by Tessa Harris
So the gents of the jury agree with what me and Flo knew all along: Poor Cath didn’t die because her collar was caught, or from drink. She was strangled by another. A verdict of “unlawful killing” goes down in the books. At least now the police will have to start looking seriously for her killer.
On the way out of the hall, our paths cross with Sergeant Hawkins’s. We’re all filing out together and it’s a right scramble for the door. Ma’s latched onto Mrs. Mylett and manages to get out pretty quick. I think the sergeant might be trying to avoid me, and I understand. The police have been proved wrong, but Flo catches his eye and drags me with her toward him. She wears her feelings on her sleeve, does Flo. She can’t hide her smugness. I know the verdict’s added to the police’s duties, for sure, but Flo just rubs salt in the wound.
“So you’ll just have to look for Cath’s killer now, won’t you, Detective Sergeant?” She’s all flirty and cocky at once.
I think she’ll annoy him, but he don’t seem that troubled.
“I’ve just instructed my men to make an arrest, Miss Piper,” he comes back at her.
That takes the wind out of her sails, I can tell you. You could blow her down with a feather. Sergeant Hawkins looks at me in a knowing way. If he weren’t such a gent, he’d tip me a wink, for sure.
“Who is it then?” Flo asks. It hasn’t taken her long to get her courage back.
The sergeant fingers the brim of his hat, then looks at us direct. “I’m sure you’ll be reading about it in the newspapers ere too long. Good day to you both, ladies,” he tells us with a full-of-himself smile. With that, he drops his hat on his head, pats it down, and he’s away.
I’d say he’s got a rabbit in that hat, and I’m not sure when he’s going to bring it out. Old Bill’s been left on the back foot; and now that the verdict is accepted, the question hanging in the air—and on the minds of most of us present—is not whether or not Cath was murdered, but was it by Jack the Ripper’s hand?
EMILY
News of the coroner’s verdict travels fast. So fast, in fact, that within an hour of its delivery, a young, freckled urchin is knocking on the door in an attic of a tenement building near East India Docks.
Will Mylett unlocks the door. There’s a look of expectancy gripping his face. His eyes are wide and glaring from out of their grimy sockets.
“Well? What did ’e say?”
The boy darts over the threshold and Mylett shuts the door behind him. “Murder. She were unlaw . . . unlaw . . .”
“Unlawfully killed.”
“That’s it,” says the boy, nodding his small head.
Mylett lets out a long, hard sigh that grates against his lungs, before grinding his teeth. “That bastard,” he says. He punches a nearby beam, then cradles his knuckle as the pain spreads throughout his hand.
The boy watches, seemingly unperturbed. He’s only one thing on his mind. “You got my money?” he asks, holding out his palm.
Mylett takes a silver shilling out of his pocket and lays it in the child’s grubby hand. “Be off with ya now,” he growls, returning to his throbbing fist.
The boy takes the coin gleefully. His work here is done and now he is thinking about the eel pie he will buy with his well-earned gains. He trots off contentedly.
Will Mylett has barely shut the door behind him, let alone bolted it, when he hears a scuffle on the stairs. Puzzled, he opens the door, just a little, to see what’s going on. The stupid boy has taken a tumble, he tells himself as he peers through the crack. He’d call to him, only he doesn’t want to alert anyone else to his presence. Instead, he shrugs and starts to close the door once more. He has plans to make and he doesn’t intend to stay in this squalid hellhole any longer than he has to.
But just as he’s about to slide the bolt across the door, it’s pushed toward him with such force that he staggers back into the attic and crashes into one of the upright beams. He’s still on his feet, but reeling from the shock. Then, from the shadowy landing, appears someone he was not expecting. Someone he most feared seeing.
“You!” he cries.
CONSTANCE
I suppose I should be relieved that common sense has won the day. Everyone knew Cath was murdered—everyone but Old Bill—and now they’re forced to open a proper investigation. So why am I not jumping up and down? As Flo and Ma and me leave the town hall and start our walk home down Poplar High Street, none of us is. Maybe it’s because we don’t have much faith in the police. I know Sergeant Hawkins will do his best, but he’s just one man. And there are only so many hours in the day, but at least there’ll be blues working on finding her killer.
