by Carol Hedges
Cully is escorted to the back of the store, then through an insignificant baize door and down a flight of uncarpeted dusty stairs to a dimly-lit basement. Here, rows of women sit at long cloth-covered wooden tables, mechanically sewing.
At one end of the room, completed and half-completed dresses hang on mannequins. At the other, swathes of material with patterns pinned to them are laid out, awaiting the pattern-cutters.
Mrs Crevice claps her hands. Conversation dies.
“This is a detective from the police. He wishes to ask you something. You may stop sewing temporarily.”
A couple of the women instantly lay their heads onto the table and appear to fall asleep. Cully relates the events of the previous night, keeping details to a bare minimum.
When he finishes speaking, there is a shocked silence. This is followed by a sharp cry of pain, like a wounded animal. All eyes swivel round to a slightly-built young woman sitting at a corner of one of the tables. Her face is white, stricken.
Cully nods encouragingly.
“Yes, Miss?”
“It is Violet Manning. She lodges ... lodged in Bonnet Box Court ... off Carnaby Street.”
“Thank you, Miss ...”
“Benet. Emily Benet.”
Cully smiles encouragingly.
The young woman fixes dark eyes pleadingly on his face. They send him a subliminal message: Ask me, but not here.
Cully thinks fast.
“I wonder whether Miss Benet might accompany me to the Yard,” he says. “I could talk to her on the way, and hand over the sewing.”
He sees Mrs Crevice purse her lips ready to refuse the request, so adds quickly, “This is a police matter, madam. We are talking about a murder investigation. To refuse to assist the police in pursuing their lawful inquiries could be considered a criminal offence.”
Mrs Crevice gives him a look so stiff you could have ironed sheets on it.
“In that case she may go. But she must be back here by midday prompt, or her wages will be docked.”
Cully waits while Emily Benet collects her shawl and bonnet. Then he and the young dressmaker leave by a back entrance that is as shabby, sordid and run-down as the front entrance is grand and impressive. As soon as they get out into the fresh air, she collapses against a brick wall, her hand to her side.
Concerned, Cully stops.
“Are you alright, Miss?”
But Emily Benet is far from alright. Her shoulders are shaking with sobs. Her whole body is racked with them. She sways to and fro, as if suffering the effects of an inner storm.
Helpless, Cully stands and watches. Female grief is something he is familiar with, it comes with the job, but not at such close and intimate quarters and on such a passionate level. Eventually, the sobbing ceases. The young dressmaker raises a white, tear-soaked face to his.
“Are you sure it is her? Quite, quite sure?”
Cully describes, as best he can, the features and dress of the murder victim.
“Ah,” she utters a low cry. “I recognise the description. It really is Violet.”
For a moment, Emily Benet sways on her feet. Automatically, Cully reaches out a hand, but she steadies herself.
“Violet was my best friend,” she says. “We came to London together to find work. She rented the attic room next to mine. When I left this morning, I gave her a knock, just like I always do, to say I was off. I didn’t get any reply, so I thought she must’ve slept in.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cully says.
“What happened to her?” she asks.
Cully bites his lip. He cannot share what he saw; the details are far too shocking for any young woman to hear – let alone a close friend of the poor deceased girl.
“A passer-by found her,” he says. “She was already dead.”
She raises wounded dark eyes to his face.
“It isn’t just that. We both know it. But you aren’t going to tell me any more, are you?”
Cully looks away. There is a brief awkward silence.
“Was it bad?” she asks.
He nods.
“Oh, poor Vi,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Oh, poor dear friend. How did this happen to you? And why was I not there to protect you?”
Cully waits for the next fit of sobbing to pass.
“Can I see her?” she asks.
“I’m afraid in the circumstances that I don’t think it would be permitted,” he says.
Her lips twitch.
“I see. I understand.”
She tries to walk, but staggers, reaching out to grasp a railing to steady herself.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Cully asks, offering the only comfort he can think of.
The young woman heaves a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep within her soul.
“Thank you, that is very kind. Perhaps it might fortify me.”
Cully leads the way to one of the many street food stalls and purchases a mug of black coffee, carefully selecting the one with the fewest stains.
She lifts the chipped white mug between dry swollen fingers, drinking the hot dark liquid in quick gulps.
“That’s better,” she nods.
Unconsciously, her eyes drift to the plates of ham sandwiches, temptingly arranged on the wooden trestle table.
Cully may be way back in the woods as far as women are concerned, but he has worked the streets of London long enough to recognise real hunger when he sees it. He is seeing it now. And they have a longish walk ahead.
“May I also buy you a sandwich to go with your coffee?” he asks, adding delicately, “It must be some time since you breakfasted.”
The young dressmaker gives him a wryly amused look.
“I start work at eight o’clock. I don’t have time for breakfast.”
Cully recalls the nicely cooked breakfast prepared by his generous-hearted landlady (“Can’t have you chasing all them criminals on an empty stummick, Mr Cully”). Silently he hands over the few coins and she selects a sandwich. Cully politely watches the passing carriages while she eats it with great relish. He waits until she has finished eating before he enquires:
“Are you ready to go on?”
