by L M Jackson
‘Thank you, Ralph.’
‘Mind, if you’re still playing detective, missus,’ continued Ralph, lowering his voice, ‘then I reckon you still needs all the help you can lay your hands on.’
‘I wish it was that simple.’
‘Ain’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Tanner. ‘What do you suggest? Perhaps I should just go down to the station-house at Greenwich and tell the Superintendent one of his men is a murderer?’
‘It’d be the truth.’
Sarah Tanner shook her head. ‘You’ve seen the sort of people I used to know; the sort of life I lived. What would a magistrate make of that? What would he make of Norah? There’s no proof, no evidence but my word – nothing.’
‘Maybe if you talked to that gentleman at the hotel,’ suggested Ralph Grundy. ‘Ferntower, weren’t it?’
‘And tell him that I saw his sister taking a boat to Margate? That she’s hiding from someone or something? That it involves a dead man in Leather Lane?’
‘True enough, though, ain’t it?’
‘Unfortunately, Ralph, the truth won’t do.’
‘What if that Peeler’s after her too?’ he suggested.
‘I don’t know. Why would a respectable woman run away? Why wouldn’t she go to her brother?’
‘Maybe,’ said Ralph, ‘she ain’t that respectable.’
Sarah Tanner rubbed her forehead. ‘I don’t know.’
Ralph Grundy did not reply, his gaze directed over Sarah Tanner’s shoulder.
‘What is it?’ asked Mrs. Tanner.
‘I ain’t saying a word, missus,’ said the old man. ‘Not a word.’
Sarah Tanner turned round.
Norah Smallwood stood outside the shop-window, a rather tatty wicker shopping basket slung under her arm. Opposite her stood a young man, a bony-faced boy of the coster class, dressed in green corduroys, a white Belcher tied artfully around his neck, clutching Norah’s hand and grinning. They stood together for a few moments, then the boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, spoke a few words and left.
‘Who was that?’ asked Mrs. Tanner, as Norah Smallwood came inside.
‘No-one in particular,’ replied Norah.
‘Joe Drummond’s boy, Harry, off the market,’ interjected Ralph Grundy, getting up from his seat and clearing his plate and bowl from the table, before disappearing off to the kitchen.
‘Here!’ exclaimed Norah Smallwood. ‘Who asked you?’ But the waiter had already disappeared from view.
‘Just be careful who you speak to, that’s all,’ said Sarah Tanner.
‘He spoke to me; I can’t help it,’ protested Norah. ‘Besides, I told him I was your cousin and everything, like you said.’
‘Good.’
‘He was asking if I wanted to step out, tomorrow night.’
‘Norah, in case you’ve forgotten, you have work to do here,’ protested Sarah Tanner.
‘I didn’t say I’d go with him. I just said I’d ask.’
‘Well, then, the answer is no.’
‘Even if I know a secret?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Norah, please. I have enough to think about.’
Norah Smallwood tutted to herself, and rummaged inside the bottom of her shopping basket, pulling out a page of a newspaper, roughly folded and stained. ‘I was going to tell you, anyway. Here, look at this. Yesterday’s paper. They was wrapping bacon in it; I heard someone talking about it.’
Sarah Tanner followed Norah’s hand, reading the small tightly crammed type.
THE DEAD BODY of a respectably dressed woman was found in the Thames yesterday, in the early hours, on Limehouse Reach, between Cuckold’s Point and the Queen’s Stairs. The deceased was identified as Miss Emma Ferntower, reported missing on Saturday by her brother. A letter was found upon her person, addressed to her brother. It is suspected that the lady, in a state of mental distraction, took her own life. No reason is assigned for the rash act. An inquest will be held on Thursday 8th at the Acorn Inn, Trinity Street.
‘I’ll be damned,’ said Mrs. Tanner.
‘I know,’ replied Norah Smallwood. ‘And it’s today, ain’t it?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was ten o’clock in the morning by the time the cab clattered alongside the great stone walls of the Commercial Docks. The cab in question was an old four-wheeled carriage, a member of the ‘growler’ class that quite lived up to its name, its wheels complaining noisily at every bump in the cobbled lane. The driver came to a halt, at a junction in the road. There was barely a cloud in the sky, but the looming grey walls upon either side of the street, towering some thirty feet high, cast an inescapable shadow that seemed to leave everything below in perpetual twilight.
