From Whitechapel

by Clegg, Melanie

  Emma stared at me for a moment, her eyes and mouth wide open with shock before, to my immense surprise, she released my arm and fell back against a doorway wheezing with laughter. ‘You gave it back to her? That stuck up bint from Highbury? No wonder she’s been hanging about in Whitechapel like a lost lamb,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Well, that’s a turn up for the books and no mistake.’

  Relieved that she didn’t seem to be angry any more, I plunged on with my explanation, feeling my cheeks go a little warm with embarrassment as I went. ‘I wish that I’d never taken it. They all think I’m weak as milk so I wanted to prove that I wasn’t by seeing the dead Tabram woman and then taking something that belonged to her to prove what I’d seen.’ I paused as Emma’s laughter came to a hiccuping end and she began to intently listen. ‘I didn’t know that it was yours, I swear that I didn’t and I didn’t mean to exactly steal it either. I’m not a thief,’ I boldly asserted even though the evidence clearly disproved this. ‘Of course, once I’d shown it to my sister I didn’t know what to do with it. She thought I should put it back where I found it but I wanted to see this Alice Redmayne for myself, I don’t know why…’

  ‘So you went up to Highbury and gave it back to her,’ Emma finished for me with a tiny smile and a look that was almost admiring. ‘Well, I can hardly blame you for that. I was curious too but didn’t think to actually go up there and see for myself. Perhaps I should have done and saved us all a lot of trouble.’

  I nodded. ‘I didn’t get to see her though,’ I said ruefully. ‘I got scared, wrote that it had come from Whitechapel and posted it through the door of her big house then ran off before she could catch up with me.’

  Emma laughed again then and, just for a moment, I saw a flash of the merry, confident girl that I had left behind on the steps of Christ Church. ‘She’s here in Whitechapel now,’ she said musingly. ‘I was wondering why she’d come here and now I think I know.’ She put her arm through mine and we walked together up Osborn Street, apparently reconciled although I still felt wary and worried about saying the wrong thing and angering her again.

  ‘I’ve seen her too,’ I said as we went up Wentworth Street. ‘She got knocked over the head in one of the alleyways off the Old Montague. I went to help her with Mr Mercier.’

  My voice, always my betrayer, must have softened when I said his name for Emma drew back and gave me a sharp measuring look. ‘Mashed on him, are you?’ she said slyly. ‘Well, he is a handsome one, isn’t he? He’s not my type, mind but I can see why you girls might go all silly over him.’

  I pursed my lips together and shook my head. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, realising with despair that I was probably blushing furiously. ‘He wouldn’t notice the likes of me anyway.’

  Emma sighed and put her head to one side, observing me thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re a bit of a looker. Or would be if you maybe curled your hair a little and wore brighter colours.’

  I stared at her. ‘Do you really think so?’ I said, reaching up to self consciously pat my red hair. Pa said it was beautiful but the other children at school had called me ‘Carrots’ and tugged on my plaits until I cried. They’d never have dared to treat Cat like that but I was quieter and considered fair game.

  Emma grinned. ‘Of course. Haven’t you noticed the way men stare at you when you walk past?’

  Now I really was blushing. ‘Not Mr Mercier though,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t think he really notices me.’ I sighed. ‘I think he’s soft on Miss Redmayne. Now she’s a real beauty, isn’t she?’

  Emma laughed then and gave me a quick hug. ‘And to think that it’s your fault that she’s here at all,’ she said. ‘After all if it wasn’t for you taking her that bloody envelope, she probably wouldn’t have come here, would she?’

  I turned and looked at her. ‘But why is she here?’ I said. ‘Is she looking for me or is it something else?’ I remembered the heavy feel of the pendant in my hand, the elaborately curling engraving on the back. ‘Beatrice,’ I whispered. ‘Is that who she’s after?’

  Emma turned away from me and a sort of darkness passed across her face. ‘Maybe.’

  I stopped then and planted myself in front of her, resisting the urge to wag my finger scoldingly in her face as my sister would have done to me. ‘What is going on, Emma? Who is Beatrice and what’s all this got to do with the murdered women?’

