by Tessa Harris
Relief floods Robert’s face. He is grateful that she has ruled out the police. It could be very awkward for him. He thinks for a moment, stirring his own tea. Eventually he says: “I shall hire a private investigator.”
At this, I see Louisa’s breast heave as she takes a deep breath. Robert is throwing her a lifeline. “You would do that?”
“Yes, of course,” he tells her, as if it is the only course of action to be taken, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. “Yes,” he continues. “Someone discreet.”
“Oh, Robert, thank you,” she says more calmly. She regards him as he contemplates. “Someone discreet,” she repeats, joining in with his thoughts. Of course, I cannot speak to her directly, as I can to Constance; but before long, I see her eyes widen. An idea has come to her rescue. “I know just the person,” she tells him.
CHAPTER 28
Monday, January 7, 1889
EMILY
They buried Catherine Mylett today. In accordance with her mother’s wishes, it was a very quiet affair. So quiet, in fact, that there were only two mourners: Margaret and cousin Fanny. Of Catherine’s brother, William, there was no sign, even though he was, in fact, less than three miles away. That’s because he’s in hiding in the attic of a tumbledown tenement, not fit for human habitation, let alone for the rats that live there in their dozens.
Under cover of darkness, I watch the young boy with freckles scamper up the stairs. He’s the one whom Constance encountered at the East India Docks the other day. Unbeknownst to her, she was followed and has inadvertently put the boy in harm’s way. It remains to be seen whether he can escape his perilous predicament, although his past form suggests there is a chance. Orphaned at age five, he’s as cunning as a fox cub, living by his wits. So when he was offered money to help out a man known to him who’s in a tight spot, he was only too happy to oblige. There are others who live in the building, of course: mainly lascars from the docks, who light fires in buckets and cook with strange and exotic spices, the aroma of which masks the stench of damp and urine that normally pervades. There’s a bag slung over the boy’s shoulder. Half a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, and a worm-eaten apple are all he could scavenge today, but it’s better than nothing.
Up ahead of him are the stairs. The treads are rotting and in the dark it would be easy to let a foot slip through, but he’s come prepared. A lantern lights his way. Despite its beam, on the first landing, he almost stumbles over a ragged child. On the next, there’s a crying woman, with a cut to her face, while all the time the sounds of bawling babies and angry men rise and echo in the stairwell. He edges on regardless, up another flight, until he reaches the top floor. He knows he’s at the top because he can see a patch of smoky sky through a large square in the roof, where the cold air blasts in.
It’s his head, not his feet, he has to mind now. The rafters are so low that he’s forced to duck, even though he’s no more than four feet tall himself. The beams are festooned with so many cobwebs, they tickle his face. He doesn’t like it up here. It’s cold and it’s dark, but at least Mr. Will is safe.
At the top of the stairs, he turns right and crouches below a thick plank above a low door. He taps three times and, after a moment, an unseen hand opens it.
“I thought you wasn’t coming,” complains Will Mylett, snatching the bag from the boy. He moves like an animal. He looks like an animal. It’s almost three weeks since his sister’s murder—three weeks he’s spent in hiding, but already his dirty face is covered by a full beard and his fingernails are long and black. Rifling through the bag, he helps himself to the apple and bites into it like a rabid dog into meat.
The freckled boy watches with amusement rather than horror. He’s been just as hungry himself. He understands that hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach when you think you’ve been scooped out and the only thing left inside is a constant, gnawing ache. He waits until Mylett has finished attacking the bread and cheese. There are stale crumbs caught on his beard.
“Well?” the fugitive asks finally. “What news do you bring?” It’s been two days since the boy’s last visit. “What’s said at the coroner’s court?”
Freckles perches on a beam and tilts his head. “That she died of the drink, but it’s not finished yet. They reckon it’ll be Wednesday afore the coroner will say,” he tells him.
“Wednesday,” repeats Mylett. He’ll lie low until then. If the verdict’s murder, the gallows will loom. But if it’s recorded his sister died of “natural causes,” he’ll be in the clear. Only then will he be free—free to wreak his revenge for Catherine’s death.
