by Joan Lock
‘It was your father, wasn’t it?’
She froze, struggled to open her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She was clearly terrified of her father, but even more so at the prospect of being hanged.
Now, they were sitting on a bench in a small green square, tucked away between Upper Street and Liverpool Road. It was getting late but, ironically, light from the back of Miss Andrews Baby Linen Warehouse still caught the sparkling cascades of the small fountain beside them.
‘Yeh,’ she said eventually, ‘it was my father.’
‘And Nella’s?’
‘Yeh.’ She hung her head.
But Best wasn’t going to let up. He couldn’t. ‘Who killed Nella?’ he demanded.
‘ ’Ow should I know!’
‘I think you must have some idea.’
‘Well, I don’t!’
‘I’m warning you, I’ll take you straight to the police station.’
She was quiet for a moment before adding sadly, ‘Look, mister, if I did know I would kill them meself!’
‘Could it have been your father?’
She shrugged and looked away. ‘Dunno. Can’t see why ’e would. She did all the work.’
‘I never said he did. I was just asking.’
She grimaced, then admitted, ‘ ’E was awful cross with ’er ’cos the baby wouldn’t come.’ Best shook his head in wonder. ‘Said it made things difficult for ’im with Mrs Dawes.’
‘But he wouldn’t have killed her, surely?’
‘Nah, but – well, might not have meant to, like.’
‘He beat her?’
‘Yeh, always did.’
‘But, I mean, this time?’
‘Well’ – she looked away to hide her tears – ‘she said he punched her in the stomach to try to make it come.’
While trying to shut the vision from his mind of poor Nella being beaten, the prospects on his career of the result of his latest action made a poor substitute.
With Jessie’s help, he worked out that she had seen Nella only once after he had spoken to her in the garden, all that time ago.
‘Yeh, she did seem scared,’ Jessie agreed.
‘Who of? Apart from your dear father?’
‘I … I dunno.’ She shifted, uncomfortably.
‘Come on … ’
Silence.
‘You have to tell me, Jessie.’ Best had softened his voice now, to the gently persuasive.
‘Mister, I’m scared.’ She took a deep breath.
‘When I got there that last time,’ she said eventually, ‘I was on a message for me dad – Martha and that big fella was ’avin’ a go at her.’
‘Which big fella? The doctor?’
‘Nah. ’Im from next door. The Irish fella.’
‘Murphy? Why would he be angry at Nella?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Was he hitting her?’
‘Nah. They was just giving her a piece of their minds, telling her off about something, you know. They was real cross, I’ll tell you that. ’E was shouting.’
He sighed. All this was going on while he was sitting painting those stupid dog-roses.
‘Look, Jessie,’ he said firmly. ‘I want you to find out more about what happens to those babies.’
She looked almost relieved. ‘Then you won’t tell on me?’
‘Not if I can help it. Look, don’t worry, we’ll sort something out.’ Oh, will we? he thought. ‘Just you keep your eyes open. Is one of the women there about to give birth?’
‘Yeh, that Mary Coggins.’
‘Right, try and be there. And, Jessie—’
She had jumped up, about to run. ‘I got to go,’ she said desperately, ‘she’ll wonder where—’
‘—find out what happened to Nella. The other servants will know. And I’ll meet you here in the morning, about eleven.’
She looked terrified.
‘Be careful. If anything happens – I’m only next door. All right?’
She looked back briefly, nodded, and was gone.
He was torn with doubts. Perhaps he shouldn’t be sending her in again. It could be so dangerous. Was it time to stop all this now and just go in, mob-handed? But, surely, this was giving Jessie a chance to keep out of prison? Wasn’t it?
Best looked after her with tears in his eyes. The gas lamps were just being lit and their glow enlivened the gathering gloom with cheery spots of light. He sat for a long time as the darkness closed around him until, eventually, the damp chill and the necessity of his appearance at Mrs O’Connor’s supper-table persuaded him to get up and make his reluctant way back to John Street.
