by Carol Hedges
Scrag and bone, the coffee stall owner thinks, wondering whether she has seen her here before.
“Cuppa luverly hot coffee, m’duck?” she asks, holding her coffee pot aloft over a tray of stained china mugs.
“No thank you,” the young woman says firmly, her head held high. “I’m looking for the boy who sweeps the crossing. Do you know where I might find him?”
“What boy?” the coffee stall owner asks innocently. Because you never know, do you?
The young woman frowns.
“He told me his name was Oi.”
“Did he now. Well, he ain’t here.”
“Do you know where he has gone?”
The coffee stall owner shrugs.
“Couldn’t say, I'm sure.”
“He’s gone to buy a new broom,” her husband interjects. “He should be back soon enough, if you cares to wait.”
“Cuppa hot coffee to pass the time, maybe?” his wife suggests meaningfully.
The young woman takes the hint. She digs in her pocket for some coins.
“A cup of coffee would be lovely. Thank you. Yes – and maybe one of those nice slices of bread-and-butter to go with it?”
The coffee-stall owner pours coffee into a mug, and hands her the platter. The young woman selects a thickly-buttered slice, then carries both items the short distance to the parapet of the bridge.
“Now, watcher make of that?” the coffee-stall owner exclaims. “We dresses like one of them street gels, but ain’t we got the airs and graces of a duchess!”
Josephine leans upon the parapet, sipping the bitter black coffee. She watches the light catching the water, turning it chemical-silver. Her head is spinning with cards and coffins, coaches and cemeteries. There is so much to do to arrange a funeral, and Mrs Thorpe is grimly determined that all shall not only be done, but be done properly.
Later, Josephine has go shopping with Isabella Thorpe for some proper mourning clothes. Mrs Hudson’s home-dyed offerings have been viewed, and rejected out of hand.
She looks down at her shabby, mud-splattered black frock and recollects reading somewhere that the main reason people wear black is to stop the dead from returning. By veiling and cloaking themselves in black, the living somehow render themselves invisible to the dead.
If she believed this (which she does not), she would wear the brightest colours she could find. She’d give anything to see her uncle again. And her beloved parents, whose dear faces she now sees only in rare dreams.
She is roused from her sad reverie by a shuffling sound, punctuated by a wheezy cough that sounds like a bag of bricks being thrown against a wall. The crossing-sweeper in his broken boots is making his way along the pavement towards her.
“’Ello Jo King. Here you are agin. Thruppence halfpenny, this broom cost,” he grumbles. “Last month, it was only thruppence. Bleedin’ daylight robbery.”
His bright eyes travel to the half-drunk cup of coffee, then to the untasted slice of bread-and-butter. There is an expectant pause. Silently, she hands them over. He wolfs down the bread, and drinks off the coffee in one slurping gulp, before running a filthy finger round the inside of the cup and sucking it noisily.
She bites back the temptation to comment, reminding herself that it was not so long ago when she’d been so hungry that the last shreds of rancid meat served up in a thin watery stew were as precious as the finest gold.
Suddenly the boy spots a well-dressed couple waiting at the kerb. He sets down the cup on the pavement and darts out into the road, where he begins assiduously sweeping a path in front of them.
Eventually he crosses back, jingling some coins.
“Look! Tuppence!” He grins. “Took pity on me ’cos I was so poor and ragged. Who says dirt don't pay?”
He thrusts the money into some hidden pocket inside his ragged, filthy coat. Then leans his broom against the bridge, and begins to remove the thick half-moons of dirt from under his nails.
“I’ve ’ad all sorts of people on my crossing, Jo King,” he boasts. “You wouldn’t believe it. Lords and ladies, famous theatricals, Members of Parliament. I had the Prime Minister on my crossing just the other day. I crossed the Queen once.”
“You’re right. I don't believe it.”
“You wasn’t there.”
She decides to change the subject.
“So, what did you find out about my uncle’s murder?”
