A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  ‘But he has seen your face afore, missus, or are you forgetting?’ said Ralph Grundy.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten a thing, Ralph,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘Not a damn thing. Now do as I say.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It did not take long for Ralph Grundy to spy his quarry, and drive past, according to his mistress’s instructions.

  Sarah Tanner, for her part, let Ralph Grundy drive off with a reluctant Arthur DeSalle, then cautiously began her pursuit along the Holloway Road, walking along the broad gas-lit pavement, some couple of hundred yards distant from the policeman, upon the opposite side of the thoroughfare.

  Even though night had fallen, the road itself – one of the principal routes leading out of the metropolis – was still busy with the hubbub of evening traffic. From omnibuses laden with tired clerks, to the occasional solitary broker, riding his own steed homewards, much of the traffic was of the City variety, leavened only by the occasional cart or wagon. The pavements, too, were still largely the province of City men, men confined by day in gloomy offices, walking with the determination engendered by the promise of an evening meal and warm hearth. The policeman, however, was not difficult to make out in the crowd; his uniform gave him away at every turn, as he kept walking, against the tide of workers.

  Sarah Tanner wondered where he might be bound. But all her thoughts kept returning to the night George Phelps was killed. In her mind she involuntarily pictured George Phelps’s face.

  What was it about his face? Not merely the pain she had seen in his eyes; it was the dreadful fear; fear of what was to come.

  She peered at the policeman, pushing past a pair of women upon the opposite pavement, and contemplated – not for the first time – whether she could truly bring herself to kill a man.

  It was almost an hour later that the policeman chose to halt his progress, just past the Angel toll-gate, where every carriage and waggon in London seemed to wait upon the toll-house’s elderly gate-keeper. It was not the toll, however, which caused the policeman to slow down – the pavement being mercifully free of any form of taxation – but what lay beyond. For the Angel public-house formed the terminus for more than half a dozen omnibuses, stationed upon the road, outside the old coach-stables. And it was beside one such vehicle, a green ‘Favourite’ bound towards the City Road, that the policeman paused. He spoke briefly to the conductor, then climbed aboard, just as the driver started the bus moving.

  Sarah Tanner hurriedly looked about the busy junction; she could not catch up, nor, in fact, could she risk climbing inside the bus, even if she were able – there was little doubt in her mind that the policeman would remember her. She began to regret dismissing Arthur DeSalle and Ralph Grundy. There was only one option left open to her: a hansom waiting at the nearby cab-stand, and a rather shabby-looking waterman half-heartedly scrubbing the coat of the bay mare to which it was attached. Sarah Tanner dashed across the road.

  ‘Where’s the driver?’ she said, with considerable urgency.

  ‘He’ll be along soon, missus,’ said the waterman, glancing back at the public-house. ‘Just having a little refreshment, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Bring him out now, and tell him he can have a shilling on top of his fare, if he comes directly. And sixpence for you.’

  The waterman raised his eyebrows, but ran off at a trot. Sarah Tanner, meanwhile, hastily counted the coins in her pocket and silently thanked the heavens for Arthur DeSalle’s financial generosity.

  The cabman arrived with remarkable rapidity.

  ‘Where to then, missus?’ he asked, as Mrs. Tanner climbed inside and closed the hansom’s folding doors.

  ‘There’s a green Favourite going down the City Road. I need to catch up with it; then you can just follow on until I tell you.’

  The cabman grinned. ‘What’s your game, then?’

  Sarah Tanner pushed two shillings into the cabman’s hand.

  ‘I don’t have time for your chaff. Will you drive or won’t you?’

  The cabman quietly pocketed the coins and drove off.

  The omnibus followed its pre-appointed route through the metropolis: along the City Road, then Old Street, London Wall, the Bank of England, and finally towards the Tower. The cabman, in fairness, showed considerable skill at keeping his distance without ostentatious stops or starts. But Sarah Tanner, for her part, grew increasingly nervous that the policeman had already disembarked, in the brief interval before the cab had caught up with the bus. It was only when the omnibus reached the Tower, and the last passengers climbed out, that she was relieved to see the blue uniform amongst them.

