by Carol Hedges
Hyacinth tries hard not to think vengeful thoughts towards her sister – after all, she has been brought up a Christian. But it is difficult. Despite her best intentions, her mind cannot help straying to the kitchen table, and the collection of knives lying in the middle drawer.
****
Meanwhile, back at Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Stride is suffering from a series of unsolved murders and a blinding headache. The two are not unrelated, though the second is not being aided by a superfluity of strong black coffee.
To achieve a successful outcome in any investigation you have to ask the right people the right questions, otherwise nothing at all useful happens. He has the distinct feeling that he isn’t asking the right questions, and is racking his brains trying to work out what the right questions – and who the right people – might be.
Stride has been a policeman all his life, but he still has moments when he wonders what makes him go on fighting other people’s wars so that they can have what is perceived as justice. Why has he has been blessed with a stupidity so great that he believes he can achieve something?
Ever since the first murdered woman was brought in, he has been vilified in the press, sworn at on the street, and denied help by people who might have helped him. People who, for their own safety, should have helped him.
He picks up Police Constable Evans’ report and flicks through it once again. It came so tantalisingly close. If only the girl had returned a few minutes earlier from servicing her client, she might have been able to give them a description. It was the lack of this tangible, flesh on the bones, I-saw-him-and-he-looked-like-this evidence that is driving him slowly insane.
Stride is used to letting the facts speak for themselves. The trouble is he has so few of them that they are barely whispering. How could somebody walk the city streets quite openly, abduct and kill without the slightest attempt at secrecy, and yet remain as invisible as the wind?
He has heard people call London the modern Babylon. He prefers to think of it as a gigantic cesspit. Sooner or later all the filth and dregs of humanity wash up in it. Stride stares out of the grimy office window. You’re out there, he thinks. You’re out there somewhere. And by Christ, I won’t rest until I hunt you down.
****
Spring is in the air, but the air in the sewing-room is anything but springy. The tiny windows do not open, and the proximity of leaky drains and a rotting rubbish heap in the adjacent court are also contributing to yet another bad air day.
It is as if all the goodness has been sucked out of the atmosphere in which the sewing-room girls are forced to spend ten hours a day stitching and cutting.
Thus it is hardly surprising when, with a gentle moan, Emily Benet suddenly breaks off from the silk evening dress she is sewing, utters a sigh as light as a feather falling in a cathedral, and drops to the floor.
There is instant consternation. Everyone leaps up and hurries over to where she lies, eyes closed, her face as yellowy-white as the silk bodice she has been working on. Caro, the erstwhile complainant, bends over her prone figure and places an ear close to Emily’s face. She listens intently then glances up, her face ashen.
“She ain’t breathing right. Someone run and find a doctor – quick!”
The pattern-cutters exchange a quick meaningful glance, before one hurries away. The rest of the young women stand in a helpless circle. Little Fan begins to cry.
Meanwhile Mrs Crevice, who has been watching proceedings with an expression of alarm on her hard face, now claps her hands authoritatively.
“Girls! That is enough. Back to work, please – leave Miss Benet where she lies. I am sure medical help will arrive shortly.”
Caro stands. She is a big healthy-looking young woman, newly-married to a butcher, and so has access to the sort of food denied to most of the others. She towers over Mrs Crevice.
“You,” she snaps, “can take your fucken ‘Back to work’ and stick it where the sun don’t shine. And none of us -” she shoots a warning glance round the group, “NONE of us is going ANYWHERE, until Em’s been seen by a doctor.”
Mrs Crevice stares at her in open-mouthed incredulity.
“I am not used to having my authority questioned, young woman,” she says coldly. “Back to work all of you! Or there will be no pay at the end of the week.”
Caro’s chin lifts a little higher and her eyes flash anger.
“Don’t none of you MOVE!” she states. “We all know why Em’s fainted. It’s ’cause YOU has been making her work all hours, like some of the rest of us has been. Only Em’s been working harder and longer than any of us, on account of her being the new superintendent.”
