by Tessa Harris
If he’d had a white beard, Mr. B could pass for St. Nicholas, he’s that red in the face, and jolly, too.
“Merry Christmas, my dears,” he booms again, setting down the tree in the center of the room. “If it’s good enough for Her Majesty at Windsor Castle, then it’s good enough for us. That’s what I say,” he announces. He takes off his bowler and stands back to admire the tree.
“It’s very fine,” says Ma, clearly impressed.
Suddenly he remembers the bag in his pocket. “There’s candles with holders, too,” he adds.
“For the tree?” asks Flo.
He nods. “For the tree. For the Christmas tree,” he tells us, making a meal of the word “Christmas.”
We’d not given decking the house much thought this year, even though my sprigs of mistletoe have been selling like hotcakes for the last week or more.
“Well, I never,” says Ma, clasping her hands to her bosom. I think I see tears of joy in her eyes, and for a moment, I forget all my woes. But it’s not long before I’m reminded of them. Flo snaps Mr. Bartleby’s false cheer like it’s a twig under her foot.
“You know it was Con and me who said it was Cath Mylett they found dead in Poplar?” She doesn’t mention she’s finished with Danny. I’ve promised to seal my lips. But Flo’s done it good and proper. She’s wiped the smile off Mr. B’s face quicker than you can say “Jack Frost.” He shoots a look at Ma and tries to redeem himself.
“That’s why I thought you could do with some cheering up.”
“It’s very thoughtful of you, Harold,” Ma tells him sheepishly, but after Flo’s put the kibosh on the proceedings, it’s hard to be merry. “Let’s all have a tipple, shall we?” she suggests. She’s trying too hard, but, of course, never one to say no to a cup of cheer, a moment later Mr. B’s sitting down in our only armchair, a whisky in his hand. He stares into his glass as Flo and me start clipping the candleholders to the spindly branches of the tree, even though it’s the last thing we feel like doing.
The drink doesn’t seem to lighten his mood, although it is loosening his tongue. “I’m sorry about your friend, girls,” he tells us. He glances up. “About Cath.”
Flo looks over at him and tips him a nod, as if to say, “I should think so, too.”
He takes another gulp of his whisky to give himself more courage, and the next moment, we find out why. “You should know there’s a meeting called for tomorrow.” Mr. B reckons himself a bigwig in the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, which has been set up to help protect us women on Jack’s patch.
Ma’s been standing by the tree, handing us candles. Her eyes widen. “Harold, they don’t think it was . . . ?”
Mr. B’s back stiffens and he puffs out his chest, like he suddenly feels important again. I can tell he’s trying to quash any trace of a smile, but I know it’s there. “Rumor’s going round it is, and we’ve got to look at all the possibilities, I fear,” he tells her, sounding all grave, like he’s some fancy lawyer or judge.
Flo and me have both stopped still.
“They don’t even know she was murdered for sure,” I snap. I’m the devil’s advocate, even though, deep down, I know she was. “The coppers say it was natural causes.” I suppose I should be grateful that poor Cath wasn’t slashed and ripped, but I just hate Mr. B’s smugness. I glance at Ma. Her lips are suddenly straight and her face ashen.
Mr. B is deadly serious, too. “If there’s a chance that it’s ’im, then we’ll need to extend the patrols.”
“Oh, Harold.” Ma wrings her hands. “And to think the girls was with Cath the night she died.”
Mr. B nods and slugs back the rest of his whisky. “They’ve certainly had a rum do of late,” he agrees as he strokes his ’tache. It’s then that he shoots me a queer look. “In three days, Con here has been one of the last people to see Cath Mylett alive, and then she’s accused of killing a baby.” He tilts his head and fixes me with a frown. “Funny how you couldn’t see all this coming, Con. After that night at the Egyptian Hall, I thought you had special powers. No?” He raises his big hands into the air and wriggles his fingers, all scary-like, his gold rings flashing in the candlelight.
I bite my lip, but this time it’s Ma who comes to my aid.
“It ain’t no joke, Harold. The poor girl’s been through enough without you joshing her.”
