by Forbes, Kit
Mrs. O’Connell cocked her head. “And what of Mary Kelly and your brother-in-law? He was a doctor, too. And how was it she moved down to the East End when she had her pickings in the West End?”
“There was no baby. I would have known.”
“None that lived maybe,” Mrs. O’Connell said softly.
I buried my face in my hands, trying to blot out the image of Father consorting with any of the women down here.
But it would explain why he seemed so helpless in the face of Mother’s diatribes. If she knew, it would be a terrible weapon for her to use against him. To make such a thing public even though others might share the same guilt would ruin his career in London.
But if, as Mrs. O’Connell suggested, “a man had needs” and could not satisfy them in marriage, what was he to do? Why did that have to so complicate everyone’s lives? Was it, as the church suggested, the Devil’s tool to distract good Christians from the righteous path? But if it was, why had God made the feel of kissing so delicious?
Or had that all been a trick of the drink?
It was all so confusing.
I regretted my visit to Inspector Fraser and trying to cast doubt even though I had more than a few about young Mr. Stewart’s past.
Although no longer so angry with him, I knew I could never see him again. He confused me too much, made me feel weak and secure at the same time. I couldn’t allow that. I had to be my own woman, no matter the consequences.
“No matter the consequences,” I muttered as the realization struck me. Mrs. O’Connell had given me the weapon I needed. And I resolved to find the strength to use it.
Chapter Twenty
Genie
Usually, the hospital’s clean corridors and the tang of carbolic acid comforted me and made me think of all that was good and decent and hopeful. Today, it made me realize the utter sham and hypocrisy of society.
I didn’t even bother to try to make myself presentable before confronting Father in his office. His shocked expression was more than enough reward for having endured the stares of the staff.
“What is the meaning of this?” he thundered. “No daughter of mine—”
“I am no longer your daughter, or have you forgotten you’ve tossed me into the street?”
His outrage prevented him from speaking as his face and head flushed an angry red. “I made ample provisions for you, young lady! It is not my fault that you became so besotted by drink that you had to be carried back to your hostel by that American long after curfew! He’s a bad influence, I’ve said it from the start!”
“Bad influence?” I closed the distance between us. “I should say the behavior of my family has been the bad influence! How dare you, how bloody dare you lecture me on propriety when you yourself have…have…done what you’ve done!”
“What I’ve done?” he demanded. “What have I done?”
I looked him squarely in the face and gathered all my nerve. I could scarcely bring myself to utter the words but there was no backing down now. “You have consorted in private with the very prostitutes you revile in public.”
Father stood, shaking with rage. “You will not use that tone of voice with me, young lady. Nor will you impugn my character in such a manner.”
I tilted up my head. “I have no need to impugn your character since it speaks for itself. Or should I have the whores you’ve used speak for themselves?” It was a bluff, but I knew I held a winning hand.
Father’s expression alternated between shock and outrage. “What do you want?”
“I want a steady allowance. A decent one.” I calmed. “One I can spend at my discretion.”
“That is entirely out of the question. Your mother would never allow that!”
I took a slow deep breath. “Since mother has undoubtedly used this knowledge so effectively, I don’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy the same advantage.”
He turned his back and stared out the window at the busy street. Then he turned to face me, his face a mask of fury. “You’re no better than that Kelly woman,” he snarled. “Oh, yes, she was here. She had the bloody cheek to come here, demanding money again. You women are all alike. All you can think of is extorting men for their weaknesses.”
“Mary Kelly is a common whore. How dare you speak of us in the same breath?”
Father was almost unrecognizable behind his fury. “And what makes you so much better than any of them? Given your behavior last night, I suspect there’s no difference now. Except they were paid!”
He didn’t mean. He couldn’t.
He would never think such a thing.
Not of me.
“You want an independent allowance? Then go make your living on the streets you were so eager to sneak away to so many nights! And maybe you’ll get what’s coming to you, just like those others!” He pushed past me, flung open the door, and stormed out of his office.
***
Mark
I pretended to doze on the bench in the shadow of St. Boltoph’s church.
I’d traded my good hat and coat for an old man’s battered cap and fraying jacket. My pants and shoes were too good for a homeless person’s, but I’d got enough dirt on them that I hoped no one noticed.
I kept an eye out for the constables who patrolled the area but they showed no interest in any of the wretches huddled by the church on Hound’s Ditch Road. At night, the cops would have rousted them but during the day they turned a blind eye to those who slept in parks and by churches throughout the East End.
Later in the evening, there would be an endless parade of women shuffling round in a circle, trying to keep awake and moving through the night. Any man in search of cheap entertainment knew of St. Boltoph’s and knew that the women could be had for half the price of one outside the pubs. But I intended to be long gone by then.
I’d spent the better part of the day working on Plan A and had come to the conclusion that it might be useful to disappear for a while. Genie was certainly too much of a distraction and after the “Ripper” slip I made Ian would be on high alert. He might even have told the local cops to keep an eye on me just in case. Besides, trying to maintain a “normal” life was getting in the way of my true purpose: catching Jack the Ripper.
