by Tessa Harris
CHAPTER 16
EMILY
While the good burghers of Whitechapel and the surrounding districts pour out of churches after celebrating the Virgin birth, there are others for whom Christmas is just another day. Despite the fact that the trains are all silent, the omnibuses are in their garages and the dray horses have been given the day off, there is still life in Poplar.
It’s a cut-through to the East India Docks, and, of course, the many Jews who live in the district do not observe the Christian holy day. There are Christians, too, who go about their affairs as if the coming of Christ as flesh does not warrant marking. Detective Sergeant Hawkins is one such. Naturally, he would have paid his twice-yearly visit to church—Christmas and Easter—had he not had more pressing matters. As he strides along Poplar High Street and passes a family ambling home from a service, his mind flits to his aunt and uncle’s festive table from which he is, regrettably, absent. He knew they would be disappointed, but at least the roast goose can be eaten cold and the plum pudding warmed through another day.
Hawkins is on his way to Clarke’s Yard, the place where Catherine Mylett was discovered dead. He has not visited the scene itself, because according to the testimony of Sergeant Golding and Constable Barrett, no crime had been committed—with hindsight that was remiss. In fairness, Inspector McCullen had only assigned him to the case three days ago with the explicit brief that this was not another murder to be added to his already heavy responsibilities.
As he walks along, head bowed, he recaps the facts of the matter. No weapon was recovered. No ligature. No obvious injuries were visible, apart from a little blood at the victim’s nostrils. The ground around was relatively undisturbed.
Clarke’s Yard lies just off Poplar High Street. Up until a few months ago, it was secured by high wooden gates, but these mysteriously disappeared. Since that time, the now-open alleyway has become a well-known meeting place for those of ill repute. It takes Sergeant Hawkins less than half an hour to reach the yard from the police station. As he approaches the mouth of the narrow passage, he hears banging and tapping. Someone is about. The yard is used to store building materials, but several tradesmen rent out workshops, although how they can see to carry on their business in this ill-lit, squalid corner is beyond him.
He accepts he is taking a risk, venturing into this godforsaken warren, but his conscience has been pricked by Constance’s words: “Life in Whitechapel is cheap.” He wanted to prove to himself, as much as to her, that he didn’t think it so. Every unexplained death deserves investigation, he’d told himself. That’s why he wants to search the area, just to make sure nothing has been overlooked. For this purpose, he has brought with him a lantern. It is not even two o’clock in the afternoon, and yet, in this gloomy alley that has witnessed all manner of unspeakable acts, there is barely ever much light. He strikes a match and his lamp flares into life. Lowering it, he sees vermin at his feet, scuttling off beneath a doorway. Lifting it, he sees the passage opens out, up ahead. He presses on and steps out into the courtyard.
A gruff voice suddenly rasps against the gritty air: “What you want?”
Hawkins is momentarily startled. The glow from his lamp picks up a craggy-faced man holding a hammer.
“Police,” he replies stiffly, fumbling for his identification badge in his breast pocket. The man, his cheeks smudged by soot, is a stocky artisan: a blacksmith by the looks of him. He wears an eye patch over his left eye—flying sparks present an occupational hazard—and sports a large leather apron and thick gauntlets. He’s been working in one of the sheds. The hammer is lowered.
“You ’ere about the dead woman?” he growls. His thick accent is familiar to the detective. Hawkins nods. “You got a warrant?”
The sergeant looks the man in the eye. “I am come to examine the area where she was found. That’s all. Mr. Braithwaite, isn’t it?” He’s read Sergeant Golding’s perfunctory report. “A Yorkshireman. Yes?”
The man narrows his good eye, then slowly nods. “Aye. Come to this hellhole from the Moors.”
Hawkins smiles at the blacksmith’s quip. “Perhaps you would show me where the body was found, if you please?”
The smithy, his armor penetrated, concedes and walks a few paces into the courtyard. On one side, there are stables that offer shelter to the dray horses that pull mainly brewers’ carts. There are half-a-dozen ramshackle workshops, too. Without a word, the Yorkshireman leads the detective to a high wall that encloses the area at the back. He points to the ground. “Round ’ere.”
