by Carol Hedges
“Ah, Hyacinth,” he says, giving her a disapproving look. “I see Satan finds work for idle hands ... Proverbs 23, verse 15.”
Hyacinth hasn’t got a clue what he is talking about. Fortunately, she does not have to wait long for enlightenment.
“Is not your sister attending a committee meeting of the London Truss Society for the Relief of the Hurt and Ruptured Poor this afternoon? I believe she is. But you, it seems are not attending. Instead here you are gadding about London.”
Hyacinth bites back the overwhelming inclination to accuse him of the identical crime. Instead she takes a couple of steps back to create some distance between them. As always, Reverend Ezra is standing far too close for comfort. And his breath smells.
“Ah, and I see you have borrowed a book,” he continues, “I hope that it is not some trashy modern novel. I believe you have heard my sermon on the subject of reading fiction and its unfortunate effects upon the female mind? What is the book you carry in your hand, pray?”
“It is called The Mill on the Floss,” Hyacinth says. “It is by Mr George Eliot. It is a geographical book about rivers and ... mills.”
Reverend Ezra shakes his head.
“Far, far better that it was a commentary on the best book of all: the Bible. In the Bible lies everything you, as a young woman, need to know. Matthew 6, verse 27.”
“Oh, is that the time?” Hyacinth exclaims, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “I must go.”
And she hurries away before he has time to make more deleterious remarks or quote more verses of scripture at her.
Horrible man, Hyacinth thinks, as she crosses the road. His teeth are all yellow and crooked. And he spits when he talks. She walks quickly towards Tottenham Court Road, where she intends catching an omnibus. Just on the corner, however, she comes across a cake shop, its windows filled with luscious buns, almond cakes and rout drops, all temptingly displayed upon a series of tiered stands.
Hyacinth pauses, her mouth drooling as she surveys the good things on offer. A momentary hesitation, then she enters the shop, the ting of the bell bringing the white-aproned baker from an inner recess.
She selects two ginger buns, a slice of cherry cake and a small cornucopia, which is filled with fresh whipped cream before being placed in a paper cone.
Hyacinth pays for her cakes and continues her walk. A feeling of reckless joy is surging up inside her. She is eating in the street – something Mama has always strictly forbidden. She is licking whipped cream off her ungloved fingers as if she were a common person, and she is consuming cakes bought in a shop.
And to cap it all, she has a brand-new novel in her bag. If the road to Hell is paved with fiction and baked goods, she is well on her way.
****
At the same time as Hyacinth is making her way home, a thin young man with a pale bony face, a pale bony nose and pale straw-coloured hair is making his way through a populous and poor neighbourhood just off Holborn.
He is carrying a small bunch of violets, recently purchased from a small violet seller and looks to all the world as if he is going a-wooing. Which indeed he is. The young man enters a street of broken paving stones, runny gutters, and houses that seem to absorb the light and reflect back only sooty gloom.
He pauses in front of one house that is even more run-down than its neighbours. A milk can hangs on the area railings, and a few pots of flowers wilt on the sill.
He knocks at the door. After a considerable wait, the door is opened by Portia Mullygrub, her hair even more tumbled. Her dress appears to be held together in places by pins. On her feet, she wears a pair of satin slippers, very down at heel.
“Oh, dear me, it’s you!” she says.
The young man greets her affectionately.
“Where is Clinker?” he asks.
“Don’t ask!” Portia groans. “She walked out this morning. Said she wasn’t going to stay and be made a slave of. And who can blame her? And now Ma has gone off to a meeting of the Society for the Rescue of Boys Not Yet Convicted of Any Criminal Offence, even though I told her it was your half-day and we were going for a walk.”
She grabs the sides of her hair and yanks it with both hands. From inside the house a long wailing cry uncoils itself.
“Oh no!” she exclaims. “The baby has fallen in the scuttle again!”
The young man follows Portia along a dusty hallway strewn with toys and waste paper. The wailing increases in volume as they enter the parlour, where a variety of small Mullygrubs are clustered around a coal-streaked baby.
A girl of some twelve years, who bears a distinct resemblance to her older sister in both expression and state of dress, is trying to remove the worst of the coal dust with the edge of her pinafore.
Portia yanks her hair a bit more, then scoops up the baby and bears it off to the kitchen for further ablutions. Meanwhile the young man is greeted rapturously by the small Mullygrubs, who demand that he play with them, and it is not long before a jolly game of puss-in-the-corner is taking place, in which Portia and the newly-cleaned baby join upon their return.
Eventually Portia asks Cordelia, the twelve-year-old, to go and make some tea, which she is only too pleased to do. Barely has it been poured, however, when the front door blows open and the celebrated female philanthropist Mrs Eustacia Mullygrub hurries in. She is wearing the same formidable hat as last time we encountered her, though this time it is askew and her greying hair is escaping from its pins.
Mrs Mullygrub is carrying a great pile of papers, some of which slip from her grasp and drift to the floor, where they are seized upon by small Mullygrubs, who throw them up into the air with a cry of “Birdies!”
