by J. J. Durham
‘This is definitely the right address?’ asked Dickens.
‘Positive, sir. Seventeen Yew Tree Cottages, like it said in the ledger at St Bartholomew’s.’ He shook the door handle again. ‘Lord knows where we’ll get a key.’
‘We need to be certain Townsend’s gone,’ said Dickens. ‘Break it down,’
‘Eh?’
‘Kick the door down, Wainwright. You have good stout boots. Don’t worry, I’ll answer to Chief Inspector Field if necessary.’
It only took one kick. The lock gave with a crash and the door swung open. They went inside, leaving footprints in the dust. Dickens opened the curtains, admitting enough light from the streetlamp to see that there were no sheets on the bed and no sign of any personal possessions. Wainwright stooped to touch the ashes in the hearth.
‘Stone cold, sir.’
‘Look here, Constable,’ Dickens beckoned Wainwright to the table and nodded at the marks on the scrubbed surface.
‘Bloodstains?’ asked Wainwright.
Dickens shook his head. ‘Ink. Red ink. I think it’s safe to say that Townsend is our man.’
‘Will the Inspector and Sergeant be in time to catch him, do you think?’
‘I do hope so.’
‘What shall we do now?’
‘I suppose I should get you back to the station,’ Dickens rubbed his chin, ‘but we’re not far from Shepherd’s Bush. Would you mind if we made a small detour on the way?’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The house in Greville Street was in darkness. Pilgrim banged on the door and stepped back to look up at the windows. No light came on to answer his summons. There was no sign of life at all. Was he too late? He banged again. Nothing. He leaned over the railing to peer down into the basement, to see if any of the kitchen windows had been left open, but the curtains were drawn and the windows all looked secure.
He was about to turn away when he heard a footfall in the hall. The door opened. Charlotte Piper rubbed her eyes and stared at him. Her face was slack with sleep, her eyelids swollen. Had she been crying? It took her a fraction of a second to register exactly who he was. In that fraction he saw himself through her eyes: half-shaved, soaking wet, and desperate. She whirled and ran.
He caught up with her at the top of the basement stairs, grabbed her by the shoulders, and spun her to face him. ‘Let me explain.’
She brought up her knee, fast and hard, but not quite fast enough. He was able to block it with his thigh. He slammed her against the wall and held her there, his body pressed into hers. Their faces were only inches apart. She was solid in his arms and he could feel the heat of her through his wet clothes.
‘Listen to me.’
She twisted her face away.
He caught her chin and dragged it back to him. ‘The Inspector knows I’m not the killer. He thinks he’s gone to catch the killer, but he’s after the wrong man. I know who the real murderer is. I know who his next victim will be.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘It’s you, Charlotte. He wants to paint you as Venus.’
‘But … the baby … ?’
‘He hid it here, the night Amalia Cohen died.’ He closed his eyes, briefly. ‘I’ve been blind.’
‘How do I know you’re not trying to trick me?’
‘You don’t. There’s no way I can prove anything to you.’ She was tall, for a woman, her eyes almost level with his. Something flickered in them as elusive as a trout in a mountain stream. He could see the pulse of her throat, the way a strand of her hair moved with his breath, feathering against her cheek. He pushed away from her. ‘I don’t care if you don’t believe me, as long as you get out of this house. Go somewhere safe, now.’
She stood looking at him, rubbing her arms. Then she pushed past him into the vestibule, grabbed her coat and bonnet from the rack, and slammed out of the door.
He bent over, winded with relief and a fierce, renegade desire. His whole body ached with it. He wasn’t a vain man, but he could have sworn something had passed between them: a sensual awareness, a recognition. He hoped she had somewhere safe to go. It was only then that he realized he’d been so concerned to get her out of the house, away from danger, that he hadn’t told her who the murderer was.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
‘This is Constable Wainwright.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mrs Wallace nodded to the constable and then turned back to Dickens. ‘We weren’t expecting you tonight, sir.’
‘I left some shirt collars here, on the night of the Gala. I thought I would call in for them, as we were passing.’
‘I was just taking supper with some of the older girls. Would you care to join us?’
