A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  She slowly stood upright. Her eyes fixed on Bert Jones, and she let the pocket-knife drop from her fingers, and clatter to the ground. Jones, in turn, visibly relaxed, lowering the kitchen knife.

  ‘Now,’ said the footman, ‘I reckon we might have some fun, you and me, at least before we call it a day.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I never said you had a choice, gal.’

  If Sarah Tanner had any riposte, she did not make it. For Bert reached forward, to grab hold of her. She, in turn, twisted to one side, and swung her left arm in an arc towards Jones’s face. He laughed, at first, as she lashed out. There seemed no chance she might even scratch him as he made to grab her hand. But Bert Jones did not see the unstoppered bottle which she had kept concealed in the folds of her dress – not, at least, until its contents splashed his face, by which time it was far too late.

  The liquid set the big man’s skin burning, as hot as if it were actually aflame; his eyes suddenly turned raw and bloody, transfixed by a thousand burning needles.

  Bert Jones screamed, clutching his face, tottering backwards.

  Sarah Tanner saw her chance, and ran.

  ‘Damn you, you bitch,’ screamed Bert Jones, his voice hysterical with pain. ‘I’ll gut you alive.’

  In a trice, she had the keys off the hook. Bert Jones staggered towards her, blinded, swiping wildly with the knife. She ran for the door; the keys seemed to tumble through her fingers. There was a bolt; she pulled it back.

  There would only be one chance at the lock.

  There was an audible click as the key turned.

  ‘I’m damned if you will,’ said Sarah Tanner, slamming the door behind her, and turning the lock.

  ‘Lor, I thought you was done for, missus,’ exclaimed Ralph Grundy, as Mrs. Tanner climbed into the waiting hansom.

  ‘Near enough,’ she replied, breathless. ‘Lord! Have the man drive, won’t you?’

  Ralph Grundy pulled the check-string, and the cab set off in the direction of Bond Street.

  ‘What’s that on your dress?’

  Mrs. Tanner looked down. The purple silk was bleached almost white, splashed down the front.

  ‘Chloride of lime,’ she replied. ‘Look at it! Ruined. Arthur will kill me.’

  Ralph Grundy frowned, perplexed. He could not fathom why Sarah Tanner’s expression broke into a sly smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Some two days after Norah Smallwood’s liberation, Arthur DeSalle strolled through a region of the great metropolis with which he was unfamiliar. The sky was a rather leaden grey and the road – by the name of Guildford Street – seemed to grow worse as he progressed eastwards, the surface uneven and marred by pot-holes, collecting the morning’s rainfall in pools of murky water. As he walked, the houses changed too. In the west, upon the fringes of Bloomsbury, they were the abodes of middling to well-to-do families, where the windows sparkled and the steps were polished. Past the Foundling Hospital, as he drew nearer the Gray’s Inn Road, the buildings gave way to lodging-houses with dull somnolent casements and dreary sooted bricks, that looked as if no-one much cared for them, nor for their inhabitants. Finally he came to his destination, a narrow artery by the name of Calthorpe Street, which terminated in an unpaved patch of ground, surrounded on one side by builders’ yards, and upon the other by the high wall of the Middlesex House of Correction. It was outside the final property that he paused, checked the address he had written down, and then rang the second of three bells.

  A sash window slid open above; he stepped back and peered up.

  ‘The door’s not locked,’ said Sarah Tanner, looking down on to the street. ‘Come up.’

  ‘When I said I would help you, Sarah,’ said Arthur DeSalle, glancing round the little room, ‘I had something better in mind.’

  ‘Jermyn Street?’

  ‘No,’ replied DeSalle. ‘But the place is so terribly bare – so out-of-the-way.’

  ‘If you recall, Arthur, I did not have much to bring with me. Besides, it’s clean; there is room for us both; it will do for now.’

  ‘It is hardly a decent district,’ muttered DeSalle, gazing out of the window where the grim prison’s buildings dominated the view. ‘What on earth made you choose it? Surely the money was sufficient for something better?’

  ‘No-one will find us here, Arthur, not by chance, at least. In any case, we won’t impose upon your generosity for long, you have my word.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Good God, if Arabella were to find out, my life would not be worth living.’

