A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  In truth, she had a fair idea of whom she might find there – and she was not proved wrong. For, in front of a rather grand landau, painted in dark green livery, was another all too familiar face: a woman in her fifties, being seated in a three-wheeled bath-chair, by a manservant from the hotel; a woman known in certain purlieus of the metropolis simply as ‘Her Majesty’.

  For a moment, Sarah Tanner held back. It was, after all, still possible to slip away unseen, as the footman fussed over his charge. But something made her stay and step out on to the pavement. If she had hoped to cause astonishment, however, she was disappointed. On catching sight of the new arrival, Her Majesty’s regal countenance remained calm as ever.

  ‘My dear! Fancy!’ exclaimed Her Majesty. ‘Why, this is quite marvellous.’

  ‘Mrs. Hawkes.’

  ‘You know, my dear, I fear an old woman’s mind plays tricks … why, I quite forget …’

  ‘Mrs. Richards.’

  ‘Of course. Mrs. Richards. What else! How lovely to see you again!’

  ‘A delightful coincidence.’

  ‘Indeed, isn’t it? Why, let us talk – push me, my dear.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Along the road. Why not down to the bridge? It is such a delightful clear morning, and I would so enjoy taking the air, and seeing the dear old river. Boy! Tell Mr. Tebbins I have met an old acquaintance, and she insisted upon taking me on a little stroll, so we might exchange a few womanly confidences. Come, my dear Mrs. Richards – push!’

  Sarah Tanner surveyed the wicker invalid chair. Reluctantly, she took the handles, and pushed.

  ‘Now, my dear Miss Mills,’ continued Her Majesty, as she trundled along the pavement, towards Blackfriars Bridge, ‘you must tell me all your news.’

  ‘My news? I have none.’

  ‘Then what brings you to Radley’s Hotel, my dear? I confess, I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can.’

  ‘I fear I’m not one for guessing games, my dear. It’s my age; unnecessary cogitation becomes rather troublesome. It is so pleasant to see you again, my dear, but do humour an old woman and speak plainly.’

  ‘Very well. I know what you’re planning, and why you didn’t want to hear about Georgie. Because it was your man who did for him.’

  Her Majesty sighed, rather theatrically.

  ‘Is this your policeman friend again, my dear? I do not know who fed you this nonsense, Miss Mills. It is quite ridiculous.’

  ‘Nonsense? So there isn’t a certain young girl in that hotel, engaged to be married to Cedric Hawkes?’ said Sarah Tanner.

  ‘Ah. Well, Mr. Symes has a range of interests which occupy his time, my dear. You know that better than anyone.’

  ‘But not many worth ten thousand a year. That’s why you had Miss Ferntower killed, because she would have objected; she tried to run away but she couldn’t manage it. Was your man on the boat?’

  ‘Miss Ferntower? Ah yes, lately deceased. A sad incident. But, forgive me, I had gathered the poor woman killed herself.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘And that’s why your man did for Georgie, isn’t it? He wouldn’t have stood for murder, not a defenceless woman. What was it? Did he try to warn her at the hotel?’

  ‘Why, this is quite fabulous! But, again, forgive me if I don’t share your high opinion of poor Mr. Phelps’s high morals.’

  Sarah Tanner stopped pushing the chair; they were already at the beginning of the bridge, the wharves beneath St. Paul’s to the left, the grimy cylinders of the City Gas Works to the right. A few fellow pedestrians – City clerks, in the main; black-suited and hats tall as chimneys – tutted at the obstruction.

  ‘I’ll hazard they imagine us mother and daughter,’ said Her Majesty, with a chuckle. ‘Now, isn’t that amusing?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Really, Miss Mills. You used to be such a merry little creature,’ continued Her Majesty. ‘How did you come to be so serious, my dear?’

  ‘Perhaps it was when you set Bert Jones to kill me.’

  ‘Now, Sarah, please,’ said Her Majesty, with infinite condescension, ‘hold your temper and do not exaggerate. I am sure Mr. Jones would not have broken any bones; well, no more than necessary, and then all would be fair and square. As things are, well, I really can’t tell where we stand. Poor Mr. Jones is quite beside himself, and there is still the matter of my fifty-five guineas.’