The driver coughed and leant down from his seat. He addressed a few words to a small gathering of men, deep in conversation upon the street corner. They were rather resigned-looking individuals – casuals who had, doubtless, not caught the dock foreman’s eye at the early-morning levée – but nonetheless they answered the cabman in good humour, gesturing towards the end of the road. The cabman followed their gestures, but peered into the distance, as if still quite uncertain of how to progress. At last, he thanked them, adjusted the collar of his coat and drove on.
‘We’re lost,’ said Ralph Grundy, glancing at the men as the cab moved off. ‘Sixpence a mile and we’re lost.’
‘Never mind the cab, I thought you said you knew the docks,’ replied Sarah Tanner.
‘I reckon I did, twenty year ago,’ muttered the old man. ‘St. Kats, in the main.’
‘That’s the other side of the river,’ rejoined Mrs. Tanner. ‘You distinctly said—’
‘Well, you might need my help, all the same,’ interrupted Ralph Grundy. ‘Besides, no harm in it. Mrs. H. can keep an eye on your little treasure; she won’t let her get up to any mischief.’
‘And you can keep an eye on me?’
Ralph Grundy shrugged. ‘No harm in that either.’
Sarah Tanner looked at the old man, as if she had in mind a further word of reproach, but there was something in his face that made her falter, and almost smile at his gallantry.
‘What did you do at St. Katherine’s?’
‘Nothing much,’ he replied, rather evasively. ‘It were a long time ago.’
‘Ralph, what was it?’
‘Dock Police.’
‘Police?’
‘I weren’t a Peeler, missus. It were for the company. I was on the gates – pockets and passes. That’s all I did, missus. It weren’t much.’
‘Still,’ said Sarah Tanner, amused, ‘a policeman all the same.’
As she spoke, the cab came to a halt once more. ‘Looks like we’re here, eh?’ said Ralph, as he peered outside. ‘About time.’
Sarah Tanner and her companion stepped out of the cab, and gave the driver his fare. There was no doubting it was the correct location. For the Acorn Inn was a substantial tavern of three storeys, with its back to the Thames – where it even took deliveries upon its own wharf – and with its front opposite one of the principal entrance gates to the Commercial Docks.
Inside, they found that the public bar affected a maritime air, with a pair of compasses pinned upon each wall, and several copies of the Shipping and Mercantile Gazette, casually abandoned upon the tables. But before Sarah Tanner could say a word, the barman – taking a glance at the unfamiliar faces – gestured with weary resignation towards the stairs.
‘Crowner’s ’quest’s upstairs. You’re late, mind.’
The coroner’s inquest upon the body of Miss Emma Ferntower had, in fact, commenced a good hour earlier. The coroner himself had instigated proceedings in the downstairs bar with a small, complimentary glass of port from the landlord, and then proceeded upstairs to the Acorn’s function room upon the first floor. The court clerk had already put everything in order: twelve seats for the jury, a dozen or so more for witnesses, and a comfortable chair and table for his master, upon
which had been laid a pen, paper and a Bible for administering the oath. The only article lacking was an inkwell, which somehow had been forgotten. A wine-glass, therefore, had been commandeered from the landlord and filled with black ink, in peculiar contrast to the coroner’s ruby glass of port.
The coronor had called the room to order at nine o’clock sharp. Twelve good men and true had been sworn to do their duty by the Crown, then immediately despatched to contemplate the body of the deceased, which had been laid in an outbuilding by the river-side, a resting-place normally reserved for the cold storage of bottled stout. The building was sufficiently small, and the interest of the jurors sufficiently large, for the whole procedure to take an inordinate length of time. Consequently, even though Sarah Tanner and Ralph Grundy arrived a full hour late, the inquest was far from over. Moreover, the function room was quite full – not only with jury and witnesses, but an audience who had merely come to observe the coroner at his work, and who were happy to crowd together, at the back of the room, for that particular privilege.
