The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  EMILY

  Constance is not the only one up and about when most God-fearing souls are abed. Detective Sergeant Hawkins is still at his desk as dawn is poised to break. He is poring over the medical examiner’s report into Michael Donovan’s apparent suicide. That, at least, is what his officers at the scene told him at the time. He is ashamed to say he was relieved. It meant one less crime for him to solve. Now, however, he has come to the summation of the report and does not like what he reads: A blow to the back of the head possibly rendered the victim unconscious before he was hanged to make it appear a case of self-murder.

  He slaps his palms on his papers and pushes away from his desk, as if wishing to put distance between himself and the report. Another murder to investigate is the last thing he needs right now. Just as he does so, PC Tanner, who’s just about to go off duty, walks into the office to tell him Miss Piper is asking to see him urgently.

  “Constance,” he says under his breath. His mind darts back to their last encounter. He has learned from experience that he ignores Miss Piper’s opinions—or rather her intuition—at his peril. Inspector McCullen’s been on his back. Three more unsolved murders in six weeks—Mylett, Braithwaite, and now Donovan—don’t sit well with the Assistant Commissioner, nor with any resident of Poplar and Whitechapel, for that matter. He needs all the help he can muster—divine or otherwise. He frowns, grabs his jacket from a nearby chair, scrambles into it, and leaps to attention as soon as his unexpected visitor marches in.

  CONSTANCE

  “Miss Constance, I thought you might stay in Reedhampton with the Sampsons.”

  Detective Sergeant Hawkins is certainly not expecting my early return. Tell the truth, I can’t believe I’m here, neither. The thing is, what I’ve just discovered is so important, it can’t wait.

  “I was, but I’m back now,” I snap. “Do you have the medical examiner’s report on Adam Braithwaite’s body, Sergeant Hawkins?” There’s no time to stand on ceremony. I know my behavior must look unseemly, but what’s arrived in my brain could prove crucial to the investigation.

  “Yes. Yes, of course, but this is highly irregular.” I can tell he’s put out.

  “Please, you have to trust me,” I tell the sergeant.

  He fixes me with an odd look. “You’ve had another vision?” I’m not sure if he is taking me seriously.

  “More intuition,” I counter.

  He brings the file from a nearby drawer and hands it to me. “Here.”

  I flick through, until I find the part where it estimates Adam Braithwaite’s time of death. I look up. “This says the blacksmith had been dead between ten hours and three days.”

  “Why is that noteworthy?” asks Sergeant Hawkins.

  “He had a wife, didn’t he?” I come back. “The one who gave him an alibi on the night of Cath’s murder. Why didn’t she come looking for him?”

  He frowns in thought. “I remember she was nursing her sick aunt before. Perhaps she was staying with her again?”

  “And where was that?”

  I can see I’m grating on his nerves. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you offhand, Miss Piper. Inspector McCullen has some of the earlier paperwork.”

  I can’t let it rest. I try another tack. “Have you spoken with Gilbert Johns? Has he told you about Mick Donovan taking the cart out at night?”

  The sergeant nods. “Yes, I know about the cart and the sack.”

  This is too important to let go. I’m like a dog with a bone. “It’s clear there was a body inside, but whose? It can’t have been Adam Braithwaite’s. The sack was collected the day before you arrested him.”

  His eyebrows shoot up in shock. “Surely, you’re not saying we should be looking for another body, Miss Piper?”

  “I am,” I snap. “Unless . . .” My eyes stray back to the report into Braithwaite’s death. “You told me his face was so badly mutilated, he could only be identified by his wife.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The head was partly burned in the furnace. We also found a bloodied eye-patch nearby.”

  “But what if the body was someone else’s?”

  The sergeant’s jaw drops. It’s like he’s just had a revelation, like the scales have just fallen from his eyes. “Of course!” he mutters. Suddenly he’s hurrying to the door. “Tanner!” I hear him shout. “Tanner!” He disappears for a moment, then returns with Mummy’s boy at his side.

  “It was you who tracked down Mrs. Braithwaite to her sick aunt’s house, was it not?” he asks.

  “Aye, sir,” replies the bewildered copper, looking at me all put out. I know he was just about to go off duty.

