The Esther & Jack Enright Box Set

by David Field

  THE ESTHER & JACK ENRIGHT BOXSET

  BOOKS 1-3

  David Field

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  BOOK ONE: THE GASLIGHT STALKER

  BOOK TWO: THE NIGHT CALLER

  BOOK THREE: THE PRODIGAL SISTER

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  MORE BOOKS BY DAVID FIELD

  BOOK ONE: THE GASLIGHT STALKER

  Chapter One

  It was the Monday evening of the August Bank Holiday weekend of 1888, and most of the noisy crowd in the White Hart public bar on Whitechapel’s High Street had been drinking all day.

  ‘Mucky Meg’ Drinkwater was insisting on singing another ditty, stout glass in one hand and nose warmer pipe in the other, and landlord Jack Brougham warned her that if it was as filthy as the last one, she’d be out on her ear. Meg barely made it into the second verse before Jack grabbed her by the neck of her tight bodice and dragged her to the open doorway, throwing her bodily into the street amid the outraged shouts of protests from his male customers, many of whom appeared to be off-duty Coldstream Guardsmen from Wellington Barracks, who’d spent the day slumming.

  Esther Jacobs narrowly missed being bowled over as she approached the doorway in time to see Meg skid along the cobbles, skirt up and boots flailing in the warm evening air. Esther took a deep breath and persevered, craning her neck through the thick smoke for a sight of her friend, Martha Turner, who she’d come to find. Eventually she spied her, propping up the bar counter, although knowing Martha the bar counter was probably keeping her upright. Esther pushed and dodged her way through the motley crowd of soldiers, labourers, ne’er-do-wells and their whores for the evening, apologising here and there as she was obliged to employ a bony elbow on her way through. As she reached Martha’s side, her friend gave her a stupid grin of recognition and threw her arm across Esther’s shoulder.

  ‘’Ello there, lovey — care ter join me in a small refreshment, would yer?’

  ‘I’m only here with a message,’ Esther insisted. ‘Harry’s back, and he’s asking for you.’

  Martha’s face fell as she took another swig of her beer. ‘Did ’e say anythin’ about money?’

  ‘No, he just sent me to find you. This is the third pub I’ve been in.’

  ‘I always drinks in the White ’Art, yer knows that. I hopes yer ’aven’t bin inconvenienced on my account?’

  ‘I had to come out for candles anyway,’ Esther reassured her. ‘The Superintendent’s turned the gas off again and I have some work to finish. On the way out I bumped into Harry and he asked me to keep a lookout for you.’

  Martha spat into the sawdust.

  ‘’E’s after ’is money, that’s all. Either that, or a bit of ’owzyerfarver. Either way, I’m stayin’ where I am, thank yer very much.’

  ‘He’s your husband, Martha,’ Esther reminded her, ‘and your place is with him, not these dreadful louts in here.’

  ‘If I go ’ome now, wi’ a few drinks under me stays, ’e’ll belt the shit outa me, like ’e normally does when I bin on the razzle-dazzle. An’ I owes ’im a couple o’ bob from the last time I saw ’im, up by Aldgate pump. I were meant ter get stock fer the business, but as yer can see, I found a better use fer it. Care ter join me?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Esther grimaced as she watched another fight break out in the corner from which Meg had recently been removed. Tables, chairs and glasses went in all directions and Jack Brougham waded in with two of his fixers to restore order.

  ‘Right enough, it’s gettin’ a bit lively in ’ere,’ Martha conceded. ‘What say we move inter the snug? What’s yer poison these days?’

  ‘I don’t drink, as you know,’ Esther reminded her, ‘but I’ll have a small glass of mild, if — and only if, mind you — you make it your last, then come home to Harry.’

  ‘We’ll get the drinks from Jack then take ’em through wi’ us,’ Martha suggested. ‘They charges more in the snug, though God alone knows they charges enough in ’ere. ’Alf o’ mild, weren’t it?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Esther confirmed, then frowned as she saw that Martha had ordered her a pint instead. They weaved their way towards the side door and moved through it into the more sedate snug bar. As they did so, Martha cursed quietly and grabbed Esther by the elbow, nearly spilling her drink in the process.

