A Most Dangerous Woman

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A Most Dangerous Woman Page 5

by L M Jackson


  The head-porter retreated to the adjoining small room which served as the hotel office. Then, after a brief discussion with his fellow employee, he returned to the hall.

  ‘I regret no telegram was received, ma’am,’ said Mr. Goggs, adding, with a hint of self-congratulation, ‘and I regret we do not have a vacancy.’

  ‘Really!’ exclaimed Mrs. Richards. ‘Lady DeVere was most particular as to where I should stay. She told me – I can recall her very words, sir – “The Hummums – the most respectable little hotel in London.” Whatever shall I do?’

  Mr. Goggs softened a little. He appreciated such praise; it was, he considered, well deserved. In particular, two words struck him quite forcefully.

  ‘Lady DeVere?’ he repeated.

  ‘The Hertfordshire DeVeres. The family in the county. I expect you have heard of them. Still,’ continued Mrs. Richards, looking around her with a rather haughty air, ‘I suppose another place might serve just as well.’

  Mr. Goggs knitted his brow. He had not, in all honesty, heard of the Hertfordshire DeVeres; he assuredly had not received any telegram; nor did he find the woman who stood before him a particularly agreeable example of either the servant class or her sex. But, he considered, he was rather obliged to consider the interests of the hotel. For the positive recommendation of a member of the aristocracy – in certain circles, at least – was as good as guaranteed income; a negative report was not to be contemplated.

  ‘One moment, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I will just go and make sure.’

  He disappeared once more, then returned after a short interval with a rather more obliging expression upon his face.

  ‘It seems I was mistaken. There is a lady’s apartment upon the third floor – bed, sitting-and dressing-room. How long are you staying, ma’am? I fear one night is the longest we can offer for that room.’

  Mrs. Richards smiled at the concession. ‘Thank you. That will be quite adequate for my needs.’

  The head-porter nodded. ‘Any luggage, ma’am?’

  ‘It will follow shortly; I had some difficulties making arrangements at the station.’

  Mr. Goggs nodded once more, adopting a rather sage expression of sympathy. He had long since regarded the humble station luggage-handler as markedly inferior to the hotel variety, in every respect. With a polite bow, therefore, he directed Mrs. Richards into the hotel office, then had her enter her name in the register. It was an elegant signature, and came with an address in the county of Hertfordshire.

  If Mr. Goggs had been more alert, he might have noticed a slight hesitation as Mrs. Richards took up the pen. He might have considered whether her manner was just a little too theatrical, even for an upper servant. He might have pondered a little more upon the precise difficulties which had detained his new guest’s luggage. But Charles Goggs, though an excellent head-porter in a general way, was a man of limited imagination.

  He certainly did not imagine Mrs. Richards – for all her faults – capable of owning a coffee-shop, upon the corner of Leather Lane and Liqourpond Street; not for a moment.

  The apartment secured by Sarah Tanner, in the guise of ‘Mrs. Richards’, was on the first floor, directly over-looking Covent Garden, and probably vacant for that very reason, being the least desirable room in the establishment. For, although the Hummums was indeed a respectable hotel, the hubbub of the adjoining market – the shouts from its vendors, the wagon wheels clattering over stone – was a constant nuisance. Even during the afternoon, the classical colonnades and arches of the market piazza, emptied of vegetable matter, still served for the sale of flowers. Filled with oceans of violets, ready to be bunched and sold on, the market was the principal resort of a never-ending procession of ragged flower-girls, intent upon haggling over every last petal.

  Mrs. Tanner watched the scene from her window. But her thoughts were occupied with the object of her clandestine visit: to find the girl at the hotel whom Bert Jones had mentioned, George Phelps’s sweetheart. For – knowing George Phelps of old – Sarah Tanner had concluded that the girl was his accomplice in the hotel lay, whether willing or unwilling. The only problem was – even as a gentle knock struck the door to her sitting-room – she was not entirely sure how to go about it.

  She steeled herself and sat up straight.

  ‘Come in.’

  The newcomer was a chambermaid, bearing a porcelain jug. She was a small, nervous-looking girl, who did not meet Sarah Tanner’s gaze.

