The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  Only the mudlarks are foolish enough to brave the weather today. There are at least a dozen of them strung along the shoreline on this wide bend of the Thames. Like vultures, they are picking over the carrion that the high tide has brought in. Unlike vultures, however, they are all secretly hoping they do not find any female body parts, as was the case last summer. No one cares to come cross a severed leg or arm, and, besides, there’s no money in such a souvenir. The only reward is a good grilling from the police.

  Already a little party of scavengers has progressed to one of the outfall pipes of the storm relief sewers that carry excess water when the normal system can’t cope with the deluge. The incessant rain has meant there’s more detritus than usual. The water has pummeled away at branches and cart wheels and barrels and sacks, which have stayed happily lodged since last winter, and has set them free. They’ve been carried along in the sudden torrent of rainwater and deposited in their temporary new home here at Bow Creek, opposite Blackwall Point. What riches will these industrious foragers find today? A tin trunk—who knows what might be inside? Surely, not more body parts?! A pewter fork. A pewter plate. A horse’s harness and a wooden pail. These are some of the choicest finds. But there is more.

  “What ya got there, then?” asks a gnarled old waterman. He’s broken away from his fellows, partly because he can’t stand their whinging. He’s approaching a huddle of youngsters as they gaze at something near a storm drain. Two of the boys are taking it in turns to nudge the object with their feet; then one appears with a long stick that emboldens him. Managing to roll the bundle over, he pokes gingerly at the wrappings; then, egged on by his fellows, he prods more aggressively. Soon the gruesome content is clear for all to see.

  CONSTANCE

  I guide Miss Louisa into the kitchen and sit her down by the stove. Carefully I ease off her woolen jacket, which reeks of old sheep, and hang it on the back of the chair. The water’s gone right through it at the seams, darkening the shoulders. There’s a big wet patch on her back, too. Worse still, her teeth have started to chatter.

  By this time, Flo’s stirred and shambles in to see what’s going on, a blanket still draped around her shoulders. She looks shocked at the state of our unexpected guest. “Oh, my Gawd. Been swimming in the Thames, ’ave we?” she says unhelpfully.

  “This is Miss Fortune,” I reply. I’m kneeling on the floor, prizing off her boots. They’ve let in water and left her feet soaked.

  “Miss Fortune?” Flo puts on that voice of hers when she mocks me for sounding like a toff. I can tell she’s feeling better after her nap.

  I look daggers at her. “She’s a friend of Miss Tindall’s.”

  “Oh!” Flo nods her head, like everything’s clear to her now. She gives her a look that’s a mixture of curiosity and respect, but I can’t see much sympathy in her eyes.

  One by one, I peel off Miss Louisa’s wet stockings, then grab a tea towel, which is hanging by the stove, to dry her feet. I notice how dainty they are and how neat and clean her toenails.

  Her soles are soft, too. I fear if I rub them with my coarse cloth, I’ll make them sore, so I stroke them gently, letting the towel soak up the wet. The motion seems to make her relax a little, but the heavy hem of her dress is so sodden that the rainwater begins to drip down her legs in thin rivulets. I follow a little stream from the side of her calf to her ankle before I dab it away. I glance up to see that she is watching me with a childish curiosity.

  “We’ll soon get you sorted,” I tell her, but she doesn’t reply. She may be looking down at her own body, but it’s like she’s not really here. She’s far away, and I can guess where that is.

  I start to rub her toes gently, to get her blood flowing. “Mother Delaney didn’t show, did she?” I say. It’s not really a question. The look on her face tells me the answer.

  She lowers her gaze, and for the first time, she’s meeting my eyes. “Where is he?” she asks helplessly. “What has she done with my baby?”

  There’s such sorrow in her voice that it breaks my heart to hear it. I stop dabbing her toes and, still kneeling, put my hand on hers. I want her to understand that I care. I can’t bear to see her suffer so. How could that Irish witch be so cruel? For now, there’s no telling if Miss Louisa’s little ’un is alive or dead. There’s no proof. And how can she trust the say-so of a woman who makes her living out of farming babies? She has a right to know what’s become of her own flesh and blood. That’s what Miss Tindall would say.

  The kettle wheezes into life and I make us all a brew. Miss Louisa cups the mug in her hands. She’s stopped shivering, and for that, I’m grateful. I hang her stockings to dry on the mantel over the stove and put her sodden boots under the fireplate. I find some biscuits in a jar Ma keeps for visitors, but she refuses to take one.