  She looked at me as if she was going to deny all knowledge but then gave a curt nod. ‘Fine, I’ll tell you but you mustn’t breathe a word to anyone and especially not that Pa of yours.’ She held up her hand as I began to protest. ‘I know he’s a good sort and not like the flashy coppers on the make you get around here but you can’t trust any of them, not really.’

  ‘You can trust my Pa,’ I said stoutly.

  She shrugged, obviously unconvinced. ‘Let’s go for a drink. You look like you could do with one and I’m parched.’ The Princess Alice pub, its once colourful sign sun faded and peeling, was at the end of the road and she took my hand and dragged me along to it, ignoring my feeble protests. ‘Oh come on, it’s not like your beloved Pa will ever find out that I’ve set your innocent little feet on the road to ruination or anything.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  I let her lead me in through the doors to the grimy public bar with its rickety, beer stained old tables and dirty sawdust strewn floor where she boldly plonked herself next to the bar and ordered two bottles of beer from an elderly barman, who peered at us disapprovingly from beneath his huge tufty white eyebrows, assessing our potential for troublemaking, before giving a small shrug and turning away to get our drinks.

  ‘I can’t have beer,’ I said, mindful of a promise I’d once made to my Pa that I wouldn’t take to drink. He was always saying that he’d seen too many girls and women come to ruination through the demon drink to lose my sister and me to it as well.

  Emma made an impatient sound. ‘Oh, don’t be such a baby. One bottle of piss weak ale isn’t going to wreck your life.’ She paid the barman and handed me my bottle. ‘Gin though is quite a different matter,’ she said with a wink before chinking her bottle against mine. ‘Chin, chin.’

  I stared dubiously down at the brown glass bottle in my hand then gave a small shrug and raised it to my lips. I was already a thief and a liar, I might as well add drunkard to my sins as well.

  ‘What do you think?’ Emma said, nudging me with her elbow.

  I rolled the warm beer around my mouth and tried not to grimace at the metallic tang which reminded me of the time I fell over in the street and accidentally bit my tongue, filling my mouth with blood. ‘It’s not bad.’ It wasn’t exactly pleasant either but I wasn’t about to say so, sharply aware as I was that she could probably barely afford to pay for it.

  ‘Liar,’ she said gaily before taking another swig of her own drink and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping our beer and half heartedly listening to the buzz and drone of conversation around us. Like most of the pubs on Commercial Street, the Princess Alice had a mixed clientele of tarts, market men and everything in between. It was popular with the women of the area as it was one of the few pubs that didn’t make them stand outside with their drinks and there were quite a few of them in there now, clustered like flies around the sticky tables and emitting gusts of laughter and gossip.

  ‘So what’s this all about then?’ I asked eventually as the silence stretched on between us.

  Emma gave a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes. ‘I was hoping you’d forgotten about all that,’ she muttered against the head of her bottle.

  I grinned. ‘Not a chance,’ I said.

  She carefully put her bottle down on the bar and turned to me. ‘You promise that you won’t go blabbing this all over the Chapel?’ she said grimly. The Chapel was how some of the local tarts liked to refer to Whitechapel, which had the effect of making it sound much nicer and rath
er less Godless than it actually was. ‘Only if word gets out then I’m done for.’

  I gulped. ‘Surely it can’t be that bad?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘It can and it is,’ she said before abruptly leaving the bar and making her way to a recently vacated table in the far corner. ‘I don’t want anyone listening in,’ she said over her shoulder as I grabbed my bottle of beer and scrambled to follow, pushing my way gently through the crowd, which was buzzing with the latest gruesome titbits from Annie Chapman’s inquest, which had just ended. It didn’t take long for news, especially bad news, to spread through Whitechapel - by nightfall there wouldn’t be a garret or cellar in the whole area that didn’t know what was done to poor old Annie, God bless her.

