by Tessa Harris
“The carriage has stopped over there, miss.” He flapped his hand up ahead. I lifted my gaze to see it had parked across the mouth of the same alley at the far end.
“Very well,” I said, opening the cab door.
The driver frowned. “Surely, you ain’t wantin’ to stop ’ere, miss?” he asked anxiously as I took his hand and alighted.
“I shall be perfectly fine, thank you,” I replied in my naivety. I took out my purse and saw the driver’s head swivel round, half expecting some vagabonds to jump out at us from the shadows. Thankfully, they did not and I proceeded to pay him. I counted out a few coins in the hope that I would not be deprived of every single penny I had. The cabman held out a grimy palm. I was not quite sure whether I proffered too much or too little; but as he tipped his hat, he gave me an odd look that exposed his gums. Was it of pity or pleasure? Either way, as the cab clattered off along the cobbles and out of sight, I felt a terrible sense of trepidation. The dread rose up from the pit of my stomach and seized me by the throat. My nerves allowed a cough to escape. I was on my own. There was no turning back.
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, October 30, 1888
CONSTANCE
I wake and open one eye, then the other. I stretch out my hands in front of me, then wiggle my toes. I’m alive and nothing untoward has happened—not that I know of, at any rate. Strangely, I did not have any dreams last night. Or, if I did, I cannot remember them. Flo strides over to the window and I hold my breath as she draws the curtains. The panes are dirty with smog, but there is no writing, no words. We don’t say a lot to each other as we dress. She’s still a bit sulky with me.
Downstairs, over thin porridge, Ma suggests we return to the City. Threadneedle Street will be out of bounds to us today, because of yesterday. Someone will have reported us to the rossers, so it’s best to steer clear. But there’s always rich pickings to be had round Hatton Garden. We’re just wrapping ourselves up in readiness for another day on the streets when we hear the clop of horses’ hooves. But it don’t sound like they’re pulling your average dray cart or the rag-and-bone man’s wagon, which you normally get round here. The clatter gets louder and louder till Flo can hardly hear herself speak and then it stops. All three of us swap glances as we listen to a cabman jump down, lower the steps and open a carriage door. In two seconds, there’s a knock at our door. Ma peers out of the window and clasps her hands over her bosom.
“A lady!” she cries in a hoarse whisper.
Flo jerks her head and arches a brow at me. “It’ll be for you, then, Con,” she says, smirking.
I think of Miss Beaufroy, pull back my shoulders and answer the door. I am right. She is standing there in her finery, looking serious. I glance up to see faces pressed against windows on the other side of the street. They want to know who has come calling in a carriage. I want to know why. It’s bad news, I think. I am right.
“Miss Beaufroy.” I bob a curtsy.
“Constance. I am sorry to call on you unannounced.” She pauses.
Oh, God! She wants to come inside, I think. Reluctantly, I step back and open the door wider to let her in. Ma is mortified. She stands openmouthed for a second, then starts to cough as the cold, filthy air blasts into the room and invades her lungs.
Flo looks annoyed, churlish even. She stands her ground and does not return our visitor’s smile as she walks in. Petticoats and stockings are hanging on the clotheshorse in front of the unmade fire. The room is a mess.
I invite Miss Beaufroy to sit, but she glances at the threadbare armchair and declines. I cannot blame her.
“What a charming home you have, Mrs. Piper,” she tells Ma, who’s plumping up the only cushion we have, in between coughs. I don’t know why she had to say it when she clearly didn’t mean it. It makes me feel wretched inside to hear her speak so.
“Thank you, miss, I’m sure,” Ma replies awkwardly, nodding her head.
Miss Beaufroy’s eyes slide along the bare mantelshelf—we still haven’t put the clock back—and into the damp corners of the room. She peers into the kitchen with its earth floor as if she’s never been in a poor person’s home before. She appears quite curious, like someone who pays a penny to watch a sideshow at a circus, as if our ways are so very strange to her—which I suppose they are. Miss Tindall never behaved so. She never judged. Miss Beaufroy makes me feel uncomfortable.