Hawkins crouches down to inspect the earth, shining his lamp on the mosaic of cart tracks and hoofprints, not to mention footprints. The crime scene has been compromised. It may as well be the center of Spitalfields market. He scoops up a little of the soil and weighs it up in his hand. It is moist and clings to his fingers. He sniffs it. He does not know why. Standing up again, he sluffs his hands together in an attempt to dispel any lingering dirt, while at the same time surveying the layout of the yard. It is then that he walks over to the wall. It is sturdy, made of brick. He lifts the lantern, tracing a course with his hand back toward the entrance. The bricks are cold and slimy to the touch. He looks up. He looks down. He has followed the wall into a corner, and now turns sharply at right angles. From the stink, he can tell that this is the area where the workmen often urinate. Avoiding the patch of soggy ground, he follows the bricks by eye.
The blacksmith, who has been observing the policeman from a distance, now approaches him from behind and peers over his shoulder.
“Where were you that night, Mr. Braithwaite?” asks Hawkins, his gaze still fixed on the wall.
“Me?” asks the Yorkshireman, caught off guard by the inquiry. “I were at home,” comes his defensive reply. “I told the other coppers. I didn’t see ’owt. Besides,” he adds, with a shrug, “it’s the drink that did for ’er, so ’tis said.”
Hawkins shrugs. “We shall see,” he replies. Of course, he has found nothing of material interest, but his encounter with this blacksmith has been most revealing. “We shall see, Mr. Braithwaite,” he says again, thoughtfully, before heading back to the police station.
CONSTANCE
Ma and me usually rely on Flo to bring the cheer into our humble home. But now that she’s split from Danny, and she’s feeling green around the gills as well, we ain’t—sorry, we haven’t—got much to be cheerful about. Course this time of year, it’s harder with Pa not around, too. There was always a stocking for us each, with some sweets and an orange in the toe. Then when we were grown, he’d strike up on his old squeeze box. Carols, we’d sing. “Silent Night” is Ma’s favorite, but Flo and me would ask him for jolly songs like “Jingle Bells” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Flo used to stamp her feet when we called for figgy pudding and then sang, “We won’t go until we get some.” And Ma would tell her to calm down, otherwise we’d have grumpy old Mrs. Malakey banging on the wall. But this year, well . . . it’s not the same. Instead of Christmas cheer, fear’s festooned like paper chains over Whitechapel. Nevertheless, we’ll do our best.
By the time we arrive back from church, Flo’s up and doing. She’s lit a fire and it’s no coincidence that the tree’s looking a bit thinner. I know she’s used some of the lower branches for kindling, but it’s made the room smell nice and fresh; it’s how I imagine a forest like they have in fairy tales might smell.
Our Christmas dinner is just like most other dinners: a sausage each and some cabbage. Ma brings out some beer, but Flo says she’s not up for it, and I’m certainly not in the mood. Most families round here join the goose club so they can be sure of one good meal a year, but we’re saving our bird for Mr. B’s visit tomorrow. He’s spending today with his married daughter and her husband and their three children over in Bermondsey. (I’m not sure what happened to Mrs. Bartleby, but he never speaks about her.) It’s one of the few times I wish he was here. He’s annoying when he pokes fun at me, and he’s pompous, but he can raise our spirits whe
n he’s a mind to.
While Ma and Flo are in the kitchen, washing the pots, I’m left in charge of tending the fire. I give the glowing ashes a good poke, but there’s not much life in them. The coal scuttle’s empty, but there’s an old newspaper by the grate, so I reach out and grab it. I tear off a sheet and am about to roll it into a ball to throw on the embers when, for no reason, the fire suddenly flares and I feel a sharp pain in my hand. Without thinking, I immediately drop the paper onto the hearth. When I look down, I see it’s caught light at the edge, even though it wasn’t near the flame. It’s a sign. I know it is. I peer down at the print and it starts to glow before my eyes, but it’s not burning. The writing is plain as day. It’s an advertisement that reads: Respectable woman and her doctor husband seek up to four children to call their own. Good food and sound education guaranteed. Terms from £10. Address: Mother, Post Office, Poplar.
