The Quickening and the Dead

by J C Briggs

  He looked at the women and the girls; women in shawls and battered bonnets, carrying misshapen bundles; a wan-faced girl who looked consumptive; a woman with two children clutching her scanty dress, the little girl gazing about with round eyes that seemed to wonder at this whirling world and its strange doings. A girl selling some bunches of the old-fashioned sulphur matches, splints of wood tipped with sulphur at both ends, approached him. The family probably made them, sending out the children to sell them, two bunches a penny.

  They all had stories. There were thousands of stories passing him by. Miranda’s story had cut him to the heart — it was the death of innocence, the waste of promise, and what she might have been under her father’s care and love. She should have been allowed to flourish, to have been loved, to have been first in someone’s heart as, perhaps, was that pretty girl there in her dark green costume and matching bonnet, whose escort looked down at the smiling face with such tenderness. They were gone in a moment.

  He thought of his own daughters, of Mamie and Katey, safe at home. Mamie at twelve was not much younger than Miranda had been when her father had died, and the long descent had begun, which had brought her here to this grim fortress, out of which she might never come. Unless he could find out who had murdered the doctor — and why. For, though she had not answered his question as to whether she had killed the doctor, he was sure she had not.

  And that thought sent him plunging into the relentless stream of life which bore him on, whether he would or not. It was time to see his old friend, Superintendent Sam Jones of Bow Street, to find out where to start. He crossed the Old Bailey into Fleet Lane, up Grey Street by the Rolls garden and office, depository of the court records, all those parchments bound in red tape, sealed with wax like a drop of blood, stamped with heraldic devices, holding prisoner all those lives, parcelled, ticketed, and carefully put away on a top shelf out of human reach. Lives knotted up in red tape, strong as adamant or steel or iron. Like the life of Miranda Deverall, caught in the strangling ropes of the law. In the years that followed, the record of her case would lie forgotten, perhaps a footnote to history — a girl’s life crumbled to dust. Not if he could help it. He quickened his pace to Bow Street as if, by walking faster, he could hasten the matter.

  As he was speaking to Sergeant Alf Rogers in the corridor, a young man hurried by. Dickens caught a glimpse of the face he had seen yesterday — the young man who had thrown the flower into the gutter.

  He went into the Superintendent’s office, where he found Sam Jones gazing out of the window. Jones turned, smiling to see his friend.

  ‘You look pensive, Sam. That young man I saw in the corridor?’

  ‘Yes — his bride is missing — rather his bride-to-be. You don’t know him, do you?’

  ‘Slightly — Richard Farleigh. I know his father. I saw him outside All Soul’s Church yesterday — he dropped a white flower in the gutter. It struck me. I wondered what the story was. He looked so — stricken.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The wedding was to take place at eleven. A message came to tell him that she was not coming — disappeared, it seems. So, she is a missing person. She was not in her bed on her wedding morning — no one seems to know when she went — or where. I can’t do much about it — asked him if he’d spoken to friends, relatives — he had, but nothing. All I can do is ask the beat constable to keep an eye out, and alert the other divisions. Odd, though.’

  ‘You don’t think he —’

  ‘No, no. But there’s always something unsaid. No one ever tells the whole story — just what they think you need to know, which isn’t always what you want to know. He didn’t tell me why she might have run away, but it was clear that he had his own thoughts on the subject. I didn’t press him, but I will when I see him again, unless she turns up, of course. But, what brings you here, apart from a desire to see me?’

  Dickens grinned. ‘Goes without saying, but —’ Jones saw his face change — ‘I wanted to discuss something with you. I’ve just come from Newgate. I was asked to see Annie Deverall — by Lady Pirie — she’s a prison visitor.’

  ‘The girl who stabbed the doctor — I read about it in the paper. What did Lady Pirie want you for?’

  ‘Annie Deverall will not speak. She has not confessed nor has she protested her innocence. Lady Pirie thought she might speak to me.’

  Jones smiled at him. ‘I take it she did and you found out something which troubles you.’

  Dickens told him all that he had heard about Annie Deverall’s life, including her real name. ‘I cannot believe she is guilty — there is something about her — the ghost of the girl she was.’

  ‘Was, yes, but you do not know what she became — you don’t know yet what her life in London has been, nor, from what you tell me, anything about her contact with the doctor. There must have been some. She can’t simply have walked into a doctor’s house and killed him.’

