by Kim Wright
But Georgy, thanks to Cecil’s planning, was prepared for just such an inquiry. They had found a blonde child toddling about in an alley and offered her sister – this child herself no more than seven – a shilling to let them cut a lock of the baby’s hair. Even children did not ask questions in the East End. The older girl had promptly lifted the baby up, slapping its rump when it squirmed, and Georgy had made a quick tug with his pocketknife across a single curl. The result was this lock of hair, so soft, wispy and light that it clearly came from the head of a child, which he solemnly unwrapped from a handkerchief and presented to the girls.
The effect on Emma was just what Cecil had predicted. A soft exhalation, the rise of tears, an almost involuntary reaching for the hair. But Leanna’s eyes remained narrow and suspicious. “We only agreed to meet you in a public place,” she said. “That holds, so you had better find a way to summon your wife. And there will be no money exchanged until the child is in our arms.”
And wasn’t she the duchess, Georgy thought. Micha would have a good time bringing her rump down to the street. The other girl was clearly more trusting, and as Emma raised the lock of hair to her face and brushed it against her cheek, Georgy knew he had her thoroughly hooked. Let Miss High and Mighty try to set the rules, let her squawk like a peahen, no matter. The other one, the sweet one who was Mary’s sister….it was clear she would follow wherever he led.
6:45 PM
“Don’t worry, Sir,” Davy said, as the Scotland Yard carriage made its way down Hanover Street. “The area’s crawling with bobbies and Miss Bainbridge has her guard up, else she wouldn’t have sent the note.”
“True enough,” Trevor said tersely. He had been tapping his cane against the door the entire trip, a sound that had driven Tom almost to the point of screaming. “But they’re walking into a trap.”
“There’s no way Mary had a baby?” Tom asked.
Trevor shook his head. “In the past four days I’ve interviewed everyone who ever knew the girl and there wasn’t so much as a peep about a child. It’s a play for money, that much is clear. I only hope that money is all they’re after.”
Tom was struggling to control his breathing. “What else would they be after?”
“Emma is Mary Kelly’s sister. That fact alone might make her a trophy, at least in the eyes of some.”
Davy leapt out before the carriage had rolled to a complete stop in front of the Three Sisters. Tom and Trevor sat in strained silence for several minutes until he reappeared.
“They were here, Sir, the owner remembered. Came and went. Sat at a table with a little man with dirty clothes, the lady said. And then Miss Bainbridge….” Here Davy stopped and climbed back into the carriage, shaking off water. It wasn’t raining, but the fog had closed in fast. “Miss Bainbridge was the one to pay the fare, Sir, and she left this with her money.”
He handed Trevor what looked to be the standard sort of bill a server leaves on a café table. The party had ordered three cups of tea, and when Trevor turned it over he saw that Leanna had scribbled a few words on the back. How she had managed to do so undetected, he could not imagine, and her scrawl was nearly illegible. But it was enough to tell Trevor that they, like the women, had been misdirected. He rapped on the side of the carriage again with his cane and yelled “Merchant Street, immediately” to the driver. Then he sat back and looked into Davy and Tom’s worried faces.
“It’s bad,” he said. “I think he’s trying to lure them to Whitechapel.”
“They wouldn’t go to Whitechapel,” Tom said. It was such a preposterous notion that it almost made him feel better. “A baby is the perfect bait, no doubt about it, but neither of them are fools.”