‘What on earth do you mean, you were helping me!’ Best exclaimed furiously.
‘You seemed to be bogged down.’ Although defiant, Helen took a step back as though to retreat from his anger.
‘Do I interfere with your painting?’
‘No. But,’ she hesitated, before continuing stubbornly ‘it’s not the same thing. Detection involves the human element and common sense. Anyway,’ she added bravely in the face of his vehement glare, ‘this is women’s business. They’re the ones left to deal with all the consequences of unwanted pregnancies – so don’t be surprised if they take an interest in such matters.’
That John Stuart Mills had a lot to answer for, he thought sourly. The Subjection of Women indeed! Men more like! Now they were even wanting the vote!
The glowering and glaring competition was getting them nowhere. Both sat down on her sofa and stared moodily into the distance.
‘It might interest you to know,’ Best muttered eventually, ‘that I was just about to extract some vital information from that woman – before your appearance put an end to our meeting!’
‘What information?’
‘How she claims to attract adopters so I could refute—’
‘Oh, that,’ said Helen crisply. ‘She says she advertises for them in local London papers but not in that area.’
Best restrained himself for a moment then snapped, ‘You’ll go to court and repeat that?’
‘Of course.’
Best fought the urge to smack her. He didn’t want her in court. The whole business seemed to be spiralling out of his control – due to the interference of women. First, Mrs O’Connor, now, Helen. At least Mrs O’Connor hadn’t got him in such a state.
They reverted to being sulky, sullen mutes until Best broke the silence by muttering quietly, ‘When I saw you there it was a terrible shock. I had no idea why you’d come.’
‘Oh,’ she murmured knowingly, ‘that’s what this is all about.’ She smiled. ‘You thought I might be pregnant?’
‘No, of course not!’ He blushed in spite of himself. ‘I didn’t know what to think. I imagined you might be enquiring for someone else but couldn’t think who … I just didn’t know! You could have ruined the whole thing!’
‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might be helping you?’
‘Yes. Of course it did,’ he admitted more quietly. ‘But I knew I’d never told you the address – nor even the exact whereabouts – and I knew Cheadle wouldn’t have done.’
She gave him a long, old-fashioned look.
‘Smith,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded. ‘Don’t blame him. I wheedled it out of him by stealth. He didn’t even know I was doing it.’
‘Well, he should have!’
Now she was using detective wiles against them. Well, he sighed inwardly, going to all this trouble at least showed she cared. He was weary of the whole business and sighed again, this time outwardly. He felt miserable.
Suddenly Helen spoke. ‘Mrs Briggs has been baking,’ she murmured coaxingly. ‘Parkin, cherry cakes and Bath buns … ’
He stared at her in wonderment. Baby-farming, murder, poverty, suspicions, anger – and she was talking about ginger parkin and Bath buns! In spite of himself he began to laugh. Helen joined in. Within moments they were hugging each other, rocking backwards and forwards and la
ughing hysterically.
From where she slept in the domestics’ room, up in the eaves of the house, Jessie could hear the sounds of imminent birth. They were not pleasant.
Mary Coggins was screaming as though she was being tortured and was about to die. Jessie had heard enough such noises in the past to know that the girl wasn’t necessarily in mortal danger, although you never knew for certain. Her own mother had died in just such circumstances.
But Mr Best had told her she must be on watch at this time so she got up, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and sat by the bannisters, awaiting the moment when the screaming would reach its highest pitch before subsiding. She would rush in ‘to help the girl who was being attacked’ and, hopefully catch them, just as the baby was being born.
It took a long time and, despite the din, her head drooped forward and she fell asleep, still clutching the flimsy balustrade. When she awoke with a guilty start there was only silence. She’d missed it! She’d promised Mr Best and she’d missed it! Now she would hang for sure!
