‘Oh dear, Peter tried to do for yer after all these years ’as he? Personally, I wouldn’t ’ave waited so long.’ Mr Williams’ insults caused the woman to smile.
‘I would never ’ave married you in the first place; not even if you was the last man on earth!’ Mrs Unwin retaliated.
Mr Williams threw back his head and laughed. ‘Touché. You’m getting witty in yer old age. White vinegar, Mrs Unwin. That’s the best thing to use. The Home & Colonial store sells it.’
‘I thank you,’ Mrs Unwin replied as she walked to the door. ‘Oh, by the way, yer winder display looks right nice – nowt to do with you though, I’ll be bound!’ Then she left with a smile on her face.
‘Have you always been so rude to your customers?’ Victoria asked.
Mr Williams nodded. ‘Banter is good for the soul. It makes people smile and that’s a lovely thing, but who knows for how much longer I can do it?’
Victoria watched him go as he retired to the back room. It was a strange thing to say – was he ill?
Pushing the thought aside, Victoria concentrated instead on Ann Felton.
The haughty Miss Beckett was still of the mind that Ann’s dresses would not sell – mainly because she would continue to discourage buyers. There was no doubt the workmanship was of the highest quality and the designs were unique. Victoria would have considered purchasing one for herself had she been getting married – and if it was anyone but Ann Felton who was selling them.
A nasty little smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she thought, No matter. I will continue to ensure nothing of Felton’s will sell in this shop. Eventually she will give up.
Even as the thought came, the devil on her shoulder asked, But will she?
Eighteen
Mrs Unwin hurried through the marketplace to the Home & Colonial store, her mind now on the contretemps she’d had with that prostitute in the street. She had told her husband Peter all about it and, being a devout Christian, he had told her to turn the other cheek. It was all very well him saying that, he hadn’t had to listen to the woman’s disgusting comments.
Having purchased the white vinegar, she made her way home, wondering whether it would remove the bloodstain from Peter’s shirt. Drawn to his attention, he had apologised profusely for the mess his shaving cut had created, thus causing his darling extra work. Dismissing it as nothing much to worry about, Rachel, like a dutiful wife, had bathed the nick on his throat with salt water.
Rachel Unwin smiled to herself. What a dear man he was and how he doted on her. She knew in her heart, Peter would never in a million years associate with any of those dirty women. He was more than happy in his marriage to her, for didn’t he tell her every day how much he loved her?
Reaching home, Rachel immediately soaked the stained spot in vinegar before beginning her baking. As she worked, her mind stayed on the man she’d married. He was kind and considerate and liked by everyone. She loved to watch him play the organ in St John’s Church on Sunday mornings – he had such a talent and played by ear.
In the evenings, they sat together by the fire, she with her darning and he reading the Bible he loved so much. Occasionally, during the week, he would go along to the church to practise his organ playing in readiness for the next Sunday service. Despite all of the good things about Peter, that one nickname returned constantly to mind, Peter Piper, that was what that woman had called him. Try as she might, she couldn’t cast it from her memory. Why had that woman called him that? She couldn’t know he was well endowed unless…
Rachel felt the heat rise to her cheeks as the image of her naked husband flashed in front of her eyes. Pushing her wayward hair from her forehead with the back of a floury hand, she gave herself a mental shake.
Suddenly she laughed out into the quiet kitchen. Peter Piper. Of course! The organ at the church was a monstrosity of connected air pipes. Having said her husband played the organ, obviously the woman had drawn her own conclusion to come up with the nickname. Rachel sighed her contentment, at least that question was answered. Humming quietly to herself, she placed the steak and kidney pie in the range before clearing away her utensils.
Whilst his wife was busy with her baking, Peter Unwin was adding up a long column of figures. He worked as a clerk to a very successful accountant. Sighing loudly, he counted again. His mind was elsewhere today and each time he totted up, he reached a different total.
Pushing the ledger aside, he leaned back in his seat and stared at the clock on the wall. It was hours before he would finish work and be able to get along to enjoy his hobby.
