The Quietness

by Alison Rattle

‘Get out!’ Mrs Waters suddenly screamed again. She threw the broken bottle and a shard of glass sliced across Queenie’s cheek. Queenie cried out in shock. A warm wetness began to drip onto her shoulder.

  ‘It’s a baby!’ whispered Ellen, still listening closely. She grabbed Queenie’s arm and squeezed it tight. Queenie’s cheek was stinging like mad now.

  ‘You’ve hidden ’em in the cellar!’ she said to Mrs Waters. ‘Couldn’t risk dumping ’em all at once, could you?’ Queenie stepped towards Mrs Waters, so close she could smell the brandy on her breath. ‘Bet you dosed ’em up good and proper too,’ she said. ‘Didn’t expect any of ’em to make a noise, did you?’

  Mrs Waters took a faltering step backwards. Her face turned the colour of uncooked pastry and she was breathing heavily. ‘Should never have taken you in,’ she panted. ‘Knew you’d be trouble.’ She sat heavily in her chair, muttering nonsense to herself, her head falling forwards onto her bosom.

  Queenie ran to the cellar. She tugged at the door and twisted the handle from side to side. It was locked tight. She couldn’t hear the crying any more. It had stopped. The poor babies. Lying down there in the cold, damp darkness with not even a blanket to keep ’em warm. Ellen ran up beside her and began to twist at the handle too.

  ‘Where is the key, Queenie? We have got to open this door!’

  Queenie’s mind was whirling. Where did Mrs Waters keep the keys? She couldn’t think.

  The kitchen door suddenly creaked open and the tremulous voice of Mrs Ellis whispered loudly, ‘Margaret! Are you there? I heard noises. Is everything all right?

  Queenie went rigid. She looked at Ellen and put her fingers to her lips. Mrs Ellis moved further into the kitchen. Queenie pressed herself into the shadows by the cellar door; Ellen close beside her.

  ‘Margaret!’ Mrs Ellis was shaking her sister. ‘What was all that noise I heard?’

  Mrs Waters opened her eyes slowly and looked blearily at Mrs Ellis. Then suddenly her eyes widened, she sat upright and pointed a finger towards the cellar door. ‘They’re in here, Sarah. Look! They’re in here and causing trouble!’

  Mrs Ellis turned round quickly, her hand clutching at her throat. She stared at Queenie. ‘Has she called the police?’ she hissed over her shoulder to Mrs Waters.

  ‘Says she has,’ Mrs Waters slurred. ‘They know where the babies are too. One of them squealed. You didn’t give them enough of a dose, did you? You stupid mare!’

  Mrs Ellis turned white. She began to whimper, ‘We’re done for! Oh God, we’re done for!’

  ‘Shut up your whining!’ shouted Mrs Waters. She pushed herself up from her chair and grabbed the poker. Something clanked as she began to stumble towards Queenie and Ellen. ‘The keys!’ said Queenie, suddenly remembering. ‘They’re in her skirts!’ Before she had time to think any more, Mrs Ellis rushed towards her and grabbed her arms.

  ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ she screamed at Queenie. ‘We trusted you!’ She let go of one of Queenie’s arms and reached out to scratch her face. Tears of pain sprang to Queenie’s eyes as Mrs Ellis’s nails dug into her already cut cheek. She twisted her arm out of Mrs Ellis’s grip, and with a huge yell she shoved Mrs Ellis hard in the belly with both hands. Mrs Ellis stumbled backwards and fell against the kitchen door. Queenie readied herself to punch again. As Mrs Ellis pulled herself up, Queenie tightened her fists. Mrs Ellis looked shaken and terrified. Instead of coming at Queenie, she opened the kitchen door and fled up the stairs.

  There was a thump and a cry from behind. Queenie whirled round. Ellen’s candle was lying on the floor and Queenie could see the dark shapes of flailing arms and legs on the floor by the fireplace. Mrs Waters was grunting and squealing like an excited pig and Queenie saw the orange of her hair spread across the hearth. Had she got hold of Ellen? Was she trying to throttle her? Before she had the chance to get back across the kitchen, there was the rattle of metal and Ellen shouted, ‘I’ve got them, Queenie! I’ve got the keys!’

