by Tessa Harris
“Maybe,” I say. I hold back on telling her about my meeting with Adam Braithwaite. She’ll need to know soon, but I’m not sure she’s ready to face the truth about what happened to Cath yet. I can’t take it in myself. I shake my head. “But it’s going to be hard to prove what they’re up to without getting into that house and seeing for myself.”
Flo sucks in a breath between her teeth. “But now, you’ve blown your chances.”
I sigh and reach inside my apron pocket. “Here,” I say, waving the letter from Albert Cosgrove in front of her. “I answered an advertisement they placed in the newspaper.”
Her eyes widen. “You what?”
“I needed to find out where these baby farmers lived, for Miss Louisa’s sake. It’s just up in Poplar, in Woodstock Terrace, off the high street.” I tuck the letter back into my pocket. “I’m supposed to call tomorrow afternoon. I’d told them I’m near my time and want the baby adopted, but now I can’t go.” I shake my head as I gaze at the fire. “I’ve messed up, ain’t I?”
I glance up to see Flo’s looking at me all strange. “So you reckon these is the same bloody beggars that Cath put little Evie with?”
“I do,” I say, feeling the weight lift off my chest as the words leave my mouth. I suppose I should’ve shared my fears before, only I thought she had enough to deal with, what with Danny and then her being ill.
It turns out I was right. Her face darkens like thunder with the news. “So why haven’t you gone to the coppers?” she cries. “That Sergeant Hawkins. Can’t he do somefink?”
I fear she’ll wake Ma, so I put my forefinger to my lips. “That’s why I wanted to go to the house with a cushion under my jacket. I’d pretend I needed them to take my baby, so I could get proof of just what they’re up to,” I plead.
It’s like the thought has only just dawned on her that there’s a connection between the death of Cath’s daughter and the two babies found murdered recently, too. “So you think they killed little Evie?” The horror is spreading across her face so fast that I’m not sure she’ll be able to take my next piece of news.
“I know Cath believed they did. That’s why she was trying to blackmail them.” I’ve said it. It’s out. I need to tell her the whole truth.
“What?”
“I was with Adam Braithwaite.”
“The blacksmith? The one they nabbed and then let go?”
“Yes. He told me he reckons he knows who killed Cath.”
“Oh, my God!” She lurches forward and grabs both my hands. “Who? For God’s sake, Con, who?”
I’m looking deep into her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s ready for the truth. “Her brother.”
She lets out a strange sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a moan. “Will?”
I nod and she lets her hands fall. Her eyes are downcast and despite the warmth of the fire that’s flushed her cheeks, she suddenly turns ashen.
I try to explain what happened. “He put her up to blackmailing the baby farmers. They handed over money. She wanted a share of it, but Will wanted more. Seems like he lost his temper and . . .”
Suddenly she bends double in her chair and retches. Her hand flies up to her mouth, but she manages to hold it together. “I can’t . . . No!” She’s shaking her head. “How could he? His own sister!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, standing and bending low to put a comforting arm around her.
“Where is he now?” she asks as tears mist her eyes.
“In America, so the blacksmith thinks. He reckons he stowed away on the first ship to New York.”
She slumps back into her chair again and I return to my seat.
“So that’s why he didn’t go to the funeral, or even see his mother.” She’s shaking her head; then she looks at me directly, thinking of the frail old woman. “The shock would kill her. You mustn’t . . .”
“Not a word,” I agree.
“It’s probably best that no one knows,” she says after a moment. She points to the ceiling, where Ma lies abed. “And that means her, too.”
Of course, that’s what Adam Braithwaite said. But I can’t be certain. I think I should go to the police, even though I promised to seal my lips. It’s a notion that sits uneasy on my conscience; the secret will fester and the poison will grow and corrupt. But I say nothing, and the silence between Flo and me stagnates as we become sucked down into our own dark thoughts.
That night, I make up my mind. I have to report Mother Delaney and her family to the Cruelty Men, even though I’ve very little evidence. Now that the haberdasher has recognized me, I won’t be able to get inside the house myself. All hope of seeing just how many little souls there are, and how they’re kept, has gone. The Cruelty Men are my only hope, but it’s not going to be easy.
