The Esther & Jack Enright Box Set

by David Field

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, constable?’

  ‘Jack. Please call me Jack.’

  ‘Very well, would you care for a cup of tea, Constable Jack?’

  He grinned and she gestured for him to take a seat at the grimy table in the centre of the modest kitchen. He placed his helmet to the side as he sat down and Esther filled the pot and lit the gas before taking a seat across from him on the only other available chair.

  ‘So what did you want to see me about?’ she enquired.

  ‘I’m here to tell you that the inquest resumes next Thursday — the twenty-third.’

  ‘Will Pearly Poll be there?’

  ‘She will if she knows what’s good for her.’ Jack grinned. ‘Inspector Reid fair got stuck into her for not coming forward when we asked for information from the public. Seems that she hid herself away up west somewhere, then she was stupid enough to show her face at the inquest. And to top that, she made a complete mess of identifying the guardsmen they were with that night.’

  ‘I meant to tell you,’ Esther interrupted him, ‘I spoke to the landlord of the White Hart and he as good as admitted that he identified the wrong person who went into George Yard with the other guardsman. It wasn’t Martha at all.’

  ‘Then how did she end up dead in there?’ Jack enquired.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you take sugar in your tea? I’ve no milk, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just black with two sugars will be fine,’ Jack assured her.

  ‘What did you mean about Pearly Poll making a mess of the identification?’

  ‘Well, we took her up to the Tower, her having missed the first appointment we made with her, mind you. We paraded dozens of guardsmen in front of her, then she suddenly seemed to remember that the guardsmen that night had white cap-bands.’

  ‘So they did,’ Esther recalled as her memory replayed the vision of the soldiers sitting at the table in the snug bar of the White Hart.

  ‘Well,’ Jack continued, ‘that means that they were Coldstream Guards from the Wellington Barracks, not Grenadier Guards from the Tower. So two days later we did the whole thing all over again, this time at the Wellington Barracks and after a lot of stuffing around Poll picked out two blokes who turned out to have provable alibis. That took us back to where we’d started and for myself I’d say that Poll seemed pretty pleased about the outcome, almost as if she didn’t want us to find the man responsible.’

  ‘Does it not perhaps occur to you that Poll knows more about Martha’s death than she’s admitting?’

  ‘That certainly occurs to Inspector Reid and we’ve detailed men to keep a closer eye on her. Trouble is that she always seems to be moving about from one lodging house to another. The current one’s up this way, in Dorset Street, but the woman who runs the place is as tricky as a bagful of ferrets.’

  ‘What do you know about Poll?’ Esther persevered as she poured Jack a cup of tea.

  ‘Inspector Reid’s been looking into her and it seems that at one time she was a regular midwife. A proper one, that is, not one of those old crones that help out a neighbour during childbirth in some rat-infested hovel. She was highly regarded in Bethnal Green for some years, then it seems that she took to drinking and was warned off doing any more deliveries after a mother and her child died during a confinement while Poll was lying insensible on the floor.’

  ‘Horrible!’ Esther exclaimed as her face screwed up in revulsion.

  ‘It gets worse, I’m afraid,’ Jack warned her. ‘Seems that now she operates a nice side-line in getting rid of babies.’

  ‘What, murdering them you mean?’

  ‘In a sense, but before they’re even born. It’s what the law calls abortion and in her other profession she probably gets a lot of calls on her talents with a knitting needle.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Esther reacted as she put down her tea cup and shuddered. ‘Sorry,’ she added sheepishly, ‘you must think I’m a bit of a mimsy.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Jack assured her. ‘After the gin-sodden old hags I normally have to deal with, you’re a very refreshing change, believe me.’

  ‘So, as well as running street prostitutes, Poll does abortions in her spare time?’ Esther enquired with distaste.

  ‘So it seems and Inspector Reid would give half his pension to catch her at it. Which reminds me, he has some questions for you.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Are you sure that the woman who was sitting with Poll at the inquest was definitely with her on the night that your friend was murdered?’

