by Alex Scarrow
Outside in the passageway beyond the door to her rented room, she heard the clumping of heavy feet and the muted giggle of a woman. The tenants from upstairs returning from a night’s drinking. She glanced at the net curtains that hung down in front of her small grimy window. The first pallid grey stripes of dawn were leaking into her room. She reached over and turned out the wick of her lamp to save on the oil. In the grey gloom of dawn, she picked the satchel up and took it over to the stool by the window.
Outside in the street, through the broken panel of her window, she heard the clack of boots: men off to work.
The backstreet reminded her of home. Llangyndeyrn. The rows of terraced houses and cobbled roads. The threads of smoke from breakfast hearths from a thousand chimney pots rising to a horizon of craggy peaks. Mary smiled wistfully at how far she’d risen and fallen in five short years.
Eighteen when she left Saint Mary’s convent with ideas in her head far too big for a modest Welsh valley town. No, it was London she wanted. Her parents, long used to dealing with their stubborn, wilful daughter, could only plead tearfully that she be awful careful and write often as they emptied every last jar of coins they had into her travel bag.
Eighteen she’d been, travelling alone to London. She remembered that day so well: grinning with excitement with her bag clutched in her hands, staring out of the window as the train pulled through the suburbs west of London. She saw the tall spires of factory chimney stacks, cranes on the horizon and workmen-like ants crawling along the rafters and scaffold of tall new buildings. She felt the magnetic pull of the beating heart of the capital. The pull of the most powerful city of the British Empire. The very centre of the civilised world.
What a place to be. What a place for someone like her: young, energetic, with big ideas. Oh, she had plans, didn’t she? Naïve plans, looking back now. But back then, to that grinning eighteen-year-old, they’d been plans that were perfectly plausible. She was going to offer her services as a piano teacher. She was going to knock on the doors of the richest houses in London and present herself confidently and proudly. And soon after establishing herself as a tutor, she was going to find herself teaching some adorable young bachelor, with a bobbing Adam’s apple and a dry tongue who was going to fall head over heels in love with her coy smile and her gentle, playful teasing.
Marriage would follow soon after that, of course, and her young husband was going to support her setting up a music school, which, naturally, she was going to run. Their home would become a place to entertain musicians, composers, poets, writers, painters, even actors. The more sophisticated dailies would be filled with stories about their fantastic parties, and the glamorous hostess in the middle of it all, Mary Kelly – or whatever surname she’d be using then.
She sighed.
Five years on and those grand ideas of her silly younger self were so ridiculous that she laughed every time she recalled them. A bitter laugh, and usually accompanied by a tear or two. She’d got some of the way there, though, hadn’t she? Some of the way. Then she was stupid, careless, and threw it all away.
And now she was here, in this one room. In a room that reeked of damp wood and mothballs, and the vinegar-burn tang of stale urine from the tenant before who was either too sloppy with his night-water bowl, or just too lazy to use it and so pissed in the corner.
She looked back down at the satchel in her lap. Her hand stole in again under the flap. A thief. Occasional pickpocket. That was her now. And a tart; not even an honest tart. She tried to convince herself that the only thing which put her one modest step above all the other ‘girls’ she kept company with now was that a part of her old self was still alive somewhere inside. Still believing there was a way out of this dead-eyed existence.
But then stealing this bag from a dying man? Was it possible to sink any lower? She wondered whether he’d died or whether that approaching cab driver had found him, perhaps even done the decent thing and taken him to a hospital? Saint Bartholomew’s was just a stone’s throw away, wasn’t it?
Her cheeks burned with shame. She could have called out for help to the cabbie, or gone and looked for a patrolling policeman. But no. She’d taken this bag off him and run.
What’ve you become, Mary?
It was then that her fingertips found the feathery-fan texture of the end of a tight bundle of paper. She fumbled by touch, heard the rustle of paper inside the bag. Gently she pulled it out of the satchel and held the bundle up in front of her face. She frowned, not quite sure of what she was looking at at first. She pulled the net curtain back a bit to allow a little more of the meagre grey light into her room.
