A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  As the glass broke, she could hear shouts from the street outside. The noise itself calmed her; the fire had not gone unnoticed. Yet, even as some of the smoke escaped, the fresh air seemed to fan the flames, making them roar higher, spreading up to the ceiling, generating a furnace-like heat that all but overpowered her.

  She looked around the burning room. There was a gap between bed and window not yet aflame, a path across to the hearth. She darted through, her head low, hand over her mouth, and grabbed the iron poker that leant against the grate. With the metal hot to the touch, she ran back to the bedroom door and jabbed it violently at the lock.

  The ceiling groaned, the flames spreading along the joists.

  Sarah Tanner’s efforts became manic as she tasted her lungs filling with the poison, burning inside her. Her legs seemed to buckle beneath her, as she made one last desperate lunge at the lock.

  Then the wood gave way. The door sprung open. But, as the smoke billowed out on to the landing, a burly figure stood there, blocking her way.

  She swung wildly with the poker, and fell headlong to the floor.

  Falling, falling, falling.

  Sarah Tanner landed upon a feather bed, stretched upon a quilt of coloured goose down in a cotton cover.

  The man stood by the window, looking down upon Jermyn Street, his back turned.

  She knew it was Jermyn Street; she was quite sure of it. The room was decorated after the fashion; the wall-paper repeating an endless pattern of twisting briars and leaves. The fire roared in the grate, even though sunlight shone into the room.

  The man told her that she was ready for the magistrate.

  She raised herself up to object; but she could barely raise her head.

  He slapped her face; her cheek stinging.

  Again. He hit her again. Harder, this time.

  And all the time the room around her grew hotter.

  ‘Water, for pity’s sake get her some water.’

  ‘I thought she was dead.’

  ‘She’s the luck of the Devil, that one.’

  ‘Born to be hung, if you ask me.’

  Regent Street. They took her to Regent Street; a hansom cab. Up the steps to a private room; a salon; a game of cards.

  George Phelps put more money in the pot.

  ‘Ain’t you playing, Sairey?’

  ‘What’s the game?’

  ‘“Wilful murder”. I’ll teach you.’

  Wait. No, that made no sense at all.

  George Phelps was dead.

  ‘Water, get her some water.’

  Sarah Tanner woke up, coughing, her throat parched. It was daylight, but the curtains were half drawn, the room in shadow. She squinted in the semi-darkness.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Go easy, missus. Have a sip.’

  She was in bed, her back propped up on pillows. She turned her head. It was Ralph Grundy who spoke. The old man sat beside the bed; he held out a chipped china mug towards her. Gingerly, she raised her hands and cradled the china, raising it to her lips.

  ‘Where am I?’ she repeated.

  ‘Margie Bladstow’s, missus,’ replied Ralph. ‘Took the liberty of getting you a room, seeing as you needed it. The doctor, he saw you this morning; said you’d want a good rest, though any fool could see that.’

  Sarah Tanner let her arms drop to her lap, rolling her head back, wearily closing her eyes.

  ‘It was Symes. The fire – he meant to kill me.’

  Ralph Grundy fell silent for a moment. ‘I reckoned as much.’

  ‘Not a word to the police. Promise me.’

  ‘The police? Everyone’s saying it was an accident with that old lamp; I’ve only seen the local fellow sniffing around, and he weren’t too interested. What about your Norah, though? She weren’t in there. They didn’t find nothing.’

  ‘Symes took her. He still thinks she’s my cousin.’

  ‘How do you mean, he took her?’

  ‘He mentioned a house-of-accommodation, one of Her Majesty’s little dens; most likely he’ll put her to work. It will probably amuse him.’

  The old man fell silent for a second time. It was a minute or more before he summoned the will to speak, changing the subject entirely.

  ‘The shop needs a lick of paint; new sign, maybe.’

  ‘I expect so. Is it all gone?’

  ‘They had four parish engines here, you know. All of ’em fighting over the street-plug. Never seen so much water go through an hose.’

  ‘Is it all gone, Ralph?’

  ‘There’s enough to build it up again. Could be done, if you had the heart for it.’

  Sarah Tanner coughed, propping herself upright. ‘Since when did you become the optimist?’

  ‘Thought I’d cheer you up,’ said the old man, sounding utterly grim – so despairing, in fact, that Sarah Tanner almost raised a smile.

  ‘Joe Drummond and his boy will want to see you,’ continued Ralph Grundy. ‘It was Harry who went for the brigade.’

  ‘Harry Drummond? I knew he was good for something,’ remarked Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘And it was Joe who went inside, after you, afore they got here.’

  ‘I think I nearly hit him with a poker.’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ said Ralph Grundy. ‘Maybe saved your life.’

  ‘Tell him “thank you”, I can’t … I don’t want to see anyone.’

  ‘If you like.’

  Sarah Tanner made to reply but, instead, began to cough; it took a minute or more for the fit to subside.

  ‘I’ll close them curtains again,’ said Ralph Grundy. ‘You get some rest.’

  ‘You don’t have to nurse-maid me, Ralph. What time is it?’

