by J. J. Durham
‘Can I talk to him before you give him that?’ asked Pilgrim.
The doctor nodded. ‘Much good it’ll do you. Let me know when you’re finished. I have to arrange for the Bedlam Asylum to come and get him.’ He left the cell.
Wainwright was still rocking and muttering. ‘I couldn’t … no … HA!’
‘William.’ Pilgrim knelt beside him. ‘William, look at me.’
Wainwright’s eyes slid over him, without recognition. Pilgrim noticed the marks on his face; scratches, and a scabbed crescent.
‘Rats,’ muttered Wainwright.
‘There are no rats here. I need to ask you something.’
‘Always such a mess … I told him … I told him straight … IT AIN’T SALOME WHO HAD HER HEAD OFF! HOW CAN I PAINT SALOME IF HER HEAD’S OFF?’ He subsided again. ‘He cut them up. Cut all of them up. They never looked right.’
‘Who?’ asked Pilgrim. ‘Who cut them up?’
‘He wanted her, you know … my Magdalene. But I wouldn’t give her to him … I found him another one.’
‘Who wanted her?’ Pilgrim fought the urge to shake him.
‘Francis Townsend. Who else?’ Wainwright gave him a scornful look. ‘You shouldn’t feel sorry for them. We did them a kindness. They were nothing … less than nothing. But now they’ll live forever.’
Pilgrim clenched his fist.
‘FILTHY CREATURES!’ Wainwright shrieked and jumped up onto the cot. The metal frame squeaked under him and he shrieked again. ‘RATS’ He caught his foot in the blanket and crashed onto the floor, squirming and thrashing beside Appler’s faded bloodstain. ‘KEEP THEM OFF!’ He began to cry; a dreadful, rasping noise that sounded as if it was being ripped from his chest.
Pilgrim left him there. He found Charley with his coat on, ready for home. ‘Wainwright was working with Townsend,’ he said. ‘When I found Mena Levy’s body it must have been Townsend I followed through the sewers. I think Wainwright was choosing the victims, but Townsend was killing them, apart from Appler and Trinkle.’
Field rubbed his nose. ‘That makes sense. I can imagine Wainwright cutting Appler’s throat … just about … but not decapitating Mena Levy, or excising Martha Drewitt’s baby. Wainwright must have let Townsend bash him over the head the night Amalia Cohen was killed.’
Pilgrim considered the possibility. He could hear Wainwright’s incredulous words: the bugger hit me. No. He hadn’t expected Townsend to hit him. But it was no more than he deserved for putting his trust in a killer.
‘We could do with proof that Wainwright and Townsend knew each other,’ said Field.
‘I’ll go back to their lodgings tomorrow, see if I can find anything.’
‘When are we expecting news from Liverpool?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon, if the Princess Alice makes good time on her way to New York. If not … God only knows.’
‘You’ll be sending someone up there, though, to bring Townsend back?’ asked Pilgrim. ‘Let me go. He probably doesn’t know we’ve caught Wainwright. Even if he does, he won’t know that Wainwright can’t legally tell us anything. He might confess.’ He paused. ‘I hear that Dick Tanner will be out of the hospital by Friday.’
Field nodded. ‘I swear the bloody man is invincible.’
Pilgrim hesitated. Did Charley suspect that Tanner was crooked? That he was turning stolen property into cash through his brother’s pawnshop?
‘What?’ asked Charley, piqued by Pilgrim’s expression.
‘Nothing. What do you think? Can I go to Liverpool?’
Field rubbed his nose, and then shrugged. ‘Very well. But bring Townsend back as quickly as you can. I have to make my report to the Joint Commissioners.’ He grinned at Pilgrim. ‘Sir Charles has announced his retirement at last, and the appointment of someone to replace him. Before he bows out I want to remind him and that prick Sir Richard why this city needs us. But first, I need some sleep.’ He headed for the door. ‘Aren’t you going home?’
Home. Pilgrim thought about his rooms at Greville Street. About Charlotte Piper. Was she asleep, he wondered, or waiting for him? He looked down at his clothes, almost dry now, but streaked with mud, blood, and worse. Charley was right, he needed a bath, but it would have to wait until the bathhouse opened. He didn’t want Charlotte to see him like this.