  Sarah Tanner said nothing.

  ‘Well, how is the girl?’ asked Arthur DeSalle.

  ‘Norah? She’s well enough. I didn’t want to wake her.’

  Arthur DeSalle nodded. ‘I am glad she is safe, at least. I cannot believe that born Englishmen can be such savages. Sarah, I am sure if you were to explain matters to the police—’

  ‘No,’ said Sarah Tanner, firmly, ‘I cannot risk that. Her Majesty has too many friends. And I have taken too many chances already.’

  ‘Then, if you truly believe that, forgive me, Sarah, I wonder if you should let this wretched affair rest.’

  ‘I swear, Arthur, you sound like Ralph.’

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘Job’s comforter. Still, he brought me a letter this morning. Perhaps you might care to read it.’

  As she spoke she reached down to a rather scratched walnut card-table that sat beside her chair, and handed Arthur DeSalle a single sheet of paper.

  Hillmarton Park, 21st April

  Dear Mrs. Richards,

  It will surprise you, I am sure, to receive this letter. In truth, it astonishes me that I must, by constraint of circumstances, appeal to a woman about whose character, company and morals I harbour the gravest misgivings. Nonetheless, I place some hope in the belief that you have, hitherto, acted in the best interests of my Miss Fulbrook. Your true motives are your own affair. But if your desire is to thwart the schemes of Mr. Cedric Hawkes, then know this – we are of like mind!

  It was Mr. Hawkes who persuaded Mr. Ferntower that you were a fraud. I expect you surmised as much. But it was I who prevented the Scotland Yard detective from effecting your capture – I wonder, did you guess that? An hour before you arrived, I heard Mr. Ferntower arranging the business with Mr. Murdoch; I said nothing to Miss Fulbrook; I thought it best not to alarm her. Instead, I made sure that we collided upon the stairs and I made certain that you had a means of escape. Had you chosen the front door, you would have been apprehended.

  I wonder, did you contemplate why I should act in such a reckless fashion? Did you ask yourself why I should assist you?

  In short, because I believe Cedric Hawkes to be an out-and-out villain who must not be allowed to marry Miss Fulbrook. My certainty is not founded simply upon the conversation to which you made me party, though that gave me good cause for concern. Nor, indeed, the manner in which he attempted to lay a trap for you, an act quite unworthy of a gentleman. There were – there are – two further proofs. First, since the day you spoke to Mr. Hawkes, we have been watched. There is a young man, who passes along the road, in the dress of a common labourer, and I am certain he is Hawkes’s creature. He even follows me to the receiving-house; I am thankful the clerk can be trusted, or I could not write. Second – this is the most telling – the wedding has been brought forward. Mr. Hawkes and Miss Fulbrook are to be married in four days. There will be no banns; there will be no guests, save Mr. Ferntower, myself, and Mrs. Hawkes, his mother. A licence has been obtained; a church in the country has been reserved for the purpose – though its location has not been vouchsafed to the bride-to-be – and I am to be dismissed as soon as a honeymoon commences, albeit with a gratuity. The shameful pretext is some foreign business which will entail Hawkes’s prolonged absence, and ‘it is easier to have it done sooner rather than later’ – as if a wedding at short notice might be considered convenient, let alone proper!

  I wri
te to you again, therefore, because I do not know where else to turn. Mr. Hawkes is in such favour with my employer; there is nothing I can say against him. Moreover, the termination of my employment will give any complaint the appearance of mere spite. The police? I fear Mr. Murdoch has his suspicions of my action upon that fateful night; I cannot risk my own disgrace. Miss Fulbrook herself? She lies beside me in such a condition that I do not believe she can resist her guardian’s will. Of one thing, I am quite certain. Nothing good can come of this wretched ‘marriage’ which now resembles, to my mind, a species of abduction.

  What can be done? I do not know. But I have observed you, Mrs. Richards, and I have seen reserves of ingenuity and courage which are uncommon in our sex. I beg you, therefore, if there is anything to be done then, for pity’s sake, you must do it. I fear there is no-one else who can save Miss Fulbrook from ruin.

  Yours respectfully,

  Lydia Payne

  P.S. The address for your reply is Murray’s Furniture Warehouse, Upper Holloway; I trust the clerk. Do not write to the house.

