by Tessa Harris
“What’s them when they’re at home?” asks Flo.
“Any relatives,” I explain.
Ma’s forehead crumples into a frown. “Does that mean they ain’t told Maggie?” she asks. Ma knows Mrs. Mylett from way back, but they haven’t been in touch for a while. She shakes her head. “I’d best go round to Pelham Street,” she says.
The truth is, Cath went by so many names and lived in so many places that it was hard to keep track of her. Like a lot of women in this neck o’ the woods, she could never put down roots. She was always at the mercy of others.
EMILY
Meanwhile in the parlor of his home in Woodstock Terrace, Albert Cosgrove sits in a comfortable chair by the fire. He is wearing tartan slippers and a red satin smoking jacket, which his mother-in-law gave him for Christmas to replace his other one that was unfortunately rather badly stained. She’s told him he looks quite the gentleman in it, even though she thinks she should have bought a bigger size. He glances down at his left sleeve. He’s been told his wound is healing nicely. It’ll be a relief to have the bandage off. The sleeve, however, he finds a little too short for his liking. The garment may even be somewhat lacking across the chest as well.
Nonetheless, Mother Delaney’s son-in-law appears at ease as he puffs his pipe and reads the latest copy of the Draper’s Record. While most men are content to relax during the festive holiday, he would rather use his time profitably. Success, he’s learned, does not come from idleness. He is catching up with the latest ladies’ fashion trends. He may only manage the shop, but he still does all the ordering. Lace is very a la mode, according to an article in the magazine, especially for children. And, as if on cue, just as he had read the sentence, one of the “brood,” as he calls them, starts to cry. He has ignored the irritating whimpering for a while, but now that it is a full-blown guffaw, he can let it pass no longer.
“Quiet!” he shouts, turning his face to the closed door. The bawling continues. “Quiet, I say!” He smooths his paper again and resumes reading. This second time, his command is heeded. Silence reigns in the parlor once more.
Back in the kitchen, Philomena stands at the wooden table, glazing a boiled ham. She’s as thin as her mother is fat and as fine-featured as the older woman’s face is coarse. In her right hand, she holds a brush; while on her bony left hip, she balances Isabel. Philomena is relieved to be preparing cold cuts this evening, especially having given Lotte time off. Yesterday’s festivities were very taxing. They were only supposed to be minding three children over Christmas, but two of the adoptive mothers changed their minds at the last moment and will not now collect their charges until tomorrow.
At the sight of her grandmother, Isabel bleats and thrusts out her arms. “Issy,” says Philomena by way of reprimand.
Mother Delaney tuts, then smiles. “Come to Maimeó,” she coos, and her daughter passes over the child in a well-practiced maneuver.
“Let’s go and play, shall we?” says the old woman, brushing the girl’s cheek with her rough lips. “Father Christmas brought you lots of new toys, didn’t he?”
Philomena wipes her forehead with the back of her hand before her eyes settle on the open carpetbag on the windowsill. “And there’s that one, too,” she says, pointing to something brightly colored peeping out from the bag. With Isabel on her hip, Mother Delaney walks over to fetch the small parcel wrapped in red tissue paper. She remembers she should’ve put it under the tree when she brought it home with her on Sunday. She also remembers something else.
“What did ya get for that silver cup I gave ya?” she asks her daughter.
Without bothering to look up, Philomena replies: “Six shillings.”
“Six shillings? ’Twas worth twelve if it were a penny,” huffs Mother, reaching for the gift from her bag.
“The man said it was less because ’twas already engraved with initials.”
For a moment, the old woman seems disgruntled, but her attention soon switches back to her granddaughter.
“What have we here?” she asks her gleefully as she prizes apart the red wrapping. Of course, she knows full well. “Will ya look at this!?” she exclaims. The little girl’s face lights up as her grandmother shakes a red-and-yellow rattle before her eyes. “Aren’t you the lucky one?” she says with a smile.
CONSTANCE
Earlier today, at one o’clock sharp, Mr. Bartleby came to dinner with us. Ma insisted we save our goose for him. Flo didn’t feel like eating, anyway, so we’re having the bird with bubble and squeak. Mr. B’s doing his best to lighten everyone’s spirits. He cracks a few lousy jokes and Ma and me titter now and again.