  ‘You wanted hot water, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, please. Take it through to the bedroom.’

  The maid obliged, and returned within seconds. Sarah Tanner studied the maid’s looks; she seemed too young, too naïve, even for George Phelps’s taste.

  ‘Is that all, ma’am?’

  ‘One moment. Tell me, what is your name?’ asked Mrs. Tanner, maintaining the same, rather firm tone she had taken with the head-porter.

  ‘Jane, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you worked here long, Jane?’

  The girl blushed, looking down at her boots. ‘No, ma’am, only a day. Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Only a day?’

  ‘The last girl left sudden, ma’am.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs. Tanner, an idea forming in her mind. ‘I was told this was a decent hotel.’

  ‘Oh, it is, ma’am!’ replied the maid emphatically. She was no more than fifteen years old – Mrs. Tanner was sure of it – and suddenly seemed doubly nervous. ‘Oh, I’m sure it is!’

  ‘Well, that is all very well,’ said Mrs. Tanner, looking rather pointedly at the girl. ‘Why did this other girl take her leave?’

  The girl blushed once more. ‘I don’t care to say, ma’am.’

  ‘I confess, I myself have heard some talk that she was a thief,’ hazarded Sarah Tanner, a little more soft and confidential in her tone.

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  ‘I expect you must have heard something.’

  ‘Just that she was dismissed yesterday morning, ma’am. I swear, I don’t know nothing about it.’

  ‘I am sure. How terrible! One wonders how young girls can go wrong so easily.’

  ‘Terrible, ma’am,’ replied the maid, hurriedly.

  ‘Well, I am sure you will be an asset to the hotel, Jane. I can tell, just to look at you.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. If that’s all, ma’am—’

  ‘One more thing, my dear. It just occurred to me. I wonder if you might inquire below stairs and find out something for me.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘I should like to know the name of the girl who left yesterday, and where she might have gone.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ repeated the maid, surprised at the peculiar request.

  ‘You see,’ continued Mrs. Tanner, racking her brain, ‘I know of a refuge for friendless young women, who have lost their employment. They might be able to help her, with clothes and money and such; with spiritual guidance too. It is run by a clergyman, an old acquaintance of mine.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, if you like, ma’am,’ replied Jane, visibly relieved at the prospect of the conversation drawing to a close.

  Sarah Tanner smiled. ‘I should like some tea in half an hour or so; you may come back then.’

  The maid agreed.

  It was precisely a half-hour later when, patently anxious to please, the girl returned with a tea tray – and the name of her predecessor.

  The bells of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, struck six as Sarah Tanner slipped quietly from her empty hotel room and walked slowly down the stairs to the ground floor of the hotel. Her plan was straightforward – to leave quietly by the front door. She had waited a decent interval since her arrival and there was, after all, little chance that she might be stopped; and, if questioned, she had decided on her story: that she was going to inquire after her luggage.

  It was only after she turned down the last flight of steps that she saw the policeman.

  Instinctively, she froze. But, upon closer inspection, it was no
t the man of two nights previous: George Phelps’s assailant – his killer – was taller, more broad. Before her was a short, clean-shaven individual of middling years, holding his hat between his hands, accompanied by an older gentleman dressed in a smart morning-coat and white cravat. Both seemed to be engaged in some kind of debate with the head-porter, who was in the process of ushering them into the hotel office.

  Sarah Tanner watched and waited. Had the policeman come for her? No, surely that was quite impossible.

  Gathering her courage, she walked directly towards the front door, her veil down over her face. All the same, she could not resist slowing her pace, since the men’s voices, within the office, could still be heard quite plainly.

  ‘And I tell you again, my good man,’ said one voice, full of indignation, ‘that my sister is a rational, respectable creature of sound judgment and acute discrimination; she would not go wandering the streets unaccompanied!’

  ‘Nevertheless, sir,’ said the porter, whose voice Mrs. Tanner immediately recognised, ‘the lady has vanished. She said she was going for a stroll yesterday evening, to clear her head. We have not seen her since; I even checked with the night-porter. If she does not return, there is the unfortunate question of the bill. Not to mention her luggage.’

