She Be Damned

by M. J. Tjia

  “Katie, I haven’t seen you for an age.” I clasp the other woman’s hands. “How is your coffee stall?”

  Katie Sullivan puts her hand around my waist and steers me towards the stall. “Never better. People always want their coffee,” she says, a vague Irish brogue accenting her speech. “My sisters help me out when they can leave their bairns, and so does my daughter now and then. That’s her there now servin’ the customers.” She gestures to the young woman behind the counter who hands her a cup of steaming, black coffee which Katie passes on to me. “Syrupy sweet, just how you like it.”

  I take a tentative sip of the hot liquid. There’s nothing like Katie’s strong brew.

  “Tilly told me you were looking for that young girl who was cryin’ her eyes out in the park a while back,” she says.

  “Yes, but I haven’t managed to find her.”

  “That is a pity. But I’m glad I saw you across the way,” she says, pushing her black velveteen bonnet back from her forehead. She has marvellous, light brown eyes with uneven amber flecks around the iris. “I was goin’ to ask Tilly where I could find you, but then I saw you standin’ there, sighin’ over old Mrs Rodd’s pastries.”

  “And why were you looking for me?”

  “There be a young woman, a girl really, askin’ after you yesterday.”

  “Really? Do you know who she was?”

  “She said she met you the other day, down by the bridge.”

  I think for a moment and realise she must mean the girl who’d led me to Mrs Hawes’ home. “Did she have bucked teeth? Skin and bone?”

  She nods. “Aye, that’d be her.”

  “But how did she know who I was?”

  “I don’t know. She knew you by name. Said she knew of something you might be interested in.”

  “Oh.” I frown, wondering what the girl wants to tell me.

  “What trouble you got yourself into this time, missy?” she asks me.

  I offer a sly smile. “Must keep oneself busy, Katie.”

  The girl’s sitting in the same doorway as on the previous occasion, but this time her face is buried against her bent knees and she doesn’t notice my approach. I gently pat the girl’s head and smile when the girl peers up at me with bleary eyes.

  “Long night?” I ask.

  The girl springs to her feet, but sways slightly and leans against the doorjamb. “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep for close on a sennight now,” she mumbles.

  I open the cotton neckerchief I’d borrowed from Katie to reveal an assortment of Mrs Rodd’s pastries to the girl. I’m gratified to see colour come into the girl’s cheeks as she takes a sticky bun with unsteady fingers.

  “Thank you so much, miss,” she says, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as she chews.

  I urge the girl to sit again and press the kerchief and remaining pastries into the girl’s lap. “Katie Sullivan from the coffee stall near the park said you were asking for me.”

  The girl nods her head vigorously as she licks the icing from her fingers. “Yes, I have something to tell you.”

  “But how did you know who I am?”

  “One of the tails down the street saw you with me that day and told me that she recognised you from this penny opera thing she sneaked into a couple years back. She said you were on the stage, all done up in silks and powder and rouge and such.” The girl pauses in her eating for a moment, her head lowered. “She also said you used to be a tail like the rest of us.” The blush spreads to her ear tips.

  I glance over my shoulder at the older prostitutes a few doors down. They’re smoking and drinking like the last time I’d seen them, but this time they stare back at me. I look down at the girl again. “And you know my name?”

  “Heloise something.”

  “That’s right. But I don’t know yours.”

  “It’s Cecilia, miss.”

  “That’s a pretty name. Cecilia. Why don’t we take a short walk and you can tell me for what reason you came in search of me?”

  Cecilia wraps her pastries up neatly in the kerchief. “We won’t have to go far.” Just as before, she can’t help but run her fingers across the softness of my merino shawl as we walk.

  “Is it something you want to show me?” I ask.

  “Well, remember I was telling you about my friend who disappeared? The woman who was so kind to me when I first came here?”

  “Yes, I do. Don’t tell me she’s back?”

  The girl nods. “Yes, she is. And this time I have to look after her.”