“Here’s one for Con,” he says. “Who is the greatest chicken killer in Shakespeare?” I shake my head and shrug. “Macbeth,” he replies, “because he did murder most foul.”
He laughs like a drain at that, and I admit I chuckle, but Flo’s still wearing a face as long as the Old Kent Road, pining after that no-good Daniel of hers. She’s finally told Ma about the breakup, but, of course, neither of us says anything to Mr. B, so he’s got no idea what’s happened. He thinks she’s just being plain sulky, like she can be at times.
Afters is figgy pudding. It was hard as the knocker of Newgate, but the custard softened it a bit. Anyway, I’m just clearing away the dirty plates when Mr. B announces he’s brought presents for us all.
Ma’s face lights up. “Oh, Harold, you shouldn’t!” She beams. I know he shouldn’t and all. He certainly won’t have paid good money for them at a store. Whatever he’s got us will have been lifted and fenced at that shop of his in Limehouse, like the mantel clock he gave Ma last Christmas. No, I’m not happy about taking Mr. B’s presents, but as soon as I’ve put the plates in the kitchen, I return to the table with a smile on my face. He’s brought a cloth bag with him, and from out of it, he brings a small brown parcel with a red ribbon round it.
“This is for you, dear Patience,” he says, handing Ma the present with a flourish, like he’s some maitre d’ in a music hall.
She takes it from him with a flutter of her eyelashes and peels back the wrapping to reveal a blue oblong box. It looks fancy, like a necklace case. I hear her wheeze with excitement as she opens it up and, sure enough, there on a little bed of silk sits a silver locket with a chain.
With eyes wide, she looks up at Mr. B. “Oh, Harold! It’s beautiful!” she squeals. He gets up from the table and walks round to where she’s sitting.
“’Ere, let me put it on for you,” he says, scooping it out of its case with his finger. I watch as he unclasps the chain, then loops the necklace over Ma’s head so that it falls round her neck. She leans forward a little to allow him to fasten the clasp. I watch the chain lift and tighten slightly against Ma’s chest. She touches the pendant with her fingertips, then brushes her neck. I see this all in minute detail, like it’s been slowed down in time and I think of Cath the night someone put something round her neck, too. And then I see her. It’s like she’s right in front of me, gasping for breath, fighting for her life, and her fingers are grasping at her own throat and at her collar.
“Lovely, ain’t it, girls?” I hear Ma say, but her voice seems far away. I don’t reply. I can’t reply. I’m still picturing that night in Clarke’s Yard. “Con. Connie, love. You all right?” Ma’s voice is louder now.
“What? Yes.” I manage a smile.
“You’ve gone white as a sheet, my gal,” says Mr. Bartleby, taking his place back at the table. He nudges me lightly in the ribs. “Don’t that suit your dear mother?”
I nod. “You look a proper lady, Ma,” I say.
Mr. Bartleby laughs and slaps the table. “Didn’t I tell ya I’d give you something classy, Patience?”
Ma smiles and nods her reply. “You’re too generous, Harold,” she chides.
“Nonsense,” he replies, bringing out yet another parcel from his bag. This time, it’s Flo’s turn. “And for you, Miss Florence. . . .” He hands her a larger parcel. She looks at him warily, but
we all know she can’t resist a pretty trinket. Soon she’s tearing at the paper like a terrier. It’s a gold bracelet inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She gasps with delight at the sight of it.
“It’s . . . it’s beautiful.” I know it’s hard for her to show gratitude to him, but I can tell she’s not faking it when she says: “Thank you so much.”
It’s then that Mr. B goes and puts his foot in it. Just as Flo’s about to slip the bracelet round her wrist, he goes and says: “I thought you could wear it on your wedding day.”
