Dead Born

by Joan Lock

  Best took a deep breath. It was no good. He’d made up his mind. ‘Look, sir,’ he said, ‘It’s no use—’

  Cheadle interrupted again. ‘You wouldn’t want to leave a job ’alf finished, would you, Inspector Best?’

  The old bugger!

  ‘Just come through while you was in Woolwich.’ He pushed his huge body upright once again, picked up a copy of Police orders and waved it at Best. ‘Congratulations, son!’ He put out his hand. The old war horse was grinning all over his face, secure once again in his own guile and the ability to outsmart others.

  Helen was in her studio when Best arrived. He loved it in there and was so proud of her talent and fascinated by her work. She was just finishing up, cleaning her brushes and hands – so was at his mercy.

  ‘Sergeant Best!’ she exclaimed, as he got her in his grasp.

  ‘Inspector, if you don’t mind,’ he murmured casually into her hair. ‘Let’s have a little respect, woman.’

  Her face lit up in a wide smile. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ she exclaimed. ‘About time they showed their appreciation.’

  He refrained from revealing the bad news, the return to John Street, just yet. No sense in spoiling the moment and she was obviously delighted for him and, he was pleased to see, seemed quite proud of him.

  ‘What do you think,’ she said, when they stopped the kissing so she could finish cleaning up. She pointed to her easel.

  ‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘It’s Joseph!’

  She laughed. ‘I’m glad you recognize him. It’s just an underpainting as yet, of course. A long way to go.’

  ‘You’ll be stuck if he is claimed before it’s finished?’

  ‘That’s not very likely I fear.’

  Despite continuing police enquiries, it transpired that none of Joseph’s other relatives had yet surfaced.

  ‘He must surely have some aunts and uncles,’ said Helen. ‘I think I’ve picked out an Auntie May from among his burbles. I’ve told the police and they’ve put it in the newspaper again – so we could be hearing soon.’

  ‘If we don’t, perhaps we should keep him,’ said Best hopefully. He was becoming fond of the precise little boy who held his head so straight, except when the subject of his mother came up. Then it slumped on to his chest and the tears ran down and soaked his shirt and sobs racked his pathetically small frame. Besides, he and the little lad had been through a lot together. There was also the possibility that keeping Joseph might hurry along the prospect of marriage.

  Joseph had obviously become fond of Helen. Fascinated even. He followed her around just staring at her. A bit like me, Best thought ruefully. She was kind and thoughtful with the boy, reading to him and letting him splash around with watercolours. But it was her housekeeper who supplied most of the necessary supply of hugs and sang to him when she put him to bed. Had Helen no mothering instinct, Best wondered? Or was she holding it back?

  One thing was certain: she was not happy that he had to go back to John Street. ‘Just when we were getting a chance to renew our acquaintance,’ she said crossly. He didn’t much like the sound of that “acquaintance”. ‘And to see how we feel, and make our decisions,’ she added.

  He knew how he felt and what his decision was and said so. Could it be that she didn’t love him? No. He knew that couldn’t be true. Since he had come back their passion for each other had almost gained full sway. They hated to be apart and, when together, gazed at each other and touched constantly.

  ‘We must discuss things,’ she said, when he brought up marriage. ‘As soon as Joseph has been claimed and you are back from Islington.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Is there nothing you can do to hurry all that business along?’

  He shook his head. ‘We must have solid evidence and daren’t rush things in case they take fright and decamp. It’s happened before and a lot of time and money have been wasted.’

  It did shock him that she seemed not to be as horrified as he by the baby-farming and consequent ‘child dropping’.

  ‘What do you expect?’ she had said crossly, when they were discussing it. ‘What choice do some of these poor women have!’ But she did think that the murder of Nella was a terrible thing and, in fact, became quite emotional about it. ‘We must do something,’ she agreed.

  ‘Oh, but it’s been just terrible around here,’ exclaimed Mrs O’Connor, as she ladled out the Irish stew. ‘So many of them came from Islington. The place has been a vale of tears!’ Best had read about the young lady from Barnsbury Street, the landlord of the Alfred Tavern, where Best had supped an occasional pint with Smith, and the landlord’s two sons – all gone.