  Sarah Tanner glanced over the stone parapet of the bridge, down at the dark silt waters of the river.

  ‘I should just tip you over.’

  ‘Miss Mills, you surprise me. Why, I declare, you set my heart a-flutter.’

  ‘I did not know you possessed one.’

  Her Majesty smiled. ‘Do have a care, my dear, I beg you.’

  ‘You forget, I am not one of your little girls any more.’

  ‘And you, my dear,’ said Her Majesty, ‘should look behind you.’

  Sarah Tanner turned swiftly, to find Stephen Symes standing only inches away.

  ‘Are you quite well, Mother?’ inquired Mr. Symes, with a degree of detached amusement in his voice. ‘I see you have met Mrs. Richards.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Her Majesty. ‘We had such a lovely little talk – so full of chatter and nonsense. Such a remarkable young woman. But perhaps you had best take me back; I should not care to catch a chill.’

  Sarah Tanner willingly stepped to one side as Symes took hold of the bath-chair.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Her Majesty, turning her head. ‘I do hope we meet again, under better circumstances.’

  ‘For your sake, I swear,’ said Sarah Tanner, ‘pray we do not.’

  Her Majesty merely laughed. Stephen Symes, however, let go of the chair and turned to face Mrs. Tanner, his eyes narrow and black as coal. He leant forward, his voice a whisper.

  ‘If you meddle in this business, Sarah, it will be the end of you. Now, learn your lesson.’

  Sarah Tanner opened her mouth to speak, but, too late, she saw Stephen Symes’s hand dart towards her cheek, the sharpened blade, a small pocket-knife, just visible. The movement was astonishingly fast, and it took her a second or two to register that she felt no pain; that there was no blood – only a lock of hair, cut from the curl beside her cheek, which Symes held between his fingers.

  ‘A keep-sake,’ said Symes, as he put the lock inside his waistcoat pocket. ‘Something to remember you by.’

  And with that, Stephen Symes smiled and walked away, pushing Her Majesty back along the bridge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The carriage which drew up on to the bridge, close by Sarah Tanner’s side, was a hackney coach. Painted in a rather rusty brown, the sides showed some marks of wear and tear, a scratch here and a dent there, suggestive of a long history upon metropolitan streets. It was, nonetheless, a fairly respectable-looking vehicle of the rented variety, and its driver, an old man, dressed in heavy overcoat, looked like a long-suffering example of the coach-driving class, as he nodded politely to Mrs. Tanner, then clambered down from his seat, and opened the carriage door.

  In fact, his principal employment was that of waiter, in a coffee-shop upon the corner of Leather Lane.

  ‘Who was that, then?’ said Ralph Grundy, as he closed the door behind his passenger.

  ‘Never mind for now,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘Just drive until I tell you to stop.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Ralph Grundy with mock gravity. ‘Anywhere in particular?’

  Sarah Tanner thought for a moment.

  ‘St. Giles.’

  ‘Missus—’

  ‘Drive.’

  Ralph Grundy sighed to himself but nonetheless obeyed, climbing up to the driver’s seat, taking the reins and whip, waiting for a good moment to pull the horses round, and head back towards Ludgate Circus.

  It was as the coach approached New Oxford Street that Mrs. Tanner untied the leather straps on the vehicle’s window blinds and peered o
ut on to the road. She herself had undergone something of a transformation, with the smart silk day-dress she had worn to Radley’s Hotel safely stowed away in a capacious carpet-bag that lay by her side, and replaced by one of plain cotton. She pulled on the check-string and waited for Ralph Grundy to draw the carriage to a halt. It took a few moments. When the waiter finally did descend and opened the coach’s door, he proceeded to step inside.

  ‘Lor!’ he exclaimed, as he sat heavily on the cushioned bench. ‘That seat weren’t made for an old man’s bones, mark my words.’

  ‘Ralph, I don’t believe that it’s customary for coachmen to come and sit with their passenger.’

