Perhaps Tomorrow

by Jean Fullerton

  Nathaniel let out a roar of pain and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Oh, Marjorie, my darling. How can you be gone?’ he sobbed.

  ‘My poor, poor Nat,’ Emma said, enveloping him in her strong arms. Nathaniel buried his head in the soft folds of her lap and cried until his ribs ached. He untangled himself from her embrace and looked up.

  ‘And my girls. My darling girls. Do you remember Rosina’s dimples as she smiled and how she’d called her sister Lele because she couldn’t say her name?’ Emma nodded. ‘And the way Lillian used to stick her tongue out when she was concentrating and how proud she was when she finally managed to write her name without getting her ‘a’s facing the wrong way.’ A bitter smile spread across his face. ‘I remember the day she was born as if it were yesterday. It was midsummer and I sat up all night in the garden, gnawing my nails to the quick with worrying if Marjorie and the baby would survive. Then just before dawn I heard the cry. Do you know, Emmy, even now I can still smell the morning grass as I made my way across the garden back to the house. And when I held Lillian for the first time, all red and wrinkled, I thought I would die from the sheer joy of it.’ The hollow ache that had started in the churchyard welled up again. ‘And now that small baby I held on that summer morning is lying in a cold grave. And I should be alongside them.’

  Emma stroked his hair. ‘Hush, lad. It ain’t your time yet,’ she answered.

  ‘And it shouldn’t have been theirs,’ he whispered. ‘How can I live without them, Emma? How?’ he wiped his face with the heel of his hand. ‘I blame myself.’

  ‘It weren’t your fault. It were that daft judge who couldn’t see the truth under his nose. But even if you’d been here, Nat, there was nothing you could have done to stop the influenza sweeping through.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I could have done something to save them. They were my responsibility and I should have been with them.’ An unbending expression hardened his face. ‘I should have realised the sort of man Amos Stebbins, my trusted friend and my children’s godfather, truly was. I blame myself but I also blame him.’ He stood up. ‘I have to go, Emma. I’ve things to do.’

  Her mouth pulled tightly together. ‘Is that why you’re off to London? To get Amos for what he did to ’e?’

  Nathaniel didn’t answer. Emma grabbed his arm ‘You’re all in, Nat. Why don’t you stay here the night? We’re right off the beaten track and no one comes near or by. You’ll be safe enough, and tomorrow . . .’ She looked at him, willing him to agree.

  ‘Old Toby saw me in the graveyard.’

  ‘Did he know you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. But if he told the police then this is the first place they’ll look. I can’t have you or Jacob arrested for harbouring a felon.’

  He opened the door a crack and peered out. It was almost dark, and five miles to the White Horse on the Romford Road, but if he stretched his legs he could be there before ten. With a bit of luck he’d be able to bribe the driver of the night coach to let him on board and he’d be in London before dawn.

  He gripped his sister’s upper arms. ‘I love you, Emmy, and, God willing, I’ll see you again.’ He hugged her to him and kissed her on the forehead before gently letting her go. ‘But Amos Stebbins destroyed everything I held dear and I’ll not rest until I’ve done the same to him.’

  Chapter Three

  Amos Stebbins stepped through the door of his warehouse on St Katherine’s dock and took a long, deep breath. A smell reminiscent of rotten eggs told him that the tide was out. He struck a match on the wall to light his cigar then turned in the direction of river. It was a fine day so he decided to take a stroll by the Tower on his way to his solicitor in Aldgate.

  The tide was indeed out and the banks of the Thames were alive with scavengers gleaning what they could from the malodorous silt before the water of the Thames flowed back again. The hollow-eyed children and scrawny women who foraged for metal and bone were barely kept alive by the work but at least it stopped them applying to the parish for relief. When the superintendent of the workhouse gave his annual report to St George’s vestry a few months ago, a number of Amos’s fellow church elders had almost been persuaded to slacken the rules for admittance. Even Mr Garrett, the vicar, had wavered. That was until Amos drew them back to St Paul’s second epistle to the Thessalonians – if any would not work, neither should he eat – and that put an end to such philanthropic thoughts.

