by Carol Hedges
Life isn’t something that takes care of itself, he has learned that through pain and suffering. There are big black holes you can fall into, with long sharp spikes at the bottom. He shudders. Outside his window, the air is sweet with the scent of blossom.
****
Time rolls relentlessly along, and eventually it reaches eight o’clock, and all is well. Mrs Crevice has seen the sewing-room girls off the premises. Most of them are carrying extra work that means they will get very little rest tonight.
Now she takes a last sharp look round her domain to make sure everything is ship-shape. She has already counted the scissors and checked the needles. No pilfering of store property on her watch. Oh no.
Mrs Crevice turns down the lights and locks the side door. She places the keys in her basket and sets off. Tonight, she will dine solo. Morbid Crevice is working back at his shop. It is stocktaking time, which also includes perusing the contents of the big black safe. So secret are these contents, that Tonkin has been sent off without any supper, and told not return until morning.
Mrs Crevice stops at one of the many food shops still open. She orders an eel pie, hot. The proprietor is in his shirtsleeves, a clean white apron protecting his waistcoat and trousers from damage. He lifts the lid of the metal receptacle in front of him, whips out a hot pie, runs a knife round it inside the dish and turns it out on to a piece of paper.
Mrs Crevice takes the pie round to the dolly shop and knocks on the window. She has to knock several times before her beloved opens the shop door.
“Watchoo doing here?” he snaps, his eyes hostile and unwelcoming.
“Brought you a nice pie,” his inamorata says.
Crevice snatches up the pie, cursing as the hot pastry burns his fingers. He nods a thank-you, then closes the door once more. His wife hears the sound of the key turning in the lock. She is also aware of the strong smell of brandy fumes. These things will be important later on.
Night wears on. There is sound everywhere, none of it close. Background noise of people, echoes of whispers, whispers of echoes, the clatter of traffic. The metal voices of church clocks chime the passing hours. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
A lone figure suddenly steps out of the shadows and scurries towards the shop. It is the girl from the workhouse. She carries the box of matches, holding them in her hand as if they were a talisman. Round the back of the shop she goes, down an alleyway so narrow that she has to hold her breath, until she reaches the door to the back shop.
There she pauses. Her nose wrinkles. What is that smell? It seems to be coming from within the building. She reaches out her hand to grasp the door handle, pushes open the unlocked door, and strikes a match. The sulphur flare reveals a sputtering fire in the grate, a suffocating vapour in the air. The match goes out. She strikes another. The walls seem covered with a thick greasy sooty coating. She sees a chair, a table full of papers, an empty brandy bottle, an unlocked safe.
The match goes out. She strikes another. The last. She sees charred floorboards, a puddle of thick yellow liquid, a pile of grey ash, something round and black, a half-burned hand, two blackened feet. The match goes out. She turns and runs back to the street, feeling the scream rising, rising until it fills her mouth with its horror.
In the grey light of a grey dawn, Mrs Crevice will make her way to the shop. Getting no answer to her knock, she too will go around the back. The police, who will arrive some time later, will take the body – or what they can find of the body – of Morbid Crevice to the police morgue, where it will be pored over by the police surgeon and his colleagues in the Metropolitan Police.
It will be noted that the front door of the shop had remained locked throughout the whole proceedings. The empty spirits bottle will be taken away for examination. It will also be observed that no other parts of the room or the furniture were burned or destroyed, save for the body of the hapless victim.
The condition of the body parts will be the subject of careful scrutiny. It will be seen that the head, hands and feet have been burned to a black mass, while other parts have been reduced to a carbonaceous foetid unctuous ash. The thick greasy soot and the foul odour will be discussed.
In the final outcome, due to the lack of any logical explanation or reasonable evidence to the contrary, it will be concluded by the experts brought in to consult upon the case, that the fire originated within the actual body of Morbid Crevice, and therefore the cause of death will be pronounced a ‘death by spontaneous combustion’.
But before all these events take place, there will be another visitor to the shop. Tonkin, having tramped the streets all night, will return to his place of employment very early, before dawn has broken. He will enter the small fetid room. Finding an unlocked safe and no employer, he will help himself to certain items of jewellery, which he will tie up in a bundle of old clothes before taking to his heels.
Also in the bundle will be his current ill-gotten gains, together with the only thing he has left from his past: a ragged blue baby-blanket, taken from the cupboard in the Foundling Hospital where the children’s few pitiful keepsakes are stored. It has the remnants of a name, no longer legible, chain-stitched in one corner.
****
Meanwhile, in Detective Inspector Stride’s office, the tottering piles of paperwork are slightly less alpine. There are even occasional patches of desktop visible. Stride sits behind the desk. He is humming happily.
He looks up and grins as Jack Cully enters. Cully has learned over the years that when Stride grins in that shiny sort of way, it means that someone is trying to play a game without realising that Stride has the only copy of the rules.
“The game’s afoot, Jack,” Stride says smugly, thumping his fist on the desk and causing a minor avalanche.
Cully wishes his boss wouldn’t quote the meaningless gibberish that gets put out from time to time by The Police Gazette. Also, he hopes it is more than just one foot – or rather one set of two feet. And preferably not his two feet. He has worn down his boots walking from hospital to hospital. And he fears his constant hospital presence means he is beginning to smell like one.