  Why has Cecilia summoned me to tell me about her friend? Maybe she imagines that I can assist them in some way.

  “And where is this friend of yours?”

  Cecilia pulls me towards a building which is almost directly opposite Mrs Hawes’ dreadful dwelling. The heavy door creaks as Cecilia pushes it open and beyond the sunlight that creeps through the doorway all is darkness. She drags a brick across to the door to prop it open and as we enter I gaze up at the steep stairway. The air is dank but not as foul-smelling as the entrance to Mrs Hawes’ building.

  “We don’t need to climb those stairs,” she says. “She’s over here.”

  Cecilia leads me to the back of the room and points towards the alcove beneath the stairwell. There, huddled in the corner on makeshift bedding, lies a woman. She’s slumped against the wall, her dark hair falling out of its clasps, her knees, covered in flimsy, brown stuff, drawn up to her chin. Her eyes are pressed shut but her mouth hangs open. It’s hard to tell how old she is in the gloom.

  “What is her name, Cecilia?”

  “Her real name’s Prue, but the others call her Loose-Pruce, I think on account of the curls around her face.”

  “Why did you bring me here? Is she ill?”

  “She is ill. But that’s not why I brought you here,” the girl answers. She kneels down and softly shakes the woman by the shoulder. “Prue, Prue,” she whispers. “I have that lady here I was telling you about.”

  A spasm of coughing consumes Prue and she keels forward, eyes still shut, and continues to cough and wheeze for many moments. When it passes, she leans back against the wall, exhausted. Cecilia wipes the perspiration and spittle from her face with her skirt and cooes tenderly to the older woman. She helps Prue take a sip from a bottle and offers her the pastries, which Prue pushes away feebly. Cecilia beckons for me to move closer.

  I crouch on the floor and try to sit as close to the other woman as my crinoline will allow.

  “She’s been in the workhouse all this time. That’s why I couldn’t find her,” says Cecilia. She holds Prue’s hands and turns them, palms up, for me to see. The fingertips are raw, tiny fissures cracking her skin. “They made her pick oakum.”

  “I tried sewing before that,” Prue croaks as she pulls her hand away. “But the hours were even crueller. I couldn’t keep up, I was so poorly. That’s how I ended up in the bloody work’ouse.” The last word catches in her throat and she coughs up phlegm onto her sleeve.

  “Tell her why you were poorly, Prue,” urges Cecilia.

  Without turning her head, which is resting against the wall, Prue’s eyes peer around at me. “Cecilia tells me you’ve been asking around about the renters who have been cut up.”

  “That’s right. The girls who are dying.”

  “Well, I was cut up too, but I didn’t die.”

  I breathe in sharply and cover my mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I was cut up like all those other renters Cecilia here has been telling me about, but I didn’t die.”

  I grasp the other woman’s arm. “Who did this to you?”

  Prue shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know.”

  “But how could you not know?”

  “How could I not know?” She tries to laugh but no sound escapes. “I was too far gone with gin and puff, wasn’t I? All the punters are the same to me then. And if I please, I can pretend they are all one and the same.”

  The three of us are sil
ent for a minute, listening to the rattling coming from Prue’s chest.

  “He took all of my lady laycock, the bastard,” says Prue. A tear falls down her cheek. “I woke up in hospital, I did. Someone had found me, covered in blood and taken me there. They kept me for a while – long enough to clear up the clap and wait for the wounds to heal.” She wipes the tear from her cheek. “They told me I could never have children.” She smiles, even as another tear drops. “Strange, huh? It was a curse to be pregnant, but once the chance was taken away, I felt sad.”

  “Were you with child when you were attacked, Prue?” I ask, as gently as possible.

  Prue nods. “I was just starting to show.”

  “And you don’t remember anything of the person who did this to you?”

