by Roy Lewis
My steps echoed on the ancient, rickety timbers of the jetty. At the sound of my approach the man in the varnished hat turned slowly. He was a lean-featured fellow apart from his mastiff jowls; he wore reddish-hued side whiskers, and his small, deep set eyes were a startling blue. He was a little above average height, narrow in the hips, but the hands locked behind his back were large and meaty. His sharp glance met mine and I stopped: he observed me for several seconds, as though appraising me, and then nodded slightly, raised a hand to touch his hat. The carefully polished gilt buttons on his coat glittered in the watery afternoon sunshine. I did not know him, but I felt I caught a glimpse of recognition in his sharp glance as he looked at me. A moment later the suspicion was confirmed.
‘Mr James, is it not?’
I was surprised. ‘You have the advantage of me, sir.’
He smiled. His teeth were yellow-stained, wolfish. ‘Inspector Redfern. I have seen you on occasions at the Thames Police Court, and once at the Old Bailey, sir.’
A policeman, evidenced by his uniform coat and hat; I had been blind not to have realized it. I stepped closer to the officer, peered past him to the men grunting and heaving at the jetty’s edge. ‘So what’s happening here?’
Inspector Redfern glanced back to the workmen then turned back, observed me calmly. ‘An unfortunate, Mr James. We come across many such. This time, it seems, a young woman.’
I stood there just behind him for several minutes and watched in horrified fascination as the men succeeded finally in dragging the thing caught up in the net out of the muddy water. The clothing was sodden, the grey cloak heavy and stained, hair plastered to the skull, features swollen as a result of the woman’s immersion. There was an ugly sucking sound as the corpse was lifted over the gunwale of the skiff, then a deep trail was marked in the mud as the skiff was dragged across the mudflat towards the jetty. Inspector Redfern seemed unmoved by the activity, standing with his hands once more locked behind his back, almost indifferent to the scene, but it was the first time I had seen a corpse recovered from the river and I remained just behind the police inspector’s shoulder, horrified, nauseous, yet fascinated.
Over his shoulder, Inspector Redfern commented after a thoughtful pause, ‘There was thirteen children went overboard from a steamboat last year: three of them died this way. Not much chance of survival if they inhales the filthy water. Bound to be accidents, of course.’ He nodded casually in the direction of Westminster Bridge, still packed with spectators observing the hapless Lord Mayor’s barge. ‘We calculate there’s two hundred steamers constantly navigatin’ the Thames apart from the three hundred or so sailing vessels carrying coal from Newcastle and the barges bringing grain and building stone up from Kent. And with the Diamond Company now taking wives and families down to Gravesend or Ramsgate for the summer, bound to be even more accidents, I reckon.’
He shook his head dolefully. ‘I mean, they’re crowding people aboard at a shilling for a fore cabin and eight pence for an after cabin.’ He paused, glanced at me, leered, showed yellow teeth ‘Makes it a bachelors’ week for the husbands in the City though, don’t it, till they rejoin their families at weekends.’
My mouth was dry. I was unable to tear my glance away from the drowned woman being stretched out on the dock. ‘You think that’s how she died? Falling overboard from a steamboat?
Inspector Redfern took a doubtful breath and shook his head. He removed his black varnished hat and polished the crown, absent-mindedly. ‘No, my guess is this one was a jumper. They throw themselves off the bridges at high tide, you know. Sometimes it’s weeks before they wash up on the shores, depending on the tides; other times they fetch up just days, or even hours after they go in. It’s usually because they’re poor, starving … or are in an unwanted, interesting condition.’ He paused, sniffed, leaning forward as the corpse was laid out on the jetty. ‘Not that this one was struggling against poverty, if I could hazard a guess from her clothing….’
She wore a dress buttoned up to the throat; her petticoats were soiled from the water. The dress had been torn at the shoulder, exposing the flesh of her upper arm: her skin was white and unmarked. Her eyes were wide, staring sightlessly at the sky but strands of wet, bedraggled hair spread across her face, half-hiding her features which had begun to bloat. But there was something about her, and the soiled grey cloak about her waist that brought back a memory….