Sarah Tanner glanced at the people around her: most were women, the wives and daughters of dockworkers, who exchanged knowing looks as the coroner spoke; they were, she felt sure, connoisseurs of Thames-side tragedies. The men present appeared a little more disinterested. A couple wore the thick woollen pilot coats of river-going folk; others were dressed more shabbily, like the casuals who had provided the cabman with directions. All carried the distinctive scent of the district: the aroma of creosote and turpentine that marked out the timber docks. All seemed present principally for their own gratuitous amusement. Some had even brought their own provisions. Indeed, she watched as the man beside her – a bearded individual, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat – took a small parcel from his pocket, unwrapped it, and proceeded to eat the meat pie contained within.
The testimony of the witnesses had already begun.
‘That’s how we found her, Your Worship, two nights ago,’ said the police constable who stood before the jury, referring to his notebook. ‘Me and Constable Whyte were on night-guard along the Reach. We saw something floating in the water – which ain’t uncommon – and when we pulled it in, we found it was the body of a respectable female.’
‘Respectable, on account of her clothing?’ inquired the coroner.
‘Yes, Your Worship. And the boots, sir. Proper pair of quality leather.’
‘Pray, continue.’
‘Well, sir, we pulled in the body; we found the name on her clothes, and the note.’
The coroner nodded. ‘Simpkins,’ he said, addressing his clerk, ‘read the note to the jury.’
The clerk stood up, coughing, as if preparing for a tragic oration.
‘“My dearest Michael, I am much delayed. Our captain was an utter fool. I shall take a room at the Brunswick; I prefer to travel in the daylight; expect me in the morning. Your sister, Emma.”’
‘That is all?’
The clerk bowed.
‘I see. Please go on, Constable.’
‘Well, that’s the long and short of it, Your Worship. We made arrangements here – being the nearest respectable house. Of course, I knew the lady’s name, as I’d seen the notice on some route papers at the station-house.’
‘You mean to say you knew the name, because Mr. Ferntower had reported his sister missing?’
‘Yes, Your Worship.’
‘Now, Constable, we have heard from Dr. Matthews that he believes the body had been in the water for some days; is that likely?’
‘Well, Your Worship, most cases, the tide carries them out past the Reach within a day or two. But if a body snags, or is covered, it ain’t unheard of.’
‘And the marks of violence on the poor woman’s person? The wounds to the head and upper body?’
‘Oh, they can be knocked about something awful,’ replied the constable. ‘Begging Your Worship’s pardon.’
There was a distinct sob from the front of the room. A couple of the women present in the crowd muttered, ‘Shame!’ Sarah Tanner peered past them. She could just make out, in profile, the face of Mr. Ferntower himself, familiar from the staircase of the Hummums, and two women, dressed in mourning, who were seated beside him.
‘Thank you, Constable, that will be all. Now,’ said the coroner, taking a sip of his port, ‘I should like to call upon Mr. Michael Ferntower, the deceased’s brother.’
Mr. Ferntower took the seat vacated by the young policeman. He was a man in his late fifties, with a rather stern, angular face, and a fine head of silver-grey hair. Before he spoke, however, Sarah Tanner’s attention was distracted by the man beside her – who abruptly stopped eating, and noisily stuffed the remains of the pie inside his coat pocket, wiping his mouth with a rather grey and greasy-looking handkerchief.
‘Now, my good sir,’ said the coroner, ‘naturally, we offer the condolences of the court’ – Mr. Ferntower nodded his acknowledgement – ‘and understand that circumstances such as these are most disagreeable. Nonetheless, I am obliged to ask you – is there any reason why your sister might have been unsettled—’
‘Unsettled, sir?’ interrupted Mr. Ferntower.
‘As to her mental faculties,’ suggested the coroner.
‘None, sir,’ said Mr. Ferntower, emphatically.
‘I see. Can you, therefore, account for her sudden change of heart in quitting the Brunswick Hotel, Blackwall, as we have heard, for the Hummums, Covent Garden?’
‘I have only the report of the manager, sir,’ said Mr. Ferntower, rather haughtily.
