by Lee Jackson
‘Ma? You’re asleep, ain’t you?’
What time is it?
Ah, she thinks, that is all right. I am already asleep.
‘Agnes?’
What time is it?
Tea-time? No, that was earlier as well. This afternoon.
Tea-time. Twenty girls saying their prayers.
‘Our Father who art a Heathen,’ whispers Agnes White.
There, that’s done.
‘Pardon me, Aggie, dear.’
Agnes watches Sally Bowker excuse herself and leave the table. Miss Sparrow’s little pet, they call her, the other girls. Pretty little Silly Sally. Agnes dislikes her intensely; she puts on airs and graces, even though everyone knows she would snap open her legs wider than the Thames Tunnel for a kiss and a kind word. Pardon me, indeed!
Sally curtsies to Miss Sparrow, and makes her way upstairs. Agnes leaves it a moment, then gets up and follows her.
Odd. It is a different house from what she had expected; the stairs seem quite out of place. No matter.
‘Goin’ out?’
Sally has on her best cotton print, and her red hair tied up loosely with an old maroon ribbon, fraying at both ends. She wraps her shawl around her shoulders; it is a dirty old rag, thinks Agnes White, and it suits her. Dirt cheap.
‘Mind your own,’ replies the girl, turning on her heels and going into the street, closing the door behind her.
Agnes follows her, traipsing down the steps on to the pavement.
But it is the wrong street entirely; it is not Serle Street, the well-ordered terrace upon the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, that daily rebukes the Refuge for Penitent Women with its polished front steps and brass name-plates. It is entirely different: it is not quite like any street in particular, and something like several streets in general. In fact it is narrow and cramped, more of an alley, the sort of place Agnes White used to take the men and boys, or they took her, between the warehouses by Wapping High Street.
Familiar enough.
She walks along nervously, stumbling a little over the muddy and uneven cobbles, wondering how she has come to be so far from home. There is no gas here, of course, nor any light from any of the warehouses, and there is a mist rising from the river.
Wait. A noise.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. The sound of boots on the stones behind her. It cannot be Sally; she doesn’t even have a decent pair of boots. She cannot see anyone. Best to keep walking.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Closer now, feet walking briskly, catching up, hot breath on her neck. A cold hand around her throat.
Then falling, falling, falling.
‘Agnes?’
‘Agnes? Are you awake?’
Agnes White wakes up coughing, her throat so tight she cannot find the strength to sit up. Her skin is cold and clammy, her sheets damp with sweat. The girl helps her up, raising her pillow.
‘Lizzie?’ she says, spluttering the word.
‘No, Aggie, it’s me, Jenny. You know me, don’t you?’
She nods, looking blearily at the nurse.
‘You were dreaming. I’d only just got you off, then you woke me up. You’ll wake the Missus and all, if you’re not careful.’
Agnes coughs again, a rackety chest-heaving cough, hunching her shoulders so tight they are visible through her gown, like knives embedded in her skin.
‘Don’t talk, you’ll do yourself an injury. Look, here, I brought some of your medicine. The Missus said I shouldn’t, but . . . well, anyhow. Shall I pour it for you?’
Agnes White nods, and so the girl carefully measures the liquid from the bottle and presents a spoonful to her charge. Agnes leans forward, and willingly swallows the thick brown treacle, like an eager child. It tastes of burnt sugar, and it slips down her throat so easily that she immediately wants more, nudging the girl’s arm, urging her to dole out another helping. The nurse shakes her head, putting the bottle aside.
‘Steady now. Half of it’s gone already.’
Agnes says nothing. She can feel the dollop of glutinous liquid travelling through her body, falling into the pond of her stomach, and rippling outwards. The soporific effect of the laudanum mixture spreads through her like the warmth of a fire on a cold day; it cossets her, drags her limbs down into the bed, and closes her eyes.
‘There,’ says Jenny, ‘that’s better, my dear, ain’t it? The Missus said your gal upset you, coming here like that. That right, is it?’
