by Emily Organ
I came across two missionaries speaking to a woman in a doorway. One held a collection of pamphlets, while the other carried a pile of blankets. I asked the three of them where I could find Martha Nicholls, and fortunately the woman knew her. Following her directions, I eventually found the dismal courtyard where Jack had lost his life. I couldn’t help glancing at the spot where he was found, which was covered with a blanket of smooth white snow. It was the only part of the courtyard that hadn’t been swept. I felt a lump rise into my throat.
Shirts, petticoats and aprons hung stiffly from ropes that had been strung up between the buildings, and a stout woman in a headscarf was bent over a washtub. Another woman was sorting furs into piles as three children played by the privies. Her face was gaunt and she paused to produce a loud, rattling cough. I approached the laundry woman, who was scrubbing furiously at a washboard.
“Mrs Nicholls?” I said gently.
She stopped her work and looked up.
“The news reporter!”
Her face opened out into a toothless smile and she dried her hands on her apron. “Miss Green, ain’t it? Yer s’posed to call me Martha.”
Her nose and cheeks were red with cold, and she wore several old coats and scarves. I looked up at the broken and glassless windows in the building behind her.
“Is this where you live? Do you have a fire to keep you warm?”
“Yeah, and I got coal. I’m one o’ the lucky ones. Winston gives me it. Susan over there’s ’aving to burn ’er table.” Martha gestured towards the sunken-cheeked woman. “She won’t take me coal.”
“Who’s Winston?”
She grinned proudly. “Me son. ’E’s done well for ‘imself. Got out of ’ere and works as a clerk in Guilford Street. ’E lives in Red Lion Square. Always got ink on ’is fingers.”
“As have I.” I laughed.
“You must be clever like ’im, then. It ain’t no thanks to me that ’e’s got to where ’e is. ’E went to Barnardo’s down in Stepney. I couldn’t afford ter keep ’im. ’E got ’is schoolin’ there, and now ’e’s cleverer than what his father ever were. Anyways, what can I do fer yer?”
“I hope you don’t mind me visiting you. It’s about Jack’s murder. Have you heard that Reuben O’Donoghue has been arrested as a suspect?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think he done it. I can’t see ’im as bein’ the murderin’ type.”
“That’s what I think. The police need to be looking for someone else, don’t they? Have you heard anything more about who else might have done it?”
“Ain’t no one knows for sure. Some of ’em’s sayin’ it’s the Daly Boys. That’s a gang.”
“Reuben mentioned them to me. But I’ve been thinking more about Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans, and I’m wondering if you could tell me where their bodies were found. I’d like to see for myself what similarities there may be between their murders and the murder of Jack Burton.”
“I ain’t gonna tell yer.”
“You won’t?” I felt my heart sink.
“Nah! I’ll take yer there meself!” Martha cackled at her joke and jabbed me with her elbow. “C’mon. Neither of ’em’s far from ’ere. I’ll take yer to where they found Roger first.”
I walked with Martha through a maze of alleyways, past tumbledown shops, pubs and gin houses. We passed people trying to sell anything they could get their hands on, from shoelaces, matches, cress and song bills to sorry-looking apples and pears. Martha greeted many of them along the way.
“I hope I’m not keeping you from your work,” I said.
“Think nothin’ of it, none of it’s dryin’ any’ow. Mr Larcombe won’t get ’is shirts back today. They’re all ’angin’ frozen on the line.” Martha laughed. “I’m ’oping as the pump won’t get frozen this winter. Trick is to wrap rags round it. I done that last year and it never froze once. I’ve wrapped on extra this week. What’s ’appened to yer arm?”
“I fell off a pony.”
“You got a pony? Where d’yer keep it?”
“Not my own pony; it was one from the riding stables in Hyde Park. Tell me about Jack. Did you know him well?”
“Not too well. ’E often ’ad a smile on ’is face, and when ’e were goin’ straight he were shinin’ boots on Shaftesbury Havenue.”
“How old was he?”
“Proberly fourteen.”
“And you think he was an orphan?”
