Pentecost Alley

by Anne Perry

  Emily did not answer.

  Half an hour later they were in the carriage, turning from the river into Beaufort Street.

  “What number?” Charlotte asked.

  “About here,” Emily replied.

  “What do you mean ‘about here’?” Charlotte said. “What number is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Tallulah didn’t know.”

  “You mean she didn’t remember, I suppose,” Charlotte said sarcastically. “If Thomas arrests anyone in that family they can plead insanity and get away with it. Come to that, so could we.”

  “We are not doing anything to get arrested for,” Emily retorted sharply.

  Charlotte did not reply.

  Emily called out for the driver to stop and, with a challenging look at Charlotte, she alighted, rearranged her skirts, and walked across the pavement towards the front of a house where three other carriages appeared to be waiting. By the time she reached the door, Charlotte had caught up with her.

  “What are you going to say?” Charlotte demanded. “You can’t just ask if they had an orgy here last Friday and do they know who was here!”

  “Of course not!” Emily whispered. “I’ll say I forgot something … a glove.”

  “Doesn’t sound to me like an affair where they wore gloves.”

  “Well, I’d hardly go home without my shoes!”

  “If you could go home without your memory or your wits, why not the odd shoe?” Charlotte said waspishly.

  Emily was prevented from replying by the door’s opening and a footman’s staring down at her. He was in full livery, and stood a full head above her.

  “Good afternoon.” Emily smiled dazzlingly at him, swallowed convulsively, and began. “I was at a party last Friday evening, and I believe I may have left behind me, er … my …”

  The footman’s stare would have frozen milk.

  “I believe that would have been at number sixteen, madam. This is number six.” And without waiting for any further remark he stepped back and closed the door, leaving Emily on the step.

  “I gather sixteen has something of a reputation,” Charlotte said with a reluctant smile.

  Emily said nothing. The color was burning her face in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

  “Well, come on.” Charlotte touched her arm. “Having come this far, we might as well finish it.”

  Emily would dearly liked to have gone back to the carriage and never returned to Beaufort Street in her life. The look on the footman’s face would haunt her dreams.

  “Come on,” Charlotte said urgently. There might even have been laughter in her voice.

  Reluctantly Emily obeyed, and they made their way up the street towards number sixteen. This time it was Charlotte who rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a young man with an open-necked shirt, possibly silk, and dark hair which flopped over his brow.

  “Hello?” he said with a charming smile. “Ought I to know you? Forgive my absentmindedness, but there are occasions when my mind is absolutely absent. Off on travels to another world where the most fantastic things happen.” He regarded her with candid, friendly interest, waiting for her reply as if his explanation had been utterly reasonable.

  “Not very well,” she said, sketching the truth. “But I think I may have left my glove here last Friday. Silly place to wear gloves, I know, but I told my father I was going to the opera, so I had to dress as if I were. I came with Tallulah FitzJames,” she added, as though it were an afterthought.

  He looked completely blank. “Do I know her too?”

  “Slender, dark,” Emily chipped in. “Very elegant and rather a beauty. She has a … well, a long nose, and very fine eyes.”

  “Sounds interesting,” he said approvingly.

  “I’m sure you know her brother Finlay,” Charlotte said, making a last attempt.

  “Oh! Fin … yes, I know him,” he agreed. “Do you want to come in and look for your glove?”

  They accepted and followed him into a wide hallway, and then through a series of rooms all decorated in exotic styles, some strongly Chinese, some Turkish or mock Egyptian. They pretended to look for the glove, and at the same time asked the young man more about Finlay FitzJames, but beyond establishing that he had been there several times, they learned nothing else. The young man had no idea whether the Friday of the murder in Whitechapel was one of those occasions or not.

  They thanked him and left, without a glove.

  “Well, it could be,” Emily said as soon as they were on the pavement. “It was certainly the sort of party she described, that much at least is true.”

  “You believe her, don’t you?” Charlotte said seriously.