“They’re being led there in stages,” Trevor said, running a palm across his face, for he had begun to sweat. “Keep an eye, Davy. Tall blonde woman, shorter one with red hair, tiny dirty man.” Mabrey nodded and leaned out the window of the carriage, while Trevor turned back to Tom. “The first stop is perfectly respectable, a tea room full of ladies. Then he pulls them in a little deeper. Leanna’s note says they are now going to ‘a public place,’ which scarcely points an arrow, but which I suspect means a pub. There are ghettos that skirt up right to the edge of Whitechapel, like the Jewish area Abrams used to work. Simple shops and homes, but the streets are clean and well-lighted enough that Leanna and Emma might follow him without question. From there they are dangerously close to the East End. A five minute walk - ”
“Doesn’t this carriage go any faster?” Tom said, yanking at the sleeves of his shirt. He’d shucked the bloody one he’d stolen from John back at the Yard in favor of a substitute provided by Davy. In the haste of their departure he had not asked who the garment belonged to or why it might have been so readily available in the mortuary. The sleeves were short for Tom, but at least the shirt was clean, and Tom tried not to think hard about its origins.
“We’re making good time,” Trevor said. “They’re almost certainly on foot, which is why Davy is hanging out the window, making sure we don’t pass them. But I suspect this little man is leading them through a lot of twists and turns, trying to disorient them so they lose their sense of where they are and how long they’ve traveled. We’ll beat them to Whitechapel, that much is sure. When we get there, we’ll tell every copper we see who we’re looking for and the three of us will split up. Or at least Davy and I will take different routes and you can stand watch. I forgot about your ankle.”
“The ankle’s fine,” Tom said. “I won’t slow you up.”
Trevor looked into Tom’s ashen face and gave what he hoped was a reassuring nod. “And eventually we will find them, especially if he takes them to a pub, as he most certainly plans to do. The man we’re looking for knew Mary Kelly, which means he most likely is from the same neighborhood.”
“And that’s the good luck in this,” Davy said over his shoulder. “We’ve spent the last four days retracing Mary Kelly’s steps so we know exactly where she’d go to find clients, the routes she used to get there. It isn’t as if we’re looking in every pub in the East End, Sir. We know where to start.” His eyes turned back to the street. “There’s a limited number of people who could have sent that note, isn’t that true? The first one, the letter to Miss Emma about the baby, I mean.”
“Quite right,” Trevor said. “Emma was private, Mary evidently less so. Even the people living in the same house with Emma were unaware she had a sister but Mary must have confided in someone.”
“I scarcely see how that narrows the field,” Tom said. It seemed the carriage was moving so slowly he was tempted to jump out and run on foot. “Could be any working girl she’d befriended. Or any regular client.”
“It narrows the field because it means that for once we can toss out the notion of a hoax, a completely random person from the streets,” Trevor said. “Remember what Leanna said in the letter she sent to Scotland Yard. The person who contacted them claimed the baby was named Sarah, after Emma and Mary’s mother. So it was someone close enough to Mary to know that she had a sister, where that sister lived, and even their mother’s name.”
“Someone who knew Emma would be able to get a hundred pounds,” Davy added. “That’s a lot of money for a maid, so why would they ask it?”
“Perhaps they knew of Geraldine’s generosity, her penchant for sad causes,” Trevor mused. “Or perhaps whoever wrote the letter didn’t understand that Emma was a maid. They could have seen a Mayfair address as evidence she had married well, had immediate access to funds.”
A sudden dreadful thought flitted across Tom’s mind. “Are we even certain Emma is the target?” he asked. “Leanna is the one with money.”
Trevor pursed his lips thoughtfully. “She comes from an established family….”
“It’s not just that,” Tom blurted out. “Our grandfather left her Rosemoral, the whole bloody estate, and that makes her…..what did you call it? If someone knew she was an heiress, that would make her as much a trophy as Emma, would it not?”
“No one but family. And a handful of barristers back in Leeds.”
“And the letter was sent to Miss Emma, not Miss Bainbridge,” Davy reminded them. “Whoever wrote it couldn’t have known Miss Bainbridge would come with her.”
“Right again, Davy,” Trevor said. “Emma was Mary’s sister so we should start there, with the most obvious and direct connection. The lure of the baby was designed to tempt Emma. There’s no reason to think Leanna’s wealth is even a factor.”
“She’s so trusting,” Tom said. “Too trusting for her own good.”
“She was suspicious enough to send us notes,” Trevor said. “Leanna’s clever. Smart enough to know they shouldn’t follow the man to the second location.”