  ‘Don’t fret, missus. Besides, I don’t believe it’s custom for their passenger to be changing their get-up on the fly, neither,’ replied Ralph Grundy, with a nod to the carpet-bag, ‘clattering about like nobody’s business, though I ain’t complaining of it. And who’s to care, anyhow? You’ve got this bone-setter jobbed all decent and above board, ain’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then we’re all right; there can’t be no objection from any quarter. There’s a young ’un holding the horses’ heads, and he’ll keep ’til he gets his penny. So, I reckon I can rest up.’

  ‘I’ll need you again tomorrow, and the coach. I’ve arranged to meet Mr. Ferntower at the Juvenile Schools.’

  ‘You met him, then?’ asked Ralph Grundy.

  ‘Him and his ward. And “Cedric Hawkes”.’

  ‘So he ain’t just your pal’s imagination?’

  ‘If only he was. You saw him on the bridge.’

  ‘Was that him? Well, I’m blowed. Respectable-looking gent, ain’t he? Here, missus, who was the woman in the chair?’

  Sarah Tanner sighed.

  ‘That, Ralph, is the very woman who raised me up; who taught me how to make my way in life; how to lie and steal, and make a living by it. They call her “Her Majesty”. “Mr. Hawkes” is a man named Symes; her right hand.’

  ‘Your old friends?’

  Sarah Tanner nodded. ‘They want the girl’s money; Symes is supposed to marry her. That’s why Georgie was killed; he must have been against what they were planning – he wouldn’t have stood for murder.’

  ‘So that Peeler’s one of ’em too? How come you didn’t know him?’

  Mrs. Tanner sighed. ‘They call her “Her Majesty”, Ralph, because she has her own little empire. A dozen or more hells in Regent Street; three night-houses on the Haymarket; enough fashionable bawdy-houses to satisfy a regiment. She would put any man to any use that might suit her, if he were willing. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had bought out a whole division of policemen all together.’

  ‘Well then, all you have to do is tell old Ferntower what’s going on; tell him the truth.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t believe me? What then? I would just be a self-confessed fraud. Most likely the Schools’ Secretary would have me locked up.’

  ‘You could write him a letter, anonymous.’

  ‘No, that’s too uncertain. Besides, Symes will have covered his tracks; he’s no fool. There will be nothing I can prove.’

  Ralph Grundy shrugged. ‘It seems to me, missus, you’re stuck.’

  ‘No, not quite. Listen, take the carriage back and talk to the job-master. Then you’d best get back to the shop – take my bag with you.’

  ‘And where are you off to?’

  ‘To find John Ferntower. I need to have another talk with him.’

  ‘Listen, missus,’ said Ralph Grundy, ‘it ain’t my place to say one way or another, but are you sure about this?’

  ‘Please, Ralph, not again.’

  ‘No, missus, you hear me out this once. The way I reckon it, you’ve already got two parties six feet in the ground, on account of your old friends; you’ve gone and got a girl skivvying for you who I wouldn’t trust with a penny loaf; and now you’re palling up with this Ferntower, whose own father reckons he’s a murderer. And, even if he’s not, well, he’s a bloody wreck.’

  ‘Are you trying to cheer me, Ralph?’

  ‘I’m just saying, think on. If your pal Phelps hadn’t gone down Leather Lane that night, and took some other road, I reckon you’d be better off for it. Maybe the game ain’t worth the candle, missus – that’s all.’

  ‘For the last time, I can take care of myself, Ralph.’

  ‘No offence, missus, but I bet your pal Phelps said the same. And I don’t want to find myself out of a job and at a bleedin’ funeral; I’ve seen enough of them occasions to last me a lifetime.’

  Sarah Tanner smiled. ‘I’ll do my best to avoid it. But you’re wrong about Norah.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Ralph Grundy, skeptically. ‘Well, I ain’t saying a word.’

  Norah Smallwood stepped back from the booth, and craned her neck, peering down the little corridor that led to the rear of the coffee-shop. Mrs. Hinchley, she could tell, was quite preoccupied; for several frying-pans had just clattered noisily to the floor, followed by a loud, despairing shout, its precise nature not quite clear, but most likely a curse upon mankind in general, and ruined pork sausages in particular. Norah Smallwood, therefore, quietly slipped out the front door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, addressing herself to the man who leant casually against the wall of the adjoining shop.