Dickens cocked his head at the constable.
‘As long as we’re quick, sir, I’m still on duty, after all.’
‘I think we have time for a cup of tea. Thank you, Mrs Wallace.’
Four faces turned to greet them in the parlour, flashing instantly from boredom into animation.
‘Pour the gentlemen some tea, Isabella,’ said Mrs Wallace. ‘And make some room by the fire there, Julia.’
They jumped up to obey, and, with much fussing and tutting, installed Wainwright in the fireside chair with a cup of tea. Kathleen Chalk hung back, mouth drooping open.
Dickens picked up a sketchbook that was lying on the table. ‘I see you’ve been sketching again, Mary Ann.’ It was an indifferent still life of the tea caddy and one of Mrs Wallace’s bonnets. ‘Constable Wainwright here is a very accomplished artist. Perhaps if you ask him prettily, he’ll take your likeness.’
‘Would you, oh, would you, sir?’
The policeman blushed under Mary Ann’s pleading gaze.
‘Well …’ he began.
‘No, not Mary Ann,’ snapped Isabella. ‘She has a big nose. Sketch me instead.’
‘Isabella Gordon!’ chided Mrs Wallace. ‘The Constable will certainly not want to take your likeness now. He’ll sketch Mary Ann … that is, as long as you’re willing, sir?’
Wainwright was allowed two gulps of his tea before the sketchbook and pencil were thrust into his hands. The girls helped him to settle Mary Ann into a suitable pose, clustering round him, laughing and making suggestions.
‘No, not like that! Put her chin on her hand, like this.’
Dickens and Mrs Wallace stood back and watched them, indulgent.
‘How did the Lord Mayor’s Gala go?’ murmured Mrs Wallace.
‘Well enough,’ said Dickens. ‘It was a pity you missed it. But hardly surprising that the girls were too upset, under the circumstances.’
They fell silent again. Mary Ann was not yet arranged to everyone’s satisfaction.
‘She looks like a wooden doll,’ snapped Isabella. ‘Smile, you lump. You ain’t at a funeral.’ The girls all laughed, apart from Kathleen Chalk, who frowned and tugged at Isabella’s arm.
‘Come away, come away from ’im, Bella.’
The other girl shook her off. ‘What the devil are you pawin’ at me for?’
‘Don’t get so close. ’E only wants to touch your bubbies.’
‘Kathleen!’ Mrs Wallace pulled the girl aside and shook her gently. ‘For shame, Kathleen Chalk! How could you say such a thing?’
‘It’s what that Reverend done.’
‘What?’
‘It’s what that Reverend done. To Becky Woods.’
The Matron locked her gaze with Dickens.
‘I saw it with my own two eyes,’ continued Kathleen, ‘when I brought the tea tray in. ’e touched ’er bubby, like this.’ She ran her index finger over her own bosom with a leering expression. If he hadn’t been so appalled, Dickens might have laughed.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ asked Mrs Wallace.
‘No one asked me. No one ever does.’ She gave the Matron a sly look. ‘I know something else, too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Becky weren’t her real name.’
Mrs Wallace gave Dickens a triumphant look.
&n
bsp; Kathleen nodded. ‘She were called Stella. She told me so.’
Dickens blew out his cheeks. Becky Woods, Stella Whatever: the girl was gone, whatever she was called, and there was nothing could be done about it.
Isabella was settled at last, and the other girls arranged themselves behind Wainwright to watch him as he sketched.
Dickens also watched, fascinated. The constable had taken on a peculiar intensity as he squinted from the paper to Mary Ann and back again, his hand moving over the page. His affable features had hardened. His posture was authoritative, his movements incisive. It was as if a mask had been dropped to reveal a different man. Dickens found it rather disconcerting. What a pity, he thought, that Wainwright was wasting his artistic talents by working as a police detective – from what he had seen, he had neither ability nor inclination in that direction.
Silence reigned in the parlour. Dickens savoured it – a rare occurrence at Urania Cottage.
Finally, Wainwright sat back. ‘There you go, miss.’ He signed the sketch with a flourish and gave it to Mary Ann. His face had changed back again to its usual doleful expression.
