The Outcast Girls

by Alys Clare

  ‘Oh, yes. Eddy will be waiting with the trap.’

  ‘Eddy?’

  ‘He’s young, cheerful, friendly, and—’

  ‘And sweet on you?’

  She gives him a steely glance. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  He wonders why they are standing there making small talk. It appears the same thought has crossed her mind, for she says suddenly, ‘How soon can you check on the Shadwell address?’

  He reaches into his inside pocket to reassure himself that the envelope she gave him in the chapel is still there. It is superfluous, really, since he has copied the address into his notebook, but he senses the envelope itself is somehow important to Lily. ‘I’ll go this evening, soon as I’m back in London and before I go home to Kinver Street,’ he says.

  Her face falls. ‘But it’s Shadwell. It’s not a very—’ She stops abruptly.

  He grins. ‘Not a very safe place after dark, were you going to say? Yes, I know, Lily. I’m familiar with the area.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Remember when we first met and you raised an eyebrow at one of my middle names?’

  ‘Felix Parsifal Derek McIvie Wilbraham.’ She smiles. ‘I remember.’

  ‘As I believe I told you, Derek comes from my grandfather Derek Smith, tinker, scrap-metal dealer, originally of Essex and latterly of East London,’ he says. ‘Before his wife made him move to somewhere more salubrious and socially acceptable, he lived in Limehouse, which you probably don’t know is very close to Shadwell.’

  ‘You used to visit him there?’ She sounds amazed.

  ‘No, they’d moved away long before I was born. But he sensed I wasn’t as shocked by his roots – which are my roots too – as everyone else, and when I was little, before I was packed off to school, he used to sneak me away and take me round his old haunts.’ It had been their secret, his and Granddaddy’s, and the memories are highly colourful and very precious.

  She is still looking worriedly at him. ‘But you will be careful?’

  He smiles. ‘Yes, Lily. I’ll be careful. I promise.’

  There is the toot of a train whistle, and they both turn to see Lily’s train approaching. He bends down to pick up her parcels, about to hand them to her. Before he lets go of the strings, he says, ‘And you too, Nurse Henry.’

  ‘What?’ she demands, almost crossly, although he is quite sure she knows what he means.

  ‘You be careful too,’ he says urgently. ‘A woman and a girl have died, your predecessor fled, at least two more girls have gone missing, and the link between them all is the very place where you are currently employed as assistant matron. We know, or strongly suspect, that both Esme Sullivan and Genevieve Swanson were pursuing their own investigations into whatever was disturbing them, and one was found dead in Southsea, the other by the railway line near Havant.’ He has been speaking too forcefully; he reads it in her face. ‘I know you have to carry on with your probing, Lily, because that’s what you’re there to do, that’s the business of the Bureau, that’s what Georgiana Long is paying you for.’ He pauses, takes a breath. Then he says, at not much above a whisper, ‘But I would find it hard to bear if yours was the next death I had to investigate.’

  The train has come to a steaming, noisy halt, and doors are opening up and down its length. He hands her into a carriage, at last relinquishing her parcels. She looks pale, and although he is quite sure his last words are the reason for this, nevertheless he does not regret them. She needs to be reminded she’s not invincible, he tells himself, and if that is what it took, then it is well done.

  Nevertheless, her expression as she leans out of the window to say goodbye touches his heart.

  ‘Keep me informed,’ he says.

  ‘You do the same,’ she replies.

  They are still staring at each other as the train gathers itself and pulls away.

  It is late and fully dark before Felix’s train deposits him at Liverpool Street Station. He takes a succession of trams and buses and finally hops off some way along the Commercial Road, taking a turn down to the right towards the river into the docks and aiming for Shadwell Basin. He has no idea where Chark Street is and so goes into a pub, where he has a pint of good beer and a doorstop of bread with cheese and pickle – he is ravenous, and it seems longer than half a day since the pie in the Cambridge pub – and asks the landlord for directions.

  The landlord looks at him dubiously. ‘You come down in the world, then?’ he enquires. Felix raises his eyebrows. ‘I mean to say, nicely dressed gent such as yourself having business somewhere like that?’

  ‘My business is personal,’ Felix says.

