A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Charming. Here, what’s that noise?’

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’

  Wapping by night.

  The man clasps her hand in his and gently brings her palm to his breast; she can feel his heart beating.

  ‘Mr. Phibbs, I can’t . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ he says, and kisses her, touching her cheek with his fingers.

  ‘I’ve never really . . .’

  ‘Clara, hush,’ he says. ‘Tell me about your sister.’

  ‘Lizzie?’

  ‘Lizzie.’

  Bill Hunt says it in a whisper but the woman hears him. Her mouth curls, sardonically, teasing him, even as he keeps going at her as hard as he can.

  ‘Who’s Lizzie, darlin’?’ she asks, between breaths; she is laughing at him, he is sure. He puts his hand over the woman’s mouth; she talks too much. She still looks at him, mocking him with her eyes; for a moment, he thinks he should hit her.

  But the moment passes; then it is but one brief second of pleasure.

  He collapses on top of her, blood pounding through his veins. He smells of sweat, and steam, and coaldust; the girl quickly wriggles free of his bulk. For a moment, she fears he might be asleep, but then he turns over and stares at her.

  ‘Who’s Lizzie?’ she asks, tugging down her petticoat.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I don’t. I just want my money, dear.’

  ‘Wait there, I’ll see if it’s safe to go out.’

  Doughty Street.

  ‘Clara?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I am sorry about your mother.’ Dr. Harris takes her palm, and places it between his own hands. ‘Perhaps it is for the best? She is at peace now, after all.’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  ‘And, I think, there is no need to speak of the matter again.’

  ‘Sir.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  MORNING.

  Henry Cotton walks the length of Saffron Hill, past the peculiar arrangements of stands and props that project from the old-clothes establishments. As he walks, a shaft of sunlight briefly penetrates the clouds, and, for a few seconds, the washed-out cottons and tattered silks almost seem bright and gay. Indeed, it strikes him what a remarkable difference the light makes when it disappears once more, as abruptly as it came, and the road reverts to its gloomier aspect.

  In truth, his own garments contribute to the drabness, since he has abandoned his decent suit for an old and care-worn example of the mixed-cloth variety, giving himself an altogether shabbier appearance, more in keeping with such humble streets. In fact, no-one spares him a second glance as he comes to the alley that leads to the Three Cups. He does not enter it, however, but looks down at the figure of a man squatting on a doorstep, a board and three thimbles on his lap.

  ‘Hardly recognised you, sir,’ says Tom Hunt, plainly amused by Cotton’s appearance. ‘Here, look out,’ he whispers, as he notices a group of factory men approaching, ‘now, what we was talking about, see how it’s done . . .’

  Hunt takes a deep breath, and shouts out along the street, ‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen. Try your luck, won’t you? I’ve already lost a shilling today. I know my luck’s got to turn.’

  The men laugh, but seem to be bent on passing by. Hunt, however, addresses himself loudly to Henry Cotton.

  ‘You, sir. I’ll give you one more go, if you like, though you’ve robbed me blind already.’

  Hunt raises his eyebrows conspiratorially. Cotton, realising he has a part to play, mumbles his agreement.

  ‘Ah, now, how much will you wager, sir? I can’t speak for more than a shilling, not when you can double your money.’

  ‘A shilling then.’

  ‘A shilling it is!’ he exclaims at the top of his voice. A couple of the men going past turn their heads, slowing their pace. Hunt takes a shilling from Cotton and displays a hardened pea between thumb and forefinger, placing it under the middle thimble. In timehonoured fashion he begins to swap one with the other, sliding them in ever-quicker movements around the piece of card. By the time he is finished, three of the factory men stand by Henry Cotton’s side, expectantly waiting for the result.

  ‘Your call, sir,’ says Hunt, addressing Cotton.

  Cotton deliberates, and picks the middle one. The thimble is slowly raised, to reveal the shrivelled pea beneath.