“Yeah, I fink so. ’E lived wiv the Earl o’ York and some lads down King’s ’Ead Yard.”
“And when he wasn’t going straight, he was thieving?”
“Yeah, just nickin’ silk ’ankerchiefs, snuff boxes, shirt pins. The usual. The Earl tells the lads to go out and not come back till they got money or summink they can sell.”
“It doesn’t sound as though Jack was malicious. He simply took my bag because of his difficult circumstances.”
“Same as a lotta the lads. They don’t wanna be nickin’ stuff, does they? They does it ’cause they thinks they got no choice.”
“I wonder if he knew his killer.”
Martha shrugged her shoulders. “There’s no way o’ knowin’, is there? Look, there’s some toffs what ’ave come lookin’ round.”
Gathered by a pawnbroker’s shop was a small group of people wearing common clothes, but they appeared clean and well-fed. They were listening intently to a woman wearing a brown velvet coat and a colourful feathered hat.
“The toffs pays money ter come lookin’ round places like this,” said Martha. “These lot’ll ’ave just been in the pop-shop. Next they’ll ’ave a look in a few ’ouses to see ’ow many people ’ave ter live in each one, and they’ll go in the pub too. Them togs ain’t what they normally wears. They reckons they looks like us!”
She cackled.
“That woman there’s Mrs Baxter. She charges ’em a fine price ter look round and tells ’em she’s gonna share the money out among us. Can’t say I’ve seen any of it meself. She takes the ladies down the work’ouse so’s they can get themselves a slavey while they’re down ’ere.”
We neared the group and could hear Mrs Baxter talking. She stood in front of the greasy, latticed window of the pawnbroker’s shop, in which jewellery, ornaments and keepsakes were stacked high.
“But when her father found out about the love affair, she threw herself off that roof there!” she said, pointing upwards.
Her words were met with startled gasps.
“And her ghost has walked this lane every night since!”
Martha chuckled. “They believes ev’ry word of it.”
Mrs Baxter turned to look at us. She was a wide-faced woman with a heavy jaw and copper-coloured eyes.
“Martha Nicholls!” she said as we approached the group.
“Mornin’, Mrs Baxter. Sad news about Boots, ain’t it?”
Mrs Baxter’s face became solemn. “Terribly sad.”
She turned back to her tour group. “You may have heard that one of the boys here was tragically murdered two days ago. He had his throat cut.”
Her voice became choked and there was a murmur of condolence in reply.
“I’ll take you to the place where he was found murdered at the end of our tour. Meanwhile, Martha here was once followed by Polly Maguire’s ghost the whole night!”
“You poor woman,” said a well-spoken lady in a shabby tweed coat with missing buttons. She held out some coins to Martha, who refused them.
“I ain’t in need o’ charity, thank you, ma’am.”
We walked on. “Were you really followed by Polly Maguire’s ghost?” I asked.
“It were summink. I dunno if it were ’er or not. Anyways, come on. Mrs Baxter likes tellin’ tales, and it’s what people wants to ’ear, ain’t it?”
We crossed Endell Street and entered a narrow alleyway between the wash houses and the workhouse. I could hear children playing beyond the workhouse’s high wall. A dishevelled man and his dog sat at the base of the wall next to a dirty snow heap
.
“Round ’ere,” said Martha, leading me down a left turn. “This ’ere’s the back o’ the pub where Roger went drinkin’. The Three Feathers. See it?”
We stood in a fetid yard looking at a ramshackle, timbered pub slumped against the buildings either side of it.
“The men comes out the back ’ere when they needs ter do their business. People think that’s what Roger were doin’ when he were killed.” She made a cutting gesture across her throat. “The landlord’s found ’im the next mornin’ lyin’ in ’is blood. I think he were over there.” She pointed at an icy puddle by a broken handcart.
“And no one knows who killed him?”
“Ev’ryone’s thinkin’ it were someone what was in the pub with ’im. ’E weren’t an ’appy drunk; ’e were one what got into rows ’n’ that. He weren’t popular. ’E’d worked down the docks till ’e lost ’is leg.”
