by Tessa Harris
“You want one?” he asks me, shoving the rolled-up cig under my nose.
I shake my head in reply.
He shrugs, strikes a lucifer, and lights up. I watch him in silence as he takes a long drag, then blows out the smoke. I lean back and cough a little. I’m not sure if he meant to puff it out in my face, but it’s like he wants me to know who’s in charge, that he has a certain power over me. I know a lot of men like to do that with women, so I don’t read too much into his arrogance.
Suddenly he leans forward, all jumpy. He plants his elbows on the little table between us and his voice is urgent. “If I tell thee what happened that night, you’ll not tell it to police. Things is best left. I don’t want no one else to get hurt, you understand me, lass?” He’s not asking me, he’s telling me.
“I shan’t tell,” I reply, even though I know I can’t promise.
He takes a gulp of his ale, as if it’ll give him courage. “I did see Cath that night,” he says. “The night she died.”
It’s no big surprise to me, but I think it best to play all innocent. “So you knew her?” I can tell by his expression they were more than just friends, too.
He nods. “Aye. We met afore she took sick and ended up in the asylum.” I suddenly wonder if little Evie might have been his child; but for now, it don’t matter. I let him carry on. “While she were away, I got wed, but when Cath were better, she still came to see me now and again.” He shakes his head and gazes into his tankard. “She were an unhappy lass, especially after the little girl . . .”
“Evie,” I say.
His expression hardens. “Evie, aye,” he replies. “She were sure the minder killed her, you know. She were sure there were others, too.”
His words make my memory flash back to Cath’s ramblings: “The babes, dying so young.” And the specter of Mother Delaney rises before my eyes. He’s opening up. I need to pry deeper. “So what happened?” I ask. I need him to focus.
“That night, I were locking up, when she came to me. In a terrible state, she were, crying and trembling and talking so fast. I couldn’t make sense of it.” He shakes his head and drags on his cigarette. “Blood on her face, there was, and on her hands.”
“Blood?” I’m confused. “But Cath was strangled,” says I, but then I remember my vision. There was blood on her face.
He nods and goes on: “You’re right. At first, I thought she’d been roughed up, but as I wiped her cheek, I realized the blood weren’t hers. I tried to calm her. I sat her down in my workshop. I gave her a blanket and some gin.”
He takes a gulp of his own beer. “We sat for a while until she’d calmed down and then I asked her what happened.” He pauses. There’s a faraway look in his eye.
“And?”
“She said she’d found out where Evie’s minder was living. She was sure she’d killed the mite and so she’d taken a knife with her, to threaten her, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
He sighs heavily. “In case, she wouldn’t pay up.”
“Pay up?” I’m not sure where all this is leading.
“She were going to ask for money to keep quiet about the little ’uns dying.”
I’m shocked. I never took Cath for a blackmailer.
“She knew the son-in-law was in on it, too. He opened the door that night, and she told him if he didn’t cough up, she’d go to the law.”
I’m on the edge of my seat. What I’m hearing just doesn’t make sense to me. “She didn’t go at him?”
“He tried to get the knife off her and there was a scuffle. He got hurt.”
“I can’t believe Cath would do such a thing. Why didn’t she go straight to the coppers?”
Adam Braithwaite shakes his head. “You think they’d believe her sort? To the coppers, she was now’t but a dog turd.”
I can’t argue with him on that score, but I still can’t believe Cath could hatch such a plot. Blackmail is an ugly thing. It takes cunning, too. Surely, it wasn’t in her nature? But the answer to my unasked question comes quick enough.
The blacksmith casts a glance over his shoulder to check we’re not being overheard and lowers his voice. “The thing is, the money weren’t her idea. It were that no-good brother of hers.”
“Will?” I say. The old photograph of the young William Mylett pops into my head.
“Aye, he’s the one.” He spits on the floor. “Bastard. He made her do it, see. The minder bloke coughed up thirty quid for her silence.”
“Thirty quid!” I repeat.
He nods. “That’s when she came to me.”
