by L M Jackson
The back garden was long, some hundred feet or more, turfed, with a handful of shrubs about its borders, dimly visible in the darkness. But there was a low wall at its rear, no more than three feet high, and behind the wall – nothing. For Hillmarton Park lay upon the very border of the metropolis; and the rear of number 42 was bordered by empty plots of land in the process of being dug for clay. Sarah Tanner stopped to catch her breath. But the sound of voices raised in the house, and the glimpse of a lantern-light flashing in the kitchen, drove her onwards across the uneven ground, into the brick-fields.
She ran as fast as she was able, although the sky was pitch black, with no sign of moon or stars; though the ground beneath her feet, half exposed clay, half mud, seemed to stick to her boots like glue. And she did not stop, though her lungs felt raw with effort, and her legs as heavy as lead.
She did not stop, in fact, until she fell, tumbling headlong down the side of a gaping clay-pit, all but invisible in the blackness. It occurred to her, as she plunged into the pit, involuntarily swallowing particles of the wet earth, that she might as well be falling into an open grave.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sarah Tanner opened her eyes, conscious only at first of a dull ache around her ribs. It took her a minute or more, in the pitch black, to focus her mind, and identify where she lay. It was the pit; the porous soil was all about her, the clay soaked into her dress, stuck to her cheeks. Instinctively, she moved her arm, to wipe some of the dirt from her face. But then she heard the sound of footsteps tramping upon the soft ground above, and saw the glint of a lantern, its light swinging round in a broad arc.
‘She’s not here, sir,’ said a voice, which she recognised as Murdoch’s.
‘I cannot credit that you allowed her to escape,’ replied Michael Ferntower, angrily.
‘I had a man out the front, sir. I just didn’t reckon on having to surround the premises. Regular little hellcat, weren’t she?’
‘Yes, well, clearly the woman is an out-and-out criminal, a vicious one at that; there can be little doubt of it.’
‘Not much,’ replied the detective, dourly. ‘I’ve never yet met a respectable female that could out-run the police.’
Michael Ferntower sighed.
‘Very well, call off your man. I only hope that we have seen the last of her.’
‘She won’t come back, sir. You gave her a proper scare tonight, upon my word you did.’
Sarah Tanner listened from the bottom of the clay-pit, as the two men walked slowly back towards the house, and allowed herself a sigh of relief. She pondered how long she should remain still; she resolved to remain hidden for a few minutes, at least.
Wearily, she closed her eyes, and wondered whether Norah Smallwood’s evening had progressed any better than her own.
Norah Smallwood, in fact, was not at all sure about her night at the theatre. For, although the first play, The Queen of the Market, contained a variety of remarkable incidents, a love affair, and a live horse, she was distracted by Harry Drummond’s habit of slipping his right arm around her waist at regular intervals, a habit which she felt obliged to discourage. Moreover, although the gallery were vociferous in booing every comic disaster and applauding every triumph of the play’s titular heroine, she felt certain she herself had lost all sense of the plot after the first quarter of an hour. She was rather grateful, therefore, when the Queen took her last bow, and the gas was turned back up, in anticipation of being dimmed once more that night, for the performance of Bloomerism.
‘Lor, weren’t that a proper stunner!’ exclaimed Harry Drummond, who had joined in the gallery’s commentary with gusto.
‘Weren’t it, though?’ agreed Norah Smallwood, trying to summon a semblance of enthusiasm. ‘Here, fetch us something to eat, won’t you?’
‘I thought you didn’t want nothing?’ replied Harry Drummond, with a pang of regret, having already turned down an itinerant pie-seller earlier in the evening, upon account of his companion’s disinterest.
‘Well, I do now. I don’t mind what; even an orange would do; a girl can be hungry, can’t she?’
‘There’ll be someone coming around,’ muttered the young man. But as he looked both ways along the gallery’s benches, there was no sign of any refreshment.
‘Go on, please,’ insisted Norah, ‘I’m starving.’
‘You’ll still be here when I come back?’
‘’Course I will. I swear.’
Upon receiving a promise, Harry Drummond grudgingly agreed, a degree of chivalry being a natural facet of his youthful character.