  I settled myself on a low wooden stool next to Emma and turned to her expectantly as she arranged her shawl around her shoulders and fluffed up her fair hair a little. ‘Alright, it’s like this,’ she said at last after taking a long swig of her beer. ‘Beatrice or Bea as she was then was a girl I knew in a knocking shop in Calais. I say ‘was’ because…’ her voice trailed away and she looked away. To my surprise I saw that she was almost crying.

  ‘She died,’ I said softly.

  Emma shook her head. ‘She was murdered,’ she said furiously, the raw rage back and bubbling over inside her as she looked into the past and saw things that I hoped never to even imagine. ‘Butchered.’

  ‘Like the others?’ My throat felt suddenly parched so that my voice came out as a nervous little squeak.

  She gave a brisk nod. ‘Just like the others.’ She picked up her bottle and passed it nervously from hand to hand then pressed it against her cheek. ‘She was alright was Bea. A bit long in the tooth maybe to still be working as a tart and the other girls thought she was a bit of a fancy piece as well, probably on the run from some rich man or other after cleaning him out, although I never thought she was looking down on us all or nothing.’ She took a drink and pulled a face as if she’d only just realised how bitter the taste was. ‘She had lovely things though and was nicely spoken, not in a lah dee dah snotty sort of way but in a nice way.’ She looked at me. ‘Just like that Alice your Mr Mercier is so mashed on.’

  ‘He’s not my Mr Mercier,’ I broke in.

  Emma shrugged impatiently. ‘Oh leave it out. Do I look like I was born yesterday?’ She put her bottle down on the table and carried on, rubbing her hand across her eyes as if suddenly weary. ‘Anyway, that was Bea. A nice girl who deserved better than she got.’ She sighed. ‘A bit like all of us, I suppose.’

  ‘How was she related to Miss Redmayne though?’ I asked, feeling a bit confused and still not sure how all of this related to the current spate of murders in Whitechapel.

  Emma pursed her lips and put her head to one side as she considered this. ‘No idea,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe she was her governess or old nanny or something? I don’t think it’s very likely that a flash toff like Miss Alice would be related to the sort of girl who winds up ripped to pieces outside a French knocking shop.’

  I nodded in agreement, remembering the Redmayne’s big house in Highbury, their haughty butler, the atmosphere of wealth and luxury. ‘I think you must be right,’ I said. Even after she’d been knocked down in an alleyway, with dirt on her dress, blood trickling down her smooth high forehead and her long hair falling down around her ears, Alice Redmayne had looked like quality and was plainly completely out of place in the stews of Whitechapel. ‘She came here anyway though,’ I said. ‘She must be trying to find her.’

  Emma nodded. ‘Oh she’s looking for her alright,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve heard these upper crust girls can get quite attached to their old nannies and whatnot so that’s not entirely surprising.’

  ‘But to come all the way to somewhere like Whitechapel?’ I said, doubt creeping in. ’And for someone who might very well be dead.’

  ‘Who is dead,’ Emma corrected me and we both fell silent as we contemplated the fact of Miss Redmayne’s imminent disappointment. ‘Poor cow. She has no idea.’

  I drained my bottle almost without thinking. ‘She needs to be told,’ I said with a firmness that I did not entirely feel. ‘One of us should tell her what happened.’

  Emma shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she agreed but I could tell that she was unwilling. Who wouldn’t be? It’s no easy task to tell someone that one of their nearest and dearest had been killed in cold blood. My Pa had done it hundreds of times, this was Whitechapel after all, and told me once that it never got any better, that it was just as hard and painful every single time to see them crumple and hear them cry.

  ‘I’ll get us both another drink,’ I said, barely waiting for Emma’s silent nodded assent before I went off to the bar, my head reeling with what I had been told so far and slightly worried about what further revelations were surely imminent. Despite my initial misgivings, I was beginning to feel quite at home in the Princess Alice and wouldn’t have objected to settling there for the rest of the day in fact although I suspected that Cat might have something to say about that as she was expecting me back by evening.