  “Yes, I do. I really want to help. I know what it feels like to be suspected of something you didn’t do … something you could be hanged for.”

  “I know,” Charlotte said quickly, taking her arm. “But you really didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think he did either,” Emily replied. “I’m going to do everything I can to help!”

  The following morning Emily wrote a hasty note to Tallulah outlining what she further planned and asking if Tallulah would come with her. If so, would she send a reply with the messenger who delivered the letter.

  An hour later a note was returned in Tallulah’s scrawling hand saying that most certainly she could come. She would meet Emily at seven o’clock at St. Mary’s Church, Whitechapel, and from there they could follow their campaign. As requested, she would be dressed very plainly indeed, in order to be inconspicuous, taken by a casual observer to be a maid on her day off, perhaps visiting her family.

  Emily was nervous sitting in the hansom clipping smartly eastward from her own highly fashionable street with its elegant windows overlooking wide, clean pavements, private carriages with liveried coachmen and footmen, its front doors and side entrances for servants and tradesmen. The surroundings changed as she came through the City itself. There were more business premises and shops. The traffic became heavier. There was far more noise. The hansom had to stop frequently where the roads were congested.

  Gradually she moved beyond the banks and trading centers and under the great shadow of St. Paul’s, closer to the river. It was a balmy summer evening. There would be pleasure boats out, perhaps music, but she could not hear it above the clatter of hooves and wheels.

  Soon she was on the Whitechapel Road. It was narrower, grayer, the buildings high and small-windowed, the footpaths sometimes mere ledges where people scurried by, heads down, with no time to stroll or chatter. The traffic was different also. Now there were carts and drays, wagons, even a herd of pigs blocking the road and making everyone stop for several minutes. The smell of manure was sharp in the air.

  She alighted at St. Mary’s Church and paid the cabby quickly, before she lost heart and changed her mind. What if she couldn’t find a hansom back again? What if she had to walk? How far would it be? Would people take her for a street woman? She had heard that perfectly respectable women had been arrested by the police for being alone in the wrong places … even in the West End, never mind here. What would Jack think? He would never forgive her. And who would blame him? Would he understand that she had come to try to help clear the name of a man who faced ruin for a crime he did not commit? Charlotte would have done the same. Not that that was any mitigation.

  Where on earth was Tallulah? What if she did not come?

  Emily would have to go home again. It was still broad daylight. In fact, it was sunny and quite warm. She did not need to hug her shawl around her as if it were midwinter.

  “Are you lorst, luv?”

  She spun around. There was a short man with an ugly, friendly face staring at her. His cap was on crookedly and he had gaps in his teeth. There was a smear of dirt across his broad nose.

  “No … thank you.” She gulped, then forced herself to smile back. “I’m looking for someone, but she doesn’t seem to be here yet. This is Saint Mary’s Church, isn’t it?”

 
; “Yeah, that’s right. Yer ain’t lookin’ fer Mr. Jones, are yer? The Rev’rent? ’Cos ’e’s up Coke Street wi’ Maisie Wallace. She lorst ’er little girl yest’dy. Scarlet fever. She’s taken it ’ard, an’ ’e gorn up there ter sit wiv’ ’er.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emily said quickly, her own fears vanishing. She thought of Evie at home asleep in her clean, quiet nursery in the afternoon sun, with someone to watch over her all the time, and Edward, his fair head bent over his books as he had been when she left. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Bless yer, luv, it ’appens. ’Appens every day ter some poor soul.”

  “I suppose so. That doesn’t stop it being like the end of the world when it happens to you.”

  “Course it don’t. Yer sure yer all right, now? You in’t from ’round ’ere, are yer?” His eyes narrowed with concern. Suddenly she realized what he might imagine—an elopement, or far worse, a respectable woman fallen on desperate times and taking to the streets as an attempt to meet impossible debts … or worst of all, perhaps, seeking an illegal abortion. She forced herself to smile cheerfully and frankly at him, meeting his worried eyes.