  ‘Blow me, gal, you took your time. I ain’t doing nothing in particular. I thought you might be happy to see me. What’s wrong, then? Is your missus about?’

  ‘No, just the cook,’ said Norah. ‘How did you know where I was? I never said.’

  ‘Just asked around, didn’t I? Asked where I’d find the prettiest gal what I ever set eyes on.’

  Norah Smallwood blushed. ‘You never!’

  ‘Give us a kiss, then. You can’t be my gal if won’t give us a kiss.’

  ‘Not in the street!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And who said I wanted to be your girl?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Norah Smallwood, her cheeks still rosy, leant forward, half reluctant, half willing.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Bert Jones. ‘That’s my gal.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sarah Tanner skirted the edge of Seven Dials, taking particular care in her route, to avoid the vicinity of Tower Court and the Turnspit. But the address she had memorised – the address vouchsafed to her by John Ferntower three days previously – was still rather close to the location of her encounter with Billy Bilcher, and she was rather glad of the peaked bonnet she had brought to protect herself against any turn in the weather, which also served to partly obscure her face.

  At length, after making inquiries upon several street corners, she found the building in question, located on Prince’s Row, Newport Market. In another part of the metropolis, John Ferntower’s address might have passed for a rather elegant little town-house. Three storeys high, part of a narrow terrace, with small but neat sash windows, guarded by iron rails – it doubtless once had been the home of a respectable minor tradesman. But the terrace had long since been divided and subdivided, with many of its homes turned into warrens of separate apartments, let out to undiscerning young gentlemen, and impecunious young families. It was one such house, a short walk from the nearby Horse and Carriage Repository – whose distinctive aroma rather permeated the narrow street – that was Mrs. Tanner’s destination.

  She tried the door-bell, but no-one came in reply, nor could she even hear a bell. Finding the front door open, she went inside.

  The hall was predictably shabby: the carpet dusty and threadbare, the walls covered with a yellow paper that had faded in the rays of sunlight that occasionally shone through the fan-light of the street door. She cautiously climbed the stairs. As she ascended the final flight, in search of the three-pair front to which John Ferntower had given directions at the end of their last meeting, she heard the sound of a door closing. Turning on to the landing, she found herself face to face with a man, about forty years of age, dressed
in a smart black suit, an extravagant red waistcoat and a white muslin cravat. Upon first sight, his face, marked by a meticulously groomed moustache and side-whiskers, flared up into an exuberant smile.

  ‘My dear young woman! Stop! Hold still!’

  ‘Sir?’ said Sarah Tanner, involuntarily obeying the injunction, as her interlocutor blocked her path.

  ‘What a chin! What bones! What beauty! Tell me that they are not wasted on some wretch of a man who keeps you locked away in this Stygian gloom! Tell me, I beg you, there is not some petty clerk who has made you his wife and mistress of his wretched rooms, to keep you from the world, a-dusting and a-sweeping!’

  ‘I think you must have me confused with someone else, sir. In any case, I do not live here, I am looking for the front apartment.’

  ‘No confusion, my dear. Allow me to introduce myself. Theobald Stamp – dramatist, actor, manager – at present, of the Adelphi, Strand.’

  Mr. Stamp paused for effect, as if to emphasise how deep the drama ran in his character.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Sarah Tanner, ‘if I might just pass you.’

  ‘Pass, my dear? No, wait, you have not heard my proposition! Ten nights – the company woefully depleted – all congenial souls – small speaking part – you would be perfect! I swear, I know an actress when I see one, my dear lady. Perfect! Such beauty! Such poise! You cannot tell me you have never trod the boards?’

  Despite herself, Sarah Tanner smiled politely. ‘No, I have not, nor do I intend to. I would like to pass if I may—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Stamp, ‘pass? You must mean to my dear friend Smith! You are visiting Smith? A woman of your charms! And he said nothing! I should have him hung, drawn and quartered, my dear lady, if the hanging weren’t too good for him.’

  ‘You know Mr. Smith?’

  ‘Know him? I pay the fellow’s bills. He copies my scripts – he has a fine hand for it. And I said to him, “I need an actress, Smith – find me an actress! Mine vanish, whenever it suits them!” And he says to me, “Don’t know of such a creature!” Why, the man is a fraud!’