CONSTANCE
A postboy’s not a regular sight down White’s Row. Luckily, Ma and Flo are out running errands, so I know I’ve a few minutes alone to read my letter. I can guess who it’s from. I’m right.
Dear Miss Tindall,
Thank you for your letter. My husband and I should be glad to meet with you to discuss your situation at our home in Poplar, this coming Friday. Although money is not our primary consideration, you might also wish to bring with you a deposit to secure your bed during your confinement, should the arrangement be mutually agreeable.
We look forward to meeting you at 9 Woodstock Terrace, Poplar, on Friday at 11 o’clock.
Yours sincerely,
Edith Blunt (Mrs.)
I’ve laid a trap for this Mrs. Blunt and she’s taken the bait. I’d sent the letter care of a post office, but now I have a proper address to give to Miss Louisa. She can do with it what she will. She may even wish me to accompany her to confront this fake. A message came yesterday from her and we’ve finally arranged to meet again tomorrow morning at St. Jude’s. We’re nearer to finding what’s happened to little Bertie. So why have I suddenly started to shake?
EMILY
That evening at dinner, Albert Cosgrove is in a somber mood. He’s little appetite for his meal because his stomach was already so full of spite. Now he pushes away his plate to make an announcement. “From now on, we shall take in more weeklies.”
Earlier in the day, at his shop, he’d heard two of his customers talking about the discovery of a strangled baby in the river at Bow Creek. They were speculating on a connection with the infant found dead in the market at Petticoat Lane just before Christmas. This, coupled with the fact that Philomena had mentioned the overzealous physician who’d replaced Dr. Carey on a recent visit, had made him rethink their strategy.
Mother Delaney’s suspicious eyes dart across the table to her daughter. “What you been saying, my girl?”
“I know about the new doctor,” snaps Albert, protecting his wife from her mother’s tongue-lashing.
Mother’s mouth droops in a show of contempt. “Too clever for his own good,” she snarls under her breath, shifting angrily on her chair.
Albert starts to play with the knife on the plate in front of him. “We’ve got to be careful. We can’t have the same thing as happened in Stepney. We’ve not been here three months.” He can tell that Mother Delaney is simmering with rage as she eyes her daughter. She needs bringing to heel. He jabs the handle of the knife down hard on the table like a gavel, sending the other cutlery clattering. It does the trick. He knows he has their undivided attention.
“We need more nurse children,” he announces. “Granted, the return’s not as good, but it means that if the Cruelty Men come knocking, we can show them a couple of healthy ones.”
Mother Delaney stares ahead of her. She remains angry.
“What happened to that redhead?” asks Albert.
“Bertie?” says Philly helpfully.
Her husband nods.
“The couple wanted a girl,” replies the matron.
He switches to her. “Did you bring him back?” She has, after all, been known to dispose of children under such circumstances.
“That I did.” She’s softening, and adds: “But I’ve another interested couple tomorrow.”
“Keep him,” barks Albert.
“What
?”
“Keep him, I say.” He brings out a letter from his breast pocket. “That way, we’ll have him, and this . . .” He glances at the missive.
“. . . Miss Tindall’s brat when it’s born, and that should satisfy any prying crusaders.” He leans back in his chair, fixing Mother with a stern glare. “And no more dumping. Not for the time being at least.”
Mother shakes her head. “But if we can’t get a death certificate, what are we supposed to do?”
In reply, Albert raises a brow and looks her in the eye before he tells her calmly: “That’s why we got a garden, ain’t it?”
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, January 8, 1889
CONSTANCE
I sit at the back of St. Jude’s. I arrived early so I could change into my smart clothes, the ones that Miss Beaufroy bought for me. I was worried the moths might’ve feasted on the wool jacket, but it seems to have escaped the little blighters, even if it does smell a mite damp. The hat’s a bit out of shape, too, but the skirt and boots are good as new. The outfit makes me feel different again. I keep my back straight and my chin up. I’m a lady.
