The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  “Yes. I think I can,” I tell her, trying not to sound smug. I unfold it and push it over to them. “You see, I saw an advertisement in the local paper. The wording was the same as the one you showed me, only the address was different. So I replied to it.”

  Louisa lets out a little gasp as she examines it. “The writing! Yes. I recognize it. The name may be different, but it’s Mother Delaney’s daughter’s hand. I’m sure of it!”

  She passes it to her husband, only I’m not expecting how he reacts.

  “Woodstock Terrace!” he exclaims, slapping the letter. He says it so loud, two ladies at a nearby table stop to look at him.

  “What is it, dearest?” asks Louisa, laying a steadying hand on her husband’s arm.

  “The address.” He points to the letterhead. “That’s one of my father’s properties.”

  It doesn’t surprise me. Sir William Sampson, Robert’s father, owns half the houses in Whitechapel and almost as many in Poplar.

  “What does that mean?” asks Louisa.

  The thought pops into my head and I know immediately, but it’s not my place to say.

  “It means we can threaten this woman with eviction if she refuses to tell us where Bertie is.” He’s excited by the prospect. He’s just realized he’s been dealt a better hand in this game of poker, where the stakes are his baby son. Now he must keep a cool head. He turns to his new wife, his piercing eyes sharper than ever. “We must go there this morning,” he tells her. “There’s no time to lose.”

  EMILY

  So Robert Sampson is turning over a new leaf. I am glad he has done the right thing by Louisa. It seems that since my unfortunate demise, he has been questioning his own values, his own morality. It appears that now he is even prepared to distance himself from his father. It could prove an astute move in the scheme of things. But I am getting ahead of myself. For now, I am in Poplar High Street watching a newly married couple stride, arm in arm, toward Number 9, Woodstock Terrace. Their steady pace belies the maelstrom inside both their bodies, but Louisa’s in particular.

  The house is not what Robert Sampson expected, even though he knew it to be one of the higher-yielding investments in his father’s portfolio. His business has never brought him to Poplar before, but he is pleasantly surprised. It seems a respectable residential street. There are no families living in a single room here. There’s no standpipe at the end of the row. It’s all clean and neat and civilized.

  Louisa, too, is oddly gratified that no squalor is evident. Indeed, this neat row of brick-built homes with pleasant bay windows reminds her of the place where she stayed in Stepney with Mother Delaney, where she was delivered of Bertie and where she and her baby son spent their first few days together. They stop outside the property and look up at it from the foot of the steps.

  Robert regards Louisa. “Are you ready?” he asks softly.

  She takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says, although she remains on tenterhooks.

  They uncouple their arms and he strides up the steps first. She stays a few paces behind on the pavement. The nausea is rising in her stomach as she hears her husband’s fist pounds on the door. A moment later, it opens. A young woman stands on the threshold. Louisa climbs the steps to see that it is Philomena. Little Isabel is perched on her hip.

  “Is your mother in?” Louisa asks curtly, suddenly experiencing a surge of courage with her husband at her side.

  Robert removes his top hat. “We would speak with Mrs. Delaney, urgently, if you please.”

  Philomena works her jaw. She’s been taken off guard and she never did like Miss Louisa, anyway. There is little room for civilities in this encounter. Even Isabel is aware of the atmosphere. She starts to grizzle as Philomena retreats and goes in search of her mother. A tense few seconds follow. Neither Robert nor Louisa can be sure that the old Irishwoman will appear to face their wrath. Yet, a moment later she does.

  Sidling up to the threshold, she crosses her arms in a gesture of defiance. “What is it that you want?” she asks brazenly.

  Robert can barely believe her effrontery. Louisa clasps hold of her husband’s arm. “You know very well what we want,” replies Robert. “We want our son. What have you done with him?”

  Gone is the kindly old woman who first took Louisa in and cut little Bertie’s birth cord. That benign nursemaid has been replaced by a harridan, a harpy of the first order. Her mouth barely moves as she delivers her riposte. “I told you he is gone.” Her glare is fixed on Louisa, as if she should not dare to question her son’s fate.

