by L M Jackson
‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ said the clerk. ‘I believe a young gentleman of that name talked to our Reverend Smythe yesterday evening. I cannot claim to have heard the whole conversation, but I gathered the young man was bound on an unexpected sea voyage, and wished to faciliate the joining of the bonds of holy matrimony sooner than he had anticipated. We are a sailors’ church; it is not terribly uncommon.’
‘And when is the wedding planned?’
‘I believe tomorrow in the fore-noon was the earliest time to suit the Reverend’s convenience.’
‘Did Mr. Ferntower give an address?’
‘Of course,’ replied the clerk. ‘I believe the Reverend is due to visit the gentleman this afternoon. There are matters to discuss regarding the service, and so forth.’
‘And what might that address be?’
‘Well, I can hardly say, ma’am. I’m sure a degree of discretion must be maintained in these matters.’
‘I am sure a donation to the church might be considered an appropriate gesture of thanks, from the girl’s friends. Say a guinea?’
The clerk smiled.
‘Let me refer to my records, ma’am.’
As Sarah Tanner left the church, a cab drew up by the front steps. Lydia Payne stepped out, a definite look of anxiety upon her face.
‘Dismiss the cab,’ said Mrs. Tanner, without a word of greeting. ‘I have a coach. He can take us the rest of the way. They are not yet married; we still have time to save her.’
‘What? You have found them out? How?’
‘An old friend of mine used to say “never trust the police or the parish”, Miss Payne,’ she replied, glancing back at the clerk who stood looking through the gap between the church doors. ‘He wasn’t far wrong.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The name of the road supplied by the curate was Peacock Buildings, although it displayed little of the colour of its namesake. Rather, the predominant shade was a rather sickly yellowy brown: the brown mud that pasted the cobbles; the dirty ochre of the London bricks which formed the walls of the huddled tenements; the brown paper and rags that seemed to have replaced glass in every other window; even the faint hint of brown fog that hung in the air.
At the very end of the thoroughfare, Sarah Tanner’s carriage drew to a halt.
‘It’s too narrow,’ said Mrs. Tanner, looking along the road with a sigh. ‘So much for that. Drive on!’
‘What a wretched place!’ said Miss Payne, as the coach pulled off. ‘What do you intend to do?’
‘The first thing is to find a decent receiving-house.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘I need paper to write a little note.’
Less than half an hour later, Sarah Tanner’s carriage returned to the Ratcliff Highway, a short distance from the narrow lane leading to Peacock Buildings.
‘You have still not told me your plan, Mrs. Richards,’ said Lydia Payne, aggrieved. ‘Miss Fulbrook has been kidnapped and you have spent your time in writing correspondence!’
‘I intend to rescue Miss Fulbrook, Miss Payne – it is quite straightforward. I assume her doubts about her intended can only have magnified in such a place, even if he is not holding her against her will. A few home truths should suffice.’
‘You do not think he is dangerous?’
‘With any luck, he will not be there.’
Lydia Payne glanced down at the envelope Sarah Tanner held in her hand, an idea of its purpose entering her mind. ‘The note?’
‘An apology from the Reverend Smythe that he cannot visit the happy couple due to a sudden illness amongst his flock, but could Mr. Ferntower pay his respects at the church, between the hours of twelve and one? You see, I can fake a man’s hand tolerably well.’
‘You have many talents,’ said Lydia Payne, in a tone that sounded not altogether approving. ‘You think he will leave Miss Fulbrook behind?’
‘I should think the fewer opportunities she has to question the whole affair, the better it will suit him. And she will hardly take herself out for a walk – not in these streets.’
‘I still think I should accompany you – if she has any doubts about your sincerity, Miss Fulbrook will trust me.’
‘No, there is no need for that. Besides, if I do not return within the hour – if there is some guard upon her person – you have an important task to perform, rest assured.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Summon the police; I will most likely be dead.’