Agnes nods, exhausted, falling asleep once more, though her throat is still awfully sore.
CHAPTER THREE
‘MURDER!’
Outside Baker Street railway station, a young man named Henry Cotton runs as fast as he has ever run. It is fortunate for him that he is young and fit. He darts with impunity between the cabs that stand in the gas-lit rank outside Baker Street, and then out across the Marylebone Road. He does not pay any heed to the passing traffic, and looks neither left nor right in his headlong progress. Likewise, he does not turn back, not even for an instant, to listen to the distant shouts that echo inside the station. He merely dashes onwards, his coat flapping around him, as if driven by some primitive instinct for survival, faltering only when he slips in the viscous mud that lines the road. His arms flail wildly in the air, but he does not fall; instead, he rushes onwards, breathless and frantic, into the shadows.
Of course, his flight does not go unnoticed, but his figure soon disappears from the view of those in pursuit. Moreover, if no-one is quite certain of the direction that he takes, it is not surprising; he himself has no inkling of the name of the road down which he turns, nor why he then chooses another turning, and then another again. In fact, he barely possesses any true impression of the world about him for several minutes until a terrible shortness of breath finally brings him to a halt.
When he has finally gathered his senses he finds himself to be in a well-kept mews, a sloping cobbled side street where the horses and carriages of neighbouring properties are safely stabled under lock and key. He leans forward against a wall, his lungs bursting, and braces himself against the overpowering dizziness that suddenly sweeps over him. It is impossible to say quite how long he stands there, stock-still, listening to the pounding of his heart.
A horse snorts loudly in one of the stables, no doubt woken from its sleep. Henry Cotton starts at the sound and stumbles on, along the length of the mews, half tripping, here and there, on the uneven stones. He comes to the opposite entrance of the secluded passage, which opens out on to another thoroughfare. A single jet of gas from a nearbly street-lamp illuminates the scene, and the light shows up the thick mud that clings to his trousers.
He takes a breath, then sets off briskly along the way. After a few yards realises he has turned on to Marylebone High Street.
‘Murder?’
‘Aye – look at that, won’t you?’
‘Lor! And he ran clear off?’
‘Like a regular devil.’
Henry Cotton keeps up his pace, walking with a determined gait. There is a chill wind, and he pulls the collar of his great-coat tight around his neck, keeping his head down, staring at the pavement.
He finds that Marylebone High Street, a bustling place by day, possesses none of its diurnal vigour during the hours of darkness. Even the gas-lights seem gloomy, and Cotton passes a mere handful of pedestrians, representatives of the ragged and homeless tribe that wander the streets in the small hours. Their very presence seems almost oppressive. A squat dark-haired fellow, leaning against a wall, an Irishman by his appearance, eyes him with suspicion as he goes past. Two others, hunched in conversation, beetle past, crossing to the other side of the street; he wonders, for a moment, whether they do so in order to avoid him. None of them ventures to ask him for money; he is too dishevelled for that. He tries to brush some of the muck from his trouser legs, but the effort only smears the filth about and dirties his hands.
Turning up his collar once more, he keeps walking, fast as he is able. It is not long bef
ore he turns off the street, into the roads that lead through to the Regent’s Circus. Here and there, in a handful of the houses, a light still burns in the parlour or bedroom, a hint of warmth behind firmly closed shutters or curtains. But the night air is cold as ice, and, as he walks, he notices the waning moon that hangs in the sky. Time and again, it vanishes behind the rooftops then reappears; but something in its cold grey pallor reminds him of the girl’s face, lying upon the floor of the train, and its light seems horribly unwelcome.
‘Has someone gone for the peelers?’
A nod.
‘He won’t get far.’
A black cab, smart and polished, hurtles along Portland Place towards the park at top speed, the sound of the horse’s hooves beating a swift clipping rhythm. Henry Cotton waits for it to pass. Only once it has gone by does he spy the police constable standing opposite. The policeman is preoccupied in talking to a girl, a demi-mondaine in a garish emerald dress, who loiters at his side. She touches the constable’s cheek coquettishly, and holds on to his arm as if they were stepping out together. None the less, the constable is sensible enough to the world around him to spare Henry Cotton a quick glance, leaving Cotton no option but to proceed across the road.
