by Carol Hedges
A small queue is forming outside the gate, waiting for admission to the casual wards. Look closer. Amongst the shuffling, coughing, stoop-shouldered men and the cowering, weeping, white-faced women hiding their misery and their shame behind ragged shawls, you will see some familiar faces.
A young girl, her face pinched and raw, clutches the hands of two filthy children who stare up at her with bewildered expressions. A baby’s face peeps out from a grubby blanket tied to her back. Another child clings to her dress and sobs.
Close by, an unshaven man in a greasy jacket supports a woman carrying a bundle. This is the Clapham family. Former tenants of number 4 Paradise Place, but now, like Milton’s Adam and Eve, turned out of Paradise to fend for themselves in the cold hard world.
Eventually the gate is opened and the poor houseless wretches are bidden roughly to enter. They follow the porter across a rough paved yard, till they reach a two-storeyed building whose underground entrance is lit by a single window.
The family enter, lining up in front of a high wooden desk where the porter opens the Admissions book.
“Names?”
The man tells him.
“What are you?”
“Blacksmith, sometimes working casual on the docks,” comes the reply.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“Night Shelter at Marylebone.”
The porter indicates a basket next to the desk. It is full of roughly-torn pieces of coarse bread.
“Take some,” he says, as he unhitches a bunch of keys from the wall.
“Follow me.”
The family are led through a series of dark passages, then across a dismal yard to a bare unlit room. Cold from stone flags seeps into their thin shoes.
“Woman and children in there,” the porter says, pointing at a closed door.
The woman clings desperately to the man’s arm.
“Come on, old gel,” the man says, “it won’t be for long. I’ll go out and find work tomorrow, and we’ll soon be on our feet again.” But the hunch of his shoulders and the hopelessness in his voice belie his cheerful words.
The girl tugs at her skirt.
“C’mon Ma,” she says. “Best not to linger, eh?”
The man gives the young girl a grateful look. She stares back, her eyes hard like stones. She isn’t fooled. She knows that it is the end of the road for her family. She knows that her little brothers and sisters will be sent elsewhere; that her father will sink even further into drink, and her mother into despair. That is what always happens.
What she doesn’t know is how she is going to get revenge on those who did this to them. Not yet. But she will.
****
The disappearance of Annie Smith from the pattern-cutting table next morning is first attributed to a beating from the man she lives with, who is known to be handy with his fists, then to a superfluity of the cheap gin that she likes to drink, known colloquially as Blue Ruin.
By nine o’clock, when Annie has still failed to put in an appearance, and no message has been delivered to explain her absence, Mrs Crevice’s patience finally snaps.
“You, Miss Benet,” she says, pointing at Emily, who is stitching lace onto a bodice, “Put down your work. I have an errand for you to run.”
Obediently, Emily gets up and crosses the room, aware of the numerous pairs of watching eyes and listening ears that follow her progress.
Mrs Crevice hands her an envelope.
“Here is a note for Miss Smith. Take it round to her lodgings at once. It is the third time she has been late for work this month. It will be the last time, though.”
Emily hurries from the room, glad for a chance to breathe fresh, or nearest approximate, air. She walks briskly along Regent Street, where parasols gleam and flash in the sunshine, and all is movement and colour. Turning right, she cuts through an alleyway and then another, and a few minutes later reaches the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. This is where Annie and her man rent two rooms above a grocer’s shop.
To her surprise, there is a small crowd gathered outside the shop. From the murmuring and sombre demeanour of the crowd, it does not look as if free food is being given out.
“Is anything amiss?” Emily enquires of a group of women.
“Young woman lives above the grocer’s over there has only gone and got herself murdered. They found her body first thing this morning.”
Emily feels an icy comet’s tail of fear run down her spine.
“And it weren’t the waste of space she lives with what done it neither,” a second woman interjects. “Because he was ratting over Wapping way with a group of men. Got a cast-iron alibi.”
“See, the police are bringing her out now.”
A blanket-covered body appears in the shop doorway, carried on a stretcher by two uniformed constables. A shawled woman follows them, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Little Fan, her face white, her eyes wide and terrified, clutches at her skirt.
A murmur of sympathy runs around the crowd, rising to a roar of anger as Detective Sergeant Jack Cully and another police officer quit the shop.
“Three gels!” A man shouts. “Three fine gels as did nobody any harm, all done to death! When are you going to catch their killer?”
“Couldn’t catch a bloody cold!” the woman next to Emily cries. “Fucken useless, the lot of them! Shame on you all!”
Cully glances in her direction and for a split second his eyes meet Emily’s. If he is surprised to see her standing in the crowd, he gives no sign, though she feels her cheeks redden in response. Next minute he is gone.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish!” the woman bawls after him. She spits on the ground.
Muttering, the crowd begins to disperse. Emily stares at the grocer’s shop, where a queue of women is already forming to buy provisions. She shocked to the core of her being. First Violet, then the lace-making girl, now Annie. Who will be next?
She takes a few deep breaths to steady her nerves before making her way back to her place of work, where, in a shaking voice she informs Mrs Crevice that Annie will not now, or ever, be coming in to work.