  Robert takes a step forward. “Gone where?”

  Mother Delaney stands her ground. “And who might you be?” she asks, regarding Robert with contempt.

  Louisa intervenes. “This gentleman is my husband. We want Bertie back and we will pay you for him.” She fumbles in her reticule and brandishes a crumpled banknote. “Here’s fifteen pounds.”

  The old woman doesn’t even give the note a glance. “He’s gone, I tell ya.” She’s about to shut the door, when Robert takes another step forward and wedges his foot across the threshold.

  “How dare you?!” he cries. His voice is boiling with rage. “Do you know who I am?”

  The old woman throws him a contemptuous snarl and presses even harder against the door.

  He counters with his own weight. He never intended to reveal his own identity, but now he feels compelled. “I am Robert Sampson, the son of Sir William—the owner of this house,” he shrieks. “I can have you evicted in an instant!” He is virtually screaming at her, but she suddenly kicks him sharply on the shins and sends him reeling backward.

  “No!” cries Louisa as her husband bends to clutch his leg in pain. In that second, the door is slammed shut. The sound of the key turning in the lock is the last they hear from inside.

  “You’ll pay for this. Damn you!” yells Robert, his fists hammering vainly on the door. Yet within, all remains quiet. I watch the couple stand in shocked silence for a moment longer before Louisa plunges into Robert’s arms, sobbing as loudly as any bereaved young mother.

  “Let’s get away from here,” he tells her, and he takes her arm and leads her, still crying, down the steps. “We’re not finished yet!” he shouts for all to hear. “They’ll rue the day!”

  CONSTANCE

  I’ve been praying in St. Jude’s for the past hour, waiting for the Sampsons to return. I’ve asked the good Lord to make Mother Delaney see the error of her ways and come clean. But as soon as I see only Miss Louisa arrive, I know my prayers have gone unheeded.

  “Oh no! What happened?” I rise and hurry to her. I take her hand and we sit down beside each other in the gloom of the empty church.

  In the candle glow, I see Miss Louisa’s eyes glisten. The handkerchief she clutches in her hand is limp with her tears. She shakes her head. “She just refused. She just refused to tell us anything.” Her voice breaks like a wave and tears wash over her cheeks once more.

  I put my arm around her, even though it is probably not my place to do so. She doesn’t flinch and I’m glad of it.

  “What are we to do?” she sobs. “I just want my baby back! My Bertie!”

  From behind one of the columns, a solitary woman suddenly appears and lifts her finger to her lips to tell us to be quiet. “This is a place of worship,” she scolds. I raise my hand like I’m surrendering and she disappears again.

  “My husband has gone to visit his father, to see if he can have the family evicted.” She looks heavenward, as if asking the Lord how he could be so cruel. “Will you pray with me?” she asks.

  I don’t know why, but her question surprises me. “Of course,” I say. We kneel together, side by side, and bow our heads. I know I’m expected to lead, so I do. I wonder if Miss Tindall is near. I can’t sense her, but I think Miss Louisa wants me to call her. So I do.

  “Dear Lord, we pray for little Bertie Sampson. We are looking for him, Lord. We beg you to let your servant, Emily Tindall, lead us to him, so that he may be r
eunited with his stricken mother. We ask this through Jesus Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Miss Louisa replies meekly.

  There is silence for a few seconds. I’m holding my breath, like I’m waiting for Miss Tindall to show. I think she might, but another minute passes and nothing happens—until, that is, a thought crawls out from somewhere deep in my brain.

  “We must go to the Cruelty Men,” I blurt suddenly.

  Miss Louisa stops sniveling and lifts her face. I’m expecting her to disagree. “The men you told me about before?”

  I nod. “They’ll visit the house. They can search it, but they’re not the police.”

  She’s softening. “If you think they can find . . .”

  Again I raise my hand. “Let’s go outside,” I say. And so we do. I guide her into the daylight and sit her on a nearby bench in the churchyard.

  “Robert,” she begins, before remembering she ought to be more formal. “My husband says his father can send the bailiffs round to the house where Mother Delaney lives.”

