by L M Jackson
‘Norah, I don’t know if it’s best.’
‘If I stay indoors another day, I’ll go mad – I will. I’ve got to go out sometime, ain’t I? Please.’
‘Very well,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘Get your shawl.’
‘What are you going to say to him?’ said Norah, as the two women approached the house on Prince’s Row.
‘I’m not sure. I can hardly force him into becoming a bank clerk, whatever his circumstances. Here, this is the place.’
Sarah Tanner led the way. Once inside the house, as they turned on to the final landing, she spied a familiar figure, pacing the floorboards outside John Ferntower’s rooms.
‘Mrs. Richards!’ exclaimed Theobald Stamp, as if greeting a principal actress for the benefit of those in the gods. ‘Why, this is a most diverting surprise. May I kiss your hand, ma’am?’
‘No, sir,’ said Mrs. Tanner, pointedly not raising her arm to meet the indefatigable theatrical’s outstretched hand. ‘You must forgive me, this is my cousin. We’re here to see Mr. Smith. A confidential matter.’
‘Smith? You’ll be lucky, ma’am. You’d have to be more than lucky, or I’m a Dutchman. And Theobald Stamp, ma’am, is an Englishman, born-and-bred.’
‘I gather he’s not at home?’
‘More than that, ma’am. I don’t expect he’ll be at home again. I have not had the pleasure of his company for three days or more. Twenty sheets to be copied three times over, and no sign of him; money has been paid in advance. So I ask questions, ma’am. I ask the landlord; no sign of him. I ask the neighbours – last seen departing yesterday morning, ma’am, with a trunk. With a trunk! The fellow’s thrown my generosity back in my face, my dear lady. He’s bolted, ’pon my honour!’
‘Bolted?’ said Sarah Tanner, surprised. ‘No, he would have confided in me.’
‘Did he owe you money, my dear?’ said Stamp. ‘I would not put it past the fellow.’
Mrs. Tanner seemed dumb-struck for a moment. ‘Is the door locked?’ she said at last.
‘I believe so,’ replied Stamp.
‘Could you force it open?’
‘Whyever should I do such a thing, ma’am?’ said Theobald Stamp who, despite his considerable bulk, did not seem accustomed to the idea of doing violence to anything.
‘Because I fear, sir, that a respectable young woman’s honour may be at stake. And because,’ said Sarah Tanner, trying to sound convincing, ‘I believe you to be a gentleman.’
Theobald Stamp visibly puffed up, like a prize peacock, at the word gentleman.
‘A young woman’s honour, you say?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Then say no more, Mrs. Richards. No man will speak of Theobald Stamp and say he did not rise to the occasion. Stand back!’
And, with that exclamation, Theobald Stamp ran at the door. He was a large man and the door rattled as he shoved his shoulder against the wood. But it did not yield, and left him rather breathless.
‘Again, sir,’ said Sarah Tanner.
Stamp, although rather deflated by his effort, was shamed enough to make another attempt. And, to his surprise – and considerable satisfaction – the door gave way, the rather inadequate lock splintering free of the frame. He peered inside.
‘There’s no-one here, ma’am,’ he said, stepping into the room. ‘I was not wrong – the man has cleared out.’
Sarah Tanner, followed by Norah, followed Stamp inside. The room was cold, the curtains drawn. She pulled them back, and looked about her. There would be some small clue; she was sure of it. Then she noticed the rug by the fire-place: it lay out of place, aligned with the hearth, but a good foot or more to the right of its usual location.
Carefully, she bent over and moved the rug to one side. There was a distinct rotten aroma that greeted her nostrils. At first, she thought it belonged to the rug itself, but then realised her mistake.
‘Ma’am,’ said Theobald Stamp, ‘you must forgive me, but I am quite at a loss. Whatever are you doing?’
Mrs. Tanner, however, reached down and teased her fingers into a gap between the bare boards. In truth, she had a good idea of what she might find when she lifted up the wood, but the sight still revolted her.
It was a body; a woman’s corpse, the features contorted and the neck badly bruised. It took her a moment to recognise the face; perhaps it was the incongruity of it all – the body interred beneath the dusty boards – or the rictus of her twisted mouth, that seemed to suggest terrible astonishment. But she recognised her all the same – it was the self-same woman whom she had seen almost a week before, in the gas-light outside the Lord Nelson public-house.
