by J C Briggs
Something about the girl made her think of Miss Gray, the daughter of the woman for whom she had worked once — laundry she’d done. Poor Miss Gray — there’d been an un’appy little girl. Still, Miss Gray was to be married, she’d ’eard. Not this girl, though. Shame. She noticed the bruised ribs and knees and scraped hands. Poor kid, she thought, beaten, p’raps, and starved. She’d likely die afore the trial. She took up the bar of rough soap and began to wash her. The girl was rigid, but she made no sound — only endured.
The Matron, Mrs Betty Tode, picked up the dress, gave it a shake, looked in the pockets, and, satisfied that the girl had nothing valuable, put it on the chair and waited for Jenny to finish.
‘She can keep ’er own dress an’ things — clean enough, apart from some stains. Looks as if she’s tried to wash ’em out.’
And they were, Jenny thought. Kept ’erself clean enough somehow. Not like some that came in — all in rags, and filthy with it. Well, she’d been the same. Still, she’d not done murder. A silver box, from that sour mistress she’d worked for. Deserved it — mean old cat. But, murder. Well, she’d ’ave liked ter murder Mrs Gray, that she would. Called perlice, and she, Jenny, was convicted of theft. But, she liked it ’ere now — food an’ clothes, an’ a wardswoman, too. Funny ’ow things turned out.
She dried the girl on the rough towel and dressed her. Just a kid, really.
They took her to the cell.
And Annie Deverall never spoke a word.
Second: Lavinia
The lilies on the altar seemed to give off a faint smell of corruption. The young man sitting alone in the first pew could smell it, he thought. Sickly. They were festering already. Lilies for the bride. The bride who had not arrived.
By half past eleven, Richard Farleigh had known that she would not come, and when the message came, he had not been surprised. The guests had departed. Under the feathered and flowered hats, the women’s faces had looked incongruously solemn, that is those whose expressions were not of avid curiosity. The men had looked embarrassed, awkward now in their frock coats, as if they had found themselves in the wrong place, dressed for a wedding, and finding themselves at a funeral. They had all stood frozen for a few minutes. What was the etiquette for such an occurrence? Did one wait for the bridegroom to leave, to make his solitary way down the aisle? Surely, it would be unseemly to hurry away in a crowd. Someone had coughed discreetly, and then his Aunt Constance, a formidable woman, had made a move as if to leave her pew. And at this signal, others shuffled into the side aisles. Then he had seen no more for his father had taken him by the arm and had led him unresisting into the vestry.
And that was it. What had he felt then? The truth was — relief, and he had seen, fleetingly in his father’s eyes, that he knew and understood. His father had offered to go to the bride’s house to find out more, but Richard had gone himself. He wanted to see her mother, that grim-faced, miserable woman in black who had said she would not be well enough to attend her only daughter’s wedding. The wedding breakfast was to be held at the bride’s uncle’s house in Manchester Square.
He thought now about the empty rooms where the guests would have mingled — the food that would not be eaten, the presents displayed which would have to be sent back — well, no doubt, they could be used again for some other bride and groom who would eat from the Crown Derby, drink from the crystal glasses, gaze lovingly at the damask cloths and the shining silver in place for their first dinner guests.
Stop this, he told himself. Think of the poor girl who is missing. Lavinia Gray. Where is she? Had she gone in the night? And though he had not believed in this marriage, he felt only pity for her. She had fled because she could not bear to marry him. Why hadn’t she told him? He would have released her. He had wanted to, but he had not known how to withdraw.
Mrs Gray had refused to see him. Her message was that she had nothing to say to him. The housekeeper, kind Mrs Pook, had told him that Miss Lavinia’s maid had gone to wake her in the morning. Miss Lavinia had not been in her bed. They couldn’t understand it. They had waited. Perhaps she had gone for a walk in the garden of the square. Millie, the maid, had gone to see, but Miss Lavinia wasn’t there. They dared not wake Mrs Gray — it was too soon. Mrs Gray had her breakfast in her room — always at eight o’clock. They waited for half an hour.