  ‘She has a dramatic turn of phrase,’ said Arthur DeSalle. ‘It seems Symes is determined to marry the wretched girl.’

  ‘Unless someone prevents it,’ replied Sarah Tanner.

  ‘Perhaps if her guardian can be made to see sense about Symes,’ remarked DeSalle.

  Sarah Tanner smiled. ‘I knew you’d help, Arthur. I knew it.’

  Arthur DeSalle frowned. ‘One moment, I never said that. I only came here to see how your friend Norah was faring.’

  ‘You know Symes. If you told Ferntower the truth about him, he would listen to you.’

  ‘Why on earth should he?’

  ‘Because he’s a linen-draper – a successful one, but a tradesman all the same – and you come from one of the most respected families in London. You could tell him the moon was made of cheese, he’d still be grateful to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘That does not mean I can tell the fellow who should marry his ward.’

  ‘If you told him what you know about Symes, it might.’

  ‘If I do that, Sarah, I risk my own reputation. Have you forgotten that we met at a baccarat table?’

  ‘I thought you were done with gaming?’ said Sarah Tanner.

  ‘I am, I assure you. But this is a man who disowned his own son! Can I trust him to respect my confidence?’

  ‘You saw what Symes did to Norah. Do you think his wife would fare much better?’

  ‘Surely there is another way?’

  Sarah Tanner paused. ‘Symes only wants her money; there is nothing more to it. I suppose if she were to marry another man …’

  ‘I do not propose to forego my wedding to Arabella, Sarah, even for a good cause.’

  ‘I meant John Ferntower. I think she might be sweet on him. In fact, I am almost sure of it.’

  ‘I thought you told me he was a destitute wastrel; that he drinks and has a mania for gaming.’

  ‘Well, the lesser of two evils, perhaps? I pity her, in either case.’

  Arthur DeSalle shook his head, as if conceding defeat.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Good Lord! I will try.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  That evening, for the second time in as many days, a carriage containing Arthur DeSalle and Sarah Tanner drove through the streets of the metropolis. There were, however, some differences in the nature of the expedition: namely that it was barely dusk as the coach set off from the Gray’s Inn Road; that the coachman was none other than Ralph Grundy; and that the direction was not towards the heart of Mayfair, but outwards into the suburbs, through the back-streets of Islington, at last coming towards the prosperous avenues of Upper Holloway.

  Arthur DeSalle looked rather uneasy, as Ralph Grundy made the final turn on to Hillmarton Park.

  ‘You are sure this Grundy fellow has a steady hand?’ he asked, anxiously. ‘I swear, he nearly sent us over on that last corner. I should never have let you persuade me; I could easily have jobbed a man with the carriage.’

  Sarah Tanner smiled. ‘Ralph’s safe enough.’

  ‘Is my neck safe enough, Sarah? That is the question. Good Lord! I still do not know what I can say to the man about Symes.’

  ‘That he’s a fraud, a procurer of women, the most repulsive foulest ruffian you have ever encountered—’

  ‘I am sure he speaks well of you, too. You are not planning to come in with me, I hope? I doubt I can persuade Mr. Ferntower of your virtue as well.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can work miracles.’

  Arthur DeSalle smiled, relaxing a little. ‘There are times I miss your company, Sarah.’

  Mrs. Tanner ignored the comment, peering through the side of the window blind.

  ‘I won’t come in,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait outside, in case there is any—’

  Sarah Tanner suddenly fell silent, as she looked out on to the darkened street. The carriage was now no more than a couple of hundred yards distant from Mr. Ferntower’s residence, and, from the carriage window, she could just make out two figures standing upon the front step, shaking hands. One was Mr. Ferntower himself, his face illuminated by the gas-light. The second stood in silhouette, as he bid the owner of the house farewell. He was a substantial individual, whose broad body and roughly hewn features were unmistakeable, even in shadow. In fact, even if his uniform had not given him away, she would have known him in an instant: it was the policeman – the very man who killed George Phelps.

  ‘In case there is any what?’ said Arthur DeSalle.

  ‘Hush!’ replied Sarah Tanner, banging on the roof of the carriage with her fist. ‘Ralph, for pity’s sake, don’t stop – drive past!’