She nods.
“Yes. Let us go on, officer,” she says, wiping her fingers on her overall. “If I cannot see her, I can at least be near her, can I not?”
Awkwardly, because he isn’t used to it, he offers her his arm. She hesitates, then lays her hand lightly upon it. Cully directs their steps towards Westminster.
****
Sisters Lobelia and Hyacinth Clout, who have never worked a day in their lives, let alone a day that begins at 8am on an empty stomach, have enjoyed a substantial breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast, and the remains of a cold fowl from the previous evening. Now they sit in the morning room, dealing with correspondence.
Later, because the period of mourning for Mama has now elapsed and they are free to re-enter society, they have let it be known that they will be ‘At Home’ to friends and acquaintances – though the latter greatly outweigh the former. Mama did not encourage what she sardonically referred to as ‘girlish gatherings.’
Lobelia, who at 29 has long since lost any ‘girlishness’ that she might have originally possessed, works steadily through the pile of cards of condolence that keep on arriving. Mama was a leading light on so many charitable committees. Her loss is keenly felt and her absence is greatly lamented. That’s what the various writers say. It is only here, in the maiden bosoms of her immediate family, that such emotions are tempered somewhat by a sense of relief.
Meanwhile, younger sister Hyacinth, at 22, still retains a good complexion, though drained by many hours of night-watching at the dying invalid’s bedside. She chews the end of her pen and stares pensively into the middle distance. She should be composing a suitable response to the chairwoman of the Committee for Wayward Girls Who Need Immediate Chastisement. But she is not.
Last week, while Hyacinth was exchanging her library book, she had m
ade a most astonishing discovery. Somebody had carelessly left a copy of the News of the World on one of the reading tables. Of course, it was out of date: this was Monday not Sunday, nevertheless she had snatched it up eagerly. Mama did not allow the reading of ‘trashy public papers’ within the confines of the house.
Returning home with the discarded newspaper and another of the sensationalist novels that she loved, Hyacinth had retired to her room, away from the prying eyes of her sister. The newspaper had been a revelation. So many scandalous and horrific events were taking place right under her nose, and she never knew!
But it was when she turned to the pages and pages of advertisements that Hyacinth’s feet hit the Damascene Road. Amongst the advertisements for hair restorer and cure-all pills and poor unfortunate women seeking employment as governesses, were several advertisements from respectable-sounding gentlemen, all wanting to meet ladies wishing to engage upon the business of matrimony.
Hyacinth’s mouth had actually fallen open. The idea that people paid to insert marriage advertisements was totally beyond her comprehension. Mama had always made it clear that marriage was a lowering business, with many unpleasant and demeaning sacrifices to be made on the woman’s part, and few, if any, rewards. She never specified precisely what the sacrifices or rewards were, but the impression had been unequivocally conveyed.
Mama had also drilled into both daughters that true contentment and spiritual grace came from staying at home and looking after the one who had bestowed upon them both the inestimable gift of life. Lobelia had been happy to acquiesce, but Hyacinth, who (unbeknown to her Mama) possessed some of the rebellious spirit of her late but not much-lamented father, had never been entirely convinced.
It seemed to her that to be unwed meant a life of mindless and repetitious drudgery and boredom. She based these observations upon the novels she read, and by observing the lives of the many middle-aged church spinsters of her acquaintance.
Lying awake in the dark, Hyacinth had resolved that she no longer wanted to eke out her days in the stuffy house, polishing the old-fashioned furniture, cooking endless meals, attending endless charitable committee meetings and growing sourer and uglier as the years passed.
But where to find a husband? She knew no eligible men. There were a couple of curates, but they were of that limp and lettucey temperament that set her teeth on edge. Besides, marrying a curate would merely be a sideways transference of her current life, with added enforced sanctimony into the bargain.
So, she had studied each advert carefully, noting the age of the man in question, his list of accomplishments (and they were all very accomplished) and his requirements. After much internal debate, and a lot of false fits and starts, she had decided that one advert seemed to fit her situation exactly.
Thus, she is now covertly penning her response to the Editor, who has the address of the gentleman in question. Inspiration drives her fingers across the page, perspiration bedews her furrowed brow. Shading her letter from her sister’s piercing gaze, Hyacinth writes:
Dear Advertiser,
I am a young lady of 22 years, recently orphaned and from a good Christian family. I am well educated, can keep house and am accustomed to respectable society, though I have not frequented it much of late, due to the onerous nature of my nursing cares and duties.
I am of average height with dark hair, a cheerful disposition and a pleasing countenance. I do not dress extravagantly. I currently reside with my older unmarried sister in the family home.
She signs the letter “A London Lady,” then slips it into an envelope, including (as instructed) four stamps, and a note of her address for the editor to send on any response. With trembling hand, she addresses the envelope, her mind racing at her own audacity.
“Are you quite well, Hyacinth?” The harsh voice of her sister breaks into her reverie. Startled, Hyacinth glances up.
“Oh. Yes. I am quite well, Lobelia.”
“Your colour seems a little heightened. I do hope you are not coming down with anything. I trust you are not going to spoil our first At Home.”