What then? Richard had asked. At which question, Mrs Pook had wiped her eyes. Mrs Gray had said to wait. That was all. Should Mrs Pook go to Mr Gray, Lavinia’s uncle? Mrs Gray had only looked at Mrs Pook and the frightened Millie. Such a look, Mrs Pook had said, such a look. He could imagine. He had seen it himself — that look of contempt when he and Lavinia had discussed the wedding.
It was deliberate, he thought. She had waited until the last moment, when she knew the church would be full, and then she had sent poor Mrs Pook to tell him that there would be no wedding. That his bride had run away. And, Mrs Pook had said, not once had she expressed any concern for her daughter. ‘She will be back.’ That was all she had said. He could imagine the thin lips compressed into that line of disapproval he had known so well. Cruel, Mrs Pook had declared. She was. That was why he had not withdrawn. He had thought that he might have made Lavinia happy, at least to be away from that dreadful woman, though, in his heart, he had known it was no good. She could not bear him to touch her.
Richard had confided his fears to his father. Of course, Richard could not withdraw — a question of honour, certainly, and, he advised that, perhaps with patience and loving care, away from her mother, Lavinia might come to be less nervous. Might he, Mr Farleigh had suggested gently, might he consult Lavinia’s doctor? It was clear that Mrs Gray would not help, and it was impossible that Richard’s mother could broach such a delicate matter with Lavinia, and there was no one else. But the doctor — a medical man, surely, would be objective in giving Richard his view as to whether there were any reason that Lavinia should not marry.
And that interview with the doctor — painful — and embarrassing. The man was a pompous ass. Richard had disliked him. He must understand, the doctor had said, that young ladies were bound to be afraid of marriage, and Miss Gray was sensitive, of course — not necessarily more so than others, but with time, yes, time, she would come to terms with what was expected. In his experience, young ladies learned to submit to the duties expected of them.
And that was it, Richard had thought, she would learn to do her duty… God, it was insupportable, impossible that their marriage would be conducted in such a way. According to the doctor, thousands were. And he was trapped.
Richard Farleigh left the church. Why the devil had he come back at all? He went out into the fading day. Rain was beginning to fall. He looked at the flower on the lapel of his frock coat. A kind of revulsion filled him. He wrenched it from its pin and tossed into the gutter, and saw, regretful now, how it was dirtied in the mud.
A man passed by and looked at him curiously. Richard recognised him — Charles Dickens. He turned away. Perhaps he knew of the failed wedding, perhaps the whole town knew. The papers would get hold of it, he supposed. Bride Missing — he could imagine the headline. Well, he didn’t care what people thought. What mattered was that she should be safe. Lavinia. Where could she be?
Third: Evie
Evie Finch stood in the narrowest of alleys, her feet in the mud and filth. Where should she, where could she, go? She looked up at the stars. They said it was ’eaven up there. She dint know. Too far away, anyways, for wot she’d done. They’d say ’eaven want fer ’er. In any case, her feet was in hell. She looked down at the mud. She wanted to bang her head against the grimy wall, to stop the thoughts. She thought she’d go mad. Head full o’ things on little clawed feet, skitterin’ round and round.
She put her hand on the front of her dress, feeling the stickiness there, and she knew, though she could not see, that it was blood. She could feel it dripping down her legs. And there were terrible crampin’ pains. It oughter stop soon. Mother ’Ubbard had said n
ot ter worry. That’s what they all called her — ’cos of what she had in her cupboard. She’d paid up — even though the doctor hadn’t come — Mother ’Ubbard had said she knew what she was doin’, and Evie had no choice.
She had a few shillings left. Mother Hubbard had charged her ten pounds — a reduced rate. It would have been more if the doctor had come. A blessin’, Mother Hubbard had said, seein’ as ’ow Evie ’ad only ten quid. Evie had stayed one night, but she hadn’t been able to bear the woman — those fat, prying hands. It had been worse than she had ever thought. She had gone to the house — a neat, little terrace off Barlow Street. Near the burial ground — she thought of that now. But the place was clean. Fresh sheets on the bed, and ’Ubbard’s bustling kindness. But the pain and the matter of factness. Which was worse, she didn’t know. She just wanted to get away, out of it, away from the kindness that ten quid had bought her.