‘Oh my . . .’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Oh my . . .’
CHAPTER 5
13th September 1888, Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
Mary Kelly turned in through the entrance gates of Saint Bart’s. The one-way arc-shaped driveway was already busy with traffic: hansom cabs and private coaches bringing in hospital visitors or taking away patients well enough to return home; food vendors wheeling in hand-pulled traps to sell in the hospital’s foyer.
This morning had been an agonising tug of war for Mary. Money. So much money in that bag, she hadn’t even brought herself to consider counting it yet. But enough in there, surely, that she’d never need to do a stitch of work again in her life. Ever.
She was troubled though. Not so much on the ethics of the situation. Bugger that, the money was hers. But, she was troubled by more practical matters. A lingering concern pricked her bubbling euphoria. There was a lot of money being carried by that gentleman. She wondered whether it was being transported from one place to another. It was somebody’s money. Somebody who had a lot more of it? Somebody powerful and rich? Somebody who was going to be looking for it? And god help the poor wretch holding onto it when that somebody found out who they were and came knocking at their door.
Mary was almost certain that she was safe. As long as she was discreet and clever about it, she was going to be fine. Almost certain. She’d be a lot happier if she knew for certain that the gentleman in Argyll Street had been brought in dead, though. He’d seen her. He’d looked at her. It would put her mind to rest to know for sure that he’d bled out.
If he’d been found by that cab driver or someone else later on yesterday morning, then the body would still have been brought here to this hospital, the nearest one. It was a matter of careful enquiry. And if she found out that he’d not survived his wounds, then the matter was settled. The money was hers!
I mustn’t be silly with it.
She would need to be so very discreet. Pay her rent and leave. Perhaps come up with some sort of a cover story to tell the other girls. She’d tell them her parents had sent enough money for a ticket to take her back home to Wales. She’d have to leave Whitechapel promptly and find herself somewhere else to live on the other side of London. Why London though? Perhaps even another country. Some far corner of the empire? America? Africa? India?
Mary stifled an excited smile. She could become someone else. She’d have to come up with a new life story, a new name. Mary could do that. She could play at being someone else. Do all the proper talk with a little practice.
She looked up at a starling swooping across the roof of the hospital. Flying free.
That’s me. Flying free.
But one last thing. This last thing. To be sure. To be safe.
She pushed her way through the large oak and glass doors into the hospital’s foyer, the high ceiling echoing and ringing with voices and the bustle of activity all around her. Weaving her way through the hospital porters and food vendors, she passed by wooden benches crammed with seated, waiting patients clutching bloodied rags to foreheads, hips, arms, thighs. The usual casualties of spill-out time from the public houses. She looked for her gentleman amongst them but saw no one who looked remotely like the man.
‘Help you, love?’ asked the sister manning the front desk. She look flustered and impatient.
‘I . . .
I wonder if you can. I, well, I’m enquiring about a gentleman who might have been brought in late last night. Poorly thing. I think someone had stabbed him and beat his head.’
The sister looked tired; end of a long night shift. ‘The one from near Soho? Argyll Street? Well-to-do sort?’
‘Yes!’ said Mary. ‘Yes, that’s right. It was very late, early hours even . . .’
‘That’s right.’ The woman checked an entry book. ‘Came in just after two.’
Mary steadied her nerves. She could feel her voice fluttering anxiously. ‘I wondered, how is he?’
The woman looked up at her and saw the anxiety written on her pale face. ‘Are you related?’ Mary sensed the woman evaluating. A few fleeting moments as the nurse took in the crisp new bonnet that Mary had bought this morning, and the shawl that covered the threadbare seams of her jacket. ‘Are you family?’ There was a hint of cynicism in her voice.
Mary hesitated a moment too long to get away with trying to say ‘yes’. She realised she was trembling.
‘A friend then?’ asked the woman more softly. ‘A close friend?’