  ‘Lor, is it the copper?’ asked the cabman, with the familiarity common to certain members of his class.

  ‘My old man,’ she replied. ‘He said he was on fixed point, but I knew he’d done the hours. He’s keeping company with a bloody kitchen-maid; thinks I don’t know it.’

  ‘Awful shame,’ said the cabman. ‘If I had one like you at home, I wouldn’t go looking, I tell you.’

  Sarah Tanner merely smiled politely at the compliment, as she pulled open the hansom’s doors and stepped into the street. The policeman had already set off into the narrow lanes that lay towards Fenchurch Street.

  ‘If you ever fancy a reliable sort of chap …’ said the cabman. But his fare was already out of ear-shot. For she had some idea of the alleys and yards that lay in the vicinity of the Tower and the Blackwall Railway, and feared her pursuit could come to nothing.

  The streets themselves were of the commercial type particular to the City of London – bustling during the day, but utterly lifeless by night. At first, the only figures Sarah Tanner could make out were a man with a cart in the distance, and a couple of drunken sailors from the nearby docks – identifiable as sea-faring men by the distinctive broad-brimmed hats and flared canvas trousers of their trade; visibly drunk by the irregularity of their gait, and reliance upon each other’s shoulders. She hurried on to the next junction in the road, and cautiously turned the corner. After a few anxious seconds, she saw the policeman’s distinctive figure. He had only gone so far as a small public-house, no more than a hundred yards distant, by the name of the Lord Nelson. At that very moment, he stepped inside.

  The place was too small to follow him; she would be seen in an instant.

  There was, however, an alley almost opposite, into which the public’s gas-lamp, projecting above the door, cast no light.

  She resolved to wait.

  After an hour or so, Sarah Tanner’s will-power began to flag. For the alley smelt of beer and more unsavoury fluids; the ground was muddy under her feet; and the night air had begun to turn cold. Moreover, the Lord Nelson was an old house, its windows made up of bullion glass panels, impenetrable to the eye. In truth, she had almost resolved to abandon her vigil, when the door to the public opened and the policeman came out, accompanied by a woman. Sarah Tanner wondered whether her company had been paid for. She was a good-looking creature in her early forties, with full features and curled brown hair, tied back by ribbons. But there was something about her manner, the way in which she held the policeman’s arm, that seemed too easy and relaxed. She knew the man well, whatever her trade; Mrs. Tanner was sure of it.

  Letting the pair walk on a good way, she stepped out from the alley, minded to follow the policeman once more, hopeful that she might, at least, find his name or lodgings. But two men stepped out of the public at the same moment, the two sailors she had seen before, quite unaware that they blocked the rest of the road from her view.

  ‘Halloa, my lovely,’ said the first man, slurring every syllable.

  ‘Ain’t she a peach?’ said the second, slapping his friend upon the back. The smell of liquor wafted through the air.

  ‘What’ll you do for a half-crown, gal?’ continued the first. ‘There’s me and my pal here, eh?’

  Sarah Tanner stepped back, pulling out the knife she kept in her pocket.

  ‘Get out of my way, you fools, or, so help me, I’
ll gut the pair of you where you stand.’

  The first man stood open-mouthed. The second merely laughed. Nonetheless, they both staggered to one side, awake enough to be wary of the blade, as she pushed past.

  It was too late. There was no sign of the policeman or the woman.

  Sarah Tanner swore.

  And if she had looked behind her, she would have seen two members of the merchant marine blush.

  It was midnight when John Ferntower rose from his bed to answer a knock at his door. He was astonished to find Sarah Tanner standing upon the landing outside his rooms.

  ‘Do you know what hour it is?’ he said.

  ‘Will you invite me in?’ asked Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘If I must.’

  ‘Yes, you must.’

  John Ferntower gave way, and ushered his unexpected guest inside.

  ‘I presume you have some news? I have heard nothing from Elizabeth.’

  ‘Most likely because she is scared out of her wits. Symes is having the house watched; and your father is determined to have her married to him within the week.’