“The only one wot remembers anyfink woz Jim Jarndyce – an old soldger from the Crimean War. Sometimes he sleeps in the first doorway on t’other side of the bridge. Heard noises in the middle of the night – said it woke ’im up, so it must’ve been loud, coz once he’s off, he don’t come round easy. Blood curdling screams, he said. Reminded ’im of when he woz on the battlefield. Soon after that, he sez he heard footsteps running. Couldn’t tell me much more on account of the mist and the dark, and the amount of drink taken.”
“Has he spoken to the police?”
Oi gives a rusty laugh.
“We don’t speak to the ecipol round ’ere.”
“The ecip - oh, I see. However, I should like to speak to him, if I may.”
“Best of luck wiv that.”
Ignoring him, she walks briskly over the bridge until she reaches the first doorway on the far side. It is tantalisingly empty, though a broken bottle, a few fishbones, and a puddle of something she doesn’t want to think about, all bear witness to the previous night’s occupant.
Disappointed, she retraces her steps.
“He’s not there.”
The boy nods.
“Gone on the tramp. Does that. Says he can’t breathe right in Lunnon. Comes back though, regular as clockwork. I can let you know when he does.”
She tells him her address. Then she turns to go.
“Hey, Jo King,” the crossing-sweeper calls out after her, “I heard as ’ow if you look into a dead man’s eyes, there’ll be a little pitcher of the last thing he saw. That’s what you oughter do. Look into your uncle’s eyes, and p’raps you'll see the face of his murderer.”
****
Later that same afternoon, a shiny cherry-coloured brougham draws up outside a fashionable West End salon whose shiny plate-glass windows are full of richly-coloured velvet mantles, glacé silk and moiré, all artistically arranged. The Thorpes' coachman descends from the box and opens the coach door.
Isabella Thorpe slides out gracefully.
“Come,” Isabella says to Josephine, waving a languid hand.
She glides into the store, immediately securing the services of a couple of showroom women, who usher the two girls to a side-room. Big looking-glasses are set in handsome carved-gilt frames, and a richly-patterned violet carpet covers the floor.
Isabella explains carefully what Josephine needs, then sinks onto a small chintz-patterned sofa, while the two women, one of whom is French, bustle around selecting patterns, rolls of black cloth, and trimmings.
“When I was fifteen and still at school, we made it our aim reduce our waists by one inch per month,” Isabella says, as the saleswomen begin to divest Josephine of her outer garments. “By the time I left, my waist measured thirteen inches.”
The saleswomen look impressed. Josephine, however, is horrified. Isabella is much too thin even now. So, what must she have looked like then? What on earth did she eat? Did she eat?
Isabella rolls her eyes.
“Mama makes me lace to nineteen now. She says that less than that is not conducive to my health. Apparently, our vicar has also told her that tight lacing is immoral and opposed to all the laws of religion.”
She eyes Josephine's maladroitly-laced waist.
“New stays?”
“Oh no, I really don't …”
“We ’ave some delightful articles in scarlet, Mademoiselle,” the French woman says. “Front fastening too, for ease of dressing. Zey came in last week, fresh from Par-ee.”
Isabella nods her approval.
“We shall take them. It means you w
on’t be entirely in black, which will be such a relief, won’t it?”
Eventually, after much debate between Isabella and the French sales assistant (a debate in which Josephine plays no significant part whatsoever), two mourning dresses are commissioned: a showy one for the upcoming funeral, and an everyday dress for other occasions.
Then it is Josephine’s turn to sit patiently while Isabella chooses a new evening dress for herself, matching it with a bonnet and evening gloves, and commanding, with an imperious wave of her hand, that the entire order of three outfits must be delivered tomorrow.
Of course. Isabella does not know (and probably would not care either), that the sewing women in the salon workroom will now have to sit up all night to finish the dresses. Some are no older than herself, and will toil for twenty hours or more without a break.
She certainly does not know that the skirts will be given to a thinly-clad young woman in a slum attic in Carnaby Street to sew. They will be carefully checked for bugs and fleas upon delivery.
“And now,” Isabella declares, with an air of great satisfaction, “I shall take you to tea!”
Josephine feels her spirits sink. She is a headache on feet. All she wants to do is go home and lie down with a cold cloth over her eyes and the curtains closed.