  The landlord shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’ But clearly he hasn’t taken offence, because he proceeds to give Felix careful instructions, drawing a neat map on a page in the open notebook Felix has put before him. ‘There, you can’t miss it,’ he says as he finishes his sketch.

  Felix smiles. ‘That’s what people always say.’

  But the landlord is right, and Felix finds Chark Street without making one wrong turning.

  It is more of a yard than a street, for at some time probably quite recently a vast wall has been built across it, forming the landward boundary of a dock basin. Twin rows of single-storey houses run either side of the street, the stone pavers of which are in an advanced state of disrepair. There is an iron pump in the middle of the road, and all the doors are firmly closed, the windows shuttered.

  Felix makes his way along to number 27 and taps on the door. There is no reply, but he thinks he has heard movement within. He taps again and calls out very softly, ‘Mr Latter? Mr George Latter?’

  So abruptly that it makes him jump, the door is wrenched open about a hand’s breath and a voice says in a harsh whisper, ‘Not so loud!’

  ‘Are you George Latter?’ Felix repeats.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Felix has a World’s End Bureau card ready and he pokes it through the gap. ‘What the hell’s this?’ the rough voice demands.

  ‘My card,’ Felix replies. ‘Will you let me in?’

  No response.

  Reluctantly he takes the envelope out of his pocket. He holds it up so that the man within can see it but keeps a tight grip on it. Not tight enough; there is a muffled grunt and a huge hand grabs it, ripping it so that Felix is left clutching only the corner.

  Nothing happens for a few seconds, then the door is opened more fully and the same enormous hand grasps Felix by the coat lapels and pulls him inside, slamming and bolting the door. In the dim light of a single candle and a low-wicked lantern set on a rickety table, Felix sees a vast man of well over six foot, six foot six perhaps, with a face carved of granite by not a very good sculptor and the shoulders of a stevedore.

  ‘I’m George Latter,’ he says in a soft voice that is far more threatening than the grunt or the harsh whisper. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘It was found in the sick-bay ledger in a girls’ school just outside Cambridge,’ Felix replies. The huge man exudes danger and menace, and Felix is picking this up – you wouldn’t be in your right mind if you didn’t, he thinks – but as yet he feels no sense of imminent threat.

  ‘And?’ the man says aggressively.

  Felix realizes that he is not going to give anything away until Felix offers more of an explanation. Since it seems to be a moment when only the truth will do, he crosses his fingers for luck and says, ‘The Bureau has been asked to investigate the disappearance of girls from Shardlowes School. My associate is at the school, acting as assistant matron, and she was told that her predecessor, Nurse Evans, had been forced to take leave unexpectedly to care for her ailing mother in North Wales. My associate has uncovered reasons to suspect this is not true; that Nurse Evans, having found out something that deeply disturbed her, used the sick mother as an excuse and has left for good.’

  There is a very long silence, heavy with the sense that the next few moments could go one of two ways, and Felix feels the danger now. Then with a deep
sigh that makes the candle flame flicker and all but go out, the big man pulls forward a couple of cheap wooden chairs and says, ‘Sit down. I’ll put a brew on.’

  Felix sinks down onto the chair with legs that suddenly feel weak. It’s fatigue, he tells himself, it’s not at all because I was fully expecting to receive a huge, angry fist in my face.

  Presently the man returns from the dark alcove into which he disappeared, bearing two enamel mugs of tea so dark that it could dye wood and sweet enough to rot teeth at a touch. But it is exactly what Felix needs and he sips at it, blowing on it to cool it so he can get it down.

  The man is smiling, teeth shining in the heavy beard. ‘Sorry if I scared you.’

  Felix nods. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say.

  ‘You’re right,’ the man goes on after a moment. ‘She wasn’t just disturbed, she was terrified. Feared for her life. She’d heard the howling again, see, and that always meant danger.’

  ‘Howling?’ Felix asks.

  But it is as if the big man hasn’t heard. ‘George Latter,’ he says, pointing a thumb like the head of a hammer at his chest. ‘And you’re this L.G. Raynor fellow?’

  Not for the first time, Felix explains.

  ‘Carrie Evans is my half-sister,’ George Latter goes on. ‘Same mother, my father died when I was little and my mother married Thomas Evans and they had Carrie. We’ve always been close,’ he says fondly, ‘I’ve no quarrel with my stepfather, and Carrie’s a good girl, one of the best.’