She folds her arms across her overall bodice, defiantly outstaring Mrs Crevice.
“You can’t take away our pay. You ain’t the boss – though you gives yourself the airs and graces. If you even try to do that, we will all walk out. Like those girls did in that factory over Wapping way. Em read me all about it in the newspapers. A strike, it was called. And then where will your precious customers get their fine dresses from? We ain’t slaves, even though you think we are slaves and you treat us like slaves.”
A few of the sewing-room girls try to slink surreptitiously away at this point, because not everybody has Caro’s strength of character, nor her access to food. But they are halted by the entrance of the pattern-cutter and a physician carrying a medical bag. The physician kneels by Emily’s side and studies her. He lifts her limp wrist and feels her pulse. Then he puts a listening tube to her chest. Time seems to stand still. The sewing girls hold their breath awaiting his verdict. The physician shakes his head.
“This young woman’s pulse is extremely weak and irregular and her heartbeat is too sluggish,” he says. “I also notice that she seems quite wasted. When did she last eat?”
A murmur of amusement runs round the crowd.
“We don’t eat, Mr Doctor,” one girl says. “Look around you. We are far too busy. We has a bite and a sup of tea when we can.”
“If we can,” another girl adds.
The physician stands.
“You were lucky I was passing then,” he says. “This young woman has collapsed. Her whole system appears to have broken down. Also, she is also clearly suffering from semi-starvation.”
“So when might she be fit to resume work?” Mrs Crevice inquires, ignoring Caro’s incredulous expression.
“It is unlikely she will ever be fit for work of this sort again,” the physician replies. “Indeed, unless her present situation is swiftly remedied, I do not even see her lasting out the week.”
Shocked silence greets his words.
“Is there no medicine you could give her?” Caro asks.
He shakes his head.
“Far too late for that, my girl,” he says grimly.
The doctor packs his bag, then glances round the room.
“I was actually on the way to see a very important patient when I was diverted here,” he says. “To whom should I send my bill for this consultation?”
“Send it to the owner of the store,” Caro spits. “He’s the fucken arsehole who did this to her.”
She beckons to Little Fan.
“Cut along and get my Davey – you know where he works. Tell him to bring a hurdle or a door – summat to carry Em on. We need to get her out of here and into the fresh air.”
She gives Mrs Crevice a steel-capped look.
“And don’t think for one minute you’re going to dock her pay, or mine. ’Cause if you do, I’ll tell my husband. And then you’ll have him to deal with. And he’s got a right nasty temper on him when his dander is up, so I wouldn’t try him if I was you.”
Little Fan cuts along as fast as her short legs and her streaming eyes will allow her. Meanwhile Caro fetches Emily’s shawl and gently covers her with it. Her eyes are full of unshed tears as she looks down on the limp figure. Then she lowers herself to the floor, gently takes Emily’s unprotesting head in her hands, and cradles her in her l
ap.
One by one the girls return to their work, but there is none of the former banter across the big sewing table. They work in utter silence, grim-faced and not making eye contact with each other. Even Mrs Crevice keeps to her own area and does not attempt to interfere, chivvy or criticise.
After what seems like an eternity, Little Fan returns in the company of two big beefy-armed young men in butcher’s aprons. They are carrying a piece of wooden board. They scoop Emily up as easily as if she was a small child and lay her gently on the flat wooden surface. With Caro bringing up the rear, they carry her out of the sewing-room.
As usual, Jack Cully will mount his vigil outside Emily Benet’s lodging house that night. He will observe the absence of candlelight, but will deduce that the young seamstress is having a well-deserved rest. It will take him two more nights to realise that something is wrong.
****
London in 1861 is the capital of leisure and pleasure. It is the Mecca of marvels, the Eldorado of entertainment. There is the Crystal Palace, the Zoological Gardens, Westminster Abbey, the Gallery of Antiquities in the British Museum, to name but a few of the sights.