Nevertheless, rules have to be followed, so she agrees politely that ‘a cup of tea would be quite delightful indeed.’
The brougham drops them outside one of the newly-opened little tea rooms in Jermyn Street. Isabella takes Josephine’s arm and steers her into the brightly-lit place, where the air is filled with chatter and light feminine laughter, mingling with the clatter of cups and saucers. She glances quickly round.
“Aha – I spy him!” she exclaims, waving a gloved hand.
Josephine follows the direction of the wave, and sees a heavily-set young man in military uniform rising to his feet. He has a chestnut moustache, and long, fashionable side-whiskers, and is watching their progress across the room with some apprehension.
“There you are Gussy, you bad boy!” Isabella says in a scolding tone.
“Don’t know what you mean, Bella. I've been waitin' for you for ages,” the Bad Boy responds, his face flushing. He pulls crossly at his side-whisker.
“Now Gussy, no sulking – it don’t suit you,” Isabella chides, lowering herself elegantly onto a chair. “See, I have brought my new friend Miss Josephine King to meet you. Josephine, this is Augustus Thorpe, my brother. Gussy is in the Dragoon Guards,” she says, adding slyly, “Ain’t he handsome?”
“Aw, Bella.”
Isabella ignores his protest.
“Tea, I think,” she says, addressing a white-aproned waiter who has hurried over to serve them. “Indian tea? Yes. And some bread-and-butter, thinly-cut. Maybe a selection of nice cakes?”
The waiter glides away. Isabella removes her gloves and blows into the fingers to straighten them. Josephine stares down at her lap, trying not to notice that Augustus Thorpe’s eyes, which are the same pebble-washed grey colour as his sister’s, are looking her up and down with speculative interest, as if she were a prize pig at Smithfield market.
“So, Gussy, what have you been up to recently?” Isabella inquires briskly, having finally arranged her gloves to her satisfaction. “Mama complains that you’ve not been near the house for days.”
Gussy pulls at his whiskers again, and mutters something about being on parade (only he pronounces it ‘pawade’).
“Oh, you always use that as an excuse,” his sister says dismissively.
The waiter arrives, bearing a loaded silver tray. Despite her headache, Josephine feels her mouth water as plates of food, and delicate china cups and saucers, are placed upon the table. She realises she is ravenous. And the cakes look delicious.
As soon as the waiter leaves, Josephine helps herself to bread-and-butter and begins to eat hungrily. In contrast, Isabella nibbles a slice of bread, crumbling most of it on her plate, before lifting the cup to her mouth and taking a tiny sip.
“Now Gussy, don't you want to know what I bought today?” she asks. “Look! Is it not the most delightful bonnet you have ever seen?”
“Ain’t you got any number of bonnets?” Gussy asks, his mouth full of bread. (He pronounces it ‘bunnits’).
“Silly boy!” Isabella leans across the table and taps him playfully on the arm. “Don’t you know a girl can never have too many bonnets. Or shawls. Or lace collars and cuffs.” She moves closer to Josephine. “Isn’t he a total scream!” she whispers loudly, crumbling the remainder of her bread upon her plate.
Josephine forces herself to smile. The Total Scream fixes his pebbly eyes upon her face again. To her horror, she feels her cheeks reddening under his gaze.
“So how long have you and my sister been friends, Miss ...?” he asks. He pronounces it ‘fwends’.
Isabella rolls her eyes.
“Oh Gussy, I explained it all to you, you know I did. Josephine is the niece of Mr Herbert King, late of St John’s Wood. Her dearest uncle was at school with Papa, only he died, very tragically and quite quite suddenly, and now she is all alone in the world.”
“Rich, was he, this nuncle?” Gussy asks, trying to extract a fat finger from the delicate teacup handle, wherein it has got itself trapped.
Isabella gives a shocked little gasp.
“Gussy! Really! You mustn’t ask such things!”
“No, but was he though?” Gussy persists, eyeing Josephine thoughtfully.
