by Tessa Harris
“A baby was found dead in Petticoat Lane, with a length of this patterned binding secured round its neck,” Hawkins replies without giving too much away.
“I heard,” replies the shopkeeper, his forehead suddenly furrowed. “A grim to-do.”
Hawkins agrees. “Grim, indeed,” he says, taking out his card from his pocket and handing it to him. “But if you think of anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you, Mr. . . . um?”
“Cosgrove,” volunteers the haberdasher. “Albert Cosgrove.”
The detective nods; seemingly satisfied, he is making for the door, when he suddenly turns, as if remembering something. “Oh, and, Mr. Cosgrove,” he says.
“Yes, sir?” replies the haberdasher.
Sergeant Hawkins points to his bandaged hand. “Make sure you look after your wound, won’t you?”
CHAPTER 19
Friday, December 28, 1888
CONSTANCE
It’s Holy Innocents today, the day that marks the killing of all those poor babes by King Herod. He ordered the slaughter of the male first-borns ’cos he’d heard the King of the Jews had been born and felt threatened. I was reminded of it as I passed St. Jude’s on my way to Paddington Station. I’m here for Miss Louisa. She’s arranged to meet this old Irishwoman, this baby farmer, today. She won’t know I’m here. I’ll just watch from the wings. I remember Miss Tindall used to say to me in that lovely voice of hers: “Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when He does not want to sign.” She hasn’t exactly written her name on what has happened with Miss Louisa finding me and that, but I know she’s given me directions. It’s like she put a thread in the governess’s hand and following it led her to me.
As I wait for Miss Louisa, half-hidden by a trolley piled high with trunks and suitcases, a voice comes from nowhere.
“There’s a queer place to sell your wares, my gal!” A City type’s looking me up and down. He’s giving his temple a scratch. He’s right, of course. I may have a basket of buttonholes to shift, but I’m not touting for custom.
“Yes, sir” is all I manage to reply; then I add cheekily: “Will ya be ’avin’ one, sir? Cheer the ladies up on a morning such as this.” I pick the best rose and hold it up under his nose. He weakens at the scent.
“How much?”
“To you, sir, just tuppence.”
He narrows his eyes. “I’ll give you a penny and no more.”
That’s how it is. You ask for the world and they always give you a half of it. “Fair dos,” says I, taking his coin and handing over the bloom.
Truth is, I don’t want no—I mean any—punters. As the gent marches off, I spot Miss Louisa arrive under the station clock. She looks all fragile and wan. Part of me wants to tell her I’m here, but I mustn’t. I’m praying that the Irishwoman who’s been caring for her son will bring him along this time and hand him over with no trouble. I’ll be able to see and hear everything that passes between the two of them to make sure that this old biddy doesn’t try and pull one over on her. Speak of the devil, here she comes now.
EMILY
Shortly before ten o’clock, I spot Louisa taking up her position under the clock on Platform One, just as she did five days ago. They have been the worst five days of her life. She has neither eaten nor slept, and the toll of her torture is all too evident on her face. The freshness and hope she once exuded has dissolved into fear. As she waits, the nausea begins to rise in her stomach. She looks about her. A nanny passes by, pushing a perambulator. A governess walks, hand in hand, with her small charge. A party of schoolboys is shepherded toward a platform. Are these children sent to torment her? Every time she sees one, she longs to hold her own. It was heartbreaking enough to think that she would have to give up dear Bertie for adoption, but now to be unsure as to his whereabouts is to tighten the rack. Other questions flood her mind, too. What if Mother Delaney doesn’t keep their appointment? She refused to disclose her address. How can she contact her if she doesn’t show?
The station clock strikes ten, and with each chime, Louisa’s taut nerves stiffen until, come the last, she thinks they will snap. Frantically she casts around for a small, plump woman carrying a bundle. She sees none. Her desolation is about to manifest itself in a pitiful sob, when she hears a voice behind her.
“A good morning to ya, dearie.”
Louisa’s heart stops. She pivots. Mother Delaney stands behind her, her cobweb hair controlled under a black bonnet. But she comes empty-handed. Louisa regards her, horrified. Her throat constricts, as if strong hands are clutching at it. Despite this, questions still manage to struggle free.