  Queenie could hardly believe her eyes. Mrs Waters was sprawled on the floor and Ellen was leaning over her dangling a huge bunch of keys from her hand.

  Queenie snorted in disbelief. ‘You’re a dark horse, Ellen Swift,’ she said. ‘But I ain’t half glad you’re my sister.’ She helped Ellen up and they both looked down at Mrs Waters. She had gone limp and seemed to have fallen into a drunken stupor. Queenie laughed and Ellen smiled weakly, then they hugged each other tight.

  ‘Quick now,’ said Queenie. ‘Let’s fetch your baby.’

  Queenie tried each key in turn, guiding them into the rusty lock: silver keys, brass keys and long iron ones. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled about. Ellen kept whispering, ‘Hurry, hurry,’ and Queenie was about to throw the keys at her in frustration when there was a loud clunk and the cellar door swung open. Cold, stale air hit Queenie in the face, but there was not a sound to be heard from the black hole. Ellen plunged her candle into the darkness and began to make her way down the stone steps. Queenie lifted her skirts to follow behind.

  Suddenly there was a bang and the kitchen was flooded with light. Queenie turned to see Mam and a couple of stern-faced coppers wrapped in capes, shining their Bull’s Eye lanterns into the room and onto the body of Mrs Waters splayed out in front of the fireplace.

  56

  Ellen

  The stone steps that led down to the cellar were slimy and wet and seemed to go on forever. The air grew colder and I shivered violently when I thought of the children down there. How long had they been hidden away? I prayed the rats had not found any of them yet. I prayed the cellar had not become the most terrible of coffins. I did not stop to look around when I heard noises in the kitchen above. I needed to get my daughter out of this dark place as soon as I could.

  Sticky cobwebs drifted across my face, and I saw the walls either side of me were black with mould. The further I descended the more foul the air became. Soon I could taste it, thick and sour, on the back of my tongue.

  At last I reached the bottom step. My candle lit up a small circle of glistening soil. I lifted the candle and the circle grew bigger, lighting up a mound of rubbish piled up against the back wall. There were broken pans, garden tools, an iron bedstead and a row of splintered, wooden fruit boxes.

  I heard more thuds and shouts from above. Then a male voice echoed into the cellar.

  ‘Miss? We’ll have you up here now, if you please.’

  The words passed over me, like a far-off voice in a dream. I was staring down into the fruit boxes, and what I saw made my heart shrivel into itself. Little bodies, like scraps of humanity, lay two and three in each box. I could not breathe. I could not blink. I could not move. They were all skin and bone with barely a stitch on any of them, and they were lying as still as porcelain dolls. I picked one up and held it in the crook of my arm. It was as light as a feather and I could not tell if it was still alive. I needed to get it out of here. I needed to get them all out.

  Then I saw her at the end. In the last box. It was her hair I recognised. The soft black tufts. I heard a moan. Was it my own? Then I heard a voice again in the distance.

  ‘If you don’t come up now, we shall be forced to come and get you.’

  With my free arm I scooped my daughter up gently. She felt so cold and so delicate, I thought she might break. I held her close, rocking her gently. I put my cheek to her mouth. I felt nothing.

  ‘Please,’ I begged her. ‘Please don’t leave me. I am here now. I have come to get you like I promised.’

  Then a miracle happened. As a heavy hand clasped my shoulder, I felt her breath as soft as a whisper on my cheek.

  Then the voice came again; loud and by my side.

  ‘Oh Lord! Oh Lord!’ it said. ‘Sir! You’d best send for help. They’re all down here and I don’t know if any of them’s alive.’

  I could not let go of either baby. The man tried to take them from my arms before he led me back up the stairs. But I would not let go. He held on to my elbow and
we walked up to the kitchen. I heard Mrs Waters screaming.

  ‘Get your hands off me! I’ve done nothing wrong. No! Leave me be!’

  The kitchen was full of policemen with worried faces. Two of them were dragging Mrs Waters out of the door. Dolly was there too, with her arm around Queenie’s shoulder.

  ‘Please, sir!’ Dolly was pleading. ‘The girls have done nothing wrong! You can’t take them away!’

  ‘Out of the way, ma’am. Or I’ll have to take you to the station too.’

