Liza

by Irene Carr

  There were only the two rooms, and little furniture in them. The search did not take long. Una found the tin at the back of a drawer in the bedroom, hidden under clothing. It had a picture of the king, Edward VII, on the lid and had once held tea. ‘Here!’ she hissed. Piggy came through from the kitchen, and Una pulled off the lid. He snatched it from her and emptied it on to the kitchen table. There was an insurance policy — to pay for Kitty’s funeral — and a double handful of silver coins with a few golden sovereigns. Liza had sent money in postal orders and Kitty had cashed them.

  Piggy whistled softly. ‘You did bloody well, our lass.’ He grinned. ‘We’re off !’ He poured the coins into the pockets of his shabby overcoat, then cautiously opened the door. The passage was empty so they stepped out — and the front door began to open, slowly because little Susan was insisting on pushing it. Una gasped but Piggy seized her arm, dragged her along the passage and out of the back door. He closed it softly behind him. The backyard was empty, with no one in the wash-house or the coal-shed, so he and Una ran across to the gate and out into the cobbled lane.

  They hurried back to their rooms and counted up the money they had stolen. Piggy grinned at Una. ‘Pack your clothes. It’s us for London.’

  Una laughed. ‘I’ve put it over that Liza Thornton an’ all! I’d like to see her face!’

  * * *

  Edward Spencer left his office at eleven in the morning. ‘Send the boy out to get me a cab,’ he told Featherstone, his chief clerk. ‘I feel a bit under the weather so I’m going home. I expect I’ll be in tomorrow but, if not, please bring anything needing my attention up to the house.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Spencer.’

  Edward shrugged into his overcoat and picked up his top hat. He thought a breath of fresh air might do him good. As he got to the street door his office-boy panted up. ‘Here’s your cab, Mr Spencer, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Tommy.’

  It was a hansom. Edward climbed in with an effort and closed the doors across his knees. The driver, seated behind and above him, opened the flap in the roof and called down to him, ‘Right y’are, sir.’ The horse set off at a walk and Edward sank back against the worn leather cushions. He panted from the climb into the cab and thought, Fresh air, that’s the ticket. Better in a minute.

  * * *

  His staff stood at the windows and watched the cab move away. A junior clerk said, ‘The ould lad does look bad.’

  The chief clerk chewed his lip and sighed, then remembered his responsibilities. ‘Well, we all have work to do.’ They turned back to their desks and he decided that if he had to attend his employer at his house next day, he would suggest sending a telegram to Captain William Morgan. He was at sea, commanding the Wear Lass, bound for Bremen in Germany. The chief clerk would recommend William’s early return. He might be accused of making a fuss over nothing but it would put his mind at rest.

  In the event he had to send a telegram anyway. When the cab reached Edward’s house he was dead.

  * * *

  The first telegram came with the doctor. Cecily had sent for him when Alexandra took to her bed with streaming eyes, nose, and a racking cough. The doctor came to their Berlin hotel and diagnosed influenza. Alexandra must keep to her bed for a week, must be nursed, and could not think of travelling for a month. He agreed to her request: a little medicinal Cognac would be in order.

  Cecily read the telegram the maid had delivered. It came from Edward Spencer’s solicitors. ‘I must go home,’ she said. She turned to her aunt. ‘Mr Spencer died yesterday. The solicitors say I should go back to Sunderland as I am a beneficiary under his will and due to inherit under my father’s in February.’

  Alexandra wept. ‘Poor Edward. So kind, so generous.’ Her grief was genuine, and so was Cecily’s lack of it.

  Cecily, though, was excited by the change in her fortunes, this early release from what she regarded as bondage. She would be free, and Mark Calvert was waiting for her. But she felt a pang of regret that she had not been kinder to Edward.

  She comforted her aunt as best she could and arranged for a nurse to stay; Alexandra still had plenty of the money Edward had given her in letters of credit. The telegram had also said her passage would be arranged and further details would follow by letter. Cecily would not wait. She had always sworn not to go to the North Country but this changed everything. She wheedled out of the fragile and mournful Alexandra a sum more than sufficient to cover her passage home and set out the following day. She took only one suitcase and left her other baggage to be packed and sent on.