The church is almost empty apart from a couple of old biddies kneeling in prayer at the front. I like it when it’s quiet. You’d never know we’re on a busy road in London. The big, heavy doors shut out all the noise and bustle, so you can hear yourself think. I’m still a little early, so I kneel in prayer. I ask God to protect the people I love, both the living and those who’ve passed: Ma, Flo, Pa, and, of course, Miss Tindall.
I look about me at the big columns and at the stained-glass windows and I half expect to see her somewhere among them. I’m half expecting her to join me in the shadows. I close my eyes and empty my mind of thoughts. My breathing slows and I start to feel her presence. It comes like the dawn. There is a soft glow at first, until the light grows stronger; when I hear the doors open and turn to see Miss Louisa arrive, I know Miss Tindall is nearby.
Miss Louisa is not alone, either. There’s a man with her. He whips off his hat as soon as he enters the church and follows slowly behind her. She pauses, then catches sight of me and comes closer.
“Miss Piper,” she greets me in a half whisper. I stand and unthinkingly bob a curtsy. When I look up, I see she still bears the strain of her ordeal on her face.
She begins: “I’m so glad you’re here. This is . . .” She turns to introduce her gentleman companion, but there’s no need for introductions. As soon as I set eyes on him, I realize I know him already.
“Robert Sampson,” I mouth.
Luckily, she doesn’t see me. “My companion,” she says, trying to be discreet. He remains solemn. I notice he’s staring at me like he’s just been reminded of something, or someone he’d rather forget. It’s like he’s just seen a ghost. Miss Louisa catches his stunned gaze. “You already know each other?” Her lips twitch, like she’s not sure whether she’s made a terrible mistake bringing him with her.
Mr. Sampson pauses for a moment. I see him swallow, like his mouth has gone dry. “No,” he replies quickly. “I don’t believe so.”
I have turned my face toward his and away from Miss Louisa. I simply look unblinking at him for a moment, allowing him to take in all my features. I know what Miss Tindall has done, you see. I know she is playing games with this Mr. Sampson. She can’t let him escape the consequences of his betrayal and his cowardice. The cock crowed three times in that Masonic hall when he didn’t lift a finger to help her. He needs to suffer for what he did—or didn’t do. If I was to look in the mirror right now, I wager I’d not see myself. I’d see a reflection of her, just as I have before.
“Perhaps we can take tea somewhere?” Miss Louisa suggests after an uneasy moment. She senses the awkwardness between us that’s chafing like horsehair against both our skins.
“Yes. Yes, let’s,” agrees Mr. Sampson. He rubs his gloved hands together, eager to leave the church. It’s as if he’s keen to see my face in daylight, to satisfy himself that his mind is playing tricks on him. It’s a wise move on his part, I think, because as soon as I walk out of the church, I feel Miss Tindall leave me. It’s like I’m stepping out of her dress. She’s gone from me and I turn to face Robert Sampson, knowing that he’ll be seeing Constance Piper, the flower girl.
We soon find a small, quiet tearoom, just off the main street. Mr. Sampson orders a pot. Nothing else. This is a business meeting, not a social call; yet from Miss Louisa’s expression, it’s clear she’s got something up her sleeve. She’s looking less fretful, and it’s not long before she’s telling me the reason. Barely has she taken off her gloves, when she blurts: “Dear Constance, we have news!” She’s almost smiling as she speaks.
“News?” I reply. From the way she’s looking at me, I guess it must be good.
She regards Mr. Sampson, like she’s asking for permission to speak, then moves closer so that their sleeves touch. “We are wed,” she says softly. By way of proof, she dangles her left hand under my nose. There is a shiny gold band on the third finger.
My eyes focus on it for a second, then lift first to her face and onto his. Suddenly they are both smiling. “But that’s wonderful news,” I say, and I mean it.
“You’re the only person we’ve told so far!” She squeals like a little girl. But she’s so relieved to get it off her chest that the emotion of it all suddenly overcomes her. I see her well up and soon her face is pink and her handkerchief comes out.