‘You’ll need a nice lie down at ’ome, dearie. Pains’ll come, then it’ll be over. Just a bit o’ blood and the nasty thing’ll come out. Yer ma’ll clear it up. She’ll know what ter do. Right as ninepence in a day or two. Yer’ll need a bucket.’
Evie had kept her eyes closed. Home — she couldn’t go there. She’d find somewhere. Anything to get out of there.
Ten quid, thought Evie, a year’s wages. Jem had given her five — all he could get, and the rest had been her savings. Jem. She thought of his face when she had told him. Frightened. No talk of love then, no talk of marriage. He was sorry, but he couldn’t marry her. Married already. Wife in the country. And something else, besides fear — blame. Her fault. She’d been angry, but then came the sickening terror, and the cold, empty feeling that was loneliness. The illegitimate child would be her responsibility — there was no law that could make him pay. He’d told her that much when he’d seen the anger dwindle into terror. She could ’ave it if she wanted, but even the workhouse wouldn’t ’ave ter take ’er and ’er bastard. Hers — not his, not theirs. He pressed home his advantage, and she had felt his power. Hatred in his eyes — eyes that had been hot with the lust she’d thought was love. But it hadn’t been. She’d known it then, really.
In any case, he’d said, how did he know it was his? He’d seen her making eyes at Mr Roderick — master’s son’s bastard, he’d bet. And he’d squeezed her arm so hard that the bruises showed the next day.
And he’d gone. Told Mr Simpson that he had to go — his wife was ill. Oh, the talk in the kitchen. Kind of Mr Simpson, they all said, to let Jem go to Mr Simpson’s brother’s house in the country, get a job there. Evie had said nothing. No point. It wouldn’t help.
Jem had found out about Mrs Raspin — Mother ’Ubbard, as Evie called her — she didn’t know how, but he’d said she was respectable, and that a doctor would do it. Soon over, Jem had said — for you, yes, Evie had thought, but she was glad to see the back of him. She’d seen him all too clearly then — his black eyes darting away from her face. Licking his lips. And his mouth had revolted her suddenly when she thought of what she’d let him do. She was the fool. Underneath the bluster about Mr Roderick, she’d seen that he was still scared she’d tell. She’d taken the five quid, and she’d gone to Mrs Raspin’s. That, or give birth in the street.
A sixpence would get her a night’s lodgings — two maybe, if the place was dirty enough and no questions. She had to lie down, she thought. Her skin was on fire — sweating like a pig. She felt it under her arms, and on her face, and such a thirst. And the pain. She leant her head against the cold stone wall. When would that stop?
Then what? Who could help? Mollie Spoon — Rogers now. Lived at the stationer’s in Crown Street. Fell on her feet, Mollie Spoon had. Evie had thought Alf Rogers not much to write home about, but good enough for little Mollie. Pretty enough, Mollie, and kind hearted. But where had Evie’s looks got her? Into a stinking alley and nowhere to go. Mollie’d got sense — always had. They’d been in service together in Grosvenor Street, then Evie had moved on to work for Mr and Mrs Simpson, and Mollie had married Alf Rogers. But Alf Rogers was a policeman — she’d have to tell Mollie what she’d done, and Mollie would have to tell Alf, and then what?
Could she go to Effie Scruggs? She and her husband, Zeb, had an old clothes shop in Monmouth Street. Good people, but they knew Ma, and she couldn’t go home. Not in this state. When she felt better, then she’d go. She could tell Ma she’d lost the job, that she’d not been needed any more — some story. Lodgin’s then. In a day or two, she might go to Mollie’s. Mollie would lend her something, surely.
Evie Finch went out of the narrow alley, into the teeming streets, where she found a stall selling tea, coffee and sandwiches. She felt a bit better after that — not so hot, and the blood seemed to have stopped. She walked on until she found a lodging house in a dank little street. The landlady, a scrawny hard-faced woman, looked at the sixpence in her hand and nodded. Then she took Evie down to the squalid cellar that was not worth tuppence a night, never mind sixpence.
