‘You’re much better though,’ I remarked. ‘You always have your salts, and you seem to lie down almost before you actually pass out. Today you even had time to take your hat off and put it to one side. Besides,’ I took from my pocket the tiny key, ‘whilst you were swooning in front of Dr Proudlove, I found this in John Aberlady’s stomach.’
Will took it up. ‘This would most likely fit an item of furniture,’ he said. ‘A drawer, perhaps, or a cabinet? Possibly a desk – an escritoire – or a box? It might even be the key to a book. Or a jewel case.’
‘All manner of possibilities,’ I remarked. ‘We must keep our eyes open for locked books, boxes, escritoires, desks, cabinets, jewel cases and drawers – amongst other things. But whatever it unlocks it is obviously of some importance or else why would he have swallowed it?’
‘He was hallucinating,’ said Will. ‘Hallucinating so much that he also tried to burn off his tattoo with a poker. Who knows what was going through his mind?’
‘And, while we are looking out for tiny locks that are missing their key, we also have these. One from Aberlady’s pocket, the other from Mary Mercer.’ I held out the two identical love tokens. ‘The flower is the forget-me-not, which is a common enough motif and speaks for itself.’
‘And the other?’ He held up the sixpence, peering at the fine lines that marked out the shape of a pointed leafy bract, as fine as gossamer, hammered into the silver.
‘The other motif is the maidenhair fern.’
‘And it means?’
‘It means “a secret bond of love” – as far as I understand these things.’
‘A secret bond of love between the dead girl and John Aberlady?’
‘It would seem that way. Perhaps we should go up to the League for Female Redemption and see what else we can find out about the girl.’ I put the tokens back into my pocket. ‘For what wouldn’t one do for love?’
Siren House, the premises of the League for Female Redemption, was not far from the waterfront at the end of Cuttlefish Lane, a dingy thoroughfare adjacent to the Seaman’s Dispensary. The door was opened by a girl with a bored expression. Her lank hair was parted in the centre and looped under her ears. From behind her we could hear the discordant sounds of women singing, thunderously accompanied by a badly tuned piano. At the sight of us the girl beamed. ‘Hello, sirs! You’re up early!’
I blinked. ‘Annie,’ I said. ‘This isn’t . . . I mean . . . you’re not at Mrs Roseplucker’s now?’
‘Ain’t no one at Mrs Roseplucker’s now,’ replied Annie. ‘Since St Saviour’s moved south of the river there’s no one to come a-callin’.’
‘And so you decided to come here?’
‘May as well,’ said Annie.
‘What’s happened to your hair?’ said Will. ‘And your dress?’
I remembered the girl’s coy ringlets, her yellow flounced dress. The dress she wore now was a simple high-necked garment of dark green cotton. The last time I had seen her – some two years ago now – she had been lounging on a sofa in the front parlour of Mrs Roseplucker’s Home for Young Ladies of an Energetic Disposition wearing a garment that threatened to slip from her shoulders altogether. She had been introduced to me as ‘a virgin, sir. But keen to learn.’
‘I look an absolute mess,’ she said. She scowled and touched a hand to her hair. ‘But Dr Birdwhistle says if I stick it out I’ll get a new life. In Australia if I wants to.’
‘Dr Birdwhistle?’ said Will.
‘He’s one the “founding fathers” of the League for Female Redemption.’ She gestured behind her. ‘That’s what this place is, and that’s what he calls himself.’ I noticed she was doing her best to speak properly – re-affixing aitches and other consonants she had formerly disregarded.
‘D’you want a new life in Australia?’ I said. I thought of what I had learned of the place during my adventures up at Angel Meadow Asylum. ‘From what I hear it won’t offer you an easy life.’
‘Some of the girls from here get work in London. Some go to Australia. Some run away. Some goes back to their old life.’ She grinned. ‘Suppose I ain’t decided yet which of those suits me best.’
‘Anne?’ A voice called out from inside. ‘Anne, who is it? And at such a time too! We have not even finished our morn ing hymns.’ The piano had fallen silent. I heard a great rustling of silk skirts and starched petticoats and a gigantic woman appeared on the doorstep. She wore an expression of delighted welcome, until she saw who we were – two strange men, talking in a familiar fashion to an ex-prostitute – at which point she glowered at us as though we had horns and forked tails.
