As his voice softened, she responded in kind.
“I do not want to hurt you. I am sorry if I do. There are others who are far more worthy of your attentions than I. All the affection that I could find for you in my heart, I gave long ago. I have no more left to give you.”
He nodded in understanding and then made a request:
“The rose that I gave you on the night that you became mine. If it is not too much to ask . . .”
He needed to say no more. Florence went to her bedroom, took the brooch from the drawer where she kept it safe, and brought it to him.
“I would like this man, whoever he is, to take you away this evening.”
“It is already planned. He will come for me at midnight.”
“Then it is all arranged. May you be happy in the life you have chosen.”
After Wingate had gone, Florence filled two boxes with her belongings. She would leave behind the jewels and fine clothes that he had given her. It was only right that he should have them. And she wanted as few memories as possible of his presence in her life.
As for what happened next, I know some with certainty and can put together the rest through established facts and knowledge of human nature.
Wingate had seen the trembling on Florence’s lips on their recent trip in the country but never suspected that a lover had won her heart. He imagined now two figures clasped in each other’s arms while he stood above them, looking down. His wrath rose, flamed by his own impotence. The idea to shoot this other man seized him like a wild beast and dilated in his mind until it grew into a monstrous demon.
The evil deed was done from behind. The murderer stepped out of the shadows as James Frost approached Florence’s home. Wingate did not have the courage to look James in the eye. James was given no opportunity to fight for his life. There was no grappling hand to hand. A shot was fired. A bullet lodged in the back of James Frost’s head, and he fell to the ground, dead.
All of this was unknown to Florence as she waited for James to take her away. Tears of joy clouded her eyes. The best of her life lay ahead.
Wingate opened the door softy with a key and strode lightly up the stairs. Florence saw him. There was a dreadful look upon his face. Her own face was so beautiful, so full of dreams. His was a cruel mask.
He stared at her intently for several moments. His eyes looked powerfully down into hers. There was something ghastly in the contrast between the violent passion in them and his harsh low voice.
“You have brought this upon yourself. I hate with greater pleasure than I love.”
Florence saw the bright sharp edge of a razor.
Wingate struck sharply. His hand was steady, and his thrust was deep. One motion, then another, slashing all trace of beauty from her. She staggered and fell blind in the eye that had been cut out by the razor as it sliced across her face. A face so beautiful moments before, now formless flesh and blood.
I sat, listening in horror, as Florence concluded her tale. Her face resembled the grotesque shaping of a wild painter’s brush, not the work of Nature’s hand.
“I had two eyes once. And my face was pretty. What happened can never be undone. But I am still a woman, one of God’s creatures. Please, have the decency to look at me, Mr. Dickens.”
CHAPTER 4
We sat close together. The glow of the fire cast a dim light on Florence’s ruined beauty. As she told of the savagery that had befallen her and James Frost, her heart was so filled with grief that I thought I could hear it breaking. Death itself could not have been more sorrowful.
All the while, the baby lay sleeping with the innocent smile of childhood on its face.
James had been buried with a lock of Florence’s hair tied to a ribbon placed round his neck. She had worn the ribbon on the day that they pledged their lives and their love to one another. It would lie upon his chest forever.
“Four years have passed since that day,” Florence said as she told me of her journey. “Four years, and James has been with me ever since. In dark night and sun, in the light of candle and fire. No one has ever been happier than I was on our last day together. There was enough joy in those hours to keep me for this life on earth.”
She held her hands tight upon her heart as she spoke, as if nothing less would keep it from splitting into small pieces.
“When I was a young girl, before I knew what death was, I would play in the churchyard with no thought to whose ashes lay beneath my feet. If you buried James fifty feet deep and took me across his grave, I should know without a mark that he was buried there. But he no longer lies in the grave. He has flown to a beautiful place beyond the sky where nothing dies or grows old. I hope he is as happy in his new life as I have prayed for him to be. And I wish that he has not given his heart to another, that he waits for me. I dream so much of Heaven and Angels and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Heaven is a long way off, and they are too happy to come to the side of a poor woman like me. But in that other world, if I am forgiven my sins, I will wake some day and James will find me.”
As Florence spoke, Christopher sat clenching his fist as if he were to beat down a lion.
“My sister was a toy for Wingate’s pleasure,” he said. “Let him remember what happened for so long as he is on this earth and for eternity in hell ever after.”
“How did he escape punishment?”
“The word of a whore carries no weight against the word of a gentleman in an English court of law,” Christopher said bitterly. “The police accepted a fiction he told and made threats against us should we pursue the matter.”
“And you let it be?”
“I was of a mind to seek him out. Wingate was never in such peril of his life as he was at that time. When he is within five minutes of breathing his last, he will not be nearer to death than he was at my hand. But I feared punishment from the law that would deny Florence my protection. My curse is upon him. I still think of such an act. I wish he had never been born.”