It was the Peeler’s woman.
Before Sarah Tanner could say a word, Norah Smallwood stood by her side and peered into the space. She turned quite pale.
‘God help us,’ said Norah.
‘God help us, all right,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘God help Miss Fulbrook. Good Lord, I’ve been such a fool.’
‘No,’ said Norah, ‘you don’t understand, missus. Lor! I can’t fathom it, but that’s her. I thought she was drowned. But that’s his blessed aunt. That’s Miss Ferntower.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Theobald Stamp stepped closer to the exposed boards. Even in extreme circumstances there was something theatrical about his approach, his steps peculiarly measured, a handkerchief placed to his mouth. As he saw the body, he let out a violent, choking sob.
‘Do you know her?’ said Sarah Tanner to the actor.
‘I told you,’ repeated Norah Smallwood. ‘It’s her.’
Mrs. Tanner shook her head. ‘No, it’s not, I’d bet my life on that. Do you know the woman, Mr. Stamp?’
‘Kate Evans, ma’am,’ said Theobald Stamp. ‘Formerly one of the company; a favourite of Mr. Smith’s. Upon my oath, I did not imagine the man to be capable of this! A murderer! Did you have any inkling, ma’am? You said a woman’s honour was at stake—’
‘Not this woman,’ replied Sarah Tanner, shaking her head.
‘We must summon the police, at once,’ said Stamp, stepping away from the body.
‘You wait here, sir,’ said Mrs. Tanner, ‘in case Smith returns, or anyone should interfere. We will go and fetch a constable.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Stamp.
‘Certain,’ replied Sarah Tanner, tugging at Norah Smallwood’s sleeve. ‘It will not take long.’
Theobald Stamp watched, open-mouthed, still in a state of shock, as Sarah Tanner left the room. Norah Smallwood trailed after her, all but dragged down the stairs into Prince’s Row.
‘Are we going to get a copper?’ asked Norah, breathless.
‘Hang the police!’
‘Missus, I don’t understand … if that ain’t Miss Ferntower in there, who is it?’
‘An actress. A friend of Ferntower’s. Lord! it should have been obvious – the veil, the two hotels! And the worst of it is, I let him use me as his dupe! What a performance! Look, Norah, there is not time. Find Ralph. He said he’d be working as pot-man at the Bottle of Hay, if nothing better turned up. I need him to do something for me. Tell him to go to the courts by St. Paul’s – to Doctors’ Commons – and ask after any allegations made under the name of Ferntower, made in the last few days.’
‘Allegations?’
‘Ferntower intends to marry Miss Fulbrook now, Norah, as soon as he can. He will not wait for banns, so he will need a licence. And a licence requires an allegation, a sworn oath. He will have to claim he has her guardian’s consent. It will say what church they intend to use. Can you explain all that to Ralph?’
‘I suppose,’ said Norah Smallwood.
‘Norah – it’s important. Repeat what I just said.’
Norah Smallwood, in fits and starts, relayed the information back to her erstwhile employer, more or less correctly.
‘Good. Tell him to say he is her father; that he fears there’s been a fraud. And tell him to be careful. I’ll meet him back at Calthorpe Street.’
&nbs
p; ‘Where are you going?’
‘To try and set things right. If I am not back by this evening, I will not be back at all.’
Several hours after the discovery in Prince’s Row, Ralph Grundy paced nervously around Sarah Tanner’s rooms in Calthorpe Street, whilst Norah Smallwood sat by the fire. Outside, the bells of a nearby church chimed six o’clock.
‘Didn’t she say how long she’d be?’ said Ralph Grundy.
‘It ain’t my doing, is it?’ replied Norah Smallwood. ‘No, she didn’t say nothing, I told you.’
Ralph Grundy tutted.
‘What do you think she meant, “set things right”?’ asked Norah, after a brief silence.
‘I don’t like thinking on it,’ said Ralph Grundy.
A few minutes later footsteps were heard upon the stairs. Sarah Turner entered the room quite calmly and made only the most perfunctory attempt at a greeting.
‘Where’ve you been, missus?’ asked Ralph Grundy.