Little Bertie gets no such treatment. His parents are the only ones trying to track him down. The whole sorry business sets me thinking that I was wrong to refuse Miss Louisa. I am special. I have been given a certain gift. It’s my duty to use it for the good of others. If I can help her, what right do I have to turn her away? What sort of a person does that make me? The Bible story of the Good Samaritan springs into my mind. I don’t want to be the one who’d pass by on the other side when there’s someone in such desperate need.
I can only imagine Miss Louisa’s pain. I’m angry for her, just as I’m angry for Cath, and all the other mothers who’ve suffered at the hands of that evil woman and her family. But most of all, I’m angry for the children who have been neglected and, worse still, even murdered. Suddenly it’s my own inner voice that tells me I have no choice. I have to help and, what’s more, I know I have the power.
“I’ll do it,” I blurt out just as we skirt Poplar Infirmary.
“Do what?” asks Flo, taken by surprise by my exclamation.
I shrug. “Something I know I’m meant to do” is all I say.
CHAPTER 31
Thursday, January 10, 1889
EMILY
It is early morning and barely light as a well-dressed young woman is pushing a baby carriage down the road, accompanied by her husband. People are about their business. Many are heading toward the dock gates. To all the world, they are an ordinary, respectable couple: he, of middling height, with unruly sideburns, but smart in his coat and billycock; she is thin, with a sallow face, which is hidden by her fetching wide-brimmed hat, and polished boots. When they come to the main junction, they engage in a perfunctory kiss before parting.
“You won’t forget to settle up with the poulterer’s now, will you?” the wife reminds her husband.
He nods and looks toward the baby carriage. “That extra cash’ll come in handy,” he says.
She turns off down a side street. He carries straight on, headed toward Whitechapel.
Not far behind this couple trails Constance. At first light, she stationed herself at the junction of Woodstock Terrace and Poplar High Street. Her mission is, of course, to gather evidence to be used against the inhabitants of Number 9 who have treated Miss Louisa so cruelly. Once she can prove, as she suspects, that this house is actually a baby farm, where children are effectively bought and sold, then she can report Mother Delaney and these two other accomplices to the Cruelty Men.
Her basket of flowers has masked the true purpose of her visit to Poplar. It acts as a plausible cover. She has until her interview with the prospective adopting parents on Friday to investigate. She is hoping she will not have to go through with her meeting, so she is doubly keen to uncover any evidence that may lead to their conviction. She will follow the woman with the perambulator.
CONSTANCE
So that was the man from the advert, the one who’s supposed to be a doctor. He don’t look much like one to me. From his bearing and his dress, I’d say he was more a clerk or a shopkeeper. Hang about! He looks familiar. He’s the haberdasher from Whitechapel. Surely he can’t be married to Mother? He must be the son-in-law Miss Louisa was on about. As for the woman, well, she’s dressed like she belongs in the West End. She must be the old crone’s daughter.
She keeps her head down under that hat of hers, like she don’t want no one to notice her. I�
��ve seen a few young mothers pushing their babies in parks and they’ve all got this certain look about them. When an admirer peers under the hood into their baby carriage, they welcome them and smile and accept any compliments that come their way. But I can’t imagine this one fussing with coverlets or nodding at old ladies who bill and coo. It’s as if she’s on business. She’s striding so fast down the road I can barely keep up with her. She’s not minding the ruts and bumps, neither, so that the poor child inside that perambulator will be getting bounced around like a football. It’s not long before I understand why.
Toward the end of this dark side street, I can make out a shop. The woman parks her baby carriage outside. I follow close behind and station myself by some chapel railings just in time to see her reach down to fetch up her baby—only there isn’t one. It’s a sack she lifts out of the perambulator and my jaw drops open at the sight. My eyes follow her into the shop with her booty.