Dragging the hefty book of figures towards him once more, he began the count again. Satisfied, he dipped his pen nib into the inkwell and entered the numbers into the space provided. Keeping busy was the answer, for it would forestall his excitement, which constantly built up inside him. Peter Unwin was about to spend another evening with a prostitute from Camp Street.
Thinking back, Peter smiled to himself. Unbeknown to his wife of ten years, he had enjoyed the pleasures of other women since the day he married. Ensuring he kept his doting wife happy, she hadn’t the slightest suspicion regarding his philandering.
Rachel was not demanding where matters of the bedroom were concerned, which was a blessing, for that left him free to indulge his passion elsewhere.
Slipping out to practise his organ playing, he would indeed play a couple of hymns for all living nearby to hear. His alibi secure, he would then away to Camp Street to relieve his pent-up frustrations. It was not ideal, of course – in fact, it was positively seedy – but that made it all the more exciting.
Glancing at the clock again, Peter sighed. A watched kettle never boils!
Turning the page in the ledger book, he knuckled down to work. However, in the back of his mind he wondered which, if any, of the girls would be standing on the corner tonight. Business had been slow since the murders, but Peter was not fussy – any one of them would do.
*
Meanwhile over at the police station next to St John’s Church, Inspector Jack Towers was ready to pull his hair out.
‘Nothing?’ he asked.
‘No sir. Nobody saw or heard a thing,’ the constable answered.
Dismissing the young policeman from his office with a flick of his fingers, Towers rubbed his abdomen. His ulcer was playing up again. Reaching into his desk, he pulled out a small glass bottle. Pulling the cork out, he took a mouthful of the milky liquid. Swallowing, he pulled a face before replacing the stopper. Popping a boiled sweet into his mouth to take away the foul taste of the medicine, he placed the bottle back in the drawer.
Leaning forward, his elbows on the desktop, he steepled his fingers. The house to house enquiries had brought no clues as to who might be committing these heinous crimes. The night-soil men had been working way across the town at the time, so were unable to help.
Shaking his head, Jack leaned back, sucking hard on his boiled sweet.
Where to now? he asked himself. He had no leads to follow and was exasperated. The mayor, as well as the community, were baying for blood. The fear was that the murderer might move on from killing prostitutes and target other women or girls. They wanted this person caught – and soon.
Jumping to his feet, he marched into the bigger room, where his workforce was gathered. Quiet descended as all eyes turned to him.
‘As from right now, we’m all on overtime,’ he said. To his surprise, however, not one moan was heard. Nodding his admiration, he went on, ‘I want this bugger apprehended! Now, as you know, we ain’t got a thing to go on, so I want more of you patrolling that area – in pairs!
‘What if he strikes somewhere else?’ a voice came from the back.
‘Then we’ll bloody miss him agen, won’t we?’ Jack’s patience was on a very short leash. His ulcer burned in his belly, making him even more irritable. ‘Sorry, lad, but this has me riled all to hell.’
‘’S all right, sir, we all feel the same, don’t we fellas?’
Nods affirmed the constable’s words.
‘Right, this is what I propose.’ Pulling a map open on the table in the centre of the room, Jack stabbed it with a finger. ‘I want a pair stationed here at the intersection between Camp Hill Lane and Union Street. Two more here next to the timber yard and another two near the tramway by Russell Street. Two in the chapel grounds on Camp Street and more halfway up – about here.’ Everyone watched Towers’ finger trace the map. ‘Then we come to Victoria Street. I want a pair of you at either end. Down ’ere at the chapel on the tramway some more. Then I need a graveyard watch at St John’s Church across the road.’
Jack smiled as now the groans went up.
‘It ain’t the dead you need worry about, lads,’ he laughed. ‘Besides I’ll be there with yer. So, can anybody think of anything else?’
Shaking heads and silence greeted him.
