by Emily Organ
“I’d like to.”
He smiled again and I felt my cheeks grow hot. I knew it was inappropriate to invite James to my room, but I couldn’t help suggesting it. Besides, I knew that he would be interested in seeing my father’s papers.
“I think it’s an admirable task, Penny. You have a lot of patience.”
“Having a little more time to do it would be preferable. I have so enjoyed rereading his letters and diaries. There are many details I had forgotten. In his last letter to me, he mentioned seeing tins of Peek Freans biscuits in the market in Bogota. Isn’t that astonishing? After reading that, I bought myself a tin of the same biscuits. Whenever I look at the tin I think of my father, and it helps me feel closer to him.” I paused to quickly dab at my eyes with my handkerchief. “It’s quite ridiculous, when you think about it, that I need to look at a tin of biscuits to create an association with my own father!”
“Why do you need to feel close to him?”
“I miss him.” I heard my voice waver. “He was away a lot on his travels, but when he was home I could see how very like him I was. And although he didn’t want me to move to London initially, I felt as though he understood my need to journey off on my own and pursue a profession which would take me into all manner of risky places and situations.”
James looked at my arm in its sling. “I’m not certain he would have approved of some of the danger involved.”
“Perhaps not.”
“He would no doubt be proud of you for having kept such a calm head during the incident. Some people would have run screaming from the room.”
“From what I’ve read of my father, he also seemed to remain calm in the face of adversity. He found himself in a whole range of sticky situations. He was almost shipwrecked in the Atlantic on one occasion and survived a bite from a venomous snake another time.”
“It sounds as though it will be a fascinating book.” James finished off his stout. “Is your father the only person who truly understood you, do you think?”
“Perhaps he is. My mother and sister are less inclined to understand my profession, they seem determined to see me settled with a husband instead.”
“Sensible advice.”
“I consider it rather dull advice.”
“You don’t harbour any wish to be married and settled?”
“No. And I’m not entirely happy to be in London at this present time, either. With the harsh winter and these terrible killings, I think I would much rather be travelling on a steamboat up the River Magdalena watching brightly coloured kingfishers dive into the water, while the alligators lay basking on the sandbanks.”
James laughed. “Somehow, Penny, I feel sure that one day you’ll be doing just that.”
We exchanged a long smile. Then he suddenly appeared startled and checked his pocket watch.
“Goodness, it’s late and I must help you find a hansom cab. Before we leave, I need to tell you that I think that the St Giles murderer has been practising.”
“Practising ways to murder people?”
“I’ve heard talk of a few seemingly random attacks. Having spoken to people in St Giles today, I have gleaned that these attacks were similar in nature. They were carried out at night and nothing was stolen from any of the victims.”
“Might these victims be able to give us a description of the man?”
“I should hope so.”
“Why didn’t the police do anything about these attacks?”
“Few of them were reported as the assailant chose his victims carefully. Many of them are prostitutes, drunks or criminals, who would rather have as little to do with the police as possible. The man is clearly familiar with the people who live and work in St Giles, and he must know the layout of the streets very well to escape as quickly as he does.”
“Have you managed to speak to any of the victims?”
“Not yet, but I plan to visit a lady tomorrow who claims that she was attacked by a mystery assailant one evening. Would you like to accompany me? She’ll probably be wary of speaking to a detective, but I think your presence might encourage her to speak more freely in my company. You mustn’t identify her in your newspaper, though.”
“Can I mention that the killer may have attacked other people before embarking on this murdering spree?”
“Yes, please do. I think it would be useful to print that, as it may encourage more people who have encountered or witnessed this man to come forward. Please choose your words carefully, however, as we need to minimise panic.”
“I will, although I think some newspapers will particularly enjoy printing such lurid stories.”
“I’m sure they will. I’m learning that the press can be both a help and a hindrance, in equal measure.”
Chapter 18
“Read all about the St Giles murders!” shouted a paper boy. “Four of ’em’s ’ad their throats slit!” He made a cutting gesture across his neck as I walked past him. “’Eard abaht the murders, lady?” he called.
‘Another St Giles Horror’, ‘Murder in St Giles’, ‘Another Shocking Murder’, screamed the newspaper headlines. The Illustrated Londoner carried a large drawing of a miserly-faced Mr Larcombe with thinning hair, a dark moustache and a long, pointed chin. Smaller pictures around him depicted the scene of the crime, the discovery of the murder, the conveyance of the body to the mortuary and a map of St Giles. There were even illustrations of the detectives working on the case, which included a poor, yet amusing, likeness of James.
The killer had been branded ‘the St Giles Monster’ by many, and some newspapers had commissioned artists to draw what they thought he might look like, with a black hat and cloak, and a sinister black mask. Some even speculated that ‘Spring-heeled Jack’ had returned to wreak fresh terror on the streets of London. There were sightings of suspicious-looking figures and even ghosts in many areas of the capital, and some claimed to have been terrified by a man with glowing eyes and claws.
