A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Done already, White?’

  Clara jumps in surprise at the voice behind her, blushing as she turns to address the mistress of the house.

  ‘No, ma’am. Nearly, though, ma’am.’

  Mrs. Harris stands behind her, observing the window with a look of mild disdain. She is a short, stocky woman in her fifties, wearing an elaborate moiré day dress, intricately patterned. The fabric is a colour that might be described in fashionable pages as ‘Bismarck’, but it is identified in her housemaid’s mind merely as ‘nutmeg’. Moreover, the outfit incorporates a large and unwieldly bustle. In consequence of this appendage, when Mrs. Harris walks into a room, Clara cannot help but think of a duck emerging on to dry land. It is not an insight, however, which she vouchsafes to her employer.

  ‘Then why have you stopped?’

  ‘There’s a boy, ma’am, delivering something. Just gone down the steps.’

  At that moment, a bell rings in the kitchen.

  ‘Is Cook not there?’ asks Mrs. Harris.

  ‘I believe she is out marketing, ma’am. And Alice is upstairs.’

  ‘Then you had better hurry. But be sure to come back and finish. I cannot abide work half done.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Clara curtsies and hurries, as swiftly as decency permits, down to the ‘tradesman’s entrance’. This is the name bestowed upon it by Mrs. Harris, though it normally suffices with being, simply put, the kitchen door. The boy is standing there and rings the bell again just as Clara appears.

  ‘’Arris?’ he asks, without any preliminary.

  ‘This is the Harris household,’ replies Clara White, in her best housemaid’s voice, though it is a voice with a strong hint of the Thames about it.

  ‘Package for ’Arris, darlin’, says the boy, brandishing a large brown paper parcel retrieved from his satchel. He cannot be much more than twelve years old.

  ‘Don’t darlin’ me . . . give it here,’ replies Clara, taking it from him. ‘Who should I say it’s from?’

  ‘Babbingtons, there’s a card inside.’

  ‘Well, thank you. You can leave it with me, then.’

  ‘No, thank you . . . darlin’,’ says the boy, grinning and running back up the steps before she can reply. Clara toys with the idea of pursuing him, but thinks better of it, picturing her mistress’s face if she were to see her boxing the boy’s ears. Instead, she shuts the door and takes the parcel inside. The name of the shop is not unfamiliar, and by the weight and dimensions it is easy enough to guess that it is one of her master’s regular deliveries of books.

  She is about to take it upstairs, when she pauses upon the kitchen steps, looking at the string and wrapping.

  She turns back, still holding the package, and opens the door to the scullery. Once inside, with the door ajar, she glances at the old washtub she put there earlier in the day; raising it up a little, she checks that her bottle of Balley’s Quietener lies concealed beneath it.

  Looking over her shoulder, she takes the parcel, and carefully unwraps the string.

  ‘Oh dear, no. No, this is not the thing at all.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Dr. Arthur Harris, Clara’s employer, sits at his desk with the parcel unwrapped, reading the spines of the half-dozen items supplied. He is a comfortable cherubic-faced man; indeed, his wife has often been heard to remark that if it was not for the whisps of grey hair atop his head, it would be hard to judge whether he was six or sixty. In truth, however, he falls into the latter category; and yet, as he examines his new acquisitions, the look of sheer disappointment present upon his face is one perhaps more commonly associated with more junior members of society.

  ‘Where is Johnstone’s ‘History of the Parish Pump’? Really, Clara, I specifically asked for it.’

  ‘I can’t say, sir.’

  ‘Quite. Quite. Neither can I. I expressly asked for it to be delivered; I was told it was “in stock” and whatever that may be taken to mean, I now am quite unable to say.’

  ‘Perhaps it was forgotten.’

  ‘I suppose that may be. But what am I to do?’

  Clara frowns and looks suitably thoughtful. ‘I could fetch it for you, sir. If you tell me where it’s from.’

