by M. J. Tjia
He seems preoccupied with his thoughts so I drink tea in silence, wondering what he’s thinking about. I crumble the stale cake between my fingers, but don’t eat.
“I agree,” he says, suddenly. “The tea things are not particularly nourishing this evening. A patient of mine told me today that the local park is hosting a fair tonight. Would you care to join me in a stroll to this fair, Mrs Chancey?”
“Of course I would, Dr Blain. I am sure that will lift my spirits like nothing else could.”
“Do you have a maid to escort you, madam?”
“Ill. She’s ill. I had to leave her in my rooms unfortunately,” I prevaricate. “But surely, in such crowds and with you as escort…”
He agrees and leads me from the tavern. I draw my fur tippet over my shoulders and follow him onto the pavement. I catch sight of Bill crossing the road behind a horse and cart. The streets are abustle with office clerks returning home, women in swinging, wide hoops and any number of costermongers touting their soup, baked eels or shoe polish.
“The fair is three streets away, Mrs Chancey. Near the river.”
“Lovely.” We walk at a sedate pace, I assume for my benefit. “Dr Blain, yesterday you seemed very put out by that article in the newspaper about those… fallen women… being murdered.”
“Yes, you are right. Working in this area, Mrs Chancey, means that I have regular contact with unfortunate women. It is a sad fact that they are attacked and used woefully, yet it angers me when I see it sensationalised in the newspapers.”
“Are your medical rooms far from here?”
“Not far at all,” he answers, steering me around a group of people pushing their way onto an omnibus. “I was very lucky to have attained the surgery from my uncle about eighteen months ago.”
I place my hand on his forearm and peer up at him, eyes wide. “Did you know any of those girls who were written about in the newspaper?”
He smiles at me, with a patronising air. “No. Not at all.”
“Really? That is a pity. You might have been of great help to the police.” Has he forgotten the Dutch girl or is he hiding the fact that he had administered to her? “Apparently the last woman was foreign. Mmm… a Dutch girl I think I heard.” No flicker of recognition crosses his face. “I am so afraid for my cousin’s safety.”
We arrive at the park, and pretty lanterns in the trees twinkle against the ash grey sky. A chill breeze wafts from the Thames, bringing a slightly muddy odour. I shiver and draw my tippet closer about my neck.
“Tell me more about your cousin, Mrs Chancey.”
“Oh, Eleanor. Such a sweet child. And so pretty, Dr Blain. So fair, so ethereal.”
“Yes, I remember that from the photograph you allowed me to see. Would it be too much of an imposition to show me that likeness of your cousin again, Mrs Chancey?”
“Of course you may see it.” I rummage carefully in my bag so that he doesn’t catch a glimpse of the handgun.
He takes the photograph almost greedily, and studies it under the light from a gas lamp. It’s several moments before he hands it back. As if he was memorising every bit of Eleanor’s features. He pushes his hair from his forehead so that it lies neatly against his silk hat. “No, unfortunately I have not seen her before.”
The fair is arranged under looming oak trees and there are already a large number of people clustered around the stalls, exchanging pennies for hot corn cobs, tickets to gawp at bizarre humans or to play various games of chance. We stop to watch a rowdy game of skittles. The contestants have taken their jackets off and pushed their caps to the back of their heads while they noisily call each other on or moan in frustration.
As we move away, I say to him, “Dr Blain, you’re a medical man, and I am a widow. I am not naïve nor stupid, but I am very afraid for my cousin. Please tell me, why is there a monster hurting these unfortunate women so cruelly?”
He’s thoughtful for a moment and then says, “Maybe he thinks it is for the best. Every day I see the cruel circumstances and the tragic outcomes of how these women live. He might believe it is best if they cannot procreate.”
Luckily, before I have the chance to make an ill-advised remark to the doctor he points to a well-lit area ahead. “Ah, that is where the music is coming from, I believe.” He offers me his arm. “Shall we venture over there to see what is afoot?”