“How can I help you, miss?” I ask. I’m probably speaking out of turn, but I’m squirming like a worm on a hook. I want to get this over with, for Ma’s sake more than my own.
She fixes me with an uneasy look. “You have heard about Mr. Cutler’s arrest?”
I blink. “Yes, miss.” I don’t know what else to say.
“I’ve been thinking about your dream. It’s been troubling me. I say we should go and tell the police all about it.”
“What?” I blurt. Part of me is relieved that I’m not the one who’s nabbed this surgeon, but I don’t want to get more involved than I already am.
Miss Beaufroy darts a scandalized glance at me. “It is most relevant, is it not?” She shakes her head. “Especially since his arrest. We must go to Scotland Yard this instant, Miss Piper.” She is ordering me, not asking.
“Me?” I clutch my fist to my chest.
“Yes,” she tells me firmly. “I am allowed to see my brother-in-law and you must accompany me.”
From the tone of her voice, I know I have no choice in the matter. I feel so wretched I don’t even dare look at Flo and Ma. I put on my bonnet, then reach for my woolen shawl. I pray that she won’t ask me where my jacket is. Not now. I still haven’t told Ma and Flo that she’s paid for good clothes for me.
She looks me up and down. Again she makes me feel small; then she says, “Come along. There is no time to lose.”
EMILY
As Constance and Pauline travel to visit Terence Cutler in the police cell in King Street, I shall take you back to where we left off, in pursuit of Dr. Melksham, in what I now know to be Limehouse. I looked down the alley. The carriage door was open. I sought shelter behind a large barrel. Straining my eyes into the murk, I could see an enormous warehouse door swing open and a man greet the doctor. His chestnut hair flowed from his crown like a romantic poet’s. Melksham himself swept into the building alone, allowing the second man access to the carriage. Within a few seconds, the Poet had emerged with something in his arms. I cringed at the sight. Libby was now limp as a rag doll. She must have been drugged. I watched her being carried inside the building in the arms of this stranger. The door was then shut behind them.
Left alone in the shadowy street, I was in shock. I could barely believe what I had seen, but I knew that if I had any chance of exposing Dr. Melksham’s vile enterprise, and, indeed, proving my own innocence, I had to take courage and see this through. The faces of my pupils—Molly Deakin, Gracie Arden and Maudie Dalton—flashed before my eyes. It might be too late to save them, but for Libby—inside that building, drugged and alone—it was not.
Keeping my back to the wall, I edged down the alley toward the door I had seen open. There was no one about, but then I heard a noise somewhere behind me. I turned, my heart in my mouth, to see two rats scuttle away from a pile of rotting filth and across the cobbles. I steadied myself, then carried on until I came to the building. It seemed quite anonymous, just like the other buildings in the row. An old factory or workshop, perhaps, although I thought it odd that all the windows seemed to have been boarded up. I reached the door. The paint on it was peeling and one of the planks had been damaged, but recently repaired. I put my ear to the wood. Silence. I could hear nothing. Slowly I turned the handle. The latch did not resist. It clicked softly and I pushed gently against the door to peer inside. It was a warehouse of some sort. Sacks and barrels were stacked high on either side of the door. Crates, too, all neatly aligned, although there was no clue as to what they contained. But of Melksham, or the Poet and Libby, there was no sign. There had to be a door. My eyes gravitated towa
rd the walls, looking for an opening in the gloom. I could see none, until I spotted a railing. Moving forward, I suddenly realized there was a set of broad steps. As I stood at the top of them, the stink of the Thames flooded my nostrils. The staircase must lead to the river. This is where Melksham must have gone. I knew I had to follow.