Flo’s head jerks up. Ma gasps. I freeze. Mr. B frowns. “What’ve I said?” he asks innocently. It’s not his fault that we haven’t told him about the broken engagement, but Flo’s not hanging around to explain. She just bursts into tears and runs upstairs quick as a flash.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” moans Mr. Bartleby, shaking his head, but I can see a smile hovering on his lips. It’s clear he won’t lose sleep over his little faux pas, as I think the French call it. He’s soon back on the case and handing me my gift. “Now you gave me a bit of trouble, you did, Connie,” he tells me as I start to open a small cardboard box. “I know you’re not one for pretty things, so I settled on that.”
I’m a little puzzled as I pull out a little silver cup from the box. It’s engraved with leaves and squiggles, and when I turn it over in my hand, I see initials etched on it. That’s when it dawns on me. It’s a baby’s cup—the sort that rich people give as christening gifts. I study the initials once more. RLF. Should they mean something to me? My next thought makes me shudder. The ‘F’ could stand for Fortune and the ‘R’, well that could be for Robert. That’s short for Bertie, ain’t it? It’s like the cup’s been sent to me by Miss Tindall.
“Nice, in’it?” says Mr. B, trying to coax some reaction out of me.
I force a smile. “Very,” I reply. “Thank you.” He’s got a nerve, palming me off with poke like this. It’s obvious that Ma’s and Flo’s jewelry was stolen, too, but this cup, complete with the initials of some little kid, takes the biscuit. I don’t even want to be in the same room as him anymore. It’s only for Ma’s sake that I don’t fling it down in disgust and run upstairs to join Flo.
CHAPTER 18
Thursday, December 27, 1888
EMILY
Number 9, Woodstock Terrace, is quieter than usual today. That’s because when Mother Delaney opened the pantry door this morning and checked on her charges, she found not one, but two babies had passed in the night. Naturally, Philomena sent directly for Dr. Carey, but he had been unavailable, apparently called away to his own sick father, so another physician will attend this morning. He is a much younger man, newly qualified, in fact, and eager to make his mark on the world. So eager that he’s even done a little research into the case notes of the household he is about to visit and is rather concerned by what he has seen.
In his spidery writing, Dr. Carey has recorded the deaths of no fewer than three infants over the course of the last five weeks. Granted, infant mortality is a scandal in this malevolent part of London, but surely, even given this low starting point, such a figure would raise the most implacable eyebrow?
“Dr. Carey is unavailable, is he now?” Mother Delaney cannot hide her disquiet at seeing the elderly physician’s junior counterpart present himself on her doorstep.
The young doctor, lean and spare, with a moustache to complement his physique, is not in the least bit apologetic. “Indeed, he is. You have me today. Mrs. Delaney, isn’t it? I am Dr. Greatorex.”
Mother Delaney is clearly a little put out, but sweetens her initial sourness. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, to be sure.” Of course, she is not. Dr. Carey proved himself so malleable—an old fool, in fact. He never questioned how so many infants could fall prey to some mystery disease, or suffer from an unexplained condition. He took her word on everything, even to the point where he’d stopped wanting to see the tiny corpses. But this fellow, with his sharp eyes and brusque manner, might prove a little more difficult to handle.
“May I see the infants?” he asks as soon as he is admitted into the hallway. “The message said two.”
“Yes. This way, Doctor,” says Mother, pointing to the stairs. Philomena has suddenly appeared to hover nervously in the background. Mother scowls at her and shoos her away so that she scurries back into the kitchen. “Shall I take your coat now, Doctor?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll keep it on, thank you. It’s a little chilly in here,” he tells her. She notes his critical tone as she leads the way up the stairs, heaving her bulky frame up to the bedroom where the girls and women give birth. It’s where she always lays out the dead babies, too. It’s not a bad room, but not salubrious, either. The wallpaper peels in the corner, the thick velvet curtains are dull with dust, and the air smells damp. It is, however, infinitely better than the pantry and several degrees warmer, even without a fire in the grate. None has been lit this morning, however, and the distinct chill in the air matches the doctor’s standoffish manner.
The babies are laid out in separate cots, each covered by a single blanket. Dr. Greatorex looks at the first one, a girl. He lifts up the cover. She wears nothing but a napkin, so that he can instantly see her ribs. He estimates she is around four weeks old. She is, in fact, eight, but she has been starved for the last three. He throws Mother an inquiring look. “She is very thin,” he remarks.
