They counted off the streets. Down one of them some children were pushing a slumped scarecrow, dressed in a man’s old suit, around in a barrow. A browning carrot hung off its face for a nose. When they saw Frankie and Milly they came charging towards them. ‘Penny for the guy.’
‘Remember remember,’ Frankie muttered to herself, ‘the fifth of November.’ How could she have forgotten? It was Guy Fawkes night. And she wasn’t even going to a bonfire. She thought briefly of the bonfires she and Harry Tripe had used to light in the back square. Once they had thrown an old damp pack of cards onto the pyre only for them to explode and Harry’s father to angrily explain that playing cards had gunpowder in their ink that would go off when wet. It became a secret tradition after that, she and Harry dousing the cards, hiding them somewhere in the kindling and waiting for them to go boom. She dug in her pocket, mindful of Milly’s earlier charity, and found a filthy penny. Holding it up she said, ‘Right, whichever one of you can tell me where Mill Street is gets the penny.’
An older boy had a sneer on his face. ‘You’re on it, nincompoop.’ He grabbed the coin out of her hand. The children guffawed, then seized up the barrow and began skipping back down the street.
Frankie looked round at the row of red brick houses, the shabby corner shops and market sellers parked up. The curtains were all drawn, the street, apart from the children tearing up and down, was silent. At the opposite end a public house on the corner had a black sash draped across the doors. Outside it a man was dismantling a greying horse from a splintered gun carriage.
‘Her funeral,’ Milly said quietly.
‘Shit,’ Frankie murmured. She blew air up into her hair and turned slowly around, taking in the street, then pulled her pocket-watch out and looked at the time.
‘What do you want to do?’ Milly asked. Frankie looked back up the street.
‘What number was her house?’
Milly pulled the note out of her pocket. ‘Nine. It’s that one,’ she pointed at a broken door, skewed on its hinges, the wood warped in the doorjamb.
‘They’ll all be in there, won’t they?’ Frankie nodded towards the public house. Gentle sea shanties and tempered laughter were spilling out from behind the doors. She began walking directly to number nine.
Milly gathered her skirts and hurried after her. ‘That’s intrusive.’
Frankie dropped her voice and pulled out the Queen of Swords. ‘Who was she meeting that night again?’
Milly pouted.
‘You’re coming with me, like it or not.’
‘What if there’s someone in there? Her mother, her sister?’
‘We came to pay our respects.’
Milly let out her breath. ‘Fine. But tact, Frankie. Tact.’
Frankie dropped open her mouth, then closed it again. ‘When have you seen me not . . . ? Fine, tact.’
The rickety door to number nine was so splintered Frankie had to wrap her handkerchief round her hand to protect it. She knocked a couple of times then called gently through the gap. ‘Hello?’
There was no response, only the quiet of the street and the creaking and cracking of an old salt-battered house. Frankie pulled the door, gently at first, then firmer until it scraped open just enough for a person to slip through. From inside came a mild fishy scent, dinner cooked the night before. She wedged herself sideways into the hall, and heard the threads of Milly’s silk dress catch behind her followed by a gentle curse.
Off the hall lay a small parlour where a mean fire hissed charcoal smoke behind a metal grate. At the window end, looking onto the street, an empty rocking chair moved gently in the suck of air from the chimney. Frankie heard a noise, the dry pull of breath, and turned to see a box bed at the other end, with a girl sitting on it whose black curls were the spit of Annie Evans’s. She was bent over, bawling quiet sobs into her fists. Sensing the intrusion she snapped her head up and her rich brown eyes focused.
Frankie raised two palms. ‘It’s all right. We’re only come to pay our respects. I’m Frankie George. I knew Annie.’
The salty white straps running down the girl’s blotched cheeks made her feel a slap of guilt for the lie. But hearing Annie’s name seemed to soften the girl. She blew her nose into her soggy sleeve. Her tears quickly ceased, she dried herself up, buttoned herself back in again, a hasty return to form and propriety, the sorrow stowed. She had the same luxurious hair, the same handsome brow as Annie, though from her movements she seemed much younger. Not yet packed off to service or seamstressing. She moved her eyes over their clothing, Frankie’s suit and Milly’s gown.
