A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  ‘Then why did you … ?’

  ‘I was just curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Curious?’

  ‘I had one last particle of doubt. But, do not worry, you’ve put paid to that, Miss Payne.’

  Miss Payne’s posture visibly stiffened. ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

  ‘The man who killed George Phelps – my friend Georgie – do you remember, I told you the story at the Angel, did I not? – I saw him at Hillmarton Park last week, shaking hands with Mr. Ferntower. I assumed Mr. Ferntower knew him; that he had paid him to kill his sister. That he intended to sell his ward to Symes for a profit. I didn’t stop to think who else was in the house.’

  ‘You cannot be accusing me?’

  ‘I expect you introduced him to Mr. Ferntower. As what, a cousin? Or an acquaintance? A respectable member of the constabulary? He had turned up unexpectedly. I suppose you had to say something. Kate Evans had paid him a visit, suggesting she get a bigger share, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. It was something like that, eh?’

  ‘I think you must be quite mad!’ protested Lydia Payne.

  ‘I realised, when we found her body – Kate Evans. I assume you know Ferntower killed her? Possibly you suggested it? In any case, I realised that the blue devil’s visit to Holloway made no sense – not if John Ferntower was behind it all. Why would he have gone to Hillmarton Park at all? Because there was someone else he went to see – and it was you.’

  ‘And you consider this constitutes proof?’ said Lydia Payne. ‘That I conspired with these wretched people?’

  ‘Please, Miss Payne – you are a good actress yourself – better than Miss Evans, I suspect – but not that good. Although, I admit, it was clever how you and Ferntower played your parts – all the sniping at his character – how unworthy he was! – and so when even you came round to the idea of the marriage, Miss Fulbrook was convinced.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ exclaimed Lydia Payne.

  ‘I put it to the test. I wrote to you last night; I told you what I had planned, more or less. I could have gone straight to Shadwell, but I gave you time to warn them. I’m not a fool, Miss Payne, I know when someone’s expecting me.’

  Lydia Payne blanched.

  ‘What happened?’ she said at last, her face deathly pale. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Ferntower killed your friend the Peeler; he objected to sharing, a selfish man to the last. I think he thought he could make the police believe I had done it.’

  ‘And John?’

  ‘Ah, John, is it?’ said Sarah Tanner.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He tried to murder me. I stabbed him in the neck. I watched him die. I won’t say I enjoyed it; but I owed Georgie that much. They’ll find him rotting in a few days, I expect.’

  Lydia Payne shook her head. ‘You’re lying again.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  Miss Payne’s face grew whiter still. Her hands, however, dipped into the small reticule she carried with her, and re-appeared holding a pistol.

  ‘Don’t imagine I won’t use this,’ said Lydia Payne. ‘You’re not the only one with a man’s courage. I should kill you stone dead.’

  ‘At least do me the courtesy of telling why you did it,’ said Sarah Tanner, shifting uneasily in her seat.

  ‘Don’t be such a hypocrite!’ exclaimed Lydia Payne. ‘I have some idea of your past life, “Mrs. Richards”. John told me about Mr. Symes and his associates. I did it for the money; to put an end to being nursemaid to an ignorant slip of a girl for a pittance. I did it to have a life of my own – a good life.’

  ‘I am sure Miss Fulbrook told me you had only been her governess for a couple of years. Was it so terrible?’

  ‘I planned it out. Do you think it was an accident? Do you think you are the only female in London with any brains? I was one of the old man’s reformatory girls; did you know that? No, I don’t expect you did. Every year we were paraded before the governors. I made something of myself; quite a triumph for the Schools. He didn’t remember me, of course, the old fool. You know, I rather believe he even grew quite fond of me.’

  ‘But you became John Ferntower’s lover instead? Was that part of your plan?’

  ‘It served its purpose. You need not think I sent John down the wrong path, Miss Richards. He was already after Miss Fulbrook’s money; I just provided some guidance.’

  ‘And Symes put your nose out of joint; his plans rather clashed with yours.’

  ‘More than that – he nearly ruined everything! John had given up hope; he could not see a way forward. If it had not been for you interfering, he might have abandoned our scheme entirely.’