Field was still watching, still waiting for an answer.Pilgrim shook his head. ‘I have some things I need to do first.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
His office was dark. He lit the oil lamp and turned it up. It seemed a lifetime since he had last stood there. Dolly’s desk was in chaos, as usual, and the travelling valise with its stickers was still on Tanner’s desk. How long had it been since he and Dolly had visited the laundry in Limehouse? A week? Ten days? He remembered the Chinaman’s warning; something bad has passed close to you. It will come again. He shook his head. The old man had been wrong: there was something bad beside them all along.
Wainwright’s desk was clear of everything save a notebook, left open as if the young constable might stroll in and pick it up at any moment. Pilgrim sighed and looked around. The same pile of letters from Household Words waited, unopened, on his desk, topped with the stale beef pie. Nothing had changed. Almost nothing. He felt the familiar tightening behind his eyes.
A small package lay on his desk, wrapped in American canvas, addressed in red ink to ‘Sergeant Pilgrim’. He picked it up and ripped it open. There was a note inside, wrapped around something small and hard. He unfolded the paper and read the message:
How now, Harry?
I daresay you’ll have figured it all out by now. Or most of it, at any rate. Sorry to disappoint you, but you won’t catch me on the ship. I made other arrangements. Ha ha.
Pity I have to go away for a while, ’cause I was just getting into my stride, but I hope you don’t mind I left a little present for you. Something to remember me by. I will miss you all, I imagine, but ‘the devil finds work for idle hands’ or so they say.
It was wrapped around an earring, made of jet, carved into the shape of a rosebud; the perfect match to Eliza Grimwood’s choker. I’ve left a little present for you. Did Townsend mean the earring? Or something else? Pilgrim looked more closely at the earring. Was it familiar to him because it matched the choker? Or had he seen it before?
Suddenly the effort of thinking was too much for him. He needed to sleep. In a bed. Dirty or clean, he no longer cared.
He put the earring on his desk and turned off the oil lamp. The note meant nothing. A final act of defiance. Wainwright must have left it there earlier that morning. As for Townsend … they would catch up with him. He didn’t know how, yet, but he would put his mind to it in the morning. He would find a way.
He trudged down the staircase. Phelps was nowhere to be seen, but Anderson squinted at him from behind the desk.
‘Did you get the lad home safe?’ asked Pilgrim. He saw the constable’s blank look. ‘The lost boy.’
‘If you can call it home,’ said Anderson. ‘A pit of a place behind the Newgate Prison, no fire, no door even, and seven of them in there, like rats.’
Pilgrim nodded goodnight and went out into the street. The wind had risen; a gnawing wind straight off the river. He folded his collar up to his chin and set off towards Holborn. No doubt Wainwright was on his way to Bedlam, if he hadn’t arrived there already. He hardened his heart to pity. Bedlam was better than Wainwright deserved, for as long as his mind had gone, he would barely be aware of the constraint. He wanted my Magdalene, but I gave him another. In his mind’s eye Pilgrim could see Clara Donald as she had appeared in Wainwright’s painting, haloed in the lamplight, with her hair draped artfully over her breasts. His footsteps slowed, and stopped. Clara Donald, with her long red hair, who looked so much like his Bess.
Without consciously thinking about it, he turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come.
Why should Wainwright have changed his mind about his original choice of Magdalene? My Magdal
ene. Mine. He hadn’t wanted to kill her. He had wanted her for himself. Who was his original Magdalene? But Pilgrim already knew the answer.
He broke into a run. He ran past the station to Westminster Bridge. The bridge was busy, so busy that he was forced to run on the road, dodging omnibuses, Broughams, and Hackneys, like an eel. Blood pounded in his ears as he reached the other end of the bridge and ran beneath the dark walls of Lambeth Palace to Lambeth Walk.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Even though it was almost midnight, the Walk was as busy as the middle of the afternoon. The crowd, lit with gas and paraffin lamps, was badly dressed and dirty, but cheerful. Pilgrim set off again, dodging the barrows and handcarts that blocked his way, past an organ grinder and a group of dancing children. Frustration flared. The crowds on the Walk were slowing him down.