I wanted to know more about Wingate.
“How did he earn his pay when you knew him?” I asked Florence.
“He worked in business. That was all I knew.”
“Did he work alone?”
“He had a partner whose name was Owen Pearce.”
“How long were they partners?”
“Until Mr. Pearce died.”
“There was more,” Christopher urged his sister.
Florence worked her fingers together uneasily.
“I met Owen Pearce several times,” she said at last. “We had dinner on occasion with Mr. Pearce and his wife. Her proper name was Lenora, but she preferred to be called Lily.”
“Go on.”
“After Mr. Pearce died, Geoffrey told me that Mr. Pearce had signed several documents in his presence. If I was asked about the matter, I was to say that I had been there when the documents were signed.”
“What kind of documents?”
“I was told that it was none of my concern.”
“How did you respond?”
“I understood the life I had. I gave for money what should only be given for love. And I knew nothing about business. But I would not have stories made for me and told him so. Geoffrey grew angry and said again that, were I asked, I should speak other than the truth.”
The sound of the infant crying intruded on our conversation. Florence bent down over the egg crate and lifted up the child.
“What is her name?” I asked.
“Ruby.”
“How old is she?”
“Seven months.”
Pushing aside the ragged clothes that covered her breast, Florence began nursing her daughter.
“You are a gift to me, fresh from the hand of God. I should like it if, some day, you are a fine lady with a true love who shelters you in his arms. I live now so that some day you may be happy and remember a woman who looked over you and kissed you and called you my child.”
Holding Ruby close, Florence turned toward me.
Ruby stopped feeding, and Florence moved to put her down in the crate.
“May I hold her?” I asked.
Florence handed me her daughter. I cradled the baby in my arms. Words are not powerful enough to describe my emotions of that moment.
Ruby lay with her head upon my chest, her eyes trusting and wide, her soft cheek pressed against my heart. This child, as precious as any child born to rank and wealth, had a special grace about her. She clutched my shirt with a tiny hand, innocent of any knowledge beyond her immediate senses. I was completely at peace with myself. Every agitation and care passed from my soul. If I had died then with that feeling in my heart, I would have been more fit for Heaven than at any time in my life before or since.
“The light of intelligence is in her eyes,” Christopher said. “I wish that she should be taught to read. There are times when I feel my want of learning very much.”
Ruby fell asleep in my arms. Florence took her from me and set her down in the egg crate.
“There is not much cost to feeding her now. I just must keep my own condition strong. But before long, she will need more.”
Night was approaching. I wanted to leave the slum before dark.
“There are several more questions I must ask. Do you know where I can find Lenora Pearce, the woman you knew as Lily?”
Florence shook her head.
“If it comes to pass that Wingate is placed on trial, would you be willing to bear witness against him in a court of law?”
“It would give me something more to live for.”
“I will do what I can.”
“It would be well if you could. Satan is in him. I ask myself at night some times if God is punishing me for giving myself to this man. I never walked the streets, but I was no better than those who do. Do you think I will suffer more in the afterlife for my wickedness?”
“God does not speak to me as he does to you, Miss Spriggs. But I believe that God is forgiving and understanding of all human conduct that flows from a person of tenderness. You should have no fear of what comes after the life that we know.”
“In my dreams, I know that is true. I was beautiful once. Or so men said. In my dreams, some times, I am still beautiful.”
“We must go now,” Christopher told me.
He rose to lead me to the door. There was one thing more I wished to do. I reached into the pocket where I carried my coins and put them all in Florence’s hand.
“For Ruby.”
“Thank you. If there were more like you, there would be fewer like me. God bless you, Mr. Dickens.”
Christopher led me out of the slum by the same passage we had travelled before. The sun was fading, and the streets were more ominous than earlier in the day. Men and women dressed in rags huddled together in anticipation of the night. They were of a class that works hard to stay alive, seeking no other destiny and having none.
A wretched woman stood at the entrance to an alley. Her face was wrinkled, her few remaining teeth protruded over her lower lip, and her bones were starting through her skin. She was singing a song of sorts in the hope of wringing a few pence from a compassionate passerby. A mocking laugh at her trembling voice was all she gained.
We passed a churchyard with straggling vegetation of the sort that springs up from damp and rubbish. No plant could have its natural growth as God designed it in that fetid bed. A new mound, not much longer than the body of an infant, had been freshly dug in the churchyard. Shrouds are not only for the old. They also wrap the young within their ghastly folds.
My thoughts went to Ruby and who her father might be. I wondered what would happen to her as she grew older.
Night came. The shadows were broad and black. Christopher lit an oil lamp that emitted a smokey yellow glow.
Two women emerged from the shadows. One was haggard with a lingering tinge of long-ago beauty. Something in her said without words, “I am younger than you would think to look at me.” The other looked only of misery. She was the one who spoke.
