Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

  “Brought in last night, sir.”

  “And how long do you believe it was in the river?”

  “Four or five days, I’d say. Of course, it’s always difficult to be certain in such a case, but I’d guess the deceased went in the river about the same time you say your niece fell overboard.”

  The inspector led them down the stairs, and Hodgson stood at the older man’s elbow, ready to offer assistance.

  The smell of death was unmistakable. The cobbled floor was slick, and the three men moved with care toward the bodies. Two lay on benches and four more lay unceremoniously on the floors, dingy sailcloth covering them..

  “Did all of these come in since we were here last?” John Warren asked, pulling the handkerchief away from his mouth to speak.

  “No, sir. We have at least this many every night, sometimes twice this. These poor devils were only brought in last night.”

  “Which one is it?” John Warren asked in a grave voice.

  “This way.”

  “Do you know how she died?”

  “The night surgeon’s opinion was that the girl died before entering the river. Our morning man says the deceased clearly drowned after falling. Right now, we are writing it down as ‘cause of death unknown’. Too much damage, and too much time passed, if you know what I mean.”

  Hodgson stood at his employer’s elbow, watching him closely. Before this week, he’d never seen a corpse dredged out of the river. It was the visible damage that the river inflicted on the dead that bothered him most. Bloated torsos and limbs, the ungodly ashen color of the skin, the missing eye or noses, the flesh torn ragged by feeding fish. After that first visit, he hadn’t been able to get a wink of sleep unplagued by nightmares.

  He wished to see an end to it soon. He wanted this one be Catherine Warren, so he would never have to return to this godforsaken place again.

  The inspector lifted the cover off the corpse’s face. Hodgson covered his mouth with the handkerchief again and tried not to gag. Most of the flesh was entirely gone from the face. If it weren’t for the shanks of long brown hair, he wouldn’t even be able to tell this had once been a woman in life.

  John Warren visibly shuddered, but stood his ground and studied the face. “What of her clothes?”

  “Those bits and pieces were all that were left,” the inspector said, pointing at a small pile lying on the bench at the foot of the corpse.

  The old man limped to them and poked at the fabric with his cane.

  “No. No, I am certain of it,” he said finally. “She is no relation of mine. This woman cannot be Catherine.”

  The corpse’s face was covered again. The inspector led the two visitors up to the jailer’s yard, where he opened an iron gate leading to an alleyway. Even with the river so close, the fresh air—in Hodgson’s view—was a godsend.

  “Thank you, Inspector, for notifying me immediately when a body is brought in that fits my niece’s description.” Warren paused by the gate. “Of course, I am still hopeful that Catherine was able to swim to shore, even though my people tell me that possibility is very unlikely, considering the distance and inclement weather that night.”

  "The inspector walked with them along the refuse-filled alley to the front of the police station. “I received notice that the coroner’s inquest is to be held next week.”

  “Yes, I received that notice, as well,” John Warren replied. “Will you be there?”

  “More than likely, sir. I very well could be called in to testify. But maybe by then your niece will show up at your doorstep, hale and hearty, and we’ll have no need for judge and jury.”

  “I wish for nothing more, Inspector,” Warren said with a nod before preceding Hodgson into his waiting carriage.

  When they were a street away from the police station, Hodgson voiced his concern. “Beg your pardon, sir. But in identifying Miss Warren, your opinion must hold sway over that of anyone else in London.”

  “Naturally. What is your point, Hodgson?”

  “Well, sir. Just this.” He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “There is simply no possibility that Miss Warren could have lived. So why not identify one of the corpses we’ve seen this week as your niece. The coroner will surely take your word and settle her estate in your favor.”

  The old man stared out the window for some time before answering. “No. I cannot risk it. I do not wish to draw attention to myself by acting too hastily.”