Inspector Redfern replaced his hat. ‘Sometimes the fishes have feasted well from ’em,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘But this one, she don’t seem to have been in the water long, the crabs haven’t got at her….’
The body was laid on the jetty at his feet. Her head lolled to one side, her limbs were spread negligently, her skirts failing to hide her shapely legs. One of the labourers, a middle-aged man with a pockmarked face, leaned over her and with surprising solicitude rearranged her clothing more decently, smoothed back the strands of hair away from her face and stood looking down at her in compassion. He would have seen many such in the river, I did not doubt, but he had not yet become inured to such occurrences … or perhaps it was the youth of the victim that was affecting him. I too stared at her, unable to drag my eyes away from the pale, bloated features. My eyes seemed to look beyond the ravages the river had wrought, and other images crowded into my mind. I was hardly aware of Inspector Redfern’s orders as he instructed one of the men to arrange a cart for the corpse to be taken away to the mortuary. I remained rooted to the spot, shivering slightly in spite of the warmth of the clouded sun on my back. Slowly, my senses returned and I became aware that Redfern was frowning, staring at me strangely.
‘This your first river corpse, Mr James?’
His tone was solicitous. I nodded dumbly. He kept his deep set eyes fixed upon me. I glanced away from him, across to the south bank, down to the crowded, cheering bridge where the mayoral party were still being rescued, then finally back to the body at our feet. A deep silence had settled among the small group in front of me as they contemplated the thing they had drawn from the grey water, a silence broken only by the rattle of cartwheels on the jetty, and hoofbeats on the weedy, misted cobbles. My mouth was dry, and my heart was pounding.
Inspector Redfern sighed. ‘Aye, well, you get used to it. I was there when Samuel Scott, the American diver, took his first flying leap from the topgallant of a coal brig off Rotherhithe, you know. His end came when he tried to emulate that dancing on air performance with a rope around his neck. He got strangled at Waterloo Bridge in front of ten thousand spectators. Last year, that was. But this young lass … ah, she’ll have had no cheering spectators when she took her fall. For her, poor soul, it would have been a lonely, night-cloaked entry into eternity….’
I remained silent. I looked about me at the mist-shrouded lines of ships, the spiderweb of rigging up and down the dirty river, and I thought of the desperation that must have been in the young woman’s mind when she leapt into the darkness to the black waters below.
‘You are returning to the city, Mr James?’ Inspector Redfern asked quietly after a brief interval.
I swallowed and nodded. My tongue was thick in my mouth. ‘To the Temple.’
‘Please permit me to offer you transport to the Inn,’ Redfern offered, caressing the gilt buttons on his frock coat. ‘I have a cab waiting. My men here will now attend to this business.’
I was reluctant, and hesitated.
‘It will be no problem,’ Redfern assured me, ‘and I would be honoured to offer my assistance.’
Without being certain why, I wanted to refuse him, but could not find the words. I dragged my glance back to the woman on the jetty. Redfern stepped closer. ‘Your first river corpse, Mr James,’ he murmured. ‘I understand your natural distress. But if I may be so bold … I seem to detect something else….’
My senses were reeling. There was a great pounding of blood in my ears. My mind was filled with images … how long ago had it been? A drunken evening with Serjeant Wilkins snoring i
n the cab beside me, a dark street, a lonely, distressed young woman at the street corner. I could have stopped, got out, found some way to help her, console her, but now it was too late.
‘Am I correct, Mr James, in assuming…?’ Redfern’s voice was soft, gentle yet oddly menacing.
I chewed at dry lips. I knew what he was asking. I was unable to utter a denial. After a short interval, I nodded, gazing in horrid fascination at the sad bundle at our feet. ‘Yes,’ I muttered. ‘Yes. I can’t be certain, but …’
‘You are able to identify her?’