Maybe the screaming had only just stopped? Yes, that was it, she thought wildly. She could still dash in ‘to help’. She staggered sleepily to her feet, rushed downstairs and reached for the door handle. As it opened it was pulled from her grasp from the inside as Mrs Dawes appeared, carrying a shawl-wrapped bundle. Close behind her was Dr Helman.
Mrs Dawes gasped as she saw Jessie and exclaimed, ‘What are you doing here?’ She turned to Dr Helman. ‘The little witch has been spying on us!’
‘Oh no, Mrs Dawes, ma’am!’ gasped the terrified Jessie. ‘I heard screaming and I thought Mary was being attacked!’
Mrs Dawes hesitated and for a moment it seemed as though she might believe her. Then her eyes narrowed and a look of disbelief crossed the woman’s face. ‘If she was,’ she hissed, ‘she would have been dead by now!’
Doctor Helman nodded coldly. ‘Her screaming, as you put it, stopped ten minutes ago.’
The pair exchanged glances.
Mrs Dawes was pulling and tucking the shawl tightly, making sure nothing was revealed. If there was a baby in there it would have no chance of breathing.
‘You must have realized she was giving birth!’ Mrs Dawes exclaimed. ‘You knew she was due!’
‘Has she had it, then?’ asked Jessie, trying to seem eagerly innocent, but clasping her hands together in front of her to stop them shaking. ‘Can I see it?’
Mrs Dawes signalled Helman with her eyes.
He shook his head slightly, whereupon she abandoned all pretence and began nodding her head furiously and saying, ‘Go on man! Show you’re good for something!’
He stiffened and reached for Jessie but she turned and fled down the stairs in terror.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ he yelled, as he lumbered after her. ‘You can’t get far!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
While Best sat, waiting for Jessie, he contemplated on what had happened so far, wondered if he could have handled things better and what was going to happen next. After ten years’ service he had still not accustomed himself as to how his actions as a policeman could so radically alter the lives of others. Purely as a result of what he saw or didn’t see, acted upon or not, they could be incarcerated, executed even – or remain free.
This was not, he realized, a sensible subject of contemplation for a detective police officer. Most of his colleagues merely enjoyed the thrill of the chase and were duly elated when it proved successful, or disappointed when not. At least, that’s how it seemed. Maybe that was the right way.
Perhaps his over-sensitivity was self-indulgent and had now led him to make a foolish decision as regards Jessie. Should he have followed the proper procedure, arrested her and let others better equipped decide her fate, rather than send her back to where she could be in great danger?
That was being dramatic, he chastized himself. No reason why they should suspect Jessie, her father being so thick with them. From what he had gathered from Jessie and his own deductions, Berger’s involvement with Dawes and Helman was many stranded. He found customers among the servant girls in the big houses, dropped off some of their ‘parcels’ for them, possibly, Best suspected, among the foundations on the building sites he worked upon. Then there would be the lucrative business of blackmail, so often associated with this trade, particularly of guilty married males. He might well carry this out alone, being directly involved with the sources, or be in cahoots with Dawes and Helman.
As for Jessie, she’d been brought up in a hard school so might just prove him wrong and appear with just the information he needed, and which could save her bacon into the bargain.
Best was sitting by the fountain in the same, secluded little square where Jessie and he had spoken so seriously after he had caught her depositing the small corpse. A tranquil spot. One of Islington’s fast disappearing green oases, it was surprisingly quiet, considering that just through the alleyway between the National Provincial Bank and Miss Andrews Baby Linen Warehouse lay lively Upper Street.
He was early for their meeting on this bright, still, sunny morning. Nursemaids had brought their charges to play on the lawn, but some of the older ones preferred kicking their way through the heaps of gold and brown leaves on the paths or searching for the biggest and shiniest conkers lying beneath the horsechestnut trees.
All in all, it was a pleasant change of scene for Best. He got up and strolled around the long, oval section of lawn, discreetly kicking a few leaves himself, not even caring if some of them clung to his shiny boots. He passed the old well, from which nursemaids guarded the children lest a terrible accident should befall them, and arrived back to where the criss-crossing paths dissected the ground into ornamental plots. This was the end nearest Upper Street and where the occasional weary shopper rested their feet near the pretty fountain, but there was none now. Too early, perhaps.