  ‘Over ’ere,’ Martha hissed. ‘This table by the door. There’s somebody over there I don’t want ter see right now. I’ll sit wi’ me back to ’er, facin’ the door, an’ you can take the seat across from me.’

  As they settled at the table, Esther was curious. ‘Who is it you want to avoid?’ she enquired.

  Martha snorted as she mixed her own ‘dog’s nose’ by pouring the double measure of gin into her beer glass and took a deep draught, wiping the froth from her mouth as she replied: ‘Her, over in the corner, wi’ three other totties. She’s the big fat ’un wi’ an ’at full o’ dead crows an’ a face like a busted arse.’

  Esther looked across the small room and seated in the far corner, attended by three women whose gaudy attire, overdone face makeup and gay bonnets loudly announced their profession, was a much larger and older woman, dressed all in black, with a monstrous headpiece covered in feathers and a masculine face that did not bode well for her prospects if she intended to compete with her companions for the business of the soldiers who were clearly only here for one thing.

  They sat at an adjoining table.

  ‘Who is she?’ Esther enquired.

  ‘They calls ’er Pearly Poll. Fucked if I knows ’er proper name, but that’s the name she goes by. Nasty piece o’ work an’ I owes ’er money an’ all.’

  Esther sighed. ‘Is there anyone you don’t owe money to?’

  ‘None o’ yourn. But Pearly Poll’s not the sort o’ woman yer wants ter be obliged to.’

  ‘Does she employ bully boys to collect her debts?’ Esther enquired, concerned for her friend’s safety.

  Another snort from Martha. ‘She don’t need ter. She can whack ’em ’arder than most blokes. Look at the size of ’er, fer Christ’s sake. She was the biggest tottie in Whitechapel in ’er day, so they reckons. Nowadays she just lives off what she can get by runnin’ other girls, like the ones what’s sittin’ wi’ er over at the table.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Esther asked, although she thought she already knew the answer.

  ‘I used ter do a bit o’ tottin’ meself, years back, but I give it up after one o’ them gimme three busted ribs. That’s afore I met ’Arry, o’ course, an’ I wouldn’t go back ter that way o’ livin’ if me life depended on it. It’s a rough enough life street tradin’, God knows, but it’s better than tottin’, an’ I finished wi’ all that years ago.’

  ‘Don’t look now, but she’s coming over here,’ Esther warned Martha, who muttered ‘fuck’ and ducked her head down.

  Poll smacked Martha on the back of the head, at the same time smiling down at Esther. ‘It’s bin six weeks, arse’ole — where’s me fuckin’ five bob?’ Poll demanded as she took the vacant seat.

  Martha cringed and looked up. ‘Next week, I promise yer — ’onest. It’s just that we’ve ’ad ter get more stock in an’ until we gets ter sell it ...’

  ‘Don’t gimme that shit! The whole o’ Whitechapel knows that ’Arry left yer weeks since an’ yet yer got plenty o’ money fer grog, by the looks o’ things.’

  ‘It’s the truth, honest ter God!’ Martha protested. It fell silent for a moment as Poll looked Esther up and down in a manner that made the young girl feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Well now,’ Poll said eventually, ‘there’s several ways we might come ter some arrangement regardin’ the money yer owes me. As yer can se
e, me friends an’ I are gettin’ some attention from them sojer boys at the next table. There’s five o’ them an’ only four of us, so why don’t yer earn yerself a pretty shillin’ on yer back? Or mebbe yer friend ’ere instead? She’s gotta be worth twice that, even standin’ up, what wi’ ’er bein’ so fresh and pretty an’ all. Waddyer say, girl?’ she enquired with a suggestive leer at Esther.

  ‘She ain’t goin’ tottin’ fer you an’ that’s a certainty,’ Martha insisted while Esther recovered from the shock. ‘She’s a respectable young lady an’ she’s my friend, so leave ’er out’ve it.’

  ‘Pity,’ Poll replied as she looked Esther up and down again with an experienced eye. ‘If yer prefer, she can come ’ome wi me an’ I’ll find ’er some way o’ payin’ yer debt off, depend on it.’