‘There can be no men on these premises,’ she said. ‘Didn’t Anne tell you? Do you not know who and what we are here?’
‘Why, yes, madam—’ I began.
‘Oh, these gentlemen ain’t like that,’ said Annie. ‘Why, I knowed them both at Mrs Roseplucker’s—’
‘We do not mention our shameful pasts here,’ cried the woman, holding her hands over her ears. ‘Only our hopeful futures.’
‘Not like that, ma’am. Mr Jem here’s the apothecary from St Saviour’s. Used to help us out – against the pox, and such like.’
The woman’s face turned purple. ‘And the other one?’
‘I’m Mr Flockhart’s assistant against the pox, ma’am,’ said Will. He swept off his hat. ‘A pleasure to find such a worthy cause here on the riverside.’
Annie winked at him broadly. ‘Mr Quartermain, that’s who he is. Still a virgin, sir? Lord, I hope not!’
‘And you, madam?’ said Will hastily.
‘I am Mrs Birdwhistle.’
‘We are here to see the superintendent,’ I said realising that I had no idea what the name was of the woman who had identified the dead girl.
‘No gentlemen may cross this threshold,’ cried Mrs Birdwhistle. ‘Aside from the Reverend Dr Ambrose Birdwhistle.’
‘And the real doctors,’ said Annie.
‘The Reverend Dr Birdwhistle is a real doctor,’ cried the woman. ‘A doctor of divinity.’
‘I meant the medical doctors.’
‘Dr Sackville, Dr Antrobus and Dr Cole come here in a purely professional and philanthropic capacity.’
‘And Mr Aberlady.’
‘I believe he is dead, the poor fellow—’
‘And, of course, there was the constable that time.’ Annie’s eyes twinkled as she slid the fat woman an arch look. ‘Remember him, ma’am? He crossed the threshold, and more besides!’
‘That constable had no business in here. He was asked to ensure that none of you received stolen spirits from over the wall.’ She turned to us confidentially. ‘Drake’s Bonded Warehouse is at the end of the garden. The constable was supposed to be making sure nothing came over.’ Her cheeks trembled. ‘We found him in the front parlour with one of the girls.’
‘Big white arse,’ cackled Annie.
‘Get inside!’ thundered Mrs Birdwhistle. ‘You’ll be fined for that.’
‘Fined?’ I said. ‘Please, ma’am, don’t punish the girl on our account.’
‘I will do nothing at all on your account. The fine refers to Captain McConnochie’s Mark System. Marks awarded for good behaviour, marks deducted for ill-temper, disrespect, bad language, that sort of thing. What’s good enough for Norfolk Island is good enough for us.’
‘Norfolk Island is an Australian penal colony, is it not?’ said Will.
‘If we might speak to the superintendent,’ I repeated before she could answer him. I did not want a lecture on methods of penal control. ‘There was an unfortunate incident. A drowning. I believe the . . . the girl involved was known to her.’
‘I shall let you in just this once,’ said the woman. She pulled the door wide. ‘I am secretary to the ladies’ committee. Today is our committee day, and you are in luck, for you would not be permitted inside otherwise. We were enjoying some music. We have hymns every morning from nine to half past. You are just in time, sirs, to hear our final song
, There is a Land of Pure Delight. Our girls do not play, of course, that’s an accomplishment for a lady. But sing everyone can. Everyone must.’
‘The superintendent,’ I said. ‘Is she here?’
‘She has not yet arrived, sir.’ She stared at me crossly. ‘You are rather early. It is fortunate for you that here at Siren House an early start is considered a virtue. Formerly our girls were “of the night”, and we do all we can to counter so wretched and perverse an inclination.’
‘And when might the superintendent arrive?’
‘She will be in at any moment. In the meantime, perhaps you would lend your voices to our morning choir?’
‘Your work here,’ said Will as we were ushered into a wide hall tiled in black and white. ‘It seems most . . . beneficial, and . . . and—’ He groped for a word that would be acceptable, ‘humane,’ he said. ‘No beatings, I trust?’