“Ah there you are at last, Portia,” she declares, as if she has been impatiently awaiting her daughter’s return, rather than the reverse. “Here, take these.”
Portia rolls her eyes and places the papers on the already overflowing table. Her mother unlatches her bonnet strings and drops the bonnet onto the sofa. She pays no attention to the young man, nor to the children who appear to be invisible, despite the noise they are making.
“Such a lot of correspondence,” she murmurs, sifting through the papers. “We shall probably be busy until nightfall. Where are my spectacles, Portia? Oh, here they are round my neck!”
“Ma, do you not see we have company?” Portia asks despairingly.
Mrs Mullygrub raises her head and peers over the top of the spectacles.
“Oh yes – good afternoon, young man. Are you here about one of the charities?”
“Ma, it is Traffy,” Portia says exasperatedly. “Surely you recognise him?”
Her mother nods vaguely. More hairpins fall out.
“Delighted I’m sure. Now Portia, I must tear you away from your guest. We cannot think of our own amusement when there are so many poor and needy right on our doorstep.”
A flush rises to Portia’s cheeks.
“But Ma I told you: Traffy has a half-day.”
“I’m sure he has,” Mrs Mullygrub says equably. “And I wish him well in the enjoyment of it. But you do not, for you have letters to write.”
Portia gives Trafalgar Moggs a glance of entreaty. He shrugs and shakes his head. Biting her lip, she walks towards the door.
“Well, I’m sure you won’t object if I show him out,” she says, the words coming thickly through unshed tears.
Without looking up, Mrs Mullygrub waves a condescending hand. She has already seated herself at the table, and is sorting the papers into piles.
“Tell Clinker to make some fresh tea, would you dear,” she says. “This cup is stone cold.”
Portia leads the way back into the hallway.
“She is impossible!” she bursts out, pulling at her hair.
“She is your mother,” Trafalgar Moggs reminds her gently. “Never mind. It is of no account. I will have other half-days.”
Portia gives him a despairing glance, and wrenches open the street door. The Ma-crossed lovers exchange their all too
brief farewells. Then Portia shuts the door with a bang, after which she spends a few agonised minutes standing in the dusty hallway yanking at her hair until she is abruptly summoned back to the parlour to begin work.
****
It is a far cry from the mean dusty streets of Holborn to the beautiful Cremorne Pleasure Gardens with its trees, lush green lawns, its flower beds, and its fountains and statues. A pastoral retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city.
Here, for the price of a shilling, a family might enjoy a picnic, or watch the marionettes, or just stroll amongst the verdant parkland, breathing in clean air and listening to birdsong.
But it is at night that the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens comes into its own, and it is at night – tonight in fact – that a group of female shop assistants from one of the very upmarket West End department stores has arrived to see the glittering attractions.
Here they come along the illuminated river walk from Chelsea, laughing and chattering, pointing out to each other the orchestra playing in its brightly coloured fretted pagoda, the circular dancing platforms filled with rotating couples, and the discreet supper booths where a gentleman can entertain a lady ... discreetly.
And look – there are people actually making a night-time ascent in a balloon! How awfully exciting! And soon there will be fireworks, and spectacular entertainments. And the assistants won’t go home until after midnight, even though they will regret it early next morning, when the alarm goes off in their dormitory high above the shopping floors.
They secure a table under the trees and on the edge of the dancing area, and order a cheap supper and a bottle of cheap champagne, which they share among them. And of course, it isn’t long before their chatter and pretty faces and light girlish laughter attract the attention of a group of young bucks out for an evening’s entertainment. And before you can say ‘May I have the pleasure?’ they are swept up onto the dance floor.
All but one. Seated alone at the table in the gaslit fairyland, she stares longingly at her workmates. She would love to join them on the dance floor, to feel a young man’s arm encircling her waist, to be spun round to the joyous blaring of the music. But she is lame, has been lame from birth, and so such delights are denied her.
Inevitably, while some continue to polka and galop, a couple of the girls are led away by their partners to stroll down the tunnel of coloured lights leading to the Crystal Grotto, or any one of the gaslit groves, where kisses can be stolen and liberties taken. For manners and morals are left at the gate on a night out at the Cremorne Gardens, and thus it is not until the fireworks start, and all the girls hurry back to their table, that they discover their friend, the lame one, has disappeared.
At first it is assumed that she has picked up a young man – after all, when she is seated you can’t tell she has one leg shorter than the other, and her face is as fair as any of theirs. But as the night wears on, and their companion does not return, a sombre mood sets in. And when midnight strikes and there is still no sign of her, it is decided to find a policeman and report her absence.
It will take two days before her body is found, lying in undergrowth in a remote part of the grounds. Upon discovery, a message is immediately dispatched to Scotland Yard, and by the time Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully arrive at the Cremorne, the gate has been closed and the manager, Mr Simpson, is pacing up and down, awaiting their arrival. He is a small fussy man with a big cigar, an expensive tailored suit and a worried expression.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, thank goodness you’re here!” he exclaims. “This is a most unfortunate incident. Most unfortunate indeed. A murder at the Cremorne! What a tragedy! Only last year we held a number of floral fêtes, attended by the Queen herself and members of the Royal family. Next week we have invited all the local children of the parish to dance round the Maypole. And now this! It seems the infamous Slasher, the terror of London town, has struck at the very heart of the Cremorne. Our reputation lies in tatters. Tatters!”
