by L M Jackson
‘That your admirer, is it?’ said the cabman, with a sneer.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Tanner.
‘He’s been followin’, anyhow.’
‘For pity’s sake! You might have told me.’
‘None of my business,’ said the cabman. ‘Now,’ he continued, rudely tapping Sarah Tanner’s shoulder with the tip of his whip, ‘where’s my bleedin’ money, eh?’
Mrs. Tanner ruefully pulled a silver coin from her pocket, and flicked it into the air. The moment the cabman reached out to catch it, however, she turned and darted into the nearest side-street, a narrow, unlit alley that led in the direction of Leather Lane and Saffron Hill.
It was only when she had disappeared from view that the cabman realised he held just a shilling between his fingers. Though it was an adequate recompense for the journey, he turned round, scowling, craning his neck to look at the cab which was pulling up behind his own.
‘She went that way, my friend,’ he muttered, gesturing with his whip hand, then spitting upon the pavement, by way of punctuation. ‘And I hope you bleedin’ well catches up with her.’
Sarah Tanner had no intention of being caught. She chose a circuitous route through the narrowest, dingiest courts of the district, which she intended to thoroughly confuse anyone who might follow her. Twice she accidentally tore the fine silk of her dress, catching it upon odd outcrops of exposed bricks or rusting ironwork. Half a dozen times, she stumbled upon the uneven paving, or slipped upon the rotten cabbage leaves, and worse, which littered the loose cobbles behind the old tumble-down houses. But, at last, she came to Liquorpond Street.
She looked behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no-one to be seen. She was, moreover, only a few yards from the Dining and Coffee Rooms, its hand-painted sign just visible in the darkness.
Then a quiet voice whispered in her ear.
‘Lost your way, gal? Or just sick of hide-and-seek?’
Bert Jones, the burly footman – if such was his true calling – stood close at hand, his decorative uniform concealed by a heavy woollen great-coat, his boots spattered with mud. He grabbed her firmly by the arm.
‘How … ?’ she said, barely able to manage a word.
The footman smiled. ‘My old man used to have a two pair back behind Ely Rents. Regular rabbit warren, ain’t they, these old alleys? I used to play round here when I was a little ’un.’
She turned to face her questioner, consciously trying to avoid looking at the Dining and Coffee Rooms.
‘You shouldn’t have come back,’ he continued. ‘I told you, gal. I wish you hadn’t. I mean, I always took to you. You were a good ’un.’
‘Then leave me be.’
The footman smiled regretfully, and shook his head. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, eh? Just you and me.’
‘She told me I had twenty-four hours.’
‘What?’ said the footman. ‘You can pay her back, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I swear. Tomorrow.’
Bert Jones shook his head once more. ‘I don’t believe you. And you know it wouldn’t matter one jot, even if I did.’
Sarah Tanner struggled, but the footman kept firm hold of her arm.
‘Now, come on, gal, don’t cut up rough,’ he continued. ‘Let’s you and me stay pals, eh? I won’t leave no marks, nothing that shows, anyhow.’
‘Bert, please!’
‘I ain’t got all night. Have you got a doss round here, is that it?’
Mrs. Tanner paused for a moment. ‘I’ve got lodgings down past Saffron Hill.’
‘A quiet place? Your own room?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s better. Keep it quiet and respectable, eh? Between friends, like. You lead the way. And no nonsense.’
Sarah Tanner reluctantly set off along the lane.
In truth, Sarah Tanner had but one thought: to delay the attentions of Bert Jones for as long as possible. She even hoped that they might come across someone who could help her. But it was too late at night; no-one passed by. And, she realised, anyone who saw them at a distance, if they thought about it at all, most likely mistook them for a pair of lovers. For they walked through the streets arm in arm, at a steady slow pace, as if taking a moonlit stroll. True, Mr. Jones clasped hold of his partner a little too tightly, as if fearful she might escape; and Mrs. Tanner, for her part, gazed at her other half with anything but affection. It was a odd thing, too, for anyone to take the night air along Saffron Hill. Indeed, the medical opinion of the parish doctor, not entirely unfounded, was that the night air in that particular locality – rather miasmatic in nature – was rather more likely to take you, and altogether best avoided. But, all the same, no-one interfered with their progress; and Sarah Tanner knew that they could only walk for so long.