Mary nodded, even managing a tear that tumbled down onto one pale cheek.
The sister sighed sympathetically. ‘Shouldn’t really do this, love . . . not if you’re not proper next of kin, but—’
‘Oh my lord, is he—?’
‘Dead?’ The sister smiled, reached a hand over the desk and gently squeezed one of Mary’s. ‘No. But the poor chap’s feeling very sorry for himself this morning. He’s very much alive, my dear.’
Mary’s cheeks dampened with several more tears. She smiled. But inside she felt panic beginning to bubble up and give her away. She wondered where the devil she was going to take this exchange next.
‘Come with me, love,’ said the nurse sympathetically. ‘You can look at him briefly, but not too long. He needs his rest.’ She turned to ask a colleague to take over on the front desk and, with a firm arm around Mary’s shoulders, guided her away from the hustle and bustle of the foyer, through a pair of heavy swing doors.
‘I . . . I don’t want to be any trouble. I—’
‘I’m finished for today anyway,’ the sister said. ‘Staff cloakroom’s along this way anyhow. It’s no trouble.’ She looked at Mary, glassy-eyed and pale. ‘He is going to be just fine, the doctor said.’
They walked down the hushed passageway, finally taking a door on the left leading to the men’s ward. Heavy, dark wood doors again with frosted glass. The sister pushed one of them open a few inches and nodded towards the row of hospital beds on the inside.
‘Third one along on the right. That’s your gentleman.’
Mary could see a man with bandages around his head like a comically large Indian turban. He was fast asleep.
‘See?’ said the nurse. She smiled. ‘You can relax. He’s on the mend, so he is.’
‘Could I . . . ?’
‘Go in? No. No visitors until the doctor says otherwise,’ said the nurse. ‘He’s still very poorly and not up to seeing anyone, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, right.’ Mary nodded. She struggled to wrestle back a puff of relief.
‘Speaking of which . . .’ The nurse nodded politely at the doctor as he approached the double doors.
‘Sister,’ he said, looking at Mary. ‘I’m sure you know there’s no visiting on the ward yet? Not until I’ve done my rounds.’
‘Sorry, sir. The lady here was awfully worried about the gent who came in early this morning. I was just showing her that he’s perfectly fine, doctor.’
He made a face. ‘Ahh . . . I see.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘I wouldn’t say he’s “perfectly fine”. The head trauma was quite severe.’ He noted the flicker of reaction in Mary’s face. ‘I mean to say he’ll live, but he’s experiencing some disorientation. Some confusion.’
‘Confusion?’
‘A forgetfulness.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘This can happen with a heavy blow to the head. “Amnesia”, we call it. A forgetfulness of everyday normal things. Most often it’s a temporary condition that fixes itself in due course.’ The doctor deployed a well-practised reassuring smile for her benefit. ‘Even the most severe cases of complete forgetfulness, when a patient doesn’t even remember their own name, these things, these memories, can fully return eventually.’
Mary looked up at him. ‘Is he . . . is he that bad?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘It’s very early yet. He has some swelling, a lesion inside his skull, which we’re tapping to ensure the swelling does not cause any more harm to his brain. May I suggest you give him a day or two’s rest? Then I shall have a clearer understanding of his condition?’
‘Yes.’ Mary nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Whatever you think is best.’
The doctor nodded politely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get started.’ He hesitated in the doorway, the door half pushed open. ‘Oh, what is the gentleman’s name, by the way?’
Mary stared at him, frozen with panic. She hadn’t anticipated that: conjuring up a name.
‘His name? It’s for our records, you see.’
Mary’s mouth opened. ‘It’s . . . it’s John.’
‘John . . . ?’ The doctor raised an eyebrow, awaiting the rest.
Her mind was blank. Panic-blank. She licked dry lips as she raced to engage it, make it produce a credible name out of thin air. She saw the man huddled over on the street, bathed in the flickering amber glow of the street lamp, and beyond him, on the side of a brick wall, a street sign.