  ‘So when she began to be concerned about what was happening at Shardlowes, she got in touch with you because you were much nearer than the family in North Wales?’ Belatedly, for he should have asked this first, he says, ‘I trust your mother is holding her own?’

  There is a deep rumbling sound as George Latter laughs. ‘Carrie’s and my mother isn’t ill, Mr Wilbraham, and there hasn’t been any of the family in North Wales since Noah was a lad in short breeches. My grandfather couldn’t stand the piety, see, and the constant bloody hymn singing, and he moved here to Shadwell back in the fifties and brought his kin with him.’

  Looking round the room, which although clean and tidy is within a building and on a street that have definitely seen better days, Felix is wondering how to ask diplomatically how a girl from a place like this managed to rise to the post of assistant matron at a school such as Shardlowes. George Latter, who has probably noticed his eyes roaming over the worn rug, the meagre fire and the paint peeling from the woodwork, says with a hint of annoyance, ‘We don’t live here, Mr Wilbraham. It was once my auntie Bertha’s house, who took to drink, but we’ve kept it on as a – well, never mind that, it has nothing to do with Carrie’s trouble and it’s none of your business.’

  Felix, remembering his grandfather Derek’s tales, has a fair idea what use men working on the London docks might have for a shabby old house in a forgotten street, but wisely keeps his silence.

  ‘No, no, we don’t live here,’ George repeats. ‘But I call in regularly and it’s come in handy as an address, because Carrie, she was afraid someone would see who she was writing to and come looking, and although I’ve no fear for my own safety, I’ve a wife and little ones to think about and I’m not at home all the working day, and half into the night often as not too.’

  ‘I understand,’ Felix says, sounding calm even while he is thinking with dismay that whatever dark threat lies hidden at Shardlowes must be grave indeed for a man like Latter to take such measures …

  Then, as he is struck by an even worse thought, he says urgently, ‘Is Carrie all right? She’s not—’

  George leans forward and slaps a huge hand on Felix’s knee. ‘She’s safe, Mr Wilbraham. She knew when it was time to flee and she has kinfolk to rely on. No harm has come to her, and it won’t while George Latter walks the earth.’

  It is the first reassuring news Felix has heard all day.

  ELEVEN

  Eddy is on the platform as Lily disembarks from the train and jumps forwards to take her parcels. He waves aside her apologies for keeping him waiting and merely says, ‘Get what you wanted, did you, miss? Good, that’s right!’ proceeding to whistle cheerfully all the way back to Shardlowes.

  Hurrying up the steps to the door, Lily’s mind is already running ahead to how she will prepare the remedies she requires, what proportions to use, whether there will be a large enough bowl to set up a steam inhalation using the camphor, juniper, menthol and peppermint oils she has just acquired. She reflects that Felix was right: the nurse in her has come to the fore and since she got off the train she hasn’t given a single thought to the true reason she is at Shardlowes.

  The girls are going into tea in Hall as she hurries across to the stairs and she spots Miss Blytheway, who has a huge white handkerchief to her face and is blowing her nose vigorously. Two Seniors are with her, one of whom Lily recognizes as Rhoda Albercourt, monitor of Red dormitory. She too is sniffing, and the tip of her nose is red.

  ‘Wretched cold!’ Miss Blytheway greets Lily, glaring at her as if it is her fault that so many are falling victim to it.

  ‘I am about to make up some remedies that I trust will alleviate the symptoms,’ Lily replies coolly. ‘Perhaps, Miss Blytheway, you would be good enough to announce at tea that I shall be in the treatment room from now until bedtime, and any girl or member of staff who needs my help shall have it.’

  Miss Blytheway nods and says a grudging, ‘Very well, thanks,’ and she and the two girls march away.

  Lily puts down her parcels in the treatment room, takes off her hat and coat and puts on her veil and apron. Then she goes in to see Matron, whose scarlet cheeks and laboured breathing are not good signs. Lily wakes her from her doze, plumps up the pillows and sits her up, gives her some water and then says, ‘I shall make something that will help, Matron. Try to stay awake while I prepare it.’