‘Where are we going now?’ said Bert Jones at last, as they skirted the borders of Smithfield Market.
‘I told you—’
‘Don’t give me that gammon. There ain’t no lodgings, is there? I told you, my gal, I know Saffron Hill. I don’t need the bleedin’ grand tour.’
‘I’ll scream,’ replied Mrs. Tanner. ‘I’ll scream blue murder.’
‘Don’t be a little fool. Who’ll give a damn round here? Come on.’
The footman grabbed his victim by both arms, and flung her bodily into a narrow yard that they had just passed by. It was a dead-end, pitch black, almost invisible from the road, littered with rubbish.
‘When did you last see Georgie Phelps?’ she said, desperately.
‘Phelps?’ said Bert Jones, sufficiently puzzled to stop and answer the question. ‘A couple of days back. Why?’
‘I heard he’s in trouble,’ she continued, watching Bert Jones closely. ‘What’s he been doing?’
‘Told me he was working an hotel lay, down Covent Garden.’
‘Who with?’
The footman laughed. ‘The usual. Some little Abigail that’s sweet on him, down at the Hummums. Pretty little thing, just like you. Now, hold still.’
‘It’s just that Georgie’s—’
‘I said, hold still! Then we can make it short and sweet, eh?’
‘But—’
Sarah Tanner’s protest was cut short as the footman lunged forward, pinning her against the alley’s brick wall, his hand covering her mouth.
‘Hush,’ he said, his rough, calloused fingers keeping her silent. ‘There now. Be a good gal, eh? Least said, soonest mended.’
And, with that, he clenched his hand into a fist.
CHAPTER SIX
The blow seemed to come from nowhere.
It was not, however, quite what Sarah Tanner had expected. For just as Bert Jones raised his arm, someone stepped behind him in the darkness, swinging a wooden cudgel, which made resounding contact with the footman’s head. Bert Jones staggered, dizzy under the unexpected assault. He managed to turn towards his assailant, only to be struck a second time, full in the face, blood trickling from a gash in his forehead. It took a third blow for the footman to drop to ground.
The weapon was, in fact, the spoke from an old cart-wheel, whose skeletal remains lay nearby in the dirt. Its owner – to Sarah Tanner’s astonishment – was none other than the man to whom she had said good night a couple of hours previously – Ralph Grundy.
‘I’m too old for this lark,’ muttered the waiter, throwing the piece of wood to one side and tugging at his employer’s arm. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
Quite speechless, Mrs. Tanner edged round the prone form of Bert Jones.
‘Lor! I’ve gone and killed him!’ exclaimed the old man, glancing back at his victim.
‘It would take more than that,’ said Mrs. Tanner, finally finding her voice.
‘I hope you’re right, missus,’ he replied. ‘Either way, we’d best shift, eh?’
Sarah Tanner did not presume to disagree. Thus Mrs. Tanner and Ralph Grundy hurried back along Saffron Hill together. They took the first turn that led towards Leather Lane. Neither o
f them spoke: Ralph Grundy, because, most likely, he took some small pleasure in keeping the explanation for his timely intervention to himself; Sarah Tanner, because she found it nigh impossible to reconcile her former impressions of the waiter with the circumstances of her unlikely salvation. At length, they came to the door of the Dining and Coffee Rooms.
‘Any chance of a drop of something?’ said the waiter, rather breathlessly. ‘I’m awful dry.’
Sarah Tanner sat opposite Ralph Grundy, inside the shuttered-up shop, as the waiter took sips from a small glass of brandy.
‘Thank you,’ she said, at last.
‘It weren’t nothing,’ said the waiter.
Mrs. Tanner shook her head.
‘No, it was. But how did you … I mean …’
Ralph Grundy blushed.