CHAPTER 35
Saturday, January 12, 1889
CONSTANCE
I break the news to Flo as we eat our breakfast, but my words don’t slip down as easy as the gruel. She slams her bowl onto the table.
“And you think the Cruelty Men will listen to you?” she sneers crossly. There’s a flash of anger in her eyes.
“I’ll show them Bertie’s smock that the baby farmers sold,” I tell her. I know it’ll be hard convincing them that an old dear, whose toothless mouth couldn’t melt butter, is a murderer. I can imagine Mother Delaney now, the very model of Christian virtue, offering the inspectors tea and scones from her best china plates. But Flo’s having none of it.
“The old witch can say he’s growed out of it,” she hisses, looking at the little smock. “It’s not against the law to sell baby clothes that are too small, you know.”
I don’t anger easy, but my frustration is welling up by the second. “We’ve got to do something,” I wail.
Upstairs, Ma stirs, so Flo leans over the table and keeps her voice low, but firm. “Think about it, Con. This old woman and her family ain’t going to take notice of no gospel grinders when they’re willing to kill babies, are they?”
I can tell she’s still reeling from learning that Cath was most like killed by her own brother. The world is an even darker and more wicked place than it was this time yesterday, before I told her who strangled our friend. I know how she feels. No one can be trusted any longer. We are on our own, with no one to look out for us. She feels as though her heart has been ripped out of her and trampled underfoot. I understand, because I feel the same.
I push away my bowl of gruel. “I don’t know what else to do, Flo. Miss Louisa and her husband will be mad with me if I tell the blues,” I protest.
“Like we can’t tell them about what really happened to Cath, neither?”
This last remark makes me wonder if she might be changing her ideas over going to the police about Will Mylett. It’s time I reminded her of something.
“Remember, the same woman who’s taken Bertie Sampson killed little Evie, most like,” I say.
Flo’s head shoots up. “You think I’d forgotten that?” she snarls. “I may not be well-learned like you, but I ain’t stupid.”
She puts me back in my box for a moment. I never meant to offend, but I see she’s hurting, so I wait awhile before I tell her. I pour her another tea, then say: “If the Cruelty Men find evidence against this baby farmer, then the coppers will have to look into the case.”
Slowly she nods as she stirs in the sugar, and I see the thought of revenge take root in her brain and spread into her features. She’s stewing just like the leaves in the pot. “They’d ’ave ’er, all right,” she says in a hoarse whisper, still stirring her tea. “And then she’d swing.”
It’s like someone needs to suffer for Cath’s death. If it can’t be her brother, then it should be the woman who Cath was convinced killed her baby, and perhaps even Bertie Sampson. Flo frightens me when she’s like this, but before I can say anything to soothe her, Ma appears at the foot of the stairs, wheezing like a steam train.
“Where you off to today, gals?” she asks cheerily.
Flo and m
e swap guilty looks. “I’m going to stay around Whitechapel today, Ma,” I reply. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run.” I’m relieved when she doesn’t ask me what sort.
Flo tells her she’s off to St. Paul’s. “There’s some service on,” she says. “There’ll be a lot of toffs and big wigs.” She rubs her fingers against her thumb, picturing rich pickings.
Ma sits down and I pour her tea from the pot. “Just as long as you both take care, me darlin’s,” she says, reaching for the milk.
“We will,” we both reply at exactly the same time.
EMILY
As you’ve probably already guessed, Constance does not stay in Whitechapel today, but hurries to the office of the London Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Children in elegant Bloomsbury. It’s a busy time of year for the worthy men and women who toil for this august body. In this inclement winter weather, so many infants are smothered when they share a bed with their siblings and parents, especially on a Friday or Saturday night when liquor is consumed. Add to this increasing toll the more straightforward cases of cruelty: the apprentice kept in a coal cellar, the young daughter pregnant by her predatory father, and the little boy beaten to within an inch of his life by his drunken mother. Surely, you must agree that the well-meaning members of this society have more than enough to occupy them. Constance intends to add to their work.
