Dead Born

by Joan Lock

  The ancient town of Woolwich had seen more than its fair share of tragedies since it had first risen to prominence when Henry VIII established the Royal Dockyard in 1512. Many famous ships had been built there including the Great Harry, the flagship of Henry’s new Royal Navy. But most of Woolwich’s recent disasters were connected with the Royal Arsenal and so had always been well heralded. Heard before being identified.

  In 1845, there was an explosion in a laboratory where fuses were being dismantled – killing seven workers. Ten years on, four more men were unceremoniously sent to meet their Maker by an explosion in the rocket shed.

  Few of Woolwich’s catalogue of catastrophies was quite so well broadcast as that of 1856. Brought about by haste in the preparations for celebrations marking the end of the Crimean War, a rocket ignited, setting off 20,000 squibs and a number of starlight fireworks. The result was a spectacular firework display, one death and many injuries. Eleven days later two men died in an accident in the percussion cap shed.

  Worse was to come in 1867 when twenty-four young lads were badly burned while making blank cartridges for the new, breech-loading, Snider rifle. Five of them later died. The following year three men were badly injured when disposing of some fulminate of mercury, seized from a Hamburg-bound vessel. One of them, a police inspector, eventually died of his injuries.

  During the oh-so-secret 1874 trials of the fish torpedo (designed to wreak havoc on enemy ships) a man was blown to pieces and several others injured.

  It appeared that every material used in the production of armaments was capable of killing of its own volition. All except gun cotton – a material produced by soaking cotton with sulphuric and nitric acid – but which, the workers were assured, was harmless unless deliberately detonated.

  The gun cotton explosion took place on 24 May 1875, when, in the cause of experiment, two workers were packing the cotton into a shell with the aid of a hydraulic press. Both died when it self-detonated.

  Thus Woolwich was well prepared for noisy tragedies often followed or accompanied by dazzling skies. But when the greatest tragedy ever to occur in their vicinity or, come to that, in the whole of the British Isles, took place, it stole in on slippered feet and caught them unawares.

  The first inkling that anything at all untoward had taken place just off their river bank had been the prolonged and mournful wail of the ships’ warning sirens drifting in over the marshes on the peaceful evening air. But one of them had soon ceased its bleating and the other faded shortly afterwards. The people of Woolwich were also well accustomed to warning river noises which came and went, generally without consequence.

  So, it wasn’t until pier hands heard an anguished hail from an approaching rowing-boat and a clearly distressed waterman had jumped on to their floating platform that they realized something dreadful was amiss. Huddled in the small boat were five saturated and shivering adults and one child. Laid out on the bottom were four bodies.

  Helen was surprised to see the handsome young police officer.

  ‘John George,’ she smiled. ‘How nice to see you. Come in.’

  Smith had not yet mastered completely the art of hiding his feelings, despite Best’s insistence that this was a part of a policeman’s armour. He smiled and nodded but at the same time blurted out, ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Is who here?’ She stood aside to allow him entry. ‘Do you mean Ernest?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ah. I would have thought you would know that better than I since he did not meet me at the station as promised.’

  ‘He didn’t!’ Smith was shocked.

  ‘No.’ She indicated a fireside chair but Smith was too agitated to sit down. ‘I assumed something had come up with regard to his work.’

  ‘No. Well, yes. It must have done.’ He sat down heavily.

  ‘Take a deep breath and tell me all about it,’ said Helen soothingly.

  So it was a boating accident. Woolwich had had a few of those as well. Only five years earlier, nine workmen had drowned when their boat capsized while they tried desperately to get across to work in Silvertown despite impenetrable fog.

  But the waterman was babbling about the Princess Alice – which they knew was now three quarters of an hour overdue – and talking about hundreds of people drowning. The knot of workmen who had gathered around the sodden survivors soon became a small crowd and word rapidly spread.