With those words, Sarah Tanner bid the governess goodbye, leaving her quite speechless, and stepped down out of the carriage. In truth, Mrs. Tanner’s dress was not extravagant, no more ostentatious than that of a decent upper servant, but nonetheless, in the back-streets of Shadwell, she attracted the gaze of those she passed by. Amongst them were a couple of small boys, who sat crouched in the gutter near the street corner, playing at tipcat with a rather rough-looking piece of wood. She crouched down beside them.
‘Hello. Does either of you know Peacock Buildings?’ she asked.
The children nodded, hesitant, a little wary.
‘If I gave you a note to deliver to a gentleman there, would you do it for me? If I were to give you sixpence?’
‘I’ll do it, missus,’ said the taller of the boys, the mention of currency gaining his full attention.
‘But there is more to it,’ continued Mrs. Tanner. ‘You must give him the note and then hurry away. And if he asks who sent it, you say a gentleman gave it to you, near the church. For sixpence, remember. And hurry away – do not dawdle or chat.’
‘Are you playing a game, missus?’ said the younger of the boys.
‘Yes, a game, with a friend of mine. Now tell me what you have to say, and we can play.’
‘A gentleman, near the church,’ repeated the older of the two.
‘Good boy,’ said Sarah Tanner, with a smile. ‘Come with me, then, and we’ll play our little game, and see who wins.’
Mrs. Tanner stood at the far end of Peacock Buildings, displaying an unmerited interest in the contents of the pawn-shop window situated upon the street corner. The address which John Ferntower had given to the parish clerk was a two-pair back in a ramshackle-looking house that lay about half-way down the street. She watched the boy run down with the note and enter the house. A few seconds later, he returned with an assurance that the gent took it, and he said about the church and all. She gave the messenger his sixpence – to the boy’s evident delight – and waited.
Some five minutes later, the figure of John Ferntower left the building and stepped on to the street. There was still a little fog in the air, but she kept her shawl wrapped tight around her face, and, to her satisfaction, felt sure she was unnoticed, since Ferntower promptly walked off in the opposite direction, in the direction of St. Paul’s Church. Once she was confident that he was out of sight, she walked down the street herself, and quietly let herself into the house.
The interior shared some similarities with John Ferntower’s lodgings in Prince’s Row, in that it was equally neglected. But what had been merely shabby and threadbare upon the borders of Newport Market, had been turned rotten and derelict in the dank atmosphere of the riverside slums. There was no paper upon the walls, merely patches of damp; the rail of the stairs was rotten and soft to the touch; and an atmosphere of sulphurous decay seemed to have soaked into the very walls.
Sarah Tanner crept cautiously up the steps to the second floor. She saw no other tenants, although she could hear the distant sound of a baby crying. There was a sash-window upon the far end of the landing. In the light that shone through the murky panes, she carefully pulled a small pistol from her pocket, gingerly loading the barrel. With her free hand, she knocked upon the door to Ferntower’s rooms.
No answer.
She tried the handle of the door. Finding it unlocked, she edged it open.
Inside, the room was pitch black, with thick cloth curtains drawn across the windows. It took her a moment
to accustom her eyes to the darkness.
Too long, perhaps.
For as she stood there, a rough hand from behind the door grabbed her wrist, whilst another grabbed the pistol from her grip.
She knew the man in the instant he released her arm, and punched her full in the face, sending her reeling in a dizzy arc.
The Peeler.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Sarah Tanner opened her eyes. She was down upon the floor, her back to the wall. Instinctively, she tried to move, but found her hands tied behind her.
‘About time you woke up, my girl,’ said a voice.
It was the Peeler; and beside him stood John Ferntower, holding her own pistol.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Richards,’ said Ferntower. ‘I find it rather amusing that this is how it ends – just as we met. You threatened to kill me then, if you recall. If you like, you can consider this repayment in kind.’
The policeman stepped closer, crouching down in front of her, grabbing her bruised face in his hand with deliberate force. Sarah Tanner winced.
‘It is her and all?!’ exclaimed the Peeler. ‘The one who sent me off chasing down Sardinia Street. I told you, girl, didn’t I? Never tell lies; not round me, leastways.’