‘Who,’ said the coroner, looking down at his hastily written notes, ‘has deposed that Miss Ferntower stayed at the premises for three hours; during which time she was visited by her nephew. Then left abruptly without giving good cause.’
‘Then I know nothing more,’ replied Mr. Ferntower.
‘Miss Ferntower’s nephew – your son, indeed … I understand from the police that you are not on good terms with the young man?’
Mr. Ferntower, for a moment, looked slightly flustered. ‘I do not believe that is a matter for this court.’
‘Hmm,’ said the coroner. ‘And you cannot account for Miss Ferntower failing to post the letter that was found on her person, nor for her removing herself to the Hummums hotel?’
‘No.’
‘Nor why she did not continue to your residence in Holloway the next morning?’
‘I can only re-iterate, sir, what I have told the police. My sister was a woman of sound mind, and not given to whims or fancies.’
‘Hmm,’ said the coroner. ‘And you have nothing more to add?’
‘Only, sir, that I believe my sister had no intention of doing away with herself; to be frank, that I suspect foul play.’
‘On whose part, my dear sir?’
Mr. Ferntower paused; there was something in his expression that suggested deep unease. He cast his eyes down to the floor. ‘I do not care to say.’
The coroner raised his eyebrows. ‘If you do not “care to say”, sir, then what is the jury to make of it?’
‘They may think what they like. I intend to say no more upon the subject.’
The coroner scowled. He appeared to have the distinct feeling that Mr. Michael Ferntower, with his peculiar mixture of accusation and reticence, was making a fool of him; and he seemed determined to end the sensation as quickly as possible.
‘Quite so,’ said the coroner. ‘Quite so. Well, I believe that concludes our witnesses. You may step down, Mr. Ferntower. Now, I must ask all other parties to withdraw, while the jury considers its verdict.’
Sarah Tanner exchanged a quizzical glance with Ralph Grundy. But before she could move aside, the man who had stood beside her pushed violently past them both, and walked hurriedly downstairs.
Sarah Tanner sat in the public bar of the Acorn Inn. The witnesses for the coroner’s inquest had retired to private rooms; but the remainder of the coroner’s audience had, by and large, decanted to the tap-room. Speculation
upon the jurors’ verdict was rife; and yet Mrs. Tanner had heard nothing that suggested any of those talking had much greater knowledge of the case than she herself. Ralph Grundy, meanwhile, seemed to have quite vanished. Indeed, having promised to purchase a gin-and-bitters, it was some ten minutes before he returned, empty-handed, to the table.
‘Don’t look at me all ’asperated, missus,’ said Ralph. ‘You’ll thank me, I promise you.’
‘I gave you a whole shilling.’
‘And there never was a shilling better spent,’ said Ralph, taking a seat. ‘Now do you want to hear about it?’
Sarah Tanner reluctantly nodded.
‘Well, I got talking at the bar there, to a young fellow, who it turns out is coachman to your Mr. Ferntower.’
‘Go on.’
‘Now, there’s another fellow up there, with some tobacco, see – so I says to that young man, “Well, I fancy some of that. Now,” I says to the coachman, “you’re a man what appreciates good baccy, I can tell—”’
‘So you bought him some tobacco,’ said Mrs. Tanner, cutting off her companion in mid-sentence. ‘Just tell me what he said!’
‘Lor! Give an old man a chance! Ain’t that what I was trying to do?!’
‘Well then?’ said Sarah Tanner impatiently.
Ralph Grundy frowned, but continued all the same. ‘Well, it turns out the coachman knows what his master meant by that remark, that he didn’t “care to say”. Your Mr. Ferntower, he reckons his own son did for her.’
‘His son? The woman’s nephew?’
Ralph Grundy nodded sagely. ‘It turns out young John Ferntower went to the bad a few months back – gambling, writing notes against his old man’s name, the usual way of such things – and his father’s cut him off without a penny.’
‘I still don’t follow; what has that to do with it?’
‘Apparently it was her – his aunt – what found him out; the boy swore he’d swing for her. Now your man’s sure it’s not suicide – reckons the boy went and murdered her, but he can’t bring himself to own to it, not of his own son. That’s the opinion of the servants, anyhow.’