“He was missing a leg?”
“‘E ’ad a peg. Walked around all askew on ’is peg leg.”
“So he would have struggled to defend himself.”
“’E ’ad a punch on ’im. ’E were a boxer once. But wiv ’is peg ’e ’ad no balance.”
I pictured Roger Yeomans staggering drunkenly about on his peg leg. It was quite possible that he hadn’t been very likeable, but he sounded as though he had been a vulnerable man all the same. He had likely been an easy target for a cowardly killer.
“And when was he found?”
“We’nsd’y third o’ Jan’ry”
“The third? Just six days ago?”
“Yeah, it’d be about that.”
“Do you think the landlord would mind if we asked him a little more about Roger?”
“No! Don’t yer be goin’ in there!”
“Why not?”
“Yer wouldn’t last long, honestly yer wouldn’t. The place is full o’ thieves ’n’ whores and the landlord ain’t someone yer wanna go talkin’ to.” Martha leant in closer and whispered. “Word is, ’e ate a man’s kidneys.”
“How?” I asked in disbelief.
Martha shrugged. “I’m only sayin’ what I ’eard.”
“Perhaps you can show me where Mrs O’Brien was found.”
“Course. Follow me, deary.”
“They’s knockin’ ’ouses down,” said Martha as we passed a street of half-demolished buildings. “Soon they’ll ’ave knocked everythin’ down and don’t ask me where we’re s’posed ter live after that. They won’t want us in them fancy new ones! Mebbe I’ll ’ave died afore that day arrives.” She cackled again. “This ’ere’s Nottin’am Court.”
It was a narrow, dingy street lined with houses that had seen better days.
“’Ello, Martha!” called out a young boy as he ran past us.
A little girl sat in a doorway with a kitten in her arms, her dress was thin and a tattered shawl covered her shoulders. She looked up at us with large, wary eyes.
“Mornin’ Hettie,” said Martha. Nearby two young boys fought over some marbles. The older one shoved the other one backwards and he fell, hitting his head on the cobbles.
“Careful now!” shouted Martha, righting the startled child. “Yer almost knocked Will’s brains out John! Where’s yer ma got to?”
John looked about five years old and he pointed sullenly at a doorway. The shouts of an arguing couple could be heard from within.
“That’s Molly in there,” said Martha, with a disapproving tone to her voice. “Be’ave yerselves, boys, till yer ma comes out.”
I looked again at Hettie and worried about her with only a thin dress to wear in the cold. She wasn’t the first child I’d seen dressed in such a way and I knew, with a heavy heart, that she wouldn’t be the last. I wished there was something I could do about it.
We walked on.
“Mrs O’Brien lived just along ’ere,” said Martha. “Y’know the toffs what we saw just now? Well, some on ’em used ter come lookin’ round Mrs O’Brien’s ’ouse ter see what poor folk lives like. She ’ranged it wiv Mrs Baxter and got tuppence each time. Quite a lotta folks want the toffs ter come lookin’ round ’cause they gets money outta it. The man in the mask’s bin seen along ’ere ’n’ all.”
“Who’s the man in the mask? Another ghost?”
“Nah, he’s real enough. A few folks ’ave said as what they’ve seen ’im.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Nah.”
“And he wears a mask, you say? What sort of mask?”
“Like one what they wears in the theatre, or so I’ve ’eard.”
“And he’s been seen on this street?”
“Yeah, but only night-times.”
“What about the night Mrs O’Brien was murdered?”
“Dunno.”
We reached a door with planks of wood nailed across it.
“’Ere,” said Martha. “Mrs O’Brien was found by ’er front door ’ere.” She poked at the cobbles with her patched-up boot. “Irish she was. ’Usband’s Irish ’n’ all.”
“And this was just after Christmas?”
“Yeah. Twenny-seventh, and they reckons she were murdered on the twenny-sixth. Mr Ayres found ’er about four in the mornin’. Still recoverin’ from the shock of it, ’e is. ’E’s ’ad problems with ’is nerves ever since.”