The policeman smiled, letting go of Sarah Tanner’s face, only to turn away and slap her cheek with the back of his hand.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ he said, cheerily.
Sarah Tanner coughed, the taste of her own blood filling her mouth.
‘Was it all for the money, then?’ she said, spitting out the words, turning to John Ferntower. ‘Is that why you killed your aunt? Or was it just spite?’
‘Really,’ said John Ferntower, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You were at the hotel, weren’t you? The Brunswick, wasn’t it? They said so at the inquest. I should have put two and two together then. That’s when you killed her. Except everyone knew you hated her; that you had a grudge because of what she’d told your father. So you killed her and had your actress friend, Miss Evans, play her part; she just had to be “alive” a couple of days so that it could not be you who was to blame. Lord, you even got yourself arrested, just to be on the safe side. What did you do with the body?’
John Ferntower smiled. ‘You are a terribly clever woman, aren’t you, Miss Richards? My poor aunt, God rest her soul, poisoned my father against me, you see? It was Hawkes – Symes, call him what you will – who gave her the ammunition, I realise that now. I had to get rid of her, if I was to have any hope with Miss Fulbrook. As to the body, I put her in Miss Evans’s luggage when she left the Brunswick and then – well, a friend took care of it.’
‘You dumped her in the river,’ said Sarah Tanner, looking at the policeman.
‘You find all sorts of rubbish in the Thames, my girl,’ said the policeman.
‘And what about Georgie?’
‘Georgie?’
‘Phelps. The man you gutted in Leather Lane.’
‘Him?’ said the policeman. ‘Poor lad. He gave me a right load of chaff. I had to shut him up.’
John Ferntower laughed. ‘You know, Miss Richards, I’ve thought a good deal about that. An awkward coincidence, you see; I don’t know why he picked the Hummums that night, but he did. If it had not happened, we might have avoided all of this. But then I suppose I’d never have had the pleasure of meeting you. You see, I knew George Phelps too. I rather lied to you on that score. We had some pleasant evenings round the baccarat table; Mr. Hawkes introduced us. I even brought him home to meet the family.’
‘Wait! now I understand,’ exclaimed Mrs. Tanner. ‘George’d met your aunt! He knew it wasn’t her at the Hummums.’
‘Quite,’ continued Ferntower. ‘As you say, I thought it best for all concerned if “Miss Ferntower” left the Brunswick alive. I did not want Miss Evans scrutinised by the same staff who had actually seen my aunt. So we chose another hotel; a poor choice, as it turned out.’
‘Your pal George was already sizing the crib. Said all sorts to our Katie,’ added the policeman. ‘Poked and pried through her room; got very curious. Might have said a good deal elsewhere, too. We couldn’t have that. I had to put a stop to it.’
‘And then you killed Miss Evans too. I suppose something went wrong there.’
‘Ah,’ said John Ferntower, as if caught out upon some trivial point, ‘now I wondered what brought you here, today of all days. I see it was Miss Evans – you found her already? Why, you have a knack for stumbling across corpses, my dear.’
‘Stamp told me she was a friend of yours.’
‘Yes, well, I rather liked Kate.’
‘Terrible shame,’ added the Peeler, without much sorrow. ‘Me and her were old pals, as it happens. Terrible.’
‘Yes,’ continued Ferntower, ‘we made a good arrangement with Miss Evans. Not a full share in the profits, mind you. Just a little boarding-house down by the coast; an annual stipend. But I’m afraid she got rather greedy.’
‘She came back,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘And she threatened to tell the truth. You tried to keep her quiet, but she wouldn’t have it.’
John Ferntower shrugged. ‘I took no pleasure in killing her, Miss Richards. And I’ll take no pleasure in killing you, I assure you. In fact, I don’t believe I could have done this without you; you were such a God-send. If only—’
‘Hurry up and have done,’ interjected the policeman.
John Ferntower smiled and crept close to his prisoner, placing the barrel of the pistol at her temple. Sarah Tanner shuddered.