He spotted the entrance to a court that ran off to the left, away from the glare of the street into darkness, and plunged into it. The houses were low, with narrow doorways and windows that showed no glimmer of light. He leapt a pile of rubbish, ignoring the squeal of a rat as he landed on it. His footsteps rang in his ears until he burst out the other end of the court into a broader street. He had no real idea where he was now, but relied on instinct to guide him. He kept running.
He left the main street again, to dodge though a stable yard, where a dog barked and lunged at him. He was too fast for it, vaulting over a fence into another lane that he guessed ran roughly parallel to where he needed to be. He ran on, saw an alley cutting to his right, and took it.
Finally he arrived, winded, and lathered with sweat, in Gloucester Street. He found the lodgings and took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the shouts of an old man who had to leap aside to avoid him. He had almost reached the top when he stopped abruptly.
There was a splash of blood, bright as a rose petal, on one of the stairs. And then another, on the top landing, beside Frances’ door. It was slightly ajar. Pilgrim pushed it open. Frances lay on her back in a pool of blood. He ran to kneel beside her. Her hair, her glorious hair, was loose, but thick with gore, plastered across her cheeks, breast, and throat. He brushed the hair tenderly from her face and saw what had killed her: a single cut, slicing her throat from one ear to the other, where a single jet earring dangled.
He gathered her into his arms, and howled.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Mrs Wallace pushed her index finger into the soil to make a hole. The sunlight was warm on her shoulders and she could feel the dampness of the earth through her skirts; both welcome sensations after the dreary months spent indoors.
‘Get away from me with that ruddy water!’ shrieked Isabella, picking up her skirts and darting away from Mary Ann who was chasing her with a watering can.
‘Get ’er, Mary Ann!’
The girls laughed and shrieked as each tended their own little patch of garden, their high spirits soaring at unaccustomed freedom. She knew she should reprimand them, tell them to behave more decorously, but she didn’t have the heart. Let them scandalize the neighbours, for once.
‘Just one in each hole.’ She helped Kathleen Chalk laboriously separate a single sunflower seed from the heap in her palm, and watched as she dropped it into the ground. ‘That’s right. That way they’ll all have space to grow.’
Kathleen’s eyes drooped under the combination of the sun’s heat and the repetitive action of sowing the seeds. Mrs Wallace heard a rapping sound. She looked up to see Mr Dickens at the parlour window, signalling for her to come inside.
‘Make some more holes like that, Kathleen, with your finger. But don’t put any seeds into them until I get back.’ She stood up and brushed the soil from her skirt.
In the parlour, Dickens already had on his overcoat. He was putting paperwork back into the bureau. ‘I’ve brought the books up to date, Mrs Wallace,’ he said. ‘You should manage well enough without me for a few weeks. I’m sorry to have to abandon you like this, but I need to concentrate on Bleak House.’
‘That’s quite all right, sir. I’ve been following it in Household Words.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Most intriguing. I particularly admire the police detective, Inspector Bucket, and the heroine, Esther Summerson. I’m so pleased that Mr Woodcourt has not been put off by her disfigurement. Society places far too much value on appearance, in my opinion.’ She hesitated. ‘I also read your article in the Chronicle about the expansion of the Detective Force. Is it true that Sergeant Pilgrim has been promoted?’
‘Yes, indeed. He’s Inspector Pilgrim now. But I didn’t realize you knew him, Mrs Wallace?’
‘Oh, I don’t … other than what I’ve read about Sergeant Pilchem, of course.’ She twisted the ring on her finger.
Dickens looked about. ‘Is there anything else you think you might need, before I go? I’ve left the key for the cash box in its usual place.’
‘Thank you. I need to buy another pair of shoes for Ida. She’s outgrown her others already.’
‘Has she, really?’ Dickens tried to hide a smile. ‘She’s growing fast, Mrs Wallace.’
Ida Blenkinsopp had come to Urania Cottage shortly after the death of her friend, Frances Reilly. They had taken her in at Sergeant Pilgrim’s request, even though she was a few years younger than the other girls. It meant she would have to stay with them longer, but the Matron knew that wasn’t going to be a problem. Mr Dickens tried to hide it, but the girl had quickly become his favourite, perhaps because she was very close in age to his own daughters.