In the absence of evidence to the contrary, it was difficult to argue with the hysteria. People were understandably frightened. Each day I awoke feeling nervous that there would be news of another murder.
Mr Larcombe’s inquest was held at St Giles’ Coroner’s Court and hordes of people filled the narrow street outside the red-brick building. Once again, the verdict was recorded as wilful murder at the hands of a person or persons unknown.
More snow had fallen during the week, and when I met James at Seven Dials late in the afternoon on the Friday, a pall of grimy frozen fog hung over the city. My nose was so cold that I felt sure it had turned an unbecoming shade of red. I wore a new skirt and fitted jacket, both of blue wool with a black velvet trim. A row of two dozen black glass buttons fastened my jacket and although I felt happy to be wearing a new outfit, it didn’t keep me as warm as I would have liked.
Unusually for James, he was a few minutes late arriving.
“I’m sorry. I received an unexpected visit from my grandmother.”
“Is she all right?”
“She is, but my grandfather isn’t. He’s very unwell.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. He’s the grandfather you help with the gardening?”
“Yes. Fortunately, there’s nothing to do in his garden now as we’ve just dug up the last of the leeks.” He rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth. “You look very smart today, Penny.”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“Still wishing you were on a steamboat on the River Magdalena?”
“I’d like either to be on the steamboat or watching the beans dry on a sun-drenched coffee plantation.”
“Ah, that does sound pleasant. I expect the coffee has a superior taste in Colombia.”
“Yes, apparently the quality of the beans deteriorates during the crossing of the Atlantic.”
“That’s a pity. The only solution is to travel there yourself and drink it at source, then.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Shall we go there next week?”
We both laughed and James nodded in the direction in which we were about to walk.
“The woman we need to speak to is often found at the lodging houses on Mercer Street. I thought that if we met close to sundown we might find her in that area looking for a bed for the night.”
We walked along Mercer Street, passing a noisy pub. Many of the people milling around us had Irish accents and a couple of mean-eyed men carried thick sticks of wood with rounded clubs at the ends.
“I see they’re armed with their shillelaghs,” said James. “I’m not sure whether they’re doing so in response to the recent murders, or whether it’s a usual habit for them.”
“How have the past few days been?”
James sighed. “The Yard has received so many reports of the man in the mask now that I have to question whether they can all be genuine. There have also been reports of a group of men loitering suspiciously outside the pawnbroker’s several hours before Mr Larcombe was murdered, and varying descriptions of a man seen running away from the shop at nine o’clock in the evening.
“Some witnesses say he had brown whiskers and others say he had a thick orange moustache. A customer of Mr Larcombe’s says he saw a man hiding behind some shelving in the pawnbroker’s shop a week before Mr Larcombe was murdered. There’s so much to follow up on that we barely have enough men to do the work. Thankfully, Chief Inspector Cullen is doing more work on the case, which is especially important now that the Home Secretary is asking for regular reports on progress.”
“And I suppose the difficulty is in deciding which witnesses have seen something helpful and which are fabricating tales.”
“Yes, the skill lies in determining between what’s relevant and what’s hogwash.”
We stopped halfway along a row of shabby buildings. “Let’s try here,” said James.
A dirty yellow blind in the window was inscribed with: ‘Dorney’s Good Lodgings. Single Bed. 4d.’
We walked up the steps and James inquired as to whether Sarah Fisher was inside. A woman with a hacking cough told us to go next door to the lodging house called Parker’s.
A short, thick-set man at the door of Parker’s eyed us suspiciously as we approached.
“Are you the schools’ inspector?” he asked James.
“No, I’m Detective Inspector Blakely and I’m investigating the St Giles murders.”
A flash of interest flickered across the man’s face. “Is that so?”
“I’d like to speak to Sarah Fisher. Is she here?”
“What, you think she done the murders?” The man cackled.
“I have heard that she was attacked a few weeks ago and I’m wondering if the perpetrator was the same man who has been carrying out these terrible killings.”
The man nodded. “You’ll find ’er somewhere round ’ere, but just speak to ’er and no one else. I don’t want yer wanderin’ round harrestin’ people for what they may or may not’ve done. You’ll be keepin’ me customers away. Police hofficers ain’t good fer business.”
“I won’t be marching anyone down to the station, Mr Parker, you have my word.”
“Well, ’ave a look around then.” He made a wide gesture with his chubby arm. “The men’s rooms is hon the first floor and the ladies hon the second. If she hain’t there, ’ave a look in the kitchen.”
We thanked Mr Parker and made our way up a flight of wooden stairs with a number of steps missing.
“I’ll check the men’s rooms,” said James, “and you look on the ladies’ floor. I’ll meet you in the hallway downstairs.”
I continued up the greasy staircase, my boots clomping noisily on the flimsy timber. I could hear the scuttle of rats ahead of me as I rounded the stairs and found myself in a grim, dingy corridor. Leading off from it were several doorways, which opened out into rooms filled with small, timber-framed truckle beds lying side by side. Some had torn and discoloured bedding on them, while others were bare wood. The windows were covered with rags, and I guessed that these rooms would be packed full of people once night fell.