  After a brisk walk in the summer sun Amos stopped outside the door of 49 Goulston Street, just off Whitechapel High Street and a hundred yards from the public baths and washhouse.

  You could be forgiven for passing the front door of Glasson, Glasson & Webb, Solicitors at Law without giving it a second glance. The unobtrusive brass plate beside the front door was the only indication that behind the faded paint and upswept steps a successful law firm operated. The door opened before Amos could grasp the curved brass handle.

  ‘Mr Stebbins,’ greeted David Kimber, the office boy as he ushered Amos in. ‘What a pleasure to see you.’

  In keeping with his lowly status in the firm, David was dressed in an ill-fitting suit and a frayed, overwashed shirt. He was no more than thirteen and struck with the unfortunate combination of an unbroken voice and a face covered with angry pustules at various stages of gestation.

  ‘Thank you. How are you settling in?’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ David replied, as he took Amos’s coat and hat.

  ‘I hope you are diligent about your work,’ Amos said, puffing a stream of cigar smoke into the boy’s face.

  The boy coughed. ‘I am, sir, and I hope to be a credit to you for recommending me.’

  David’s mother was a member of St George’s congregation. Amos always made it clear to the ragged element of the fellowship that he would not give their petty troubles any attention but, as Mrs Kimber had curtsied so prettily, he had made an exception. She was known to be respectable so there was no danger to his reputation in showing her favour.

  ‘Make sure you are.’ He fixed the lad with a hard stare. ‘I haven’t seen you at church these past weeks.’

  ‘No, Mr Stebbins,’ the young clerk said, looking suitably shamefaced.

  Amos’s thick brows pulled together. ‘The man who kneels in gratitude before the Lord will prosper,’ he said, in the tone he used to address the parish council.

  ‘I’ll make s . . . sure I’m there on Sunday, Mr Stebbins,’ David said, touching his forehead deferentially.

  Amos favoured him with a benevolent gaze. ‘Very well. Now, young man, take me to Mr Glasson.’

  David led him through to the office of Ebenezer Glasson, the first Glasson on the firm’s brass plate. He opened the half-glazed door and Amos marched in. The office was no more than twelve feet by twelve and set at the back of the house. It was dominated by a dark oak desk that seemed to be as old as its owner. There was an inkwell to one side, next to a rhino horn pen holder that sprouted a dozen or so quills. Bookcases lined three walls and were filled with law books of all sizes and, by the look of their faded leather covers, dating back several decades. The sunlight from the large window cut across the space, capturing particles of dust in its beams.

  Ebenezer Glasson pushed his spectacles up his nose and rose to his feet. ‘Mr Stebbins.’ He extended his hand.

  Amos stepped forward, accidentally crushing a taper of sealing wax under his boot. He took the solicitor’s bony hand. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ Glasson indicated the visitor’s chair. ‘How is business? Flourishing I hope.’

  ‘Middling,’ Amos replied, knocking the wax from his shoe onto the carpet. ‘I’d be happier if the warehouse was a little fuller but the Maisy Rose docked with a full cargo of rubber last week and I sold that for a good profit.’

  ‘So you do still prosper.’

  A sombre expression settled on Amos’ face. ‘It pleases the Lord to show me favour.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you got the deeds?’

  ‘I have them h
ere,’ Glasson said, shuffling through the papers in front of him. He drew a sheet out from under several others and held it aloft. ‘Here we are. The freehold to Kratz’s pickled-herring factory signed and sealed.’ He handed it across to Amos. ‘And if I can just get our map,’ the old man said, stretching up to retrieve a scroll from a high shelf behind him, ‘we can see where we are.’ He plopped the rolled-up sheet of paper on a small side table, sending up a puff of dust.

  Amos unfurled it across the desk and a deep sense of satisfaction spread through him as he cast his eyes over the chart showing the area from the City boundary to the river Lea three miles away. The cartographer had done an excellent job, drawing the sweep of the Thames at the bottom and the Commercial and Mile End Roads running parallel above. Amos studied the line of blocked-out properties running from Wapping Basin across the map to Bow Bridge. A smile curled across his lips.