  “Do you still have the address?” asks his boss.

  He takes out his notebook and thumbs through. “Yes, sir. Pelham Street, sir.”

  Sergeant Hawkins balks and pins his look on me as he asks: “Not Number 11?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tanner has barely had time to return his notebook to his pocket before Sergeant Hawkins is grabbing his own topcoat and hat. “I’ll need a couple of men,” he yells, hurtling through the door.

  “Righto, sir,” calls the constable.

  “What about me?” I cry, heading after him.

  He pauses in the hall. “This could be dangerous, Miss Piper. You’d best stay here,” he tells me. And he’s off. Course his words is like a red rag to a bull. I’d rather eat my hat than sit around and twiddle my thumbs waiting for him to be a hero. I’ll follow on, and he can’t stop me.

  EMILY

  Dawn has just broken when, a few minutes later, Detective Sergeant Hawkins raps on the door of Number 11, Pelham Street. His knock is answered quickly. He does not, however, expect the door to be opened by a recently widowed woman.

  “Mrs. Braithwaite!” he exclaims as soon as he sees Fanny standing there.

  She does not expect to see him, either. In a moment of unthinking panic, she tries to slam the door in his face, but he thrusts his boot across the threshold and jams it open.

  “Let me in!” yells Hawkins.

  Fanny manages to sidestep and pushes against the door from the inside. Twisting toward the stairs, she screams: “Coppers. Get away!” But her strength is no match for the detective’s and he shoulders the door, ramming it backward and shoving Fanny away in its wake. She staggers and stumbles to the floor, allowing Hawkins to bound over her. He’s poised to leap up the stairs, when she grabs his coat and tries vainly to drag him back, but he fends her off with a blow to her hand. In five strides, he’s on the landing.

  One door is halfway open, the other shut. He tries the handle on the closed one. It seems locked. He rattles it, then realizes it’s been blocked from the inside. “I know you’re in there, Braithwaite!” he yells. He takes a run at the door and shoulders it. There’s a loud thud as a chair that’s been wedged under the handle crashes to the ground; this time, he manages to force the door open to see the blacksmith escaping through the sash window.

  “Police!” he cries, lunging toward the window as Braithwaite flies into the air. Hawkins sees him land flat on his stomach against the pitched roof of a privy a few feet below. A drainpipe saves his fall, and although he lands awkwardly, he soon picks himself up.

  “Braithwaite!” shouts Hawkins in vain.

  Ignoring the detective, the blacksmith jumps down onto the boundary wall of the house, teeters along it for a few steps, then lowers himself down into the narrow alley at the back. Hawkins starts to follow, but not before he’s summoned help, blowing his whistle twice.

  You’ll remember how the sergeant has no love of heights and has to summon all of his courage to set off in pursuit. Somehow he manages to lower himself onto the pitch of the privy, but his legs betray his fear. He cannot run, only walk along the top of the wall. Thankfully, it is but a few paces until he is able to jump down onto the footpath that leads toward Brick Lane, but he is glad to return to terra firma. He’s also just in time to see his quarry turn left up ahead.

  Running full pelt, and
ducking under the narrow archway to the alley, he finds himself on the main thoroughfare as Braithwaite shoots across the lane and careens into the path of a passing brewer’s dray, sending barrels toppling from the cart. The shire horse is unsettled and rears up, but the blacksmith sidesteps it and carries on through the great wrought-iron gates of the Black Eagle Brewery. Dodging a stray barrel and ignoring the angry shouts of the drayman, Hawkins runs after his quarry.

  The courtyard is already busy and noisy with morning deliveries. Four carts are being loaded and for a moment the blacksmith is lost among the barrels, casks, and horses. Gasping for breath, Hawkins scans the courtyard. Fast footsteps approach from behind him. He turns and is relieved to see PC Tanner.

  “Over there!” shouts the constable, pointing to Braithwaite as he disappears up a flight of steps into the malt house entrance.

  “Get men on the main doors,” orders Hawkins. “I’ll go after him.” He begins to ascend the treads of the wooden staircase just as the wanted man dives through the open door at the top.