  ‘Damn me,’ exclaims Hunt, vehemently, taking a pair of coins from his pocket with great show of reluctance, ‘I never knew a fellow with such keen peepers. That’s it! I’m finished at this game.’

  Cotton takes the money that is offered him. No sooner than it changes hands does one of the factory men step forward.

  ‘Here, I’ll have a go,’ he says cautiously. Hunt smiles, but shakes his head.

  ‘Sorry, my friend, this young swell here has cleaned me out.’

  It is a few minutes before Henry Cotton, having once more traversed the length of Saffron Hill, returns to the Three Cups, following Tom Hunt’s instructions. He finds Tom Hunt seated inside.

  ‘Made sure they were gone, did you?’ asks Hunt.

  ‘Quite gone.’

  ‘Good. Better safe than sorry, eh? Even if I don’t catch them today, there’s always tomorrow. Now, you see how easy a rig it is? He would have put down a shilling, that fellow, mark my words.’

  ‘And he could not win?’

  Hunt answers by retrieving the thimbles from his pocket, placing the pea down under the middle one once more, and rotating their positions at half the speed of his previous display.

  ‘Now pick one.’

  Cotton chooses the thimble to his left. Hunt raises it up to reveal nothing, then likewise with its compatriot in the middle, and upon the right.

  ‘Now, where do you think it went, that pea?’ Cotton smiles, admiring the man’s skill. ‘I don’t know.’

  Hunt raises his left hand, and proudly shows Cotton his thumb. The pea can just be seen under his thumb nail, trapped against calloused skin.

  ‘What do you reckon to that then?’

  Cotton smiles. ‘I have read about the trick, of course,’ he says. ‘But it is remarkable to see how it is done. Does it always need an accomplice?’

  ‘Accomplice? Ain’t that a bit grand? It’s just a fellow what jollies things along, that’s all. And he ain’t always needed, if your luck holds good.’

  ‘You would lose some money to start with?’

  Hunt smirks. ‘Have a look at them coins what I gave you.’

  ‘They seem all right,’ says Cotton, taking them out into the light.

  ‘You rub them hard against each other.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Paint. They’re queer as you’ll ever find. But there ain’t many who will know the difference, not if they think as they’ve gained something for nothing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ says Cotton, eagerly, examining one of the thimbles, ‘would you do it all again, but slower? I would like to make some notes.’

  ‘I think I’m in need of a reviver before that,’ says Hunt, nodding towards the bar.

  ‘And there is more you can show me?’

  ‘I should think so,’ says Tom Hunt. ‘Now where’s that drink? And then there’s the small matter of payment, ain’t there?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  EVENING, IN SAFFRON Hill.

  ‘Tom, is that you?’

  Lizzie Hunt sits, curled up on the bed, alone in Bill Hunt’s room.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What you doing in the dark, anyhow?’

  ‘I didn’t want to waste the matches.’

  ‘Here,’ he says, striking a light, and illuminating the candle beside the bed. His voice is unusually cheerful. ‘Look at this.’

  Tom stands in front of her, turning a little to the left, then the right. In the dim light it takes his wife a moment to realise he is wearing a jacket and greatcoat that look smart enough to be new. She sits up, staring at him.

  ‘Where did you get those?’

&nbs
p; ‘I bought them off a man in Monmouth Street, not an hour ago. And,’ he says, pulling a little bundle from inside his coat, ‘who do you think this is for?’

  The bundle falls open to reveal itself as a thick woollen shawl, dyed dark red, wrapped around a silk bonnet of similar hue, slightly crushed by its confinement.

  ‘Tom!’ she exclaims, snatching them from his hands and wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. ‘Where did you get the money?’

  ‘Let’s just say I had a very satisfactory afternoon with your Mr. Plain-Clothes. It was so satisfactory I even forgot that I ain’t seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday. Where’ve you been? I thought you was going to see your sister?’