I shiver. The words are familiar to me. I’ve seen them before. I saw them on the piece of folded newspaper that Miss Louisa showed me in church this morning. Only the address has changed. Now it’s Poplar, not Stepney. The old woman she seeks—the old woman I know I must find—has moved close by.
EMILY
So it is done. Constance knows what she must now do: track down the baby farmer to her new abode. That is where I now find myself, in Poplar. Whereas most pantries in the comfortable houses that line Woodstock Terrace are accommodating what remains of today’s festive fare: the half-eaten roast turkey, the remnants of a braised pheasant, or the crumbs of a pudding that Cook insists can be used in trifle, the leftovers at Number 9 are having to share their shelves. Granted, there is still an untouched Stilton cheese and an unopened tin of water biscuits. And, of course, there is a sack of potatoes and one of Brussels sprouts, but most of the space is taken up by items never normally found in a pantry: infants.
The windowless room, where the temperature barely rises above ten degrees Fahrenheit, is perfectly suited to the task, according to Mother Delaney. At least the chill keeps the smell at bay. On a row of deep shelving at the far end of this room sit six crates of varying sizes. In all, bar one, lies a sleeping infant. The old matron knows the baby that is causing the fracas: Bertie is his name. At seven weeks, he’s the oldest—and the loudest—at the moment. Not only is he noisy, he keeps kicking his legs, too, so she’s had to swaddle him tightly. But he is by far the healthiest of her charges, so she’s earmarked him for special treatment.
“You’ve a fine pair o’ lungs, to be sure!” says Mother Delaney, waddling over to the farthest drawer to peer into it. As she does so, she holds her nose. The child has soiled himself . . . again. She shakes her head as she traverses the tiled floor to a wall cupboard from which she retrieves a brown bottle. Back with Bertie, she pours out a spoonful of syrupy liquid. Mother Delaney swears by laudanum, both for her charges and for herself. She pinches the child’s face so that his mouth opens and down the medicine goes.
“There, there, darlin’ boy,” she soothes.
She returns to the cabinet, bottle in hand, but before she puts it back, she eyes it longingly. “Don’t mind if I do,” she says with a chuckle, and, uncorking the stopper once more, she takes a large swig. “It is Christmas, after all.”
CHAPTER 17
Wednesday, December 26, 1888
EMILY
I return to Commercial Street police station. It is still quite early, but already Detective Sargent Hawkins is back behind his neatly-kept desk, while all around him lie unruly collections of reports and papers. Despite having returned to his own bed in the section house last night, he slept poorly. His head’s feeling as thick as an East End fog; so when Constable Tanner brings him a steaming mug of tea, he relishes the thought of the hot liquid soothing his dry throat.
“Most welcome,” he says to Tanner as he primes himself for the first sip.
“Sorry, sir,” says the constable. “You might have to leave that for the moment, sir.” Tanner’s eyes dart to the tea.
“Why?” Hawkins croaks.
“Because the boss wants to see you,” he replies, rolling his eyes toward Inspector McCullen’s office. All thoughts of the reviving powers of a brew are banished. As Hawkins heads toward his superior, the constable mutters to himself: “And he ain’t happy.”
As soon as he opens the office door, Hawkins is greeted by the broad shoulders and stocky build of his boss.
“Sir, you wished to see me.”
Detective Inspector McCullen paces up and down, muffled against the cold in his office by a large scarf. Yet again, someone neglected to light the fire before his arrival this morning. Although a match has since been set to kindling, the room remains only marginally above freezing. But it is not only the temperature that makes McCullen feel the need to pace up and down, hands behind his back. His face is set in a scowl. He means business and Hawkins soon finds out why.
“Shut the door!” he barks. A greeting is eschewed in favor of an expletive. “What the bloody hell did Brownfield think he was playing at?” He slaps a copy of the Christmas Eve edition of the Daily Star down on the desk and waves a derisory hand over the text. “‘Is he a thug? The work of the same man.’” He spits out the headlines. Hawkins is uncertain as to how he should react, so he waits silently and is rewarded with a change of tone. “At least my Christmas wasn’t ruined entirely,” volunteers McCullen, now holding his palms to the fledgling fire.
