by Joan Lock
The Islington Gazette was demanding to know why so many of its readers had drowned and was pointing the finger straight at the local vestry. In a parish of nearly a quarter of a million souls there was only one small, private swimming bath, their leader page pointed out furiously. But what had the vestry done, when a public facility had been mooted, following the recent Public Baths and Washhouses Act? Not only had they declined to take advantage, they had resisted the idea ‘with something approaching prejudice’! This, while St Pancras, a similar neighbouring area (but with a council less pretentious to refinement and intelligence), had taken up the question with a liberal spirit.
This may have been, the newspaper conceded, partly because that at the same time the idea of free public libraries had been suggested. But now the library notion had been shelved, they should go ahead with vigour.
Ideas for keeping afloat in water continued to pour into the newspapers. They ranged from removable cork seating cushions on all pleasure craft (which seemed to Best quite a sensible idea) to using an open umbrella or the rim of one’s hat to support one. The notion that ladies, too, should learn to swim, had also gained ground particularly since, it was reported, that only one lady had been able to save herself in this manner. Women’s multi-layered clothes, it was also conceded, were probably no help with buoyancy.
He intended to take quite a strong line with Helen on learning to swim and he wondered how Murphy must be feeling, given his previous, strident opposition. But, truth to tell, Best knew that even had Martha been able to swim she would have stood little chance of survival given where she had been sitting at the time of impact. Maybe he would find an opportunity to tell Murphy that – if he could find a way which made it sound less horrendous.
The occasional body from the Princess Alice was still surfacing, the papers reported. The first part of the inquest was virtually over and a verdict of ‘drowned’ brought in on the majority of the 623 bodies found. A particularly depressing note was that this number included eleven who had reached the shore alive but died soon afterwards.
Blame for the accident was still being bandied about and no conclusion could be reached until the end of both the second half of the inquest and the Board of Trade enquiry which was now underway. But rumour had it that not only had the pleasure boat’s lookout system been pathetically inadequate, but that the man steering the craft had never done so before and, indeed, had only taken over at Gravesend, as a favour for a friend who wanted a night out.
Best laid the papers down. He had realized that he could act with a little more freedom now that Mrs O’Connor was sharing observation duty. And there were another couple of calls he should make.
This time, Best turned right, rather than left, as he came out of 9 John Street. Staying on the sunny side he crossed Thornhill Road and continued on down the hill, past the new North London Synagogue which served the area’s German and Polish Jews. He paused to admire its large, white, glass globes perching high on scrolled ironwork supports either side of the decorative entrance gates and the handsome carvings on the porch beyond.
His watch showed 2.30 p.m., his step was light, and his stomach replete with Mrs O’Connor’s best pea soup and a portion of pork pie. There were distinct advantages in having her as a co-conspirator. Previously he had had to make do with bread and butter and a little cheese at midday, and that as a concession as her other ‘gentlemen’ needed to be fed only in the evening.
He continued across Hemingford Road lined with flat-roofed terraced houses and large, semi-detached villas, iced with much white paintwork giving them a decidedly Hansel and Gretel air. On, down through Thornhill Square – which wasn’t square at all but pear-shaped, with the fatter end being sliced off by John Street. Sitting squat in the centre of the resultant crescent was the cream-coloured, large and lumpy St Andrew’s Church. It would have looked fine on the breast of a wild Scottish moorland, Best felt, but was somewhat overwhelming in this dignified, residential neighbourhood.
He was in familiar country. Best had trodden these streets and squares as a young constable, posted to N division. Indeed, he had been here when some of the more recent houses in this ever-burgeoning area were being built. It had been one of his duties to keep a close eye on the piles of bricks and stacks of timber which had a habit of disappearing from one site and reappearing on another. He recalled the camaraderie of those days with affection, but not the endless patrolling and oppressive discipline.