‘I’ve known hard times, missus. A man learns to look after himself – let’s say no more about it. Now, I’ll grant you, what I did to that fellow weren’t the conduct of a gentleman, but, then, I ain’t a gentleman – there’s no denying it – and nor was he, not by the look of things.’
‘It was lucky for me that you came by.’
Sarah Tanner said the words quite plainly, but there was something slightly quizzical in her expression, something that implied she did not think, upon reflection, that it could be a question of mere chance. Ralph Grundy saw it, blushed once more, and looked down at his feet.
‘Ah, well. It weren’t luck, neither. I were keeping watch.’
‘Keeping watch?’
‘On the shop. I got old Margie Bladstow to let me have one of her rooms –’ he gestured towards the lodging-house that lay upon the opposite side of Liquorpond Street – ‘and I saw you leave; and I saw you come back too.’
Sarah Tanner frowned, perplexed. ‘But why?’
Ralph Grundy took another sip from his glass, then paused, as if mulling over his words.
‘He was that pal of yours, weren’t he? That fellow in Baldwin’s Gardens? Phelps – that was his name?’
Mrs. Tanner fell silent.
‘There now,’ continued Ralph Grundy, waving his hand dismissively, ‘I’ve said it plain. I guessed as much. And I know you never did for him, if that’s all that’s troubling you. I went and had a look at him, before they took him away – that were a man’s work, if ever I saw it.’
‘A man of sorts.’
‘But,’ Ralph Grundy continued, ‘you never told the Peelers nothing about it. Worse, you looked afear’d to do it. So I said to myself, “Ralph – what’s this? What’s up with the missus?” and I got to thinking on it; so I got curious-like.’
‘So you followed me?’
‘I weren’t planning on that,’ replied the waiter. ‘But I’d an idea something was brewing. You was all keen to close up; I could tell you’d been thinking on something all day. So I went and saw Margie – she owes me a good turn – and I waited.’
Sarah Tanner raised her eyebrows. ‘And what did you see?’
‘Well, I never saw such a fine piece of silk,’ he said, nodding at the exposed cloth of his interlocutor’s dress, ‘not in the Lane anyhow; that struck me as queer. So I had a glass or two with Margie and I waited some more. I was almost giving up, then I saw that brute lay hands on you, when you come back. So I says to myself, “Ralph – the missus needs your help.” And I reckon you did, right enough.’
‘I suppose I did.’
‘Another old friend of yours?’ asked Ralph Grundy, watching his employer closely. ‘Was he the one that did for your pal?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Ah,’ said Ralph Grundy, a look of disappointment upon his face, as if he rather expected more of an explanation.
Sarah Tanner met the waiter’s gaze. ‘Can I trust you, Ralph?’
‘Trust me? I’m an old man, missus. An old man what’s seen better days, and been in more scrapes than I care to remember. I ain’t no gentleman and I don’t have no “word of honour”. But – I’ll say this much – there’s a fellow waking up – please God – down Saffron Hill with a cracked canister, that likely reckons you might do worse in a tight spot. I just bet he does.’
Mrs. Tanner allowed herself a smile.
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘I owe you that much. You see, I have not always kept company with the best people—’
‘No shame in that,’ interjected the waiter. ‘Neither have I. The Lane ain’t the place for folk that have.’
Sarah Tanner shook her head, ignoring the interruption. ‘Gamesters and swindlers; they used to be my closest friends, family, all rolled into one. Georgie … the man who was killed, he was one of them. The man tonight, he was another.’
‘Close family were it?’ said the waiter.
‘There was a disagreement about money, months ago,’ said Sarah Tanner, brusquely. ‘We parted company. But then Georgie came into the shop last night, quite by chance. At least, I think so.’
Ralph Grundy nodded.
‘And, you must understand, Ralph, what happened to him … he was a cheat, he stole, but he never harmed a hair on anyone’s head.’
‘A bad business, then.’
‘Bad enough. You see, I know the man who killed him. Or, at least, I saw his face. And I found Georgie too, where he’d left him. When I went after him, when I left the shop last night – I found him.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. No sight for a woman; nor anyone, for that matter.’
