Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  There’s a story here, Emily thinks, and not a happy one. But she keeps her own council and watches as he makes short work of his pie.

  “Mrs Cully,” Greig says, catching Cully’s eye and receiving a nod of encouragement, “I have come here not just to sample your wonderful cooking. I would dearly like to ask you a favour - but it is a very big favour, and I shall not be surprised if you decline.”

  Emily lowers the sleeping baby gently into her cot and settles the snowy blanket snugly round her. Then she resumes her seat at the table, resting her chin on her cupped hands.

  “Please Mr Greig, tell me what it is you want from me. If it is in my power to help you, I am sure I shall try my best.”

  Greig outlines, as circumspectly as he can, the details of the case he is building against the Halls and the reason he has come to appeal to her for her help in catching them.

  Emily listens attentively, her expression becoming more grave and troubled as he speaks. When he finishes, she says quietly,

  “I have heard of this happening - we had girls where I used to work who became pregnant while not married. Of course, they were dismissed as soon as the sewing-room supervisor realised their state. After their babies were born, they sometimes returned, saying the children had been adopted or fostered. So, what is it exactly that you wish me to do?”

  “I need you to be Mrs Harding, and pretend that you are selling your baby to this woman,” Greig says. “We shall set up a meeting in which you will hand over the money and the child - please do not worry, Mrs Cully, I and my officers will be there in force to arrest Mrs Hall the moment she accepts the money. It is my hope that the bad publicity from the case may deter other women from carrying on the same wicked trade in human life.”

  Emily glances across the table at her husband.

  “What do you have to say to all this, Jack?”

  “I say you decide, Emily.”

  Emily Cully rises from the table and goes to the cradle. She bends down and places a kiss upon the sleeping baby’s soft cheek.

  “We are so lucky, Jack. Violet will never know the want of love or kindness or food. It breaks my heart in two to think of other babies dying from neglect, cold and hunger, with nobody to hold them or love them as she is loved.”

  She takes a deep shuddering breath, then turns to face Greig, her eyes wet with tears.

  “I shall do it gladly and willingly, Mr Greig. Only I will never let my Violet leave my arms, is that understood?”

  “She shall not do so, I promise you.”

  “Well done, Em,” Cully says quietly. “I knew you wouldn’t let him down. Don’t worry though, I’ll be there to make sure no harm comes to Violet.”

  Emily nods, and resumes her seat.

  Greig pushes his chair back from the table.

  “I thank you both for your hospitality and now I shall bid you both goodnight. I’ll write to you, Mrs Cully, when all is arranged, and once more, you have my deep gratitude.”

  Cully goes to the front door and sees Greig out.

  “You have a wonderful wife there, Mr Cully,” Greig remarks.

  “Don’t I know it. She is one in a million,” Cully agrees.

  He returns to the kitchen to find Emily stacking the plates in the small butler sink.

  “He is a good man,” she remarks over her shoulder.

  “Funnily enough, he’s just said something similar about you.”

  Jack Cully comes up behind his wife and puts his arms around her.

  “I wouldn’t be without you Em. Nor baby Violet. It’s a very brave thing you’ve agreed to do.”

  Emily Cully pours a kettle of boiling water into the sink.

  “One day, when women rule the world, these terrible things won’t happen anymore.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  She sighs. “No, not really. But I do believe these pots won’t wash themselves. So why don’t you make a start on them while I finish smocking Caro’s little dress?”

  ****

  A few hours later Mr and Mrs Lawton lie side by side in the marital bed that they still share, listening. What they are listening to is the pacing of the engineer, whose room is directly overhead.

  It is not the first night that their rest has been disturbed by his nocturnal activities. Sometimes they have been woken by a crash as he falls over in the dark, or by screams and cries as he struggles in the grip of some frightful nightmare.

  Mrs Lawton, while not unsympathetic to the young man’s plight, has had enough. She’s been searching for the right opportunity to broach the subject of his ongoing presence for some time. Now, as his halting gait continues overhead, she decides this might be the opportunity she has been seeking.

  “I wonder whether it is not time for our guest to move to more appropriate accommodation,” she says. “It cannot be good for him to be cooped up in that room day after day.”

  Mr Lawton, who has pondered the same thing for some time, pulls a wry face in the darkness.

  “The problem is where would he go? The seizures are not ameliorating. If anything, they are increasing in intensity. He could not work on a construction site any more - it’d be too risky. He might have a fit while on the edge of a trench, anything may happen while he is in his present state.”

  “And there is another problem,” Mrs Lawton continues. “he seems to have formed some attachment to Daisy.”

  “Does he? I have not noticed.”

  “That is because you are at work all day. It is very obvious. He stands at the top of the stairs and watches her come and go. I have seen him staring at her in the garden - his window overlooks it, you know.”

  “And what does Daisy have to say?”

  “Oh, she hasn’t noticed. A young girl in love has no eyes for other men. But still ... it might be embarrassing if it were ever to become more ... public. You remember the funny turn he had when her engagement was announced? People noticed. Some friends commented.”

  “Does it matter what people think?”

  Mrs Lawton sighs gently.