‘They’re making up songs about her. Annie Evans, danced with the devil, Jack the Ripper cut her up.’ She shook her head, making her curls sway. ‘She never did nothing to no one.’
‘I know,’ Frankie said.
The girl leaned forward and stood up. ‘I forget my manners.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘I’m Beth Evans.’
‘Frankie George,’ Frankie said again. ‘This is Milly Barton.’
Beth Evans looked at Milly and her mouth pursed. ‘Friends of Annie’s?’
Milly looked hesitantly at Frankie then said, ‘Suffragettes. We were with Annie in prison.’
Frankie felt the guilt left over from the first lie harden.
‘It was prison that did for her,’ Beth Evans sniffed. ‘She weren’t happy after that last time. Weren’t happy at all.’
She sat back down and gestured to a small settee and a box by the fire. Frankie took the box. After a few moments her attention was slowly caught by a strange smell, smoked and perfumed. She looked over at the snivelling fire and saw to her curiosity that someone had stuffed a new bouquet of flowers between the coals. The fresh white petals of the lilies had just begun to smoulder, the edges singeing to a brown crisp. It was a strange place for an offering to end up. Beth noticed her staring at it.
‘My Mam would offer you tea if she was here,’ she said suddenly, drawing Frankie’s attention back. ‘But I can’t do anything at the moment. My legs is just so heavy.’ She started to cry again and Frankie thought about venturing closer but considered it a deceit too far.
‘She was at the window smash that night?’ Frankie said. ‘I thought I saw her.’
‘No, she didn’t do the windows no more. She said no more, after last time in prison. And she got thrown out of service.’
‘She was in service?’
Milly nodded pointedly.
‘Of course,’ Frankie said, remembering what the suffragettes had told Milly. ‘I remember now. I mean she didn’t mention she’d been thrown out. She just said she’d left service. Got new work.’
Beth gazed at Frankie with an unnervingly cool stare. Frankie couldn’t work out whether she had been suddenly rumbled or whether the girl was moved by the insensitive line of conversation. She looked away, at the curling daguerreotypes on the wall, the framed verse from the Bible, and those peculiar lilies, still smouldering away.
Eventually Beth said in a weak voice, ‘It’s all his fault.’ She pointed to the fire in the grate. ‘You think anyone goes to be a seamstress when they been a parlourmaid? And her, mistress, the cheek to send flowers, once she chucked her out.’
Frankie peered closer into the fire. The ribbon was tucked between two lumps of unlit coal; attached to it was a card, but she couldn’t make out the name. She sat back again. ‘The family Annie worked for, they let her go because they didn’t like her going to prison for the suffragettes?’
Beth almost smiled. Her shoulders shook bitterly. ‘No. He bloomin’ encouraged it. Master of the house. She came home one Sunday for supper, told us she spent all day in the garden with him, telling him all about suffragettes and he said he’d give her Tuesdays off for meetings. He were so excited, he were even going to get involved hisself.’
Frankie frowned, thinking she had misheard. ‘Sorry, the master said this or the mistress?’
‘Master,’ Beth croaked into her sleeve then cou
ghed. ‘Mistress were a vixen. Mistress were what let her go. Mind you, who can blame her. Master takes an eye for you. But it weren’t Annie’s fault. She’s got a pretty face is all.’ Beth’s eyes filled up again. ‘She had a pretty face.’
The tear gates opened and a fresh stream rolled down until it dripped from her chin. Milly leaned across and placed a hand on the girl’s knee. Beth looked at the hand and Milly withdrew it gently.
‘What you do about it? She told me she were in love with him.’ She leaned on the greasy wall and her voice started to rise. ‘She were soft for him. He took a curl of her hair, she kept his handkerchief. I said, “He’s never going to marry you, Annie Evans. You see.” But she thought she would one day be in the big house, and they’d both have a vote, and all them smashes they did together, they’d be worth it.’
Frankie sat up. ‘What did you say? Smashes they did together?’ Her eyes darted to the fireplace. The flames were spreading now, catching the coals either side of the ribbon in tendrils of smoke. She moved closer, tilting her head until she could just make out the writing on the card. ‘Reynolds.’
