by L M Jackson
Mrs. Tanner politely demurred, but her host did not deny himself the luxury, disappearing for a moment into the back room of the house, and returning with a full glass.
‘Charlie—’
‘Ah! Please, my dear!’
‘Chas, I need a favour.’
‘A favour? Anything, my dear creature. Good Lord – how long has it been, eh? I’d quite given you up for lost. Well, until I heard a little something yesterday evening.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Mr. Albert Jones,’ said Charles Merryweather, rather coyly, sipping at his glass. ‘Medical complaint. Nasty headache. Visit to the Dispensary. All very droll.’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Really? Well, I’d steer clear of our mutual friend, my dear, all the same. I gather he’s labouring under the impression you were responsible; and I wouldn’t care to correct him.’
‘Charlie, listen,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘George Phelps, he’s dead.’
Charles Merryweather’s face merely softened a little, adopting a rather conventional expression of sadness.
‘Is that so? I heard something about that too. Poor George; a good chap. Very fond of him. Very fond.’
‘I know. That’s why I came to you. Listen, you must know how things stand between me and, well, certain parties …’
Mr. Merryweather waved his hand, as if to brush the matter aside.
‘Well, then,’ continued Mrs. Tanner, ‘can you help me at all – for Georgie’s sake?’
‘Of course, my dear. Of course. But, forgive me, how might a humble scribe such as myself assist? I am rather busy, even though it is the day of rest. Is it money, my dear? I could do you a nice Help, or I Perish! for a discount. Why, I believe I have one here. Suitable for most purposes, you know. Distressed widow; husband, succumbed to drink, four infants, all with fever, at death’s door, et cetera, et cetera. I can do a lady’s hand to a turn, even if I say so myself. None better.’
‘No,’ said Sarah Tanner, shaking her head, ‘I just need to know something about a woman – well, perhaps a family – named Ferntower.’
‘Ferntower?’
‘It’s something to do with George; I don’t know quite what, not yet.’
Mr. Merryweather smiled and walked back to his desk, picking a book from the nearest shelves.
‘Post Office Directory, my dear. Could you not have just referred to it yourself?’
‘If I had one. My circumstances are … not quite what they were.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, of course, then let us have a look. Ferntower … peculiar name, I could almost swear I know it. Ah, here we are. There is only one in the capital, at least. Mr. M. H. Ferntower, 42, Hillmarton Park, Holloway. A most respectable address.’
Sarah Tanner nodded. ‘Is there nothing else?’
‘The Post Office don’t concern themselves with anything else, my dear lady. That is sufficient for the workings of that great institution. However, I might be able to oblige you. Now, where did I leave it? Somewhere safe, I am sure.’
Mr. Merryweather began peering at the shelves behind his desk; then in the drawer within the desk; then upon the floor. Sarah Tanner followed his bumbling movements with bemusement.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘The old bible, my dear. You may recall, before I went wholesale, a couple of years ago,’ – Mr. Merryweather gestured at the mountain of papers of his desk – ‘I used to make more direct appeals to the generosity of my fellow man. Holloway was familiar ground to me then.’
‘You mean when you were on the tramp.’
‘No need to be vulgar, Sarah. Ah, here it is. Now, let’s see. Hillmarton Park. 14th December 1849. New houses, rather grand, I seem to recall; almost in the country. 40. Widow. Adams. No kin. No money. 2 bob for burying dead wife. No. Ah, now I have it. 42. Ferntower. Gentleman. Widower. Own carriage. Crossed out. Now why was that? Oh dear. Yes, it’s in the margin here. MS.’
‘MS?’ said Mrs. Tanner.
‘Member of the Mendicity Society, my dear. One of those gentlemen who prefers to dole out tickets for soup, rather than spare a couple of coppers, like a decent Christian. Nothing for Charles Merryweather, Esquire, there. Still, one meets all sorts in one’s professional life; one must take the rough with the smooth. Now does that assist you, my dear? I can’t imagine how. Of course, if I come across anything more, I shall be sure to let you know. If you’d care to leave an address?’
‘No. But, thank you, Charlie. It’s very good of you. I’m afraid I had best be going.’