‘Oh, look, Mr Dickens,’ said Mary Ann, ‘’e’s turned me into a fairy.’
She brought the sketch to show him. He noticed that Wainwright had not only captured the girl’s rather heavy features, but, miraculously, something of the mercurial quality that saved them from ugliness. To his surprise he had drawn her as Diana, with a crescent moon coronet and a bow at her side.
‘A fairy, you?’ Isabella snatched the paper from Mary Ann’s hand and peered at it. ‘That ain’t bad. Me next!’
Dickens thought it time to intervene. ‘I’m afraid the Constable and I must be going. Perhaps he will oblige us by calling back another day? If we ask him nicely he might even agree to give some of you lessons.’
Wainwright’s long face flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I’d be honoured, Mr Dickens, sir.’
Dickens turned to Kathleen. ‘Would you please fetch my shirt collars? They’re on the dresser in my room.’
She set off at a thump up the stairs. The other girls crowded into the hall to wait with them. Dickens caught Mrs Wallace’s eye.
‘We’ll talk later,’ he said.
Kathleen returned with the collars and the two men took their leave amid much dimpling and batting of eyelashes. The carriage was waiting at the gate.
‘Thank you for indulging me,’ said Dickens to Wainwright. ‘I know you’re anxious to get back to Whitehall, but it’s good to see the girls enjoy such an innocent pleasure.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
After Pilgrim sent Charlotte away from the house, he wondered what to do next. It made no sense to return to Wainwright’s lodging on his own, with the station less than ten minutes away. If Wainwright were to go to Mrs Piper’s first, he would find no one home. Pilgrim locked the house up tight and set off at a jog for Whitehall.
The rain had stopped and the temperature had fallen significantly. The air burned Pilgrim’s throat as he ran and he had to watch where he put his feet on the pavements, for they had taken on a glassy sheen. He arrived at Whitehall without mishap, however, and ran into the reception.
Phelps came out from behind his desk. ‘Any luck, sir?’
Pilgrim shook his head. ‘Is the Inspector back yet?’ he gasped.
‘There’s been no word. You’re wet through. And frozen too. Come and sit by the fire.’
Pilgrim nodded. He didn’t want to stay in full view, in case Wainwright spotted him and bolted.
The Duty Sergeant’s office was cramped, more of a cubbyhole than a room, but it had a fire, and an occupant: a small boy looked up from the flames as they entered.
‘He’s lost,’ explained Phelps. ‘I get one in here at least once a week. He says if we show him Newgate Street he’ll know his way home. I’m just waiting for young Anderson to be free to take him. Here, let me take your overcoat, sir.’
Pilgrim studied the solemn-eyed boy as he shrugged off his coat. He judged him to be five at the most, but he had the self-possession of a lad twice that. His jacket was thin and his shoes were scuffed at the toes. But at least he had shoes. Pilgrim thought of the little flower seller in her slippers.
‘The kettle’s just boiled, sir. Let me make you a brew.’ Phelps spooned tea leaves into a pot with a housekeeper’s efficiency, and took the kettle off the hearth. ‘We was shocked, sir, when you was arrested. None of us thought you was capable of anything like murder, you being one of us, an’ all. I said to young Anderson, I said, that’s one arrest that’ll come back to bite us, sure as mustard.’
The boy swivelled to look at Pilgrim. Pilgrim took the cup Phelps offered and blew on the tea to cool it. They all heard the tramp of boots.
‘Here’s Anderson now,’ said Phelps.
The squint-eyed constable was clearly shocked at seeing his former prisoner taking tea with his Sergeant, but Phelps forestalled any questions with a flap of his hand.
‘Never mind that now.’ He beckoned to the boy. ‘This here’s Constable Anderson. He’ll take you to Newgate Street.’
‘I can find my own way from there, sir,’ piped the boy.
‘None of that nonsense. If you show the constable the way, he’ll see you safe home.’
Pilgrim thought of Charlotte Piper. Perhaps he should have brought her to the station with him? But he hadn’t wanted to risk her getting any closer to Wainwright than absolutely necessary. He hoped she’d found somewhere safe to stay for the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
‘Wait for us here, John Thompson, we should only be a few minutes.’