  Esther hastily swallowed the last of her drink and stood up. ‘We have to be going now, I’m afraid. Martha’s husband’s waiting for her at home and I have to get back to work.’

  ‘What sorta work d’yer do at this time on a public ’oliday?’ Poll demanded.

  ‘I’m a seamstress,’ Esther advised her, ‘and I work from home.’

  Polly looked more closely at her flowing black curls, aquiline nose and smooth thin lips. ‘You a Yid?’

  ‘I’m Jewish, certainly.’

  ‘Where d’ya live?’

  ‘Spitalfields — up the road there. In the same house as my friend Martha here. And we need to be going now.’

  ‘I’ll stay ’ere a while longer, if it’s all the same ter you,’ Martha replied quietly. ‘Tell ’Arry I’ll be ’ome soon.’

  ‘You’re not going back on the game I hope?’ Esther demanded.

  Martha shook her head. ‘Like I said, them days is over fer me. But I can mebbe sort out some sort’ve arrangement with Poll ’ere, which yer mebbe shouldn’t be knowin’ about. So just you pop off ’ome an’ tell ’Arry I’m not long be’ind yer.’

  Esther walked sadly back out through the public bar, shaking her head and wondering how she was going to explain things to Harry when she got home. The bar was slightly less crowded than it had been, but she was obliged to step carefully around several piles of vomit and an insensible drunk as she made her way into the street, turning left into Osbourne Street until it became Brick Lane, then into Thrawl Street. There she stopped off briefly at the chandler’s shop that never seemed to close and purchased four candles and a box of matches. Then it was a right turn into George Street, towards Satchell’s Lodging House at number 19.

  As she passed the alleyway that led up to the glue factory she heard a bestial grunting noise and peered into the shadows, where a woman was bent double, her skirts hitched to her waist. A man was ramming into her from behind with determination and obvious satisfaction. Esther’s stomach turned and she walked quickly on, reaching the safety of the side alley entrance to the rooming house that she’d called home for the past year or so.

  Harry Turner came out of the ground floor common kitchen as he heard the sound of her approaching boots in the entrance hall and stood directly in front of her, barring her passage.

  ‘Well? Did yer find ’er?’

  ‘I did and she’s in the White Hart, with an old acquaintance of hers.’

  ‘An’ who might that be?’

  ‘I think her name was Polly, or something like that.’

  ‘Pearly fuckin’ Poll? Was that ’er?’

  ‘Could have been,’ Esther admitted, her eyes on the floor.

  ‘Fuckin’ whore!’ Harry yelled, as the colour rose rapidly in his face. ‘She’s back ter the tottin’ again, ain’t she? An’ her a respectable married woman what’s got a man waitin’ at ’ome while she goes openin’ ’er fat legs ter some drunken cock. When she gets ’ome, tell ’er from me that we’re finally finished this time. I don’t want a dose o’ the fuckin’ pox next time she looks in my direction. You tell ’er that from me, understood?’

  ‘Yes, Harry,’ Esther replied meekly, fearful that he might strike her in his rage. Then as he stormed out through the side entrance Esther walked up the two flights of stairs to her own room on the second floor, glancing sadly at the closed door of the room across the landing that in better days was home to Martha and Harry Turner. They had befriended her when circumstances had forced her to take cheap lodgings in a single room that overlooked the catsmeat yard that George and Sadie Thompson operated from the ground floor rear flat, while George supplemented their business with his meagre wage as Superintendent of the common lodging house that the Satchells owned — one of many cheap doss houses that they maintained in the Spitalfields district.

  Spitalfields had been Esther’s only home for her twenty-three years in life. First the three-storied house in White Lion Street, the ground floor of which had been her parents’ fabric import warehouse until, when Esther was only seventeen, they had both been killed when the Sunday afternoon Thames pleasure boat they had been passengers on capsized as it was turning against a heavy incoming tide at Woolwich. This had made orphans of Esther and her older brother Abe, who’d joined the army almost immediately afterwards, leaving Esther to fend for herself.