  ‘Definitely. She has a very distinctive scar on her head and she was wearing the same red bonnet. Why?’

  ‘She’s denying it and Poll seemed pretty keen to back her up on that.’

  ‘Well, it was definitely her.’

  ‘Good, next question — was your friend wearing the same clothes when she was killed as she’d been wearing when you last saw her?’

  ‘Well, obviously I didn’t see her body, thank God, but the other constable who gave evidence at the inquest said that she was wearing a green skirt and a black jacket and that’s what she had on when I last saw her. Yet the landlord of the White Hart told me that the woman he’d seen going into George Yard was wearing a green gown. That’s to say, the same colour top and bottom and all of a piece.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Jack enthused as he finished off the last of his tea. ‘Inspector Reid noticed the discrepancy and gave Constable Barrett a right dressing-down for not knowing the difference.’

  ‘It takes a seamstress like me to know the difference,’ Esther smiled, ‘and I don’t suppose that the police want to send their constables to needlework classes.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ Jack grinned back. ‘Anyway, thank you for the tea and now I’d better be getting back. You’ve answered my questions. Except …’

  ‘Except what?’ Esther asked.

  ‘I was wondering if I could take you out on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh!’ Esther blushed.

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause you any embarrassment,’ Jack said, apologetically.

  ‘You just took me by surprise,’ Esther replied, smiling shyly. ‘I don’t have any prior engagements so yes, that would be nice.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘My brother Abraham and I used to play hide and seek among the gravestones here,’ Esther reminisced as they strolled slowly side by side through the churchyard of Christchurch the following Sunday afternoon. ‘That was in the days when it was safe to walk the streets of Spitalfields, of course.’

  ‘Older brother or younger?’ Jack enquired.

  ‘Older by two years. Last heard of in the army, somewhere in the Sudan. He hardly ever writes, although we both had a good education.’

  ‘Forgive me for being inquisitive,’ Jack ventured to ask, ‘but with a good education, what led to your being a seamstress?’

  ‘You’re quite right to be puzzled,’ Esther conceded. ‘I had intended to be an artist or something else creative, but both my parents were drowned when the Thames Lady capsized six years ago. You may remember that incident, if you were in the police in those days.’

  Jack chuckled. ‘I must look older than I thought. In 1882 I was only fifteen.’

  Esther did a quick calculation. ‘So you’re only twenty-one now? I’m two years older than you!’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For us walking out together like this?’

  ‘Perhaps only if it develops into something deeper.’

  ‘Do you think it might?’

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ Esther asked evasively.

  Jack kicked out at a grass clump ahead of him as he replied. ‘I’m half an orphan myself. My father died when I was 14, so about the same time that you lost both your parents. He was something in insurance in the City, so he left us fairly well provided for and my mother still lives in the house I grew up in, within sight of the Thames, in Barking. I have a sister, Lucy, who still lives at home, although she’s
seventeen now.’

  ‘I’ll ask you the same question you asked me,’ Esther smiled. ‘If you’re from a well-heeled background, how did you come to be a humble police constable?’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever been called humble,’ Jack chuckled, ‘but you can thank my Uncle Percy for the fact that I’m a bobby by profession. He’s my father’s brother and he took me to live with him and his family in Moorgate. He was a police sergeant at that time, stationed at Hackney, then he volunteered for the Detective Branch at Scotland Yard and was accepted. I was coming on nineteen then and fascinated by anything and everything to do with policing, so I signed up and found myself in Whitechapel. I’ve been there for two years come October and I have lodgings in Mansell Street, not far from where I work.’

  ‘It’s very rough down there, isn’t it?’