Stride brushes him aside.
“Can you show me where the body is located?” he instructs one of the waiting ground-staff, who leads the way along a winding path until a small clearing is reached.
“It’s in them bushes, sir,” he says, pointing. “I found it, but I ain’t touched nothing, other than to see if the pore woman was still alive.”
Stride nods curtly. He and Cully bend down, and Stride cautiously parts the branches. The battered and bloodstained face of a young woman stares sightlessly back at them. Her throat has been cut. And it is clear, from the state and disorder of her dress and undergarments, what else has taken place.
Stride stares silently at the body for several minutes. Then he gets out a notebook and writes a description of what she looks like (as best he can tell). He checks the clothes she is wearing and makes a note of them also. Finally, he kneels and gently runs a finger over her left breast. Getting to his feet, he gives Cully a meaningful look, but before he has time to share his thoughts, the manager appears.
“I have been thinking about this whole matter, gentlemen, and I am determined that it must not become public knowledge,” he says, gesturing towards the undergrowth where the body lies. “If this got out ... well, it would ruin the reputation of the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens as a recreative and wholesome place. A little piece of Paradise amidst the hustle and bustle of the city.”
Stride smiles grimly. He has lost count of the number of complaints filed against the Cremorne. They generally involve moral improprieties committed by young ladies of a certain type, or drunken lewdity exhibited by young bucks. For as long as Stride can remember, the Chelsea Vestry has been running a determined and very public campaign to get the gardens closed at night.
“I’m afraid it may be too late for that, sir,” he says. “The young woman, if she is who I think she is, was out for an evening’s entertainment with a group of her workmates. They reported her missing two days ago. They will also have informed their employer and their friends by now, and as soon as the body is formally identified, the news will be all over town.”
“But can nothing be done?” the manager cries, wringing his hands despairingly.
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about it sir,” Stride says, his face expressionless. “Look upon it as good publicity. A visit by The Slasher? You’ll have every man and woman in London queuing up at the gate once the press spreads the story. People can never resist a juicy murder. You’ll be packed out day and night.”
“Do you really think so?” the manager asks hopefully, his face brightening.
Stride casts him a withering look. When he speaks again his voice is short, clipped down to the edge of rudeness.
“I will arrange for some of my men to carry the body to the morgue,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me sir, I think we’ll leave you. People to question. Investigations to carry out. That sort of thing.”
He spins on his heel and walks quickly towards the gate. Cully follows. Once they are out of earshot, Stride stops and says quietly,
“Her bodice wasn’t cut, Jack. It is not our man, though it is similar.”
“A copycat murder?”
“It looks that way. Somebody assaulted this poor woman, and then slit her throat to make us think it was The Slasher. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t know what we know: that the real murderer tries to rip out the hearts of his victims. And the real murderer doesn’t rape them first.”
“The manager thought it was him. And so will the press when they get hold of the story.”
“Let them think it,” Stride says. “I’m not going public with what we know. It would only encourage more copycats out of the closet. And think of the effect on the victims’ families. Or their friends,” he adds, giving Cully a raised-eyebrow look. “Do you really want Miss Benet to know exactly how her friend died?”
Cully bites his lip.
“We’ll put out a public appeal for witnesses though. The Cremorne is always busy; if the body is that of the missing
girl, and I’m pretty sure it is, then someone must have seen her talking to a man before leaving the table and going off with him.”
He glances at his watch.
“The big department stores will be open now. Why not cut along and arrange for one of her workmates to do a formal identification. Then ask her to sit down with the police artist and get the picture sent to The Times, the Illustrated London Gazette, and some of the evening papers. Let’s make the press work for us for a change.”
“What are you going to do?” Cully asks.
“I,” Stride declares, “am going to find a nice strong cup of coffee, to take away the very nasty taste I seem to have got in my mouth.”
****
Of course, there are many other ways to pass one’s precious leisure time outwith the rather louche charms of the Cremorne. A pleasant Sunday stroll in one of the city’s many public parks that thread through central London like a green necklace is always a popular diversion. Especially on a fine Spring afternoon when nature is putting forth her finest display of flowers and blossom, birds are carolling in the leafy branches overhead, and all seems right with the world.
Here is Hyde Park, vernal and inviting. And here, a few days after the discovery of the murdered shop girl, is Detective Sergeant Cully, out of his work suit and dressed in his not-work suit (there is a difference, truly). On his arm is a young lady. Look more closely. Do you recognise her? She wears a neat light wool dress – second-hand, admittedly, but reworked and altered to fit her perfectly.
She also has a smart mantle and her bonnet is newly trimmed. But then, having access to the latest fashion magazines and remnants of good-quality material, and being gifted with nimble fingers, she would be able to remake a dress, add a new lace collar and trim an elegant bonnet with flowers.