  ‘Could you? Could you, Clara, my dear?’ He reaches out and clasps her hand in gratitude.

  ‘Yes, sir. Where should I go?’

  ‘Babbingtons, my dear girl; on the corner of Newcastle Street, not far from the church. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I know that street.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose you do. How easily we forget your past life, eh, Clara? It is a testament to your character.’

  He touches her hand again, his fingers lingering on hers. She blushes but says nothing.

  ‘Well,’ he says, turning away and looking at his watch, ‘what are you waiting for? Off you go! Tell them that if they keep this up I may consider taking my custom elsewhere.’

  Clara curtsies, and leaves the room, suppressing a smile. She composes herself as she descends the stairs at a trot, and, having ensured that no-one has monitored her progress, she returns to the small scullery under the kitchen steps. There, once ensconced inside, she retrieves two objects from beneath the washtub: a small pamphlet entitled ‘History of the Parish Pump’, and the bottle of Balley’s Patent Quietener. She hides them both in her apron pocket, then opens the scullery door to go back into the kitchen. As she does so, however, she hears the voice of Mrs. Harris, suddenly booming from upstairs.

  ‘White! What on earth are you doing down there?’

  ‘Got to go out, ma’am. Dr. Harris asked me to.’

  ‘ “Got to go out!” I never heard the like. Where to, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘Bookseller’s, ma’am.’

  There is a noise upon the landing, something between a sigh and a ‘huff’. It is a noise familiar to Clara White and quite unique to Mrs. Harris, signalling a generalised contempt for the world, for the untidy and thoughtless behaviour of all its inhabitants, and for her husband in particular.

  ‘Well, I am sorry, but that is quite out of the question. There is too much to do here, without you being sent on fool’s errands.’

  ‘But Dr. Harris told me . . .’

  ‘My husband,’ says Mrs. Harris, with stately superiority, ‘is a clever gentleman and a scholar. I expect to find him in bookseller’s; that is natural and proper, and to be expected. You, on the other hand, I expect to find here, going about your chores. Finding you in other places . . . well, that will only cause confusion. And now, look, you have me shouting down the stairs like some fishwife!’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. It was just a book that weren’t delivered and . . .’

  ‘Really! Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, I am sure. Doubtless Dr. Harris will agree with me.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Now, back to your duties, if you please. That window is quite revolting. It practically turns my stomach to look at it.’

  Mrs. Harris does not wait for a response and disappears from view. Clara, meanwhile, reluctantly turns around, intending to return her secrets to their hiding place; she finds Alice Meynell standing quietly behind her.

  ‘Where were you off to in such a hurry?’ she asks.

  ‘Did you snitch on me?’ replies Clara, surprised.

  ‘To the missus?’

  ‘Sorry. Of course, you didn’t. It was just an errand.’

  ‘Anyone might think you’ve got a gentleman friend. Sneaking out at all hours . . .’

  ‘It’s just ma again. I told them at the refuge I’d get her some medicine, that’s all. She’s in a bad way.’

  ‘And how’re you going to pay for that? On tick? I thought you were flat out.’

  Clara nervously touches her apron. ‘I’ll find a way. She was awful bad, Ally. You’d do exactly the same if you saw her.’

  ‘She ain’t my mother, though.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky.’

  CHAPTER TWEL
VE

  EVENING FALLS ON Lincoln’s Inn Fields, as the lady superintendent of the Holborn Refuge acknowledges a knock at her door, and calls in one of her nurses.

  ‘Agnes White again?’ asks Miss Sparrow, wearily.

  ‘She moans in her sleep something terrible, ma’am. And if she’s awake, she coughs.’

  ‘Well, I fear we must let it take its course. She is bent on being ill; I am sure of it.’

  ‘Should we not . . . ?’ asks Jenny hesitantly. ‘I mean, should we not call the doctor? The other gals are saying it’s a brain fever, that it might be catching.’