  ‘Missus?’ came the reply, muffled.

  ‘Drive past! Can’t you see who’s there? Use your eyes!’

  ‘Perhaps his eye-sight is not what it was,’ suggested DeSalle. ‘But whatever is it?’

  ‘The Devil himself,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, as the carriage sped past 42, Hillmarton Park. She waited until the house was no longer visible, then pulled the check-string and called out for Ralph Grundy to stop. Once the carriage drew to a halt, she opened the door. Ralph Grundy, meanwhile, clambered down from his perch.

  ‘You may as well stay in there, missus,’ said the old man. ‘Let me tie ’em up.’

  It was only a matter of seconds before the carriage door opened wide and Ralph Grundy himself, wrapped in a heavy coachman’s coat, climbed inside.

  ‘Room for one more, Your Lordship?’ said Ralph, squeezing beside Arthur DeSalle, to the latter’s astonishment. Sarah Tanner could not help but smile to herself, watching her companion’s discomfort.

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘Aye, I saw him.’

  ‘And did he see you?’

  ‘Reckon not, missus,’ replied the old man. ‘At least, I don’t reckon he saw my face, which amounts to the same thing. Probably wouldn’t know me if he did, seeing as how it was you who squared up to him that night.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, who on earth was it that you saw?’ exclaimed Arthur DeSalle.

  ‘The Peeler,’ said Ralph Grundy.

  ‘The man who killed your friend Phelps?’

  ‘But that ain’t all,’ continued Ralph, ‘not by a long chalk. He was coming down the steps of that there house, and your Mr. Ferntower was there, shaking his hand, waving him goodbye, friendly as you like. What does it mean, missus?’

  ‘It means we’ve had a wasted journey,’ replied Sarah Tanner gloomily. ‘There’s no point pleading with Mr. Ferntower; none whatsoever.’

  ‘You think Ferntower is in league with this fellow?’ said Arthur DeSalle. ‘What then? That he had his own sister killed?’

  ‘Well, I reckon that blue-bottle weren’t collecting for no benevolent fund, eh?’ muttered Ralph Grundy, with a rather cynical glance at the man beside him.

  ‘Ralph, hush,’ said Sarah Tanner, frowning. ‘Let me think.’

  Ralph Grundy
reluctantly fell silent, whilst Arthur DeSalle glared back at him.

  ‘It must mean one of two things,’ said Mrs. Tanner. ‘The first is bad enough – that Michael Ferntower is in league with Symes; that they arranged together to have his sister killed, to remove any obstacle to the marriage, and the policeman is their agent.’

  ‘What is the second possibility, then?’ asked DeSalle.

  ‘Worse,’ said Sarah Tanner, a hint of despair in her voice.

  ‘How can it be?’

  ‘Because it means all I’ve done in this affair is to make things worse for myself; to lose the shop, to make Norah suffer, all for nothing.’

  ‘You ain’t making sense, missus,’ interjected Ralph Grundy.

  ‘What if,’ she continued, ‘Symes told me the truth. What if he knows nothing about the policeman or Emma Ferntower’s death? What if her own brother had her killed, to ensure the marriage, and that is what Georgie saw – and why he died?’

  ‘Do you truly think Symes could be innocent?’ asked DeSalle. ‘You were only just telling me—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘It is too soon for conjecture. Ralph, he wasn’t coming this way, I take it?’

  ‘No, missus. I reckon he was going back to the Holloway Road.’

  ‘Then turn round. If he keeps walking, we’ll catch up with him. When you see him, go past a good distance, and turn off a short way on the nearest road, so I can get out unnoticed.’

  ‘Sarah,’ said DeSalle, anxiously, ‘what are you proposing?’

  ‘I shall follow him; that is what any respectable detective would do, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said DeSalle. ‘We can expose him; challenge the brute!’

  ‘With what, precisely? In any case, that is precisely what I want to avoid. No, I want to see what he’s up to. And there are some places I can go, in this plain get-up, Arthur, that you can’t.’

  Arthur DeSalle shrugged, involuntarily fingering the fine material of his suit. ‘I could still—’

  ‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘You’ve done enough, Arthur. I don’t want to drag you in deeper, I really don’t, I swear.’