She waved her hand, dismissing the question. ‘Never mind that, Ralph. Just tell me that you went to Doctors’ Commons.’
‘Aye,’ said Ralph Grundy, ‘I did. And I found him out, too – you weren’t wrong, missus. He was there just this morning. I told ’em I was her father, like you said, and then I told ’em she was only thirteen, and him a Frenchman down on his luck. Then I says, “See the papers? Well, I should hope I can, with her mother just passed away and this scoundrel taking gross liberties …”’
‘Ralph, please. I do not need the full drama. What did you find out?’
‘Ah,’ said Ralph Grundy, a little aggrieved to be halted in his tale, ‘I got ’em to write us a copy. Cost me two bob, mind.’
‘Show it to me then.’
Ralph Grundy nodded and hastily retrieved a piece of paper from his coat pocket. Sarah Tanner plucked it from his hand.
Faculty Office
28th April 1852
APPEARED PERSONALLY John Ferntower of the Parish of St. Paul’s’ Shadwell, in the County of Middlesex, a Batchelor of the age of twenty-one years and upwards, and prayed a Licence for the Solemnization of Matrimony in the Parish Church of St. Paul’s, Shadwell, in the County of Middlesex, between him and Elizabeth Mary Fulbrook of the Parish of St. Stephen’s, Holloway, a Spinster of the age of nineteen years, and made Oath that he believeth there is no impediment of Kindred or Alliance, or of any other lawful Cause, nor any Suit commenced in any Ecclesiastical Court, to bar or hinder the Proceeding of the said Matrimony, according to the Tenor of such Licence. And he further made Oath that the said John Ferntower and Elizabeth Mary Fulbrook, Spinster, have had their usual Places of Abode within the said Parishes of St. Paul’s, Shadwell, and St. Stephen’s respectively for the Space of Fifteen Days last past.
‘They had a sworn oath from her guardian, too,’ said Ralph Grundy.
‘Well, he did not write it,’ said Sarah Tanner, ‘but at least we know the church.’
‘What I don’t understand, missus,’ said the old man, ‘is how come he’s taking the trouble to get a licence and marry her by it. All it takes is someone to say it’s a fraud – and he’s done for.’
‘Perhaps he does not think his father will prosecute, once the damage is done. I do not know. It will all be lawful unless a court says otherwise.’
‘Missus, it ain’t for me to say, but shouldn’t we go to the church, then? We can still stop them, can’t we?’
‘They won’t get married at night, Ralph. And if the licence was only granted this morning, it is unlikely he managed it this afternoon. In any case, we wait until tomorrow morning.’
‘Are you planning something, missus?’ said Ralph Grundy.
‘I am expecting a letter in the post.’
Ralph Grundy frowned, a little frustrated by Sarah Tanner’s guarded reply.
‘You know what happened to his actual aunt, then?’ said the old man.
‘I have a good idea. He killed her all right.’
‘Ain’t you going to tell us?’
‘Not yet. Not until I’m sure.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Pimlico, 28th April
Dear Mrs. Richards,
Forgive me, I will spare you any pleasantries. It is enough to say that all my worst fears have been realised. Your letter serves to confirm the worst – the most terrible – interpretation must be placed on the events of the day.
In short, the deed is already done. Mr. John Ferntower visited us this morning. He claimed that there was legal business requiring Miss Fulbrook’s presence in London. I confess, I had a terrible head and did not feel well enough to travel by coach. I accepted his assurances that he would return Miss Fulbrook by noon. As I write, it has been ten hours since they left. At first I feared an accident but now I know the truth of the matter. I cannot tell you how heavy my heart is burdened with shame. That I should ever have trusted that man with Miss Fulbrook’s happiness!
You say there is still something that may be done and that the police must not, on any account, be involved. Very well. I make no claim to be proficient in the arts of deception or familiar with the mind of a criminal. I put my faith in you one last time and once only. I will meet you at the church tomorrow at eleven, as you suggest. I pray we are not already too late.
Yours,
Lydia Payne
The letter arrived in the morning post. Sarah Tanner read it through carefully.
‘What did you tell her, missus?’
‘I wrote yesterday afternoon to say that Ferntower had deceived us; that I believed he wished to steal Miss Fulbrook away at the earliest opportunity.’