“Sir?”
The senior detective’s lips twitch into a half smile. “Dr. Bond has come to our rescue.”
“How’s that, sir?”
McCullen now stands with his back to the fire and lifts his coattails to warm his rump. “He finally found the time to examine the dead woman’s body late on Christmas Eve, and, according to the learned surgeon, although death, indeed, was by strangulation, it was not at another’s hand.”
Hawkins shakes his head in puzzlement. “Then how . . . ?”
“Bond says the wretched whore fell down while filthy drunk and choked herself on her blasted jacket collar!” snorts McCullen. He turns round to face the fire.
Hawkins is surprised, but, he admits to himself, relieved. This news was not expected. He looks about him. The inspector’s office is neat and ordered, not at all like the cluttered space he shares with his own colleagues. “So the cord? The marks on her neck? All circumstantial, sir?”
McCullen nods. “Indeed, and, as you know, Bond’s opinion carries as much weight as all of the London knife men put together. It suits the assistant commissioner to believe it, too.” He walks toward his desk, picks up a folder, thumbs through it randomly, then flings it down again. “And what’s this I hear of the woman’s nickname? Drunken Alice?”
There is little, it seems, that escapes Inspector Cullen’s forensic mind, but the question, coming as it does completely unexpectedly, throws Hawkins a little. “The medical report says she was sober at the time, sir.”
McCullen returns to warming himself by the fire; then, after a short pause, he throws a glance over his shoulder. “Well, maybe we ought to ignore that, Hawkins, so we can get the guvnor off our backs.” He rubs his hands together in thought, making things up on the hoof. “Mylett drank herself to death and fell down in a drunken stupor. Let’s put that theory out to the press, shall we? See how they chew on our bone.”
It takes a moment for Hawkins to digest what his commanding officer has just ordered him to do. The Metropolitan Police Service is already a laughingstock. Another murder, let alone another Ripper murder, is the last thing that’s needed. McCullen is angling for this whole business to be dusted up and brushed under the carpet. This unfortunate’s death will be scooped up into a metaphorical dustpan and neatly disposed of, filed into the refuse bin. He will get a pat on the back from Assistant Commissioner Anderson and everyone can concentrate on what really matters: catching Jack.
His sergeant’s silence causes McCullen to turn away from the fire and look at Hawkins straight. “I can see I’ve offended your principles
, eh, Detective Sergeant. Holier than thou, are we?”
The younger man flounders; then after a moment, he replies: “No, sir, but perhaps we’re being a little premature.”
“Premature?” McCullen repeats, and Hawkins immediately regrets using the word.
“Hasty, sir,” he jumps in.
McCullen glares at him. “Don’t come the grammar-school boy with me, laddie.” He clenches his fist and punches the mantelshelf. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry than bother with some drunken slut. Until the coroner says otherwise, this Mylett woman brought her death on herself, you hear me?”
Hawkins tugs at his waistcoat and straightens his back as if standing to attention. “Yes, sir.”
The maneuver causes his commanding officer to lift his lips into a half smile. He knows this young man to be shrewd. He’ll go far, but he still needs to learn how to play the game. McCullen takes a deep breath. “How are you doing with Druitt?”
The sergeant shifts awkwardly. “He’s not been seen for the past two and a half weeks, sir,” he replies stiffly. “I’m working on it.”
“Working on it?” McCullen echoes, shaking his head. “Not good enough, laddie. I assigned you to him because I thought you had more wits about you than the rest of ’em.” He touches his temple. “I need results, Hawkins, and fast, or you’ll be back in Whitehall as a constable sooner than you can say ‘Jack the Ripper.’”
CONSTANCE
The papers is full of what they’re calling the “Poplar Mystery.” I buy a copy of the Daily News and bring it home to read. Flo and Ma sit by me as I tell them what’s written. It don’t make happy listening. “Says here the police have been ‘unsuccessful in tracing anything like a connected chain of the deceased’s antecedents,’ ” I say out loud.