  ‘It can be, but I reckon that Spitalfields can rival it. Spitalfields is only considered more genteel because the Jews once owned most of it, although that’s rapidly changing.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Esther agreed. ‘The people who took me in when my parents left me an orphan had their garment factory burned from under them, with me inside it I might add, when there was one of those periodic “Hate the Jews” campaigns. I had to move lodgings again and now there I am in George Street, taking in sewing and other alterations from the people I used to live with.’

  It fell silent for a moment, but Jack felt that he had to ask. ‘You mentioned a brother named Abraham and you’re Esther Jacobs. I wouldn’t need the instincts of a trained police officer to work out that you’re Jewish yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes — does that matter, as you asked me earlier?’

  ‘And you replied “for what?” as I recall,’ Jack reminded her.

  Esther smiled as she replied, ‘And your answer to that was “for us walking out together like this”. It doesn’t matter to me that you’re two years younger than me, if it doesn’t matter to you that I’m Jewish.’

  Jack reached out for her hand and squeezed it, omitting to let go afterwards. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that settled. I happened to notice, as we came in from Commercial Street, that there was a kiosk with a lemonade vendor. Let’s go back there, get something to refresh ourselves with and sit on that bench near the entrance.’

  Chapter Five

  Esther spent the next few days in a dreamy haze, remembering every minute of her precious two hours in Jack’s company, recalling every word of their conversation and counting the hours until the agreed repetition the following Sunday. Unfortunately, before that happy day dawned she felt obliged to attend the renewed inquest into Martha’s death and she experienced a pang of guilt when she caught herself hoping that the solemnity of it would somehow not cast a shadow over the glow that seemed to hang around she and Jack when they were together and the natural affinity that had seemed to exist between them.

  Thursday came around soon enough, but this time Esther was seated among the main body of those attending as the coroner formally announced the reopening of the adjourned proceedings. Things appeared to be different this time, however. The jury were still sitting on benches to the side of the coroner, but on his other side sat Inspector Reid and it was clear from the muted conversation between them that the inspector was intent on having his input into what was about to transpire. Esther looked around the room eagerly for a glimpse of Jack, who had not been anywhere in evidence when she first entered the room. She caught sight of him at the back, standing in a determined pose near the door through which people entered and left. She caught his eye and smiled and he smiled back and winked. Esther’s heart began to flutter, seemingly of its own accord and her face flushed as she turned back to face the front when the coroner called his first witness.

  A serious looking man in a dark frock coat and stovepipe hat took the oath and the coroner seemed anxious to show his respect as he smiled graciously at the witness, who had given his name as Dr Timothy Killeen.

  ‘Doctor,’ the coroner said obsequiously, ‘we obviously had your preliminary report available to us on the first day of this inquest, but it is my understanding that you have now had the opportunity to finalise your report in connection with the post-mortem that you conducted on the body of the deceased on the morning of the seventh of August last. Are you able to give us your full opinion on cause of death at this time?’

  ‘Indeed I am. I can confirm that what actually killed her was a deep wound to the chest, which was of such severity that it penetrated the sternum — that is, the breastbone — and ruptured the heart. But, in all, I counted some thirty-nine wounds to the upper and lower torso. Do you wish me to list them?’

  ‘If you would be so good, doctor.’

  ‘The left lung had been penetrated in five places and the right lung in two. There were five knife blows to the liver and two to the spleen. There were a further six wounds to the general area of the lower stomach. Any one of these wounds could, in due course, have proved fatal if left untreated, but it is my firm belief that the blow to the heart would have been instantly fatal. It may well have been inflicted first and in my opinion it was delivered by a dagger or bayonet, whereas the subsequent injuries might have been achieved with a mere penknife.’

  ‘It is your opinion that there were two weapons employed?’ the coroner queried.

  ‘It is,’ Dr Killeen replied. ‘In my opinion, the perpetrator was a strong male and possibly someone with access to a bayonet or similar.’

  ‘Such as a soldier?’ the coroner enquired.

  ‘Such a man would certainly be a likely suspect,’ the doctor conceded.