  ‘But sir! We only came to rescue my own granddaughter. Look! Here she is now!’ Dolly came running over and put her hands to her mouth when she saw the babies in my arms. ‘Oh! The poor little mites,’ she exclaimed.

  There was confusion and crying. The other babies were brought up, one by one, from the cellar. ‘This one’s gone,’ someone said. I saw Mrs Ellis, standing by silently. She looked like a bewildered, lost child. I heard words flying around the room and disappearing out of the door. Workhouse . . . doctor . . . wet nurse . . . murder . . .

  A man smelling of leather and authority came and prised the babies from my arms. ‘This one’s gone too,’ I heard someone say.

  Then I was taken outside. The cold air slapped me in the face and crept under my cloak as I was pushed up the steps of a cab with blackened windows and bars at the door. Mrs Waters was inside already, lolling back on the wooden seat. Queenie was there too. She reached out for me and we held on to each other and watched as Mrs Ellis was bundled in after us and the door was closed and locked.

  ‘Where are they taking us?’ I whispered to Queenie. My teeth were chattering; my whole body trembling with dread.

  ‘To the cop house,’ said Queenie. ‘But don’t fret. Me mam will look after your baby and we’ll be out of there as quick as a wink as soon as we’ve explained ourselves.’ She squeezed my hand.

  Then Mrs Waters laughed loudly, as though she had heard the funniest thing. ‘You stupid girls.’ She snorted through her nose and laughed again. ‘We’re all going to swing for it. Don’t you realise? We’re all going to swing for it.’ And she began to cackle like a mad woman.

  I have been a week in this cell now. I have grown used to the bare whitewashed walls and the narrow slit of light from the window above my head that is my only glimpse of the outside world. It is not so bad.

  Mary has visited me often and brought me clean clothes, plenty of books and newspapers to read and baskets from Ninny full of her bread, pies and off-cuts of meat. The newspapers are full of the whole business. It is shocking to see my name associated with such horror.

  THE MORNING ADVERTISER

  South Westminster District Bench – Saturday

  Before Mr. F.B. Parfitt (in the chair), and Mr. H.M. Wallis

  CHILD MURDERERS ARRESTED

  Margaret Waters, 45, Sarah Ellis, 43 and Queenie O’Connor, 15, of No. 4, Wild Street, St. Giles-in-the-Fields were charged with having between March and December 1870, feloniously killed and murdered certain children unknown. Ellen Eliza Swift, 16, of No. 22, Bedford Square, Bloomsbury was charged with being an accessory after the fact. It will be remembered that after the prisoners had been taken into custody, a number of pawnbroker’s duplicates were found in the possession of Waters and her fellow prisoners. A pawnbroker’s shop in Southampton Street Road, not far from the ‘baby farm’ in Wild Street, was visited, and in the months between March and December there was discovered to have been pledged a number of articles of children’s clothing, including thirteen shirts, four long white petticoats, five chemises, twelve infant nightgowns, eight infant napkins, a child’s black velveteen jacket and a number of frocks and blankets. There are other articles yet in pledge to be examined, but it is anticipated that further light will be thrown upon the shocking transactions of the prisoners. Yesterday likewise was discovered the body of another infant near St. Giles’ Cemetery.

  THE MORNING ADVERTISER

  INQUEST HELD

  Last evening Mr. Carter held an inquest at the St. Martin’s workhouse touching the death of a male infant brought from No. 4, Wild Street, St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to the workhouse. The Coroner said that he need not remind the jury that a short time previous to the death of that child, a number of children had been found by the police in the house situated at No. 4, Wild Street. Dr. Bullen, workhouse surgeon, deposed that the deceased died from congestion of the brain, with effusion into the ventricles, connected with intermittent diarrhoea. The congestion of the brain had been brought about by want of sufficient food.

  Verdict – ‘Death from starvation’

  I could only bear to read two articles. I have asked Mary to stop bringing the newspapers now.

  Mary tells me that Little Queenie (for that is the name I decided to give my child) is thriving. My mother Dolly has been taking great care of her. She will bring her here to visit me soon, if I am not released beforehand. Some of the other babies did not fare so well. Those that survived have been taken to the workhouse. Mary is hopeful that good homes will be found for them.