London embraces you. It takes you to its smoggy foggy heart. It can also pick your pocket, rip you off and leave you with some very nasty intestinal problems, but that is all part of its charm.
All you need is Bradshaw’s Guide Through London And Its Environs (purchasable at every railway station throughout Great Britain and Ireland), money, and a willingness to be amazed. The city will do the rest.
And here, with a copy of the first and a rapidly declining amount of the second, are Effie McGraw and her husband James, down from Edinburgh on a wee break. It is the first holiday they have taken for years, and she at least is determined to enjoy it.
So far, they have been to visit Tussaud’s Wax Exhibition in Baker Street (one shilling each), where she marvelled at the display of Monarchs of England, and he paid special heed to the depraved and bloodstained members of the criminal fraternity.
They have been to the Royal Academy (one shilling each), and the Tower Jewel Office (sixpence each). Here they saw the Imperial Crown, which almost took her breath away, though he seemed more interested in the number of warders and guards, even going so far as to make notes in the green octavo notebook (threepence) purchased from W.H. Smith upon their arrival at Kings Cross railway station.
Now they are sitting at a marble-topped table in a small elegant tea-room, partaking of light refreshments.
“It’s an awfu’ big place, this London, is it not?” Effie remarks, breaking into a scone.
“Aye, it certainly is that, my dear,” her husband agrees.
And awfu’ expensive, he thinks dourly, regarding his plate of ‘one shilling tea’. There does not seem much on it for the price. Also, he is not one for dainty French creations filled with cream. Give him a good honest slab of his wife’s home-made fruit cake any day. Sticks to your ribs, and keeps you going in the dreich Edinburgh weather.
Effie consults the Bradshaw.
“I thought we might go back to that nice arcade in Piccadilly after our tea,” she says. “I saw a very pretty shawl and mantle shop there.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Whatever you want, my love,” James McGraw nods.
It is Effie’s holiday after all, even though it is his pocketbook that is funding it. He pays the waitress and they sally forth into the crowded noisy thoroughfare. James takes his wife’s arm and steers her round the inevitable sandwich-board men and street musicians who ply their trade to the detriment of those who just wish to stroll about in peace.
As they walk, he keeps a sharp eye out for pickpockets and small boys with nefarious inclinations. For James McGraw knows the ways of the street, aye, he surely does that. Progressing in fits and starts towards the Strand, his eye is caught and then held by a newsvendor’s board on the opposite side of the street. It bears the ominous words:
Where Will The Slasher Strike Next?
London Lives in Fear! Detective Police Baffled.
James McGraw carefully places his wife in front of a shop window, telling her to remain exactly where she is and not to move or speak to anybody until he returns. Then, with surprising agility for a man of his age and bulk, he darts across the busy street.
A few minutes later he is back, triumphantly bearing a copy of The Inquirer.
“Aw Jamie – what would you want with that London paper?” Effie protests. “It’ll no be full of any nice news.”
“Indeed,” her husband agrees. “But it is always interesting to see what the guid folks of London Town are up to.”
He folds up the paper and tucks it into his outer coat pocket. Later, after a meat supper in the hotel, and when Effie is sound asleep in the bed that is far too soft for his taste, Inspector James McGraw will sit in the armchair, unfold the newspaper and finally read the story beneath the headlines.
So, my bairn, he’ll think, we meet again. Now, who’d ever have thought it?
****
Now that she knows the truth, Hyacinth Clout would never have thought she could continue living in the family house with her sister Lobelia without words being said or worse being done. But somehow, she is managing to keep both her temper, and her hands off the kitchen knives.
Instead of confrontation, she has decided to adopt a bright brittle tone when speaking to Lobelia. When she has to speak to Lobelia. Most of the time she tries not to speak to Lobelia if she can avoid doing so. Meanwhile she awaits anxiously for the reply to her letter to Lonely Widower.