  One of the details in the letter that was still on its way was that William Morgan would take over as her guardian. Cecily did not see it.

  * * *

  When the Wear Lass docked in the port of Bremen William found two telegrams awaiting him. The cable and telegraph were his only means of contacting the shore. His ship, like most others of the time, did not have wireless. Both telegrams were from Ezra Arkenstall, Edward Spencer’s solicitor. The first advised William of Edward’s death, that Arkenstall was arranging the funeral, and suggested his early return. The second informed him that he was now guardian of Miss Cecily Spencer, who had been advised to return to Sunderland in view of her impending inheritance.

  William was stricken by the news. Edward had been his father from the age of five, had cared for him, loved him, and that affection had been returned.

  He called for the first officer. ‘I have to sail for home without delay so I want a quick turn-round.’ He had a cargo to discharge and another to load. He did his sums and decided it would be as quick for him to cross the North Sea in the Wear Lass as it would be to leave her and go by train and packet, if he had his way. And he did: his ship had the fastest turn-round seen in Bremen for a long time. William worked at the head of his crew from start to finish, clad in a stained seaman’s jersey and old navy blue trousers.

  * * *

  For some days Liza had noticed Albert Koenig’s eyes following her. It shocked her that a married man in his parents’ house could cast his eyes on another woman with carnal intent. But she was a long way from the innocent of five years before and knew what Albert intended. She suffered days of indecision. Should she tell her mistress? She would not be believed. Give notice for what reason? And what kind of reference would she get? She could walk out — but that would still leave her without a reference. Maybe Albert would come to his senses. Maybe she was mistaken. She hesitated.

  Liza was shocked, but not surprised, when he seized her and threw her down on the couch. She fought him. ‘No! Please!’

  ‘Don’t worry. They are all out. I’ll give you a present.’ He went on trying to undress and fondle her. Liza knew Beatrice Koenig had gone out with her parents-in-law. She had been working in the bedroom on Beatrice’s wardrobe when Albert had come seeking her. Now, in fear and despair, she punched and kicked him, her skirts flying above her thighs and her dress shredding. Eventually she escaped, leaving him gasping on the couch. He rose to pursue her and she turned to flee. The door opened.

  ‘I came home because I didn’t feel well,’ Beatrice said. ‘One of the servants told me you might be up here.’ She spoke mechanically as she tried to take in the scene before her.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ Albert said quickly. ‘This slut is deranged! I came up looking for a book and she started to tear off her clothes and mine, said she loved me. I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t escape because she had the strength of madness. I tried to reason with her but she just laughed at me.’

  Liza pulled her dress together to cover her nakedness and attempted to put her case: ‘If you please, ma’am—’

  Beatrice could not accept the truth, shied from the evidence of her own eyes. She could see her image in a mirror on the wall and compare it with the fresh beauty of this frightened girl, but she could not accept that her husband had preferred a servant girl to herself. Her mouth tightened and she glared at Liza. ‘Go and make yourself decent, then pack your bags a
nd get out. I’ll not give you a reference nor pay a penny instead of notice. Think yourself lucky I don’t hand you over to the police.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Liza protested. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but he’s lying. I was working in here,’ she pointed at the dress she was altering, ‘and he came in and—’

  ‘No! No!’ Beatrice clapped her hands over her ears. ‘I won’t listen to your lies! Stop it! Stop it!’

  Liza saw that the woman would not listen to her. She stumbled from the room and hid in her own. There she wept from the horror of her experience, for the ruin of her hopes, for fear of what lay ahead.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called tremulously. Had Beatrice sent for the police?

  A voice squeaked, ‘Heidi!’ It was the girl of fourteen who worked as a scullery-maid. She admired Liza.

  Liza opened the door to the girl, who smiled and held out an envelope. ‘From your mama?’ Liza had told her about Kitty and Susan.