Sarah Tanner shook her head. ‘I saw him die. He didn’t deserve that. No-one deserves to go like that. So, like a fool, I thought … well, I suppose I thought some of my old friends might help; that they might take care of it. I went and called on them, tonight.’
‘Turned out badly?’
‘It could have been worse, if you hadn’t been there.’
Ralph Grundy suddenly looked perplexed. ‘Hold up,’ continued the waiter, ‘I ain’t fond of the Peelers myself, missus, but ain’t they the persons to talk to here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, come now, you ain’t wanted for nothing, are you? It ain’t that bad? Well, anyhow, I could tell ’em about this chap you saw, if you want to keep quiet.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was a policeman that killed him.’
Ralph Grundy fell silent
‘Blow me,’ he said, at last. ‘You’re sunk, then, missus. Leave it be.’
‘That’s what I told myself, last night,’ she replied. ‘Just afterwards, after I’d found him, when I came back to the shop and saw you. That’s what my … well, my old friends … that’s what they told me too.’
Ralph Grundy studied her closely, frowning. ‘But you ain’t going to, are you?’
‘I owe Georgie something,’ she replied.
‘I thought you said he was a villain?’
‘He was a friend, a real friend, once. Last night, he was as close to me as you are now, and he was dying. I could have done something for him.’
‘It didn’t look like it to me, the state of him,’ said Ralph Grundy.
‘I could have said something. I don’t know. I could have held his hand; given him some comfort.’
‘So, what are you going to do, missus?’
‘I’m going to find the man who killed him,’ she said, succinctly. ‘I don’t care who or what he is, he deserves to hang for it.’
Ralph Grundy curled his lips into a wry smile. ‘Hold up, missus. A detective in petticoats? What will Scotland Yard say to that?’
Sarah Tanner shrugged.
‘They can go to the devil.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following morning, a murder was announced.
In The Times, Daily News, Morning Chronicle and The Post, George Phelps’s death merited but a brief paragraph. From the cheap press of St. Giles, on the other hand, there issued quarter-sheets on crown paper, intended for the street-patterer, bearing authentic particulars and a distinctly inauthentic woodcut of the corpse. Every writer w
as unanimous upon one point: the brutality of the act; not one knew the victim’s identity. ‘The Leather Lane Outrage’ was, in short, something of a mystery.
For some, of course, a murder is always of particular interest. Indeed, in the beer-shops and public-houses of Leather Lane and Saffron Hill, there was talk of little else. But for the majority of respectable citizens who read of the crime – whether seated at their breakfast table, or upon an omnibus bound for the Bank – George Phelps’s demise was only of passing remark, a sanguinary footnote in the annals of metropolitan vice.
Charles Goggs, the head-porter at the Hummums Hotel, Covent Garden, undoubtedly took such a view. For Mr. Goggs, a naturally dapper, tidy-looking man in his mid-fifties, was not inclined to sully his white gloves with news-print, nor listen to gossip. Indeed, he paid little attention to news of any kind. He had but one purpose in life: to provide guidance to guests of the Hummums, and answer for the safety of their luggage.
And it was Mr. Goggs who, late that very afternoon, was the first to greet a certain female visitor, as she entered the hotel.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ he innocently inquired.
‘Mrs. Richards. You received my telegram this morning. I trust my rooms are ready.’
Mr. Goggs was accustomed to stand on duty in the hotel’s hall, with his head held high, and was rather conscious of the dignity which his uniformed presence bestowed upon his work-place. He was not accustomed to being addressed in quite so peremptory a fashion – not, at least, by a woman – and appeared rather taken aback.
‘Well?’ asked the visitor. She was in her late twenties or early thirties; she wore a walking dress of black silk, with a black fur-trimmed mantle about her shoulders, and a plain, veiled bonnet, partially concealing her face. The head-porter immediately took her – because she had arrived quite unaccompanied – for a travelling governess or upper servant in mourning; the imperious variety of senior domestic, accustomed to having their own way.
‘Richards, ma’am?’ he replied, at last. ‘I will check with our clerk.’