  “No. Not under normal circumstances. But now Daisy is engaged to the son of an MP - a young man who is himself destined to take his seat in Parliament, things are a bit different.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes. They are. We cannot afford to have any untoward gossip that might ruin Daisy’s chance of happiness.”

  There is a silence. The pacing continues overhead.

  “Do you think she is happy?”

  Mrs Lawton turns to look at him.

  “Naturally she is - what a question.”

  “Only she does not seem to be as cheerful as she was wont to be. And she has had a falling out with little Tishy.”

  “That does not surprise me one bit.”

  “No? Does it not?”

  “Oh, my dear, you know so little about young girls. Letitia is a dear girl no doubt, but such a plain little thing. It would be just like her to envy Daisy’s success. After all, to be frank, she is hardly going to attract a beau like Digby Barnes Baker with her looks, is she?”

  “You think Tishy is the jealous type? I had not put her down as such.”

  Mrs Lawton pats his arm in a ‘men-what-do-they-know?’ way.

  “Of course, that is it. Why, when I got engaged to you, I remember falling out with Margaret. She said some very spiteful things, as I recall. It was only when Richard Barnes Baker proposed that we became reconciled.”

  “I see. So, when little Tishy acquires a beau, she and Daisy-duck will be best friends again?”

  “Her name is Letitia, my dear. Tishy and Daisy-duck were names for the nursery. Besides, Letitia’s family are not very affluent, are they? One could hardly see them moving in the same society circles that dear Daisy will be. I’m not even sure what her father does for a living.”

  “Does that matter? In my time, I have operated upon rich men, poor men, beggar men and probably a few thieves. Funnily enough they all contain the same bits and pieces when you open them up
.”

  Mrs Lawton clicks her teeth disapprovingly.

  “Tch! This is not a suitable topic for polite conversation. Let us return to the question of our guest.”

  “What would you like me to do, my dear?”

  “I suggest another letter to his father explaining the situation clearly. Surely he cannot be so hard hearted as to refuse sanctuary to his own poor suffering child?”

  Mr Lawton has grave doubts as to the willingness of the engineer’s father to offer his child a home, suffering or not. Especially as his condition is worse now than it was when he refused first time round. But. He is a man under orders.

  “I shall write in the next few days,” he promises.

  “I’m sure that is the right thing to do,” Mrs Lawton nods.

  She rolls onto her side and in a few minutes, her regular breathing tells him that she is asleep. But the surgeon cannot drop off so easily. He lies awake listening to the frantic pacing over his head, wondering what on earth causes such agitation of mind.

  The footsteps pass to and fro, to and fro. Long after Mr Lawton has fallen asleep the engineer still walks the floor, his opium-fuelled mind fizzing with ideas for projects. Only when the first streaks of dawn gild the sky does he collapse into bed, and silence finally descends upon the Lawton house.

  ****

  Letitia Simpkins opens her eyes in the small back bedroom that soon will no longer be hers. She slips from between the sheets and reaches for her wrapper. Her expression is not that of somebody who has woken up expecting sunshine.

  She creeps downstairs and begins the morning routine. There is much to be said for burying oneself in mundane chores. Letitia heats water, arranges jugs and bowls and lays out the breakfast table, trying to keep her mind from thinking about the awful prospect ahead of her.

  She decides that she must share the news of her imminent departure with her friends at the Regent Street Ladies’ Literary & Philosophical Society, and must do so today, before Mrs Briscoe descends like an avenging angel upon the house.

  Breakfast, when it arrives, is a sombre affair. Only Mr Simpkins is happy, partaking liberally of the eggs and bacon and toast on offer. He does not seem to notice the lack of appetite exhibited by his breakfasting companions, who crumble toast and poke egg yolks in a desultory fashion.

  Announcing that he may return late tonight as he will be meeting Mrs Briscoe from the York train, he departs almost as soon as he has finished his last mouthful. He is actually humming as he gets his top hat and light overcoat from the hall stand - an unheard-of occurrence.

  As soon as the door closes on him, the twins get up from the table and drift off. Letitia supervises clearing up the breakfast dishes, contemplates breaking the sad news of their departure to the cook, then decides to leave it to her father.

  She has other places to be, other people to inform. She puts on her bonnet, finds some gloves that vaguely match and opens the front door.

  ****

  As Letitia Simpkins sets off determinedly in the direction of Regent Street, Inspector Greig makes his way through the throng of sightseers and market traders hanging about Covent Garden Piazza. He enters Bow Street to the usual wag’s cry of “Oi, you ain’t running! Har Har.”

  Today Greig doesn’t even hear him. His thoughts are miles away. He is remembering a warm welcoming hearth, good food, a sweet baby girl and above all, the calm, clear eyes of Emily Cully as she agreed to be part of the trap he was setting for Mrs Hall.

  Nothing must go wrong, Greig thinks. He is so near succeeding that he can almost taste it. He enters the police office, and is about to call up Sergeant Hacket when a shabbily dressed young woman sitting on the bench rises and touches his sleeve.

  Greig turns.

  “Miss? Can I assist you?”

  “Aksherly, Mr Police Inspector, I’ve come to assist you. You don’t recognise me, do you? Never mind. You helped me and my friend when we lost our homes in the Hind Street explosion - ah - now you remember, I see it in your face.”