I picture the scene: Cath’s face spattered in blood, Braithwaite calming her down. “She must have been beside herself,” I say.
“That she was,” he agrees, taking another sip of his ale.
But then another thought drops into my head. I’m not sure if Miss Tindall has put it there, but I remember that Cath was found with only half a penny in her apron pocket.
“So what about the money?” I ask. “The thirty quid.”
“I’d never seen that much money. She said she had to split it with that brother of hers, otherwise he’d be after her. And then . . .”
“Yes?” I press him, seeing that he’s welling up at the recollection of something important. “Then she says to me that she wanted us to run away together, to make a fresh start.” He sniffs. “Part of me wanted to, of course, but I’d my wife to consider and my business. I couldn’t just up and leave, as much as I wanted to.” He wipes his nose with the back of his grimy hand. “She said she were meeting Will to give him his share of the cash. I said I’d stay with her till he showed, but she told me to go. I could see she were afraid of him. That’s when we started to row. I told her she were making a big mistake, that she should take the money and run, but she wouldn’t have it. I left her alone and she stayed put at the yard entrance.”
“And that was the last you saw of her?”
“It were.” He takes another drag of his roll-up. “Course the next thing I know is I get to work and there’s coppers in t’ yard, saying they found a dead woman. When I heard it were Cath, I couldn’t say ’owt. They’d never believe me.”
For a moment, I’m speechless; then the words crawl out. “So you think Cath was killed by her own brother?”
“That I do.”
It’s hard for me to swallow. I recall the photograph of the pair of them, looking so happy. “And where is Will now?” No one, it seems, has heard from him since the murder. He’s vanished.
“Rumor is, he stowed away and sailed to America with all t’ cash. He could be anywhere.” He drains his glass.
He’s shocked me.
“But you can’t let it rest like that?” I say bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell the police all this?”
He shrugs, takes one last drag, then stubs out his cigarette on the floor. “As I said, they wouldn’t believe the likes of me. I’m the one they thought as did it. They wouldn’t believe my wife when she told them I were at home, but I was lucky a cartman spotted me coming out o’ Clarke’s Yard when he did, elst I could’ve had an appointment with t’ gallows soon.”
“So that’s why you were released. You had an alibi?” I can’t let this story rest.
“That’s a fancy word, lass, but yes. Someone saw me, so they let me go.”
“And meantime, Will Mylett is free.”
“Right again.” He frowns, then leans closer, so we’re not overheard. “But you can’t tell Cath’s old mum, eh? Kill her, it would. You hear?” His gaze is intense, and I know what he says is true. It would be the death of poor Ma Mylett. “Besides, Will’s long gone. He’ll not kill again. Leastways, not round these parts.”
CHAPTER 33
EMILY
Gilbert Johns flaps away a persistent bluebottle. He’s gathering up the entrails of the chickens he’s just dressed in Greenland’s yard. It’s the end of the day and he’s dumping them into a barrow to take to Mrs. Hardiman’s Cat Meat Shop. He’s scoopi
ng up another batch of slippery innards when he sees Mick Donovan loping toward the hanging shed.
“Oi!” he calls. He wipes his bloody hands on his apron. The Irishman turns. Gilbert casts a look inside the shop to make sure Mr. Greenland isn’t watching. “Here.” He beckons to him.
Donovan narrows his eye and draws closer.
“Why d’ya take the cart out the other night?” asks Gilbert. He’s been meaning to ask him before, but the time hadn’t been right.
The Irishman’s slouched shoulders suddenly straighten, but he does not reply. Instead, he frowns and carries on his way.
“Why? You know you’re not allowed.” Gilbert hears his own voice rising in anger and follows him. “Why?” He grabs him by the arm. “You’re one of them Fenians, ain’t ya? Wanting Home Rule and not caring who you blow up while you’re about it?”
Donovan fingers his measly moustache. “Leave it, will ya?” he pleads, eyeing Gilbert’s hand on his sleeve. “I was just running an errand. You know I need the cash. Up to my ears, I am,” he says, lifting his bloody hand to his head.