  The survivors, wrapped in blankets, were soon huddling around the fire in the kitchen of the Steam Packet public house while the four bodies were placed in an outhouse of the Ship and Half Moon Inn. In the slum-ridden streets by the pier, ‘the dusthole’ as it was called, larger crowds were gathering. It couldn’t be true. Hundreds of people? Where were they all then?

  When Best’s dinghy arrived a dozen hands reached out to help him and the little boy out of the boat. The people hereabouts were poor but they desperately wanted to help. A woman tried to take the little boy away to look after him but he screamed and clung to Best’s soaked and slimy legs.

  ‘Come with me, both of you,’ commanded a middle-aged man with a kindly face. ‘I’ll get you some dry clothes and a warm fire.’

  Helen waited around the corner in the Liverpool Road while Smith knocked once again on Mrs O’Connor’s door.

  ‘Wasn’t that a short programme then?’ she exclaimed on seeing him.

  Smith grinned ruefully. ‘I’d mistaken the evening,’ he confided. ‘The house was nearly full so I decided, instead of sitting in a bad seat, I’d rather come and have a chat with good old cousin Ernie.’

  ‘Ah, now, haven’t I got to disappoint you there.’ She shook her head. ‘The man’s not back yet.’

  ‘Oh!’ Smith was really worried now. Had the next-door neighbours suspected something and done something terrible to Best?

  ‘Don’t look so worried, young man,’ the amiable landlady cajoled him. ‘Sure, it’s unlike the gentleman in question but don’t we all do something unlike ourselves sometimes?’ She smiled. ‘As a matter of fact he’s gone on a jolly day out on the river.’

  The news startled Smith even more but this time he managed to hide his perplexity with a grin. ‘Has he now? The old devil.’

  ‘Yes. The only reason I know this is one of my other gentlemen actually saw him boarding the Princess Alice pleasure steamer at London Bridge this morning. The boat was bound for Sheerness but who’s to know how far he was planning to go?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure the air will do him the world of good,’ he assured Mrs O’Connor nonchalantly. ‘I’m only sorry I’ve missed him.’

  Smith was now even more puzzled but realized that his sergeant would have a good reason for doing what Mrs O’Connor referred to as ‘unlike the gentleman in question’.

  Very likely he was shadowing a suspect. That must be it. Best was following someone and had had no time to either send a messenger or a telegram to the Yard. Or then again, maybe he had, and no one had bothered to let Smith know. That would be typical, wouldn’t it?

  Chapter Ten

  The portly, middle-aged man was growing breathless as he hurried his charges down Bell Water Gate and into Woolwich High Street, a place of many taverns. He halted before a shop which proclaimed itself as George Robertson, Gentleman’s Outfitters’, pulled out some keys and unlocked the big glass door. He shepherded them through the shop into a small room where a tiny lady sat darning socks before a black-leaded kitchen range. Her eyes widened at the sight of them.

  ‘A terrible accident, Hilda my dear. Down on the river.’ The mantelpiece clock began to chime sweetly. The woman held out her arms to the drenched and bedraggled Joseph, exclaiming, ‘Oh you poor little thing.’

  This sudden thrust into warm, clean and welcoming surroundings disorientated Best almost as much as the accident.

  ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ said Hilda, pulling a chair towards the fire.

  Best, suddenly aware of his filthy, stinking state looked helplessly down at himself and shook his head.

 
The couple glanced at each other then, unceremoniously, began to strip the pair down before wrapping them in old blankets. George filled two huge iron pans with water, settled them over the coals and topped up the kettle which had been resting on the hob.

  ‘We’ll get you washed and warm in a trice,’ said Hilda firmly.

  Best felt as if he and Joseph were small boys who’d fallen into a pond when told not to play on the ice, and now needed their mummy. He certainly did, but Joseph seemed too dazed to react.

  Soon the pair were washed, patted and rubbed dry, wrapped in clean blankets and sat by the fire with mugs of hot soup in their hands. As soon as he sat down Joseph’s eyes had begun to close. Now his head fell forward as sleep claimed him.

  George caught the tilting mug and gathered him up, saying, ‘I think we’ll have to wait until morning before we find a suit for Joseph.’