The old woman shrugs. “A sickly child, Doctor” is her lame excuse. It is usually enough to satisfy Dr. Carey, but she is not sure if it will work on this young blade.
“And the other?”
Mother guides the doctor to the adjacent cot; this time, she takes off the blanket herself. The child, a boy, wears a smock. She is glad of it, although Dr. Greatorex is clearly not satisfied with a cursory glance at the body. He lifts up the garment. Once again, the child is painfully thin—a clear case of marasmus—and what’s this? He hones in on a greenish bruise on his ribs, suggesting to him that the boy might have been roughly handled. He frowns.
“Do you know how this happened?”
Mother thinks quickly. “It’s an old one. His mother was a drunk, so she was. In a terrible state was the poor mite when he arrived. Bless him. Black and blue.”
The explanation is plausible, even if, in the doctor’s eyes, it is highly suspicious.
“Do you have any other nurse children at the moment, Mrs. Delaney?” he asks, turning away from the cot. “You do know that under the law you need a licence?”
The old woman lets out a nervous chuckle. She’s worried he’ll report her. He’s clearly the sort who might. “Sure I know, Doctor, and I have the right papers. But I’ve no more babbies at present.”
“Good,” he replies sharply. “Then I shall give you some advice before you take in any more. Infants need food. If their mother’s milk is unavailable, then cow’s milk mixed with a little water will suffice, but it must be given regularly. Then when the child reaches six weeks, pap may be introduced.” Mother listens without expression. She takes the thinly veiled criticism in silence. “But I’m sure you knew all that, Mrs. Delaney,” concludes the doctor.
“To be sure, I did,” she tells him, forcing a smile.
“Good,” he replies with a nod. “Then the next time I am called upon, I’m hoping it will be to prevent a death, not merely to issue another certificate.” He opens his case and brings out a small folder containing documents. He moves over to a nearby chest of drawers and begins to write. She watches him, simmering, until her anger spills over.
“I treat the babbies as my own, you know,” she growls.
The doctor signs the last certificate with a flourish and hands it to her. “I am pleased to hear it,” he says with a forced smile. It is clear he does not believe her.
It’s shortly before nine o’clock and the haberdasher’s shop in Bull Court isn’t yet open. The shopkeeper, clipboard in hand, ensuring his stock is all in order after his two-day Christmas break, is finding he is being hampered in his work by the
fact that it is difficult to function properly with a bandaged hand. His irritation is compounded by the fact that despite being before the proper opening hour, it appears that a customer cannot read and has chosen to ring the bell. He glances at the door, then places his pencil behind his ear and puts down his inventory. Peering through the glass, he spies a man. A gentleman by the looks of him, he thinks. It seems not to bother him that the sign says CLOSED. And who’s that with him? He hesitates for a second. He has spotted the blue serge uniform of a police officer. Calm. He must remain calm. Unbolting the door, he greets the plainclothes policeman with a wide smile.
“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”
“I am Detective Sergeant Hawkins and this is Constable Semple. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may, sir?”
The shopkeeper makes a sweeping gesture to usher the men inside. Before he shuts the door behind them, he checks that the CLOSED sign remains clearly visible. He does not want any of his customers to see that he is being questioned by the police.
Hawkins does not waste time, but walks toward the glass counter. He brings out a slightly tatty paper bag and shows its contents to the shopkeeper.
“Do you sell this binding, sir?” he asks, scanning the colorful array of ribbons on display.
The shopkeeper looks closely and scratches his limp sideburns. “Yes, that’s one of ours,” he replies. “There it is.” He points to a tray of ribbons under the detective’s nose.
Hawkins nods. “Have you sold any recently?”
The shopkeeper shrugs and pulls at a straggling whisker. “Not that I can think of. It’s not one of our most popular ranges, but I’m only the manager. I order what I’m told. It’s not that fashionable, you see,” he ventures, casting a professional eye at the spool. “Used mainly to edge infants’ clothes. May I ask . . . ?”