  “I do indeed. And how have you both fared since then?”

  “Middling to bad,” Miss Florina Sabini says, pulling a face. “We have new lodgings, which is good, but the work is wearing us out, which is bad. We are paid, which is good, but we have barely time nor energy to eat which is bad. But that is neither here nor there, as my old mum used to say.

  “I should’ve come to see you sooner, but I went to t’other police office first, thinking you’d be there. You asked us about the two bank clerks who lodged at Hind Street. I know where they are now. They are living above a chemist’s shop, corner of Seymour Street. It’s called Bengt and Muller and the foreign man I told you about works in the shop.”

  Greig gets out his notebook, asks her to repeat what she has just told him, and writes it down.

  “Thank you, Miss ...”

  “Sabini. Miss Sabini. And you are welcome, Mr Inspector. Now you know that they are safe and sound, so that’s alright then, isn’t it?”

  And giving him her most innocent and incredibly helpful smile, Miss Sabini collects her basket and heads for the door, leaving Greig to ponder yet again on the role played in police procedure by the laws of chance, which are frequently far greater than narrative causality would like to admit.

  ****

  Letitia Simpkins has decided that there is no God. She has put Him to the test on numerous occasions and He has failed each time. At boarding school, left on her own for the holidays, she’d pray and pray that a carriage would pull up and her mother (dressed in furs and velvet) would rush out and embrace her.

  It never happened.

  When she returned home, she’d sat by her mother’s sick bed and prayed that she’d reach out her arms and start caring about her only and much neglected daughter.

  That never happened either.

  Now her mother is dead. She has lost the love of her only friend. She is about to lose her home and with it her one chance to better herself and make something of her life.

  Letitia passes All Souls Church. There is a big rock where her heart should be.

  She decides she will give the God she does not believe in one last chance to prove Himself worthy of her attention. If He can manage to cause the train carrying Mrs Briscoe to crash before it gets to London, she may start taking Him seriously. (Only one fatality of course; she would not like to be regarded as a mass murderer.)

  Letitia approaches the familiar building. Her heart aches to think that she will never walk down this street again. Never share a cup of coffee with Sarah Lunt and the other ladies. Never borrow books from the library or engage in stimulating discussion with intelligent women.

  In a very short while she will be at the beck and call of Mrs Briscoe. She does not think she is going to be kind to her. She pauses by the entrance to adjust the heavy bag of books she is returning. She will not need them where she is going.

  As she steadies herself, a woman passer by suddenly stops, moans, then stumbles against her, almost knocking her off her feet. Letitia puts out a hand to fend her off. The woman grasps it.

  “Help me,” she falters.

  Next minute, she drops at Letitia’s feet, clutching her stomach and crying out. Letitia stares down in horror. The woman’s cloak has fallen back, revealing her huge belly.

  “I will get someone,” she stammers. “Do not move,” she adds, stupidly.

  She opens the door and rushes into the building. A couple of members are grouped round the notice board. Letitia runs towards them.

  “Oh please, you must all come at once - there is a woman lying outside on the steps, and I think she is having a baby,” she gasps.

  ****

  Mr Lawton has decided to err on the side of discretion, and after a very early breakfast has taken himself off to the hospital. He needs to think through the letter he has promised to write to the engineer’s father.

  Unlike his wife, Lawton knows what the consequences might be if there is no agreement to take the young man back. To c
onsign a fellow human being to an institution for the remainder of his life is not a decision to be undertaken lightly, even though he reminds himself that ultimately it will not be his decision.

  He is not rostered on until later in the day, but there are always patients to visit, operation reports to write up. Mid-morning sees him walking to the men’s surgical ward, where a patient he operated on a week ago is about to be discharged.

  He is a young man and has healed well. He thanks Lawton, shaking his hand, his wife and small children staring with wide eyes at the black frock coat and white surgeon’s apron.

  Lawton signs the relevant paperwork with a glad heart. It is always gratifying when a patient makes a sound recovery. He is just about to leave the ward when a nurse comes hurrying in, looking all about her anxiously. When she sees him, her face clears.

  “Sir, can you come at once? We have an emergency admission.”

  Lawton follows her to the waiting room. He pushes open the doors, hearing, before he even enters, the familiar cries and screams of someone in late labour. A young woman is sitting on a bench, her arm round the hunched form of another. She glances up as Lawton hurries over.

  “This is Jane Smith,” she pauses, giving him a meaningful look, “she collapsed outside the Regent Street Ladies’ Literary & Philosophical Society, where she was found by one of our members. She is in the final stages of labour. The baby is posterior presentation and has stuck. She has been in labour for some time and has no strength left to continue. She needs chloroform and the baby may have to have a forceps delivery.”

  Lawton raises his eyebrows.

  “And you are?”

  The young woman stands.

  “My name is Sarah Lunt, sir. I am a surgical nurse trainee at the London Women’s Hospital. Please can you help us?”

  Lawton stares at her, then nods. He barks out a series of orders that send the staff running. A trolley is fetched. Two porters gently lift Jane Smith onto it.