CONSTANCE
“I’ve come about a stolen baby, sir,” I say when I’m finally shown into an office to see someone in charge. I’ve been passed from pillar to post until now, and I’m in no mood to be moved on again.
A short, dapper man, with wings of gray hair and a frock coat that’s too large for him, is sizing me up. I’ve seen him before; in the congregation at St. Jude’s, perhaps? I think I know him from church.
He squints at me. “Your face is familiar, Miss . . .”
“Piper,” I say. “Constance Piper.” He smiles, then looks at the brown paper parcel with Bertie’s smock in it, which I’m clutching under my arm. “And you say someone has stolen a baby. I’m assuming it’s not yours, Miss Piper.” He says “Miss” all hard, like he hopes I’ve not had a child out of wedlock. The gentleman, Mr. Treadway, as I recall, asks me to take a seat.
I don’t know why, but I keep my voice low. “I’m here to report someone who’s a baby farmer, sir.”
His expression suddenly changes and he shakes his head. “You know there’s nothing illegal about such an operation, although it has to be licensed, of course.”
I’m worried he’s trying to get rid of me. “Yes, I know,” I reply. Perhaps he thinks me cheeky, but I don’t care. I need someone to take me serious. “The mother wants her baby back, but he’s gone missing,” I tell him. I think I’ve got his attention. “He’s the son of a gentleman and he may have been kidnapped,” I say.
I’m in a big office and from the walls the framed faces of children stare down at me. They’re all thin and mangy. Some are naked; others are plain filthy. The sight sickens me, but it makes me more resolved.
Mr. Treadway leans toward me, dips his quill nib into his ink pot, and says: “So, Miss Piper, I will need details.”
As much as I want to tell him about the murders of the babies in the market and at Bow Creek, I know he’ll say they’re police matters, so I concentrate on telling him Bertie’s sad tale. Without mentioning his parents’ names, I do say they are from the quality, knowing that will make a difference. Toward the end of my account, I place the parcel on the desk and open it up to show the gentleman the little smock with the embroidered initials. He notes down the letters, RLF.
When I’ve finished my sad account, Mr. Treadway puts down his quill and shakes his head. “This is a most distressing state of affairs, Miss Piper.” But then he frowns. “However, may I ask why the parents are not making inquiries themselves?”
I knew he would stick his oar in, so I try to explain as best I can. “It’s a delicate situation, sir. I am acting as their agent, as they wish to remain anonymous for the time being. The scandal—”
“Of course.” He breaks me off. Scandal is to the quality, what hunger is to us poor—a thing feared before all else. I think him very helpful and ready to act, until he tells me: “We can send someone round next week.”
My heart sinks. “Next week?” I repeat. “Not today, or tomorrow?”
Mr. Treadway shakes his gray head, making his wings flap. “This is one of dozens of requests we receive each month and every case has to be investigated. Of course, because it involves genteel persons, discretion will be our watchword, but please assure them that if there is any wrongdoing, then this woman”—he glances down at his notes—“this Mother Delaney, will be chastised.”
“Chastised?” I blurt. It’s like she’s been naughty in school and needs a rap on the knuckles to keep her in line, not a kidnapper, or worse.
He offers me a fatherly smile and pushes the notebook away from him. “I can assure you, Miss Piper, most often it is enough for such people to see the error of their ways.”
As I walk back down the stairs and out onto the street, I’m feeling more dejected than ever, like I’ve run up a blind alley. If the Cruelty Men don’t act soon to stop Mother Delaney, and if Will Mylett has gone to America, it means they’ve both got away with murder.
It seems there’s no justice in this world. I really should tell the police about Bertie, but I can’t go behind Miss Louisa’s back, can I? If the story got into the newspapers, her reputation would be torn to shreds. As for Sergeant Hawkins, he’s up to his eyes in it with Jack. I’ve nowhere to turn. Miss Tindall, what must I do?