Best reached Caledonian Road, a wide thoroughfare leading north from King’s Cross. Further up ‘the Cally’ brooded the huge Pentonville Prison and, close by, the Royal Caledonian Asylum, an orphanage for the sons of Scots killed on active service – which had given the road its name. He remembered how the kilted uniforms of the boys often brightened these grey streets.
Best dodged between the heavy traffic and began threading his way through the streets beyond. The terraces here were more densely packed than those on the other side of ‘the Cally’ and the houses meaner. They were dirtier, too, despite being fairly recently built. Soot from the trains, dust from the railway coal depot and local brick and tile works saw to that. It was also smellier down here where the more noxious offshoots of the nearby Metropolitan Cattle Market, such as soap making, bone milling, tripe-stripping and varnish manufacture, had taken root. Not surprisingly the residents, too, were poor and dirty and smelly, unlike those up the hill to the east.
Soon he had reached his destination, Stroud’s Vale, an oddly sylvan name, he thought, for an area overlooking the mainline railway into King’s Cross.
He found the house he was looking for, rang the bell and waited. There was no response.
‘What d’you want, mister?’ came a sudden coarse shout from below.
He looked down to the basement area and got the shock of his life. ‘Nella!’ he exclaimed.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Nah!’ exclaimed the young girl who stood in the open doorway of the basement with a toddler clutching her skirt. ‘I ain’t Nella. I’m her sister, Jessie.’
When Best descended the steep steps he saw the difference immediately. Not only was this girl younger, she had a more prominent nose and teeth, and none of her sister’s spark. Indeed, her expression was straightforwardly sullen.
‘Nella’s dead,’ she said bluntly.
‘I know,’ admitted Best. ‘It was just that you looked so much like her.’
‘Well, she was my sister, wasn’t she?’ she said doggedly, as though to a simpleton. ‘Stands to reason, don’t it?’
Best agreed that it did. ‘Is your father in?’ he enquired, in an effort to end this pointless exchange.
‘No, ’course not,’ she said suspiciously. ‘He’s at work, ain’t he?’ She blocked the doorway making it clear he would not be invited in. Close to, her face was grimy and her clothes limp and dirty. Best was happy not to be invited in, given the glimpse he could see of the filthy interior. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ she said, sharply.
‘I found Nella’s body. I knew her slightly because I was living next door in John Street.’ Best felt silly being wrongfooted by this child and having to stand on the doorstep explaining himself.
‘Oh.’ Jessie seemed neither impressed nor curious.
‘I helped your father bury her.’
‘Oh, yeh.’ Jessie shifted her weight on to her other foot and rubbed her back. ‘ ’E said there was a bloke what did.’ The news that Best was the bloke did not soften her.
‘I brought these for the children.’ He handed over a bag of boiled sweets which she took without thanks. ‘I just wanted to see your father to tell him about how I got on with his application to the Lord Mayor’s Fund.’
She looked at him blankly although he could have sworn he saw a flicker of interest in her eyes. Best was tired of this.
‘Will he be in tomorrow night?’
‘Mebbe,’ she replied truculently.
‘I’ll be here at 8.30 p.m.,’ he snapped. ‘Tell him to be in,’ he add
ed bluntly as he turned on his heel and stomped up the steps, his good mood gone.
Best was greeted rather more warmly the following afternoon. Mrs Dawes, if he was not mistaken, had got herself up especially for the occasion. She was wearing a maroon velvet afternoon gown and ropes of pearls which set off her only remaining good point, her peachy-soft fair skin.
It occurred to him that both her attire and the contents of the room, now losing its initial chill as a newly laid fire warmed it, were rather more expensive than what might be expected in this average Islington street – as, apparently, were some of the clientele.
Mrs Dawes must be fifty if she was a day, but, he decided, given the obvious extra effort she’d put in, a little judicious flattery would not go amiss. He complimented her on her gown and she blushed demurely and thanked him. However, he sensed that it was unlikely she would be easily taken in. There was a native knowingness and cunning nestling below those soft cheeks and voluptuous bosom. Indeed, she could well be playing him at his own game. He would have to tread carefully.
