. Dickens raised an eyebrow. Dolly sighed, took his elbow, and steered him out of the room, away from Wainwright.
‘I’m not sure I do know the Sergeant’s whereabouts, sir, not exactly,’ he said. ‘But I have a suspicion where he might be. I need to speak to him myself. If you can stand the cost of a cab, we could look for him together.’
There was no need to summon a cab, for Dickens had his carriage waiting in Great Scotland Yard.
Within minutes they were standing on the steps of a lodging house in Holborn. It was better kept than the neighbouring houses, with fresh paint and a scrubbed step. Dolly lifted the gleaming brass knocker, and after a little while they heard a commotion on the other side of the door.
‘I’m coming. Why don’t you use your bloomin’…’ A handsome young woman, dressed in black, blinked at the two men. ‘Oh, it’s you, Dolly. What a surprise.’
‘This is Mr Charles Dickens,’ said Dolly.
‘Mr Dickens? What, the Mr Dickens?’ Dickens was gratified by her confusion, and utterly charmed by the blush that rose in her cheeks. ‘Come in, sir,’ she said, ‘come in out of the rain, for goodness sake.’
‘This is Mrs Piper,’ said Dolly to Dickens. ‘She’s my cousin. We’re looking for the Sergeant, Lotte. Is he here?’
‘He went out first thing.’
Dolly’s face registered his relief.
Mrs Piper looked from one man to the other. ‘I don’t know when he’ll be back,’ she continued. ‘Would you care for some tea?’
‘No wonder the Inspector’s in such a temper.’ Dolly put down Mrs Piper’s copy of the Illustrated London News, and helped himself to a slice of Madeira cake. Dickens did the same, but regretted it almost as soon as he took a bite: it had the texture of porridge.
‘I wonder who spoke to them?’ Dolly asked.
‘I may … um … have mentioned it, in passing, to an acquaintance who’s a correspondent on their foreign pages.’ Dickens spoke around a clinging mouthful of cake. ‘Discretion’s never been a strength of mine … not out of any wish to cause mischief, you understand. I daresay it will get me into trouble one of these days.’
Mrs Piper took the paper and scrutinized the article about Pilgrim’s dismissal. ‘So many murders,’ she sighed. ‘Dolly’s mother worries about him, Mr Dickens. We all do.’
The tips of Dolly’s ears turned red.
‘We live in hard times, Mrs Piper,’ said Dickens. The statement had a pleasing ring to it.
‘More tea?’ She proffered the teapot, utterly self-possessed now that she had recovered from their unexpected appearance on her doorstep.
‘That would be splendid.’
‘More cake?’
Dickens eyed the cake. ‘No, thank you. I’ve had a sufficiency.’
Dolly gave a start as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed one. ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ he said. ‘I have to get back to the station. Sergeant Tanner will have returned from the hospital by now.’ He stood up. ‘You’ll be sure to tell Sergeant Pilgrim I need to speak to him, Lotte? And that it’s urgent? I’ll come back as soon as I’ve finished my shift.’
‘You can leave a message, if you like,’ suggested Mrs Piper.
Dolly shook his head, his expression grave. ‘It’s something I really need to speak to him about, face to face. Please do tell him that it’s … ’
‘Urgent. I know.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Pilgrim shook the water from his overcoat and wiped his boots on the mat. Another man’s coat hung on the hooks in the vestibule. It was obviously expensive, dyed midnight blue, with a pink silk lining. He was surprised, at first, that Mrs Piper would know anyone who owned a coat of such flamboyance. Then he recognized the walking cane and hat.
He could hear familiar rich tones coming from the other side of Mrs Piper’s parlour door. He knocked and opened it. Mrs Piper and Dickens both looked up.
‘You have a visitor, Sergeant,’ said Charlotte.
He didn’t reply.
‘There’s tea in the pot.’ She rose and pushed past him to leave the room. ‘I’ll give you some privacy.’
He wiped the rain from his face with his sleeve. Rather than take a chair, however, he remained standing.
‘I can’t think what you might have to say to me, Mr Dickens. I’m no longer working on the investigation.’
‘So I understand.’ Dickens nodded. ‘A grave mistake on the Inspector’s part, in my opinion.’
Pilgrim relaxed slightly. ‘You wrote the article in the News?’
‘No.’
He lifted an eyebrow.
‘I merely … ’ Dickens hesitated, ‘… planted the seed.’
He poured himself a cup of tea. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I have received a note from Isaac Simmons. He thinks he may have found our missing Jewess.’
‘Sergeant Tanner will be delighted to hear it.’
Dickens gave a snort of impatience. ‘Simmons is my friend. His people have to be handled with patience and sensitivity.’ He hesitated, and pulled at his earlobe.
‘How well do you know Sergeant Tanner?’
Pilgrim frowned. ‘We were on the beat together for years, in H Division, but we’re not friends. Why?’
‘There’s something … brutal about the man.’
‘That’s true enough. But he’s a good detective.’
Dickens nodded, and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘The girl is called Mena Levy. Her brother reported her missing to the Great Synagogue a week ago.’
/> ‘Why didn’t he go to the police?’
‘He believes she has eloped. With a Gentile. So you see the need for a delicate touch in this matter? Tanner would be a disaster.’
Pilgrim put down his cup. He could see his point. He knew he shouldn’t get involved, but he had already had quite enough of sitting in coffee shops.
‘Very well. I’ll look into it,’ he said. ‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I do it on my own.’
The houses in Artillery Lane, in the heart of Spitalfields, were so close together that anyone leaning from the upper floors might shake hands with his neighbour opposite. Daylight struggled to reach the pavement, and the shop windows were illuminated with oil lamps even though it was the middle of the day. Two men stepped around him, both sporting beards and side locks, and he felt the weight of their attention. It was not entirely benign.
He turned, thankfully, out of the narrow thoroughfare into a broader one, the aptly named Widegate Street, where he stopped an elderly man who was wearing the large, flat crowned hat so distinctive of his brethren.
‘I’m looking for the Levy bakery,’ said Pilgrim.
The man grunted and pointed to a large building on the corner. Pilgrim wondered how he had missed it. The window was stacked with loaves and the frieze above was carved with figures of men occupied with the various stages of the trade: heaving sacks of flour, mixing dough, carrying trays of rolls.
Rather than going into the shop, Pilgrim found the alley that led around the side of the building to a gated yard. The gates were open, and several men were busy filling a waggon with covered trays. A handsome young man, red cheeked with the cold, supervised the others, checking off the trays from a list, as they were loaded. Pilgrim approached him.
‘I didn’t expect to see you open this late in the day,’ he said.
The youth stuck his pencil behind his ear and grinned. ‘Normally we wouldn’t be, but it’s only eight weeks to Passover. This delivery of Matzo bread has to sail tonight if it’s to make it to Cape Town in time.’ He gave Pilgrim a speculative look. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’