  ‘Within the week?’ echoed Ferntower. ‘God forbid. My father’s an utter fool.’

  ‘No, he’s far worse than that,’ said Sarah Tanner, with a sigh. ‘But let us put that to one side for the moment.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? Forgive me, but why have you come at this ridiculous hour?’

  ‘Do you love her?’ asked Mrs. Tanner, ignoring the question. ‘Your cousin – will you tell me at least that you love her?’

  ‘Yes, you know it. I have told you before.’

  ‘And she may love you?’ continued Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘In her last letter, she said as much … if circumstances were different …’

  ‘Then, God forgive me, that will have to do. Get a pen and ink, Mr. Ferntower. We do not have much time.’

  ‘To do what, may I ask?’

  ‘To plan your cousin’s elopement.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It was two o’clock in the morning when Sarah Tanner finally returned to the house in Calthorpe Street. She crept quietly up the hall steps to the first-floor landing, and turned her key in the lock with great care, anxious not to rouse any of her fellow tenants. But, upon entering the front parlour, she found Norah Smallwood was still awake, seated in front of the fire. As she opened the door, Norah jumped in surprise and reached out to grasp a solitary object that lay upon the nearby table. It was a kitchen knife, the metal dull and discoloured, but the blade sharp.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Mrs. Tanner, as Norah turned hurriedly towards the door. ‘You’re safe enough. Put that away, won’t you? I’ll bolt the door.’

  Norah Smallwood sighed in relief and replaced the knife on the table.

  ‘You startled me, missus.’

  ‘Only Arthur and Ralph know we’re here, Norah, I promise you. Didn’t Ralph tell you I’d be late back?’

  ‘He was here until an hour ago, waiting for you,’ replied Norah. ‘Worried sick and all. Said he’d be back first thing in the morning. Never mind old bag-o’-bones – ain’t you going to tell us what happened with the Peeler?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Mrs. Tanner in a rather dejected tone, sitting down opposite her. ‘I followed him down to the river. He met a woman in a public near the Tower; a friend; someone he knew. Then I lost him.’

  ‘But he’s a pal of your Mr. Ferntower?’

  ‘It would seem like it.’

  Norah Smallwood fell silent. Sarah Tanner, meanwhile, seemed to grow thoughtful, before speaking once more.

  ‘Norah – there’s something I must ask you, if you’re strong enough.’

  Norah frowned, but nodded.

  ‘That night at the Row,’ continued Mrs. Tanner, ‘you said something. You said that when they were … when they were hurting you, you told them everything, about Georgie—’

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ interjected Norah, her eyes immediately growing tearful. ‘I swear I couldn’t, missus!’

  ‘Lord Almighty!’ exclaimed Sarah Tanner, reaching forward and grasping Norah Smallwood’s trembling hand in her own. ‘If you think for a moment – for a second – I’d blame you for that! But there’s something I need to know, all the same. Did you tell them that you weren’t my cousin – that you met Georgie at the hotel?’

  ‘I s’pose I must have,’ said Norah. ‘I reckon I did. I don’t remember everything …’

  ‘Hush,’ said Mrs. Tanner, quietly, releasing Norah’s hand from her own. ‘I don’t want you to remember. That’s all I need to know. In any case, I’m here now. Why don’t you go and get some sleep?’

  Norah Smallwood rubbed her eyes. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I have to think things through,’ said Sarah Tanner with a wry smile. ‘A wedding takes some planning.’

  ‘A wedding?’

  ‘Miss Fulbrook and Mr. Ferntower. Although it won’t be a society affair, rest assured.’

  An hour or so after her conversation with Norah Smallwood, sleep crept over Sarah Tanner’s weary body. Still seated before the fire, she closed her eyes.

  Her mind wandered.

  She dreamt of Jermyn Street.

  She knew it was a dream; for she did not belong there, not any more. But Arthur DeSalle lay beside her, nonetheless, stretched out upon the bed they had shared; he lay there sound asleep. She watched him for what seemed like an eternity and an awful sense of longing began to creep over her; it was a dream – she knew it – but she would have it otherwise; she would make it real. She touched the loose fabric of his night-shirt, stroking his back. But he did not stir. Outside, the sounds of the street; the peel of distant bells.

