by Lee Jackson
It is not five minutes more before Clara White stands outside a house on Doughty Street, just north of Gray’s Inn. It is not a large house, and not too dissimilar to the refuge, with the principal exception that it is finished with stucco painted a smart white, and its front steps are much better polished. She takes a moment to ensure her mother’s medication is concealed in her apron, and Mrs. Harris’s clearly on display, then descends the area steps, and opens the kitchen door.
‘Where’ve you been?’ asks a voice, even before her face can be seen.
‘I’ve got Mrs. H.’s medicine, Cook,’ she says gingerly, displaying the paper bag to her interlocutor.
Cook, a fulsome-bodied creature with the muscular arms and ruddy complexion of so many of the women in her trade, scowls. ‘And look at the state of you,’ she exclaims, gesturing in exasperation at Clara’s muddied skirts.
‘Well? What do you want? I can’t fly, can I?’
‘Hmph!’ says Cook. Her snort of derision fills the room like a little explosion. ‘Don’t you cheek me, girl. Clean yourself up, that’s all.’
‘Did they miss us?’ asks Clara, as she hunts for the clothes brush kept for such contingencies.
‘I reckon not. Alice took ’em breakfast and said you were sick. I ain’t telling no lies, mind you. Not if they asks me, personal like.’
‘They won’t ask, will they?’
Cook snorts again and shrugs her large shoulders.
‘If they didn’t have their heads so high in the clouds, they would. And this house would be a darn sight better for it. That’s my pennyworth, anyhow.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
As she speaks there are footsteps on the stairs, and another person appears, a small girl in a plain kitchen-maid’s outfit, carrying a silver tray. She is a couple of years younger than Clara, and smiles when she sees her.
‘About time,’ she says, as she descends the steps.
‘You scared us. I thought you were Mrs. H.,’ says Clara.
‘Come on, when did you last see her down here? Tell us, how’s your ma, then?’
‘Awful, Ally. But then she always were.’
It is not a very funny joke, but they both allow themselves a smile. Cook’s face merely looks deep into a pan of porridge simmering on the range, which she removes from the hob. The new arrival, whose full name is Alice Meynell, walks over to Clara, and leans close to her.
‘Have you heard?’ she says, whispering.
‘What’s that?’ interrupts Cook. ‘Speak up!’
‘There’s only been a murder,’ the girl continues, still whispering, ‘on the Underground Railway. There was a girl strangled, right in the railway carriage, right before everyone’s eyes. Throttled till she was dead.’
‘Really?’ says Clara, still busy with her skirts. She seems less interested by this information than Alice Meynell might have reasonably expected.
‘What’s the matter with you, anyhow?’ asks the girl.
‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Something my ma told me.’
‘Well, what was this, then? Tell all.’
‘Said she’d seen my sister. And I didn’t even think she was in London.’
Cook thumps her fist on the kitchen table.
‘There’ll be murder here if you don’t do some work, girl. That goes for both of you.’
Alice pulls a face at her, and continues talking. ‘You’ve never said much about her, your sister.’
‘No. I just wish I knew where she was.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘BEG YOUR PARDON, sir? What’s that? A shilling? A shilling for the Remarkable Compound? No, sir. Not a shilling, though it would be a regular bargain even at that price. Come closer, sir, lend me your nose, as the Bard of Avon would have it. “Ear”, you say? No, I can do precious little with that! Come a little closer, and let the scent of the Remarkable Compound elevate
your nostrils! Don’t be fearful now! How does it smell? Sweet? Of course it does. That, sir, is the smell of Vi-tality.’
It is mid-morning and a crowd of two dozen or more persons move a little closer into the corner of Clare Market, a maze of little streets that trail off from Lincoln’s Inn Fields towards the Strand. The object of everyone’s attention is a man standing upon a wooden crate, waving in the air an unstoppered bulbous bottle made of dark green glass. He is of middling height and, though he wears a dark suit of cheap fustian, it conceals a striking green silk waistcoat, and the hint of a gold chain, which may or may not be affixed to a pocket-watch. His features, moreover, are quite handsome, and his fair hair sleek with macassar oil. He looks, in common parlance, something of a ‘cheap swell’. A good proportion of those watching him are women.