EMILY
As you know, in nearby Commercial Street Station, the police have at last come to their senses and launched a murder investigation. The hunt for Catherine Mylett’s killer is finally on, and Detective Sergeant Hawkins has acted upon the information supplied by Sergeant Halfhide. He has brought in Adam Braithwaite for questioning. The prisoner now sits before him in the interview room.
“Do we really need to play games, Braithwaite?” asks the detective, shaking his head. “I know you and Catherine Mylett were charged with affray last year. Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?”
The blacksmith, his face still smeared with soot, fiddles nervously with his eye patch. He came quietly to the station, as if he half expected he would be found out. He accepts that he has not been entirely honest with the police.
“I knew, Cath, yes,” he admits with little prompting. “But I didn’t see her that night.” The grime on his forehead glistens with sweat.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” asks Hawkins, even though he knows the answer. “Why didn’t you say you knew the woman?”
Braithwaite looks wounded. “Because until yesterday, you coppers thought she fell down drunk and died, and so did I.”
The coroner’s verdict is undoubtedly an embarrassment to the Metropolitan Police, but Superintendent Arnold has since accepted the findings. Hawkins winces at the reminder of the collective incompetence of the force. “But now we have admitted our”—he searches for the right word—“error of judgment, you will tell us all you know. Yes?” There’s a note of exasperation in his voice.
Braithwaite sighs, as if he knows the game is up. “Cath and me, well, we were more than friends once.”
“Once?”
“Last year,” he replies with a nod. “But then I met my wife and . . .”
Hawkins nods. “I see. Then Miss Mylett became a problem. Is that so?”
The smithy shakes his head. “No.” He pauses, confused. “Yes. I didn’t want my wife to know about her, because, well, l . . .”
“Because Catherine Mylett walked the streets and your wife is a decent, God-fearing woman who isn’t forced to sell her services to other men?” Hawkins has done his homework and made inquiries in the neighborhood yesterday afternoon. The blacksmith married only four months ago.
Braithwaite is surprised by the detective’s insight, but after a moment he nods. “Exactly so, sir,” he replies, showing a vestige of humility for the first time.
Hawkins gives a triumphant nod. He is making progress. It is time to hand the suspect over to Inspector McCullen for more questioning. He wonders if his commanding officer will be so understanding.
CONSTANCE
Mother Delaney’s daughter doesn’t spend long in the shop. It’s five minutes at the most before she’s out again carrying an empty sack. She looks up and down the street, then turns and sets off in the direction of her home. I stay put and wait until she’s turned the corner before I pay my visit to the shop. Not a word has to pass my lips before I see my worst fear with my own eyes. The assistant, an elderly lady with spectacles, is sorting through a large pile of clothes on the counter. As soon as she sees me, she looks up.
“Yes,” she says, peering over the rim of her glasses, without a smile. It’s rare my sort’s ever shown one in shops.
“I’d like to look at some baby clothes,” I hear myself say, staring at the pretty little smock edged in blue on the counter. “For a friend,” I add quickly, in case she thinks I’m in the family way.
The woman gives me a sort of hoity look, as if I’m fortunate to be allowed in the store. “You’re in luck, young lady,” she says. “We’ve just had some in. Good quality, they are.”
The assistant picks up a little dress, a white one. It’s followed by a boy’s smock, made of fine linen and stitched in blue thread, with a monogram on the front. The letters are all curly, but they suddenly grow larger before my eyes until I can read them clearly. “RLF,” I suddenly say out loud. I’m not sure what the L stands for, but I’ll wager the R and F are for Robert and Fortune—little Bertie’s initials, the same initials that are on the silver cup that Mr. B palmed off on me at Christmas.
“What?” snaps the woman.
“The initials,” I explain.
She peers at the embroidery. “Very fine,” she remarks, followed by “Boy or girl?” She reaches for a length of brown paper from the large roll attached to the counter.
“Sorry?”
“Are you looking for clothes for a boy or a girl?”
“A boy,” I manage. I pick up the little smock with the initials. “I’ll take this one,” I tell her.