‘Evening, sir,’ says the constable, examining him with a more leisurely gaze.
‘Good evening, officer.’
‘You need any assistance, sir?’ he replies, looking down at Henry Cotton’s mud-spattered trousers, and raising an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Only a change of clothes when I get home. I slipped crossing the road. Foolish of me.’
The policeman smiles. ‘Well, you be careful, sir. Never worth hurrying to your death, is it?’
‘Yes, well, indeed. Good night to you.’
The constable nods, satisfied with the progress of his enquiries. He has already returned to his conversation with the woman, even as Henry Cotton turns to take leave of him.
In five minutes more, walking at a good pace, Cotton stands at the door of his lodgings, a terrace in Castle Street. He surveys the road on both sides, making sure there is no-one watching. Once he is satisfied, he scrapes his boots, turns his key in the lock to let himself in, then quietly ascends the stairs.
The room itself is a small one, situated on the top floor, furnished in the Spartan style that suits many London landlords, if not their tenants. Cotton sits himself down upon the bed. The only light is from the flaring of the gas in the street below, which emits a residual luminescence that filters through the sash window. Even so, he can still make out that there is mud on the rug, which he will have to clean away; on the stairs outside too, no doubt. Instinctively, he reaches to remove his hat, and he realises he is not wearing it.
His memory stabs at him, his stomach turning, at the thought of the dead girl.
He left his hat upon the train.
Along with his notebook.
CHAPTER FOUR
BY DAY, THE station at Baker Street is warmed by the constant human traffic that streams through the concourse, down to the platforms, and back up again. If the weather is dismal, and the clever arrangement of skylights set into the vaulted roof of the station affords no daylight, then the gas will be turned on, and the traveller may be cheered by the bright glowing globes that hang like baubles above his head. There is even some warmth to be had, on frost-bitten mornings, from the furnace of a train at a standstill, or in the steam that belches out as the train departs, and condenses in rivulets on the damp brickwork. By night, however, Baker Street becomes less temperate; there is often no gas in the pipes, even if it were wanted, and the few men who work on the track carry oil-lamps, and wear the thickest of winter coats. To the station’s night-watchman who, on occasion, sees them in the distance, they seem like fleeting yellow spectres, ghostly fire-flies that come and go in the tunnels, though he will readily admit he possesses a fanciful imagination. Tonight, however, the watchman has no opportunity to indulge his fancies. Rather he finds that the platform has not been cleared, and the last train has not moved on to its nocturnal rest. Instead, there is a tall, burly policeman, grave and sullen, at the station entrance, and a gang of half a dozen or more of his uniformed comrades, each bearing a bull’s-eye lantern, standing upon the platform, either peering into the nearby railway carriage, or engaged in casual conversation. The watchman walks down and mingles amongst them.
‘They’ll get an inspector down here, won’t they, sergeant?’ asks a young constable, addressing an older man who stands beside him as he shuffles his feet in a vain attempt to keep out the cold.
‘Oh, yes, my boy,’ replies the sergeant, ‘they’ll send for someone, all right. They won’t leave a mess like this to the man what found her, who was just doing his duty, will they? Too simple.’
‘Did you find her, sir?’
‘I happened to be first here, yes. But, you’ve got to understand,’ he adds, sarcastically, ‘the likes of us ain’t suitable for brain work, you see?’
Such talk goes on for an hour or more; nothing much is done, nothing of great significance is truly said. It is perhaps two o’clock in the morning before a shout goes out to the men upon the platform, who, after interrogating the watchman, have long since found a stove, and each acquired a steaming cup of coffee.
‘Look lively, someone’s coming,’ exclaims a voice from the ticket hall.
‘Who is it, then?’
‘Hmph! Can’t you hear it? I don’t bleedin’ believe it.’
‘Hear what?’