His voice booms through the marketplace.
‘You, ma’am! Yes, you! Won’t you take a sip, gratis? Really? Is that so? No, ma’am, rest assured, I would not hazard to bother, befuddle, nor bamboozle a lady such as you! As my old father said to me, “You can bring an horse to the trough, but you can’t make him drink.” Really? No, ma’am, I did not compare you to an equine, you misunderstands me. I has a great deal of respect for horses . . .’
The crowd laugh and the man smiles; he is no more than twenty-eight years of age, but he has the booming voice and assurance of someone much older. He puts his hand out, asking them for silence.
‘We may have a jolly time of it, my friends, but I might ask of you to stop and think. How many of you is suffering from a sickness? How many of you would likely benefit from the remedy of the Remarkable Compound? How many, aye, more’s the point, has been on bended knee to the blasted relieving officer, and taken his blessed chit to the doctor, but has found no relief? Aye, a good number, ain’t it? Of course, I cannot promise you long life and health, nor can any fellow on God’s green earth. But there is steps a man may take, good long strides, which sets you on the right road. What’s that? Proof, you say? The Compound is its own proof positive, ma’am, rest assured. Really? Well, let us put it to the test. Now, what do I see here? You, Miss? Yes, you at the back. I ain’t a gentleman for saying it, but you are suffering from an infirmity, are you not? Do come forward, if you will?’
A girl of about fifteen or sixteen years of age steps forward from the back of the crowd; she wears a striped cotton dress, and her face is barely visible under a tangled web of chestnut-brown hair that falls loose about her shoulders. As she walks to the front she visibly limps, and a few of those nearby notice that she cradles her left hand under her shawl, supporting it with her other arm. The street doctor beckons her forward and puts his arm around her, though she looks uncomfortable to be the focus of everyone’s attention.
‘Now, Miss, I ain’t so green that I can’t see something is amiss with that peg of yours, and your hand there. Now show us your arm, will you? No need to be ashamed of a natural infirmity, Miss. Go on.’
The girl blushes, but brings out her arm, showing her hand to be crooked and arthritic in appearance, and blistered about the knuckles. A couple of women in the crowd mutter in sympathy.
‘Now, I don’t know what your hospital man would say of it, but that is what we commonly called “withered”, ain’t it, my friends? That is an awful burden for a young gal, ain’t it? Now, here you go, my beauty, you try a sip of this.’
He hands her a bottle from his tray, laid out beside the box, and the girl hesitantly takes a couple of sips.
‘Now,’ says the man, gravely, ‘tell us how you find the effect, if you will?’
‘A little better,’ says the girl, shyly, still hiding her face beneath her hair.
‘It make you feel a little better? And that is just two sips, ladies and gentlemen. Now, Miss, I do not want to supply you with false hopes, but may I make a suggestion?’
The girl looks puzzled and nods.
‘Apply a couple of drops of the Compound to your hand, Miss.’
‘My hand?’
‘Yes, to your hand. And rub it in. Rub it in good.’
The girl
looks shocked, but takes up the bottle again and drips a couple of drops of the liquid on to her crooked wrist. She gives back the bottle, then massages the liquid along the length of her hand, rubbing her fingers vigorously. As she does so, a delighted smile gradually spreads across her lips and, when she is done, her hand is suddenly not half as crooked as it was, and the blisters have all but vanished. The street doctor looks triumphant, and motions to everyone to gather closer.
‘There, Miss, now how is that? Not bad for a free sample, is it?’
‘I can move my fingers!’
‘Do you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? Her fingers! Now, that is what we might call Remarkable, is it not? Now, I cannot bring myself to name the full price for this Remarkable Compound, not when we have witnessed this here child’s happiness. I will not say it is elevenpence, nor tenpence, but I must say ninepence unless I am bent upon starving my own poor family. Miss, would you care to buy an actual bottleful? You would? Yes? Anyone else?’