‘The Sergeant will assign yer duties, which will be on strict rotation so everybody gets to do the graveyard stint.’ His smile soured as he finished with, ‘Lads, we need to stop this person – NOW! Whoever it is that’s killing these women is doing it on our patch – right under our bloody noses! Stand together, lads, and let’s get this bugger!’
Jack’s stirring speech triggered spontaneous applause before the Sergeant called for order and began to pair up his constables. It was to be round-the-clock surveillance, so he drew up a work and rest rota. Each two man team would check on the large chalkboard for which hours and area they would work. All of them were eager to see the perpetrator caught and hoped, once he was, he would be put away for life.
Jack Towers nodded his thanks to the Sergeant before retreating back into his office, map in hand. There he studied the layout of the network of streets.
Right, you bastard, where will you strike next?
Nineteen
Ann and the others continued to work hard on her dress designs, but she was now extremely worried. Not one gown had sold and their savings were depleted drastically. For all that, the girls had kept to their promise to stay off the streets, fear of losing their lives at the forefront of their minds. She guessed they might be begging or stealing to supplement their larder stocks, but all she could do was pray for guidance.
Staring into the fire, her sewing resting on her lap, Ann was frantically searching for a way out of this predicament. Knowing very soon now these women would be forced back to their previous employment, Ann was terrified she would lose another friend to the murderer who was still at large. What could she do? How could she make her business work? Something was going wrong, but she was at a loss as to what that could be.
Fretting was not helping matters, Ann knew, and with renewed vigour she picked up her sewing once more.
A knock to the door had her glance up and Maisie went to answer.
Richard Wyndham followed a grinning Maisie into the cramped living room. ‘Good morning, ladies. I trust I find you all well.’
Given tea and home-made biscuits, he settled himself in a chair vacated by Ella. ‘I was on my way into the town to conduct a little business and thought I would drop in, I hope it’s convenient.’ Richard smiled warmly as his eyes met Ann’s.
‘You’m welcome ’ere anytime,’ Maisie said.
Gratified to hear it, he spoke directly to Ann. ‘Any luck with the sales?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she answered, desperately fighting back tears of frustration and heartache.
‘I’m sure the tide will turn before long,’ he smiled.
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ Ann muttered.
Richard’s heart went out to the beauty sat so close to him. He saw the sadness cloud her hazel eyes and her dark lashes line with moisture. My God, Ann, you have no idea what you’re doing to me! he thought.
Jumping up, he relinquished his cup and saucer into Eve’s hands, saying, ‘I’d best get a move on. Thank you for the tea. Ladies, I bid you adieu and I will see you all again soon.’
Ann watched him go with a deep longing in her heart, but she knew deep down it could never be. Richard would be going home once his business was concluded and she’d be left wanting.
She should have told him not to call again, but she couldn’t. She wanted to see him, if only for a short time. Allowing his visits was hurting her, but she only had herself to blame. No matter how much her heart ached, she could not stop wanting him. Trying to put it from her mind, Ann resumed the task at hand as she listened to the girls’ chatter.
Walking briskly towards Union Street, Richard’s boots and walking cane tapped a steady beat on the cobblestones. Ann was very unhappy and under tremendous strain. Her sadness stemmed from the lack of sales. The tension that gripped her was having taken those women under her wing with promises that could not be realised.
Coming to Williams’ Drapery, he stood aside as two women left the shop. ‘Ladies,’ he said lifting his hat.
The older of the two smiled at him.
Richard looked at the new window display with admiration at Ann’s efforts.
‘But, Mother, there’s nowhere else to look!’
Richard heard the younger girl’s dismay.
‘May I be of help, ladies?’ he asked, again tipping his hat.
‘We’re looking for my wedding gown, but the girl in there said these would be of no use. She said they were not nearly good enough and we don’t know of another shop!’ The girl was clearly upset.
‘I know the dressmaker of these gowns, madam, and I can assure you – you will find no better. I cannot imagine why you were told they would be no good for you, but please take my advice and visit the lady herself.’ Taking a small notebook and pencil from his top pocket, he wrote down the address. Tearing free the page, he offered it to the older woman. ‘You won’t be disappointed, I promise you. Ann Felton is the lady you seek and she will make you the finest gown you have ever seen. It’s that way.’ Richard smiled broadly and pointed in the direction the women should travel.