  Dickens could see how unsatisfactory his account was. He had not pressed Miranda about the murder. It had been enough that she had told her story. ‘You think I don’t know enough; that my conclusion that she is innocent is too rash.’

  ‘As a policeman, yes. However, as I know Charles Dickens and his understanding of the human heart, I give weight to your conclusion. You came to ask what might be done for her, and I say, regrettably, it is not my case. Plume’s body was found in his house in Weymouth Street — that’s D Division, under Superintendent Goss —’

  ‘Could you not?’

  ‘What? Barge in there and say he’s got the wrong person because my friend, Mr Dickens, has seen Annie Deverall and knows she is innocent. No, Charles, I cannot, but you can do something. You can find out more from the girl —’

  ‘That’s just it — I don’t know that I can. There has been damage done to that girl. When I asked her about her life in London with the milliner, she looked at me with such dumb helplessness and suffering, that I forbore to ask more. I wondered whether a woman might —’

  ‘Elizabeth, perhaps?’

  ‘Exactly — she has such tenderness in her for the helpless. She is patient and tactful. I wondered if you would ask her to go to the prison.’

  ‘I shall. I’ll tell her all you have told me. Elizabeth could go tomorrow. And, I shall ask Sergeant Rogers to have a glass of ale with Sergeant Watts of D Division. They are friends — Watts was a constable here before he was promoted. Rogers can find out more about the murder. Watts is shrewd, whereas Goss —’

  ‘The Superintendent — you know him?’

  ‘I do — irascible, touchy, and not a man who would welcome doubts cast on his choice of suspect. The newspaper report says that Miss Deverall was found nearby with blood on her hands and a five pound note. Five pounds was missing from an open drawer in the doctor’s desk, and the girl did not deny it.’

  ‘But she said nothing. In any case the evidence is only circumstantial.’

  ‘The evidence for a murder usually is — unless, and it is very rare as you know, there is a witness who happens, conveniently, to be in the room at the time. The circumstantial evidence is carefully weighed, and if it is strong enough, then the jury will bring in its guilty verdict.’

  ‘Mistakes have been made — look at the Eliza Fenning case. I know it was a long time ago, but she was young — and she was hanged — and she was innocent.’

  ‘But there, the judge, Sylvester, bullied the jury. The circumstantial evidence wasn’t good enough. Sylvester twisted it, but I take your point. The stumbling block, though, is her refusal, so far, to speak in her own defence.’

  ‘I bet Goss intimidated her — glad to find a suspect so quickly.’

  ‘He might well have — but not wittingly. From what you say, her silence is more than simply a frightened girl unable to speak up for herself.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Dickens conceded. Jones was always perceptive. He understood the human heart, too. ‘Motive? What motive could she have?’ he asked.

  ‘We won’t know that u
ntil Rogers and Elizabeth find out more. And whatever they find out, I can’t take it to Goss. You’ll have to approach the Governor of Newgate — tell him what you have found out — you, I say. Keep me out of it. The Governor, Lady Pirie, you, can all use your influence to get the Commissioner to order Goss to have another look at the case.’

  With that, Dickens had to be satisfied. He bade farewell to Jones and went out into the street. There was something comforting about Sam Jones, and he felt hopeful that Elizabeth would be able to find out more.

  Chapter 6: Fever in the Blood

  ‘Evie Finch, you say?’

  Mollie Rogers looked at the ragged little servant girl who had brought the message. Evie Finch, with whom she had once been in service in Grosvenor Street, was ill — at a lodging house off Compton Street. She couldn’t understand it — Evie was in service now with Mr and Mrs Simpson in Duke Street. What was she doing in a lodging house? Sacked, perhaps — Evie was always a bit forward — but, why hadn’t she gone home?

  The child was staring at her. She’d answered Mollie’s question and was waiting for the answer. She repeated it. ‘Yers, Evie, she sed ’er name woz, an’ she asked for Mollie in Crown Street — stationer’s, she sed. That’s you, innit?’

  Mollie came to. ‘Yes, yes. Wait — I’ll get my coat.’ It was time to shut the shop anyway, and Alf wouldn’t be back for a while. Gone to see Billie Watts.