‘I think so,’ I muttered. ‘Only days ago … but yes, I think I know who she is … was … might be …’
Inspector Redfern shuffled closer to me, touched my elbow respectfully. ‘I will take you back to the Temple,’ he said quietly.
He led the way from the jetty and I brushed past the workmen as they lifted the corpse into the mortuary cart. I followed Redfern up the cobbled slope between the overhanging balconies of the wooden slum dwellings until we reached the thoroughfare beyond. The rattle of cabs, carts, and the squabbling calls of a flock of geese being taken away from Leadenhall Market brought me back to my senses. Redfern’s cab was waiting, a caped, disgruntled driver huddled in his seat, whip in hand.
Inspector Redfern opened the cab door, stepped to one side to allow me the privilege of entering first. As soon as I was settled he climbed in to sit opposite me and called out directions to the cabman. With a lurch and a clatter we were off, rattling over the cobbles and I settled back against the horsehair-padded seat, uncomfortably aware of the challenging scrutiny of the police officer’s eyes.
‘I have been reading the proceedings of the debate on the Brothels Suppression Bill, introduced by the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ Redfern announced after a few minutes. ‘Lord Foley has expressed the view that putting down such houses of ill repute will lead only to their transfer and re-establishment to other parts of the city.’
I was glad of the changed subject. I licked my dry lips. ‘I understand the Bill has been withdrawn.’
Redfern nodded. ‘I believe that is so. The result will be that, among others of her persuasion, Black Sarah will be able to continue her nocturnal activities in the Ratcliffe Highway.’ He paused, meaningfully. ‘I take it you are acquainted with Black Sarah?’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ I replied stiffly.
Redfern shifted in his seat and stared gloomily out at the dreary buildings we were passing. ‘Perhaps it was in that area around the Ratcliffe Highway you might have met the unfortunate woman we’ve recovered from the river?’
Stung, I retorted quickly, ‘What do you imply, Inspector?’
His tone was calm and measured. ‘Forgive me, Mr James. I am applying logic, that is all. You are a young man who spends much time in the Temple. Your profession is a demanding one. Court proceedings run late into the evening. Your chambers are close to places of entertainment. I am aware that many of your colleagues frequent the night houses in the town; I am also aware that the young woman we have just recovered from the river, while reasonably well dressed, can hardly be described as one of the Upper Ten Thousand.’
A certain irony had entered into his tone.
Irritated, I snapped, ‘You’re suggesting that the dead woman was a whore.’
‘You will have made her acquaintance in some other capacity, Mr James?’
We lurched our way into a crowded Fleet Street, pausing while the cabman cursed vociferously at the driver of some skeletal horses bound for the knacker’s yard. They were dragging a cart piled with already dead nags. I answered the police officer with a surly stare. ‘I have met the dead woman on only one occasion.’
Inspector Redfern raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Yet you recognized her almost immediately, even though the river has somewhat changed her features?’
I hesitated. ‘She … she made an impression on me at the time.’
‘And am I correct in assuming she was a whore?’ Redfern pressed.
I wriggled uncomfortably on the odorous horsehair seat. ‘I did not say that. I have no way of confirming the suggestion, except that….’
‘Yes?’
I sucked at my teeth, thinking carefully. There were people to protect here. ‘All I can say is that I met her just once. It was in the Cider Cellars. She was in a state of some distress, I felt a certain sympathy for her. Then, when I left the night house, as I made my way back to the Temple I caught a glimpse of her at the street corner. She was huddled in a doorway. She seemed … distressed.’
‘The Cider Cellars … she was with a man?’
I shook my head. ‘She entered alone. And she left again within a matter of minutes.’
‘Yet she was in an unhappy state, so much that you clearly observed her.’ The police inspector leaned forward, elbows on bony knees, frowning in concentration. ‘Do you know what might have caused her distress?’