  ‘Even that first night I met him in St. Giles,’ said Mrs. Tanner, ‘he saw an opportunity to make use of me, did he not? To play me against Symes?’

  ‘It does not matter now,’ muttered Miss Payne. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she continued, raising the gun higher, ‘did you really kill him?’

  Sarah Tanner opened her mouth to speak. But as she did so, the trap in the carriage roof, which had inched open wider and wider as the conversation progressed, revealed the sudden flash of a steel blade, which shot through the air in a blur, piercing Lydia Payne’s hand. She groaned in agony, dropping the gun in an instant.

  Stephen Symes peered through the trap.

  ‘Yes, Miss Payne, I’m rather afraid she did.’

  Lydia Payne gasped for breath, clutching her wounded hand.

  ‘You remember Mr. Symes?’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘It pains me to admit it, but we came to a truce.’

  ‘Help me, for pity’s sake,’ exclaimed Lydia Payne. ‘I’m dying!’

  ‘Not from that,’ replied Sarah Tanner, looking at the wound. ‘But I’m sure we can make other arrangements.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ gasped Lydia Payne, clutching her hand to her chest.

  ‘Where is Miss Fulbrook?’

  ‘Why should I tell you a thing?’ said Lydia Payne.

  ‘I thought you were dying.’

  ‘Damn you both! In a lodging-house in the Minories. What do you mean “arrangements”?’

  ‘You have two options, Miss Payne. The first is to confess to the police, explain how you kidnapped Elizabeth Fulbrook, how John Ferntower murdered his aunt. As to the second, I leave you in Mr. Symes’s hands, to do with as he sees fit. I’m sure you can believe he has a vigorous imagination in such matters.’

  ‘If I go to the police, I’ll be hanged.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. There is only you and Miss Fulbrook to tell the tale – we can concoct something plausible; my true part in it can be left out. And, as for Mr. Hawkes, I think you will find he has impeccable credentials; he might even volunteer something for your defence – an affidavit to say you were Ferntower’s pawn. You might only get twenty-five years.’

  ‘I won’t do it,’ said Lydia Payne. ‘You can prove nothing.’

  ‘Then you prefer the alternative?’

  Lydia Payne shook her head and, without another word, jumped towards the coach door, turning the handle with her good hand, and scrambling out of the moving carriage. The coachman, seated upon the box beside Stephen Symes, instantly pulled up the horses, applying the brakes.

  Lydia Payne lay crumpled in the road, her body crushed beneath the lumbering great wheels of a coalman’s waggon.

  Symes leant down and smiled a grim smile.

  ‘An option you neglected to mention?’

  EPILOGUE

  Sarah Tanner sat in the Regent Street drawing-room, a silver tea-service set before her, facing Her Majesty.

  ‘So delightful of you to drop by, my dear,’ said the old woman, tickling the back of the Pekinese that lay snoring in her lap.

  ‘How could I refuse?’ said Sarah Tanner.

  ‘I confess, my dear, when you came to us, I thought it was a trick. I did not believe young Mr. Ferntower had the backbone for that sort of work.’

  ‘Is that why Symes was content to let him shoot me?’

&nb
sp; ‘Mr. Symes has his moods, my dear. You can forgive him, I am sure. Tell me, have you seen this morning’s Times?’

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘They are calling it the “Shadwell Horror”. Droll, is it not? And a report about a madwoman throwing herself under a waggon on the Ratcliff Highway. What a busy few days you have had, eh?’

  ‘I have had enough excitement, I think,’ said Sarah Tanner, taking a sip of tea.

  ‘I could still have you killed, you know,’ said Her Majesty, in a matter-of-fact tone tinged with amusement. ‘I would be well within my rights.’

  ‘If you meant that, you would have done it by now,’ said Sarah Tanner.

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Her Majesty, a smile breaking out over her face. ‘You have such spirit, my dear! It would be a shame to lose you, I swear it would! But do have a care, won’t you? Don’t presume on my good nature too often, eh?’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Sarah Tanner drily.

  ‘And what will you do now, Miss Mills?’

  ‘Mrs. Tanner. Those days are over.’