After he had duly described the sad demise of Martha – not sparing the ghastly details – she said, ‘And how did Martha seem beforehand? Was she happy? I do hope so.’
Best was about to jump in with tales of the young woman’s good spirits when he realized that she was awaiting his reply with some expectancy. He hesitated, then swiftly decided that honesty was the best policy. Well, a nod in the direction of honesty anyway. So many of the victims came from Islington, some survivors must do so as well. Possibly, survivors known to Mrs Dawes and Martha and who may have seen her weeping.
‘A little upset, I’m sad to say,’ he admitted with a shrug and show of reluctance. ‘Indeed, that’s why I spoke to her when I saw her sitting near the paddle box.’
‘She was crying?’ asked Mrs Dawes.
Now he knew she knew.
He nodded. ‘And since we had acknowledged each other in passing, it seemed churlish not to stop and enquire whether she was all right.’
‘Of course. Of course. How kind you are.’ She paused. ‘And what was it that was troubling her?’
‘Well, at first I couldn’t make it out, but I guessed it must be something to do with the little chap I’d seen her with at Rosherville.’
‘And it was?’
‘Yes. Apparently she was sad she’d had to leave him behind. Understandable, really.’
‘Of course. And were you able to comfort her?’
‘I hope so, a little. But, just as she was drying her eyes there was the commotion up front and I dashed forward … ’
There was a short silence while they gave the moment due solemnity. Then Mrs Dawes leaned forward and patted his hand. ‘You comforted her, Mr Best. You can always be glad about that.’
He relaxed a little. He had passed the test. She seemed satisfied. He had managed to bring into play the first principle of a good defence when guilty – admit to known facts but put a different interpretation on them. The strategy had saved many an outright villain and always would.
Tea and small cakes were brought in and Mrs Dawes threw herself into acting the hostess. It wasn’t until he had bitten into a delicious coconut macaroon that she threw her second body blow.
‘I hear that it was you who found poor Nella’s body, Mr Best?’
He had been wondering whether to bring up the other two people concerned: Nella and Murphy. He had no idea how involved Murphy was with this household, but had decided to avoid mentioning him at this stage. The subject of Nella he would broach. After all, her father was known here. Mrs Dawes had beaten him to it, thus putting him at a disadvantage. She was no fool.
He nodded as he swallowed, endeavouring neither to choke nor appear disconcerted. Once his mouth was clear, he admitted as naturally as possible that this was also the case. ‘I hesitated to bring it up, dear lady, in case it upset you too much. Two such deaths in one household … ’
‘Well, of course, Nella had left. … ’
‘Oh yes, I realized that, but also that you would have an affection for her.’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when I found her. I wasn’t really sure at first. I’d only seen her once or twice when she was pegging out clothes in the garden and she’d stopped for a minute to admire my painting … but her father confirmed it was the poor child,’
‘Such a sad, sad business.’
It was a much more relaxed Mrs Dawes who pressed him to more cakes and enquired whether he painted portraits as well as garden subjects. He made her smile at his description of his struggles just to paint the dog roses, bringing all his charm into play and even treating her to his full, flashing smile. Something he rarely lavished on the English, knowing that some found it over-expressive and ‘foreign’.
‘You must pop in for tea again,’ she pressed him when he complimented her on her hospitality and took his leave.
He certainly would, he declared warmly.
Best had been dying to ask Nella’s father pertinent questions about what had happened to her between the time he had last seen her in the garden and her body being found. But, as he was meant to be no more than a casual acquaintance of hers, he had so far desisted. Nor had his colleagues been able to question the man in depth. The fact that she may have been murdered had not yet been revealed.