Dickens dithered at the door. ‘If there’s anything urgent you need, you know how to reach me.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage, sir.’
She followed him into the hallway, and helped him find his hat and walking stick.
‘Anything you need, anything at all. Do not hesitate to send me a note.’ He waved goodbye to the girls as he walked down the path, and they all stopped what they were doing to wave back, except Isabella and Mary Ann, who were still chasing each other with the watering can.
Mrs Wallace watched him until he disappeared around the corner, headed in the direction of the omnibus stop, and then she returned to Kathleen. As she had feared, the girl had been too impatient to wait to plant her seeds and had upended the packet onto the soil.
Kathleen saw her disappointment. ‘Weren’t my fault, missus. They just fell.’
Mrs Wallace knelt beside her again to gather up the seeds.
‘Missus Wallace!’ Ida clattered though the gate, with Julia at her heels. ‘Look! We’ve bought some lovely buttons.’ She tucked an unruly red curl behind her ear and flourished a paper bag. ‘They’re perfect for that new jacket of Mary Ann’s.’
The Matron handed the seeds back to Kathleen. ‘Here you go. Try again. Remember, one at a time.’ She stood up and turned to Ida. ‘Bring them inside, let me see.’
In the hallway, Ida pulled a handful of buttons from her paper bag. ‘They were only sixpence a dozen.’
‘They’re beautiful, Ida. I’m sure Mary Ann will love them.’ She took the buttons. ‘Now run along and put your apron on. It’s pity to waste the sunshine.’
Ida turned, as if to run up the stairs, and then turned back to her. She smiled shyly. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, missus. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you, with your red hair and everything. Just like my poor Fran come back to life.’
Mrs Wallace’s heart squeezed. Frances.
‘You could almost be her sister,’ averred Ida.
‘Not her sister. I’m too old.’ Bess Wallace smiled, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Ida’s ear. ‘Her aunt, maybe.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
An Act of Mercy is set in London in March 1850. History buffs and lovers of Dickens may have noticed that I’ve taken some liberties with history and biographical details for the sake of creating this imaginative piece of fiction. Dickens took a keen interest in the new police detective department at Scotland Yard, which was set up in 1842 and still very
much in its infancy in 1850. His police stories, articles, and anecdotes on their investigations appeared in Household Worlds between 1850 and 1853. Bleak House was published in monthly parts between March 1852 and October 1853.
Charley Field, Adolphus ‘Dolly’ Williamson, and Dick Tanner were all real detectives in the new police detective department alongside Jonathan Whicher. Sir Richard Mayne and Sir Charles Rowan were Joint Commissioners of the Metropolitan Police. Although I’ve based all real-life characters on contemporary reports and descriptions, they have been fictionalized to suit the story
The murder of Louis Drake – the boy in the box – is based on a real case investigated by Detective Sergeant Jonathan Whicher in 1849. The real Sarah Drake had a less grisly fate than my fictional character – she was brought to trial and found not guilty, on the grounds of temporary insanity. In 1859, Whicher, by then an Inspector, also investigated a case of infanticide involving the Reverend Bonwell; however, the two cases are not connected in the way they are depicted in An Act of Mercy.
I hope you’ll forgive these liberties and trust they haven’t spoiled your enjoyment of the novel. No offence is intended towards living relatives of any character whose name I have borrowed in the service of fiction.
Have you enjoyed An Act of Mercy?
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You might also like to visit www.jjdurham.co.uk to find out more about the author and the next book in the Pilgrim series. If you have any thoughts/comments about the book you can contact the author on [email protected].
J. J. Durham was born in a pit village in the north east of England and grew up in a caravan stuffed full of books, cutting her literary teeth on the great storytellers of the 1960’s and 70’s – Wilbur Smith, Frank Yerby, Mary Renault, Sergeanne Golon, and Lance Horner. She has a degree in English Literature, and has published two previous novels. An Act of Mercy is her first historical crime novel, and it features pioneering Victorian detective Harry Pilgrim.