  “Indeed, sir. Perhaps, though, as the Bard says, the tide ‘taken at the flood’—”

  “Save your Shakespeare, boy,” John Warren snapped, cutting Hodgson off. “I know all about tide and fortune. I’ve been watching both my entire life. I can be patient a month more. Then all of it will be mine.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sophy stood at the window in the hallway and looked out at the street, knowing that change was inevitable, and that her life was about to change once again.

  Two days before, Maddie had gone for an afternoon out, and had never returned. Now no one at Urania Cottage needed to guess who had stolen the ten pounds from under Sophy’s pillow.

  The absence of an adversary should have made Sophy’s life easier, but it didn’t. The others openly blamed her. They acted as if Sophy had ruined a life. They talked as if she were the devil incarnate, sent to the Cottage to tempt and ruin them, as well. Mrs. Tibbs’s mood, usually resembling a grim gray autumn day, now moved resolutely into winter. Her previously cool treatment of Sophy now became positively glacial. Losing a resident was perceived as failure by the benefactors and placed the matron in a difficult position. The letters she wrote to her employer began to take on the length of some of Mr. Dickens’ own novels.

  Sophy knew her time at Urania Cottage was coming to an end. She feared, in fact, that Dickens’s next visit would finalize the decision. She didn’t know what she would do if it came to that.

  Sophy moved down the hallway to the window. It hadn’t been raining earlier, but right now a passing shower was sweeping across the back yards of the neighboring houses. The window was open slightly, and as she pushed it shut, she saw what looked like ghostly apparitions swaying in the dark yard of the Cottage. She knew what they were—a set of sheets and a single dress, left hanging on the line. All the other wash had been gathered and brought in. She didn’t have to look in her room to know the items belonged to her.

  Common sense said to sleep on the bare mattress and wait for morning. The items were already wet. Still, she knew the matron would be upset. She’d already scolded Sophy repeatedly for her lack of attention and for losing things. The fault of the stolen ten pounds lay with her.

  Sophy hurried down the stairs and out through the kitchen door, leaving it open. She quickly crossed the yard, feeling the rain on her face and on her shoulders. Then, as she gathered her belongings from the line, the rain suddenly stopped. Everything was soaking wet; she would have to hang them again on the line tomorrow. But that would be fine, so long as Tibbs didn’t see them out there first thing in the morning.

  With her sheets and dress in her arms, Sophy started for the house. Before she could reach it, though, she saw the door swing shut.

  “No!”

  She reached for the handle, but to no avail. Someone on the inside had turned the key in the lock.

  “Please open the door,” she said, hoping whoever had locked her out was still on the other side. “Let me in.”

  There was no answer. The rain had already soaked through her dress, and she was feeling the cold dampness on her skin. The prospect of spending the night outside was one that she preferred not to consider. She could bang at the door and rouse the matron, but that would not help her position in the house, at all. Even if she were to throw a pebble at one of the bedroom windows and wake one of the girls, which of them would come to her rescue? Not one.

  Sophy thought of her options. There was a key kept under an old watering can next to Mrs. Tibbs’s kitchen garden. She’d used it the night she’d gone
to Hammersmith Village. Leaving the clothes by the door, she hurried to the hiding place. The slate stones on the path were slick from the rain. When she reached the garden, it took only a moment to see that the watering can was there, but the key was missing.

  “Of course,” she murmured to herself. “They have thought of everything.”

  Total darkness surrounded her as Sophy stood up and stared at the windows of the house. How many of them were watching her right now, enjoying her predicament?

  “So they have locked you out?”

  The girl’s voice in the darkness startled her, and as Sophy whirled around, she stepped back, tripping on the watering can and falling backwards into the garden. Looking up, she saw her ghostly friend had returned.

  “Why do you always appear to me in these late hours of the night?” Sophy asked, picking herself up out of the dirt. Even in the darkness, she could see the mud covered her arms from elbow to fingertips. The back of her dress was no better.

  “You see me best at night.”

  “Why must I see you?” Sophy asked, approaching her. “I do not wish to see you.”

  The girl gave no answer. Her white dress and golden hair glowed in the yard like the moon. The weather clearly had no affect on her.