For now, there were only a few women and girls in the rooms, including an old lady who was fast asleep, snoring loudly. There was a strong odour of unwashed bodies.
I asked if anyone knew where Sarah Fisher was, and those who acknowledged me shook their heads in reply. I stepped over broken floorboards and peered in at each doorway, aware that I was being regarded with great suspicion.
“Don’t tell me yer one o’ them missionaries,” said a thin woman who was trying to comfort a crying baby. “Always on at us abaht goin’ ter chapel.”
“I’m not a missionary. I’m looking for Sarah Fisher.”
“Ain’t seen ’er.”
I couldn’t decide whether she was telling the truth or simply didn’t want to help me.
Eventually, I made my way down to the hallway, my mood darkened by the sight of the miserable rooms I had already looked around.
James was waiting for me.
“No sign of her? I suggest we try the kitchen,” he said.
“Must we? I would sooner leave.”
The kitchen was in the basement and the sound of drunken singing drifted up the rickety staircase. Most of the occupants sat around a long table and a large coke fire burnt fiercely in the fireplace. The low ceiling was blackened with soot and the walls were patchy with damp.
A filthy-looking man lounged in a chair in the corner chewing on a fish, and in another corner a couple sat locked in an embrace. I felt aware that my face might easily display sadness and disgust, so I wore a faint smile and tried to present myself as unthreateningly as possible.
A few people turned to look at us as we entered the stifling room, while others continued to sing or argue.
“This isn’t the sort of song a lady should hear,” commented James.
“They’re all words I’ve heard before,” I replied.
James cleared his throat. “May I have a moment of your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen?”
“It’s a copper!” shouted out a man with a yellow, wizened face.
He pulled off his wooden leg and brandished it. I noticed another man quickly shovelling something into his pockets.
“I ain’t done nuffink,” said an old lady, who took a swig from a tin cup. “Don’t come nowhere near me, ’cause I ain’t done nuffink. I’m as pure as the driven snow.”
The man eating the fish howled with laughter.
“I’m Inspector James Blakely and no one is in trouble. I’m in need of your assistance.”
“What? Ain’t you come for Whelk-’Ead?” asked the old lady.
“Who’s Whelk-Head?” asked James.
“’Im!” A gnarled finger was pointed at the man eating the fish. “Hev’ryone always comes for Whelk-’Ead!”
“I have no need to speak to Mr Whelk-Head unless he knows the whereabouts of Sarah Fisher,” said James.
“She’s ’ere.”
The one-legged man pointed his wooden prosthetic in the direction of a dark-skinned woman sitting on a bench by the fire. She got to her feet and stared at us warily. She wore a woollen skirt of faded blue and a red shawl over a jacket which had been clumsily patched and repaired. She looked to be no older than seventeen.
“Hello, Miss Fisher. Is miss correct, or should I say missus?” asked James.
“Miss.”
“Please don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. I need to ask you some questions. Is there somewhere more private where we can talk? My friend here, Penny Green, will accompany us.”
“Private?” cackled the old lady. “Round ’ere?”
“Try the yard,” said Mr Whelk-Head.
“Thank you,” said James. “Do you mind if we talk in the yard, Miss Fisher?”
She shrugged and the three of us moved outside.
It was a relief to be outside again, even though the air was far from clean and fresh in the yard by the privies.
“I didn’t see who it was,” said Sarah when James ask
ed her about the attack.
“Which street were you on?”
“Clark’s Buildings.”
Her voice was quiet and she fidgeted nervously with the fringing of her shawl. Her features were dimly lit by the light from the kitchen and our breath hung frozen in the air.
“What time of day was it?”
“Evenin’.”
“It was dark?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve already told me you think it occurred during the first week of December. Where were you headed?”
“Can’t remember. I needed money.”
“Did you see the man before he attacked you?”
“No.”
“And what did he do exactly?”
“’E put a rag over me nose and mouth. It ’ad an ’orrible smell.”
“And as you didn’t see him before he did this, I’m assuming that he was behind you?”
“Yeah.”
“The man crept up behind you while you were walking?”
“Yeah.”
“And what did you do when he put the rag over your nose and mouth?”
“I tried to push ’im off. And I screamed as best I could.”
“And what was his response?”
“He pulled me onto me back.”
“He pulled you backwards so that you fell onto the ground?”
“Yeah.”
“And did you do anything as this happened?”
“Yeah, I fought ’im. I dug me nails into ’is ’ands, and I kicked wiv me legs, and I cried out. It ’urt what ’e were doin’ and that rag smelt somethin’ rotten.”
“Could you see his face?”
“Nah.”
“Could you see if he was wearing a particular type of hat?”
“He ’ad an ’at on. Dunno what sort.”
“Did he have whiskers?”
“Yeah, I fink so.”
“Did he speak at all? Or make any noise?”
“Nah.”
“And how did you get away?”
“Someone came alongside o’ me. I was kickin’ me boots on the ground and they made a noise. An’ I cried out some, and someone ’eard it.”