‘That! It’s Webb, ain’t it? They’ve gone and got
Webb. What odds do you give us, eh?’
At the mention of this name, a couple of the older policemen laugh and exchange knowing looks; a couple more give vent to choice expletives. The young constable, who spoke earlier to the sergeant, puts down his coffee and hurries up the steps to the ticket hall.
It is undoubtedly an odd noise, coming along the empty road: a tinny rattling sound, the sound of thin, iron-shod wheels, unlike any normal cart or carriage. The young constable pushes forward to see the source of excitement: a man balancing precariously on a two-wheeled crank-driven velocipede, peddling at full tilt towards the station. Indeed, the constable cannot help but smile; he has seen one or two similar contraptions in the parks, but generally ridden by young men far too eager to show off their agility, or bruises, to promenading young ladies. The rider in this case, however, bicycling along the surface of the Marylebone Road, jostled up and down with every rotation of the wheels, is a stout policeman in his late forties.
‘God help us, it’s Webb all right,’ whispers the sergeant, sardonically. ‘The Boneshaker Bobby.’
‘He’s a bleedin’ inspector,’ says another man, ‘and he’ll hear you.’
‘Hush.’
Decimus Webb leans deftly on the front wheel of the velocipede and rounds towards the station. He is not a handsome man by any means, but has a mop of brown curly hair, which peeks uncontrollably from under his helmet, a fulsome bearded face, and large heavily lidded eyes. The latter, in particular, seem to possess a rather mournful quality, quite suited to his work, and in his expression he resembles nothing so much as a jowly old hunting dog. Yet, despite his progress on the bicycle being rather comical, his red-faced physical exertion in odd contrast with his rather languid features, in all fairness he still manages to swing the vehicle over towards the station in a graceful arc.It is a feat that is marred only by the slight look of nerves as he alights, swinging his left leg over the frame, and dropping on to the pavement. Somewhat breathless, he does not say a word until he has parked his conveyance up against the station wall and dusted himself down.
He looks round at the assembly of men in blue, and frowns.
‘You’ll be issued one of these soon enough,’ he says, gesturing at the bicycle, ‘mark my words. Excellent machine. Monsieur Michaux, of Paris.’
‘I ain’t riding that Frog contraption,’ mutters the sergeant.
Webb hears the comment, but ignores it
. ‘Sergeant Watkins, is it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answers the reluctant sergeant.
‘Well, Sergeant Watkins,’ Webb says, speaking slowly and mordantly, looking over the men standing before him, ‘I can only assume that we are anticipating a riot?’ He pauses for effect. ‘Some uprising of subterranean socialists, perhaps?’
‘A riot, sir? I don’t take your meaning.’
‘Why else should I find half of D and X Division defending Baker Street railway station? Tell me, sergeant, if you will, how many men have you here?’
A couple of the men behind the sergeant sheepishly put down their coffee mugs. Watkins himself blushes a little.
‘Well, sir, on a serious matter like this, naturally a couple of lads came when I whistled and . . .’
Webb sighs, a deep exhalation of breath, shaking his head. The sergeant falls silent.
‘Organise it properly, sergeant, will you? So that it does not resemble a tea-party?’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And perhaps,’ continues Decimus Webb, in an exaggerated tone of exasperation, ‘when you are quite done, I may look at this body. And you, constable . . .’
‘Sir?’ says the young man eagerly.
‘Do keep your eye on my “boneshaker”, won’t you?’
‘This is how she was found, is it?’
Decimus Webb stands over the woman’s body.
‘Yes, sir, exactly,’ says the booking clerk, standing behind him. ‘Well, at least, when he pushed her over . . .’
‘Hush, my good man, hush. We have not reached that juncture,’ says Webb. ‘At least she has not been moved, that is something. Now, what time did the train leave Farringdon Street?’
‘It would be half-past eleven, sir.’
‘And stopping at all stations in between, no doubt.’
The man nods. ‘Every one, sir.’
‘There were others in this carriage when it arrived, besides the fellow who ran? It is second class, is it not?’