‘Reynolds.’ Beth spat. ‘Mr Reynolds. He were her sweetheart. But it were Mrs Reynolds put her out. And had the cheek to send them flowers.’ Beth looked at the fire for a few seconds. ‘Still, better to bleed your fingers in a clothing factory than have the mistress try to trip up your every move.’
Frankie’s memory stirred. She knew that name. It swam around for a second, like a fish, then snapped at her. The day in court, the suffragette man that had ended up in Pentonville.
‘Did she still see Mr Reynolds?’ Milly probed quietly.
Beth nodded and rubbed her eyes. ‘Tried not to but she were soft on him.’
‘She dress up nice when she went to see him?’ Frankie asked.
Beth looked confused and peered out of the window. The noises from the street grew momentarily louder. They heard the swinging of doors and a surge of tin whistle. Voices filtered out from the public house.
‘Was she meeting Mr Reynolds on Thursday?’ Frankie asked urgently.
But Beth wasn’t listening. Her eyes had drifted beyond them to the road outside. ‘She shouldn’t have been walking the streets by herself that time of night. Is that what a gentleman does? Leaves a woman by herself.’ She looked at her guests in turn, suddenly aware of the humiliation of having strangers in perfectly tailored clothing sitting in her unwashed parlour asking questions about the sister she had just buried.
Frankie glanced around the room at the orange walls and smoke stains from the paraffin lamps. Her mind was working. She had seen Reynolds in the dock that afternoon for window-smashing, so he couldn’t have turned up to meet Annie. He must have stood her up, leaving her to walk the streets alone. That eliminated him, but didn’t bring them any closer to who might have killed her. Frankie looked back at Beth. ‘The factory Annie went to work in, was it on New Bond Street?’
Beth nodded.
‘What did she make?’
‘It was seamstress work. Corsets. You only had to look at her fingers. All made to order, fancy stuff.’ Her eyes fell onto Milly’s silk patterned skirt. She didn’t need to say the rest of the sentence. The look was in her eyes. For people like you. ‘That’s what beauty gets you. Everyone always said Annie’s face was her ticket.’ She heaved a huge breath in. The sigh that came out was quiet and controlled.
‘And she worked every day at this corset shop?’
‘Every waking minute.’
‘Who got her the job there?’
Beth’s eyes thinned into narrow black pools. ‘Who are you?’
Frankie hesitated, swallowing. ‘I told you. We’re suffragettes.’
‘You don’t look like suffragettes. Where’s your green, white, purple? What do you want to know so much about Annie for?’
Frankie let the girl stare at her for a moment, shadows of betrayal moving through her stomach. Sitting in Beth’s family home, wondering who had murdered her sister while she prised gentle answers out of her. ‘Who got her the job at the corset shop?’
Beth bowed her head. ‘It was a friend she knew from the suffragettes. A famous girl. She came by the house one time, with another of the seamstresses that worked there. An old lady with her face all bandaged up. Annie said she’d had an accident or disease. But you couldn’t catch it.’ She picked at a sore on the side of her lip. ‘They didn’t come in. Sat outside in a hackney waiting for Annie.’
‘Phossy jaw,’ Frankie murmured. Beth looked up sharp. Frankie leaned forward. ‘Did it have a name, this corset shop?’
Beth picked at her lip again. Then a look of languid scorn came into her eyes. She snorted with laughter and shook her head. ‘It had a nickname all right. On account of what they were making in there. She said they called it “The Hourglass Factory”.’
Thirty-Four
‘No, Frankie George. No. Not again. Not this time.’
‘I think you know it’s necessary. Anyway, Liam’s meeting us there.’
‘Well, he can be your dirty partner in crime. I’m not getting whacked on the head again. Not for the sake of your bloody scoop.’
‘But the answer to it all has to be in there. Twinkle said it. Those maids, not as enlightened as you’d like to think. How would you feel if you spent your days with bleeding fingers, lacing in rich men with fancies? They’re up to something.’
They were standing at the side of the pavement, waiting for the next tram. Frankie had a cigarette hanging from her lips like a long growth. She was scribbling fast in her notebook, ash soiling the pages like grey snowflakes.