  When Sophy reached her, she tried to touch the visitor. As before, her hand passed through, and the cold that enveloped her fingers was completely at odds with the apparition’s golden glow.

  “You need to come with me.”

  “To rescue more women who are like me?”

  “To save those who are in danger.”

  “There are too many of them.” Sophy planted her feet, refusing to move as the ghost stepped back. She remembered the numbers that Captain Seymour had quoted of the women who made their living selling their bodies on the streets of London. “I could not even provide shelter to the few I was able to help last time. It is a hopeless cause.”

  “Those women you helped would not agree with you.”

  Sophy refused to follow. “No! I am not coming. What I can do is minute, it’s unimportant. What I can do will make no difference.”

  She gasped as suddenly the ghost swept toward her. In an instant, the apparition walked directly into Sophy, surrounding her and at the same time filling her. Sophy felt icy fingers thrust into her limbs, chilling her with a sense of loss, desperation, grief.

  Visions flashed in her mind’s eye. Women and children dressed in rags, chained together in a belly of a ship, crying out for help. She was looking down at them through an open hatch. Their heads had been shaven of every last strand of hair. Instinctively, Sophy tried to go to them, but a cloak thrown over her shoulders was too heavy. She tried to take a step forward, but the weight of the garment was crushing her, body and soul. The cloak felt like it was a thousand pounds, buckling her legs. She looked down at the garment. It was made of gold. Pure gold…and woven from hair. She knew immediately; it was the hair of the captives chained below.

  Sophy looked up in horror. A sea wind was stinging her face. She could taste the salt on the air. The ghost was standing in front of her on the deck of the ship. Her wrists were shackled together, and she held them out in front of her.

  “Will you come with me?”

  The woman took a step back and suddenly they were separate entities, standing in the darkness of the yard.

  Until that moment, Sophy had forgotten how to breathe. The image of the captive souls burned in her brain. She could still feel the crushing weight of the cloak. She somehow had to shed the weight of it.

  She had no idea where this would lead. Leaving right now might mean never being welcomed back to Urania Cottage. But there was no longer a choice.

  She took one step, glanced briefly at the house, and then followed her guide out of the yard.

  The neighborhoods they passed through were quiet, with few people on the street and only a rare carriage. An occasional breeze cut through her damp clothes. She had no money and no idea how far they were to go or what awaited her at their destination.

  Sophy was surprised when the ghost led her into a neighborhood of large homes, many surrounded by walls and gardens. The sound of music and laughter soon reached her ears. They turned a corner, and she was even more surprised to see a wide street filled with carriages and well-dressed people on foot. They eventually reached the source of the festivities, a large garden with a double gate opening onto the street. She peered in. At the end of a broad cobblestone plaza, steps led up to a circular platform, lit by torches and strings of colorful, hanging lanterns. People were waltzing drunkenly to the music of a small orchestra. Hundreds of partiers crowded the dance floor and area surrounding it. At least as many waiters circulated with trays of food and drink. Her guide approached the gate and entered. Sophy followed.

  Just inside, a tall, burly man grabbed Sophy’s arm, stopping her. “’Ere now. Not so fast, doll. A shilling to go in.”

  She shook off his hand and took a step back, watching the ghost disappear down one of a dozen shadowy lanes—laid out like the spokes of a wheel—radiating from the central dance floor.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Cremorne Gardens,” the man muttered, looking at her curiously. “Been playing in the dirt, doll?”

  “And what part of London am I in now?”

  “What are ye trying to pull? Did ye just drop out of the sky?”

  “No. I . . . I’m lost, that’s all.”

  “Ye’re in Chelsea,” he said, grabbing her arm more roughly this time. “But ye are a pretty thing. Ye trying to say ye don’t work this place, normal?”

  “Work this place?” She couldn’t free herself.

  “Who’s your bully, doll?”

  She stared at him. “Bully?”

  “Yer fancy man.”