  ‘Tom, don’t be angry, please.’

  ‘I ain’t,’ he replies, looking at her quizzically, ‘not now, anyhow. There’s nothing like ready money to lift a man’s spirits. What say I treat you to supper?’

  She nods, a response containing less enthusiasm than might have been anticipated.

  ‘Here, have you been crying?’

  ‘A little,’ she replies, ‘and thinking.’

  ‘Too much of that ain’t good for you.’

  ‘Tom, there’s something I should tell you. You’ll be good about it, I know you will, but . . .’

  ‘What?’ he says, unease in his voice.

  ‘I think I’m expecting.’

  He does not reply. In the half-light of the candle she merely watches him as he brings his hand to his mouth and tugs fretfully at his lip.

  ‘Tom, say something. It’s your babby, I know it is.’ He leans forward, picking up the candle and bringing it closer to her face.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘How far gone are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How far gone?’

  ‘A couple of months?’

  ‘Good,’ he says, breathing a sigh of relief, putting the candle back down.

  ‘What do you mean, Tom?’

  ‘You ain’t got the brains you were born with, have you?’ he says softly. ‘It ain’t mine, you stupid sow. How could it be? When you’ve been giving it up to half of bleeding Clerkenwell?’

  ‘It is Tom,’ she says, standing up, clutching his arm.

  ‘If you want it, it is.’

  He is silent for a moment, then looks at her, his expression almost kindly.

  ‘What I want, Liz, is for you to put things right. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she says, looking at him blankly.

  ‘I know a woman, St. Giles’s way, who’ll do it for two bob.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get rid of it.’

  There is silence again, as her mouth drops open. Her eyes fill with tears before she can say a word. Finally, she speaks.

  ‘I won’t.’

  Tom Hunt pushes his wife back on to the bed.

  ‘By God, you little madam, you bleeding will,’ he says, loosening the strap of his belt.

  ‘Clara? What you doing skulking down here?’

  ‘Leave us, Ally. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with you?’

  ‘Just a twinge, that’s all. It’ll pass.’

  The noises that echo round the yard off Saffron Hill are not unfamiliar to those who live nearby. The raised voices and sound of Tom Hunt’s belt strap being brought down upon his wife’s unprotected body – such things can be heard many an evening from any number of rooms and lodgings. It is perhaps a little odd that it is not a Saturday, since that is the night most favoured for such domestic disturbances, but not so odd as to make anyone do anything other than raise their eyebrows and quietly get on with their own business. In any case, it is done with in a matter of minutes, and, if the ragged tribesmen of Saffron Hill follow any etiquette in these matters, it is the tried and trusted prescription not to ‘interfere’.

  In consequence, there is no-one banging at the door when Tom Hunt returns his belt to his waist, and leaves his cousin’s room. Nor is there anyone but his wife to hear his parting words, to the effect that if the cause of his displeasure is not removed, he will ‘get rid of it’ himself. Moreover, since Bill Hunt is still working upon his evening shift, there is no-one who will come and comfort the fragile, bruised likeness of a woman that lies cowering upon the bed, as the solitary candle burns down and finally splutters into nothingness.

  How long Lizzie Hunt remains there in the darkness is impossible to say. She sobs for a while and then eventually falls into a disturbed sleep, with dreams of her mother, and her husband, and the spectre of a man whose name she cannot quite place.

  ‘Clara?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ally, I was somewhere else.’

  ‘You look awful pale. Shall I get his nibs, get him to have a look at you? What is it?’

  Clara White shakes her head. ‘I felt like this when ma died.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I didn’t know what it meant.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go to bed. You’ll feel better after some sleep.’

  Lizzie Hunt is awake. She clambers off the bed; her arm is swollen and she has to twist her body, counter to her natural inclination, in order to move herself without too much pain. She pulls the new shawl around herself, concealing some of her bruises, and opens the door into the hallway, walking slowly down the stairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  DR. ARTHUR HARRIS waits for the sound of the clock, sitting in his bedroom, fully dressed. It has, he realises, become a ritual with him that he should listen for the bell tolling two o’clock, before he leaves the house. Midnight, he muses, would be more poetic, if remaining unobserved were not a consideration.