‘You didn’t mention no murder, then?’
‘I thought that might unnerve her. Very well, at least now I know.’
Ralph Grundy nodded, glancing outside into the street.
‘Is that yours, missus?’
Sarah Tanner looked through the window, as a rather respectable-looking carriage drew up on Calthorpe Street.
‘Yes, that’s mine,’ she replied, rising to her feet.
‘More arrangements you made yesterday?’ said Ralph Grundy, full of curiosity.
‘Quite.’
Ralph Grundy made to follow as Mrs. Tanner walked to the door, but she turned to face him, gently putting out her arm to stop him.
‘No, Ralph, you stay here. I need someone to keep an eye on Norah.’
‘Hold up, missus!’ protested Ralph Grundy. ‘I’m not the girl’s nursemaid. And, besides, she ain’t exactly at death’s door.’
‘I’m sorry, Ralph, but I don’t need you, not today.’
‘Who’ll watch out for you, then?’
‘I have someone, I won’t be on my own.’
‘Your gentleman friend, is it?’ said Ralph Grundy.
‘Arthur?’ said Sarah Tanner, after a brief pause. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘I expect an old man is no use to you, ’cepting on errands. He’s useful enough then.’
‘Ralph, I have no time for this. Please, I’d like you to wait for me, if you will. You’ve been a good friend; all being well, I’ll see you when I get back.’
‘All being well?’
Mrs. Tanner did not reply, but merely leant forward and placed a kiss upon the old man’s cheek. Struck dumb, Ralph Grundy watched as his erstwhile employer quit the room.
‘Has she gone?’ said Norah Smallwood, who appeared from the rear of the apartment, moments later.
‘Aye, she’s gone,’ muttered Ralph Grundy. ‘I only hope she’s planning on coming back.’
Some three-quarters of an hour after quitting her lodgings in Calthorpe Street, Sarah Tanner stood outside the church of St. Paul’s, Shadwell. The church itself lay adjoining the broadest portion of the old Ratcliff Highway – the ill-famed haunt of sailors, better known for its low dance-halls and cheap publics than its religion – and, upon the southern side, separated only by a few narrow streets of slum houses, were the high walls and tobacco warehouses of the London Docks. It was a beautiful building, n
onetheless, despite the contrast with its surroundings; a Roman design, topped by a tower and cupola, then a pyramidal spire; front steps leading to tall wooden doors of double height, flanked upon either side by iron gas-lamps. And the lights were illuminated since, though it was long past day-break, there was a river-fog that hung about the nearby Thames, and immersed the low-lying regions about the docks in a faint brown mist.
As she stood upon the steps, a small man opened one of the church’s doors, and slipped outside. He was a gentleman in his fifties, wearing spectacles, slightly hunched in his posture, with clothing that, though respectable-looking, appeared to have seen better days. He turned to Sarah Tanner and smiled a thin smile.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
‘I am looking for the parish clerk. I gather his name is Briggs.’
‘You’ve found him, ma’am,’ said the clerk, with some pride, perhaps little-used to being sought out by members of the fair sex. ‘But won’t you come inside? Such awful weather, is it not?’
Mrs. Tanner nodded and the clerk led her into the church. The building was empty and, at his behest, she took a seat on one of the nearest pews to the door.
‘Now, ma’am, how can I oblige you? I assume you are the lady who sent word last night?’
‘I confess, sir, it is a delicate business; you must forgive that I was so vague in my telegram. A young lady I have the honour to call a friend, a young lady by the name of Miss Fulbrook, has – well, there is no decent word for it – eloped with a young man of our acquaintance.’
‘Really?’ said the clerk. Mrs. Tanner watched him closely; the mention of Elizabeth Fulbrook’s name struck home, she was sure of that. She wondered why John Ferntower had chosen the church. Was it only for its remote location, or was the man known to turn a blind eye to marriages made in undue haste?
‘Of course, such things happen every day, but I have good reason to believe the wretched fellow – a young man by the name of Ferntower – has obtained a licence to marry, under the most false pretences. I also think he may intend to marry her here.’
The clerk coughed, nervously. ‘In truth, ma’am, I believe I know something of the matter.’