I had to get out of Whitechapel for a while, make it seem that I’d disappeared as quickly as I’d arrived. Then maybe I could blend back in before the next murder and not have any distractions screw things up.
So before I’d ditched my clothes for the old ones I hung out at a couple pubs and let on that I’d had enough of London.
***
Genie
“…They decry the filth and squalor of the East End yet refuse to repair their dilapidated buildings. They build clean, new flats for the working classes but keep wages so low the working man cannot afford the rents. They decry the moral corruption of the poor yet enjoy every low form of sport offered by those desperate for a few pence. They have enslaved a hundred thousand of their own kind for profit.
“Were this Egypt or Ethiopia, there would be a great outcry about such barbarity and degradation of the human spirit. But this is not some dark, backward country of which I speak. This is our England. This is our East End. This is our Grand Enlightened Civilization!
“They are our upper class and even our middle class. Should we brand them hypocrites? No, they are not merely hypocrites. They are far worse than that. They are criminals!”
Gurov took a deep breath and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. Late afternoon sun slanted in through the dirty windows, turning the office walls a dingy yellow. “Are you using perhaps too broad a brush?” he asked. “Surely not all of the middle and upper classes are ‘criminals’ as you call them.
“They turn a blind eye to the conditions, even the so-called reformers and charitable organizations. They ignore the obvious problems and corruption because it’s too profitable. Or because they feel it’s not their problem.”
Gurov n
odded at me slowly as he finished reading the page of tight, neat handwriting. “These are very strong accusations…”
“I could name individuals.”
“No, no. The libel laws are much too strictly enforced for that. Even for me, names would be too much.”
He read over the page again then reached into his pocket and carefully placed seven shillings on the desk.
He looked up and smiled broadly. “And I thought only Mr. Stewart could write such inflammatory material. I see, however, he has met his match, Miss Trambley.”
I took the coins in my trembling hand. “Thank you, Mr. Gurov. Oh, thank you!”
“And where shall I reach you for future articles?”
I thought for a moment. “I have heard Mr. Stewart is sailing home to America. Perhaps Mrs. O’Connell will let me his room.”
Gurov’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He has not mentioned this to me.” He rubbed his cheek pensively. “But I have not seen Mr. Stewart personally for some days. It seems he keeps hours suitable to himself only. Yes, I find orders delivered, things cleaned at night. I make payment through Mrs. O’Connell.”
Mrs. O’Connell looked first stunned, then pleased. “It would be grand to have you lodging with me,” she said when I broached the subject. “I still find it strange though, that young Mark would just up and leave without so much as a ‘fare thee well’ or collecting his few personal items.”
I repeated what I knew we’d both heard from the local grapevine. “It seems he’s going back where he belongs.”
Mrs. O’Connell gazed through the windows at the gathering dusk. “Maybe,” she said, darting a quick glance at me. “Though I suspect the lad’s not sure himself where that might be.” She shook herself and returned to the subject at hand. “Well, he’s few enough things in the room. I’ll pack them up and put ‘em in my storeroom then I’ll bring up some clean bedding for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Connell,” I said. “But please, call me Genie.”
“And you must call me Maggie.” She patted my hand. “Oh, we’ll have a grand time, the two of us. You mark my words, Genie dear.”
“I’m sure we will.” I thought of the last time I was in the room and all that might have been. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. But there was no turning back. I reached into my purse. “But we should settle up on the rent first.”
“Oh, keep yer money for now, love. Mark was paid up till the end of the month. I’ll not double-charge.”
“No.” I put the coins on the counter. “You put Mr. Stewart’s money with his things. I will not allow myself to be supported by any man, even like this. From now on, I make my own way.”
Mrs. O’Connell regarded me evenly for a moment, then scooped up the coins. “A hard attitude girl. And one you might regret one of these days.”
I looked away. “I’ll add it to my other regrets. One more will scarcely matter.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Mark
I felt the tap of the constable’s baton on my shoulder before I’d even realized the man was there.
“And just where do you think you’d be going, my fine lad? We’ll be wanting no trouble ‘round here.”
I bobbed my head and tugged at the bill of my cap in servility, making sure to keep my face down. A cold drizzling rain soaked through the thin coat I wore, making it easy enough to maintain a hunched and miserable posture. Still, I silently cursed his stupidity. I should have known a bum wandering the streets after dark in the fashionable West End neighborhood would draw notice, but I’d been lost in thought and was taking the most direct route between the Underground station and my destination.
“I want no trouble. But I hear Sir Cedric will be wanting to shift some rubbish from his house. I hoped to make an honest wage is all, sir.”
“Then you should know enough to use the back alley, not the front door!” the cop chastised. “Off with you, and don’t be causing any trouble. I’ll be looking out for you.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I tugged my cap again and shambled towards the back alley.
“And make sure you come honest by any coins I find in your pocket!”