  ‘And I believe that your original estimate for the time of death was some three hours before your examination? Did you have subsequent cause to amend that opinion?’

  ‘No. In my opinion she died at some time around two-thirty on the morning of the seventh.’

  ‘One final question, if I may, doctor. When you examined the body of the deceased, did you find any evidence that she might recently have had a connection with a man?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. You may step down. The community is obliged to you for your work and for your attendance here today.’

  Esther had listened with mounting horror to the description of the savagery of the attack on her friend and tried to imagine what Martha’s final moments must have been like as she reached into the sleeve of her jacket for a handkerchief to stem the flow of tears. To distract herself temporarily, she gazed across at the side benches containing the other witnesses who had been called to testify on this second day and found herself staring at Pearly Poll. Her face was a mask of indifference as she glared up at the coroner, seemingly unmoved by what they had all heard. She betrayed no emotion whatsoever and Esther wanted to rush across the room and slap the cold-blooded woman.

  ‘You are Henry Samuel Tabram, a foreman packer, of 6 River Terrace, East Greenwich?’ the coroner enquired of the smartly dressed, grey-haired man who was the next witness.

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘And on the fourteenth day of this month, at the mortuary attached to Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary, you identified the deceased as one Martha Tabram?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did.’

  ‘What was your relationship with the deceased?’

  ‘She was my wife, sir.’

  ‘You were still married to her?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but living apart these past thirteen years, on account of her drinking.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘That would have been some eighteen months or so ago sir, here in Whitechapel Road. She tried to get money off me with some hard-luck story about being near starvation, but I knew that she had taken up with another man and that any money I gave her would be spent on drink as usual, so I bid her good-day and walked away.’

  ‘Did you ever know your wife to engage in prostitution?’

  ‘Not during the time she was with me, no, sir.’

  ‘Very well,
thank you Mr Tabram, and my deepest sympathies for your loss.’

  ‘It is no loss, sir,’ Tabram muttered as he left the witness chair and glared at Harry Turner before striding down the room and through the door next to which Jack was still positioned.

  Next up was Harry himself, who gave his occupation as carpenter, before explaining that he was currently out of regular employment and that he and Martha had been keeping body and soul together by engaging in street hawking of trinkets, handkerchiefs and pomade sachets.

  ‘Were you and the deceased cohabiting at the time of her death?’ the coroner enquired.

  ‘Yes and no, sir. That is ter say, we’d bin tergether on and off fer some nine years, but I’d leave ’er from time to time on account of ’er drinking ’abits. We was actually living apart on the night she died.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘That woulda bin the Saturday afore she died, sir. I come across ’er in Leadenhall Street an’ I give ’er one an’ sixpence ter get stock for us ter trade. That musta bin the money she was spendin’ on drink the night she died.’

  ‘When you were living together, did you have any suspicion that she might be engaging in prostitution?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir, an’ she knew better than that. But when she was inter the drink, she ’ad some queer friends.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘None that I can call ter mind, sir, except that there Pearly Poll what can be found in the White ’Art most nights.’

  ‘And she had no regular companions when she was sober?’

  ‘Just the lass what lived across the landin’ in our lodgin’s. Esther, ’er name were.’

  ‘And you know of no-one who’d want to kill Mrs Tabram?’

  ‘Only me, some nights when she’d bin on the bottle.’

  This last remark caused a ripple of mirth around the room, but Esther didn’t think it funny. Harry was dismissed from the witness chair and the coroner then called in a loud voice for Mary Ann Connolly. Esther was wondering who this might be when Pearly Poll rose and walked across the room to take her seat as a witness. As she lumbered past her line of sight, Esther was reminded of the lady’s sheer height and overall bulk and wondered how on earth she managed to attract marks when she was surrounded by more attractive women, such as Esther had seen in her company on the night that Martha died. And, for that matter, Martha had been what could politely be described as ‘plump’, so what was it about these women that attracted men?