A Chinese bandstand, replete with a red, sloping roof and golden dragon motifs shelters a small but lively orchestra. In front of the stage, on a hard parquet floor, several merry couples dance in a swirl of motion. Blain hands coins to an usher so that we can enter and take a seat at one of the many tables arranged around the dance floor. A supper table is laden with platters of fleshy sirloin beef, capons, turkey legs, hams and tongues, which are surrounded by bowls of grapes and strawberries and dried fruits, brandied cherries and cheeses. The usher offers us champagne punch, but Blain says he doesn’t touch spirituous drinks at any time.
“No, neither do I,” I say. “It’s very bad for the constitution, so I’ve heard.” I watch wistfully as the usher whisks away the bowl of punch.
He makes a hearty dinner of the roast meats, while I eat some cheese and fruit.
I tap my foot along with the lively music. “They do seem to be enjoying themselves,” I say, my eyes on the dancing couples.
“Yes,” he says. “However, I really do think romping about like that cannot be good for you after a meal such as this.”
“I am sure you are right,” I say, but I can’t take my eyes off the dancers.
He drops his serviette onto the table. “Well, just this once we must dance. I am loath to disappoint you, Mrs Chancey, and I can see your heart is set on a dance. But we must take it slowly,” he warns.
I jump up from my seat. There are very few things I enjoy more than a frolic around a dance floor, but Blain turns out to be a very sobering partner indeed. He holds me awkwardly, well away from his chest, and the few times I peep up at his face, his chin is elevated and his eyes stare at a point above my head. His direction is stately with very slow, careful turns, which keeps us out of time with the others. Eventually, I feign a laugh and pronounce I’m too exhausted to continue.
Two broughams pull up close to the bandstand. From these well-polished carriages alight a number of fair, bright beauties. They’re rouged and powdered a little too much to be lady-like, but these Cyprians of fashion conduct themselves with cheerful, yet quiet, decorum. They’re heavily bejewelled and their hairstyles and headwear are elaborate in the extreme, sporting feathers, flowers and ribbon. I’m interested to see that one woman, willowy with Titian hair, has miniature, artificial birds attached to her headpiece. I must tell Amah the next time we are shopping for a new bonnet.
A flicker of distaste passes across Dr Blain’s handsome face as he watches the women take their places at a table by the bandstand while their male attendants, well-dressed gentlemen with silk hats and tails, fetch them cups of champagne punch.
“Dr Blain,” I breathe with contrived wonder. “Are those women what everyone refers to as… Gay Girls?”
“Yes. Well, they are a little further up the ladder than a mere gay girl,” he answers, sniffing. “They, I believe, refer to themselves as ‘courtesans’. Very indelicate subject, but from our conversation earlier this evening, I feel I can continue. I would have you know, madam, that I consider these ‘courtesans’ worse than the poor unfortunates I deal with on a daily basis at my surgery. Those poor women are so destitute and desperate they are forced into prostitution. Those women you see there,” he nods towards the beauties across the way, “are nothing more than leeches with no morals who are in search of riches from those who are their betters.” He stands up abruptly. “I think it must be time to return you home, Mrs Chancey.”
As we walk back through the fair gardens, we pass an old man who’s attired in a dirty, white shirt and tan breeches with a tatty, red scarf tied around his neck. He has a parrot perched upon his shoulder which nibble
s at his silver earring with its curved beak and black tongue, and he’s seated at a card-table across from a large, orange orangutan.
“Come pat Meng, my dear,” he calls out. “Look at her kind eyes. Saved her from the wilds of Borneo, I did. She’s almost human, she is. More human than the brown heathens I bought her from, at any rate.” He laughs noisily at his own joke, and hawks on the ground.
I approach the beautiful primate, and look at its kind, almost mournful, face and put my hand out to touch the bristles on its arm. I feel sorry for this creature that has been brought from its warm, succulent home to the grey unfriendliness of London.
“Have a cup of tea with her, madam. See how refined she is,” urges the old man.
Dr Blain hands the man a penny, who fills a filthy cup with a thin, dark liquid which he hands to me. I hold it in one hand and offer my other hand to the orangutan. Meng places her leathery paw, limp and cold and as long as my foot, into my hand but continues to munch on her cabbage leaves without looking at me. Truth to tell, I’m a little disappointed by the total indifference the orangutan shows in me.