“That police artist has done us proud,” Stride declares. “I always said it was a good idea to employ him. Once we get the posters placed in the areas where the murders took place, someone is bound to recognise our man.”
“Hopefully they will do more than just recognise him,” Cully adds. “Is there a reward offered?”
“I’d have thought assisting the police to bring a vile murderer of innocent females to justice would be incentive and reward enough, wouldn’t you, Jack?”
Probably not, Cully thinks, being slightly more in touch with street sentiment.
“Are we supplying any newspapers with the portrait?” he asks.
Stride sucks in his breath sharply.
“And have a repeat of the ‘I am The Slasher’s Mother’ letters? I think we’ll keep the popular press out of it.”
Cully opens his mouth to disagree. Stride cuts him off at the pass.
“Remember that ‘Gigantic Hound’ story? As soon as the press got hold of it, we were inundated with sightings. Took all our resources to check them out. Meanwhile, the real criminal was getting away with murder right under our noses.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Can you imagine what our friend Dandy would do with it? We’d be harried from pillar to post. My God – I wouldn’t even put it past him to offer a reward just to spite us! And I bet he wouldn’t be the one who ends up having to pay it.”
Stride picks up a folder of reports. Cully recognises them as his hospital ones.
“Very thorough work, Jack. Well done.”
For Jack Cully, the unexpected praise is tinged with the knowledge that he has still been unable to ascertain the whereabouts of Emily Benet. The memory of her awakes with him, accompanies him wherever he goes, and goes to sleep with him at night. The sense of loss is palpable, as painful as an open wound.
Meanwhile Stride rubs his han
ds.
“Right,” he says, reaching for his coat and hat. “I’m off. A cup of coffee from the coffee stall, and then onward and upwards. The show must go on, as they say.”
****
And indeed, the show must go on, for people want to be entertained. And wherever there are people wanting to be entertained, there are other people willing to entertain them. Police Constable Tom ‘Taffy’ Evans is only too aware of this, especially as his leave has just been cancelled and he has been put on extra duties.
He has scribbled a hasty letter back home to inform his sweetheart Megan of the change in plans, and now, as he patrols his beat, he is mulling over a strategy to deal with the expected response. She is a fiery one, his Megan, and this is the second time in two months that his leave has been cancelled.
Constable Evans knows the reason why all police leave has been cancelled. He may not read the newspapers but he passes various news vendors boards constantly. He sees the gory headlines on a daily basis. He hears the boys shouting the latest news on The Slasher – the fearsome killer who stalks the streets by night.
He has heard London compared to great cities of the past like Imperial Rome.
Constable Evans (who has been brought up Chapel) thinks it is more like the city of Babylon mentioned in the Book of Revelations: ‘a great city dressed in purple and scarlet, glittering with gold, precious stones and pearls,’ but at the same time ‘a home for demons and a haunt for every evil spirit.’
He is just proceeding down Regent Street and wondering whether he could afford any of the merchandise displayed in the shop windows, and whether a present from London might smooth his path with Megan, when he finds himself being addressed by a young woman. You will no doubt recognise her as Estelle, the ‘French’ lodger whom Stride and Cully encountered upon their fruitless visit to Mrs Desiderata Tightly’s Rooms for Professional and Visiting Ladies.
Constable Evans does not recognise her of course, never having crossed the threshold of that establishment. But from her scanty low-cut attire and boldly painted face, he recognises what she is. His heart sinks. He hates giving offence, but really, this fatal attraction he seems to possess for ladies of the night is beginning to get on his nerves. And it is making him the butt of his fellow constables’ jokes.
“Oi, you – copper,” Estelle says, launching herself from the doorway in which she is loitering with intent.
Constable Evans halts, folds his arms. Looks down. Hastily averts his gaze.
“Yes Miss, what can I do for you?”
Estelle eyes him up and down.
“Well ... now there’s a question, innit?” she drawls.
Constable Evans folds his lips disapprovingly.
“Soliciting an officer while he is on duty is a criminal offence and might result in a Prosecution for Public Indecency,” he repeats woodenly.
Estelle sniggers.
“Yeah, right. Like I haven’t ever been asked to give one of you lot a quickie dahn a dark alley? Chief constables, inspectors, sergeants, I’ve had you all. Lit’rally.”
Constable Evans pretends he has not heard. He finds this the best approach.
“Is there something you want, Miss?”
“Apart from a thousand pounds and a rich old ’usband with a dicky heart? Yeah, there is ... I want you to come with me.”
Constable Evans opens his mouth to decline the invitation, but Estelle grabs him firmly by the sleeve and hauls him towards one of the colonnades. She is surprisingly strong, and he finds himself following her unprotestingly. She leads him to a pillar.
“There,” she says, pointing.
He follows her finger. Affixed to the pillar is a Police ‘Wanted’ poster, bearing the artistic endeavours of Leonard.
“I seen him,” she says triumphantly.
“Where?”
“Soho. Last Wednesday evening. He was standing outside the bazaar, watching the ladies going in and out.”