Charles Merryweather sipped again from his port. ‘So soon? Are you sure I cannot tempt you, my dear lady? Stay and have a little something to eat. I’ll send the boy out for pies. We could discuss old times; old friends.’
Sarah Tanner smiled, but shook her head.
‘You take care, Charlie. And thank you.’
Charles Merryweather sat quite still, waiting, until his front door closed.
‘You can come out now,’ he said at last.
For a moment there was no response. Then the besuited figure of Mr. Stephen Symes appeared from the back room.
‘I’m surprised you restrained yourself, Mr. Symes,’ said Charles Merryweather. ‘You were only just telling me you’d like rid of her.’
Mr. Symes smiled.
‘There is a time and place, my dear sir. A time and place. Besides, what does she want with old Ferntower? Now that is quite intriguing.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘So I said to her, I am doing it hard – and then some – but she wouldn’t have it. But then she couldn’t do no better, which made me laugh …’
‘Laugh?’ asked Sarah Tanner.
‘Well, almost,’ said Norah Smallwood, as she walked beside her new employer. ‘I mean, I held my tongue. But she couldn’t do no better, no matter how hard she scrubbed at it.’
‘Just do what Mrs. Hinchley tells you, that’s all I ask.’
‘Didn’t I just! Look at these hands – red raw, they are! And that’s just this morning. She’s a bleedin’ slave-driver, that woman.’
‘Hush. Just hurry up – we’ll be late.’
‘I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ said Norah, in a conciliatory fashion, as they crossed King William Street.
‘No, I’m sure.’
‘Here, have I done something wrong?’ asked Norah, a little puzzled. ‘Why are you being so quiet? I did just what she told us, didn’t I? Ask her yourself.’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘What then?’
‘This morning. You read my letters.’
Norah Smallwood’s cheeks grew flushed. ‘No I didn’t!’
‘Please, Norah,’ said Sarah Tanner, ‘you’re an awful liar.’
Norah Smallwood paused to consider her predicament. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind,’ she said, at last. ‘I were just looking for a comb, that’s all.’
‘A comb?’
‘I said I was sorry, didn’t I?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, taking Norah Smallwood’s arm, and leading her along, ‘I don’t believe you did.’
‘Well, I am … sorry, I mean. I was only looking, missus. I didn’t take nothing.’
‘I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies?’
‘I thought … well, I thought they might be from Georgie.’
Sarah Tanner sighed.
‘I wouldn’t have looked otherwise, that’s the truth!’ protested Norah.
‘Norah, do you promise me you won’t go anywhere near my things again?’
‘’Course,’ replied Norah. ‘Here, there’s the Monument. We’re almost there.’
‘I swear, Norah, if you stay under my roof …’
But Sarah Tanner’s voice was drowned out by the rattling wheels of a heavily laden waggon that passed them by, trundling down Fish Street Hill. For they were almost at their destination in the heart of the City: the wharves below London Bridge.
In truth, the river itself was barely visible: for
the commercial traffic upon the hill – waggons, carts, coaches and cabs – could only progress so far before coming to a halt upon the cobbled quayside, blocking the view, each vehicle bent upon discharging goods and passengers, almost invariably to the disservice of the vehicle behind. Broad-shouldered porters were on hand, eager to earn a penny or two from conveying luggage between quay and boat; but they only added to the chaos of the scene, since they positively laid seige to any traveller bold enough to carry so much as a paper hat-box in their presence.
Sarah Tanner, however, knew her way. She led Norah Smallwood further on, down towards the wharves themselves, opposite the tall warehouses which lined the water-front. Two ha’penny boats were moored in the shadow of the bridge – ready to ply their trade to Westminster and back – but the location of the Margate packet, a larger vessel, fit for sea-going, was a little further along the quay. In fact, the Diana was unmistakeable, marked out not only by its size, the twin diamond-checked funnels, and the guttural purr of its engine, but by the crowd of well-wishers who surrounded it, waiting to wave the passengers good-bye.
‘I still don’t know why we’re here, anyhow,’ said Norah, surveying the scene.
‘I told you, I want to know why Georgie had it written down – if he was going to get that boat, for a start.’