Dickens and Wainwright jumped down from the Brougham at Westminster Hospital.
‘Is Adolphus hurt bad, sir?’ asked Wainwright. ‘Only I’m not sure I want to see him, if that’s the case. I heard he was in a grave way, if you take my meanin’.’
‘He’s not so bad as that.’ Dickens led the way into the hospital. ‘Thank you for agreeing to stop off and see him. I know he’ll want to hear how we got on with Townsend. I must warn you though, he has looked better, and we’re not to excite him.’
A woman sat on the bench in the corridor outside the ward, swinging a bonnet to and fro in her fingers. She rose when she saw them.
‘Mrs Piper!’ Dickens took her hand. ‘Whatever are you doing out here?’
‘They’re changing Dolly’s bandages. I haven’t the stomach for it.’
‘Isn’t it late for you to be visiting?’
‘Sergeant Pilgrim sent me.’ She grimaced. ‘Not here, exactly, but he said to find somewhere safe. This was the safest place I could think of.’
‘But isn’t the Sergeant … ?’ began Wainwright.
‘He came to the house. He said he knew who the murderer was and that I was to be his next victim.’
Dickens nodded. ‘You have no need to worry, Mrs Piper. Townsend is either at the docks, or on his way to New York. We’ve just been to his lodgings. All his belongings are gone.’
‘What made the Sergeant think you would be his next victim?’ asked Wainwright.
Charlotte frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I can’t remember what he said, precisely.’
‘Whatever it was,’ said Dickens, ‘there’s no reason for you to remain here any longer. I’ll talk to Adolphus when he’s finished with the doctor. Why don’t you take the carriage, Constable, and see Mrs Piper safely home?’
CHAPTER FIFTY
‘What the hell are you doing in here? Who let you out of the cell?’ Tanner had found Pilgrim dozing in the Duty Sergeant’s office. He glared at Phelps.
‘Never mind that,’ said Pilgrim. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘I left the Inspector at the docks. I’m on my way to the telegraph office.’
‘I know who the killer is,’ said Pilgrim.
‘Who do you think we’ve been chasing all night?’
‘I have no idea.’
Tanner crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Go on, then. Tell me
who it is.’
‘William Wainwright.’
Tanner blinked at Pilgrim. He grinned. Then his grin split even wider. He laughed, long and loud. Finally, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Priceless,’ he gasped. ‘Absolutely bloody priceless. How did you work that one out?’
‘I don’t have time to go into it. Where is he?’
‘Home by now, I should think.’ Tanner grinned again. ‘Sharpening his knives.’
‘I know it sounds far-fetched. But it’s true. He’s been murdering them to order, to use as models for his paintings. Mena Levy, Johannes Appler, Martha Drewitt, Eliza Grimwood, and Clara Donald, he killed them all. I think he poisoned Angus Trinkle too.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I’ve been to his lodgings. I’ve seen the paintings. And Clara Donald’s hand.’
They stared at each other for a long time. Finally Tanner blew out his lips. ’Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Get your coat.’
‘You believe me?’
Tanner gave a wry grin. ‘It’s no secret that I think you’re a self-righteous glory seeker, but I never did believe you were the killer.’
‘So why did you arrest me?’
‘Just doing what I was told, like a good little boy.’ Tanner watched Pilgrim shrug on his overcoat. ‘Wainwright lives in ’soken, doesn’t he? It’ll have to be Shanks’s pony to get there. I’ve just come all the way from the Pool without hide nor hair of a cab.’
‘I want to go via Holborn,’ said Pilgrim, ‘to make sure he hasn’t gone to my lodgings.’
‘Why should he go there?’ Pilgrim was about to answer when Tanner stopped him. ‘Tell me on the way.’
When they reached Greville Street, Pilgrim stopped with a frown in front of Charlotte Piper’s house. ‘There’s a light on in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘So?’ Tanner followed his gaze to the basement, to where a glow showed through the curtains.
‘It wasn’t on when I left. Either Mrs Piper’s come back, or … ’