  Back in the treatment room she sets a large pan of water on to heat. She has several remedies to work on, including horseradish cough syrup and a mustard poultice for Matron’s chest. While the water comes to the boil, she unpacks her purchases, sorts them and finds places for them on the shelves, setting aside the box of cough jujubes and removing a couple to take to Matron.

  For the next half-hour she works swiftly and efficiently. By the time the first group of girls come tapping on the door, Matron’s poultice is in place and she has been dosed with two large spoonfuls of ipecacuanha, and already reports that the tightness in her chest is easing.

  Lily sees ten girls and three members of staff. None of the latter is Miss Carmichael or Miss Dickie. Either the women are immune to cold germs or, if not, they choose to treat themselves rather than come in need to the temporary assistant matron. None of those who do present themselves is yet sufficiently unwell to be removed to the sick bay, and Lily loses count of the number of times she says bracingly, ‘It is only a cold. Have a good night’s sleep, and although you will feel worse in the morning, your symptoms will ease once you are up and about.’

  Most of the girls look sceptical but, as Lily well knows, this is the way with colds. Nevertheless, once her last patient has left she goes into the small ward next door to the treatment room and makes sure all six beds are ready for possible occupation.

  It is now after eight o’clock and the school is quiet. Juniors will be in their dormitories, Seniors enjoying the last hour before they too go to bed. Lily tidies the treatment room, thinking what a great pleasure it will be to take her boots off and sit down, and as the demands of her nursing role fade, the far more alarming matter of what is happening at Shardlowes crowds into her mind.

  Two people are dead, she knows for certain that two girls are missing and she strongly suspects there are more. Have they, like poor Esme and Miss Swanson, delved too deep and brought retribution on themselves? Is this what Isa Hatcher and Cora Naughton-Smythe did? But poor little Cora is only eleven: what threat could she possibly have been to whoever wants so desperately to guard Shardlowes’s secret tha
t they will throw a woman off a train and drown a seventeen-year-old girl? Always assuming, of course, that both deaths were not simply terrible accidents, and—

  There is a very soft tap at the door. Startled, not to say annoyed, for she badly needs some quiet time to order the tumult of her thoughts, Lily opens it to reveal Marigold Dunbar-Lea standing outside.

  ‘You should be in bed,’ Lily says. ‘Have you caught the school cold too?’

  Marigold shakes her head, the light brown curls swinging. ‘I don’t get colds.’ Hon’t het holds. ‘But my boot has been rubbing and my foot hurts.’ Hoot, heen.

  Quickly tuning in to Marigold’s particular mode of enunciation, Lily says, ‘Come and sit up on the couch, and I shall see what I can do.’

  Obediently Marigold clambers up and is already unlacing the built-up boot on her right foot as Lily joins her. The boot drops to the floor with a loud thump. Marigold’s right leg is normally formed as far as the knee, but below it there is a mere three or four inches of shin before a twisted, distorted foot forms the termination of the limb, and the leg is perhaps six or seven inches shorter than the left one. Lily takes the foot in her hands, gently turning it this way and that, observing the places where the brutally heavy boot rubs so that hard pads of protective skin have formed. One of these pads is reddened and swollen at the edge, and it has wept a little blood.

  ‘Yes, that does look sore,’ Lily says calmly. ‘I shall bathe it and rub on some emollient cream, and then I shall pad the foot while the rubbed place gets better.’

  Marigold watches with interest while Lily prepares what she requires, and submits to the treatment in stoical silence, although she cannot help the involuntary flinching.

  ‘I am sorry, this must hurt rather,’ Lily says.

  ‘I’m used to it,’ Marigold says. ‘I’ve had people poking and prodding and mauling me ever since I can remember, but fortunately they did the operation on my face when I was too small to understand what was happening.’ Hare-lip repair was usually done soon after birth, Lily reflects. Whoever had operated on Marigold hadn’t managed a very good job. ‘It was done in India, where I was born,’ Marigold adds. ‘I’m meant to have a second operation here when I’m older, but I’m still waiting and I don’t know how much older I have to be because they won’t say and when I write to Mama and ask, she seems to have forgotten about her promise and that’s just typical because she doesn’t bother to answer any of the things I write about and she never ever responds when I mention the little games we used to play.’