‘Well, if that’s it, then we’d better look alive,’ said Norah, who began, quite unashamedly, to elbow her way forward.
For the most part, as Norah pressed on, the crowd gave way; for it was not uncommon upon the wharves to see a last-minute dash towards the gang-plank of a Margate boat. And, if a couple of ladies or gentlemen objected to the vigour with which Norah Smallwood propelled herself, their complaints were lost in the mêlée. In any case, it was largely thanks to her young companion that Sarah Tanner eventually found herself upon the very end of the wharf, where a wooden gang-plank and iron rail connected the pier with the steam-packet, managed by a uniformed attendant, wearing the checked livery of the Diamond Funnel Company.
‘All aboard,’ shouted the attendant, as Sarah Tanner stepped forward. ‘Passengers for Margate; transfers Antwerp and Ostend. You travelling, ma’am? Ticket please.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m here to see off a friend—’ said Mrs. Tanner, but the attendant interrupted even as she spoke.
‘No friends or followers now, ma’am. Didn’t you hear the bell?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I’m late … you see, it’s very important that I know if he’s on board; I have some news …’ – Mrs. Tanner paused, testing her powers of invention – ‘his mother’s quite ill …’
‘What’s the gentleman’s name, ma’am?’
‘Phelps.’
The attendent retrieved a sheet of paper. Perusing it for a moment, he shook his head.
‘No passenger of that name, ma’am. You must have the wrong boat.’
‘You mean he hasn’t arrived?’
‘Never arrived, ma’am? Never on the list in the first place,’ said the attendant.
Sarah Tanner considered her reply, when another thought struck her.
‘He was travelling with a companion – a Miss Ferntower …’
The attendant eyed his interlocutor rather skeptically but consulted his list nonetheless.
‘No, no-one of that name either. Now, if you’ll just step back, that was the last bell.’
Sarah Tanner, frustrated, stepped back as instructed, watching the attendant pull in the gang-plank.
On board the steamer, the sound of the captain’s orders, then the echo of the call-boy’s shout to the engineer, could just be heard above the din of the engine. Then, with a twin burst of steam and black smoke, the boat shuddered into motion, its paddle-boxes churning the silt water below.
Mrs. Tanner watched the boat pull off, dejected. It took her a moment to realise that Norah Smallwood stood beside her, tugging at her sleeve.
‘Look, there, on the deck!’ she said excitedly.
‘What?’
‘Look! There’s a woman there, in black; a mantle and hat. Can’t you bleedin’ see her?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s her! That’s your Miss Ferntower. She ain’t gone missing; she’s on that boat.’
Sarah Tanner peered at the deck, unable to make out the woman in question.
‘Missus – that’s her. I’m sure of it. No veil, neither. I knew that veil business was all gammon.’
‘Where?’
‘Lor! Now she’s gone round the other side! I ain’t fibbing, I swear!’
Sarah Tanner sighed. ‘I believe you.’
‘Ain’t you pleased?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re too late. Most likely Georgie was coming here; but what was he up to? Was he meeting her? Following her? She’s the only one who might tell us.’
‘But she’s on the boat,’ protested Norah Smallwood.
‘Which only stops at Margate. We can’t catch up with her; and, even if we followed on the next steamer, unless that fellow was lying, she’s not even using her own name. That means she doesn’t want to be found, Norah. People don’t disappear like that unless they have a reason. You may take my word for it.’
‘You don’t think she’s coming back?’
Sarah Tanner merely shook her head, watching the boat pick up steam and disappear from view, obscured by the black bulk of a coal barge turning towards the southern shore.
‘No. I fear Miss Ferntower’s gone for good.’
It was two days later that Sarah Tanner’s prediction was to be proved wrong.
At the time, Mrs. Tanner herself did not know it; she was asleep in her bed. But she was proved wrong – after a fashion, at least – by a sergeant and constable from the Thames Marine Division of the Metropolitan Police, in a row-boat, performing their regular night patrol along Limehouse Reach.
For, in the darkness, their lantern picked out the ungainly, bloated shape floating mid-stream.