‘No,’ Mrs Birdwhistle sounded uncertain. Then, deciding she was being mocked, she drew herself up. ‘We are a philanthropic concern devoted to helping the fallen women of the waterfront and beyond. We are not a penitentiary, gentlemen, we are a refuge.’
She led us through to a drawing room with high ceilings and elegant cornices depicting sea shells and waves. It was simply furnished, with drugget on the floors and uncomfortable straight-backed chairs positioned about the walls. The tall sash windows were partly obscured by blinds, the glass behind them textured and stippled, so as to prevent those inside from seeing out, and those outside from seeing in.
The girls were seated on the chairs, in a ring before the piano. Their dresses were all of the same cut and fabric, with a high neck and close bodice above wide skirts. They were corseted stiffly, and sat poker-straight, their hair, like Annie’s, in imitation of the Queen, whose likeness hung on the wall – rosy cheeked and bulging eyed, with a slightly pained expression, as if she were suffering from indigestion after a heavy meal. The girls looked at us as we entered, their gazes, for a moment, eager and hopeful. They saw me, tall and thin, stony-faced, with my mask of red across my eyes, and Will wide-eyed and worried-looking, anxiously squeezing the rim of his tall hat between his hands, and they looked away, disappointed.
There were a number of pinched-faced women occupying more comfortable chairs – ladies, judging by the opulence of their dress and the smooth complexity of their hair styles – and we were introduced to them one by one, ‘Mrs’ this and ‘Mrs’ that, each of them giving their title with an air of relish and superiority. At the piano sat the Reverend Dr Ambrose Birdwhistle.
‘You find me at my charitable work,’ he said, rising to his feet and coming foward to shake our hands. ‘I can be found here, at the Blood and at the Seaman’s Mission. “And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity”. First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse thirteen.’
‘The pastoral and the spiritual are of equal importance,’ I remarked, for want of anything more interesting to say.
‘The teaching of the Lord forms the backbone of our work here at Siren House,’ he said. ‘Though we do not force them into His arms.’
‘Dr Birdwhistle leads the women in prayer every day and joins us in singing whenever we have a committee meeting,’ said Mrs Birdwhistle. ‘The piano, at which he excels, is a rare treat for us all. The morning hymns are usually sung without any accompaniment – it does the girls the power of good to depend on one another for harmony.’
‘How many girls are resident here?’ I said.
‘We can take no more than twelve,’ Dr Birdwhistle shook his head. ‘Would it were more, gentlemen. There are so many of them. The Irish, you know—’
‘Indeed, sir,’ I said. Prior’s Rents, the rookeries close by my apothecary, were full of the Irish. They had come in droves in the ’40s, driven from their own country by famine, but had found nothing in London but a different type of miserable poverty, one steeped in crime and vice. ‘We wanted to speak to you about Mary. Mary Mercer—’
‘The house was owned by a naval captain – before the area fell into disrepute for the neighbourhood is not what it once was,’ said Mrs Birdwhistle, her voice loud.
‘Indeed,’ said her husband. ‘But with help from our numerous contributors we have been able to turn it into a home to help those who wish to help themselves.’
‘There is a similar institution out at Shepherds Bush,’ said Mrs Birdwhistle. ‘Patronised by Mr Dickens, you know.’
‘Ah, but Mr Dickens disapproves of us, my dear.’ Dr Birdwhistle smiled, his small spectacles glinting. ‘We are insalubrious.’ He laughed. ‘And so we are, for the river stinks to high heaven! But the rent is far cheaper.’
‘And how do these fortunate girls find their way to you, sir?’ said Will.
‘Mrs Birdwhistle and I tour the penitentiaries of the city,’ said the reverend doctor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fold of paper. ‘I have penned a short pamphlet, “The Horrors of the Degraded Life”. Girls read it and if it speaks to them they seek us out when their sentences are done. Please.’ He handed it over. ‘Do take one.’
‘And Mary Mercer came here? Where was she before?’
‘I cannot say,’ replied Dr Birdwhistle.
‘But you did know her?’
‘She was here, yes.’