“I’m very happy for you,” I say. Mr. Sampson smiles awkwardly, but Miss Louisa’s floodgates have opened and she’s in danger of making a spectacle of herself, so she offers her excuses. “I must go to the ladies’ room,” she tells me.
Mr. Sampson rises as she leaves the table, then sits back down again; yet there’s no sign of the smile of a few seconds ago. It’s like a shadow has passed over his face and suddenly he seems fearful. He cranes his neck to make sure no one can hear our conversation, as if he’s looking for spies. He leans forward, all cloak and dagger, and says to me in a half whisper: “What do you want? If it’s money . . . ?” He reaches for his wallet, but he’s all fingers and thumbs.
I don’t mind telling you I’m shocked. “Beg your pardon, sir” is all I manage.
“Please, we have little time before she . . . ,” he corrects himself, “before my wife returns. I know you knew Miss Tindall. Louisa told me you had some sort of ‘special bond.’ I’m assuming you want payment to keep quiet about what happened? And now you’re playing tricks, trying to look like her.”
The insult forces me to slump back in my chair, like he’s punched me in the stomach. I’m used to being shouted at and called names, but he’s just accused me of blackmail. I put on my wounded face, but then I think that perhaps I shouldn’t be offended at all. Perhaps I should savor this moment. It’s like he’s saying I’ve got the upper hand. I’m not a downtrodden flower girl in his eyes, but—what do Frenchies say?—a femme fatale.
I wonder how Miss Tindall would handle him. I find myself raising my gaze and looking about me to see if Miss Tindall is nearby. Sadly, I can’t see her, but I think she may have heard. I hope so, but I know she wouldn’t be tempted to gloat, not like me. All the same, I trust she’s been watching what’s as good as a confession of Robert Sampson’s own guilt and the part he played in her death.
All of a sudden, I feel my head begin to shake. “You have already started to pay, Mr. Sampson,” I hear myself say. Only it’s not my voice that’s launching off my tongue. It’s Miss Tindall’s. “By marrying Louisa, you have begun to atone for your grievous mistakes. You have done the right thing.”
As he regards me across the table, I think his eyes might pop out of his head. My voice sounds like hers, I can tell. The color is leaving his cheeks. He reaches for his handkerchief to wipe away the droplets of sweat that prick his brow.
“I . . . I don’t . . . ,” he stammers, but before he can say any more, Miss Louisa returns.
“I apologize for my little show,” she says, manag
ing a weak smile. She smooths her skirts as she slides toward her new husband. The waitress appears with a tray of tea and sets it all down in front of us on a crisp white cloth. “Shall I be mother?” asks Miss Louisa with a giggle, which sounds odd coming from her lips. I’m seeing a new side of her; it’s as if the strong, independent woman is allowing herself to dissolve into her new husband, just like the sugar lump held in tongs poised above my cup.
“One or two, Miss Piper?”
“Thank you. Two lumps, please.”
“Of course, our marriage means that we want Bertie back with us,” she tells me eagerly. “Doesn’t it, my dear?” she demurs to her new husband, before returning to me. “Milk?” I give an awkward smile and nod.
“Naturally,” he replies gruffly. “My wife did not pay the full adoption premium, so he is legally still ours.”
Miss Louisa nods. “So we shall be renewing our efforts to find him.” She reaches for the tea strainer and places it over the rim of my cup.
“We want to raise him ourselves,” says Mr. Sampson. He’s forcing himself to act natural with me.
“Of course,” I agree. I’m playing along, so I’m half expecting what comes next.
The teapot is lifted to pour, but Miss Louisa puts it back down onto the table, as if what she is about to say is too important to be delivered while doing anything else. “But first we need to know where he is and that’s where we hope you can help us.”
My eyes flash from hers to the teapot. I knew it would come to this. I am prepared. I open the small reticule that Miss Beaufroy bought me and bring out the letter I received yesterday in reply to the advertisement.