  ‘Two o’clock in the afternoon. I don’t have to do anything, missus; and you don’t need to do nothing but be grateful, if you can manage it. Now you go back to sleep, eh?’

  She nodded, and watched as Ralph Grundy got up and closed the curtains. As he reached the door, however, Sarah Tanner spoke out.

  ‘They’ll beat her, Ralph. Norah – they’ll beat her and they’ll starve her until she’ll do anything they want. I’m damned if I’ll let it happen. I won’t let Symes get away with it – not this, not Georgie – none of it.’

  ‘Have you seen the state you’re in, missus?’

  ‘I’ve been worse. Will you help me?’

  Ralph Grundy looked down at the floor, as if contemplating his boots. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘I reckon you knows the answer to that question, missus. I ain’t denying that I’m not over-fond of that girl, but you knows the answer.’

  Sarah Tanner, content with Ralph Grundy’s reply, nodded and shut her eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The day after the fire upon Leather Lane, a police constable walked at a leisurely pace up the wide flight of stone steps that led from the Mall and St. James’s Park, up to Waterloo Place. Even though it had begun to rain, he felt it rather at odds with the dignity of his office to hurry. Moreover, the waterproof cape tied around his neck provided a degree of protection against the elements. Indeed, as he approached the top of the steps, directly beneath the tall granite column dedicated to the memory of the Duke of York, he actually came to a halt. The keeper of the Duke’s monument, whose task it was to take the occasional sixpence for the privilege of ascending the spiral steps within, nodded in the policeman’s direction, as was his custom. He even glanced heavenwards, as if to signify the futility of expecting much of the English climate. But the constable did not respond, his attention distracted by a figure standing by the railed gardens some fifty yards distant.

  It was a woman, in her late twenties, in a rather dirty-looking dress of faded brown cotton, with long unruly brown hair loosely tied by a single ribbon, half concealed by a battered poke bonnet. Upon seeing the policeman, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. However, if the policeman had half a mind to follow, he did not yield to the dictates of his conscience. For he had finished hi
s duty in the park, and, he reasoned to himself, he could not pursue every unfortunate in the capital.

  Besides, it was raining.

  It was only as he reached the top of Waterloo Place that his memory stirred; he had seen the woman before, waiting for a gentleman in the park, dressed quite decently.

  As he walked on, he idly wondered precisely what misfortune had befallen her, to leave her in such a sorry state.

  Sarah Tanner waited until the policeman had passed and returned to the corner of the gardens. It was a half-hour more before she moved from the spot. For it was then that she saw the figure of Arthur DeSalle, wrapped beneath a woollen great-coat, clutching a black umbrella, walk briskly past, entirely unaware of her presence.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ she exclaimed, deliberately loud, as she stepped out on to the pavement, trailing behind him.

  Arthur DeSalle stopped in his tracks. As he turned and faced his interlocutor, the look of astonishment upon his face was unmistakeable.

  ‘Are you surprised?’ she continued. ‘Did you think you were rid of me?’

  Arthur DeSalle regained – if not his composure – then at least his voice.

  ‘Rid of you? What are you doing here? Good Lord, Sarah, I thought we had made an agreement?’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ said DeSalle, ‘if you must accost me in the street, must you speak in riddles? And the state of you …’

  ‘This?’ replied Sarah Tanner, glancing down at the careworn material of her dress. ‘Unfortunately, I can do no better at present.’

  ‘Sarah, I swear, I cannot talk to you like this. If anyone from the club were to see us together—’

  ‘Then I would tell them I was your mistress you had abandoned; and I would enjoy the look upon your face. That might be some compensation, at least. In fact, I might invent a child; would that be better still? I think it might.’

  ‘Good Lord, woman, I do believe you are raving mad. Whatever do you imagine I have done to you?’

  ‘You wrote to Ferntower, Arthur. You told him you had never heard of me.’

  Arthur DeSalle fell silent, as if struck by a sudden revelation. When at last he spoke, his voice was calm and composed.

  ‘I had no choice, I’m afraid. It was a matter of necessity.’

  ‘I find that very hard to believe.’

  ‘Sarah, do you really imagine that I wished – what? – to spite you? Listen, I beg you, I cannot talk here; anyone might see us. In any case, the rain is only getting worse; you will catch your death. I will take a cab at the rank and have him wait on Panton Street; meet me there. Will you trust me that far?’

  Sarah Tanner scowled. ‘I am not sure I trust anyone.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it. Here, take my umbrella. I will go and get the cab.’

  And before she could reply, Arthur DeSalle thrust the umbrella into her hands, and walked briskly back along Waterloo Place.

  There was no doubting the rather knowing expression adopted by the cab-driver, as Sarah Tanner climbed inside the waiting hackney. Nonetheless, as she sat down inside, facing Arthur DeSalle, the vehicle pulled off into the Haymarket traffic.

  ‘I’m sorry to make you walk any further through the rain,’ said DeSalle.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I told him to go down Piccadilly and back, until I give the word.’

  ‘Very obliging of him.’