  ‘Most of that Cowcross Street Bible Class came from round here,’ she said. ‘Over forty of them there were, and only three came back.’

  ‘I think it must have been them I heard singing hymns just before the collision,’ said Best.

  She sighed and shook her head. ‘The really sad bit,’ she said, handing him his plate, ‘is that the outing was all so last minute. That Miss Law had been promising them all the treat, them being so poor and her so wealthy, and when she saw what a lovely day it was she sent round a message saying “Today’s the day”.’ She paused in her ladling. ‘It certainly was, wasn’t it? For her too, and her friends she’d asked along.’

  ‘Makes you wonder,’ said Best.

  ‘What God above is thinking of?’ she nodded. ‘You’re right. And as for that poor child Nella!’

  Best nodded. ‘I had expected to find Martha’s body because I’d seen her on board – but when I found Nella’s as well, I just couldn’t believe it!’

  ‘Such a shock it must have been. The poor lamb.’ She sat down at the table. ‘I can imagine.’ She shook her head, ‘No, no, in fact, I can’t. Truly, it beggars belief.’

  Best looked up quickly and frowned before dragging his attention back to his meal.

  ‘That Murphy’s been beside himself over Martha. I didn’t even know he knew the girl. Never met her myself.’ She sighed. ‘One can’t help thinking there’s a bit of the judgement of the Lord in there – but I suppose that’s too uncharitable.’

  Best pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about. One thing was sure, he was relieved that Murphy wasn’t in the house. He’d gone to Ireland to see his family and was not due back for a couple of days.

  Mrs O’Connor gave him a penetrating look. ‘Sure, and weren’t we worried about you as well – particularly you being an invalid and all.’ She handed him the salt. ‘I must say I was surprised at you dashing off down the river in the first place. Then, when you didn’t come back and we heard about the terrible tragedy, we thought without doubt you must have perished along with all the others.’

  Best tried to look casual. ‘Well, it was such a nice day, I acted on the spur of the moment. I lived to regret it.’ He realized how that sounded and added. ‘But, at least I lived.’

  ‘You were lucky, very lucky.’ She gave him a long look. ‘I think perhaps you must be stronger than you think, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘If I am, Mrs O’Connor,’ he said, ‘it’s probably down to your good feeding.’

  She smiled back at him, but there was doubt in her eyes. He was, he realized, up against someone hard to fool and to charm. He’d been right: Littlechild should have come here instead of himself.

  Young Linwood, who had been straining forward in his seat just dying to ask questions, could bear it no longer.

  ‘What was it like when you saw the collier looming up on you like that?’

  ‘Bloody terrifying. Excuse the language, Mrs O’Connor, but I’ve never been so frightened in my life.’

  ‘So, what did you do!’

  ‘I jumped on to its anchor chains.’ The moment he said it he realized it was a mistake.

  ‘And you being so weak,’ mumured Mrs O’Connor. ‘Who’d have thought it possible?’

  ‘They say fear gives you the strength of ten, Mrs O’Connor,’ he explained.

  ‘It seems so.’


  Young Linwood was agog. ‘Is it true that hardly anyone could swim? That they all drowned in seconds?’

  Best looked down at his stew and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to lock out the flailing bodies pushing each other under and screaming such terrible screams.

  ‘If you go on like this, Mr Linwood,’ scolded Mrs O’Connor, ‘I’ll be thinking that my food is not good enough to occupy your attention.’

  Linwood couldn’t contain his curiosity, ‘No, but, they say they all struggled and—’

  ‘Mr Linwood!’ she exclaimed sharply. ‘Have some sense! Can’t you see the man’s upset!’

  Best realized he’d been grasping his spoon with awful ferocity but that hadn’t stopped it rattling against his plate, a reaction which startled even him. He was glad when supper was over and took the opportunity to excuse himself so he could go up to his room to write a letter to his cousin.