Norah, for her part, watched him push past the rest of the row, and – if truth be told – hoped rather wistfully that another gentleman entirely might appear, and take the empty space beside her.
When, however, that materialisation did not occur, she turned her gaze to the scene below. She could just see the orchestra – partly sunk beneath the stage – and, if she craned her neck, the comings and goings in the stalls below. It was as she watched that she noticed something out of the corner of her eye; the face of a woman in the crowd, visible for just a moment.
Norah Smallwood turned rather pale.
‘Lor!’ exclaimed Harry Drummond, who reappeared at her side, the proud owner of two oranges. ‘You seen a ghost?’
She frowned, and shook her head. ‘Nah, it weren’t nothing. I was just day-dreaming, that’s all.’
After all, Norah Smallwood thought to herself, Miss Emma Ferntower was dead. No, it was not her; it was quite impossible.
A bell rang. The theatre lights began to dim.
Sarah Tanner’s journey from Upper Holloway was an exhausting and weary affair. It was several hours after her departure – at about half-past midnight – when she finally returned to the Dining and Coffee Rooms. She presented quite a different spectacle to that of her departure, and if any of the same coster-women had seen her, they might have remarked upon it with a degree of smug satisfaction. For the fine silk dress she had worn had been turned into the dirtiest, mud-soaked excuse for a garment that had ever graced the cobbles of Leather Lane. Ruined by the trek through the brick-fields, the fabric seemed to have been torn in every conceivable location, with scraps of material loose, dangling like tatty ribbons from rents in the material. Her face, too, still bore smudges of clay, though she had made a vain attempt to improve matters at a water trough in the vicinity of King’s Cross. Ralph Grundy – a self-appointed sentry, his watchful eyes ranging between the shutters – hastened to let his employer inside.
‘Lor! Are you alright, missus?’
‘Never better,’ said Mrs. Tanner, sitting down heavily on one of the shop’s benches.
‘Do you want a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘Is Norah back?’
‘A good hour. She’s probably asleep,’ replied Ralph Grundy, foregoing his customary commentary upon Norah Smallwood’s character. ‘Should I get her?’
‘No, I just wanted to know if she had a good night. It will keep.’
‘Never mind that!’ exclaimed the waiter indignantly. ‘What’s happened, for pity’s sake?’
‘Ferntower knows about me. Or, at least, that I’m not who I claimed to be. The dinner was a trap; he had a detective waiting.’
‘A detective? Who told him?’
‘Symes, I’m sure of it,’ replied Sarah Tanner.
‘Symes? Not the governess?’
‘No, I rather think she helped me to get away.’
Ralph Grundy listened as Mrs. Tanner recounted the story of the evening, not least the trek from the clay-pit, through the outskirts of London, back to Leather Lane. At the end of her narrative, he sighed.
‘I ain’t saying nothing, missus, but I reckon none of this is worth your trouble. It ain’t your business.’
‘You don’t think a man losing his life is worth my trouble?’
‘That depends on the man. But it strikes me, missus, that you care more about squaring up to this Symes fellow than the man what prope
rly did for your pal. Of course, if you wants to settle old scores, that’s your business.’
‘It’s not like that, Ralph.’
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me, missus.’
‘No,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘I don’t.’
Ralph Grundy shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll be off then. You’d best get some rest, I reckon.’
Sarah Tanner nodded, and silently watched him depart. Her ribs still sore, she forced herself upright and locked the door behind the old man, in her customary fashion. Taking the lamp upstairs, she repaired to her bedroom, where no fire had been lit. Too exhausted and cold to undress, she merely removed her boots, and wrapped the blankets around herself.
In a matter of moments, she was asleep.
For the second time in the same night, she awoke dazed, uncertain of her surroundings.
It struck her as odd: she was in her bedroom, and the lamp, which she had snuffed out, had been lit once more.
But it wasn’t her lamp at all; more like a lantern. And the sound she could hear was something like a muffled scream.
There was somebody there, in the room.
Was she dreaming?
She peered into the semi-darkness, until the figure of a man revealed itself.