Hyacinth smiles brightly.
“I could do with some air, now that you mention it. Maybe a walk to the post box would clear my head. Shall I take your letters and post them with mine?”
She picks up her letter, places it under her sister’s letters, and goes to find her bonnet and shawl.
Mama vincit omnia?
Not any more.
****
Breakfast is also well and truly over at Mrs Witchard’s boarding house on the outskirts of New Camden Town, if the unappetising combination of watery eggs of a greenish hue, burned toast, and weak gritty coffee could be called breakfast.
The house, seen in the damp light of sunless day, presents an equally unappetising aspect. Tiers of melancholy windows, black-framed and dreary, are set in a grimy peeling plaster facade. One of the lower windows bears a flyblown card with the word ‘Lodgins’ written in faded ink. The house is reached via a narrow yellow clay and gravel path, sloppy with rain.
Soon, the unbreakfasted Foundling will appear with a big scrubbing brush and a bucket of lukewarm water to scrub the step, and a chalkstone to whiten it, because appearances, however deceptive, are everything, and must be kept up at all costs.
Upstairs on the third floor, Mrs Witchard’s new lodger has locked his door. Now he sits at the grimy window overlooking a neighbouring pigsty and the outdoor privy. On the table next to him, is a small brown bottle. He stares at it for some time, then reaches for the morocco case next to it and draws out a hypodermic syringe.
His fingers adjust the delicate needle. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing an arm dotted with small puncture marks. For a moment he hesitates, then with a quick and practised motion, he locates a vein and thrusts the sharp point home, depressing the tiny piston.
He waits for the reddish-brown liquid to flow through his veins. As the shadows in the corners of the room begin dancing their victory jig, he thinks about the previous night. He should have known it was dangerous. He should have thought through what he was about. But he hasn’t thought about anything for weeks. He is tired of thinking. I forget my name, he whispers to the empty room. I forget all my names.
****
Meanwhile Cully and Emily Benet are still walking towards Scotland Yard. As they progress, Cully carefully questions the dressmaker about her friendship with the dead girl.
“I met Violet at Mrs Snow’s – the lady we were ’prenticed to,” she tells him. “We were both sixteen and our parents had paid her the premium to teach us the dressmaking business. It was either that or become governesses, and we neither of us fancied that profession.
“We shared a room together and it wasn’t long before we were the best of friends, and were making big plans to come up to London when we’d learned our trade. We thought we’d start a dressmaking business together.
“We used to talk about the beautiful gowns we’d sew for all the rich society women, and how we’d see our names mentioned in the fashionable papers.” She shakes her head. “We were so innocent then.”
“But you did come to London,” Cully prompts.
“Oh yes – well, there was nothing for us in St Albans. So we set off to make our fortunes in the city where the streets were paved with gold. Only they weren’t, and we didn’t. Nobody told us how much it’d cost to set up a little business – the rents, the materials, everything was completely beyond our means.
“And we had no one to help or advise us. In the end, we decided to hire ourselves out as store dressmakers, live as cheaply as we could, saving every penny of our wages, and one day, if we worked very hard, perhaps our dreams would come true.”
Cully steers her carefully across the street.
“You don’t have to tell me if it is all too much for you,” he says.
“No, I want to. You’ve been so kind. We both got regular work – me in Marshall & Snellgrove, and Violet in Peter Robinson. It was long hours, but we manage
d. Vi even got to be chief bodice hand. And then, just after Christmas, she suddenly lost her job. There was a floor manager in her place who kept trying to force himself on her.”
Cully stares at her, his expression shocked.
“When she refused him, he reported her – made up some lies about her stealing from the store, something she’d never do, and she was sacked. It affected her badly. She got very low, didn’t want to leave the house, wouldn’t eat. Then she got a letter from home: her parents were going to emigrate to America. Her father had business contacts and they’d decided to make a new life for themselves and her brothers. That was another blow.”
“Couldn’t she have joined them?”
Emily shakes her head.
“You don’t understand, Mr Cully: Violet wasn’t close to her family. She told me she never had been. I met them once when we went home for Mothering Sunday. Her mother was only interested in the boys, and her father was only interested in making money.
“After she received the letter, it was as if something had broken inside her. She withdrew into herself. I managed to get her some piecework to do – just to stop her from sitting and brooding. It brought in a little money, barely enough to pay her rent and let her eat, but better than nothing. And now ...”
And now they have arrived at their destination.
“What’s going to happen to Violet’s body?” she asks.
Cully shrugs.
“I suppose, if she has no family in England, that she will have to be buried on the parish.”
Emily turns to face him, her eyes widening in horror.
“A pauper’s funeral? In a public grave? Oh no, that cannot happen; she was my only friend. I should like to make sure Violet has a decent funeral, if it can be arranged somehow.”
Cully doubts very much that Miss Benet, whose clothing and demeanour shout out penury and hardship, could afford to pay for even the most basic funeral, but he does not say this. Instead he pushes open the door to the outer office and leads her towards the wooden seat, known as the Anxious Bench, where those seeking news of their nearest and sometimes dearest customarily wait.