A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  Sarah Tanner fell silent for a moment, then shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said at last.

  ‘Hold up, missus,’ said Ralph Grundy, ‘I’m only going off what I was told.’

  ‘If Miss Ferntower was just afraid of her nephew, why didn’t she go straight to her brother? Why was she hiding? Why change her hotel to Covent Garden? Why get on that boat to Margate? And how did Georgie get dragged into it?’

  ‘You’ve got me there, missus.’

  ‘Where’s the son now, in any case?’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘Did you ask him that?’

  ‘’Course I did. No-one knows, missus. The old man chucked him out and cut him off; he ain’t been seen since; living off his wits, most likely. He won’t have any money to speak of. Here – they’ve turned out …’

  Ralph Grundy nodded towards the stairs as the coroner’s clerk appeared in the bar, and coughed.

  ‘A verdict has been reached, ladies and gentlemen.’

  ‘Can the chairman of the jury please stand and deliver the verdict?’ asked the clerk.

  The chairman stood; he was a short, nervous-looking man who seemed to shrink visibly as the room’s collective attention fell upon him. Sarah Tanner looked around the room; the face of Mr. Ferntower seemed quite impassive; the younger of the two women beside him held a handkerchief to her face; the senior remained more composed.

  ‘We, the jury—’ said the chairman in a rather quivering voice.

  ‘Speak up, man,’ grunted the coroner.

  ‘We, the jury, have concluded that Miss Emma Ferntower was found drowned, but whether she destroyed herself in a moment of temporary derangement, by accidental means, or otherwise, we believe there is no evidence.’

  ‘Very well, an open verdict,’ concluded the coroner. ‘“Found drowned.” I thank the witnesses for their patience.’

  Sarah Tanner turned back to Ralph Grundy. But, for the second time that day, a man pushed past her – the same bearded man who had stood beside her earlier – and walked hurriedly towards the stairs. On this occasion, however, he chanced to meet her gaze – their eyes connecting for a brief moment.

  She stood aside. But, as she turned her head back towards the makeshift court, to take one last look at the witnesses, something occurred to her. She hurriedly glanced back to the bearded man, as he descended the staircase, disappearing from view.

  It was the handkerchief, still hanging half out of his coat pocket, the same one with which he had wiped his face; a dirty piece of cloth, but a silk hand-kerchief, nonetheless, monogrammed in fine black thread.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ralph Grundy, as Mrs. Tanner grabbed his arm and began to lead him away, elbowing through the departing crowd.

  ‘That handkerchief.’

  ‘Missus?’

  ‘His handkerchief! “J.F.” Didn’t you see it? And there’s something about the eyes; I’ll swear it. He’s got the look of his father.’

  ‘You’ve still lost me, missus,’ protested Ralph, as Sarah Tanner hurried him along.

  ‘That man – that was him, the nephew, Ferntower’s son.’

  ‘Because of a handkerchief? You sure about that, missus?’ said Ralph Grundy skeptically. ‘He could have got that wiper anywhere.’

  ‘That’s why he hurried off; he didn’t want to be recognised. I’ll lay odds on it. Hurry – we can still catch him!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘I ain’t got young legs!’ protested Ralph Grundy, as Sarah Tanner rushed down the stairs, to the consternation of several of the women who blocked her path.

  ‘Then don’t run!’ said Mrs. Tanner over her shoulder, darting into the public bar. But then she stopped. There was no sign of the bearded man; the bar seemed as empty as when she first came in. She glanced towards the barman: he was perusing a newspaper and seemed hardly to have noticed her own abrupt entrance. She ran out into the street. A couple of men stood by the dock’s great iron gates; another stood by the tavern’s door, puffing on a long pipe.

  ‘Did you see anyone just go by?’ she asked, turning to the pipe-smoker. ‘Shabby-looking … your height … he had a beard and a brown coat?’

  The man in the doorway, however, merely shook his head. The men by the gates exchanged a wry look with each other.

  ‘Lost something, darlin’?’ shouted one.

  ‘Sounds like you could do a sight better, my love!’ shouted the other, chuckling. ‘Come over here, we’ll set you right.’