  ‘I have to … I have to … ’ Best was having difficulty getting his words out. ‘I must … ’

  Hilda patted his arm. ‘Look for his mother, of course.’

  ‘I’ll get you some clothes,’ said George, ‘while Hilda puts Joseph to bed.’

  The shop clearly provided only for the poorer men of Woolwich. But, for once, Best cared little about what he would look like after George had finished quickly and expertly taking his measurements. Oddly, it was now that he was safe, warm and dressed again in dry clothes that he began to shiver and shake.

  ‘I must go back to the pier,’ he said.

  Smith and Helen only just managed to scramble on board the omnibus. Downstairs was so packed that they had to endure the swaying climb up the almost vertical stairs to the top deck, Smith going up first to save Helen from the possibility of embarrassment.

  He knew why some men favoured the top deck – the possible delights to be enjoyed while getting there. But the sight of ladies’ underwear was no temptation to Smith. He had seen so much of it strung out to dry in their kitchen when his widowed mother took in washing. Such garments did, however, hold a proud place in his heart. His expertise in the subject had helped identify a murder victim and so enabled him to become a detective.

  He turned to assist Helen up the last steps but she seemed to be managing with ease, aided no doubt by the lightness of her strangely narrow dress which hung in limp folds, seemingly lacking support from bustle, petticoats or even corset. Extraordinary.

  Her underwear, he acknowledged, would be a complete mystery to him. Maybe she was wearing the latest style from Paris. What, he wondered, would a sharp and natty dresser like Best make of such shapeless, unflattering attire?

  Come to that, it had always been a complete mystery to him how such an ordinary-looking woman, with her neat but unexceptional features, mousy-brown little bun and quiet voice could hold such fascination for his vibrant and attractive sergeant. Best, Smith was sure, could have almost any woman he wanted.

  Smith was obliged to use his strong shoulders and a little insistence to make enough space for both of them on the benches but the tight packing did help keep him warm. It was a pleasant moonlit night but a distinct chill was creeping into the air and Smith was still lightly clad as for a sunny day selling ice-cream.

  Helen turned her head and looked up at him enquiringly. ‘Does it not seem strange, John George,’ she said, in that disconcertingly direct manner of hers, ‘that so many people are coming in this direction at this time of night?’

  ‘Yes. I was thinking that,’ the young man nodded. ‘Can’t be that many people living by London Bridge.’ He shrugged. ‘But this is one of the last omnibuses. Maybe they’ll all be getting off down the New North Road.’

  But they didn’t. Indeed, many more people tried to get on board there but were repelled by the conductor. Where were they all going?

  ‘They could be changing on to East End omnibuses further down,’ he said.

  Helen nodded. She wasn’t a woman given to unnecessary talk so Smith fell to wondering what his wife would be thinking right now. He’d been sure he’d be back for supper. The arrangement with Best had been so cut and dried. And it was going to be hotpot tonight. He sighed. What they were doing now was just ridiculous.

  Helen had insisted that they go down to the Old Swan Pier to meet Best. True, he should have been back by now. They had waited for over an hour within sight of John Street for his return. Smith guessed that the boat’s arrival had been delayed for some reason, or Best had had difficulty getting on the packed omnibuses leaving London Bridge and they could even have been held up in traffic after that. They’d probably passed him going the other way. He would be back at John Street now, enjoying the supper Mrs O’Connor was keeping hot for him, Smith thought crossly.

  Then again, he might have left the Princess Alice further down the river when in pursuit of whoever he was in pursuit of … oh, this was all too silly. But Helen was not a woman to be balked, at least not by him, and he had asked for her help.

  ‘There’s an Archway-bound omnibus coming,’ he said touching her arm. ‘You look at the upper deck to see if he’s there and I’ll try below.’

  But there proved to be very few passengers going in the other direction. A lone, top-hatted, male smoking a fat cigar sat on the bench facing them on the upper deck but Smith’s view into the lower deck was impeded not only by the low slung slats announcing the bus route: Westminster, London Bridge, Holloway Road, Archway Tavern, but also by the vehicle’s interior oil lamp as it bumped and swayed along.