Placing the cup on the table I thank the man. Taking a few steps back, I keep my gaze on the ape. A light mist of rain touches my face.
“Dr Blain, you confuse me, sir. On the one hand you are most rightly revolted by women such as those we were seated by, and you say you believe it might be best if prostitutes do not beget children, and yet you seem to feel deeply for their plight.”
He also watches the orangutan. “It is like this monkey here,” he explains to me. “Look at her. The man’s right, she is almost human. My cousin is a naturalist and he was telling me that in the Malay jungles scores of monkeys such as these are shot down from the trees because it’s imperative that their specimens are studied for the better understanding of humankind. I believe this to be justified. In this modern age some things are warranted in the name of science, I think you will find, Mrs Chancey. And while I feel sympathy for creatures killed in the pursuance of science, and I feel sympathy for the poor creatures who come to me for curative care, I cannot approve or desire to mimic their way of life.”
I’m appalled by his words but also uneasily aware that I’m glad he doesn’t know of my true identity. I don’t want to be judged by this prig of a man. I don’t want him to dislike me, or worse, pity me for who I really am.
“I am sorry, Dr Blain. I am afraid my brain is too feeble to fully comprehend what you are saying.”
He smiles at me understandingly.
The rain falls in earnest by the time we leave the shelter of the oaks, and Dr Blain runs out to the road to summon a cab. I heave my skirts through the narrow doorway of the vehicle and am surprised when he climbs in after me.
“I’ll see you home,” he says.
“That’s very kind of you.” This is no good. He’ll know where I live. I stare down at his square, strong hands that rest lightly on his thighs. They look like they could guide a blade with keen precision. I reach my cold fingers as close to the door handle as I dare, as we bowl along the streets. I hope Bill still has us in sight.
The rain eases somewhat by the time I run up the front path to my door, but I’m soaked through. I wave to Blain as the cab pulls away, revealing a black carriage parked a little further down the road. Breath catches in my throat. I step behind the portico column and peer around at the vehicle. Although the drizzle limits my view, I’m sure the glossy, black carriage is the one that followed me two nights ago. The coachman sits as still as last time, staring straight ahead, the rain dripping from the brim of his hat. The crimson curtains of the carriage windows open a few inches but it’s too dark for me to see who’s inside. My hands tremble as I untie the ribbons of my reticule and, taking my handgun out, I let the bag fall to the ground. A dark figure looms up from the footpath. I take aim with the gun, hard-put not to scream.
“Heloise, what are you doing?” shouts Bill, putting his hands in the air. “It’s just me.”
Cold relief washes over me as I run forward and tug his sleeve. “That carriage over there… It’s following me.”
As I point, the coachman cracks his whip and the carriage moves forward. Bill sprints out onto the road and although he comes close enough to rattle the locked side-door of the carriage, he has to fall back when the carriage sweeps around the corner. We watch as it bumps away. Bill turns back, collecting his hat which has fallen into a puddle.
I pick up my reticule with cold, damp fingers and unlock the front door. We both make our way into the sitting room.
“How long has that carriage been harassing you for?” asks Bill, as he makes up the fire.
“I first noticed it a couple of nights ago. I’ve only seen it the once, but I wonder if I just haven’t observed it at other times.” I bite at my bottom lip. “Whoever’s watching me from that carriage now knows where I am living.”
Bill stands up from the fireplace. He’s as wet through as I am, and his hat looks particularly soggy. I reach up and take it from his head.
“You must take this thing off. You’re getting mud in your hair,” I laugh.
He smiles too. He takes a step closer to me, and slowly unties the ribbons of my hat. His fingers brush my cheeks and are already warm from the fire.
“And you must take off your pretty bonnet. The ribbons have started to droop.”
I consider him for a moment. Do I dare go further? “Ah, and your coat, sir, is soaked. You must take it off.” I run my hands over his shoulders beneath the coat fabric and help him shrug it away. My fingers brush along the curves of muscle in his arms, and his forearms flex as he tries to catch my fingers in his. I unbutton his waist coat, saying, “This too must come off, if you are to dry properly.”