  ‘Really? You might have fooled me, my dear. Still, what are your plans?’

  Sarah Tanner paused, as if not quite certain herself.

  ‘I’m going to re-open my coffee-shop.’

  Her Majesty chortled. ‘The very idea! Oh, it is so amusing, my dear, please do – yes, please do. But who is going to pay for it? I would offer, truly, but it would do offence to Mr. Symes’s feelings.’

  ‘I would hate that, I am sure. It is a friend.’

  ‘Arthur DeSalle?’

  ‘Perhaps. May I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course, my dear.’

  ‘What about Elizabeth Fulbrook?’

  ‘Please, Miss Mills, you touch a nerve. I gather from Mr. Symes that the girl is so disconsolate over her wretched fiancé’s deceit – not to mention his rather mysterious demise, that he has lost all hope of getting any satisfaction in that quarter.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Oh, I am quite sure of it,’ replied Her Majesty.

  Sarah Tanner stood outside the remains of the Dining and Coffee Rooms and looked out along Leather Lane. There was something comforting in the daily business of the market; and, for the first time, she felt certain of her decision.

  ‘How long do they reckon?’ said Ralph Grundy, nodding towards the workmen scrambling through the rubble of the upper floor.

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘Make it twelve then, missus. And it’ll cost a small fortune.’

  ‘Are you still working at the Bottle of Hay, Ralph?’

  ‘Aye, but it’s hard work for an old man. I don’t even get a decent breakfast. Listen, missus, tell us – who’s paying for all this?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  Ralph Grundy raised his eyebrows, but went off to inspect the workmen’s progress.

  Sarah Tanner, once he was gone, took an envelope from her pocket, and pulled out the letter inside.

  Hillmarton Park, 3rd May

  Dear Mrs. Richards,

  I do not know how you found me in that wretched boarding-house; nor can I comprehend the dreadful events that took place in Shadwell. In truth, all certainty seems to have been stripped away from me in the past few days, and I find myself foundering. I have been glad to discover, at least, that you were wrong about my guardian.

  I write simply to say this. I believe you have been the only true friend to me in this wretched affair and that you were duped by John Ferntower as readily as I. Moreover, even though I do not know the full circumstances, I am quite certain that you saved me.

  You have my gratitude and I enclose a small token of my thanks.

  Your respectfully,

  Elizabeth Fulbrook

  Sarah Tanner unfolded the piece of paper still within the envelope: a banker’s draft for one hundred guineas.

  ‘Here, missus,’ said Ralph Grundy, looking in her direction, ‘what’s that you got there?’

  ‘Nothing, Ralph,’ said Mrs. Tanner, placing the note back in the envelope. ‘Nothing at all.’

  The sequel to A Most Dangerous Woman, the next

  gripping mystery for Sarah Tanner

  by

  L. M. Jackson

  Read on for an extract…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Norah Smallwood leant casually over the counter and glanced at her employer’s newspaper. If there was one thing that perplexed her about the owner of the New Dining and Coffee Rooms, it was the general interest she took in the daily press. It made sense to collect the abandoned papers that accumulated in the coffeehouse’s little booths: that was a wise economy, since the fried fish stall on the corner of Baldwin’s Gardens paid ready money for wrapping. But to read the tiny print in the meantime; to take any pleasure in the inky notices and reports of the Morning Chronicle or Daily News – well, that seemed quite unnatural in a woman. For her own part, although she had been taught to read, she found it something of a chore to attempt even the most straightforward of penny romances that were hawked around the market.

  Every rule, however, has an exception. And although Norah felt a broad disdain for most forms of literature, she maintained an healthy interest in one branch of the art: the lively notices of public amusements that graced the front page of every newspaper. Thus, as her eyes alighted upon a particular advertisement, she paused in her rather desultory efforts at cleaning.

  ‘Is that tomorrow?’ she asked.

  Sarah Tanner stopped reading and laid down the paper, rather pointedly. If the proprietress of the New Dining and Coffee Rooms had grown fond of Norah Smallwood – which was undoubtedly the case – she occasionally found her company a little too convivial. She preferred to treasure the rare quiet moments, when there were no customers at the counter and the occupants of the shop’s little booths enjoyed their food and drink in solitary contemplation. In short, she slightly resented the interruption.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There,’ said Norah, pointing. ‘That’s tomorrow, ain’t it? What’s it say?’

