Little Bones

by Janette Jenkins

  Mr Henshaw, tilting his head, shifted in his seat. ‘And your brains work quite well?’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Better than most, sir,’ she told him.

  ‘Good, I am very glad to hear it, but take this as a warning, you must not sound too clever or pompous in court, a cripple with brains will only get their gander up. Now, tell me everything,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I only deal in the truth, and it is entirely up to me how we will stretch it later on.’

  Jane felt giddy with relief. Gabbling and breathless, she told her story at last, from her arrival at the Swifts, to the whole sorry business of the boot box. She had expected Mr Henshaw to look pleased, because she had told him the truth and the judge would know who to blame.

  ‘This is worse than I was led to believe,’ he said, wondering if he would make the Blue Lantern that lunchtime, or whether he would have to start working on the case. A generous father and lack of ambition had made him very lazy. He was paid a stipend for these penniless nobodies. What did he care about the boy who had stolen his neighbour’s six hens, or the woman who had tried drowning herself in the Regent’s Canal? But the case of Jane Stretch was a different thing altogether. The girl was unusual. A character. It would headline all the papers. It would make his name and show Miss Annabel Cullingworth that he was not to be laughed at when he went calling with a bunch of white carnations and a box of violet creams.

  ‘You will plead guilty, of course?’

  She nodded. Yes, she had always felt guilty.

  ‘Then I will do my very best to present your case in the best possible light. We must hope for a lenient judgement.’

  When he left, sucking very hard on his bottom lip, saying he’d be back, Jane told herself that things were looking up. Mr Henshaw seemed a good sort of man. He would do his very best for her. After all, he must have offered his services, which showed that he was charitable.

  In a better frame of mind, she went back to the Bible. The very small type made her concentrate. It took her mind away from her dismal surroundings, the thick stone walls which seemed to be pushing themselves towards her, the bars at the window, the sounds of the keys rattling down the corridor – and this was how the Reverend James Rutherford found this new inmate, a girl obviously in need of spiritual nourishment, hunched over the book of Job, her eyes so intent she barely looked up as the warden admitted him.

  ‘Stand up!’ the warden shouted. Jane sprang to her feet in alarm, only to be greeted by what appeared to be a very old turkey in a dog collar. He sat on the small chair that the warden had brought.

  ‘You believe?’ he said, nodding at the Bible.

  ‘I suppose I do,’ said Jane carefully. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You suppose?’ the vicar spluttered, his neck flapping, his little yellow teeth gnashing against his lips.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jane, who did not like the look of this red-faced gobbler, with his hair that was very black and springy, and his tobacco-stained fingers which he tapped across his knees as if playing on a keyboard.

  ‘And you are obviously a sinner,’ he said, with a closed, tight smile. ‘I have heard you have blood on your hands.’

  ‘You have heard only half-truths, sir. I am not the guilty party in all this,’ and though she sounded like a girl brimming with confidence, she could feel the tears coming, because she did feel guilty. She had been a part of it. She could have walked away.

  ‘Only you and God know that,’ he said. ‘And the judge will decide if it is true.’

  ‘And if he is wrong?’

  ‘Oh, the judge is never wrong,’ he told her, with something of a smirk, ‘because God in His heaven will be guiding him.’

  Jane felt cold. She could hear a bird fluttering near the wet window. The Reverend’s yellow fingers had not stopped tapping. ‘Am I allowed to write letters?’ she asked, seeing a spot of ink on his cuff.

  ‘Can you write?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, I would not have asked if I couldn’t put pen to paper.’

  ‘You are impertinent,’ he said.

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ she said, lowering her head, and the Reverend’s face softened slightly as he stood and attempted to pace what little space there was, his hands in loose knots, the way he liked to walk amongst his parishioners, especially when he wanted to avoid any physical contact.

  ‘Your mind must be very overworked,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Would you like to pray?’

  ‘I think a prayer would help,’ she said, still thinking of the ink stains and the letters she might write.