  “I have no fancy man.”

  “All the girls in the Garden are run by Jack Slade, and he don’t take kindly to dolly mops horning in.”

  “But I need to get in.”

  “Do ye, now? Well, if ye clean yerself up, and show yerself to Jack, maybe he’ll find a spot for ye.” With a leer, the brute pulled her close and took hold of both of her buttocks in one huge hand. “But first, let’s see what ye got. Why, just maybe I have a spot for—“

  Sophy delivered a sharp kick to the man’s shin, hard enough to allow herself to break free. Staggering back, she started to turn when another set of hands locked onto her from behind.

  “Well, Trencher, what do we have here?” The man’s breath reeked of liquor and onion, and his unshaven face was braced against hers.

  Sophy quivered in disgust. She struggled against him, but couldn’t get loose.

  “Watch ’er, Jack. She’s a wild ’un. Just showed up at the gate, claiming she don't know nothing about the Gardens. Says she’s got no bully.”

  “No bully, you say?” Jack pulled her tight against his body. “How’s that, love?”

  “I say she’s for your taking, Jack,” Trencher put in.

  “Let me go,” Sophy cried out. There was no sign of her ghost guide. Why had she led Sophy into this?

  Just then, a loud bell rang through the grounds. A crier was circulating and shouting, “Five minutes to closing.”

  Her attacker’s hands were like steel bands on her arms, and he continued to hold her as couples and groups of people began to stream out. Sophy started to cry out to them, but Jack began to shake her like a rag doll, and the partiers simply gawked and laughed and pointed at her as they passed.

  He stopped and put his lips close to her ear. “If you don’t shut your gob, love, I’m going to put you down on these bricks and step on your pretty face. Am I making myself clear?”

  A group of at least a dozen extremely intoxicated men and women came staggering toward the exit. The men appeared to be from various walks of life, but most were well-dressed. The women were laughing loudly, and their painted faces and satin dresses revealing their profession.

  “Good night to you, Jack Slade
,” a gentleman called out over the noise.

  “Will there be fireworks tomorrow night, Jack?” another asked.

  The devil holding her seemed to be in charge of the festivities, as many partiers addressed him by name and everyone continued to ignore her evident captivity. When an older gentleman came over and held out a card to Jack, the pimp let go of her with one hand and took it. As soon as he did, she tried to wriggle free. His fingers clamped down harder though, digging into her flesh.

  “Stop,” she cried. “You’re hurting me!”

  The gentleman looked at her in surprise. “Send someone . . . er, not so spirited, eh, Jack?” he said, moving off.

  Before he got more than a step away though, a clearly inebriated woman staggered toward them. Careening off the old gentleman, she drove him directly into Jack before falling against Sophy.

  Sophy struggled to keep her balance while the woman clung to her for a moment. As Sophy instinctively grasped the woman’s outstretched arms, she felt the handle of a small knife pushed into her hand.

  “Get ’im for all of us,” the woman whispered, quickly straightening and staring unsteadily at Jack.

  “Shove off, Ellie, you slut. Go and earn your gin for a change.”

  Without another glance at Sophy, the woman turned and staggered off toward a trio of men who were enjoying the show from a few paces off. When she reached them, they welcomed her into their midst with a drunken cheer.

  Sophy slid the knife furtively up her sleeve. She focused more on the faces of the women leaving the park. Under the painted cheeks and lips, behind the loud coarse laughter, many of these women, she realized, were very young—some barely more then children. She also began to notice the sympathetic glances directed toward her.

  Soon, the crowds thinned and the carriages began to pull away, clearing the street. Sophy’s blood ran cold as Jack put one arm around her, squeezing her breast as he pulled her tightly against him.

  “Now we have time to do a little business, eh, love?”

  “No!” Sophy pleaded. “Please let me go.”

  She could feel a pronounced bulge pressing against her bottom. He seemed to become rougher and more determined as she struggled more. “Keep it on, love. This is exactly what I needed tonight.”