“I’m afraid I could not say,” Josephine replies coldly, appropriating the last slice of bread-and-butter. She demolishes it in two bites. Then, ignoring Isabella’s delicately raised eyebrows, she helps herself to a slice of sponge cake, followed by a fruit tart, both of which she eats in silence.
Eventually the tea is consumed and paid for, and the Thorpes' carriage returns Josephine to the house in St John’s Wood, which, in keeping with the arrangements, is now swathed in deepest black. Straw has also been laid in the street, and the blinds are drawn down.
Letting herself into the house, she discovers that her uncle’s coffin has been delivered. It lies open upon the parlour table, which itself is covered with a black cloth. The undertaker has done his best, turning the rigid expression of horror into one of mild perplexity, and folding her uncle’s arms upon his breast in an attitude of piety. Wrapped in his shroud, his eyes are open and unblinking, as if he is watching clouds.
Josephine stares into her uncle’s eyes, fearful lest the image of some nightmarish figure is about to stare back. But there is nothing reflected in the opaque eyeballs. Whoever – or whatever – it was that he saw on that fateful night, Herbert King is taking the identity of his murderer to the grave.
****
The day of the funeral dawns. Josephine rises from her bed and ventures out into the garden. The air is crisp and bright, the sky pearly and cloudless. Birds sing, and there are sparkles upon the grass and trees, as if Nature, hushed in sleep during the still night, has awoken with a determination to crown the day with a special glory, in defiance of the sad events that are shortly to take place.
By ten o'clock the procession of carriages, blinds pulled down, is drawn up outside the house. Horses stamp their feet and toss their heads. A large crowd has assembled to witness the last journey of the brutally-murdered man, and to catch a glimpse of the grieving niece, so young, so alone, so orphaned.
This heart-rending depiction has been dreamed up by several newspapers, who have seized upon the story as an example of how law-abiding citizens are not safe on the streets anymore because criminals are allowed to flourish. This, the newspapers claim, is due entirely to the ineffectual police force, who could not catch a cold, let alone a gang of vicious thugs.
Eventually the front door opens. The coffin, brass-handled and draped in a black cloth, is carried solemnly out of the house by the pallbearers. It is placed in the glass-sided hearse, and surrounded by flowers and black ostrich plumes. The tragic grieving niece appears in t
he doorway, her face veiled under a black crêpe bonnet.
A murmur of sympathy arises as she climbs into the second carriage accompanied by her supportive friends. The two undertaker's mutes take their position at the head of the procession, which then sets off at walking pace towards Kensal Green cemetery.
Josephine sits between Mrs Thorpe and Isabella. She feels like a prisoner being transported to an execution. Mrs Thorpe keeps dabbing her dry eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief. Isabella Thorpe, after informing her in a loud whisper that her brother so wanted to come to the funeral but was prevented by important military duties, sits playing with the tassels of her shawl, humming under her breath.
Mr Thorpe, a large balding man with nothing to say for himself, puffs silently upon a cigar, filling the confined space with foul-smelling smoke. By the time the carriage draws up in front of the chapel, Josephine’s head feels like a ball of cotton wool into which someone has inserted a needle.
As soon as the service has droned to an end, Josephine rises and slips out by a side door. She wants to catch a few moments of solitude before the next ordeal of the day: the burial feast at the Thorpes’ Hampstead mansion. She has just completed the circular walk at the centre of the gardens when the noise of carriage wheels makes her glance to her left.
Beyond the stone statue of a veiled angel that marks the tomb of Ann Gardner (d.1846), she sees a closed carriage travelling along one of the broad gravel paths leading to the gates. Both horses and coach are midnight-black, and there is a black plume at each corner of the coach. The window-blinds of the carriage are down, yet Josephine has the distinct feeling that there are eyes watching her from within. By the way it moves swiftly over the gravel, the coach is travelling light, and yet somehow, darkness accompanies it.
****
The Thorpes’ house stands at the point where the bricks-and-mortar London landscape gives way to the vast expanse of green wooded Hampstead Heath. It is a large house, supported by ornate pillars and surrounded by ornate wrought-iron fencing.