  The Reverend folded his hands and bowed his head. ‘Our Lord in heaven, look upon this sinner with pity, show her the truth and the light, let her walk in the path of Your glory, for ever and ever, amen.’ He smiled at her. ‘The Lord will hear our prayer. He has helped Sara Thomson. He will help you.’

  ‘Sara Thomson, sir?’

  ‘She killed her husband,’ he said. ‘Last Thursday evening, the Lord gave her guidance and now not only has she confessed to her sin, she has also told the police where she placed all the pieces, and now the poor man can be buried in one casket.’

  Jane’s stomach turned. She saw legs and feet. A hand. ‘I will read the Bible, sir,’ she told him, ‘and I will pray, as I have always prayed.’

  The Reverend appeared happy enough with this, saying he would do what he could regarding the letters, though she had to understand, these letters would be read by an officer of Newgate, who would be looking for bribery, maliciousness, or any other kind of trouble that came with letter-writing.

  ‘I would like people to know where I am.’

  Smiling, the Reverend shook his head. ‘If they take a London newspaper, they will know where you are,’ he said.

  For some time after the vicar left, Jane felt increasingly uneasy. She could not stop thinking of the newspapers. What were they saying? Would people believe them? She usually believed them. She imagined Ivy and Arthur finding a newspaper in Kent, perhaps the sheets had been used as a wrapping, and as her mother unrolled the bottles of sauce, say, or the jars of piccalilli, she would faint dead away, seeing her own daughter’s name written bold as you like across it. And Agnes! Had her sister seen her name on all the billboards? What must they be thinking? Were they on their way to see her? ‘Oh dear God,’ she whispered, ‘I do hope you are on your way to Newgate.’

  When the warden thrust a bowl of soup into her hands, Jane asked what the people outside were saying about her.

  ‘I’m a warden, not a messenger.’

  Jane looked into her bowl. A few splinters of bone were floating on the surface of the greasy broth. ‘Do they hate me?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know about hate,’ the woman laughed, ‘but you certainly are a curious monstrosity.’

  ‘What we need,’ said Mr Henshaw, ‘and need most urgently, are names – witnesses, in other words.’

  ‘Like Edie and Alice?’

  ‘Edie and Alice who?’

  ‘The maids who worked for the Swifts.’

  Mr Henshaw looked at his papers. ‘Edith Frost and Alice Benson?’ he said. ‘The police have interviewed both at length and are satisfied they know nothing of the doctor’s medical work.’

  ‘But they do, sir, I know it.’

  Mr Henshaw scribbled something down, saying he would certainly make a note of her misgivings, though she must realise that it might be 1900, but the police in general still believed what they wanted to believe. ‘Deaf ears,’ he said, scratching his forehead with his pencil. ‘That’s what it comes down to I’m afraid.’

  Exasperated, Jane told him all about Irene Silverwood, that she had now removed to Bristol, and after much deliberation, she told him about Nell. ‘The Silverwood woman cannot be found,’ he said. ‘The police think she has left the Bristol area altogether. As for Nelly Dawson, she has been questioned at length, and though she seems an innocent party, and nothing more than a housemaid, with no one to prove or disprove it, she will be calle
d as a witness.’ He sighed. ‘What we really need,’ he said, ‘are the girls themselves. The girls who came to take the tincture.’

  Jane had a very good memory. She could picture most of those pitiful girls. She could see their unwashed hair falling lankly over their shoulders. Their bruised eyes. Their pale nervous hands. And though she could recall many of their Christian names, that’s as far as it went.

  ‘But of course there was Julia Lincoln,’ she said, her heart beating faster. ‘She must be important to the case?’

  ‘The woman also known as Brown?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Cannot be found.’

  ‘But her family are well known.’

  ‘Well known they might be, but their name isn’t Lincoln. And as for Brown – do you know how many people in the world answer to that dull-coloured name?’

  Closing her eyes, Jane remembered Miss Bell. Her friend Miss Bell would speak for her. Jane’s mouth opened and then very quickly closed. She could not do it. She could not shame Miss Bell in front of all the world. ‘Why me?’ she said at last.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, packing up his papers. ‘Why you, indeed?’