  When he got there, he stopped outside the door for a moment, kept quite still and listened. Detecting no sound behind him he carried on up the next flight of stairs, halted before his landlady’s room, turned the handle of her door and slipped inside. She should be in her kitchen yet awhile, clearing up the supper things.

  Mrs O’Connor’s room was quite small and modest. Apart from the single bed with its rose-strewn cover there was space only for a simple, rather shabby oak wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. Would he find what he was looking for here, or had she somewhere else for her odds and ends, Best wondered?

  The left-hand top drawer yielded only plain handkerchiefs and black lisle stockings. The second appeared a little more promising. Heaped higgledy-piggledy were small boxes of mementoes; a tiny faded silk rose, a jet necklace he’d seen his landlady wearing on Sunday evenings and a blue enamelled brooch bearing a portrait of a young Queen Victoria.

  He glanced behind him, straining to catch any hint of sound on the stairs, then lifted out all the small items so he could reach and remove the flat, red, writing folder beneath. With shaking hands he opened it – and there it was.

  ‘Would it just be my jewellery you’re after, Mr Best,’ said a cold voice behind him. He froze. ‘If it is, you’ll see there’s not much of it.’

  He turned round slowly, his face scarlet, cursing himself that, in his excitement, he’d failed to keep proper watch. What to do now?

  As they stared at each other he took a deep breath before holding up the blue speckled writing-paper. ‘No, Mrs O’Connor,’ he said quietly, ‘it was this.’

  She put her head to one side. ‘If you’d run out of paper you had only to ask,’ she said. ‘No need—’

  He cut her short. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘If you’re wanting to know if I wrote those letters to Scotland Yard.’ She shrugged and smiled wryly. ‘Yes, Officer, it was me.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  They stayed up late, talking. Best explained that while an expression she used, ‘it beggars belief’, had chimed with him, he had been unable to pinpoint why. Indeed, the penny hadn’t even dropped when he’d read the second letter, where she had used it again. It was only that evening, when she’d said it at supper, that it all fell into place.

  ‘Sure,’ she sighed, ‘I haven’t the makings of a spy, have I now?’

  Best smiled and shook his head. ‘You’ve been a great help to us pinpointing this place. Now, all we need is enough evidence.’

  ‘I’ll help you all I can.’

  That was what he wanted to hear. It was the hope she would say that which had made him take the chance of bearding her.

  ‘I have to say, you never looked very poorly to me,’ she confessed with a grin. ‘And when I spotted you dashing off after Martha like that, I thought to myself – Mrs O’Connor, if only you were that sick!’

  She agreed to keep watch when Best was out and to make a note of what she saw. Also, to give evidence if necessary. He couldn’t ask for more than that. But he did.

  ‘We’re going to have to make friends with them.’

  She looked aghast. ‘I don’t know if I could do that.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, Mrs O’Connor. I don’t mean become bosom pals – just casually pass the time of day. Then build on that. I’ll be starting in the morning when I go to see them.’

  ‘You’re going in there?’ said his new recruit doubtfully. ‘Won’t that be giving the game away?’

  ‘No. It would be more suspicious if I didn’t. They must know I was the last to see Martha alive. I’ll just be offering my condolences and saying how happy she looked – just before … ’

  ‘And Nella? What will you say about her?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll think about that.’

  Next morning Best presented himself at the door of 7 John Street. It was a fresh, sunny but very still day with just a hint of early autumn musty sharpness in the air.

  A thin, young skivvy of about fourteen opened the door.

  ‘I’m from next door,’ he told her. ‘I’d like to see your mistress, please.’

  The lank-haired girl looked doubtful but had obviously received some instruction in how to handle unexpected callers. She led him to the front parlour before taking his name and saying she’d see whether Mrs Dawes was in.

  ‘She doesn’t know me,’ he warned, ‘but tell her it’s about Martha. I was on the Princess Alice.’

  The girl’s pale-blue eyes widened and her already slack mouth dropped further open. She tried to mumble something but was too confused to get anything out.

  It was some minutes before a well-upholstered, middle-aged woman appeared, wearing an expression of pious sadness on her plump face but with a wariness in her faded blue eyes. She must have been a peaches and cream beauty once, thought Best, and there was still something about her.