  ‘Constable, I beg you,’ entreated the first speaker, ‘I will swear on my life, some harm has come to her. The whole business is utterly improbable! It is totally out of character.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied the constable. ‘I suggest we take a look at Miss Ferntower’s rooms, if Mr. Goggs here will permit it.’

  ‘Naturally, I would not interfere with a police matter,’ replied Goggs, ‘although I would beg you to be discreet. The hotel’s reputation—’

  ‘Damn the hotel’s reputation, sir!’ exclaimed the first voice.

  There was the sound of a slight scuffle. Sarah Tanner hurriedly stepped back, as the three men re-emerged from the office. She had barely time to move away, as the older man flung open the door, red-faced and angry, and strode off towards the stairs. Next came the policeman and finally Mr. Goggs, wringing his hands, sweat beading his brow.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, at the sight of his guest. ‘No need to alarm yourself, Mrs. Richards.’

  ‘No, sir, I am sure.’

  Mr. Goggs opened his mouth, as if to offer further reassurance, but then thought twice. He bowed hurriedly, then turned to chase after the constable and his companion, who were already ascending the main staircase to the rooms above.

  ‘Mr. Ferntower! Constable!’ exclaimed the head-porter. ‘Wait! I beg you! You will disturb the guests!’

  Mrs. Tanner hesitated. She was half inclined to follow the head-porter and, if nothing else, assuage her own curiosity. In the end, however, she succumbed to her better judgment and stepped outside.

  As she walked away, she took stock. She had been successful enough; she had, from the maid, the name of the girl who had been dismissed: one ‘Norah Smallwood’. But there was, it seemed, a missing woman, too: a woman who had disappeared from the Hummums the day after George Phelps’s death.

  It could not be a coincidence, she was quite certain of it.

  She wondered what a police detective might do in similar circumstances; and, for a moment, it crossed her mind that she was quite unprepared and unsuited for the task she had set herself.

  And then she recalled George Phelps’s last moments on earth; and a smouldering anger rekindled inside her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That same night, after her brief stay at the Hummums, Sarah Tanner closed her business a full two hours early. Passers-by, used to seeing the gas-light burning bright above the shop-door, remarked upon its absence. Several costermongers, who were in the habit of taking a late supper at the Dining and Coffee Rooms, when their finances permitted, declared the closure ‘a bloody nuisance’. One gentleman, a journeyman baker by trade, accustomed to take a hearty meal before commencing his night’s work, even banged his fist upon the shutters. But all efforts were quite in vain, and neither the proprietress nor any victuals were forthcoming. For Mrs. Tanner was not at home. She was, rather, a mile or so distant, in an ill-lit thoroughfare by the name of Lumber Court, in the parish of St. Giles.

  The road itself was little more than an alley, a vacancy between opposing tenements. Paved with cracked stone slabs and plastered with mud, it was littered with obstructions, dung heaps and dark pools of foul-smelling water.

  Sarah Tanner kept her hand cupped round her mouth, trying to avoid the stench. Her companion, taking no such precaution, let out a gutteral, choking cough.

  ‘This is hard going for an old ’un,’ muttered Ralph Grundy.

  ‘I never asked you to come,’ said Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘Reckon you need someone to keep an eye on you, missus. A female don’t go creeping round St. Giles of a night, not on her own – not if she’s got any sense.’

  ‘I know my way, Ralph.’

  ‘Maybe. And what makes you so certain you’ll find her, this blessed girl you’re after?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Well, why are we here, then, traipsing down this blasted gully?’

  Sarah Tanner sighed. ‘It’s where Georgie would go, whenever he was in trouble, if he got in a tight spot. It’s as good a place as any.’

  ‘Aye,’ murmured Ralph Grundy to himself, ‘well, he’s in a tight spot now, right enough.’