* * *
I lifted my skirts and, carefully and quietly, began the descent. Reaching the bottom, I found myself in a wide passageway. To my left, there was light. I could just about discern the river beyond, but it is what I saw to my left that disconcerted me. Two large flaming wall sconces were bolted onto two pillars ahead of me. Between these pillars were double doors studded with brass. They looked new and completely out of place in such an outwardly dilapidated building. For a moment, I hesitated, listening. I could hear voices coming from inside the doors. Scanning the space, I sought out a hiding place and soon found one behind the stairs. I headed for its refuge and prayed that no one would see me.
From my new vantage point, I could take in this strange place that had proved so deceptive from the outside. The walls seemed freshly plastered. And those torches! It suddenly occurred to me that no one would go to the trouble of lighting them, had they not been expecting more company. The thought tightened the already-present knot in my stomach. I had to act fast, but what should I do? I knew I had to seek out the child. But once I had found her, what then? In all probability, she would be guarded. Even if she was not, I knew her to be drugged. I was aware, too, of the limits of my own strength and I certainly doubted my ability to carry the helpless victim. The truth was that I had to admit to myself that in all probability I would need to confront Melksham and his cohorts. How they might react to my intrusion was the real question, and the prospect terrified me. I realized all too late that this was a terrible mistake. I should never have followed the carriage. I should’ve gone straight to the police. But then again, would they have heeded my fears? After all, no one believed Josephine Butler when she first alerted the authorities to the paid abuse of children. And no one would have believed that members of Parliament, bishops and even royalty regularly raped young virgins, had their wickedness not been exposed by W.T. Stead in his series of newspaper articles. That was two years ago, when the shocking truth about child prostitution was laid bare in the press. There are laws now, thank God, but if no one implements them, then what will change? The same vile trade still exists, only now it is illegal, but that did not discourage the likes of Dr. Melksham and his ilk.
I was still debating whether to flee the scene to fetch help, when I heard footsteps above me. There were voices, men’s voices. I crouched low and leaned into the wall. The footsteps drew nearer, and a moment later, two gentlemen emerged in a cloud of black silk and tobacco smoke. They were in full evening dress, and around their necks, they were wearing some sort of elaborate gold collar. The smell of the smoke unsettled my breath. I wanted to cough, but I knew that if I did, I would be uncovered. I buried my mouth in my sleeve and watched as the gentlemen were led through the double doors by two liveried servants, who had suddenly appeared from inside.
Just as the door closed behind them, I heard more footsteps and saw another gentleman appear, again in full evening dress with the strange collar. It suddenly occurred to me that I had stumbled across some sort of secret meeting, and before the evening was out, many more men would cross the threshold and disappear through the double doors. I was trapped and needed to make a move. It was no use trying to dash back up to the main entrance at the earliest opportunity. Nor was access to the dock of any use, as the tide was already high. Instead, I would have to stay put behind the stairs and wait until everyone had proceeded through the large doors. Only then could I make my own audacious entrance and appeal for the release of poor Libby. How her captors would react was anyone’s guess. All I knew was that I could not leave her to their mercies.
* * *
It all sounds impossibly outlandish now. But at the time, I was so highly charged that if anyone had touched me, I swear I would’ve sent ten thousand volts of electricity lancing through their body. Fear and terror seemed to make me feel stronger. I believed I could’ve won a war single-handedly that night. I felt I could’ve slain all the demons in hell. My courage was my shield, my fortitude, my spear. Right was on my side, and there was little doubt in my mind that I would be victorious against these agents of darkness, these vile hypocrites, who now gathered to perform God knows what depraved acts on a young innocent. What a fool I was.
CONSTANCE
As the sky lightens, so the fog lifts. By the time we reach Fleet Street, I can see the dome of St. Paul’s rising above the jagged rooftops. Miss Beaufroy, seated opposite me, is in a most fretful state. Twisting and turning her handkerchief in her restless hands.
“You must tell them every detail of your dream. How you saw my sister lying sick in her bed with pleurisy and . . .”
She drones on, telling me what I already know—I’m the one who had the dream, after all—then she says something new.
“Put with all the other factors that have led to his arrest—” she says.