  ‘Well, I am, at least, quite sure it is no such thing. Indeed, I can find nothing much wrong with her, except her nerves and drink. Besides,’ says Miss Sparrow, looking up from her books with a look of frustration, ‘where should I find the money for a doctor?’

  ‘I just thought . . .’

  ‘And your compassion does you credit, my dear,’ says Miss Sparrow, sighing. ‘But we must set limits. And needs must.’

  ‘Her daughter said she might buy her another bottle of the Balley’s, ma’am.’

  Miss Sparrow smiles. ‘Now, nothing would suit me more. Still, in the meantime, I suppose we must see if we can calm her. You may go and do your best, Jenny. Remind her that this is the Quiet Hour. Remind her of that.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The girl stands there, nervously.

  ‘Well, was there something else?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m foolish, ma’am,’ says the nurse, unfolding a piece of paper she has been holding behind her back. ‘It’s just something silly that Aggie said, about Sally. It’s just, I was reading about this murder last night at Baker Street – you’ve heard about it, ain’t you? And I was thinking about Sally and . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Well, it couldn’t be her, could it, ma’am? I mean, it says here “flame-haired”. I mean, that was the girl that were killed.’

  ‘Really, Jenny, you must do something about these awful fancies of yours. What would Sally Bowker be doing upon a train? Show me that,’ says Miss Sparrow, her face quite composed.

  Jenny steps forward and hands her the broadsheet. Her employer scans it briefly before looking up at her.

  ‘You’d do better to read nothing at all, Jenny, rather than read such nonsense.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ says Jenny, a little abashed.

  ‘Yes, well, go and see what can be done for White, will you? At least keep her quiet.’

  In her mind’s eye, Agnes White sits upon a wooden stool, in the tap-room of the Black Boy. There is noise, and bustle, and jollity. She is suddenly a pretty young woman again, nineteen years of age.

  But then she looks down and sees that she is carrying a child. She touches her face and finds it slightly fattened and flushed. And, whilst with one hand she cradles her balloon belly, with the other she holds a glass of gin. She places it upon the table, and tops it up from a half-bottle of Cream of the Valley, then takes another deep swig. The burning liquor slips easily down her throat, but she still feels the tightness in her back, iron fingers tugging at her womb.

  She downs another measure, then gets up. It seems a dizzying, tumble-down kind of place but she staggers to the looking-glass and examines her face properly. Something is wrong with it, she can see that, but she cannot place it; but she has not trusted her reflection for twenty years or more.

  How old? she wonders, looking at herself. How old are you?

  Really? That old. Lord spare us.

  ‘Aggie,’ says the nurse, gently stroking her face as she turns this way and that upon the mattress, ‘Aggie, come on now. You’ll be choking yourself again . . . That’s better, you just sleep nice and quiet. I’ll get you up later, when supper’s ready.’

  ‘Take her to the workhouse!’

  ‘Whorehouse, more like.’

  ‘You take her!’

  Aggie White crouches by the hearth of the Jolly Anchor. They are arguing about her, she can hear that much; they want her to go to Wapping Workhouse; and there is a fiddle playing in the background, the same melody again and again. She gets up, unsteady, holding on to a chair. It topples over and she falls back into the dust.

  ‘If she drops it here, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  But, too late, here it is; there should be pain, but perhaps she has forgotten that part. It is a baby, a girl, blood-blue and screaming as a woman finally cuts the cord with a penknife.

  She cannot remember if it was Clara or Lizzie.

  Lizzie?

  ‘I want to see her. Tell her, I want to see her.’

  ‘Who, Aggie?’

  ‘Lizzie!’

  ‘Don’t get upset, dear. Your daughter? She was a nice girl. She’ll be back, I’m sure,’ says Jenny, rearranging her pillow. ‘You just rest now.’

  ‘I want to see her, tell her I’m sorry.’

  ‘There, you just rest now, dear. I’ll tell her.’

