Dead Born

by Joan Lock

  ‘They didn’t seem drunk to me!’

  ‘Maybe the accident sobered them up rather quickly.’ She paused. ‘Oh, and someone has told the newspapers that they didn’t try to rescue anyone or throw down any ropes.’

  ‘Now that is a lie!’ exclaimed Best. ‘A damned lie!’ He shook his head angrily. ‘Isn’t it all bad enough without such nastiness!’

  She nodded agreement. ‘In reality, of course, no one really knows what happened yet – confusion reigns. William Vincent tells me that that part of the river has always been dangerous. There was a big collision there ten years ago. The Wentworth and some other ship … ’

  ‘The Metis, I remember. Several people died.’

  ‘There have been some touching tales as well,’ she reassured him hurriedly. ‘Down at Beckton Gasworks the freezing survivors were rushed before kiln fires by workmen who stripped them of their sodden clothes, rubbed them down, covered them over with whatever overcoats and their own clothes they could find. They took them home and later to North Woolwich, even carrying some of them on their shoulders.’

  ‘How many have been saved?’

  ‘They’re not sure.’

  ‘About how many?’

  ‘A hundred,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe a few more. It seems a little better than they first thought.’

  Best looked down at his plate and shook his head. ‘There must have been six hundred, even seven … ’

  Helen didn’t say anything.

  Best looked up, smiled wanly at her. ‘We have some decisions to make.’

  She took up his businesslike cue. ‘Yes. I think we have.’

  ‘I must stay and search a while longer.’

  ‘I know, Ernest, I know.’ She leaned over and stroked his cheek and touched his hair, but that brought tears to his eyes so she stopped. ‘I’ll take Joseph back to London and look after him until his relatives can collect him. I’ve given his description to the police and they’ll put it in the newspapers.’

  He nodded. ‘I’d better telegraph Cheadle again.’

  ‘I’ve done that, and sent one to Smith. He desperately wanted to come down here with me but I persuaded him he’d do more good staying in London in case you turned up there.’

  ‘Will you go and see Cheadle as well?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell him I’m still on the case so it’s important that I stay.’

  She raised her delicate eyebrows and put her head on one side, ‘Is that strictly true, Mr Best?’

  ‘Almost.’ He grinned wickedly at her, a sight she was so pleased to see that she grinned back, even though telling fibs was not the kind of thing she would normally countenance. ‘Oh, and try to stop him coming down, will you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ She looked rueful. ‘Truth to tell he’d have difficulty finding you if you’re going searching – the bodies are so spread out – they’re coming up everywhere from Erith to Limehouse.’

  He frowned. ‘But they’re all being brought back here, aren’t they?’

  She grimaced. ‘Those from this side of the bank are, but those from the north side are not. All to do with county boundaries. The south side is in Kent and the north side is in Essex – apart from North Woolwich, that is, which, although it’s on the north side, is counted as part of Kent.’

  Best glanced to the heavens for help.

  ‘Apparently it’s illegal to move them from one county to another. So relatives and friends are having to find their way over muddy marshes to Beckton Gasworks, trail up Barking Creek – and so on.’

  ‘Oh, that is wonderful,’ said Best, ‘and I thought things were already as bad as they could be.’

  If Woolwich proper was a strange place, North Woolwich was even stranger, Best decided. Apart from being on the other side of the Thames and so in a different county, and yet not, it had only been in existence for about thirty years. And this showed.

  Before that, the only building had been the Barge Tavern next to the ferry crossing point. The peace and solitude of the lonely marshes had been shattered when, echoing over land which had heard only the lowing of cattle and the cries of the heron, plover and bittern, came the whistle and puffing of the railway engine.

  A speculator named Bidder (dubbed ‘the calculating boy’, due to his lightning ability to add up) had extended his Stratford and Thames Junction line down to North Woolwich in the hope that the population of Woolwich proper would cross the river by the penny ferry to ride his trains into London.