‘What can you tell us about her? About her past?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dr Birdwhistle. His face had turned pink, his smile fixed. ‘Nothing at all.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned towards me. ‘“Judge nothing before the time, until the Lord come, who will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the heart”.’ His breath in my face was stale and metallic-smelling.
‘Corinthians!’ cried Mrs Birdwhistle. ‘There is no need to whisper your insights, my dear.’
‘And yet you are here every day, sir?’ I said.
‘I am.’
‘And do you not know the girls under your care?’
‘They are under the care of the superintendent.’
There was something he was not telling me. He knew about Mary Mercer, I was certain. And yet he chose to say nothing? ‘And who – and where – is the superintendent?’ I said.
‘I would prefer it, sir, if you spoke to me rather than about me.’
I had not heard the door open, had not seen her standing behind me. She was taller than I remembered, narrow at the waist, but with unfashionably square shoulders and long lean arms. Her dress was a dark blue, the white edging at her collar and cuffs bright against the dark fabric of her dress and the ebony skin of her hands and throat. Her complexion was flawless, her eyes narrow above high, sharp cheekbones, her head finely shaped, her hair dull against the burnished sheen of her skin, pulled tight into unnatural straightness by pins and clips and forced into a tight bun at the back of her long slender neck.
‘Ah, Miss Proudlove,’ said Dr Birdwhistle. He sounded relieved. ‘There you are at last. These gentlemen would like to speak to you.’
She led us out of the drawing room, down a dingy corridor and into a small parlour situated at the back of the house. The window looked out onto a long, narrow garden imprisoned by high walls – one side bounded by Cat’s Hole, the other by Cuttlefish Lane. The opposite end of the garden looked out onto the back of Drake’s Bonded Warehouse. She did not sit, and she did not ask us to sit. Instead she stood beside the fireplace, her profile silhouetted by the light of the window.
‘You’re related to Dr Proudlove?’ I said.
‘I don’t define myself by what my brother does for a living.’
‘Of course not—’
‘Then why ask?’
‘I just thought—’
‘I see what you think, sir. You think it easier to judge a woman’s worth by the profession of her male relations.’
‘I—’
‘I am Gethsemane Proudlove, and who I am is my own responsibility.’
‘Yes—’ I stammered. ‘Of course. And if
I might introduce myself—’
‘I know who you are, sir. And your companion. What is it you want from me? Or would you rather ask my brother as I am unlikely to have an opinion of my own?’
‘That girl,’ I blurted. ‘That dead girl. Mary Mercer. You knew her because she lived here?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘Because, like you, I believe she was murdered,’ I said. How quickly she had wrong-footed me. I felt as though I were scrabbling to stop myself from falling. I looked at Will for help, but he merely folded his arms, and grinned.
‘You didn’t say that to the police inspector,’ she said.
‘No,’ I replied. I realised now why the inspector had been so discourteous. Her race set her apart from other women; her life at Siren House put her still further outside his limited conception of respectability. No doubt his insolence was no less than what she was used to, for men hate what is different and unknown, what they do not understand or cannot control. ‘The inspector is a fool,’ I said. ‘We will find the person or persons who did this and then I will tell the magistrate.’
‘Will you, indeed.’ She sighed, and looked out of the window at the grey walls and prison-like windows of the warehouse ‘Did you stay to watch Dr Graves perform his post-mortem?’ she said.
‘Mary Mercer appears to have drowned,’ said Will. ‘Drowned, but without putting up a fight.’
‘She would have fought,’ said Miss Proudlove, her voice low. ‘Any of us would. Women have to. Women like us.’
‘Women like you?’ said Will.
Miss Proudlove glared at him. ‘Any woman.’
‘She didn’t drown,’ I said. ‘Though it was made to look as if she had.’
‘How could you tell?’
‘Because the water in her lungs was clear. And yet the water of Deadman’s Basin is the vilest liquid it is possible to conceive of. That sort of water was not present. So, I ask you again, miss, what can you tell us about Mary Mercer?’
‘How long was she in the water?’ she said quietly.
‘I would say perhaps two days. Certainly no more than four.’
The Blood: What secrets lie aboard? (Jem Flockhart Book 3) Page 10