Three long days have passed since she wrote to him, then sneaked out to the post-box and dropped the missive into its green maw. Three days during which she and tension have become good friends. Surely she cannot have to wait much longer?
“I shall be going out later,” Lobelia announces suddenly.
The sisters are seated at their desks in the morning room, dealing with correspondence. Or rather, Lobelia is. Hyacinth is drawing small desperate concentric circles on a piece of blotting paper. She does not look up.
“I shall be spending most of the day with my good friend Bethica,” Lobelia continues. “We will be using our time profitably to organise a charitable sale of work for those in need. As dear Mama used to do. You need not prepare any luncheon, as I shall have mine at the Vicarage.”
Hyacinth presses her lips together. There is another entire conversation going on here. One she has chosen not to have. For now.
Lobelia gives her a long penetrating stare as if making up her mind about something.
“I am not sure why you are behaving in this silly and childish manner, Hyacinth. I will say that I won’t tolerate it for much longer. I suggest in my absence that you reflect upon your current conduct. Maybe read a few chapters of your Bible. I shall leave upon the hall table a sermon Reverend Bittersplit preached some time ago on the subject of Straying from the True Path of Righteousness. I commend it to your perusal.”
She gets up and stalks out of the room. Hyacinth tries not to react, but hot tears of anger come unbidden to her eyes. She stabs the nib of the pen into the blotting paper. It breaks.
Later, when she is sure Lobelia has left the house, Hyacinth pens another quick letter to Lonely Widower, in case the first one has gone astray. You never know; the post is not always reliable. Then she goes down to the kitchen to survey the contents of the larder. Just because Lobelia is not going to return, this doesn’t mean that Hyacinth cannot have a nice luncheon. She uses Reverend Bittersplit’s sermon to light the oven. It burns most satisfactorily.
****
A few miles away, Mrs Witchard’s lodger has woken late, to bright sunshine shimmering round the cracks in the window blind. He rolls onto his back, latching his hands behind his head, and stares up at the ceiling. Memory sinks its teeth into his spirit and takes him away with it.
He sees a green field, high summer, the sun pouring down like molten butter from an impossibly blue sky. A boy runs across the field. He has a but
terfly net. He is laughing, making great ineffective swoops in the air with the net, catching nothing. He jumps for joy, for the freedom to run, for the whole world that surrounds him and awaits him.
The lodger feels something like a sob gathering in his throat. If only he could go back in time, could step into the boy’s world and warn him: One day you will grow up to be a man. People will lie to you and abuse you. You will do terrible things to yourself; you will hurt other people.
He lowers his legs to the bare faded wooden floor. Already the face that greets him in his shaving mirror doesn’t resemble anybody he has ever met. He is a stranger in his own life. His hands reach out for the one thing that remains a constant source of solace. But when he uncorks the bottle and dips in the syringe, it comes back empty.
He stares at his hands, hands that never used to shake but now cannot stop shaking, and wonders whether anyone else has ever noticed that if the sun hit your palm a certain way, you could see right through the skin to the busy tunnels with blood moving around inside.
He rises and shambles into his clothes. No time for breakfast; he is late. Again. He has been warned that if he continues to arrive late, he will find that his current apprenticeship as a dresser to one of London’s top surgeons will be terminated. He cannot allow that to happen, mainly because it will deny him access to the precious cupboard where the bottles of opium and laudanum are kept.
He will not steal from his landlady again. It is too risky. And besides, the stuff he had bought from the chemist was of inferior quality. It had not had the desired effect. The thoughts which he was trying to obliterate had reached him before sleep did.
He puts the empty little brown bottle in his pocket. He will refill it later, when there is a lull in proceedings. Today is operating day. He will have to clean tables and instruments, mop up spilt blood. Some of the patients will live; some will die on the operating table. Life. Death. Separated by such a fine thread. And how easily it is snapped.