Now you have to understand that there was a matter of loyalty to friends here, even though I must admit I’ve never been strong on loyalty per se. But, apart from loyalty, more seriously, Lester Grenwood owed me money and I did not consider it sensible to place him in any kind of jeopardy, however much I might have disagreed with his behaviour that night when I had escorted Serjeant Wilkins back to his lodgings. In my opinion the whole thing was none of my business, and the death of the young woman, occasioned possibly by despair over her pregnancy, was a matter about which I could do nothing. It was done; it was over; and for that matter the girl’s death might have had nothing to do with Lester Grenwood.
In short, I had no desire to become further involved.
‘I observed her,’ I replied carefully, then added the lie, ‘but the reason for her distress was unknown to me. I saw her briefly; I noted her distress; she left and after observing her in the street I saw her no more.’
‘Until today,’ Redfern murmured. His cold glance was riveted on mine. I gained the impression that he knew I was lying but he also knew that there was little he could do about it. ‘Are you able to give the dead woman a name?’
I hesitated, then shrugged. ‘I believe she was called Harriet. It is the only name I heard.’
Inspector Redfern stared at me for a few moments then leaned back in his seat and lapsed into silence. After a while, he tapped at the roof as the cab clattered along beside the alley leading to the Temple Church. As the driver hauled on the reins I put my hand on the door and looked at him. ‘So what will happen now?’
Inspector Redfern’s tone was cool, almost unconcerned. He shrugged. ‘A dead woman of an uncertain reputation, recovered from the river where it would seem she probably entered of her own volition, and a name, Harriet, the only identification we are likely to receive … there is little more that can be done.’
‘You will make no further enquiries?’
‘There will be a report, then a coroner’s enquiry as a matter of form,’ Redfern replied diffidently. ‘If any further information is received proceedings may be undertaken, but such an occurrence is unlikely. Desperate women enter the river daily; identification is difficult where whores are concerned, and my guess would be that this … this Harriet would have been at the edge of that particular world at least. So, Mr James,’ he said as he bared his yellowed teeth in a mirthless smile, ‘it is unlikely that you will be called upon to take any further part in this matter.’
Sweating profusely, but relieved, I got out of the cab, and closed the door. I paused, looked up to the policeman. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Inspector.’
‘And yours, Mr James,’ he replied drily, leaning his head through the window, and raising one finger to his hat.
I watched as the cab clattered away down the thoroughfare. I was aware of a heavy feeling in my chest. The prospect of the low ceilings and confining space of my lodgings at Inner Temple deterred me. I made my way into the Temple Gardens and sat on a wooden bench under the trees overlooking the busy, crowded, deathly river. I thought about Harriet as I watched t
he curling mist….
As I suggested to you earlier, women can sometimes take things so seriously. I mean, there were the rich, unattached women who had lent me money and were unreasonably indignant when they found out about each other; there was my first wife, making so much fuss over that business with an actress….
Of course, the girl at the Cider Cellars had been pregnant. But was that a sound reason for taking her own life in despair? It was so final a solution. It’s why I always preferred widows: they often have a more mature outlook on such matters. They know there are practised persons in the back streets who can always get rid of what we might call unwanted encumbrances. They tend to be more rational, more discreet. But to leap from a bridge into the filthy waters of the Thames!
Redfern had assumed Harriet was a whore. Somewhere in my chambers I had a well-thumbed copy of Snell’s Guide to the Metropolis, and I was sure Harriet was not listed there among the professionals. I sighed, strangely depressed. Perhaps I should inform Lester Grenwood of the discovery in the river, but recalling his attitude that night in the Cider Cellars I guessed he would be not in the slightest interested, or concerned.
I slapped my hands on my knees. I rose to my feet, and headed for my chambers. It was done. There was no action I could take. I had my own life to get on with. My professional reputation to establish.
And numerous debts to settle.
2
Harriet was still on my mind that evening, nevertheless; I could not remove from my thoughts the image of the sad, soggy bundle drawn from the river any more than I could discard the memory of the sound of her pleading voice that evening in the Cider Cellars.