  Philomena Sparrow stops writing, and looks outside. Serle Street is quiet at this time of day, and there is little to be seen except for the occasional carriage leaving Lincoln’s Inn. She picks up the crumpled sheet of print that Jenny left her, and reads it again.

  . . . made the awful discovery of the body of a flame-haired woman, who is believed to have approximated twenty years of age, her neck broken and her body quite horribly contorted. The woman’s identity remains a mystery to the Metropolitan police. Her assailant, who, in a touch of the grotesque, sat calmly by her corpse throughout the journey, upon being detected, ran from the station towards Marylebone . . .

  She sits in silent contemplation for a few moments, then gets up and retrieves her bonnet and mantle from a hook by the door. She shouts upstairs.

  ‘Jenny, I am going out. I leave you in charge. Do make sure that everyone is punctual for supper.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ returns the nurse, appearing on the landing.

  ‘And how is White?’

  ‘She seems better settled now, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, we have others to tend to, do we not?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

  Miss Sparrow opens the front door, the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand, wondering what is the best route to Marylebone police station.

  Agnes White opens her eyes. She is alone in the room, and it is getting dark outside. She gets up and looks out of the window, and sees the figure of Philomena Sparrow walking towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields in the fading light. She looks for her boots, which lie beside the bed, and hurriedly puts them on.

  No-one notices as she descends the stairs, and lets herself out into the street.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A HALF-MILE DISTANT from Lincoln’s Inn, Decimus Webb stands in the ticket hall of Farringdon Street railway station. The station itself is only a temporary wooden structure, beset on all sides by works and protective hoardings, part of the extensive excavations required for its rebuilding in stone, and the extension of the railway eastwards. None the less, temporary or not, with the station clock having chimed five o’clock, the public are already entering the building in large numbers, processing down the stairway on to the platform.

  ‘How long?’ says Decimus Webb incredulously, continuing a conversation with an off-duty ticket clerk, a small balding man with a white moustache, who stands nervously beside him.

  ‘Three minutes, sir, that’s God’s honest truth, I assure you.’

  Decimus Webb shakes his head in disbelief.

  ‘And it would have been three minutes last night, would it? From here to King’s Cross?’

  ‘Ah, well, last night there was works at Paddington, that might have held her up.’

  ‘A-ha! How long then, last night?’

  ‘Oh, I should reckon four minutes.’

  ‘Four minutes’ delay?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, four minutes to King’s Cross in total. That would be my guess.’

  ‘Not long to kill someone, is
it? Four minutes?’

  ‘Well,’ says the clerk, a little flustered, ‘I couldn’t say, sir. But I was here all the time. There’s two men who can vouch for it.’

  Webb snorts in laughter, and claps the man on the shoulders. ‘Do not worry, Mr. Jones. I did not have you in mind.’

  The man nods, but does not seem to find it quite so amusing.

  ‘And you were on the ticket desk yourself, all last night?’ continues Webb, watching the people as they walk into the station, but still addressing the man at his side.

  ‘I was. From five o’clock till finish.’

  ‘And you did not see the woman in question? She had red hair – quite striking, I would have thought.’

  ‘Not that I recollect, sir, no. But she may have had a return ticket from Paddington or Baker Street. She would not need seeing, if you understand me.’

  ‘Quite,’ says Webb, nodding. Abruptly he then turns his head to the clerk. ‘A return ticket, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That is the common thing, on the evening trains. Folk rarely travel just the one way, do they?’

  ‘Yes, I know that, my good man . . . Watkins!’

  Webb shouts the man’s name in the same way another man might shout ‘Fire!’ or ‘Murder!’ A good number of persons nearby jump in astonishment, not least Mr. Jones the ticket clerk; Webb, however, stands there unconcerned, offering a polite nod to anyone who stops and stares at the source of the uproar. Sergeant Watkins, meanwhile, appears from the platform, gently pushing his way through the mêlée of passengers heading in the opposite direction, and making gradual progress to the side of his superior.