  In this instance his calculations proved incorrect because, soon after, Woolwich, which had initially resisted extension of the South Eastern Railway to their town, not only welcomed it but allowed the building of not one railway station, but two.

  Mr Bidder then tried to persuade people to build houses on the cheap North Woolwich land, offering them reduced rate travel as an inducement. But that didn’t work either, so the railway put up money for a pleasure garden, something on the lines of Rosherville but on a much smaller scale, to be laid out along the eastern river bank.

  This idea proved more successful. People did come, indeed in their thousands, but mainly during the summer months. So Bidder and his cohorts built a dock nearby, the Victoria, and were now in the process of constructing a second, the Royal Albert. Manufacturers, attracted by the cheap land and noting the twin benefits of dock and railway access, began to build factories along the riverside to the west. One of these, a Mr S.W. Silver, gave the misnomer to this bleak industrial site, Silvertown.

  At last, North Woolwich began to grow. Now, several streets had been laid out, some even had houses on them. There were four pubs, a church and a tiny police station to serve the needs of its 1,500 souls, most of whom worked in the Silvertown factories or at Beckton Gasworks. But, to Best, North Woolwich still had an oddly unreal and impermanent air. It seemed a pretend, made-up place with a strange atmosphere. A place well suited to the weird and sombre scene now being enacted down by the pier.

  Standing up at the front of a covered commercial wagon, alongside the carter, was a top-hatted and frock-coated gentleman. He was reading out a list of names to a large and emotional crowd who hung on his every word. Occasionally, as he spoke, someone broke into relieved sobs only to be hushed by others anxious not to miss a syllable. This was the latest news of those saved, which had been brought, post haste, from across the river.

  Bidder’s railway had at last achieved capacity business. Relatives and friends were pouring in from various north-London suburbs which were the catchment areas for many Princess Alice passengers. The idea was that, should they receive good news, via the lists of the saved, they need go no further. This arrangement was also felt to be kind and tactful in that it kept the jubilant and relieved whose loved ones had been saved, apart from the anxious who were still searching, and the devastated who had had their worst fears realized. But it wasn’t entirely successful. Many relatives and friends belonged in both camps: the already bereaved and the still hopeful.

  New additions to the list on this sunny September morning some thirty-eight hours after the collision were, inevitably, fewer and further between. The puzzle of how many had actually survived the collision was nearing an answer. Its solving had been drawn out due to the fact that several had been taken back to London by the Duke of Teck, or had made their own way, by railway. A few others had been landed at various points by small craft. Some were even swept as far downstream as the village of Erith by the Bywell Castle’s heavy lifeboat which, when finally launched, was able to pick up only a few and then found itself unable to make headway against the strong ebb tide. In addition, several of those saved had died shortly afterwards.

  Best was waiting to hear whether Martha was called out. Smith had telegraphed her surname, Baker, to him before he left the Royal Mortar Hotel that morning. Although he was as certain as he could be that she would not be on the list, he found himself, like the rest of those gathered, clinging on to hope. It wasn’t. The search for her would have to continue
.

  Suddenly, Best felt an iron grip on his shoulder. He was wrenched around violently. Before him – a huge, tweedy man, with a red face made puce with rage and despair.

  ‘You let her die!’ shouted Murphy. ‘You callous, English bastard! You let her die!’

  Best saw the blow coming too late to take more than a backward step.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Best was choking. He could taste blood in his mouth and someone was trying to smother him. When he managed to push the hands away a strong, sweet smell clung to his nostrils. Above him hovered a spindly old lady, anxiously bunching a large handkerchief which she was ready to reapply.

  Beyond her, North Woolwich’s lone constable tried to restrain a still-rabid Murphy. Warding off the smelling-salts impregnated handkerchief, Best struggled to a sitting position, spat out some blood and felt around his mouth with his fingers and tongue. His jaw was painful but, thank goodness, his teeth appeared to be intact.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ the young constable assured him importantly. ‘This man will be charged. I saw the attack with my very own eyes.’