And several hands fumble in pockets and purses, all of them willing to give the doctor’s elixir a try. One, however, is a short gentleman in a decent suit of clothes, who swiftly pays his money, and immediately raises a bottle of the liquid to his lips. He swills it around his mouth thoughtfully, then stretches out his arms in an attempt to prevent further transactions.
‘This, sir,’ he exclaims, ‘is a mockery of the medical science. It is nothing more than sugared water!’
The street doctor frowns, weighs up his antagonist, and attempts a rebuttal.
‘That, sir, as I just said, is the taste of Vi-tality. Would it not taste sweet to any man?’
‘I, sir, am not any man. I am an assistant-surgeon at St. Bartholomew’s. And I tell you that this concoction is nothing more than coloured water, pure and simple, except perhaps that I doubt it is very pure. It is utter fakery! And as for this girl’s hand . . .’
The street doctor blanches a little, but is seemingly about to make a reply, whilst attempting to continue the transactions he has already begun, when he spots the distinctive uniform of a police officer appearing abruptly around a nearby corner. At this sighting, the doctor simply turns and runs, making no pretence of doing anything else. He leaves a clatter of medicine bottles behind him. The girl, meanwhile, suddenly loses all semblance of infirmity and follows in his wake as fast as any trained sprinter. The crowd is quite stunned, not least the half-dozen or so already having exchanged their money for goods, unsure whether there is any advantage in taking an abandoned bottle, regardless. The policeman, meanwhile, merely shouts out, ‘Stop! Stop, thief!’ and pursues both man and girl at full speed.
Clare Market is a dangerous region for anyone wishing to make hasty progress, its back alleys littered with the detritus of nearby houses and the market trade, encompassing both abandoned animal and vegetable matter, carpeted with cabbage leaves and herring bones. The man and girl are undoubtedly surefooted, but the blue-coated policeman seemingly makes better time, and catches up with them just in sight of St. Clement’s church, adjoining the Strand. Any one of the prospective purchasers of the Remarkable Compound who were to observe the scene, however, would think it a strange apprehension. For all parties suddenly draw to a halt, without any scuffle. But what does it matter? There is no person present to form such a conclusion, and that is precisely why the chase stops.
‘All right, Charlie,’ says the street doctor, smiling at his pursuer, and cheerfully slapping him on the back. ‘Perfect. He was trouble, that little fellow.’
‘Lor, you needn’t have run quite so far, eh?’ says the policeman, a little flushed and breathless.
‘Better safe than sorry. I didn’t take much, though.’
‘You never do. Well, call it three bob, Tom, and have done.’
‘You’re a hard man,’ says the street doctor, reluctantly ceding part of his takings.
‘And you’re a lucky one. Now don’t let me see you here again for a day or two, eh? Or I’ll have to take you in.’
The street doctor nods, and smiles, watching the policeman depart. His smile disappears when the man is gone. He pulls the girl over to the church wall.
‘Well, Lizzie, my darlin’,’ says Tom Hunt, ‘we’ll have to come up with something else, won’t we now?’
‘I never liked that fake anyhow. My hand hurts, keeping it cramped up like that.’
‘Liking ain’t important. Just do as you are told, and we’ll do all right.’
Lizzie grimaces as her husband pinches her arm. ‘Where will we go now, then?’ she asks.
‘Bill will put us up tonight, I reckon. It’s been a week or two, ain’t it? A bit of a rest, and I can have a think.’
Lizzie Hunt, née White, scowls.
‘We never get a decent lodgings,’ she says.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘QUITE A SENSATION, ain’t it?’
Sergeant Watkins and Inspector Decimus Webb sit facing each other in Bates’ Coffee Room adjoining the Marylebone Tavern, overlooking Marylebone High Street. The former scrutinises several crumpled sheets of paper that he holds in his hand, whilst the latter sips from a cup of dark coffee, fresh from the urn.
‘Here’s one,’ continues the sergeant. ‘“Dreadful Railway murder! Man escaped into tunnels!” Who’d have thought, eh? It’s news to me, I must say.’