Mr. Bartleby leans back in his chair, like he’s been hit by Ma’s scolding tongue. But I can tell it’s all an act. He likes to put the frighteners on me. That’s why when Ma and Flo go out of the room to boil the kettle, he taps me on the arm and says: “They say that bad things happen in threes, Connie dear. All I’m saying is you’d best be careful.”
CHAPTER 12
Monday, December 24, 1888
EMILY
Philomena Cosgrove, dressed in her new coat with a fox-fur collar, has been out and about early this morning. She can’t trust Lotte with all the shopping for tomorrow’s festive meal. At least Greenland’s delivered the turkey and the pheasant the other day, but there’s still much to do. She’s just purchasing her parsnips and potatoes for roasting when she hears the newspaper boy’s cries. He’s calling out the headlines from the first edition of the Star. What he’s yelling makes Philomena stop and listen. “Dead woman named. Poplar dead woman named.”
Of course, she’d heard that a prostitute had been found dead in the early hours of Thursday morning, not half a mile away from her own home. Normally, she’d have thought little of it. Those sort of women die on the street all the time. But that, of course, would have been a few hours after that wretched girl had turned up on their doorstep and tried to kill Albert. Curse her! Surely, it couldn’t be . . . ? Rose, or Catherine, or whatever she called herself—the woman whose child she’d helped bring into the world and disposed of almost as quickly. The thought rears its head, retracts, then reemerges when she remembers her husband said he gave the woman money when she threatened to expose them. A great deal of money. She pays her tuppence to the newsboy and sees to her shock that the dead woman was, indeed, Catherine Mylett, also known as Rose. At first, she is relieved. At least the slut won’t be returning to demand more from them, but then comes the worry.
Arriving home in a state of high anxiety, Philomena catches her husband and mother at the breakfast table. “It was her,” she gabbles. “The dead woman we heard about the other day.” She lowers her basket of vegetables to the floor and rushes over to the table, brandishing a copy of the newspaper.
Mother Delaney’s eyes slide over the story. “She got what she deserved,” she grunts, then shoves the paper over to her son-in-law, who scans it quickly. Aware that the gaze of his wife is boring into him, he looks up, munching his toast. He shrugs to show he’s not interested.
“What if the coppers come calling?” presses Philomena.
“It says she died of ‘natural causes,’” Mother Delaney points out, snatching back the paper.
“Oh.” Her husband nods. “Oh, well. That proves something then,” he says glibly.
“You mean that we’ve got nothing to worry about?” asks Philomena, seeking reassurance.
Albert smiles at her. “It means, dear Philly, that you and your mother are right. There is a God, after all.” And with that, he wipes his moustache with his napkin and rises to leave for work.
CONSTANCE
It might be Christmas Eve, but I’m feeling as festive as one of them geese hanging in Mr. Greenland’s window.
“So you’re off to the City?” Ma huffs cheerily. Her chest’s tight again, but she’s settled down to sew silk flowers.
Flo’s told her she’s heard some of the bankers get an extra guinea in their pay packets today. “Rich pickings,” she crows, a look of delight in her eyes, like someone’s shoved a box of chocolates under her nose and told her to take as many as she wants.
“I need to go get some mistletoe first,” I say. “Or green stuff.” I’m looking at the Christmas tree as I speak and then I have an idea. “A few sprig
s wouldn’t go amiss, would they?” I nod at the foliage.
Ma lets out a little cough. I think she’ll object at first, but there’s still a sort of sisterly conspiracy between us. “I don’t see why not. I’m sure Mr. B won’t mind,” she says with a shrug.
“He won’t notice,” says Flo, and she immediately starts to break off some of the shorter branches near the top. “Bit of red ribbon on this and a sprig or two of holly and I reckon them City gents will pay at least tuppence for one.”
So we have a plan. I fill my basket with a few branches from the Christmas tree and together Flo and me set off for the flower market to see if Big Alf can give me some berries or such like on the cheap. But first I need some ribbon—red ribbon for the trimming of the buttonhole sprigs.
“Let’s stop off on the way,” suggests Flo, putting on her bonnet.