CHAPTER 36
EMILY
As much as I want to help dear Constance, I am needed urgently elsewhere. I am called upon to watch over Florence. She is a deeply troubled young woman; and unbeknownst to anyone else, she has traveled to Poplar. There she grasps the knocker on the door of Number 9, Woodstock Terrace, and raps three times. She stands back and waits. There is no reply. She knocks again, only louder this time. Still no reply. She spies a bell. She rings that, too, but in vain.
Anger is rising inside her. On her journey here, she had rehearsed just what she would do. At first, she would play the game; and, as Constance had intended, she would pose as a pregnant young woman with an unborn infant to offer for adoption. The trouble is, she doubts her own capacity to remain calm. She accepts she’s not like Constance. Her tongue’s made of pig iron, not silver, and just how long she can keep up a charade is anyone’s guess. Even she worries that she is like a powder keg. Her emotions lurch from joy to rage in the blink of an eyelid.
Her rapping is met with more silence. That is when her wrath boils over. Convinced there must be someone at home, she begins to hammer on the door, and her hammering rouses a maid in the adjoining house. The girl lifts the sash window and sticks out her head. She’s obviously decided from Florence’s dress and demeanor that she isn’t a desirable sort, so she makes no attempt to stand on ceremony.
“You won’t find no one in,” she yells.
Florence takes a step back and regards the irritable maid.
“Do ya know when they’ll be back?” There’s no need for her to mind her manners.
The maid shakes her head and lets out a brittle laugh. “Don’t reckon as they’ll be coming back.”
Florence’s heart leaps in her chest. “What do ya mean?”
The maid is sanguine. “A carriage came for all their belongings, night before last. Reckon they’ve done a runner.”
From somewhere inside the next-door house, a disembodied voice can be heard calling, “Daisy? Daisy, is that you shouting?”
The maid’s head withdraws and the window is promptly shut.
Florence is left bereft on the doorstep, trying to take in what she has just heard. Her breathing suddenly starts to become labored as she feels the panic rise. She balls her fists and begins to hammer on the door again, even though she knows it’s a futile gesture.
“You bastards!�
�� she shouts. “You bleedin’ bastards!” She wheels round and storms down the steps, then turns again to look up at the front door. “Curse you. Curse you!” she screams through scalding tears. “Murderers!”
Up and down the street, faces appear at windows. A sash is lifted. “Clear off,” shouts an angry elderly man.
A front door opens and a woman wielding a broom shakes it threateningly. “Get away with ya!”
Florence’s shouts and curses suddenly subside and give way to a terrible rasping sob that seems to mark time with each step she takes along the street. She’s thinking of Cath and how she must’ve felt when her little Evie died. Glancing down at her skirt, she clutches at her waistband, as if to make sure that what is inside her is safe.
She knows her own baby is probably only the size of a walnut, and yet she’s already got feelings for it. She’s no longer sad that the pennyroyal didn’t work. All around it, she can feel her innards roiling and churning in anguish, and yet she can imagine this tiny thing, this little being, tucked up cozily on its own little island, safe from the outside world’s iniquity.
“Cath,” she mouths silently as she stops for a moment to catch her breath. She looks about her. Up ahead lies Poplar High Street. Clarke’s Yard can’t be far away. She’d like to pay her respects. The thought of seeing where her friend was slain has been too much for her before, but she knows she cannot possibly plummet much lower than she’s feeling at the moment. Perhaps seeing where she was felled might even bring her some comfort, some closure. She thinks the yard won’t be that hard to find. With a new resolve, she blows her nose with a stolen handkerchief and sets off.
By now, the light is fading, but Florence is sure that if she keeps to the main road, she’ll come to the yard. Past some ramshackle stalls she trudges, and carries on for a few more paces until, across the street, she sees an alleyway. There’s no sign at its entrance, but she thinks she’ll take a look, anyway. She crosses the road and ventures down the passage that lies between two boarded-up shops. Up ahead, she can hear the clank of metal on metal, so it’s clear there are workmen about. It’s safe enough, isn’t it? I know what she’s thinking. She’s trying to convince herself that Jack won’t strike when there are others so close by. But then the doubts crowd in.