  Mr Glasson resumed his seat and peered at the map. ‘Now let me see . . .’ he picked up a pen and jabbed it in the ink. ‘With Kratz’s in your possession,’ he said, scratching ink over the square that represented the pickle yard, ‘you are almost ready to set up the Wapping to Stratford Railway Company. Once you have the deeds to Maguire’s you will own every plot of land over which the railway will travel.’ A rare smile creased his face. ‘Except, of course, the two plots of land in Bow you were kind enough to put my way. But are you sure you can acquire the coal yard for the price you want?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been hearing whispers for months now that it’s struggling. Frankly, I don’t know how the Maguire woman has kept it going for this long – but she won’t be able to for much longer.’ He flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘I plan to make her an offer soon, but I thought perhaps I’d call on Mr Tucker and his associates first. Nothing too dramatic,’ he continued as alarm flashed across his solicitor’s face. ‘Just enough to drive the price down and encourage Mrs Maguire to sell sooner rather than later.’

  Mr Glasson chewed the end of his quill. ‘I hope you’re right, Stebbins, because if she gets wind that she owns the last property needed to build the railway she’ll demand at least ten times the market price.’

  Ten times! Twenty-fold more like, thought Amos. Kratz’s had taken him deep into his credit at the City & County. If he were forced to pay more than a hundred and fifty for Maguire’s he’d be bankrupt.

  He’d sailed close to the wind before, especially at Fairhead’s, the feed merchants where he had been senior clerk. The opportunity to his pockets with their quarterly taking had been too much to resist. But then he was young and impetuous and hadn’t laid his plans properly. He’d learnt his lesson. Thankfully, his godly reputation had kept the local dullard of a constable from investigating, but Amos knew that he had to act fast once the county court officer was sent from the Chelmsford Assizes. Luckily, Amos had befriended Nathaniel Tate, the junior clerk, and had surreptitiously buried a couple of the money sacks in Tate’s back garden. He put the authorities on to it to head them off his tail and it worked. Providentially. They believed that they had their man, as did the judge and jury.

  But Amos was older and wiser now and nothing, certainly not a ha’penny coal yard like Maguire’s, was going to stand between him and a large fortune.

  He stubbed out his cigar in Glasson’s crystal ashtray and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  The solicitor rose. ‘Would you care to join me for lunch, Mr Stebbins?’

  Amos shook his head. ‘Perhaps another time. I’m dining at the Three Tons with a few of the Middlesex Deserving-Poor Committee.’ His lips curled. ‘They probably want a donation although I take the view that, since it’s the Almighty who has ordered the estate of the poor, I am reluctant to oppose His will in the matter; but there is no harm in sharing a convivial meal with them.’ He took out another cigar and bit off the end. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll have the deeds to Maguire’s sitting alongside the others within the month.’

  Amos ground the cigar butt under his heel and burped loudly as the beef and onion pie settled. Tucking his cane under his arm he walked into Tucker’s slaughterhouse at the back of St Mary’s Church. Crammed into the pens in the cobbled yard stood a dozen or so muddy cows. Through the open door of the barn, the slaughter men could be seen poking and prodding a handful of unhappy beasts into position over the drainage channel. In the other storage shed pig’s carcasses, some still twitching, hung upside down on hooks as the blood drained and slowly meandered toward the central grill. The metallic smell of fresh blood wafted over Amos as he picked his way between the piles of manure and rivulets of urine towards the office door.

  Inside he found Ernie Tucker, a thick-set man who always seemed to be on the point of bursting out of his clothes, sitting behind his desk. Dicky Dutton, his foreman, stood behind him. They looked up as Amos entered.

  ‘Mr Stebbins,’ Tucker said, standing up and wiping his sweaty bald pate with a handkerchief. ‘What brings you down to our neck of the woods? I ’ope you ain’t asking for a donation towards the Fallen Women Society or some such, because we already gave.’

  Dicky, whose angelic-looking white blond hair, freckled nose and blue eyes were quite at odds with his blood-splattered forearms, winked. ‘Yer, every night to the dollies in Paddy’s Goose.’

  They laughed heartily.