I nod reluctantly. I don’t fancy going near the market after what happened. And I certainly don’t want to bump into that bent old bag with the head scarf who accused me of murder.
We set off and join the brewery boys and the starch workers, the shopgirls and the dockers, as we all stream out of our homes for another day’s hard toil. Heads down, shoulders braced against the chill, we join the river of people that flows down Commercial Street. There’s not much Yuletide cheer around, just the slow, hard clanking of the factory machines, which does my brain in sometimes, and the clatter of wagons. I’m hoping they’ll be a jollier lot in the City; jolly enough, at any rate, to spare tuppence for my Christmas buttonholes and sprigs.
I look up at the sky. It’s gray, as usual, but it’s not cold enough for snow. I wish it would—snow, that is. At least everything would look cleaner for a few minutes before the brilliant white of a heavy fall is covered in soot and grime again. Everything gets soiled in the end in Whitechapel, that’s just how it is.
Up ahead of us are the stalls where they found the baby the other day. The smell of roasting chestnuts covers the usual stench of horse dung, but I can taste fear on my tongue. My eyes swerve from left to right, scanning for sight of the woman who pointed the finger at me. lt don’t feel right walking along the rows of stalls, like everyone’ll be watching me, judging me. Instead, as we pass a haberdasher’s shop, I call to Flo.
“I’ll buy my ribbon here,” I say, pointing to the window decked out in red and green. There’s a sleigh in the center and it’s loaded with presents, all wrapped up in bright paper.
“What’s wrong with the market?” Flo protests, but the look I give her reminds her of what happened. She nods and agrees to wait outside as I pluck up the courage to go in. I’m not that used to shops, you see, especially not ones that sell fancy goods such as this.
The bell above the door jangles open. The shop’s dark inside. It’s lined with wooden shelves, crammed full of rolls of material that look like ancient scrolls. There’s rows of little button drawers, too, and inside the big glass counter at the front lie card upon card of ribbon and lace and bindings. It’s just like a magical cave full of jewels or a sweet shop’s window. There’s all the colors of the rainbow and patterns, too. Stripes and spots and flowers and swirls all scramble for my attention. Different shades of the same color as well. I didn’t know there were so many blues and they’re all labeled: peacock, azure, turquoise, sapphire, cobalt. Greens too: emerald, forest, and spring.
The bell summons a thin man with a long face, who appears from the back. It’s like a spell’s been broken and I’m suddenly nervous. But then I remember what Miss Tindall always told me. “Have confidence,” she’d say. “Hold your head high and the rest will follow.” So I try and forget I’m wearing a tattered old jacket and a patched-up skirt and I stick out my chin and muster enough courage to smile politely.
As the shopkeeper moves out of the shadows and into the pool of light cast by a large oil lamp, I see that his limp whiskers cling to his jaw, making him look like one of them codfish on a fishmonger’s slab. I twitch a smile, but he doesn’t return it. There’s no Christmas cheer on his lips.
“Yes,” he says, all grumpy. I feel like I’m a bad smell in his lovely shop.
I clear my throat and think of Miss Tindall. “I wish to buy some red ribbon, if you please, sir.”
He arches a brow and narrows his lashless eyes. “Let’s see the color of your money first,” he sneers, clearly thinking I’ll do a runner as soon as the ribbon’s in my hand.
I feel my cheeks blush. I’m just thankful I’m his only customer. I pull out two pennies from my apron pocket and place them on the counter. I half expect him to bite them to check they’re not fakes. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes out the ribbon card and unravels a length to measure it on a ruler, which runs the length of the counter, and rather than telling me to scarper, he leans over, poised on the wooden edge. I notice one of his hands, the left one, is bandaged.
“How much?” I ask.
“A penny a yard,” says he.
“I’ll have two, if you please.”
But as I watch him unwind the ribbon, something strange happens. My eyes are drawn to the row of cards nearby and there’s this flash. Suddenly I’m looking at the dead babe at the police station. I hear myself gasp for breath as I remember the binding round its neck. Suddenly terror takes me by the throat and shakes me.
“Something wrong?” the shopkeeper asks sternly as he snips one end of the ribbon.