  Fortunately for her, the Jacobs family had enjoyed both a lengthy business relationship and a family link with Isaac and Ruth Rosen, who took Esther in and taught her all she knew about garment manufacture and repair from their premises in Lamb Street, where Esther had occupied the top garret and enjoyed three hearty meals a day in exchange for her proven skills with both needle and sewing machine. Then came the anti-Semitic riot almost a year ago that had led to the burning down of the Rosens’ garment factory, from which Esther had barely escaped with her life, clad only in her nightgown. She’d been forced to find somewhere else to live, but fortunately the Rosens had not given up and Esther made a living of sorts performing ‘outwork’ for them as they slowly rebuilt their business.

  She’d been living a solitary life on the top floor of Satchells, keeping herself to herself, when Martha and Harry moved in across the landing and she and Martha had developed a friendship in the communal ground floor kitchen. Esther knew that Harry occasionally beat Martha and that he had a foul temper even when sober, which was most of the time. She could hear them at it even across the landing and she would curl up on her bed, block her ears and pray for Martha’s safety until it was over. Martha would appear the next morning, her plump face covered in bruises, but still smiling and Esther could only admire her courage, wondering at the same time why she put up with it. But in her lonelier moments, Esther told herself that even a husband who beat you around the face occasionally was probably a better prospect than no husband at all on a permanent basis. One day, perhaps, she mused as the trousers she was taking in slipped from her knees when she nodded off in her chair beside the truckle bed.

  She awoke the next morning with stiff muscles to the sound of heavy banging on her door. Sleepily, she walked the few feet across her room and opened it, coming face to face with a red-faced Harry Turner, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was obviously not in the mood for idle chit-chat as he grabbed her by the collar of her jacket and dragged her into the hallway, demanding that she go with him down to the kitchen.

  ‘Why?’ she gasped.

  ‘’Cos there’s a Peeler down there an’ he wants ter talk ter yer about Martha.’

  Down in the kitchen, a nervous and absurdly young-looking police constable stood waiting for her by the sink, notebook at the ready. ‘Miss Jacobs?’ he enquired.

  ‘That’s me,’ she acknowledged. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’m Constable Barrett, H Division, Leman Street. I’m informed that you were with your friend Martha yesterday evening in the White Hart public house in Whitechapel High Street.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Did you leave her there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About what time?’

  ‘It must have been around eleven. Why, what’s she done?’

  ‘She’s done nothing, miss. It’s what’s
been done to her.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Someone’s done her in on the stairwell of George Yard Buildings and you were the last person we know of who saw her alive.’

  Chapter Two

  Esther was still in the same state of shocked disbelief two days later, as she sat to the side of the main body of spectators inside the Working Lads’ Institute in Whitechapel Road, listening to Deputy Coroner George Collier formally opening the inquest into the death of ‘a woman unknown, believed at this stage to be one Martha Turner, of 19 George Street, Spitalfields’. Esther had been asked to sit to one side by the senior police officer, Detective Inspector Reid, who had advised her that this is where the witnesses called to the inquest would sit until they had given their testimony. She felt very self-conscious of all the eyes upon her, particularly those of Pearly Poll, who sat near the back of the hall, glaring at her, alongside another woman of about the same age whose face looked familiar to Esther as one of those who had been at the table with Poll in the snug bar on the last occasion that Esther had seen her friend Martha.

  She was still wondering what on earth she could add to the proceedings when the first witness was called. He was the young police constable who had broken the terrible news to Esther in the kitchen of her lodgings two days ago and after taking the oath, being asked to read from his notebook, and clearing his throat rather pompously, he began: ‘I am Police Constable Thomas Barrett, H172, Metropolitan Police, stationed at Leman Street Police Office. At approximately 5 am on 7th August past, I was proceeding along my beat in the general vicinity of Whitechapel High Street when I was approached by a Mr. John Reeves, who advised me that he had discovered the body of a woman, believed dead, in the stairwell of George Yard Buildings, a common lodging house.

  ‘I proceeded to said stairwell, where I located the body of the deceased, lying on her back in a pool of blood. She was wearing a black bonnet, a long black jacket, a dark green skirt and stockings. Her lower clothing had been raised to waist height and she appeared to be deceased. I remained with the body and directed the witness Reeves to summon Dr Killeen, who arrived at approximately five thirty am and pronounced the victim to be “life extinct”. It was his expressed opinion at that time that the deceased had been killed some three hours previously.