  Sarah Tanner shook her head but said nothing. Ralph Grundy, meanwhile, slightly breathless, tapped at his employer’s shoulder.

  ‘Didn’t you catch him, then?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘No, plainly.’

  ‘He can’t have got far.’

  ‘No,’ she said, a degree of irritation in her voice.

  ‘I reckon he went the other way,’ suggested Ralph Grundy, looking left and right along the road.

  ‘There is no “other way”.’

  ‘Well, if you says so, missus. If you ain’t counting the river.’

  Sarah Tanner muttered something inaudible under her breath, and turned to head back into the tavern. But the motley crowd from the inquest blocked her path for the second time – with one of the women complaining loudly of some people’s dreadful ’pertinence – such that it took several minutes for her to work her way to the rear of the pub, and out into the tavern’s walled yard, overlooking the Thames. The yard was almost as empty as the street outside. A couple of young men stood huddled in close conversation with a third, whom Ralph Grundy recognised as the illicit vendor of tobacco whom he had met at the bar. Mrs. Tanner, meanwhile, hurried towards the outcrop of the Acorn’s private wharf, where she found only a solitary row-boat moored by the wharf’s wooden steps. The boat was manned by a waterman, a bronze-skinned, muscular individual of middle years, in a dark blue sailor’s jacket, who looked up expectantly as she drew near.

  ‘You from the ’quest?’

  Sarah Tanner assented.

  ‘Aye, thought as much,’ replied the waterman sagely. ‘Good day for business. Well, it’s sixpence a crossing, or one and six to the Bridge.’

  She looked out across the wide expanse of the river. There was no sign of her quarry. ‘Has there been a man here … a man with a beard, a shabby-looking coat; he would have just come from the inquest?’

  The waterman pondered the question for a moment, then nodded. ‘Aye, I reckon there was. You missed him. Tom Stone took him up to the Bridge.’

  ‘Could you catch him up, for two bob?’

  ‘I won’t catch Tom Stone now, missy. Not even if I were a steamer and had a boiler ’stead of an heart, and two paddlers ’stead of arms. Tom’s a good oar, and half my age. But, for two bob, I’ll go at it strong, and I suppose we might see Tom by-and-by, when we gets there, if your luck’s in.’

  ‘I suppose that will have to do,’ said Mrs. Tanner, reluctantly. And, even as she spoke, she began to clamber down to the boat. Ralph Grundy, however, hung back by the edge of the water, gazing at the rather tarry-looking scull and its owner with a distinct show of nerves.

  ‘Come on, Ralph, hurry,’ insisted Mrs. Tanner, as she stepped down, and sat on the blanket provided for the comfort of passengers.

  ‘I ain’t too fond of water, missus.’

  The waterman laughed. ‘I ain’t lost a man yet, don’t you fret.’

  Ralph Grundy laughed in return, without much conviction. At last, however, he gingerly descended into the boat.

  ‘And you told me you were a river-man, Ralph,’ said Mrs. Tanner, as the waterman heaved at the oars, propelling the little craft away from the safety of the shore.

  ‘I never did,’ muttered Ralph, holding tight to the side of the scull. ‘Said I worked at the docks.’

  ‘Near enough, but you never told me, why did you give it up?’

  ‘It were a long time ago. Like I said, I ain’t that fond of water, missus.’

  ‘You said you were on the gates.’

  Ralph G
rundy paused, as if lost for a moment in reflection. ‘Well, there was two pound of sugar,’ he replied ruefully.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘It were one pound down each trouser leg; regular thing. They never checked us, see? Well, that’s what I thought, anyhow.’

  Sarah Tanner looked quizzically at her companion as the boat pulled out into the current. ‘Then maybe it’s you I should be watching, when it comes to the money-box, not Norah.’

  The waterman briefly looked up from his task, but then fell back to his oars, the boat scudding across the rolling silt water with every firm stroke.

  ‘Don’t tease us, missus. I learnt my lesson. They had me quodded for six months, hard labour.’

  She looked again at Ralph Grundy; there was something severe in his expression, as if he found the recollection particularly painful. She gently put her hand on his.

  ‘You’re fine with me, Ralph. I’ve heard much worse.’