  I hear that Father has spoken out for me and has given evidence on my behalf. My only involvement in the dreadful business was that I gave birth in that house of horrors. Mary tells me that when the court meets next, my case is sure to be dismissed and I will be free to go. Father has been brought low by the scandal. A number of journalists have written scathing articles about him in the press. He sent his solicitor to see me; a thin, nervous man called Mr Danby. He would not look at me as he informed me that Father was willing to pay me a one-off sum of two hundred pounds if I cut all contact and agreed never to speak of the whole matter again. It is the final insult, the final proof that he never loved me. I am glad Father has suffered; I hope he suffers more. I will take the money he has offered me, if only for Little Queenie’s sake, and hope never to see him again.

  It is hard to sleep in this place at night. Even though Mary sent me a thin mattress, the wooden bench I lie on still leaves me bruised and sore. There are dreadful noises at night too: rattling, banging, wailing and shrieking.

  I have found a way to some peace, though. I imagine the small house I will buy with Father’s money. Maybe a cottage out in the countryside somewhere, where Little Queenie can run about in the fresh air. Mary will come and live with me, and Dolly, her husband and the boys will visit often. I plan on buying a market stall for them.

  I think of my sister Queenie all the time. Mary says the whole of London is talking about the murders. The police are still finding bodies. Some parcels have been dragged from out of the Thames. Mary says the courts are taking a dim view of Queenie. They do not believe she knew nothing of the business that was going on under her nose.

  I pray for her every night.

  57

  Queenie

  Queenie sat hunched in the corner of her cell with her knees drawn up to her chin. The cold of the stone floor seeped into her bones. She hardly noticed the pain. She couldn’t feel much of anything any more. The day passed slowly. Like every other day during the past few weeks. Each hour plodded along endlessly, like a worn-out carthorse on a treadmill. Queenie prayed for darkness to fall so she could escape into sleep. But she knew when night did eventually come, she would wish it never had. She knew that each finished day brought her closer to the end.

  Her solicitor, Mr Wood, had told her over and over that he would do his very best by her. She was an innocent in all of this, he would tell the court. She worked only as a maid. How could she have possibly known the extent of the dreadful trade in babies that was being plied by her employers? He would do his best, he kept saying, but it would be a hard case to fight. She should prepare herself for the worst. The newspapers were full of it. The public were outraged and witnesses had come forward. Mr Epps the chemist and another chemist on Duke Street were both to swear on oath that she had purchased Godfrey’s Cordial from them on a number of occasions. A clerk from the post office on Drury Lane was also to swear she had bought brown paper and string.

 
Queenie didn’t want to hear these things. But she knew Mr Woods was only being honest with her. Mr Woods used big words and Queenie didn’t understand what he meant by things at times. But he was a kindly man. She liked his clever voice and the way he tugged at the corner of his yellow moustache when he was trying to explain something to her. She liked his checked wool suits which smelt of tobacco and dust. He once showed her a photograph of his pretty young wife and baby daughter. Queenie thought that was a very brave thing for him to do. It was after that she decided she would trust him to look out for her.

  Queenie had never thought much about God before, but now she was made to think about him every day. The prison chaplain wouldn’t leave her alone.

  ‘Search your heart for the truth,’ he told her. ‘God will forgive you your sins if you only confess.’

  But what should she confess? She knew what she had done and she knew what she hadn’t done. And she hadn’t killed any babies. God would know that because it was the truth. God could see everything, the chaplain told her. Even what was in the deepest part of her heart. You couldn’t hide anything from him. That was what frightened Queenie the most. That was what she tried not to think about. If God could see behind the curtain in her head and into the darkest most secret part of her heart, he would know what she knew. The awful, dreadful truth that she knew the babies were being killed and she did nothing to stop it till the end. She could have saved some of the poor little mites, but instead she bought soap and ribbons and fancy new boots.

  She couldn’t tell the chaplain that. She couldn’t tell anyone that. There was no need, if God already knew. Queenie thought that maybe she should pray. She could pray for the babies that were left and the babies that were gone. But what good would it do now?

  ‘I have nothing to confess,’ she kept telling the chaplain. ‘I have nothing to say. Only that I am innocent.’ The chaplain always sighed heavily at this and left her cell with disappointment in his eyes.