  Amos mustered a smile. ‘No, I’m not here on church business but my own.’

  Dicky flicked the chair on the other side of the desk with a bloody rag. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off your plates of meat?’

  ‘I’ll stand if it’s all the same,’ Amos replied, noting the damp patch on the seat. He pulled his leather cigar holder from his inside pocket. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Ta, very much,’ Tucker said, tucking it behind his ear. ‘So, Mr Stebbins, what is it we can do for you?’

  Amos struck a match and drew on his cigar. ‘I was very pleased with the service you did me in regards to the pickle factory and wondered if you and your associates might be amenable to assisting me again.’

  Dicky clenched the cigar in the side of his mouth and grinned. ‘Who?’

  Amos blew a series of rings upwards towards the dusty rafters. ‘Maguire & Son’s, the coal yard on Cannon Street Road.’

  ‘That’s run by a woman, ain’t it?’ Tucker said.

  ‘Yes, Mattie Maguire. She’s a widow, so there’s no man to worry about. I want her business nobbled.’

  ‘I knows her,’ Dicky said, with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘She’s a nice bit of how’s-yer-father and no mistake.’ He grabbed his crotch and the long blade hanging from his belt flashed. ‘I shall have a bit of fun with her, I can tell you.’

  Amos’ eyes narrowed as he looked at the man behind the desk. ‘I can’t afford to raise suspicions. Do you understand? I don’t think either of us wants the police poking their noses into our businesses now, do we?’

  Tucker cuffed Dicky’s head with the back of his hand. ‘Don’t you take no notice of him, Mr Stebbins. We’ll be in and out without her noticing a thing, won’t we?’

  Dicky’s jovial countenance fell. ‘So you don’t want me to rough her up a bit?’ he asked in a disappointed tone.

  ‘Not yet,’ Amos replied. ‘But if she doesn’t get the hint . . .’

  Dicky brightened instantly.

  ‘Well, I must press on,’ Amos said, stubbing out his cigar in the overflowing hoof ashtray on the desk. ‘If I hurry I’ll be in time for evening prayers in the Lady chapel.’

  Tucker rose to his feet and offered a chubby, black-nailed hand. ‘Always a pleasure to do business with you, Mr Stebbins. And don’t worry, we can keep mum.’

  Mattie yawned as she opened the back gate and walked into the coal yard from the house. Three of the four wagons were already loaded, with the drivers at various stages of harnessing the horses. The fourth wagon driven by Freddie Ellis, her deceased husband’s cousin, still sat by the fence.

  The horses stood patiently as their harnesses were secured, their brea
th billowing out from their nostrils in the early morning chill. Every now and then the crack of a large hoof on the yard cobbles would echo around. Flossy, Brian’s old horse, nudged at the canvas nosebags with her muzzle as they stood ready to be secured over her whiskery lips.

  Eli Watson, their longest serving delivery man, turned from his tasks as Mattie approached.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Maguire,’ he said, shrugging on his leather jerkin and buckling it securely above his paunch.

  Mattie smiled at him. ‘Morning yourself, Eli.’

  He nodded at the fence. ‘It looks as if kids have been pinching coal again,’ he said, indicating the scattered pieces at the bottom of the coal heap.

  ‘Perhaps I should get myself another yard dog,’ Mattie replied, wondering where she’d get the money to feed another mouth if she did.

  The two other deliverymen, Billy Ball and Pete Drummer, touched their caps to her.

  ‘We’ll be out in less than a half turn of the clock,’ Billy told her as he backed their fourteen-hand bay mare, Poppy, between the shafts of number three wagon.

  Mattie nodded towards number two wagon. ‘Anyone know where Freddie is?’

  Before they could answer the yard gates squeaked open and Freddie appeared.

  He was the son of Queenie’s eldest sister who’d died some years back and he’d been apprentice to a furniture maker in Hackney until he fell out with the man. After that, Freddie tried his hand in the wine trade but was sacked after being found unconscious and smelling heavily of the spirit he was supposed to be stock-taking. Queenie had a soft spot for him and at her request Brian had given him a job just after Mattie and Brian married.