  “But if they’re evicted, they’ll go goodness knows where,” I point out. “They’ll just disappear and then you could lose all hope of ever seeing . . .” I stop myself midsentence.

  My words bring on more tears and I’m sorry for it, but, after a moment, Miss Louisa says: “These Cruelty Men.” She’s reminded me of the thread of our talk in the church. “You say they can search the house?”

  I nod. “Yes, they can. If they find any . . .” I pull myself up sharpish. I want to say “cruelty,” but it’s such a harsh word to use to someone as fragile as Miss Louisa. “If they find anything wrong,” I continue, “they can have Mother Delaney and the others arrested.”

  Suddenly she’s frowning again. She’s balked at the idea. “Does that mean I would have to give evidence against them?”

  I think quick. “I’m sure if you do, you won’t have to say your name in court,” I lie. I really have no idea. All I do know is that Mother Delaney needs to be brought to justice, and fast, before more babies go missing. I think of the dead ones, too. If the Cruelty Men do manage to search the house, I’m fearful what they might find.

  Shortly Miss Louisa lets out a deep sigh, which sounds more like a shudder. “I have an alternative suggestion,” she says. I can’t think what it’ll be, short of going straight to the police, but obviously I’ll listen. I nod and then she lobs a big, fat shock at me. “Will you keep a watch over Mother Delaney’s house for us?” I know my eyes betray my surprise, but she carries on. “We’d need you to follow her when she leaves the house, too, to keep her under surveillance.” I’ve not heard that last long word she’s just used before, but I’ve got the gist of what she’s proposing, all right. And there’s more. “Of course, we’d pay you for your time,” she adds. She’s trying to sweeten the bitter pill she’s asking me to swallow.

  “Well,” says I, after a moment. “I—”

  “We’d like you to keep a record of all the places Mother visits and what she does,” she breaks in. “It’s the only way we’ll find out where she’s keeping our Bertie.”

  “I . . . don’t.”

  “Please,” she pleads. I look down and she’s grabbed hold of my hands. “I implore you, Constance. You’re my only hope.”

  That phrase! It’s the one that jabbed at my heart before, and it’s doing it again. Miss Louisa is welling up once more and I feel my reason melt like candle wax. I’m no detective. I’m no—what’s the word?—private investigator. I’m a flower girl who’s been given a strange gift. I’m being asked to sneak around after this wicked old crone, who’ll do God knows what to me if she thinks I’m on her case. If she is the one who’s killed those poor mites, then what’s to stop her killing an adult? And then, of course, there’s Jack. He’s still out there, on the streets. It may even be that he murdered our own Cath.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I’ve said it. I shake my head and turn away from her tormented face. I can’t bear the look of despair she wears.

  “Very well,” I’m surprised to hear her say after a moment. “I understand. My husband and I will have to engage someone else.”

  I can’t believe she’s not putting up more of a fight. “It’s just that . . . well . . .” I start to blather like a child. I turn to see her nodding.

  “We have asked too much of you. When one is desperate to find the answer, one is forced to seek unconventional solutions.” The way she puts it makes me realize that there is still a big divide between our classes. Maybe she doesn’t understand the terrible risk I’d run if I was to agree to such an undertaking. Part of me is still an ordinary flower girl and I’m scared.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” I say, for a moment forgetting that she is now married.

  “Don’t be,” she replies. “I just thought because of your special talents . . .”

  I think she’s being cruel, but she is, of course, right. If I could be sure that Miss Tindall would be by my side, then I’d have the courage I need to do what she asks. I listen as the silence grows between us. I listen for Miss Tindall’s distant voice to tell me what to do. A whisper is all I ask, but the only sound I hear is the clatter of horses’ hooves and carts as they pass by on the main road. No voice comes.

  I feel so wretched, I can’t even bring myself to look at Miss Louisa when I say: “I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Wednesday, January 9, 1889

  EMILY

  It’s the morning of the summing up at the inquest at Poplar Town Hall. Detective Sergeant Hawkins arrives even earlier than usual for work to collect his papers before heading to the hearing. As soon as he sets foot in the Commercial Street Police Station, however, he’s accosted by Sergeant Halfhide. The veteran officer is on the desk and calls to him in a hoarse, almost conspiratorial whisper as he passes.