  Mollie and the girl went down Crown Street and turned into Compton Street from where they turned into a nest of narrow alleys. The girl led Mollie into a little lane of the meanest looking houses crammed together like dirty old cards in a pack. The lodging house was a tumbledown affair. She took Mollie down a set of dilapidated stairs into a cellar where a hard-faced woman in an untidy black dress stood by one of the cots. There was a selection of wretched individuals lounging on some of the other beds. It was squalid in the yellow light of an oil lamp, and the smell was of unwashed bodies, damp and decay. Too close to breathe. Yet it was cold — some of the windows were stuffed with rags or tacked over with oil cloth.

  The hard-faced woman looked at Mollie — a sharp, cunning look. She’d pay, she thought. The girl on the bed wouldn’t be able to tell ’er that the landlady had already received sixpence. You ’ad ter make wot yer could these days — an’ it want right, anyways, that she should ’ave the trouble of a sick girl. Mrs Rogers could take ’er away.

  Mollie saw the hard look — she knew what it meant, but she was more concerned about Evie. She looked at the girl on the fusty bed with its straw mattress — no sheets, just a threadbare blanket. She looked at the face of Evie Finch, almost green in the light of the lamp, with what looked like red splotches on it, the tangled wet hair on the dirty rags which made the pillow, and she saw the blood on the skirt. Dear God, what had brought her to this?

  ‘Evie, Evie, it’s Mollie Rogers.’

  The eyes fluttered open, but there was no recognition in them. The dry, cracked lips parted. The girl began to mutter. Mollie bent down to listen, but all she could make out was a confused jumble of words. ‘Old Mother ’Ubbard — ’Ubbard,’ she seemed to be saying. Delirious, Mollie thought — the hand felt so hot. She touched Evie’s brow — burning. Some fever — must be. ‘In the cupboard — ’Ubbard…’ Evie tossed and turned on the bed, mumbling, breathing shallowly. ‘No doctor, no doctor, no…’

  Mollie took the burning hand. ‘A nurse, then, Evie, a nurse can come.’ Why didn’t she want a doctor? ‘A nurse — she needs a nurse,’ Mollie said to the landlady.

  ‘You oughter take ’er away — I don’ want ’er ’ere — might be catchin’ wot she’s got.’

  She caught it here, Mollie thought, looking at the filthy bed. She turned angrily to the woman. ‘How can I take her anywhere? Can’t you see she’s not fit to move? I know a nurse. Send for her — Mrs Feak at 22 Earl Street. Send the girl.’ She turned to the little girl who had brought her. ‘D’yer hear what I say — go — tell her Mollie Rogers needs her — tell her it’s urgent.’

  The girl looked at the landlady. ‘’Oo’s payin’? She owes me rent.’ She looked down at the girl on the bed.

  ‘I’ll pay — an’ for the lodgin’s. Just send the girl — please.’

  The landlady nodded and the girl went out.

  Evie was quiet now, her eyes closed. Mollie saw the red weals on her arm. They were like burn marks, and the red seemed to be turning black. What the hell was wrong?

  ‘Evie, it’s Mollie. Hold on, Evie, I’ve sent for a nurse. She’ll come. Then you’ll feel better.’ She said the words, knowing them to be untrue. But she had to say something. She wanted Evie to know that she wasn’t alone in this dreadful place, that there was someone.

  Poor Evie, so pretty, so smart. Men liked her, but she was choosy, Evie. She’d looked a bit mocking when Mollie had told her she was marrying the policeman she’d met at Grosvenor Street. Oh, Alf Rogers, she’d said when Mollie had told her. Police, eh — well, if ’e suits yer. And Mollie had said that Alf suited her fine. Evie had come to the wedding — that’d impressed her, thought Mollie — Superintendent Jones had come and his wife, and to cap it all — Mr Dickens’d come, too, an’ he’d given them champagne because Alf had saved his life when they were after a murderer. Oh yes, Evie had not mocked then.

  She looked again at the face all marked with red. What if Mrs Feak wasn’t there? Oh God, what ter do? She’d have to send for Alf — he’d know.

  The breathing seemed fainter now. Evie lay still — still as death, Mollie thought. She’s dyin’ an’ there’s nothing I can do except see that she doesn’t die without someone to care. She stood at the side of the cot, waiting, holding Evie’s burning hand. Time seemed to stand still.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Mollie looked up to see Mrs Feak’s kind face. Mrs Feak came to the bed and looked at Evie. Then she looked at the landlady who, seeing something that cowed her, moved away without saying a word.