“Where’s Bertie? What’s happened!?”
Seemingly oblivious to the young woman’s obvious distress, Mother Delaney smiles and shrugs her plaid-covered shoulders. “A misunderstanding.”
“What?” screeches Louisa, suddenly released from her initial shock. “What do you mean? Where’s Bertie?”
The old woman will not be ruffled. “He’s with a lovely couple in Brighton. I took him to Mass on Christmas morn and they were up visiting relatives. They were so taken with him that . . .”
Louisa’s face is the picture of incredulity. “You gave my son to strangers on a passing whim? What were you thinking?” She takes a step forward. I see her gloved fists are balled. It is requiring every ounce of self-restraint that she possesses not to shake the old crone. Yet, Mother Delaney stands her ground. In fact, she does more than that. Detecting that Louisa might cause a scene, she turns the tables on her. She clasps her hands across her sagging breasts and rounds her shoulders to make herself smaller.
“Now you’d not be threatening an old woman, would ya?”
The accusation pulls Louisa up short. She bites her tongue; she takes a deep breath, as if to try and compose herself. “May I remind you that you were the one who was going to adopt my son, not some strangers? It was part of our agreement.”
Mother Delaney nods. “Sure, I remember.” She’s self-assured, even arrogant. Her gaze is direct without the slightest twinge of embarrassment or regret. Unabashed she continues: “But ’twas too good an opportunity to miss. Such a lovely couple, they were. Followers of the true faith an’ all. Your Bertie’ll be brought up a good Catholic, you can be assured of that.” It’s as if she’s just completed a successful business transaction that benefits all parties.
Louisa remains poised on the edge of despair. She feels an urge to jump, but before she does, she has more questions. “Do you have the name and address of this couple? I’ve changed my mind. I want him back. I must go to them.”
Mother Delaney’s eyes widen. “Changed your mind? We had an agreement—”
“But I haven’t paid you the final amount,” Louisa interrupts. “He’s not yours to give away.” She pauses for breath. “I must find them, this couple.”
The old woman plays with the fringes of her shawl as she considers the request for a moment. “Very well,” she says after what seems to Louisa like an eternity. “I’ll let you have their address. It’s not with me, mind. I’ll post it to you.”
“No, you will not!” snaps Louisa. Then realizing she needs to temper her tone if she is to make any progress, she elucidates. “Let us meet here again.” She has teaching obligations she must fulfil back in Cheltenham, but she cannot obtain this address soon enough. “Monday? The same time?”
Mother Delaney considers her proposal. This time, though, with an arched brow, as if she is the one with the upper hand in this despicable game of poker. She is, it seems, a formidable player. She raises poor Louisa. “I’ll come,” she replies, then adds cruelly: “But only if you pay me the five pounds you still owe as a gesture of goodwill.”
The words sting like a whiplash. Louisa has the money, of course, but she was resolved not to hand it over until she saw her little Bertie with her own eyes. This outstanding amount is becoming the hook on which Mother Delaney is caught. She is wriggling, but she is not yet in the net. She can still escape. Another compromise presents i
tself. “I will pay you the rest of the money when I have the address.”
For the first time in their conversation, the Irishwoman shows a chink of weakness. It manifests itself in a twitch of her lips. She is being forced to retreat, if only a short distance. She concedes. “Very well. Monday, it is.” She takes her leave with a defiant nod of her bonnet.
Poor Louisa watches her disappear out of the station before she allows the tears to well up and cascade over her cheeks. Her world begins to roll, as if she is on board a ship. She clutches at a nearby lamppost to steady herself. Before the meeting, she thought she could not feel more anxious or angry. Now she knows she was wrong. I think perhaps her pain would be eased a little if she knew that the entire encounter with the Irishwoman had been observed—and heard—by a well-wisher. Constance has borne witness to the meeting, but it is how she acts upon it that will determine the course of events.
CONSTANCE
There’s no time to waste. I’ve got to follow this old crone if there’s to be any hope of helping poor Miss Louisa. I saw how that Irish witch played her like a fiddle. As if she hadn’t suffered enough already. But I’m on her heels. Miss Louisa may have let her go for the moment, but she can’t escape from me. I follow her outside the railway station and watch her heave her old carcass onto an omnibus. I see on its board that it’s heading for Poplar. I think of the newspaper advertisement. I know I’m on the right track.