  “Yes, I am all right,” she said firmly. “But if she doesn’t come, perhaps you can tell me where I could get a hansom to take me home again? I have the fare,” she added hastily.

  “Right ’ere’s as good as any place,” he answered. “Or yer could try Commercial Road. That way!” He pointed, stretching out his arm. “Well, if yer all right then, I’ll get ’ome ter me tea. Gor’ bless yer.”

  “And bless you too,” she said with warmth. She watched him walk off and turn down an alley to the left, and wondered what he did and what family he was going back to.

  She was still facing the way he had gone when a hansom stopped a dozen yards away and Tallulah scrambled out, paid, and came hurrying towards her. She looked untidy, very different in a navy stuff dress with no frills, and a gray shawl.

  “I’m sorry I’m late!” she said breathlessly. “I had to tell so many lies to get away without Papa thinking there was anything odd. Sometimes I get so tired of being told what to do. And now Mama has agreed I really must accept the next remotely reasonable offer of marriage if there’s a title, whether there’s money or not. Papa is going to insist.” Almost unconsciously she glanced at the church, then back at Emily again, her eyes dark with foreboding. “Of course there won’t be one, if Finlay’s charged. Do you really think we can do anything?”

  “Of course we can,” Emily said boldly, taking her arm. “And I do believe you about seeing him at the party.”

  Tallulah looked at her curiously.

  “What I mean is,” Emily said quickly, “I am not merely accepting your word, which is pleasant but of no use. I went there yesterday evening and met a young man. He had no idea who was there on that occasion, but he does know Finlay.”

  “How does that help?” Tallulah asked, standing in the middle of the footpath, her face creased with anxiety.

  “Well, it doesn’t prove he was there, but it shows he could have been, and that you at least know the place. And presumably you could prove that you were not where you told your father you were … if you had to?”

  “Well … yes …”

  “Good. And about Jago,” Emily proceeded to the next subject. “That may be hard, but we’ll try. But first we must find those wretched women who say they saw Finlay that night. They must be wrong. They saw somebody like him—that’s all. Maybe it was only a gentleman with fair hair. There can’t be many ’round here, but there must be thousands in London.”

  “Yes, of course there must,” Tallulah agreed. She glanced up the street ahead of her. “Isn’t it grim around here! I think Old Montague Street is that way.” She gave a little smile. “I asked the cabby.”

  “Good.” Emily started off at a brisk walk, Tallulah by her side. “I didn’t think to.”

  They crossed the road and went up Osborn Street, then sharp right into Old Montague Street. The collected heat of the day shimmered up from the gray cobbles and the smell of middens and drains was thick in the air. Emily found herself wanting to hold her breath, but of course it was impossible. Memories flashed back to her of going with Charlotte into a filthy house—it seemed like years ago—and finding a sick woman huddled under old blankets in the corner. The pity she felt was almost as sharp now as it had been then, and the wish that she had never known, so it would not hurt.

  A dray passed them, the horses’ flanks lathered with sweat. Two women were shouting abuse at each other. It seemed to be an argument over a pail of oysters. An old man was asleep in a doorway, or perhaps he was drunk. Half a dozen children played a game with a little heap of stones, balancing them on the backs of their hands and then tossing them into the air, shouting and cheering when someone performed the maneuver with particular skill.

  Opposite Pentecost Alley the sweatshop was still busy. The windows were open and they could see the women’s heads bent over the needles. They had many hours to go yet before they could leave and go home for the short night before half past four, and time to return. Some of them actually lived there.

  Tallulah stopped and looked at Emily. Now that it came to the moment, both found their courage evaporating. Could they really go into this brothel and ask to speak to one of the women? How would they know which one? Perhaps it was all rather ridiculous.

  Emily drew in a deep breath. “Come on. If we stop now, we’ll never do it.”

  Tallulah stood rooted to the spot.

  “Is Finlay innocent or guilty?” Emily whispered fiercely. “Did he strangle that poor woman and leave her?”