  “Hawkins! A word, if I may.”

  The detective moves toward him, slightly puzzled at first, until he remembers the sergeant was tasked to make an unauthorized line of inquiry.

  “You’ve found something on Braithwaite?” He leans in and speaks in a low voice.

  “Indeed, I did.” There’s a glint in the older man’s eye as he opens the large ledger, which is lying on the desk, at a page he has marked with a folded sheet of paper. “I told you the name rang a bell and here it is.” He points to a few lines in the charge record. “Late spring, it was. About eighteen months back.”

  Hawkins reads the entry for himself: May 28, 1887: Adam Braithwaite charged with affray, together with Joseph Litvinoff and Catherine Mylett. Braithwaite and Litvinoff found guilty at Bow Street Magistrates and fined one shilling each. Charges against Mylett dropped. Hawkins looks up. “So Adam Braithwaite knew the deceased.”

  Of course, he has always had his doubts about the case and secretly sided with Brownfield and the other knife men of the same persuasion. In his mind, there has never been any real doubt that Catherine was murdered; but, of course, he can do nothing until the coroner gives his verdict. But if he does conclude that Catherine Mylett was, indeed, strangled, then Hawkins can imagine McCullen will want to move swiftly to make an arrest. And if that happens, then he just might have an ace up his sleeve.

  CONSTANCE

  Flo, Ma, and me make it to Poplar Town Hall for Mr. Wynne Baxter’s summing up at Cath’s inquest. It’s a struggle to find a seat. I spy some familiar faces from Whitechapel who’ve made the journey over here just so they can stand at street corners and gossip about a dead gal who never did no one no harm. There’s Widow Gipps and that son of hers, who leers at every woman under thirty he sees, and Mrs. Puddiphatt from down our way. Got herself a seat in the front row, she has. She must have been outside when the doors opened.

  I’m not sure how Cath would feel, seeing all these mawkish people here, curious to know what happened to her. She’d probably say that no one gave a fig for her in life, so why now, in death, do they take such an interest?

  Ma sits next to Mrs. Mylett. She’s in a right state,
poor woman. It’s hard for her, hearing all these things about a daughter who must seem like a stranger to her.

  We’ve just settled ourselves down in seats at the back row, when who should walk in but Detective Sergeant Hawkins? I pretend not to notice him, but Flo nudges me.

  “There’s your fancy detective,” she says, knowing how it’ll annoy me. He’s wearing a dark blue long coat with the collar turned up against the cold. Under his arm, he carries a large leather wallet. I have to confess, he looks quite the gentleman.

  “He’s not half bad-looking,” quips Flo.

  I feel the color rise in my cheeks and hope that he hasn’t seen me just a few feet away. He’s having a word with one of the constables stationed at the door when he spots me and dips a shallow bow. I feel Flo’s elbow dig into my ribs once more.

  “I reckon he fancies you, too,” she whispers.

  We all rise for the coroner and it’s not long before he starts on his summing up. That’s what everyone’s come for, and this Mr. Wynne Baxter knows it, so he’s quick to cut to the chase. He’s no mug and he tells the jury what’s what. It seems he don’t—sorry, doesn’t—have much time for Old Bill. He tells them that despite the two policemen’s initial thoughts on the matter, the first medical men to see poor Cath thought it was—what did he call it?—“a case of homicidal strangulation.”

  Well, once foul play was suspected, doctor after doctor went down to view the body without his say-so, and he weren’t happy about it. “I had never received such treatment before,” says he. So, of the five doctors who saw the body, Dr. Bond was the only one who said it weren’t murder. But he didn’t see Cath’s body until five days after she died. Old Bond said if she’d been strangled, he should have expected to find the skin broken round her neck, but Mr. Wynne Baxter—well, he argued that there were some Indian doctors who’ve shown there are ways of strangling someone without leaving any marks at all.