Luckily, the penny from the City gent pays the fare. I wedge myself next to a fat man in a brown suit, who reeks of tobacco, and a young man with bad spots. I’m sitting toward the back, as far away from the old woman as I can, but I don’t let my eyes stray from that miserable face of hers. She was all false smiles with Miss Louisa when they met; then that grew into a “How can you be angry with a poor old woman?” face when she didn’t have the babe. It’s like she can change her look to suit the weather. All sunny one moment, then thunderclouds the next. But it’s her eyes that tell me everything I need to know. They’re cold and gray as the Irish Sea. Yet, there she sits on the omnibus bench, smoothing her skirts, all righteous and God-fearing. I wonder how many young mothers she’s fleeced in her time. She’s not the caring matron that Miss Louisa thought she was when she first went to her for help. She’s a baby farmer. Nothing more and nothing less. I’ve heard about her sort and I know they have hearts of stone. I’m that fixed on the old woman that it’s a jolt when the conductor calls out the next stop.
“Poplar!”
Mother grabs hold of the pole and rises. She’s getting off. I’m at the back, but manage to fight my way to the front of the bus just in time to hop off. I look left. No sign of her, then right. She’s crossed the road. She knows where she’s going, sure enough. She’s got a spring in her step for an old bird, but I’m on her tail.
Poplar looks different in daylight. Better. Cleaner. It’s not the West End, mind you, but with more light between the houses, it’s not as dark or as dingy as Whitechapel. I’m trailing the Irishwoman along the high street. Some of the shops are closed down, but it’s busy enough with the comings and goings of carts and drays from the nearby docks as they clatter toward the warehouses in Houndsditch. There’s something else going on, too. Down at the dock end of the street, there’s a crowd gathering. It’s mainly women. There are lots of them. Some are carrying placards and there’s a stream of them heading toward the East India Dock gates. I manage to snatch a glimpse of what their banners are saying: DRINK IS POISON. It’s the Temperance Movement lot, and by the looks of it, they’ve joined forces with some of the gas workers, too, who don’t want to work on the Sabbath.
They start crossing the road, coming toward me. I try and sidestep, but it’s too late. I’m lost in a press of people and I take my eye off the old crone. She’s swallowed up by the approaching crowd, too. People are shouting and jostling all around and here comes Old Bill. I better get out of here as soon as I can. It’s been a wasted journey. I can’t wait to get home and I start to rush back along the high street, heading for Whitechapel.
I’m only a few paces into my journey when something makes me look to my left, I’m not sure why, and I see a sign at the mouth of an alleyway. The letters suddenly loom large in my vision: CLARKE’S YARD. It’s where they found Cath. Maybe my bus ride was worth the fare, after all. Maybe I was meant to come here, anyway, to see the spot where she died.
I pick my way through the muddy ruts and puddles until the alley opens out into a courtyard. It’s lined with workshops and you can’t hear yourself think, for the clattering of hammers and the clank of chains. It don’t half stink as well—a mixture of horse shit and sulfur. A couple of lads spot me. One of them catcalls me. It’s a busy old place and I’m not sure where to turn to find where Cath fell. I try and recall what I read in the newspaper. From out of nowhere, a name pops into my head. A man named Braithwaite, I think it was. He was mentioned in a report, as I recall. It said he was a blacksmith, but he told the police he didn’t see or hear nothing. There’s a boy leading a nag. I’ll ask him as he’s passing.
“I’m looking for Mr. Braithwaite,” I yell at the nipper over the racket.
“Braithwaite?” the lad answers. I nod and he lifts his arm to point to the nearby shed, where a smithy is hard at work shoeing an old cob. The coals of his furnace glow red in the gloom and the sparks from his hammer are flying bright red against the black of the inside. As soon as I look on them, something strange happens. It’s like a firework’s exploding and my brain fizzes at the sight. I already know that something bad happened in this place, that Cath was found dead here, but there’s something else. I freeze and a sudden fear sweeps over me as images flash before my eyes. There’s a woman—I think it’s Cath—and a man. He’s threatening her, pinning her against a wall. She’s frightened. Then the vision shatters like the glass in a mirror and all the shards are catapulted into the air.