Her stomach sank.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ said Stephen Symes, seated at her dressing-table, a cruel smile upon his lips. ‘I thought you’d never wake up.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sarah Tanner levered herself up against the wooden head-board of the bed. Stephen Symes, for his part, remained seated, his hand propping up his chin as if engaged in some abstract philosophical contemplation.
‘You are a sorry sight, you know,’ said Symes at last. ‘The Sarah Mills of my acquaintance had higher standards. She would not have got herself into such a condition. And in Leather Lane! Still, I suppose it was inevitable that you should return to the gutter, eh, my dear?’
‘It is still a cut above the sewers of Regent Street,’ replied Sarah Tanner.
‘Really?’ said Symes. ‘I took you for many things, Sarah, but never a hypocrite.’
‘At least I’ve never killed a man in cold blood.’
‘And you think I have? Surely you know me better than that.’
‘No, that’s right. You let others do the work.’
Stephen Symes sighed, shaking his head.
‘This won’t do, Sarah, not at all. You’re not a fool – what the devil possessed you to go back to Ferntower’s? I gave you fair warning, twice over.’
‘I saw Georgie die, remember? I know your game. I won’t let you profit by it, I swear.’
‘Sarah, please, you are hardly best placed to make threats,’ said Symes, a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘You think I killed poor Phelps?’
‘One of you gave the word; don’t deny it.’
‘You think so?’ said Symes, standing up. ‘Ah, Sarah, at one time we had such hopes for you. It is such a waste; all this for nothing.’
‘Do you mean to kill me?’ said Mrs. Tanner.
‘You could have done the decent thing and yielded to Inspector Murdoch,’ replied Symes, utterly avoiding the question. ‘But I suppose I should have given you more credit. You always were rather resourceful, I’ll confess that much.’
‘So you arranged it all, at the house?’
‘I pointed my friend Ferntower in the direction of the Detective Police, that is all. I doubt it took much doing to uncover Mrs. Richards – or, rather, should I say, Mrs. Tanner?’
The sound of her name on Stephen Symes’s lips – or, at least, the name by which she was known in Leather Lane – made Sarah Tanner pause for thought.
‘How did you find me?’
Stephen Symes smiled a particularly serpentine smile, nodding towards the open bedroom door. She turned her head, following his gaze, to see the hulking figure of Bert Jones standing there, a look of smug satisfaction upon his face. She noted his face was still scarred from Ralph Grundy’s assault, where the cartwheel had met his forehead.
‘I ain’t such a Jack Adams as all that, my gal,’ said Jones, his voice full of self-congratulation. ‘I saw you stop here in the road that night, and I says to myself afterwards, “Her lodgings can’t be that far.” So I made inquiries, on the quiet, like. Told you I used to doss hereabouts, didn’t I?’
‘You did,’ replied Sarah Tanner, biting her lip.
‘Oh, but Mr. Jones is too modest, Sarah,’ said Stephen Symes. ‘Come, sir, show Miss Mills your little sweetheart.’
Bert Jones smirked and reached back into the corridor outside the room, pulling something – someone – roughly forward. Even before Sarah Tanner could see for herself, she knew who would be standing before her.
His name’s Albert.
Involuntarily, she closed her eyes for a moment, as if still not persuaded she had woken into a bad dream. When she opened them again, she gazed into the tear-soaked visage of Norah Smallwood, who stood shivering and helpless, in the cotton shift she wore as her night-dress, the right side of her face swollen with bruising, and a trickle of dried blood running from her nose to her chin.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice quivering, ‘I didn’t know nothing—’
The back of Bert Jones’s hand interrupted Norah Smallwood’s protestation of innocence. It was the merest flick of the big man’s arm, done with casual disdain, as if swatting a fly. But the impact was enough to send the girl’s body reeling against the jamb of the door, and stain the cotton shift with a fresh spray of blood.
‘You’ll speak when I say, gal. Have you got that?’
Norah, curled into a ball upon the floor, shuddered, nodding her head in mute despair.
Mrs. Tanner glanced back at Stephen Symes. He tutted in a rather mannered fashion, but his disapproval was of the most perfunctory kind. Indeed, she could not help but think there was something almost gleeful in his expression.