  She took it. ‘Thank you, Heidi.’ The girl’s smile wavered; she could see Liza had been crying. ‘Yes, it’s from Mama. I’ll see you later.’

  Heidi went away and Liza closed the door. It was only then that she wondered at the letter. Kitty wrote regularly, once a week, carefully in copperplate, the back of the sheet covered in Susan’s scrawls. But there had been a letter only two days before. Why another now? Was Susan ill? Liza tore it open and read: ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you we had a burglar in and he found the money and took it all ... ’

  Liza read the rest but the words were only regrets and apologies. The essence of the letter was in those few words. She did not blame her mother, had never had a bank account herself. Like many others she had never had enough money to merit one. When the poor saved a little money there was always some emergency to claim it, like time out of work or shoes for a child.

  Liza realised now that she was not only out of work but nearly penniless, and without a reference she would be lucky to obtain anything but the most menial job. She could not carry her box nor afford to ship it because she had to watch every penny. She left it with Heidi and packed an old, cheap suitcase she had bought second-hand some years earlier when she worked in Leeds. Then she set off in despair to go home.

  * * *

  In London, a similar scene was being enacted, though this time a man was the victim. Una Cooper opened the door of her hotel room and called, ‘Why, Mr Biggins! You’ll help a lady in a difficulty.’ She pouted and held a partly full champagne glass.

  Henry Biggins smirked at her. He had just turned fifty, and was expensively, if badly, dressed in a check suit he believed gave him a sporty look. He had met Mr and Mrs Armstrong, as he knew them, a few days earlier, when they were all sitting in the foyer of the hotel and the lady had struck up a conversation with him. She had explained that she and her husband were in London in connection with Mr Armstrong’s business. She had sighed, ‘Business, it’s always business.’ Mr Armstrong, in reality Piggy Cooper, had remained hidden behind his newspaper, giving only bored grunts when addressed. Henry had told her how he was there to see the sights, a holiday from his own business. He had left his wife at home.

  They had met several times since then and he had found Una charming, attentive and interested in whatever he had to say. She had a habit, surely unconscious, of leaning towards him so that he would find himself peering down into her décolletage. Now he answered gallantly, ‘Of course, my dear. How may I be of assistance?’

  Una seized his arm, pulled him into the room and shut the door behind them. ‘I’m glad I met you, Henry. You’ll understand. It’s my birthday. Sit down.’ She pushed him on to the edge of the bed. ‘I ordered a bottle because Freddie was supposed to come home early. Here, have a glass.’ Champagne stood in an ice-bucket on a small table and she splashed some into a glass, more into her own, handed him his and sat beside him. ‘Now he’s sent a message to say he won’t be back till midnight.’ She flapped a sheet of paper in front of Henry’s eyes and said miserably, ‘So I’m all alone. On my birthday.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Eh, lass, that’s a shame,’ Henry commiserated.

  Una leaned towards him and laid a hand on his thigh. The room seemed warm and he gulped champagne.

  ‘Business, always business,’ Una said, ‘and I’m left on my own. He never ...’ She paused, then finished delicately, ‘He never demonstrates any affection. That’s not natural for a woman like me.’ Her fingers dug into Henry’s thigh. Then she glanced at the little watch on her wrist. ‘But I forgot, I asked for your help.’ She stood and turned her back to him. ‘I can’t get out of this dress on my own. Will you, please?’

  Henry began to undo the row of small buttons with fingers all thumbs. As he did so the dress slipped off her shoulders and he saw an expanding area of creamy skin.

  Then Piggy Cooper burst in at the door. ‘What are you doing with my wife, sir? Adulterer!’

  ‘No! I was only helping her!’ Henry squeaked. ‘She asked me in.’

  Piggy glared at Una. ‘I cannot believe it. Is this true?’ Una clutched her dress about her. ‘I opened the door to his knock and he attacked me.’

  ‘Liar as well as adulterer!’ Piggy bawled. ‘I’ll drag you through the highest courts in the land but I will have justice —and vengeance!’ He whipped out the knife, long and deadly.