  “I’m sure it was a man,” she says, staring ahead as she concentrates. “He had a deep voice. He wouldn’t stop talking, but I can’t remember what he was saying. I was lying on my back, and my feet was in those stirrup-like things. And the smell… this sickly, sweet stench. It was nice, but wrong too, which made it worse. I was sick all over myself.”

  “Sounds like ether. And how long ago did this happen, Prue?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answers. “Long enough for me to be in hospital and for them to send me out to work. They found me a place at a dressmaker’s, but the hours were so long I couldn’t keep up or make enough money to buy food. And that’s how I landed at the work’ouse again. But I couldn’t do it no more. I’d rather be a doxy and feel no pleasure,” she pauses for a moment, her face pinched, “than go back to that bastard of a place.” She doubles over and coughs up some more, spitting into her skirt. This time, though, she leaves a smear of blood on the tattered cloth.

  “I’m no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old, if I remember right,” she wheezes. “And look at me. Look what’s become of me.”

  I look at her. Prue is much the same age as I am, and yet there are grey strands running through her hair and her thin face is haggard and lined.

  “Thank you for talking to me, Prue,” I say, standing up. I walk out into the sunlight and breathe in the air which, although it still holds the pong of the river, is fresher than that under the stairwell.

  “What will you do?” asks Cecilia.

  “I’ll tell the police what Prue just told me.”

  “What shall I do, miss?”

  There’s nothing I can do for these women. Hand them over to the poor-house? I could never. Take them home? Bundle and the cook would probably leave, and Amah would skin me alive. I take the remaining money out of my purse and give it to Cecilia. But it’s not enough. Not enough to dispel the guilt I feel for leaving them behind. So I take off the merino shawl and wrap it around the girl’s shoulders. “Take care of Prue.”

  Cecilia buries her nose into the soft wool and sighs. “It smells like my ma’s Sunday best.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  After a short rest I sit at the dressing table, wearing nothing more than silk drawers, pearl drop earrings and my necklace. Using a soft, sable-hair brush, I sweep scented powder across my neck and breasts. I place the brush back into my teak and brass toilette case next to the other beauty aids which are neatly lined up on the purple velvet inlay. I pull the crystal stopper from a bottle of perfume and dab the scent behind my ears and then pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs. Lifting the silver lid from a cut-glass jar, I apply pale, crushed pearl powder to my face. My hand freezes for a few moments as I gaze at my reflection in the mirror. How could one woman, such as Tilly, be so relieved to be childless, and yet another woman, Prue, be heartbroken at the loss. I place my hand over my lower belly and wonder.

  But it’s late in the day, I must hurry if I am to take tea with Blain again. I rub some rouge onto my cheekbones and smudge the tiniest amount of coal on my eyelids. I slip on a chemise and tie myself into a corset, crinoline and gown the best I can, cursing yet again for not bringing Amah. I’ve just pinned a rose into my chignon when there’s a knock at the front door. As I trip down the stairs I tie the ribbon on my fanchon bonnet, then fling open the door. I’m pleased to see Bill standing on the threshold even if I do wonder if he still considers me a suspect. Maybe he’s keeping me close at hand to keep an eye on me.

  I spin around and finish with a little curtsey. “I’m ready for Dr Blain.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” he says, but he pulls a rueful face. “Unfortunately the Inspector thinks it is far too unsafe for you to interview Blain again.”

  “What? But I’ve set it up so.” I was looking forward to probing the doctor for clues.

  “It’s just not a good idea. We can’t allow a defenceless woman to interview Blain, especially if he turns out to be our culprit.”

  There’s a finality to his tone. He’s not going to let me go. Of course, I could still go ahead behind his back. I’m on Sir Thomas’ clock, after all.

  Bill’s watching me, hasn’t made a move to leave. Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe it’s not my feeble sex that prevents the police from using me. Maybe they really do suspect me of the mutilations.

  I lead him into the sitting room and pour him a madeira. “It’s all the chargirl has supplied me with, I’m afraid.”