****
Mid-day finds Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully sharing a booth in Sally’s Chop House, a dark, low-ceilinged place off Fleet Street, and Stride’s favourite watering-hole.
Two plates of hot mutton chops and potato and two glasses of beer have been placed before them by the eponymous Sally himself, who now hovers discreetly in the background.
His lurking presence is not so much to check if everything is to their satisfaction, but to ensure that they do not linger a moment longer than necessary – because at the end of the day, although detectives don’t query the bill, attempt to leave without paying, or steal the cutlery, they give off an unmistakable aura of policemen, which other customers find off-putting.
“Whores,” Stride says, poking his potato with a fork. “Whores, I can understand. They pick your pocket, steal your wallet and you end up with a dose of the clap. But dressmakers?” He shakes his head. “What on earth is going on? Explain it to me if you can, Jack, because Christ knows, I’m whistling in the dark here. And remember what Robertson told us – he tried to cut their hearts out. All three of them. What kind of a monster are we looking for?”
Cully stares gloomily into his beer. The look on Emily Benet’s face when she saw him, the shouted curses of her group of friends, still resonates. He does not like to admit that it has affected him. But it has. He pushes back his plate.
“All the murders took place in the same area,” he says. “We know that a lot of dressmakers and home workers live there. It’s close to the big department stores. Maybe it is just coincidence.”
“And they work long hours, don’t they,” Stride adds thoughtfully. “Which means that they’re out on the streets late. Coming and going, delivering orders. Not as streetwise as the whores, and not as likely to have a pimp or a mate to kick up a fuss.
“So, what is
our man doing? Does he live in the area? Is he visiting a whore or a public house? There’s something very unusual about his behaviour. I don’t understand it. And I don’t trust things I don’t understand.”
Stride forks in a final mouthful of potato.
“Right Jack, let’s get going. I want to talk to the young woman’s workmates. Let’s see if they remember anything or saw anyone acting strangely last night.”
****
Precious little dinner has been eaten in the sewing-room at Marshall & Snellgrove. The news of Annie Smith’s horrific murder casts a pall of gloom. Not that she was particularly popular, but her death has diminished everybody.
The platter of bread and butter generously supplied by the management for the refreshment of the workers lies untouched on the side. Only the mugs of coffee have been gratefully accepted.
When Stride and Cully arrive at the department store, they find a group of girls standing around in the back alleyway, cradling their mugs. Mrs Crevice, in a rare gesture of humanity, has allowed those who wish to go outside for some fresh air to do so (briefly), in the hope that it will enervate them for the long afternoon ahead.
Among the group is Emily Benet, who colours up and lowers her eyes as the two detectives approach. Stride explains their presence, then asks them whether they have anything to tell the two detectives that might forward the investigation.
“You should call in at the Mother’s Arms,” one girl says. “That’s where Annie and her man used to drink.”
Stride makes a note.
“Ask at Mrs Tightly’s in Golden Square,” a second girl suggests. “She’d know if there were any strange men hanging around. Or one of her ... lodgers might have seen something.” A quick knowing smile runs round the little group.
“And what about all of you?” Stride asks. “Has anyone been followed home? Or seen a stranger lurking on a street corner?”
Heads are shaken. Nobody has seen anything out of the ordinary. Stride and Cully search the young women’s faces for signs of evasion. Nothing but the truth is reflected back.
“You must take very great care when you are out at night,” Cully says earnestly. “Until we have caught this man, nobody is safe.”
“Oh, we are already doing that, Mr Detective,” the first girl says.
She slips her hand under her overalls and produces a pair of fearsome cutting-out shears.
“All the girls here will carry them now – it was Emily’s idea.”
Stride purses his mouth.
“After all, Mr Other Detective,” she continues innocently, “you never know when you might be called upon to cut out a pattern, do you?”
Cully stifles a smile. Stride is just opening his mouth to make a remark about the danger of carrying sharp objects, even domestically-orientated ones like dressmaking scissors, when Mrs Crevice appears.
“Back to work, girls,” she says briskly, clapping her hands.
The young women roll their eyes and follow her into the sewing-room. Stride signals to Cully that they are on their way.
Emily Benet lingers in the alley. She turns to face Cully.
“Earlier on ... I shouldn’t like you to think I was ...” her voice trails off into embarrassed silence.
“No ... no, I didn’t think anything by it.”
She looks relieved.
“I did not know those women; I was only there because Annie had not come in and I was sent to find out why.”
“Yes ... of course, I see.”
Her brown eyes regard him steadily.
“I have every confidence in the police,” she says. “If I can help you in any way to catch this evil person, then I will. My only friend perished at his hands.”
“The best way you can help me is by staying safe,” Cully says gently. “All of you,” he adds hastily.
The two of them exchange a long look. Studying each other’s faces. Reading behind the expressions. Unspoken words pass between them.
“Nevertheless,” she says, lifting her chin, “I shall continue to keep my eyes and ears open. And if I discover anything, I shall let you know.”
“And I shall be grateful for any information you can pass on,” he says.
They stare at each other for a bit longer.