  What time was it?

  She got up from the downy bed, and walked to the window. The faintest hint of the morning’s early light shone through the gap between the trailing velvet curtains. Arthur DeSalle’s old jacket lay casually draped over the chair, abandoned in haste the previous night; her dress lay beside it, a tear in the back where a hook had caught the fabric.

  She took up the jacket and the paper fell loose from the pocket; a letter in a woman’s hand.

  She froze.

  That moment was the end of her happiness.

  Sarah Tanner awoke.

  What time was it?

  The room in Calthorpe Street had grown cold and dark, the fire extinguished.

  The dream was still fresh in her mind’s eye, the details of the room in Jermyn Street; those first days and nights she had spent with Arthur DeSalle. She knew that they had had moments of pleasure; joyful hours spent in each other’s company; but there was something else, which tinged every memory with bitterness.

  What was it?

  Ah, yes.

  She still recalled the words in the letter perfectly:

  My Dear Mr. DeSalle,

  Forgive the delay in my reply; I had to consult my heart, and the matters of the heart cannot be hurried. Last night, I was so pleased at being the object of your preference, I could hardly contain my emotions. Now, after calm and rational consideration, I can say truly that I feel much flattered by our proposal, and if my father makes no objection to our union – which he surely cannot – I shall esteem myself happy to have secured the affections of such a good and gentle man.

  If you come tomorrow, make it at seven, and you may talk to Papa.

  Your own,

  Arabella

  Sarah Tanner closed her eyes once more. But she did not sleep; and merely sat in the cold room, waiting for day-break.

  At first light, she rekindled the fire; then she sat down at the table, took up paper, pen and ink, and began to compose a letter. When it was done, she addressed the envelope – to a certain Miss Lydia Payne, care of Murray’s Furniture Warehouse, Upper Holloway.

  Then she commenced writing another note entirely.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The following day, as the noon-tide traffic queued on either side of the Islington toll-gate, Sarah Tanner sat in a private room on
the upper floor of the Angel public-house. Arthur DeSalle sat beside her, sipping from a pot of porter; but it was not long before he rose from his seat and looked nervously out of the window.

  ‘Do you think she will come?’

  ‘I am certain of it,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘Do stop fretting.’

  Arthur DeSalle scowled. ‘It is not a case of “fretting”. Good Lord, Sarah, I am only here because you begged me to help.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, truly.’

  Arthur DeSalle’s reply was pre-empted by a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Tanner, firmly.

  The door opened to reveal Lydia Payne, dressed in the same plain mourning dress which Sarah Tanner had first seen at the coroner’s inquest. She wondered idly whether her governess’s salary permitted much of a wardrobe.

  ‘Miss Payne, how good to see you,’ said Mrs. Tanner.

  ‘Mrs. Richards,’ replied Miss Payne, with stiff formality, ‘I must tell you, I cannot stay long. I have absented myself on the grounds of buying some lace for Miss Fulbrook’s trousseau. If I am gone much more than a couple of hours …’

  ‘I understand. Please, let me introduce Mr. Arthur DeSalle.’

  Lydia Payne raised her eye-brows in surprise. ‘Sir. Forgive me, Mr. DeSalle, but I had thought that …’

  ‘An awkward misunderstanding, ma’am,’ replied Arthur DeSalle. ‘There were circumstances that did not permit me to assure your employer, Mr. Ferntower, of my … connection to Mrs. Richards … it is of a rather informal, confidential nature …’

  ‘Really?’ said Miss Payne, with a hint of superiority in her voice. ‘I see. Well, I know something of the ways of the world, sir. There is no need to elucidate any further. My only concern is for Miss Fulbrook; I would not be here otherwise.’

  ‘And that is why Mr. DeSalle is present, ma’am,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘He knows Stephen Symes – Cedric Hawkes – call him what you will – of old, and he is as anxious to see Miss Fulbrook spared the misery of matrimony with that man, as you or I.’