‘Thank you, young man,’ the mother said, then turning to her daughter she smiled saying, ‘come along now, Amelia, let’s go and find Miss Felton.’
Richard wanted to jump in the air and click his heels together, he was so excited, but instead he turned his gaze once more to the shop window. Now he knew why Ann’s gowns were not selling.
Plastering a smile on his face he walked into the shop.
‘Good morning, I’m here to see Mr Williams,’ Richard deliberately chose not to address Victoria with her given name and he didn’t miss the scowl on her face as she walked away from him.
‘Ah, Lord Wyndham! Come through please. Victoria, tea for our guest.’ Mr Williams led Richard into the back room.
Settled in comfortable chairs, they chatted whilst waiting for Victoria to bring refreshments.
‘Thank you, m’dear. While I speak with Mr Wyndham I’d like you to dust down all the shelves.’ Mr Williams closed the door on the retreating girl. ‘That should keep her busy for some considerable time, but it’s my guess she’ll have her ear pinned to that door.’
‘Then we must keep our voices low and dupe her out of the gossip she so keenly desires,’ Richard laughed.
Two hours later Richard left a decidedly happier man. Mr Williams had jumped at his offer to buy the shop. It was agreed a solicitor should draw up the necessary paperwork, and once signed by both parties, the bank would pay Mr Williams the amount owed. Discovering it was Victoria who was trying to prevent Ann’s dresses from selling, Richard kept the information to himself. He knew exactly how to deal with the matter once the shop became his.
Hailing a cab, Richard asked to be taken to a reputable solicitor’s office; he intended to see the paperwork completed this very day. He had already forewarned the bank manager of his plans, so, at his word, payment would be made immediately. Mr Williams had excitedly divulged that he would travel to America by steam ship as soon as he could book a passage.
The following morning saw Mr Williams’ bank account swell considerably, and Lord Richa
rd Wyndham the new owner of the drapery shop.
Mr Williams was quietly packing a large trunk with his clothes, for he had indeed booked that passage on a steamer travelling to the Americas. He had said nothing to Victoria regarding the sale of his shop, as agreed with Richard, and when she informed him a carter was here to see him, he merely nodded.
Mr Williams and the carter dragged the trunk outside and heaved it up onto the wagon. Climbing into the driving seat, the carter waited. Mr Williams shot back indoors to grab his coat and hat. With a quick goodbye to Victoria, he was gone.
Standing with her mouth open, Victoria wondered what on earth was going on. Mr Williams had said nothing about taking a holiday and yet he had just left, trunk and all. Was she expected to run this place without him? Did she have to cash up as well as lock up? Staring at the door through which Mr Williams had virtually run in his haste to be gone, Victoria could do nothing but shake her head.
Whilst Mr Williams was making a swift getaway, Richard arrived at Maisie’s in a cab. Paying the driver handsomely, he banged on the door eager to impart his good news, but he was devastated to see Ann in floods of tears on entering the small living room.
Looking at Maisie, questions written all over his face, he listened as she said, ‘Ann’s upset because she thinks we’m all sufferin’. Her gowns ain’t sellin’ but a woman and her daughter ordered a wedding frock and a mother of the bride outfit as well. So, it’s happy and sad tears you’m lookin’ on.’
‘Oh Ann! Don’t cry, please…’ Richard rushed to the sobbing girl as the others discreetly left the room and crowded into the tiny kitchen.
‘I never thought I would sell anything and now I have!’ Ann managed between sobs. ‘The problem is I won’t get paid until the designs are finished and we all have to eat and pay rent in the meantime!’
Taking her hand, he stroked the back, saying, ‘Don’t worry about that. I have some good news to share.’
Tea trays in hands, the others returned to hear what Richard had to say.
Fallen Women Page 13