“And her throat was cut?”
“Yeah. Hev’ryone says it’s ’im what done it.”
“The husband? Mr O’Brien?”
“Yeah, he ain’t been seen for the best part of a year. They reckons ’e ran outta money and come back, and then ’e’s cut ’is wife’s throat and gone off with the money what she ’ad.”
“Did anyone see him?”
“Nah, no one seen ’im.”
“So he might not have come back?”
“Might not’ve. No one saw no one else round ’ere, but it’s as good a hexplanation as we got.”
I looked up the street with the leaden sky over the dark buildings and the scantily clad children playing among the mounds of dirty snow. I felt a heavy, despondent sensation in my chest.
“Even if Reuben O’Donoghue did kill Jack,” I ventured, “he wouldn’t have killed Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans as well, would he?”
“’Ard to imagine it. I don’t think he woulda done. Trouble is, the bobbies knows ’im ’n’ ’e’s been harrested afore now, so it’s easier for ’em when they got someone they know.”
“What’s he been arrested for?”
“Fightin’. The bobbies remembers about the fights ’e’s got into and they remembers a face, don’t they?”
We walked back up Nottingham Court.
“Did Jack, Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans know each other?”
“Yeah. Mr Yeomans were married to Mrs O’Brien’s sister, though they ’ad a fallin’ out, and Mr Yeomans used ter pay Jack to run errands for ’im.”
“What sort of errands?”
“Just gettin’ stuff for ’im; whatever ’e needed. And Mr Yeomans were friendly with the Earl o’ York.”
“Is that so?”
I recalled the shady leader of the Seven Dials Gang loitering in the courtyard the night that Jack was murdered.
If the victims had all known each other, had they also known their assailant?
We reached the pawnbroker’s shop and I tried to thank Martha Nicholls for her time by offering her a shilling, but she wouldn’t take it.
“Yer needs to meet our Winston,” she said.
“Your son?”
“Yeah. ’E thinks there’s summink amiss ’n’ all. Yer’ve both got clever minds, I can tell. Yer needs ter speak to ’im.”
Chapter 9
The lights flickered off in the reading room and the silence was broken by a chorus of groans and curses.
“Not again!” a red-whiskered man seated opposite me called out.
“The wonders of electricity,” said my neighbour, a pale man with dark, beady eyes. “Bring back the gas lamps, I say. At least they were reliable.”
; I returned to my notes, which were difficult to read in the increasing gloom. It was only mid-afternoon, but heavy snow clouds were pushing the light out of the day.
“Good afternoon, Miss Green,” whispered a voice in my ear. “How is your work on the book progressing?”
I turned to see a set of olive green eyes staring at me through a pair of spectacle lenses.
“You startled me, Mr Edwards!”
“Oh, did I?” He took a step back. “I do apologise. I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
“Please don’t worry. The book will take me a while yet as I have to work on something more urgent for now.”
“You’re managing to write well with your left hand.” He glanced down at my notes.
“Not really. It’s a struggle to read what I’ve written if I’m honest.”
“I suppose the moral of the story is not to get on an excitable pony!”
“Exactly that. Is there some trouble with the lights again?”
“Sadly, yes.” He tutted. “We have someone looking at the electricity at this very moment, so hopefully full light will be restored shortly. Let me know if you would like me to fetch the map of Colombia again, Miss Green.”
I thanked him and he moved on.
“Very attentive that clerk, isn’t he?” whispered the red-whiskered man to the pale man next to me. “If one is a lady, that is.”
“You can’t blame the fellow,” replied my neighbour. “Having a few ladies around the place rather brightens it up, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed, gentlemen,” I replied. “My sole reason for working here is to brighten up your surroundings.”
The red-whiskered man rolled his eyes.
I looked back at the notes I had made since my walk with Martha. I had written down everything I could remember and had also drawn some crude maps, marking the location of each victim with a cross. I had made a note of the dates and approximate times of their murders and then written down their connections with each other. I read and reread my words, feeling increasingly certain that the three murders had been carried out by the same person.