I slipped into the shadows behind the houses and realized how clueless I was. A true street person of the time would have instinctively stayed to the back alleys even if it meant going the long way round. My disguise had to be as much a matter of attitude as appearance. Dress a homeless slob in fine clothes and he’d still have the haunted look and attitude of a homeless slob. Dress a better class man in shabby clothes and he’d exude an air of confidence.
No matter. I’d gotten away with the cop but now I had to convince Wallace, Sir Cedric’s servant, to admit me to the house—through the back door. I stood amid the dustbins and tried to adopt a confident attitude again. Failing that, I settled for pure ballsyness and rang the bell.
Wallace greeted me with a sharp, “Off with you, scum!” when he opened the door and began closing it in the same motion.
“Wallace,” I said calmly. “Would you be so kind as to inform Sir Cedric that Mr. Mark Stewart has come to call?”
Wallace pulled open the door again and stared hard at me. Even though the butler had seemed unflappable on my previous visit, he was completely shocked now. “Bless me, but it is you.” He pulled the door wide and stepped aside. “Do come in, Mr. Stewart, I’m sure Sir Cedric will be delighted. But whatever has befallen you? And why have you come to the back door?”
I stepped into the tidy back hall onto the gleaming wood floor that led to the carpeted steps into the main house. The smell of a roast cooking in the kitchen in the basement reminded my stomach it hadn’t been filled the night before. Nevertheless, I was determined to maintain a bland society demeanor.
I took off my grungy cap and coat and handed them to Wallace who seemed momentarily at a loss as to what to do with them. I noticed his expression and replied hastily, “It’s a long and not very entertaining story. But please don’t burn those with the trash. I’ll have need of them again.”
Wallace inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, sir.” He held the cap and coat gingerly in his fingertips as he hung them by the door. He turned to usher me into the house then stopped. He turned and regarded my dirt-streaked shoes and pants. “Perhaps a bit of a dust off before I announce you? Not that Sir Cedric would notice, of course, but…”
I smiled. “I have the utmost respect for your carpets, Wallace. Yes, ‘a bit of a dust off’ would be appreciated.”
I was rewarded by Wallace’s look of relief and I knew I’d just made an ally.
As Wallace attacked the dirt on my shoes and pants with a stiff bristled brush, he said, “Sir Cedric’s about to sit to supper. I’m sure he’d be pleased if you’d join him.”
“It would be my pleasure.” The brief stint of being homeless had been more than enough for me. The prospect of a good meal and a crackling fire warmed me more than I ever thought it would. The thought of having to live the rest of my life as I had since coming up with this stupid plan was a depressing realization that the only blessing a person in such circumstances could hope for was that such a life would be short.
How many muffled arguments between my parents had I drowned out with loud music? Dad wanting to toss me out to live with the “street trash” I called friends, Mom begging him not to give up on their only child.
***
Present Day
Agatha
I was amazed at the efficiency of the curator of the Genealogical Society and even more so with his report. A Sir Cedric Hawkesmythe owned the estate of Hallowhawk, my own ancestral homestead. Sir Cedric was a great-great-uncle of mine.
And that amazing fact led to the revelation that there was a Hawkesmythe collection of scientific artifacts at the county museum in Staffordshire.
The curator shook his head. “I’m not sure if ‘scientific’ is an accurate term,” he said. “It seems Sir Cedric was pursuing th
e idea of time travel.”
I gasped. “Time travel?”
The curator, misunderstanding my reaction, replied with a sardonic smile. “He was quite an eccentric. Apparently he was a member of several metaphysical societies as well.”
I considered that. “But he had a home in London in the late 1880s?”
“Apparently he vacated it at the end of 1888.”
“Is he buried at Hallowhawk then?” I asked, trying to understand how he fit into Mark’s disappearance.
The curator paused. “It’s rather curious,” he said finally, “but there seems to be no record of his burial or his death.”
I scarcely contained my excitement but managed to suggest, “Perhaps he died elsewhere. In America. After all, that’s where my part of the family settled in the earlier part of that century.”
The curator smiled. “Yes, that’s the most likely case. In any event, the estate passed to the local government after his so called death. That’s the site of the current museum. Would you like directions?”
“Very much so.”
***
1888
Mark
“Cracking, brilliant!” Sir Cedric’s voice boomed down the hall as Wallace ushered me into the sitting room.
Sir Cedric wore a flowing maroon robe and matching conical cap, both of which were covered with strange, gold-embroidered symbols. It seemed to me straight out of Albus Dumbledore’s closet or something Aunt Agatha’s friend Percy might wear for casual attire. But on Sir Cedric is seemed more than a little ridiculous.
My immediate reaction was that Sir Cedric recreated the Sorcerer’s Apprentice scene from Fantasia. But that, of course, was in the future. Still, the image made me a little nervous. On the other hand, Sir Cedric’s was the only place I could think of to hide where no one would find me. Even Genie and Ian didn’t know about my meeting with Sir Cedric following the benefit.