“Put your hand under my dress. Touch me where I am wet. Only five pence each.”
“Be gone with you,” Christopher told her.
“Do you want me gone, sonny boy? Or would you rather my hand inside your britches?”
The streets were poorly lit with a spot here and there where lamps were clustered in a square or around some large building. Then the wind began to howl, and a heavy rain fell. Pools of water collected in deep brown mud.
Finally, we came to a place where I turned to Christopher and said, “I know the road from here. You need walk with me no further.”
“Will you be safe?”
“There is nothing to be taken from me. My pockets are as empty as those of anyone I might pass.”
We embraced.
“You have my word. I will do my best to bring you justice.”
“Do that for my sister, and you shall not be friendless while I live.”
I walked on alone through the cold wet streets of London. Before long, I was in a more decent part of the city where the street lamps were more frequent and shone more brightly. But I did not go home. Instead, I walked for hours in solitary desolation.
The rain stopped. The darkness diminished. There was no day yet in the sky. But there was day in the resounding stones of the streets, in the wagons and carts of labourers hurrying to work in pursuit of their family’s daily bread.
The spires of churches grew faintly tinged with the light of the rising sun. Its beams glanced next onto the streets until there was light enough for men to see each other’s faces. Church bells chimed, sharp and flat, muffled and clear. Those who had spent the night on doorsteps and stones rose and went off to beg. Shops opened. Commerce came to the markets.
All the while, I saw Florence Spriggs before me. I felt her suffering more deeply in my soul than all the suffering I had known or imagined before.
Wingate had cut her like meat and branded her with his hatred. He had taken the face that James Frost loved and turned it into a mask of horror. His unspeakable cruelty had deprived James of life and left his beloved with nothing more than the vision of a future that should have been and would never be.
A towering rage was building inside me. The flames kept rising. They would not subside. I made a vow.
If I did nothing more in my entire life, I would wreak Biblical justice upon Geoffrey Wingate and bring him to ruin.
Book 2
CHAPTER 5
I rested on the day after my journey into the slums of London. Then I confronted the issue of how to fulfill the pledge I had made to Florence and Christopher Spriggs. The best first step seemed to lie in bringing the matter to the attention of the police.
As I write these words in 1870, there is a unified, properly trained police force in London that serves as a model for police work throughout England. It was not always so. At the start of the nineteenth century, England relied on local watches and a parish constable system for the maintenance of order. As social and economic conditions changed, the machinery of law enforcement eroded. Crime grew rampant, particularly in London, and disorder was often prevalent.
Responding to the crisis, in 1829, Parliament passed the Metropolitan Police Act. There would be one police force in London, replacing the numerous inefficient local commands. The sole exemption from its jurisdiction was the original City of London—an area twenty blocks squared—that remained under the control of a command known as The City Police.
Headquarters for the new Metropolitan Police Force were established at Four Whitehall Place. The public was allowed to enter through a rear entrance on a street called Great Scotland Yard. The city was divided into seventeen districts, each having a superintendent, four inspectors, sixteen sergeants, and one hundred forty-four constables. Appointment to the f
orce was by merit only. Constables were required to be under the age of thirty-five and at least five feet seven inches tall. A short hardwood truncheon was the only weapon they carried. The first recruits reported for training on 21 September 1829. On 25 September, night patrols began. Day patrols were instituted shortly thereafter.
Jurisdiction over the murder of James Frost and the mutilation of Florence Spriggs lay in the district where the crimes occurred. That was the station house I went to in the hope that my standing as a journalist would carry more weight than the word of a woman who had once practiced a less honourable profession. I stated my purpose to the constable on duty at the front desk and was brought to a small room upstairs.
The furniture was old. Stacks of papers were piled on shelves with tiers of boxes placed against the wainscot. Two desks with once-green baize tops that had grown withered and pale were in the center of the room. A man about thirty-five years of age sat behind one of the desks in a high-backed leather chair. He was stout with dark hair cropped close and intelligent eyes. Unlike the constable, who wore a dark blue long-tailed coat with blue pants, he was dressed in regular business attire.
The constable introduced the man to me as Inspector Benjamin Ellsworth and left the room. I recounted what I knew of the murder and slashing. Ellsworth listened with a reserved, thoughtful air. On occasion, he interrupted my recitation with a question, emphasizing his query with a forefinger put in juxtaposition with his eyes or nose. His manner was steady. I rather liked him.
“If I may ask,” he inquired, “what is your interest in this matter?”
“My interest?”
“You have told me of a conversation you had recently with a woman who acknowledges that she was a prostitute. It is a horrifying tale, but I do not understand fully how you came to know her or what your motives are in pursuing the matter.”
I explained as best I could my position as a reporter for The Evening Chronicle, how I had been asked to write about Geoffrey Wingate, and the investigation of his business affairs that led me to outrage.
The Final Recollections of Charles Dickens Page 5