  I pour myself a glass too and sit on a lounge chair across from his. All afternoon I’ve been wondering about how much I should tell Bill of what I have discovered. It’s true that I stumbled across Cecilia and Prue in my search for Eleanor, but I’ve decided the best thing I can do is inform Bill of what they told me. It’ll assist him in his investigations into the person butchering those poor women.

  “I discovered something today,” I say, taking a sip of wine. I tuck myself into the corner of the chair and curl my legs up under my petticoats and tell him of my meeting with Cecilia and Prue.

  “That’s remarkable,” he says, placing his wine glass on the table. “Remarkable. I must interview her as soon as possible.”

  “I think you must make it as soon as possible, Bill. I don’t think she can survive long now.”

  “It is a pity she cannot tell us who her attacker was.”

  “Yes, it’s a great pity. But we now know for certain it is a man, and surely his use of ether and such must mean he sees these attacks as surgical operations?”

  Bill nods slowly. “You might be right.”

  “And Dr Blain is familiar to these women too. So is Dr Mordaunt.”

  “And I assume they both have access to a surgery. But tell me, how did you come to meet these women?”

  “Well, actually, I came across the younger one, Cecilia, when I was searching for Eleanor.” It’s now or never. At least if he knows the truth of my situation, he can stop wasting time on viewing me as a suspect, and maybe even help me find Eleanor in turn. “The thing is… The thing is that Eleanor is not my cousin.”

  He lets out a bark of a laugh. “I knew it. So who are you?”

  “Well, my name is Heloise Chancey, and I am searching for Eleanor Carter, but not as a relative. I’m employed by Sir Thomas Avery.” I look for recognition in his eyes but there is none. “He owns a private detective agency.”

  His eyebrows lift. So do his lips. “You’re a detective?” There’s amusement in his voice.

  “Yes. I am.” Amongst other things.

  “What do you do, when you… detect?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I say. “Much the same as you, I suppose.” I want to say that I spy on people, find out their secrets, but that’s not very nice, is it? Not very lady-like.

  “I don’t think you do what I do, Heloise,” he says. He’s still smiling, but he shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s rough work what I do, you know.”

  “Well, I search for people sometimes, like what I’m doing here now. Searching for Eleanor.” And my work can be bloody rough too.

  He considers me for a few moments, then leans forward, his hand extended. “Well, private detective Chancey, let me introduce myself again.”

  I take his hand, glad of the good spirit
in which he’s accepted my news.

  “So, I will go ahead and meet up with Blain,” I say to him. “I’m quite sure he can help me with my investigation into Eleanor’s disappearance.”

  Bill frowns, the smile slipping from his face.

  “I will anyway, with or without you, Bill,” I grin. “It’s what I’m being paid to do, after all.”

  His pale eyes study me. “You’ll go ahead with this meeting, regardless of me?”

  I nod.

  “Well, then I will accompany you. Make sure you are as safe as possible. He was in my sights for the evening anyway. We will go ahead with the original plan.”

  I haul myself up from the lounge chair. “We must leave then, I think. I don’t want to miss his teatime.”

  As I pick up my reticule from the hall table Bill takes me gently by the upper arms and turns me to face him.

  “I will not be far away, and I will be watching you, but you must take every care to be safe. This Dr Blain might be the mad monster we are searching for. We are not sure what he is capable of.” Concern creases his face. “You know I am not sure we are doing the right thing sending you in as bait.”

  I reach into the recesses of my reticule and bring out my handgun. “I will be perfectly safe. I’m not the bait, Bill, I’m the stalker.”

  He takes the gun from me and turns it in his hands admiringly. “What’s this then?”

  A smile curls my lips. “That’s my muff pistol.”

  “Ah, Mrs Chancey, you are here already.”

  I look up into Dr Blain’s handsome face. He takes the chair opposite mine at the table in the bay window and calls the waiter over to order tea.

  “Any news today?” he asks.

  “No. There is no letter waiting for me. Nothing at all. I do hope she is well and safe.”

  He frowns. “Yes, so do I.”