  ‘I gave him five shillings. Now will you hear me out?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Very well. Four days ago I received a letter from a gentleman by the name of Ferntower inquiring after a “Mrs. Richards”, a supposed acquaintance of mine—’

  ‘You promised you would not give me away,’ interrupted Sarah Tanner.

  ‘Wait, I am not done. The letter came to my secretary. He did not know the name – and the terms Mr. Ferntower used were calculated to excite the greatest suspicion – and so he came and asked me directly if I knew the lady in question.’

  ‘You could have told him you did; or that you would reply.’

  ‘No, I could not. Arabella was there. She knows all my family’s acquaintances. In fact, she is so intimate with my mother she knows them all better than I do. I could not lie; Arabella would have found me out in an instant.’

  ‘I see. And so you sacrificed me instead.’

  ‘I am engaged to be married,’ said DeSalle, exasperated. ‘Good Lord! I would have written to warn you, if you had deigned to give me an address!’

  Sarah Tanner sighed, taking in the information. Her anger seemed visibly to subside. Leaning forward, elbows propped upon her knees, she rubbed her temples.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you would,’ she said at last, a rather weary note in her voice.

  ‘Sarah, will you tell me what’s going on? I have never seen you like this, so …’

  ‘Wretched?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Let me tell you then,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘What money I had is gone; the coffee-house, the one I told you about, is gone. I have seen one friend murdered, and have other “friends” who would gladly see me dead. And a girl whom I promised I would protect has been kidnapped by a brute who will take great pleasure in destroying her, in body and spirit. Is that enough?’

  ‘More than enough, I should suppose,’ said Arthur DeSalle, rather taken aback. ‘But you have not told me anything. What has happened? How did all this begin?’

  Sarah Tanner looked back at him.

  ‘If I told you, would you help me?’

  ‘I might, if you can be honest with me. I am sure I can spare something.’

  ‘I do not need money,’ she replied. ‘I mean, I do, of course I do, but that is not the thing. I need your help. The girl I spoke about – her name is Norah – I must save her. If it was not for me … well, they mean to ruin her. Arthur – will you help me? There’s no-one else.’

  Arthur DeSalle hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Tell me one thing first,’ he said. ‘The letters?’

  Sarah Tanner blinked, then looked her erstwhile lover in the eye.

  ‘Yes, I burned them.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was midnight, that very evening, when a rather smart carriage came to a halt upon the cobbles of Avery Row. The Row itself was a narrow affair, comprised of rather hum-drum private residences, no more than three storeys high, some with a front of exposed brick, others faced in white-washed stucco. The houses might have been rather desirable, if located elsewhere in the metropolis; but, although situated in Mayfair, a short distance from Bond Street, the cramped confines of Avery Row lent its modest buildings an unwholesome air of confinement. Indeed, the carriage almost filled the width of the street, leaving barely enough room for Arthur DeSalle and Sarah Tanner to open the door and step down on to the pavement. The former, dressed in a black evening suit beneath a woollen great-coat, held out his arm to help his companion.

  ‘Are you quite certain about this?’ asked DeSalle, somewhat nervously.

  ‘Quite,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, who had undergone something of a transformation in the course of the day. For her tattered dress had been replaced by a gown of purple moiré silk; her hair washed and tied back into a tight knot; and her bonnet replaced by a broad-brimmed hat, ornamented by a single feather, with a heavy Maltese veil hanging from its rim.

  ‘They will suspect the veil,’ muttered DeSalle.

  ‘They will think some gent has blacked an eye, that’s all. Now, tell your man to drive on, and come back around … he can wait by the mews, the one we just passed.’

  Arthur DeSalle did as his companion suggested, and the carriage set off down the narrow street.

  ‘Is he your usual man?’ asked Sarah Tanner, as the vehicle disappeared from view.

  ‘God forbid!’ exclaimed DeSalle. ‘I got him jobbed with the coach.’

  ‘I’d have preferred someone we might rely upon.’

  ‘And I would prefer that I do not become the
talk of Belgravia; so you will have to forgive me for not inviting my entire household to watch this adventure.’

  Sarah Tanner did not respond to Arthur DeSalle’s complaint. Rather, she turned and looked at the unexceptional property which was their destination.

  ‘This is the place, I am sure of it.’

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No, not here,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘But I know its reputation. Go on, ring the bell.’

  Arthur DeSalle hesitated but a moment, then leant forward and rang the bell. There were no protective railings nor any basement area to cross, the green front door merely set back a few inches, two steps up from the street.

  There was the sound of a bolt being released. The door opened.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said a manservant who stood to one side. ‘Do come in.’

  The hall was little different from any private house: a gilt mirror upon the wall; a rug laid over polished boards; a mahogany coat-stand. The only difference was in the house-of-accommodation’s distinctive welcome to strangers. No card was required, nor any name expected. Unfamiliar faces were simply ushered quietly into the front parlour, where the grande dame of the house – a substantial woman in her forties, dressed quite plainly, but with a good deal of rouge about her cheeks – sat by the hearth and rose to greet her visitors.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the woman, with an appraising glance at Sarah Tanner. Her voice, though well-mannered, had a distinct cockney tinge.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Arthur DeSalle, sounding rather formal.

  ‘Please, do have a seat.’