He’s no longer smiling. “Madam, look at the hem of your skirts and petticoat. They are soiled dreadfully, and drenched through.” He crouches down and pushes his hands up beneath my skirts. His calloused fingers lightly scratch my skin as he runs them up the back of my calves, my thighs, rest on my hips. He loosens my petticoats at the waist and they fall to the ground. Straightening up, he slides his hands beneath my silk drawers from behind, nudging his fingers between my thighs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“He seems like a nice man, with all his prosing on about poor women, but I don’t trust him,” I say of Blain. I’m lying with my head upon Bill’s shoulder, leg draped over his. “It could well be him who’s taking care of these poor girls. But then who’s stalking me in that carriage?” My thoughts turn to Dr Mordaunt. “All doctors are vile, after all. It could be any one of them.”
“And he showed an uncommon interest in Eleanor?”
I nod, sitting up against the heaped pillows. “Do you know what is strange, though? He did not once ask me why Eleanor is alone in Waterloo. Not once did he ask me why she ran away, or anything about her predicament. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“You think he knows already?”
“Well, to show so much interest in her, but to refrain from asking why a young lady is roaming free in Waterloo? It seems very suspicious to me.”
Bill rolls onto his side to face me, studies my pearl choker. “Tell me about this necklace you always wear.”
I drop my chin to peer down at the locket resting against my chest. “It was a gift to me from my husband on our fifth wedding anniversary. The jade is from China.” I don’t tell him that on the other side of the jade, which I’d actually bought from a sailor in Liverpool, is a gold amulet of a dragon with ruby eyes which was left to me by my grandfather.
He runs his fingers around the seed pearl trim of the pendant and lets his hand drop to my nipple, which he rubs softly with his thumb. He takes my other nipple in his mouth. I close my eyes and surrender to the pleasure of it. I run my hand through his hair. I’m almost gone, thoughts drifting, when Mordaunt’s notebook pops into my head. I should inspect it again with Bill. I pull away from him. “Soon.” I smile back.
Bending over the side of the bed I ret
rieve the book. “I forgot to show you this.”
For the next ten minutes we peruse Mordaunt’s scrawled writing.
“I think it’s a blackmail book,” says Bill. “Read this… she wanted an abortion so that her husband would not find out about her pregnancy. He’s jotted the initials, A and K, the date and an address. And this more recent one… he wanted a mixture of abortive drugs to give to his pregnant wife – but I do not believe the lady to be his wife. She seems far too young to be married to him and her pallor, despite her fair hair… Initials E and C. And look here, he follows them to find out where they live and what they do. He must be blackmailing them.”
“I wonder why the number nine is circled by every few entries,” I say, pointing at the circled roman numerals. IX.
“Maybe it’s code for how much money he blackmails from his victims. Nine guineas? Shillings?”
“He’s revolting, that one.” I fall back onto the pillows. “I’m so overwrought now, I will never find sleep.”
Bill scrambles out of bed. I admire his straight back and firm rump as he leaves the room. He runs down the stairs and returns with his coat. Feeling in the inner pocket he brings out a plain snuff tin.
“What have you there?”
He crawls onto the bed and, lying on his back, he rests the tin on his chest and opens the lid to reveal an white powder. A faint whiff of violets reaches my nostrils.
“Snuff?”
He smiles. “It’s a very special mixture. Take some. It’ll help you relax into sleep, I can assure you.”
The powder has a distinctive stickiness to it when rubbed between my warm fingertips. “Is it opium?”
He nods. He sits up for a moment and places the tin between us. Taking my hand, he dabs a pinch of the snuff onto my wrist and inhales it sharply. He sighs and lies down amongst the pillows.
Taking a pinch of the snuff, I sprinkle it on the flat, soft skin between his pubis and hipbone. Bending over, my tousled hair tumbling over his stomach, I sniff hard at the opium-laced snuff. I lick what remains with the tip of my tongue and feel him stiffen. Sitting back up, I light a cigarette and grin. “Will I have time to finish this?”