  He could just make out one female and two male figures, neither of whom seemed like Best, but he couldn’t be sure of that. In any case, Best could be sitting on the other side out of his sight altogether – which just showed how ridiculous this whole business was. The hotpot would be all gone by now and he was very hungry.

  The creaking and rattling of the other bus grew fainter. They were left with just the heavy plodding of their own pair of horses and the trundle of their own wheels occasionally counterpointed by the livelier clip-clopping trot of a passing hansom cab.

  The whole population of Woolwich seemed to be gathered in the streets leading to the waterside, but all that was being brought in now were bodies, and not many of those.

  To the forefront of the crowds outside the Woolwich Steamship Company’s offices at Roff’s Wharf, was W.T. Vincent, solid citizen of Woolwich and chief reporter of the Kentish Independent.

  W.T. was later to enquire:

  When the Furies planned this dire misfortune why should they have laid the scene at Woolwich? Were we not sufficiently notorious for deeds of evil – murders, explosions, fires, floods, fogs, wrecks, and riots, not to speak of a reputation founded and established on the fiendish trade of war?

  And, indeed it was true about the murders and riots, as well as fires and explosions. These were largely due to the great numbers of bored and restless young men garrisoned thereabouts. Young men with easy access to drink, swords and firearms.

  All of which had given the slight, bespectacled and unprepossessing Vincent remarkable experience in acting quickly and decisively in getting his news and broadcasting it to the world. Now, having warned the telegraph clerks at the post office to expect a long dispatch to The Times he was quickly culling material to fill it from the police, boatmen, survivors and onlookers. He homed in on Best who, in turn, soon realized that this man was the fount of information hereabouts and stuck with him.

  Best had decided not to announce himself to the police until his self-appointed tasks were done. He recognized some of them, particularly the inspector in charge, Phillips, but they were too overwhelmed by duty to spot him among the excited milling crowds.

  Ironically, the first bodies were taken to the boardroom of the Woolwich Steamship Company. Even more sadly ironic, Best learned, was that one of the first to be laid down there with an identity label tied to her blouse was Mrs Towse, wife of the superintendent of the steamship fleet.

  She had gone aboard the Princess Alice but a few hours earlier with their six children – none of who
m had so far been found. Mr Towse was obliged to carry on, organizing matters on behalf of his company and the passengers, alive and dead. Soon the gas was lit in the Town Hall and space prepared for more bodies.

  ‘Where are all the survivors?’ Best asked.

  Vincent hesitated, then said quietly, ‘There don’t seem to be that many.’

  Best shook his head. ‘But there were hundreds on board and we saved … ’ How many had they saved? A handful. Only a handful and hadn’t he seen all those poor wretches drowning? But, surely, many more must have been saved. He felt confused. ‘I expect most of them were taken over to the other bank. That’s it.’

  ‘Yes. Some,’ Vincent nodded. ‘I know there are some over there.’ He rubbed his short, bristly beard. He had a lot more work to do. ‘Look,’ he said kindly, ‘there are a few in the Steam Packet public house.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘Yes. One of them is called Martha. Martha Barrow. Is that your lady friend?’

  ‘Best shrugged. ‘I don’t know her second name. I’ll have to go and look.’

  ‘Better hurry. I’ve heard they’re moving them on to the infirmary soon.’

  None of the other passengers alighted down the New North Road. Nor at points further south. Indeed, there was no movement at all until the omnibus arrived at London Bridge when there was a dash for the exit. Once off the ’bus, nearly all the passengers began rushing down Swan Lane towards the Old Swan Pier. Numbers were swelled by passengers spilling out of omnibuses and trams from the East End, Westminster and south of the river.

  Smith and Helen joined the moving throng. The speed increased as an atmosphere of apprehension took hold. Looking about them, registering how many others were on a similar errand, people began to suspect that something must be wrong. Very wrong.