Berger had told the police that Nella had returned home after the birth but then taken off without warning. Later, he had discovered she had gone for a day trip on the Princess Alice. It was a complete mystery to him how or why she had done this and who could have given her the money. It had been a bit of a mystery to Best how she could have felt fit enough to take such an excursion so soon after the birth. In fact, he now knew that she hadn’t.
Best was still holding himself back as he sat across from Berger in a room which had obviously seen a little hasty tidying and even the application of the odd wet rag since he had half-glimpsed it the day before. Even the sullen Jessie was making a little effort to be civil under the watchful eye of her father. But she spoke only when prompted by him. Indeed, reacted only to him.
The place was cold and the bare floorboards, softened only by a couple of worn mats, made it feel colder. Berger indicated that they should draw closer to the meagre fire, which was sending what little heat it provided straight up the chimney.
Berger, all sign of mourning gone, was obviously pleased when Best told him that the Lord Mayor’s Fund had agreed that he was entitled to more money. But not so happy to learn that he would have to wait until the final inquest verdict before it could be released.
‘Vy so?’ he asked indignantly. ‘Everyone else has got theirs.’ As his anger grew, Jessie became very still and tense as she sat in the corner of the room where the three other children lay sleeping under an overcoat. ‘Vy I have to vait?’ Berger thumped his clenched fist into his other palm. ‘You say it is just a formality – but I need food for children!’
And drink to drink, thought Best. He had caught the smell on the man’s breath as he came in and was pretty sure that was why Jessie hadn’t known whether her father would be in tonight. It was probably only the prospect of money that had tempted him away from the pub.
Best leaned forward and put out his hand which contained a small roll of notes. ‘They have kindly authorized me to give you this meanwhile.’
He saw some of the stiffness go out of Jessie’s body and heard a small sigh of relief.
Berger was too distracted to notice her reaction. He tried to grab the money but Best stayed his hand, making him count it out and sign a receipt before handing it over.
‘I still feel so sad about Nella,’ Best murmured when their business was done.
‘Yeh. Very sad,’ said Berger, shifting restlessly on his chair. It was clear the man did not want to waste drinking time in exchanging polite conversation.
‘I’ve explained your need,’ he reminded Berger, ‘and that you should have special consideration.’
That re
gained his attention. ‘Good. Good. You have been good help to me.’
‘You know, it was so sudden,’ said Best.
‘The accident. Ja.’
‘No. Nella’s disappearance.’
‘Disappearance. Vot disappearance?’
‘From John Street.’ Best smiled sadly. ‘Understandable really. Their time comes. They have their baby and they go.’
‘Ja. That’s how it is.’
‘Just wasn’t able to say goodbye, I suppose.’
Berger seemed uncertain of how to react to Best’s amiable ramblings. ‘Ja,’ he mumbled.
Best leaned forward, concerned. ‘Tell me, did she have an easy time?’
‘Easy? Vot … ?’
‘The birth. I hope it wasn’t too difficult for her. The poor girl was long overdue – she told me.’
Berger sat back, relieved. ‘Oh, no.’ He shrugged. ‘It vos easy. Very easy, they told me.’ He laughed. ‘Been vaiting so long to come out, I guess.’
Best smiled in a comradely way. Poor, bloody Nella with a father like this. The tears at the burial, he now realized, were either for himself or just for show. Or an amalgam of both.
‘Was it a boy or a girl?’ Best longed to be out of this stinking hole but persisted with his seemingly rambling enquiries about a girl he’d only met in passing and formed a certain fondness for.
‘Oh. A boy.’ Berger spread out his wide square hands. ‘A big boy.’
Best sighed. ‘I wish I’d seen him.’ He smiled. ‘Was he like his mother?’
‘Oh ja. Ja,’ said Berger, then proudly, ‘and a bit like me!’ He laughed. Then he pulled himself up. ‘His grandfather.’
‘I hope he found a good home.’
‘Oh ja. Ja. Always, with Mrs Dawes. Rich people. Very rich.’