‘If you will read these penny sheets,’ says Webb, ‘you can expect no better. When is a murder not “dreadful”?’
‘I’d say it depends on the circumstances, sir. In any case, you have to admire them, getting it printed up so quick. I’ve seen them on every corner this morning. The girl’s barely cold.’
‘It is not a matter of admiration,’ says Webb, ‘though at least it may help us in finding a name for our woman, assuming she possesses a family or, at least, some acquaintance of one sort or other.’
‘And assuming it weren’t them that did for her, sir.’
‘Hmm. Do they mention her hair?’
‘Her hair?’
‘Red hair, sergeant. Think, man. It is distinctive, is it not? It may alert someone who knows her.’
‘I believe some do, sir. “Flame-haired”, one says here.’
‘Ha! Well, that is a little grandiose. Still, we have other reading matter to consider.’
‘You’ve taken a good look at that notebook, then, sir?’
‘Yes, and you were quite right,’ replies Webb, though there is no hint of gratitude in his tone. He picks up the book and opens it at random, flicking through the pages. ‘It is, in the least, rather interesting. Let us pick a choice piece,’ he says, somewhat theatrically selecting a paragraph with his finger, and reading out loud, ‘seventeenth January.
‘Left C— St, and walked to Clare Market. It is no more than a mile or so on foot, and I was not disappointed; the place is a truly remarkable spectacle at night, though only to be fully witnessed when the gas has been extinguished in the butchers’ shops, and everything is shuttered up. Clare Market! How odd that any gentleman who wishes to acquaint himself with the demi-monde is directed to visit the glittering delights of the Haymarket, to take in Mott’s or Miss Hamilton’s; how odd that he will be advised to seek out the habituées of the pavé on that famous thoroughfare. Let a man come to these “market” streets! for there can be few other areas of the metropolis where one may become so easily acquainted with the temptations of the flesh. And it is human flesh, of course, offered up on every street corner, by some of the most wretched vestiges of womanhood a man might encounter. And yet, if the truth be told, the readiness with which this human tribute is tendered, and accepted, is as much a sorry testimony to the bestial nature of mankind, as it is a disgrace to the woman. Poor sinning creatures, one and all!
‘But enough moralising! In short, from the vantage of my “lodgings” (the dreadful room, rented Thursday last) I was well-placed to observe the little group of doves flocking below.
‘I made, therefore, the following observations between the hours of ten o’clock and midnig
ht:
‘No. of women: 6
No. of men: 26
Longest interval between transactions:18 minutes
Shortest interval between transactions:2 minutes
Duration of transactions: between 1 and 4 minutes; an average of 2.5 minutes
Money exchanged: always upon completion of transaction
‘Of the women themselves, one was forty years or older, one between thirty and forty, two between twenty and thirty, and two under twenty years; indeed, one of the latter appeared little more than a child of twelve or thirteen. None was dressed in particular finery; all, however, were bare-headed, eschewing a winter bonnet or cap.
‘Of the men, rough-looking costers predominated, dressed in the corduroys and the high, laced boots that distinguish their class.
‘Most remarkable that, in all instances, the business I observed would have been clearly visible to any passer-by, man, woman or child (and it is not unknown to see young children alone upon these streets, even at such a late hour), a consideration which seemed to trouble neither party!’
‘Regular Paul Pry, ain’t he?’
‘Hmm. I cannot read the rest – ’ says Webb, scanning the page – ‘more of his blasted scribbling. Ah, wait, a final paragraph.
‘I became puzzled by the activities of a particular girl, who walked down the street, then left in the company of a man, on three separate occasions; did she have a room? I resolved to test this, and struck up a conversation. She was a pretty girl, of very slender figure, barely on the verge of womanhood. She led me through narrow passageways to, as I had suspected, a barely furnished room, above a cook-shop.
‘I gave her three shillings and quizzed her. Made two pages of notes. She thought my enquiries highly amusing, and said she preferred the “regular business”.