After a moment, I shake my head and everything is back to normal, even though I’m still trembling as I move toward the shed. As I draw closer, I feel the welcome heat of the furnace even from the doorway. It’s another moment until I remember why I’m here. I shout out the blacksmith’s name, but he can’t hear me above the clinking of his hammer, forcing me to really belt it out. “Mr. Braith-waite!” This time he hears and looks round. He’s wearing a peaked cap, but at the sound of my voice, he pushes it back to show his face. It’s all black, like one of them musical hall minstrels, and he’s wearing a patch, but his good eye is trained on me, all right.
I find my courage again. “Mr. Braithwaite?”
“Who wants to know?” he says in a voice that tells me he’s not a Londoner. He loosens the kerchief round his neck and starts to wipe the sweat and coal dust from his face as he walks toward me. He carries his shovel by its heft, and I’m not sure if I should feel worried.
“I’m a friend . . .” I break off, remembering. “I was a friend,” I correct myself, “of Cath Mylett’s.”
At the mention of her name, he pauses, like I’ve pressed on a sore place. He leans on his shovel, then he shakes his head.
“I told the coppers all I know. I didn’t see ’owt,” he says, his good eye all screwed up. I think he might be a Yorkshireman from the way he talks. I’ve heard they call a spade a spade up there, in the north. They like plain talking and I’m up for that. Even so, I can tell he’s going to be a tricky customer. He’ll need coaxing out of his shell.
“I’ve come to pay my respects,” I tell him. I point to the blooms I’ve been carrying in my basket all the way from Paddington. “We were with her the night she died. Can you show me where they found her?”
He throws me a surly look, but lays his shovel against the doorpost. I can see my words have done the trick. He straightens himself again and flattens his cap.
“Follow me, lass,” he says.
The yard is sheltered from the wind, but away from the furnace, it’s still cold and I can barely feel my feet as he walks ahead of me. I almost have to break out into a t
rot to keep up. A moment later, he stops in a corner where two walls join. “Here,” he says, pointing to a patch of mud that looks just the same as any other patch of mud in London, pitted and rutted with footprints and hoof marks. I don’t know what I was expecting to find. I look up at Mr. Braithwaite, a little dazed, then at my flowers. I feel his eye bore into me from beneath the peak of his cap and catch a look about him, like he’s sad, too.
“There,” he repeats, and suddenly he whips off his hat as a mark of respect. Is that a tear on his black cheek? I wonder if it’s the cold wind or something else that’s making his eye water. I step forward and lay a single bloom—a pink rose like the one Cath had on her hankie—on the spot. I stand back, and am just about to bow my head to reflect, when the rose suddenly blackens before my very eyes, like it’s got a terrible blight. I frown.
“What the . . . ?” I bend low to pick up the bloom and the petals fall away, so that I’m left holding only a stalk. I think it strange. “I ain’t seen that happen to a flower before,” I say. The smithy’s puzzled, too.
I replace it with another one from my basket that seems healthy enough. I lay it on the ground and stand back once more.
“She didn’t deserve to die like this,” I say quietly. I ask Miss Tindall to look after her wherever she is now, then turn to see the blacksmith’s head is also bowed, like he’s praying, too.
“Perhaps I can come again, sometime, to lay more flowers?” I ask.
“Suit your sen,” he says, slapping his cap back on his head. He wipes his cheeks with the cotton scarf around his neck. I can’t quite make him out.
* * *
It’s getting late by the time I arrive at Miss Louisa’s hotel. I’d agreed I would meet her there as soon as I had anything to report, but when I ask to speak to the guest in room number four, the landlady shakes her greasy head and says she ain’t seen her all day. I think of her face when the old crone told her she didn’t have her Bertie. So I ask for a piece of paper to write her a note and tell her what happened and that I’m sure Mother Delaney lives in Poplar. I’m hoping that’ll lift her spirits. Heaven knows she needs some good news. I just pray she hasn’t done anything stupid. She’s got to keep strong for Bertie’s sake, and soon, God willing, the old witch should give her the address where the little mite’s been taken.