  Several pairs of hands helped Best to his feet, then supported him once upright. He noticed that Murphy was sagging and his face was crumbling. Not from fear of him, he was sure, but from grief. Dreadful, moaning sobs emerged from his throat; sobs of a man so unused to crying that he hadn’t learned how, nor been able to practise any form of restraint.

  ‘No,’ Best told the constable firmly. ‘I don’t want him charged.’ He was careful not to shake his head as he spoke. It was thumping out its objections to any hint of movement. ‘As you can see, officer, the man is grief-stricken.’ He reached over, grasped Murphy’s arm and squeezed it. ‘He mistakenly thought I’d taken his sweetheart and then let her drown. You can’t blame him.’

  The PC loosened his now redundant grip. Murphy sagged. Best put his arm around him. ‘I’ll look after him now, Constable. He won’t attack me again. Thank you for your trouble.’

  His meeting with Murphy, though painful, turned out to be fruitful. The man had found and identified Martha’s body. It had been back in Woolwich Dockyard, now the assembling point for all those found on the south side of the river. Best had missed it because her body had been one of a newly arrived batch washed ashore downriver at Erith.

  Having had his worst fears confirmed, Murphy had been on his way back to North Woolwich railway station when he had seen Best; alive, unhurt and seemingly without a care in the world. Best, the man whom he suspected of trying to steal his sweetheart. With his good looks he had probably succeeded, then callously let her drown.

  Given the circumstances, all of this was a ridiculously large assumption, but then Murphy was obviously not the brightest of men and he’d lost his love. Maybe his first, Best realized, given the man’s lack of obvious charms. He’d been like a wounded lion searching for someone to maul. Anyone.

  Best was not inherently dishonest but did feel that, in many respects, arbitrary truth-telling was an over-rated pastime. He quickly disabused Murphy of his suspicions, explaining that he had only ever glimpsed Martha from the garden of 9 John Street, but had certainly never spoken to her. Consequently, when he had seen her on board the Princess Alice (which was taking him down to see an aunt in Sheerness) he had passed the time of day with her – out of courtesy. It would have seemed rude to ignore her. But they had spoken only very briefly.

  Apart from the Sheerness aunt, that was essentially true, thought Best. Anyone who might be able to say otherwise, who may even have witnessed Martha’s tears, Best’s comforting of her and the confessional aftermath was probably dead. If not, they almost certainly had more pressing things on their minds.

  In the end, Best had made a friend out of the sad and lonely Murphy. He doubted whether the poor, simple fellow had many of those, either. It had been an easy task for someone with Best’s charm to win Murphy around but he was genuinely sorry for him as well. He even considered saying that Martha had spoken of him lovingly, but pulled himself up when he realized that that might not sit well with the claimed briefness and formality of their encounter.

  Maybe later he’d be able to ‘recall’ some chance remark that didn’t seem too unlikely. Maybe the friendship would prove useful should the baby-farming investigations continue. Not that he was confident of that happening now. But, just in case, when he’d put Murphy back on his train he’d asked him to tell Mrs O’Connor to keep his room vacant until further notice.

  As Best tramped along the bleak Essex shore towards Beckton Gasworks he could see the continuing activity at the collision site more closely. Out in the middle of the river a wide and ragged ring of small boats circled the spot. The flotsam, of course, had been cleared, but these boats were using a forest of long wooden poles to probe the wreck for bodies. The bright autumnal sun caused them to be thrown into silhouette against the grey-brown water, giving the scene the look of an oriental print which showed fishermen hard at work.

  Bustling back and forth among the small craft the Thames Conservancy launch, The Heron, gathered up the latest recovered bodies before speeding off towards Woolwich Dockyard. Now and then, in the midst of all the sinister dark shapes of probing poles, boats and men, he glimpsed the rail of the Princess Alice’s paddle box peeping out of the water as though taunting him.

  Despite the poignancy of this scene and his throbbing jaw, Best had began to feel a little more cheerful. At least part of his self-appointed task had been accomplished, even if not by him. Martha had been found. Now, only Joseph’s mother and grandfather needed to be traced.