‘My colleague is quite right. Enough chatter. Now, which would you prefer, Miss Richards – or whatever your true name is – tell me, the bullet or the knife? Or even by hand? I have some expertise in that area. But then, you were so good as to bring the pistol; it only seems polite.’
‘Just shoot her,’ said the policeman, impatient.
‘No,’ said Ferntower, pulling back the gun a little, ‘let the lady answer.’
‘I’ll see you both in hell, I swear on my mother’s grave,’ said Sarah Tanner, struggling against her bonds.
John Ferntower shook his head.
‘I’m afraid you’re only half right there,’ he replied as, without another word, he cocked the pistol and swung it to his left, firing point-blank in the policeman’s face. The retort of the gun, and the smell of burnt powder filled the room. The policeman’s body tumbled backwards on to the bare floor, the top of his head burst open, ripe and red.
Sarah Tanner froze; then struggled harder.
John Ferntower chuckled, and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small pocket-knife and then throwing it to one side. ‘You won’t escape, my dear. I took the precaution of emptying your pockets.’
‘You killed him. You didn’t even—’
‘He was greedy too, Miss Richards. And witness to a murder. Besides, ten thousand a year split three ways is nothing at all, if you think about it.’
‘And what about Miss Fulbrook?’
‘She’ll make me a beautiful wife, don’t you think?’ said Ferntower. ‘And I do have a certain fondness for her. She is a charming young woman. So innocent; so trusting.’
‘Someone will have heard the shot. You’re already done for.’
‘The rest of the building is derelict, Miss Richards. There’s no-one to hear a thing. Now, do be quiet, there’s a good woman.’
John Ferntower leant forward, his hands circling Sarah Tanner’s throat. It was a slow, measured movement, almost ritualistic, and she could see in her assailant’s eyes a thrill of satisfaction as he pressed into her skin.
It was a thrill that ended, as she wriggled in his grip, and with a desperate lunge, thrust the tip of a small stiletto blade into John Ferntower’s neck.
Ferntower gave out a choking, suffocating gasp, clasping his hand to the wound. But the red fluid trickled through his fingers, an unstoppable crimson tide, coating his hand, then his sleeve. He shuffled backwards spasmodically, like a cornered animal, h
is feet skidding in the policeman’s blood, his breath growing more hoarse and weaker with every second.
Sarah Tanner stood and watched. In truth, she felt nothing but a visceral revulsion; but nonetheless she stood and watched, as life slipped away from John Ferntower. She thought of Georgie Phelps and she stood there. Then, as Ferntower breathed his last, she picked up the delicate blade and wiped it on the hem of his jacket. With an unsteady hand, she tugged the back of her dress, and slid the knife back into the carefully constructed pocket that lay hidden between the whalebone stays – the self-same pocket which had enabled her, at the last, to recover the blade and free her bonds.
She glanced at the policeman’s corpse, then turned to leave, opening the door, only to find it blocked by a man standing in the hall.
‘My, my,’ said Stephen Symes, surveying the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sarah Tanner climbed inside the waiting carriage.
‘For pity’s sake, where is the coachman?’ she exclaimed.
‘He said he had to relieve himself,’ said Lydia Payne, stunned, gaping at Sarah Tanner’s bruised and bloodied face. ‘I’m sorry, I could not stop him.’
Mrs. Tanner leant out of the window. The coachman returned, the sound of him clambering on to the box-seat audible within the carriage.
‘Drive!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The whip cracked and the carriage jolted into action, its speed steadily increasing as it rattled along the Ratcliff Highway.
‘What on earth happened to you?’ demanded Miss Payne.
‘Ferntower was there. Miss Fulbrook – I am afraid she is dead; he has killed her too.’
Lydia Payne shook her head. ‘Miss Fulbrook? No, that is quite impossible.’
‘Impossible?’ said Sarah Tanner.
‘I mean, I cannot believe it. He would not have killed her.’
Mrs. Tanner shrugged. ‘No, I don’t suppose he would. Not the golden goose.’