  CONSTANCE

  I’ve given Sergeant Hawkins a few moments to get ahead before I’m on his tail. Unbeknown to him, I followed him out of the station, heading for Margaret Mylett’s house. The chimney stack of the Black Eagle Brewery looms up ahead and I’m almost at the junction with Pelham Street, where she lives, when I see three or four coppers inside the loading yard of the brewery. Something’s going on.

  I look through the great wrought-iron gates and watch the rozzers run helter-skelter. Somehow I know I’ll find Sergeant Hawkins here. My head turns this way and that as I enter the yard. Barrels are rolled onto dray carts. Sacks are being winched up from a wagon to the third floor. Men are everywhere. A wall of noise bombards my ears and clatters inside my skull, but my eyes fix onto the big double doors to the brew house ahead of me.

  “Oi, miss! You can’t go in there!” I hear a voice yell behind me. I take no notice, only quicken my step. Inside there’s a huge steam engine, which is powering some of the machinery. Chains jangle, whistles blow, and the steel rakes churn up the mash. Great vats stand in a row like giant cauldrons; next to them, swathed in steam, are the shallow trays where the scalding wort cools down. It’s hot and humid inside. As my eyes adjust to the light and the steam, I see a clutch of men looking up at a gantry above them. They’re pointing at a lone man. I strain to look. It’s Sergeant Hawkins.

  His head switches up and down, and from side to side. He’s on the prowl as he creeps gingerly along the narrow iron walkway that lies at least twenty feet above the ground. He’s vulnerable. I remember he don’t like heights, and one slip and he’ll fall. What’s more, there’s no cover and nowhere to hide. Suddenly, from out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement above him as a pulley swings out, a sack dangling from its huge hook.

  “Look out!” I shout.

  The sergeant’s head cracks up and he jumps back just as a hundredweight bag of grain comes hurtling down from a great height. It misses him by inches and bursts on the walkway in front of him, spraying barley into the air. I catch a glimpse of a man framed by iron girders, high up in the roof space, but it’s hard to make out his features. In a flash, he’s gone again.

  I switch to Sergeant Hawkins as he climbs the flight of stairs up to the next level that runs along the side of the mill engine. It’s a massive machine that grinds the hops between rollers. They run in opposite directions to crush the husks and spit them out on a moving belt.

  I can hardly hear myself think as I watch him edge his way along the side of the mill, and then I catch sight of the man, again. He’s ducked down below a gantry rail and lowered himself onto the same level as Sergeant Hawkins. I think he’s heading for the chute they roll the barrels down, on the outside wall. He’s at least fifty yards ahead, level with the sparing tubs, where they spray hot water onto the mash. But he takes one look at the chute and decides he’s too high up to risk a jump, so he keeps on running along the narrow walkway. I can see he’s tiring. I can see, too, that if I take another staircase, I can head him off. He’ll be trapped. Sergeant Hawkins is catching up with him; so, quick as a flash, I hurry to the far end and start to climb, two steps at a time.

  “Miss! Come back!” I hear PC Tanner cry after me, but I’m too fly for him.

  The man has nowhere to go. If he carries on, it’ll be straight to me. If he turns back, he’ll run into Sergeant Hawkins. Out of breath, I reach the landing, blocking his path. It’s too late for him to turn. I think we’ve got him trapped, when he stops dead in front of me. We come face-to-face for the first time. I gasp when I realize the man’s right eye is dead and unseeing in its socket.

  I was right. It’s not Cath’s brother from the photograph. It’s not Will Mylett. It’s the man who everyone thought was already dead—the man whose face everyone believed was smashed so bad, only his wife could recognize him. It’s Adam Braithwaite. He looks down at the four steaming vats that lie eight feet below. There’s a gap of about three feet between each one. He has to surrender. Or jump. Instead, he lunges at me and grabs me by the neck.

  “Come any closer and I’ll kill her!” he shouts below.

  “Just like you did Catherine Mylett!” shouts back Sergeant Hawkins.

  I feel the blacksmith’s stinking breath on my cheek; then his grip loosens and he steps back. I turn to see him hesitate before taking a gulp and launching himself off the gantry. My hands fly up to my eyes. I can’t look. I wait for the splash, my heart pounding faster than the steam engine, but it don’t come. He’s not landed in the vat, but on the ground between. Only he’s just lying there. He’s not moving. Men are rushing forward now, closing in on him. Sergeant Hawkins runs back along the gantry and down the stairs.