Chapter 2: In Newgate
Annie Deverall was in her narrow cell, imprisoned by great slabs of cold stone, pressed down by a low vaulted ceiling. A little light came through the grating of the high arched window. It was always twilight by day, and when she was locked in at night, she was in the dark. Not that she minded.
She did not mind the narrow bed, the coarse linen sheets, the jug and ewer with cold water for washing, the slop bucket, the gruel. Nothing mattered. A prisoner on remand, she was entitled to have her own food brought in, to have books and writing materials, but she did not want any of those things. She hadn’t the means to pay for them anyway. All she possessed was her life — and she didn’t want that now. A hopeless, ragged pauper of a thing, what use was it? She ate enough to keep alive — she did not want to be taken to the prison hospital. She wanted only to be tried and put to death so that it would be over, and it would be dark always.
She was entitled to visitors. The prison chaplain had come, but he had shaken his head because she would not speak. And there was a lady visitor who read to her. She was here now.
Lady Pirie read from the Bible. It was dark in the cell so she had requested a candle, and Annie Deverall had seen in one swift glance from under her lashes, her visitor’s mild, kind face.
Annie had not spoken. Lady Pirie hoped the readings might prompt some response — tears, perhaps, which might herald a confession, or be a sign of innocence. But the girl’s head remained bowed, the narrow shoulders hunched as if she expected a blow. Perhaps that is what she has known, Lady Pirie had thought when she first saw her. It happened. Cruel employers brutalised their servants; unscrupulous masters seduced their maids; callous mistresses put servant girls onto the streets for some petty misdemeanour. Lady Pirie understood very well what brought so many of these girls and women through the stern, black archway of Newgate.
It wasn’t as bad as it had been — thanks to Mrs Fry. She who had ventured in to the old wards for women and had seen for herself the filth and squalor, the drunkenness, fighting, gambling, what she had called ‘the abandoned wickedness’ of the place where women had had to strip a dead baby to give the wrappings to a child that had not a cloth to cover it. It was from Mrs Fry’s determined endeavours that reform had come, and had allowed women like Lady Pirie to follow her example.
There were women imprisoned here for all kinds of crime: theft, mostly — many driven by desperation for their starving children; deception; drunkenness and sometimes, murder — like Mrs Manning, executed a year ago for the murder of Patrick O’Connor.
Murder, though. Lady Pirie looked at Annie Deverall. Was it possible to forgive that? What had been done to this poor creature? Or was she as callous as Mrs Manning? Lady Pirie could hardly believe it, and unless Annie Deverall broke her silence, they would never know. Perhaps this silence bespoke such a weight of guilt that it was impossible to speak of.
She continued to read the verses from Saint Mark:
‘While he yet spake, there came from th
e ruler of the synagogue’s house one which said, Thy daughter is dead: why troublest thou the Master any further? As soon as Jesus heard the word that was spoken, he saith unto the ruler of the synagogue, Be not afraid, only believe…’
Annie could hear the words, and she knew their meaning. The story of Jairus’s daughter was meant to comfort, to give the girl hope that she might be born again into a new life, but their meaning for her was very different from what Lady Pirie hoped.
If she concentrated enough, Annie thought, if she closed her eyes, the candlelight would be made to disappear, the cell would vanish, the noises would diminish and the gentle voice uttering the words she knew so well, would change into the voice of another. The voice of her father, just as gentle, but deeper — and that would be her comfort.
Annie Deverall had been born in Ireland. Her father had been a Protestant clergyman at Pallasmore in the county of Longford. His wife had died when Annie — not the name she was given at birth — was a little girl of five. Father and daughter had lived happily together, though the Reverend Henry Deverall had only about forty pounds a year from his stipend as village preacher and the few fields he farmed. He was a good man, simple in his tastes and wants. He educated his daughter, and she loved him as well as the books they read together.