  He wasn’t at all sure he was being sensible in persevering with this end – the child’s other relatives would probably have it in hand. Maybe they had traced them already. But he went on, nonetheless. Thinking clearly seemed to have become so much more difficult. He felt as if he’d been thrown into a whirlpool and was struggling to escape.

  He still couldn’t get over the suddenness of this terrible catastrophe. One minute there had been music, dancing and laughter. Children had played, then fallen asleep in their mother’s arms after a wonderful day out. Then – without warning – the crushing impact. They were all in the water, thrashing about, screaming and drowning. In two or three minutes most of them had disappeared, as had the Princess Alice. It was just unbelievable. He had been there. He had seen it. But he still couldn’t accept it had happened.

  Had he really done all he could to help? That question kept nagging him. Yet again, he went over his actions, replaying them and changing them to what he might have done. His jaw began throbbing harder, his mouth felt sore and his eye was starting to close. He nearly lost his footing on the muddy path and crashed into the weeping man trudging along ahead of him. The cheerfulness had gone. He felt wretched.

  If only he hadn’t seen Martha slip out of the house the day before yesterday. Was it really only that long since he had raced down those stairs and out into the street, desperate not to lose sight of her? It seemed an eternity.

  If only Cheadle hadn’t stuck him there in the first place to play the invalid painter, be friendly with but not give himself away to Mrs O’Connor and her other gentlemen guests and watch poor Nella struggling to run up the garden. Dead babies, Martha, Joseph, filthy water, screams, disbelief, anguish and tears. There seemed no end to it all. Maybe he should leave now.

  *

  Best took a deep breath, placed his handkerchief over his nose and mouth and began to inspect the line of bodies on the floor of a Beckton Gasworks storage room. They were resting on boards tilted at an angle, allowing the heads and upper parts of the bodies to be viewed without having to bend over or get too close.

  All the faces were blackening and bloated. All eight were female.

  ‘They seem to be ladies of a respectable class,’ murmured a chubby, overfed clergyman piously searching for members of his flock.

  ‘Can’t make much difference whether they were or not,’ snapped Best with uncharacteristic sarcasm. ‘Nor w
hether they were saints or sinners.’

  The clergyman raised his eyebrows, inclined his head in a forgiving manner and murmured, ‘It will in Heaven, my boy. It will in Heaven.’

  Best stopped himself punching the sanctimonious cleric on the nose by dragging his attentions back to the first body, that of a stout, dark-haired lady whose ample, black alpaca-clad bosom was liberally garnished with jet. Unlike the bodies at Woolwich, most of those at Beckton Gasworks and Barking still wore their jewellery, some made more secure with safety pins to prevent loss and deter theft. Sadly, there had been some of that reported.

  Next, lay a heartbreakingly tiny, fair and slight young woman of about twenty. Damp curls still clung to her forehead, her snug, black lace jacket was trimmed with black satin ribbon and, like almost all the other bodies both male and female, she wore side-spring boots. They were highly fashionable, wasn’t he wearing them himself? He would imagine they were particularly difficult to kick off in the water – with that elastic gripping the ankles. Would button boots be any better? Probably not. Perhaps the only footwear easy to slip off were low shoes. He sighed.

  This really was very silly and pointless, he decided – pressing on without thinking things out properly. It really was time he went back to London. He’d spent nearly all his money so didn’t have much choice anyway.

  There were only two bodies left and he knew that neither of them could be that of Joseph’s mother. One of them wore black and the other pale brown while she, he had recalled, had been wearing a deep green ensemble. Just as he was dismissing them and turning away something familiar registered on the edge of his field of vision. He stopped and looked again.

  It was a cheap tin brooch with a pale-blue enamel inset, worn at the throat of the pale brown dress. Embossed on the enamel was a crest, flags, a crown and a date: that of Queen Victoria’s coronation – 1838. A common enough object – so why did it seem particularly and recently familiar? He struggled to grasp the memory. Oh yes, now it was becoming clearer. He had been shown one with pathetic pride and had felt obliged to pretend wonder.