Milly put a hand to her forehead. ‘Well, in that case, isn’t it about time we went to the police?’
‘Hang the police.’ Frankie suddenly became aware her voice had risen and took a few breaths to stop herself sounding hysterical. ‘Don’t you ever have a hunch?’
Milly looked at her as if she had just sprouted wings. ‘A hunch?’
‘A feeling. I know that the answer to whatever happened to Ebony and Olivier and Annie is in that shop, and we aren’t going to get anywhere at night.’ She smoked the rest of the cigarette quickly, aware that Milly was watching her and that manners dictated she should really offer Milly one. ‘The shop’s closed just now; it’s the only chance we’ll get. That woman she mentioned, the one with phossy jaw. I saw her. Did you ever see a woman with her face bundled up with Ebony, at the club?’
Milly said something quietly in the direction of the traffic. The wind muffled her voice.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said I think you should leave it to the police. You’ve got enough to write up a piece, just put a bit of intrigue into it. Didn’t you say the Evening Gazette make most of it up anyway?’
Frankie fixed her eyes on Milly in disbelief. Her features had become repugnant all of a sudden. She resented the high large nose, the perfectly cut cheekbones, the aristocratic brow. ‘Is that what people of your world do, leave it to the police?’
‘Oh Frankie, for God’s sake.’
The tram approached with a heavy rattle and Milly made towards it. Frankie flinched as her notebook fluttered out of her hand and with it a couple of loose leaves of paper, scraps she had stuffed in. She almost lost her balance as she reached to stop them spilling into the road. Milly had already boarded and Frankie followed her up to the open top deck. There was a woman at the back reading a copy of The Suffragette, who watched them as they took the front seat.
‘I saw you flinch when I said that last night. I didn’t mean anything by it, just that we’re different.’
‘You don’t have to work for your living. I do.’
Milly locked her eyes on her. ‘I work for my living good and proper. I enjoy what I do, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t work and there aren’t nights when I wouldn’t rather be curled up in a nice big house with hot water bottles and maids to turn down my bed. I ran away. I didn’t want to live that way even though I could have.’
‘And I
suppose that makes you more righteous than poor jugginses who don’t have a choice.’
Milly looked straight ahead at the streets branching off each side of the thoroughfare’s bony spine. ‘Spare me the match girl act. You have a choice, Frankie.’
‘This or scrubbing floors.’
‘You’re not like that girl in there, that Beth. Or Annie.’
‘Annie’s not in there. She’s dead.’
Milly shook her head, irritated. ‘Why don’t you trust the police? You just hate everyone, don’t you? Suffragettes, Twinkle . . . you most likely hate all women by the way you dress. You’d hate Ebony too, if she gave you the chance.’
Frankie looked down at her black trousers. Milly’s words stung and the trousers suddenly felt ostentatious on her, foolish and provocative rather than practical.
‘I want to get to the bottom of it. I thought that was what you wanted too.’ She let the words stew in her mouth for a few seconds and then came out with it. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with your brooch being found on Smythe’s body, does it? Care to tell me about that?’
Milly’s shoulders froze. She kept staring at the road disappearing under them. The electric whine of the tram suddenly seemed unbearably loud.
‘You should be more careful what spoons you hand out to guests. Family crest, is it? Beautiful. You should see mine. Got a leg of mutton on it, a bar of carbolic soap, barrow wheel.’
Milly held up her hand. ‘All right.’
Frankie waited patiently for her to speak.
‘Frankie, I don’t know how he got that brooch. I didn’t even know I had it.’
‘Ebony had it on her, at the corset shop.’
Milly’s cheeks stiffened, her eyes widened for a split-second. She recovered quickly and said, ‘Well, she must have stolen it. Maybe she was going to sell it or something. I have noticed things go missing sometimes in that dressing room, I thought it was Lizzy but perhaps—’
‘Why didn’t you mention it when you saw the rubbing?’
‘Because it’s not relevant. I thought it would just complicate . . . You might not trust . . . I don’t know. I was tired when you showed me the rubbing, I didn’t even know what I was looking at.’
The Hourglass Factory Page 27