Tom shook his head. “I was speaking of Emma.”
7:10 PM
Mary Kelly had solicited the majority of her clients from three pubs: The Cornwall, the Pony, and the Prince of Wales. Trevor’s plan was to circulate through the area between the three, informing any copper he saw along the way of the situation and providing a description of the people they sought. All they knew about the man was the tea shop owner’s vague claim he was small and dirty, and Whitechapel was home to any number of men who fit that description. As for the women, Trevor hoped that the mere fact they would be well-dressed and neatly groomed would be enough to draw the eye in this part of town. He sent Davy on a wider loop of the area, since he still believed that the man was most likely leading Emma and Leanna into the East End via one of the immigrant neighborhoods to the west.
Despite Tom’s promise that his ankle was fine, it was immediately clear that he’d be unable to keep up the pace. Trevor led him to the nearest of the three likely pubs, the Prince of Wales, and deposited him at a table near the door with instructions to keep an eye on anyone who entered. His demotion from amateur detective to watchdog rankled Tom, but he knew that Trevor was right. He was a liability on the streets. He had begun to suspect the ankle was broken, although he didn’t share this with Trevor for fear he’d be sent home altogether. He propped it on the chair across from him and stared anxiously out into the street where Trevor had stopped to talk to a bobby. Word of mouth spread quickly among the men on their beats, Trevor had assured him, and there were more coppers on duty in the East End now than in any time in memory. By the time the women arrived via their long and most likely circuitous route from Hanover Street, half of Whitechapel would be expecting them.
Although his lost afternoon in some nameless bar had put him a little off his alcohol, Tom ordered a beer. He figured that drinking, or at least pretending to drink, was the best way to fit in with the swarm of regulars in the Prince of Wales. But the beer had scarcely arrived when Tom saw John Harrowman pass in the street. He was arm in arm with a woman and they were walking so fast as to be almost running.
Tom limped to the door of the pub and stared after the pair. Looked up and down the street but, damn it all, there wasn’t a copper in sight. After a second or two of internal debate, Tom stepped into the street.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
7:35 PM
They had walked with Georgy for over an hour, making several stops, only to end up here, in the last place on earth they should be. Leanna knew she had been foolish to ever leave the Three Sisters, but Emma had been so determined that Leanna was forced to choose between going deeper into this ridiculous scheme or leaving Emma on her own. This was the last stop, the man had promised, and he’d left them in a little bar called the Pony Pub, where they sat waiting for him to return with Mary’s baby.
No. Not exactly. Emma may have been waiting for a man to return with a baby, but Leanna knew better. This entire evening had not only been a dangerous and fruitless quest for a child who’d never existed, but it might also be the event that snapped Emma’s sanity. It broke Leanna’s heart to see her sitting there so calmly at their table, smiling, humming a little, stroking the lock of golden hair. Emma had not noticed that they were being pulled into the fringes of the East End. She had not noticed the dozens of bobbies they had passed on the way here or how the men’s eyes had slid past them without interest, just two more raggedy women in the night. Leanna was not entirely afraid, not yet. The streets were well lit and full of people and she had no doubt they would find their way back to Mayfair. What she feared is what Emma would do when it finally dawned on her that Georgy was not coming back.
Leanna’s mind was churning with possibilities. The thing that made no sense was that Georgy had not yet demanded their money. A hundred pounds was a fortune to anyone in this neighborhood, incentive enough to drive them to any level of depravity, and yet Georgy had escorted them into the Pony Pub, helped them find seats, and left. The pounds were still in a blue silk pouch Leanna had tied beneath her skirt and it had slapped her thigh with every step she had taken, from Mayfair to Hanover to Petticoat to hell. They had fallen into some sort of plan, that was clear enough, but if the scheme hadn’t been about money, what was the motive?