  ‘Mr Best,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Mrs Dawes. Mary says you knew our poor, dear Martha.’ Her voice was straining for gentility.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I’d only seen her occasionally coming and going from here. I’d never actually spoken to her but, of course, when we recognized each other on the Princess Alice we exchanged a few words. Out of politeness really. As one does.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  She sat him down on the sofa, placed herself alongside on a matching armchair and pulled out a lacy handkerchief. A waft of eau de Cologne assailed his nostrils. ‘That poor girl,’ she exclaimed, ‘I still can’t believe it. She was like a daughter to me.’

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘It was a terrible thing. Terrible. I have nightmares.’

  ‘Oh, you must. You must.’ She paused before asking tremulously, ‘Were you with her when … please tell me all about it. I must know the worst.’

  That was what most people wanted to hear, Best had found. However, he had already decided that in this instance the full drama and the (almost) truth, would most suit his purposes.

  ‘The awful thing is that it was just before the collision happened when we spoke. We’d only just said hello and something about recognizing each other from John Street, when there was all this commotion at the front of the boat. I went forward to see what it was all about, leaving poor Martha sitting there, all unsuspecting just by the paddle box. Suddenly, to my astonishment and horror I saw the Bywell Castle – its great red hull looming above us. Then it just crashed into us – by the paddle box – near where Martha had been sitting!’

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Dawes exclaimed thrusting the handkerchief up to her putty nose and loose mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness!’

  Best looked alarmed and reached forward to clasp her hand. ‘Oh, my dear lady! How tactless of me to tell you that. I should never … ’

  ‘No,’ she reassured him, rapidly recovering herself as she patted her chest to still her heart. ‘I must hear the truth, hard though it may be. I owe it to the poor girl’s memory.’

  Best shook his head and made a show of not knowing how to continue.

  ‘And then … ’ Mrs Da
wes prompted him.

  He inclined his head sadly. ‘The bow chains of the Bywell Castle were hanging there before me and, without thinking, I just leaped on to them and was pulled to safety.’

  ‘Oh, oh,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t think. I didn’t think,’ he exclaimed in distress, ‘about Martha – about leaving her like that!’

  ‘But I’m sure you couldn’t have done anything, my boy,’ Mrs Dawes reassured him, her pale chins wobbling in sympathy.

  ‘I know. I know,’ he agreed. His voice broke a little as he spoke. ‘But I still feel guilty, so guilty.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t, you mustn’t,’ she said, a trifle impatiently. For a second, her pious expression slipped as she leaned forward eagerly. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’

  ‘Oh, dreadful. Quite dreadful.’

  He had just begun to elaborate further when the doorbell rang, followed shortly afterwards by a knock on the parlour door and a girl’s voice saying, ‘The doctor’s ’ere’, Mrs Dawes.’

  Her mistress was clearly very torn by this news, as was Best who was only just warming up.

  ‘Tell him to go through, Lizzie,’ Mrs Dawes replied, ‘I’ll be with him in a moment.’ She turned to Best. ‘I must know more about poor Martha’s fate,’ she said, ‘I owe her that.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘Can you come back tomorrow at tea-time – about four o’clock?’

  Best nodded. ‘Of course, dear lady. Of course.’ This was just what he wanted. A further visit would consolidate their acquaintanceship, then all he would need was some other reason to drop in again – in neighbourly fashion.

  ‘She obviously likes to give the premises a respectable air,’ he told an eager Mrs O’Connor when he got back. ‘The front parlour is quite genteel and she’s trained the girl Lizzie a little on how to receive callers.’

  ‘Did you see that doctor fella close up?’ asked Mrs O’Connor conspiratorially.

  ‘Only a glimpse. No more.’

  It was a relief to have someone to talk to about all this, Best thought. He only hoped he wasn’t making a mistake about his landlady. She’d hinted that it had been a personal tragedy that had made her feel this way and to write the letters. But she hadn’t elaborated and he hadn’t pressed her. She would tell him in time.