Best settled back on a seat, took out his cigarettes and match case as he relaxed into a pleasant reverie. No point in expecting Jessie to be on time. She had told him that Mrs Dawes sent her out on messages every morning after she’d finished her jobs – at about eleven o’clock – therefore, he realized, she could scarcely be precise about the time. It was now twenty-five minutes past eleven.
Jessie had not turned up for their rendezvous but Best was not unduly alarmed. Anything could have happened. Mrs Dawes might have sent someone else on her errands or not needed anything that day, or she could have sent out Lizzie, the drab skivvy, instead. He would return to the square tomorrow morning and, meanwhile, watch out for her in the John Street back garden.
There had been no sign of Jessie in the garden while he had been out, Mrs O’Connor reported, and another girl had hung out the washing. The girl who took it in that afternoon was small and dark, and Best had not seen her before. He began to feel uneasy. Time for that promised return visit to Mrs Dawes. A surprise return visit, this time.
The same, little, dark girl he’d seen earlier came to the door. ‘I’ll see if Mrs Dawes is in,’ she told him as she showed him into the chilly front parlour. He waited for what seemed a long time, chafing his arms and hands to warm them up. When Mrs Dawes finally appeared she was all primped up but could not disguise that unfocused look of someone who had recently been awoken. Ah, yes. Her afternoon nap and possibly a nip of liquid comfort.
‘Do excuse the unscheduled call,’ he apologized, ‘but I felt we were interrupted last time, before you had time to finish our little tour.’
‘Oh, Mr Best. You are welcome any time.’ She forced a sincere smile. ‘Our favourite neighbour!’ He sensed a flurry of activity in the background. She reached for her handbell. ‘Do let me get you some refreshment.’
‘No, no. Really. That’s not necessary. I’d be happy just to finish our little tour.’
When they had done so and were sitting back in the now warmer parlour, discussing the promising investment prospects in such an establishment, he said innocently, ‘Oh, may I speak to Jessie?’
‘
Jessie?’ Mrs Dawes frowned.
‘Yes; I’ve a little good news for her and her father about the Lord Mayor’s Fund payouts and—’
‘Oh, I don’t think Jessie would understand anything about such things. Much better to speak to her father.’
‘Well, maybe I can ask her to let him know I want a word … ’
‘No, no, I can do that.’
‘Of course, of course. But I would like to see her. I feel that my being acquainted with her poor sister comforts her a little and—’
‘She’s not here.’
‘She’s left?’
‘Oh, no. She wasn’t looking too well, so I gave her the day off.’
That didn’t ring true. Mrs Dawes being solicitous of her servants. But if she was telling the truth, Jessie, surely, should be at home? Although suddenly frantic to leave, Best tried to suppress the panic which was starting to grip him so he could bring his visit to a calm and natural end. It wasn’t easy.
Jessie wasn’t at home. At least, there was no answer to his knock at the house down in Stroud’s Vale. Where could they all be?
When Jessie failed to turn up at their meeting point the following morning, he threw caution to the winds and went back next door.
‘The little minx has upped and left,’ said Mrs Dawes crossly. ‘There’s gratitude for you!’
Best’s heart sank like a stone. He forced himself to give a rueful smile and shake his head at the ingratitude of young people these days before allowing himself to become involved in discussions about what was clearly Mrs Dawes’s favourite subject: money – and how much he was prepared to invest.
They were all running like the wind. The man who had been studiously inspecting the drain in the road; the postman, shedding his bag as he went and the four workmen who had been chatting together just along the street – all were speeding towards 7 John Street. They were trying to get there as Best braced himself against the open door and hung on to a struggling Lizzie while keeping his hand over her mouth to stop her raising the alarm. Speed and secrecy were of the essence. But, in his heart of hearts, Best realized it was all too late.