As if the sight of the blood reminds Gilbert, he says pointedly: “There was blood. Blood in the cart, and it weren’t from no birds.”
Donovan shakes his head. “I didn’t ask no questions,” he tells him in the hope that he will be asked no more himself. He turns and begins walking toward the hanging shed. But a second later, he feels Gilbert grab his collar. He twists round to see him towering over him. He’s been lifted almost off the ground.
“What was you up to?” barks Gilbert.
“Nothing!” comes the muffled reply.
Gilbert’s grip tightens. “Tell me!”
“A sack. I delivered a sack from the docks up to Poplar.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know, I swear!”
Gilbert is prepared to give the younger man the benefit of the doubt, but he knows his love of horse racing will be his downfall. “Debt” is a word that sounds so like “death,” and in Whitechapel, the one can so easily lead to the other.
CONSTANCE
As I return home to Whitechapel, I have the feeling me and Adam Braithwaite didn’t meet by chance. I’m not sure if Miss Tindall had a hand in it, but I think she’s trying to tell me something. Nor am I sure I can believe the blacksmith’s story about Will Mylett, but it stacks up. I swore I’d tell no one what I’ve just learned, but maybe I should. Maybe, sometimes, God allows us to break an oath if it might save the lives of others. William Mylett is still at large. Surely, if he is prepared to do in his own sister, then he will be prepared to kill again. I’ve a duty to tell Sergeant Hawkins what I’ve just uncovered. I make up my mind to go and see him on the morrow.
A few minutes later, I arrive home to find there’s an unexpected visitor in our front room. He’s filling our best chair with his enormous frame, taking tea with Ma.
“Miss Constance,” Gilbert Johns greets me, leaping to his feet so suddenly that his tea sloshes in his saucer.
“Gilbert here’s calling to see how you and Flo are faring, after Cath’s inquest and all that,” says Ma, beaming. “Ain’t that kind of him?”
I nod and manage a flat smile. “Very,” I reply, unpinning my hat. I take it off, together with my jacket, and hang them on the peg by the door. “We’re much obliged to you, I’m sure,” I say awkwardly. I smooth down my skirts and walk toward the fire. I’m so flustered to find Gilbert in our house that I even dip a little curtsy to him. Ma says he’d be a good catch for me and she’s already hearing wedding bells. I’m not so sure.
“I just thought I’d see how you was,” he says, taking his seat again. He’s spilled tea on his trousers and is trying to hide the damp patch with his big hand.
“That’s kind.” I sit myself on the chair with the wonky leg and clench my buttocks to hold it still and stop it from rocking. I’m that tense, anyway, that it’s really no bother. I don’t want to see Gilbert Johns; and the sooner he knows he’s not welcome, the better. There’s an awkward silence between us. Ma fills it by asking me if I’d like a tea, too. I don’t, but I say I do, just to get her out of the room.
Once she’s in the kitchen, and I’ve got Gilbert to myself, I think I’ll tell him straight that I’ve no time for courting. I shan’t mince my words. It’s not right to lead him on, so I’m just about to break it to him, but he bends his big head down low toward me and says: “I’ve heard something I think you should know.” He takes me aback with his seriousness.
“About Cath?”
He nods. “You heard they let the blacksmith go?”
News travels fast as fleas in Whitechapel. I crane my neck toward the kitchen to see Ma’s not loitering. “You weren’t his alibi, were you? You weren’t the cartman who vouched for him.”
He frowns. “How . . . ?” He shakes his head, but is wondering how I know. “Not me,” he protests. “Mick Donovan.”
“Mick Donovan,” I repeat. “Of course.” Suddenly I’m back in the smoky pub that night and the bar’s crowded, but I can see the Irish creep talking to some man sitting on a stool before he came over to join us. The other bloke had his back to us, but I remember he turned a little so that I saw the side of his face. I remember now he wore a patch over one eye. “How do you know?” I ask.
Just then, Ma brings in a tray with a fresh pot on it. “Here we are,” she announces, all cheerful like. “And there’s biscuits, too, Gilbert,” she says with a smile, offering him the pick of the plate.