  ‘Well, isn’t this supposed to be a case against the doctor, who isn’t even a doctor, but a sleight-of-hand magician? Didn’t he help Mr Treble regarding poor Miss Lincoln’s trouble? Wasn’t Irene Silverwood running the establishment? Wasn’t I only the maid?’

  Mr Henshaw stood very still. ‘According to the sergeant,’ he said, ‘Dr Swift is not only a medical doctor, and he has seen his certificates to prove it, but he is also a gentleman. Whatever happens in court, and whatever you or I say about him, if we can’t find a girl to speak for you, or some undeniable evidence, then he will step from the witness stand smelling of attar of roses. We have our work cut out. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Then what’s the point?’ said Jane. ‘Really? I don’t know any girl. I don’t know a reliable witness. What is the point of a trial?’

  ‘The law of course. The law says you must have a hearing,’ he told her, heading for the door. ‘And though you say you are guilty, it is up to the judge to express his own decision. To impose a suitable sentence.’

  ‘Will I hang? Will I be in this gaol for ever?’

  ‘It is early days, Miss Stretch. I will work on your behalf. Anyway,’ he told her, knocking for a warden, ‘I am both an optimist and a Catholic, so I do believe in miracles.’

  Eleven

  Letters

  THE DOOR OPENED and Miss Linley appeared with a pot of ink, a pen, a sheaf of papers and envelopes. ‘All yours for drawing pictures,’ she grinned. ‘And did the governor tell you? At Newgate we do a very good line in frames.’

  *

  To Ned. Boy With Preacher’s Sandwich Board,

  The Cock Hotel,

  Covent Garden

  Dear Ned,

  I hope the medicine has worked and you are feeling better. I like to think of you outside the Cock with the board, cursing its weight and the weather. I hope your preacher is still on the booze and is paying you the shilling.

  Perhaps you have heard what has happened to me? The doctor was not a doctor after all. There has been a lot of trouble. Whatever they write in the papers, please don’t believe it. I am still your friend Jane.

  Prison is a lonely place though it is crammed with people, and women have their screaming children at their sides. What a miserable place for a nursery! I only see the wardens, a vicar, and a legal man called Henshaw who is going to speak for me in court. I am terrified. If you are feeling better and the thought of prison does not have you shaking in your boots, you could visit me. I would like to see if you are better. I would like a friend to talk to. We are still friends aren’t we? I will keep my fingers crossed.

  Keep well, Ned. Look after yourself. You must wear the warmest clothes when winter comes because that’s how these illnesses start. They find a way through the cold in your bones.

  Please come and see me if you can.

  Your friend,

  Jane

  To Dr & Mrs Swift,

  121 Gilder Terrace,

  Covent Garden

  Dear Dr and Mrs Swift,

  I am writing to ask for your mercy. I know that deep down, the doctor is a good man. He would not like to see me suffering in gaol for the rest of my life, or swinging in the gallows. Could you not tell the sergeant the truth? Did you not always say that I was not a nurse, but a servant? I think the constable wrote it down. I was carrying out my duties. I did what I was told.

  Mrs Swift, I would like you to know that I always saw you as something more than my employer. I have never known such kindness. You felt like a family. I have no idea where Ma and Pa are. Kent perhaps, but they might have moved on. My sister Agnes has vanished. If you do hear from them, I beg you to please let me know. It will be a shock to them all. They might not be the best people in the world, and though my mother’s uncle once went to prison for stealing a bag of old horseshoes, they are not used to having criminals in the family. How my mother will weep.

  Your once loyal servant,

  Jane Stretch

  To the Apothecary,

  Floral Street,

  Covent Garden

  Dear Sir,

  You will remember me as the cripple girl who worked for Dr Swift. You gave my friend some medicine. I am sure that it helped. Thank you.

  By now you will have read about me in the newspapers. I have been told their pages are full of awful details and sketches. I feel very ashamed.

  Have you talked to the police about me? Have you told them that the tincture was ordered and paid for by (Dr) Swift? I only collected the bottles. Please tell Sergeant Morrell.