  Mrs Feak took Evie’s wrist. The faintest fluttering pulse. She looked at the reddish-black stains that gave the arms the look of raw meat, and she looked at the blood on the dress. Then she lifted the skirt and looked at the mess between the legs, but she said nothing. The landlady looked, too, and Mrs Feak gave her a hard stare. She took the wrist again, but there was no pulse this time.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Mollie knew by Mrs Feak’s face that it was so. She felt sick, seeing Mrs Feak’s face turn so set and grim, realising what she had seen under the bloodied skirt.

  ‘When did she come here?’ Mrs Feak asked the landlady.

  ‘Other night. Couldn’t turn ’er away — she dint look well.’ Mollie saw how she was suddenly all sympathy — hypocrite.

  ‘How long’s she been like this?’

  ‘I dunno — one o’ me residents, Martha there —’ she indicated another bedraggled looking woman on one of the beds — ‘come up ter tell me the girl was sick. I come down, and she told me ter get ’er friend Mollie from Crown Street so I sent for ’er.’ She pointed at Mollie. ‘Did all I could, dint I? Dint know wot woz wrong. Wot’ll yer do now?’

  ‘You didn’t do this to her?’ Mrs Feak pointed at the blood-stained dress.

  ‘Wot d’yer mean? Don’t know anythin’ about it. She woz sick when she come ’ere. You can’t pin anythin’ like that on me.’

  ‘Mollie — you go an’ get Alf — tell him that Evie’s dead. You know what’s happened to her?’

  Mollie nodded. Oh, Evie, bright, careless Evie to get caught like this. She knew now why Evie hadn’t gone home. Her mother would have known what she’d had done to her.

  ‘’Oo’s Alf? ’Oo yer sendin’ fer?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Don’t want no perlice ’ere — it’s respectable ’ouse, this is — I don’t ’ave whores ’ere — an’ I ain’t got nothin’ ter do wiv this.’

  ‘A girl has died, and you know what’s been done to her. You saw the state she was in under that dress. It’s a matter for the police.’ Mrs Feak wa
s implacable. ‘If it’s nothing to do with you, then you’ve nothing to worry about. Mollie, go now, and if he isn’t home, you’ll have to go to Bow Street and get one of the other constables. You can’t do any more for Evie here.’

  Sergeant Alf Rogers came. He looked at the body, and heard what Mrs Feak had to tell him, and sent two beat constables to Bow Street for the mortuary van. Mollie told him about Evie’s last moments, wondering at the strangeness of Evie’s rambling about Mother Hubbard — a nursery rhyme. It was so pathetic, she said, so childlike. Perhaps she was back in some childhood place. Perhaps she didn’t know she was dying. Mrs Feak listened to all this. Mother Hubbard? She wondered.

  Mrs Feak went on her way. She knew what had been done to Evie Finch. She had seen under the blood-soaked skirt the bloody misshapen thing, a lump of bloodied flesh between the legs. Someone had botched it. Mrs Feak had seen plenty of miscarriages. Women who had taken something to get rid of the child they did not want — couldn’t afford to have.

  Savin — the oil of juniper — could be got quite easily for a few pence. It was well-known. A remedy that had been used for years, centuries. An old midwife had told her some lines once — written hundreds of years ago, she’d said. Mrs Feak didn’t know that the poet Dryden had written them, but she remembered them:

  Help her make manslaughter let her bleed

  And never want for savix for her need.

  Mrs Feak knew very well the violent stomach pains, the vomiting, the flushed face and headache which preceded the burning pains and the outrush of blood. Pennyroyal was used, too, and gin. The secrets that every woman knows. And Mrs Feak had helped, but she’d never offered her services for that. She was sent for when something had gone wrong — and very often, too late.

  She’d seen children, wide-eyed, staring at a mother on the bed. She’d seen a mother, helplessly watching as her daughter had bled to death. A mother who had only wanted to spare her daughter the disgrace of an illegitimate child, and who had paid too high a price at tuppence for an ounce of savin. But, she had never blamed them — the sufferers — the girl whose life had been ended because folk would blame her and not the man who’d left her. Probably what had happened to Evie Finch. And the women who lived in all those grubby cellars and tenements, who had seven or eight kiddies already — and couldn’t afford another, didn’t want to bring another to live in filth, and probably die in it. But, she did blame the so-called nurses or midwives who were no better than butchers in their dirty aprons and wielding their even dirtier instruments — she’d seen the bent spoons, the penholders with wires attached, and once, the “nurse” had left behind the curling tongs which had been altered to become forceps. And there were doctors, too — quacks a lot of them.