“A good choice, if I may say so,” she says. “And you can always unpick the initials.” She’s changed her tune, now she knows I’m a serious buyer. “I’ll take a shilling for it.”
I think she expects me to haggle, but I don’t. Miss Louisa has given me some money up front. “Here.” I slide over a coin and I watch her parcel up the smock in the brown paper.
When she hands it to me, she must wonder at the look of disgust on my face that I find difficult to hide. The truth is, I dread to think of what has become of the baby boy who once wore this fine smock. I dread to think of what has become of little Bertie.
EMILY
We shall leave Constance for the moment as she awaits the reappearance of the young mother she is surveilling. In the meantime, return with me, if you will, to Whitechapel to follow Florence. Her mother has given her a shilling to buy a capon for tonight’s meal with Mr. Bartleby. She’s said they’ll eat it in honor of Catherine, in the hope that now, at last, she will get justice. Florence—always glad for an excuse to celebrate—agrees it’s a thoughtful gesture, although she’s a little reluctant about a visit to the poulterer’s.
Greenland’s is, you’ll remember, where Mick Donovan, otherwise known as Irish Mick, works. She recalls very little about their last encounter that night in the George, but she does know she made a fool of herself in front of him. Nevertheless, she forces herself to swallow her pride for her mother’s sake. That is what brings her to the poulterer’s shop, a basket over her arm, on this chilly morning.
It’s as she feared. Donovan stands in the corner of the shop, a ball of twine in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, trussing plucked fowl. Florence pretends not to notice him.
“Good day to you, Miss Florence,” says Mr. Greenland, tipping his boater to her. “What can I do for you?”
She tells him she’d like a nice plump bird. She flashes her eyelashes at him as she speaks. Mr. Greenland easily succumbs to her charms and offers her one that’s already plucked at no extra charge.
“Mick here’s got some ready.” He bobs his head at Donovan. “We don’t want you spoiling them pretty hands now, do we?” he tells her. He turns toward the Irishman. “Let’s be having a good one here.”
So Donovan cuts a length of twine and ties the bird’s legs together at the back. He walks over to the counter and hands it to Mr. Greenland for wrapping; but just before he makes to return to his corner,
he leans toward Florence. “I’ve heard you like it nice ’n’ tight,” he whispers.
It takes a good deal to make Florence blush, but his words cause her to color.
“Here you are,” says Mr. Greenland, placing the wrapped bird in her basket.
Florence fumbles in her purse and hands over a few coins. She’s flustered and can’t leave the shop too soon. As she heads for the door, however, she bumps into a man in a billycock hat with limp sideburns. An expletive escapes from her lips and the impact causes her to drop her basket. As Florence stoops to pick it up, Mick Donovan springs to her rescue. So, too, does the man with the sideburns.
“Leave it to Mick, now, Mr. Cosgrove,” urges Mr. Greenland, clearly upset that a good customer should be inconvenienced in his shop.
Just as Donovan delivers the dropped capon back into Florence’s basket, he becomes aware that this Mr. Cosgrove is staring at him. Donovan stares back, and in that moment, an unsolicited memory returns. He glances down at the man’s hand, noting it bears a recent wound, and his expression betrays him. He turns back to his trussing, but it is too late.
“Come to settle up, have you, sir?” asks Mr. Greenland of his customer, just as Florence slips out of the shop. “Good day, miss,” the poulterer calls after her as, with the trussed capon in her basket, she begins her exit in all haste for the second time. It is what she has unknowingly left in her wake that will concern us later.
Meanwhile, Florence cannot return home quickly enough and hurries past an alley at the side of the shop. It leads to a courtyard at the back, where much of the slaughtering of the fowl is done. The alley is wide enough to park the delivery cart and it’s where we find a puzzled Gilbert Johns scratching his head in thought. He works for Mr. Greenland, alongside Mick Donovan, and he’d swear that someone has moved the cart overnight. It’s not where he parked it. Someone must have taken it out last night.