  “Move back!” calls PC Tanner, clearing the way for the detective.

  By now, I’ve managed to squeeze past the huddle of brewers to the front. Braithwaite is facedown. I catch Sergeant Hawkins’s eye just before he gives Constable Tanner the nod to turn him over onto his back.

  “Adam Braithwaite,” mutters Sergeant Hawkins. It’s the first time he’s seen his face up close. He bends low and checks for a pulse in his neck. After a moment, much to everyone’s surprise, he declares him to be alive. “Call a doctor,” he orders.

  There’s a bloody gash on the blacksmith’s left temple, where he caught his head on the vat; while below the left knee, his leg lies at right angles to his thigh. It’s clear it’s a bad break.

  “Will he live?” I ask.

  Sergeant Hawkins looks up at me. “Let’s hope long enough to talk.”

  CHAPTER 43

  EMILY

  The doctors are used to dealing with industrial injuries at Poplar Infirmary. Every day, a docker is brought to them, with a flattened leg or a broken arm or rib. Injuries at the brewery are not unheard of, but usually involve scalding or crushing.

  Adam Braithwaite’s condition is, nevertheless, serious. The glancing blow he suffered to his head was severe, but not life-threatening. His leg, however, was necessarily amputated in theater and now a fever has taken hold.

  Sergeant Hawkins has asked to be notified when the injured man is capable of being interviewed. Many questions remain unanswered, and Braithwaite, he believes, holds the key to most of them. The detective only hopes that he is able to answer them before he takes a turn for the worse. If he lasts the night, it’ll be a miracle.

  CONSTANCE

  I’m hardly over the threshold of our home when Flo rushes up to me and gives me a big hug. Ma’s there, too, and plants a kiss on my cheek.

  “It’s good to have you back,” says Flo. “What news?” she asks fretful-like, still holding me tight.

  So much has happened in the last few hours that my head’s a jumble. But at least I’ve brought some good news back with me.

  “Bertie’s alive,” I tell her.

  “Oh, Con!” Flo hugs me again.

  Ma pats me on the back. “Oh, my days!” says she, her eyes filling with happy te
ars.

  Gently I push my big sis away, but take both her hands. “They’ve arrested the baby farmers.” I can hardly believe it’s true myself.

  “And the other babies?” asks Ma, dabbing her eyes with her pinny.

  I nod cautiously. “They found five alive.”

  Flo frowns. “Alive? Does that mean . . . ?”

  I think of what the doctor at the hospital told me. When they searched the house in Tillingford, they found dozens of letters from mothers asking for their children to be adopted. There were other documents: vaccination certificates and clothes, too. There are so many babies unaccounted for, there’s an order to dredge the Thames for bodies. It makes difficult listening. Flo’s lips tremble at the thought. She shakes her head.

  “So Cath was right about little Evie and the others.”

  “It seems that way,” I say, letting her hands fall. “There’s something else you need to know, too,” I begin. I have a long tale to tell her and Ma, but I don’t yet know it’s ending until I hear what Adam Braithwaite has to spill; that is, if he’s willing or able to speak at all. “Let’s sit down,” I say.

  CHAPTER 44

  EMILY

  Adam Braithwaite lies in a small room away from the main surgical ward. PC Semple stands guard outside, even though there is no prospect of the prisoner escaping. Sergeant Hawkins is not alone when he enters the room. Constable Barrett, one of the officers who found Catherine Mylett’s body, has accompanied him. It will be his job to record the injured man’s statement—or rather, it is hoped, confession. A nurse is also in attendance to ensure the patient is not unnecessarily taxed or fatigued by this interview.

  Hawkins leans over Braithwaite, whose head is bandaged. His good eye is closed. “Can you hear me?” The man’s features screw up, as if in pain. After a moment, he grunts. “It’s Sergeant Hawkins, here.” Another grunt. The detective leans in, close to the man’s left ear. “You’ve been lying, Mr. Braithwaite, have you not? You lied to Miss Piper when you told her that Will Mylett murdered his sister. It was you, wasn’t it?”