“That’s very kind,” says Gilbert, playing the charmer as he takes one.
Ma puts down the plate on the table and clasps her hand as she watches Gilbert take a bite. He keeps his mouth shut while he chews, prompting an admiring look from her. She turns her face toward me and mouths: “Such a gent.”
I catch him coloring. His beefy neck is red and the flush is spreading to his cheeks. Gent or no, what Gilbert’s just told me just threw a whole new light on things. If Mick Donovan did see Adam Braithwaite leave the yard for his home at that time, then the blacksmith must be telling me the truth. Even though the very thought of seeing him sickens me, I need to go and have it out with Mick.
“Con. Connie, love.” Ma’s voice breaks into my thoughts. I look down to see I’ve not touched my tea. It’s gone cold. I’ve been so caught in the net of my own musings that I’ve paid little attention to our guest. “Gilbert’s going now.”
I turn to see him standing by the door, running his big hands around the brim of his hat. His jacket’s too small for him and he reminds me of a schoolboy grown out of his clothes. He gives a shallow bow to Ma, then turns to me.
“Thank you for coming,” says I, forcing my lips into a smile.
He flashes a shy one back at me. “See you again,” says he.
CHAPTER 34
EMILY
Mick Donovan is working late tonight. Mr. Greenland has asked him to sort an order for a society wedding. So, while his boss cleans up in the shop, Donovan is plucking a guinea fowl by the light of an oil lamp at the far end of the hanging shed. He sits on a stool surrounded by the carcasses of two dozen or more dead birds—mainly chickens, but there are geese and pheasant, too. They dangle forlornly from hooks on the roof rafters and even in winter are serenaded by the constant drone of the ubiquitous flies. It’s quite late and he’s only two more birds to pluck, when he hears the door creak open.
“Nearly done, sir,” he calls over, thinking Mr. Greenland has come to check on him. One by one, he carries on plucking the fowl’s fine feathers to reveal its purple, pitted flesh beneath. He hears footsteps approach, but thinks little of them. When, however, the footsteps come to a halt in front of him and he finally looks up, it’s not Mr. Greenland standing before him.
Donovan jumps up in such a hurry. He knocks over his stool. “Mr. Braithwaite!”
“I’ve come to thank you,” says the blacksmith, straight-faced.
Donovan can’t quite read his expression, but he’s on edge. “I only told
the coppers the truth. Your wife asked me. It’s what I saw—you leaving the yard way before they found the lass.”
Braithwaite leans his stocky frame against the wall. “Aye, lad, but there’s good truth and bad truth, ain’t there?”
Donovan frowns as he follows the blacksmith’s only eye as it travels the length of a dead goose, from beak to feet, a few inches away. He lifts his hand to stroke the snowy white breast feathers. “You see, it’s good that you said I couldn’t have killed Cath Mylett that night, but bad if you tell anyone about that delivery you did for me.” He switches his gaze to Donovan. “Do we understand each other?”
The Irishman’s mouth has gone dry; when he tries to answer, he finds his words have shriveled. Instead, he nods his reply.
“Good,” says Braithwaite. “Because I’d hate anything bad to happen to you,” he tells him, his eye back firmly on the dead goose.
CONSTANCE
Later that evening, Flo and me are alone by the fire and Ma’s taken to her bed. I’m quiet and my big sister knows something’s amiss.
“Come on, out with it, then,” she goads me.
“Out with what?”
“Get it off your chest, will ya? What happened today in Poplar?”
She knows I need to unburden myself. You can’t share a bed with a person for nigh on nineteen years and not know them as well as they know themselves. So I spill the beans about what I uncovered. I tell her about following the old woman and how I was jumped on and threatened by the haberdasher, who, it turns out, is in on the whole dirty business.
“So he’s in it, and all,” she says.
I nod. “The three of them. They’re up to their necks in it. The same ribbon, the selling of the clothes, Miss Louisa’s Bertie—”
She breaks me off. “And Cath’s Evie?”