  ‘Aye, but maybe you’ll hear worse again,’ said Ralph. ‘And then what will you make of it, eh?’

  ‘You’ll do, Ralph,’ replied Mrs. Tanner. ‘I can tell.’

  Ralph Grundy took a deep breath, as if recalling his self-possession. ‘I’m glad to hear that, missus.’

  ‘Except, perhaps, you look a little pale.’

  The waiter looked out along the sweep of the river, just as the churning passage of a steamer on the northern side sent a surging wash of water, which rocked the little boat from side to side. He took a firm grip, and swallowed rather uneasily.

  ‘I’ll be fine, missus.’

  The little scull came at last towards its landing-place, a small wooden jetty and set of steps, squeezed between the grand steam-boat piers by London Bridge and the wharves of Billingsgate Market, where the distinctive salty aroma of the morning’s market’s trade – the future fish-supper of the metropolis – still hung heavy in the air. As Ralph Grundy climbed eagerly on to dry land, Sarah Tanner paid the oarsman his fare.

  ‘Well, do you see him?’ she asked while the man remained seated in his boat. ‘Is he here – you said his name was Stone?’

  The waterman peered along the jetty, where several little boats, similar to his own, were moored. For the most part, they were empty – their owners either taking refreshment nearby, or touting for trade by the steam wharves – but there was a stocky young man, in an oilskin coat, who leant against one of the jetty’s timber supports. The young man in question seemed preoccupied, staring at a small piece of paper he held in his hand.

  ‘Aye, there he is, missy, large as life, that’s him, though he looks fair blown out, don’t he? Here! Tom Stone, look alive! What’s up with yer?’

  ‘Fellow just baulked me of a shillin’, that’s all,’ muttered the young man.

  ‘Well, there’s two parties here as wants a word with yer.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The man you’re talking about,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘Did you just take him from the Acorn Inn?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Tom Stone, a trifle suspiciously, walking along the pier, ‘that’s the one. You a friend of his?’

  ‘No, not a friend exactly. Did he say anything to you – do you know where he was going?’

  The young man smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, he did you too, did he? I should have knowed it; he was a queer-looking sort. No, he didn’t say nothing ’ticular to me, not where he was going, not nothing else neither; and he came up a shilling short. I should have hauled him up to the bloody magistrate, but I took pity, see? I thought, the way he talked and all, maybe he was a gentleman down on his luck.’

  ‘You’re too soft-hearted, Tom Stone,’ interjected the other waterman.

  ‘Reckon you’re right,’ replied Tom Stone, glancing again at the paper in his hand. ‘I bet this ain’t worth nothing neither.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sarah Tanner.

  ‘A duplicate – he swore it was worth three bob, so, like a right Sam, I went and took it and let him off. I’d be a bigger fool to spend a shilling on his word, though, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘He gave you a pawn ticket?’

  ‘A waistcoat. Said it were good for two shillings more if I went and got it back. I’ll lay odds it ain’t; I should never have took pity. It ain’t worth my trouble.’

  Sarah Tanner placed a hand inside the pocket of her dress. ‘I’ll give you sixpence for it.’

  Tom Stone pondered the offer for a moment.

  ‘Done,’ he said at last, quite cheered up.

  ‘No cab home, then, missus?’ said Ralph Grundy, some few minutes later, as he followed his employer along the riverside.

  ‘I’m not made of money, Ralph.’

  ‘As you like,’ said the old man. ‘Worth your trouble, was it?’

  ‘Read it yourself,’ said Sarah Tanner, handing Ralph the scrap of paper.

  Ralph Grundy unfolded the paper and read out the contents.

  ‘“Reeves, Little White Lion Street, 29th March 1852. Waistcoat. One shilling, number six hundred and fifty-three.” It’s a pawner all right. Well then – St. Giles again, ain’t it? Seven Dials. You sure this is your man, missus?’

  ‘I’ll swear by the eyes, Ralph. He was the spit of his father.’

  ‘Seven Dials ain’t no place for a gentleman, if he is living thereabouts.’

  ‘But not a bad place for a murderer,’ mused Mrs. Tanner. ‘That brute who murdered Georgie – Miss Ferntower – it’s all tied up together, I’ll swear it. I just can’t fathom how, not yet.’