“You are sure it is the same man?”
She nods.
“Oh, it’s him alright. No mistake. Recognised him the moment I saw his picture. Almost a speaking likeness. Not that he was speaking. More staring.”
Recalling his last encounter with a lady of negotiable affections, Constable Evans does not hesitate.
“You need to come along right now and talk to my superior officer,” he says.
Estelle regards him frostily.
“In your dreams, big boy,” she says, moving a few steps away from him. “I ain’t going dahn to no rozzer shop. What if word got out? Bad for business.”
But Constable Evens is a quick learner. Besides, his time on the beat has accustomed him to dealing with members of the public who treat their memory as only a rough guide to events.
“I shall accompany you every step of the way, Miss, to make sure you arrive safely and tell my sergeant exactly what you told me,” he says, moving a few steps towards her. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to be attacked by anything. Like a sudden loss of memory, for example.”
He tucks her hand firmly under his arm and begins to walk towards Bow Street.
“You come along with me all nice and quiet like, and I’m sure there will be a cup of tea for you,” he smiles. “Maybe even a biscuit. Now, I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
****
There are no biscuits being handed out to the medical students learning their surgical trade in the Dissecting Room at University College. There are quite a lot of dead bodies though. Each cadaver has been neatly laid out on a long oblong wooden table, with four sets of dissecting instruments in wooden boxes placed around.
Mrs Witchard’s lodger is working with three other students. He slices open a parchment-coloured leg, being careful not to cut himself with a scalpel. (The high death rate amongst medical students is always blamed on dissections, or the putrid emanations from bodies.)
He has managed to gulp down some tasteless watery porridge before leaving his dismal lodgings, and now his stomach grumbles embarrassingly. He remembers the advice of his Edinburgh professor: Eat a solid breakfast before dissecting, and avoid the company of women and tiring activities, such as dancing, the night before.
He’d like to treat himself to a hot lunch, but he may not have enough time. Many students just grab a sandwich or a pork pie and eat it on the benches outside the lecture theatre. The trouble with dissection is that it gives you a hearty appetite, but as soon as you enter a chop house, the smell of cooked meat takes it away. Sometimes he thinks the dishes even taste of the body he has just dissected. He is sure that he reeks of mortality. Maybe that was why she ... The dissecting knife slips, clatters to the ground. He stares down. Despair shifts within, half-awake to its own strength. His heart goes falling away inside him.
“Butterfingers, old man,” remarks one of the students.
He shrugs, does not respond, goes on working numbly, separating veins and arteries. This is the last class of the term and he needs his certificate of attendance to add to his final qualification. He cannot falter now. He is not one of the lucky ones. He has no rich parents, no degree from Oxford, no favoured status within the University.
Life will not fling wide its golden gates and beckon him through. Faugh! He has to scrimp to find the £90 fees – which he still hasn’t paid in full. He has decided to grow a full beard in the hope the bursar will not recognise him as he slides past his office, jacket collar pulled up as high as possible.
He blinks, then goes on slicing with clinical detachment. He feels dazed, halfway to sleeping. His head aches. When he has done, he slides the dissecting knife into his pocket before leaving the room. He crosses the wide atrium and opens one of the main doors. The smell of rain blows in. He walks out into it.
****
London in springtime. A white-skied day. Blossom in the parks. Everything is in bloom. The small female flower-seller on the corner of Tottenham Court Road has bunches of violets in her basket. There are geraniums in pots on sills. Even the canaries and
linnets hanging from first-floor windows in their tiny wicker cages seem chirpier.
It is certainly not a day for bombshells and blow-ups, you would think. But you would be wrong. Unaware of what is about to descend upon her, Hyacinth Clout has decided to embark upon the annual spring-clean.
When Mama was alive, this was the only time servants were employed, albeit temporarily. The prospect of one of her daughters down on all fours scrubbing was a concept too appalling for even Mama to stomach.
For the past two years Hyacinth has applied to a certain agency, and a reliable woman has been sent to help with the onerous task of taking up and beating the carpets, washing the net curtains and cleaning the paintwork with soda.
The subject has been broached with Lobelia, who seemed somewhat distracted by the request and merely responded with an airy wave of her hand that she would ‘think about it’ in due course.
At the time, Hyacinth was surprised. Usually Lobelia took grim pleasure in pointing out every smudge and smear and commenting disparagingly upon Hyacinth’s slapdash attitude to housework.
However, the weeks have gone by, and in the absence of any positive response from her sister, and currently in the absence of said sister, Hyacinth has decided to begin the process herself. So here she is, down on all fours with a bar of lye soap, a bucket of scalding hot water and a brush, scrubbing the hall tiles.
She has just reached the door that separates the kitchen stairs from the rest of the house when the front door opens and Lobelia enters. Hyacinth gets to her feet, wiping her red soapy hands on her apron.
Lobelia spots her. Her eyes widen in shock.
“What on earth are you doing, Hyacinth?” she exclaims.
“I’d have thought that was fairly obvious. I am scrubbing the floor.”
Lobelia removes her bonnet and places it on one of the wooden pegs. She regards Hyacinth, head on one side.