  “No! No, of course he didn’t!” Tallulah clenched her fists and strode forward up the steps with Emily behind her. There was a wooden door at the top, streaked with damp. It was closed, but there was a tarnished brass bell beside it. Tallulah yanked on it hard.

  Nothing happened, and she tugged again, still facing it, and not looking at Emily. She was shivering, in spite of the close heat.

  A few moments later the door creaked open and an enormous woman with a bloated face peered out.

  “We got one room, duck. Can’t take two o’ yer. This is an Ouse o’ business.”

  “We don’t need a room, thank you,” Tallulah said politely. Emily, standing a step behind her, could see her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into the palms. “We’ve come to speak to one of your … residents. We’re not quite sure who, but she saw a young man the night poor Ada McKinley was murdered, and we need to speak to her.”

  The larger woman’s naked eyebrows shot up. “Wot fer? Yer in’t rozzers, so ’oo are yer?”

  “We used to work with Ada,” Emily put in before Tallulah could speak. “I was a ladies’ maid in the same house. Lula here was laundress. My name’s Millie.”

  Tallulah gulped. “That’s right. May we speak to her, please?”

  “Well, that’d be up to Rose. I’ll ask ’er.” And with that she closed the door again, leaving them standing waiting.

  “That was brilliant,” Tallulah said with admiration. “Now we’ll just have to hope Ada was in service at some time.”

  “It’s a good chance,” Emily replied. “If not, we’ll just have to pretend we got the wrong person.”

  “If she’ll see us,” Tallulah added.

  They waited in silence the few moments until the fat woman returned, this time smiling. She ushered them in.

  “That’s Rosie’s room,” she said, pointing to a door some way along the passage.

  “Thank you.” Tallulah straightened her shoulders and obeyed, knocking sharply on the indicated door. As soon as she heard an answer, she opened it and went in, Emily hard at her elbow in case she should change her mind.

  Inside the room was opulent in a garish way, lots of red and flounces, a huge bed with tattered red-pink curtains tied back with cord. That would have done for strangling someone, Emily thought grimly. She wondered if that was what he had used, if Ada had had the same.

&nb
sp; Rose herself was a handsome woman, probably in her middle thirties. There was no paint on her face at this hour, and she had had a good day’s sleep. Emily could see that in other circumstances, cleaner, properly dressed, she could have been beautiful. Now she was looking at them curiously, leaning back a little in the one chair in the room.

  “So you knew Ada, poor cow?” she said coolly. “Wot yer want wi’ me? I can’t ’elp yer. If yer cared so much abaht ’er, w’ere was yer w’en that bleedin’ butler done ’er, eh?”

  Tallulah looked blank, her face white, her eyes almost hollow.

  Emily made a quick guess at what she meant.

  “She didn’t tell us,” Emily said aloud. “It was all dealt with without any of the rest of us knowing, until it was too late. Did you really see the man who killed her?”

  “Yeah.” Rose shifted position slightly, easing herself backwards. “Why? Wot’s it ter you? Yer know ’im? It were some toff from up west.”

  “We work up west,” Emily pointed out. “Did you see him clearly?”

  “Yeah, more or less.” Rosie’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you care?”

  Emily made another guess. They had not much to lose.

  “We hoped you hadn’t, not to know him for sure, beyond question, because we hoped it might be our butler. You see, he’s done it again, and this time he might have been caught, if anyone had believed Ada then.”

  Suddenly they had Rose’s true attention.

  “D’yer reckon? I’d love to get that swine, fer Ada. Bleedin’ bastard.”

  “But are you sure it was this other man?” Emily said doubtfully. “Did you hear him speak?”

  “Nah! Jus’ saw ’im goin’ past like.”

  “Could it have been our butler?”

  “Yeah, course it could. Were ’e out that night?”

  “Yes,” Tallulah said quickly. She was still standing rigid in the middle of the floor, as though to move might bring some catastrophe on her.

  Rose let out her breath in a long sigh, her eyes bright.

  “Geez, I’d love ter get that son of a bitch. Maybe it were ’im? We could nail the sod proper!”