And when the sergeant pulled the corpse in with his boat-hook, it became clear their catch was a woman; a decent woman, whose silk dress had once been an unremarkable, but respectable, article – not the sodden shroud which had buoyed up her lifeless frame.
And when they looked over all her clothes – for the indignity of such close examination was mandated in the catechism learnt by every Marine officer – they found her name, on the discreet label sewn into her petticoat, intended only for her laundress.
Ferntower.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ralph Grundy, seated in one of the Dining and Coffee Rooms’ little booths, stirred his tea, tapping his spoon noisily against the earthenware mug. Before him lay an empty bowl containing traces of oatmeal porridge, and a plate which bore the faint yellow trails of two poached eggs. It was Ralph Grundy’s custom to take a brief, gratuitous breakfast at his place of work, a pleasant perquisite of his employment. Indeed, Sarah Tanner had noticed that Mrs. Hinchley’s cooking was liable to lift Ralph Grundy’s spirits, even on the dullest of mornings. Thus, she could not help but observe that, upon this one occasion, the waiter seemed to linger over his drink, and appeared not so much lifted as quite flattened. Sarah Tanner, therefore, took it upon herself to quit her seat behind the counter, as the shop was bereft of customers, and sat down facing her employee.
‘The eggs weren’t off, I hope?’
Ralph Grundy shook his head. ‘Don’t let Mrs. H. hear you say that, missus, not about her eggs. You’ll find yourself short of a cook. Just you say the word. Remember that fellow who complained of ’em? The way she went at him, you’d think she’d gone and laid ’em herself.’
‘Well, what is it?’ replied Mrs. Tanner with a smile.
Ralph Grundy merely shrugged. Sarah Tanner, in turn, fell silent, a rather deliberate silence that made her employee shift awkwardly in his seat.
‘Where is she, then?’ said Ralph Grundy, at last.
‘Norah? Is that what’s troubling y
ou?’
‘Ain’t no trouble to me, missus, if she ain’t been here a week and goes off on a lark whenever it suits her.’
‘I sent her to the butcher’s, we’re running short of bacon.’
Ralph Grundy shrugged once more.
‘Mrs. Hinchley says she’s coming along in the kitchen,’ continued Mrs. Tanner.
‘Hmm. There’s girls as would come along twice as strong, and twice as quick,’ muttered Ralph. ‘Plenty of ’em. And not attract followers, neither.’
‘Followers?’
‘Ain’t you see ’em? Coming in here, sniffing round. They don’t even want nothing to eat. It ain’t good for business.’
‘I haven’t seen much sign of that.’
‘Hmm. Well, maybe you ain’t got your eyes peeled, missus. She’s already got two of the young ’uns from the market sweet on her, mark my words.’
‘She can’t help that, Ralph.’
‘Hmph!’ replied Ralph Grundy, as if to imply that Norah Smallwood, in his opinion, very much could. ‘And what about your precious Mr. Phelps, eh? Soon forgotten him, ain’t she?’
‘She’s young,’ replied Sarah Tanner, ‘but I doubt she’s forgotten.’
‘She’s trouble, missus. I know her sort. Trouble comes to girls like that, natural. Put her back where you landed her; she don’t need any help from you. She’ll look after herself.’
‘If I didn’t know better, Ralph, I might think you were jealous. I told you – if she does her share, she can stay.’
Ralph Grundy gave a derisive snort, then took a long swig of tea.
‘You do what you think best, missus. And if an old man ain’t no use to you no more—’
‘A certain “old man” might be a good deal of use,’ interrupted Sarah Tanner, quite calmly, ‘if he did not sulk like a spoilt child whenever he did not get his own way.’
Ralph Grundy, unaccustomed to quite such a frank rebuff from his employer, fell abruptly silent. But, at length, a hint of a wry smile spread across his lips.
‘“Sulk”!’ he exclaimed.
‘Ralph …’
‘No, don’t take it back, missus,’ said Ralph Grundy, chuckling to himself. ‘Maybe an old man deserves to hear a hard word now and then; maybe it brings him up sharp. I’ve said my piece. And if we don’t agree on a certain subject – upon which I ain’t saying another word – then that’s an end on it.’