  ‘So now you do think it’s the nephew what killed her? And then what – your pal Phelps, he knew about it, so they got rid of him?’

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Reeves’s pawn-shop was, indeed, to be found in St. Giles, not half a mile distant from the Hole-in-the-Wall public-house. It lay on Little White Lion Street, one of the lesser points of the compass of the Seven Dials, the notorious junction of seven roads, at the very heart of the ill-famed parish. The street itself was a narrow, sloping affair of small shops and ancient hastily erected tenements, buildings rather given to leaning arthritically forward over the pavement. The result was a peculiar dearth of daylight in the cramped little thoroughfare. In consequence, it took Sarah Tanner and her companion several minutes, going back and forth, and several inquiries at sundry dark doorways and entries, until they found in the shadows a small sign above a cracked lintel, bearing the traditional three balls of the pawnbroker, painted red on black, and with the words Money Advanced, Articles of all Description stencilled upon the door.

  The interior of the pawnbroker’s proved equally gloomy, with the predominance of articles on display being clothing – albeit of the greasy-collared and frayed-cuff variety, arranged upon racks and shelves in great abundance. And at the rear of the shop was the counter. There were no discreet partitioned boxes, in which clients might be quietly closeted. Possibly such bashfulness was beyond the inhabitants of Seven Dials: there was merely a table-top, some ledgers, a set of weights and scales, and Mr. Reeves himself: a thin, grey-suited, dusty-looking individual, whose appearance was quite in keeping with his musty, cobwebbed, establishment.

  ‘What’s the item?’ said Mr. Reeves in a nasal tone, straight to business. He spoke with a rather dismissive air, as if to suggest that – whatever the item might be – he was rather disinclined to pay good money for it.

  ‘I haven’t got anything,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘I’m trying to find the man who pawned this.’

  Mrs. Tanner held out the duplicate. The pawn-broker looked at it for a moment, as if cogitating whether he should proceed with the conversation, then finally plucked it from Sarah Tanner’s fingers.

  ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ continued Mrs. Tanner. ‘The man who pawned it?’

  The pawnbroker looked at the ticket, then opened the ledger that lay beside him, running his finger down the scribbled abbreviated handwriting that documented each transaction.

&nb
sp; ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘What if I did?’

  ‘I need to speak with him.’

  ‘How do I know you ain’t stole it, my dear?’ said the pawnbroker, holding up the ticket.

  ‘I bought it, as it happens.’

  ‘Why would a person need to speak to the man they bought it from either?’

  Sarah Tanner sighed. ‘I got it from another party. Do you know where I can find him?’

  ‘Maybe I do, my dear. For a consideration.’

  ‘Keep the ticket,’ replied Mrs. Tanner. ‘If you can tell me where to find the man who pawned the waistcoat.’

  The pawnbroker smiled, and tucked the duplicate in his coat pocket.

  ‘I do like a woman with a head for business. I know the man, my dear, well enough for my liking, anyhow. First called in about a month ago. If you must know, he says his name’s Smith: which I’ll lay odds it ain’t. He says he lives in Shepherd’s Buildings: which he don’t, ’cos I have inquired. But I know him all the same. We don’t get many gentlemen in the Dials, even his sort.’

  ‘Gentlemen? What sort?’ asked Ralph Grundy.

  ‘The sort that don’t change their clothes for a fortnight; the sort that talks dictionary but can’t find money for a night’s lodging. He’s seen better days, has that one; and I don’t see his luck improving, neither. I’ve had to oblige him on half a dozen items this last couple of weeks. Crying shame to see a young fellow like that gone to the bad, ain’t it?’

  The pawnbroker’s broad expression of sympathy was tempered by a rather facetious smile.

  ‘Do you know where he lives or not?’ asked Sarah Tanner.

  ‘There’s no getting round it with you, is there, my dear? No, I do not, as it happens.’

  ‘I thought we had an arrangement,’ said Mrs. Tanner, wearily.

  ‘I said I knowed him. I don’t know where he has lodgings, though it won’t be anywhere too fancy. But I do know where you’ll find him, if you’ve a mind to look. You see, I know where he spends his money, when he can lay hands on it.’