  Henry saw that Mrs Armstrong had lied to save her own skin. He also knew what justice he would get if the case went to court. A judge might believe him but Henry’s wife would not. And there was the knife. ‘It’s all a mistake, but we don’t want to go to court and pay the lawyers,’ he wheedled, sweating. ‘Can’t we agree to settle the matter between ourselves? I’ll gladly compensate Mrs Armstrong for any embarrassment she may have felt.’

  Piggy grumbled about it being a ‘matter of honour’, but was persuaded to accept almost the entire contents of Henry’s wallet. He stuffed the wad of notes into his pocket, read Henry a lecture on taking advantage of other men’s wives when they were only seeking companionship, and sent him off, chastened, to his own room. Then he asked Una, ‘Are you ready?’

  She turned her back to him. ‘Button me up. You took your bloody time. He nearly had me in my bare buff.’

  ‘I was only a minute late,’ Piggy replied. They had synchronised their watches so that he could come in at the crucial moment. ‘This chap came out into the passage and I had to wait for him to go downstairs. We didn’t want anybody near when I charged in.’ He fastened the last button. ‘Get your coat and come on.’ He lifted their suitcases, packed and ready, out of the wardrobe, put in his suit jacket and pulled on a porter’s waistcoat. Una led the way to the service stairs, and he followed her, carrying the cases, down and out of the back entrance of the hotel into an alley. At the end he hailed a cab for King’s Cross station. From there they took another cab to another hotel. Within the hour they were settled in, with a fresh bottle of champagne half empty and Piggy unbuttoning Una’s dress again.

  * * *

  Jasper Barbour sat on one side of the scrubbed wooden table, Flora on the other. The warder kept a wary eye on him. Early in his sentence he had established himself as dangerous when other prisoners had tried to put him down. One he had crippled and now the rest were glad to leave him alone. ‘Have you got it all organised?’ he muttered to Flora.

  ‘Aye. In a week’s time if your man will do it.’ Flora copied his murmur but she was frightened.

  ‘He’ll do it.’ Jasper had waited all through his sentence for this moment. Now there was a warder whose daughter had consumption and needed sanatorium care. Jasper had the money to pay for it. Now: ‘I want her found. Her that put me in here,’ he muttered.

  Flora had stayed true to him through the years, looked after his money, visited him on the rare occasions she was allowed to. This was partly out of fear, but there was also affection and gratitude. He had lifted her out of the gutter and she had never starved, never had to sell herself. Now she protested, ‘How can I do that? I
told you that her ma and pa had died and she was taken off somewhere. God knows where she is.’

  ‘There’s a feller called Galloway. He’s an ex-copper with a little office in Finch Street down Wapping way. He’ll find her, but don’t tell him who wants to know.’

  ‘What do you want to find this Spencer lass for?’ Flora asked nervously.

  His hands, spread on the tabletop, clenched into fists, the scarred knuckles white. ‘She took away my life. I’m going to make her pay.’

  * * *

  The Wear Lass sailed from Bremen at four in the morning with William Morgan looking forward grimly to the responsibility of guardianship awaiting him.

  * * *

  The cargo liner Florence Grey left Hamburg four hours later, carrying Cecily, with her thoughts of freedom and her lover, and Liza, fearful of what the future held. She could remember only too well the hardships of poverty she had lived with, could see them looming again. She could never have foreseen that her ill-fortune would plunge her into the cold grey water of the North Sea.

  12

  SUNDAY, 20 JANUARY 1907, NORTH SEA

  A hand hooked into Liza’s collar, bruising and strangling but dragging her to the surface. She took a great, whooping breath, blinked salt water from her eyes and spat it from her mouth. She heard the deafening blare of the ship’s siren. Cecily’s face hung over hers and one of her carefully manicured hands was holding Liza up. The other was braced against the steel side of the ship so that the boat would not ride over the girl gasping in the sea. Now one of the seamen clambered over the thwarts to take over. He held off the boat while Cecily gripped Liza and hauled her inboard. She came over the side with a rush and Cecily fell back into the bottom of the boat with Liza on top of her.