  I wish I could visit your shop again. I would like to see those great glass jars and your coffee cup. I would like to hear your wife singing. I would order a very good potion. Something that would help me sleep all night.

  Please think of me kindly, sir. And please tell the sergeant (Morrell, Bow Street), that I was only doing what I was told, and for the most part, I truly believed he was doing good, and acting like a doctor.

  Sincerely,

  Jane Stretch

  To Agnes Stretch

  London

  Dear Agnes,

  I do not have an address, and you will probably never read this letter. I had to write anyway. I could not leave you out. I hope that you are well and you are happy.

  If you don’t know this already, your sister is a prisoner waiting for her trial. I am not a good person (I will explain all when I see you) but I am not a monster either. Think of me as you always think of me – your crooked Jane, the pest.

  Do you remember when you were ill with a fever and had the most terrible dreams? You thought your hands were disappearing and a man lived under the stairs. You would wake shaking and crying. If Ma was home, she would let you into her bed, which was no great treat, what with the stinking bed-sheets, and her snoring, so you must have been desperate. Anyway, for a while I have been having bad dreams of my own. I have seen and heard ghosts. Small chattering children. Whisperings and visions.

  If this letter ever reaches you, please come and visit me. Newgate is a terrible place but it has your sister in it.

  I miss you.

  Your dearest sister,

  Jane

  To Mr & Mrs Stretch,

  Farmlands,

  Kent.

  Dear Ma and Pa,

  If you do not already know it, I am in Newgate Prison having been accused of the most awful crimes. Please do not worry about me. Please do not believe all that you read. I am sorry. Prison is not such a bad place. They have not been cruel to me though I am always hungry and I think about food all the time. I like to think of the meal I will eat when I am free. I have chosen roast chicken, pork sausage, roasted potatoes, carrots, peas, gravy, peach cobbler and fresh Jersey cream.

  I hope you are both happy in Kent breathing fresh air and looking after the cows. I have heard
Kent is a beautiful place. (I once met a girl from Kent. She had a very pink complexion.)

  Please send word and come to me.

  From your loving daughter,

  Jane

  *

  The warden brought Jane a letter.

  The envelope had already been opened. Jane looked at the writing. It was childlike and sloping. The paper was very small and thin. When she looked closer, she could see the note had been written on the back of an old pawn ticket.

  Deer Jane Stretch,

  Ned is ded.

  From Susannah

  Jane could feel herself swaying and stumbled over her hem.

  ‘Bad news, is it?’ said the warden. ‘Would you like to see the vicar?’

  *

  She dreamt of Ned. He was dead in the dream and he knew that he was dead. ‘I’ll have to go back,’ he said, ‘later on.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ she asked.

  ‘Like here, only warmer.’

  Walking by a theatre they saw the chalky-faced actresses in great velvet cloaks, standing in a huddle by the open stage door, smoking cigarettes and spouting lines from a death scene, swooning and gripping their collars.

  ‘They’ve got it all wrong,’ said Ned. ‘All that melodrama and wailing, you just don’t have the strength for it.’

  The women’s groans and sudden hoots of laughter followed Jane and Ned down the lighted cobbled street. Jane kept touching Ned’s arm. ‘I can feel it,’ she said.

  ‘Of course you can feel it. It’s my bloomin’ coat sleeve, ain’t it?’

  ‘But if you’re dead?’

  ‘Coats can’t die,’ he told her.

  On the river a ship was dropping anchor, the light was getting dimmer and the stars were coming out. The white sails gleamed like sheets of polished bone.

  ‘I was on a ship last night,’ said Ned. ‘I was looking for my pa.’

  ‘And did you find him?’

  ‘Find him? I went all the way to China,’ he said. ‘I saw five hundred and fifty-nine sailors, and not one Jack tar was my father.’

  ‘You must have missed him somehow.’

  ‘Perhaps he was in the Jolly Seaman on the Tottenham Court Road. Perhaps that’s his idea of the Navy.’