“Other factors?” I interrupt. I know she thinks me rude, but it’s important. “What factors were they, miss?”
Miss Pauline leans forward, her eyes wide, as she reports what she has discovered, as if she’s afraid someone else might be listening.
“They found my sister’s diary,” she tells me as we are driven along the Strand.
“A diary?”
She gives an emphatic nod. “Apparently, it details incidents and dates that are significant.”
“Significant?” I repeat.
I have touched a raw nerve. She is on the verge of tears. “I do not know the details, except for the fact that they are incriminating.”
I pause, trying to take in all the implications of what I’ve just been told. But Miss Beaufroy’s voice soon fills my stunned silence once more.
“That’s why I’ve called upon you again, dear Constance. Now that it seems . . .” Her eyes reddened. “We need to find out what happened. Tell me. . . .” She reaches forward and puts her hand on my knee. “Have you had any more premonitions?” Her expression is so earnest that it makes me quake. Her eyes draw mine toward her with an intensity that frightens me. I have to tell her.
“I’ve had signs,” I reply slowly, the words cleaving to my tongue.
“Signs?” she asks breathlessly. She fixes me with that intense stare of hers. “You must tell me.”
So I do. I tell her about CLEO written on the windowpane and about the strange oblong shape burned into my toast.
“Do you know what they mean?” Her forehead is furrowed.
I say I do not and her whole body shudders as she lets out a great sigh. Her head switches to the window and my eyes follow hers. She looks even more forlorn as we clatter along the Victoria Embankment, past Cleopatra’s Needle. Big Ben strikes nine o’clock in the distance. A few minutes later, we arrive at King Street Police Station.
EMILY
I return to the moment, to King Street, to see Constance and Pauline led into the visiting room. The former has been subjected to a search. The latter has not, presumably because a lady would never break the law and help a prisoner escape. There’s a table that is divided widthways in the middle by a low wooden board, so that nothing can be passed between the visitor and the prisoner. Apart from the table with a single chair at either end, the room is bare.
Pauline is invited to sit by a constable. Constance has to stand. One side of the room is taken up by a large grille gate and it is through this that Terence Cutler appears. The lock clinks; the gate rattles as it is drawn open. The prisoner is shackled and flanked on either side by officers. He is wearing his normal clothes, but it is clear that he has neither shaven nor slept since his arrest. He seems to have shrunk in stature, too. He is a tall man, but he seems smaller now, as if he has turned in on himself. He is told to sit, but when he offers his wrists to be uncuffed, the
senior officer shakes his head. Despite his class, he is to be accorded no privileges.
“Pauline. Thank God you have come!” He seems to regard her as a link to the outside world and to his freedom.
“Terence.” She is cool toward him.
“This is all a terrible misunderstanding. You have to believe me.” He lurches forward toward the wooden board. One of the constables on guard reprimands him and he sits back again.
“I am listening,” she tells him. Pauline has the measure of her brother-in-law. “But you must tell me the whole truth.”
Cutler’s eyes dart to her face, then to the desk; then he sighs, like a wayward schoolboy who has been caught stealing apples in the orchard.
“I am listening, Terence,” she repeats after a moment.
The surgeon begins in a calm voice. “Very well,” he concedes with a sigh. “A few days ago, I was informed that a brooch belonging to Geraldine had been found on the building site, near where the torso was discovered.”
Pauline’s brows dip in a deep frown. “A brooch?” she whispers.
“It was the one I gave her as a wedding present. It was engraved on the back.”
“I remember it,” she snaps. “But how did it come to be there?” Her voice is as urgent as her gaze.
Cutler shakes his head. “I knew that she’d lost it a short while back. We’d been for a walk on a Sunday afternoon along Victoria Embankment when she noticed it was gone. We retraced our steps, but we never found it. It must have been ground down into the mud.”
“I see,” says Pauline, more patiently this time.
“The police managed to trace me from the inscription on the back. I said it was Geraldine’s, and then a few days later they returned and asked me to identify the remains.”