  As Ralph Grundy spoke, the alley opened out to a small courtyard. It was lit by a single exposed flare of gas, a stuttering, meagre light that projected from a battered pipe, which gave every impression of being improvised by some cunning individual, unconnected with the Gas, Light and Coke Company. Sarah Tanner pulled on her companion’s coat sleeve, guiding him to the right, beneath an archway of crumbling bricks, where it seemed there could be no possible progress. But there was a narrow passage – no more than two and a half feet wide – and then an open area, in which steps led down to a door. At the entrance stood a pair of young men, dressed in rather shabby-looking suits, laughing at some shared joke.

  ‘What’s up here?’ said one to the other, watching Sarah Tanner and her companion approach.

  ‘Nice bit of muslin,’ replied the second man.

  ‘Ain’t she just! Well, what do you want, darlin’?’

  ‘Just a drink.’

  ‘Private crib, my dear,’ said the second man. ‘Best hook it, eh? You and your old man.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she countered. ‘George Phelps will stand for us.’

  ‘Will he now? Georgie-boy, eh? How come he ain’t with you then?’ asked the second man.

  ‘We’re waiting for him,’ replied Ralph Grundy.

  ‘And we’d like to wait inside,’ insisted Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘Is that so? What name?’

  ‘Starlight Sall and Panther Bill,’ replied Sarah Tanner sarcastically. ‘What’s yours?’

  The first man smirked and gave an ironic bow. ‘All right, Sall, go through then. If Georgie will stand for you, that’ll do. He better had, mind, or you and me will have words.’

  Sarah Tanner nodded and made her way inside, past the young man. Ralph Grundy followed, looking nervously over his shoulder.

  The interior of the house – known to its regulars as the Hole-in-the-Wall – was that of a typical public. It was no gin-palace; there was nothing smart or shining, no plate glass or gilding. It was simply a small, old-fashioned pot-house, with a small bar and parlour, in which a few like-minded individuals might comfortably enjoy the hospitality of their host. The tables were painted deal, the paintwork cracked and faded; the room was lit by oil-lamps, turned down low; an open fire roared in the hearth; and the air was heavy with the smell of smoke and beer.

  Ralph Grundy surveyed the drinkers, their faces barely visible in the dim light. Most were young men in cheap fustian and cords. The handful of women wore a cheap cotton print – like the dress his employer had herself adopted for the evening – with their hair in fashionable
ringlets and fringes, and seemed inclined to hang languidly upon the arms of their men-folk. In fact, Ralph Grundy concluded, it might have been any low beer-shop in London, but for a little more in the way of gold upon the men’s fingers, and a little more in the way of paint – rose-red cheeks and ruby lips – upon the younger girls’ faces.

  ‘This your den of thieves, then, missus?’ said Ralph Grundy quietly.

  ‘If you like,’ replied Mrs. Tanner in a whisper, ‘and watch your tongue. Now, let’s find somewhere to sit.’

  She looked around, then led the way to a rather dark corner table which gave a complete view of the smoky parlour, not least the door by which they had entered. Ralph Grundy trailed at her heels.

  ‘What’s your plan, then?’ he asked, as he removed his coat. ‘Stew here all night?’

  ‘Someone will know something, even if they don’t know the girl,’ she replied, looking round the room. ‘I recognise one or two of them.’

  ‘They recognise you too, I reckon,’ replied the old man.

  Ralph Grundy’s gaze was directed towards a white-aproned barman who, even as they took their seats, approached the table. He was in his early twenties, slightly round in face and body, cheeks flushed with the heat of the room. He looked at Sarah Tanner closely as he came up, as if struggling to place her.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ said the barman.

  ‘I’m a pal of Georgie’s, Georgie Phelps. I haven’t been in for a while.’

  ‘’Course you are. I knew it! Lor, Sairey, ain’t it? I ain’t seen your phiz for – what is it? – a good twelvemonth.’

  ‘More than that. Has Georgie been about?’

  ‘Not for a week or two. You after seeing him? You’ll have to wait your turn.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ muttered Ralph Grundy to himself.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Mrs. Tanner, casting a withering look at her companion.

  ‘Usual. A young gal – pining for him – was here all afternoon, just on the off chance.’

  Sarah Tanner gave Ralph Grundy a brief triumphant glance. The old man raised his eyes to the heavens.

 

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