I look up with unseeing eyes, then down again to the glass counter; my gaze settles on a flowery yellow binding on the side of the display. I can barely breathe.
“You all right?” asks the shopkeeper again.
My head jerks up. “What? Yes!” The words struggle out of my mouth as I realize what I’ve just seen and take fright. I have to get out of here. I need to see Sergeant Hawkins. I swirl round to face the door and start to run.
“Here! What about this?” the shopkeeper calls, brandishing the red length. I turn to see him holding up the ribbon. It looks like blood is streaming down his arm. I don’t reply.
“Your money!” I hear him call as I grab the door handle and fall out into the street. I don’t care about the tuppence. All I care about is telling Sergeant Hawkins what I’ve just seen.
“What the hell?” Flo’s still outside and I snatch her hand and pull her away from the shop. “What’s going on?” she yells.
I catch my breath. “The binding!” I pant.
“Binding?” she echoes. “What you talkin’ about?” She’s growing impatient with me.
“It’s the same as was round the dead baby’s neck!” I blurt. I suddenly feel sick at the saying of what I’ve just realized.
But instead of listening to me, Flo just rolls her eyes. “’Ere we go,” she says with a sigh. “You’re going all physic on me again?”
The way she reacts makes me angry. “Psychic,” I correct her as she tugs at my arm and pulls me back along the street.
“You what?” She’s battling through the crowd toward the main road, jostling toward Commercial Street, but I stand firm. She jerks her head back.
“The word’s psychic,” I repeat crossly. “I have to tell the police.”
She looks at me and gives me one of her cheeky smiles. I think she’s softening for a moment, but then I hear her say: “You’re sweet on that Sergeant Hawkins, ain’t ya?”
I feel my nerves stretch, but I hold my tongue. I say nothing and we walk on, fighting our way through the sea of bobbing heads. There’s people all around, clamoring, yelling as Flo takes hold of my arm again. I search the faces round me, hoping I just might catch a glimpse of Miss Tindall close by. But of the one person I know who’s looking out for me, the one person who understands, there’s no sign. I’m on my own again.
CHAPTER 13
EMILY
The meeting is arranged for midday by the entrance to Platform One on Paddington Station. Rush hour is over, but the station is still busy with families getting away from London to spend Christmas with relatives. Nevertheless, it’s not hard to spot an elderly
woman in a plaid shawl and black bonnet, carrying a baby in her arms. Mother Delaney suggested the venue in her last letter. She thought it would be convenient as Louisa’s train terminated at the station, although Louisa herself would have been more than willing to travel to the old woman’s new abode. She would have preferred it, in fact, so that she could check up on the conditions in which her little Bertie is being kept and ensure that standards are being maintained.
Mother Delaney’s previous house, the one in Stepney, where she’d spent her confinement, had been clean and comfortable. It was a refuge for her from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. You’ll remember it’s been six weeks since she labored through the night to bring forth her perfect boy. He’d latched onto her immediately and sucked so well. The thought of it makes her breasts tingle and she feels her milk flow beneath her camisole, just as freely as her tears have flowed since leaving him. She’d remained at Mother Delaney’s for a further two weeks after the birth. Now a month has passed since she left him in the elderly matron’s care. She wonders what her baby’ll look like. Will he have more hair? Will his little cheeks have plumped? Will there be bracelets of fat around his tiny wrists?
She trusts that Mother Delaney has looked after him well. She is a kindly woman, used to nurturing hundreds of little ones over the past three decades, so she was told. But one can never be too careful, she reminds herself as she approaches the platform. The truth is, she is wavering. She is not sure that she can go through with this. She is not sure that she can say good-bye forever to the person she has loved most in her life. She is thinking she might come to another arrangement: one that is not as final as adoption; one that still allows her to see her son whenever she can, and one day, perhaps, to have him back with her for good.
In her gloved hands, she holds a Christmas gift for Bertie: a little wooden rattle, painted in red and yellow, and wrapped in red tissue paper, for his amusement. But just where he will spend tomorrow, she is still uncertain. Will it be with Mother Delaney or with her?