It was her fault entirely, Leanna thought, as she sat rubbing her temples vigorously. She should never have come, never have let Emma come, and then she’d compounded her folly by sending notes to John, Tom, and Trevor, telling them they would be at Hanover Street when they were in fact here, wherever here was, in this dingy little bar with its sticky tables and smoky air. She thought of the three letters she had written, tossing them to the winds of fate, hoping that at least one would find its mark, and had a brief vision of Tom, Trevor, and John all converging on the Three Sisters only to learn she and Emma were gone. It’s a tale of missed letters and messages gone awry, she thought. Rather like Romeo and Juliet.
And we all know how well that ended.
“Emma,” she said gently. “He’s been gone for quite some time.”
Emma nodded.
“We must go back to Gerry’s house, you see that, don’t you, darling?”
“Not without Sarah,” Emma said. “He’ll bring her in a moment.”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
Emma looked at her with confusion bordering on anger, as if Leanna was the one who had duped her. “Leave if you must,” she said. “But I will wait here for Sarah.”
“I don’t believe that Sarah exists. You know this too, Emma, I can see it in your face.”
“He’s gone to get her now.”
“I think he’s simply gone. He was a very bad man, darling, a very mean one. He lied.”
They sat for a moment and then Emma made a slow half-nod, her lips slightly parted. She might not want to know the truth, but on some deep level, she still did.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We find a cab,” Leanna said with relief. “And we go home.”
7:40 PM
Cecil had noticed, of course, when Emma and Leanna had entered the pub and the sight of his little sister, here in the flesh, had unnerved him. He pulled his scarf over his mouth and sank in his chair, but Leanna seemed oblivious to her surroundings. For the last twenty minutes, ever since Georgy had run out the door – practically skipping, the fool – she had been solely preoccupied with watching Emma’s face.
So when Leanna suddenly stood, Cecil jumped. She walked right towards him, and Cecil twisted in his seat, his heart thumping. She was no further than an arm’s length away as she leaned across the bar and said to the half-wit girl behind it “Excuse me, miss?”
The politeness of the address confused Lucy. She stared at Leanna but did not answer.
“Do you know where we might secure a cab and driver?”
“A cab and driver?” Lucy seemed as surprised as if Leanna had requested a coterie of elephants. Cabs for hire did not visit Whitechapel. They stopped at the fountain near the mouth of Merchant Street and from there anyone seeking to transact business in this district must
make the rest of his way on foot, a fact well-known to the West End gentlemen who visited on a regular basis. The fact would have been known to Leanna too, if she’d paid any attention on her way in, Cecil thought, but his sister did not seem to have fully grasped the reality of her present situation. She seemed to think her shabby clothes, gathered from God knows what improbable source, provided an effective disguise, while the truth was that everything about her – the posture, the accent, the clear skin and even white teeth – revealed her to be an outsider. Whores who try to put on airs give themselves away with a thousand small mistakes, Cecil knew this. But before this moment he had never understood that it worked the same in reverse, that it was just as easy to lose one’s balance stooping as it was while climbing. A woman like Leanna could not help but be a lady, even here among the trash of the Pony Pub.
“Yes, a Hansom cab,” Leanna repeated. “Or perhaps a carriage. Any form of transport. Is there a lad who can summon one?”
My God, Cecil thought, she’s so utterly out of her element that she doesn’t even realize that she’s out of her element. I didn’t have to pawn mother’s brooch to be free of her. If I’d left the girl to her own devices she probably would have managed to fall into the Thames and drown.
“There are always cabs for hire at the waterfront, Miss.”
The lie was outrageous. If no sane cabbie would venture into Whitechapel, he would be even less willing to go down to the waterfront, the worst part of the worst part of town, where the sailors spilled from their ships fueled with pent-up desperation, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. Only the oldest, ugliest, and most hopeless of women walked the waterfront. The crime rate there made the rest of the East End look like Eden.
But the tone of voice had been what Leanna was accustomed to – low, measured, and polite. She turned toward the man at the end of the bar with a radiant smile of gratitude.