‘Argyll,’ she said finally. ‘John Argyll.’
CHAPTER 6
15th July 1888, Whitechapel, London
‘It wasn’t nothin’ like you said, Bill.’ Annie challenged him with a stare over the table. ‘You said it was some cheap slapper. But she was class, you could see that. She ain’t some Miss Nobody from Who-Pissin’-Well-Cares. Somebody’s gonna miss her, an—’
‘And her nipper?’ Polly interrupted. ‘We told you, we only do fresh-born ones.’
Bill waved them silent. ‘Doesn’t fuckin’ matter, girls. S’all done now, right?’
‘The baby was old enough to be . . . I dunno, christened,’ snapped Polly, her voice rising above the rasping whisper they’d been sharing until now. ‘The baby could be written in somewhere!’
Bill grabbed one of her hands and squeezed the knuckles until they bulged and ground painfully together. ‘Keep yer fuckin’ voice down, Polly,’ he hissed.
‘You’re hurtin’ me!’ she whimpered.
‘Course I’m fuckin’ hurtin’ you, love, ’cause you keep blabbin’ so loud we’re all gonna end up swinging on rope at the tuck-up fair. So you can either speak softly, or shut yer trap.’
She nodded mutely.
‘Now . . . tell me what you two did with it.’
Annie spoke, tapping her clay pipe on the table and dusting the ash off with her hand onto the floor. ‘Like we does every other time. It’s just pieces now. Different places.’
‘Good.’
‘An’ what about the woman, Bill?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s my business. She’s gone.’
They sat in silence for a while, watching the inn’s patrons from the corner booth. Watching the usual evening’s pattern unfold: working men delaying the moment they have to return home with one final mug of the wet stuff; a row of tarts propping up the bar, puffing on clay pipes like royal trumpeters blowing a fanfare of smoke.
‘Like I told yer, we been paid a pretty penny for this,’ said Bill. ‘A gentleman put his pecker in the wrong place an’ we tidied up his consequences. That’s all there is to it.’
‘We was talking,’ said Annie. ‘Before you turned up.’ She glanced at Polly, who offered her the slightest nod of moral support. ‘Reckon, ’cause you wasn’t straight up with us, ’cause of that posh street where she was livin’, and on account of the baby not being a newborn . . . we ought to ’ave twice as much as we said we’d do it for. S’only fair, Bill.’
He eyed
her silently.
‘If you’d been straight with us from the first, we would’ve asked for more. That wasn’t just a normal crib-rat.’
He could hear the wobble of fear in her voice.
Silly bitch is scared of me.
Of course she was. She’d watched him nearly behead the woman in the hallway. Watched him do it calmly and professionally, like it was no trouble at all. Like he was cutting himself a slice of bread from a loaf.
He casually drew a circle in the spilled beer on the wooden table, taking his time to answer. The thing was, given how much the gentleman was already paying, he could easily afford to double what those two had asked for. Better still, that locket he’d found – that precious little locket that had fallen from the woman’s clothes, tucked away, something so precious, so valuable – that locket made this job a whole different thing.
A different business contract altogether.
His other hand absently stole into the pocket of his coat, played with the warm, smooth surface of the locket, flicked open and closed the clasp.
A very different situation altogether.
He smiled. Why not let these two share a little of the good news? Not that he was going to tell them what he was holding in his pocket, or what it meant, but it wouldn’t hurt for them to know there was chance of a little more gravy coming out of this pudding if they played along like good girls.
He was seeing the gentleman tomorrow. An agreed rendezvous in a dark place where matters could be discussed and payment made. Bill had never actually done business with a man who spoke like this one did, like some duke or lord. Not just posh, but old posh . . . the kind that went back generations, had a coat of arms, went back to olden times.
He realised if he was going to play games with the gentleman, then he was going to have to play oh-so-cleverly. If he was going to tell him what he’d found on the woman, and that this little discovery was going to significantly alter the original agreement, he’d better be bloody careful about it.