  The item in question was a modest advertisement that lay half-way down the front page of the newspaper.

  MESMERISM AND ITS ANALOGOUS PHENOMENA, PHYSICAL AND PSYCHICAL – Prof. FELTON will demonstrate the workings of the New Science at the Mechanics’ Institution, Southampton Row, 28th April, commencing at eight o’clock. The lecture will examine the transference of health and incorporate a curious and interesting experiment. Gallery 3d.; reserved seats 1s. Members of the Institution admitted half-price. Private consultation from eleven until three o’clock.

  ‘It says,’ replied Mrs. Tanner, ‘that anyone fool enough to part with threepence, to see some kitchen-maid faking a jig half-asleep, should go to Southampton Row tomorrow night.’

  ‘Well, I’d go,’ said Norah, doggedly ignoring the sarcasm, ‘if I had threepence handy.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing you don’t. Besides, you’re in a daze half the time as it is; it would look well if you came back magnetised. Now, unless I’m much mistaken,’ said Mrs. Tanner, pointing, ‘that table hasn’t seen a dish-cloth all week – if it’s not too much trouble?’

  Norah Smallwood looked rather sullenly at her employer, and turned her back, muttering something that incorporated the words ‘like a slave’. Sarah Tanner smiled a wry smile, and reached to pick up the paper once more. Her attention, however, was distracted by one of her customers who sat in the booth by the window. He was a young man – no, she thought to herself, not much more than a boy – in plain working clothes, with a thick head of brown curls and rather angular cheekbones. He was not from the market, she was sure of it. She did not know his face, nor did he wear the polished bluchers or colourful neckerchief which were the fashion amongst the coster-boys. There was nothing so unusual in that, but there was something odd in his manner. In particular, his food, a penny plate of hashed beef, was hardly touched, though it had sat upon the table for several minutes. Moreover, as he took up a mouthful on
his fork, he seemed to masticate it with a curious thoughtfulness.

  His eyes suddenly caught Sarah Tanner’s as she looked at him.

  ‘Here, missus,’ he said, volubly enough for his voice to carry across the room, and the other diners to stare in his direction, ‘this ain’t up to much.’

  Mrs. Tanner raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I mean to say,’ he continued, unabashed, ‘you can pepper it up all you like, but you can’t expect a fellow to eat it.’

  ‘What you going on about?’ demanded Norah, on her employer’s behalf, with an indignant vehemence that caused a couple of the diners, both costers, to chuckle, doubtless anticipating an amusing to-do. Mrs. Tanner cast an admonitory glance in her direction.

  ‘Are you saying there’s something wrong with it?’

  ‘Well, there ain’t much right with it, missus,’ insisted the boy. ‘My belly’s all twistin’ up, and I ain’t had more than a couple of morsels. What do you call it again?’

  ‘Beef hash,’ replied Mrs. Tanner calmly.

  ‘Well, you might call it that,’ said the boy, grimacing and spitting a mouthful of food back onto his plate, ‘but I know a bit of horse-meat when I has it.’

  ‘It’s off a good leg of beef that we’ve been serving all morning, and no complaints.’

  ‘That ain’t my affair,’ observed the boy. ‘Maybe their gullets was so choked up, they didn’t have half a chance.’

  Mrs. Tanner looked over at her other customers. To her annoyance, if not surprise, the pair of costers who sat nearby suddenly seemed to contemplate their own plates with a degree of suspicion. She stepped out from behind the counter and walked over to the boy. He was no more than fifteen years old, despite his cocksure demeanour, and not particularly tall for his age.

  ‘Hook it,’ she said, firmly. ‘Before I call a copper.’

  ‘Here’s a fine thing!’ exclaimed the boy, seemingly affronted. ‘Poison a fellow and chuck him out!’

  ‘Look here, I don’t know who you are,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘but you won’t get a penny from me for this cheap dodge, not if you drop down dead on the spot and half of London gets to hear about it. Now, hook it.’