  There. The sound of the church bell, and the clock in the hall, barely a second apart. He allows himself a smile and creeps on to the landing, treading on the rug as softly as he can, conscious of the slightest creak of the floorboards. Indeed, although two o’clock is an inconsequential hour, there is something rather melodramatic in the way he sneaks downstairs upon tiptoe, bearing his solitary candle. It is done in a manner that would be quite suited to a pantomime clown, or the music-hall antics of ‘Burglarious Bill’.

  But there is no audience, and that, of course, is precisely his intention.

  ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘Clarrie, go back to sleep, will you?’

  Dr. Harris frowns as he approaches the end of Doughty Street. He feels cold despite the thick cloth of his greatcoat, and the hansom, which normally waits for him by arrangement, is quite absent. He walks a little further in case the man is late, contemplating his options; the thought of proceeding the whole distance on foot is not appealing to a man of his years, and yet there is something equally unsatisfactory in the prospect of returning to his own cold bed. As he turns the corner, considering whether it would be wise to wait for a passing cab, he notices a figure loitering nearby, a tall, heavily built man, a labourer of some sort by the appearance of his clothes, a scarf wrapped around his face, and cloth cap on his head. The man is watching him.

  Dr. Harris clutches his walking stick more tightly and hurries on, but the man walks over to him.

  ‘Sir?’

  Harris stops moving, seeing that the man is bent on speaking to him, and turns nervously to look at him.

  ‘I have no money, I am sorry.’

  The man shakes his head. ‘I ain’t asking for any. I’ve a message.’

  ‘A message? My good man, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

  ‘About a little girl, what needs your attention.’ Harris looks at him, intrigued, the skepticism vanishing from his face.

  ‘Did Mrs. F. send you?’ The man nods.

  ‘Well,’ replies Harris, visibly relieved by this communication, though still a little nervous, ‘I have lost my cab. Tell her I shall come tomorrow night. It is getting late.’

  ‘She said tonight. She ain’t far, just down the road.
Said I was to take you there.’

  ‘She is not at the . . . regular place?’

  The man shakes his head. Harris thinks for a moment.

  ‘Very well, lead the way. I suppose it would be churlish to refuse her my assistance.’

  The man says nothing, but begins walking eastwards along the road, indicating for Harris to follow. Harris does so readily enough, his walking stick tapping out a steady rhythm on the pavement.

  In truth, there is a slight smile upon his face.

  ‘He’s gone out again. I had a look in his room.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think, Ally? Himself.’

  Alice Meynell sits up in bed; Clara White is pacing the attic room that they share.

  ‘What’s it to you, anyhow?’ says Alice.

  ‘Nothing, I just heard him go out, that’s all.’

  Alice sighs. ‘I wish you could just sleep. You’re wearing me out.’

  She says it in a kindly, humouring way, but Clara does not notice.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just . . .’

  ‘Thinking about your mother?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need for you to be sorry.’

  Alice Meynell pauses, sucking her thumb as she ponders changing the subject. ‘You do know,’ she says at last, ‘what he gets up to at nights?’

  ‘What?’

  Alice frowns. ‘You mean you don’t? I always thought you and him had been . . .’

  ‘Ally, I don’t understand you.’

  ‘You know he likes his girls? Young ones and all. That’s why he disappears of an evening.’

  Clara shakes her head. ‘That’s just for his writing. That’s how he finds girls for the refuge, talking to them and that.’

  ‘And “that” all right. You mean he’s never done you?’

  ‘Ally!’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t. Listen, it’s all just gossip, that’s all. I know what the girls at the refuge were like. All talk. You shouldn’t pay any heed to it.’