  I returned to the table with two more bottles of beer, one of which I placed in front of Emma before I sat back down on my stool. She looked morose but managed to greet me with a wavering smile. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what all of this has got to do with me and you?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it obvious though?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really,’ I said although looking at her pale unsmiling face and the way her hand trembled as she picked up her bottle was making me feel a bit sick at heart as if something big and terrible was about to happen. ‘Do you think it’s the same killer?’

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, toying nervously with her drink. ‘It’s the same man alright. I saw him out of our window in Calais.’

  I stared at her, aghast. ‘You saw him?’ I said a little too shrilly, which made a few people near our table turn and stare at us curiously. I blushed and lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘You actually saw him?’

  Emma nodded dismally. ‘Not well enough to be able to recognise his face but…’ She hesitated then took a swig of beer. ‘He got a better view of me. Stupid cow that I was, standing there in plain view, gawping from the window like some sort of ruddy half wit.’ She wiped away some tears and looked away, setting her face into an expression of stony indifference.

  My heart stopped. ‘He saw you?’ No wonder she looked terrified, no wonder she’d lost some of her spark. ‘Is that why he’s here? To find you?’

  She shrugged. ‘No idea,’ she said in a small, broken voice. ‘My friend and I thought we’d be safe here in Whitechapel. She’d been here before, you see, and knew that it’s the sort of the place where a girl can hide herself away and avoid any trouble.’ She gave a grim little smile. ‘Or so we thought at first.’

  ‘Until the murders started again,’ I said, reaching across the table to take her hand in mine.

  ‘Until the murders started again,’ she agreed, squeezing my fingers. ‘I saw him on the night that Annie Chapman died,’ she went on. ‘I went to the yard on Hanbury Street trying to find her, to stop her going with him but it was too late and he came up behind me just after I found what was left of her.’ Her grip on my fingers tightened even more. My Pa had come back from Hanbury Street shattered and silent after spending the morning keeping guard over the Chapman woman’s butchered body so God only knew how Emma had felt when she saw it in the dead of night with the killer himself breathing down the back of her neck. ‘He knew my name,’ she said so quietly that I had to lean forward to be able to hear her. ‘I thought I was going to die right then and there but he just said my name and then he left me alone in the darkness.’ She looked at me then, her eyes wide with horror and fear. ‘I swear to God, Cora, I thought I was a goner.’

  ‘So why is he killing all these other women instead?’ I said dully, wishing with all my heart that I’d never set eyes on that blasted envelope, had never set foot in the b
loody mortuary because then none of this would be anything to do with me. It would all be happening to someone else, be someone else’s problem, not mine.

  Emma shrugged. ‘How would I know?’ she said, starting to sound panicked. ‘He’s got to be a raving lunatic to do the things that he does, tearing women to pieces in the street then walking away without a care in the world. Who knows what’s going through his head?’ She tapped the side of her skull then picked up her drink again. ‘I thought maybe that he’s trying to scare me or that it’s a sort of message perhaps, just letting me know that he’s here and knows who and where I am.’

  ‘What about your friend?’ I said, still feeling a bit sick and fighting the urge to look over my shoulder to see if he was there watching us now. ‘Did he get a look at her as well?’

  ‘Marie? I don’t know.’ She sighed, frowning. ‘Besides, she’s got her own worries right now with her bloke and landlord and all the usual bloody boring rest of it.’ She leaned back on her stool and fixed me with a challenging look. ‘I suppose you won’t want to be seen with me now?’ she said, not, I was pleased to note, without some regret.

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t think that,’ I replied, forcing myself to smile, keeping my eyes on hers. ‘We’re friends aren’t we? Of course I still want to see you.’

  ‘You sure about that? You heard what he said that bugger done to Annie,’ she said fiercely, leaning forward and gripping both of my hands in hers so that I couldn’t pull away. ‘That’s what he’s going to do to me and to you as well if you hang about me long enough.’

  I swallowed hard, determined not to reveal how terrified I was. ‘Seems to me that if he’s been watching you and seeing who you’re hanging about with then it’s too late for me to be worried about that, isn’t it?’ I even managed a laugh although it was a pretty mirthless one. ‘Seems to me that we’d be best off sticking together.’