‘There is no need for this,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘I’ll leave it alone, I swear. Just let her be.’
‘Do you hear that, Mr. Jones?’ said Symes contemptuously. ‘Our Miss Mills has discovered sentiment. “Just let her be.”’
‘Oh, begging your pardon, sir,’ replied Jones, with a guffaw. ‘Well, if Miss Mills says so, that’s another matter, that is.’
‘No, Sarah,’ continued Stephen Symes, turning back to Mrs. Tanner, ‘I can find a good use for your little cousin. She’ll scrub up well enough, once the bruising goes down. There’s a pleasant little room put aside for her in the Row. I’d do the same for you, upon my honour, if you’d kept yourself in better trim; but I’m afraid you’ve had your day.’
‘I still have the letters from the Norwood business,’ said Sarah Tanner hurriedly. ‘If you kill me, I’ve made sure they’ll come out. Everything you wrote about DeSalle; everything he wrote to me. You’ll be ruined.’
Stephen Symes paused, as if considering the argument.
‘The letters? You still have them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Well, I rather fear, my dear Sarah, you ought to have taken better care of them.’
Sarah Tanner frowned. For, as Symes spoke, Bert Jones pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his coat pocket, tied with red ribbon.
‘You should really teach your little cousin to keep her mouth shut,’ continued Symes, cheerfully. ‘Although Mr. Jones is doing a decent job of that now, is he not? Mr. Jones – if you please?’
Stephen Symes motioned for the letters, turned them over in his hands, then placed them on the table, picking out one at random, and reading out loud.
‘“My dearest sweet love, Sarah …”’ recited Symes, then broke into a chuckle. ‘Oh, it is too amusing. But you are quite right, something must be done.’
And, without another word, Stephen Symes reached inside his jacket and pulled out a box of congreves, taking one of the matches out and striking it – then carefully applying it to the end of the letter he had held in his hand.
Sarah Tann
er watched in silence. Symes took the lit paper and simply dropped it upon her dressing-table. For a second she could not understand his motive, until the entire surface sprung into flames. Only then did she see the remains of her own oil-lamp, the glass smashed and its viscous contents now alight. In an instant the fire was already licking at the blue check curtains which covered the bedroom window. Symes, meanwhile, stepped nimbly back towards the door, his own light now in his hand.
She noticed that Norah Smallwood opened her mouth to scream; but nothing came out.
‘There is an object lesson here, Sarah, is there not?’ said Symes. ‘I am sorry to be the teacher, I truly am.’
Instinctively, Sarah Tanner tried to get to her feet. But she could not manage it before Symes flung his lantern forcefully into the room, pausing only to watch it shatter as it hit the side of the bed, the sheets splattered with burning oil.
Symes, followed by Bert Jones, stepped back on to the landing. And with a polite nod, as if bidding good afternoon to an acquaintance, he closed the bedroom door.
And turned the key in the lock.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The small room began to fill with acrid smoke. The flames trailed up the curtains, which themselves turned black and began to tumble in loose charred tatters on to the fire which had engulfed the table. The bed, meanwhile, took the appearance of a makeshift funeral pyre. Even as Sarah Tanner jumped back from the blaze, she could not quite conceive how she had escaped its embrace. For the material of her dress was quite untouched where it ought to have been scorched or set alight. Then she realised that the residue of the brick-fields, the damp clay soil, was still heavy in the fabric. And yet, as she inwardly gave thanks for her luck, her chest convulsed. The thick smoke seeped into her mouth and stung her eyes; the whole room turned shades of angry black and red.
Dropping down to the floor, she laid hold of the empty jug that sat upon her wash-stand. She had one idea in mind, albeit with no good notion of escape. Breathless and choking, she hurled the jug in the direction of the bedroom window, swinging her arm in a wide arc, throwing with all her might. At first, it seemed to disappear, as if gathered up by invisible demons of the smoke, and, for what seemed an age, she imagined it had fallen, quite useless, upon the floor. Then came an almighty crash, the breaking of glass, which somehow, even amidst the crackling flames, seemed as loud as an explosion.