“Well, I must go,” Jack Cully says at length.
They exchange shy smiles. Then Cully rejoins Stride, who is awaiting his arrival at the top of the alley with barely contained impatience.
****
There are very few brothels in 1861 London. There are, however, over five hundred “houses where the proprietors overtly devote their establishments to the lodging and sometimes boarding of prostitutes only.” This statistic is applicable to just the Metropolitan area.
Mrs Desiderata Tightly’s Rooms for Professional and Visiting Ladies is one such establishment. Set back from the main thoroughfare and accessed by a discreet side-passage, it favours the ‘harmony by contrast’ style of decorating. The parlour, which Stride and Cully have just entered, has bright yellow papered walls with violet border papers. There is a lot of dark wooden furniture, ornate mirrors and swagged striped drapes.
Mrs Tightly, who has risen from a gilt-legged crimson velvet chaise longue, seems to apply the same decorative rules to herself, having a thickly painted white face and a ringletted black wig.
“Gent’l’men,” she says raspily, smoothing down a slightly soiled salmon-pink silk dress. “How can I be of assistance to two fine men like yerselves?”
Stride hands her his card. Mrs Tightly’s carmined lips move slowly as she reads.
“I should like to talk to some of your ... lady lodgers,” Stride says when sufficient reading time has passed.
Mrs Tightly studies him thoughtfully.
“Would yer now. Well, talkin’ don’t come cheap.”
“Neither does murder,” Stride cuts in.
Mrs Tightly’s painted black eyebrows shoot up.
“Three young women have lost their lives not a stone’s throw from your door,” Stride tells her.
“So I heard. Not anybody living under my roof though.”
“Not yet.”
Mrs Tightly’s small eyes narrow. “My lodgers are all respectable, I’ll have you know. Highly respectable. They come with boney fido references.”
There is a light knock at the parlour door, and a very brightly-bonnetted head is stuck round.
“Oi, Mrs T – ‘ave you got any of them ... oh, sorry, didn’t know you had com’p’ny.”
Mrs Tightly beckons to the head’s owner.
“This is Estelle, one of the young ladies wot lives with me. Estelle comes all the way from Paree.”
Estelle slides into the room. Her dress is a couple of sizes too tight and a lot too revealing. She eyes the two detectives.
“I told yer Mrs T, I ain’t doing threesomes,” she mutters, her accent resonating of Poplar rather than Paris. “I can do the gents one at a time if yer wants.”
“Well, I ain’t askin’ yer to do neither. These gents are from the police.”
Estelle’s face instantly closes like a pair of shutters.
“I wasn’t there and if he says I woz, he’s fucken lying in his sodding teef.”
“Where weren’t you?” Cully asks innocently, but Estelle is too smart to be caught out by that.
“I’m a respectable working girl, I am.”
As this is a definition of ‘respectable’ which goes way beyond the normal understanding of the word, neither detective responds.
“The p’lice wants to know about them girls – the ones that was murdered,” Mrs Tightly says.
Estelle shrugs. This is a risky movement, given the close-fitting nature of her attire.
“Wot you want ter know?”
“Have you seen anybody behaving oddly? Any strangers?” Stride asks.
Estelle gives a contemptuous laugh.
“Listen, Mr Whatever-Your-Name-Is, round here there ain’t nothing BUT strangers. And as for behaving oddly, I
could tell you things as would make your hair stand on end. No, I ain’t seen nothing like what you wants to know. And if I did,” she pauses, “I’d not go sticking my nose into someone else’s business. Live and let live.”
“Except that these innocent young women aren’t living anymore,” Cully puts in quietly.
Estelle turns to him.
“I heard as how they was all in the dressmaking business.”
He nods.
“So not my fucken problem, is it?”
Stride sighs wearily.
“Are any more of your ... lodgers at home?” he asks.
Mrs Tightly shakes her head. The black ringlets bounce.
“If you or any of the ... lodgers ... see a man following a woman in the street, or dragging one into an alley, let me know,” Stride indicates the card in her hand. “If you hear anybody bragging, boasting, mentioning a blade – pillow talk, whatever, let me know.”
Mrs Tightly’s expression could be interpreted in various ways. Stride chooses to view it as co-operative.
“That’s all I wanted to say. We’ll bid you both good afternoon, ladies,” he says, putting on his hat.
As they leave, they hear the sound of a card being torn into two.
****
Meanwhile, in the basement kitchen in the semi-detached villa on the outskirts of New Camden Town, Mrs Lucinda Witchard, widow of the late Enoch Witchard, piano factory owner, is preparing supper.
It is stew night. Upon the greasy wooden table lies a heap of what might at one time have been parts of a recognisable animal, but are now a jumble of bruised flesh and whitish fat. Under the table sits Griselda, Mrs Witchard’s fat cat, licking her paws, having just been given, and feasted upon, the best bits.
From the cold flagged scullery just off the kitchen, comes a scraping sound. The Foundling is acting as vegetable sous-chef. A wilting cabbage and some dry carrots will make up the remainder of the stew, and await her ministrations after she has dealt with the potatoes.