  “I shan’t eat until I see him again,” she tells me, staring into her cup; then suddenly her head jerks up. “You said in your note you know where Mother is now.” She jumps up. “Where? Tell me, please. I shall go to her.” She’s on her feet. They’re still bare on our earthen floor. “I’ll make her tell me where Bertie is. I’ll . . .” Her hands are raised and she clamps them onto the side of her wet head like she’s going out of her mind.

  “Calm yourself,” I say, rising and tugging at her sleeve. “I think she lives in Poplar, but I don’t know where exactly. But we will find her,” I say, pressing her back onto the chair. “And when we do,” I tell her, “the Cruelty Men will pay her a visit.”

  “What?” She darts me a shocked look.

  Instead of being grateful, as I think she surely will be, she scowls at me. “No.” She shakes her head, swishing her rats’ tails at me. “Don’t you see? The authorities can’t be involved.”

  I frown. I don’t take her meaning. “But what if they help you find your baby?”

  She’s up on her feet again and walks toward where the kitchen door would be, if we had one, then back again. The blankness in her expression is now filled with a kind of anger, or maybe it’s more like worry. Anxiety. Yes, that’s the word—“anxiety”—Miss Tindall would nail on it. She’s very anxious.

  “I told you,” she blurts. “Bertie’s father is the son of a very wealthy gentleman, you see. He is titled, with estates in Essex and in this part of London.”

  I feel like I’m stepping on eggshells. I understand she wants to keep her situation secret. If she were found out, a woman—or, should I say, a lady of her standing in society—would never recover from such a scandal. But there’s something in her eyes that tells me that she still loves this man who has ruined her life. There was a flicker of light in them at the very thought of him. He’s used her and abandoned her, but she still holds a candle for him.

  “Is there any chance . . . ?” I know it’s not my place to ask, but now I’m privy to her situation she seems easier with me.

  She gleans what I want to know. “If it weren’t for his father . . . ,” she says with a shake of her head; then she turns and looks me straight in the eye. “Bertie’s father loves me, you see. And I still love him.”

  I may only be young, but I’ve already seen enough in my short life to know that when a man says he loves you, he’s usually only after one thing. I’ve many a friend who’s found herself a fully paid-up member of the pudding club on the promise of a ring that never gets put on her finger.

  “Does he know about the baby?”

  She nods sheepishly and I wait for an explanation. “He knows of my pregnancy. He wanted to marry me,” she says earnestly, and I know she believes it, “but his father told him that if he did, he would disinherit him.”

  I feel myself shaking my head. I don’t want to judge, but the way I see it, this man of position is nothing but a spineless prick, and, like most men, only out for himself and damn whoever gets in the way.

  As if she can read my thoughts, she speaks up for him. “We would have been penniless,” she offers by way of an excuse.

  And now, it’s only you and the little
’un who won’t have two farthings to rub together. Try as I might, I can’t hold my tongue. “If you don’t mind me saying, miss, it doesn’t sound very honorable behavior to me.” Her brows shoot up and I fear I’ve overstepped the mark. Perhaps she thinks it’s rich that I talk about honor when I live in near-squalor in Whitechapel. Honor’s in short supply in the nameless alleys and godless courts that pit the district like pock scars. Perhaps she thinks, like most members of the quality, that the poor wouldn’t recognize honor if it hit them in the face. But, no, I’m mistaken. She’s softening.

  “You are right,” she says with a nod, gazing into the fire. “But the fault lies with me. I persuaded him to leave me and our son. I thought it would be best for all of us. I’d find a loving home for Bertie, obtain another position for myself, and he, well, he could go on to marry the wealthy heiress his own father has chosen for him.” She sniffs a little. “And life will go on.”

  Yes, life always goes on, but is it always worth living? And as if she’s read my thoughts, a frown scuds across her forehead as she turns toward me.

  “What if Bertie is dead?” she asks. She shocks me by suddenly grabbing hold of my hand and searching my face for an answer. “You can tell me, can’t you, Constance? Miss Beaufroy said you had powers. She said you can speak to Emily. Will you? For me, please?”

  As soon as she touched me, I sensed a charge shoot through my body. It’s left me with this strange sensation, like I’m filled with an energy. It floods my brain with light, like the sun coming up over the horizon. My face almost lifts into a smile. Almost, but not quite.

  “I cannot speak to the dead,” I reply. “But if Miss Tindall wants to tell me something, then I may be able to help you.”

  I’m worried my answer might disappoint her, but once again, she clasps my hand like she never wants to let it go. She fixes me with imploring eyes, as if I’m some sort of saint or miracle worker. “Then you are my only hope,” she says.

  EMILY

  The heavy rain continues to fall on east London throughout the day; however, the downpour is also causing further disruption elsewhere. Thirteen miles upriver from where the baby’s body was found a few hours previous, Henry Winslade, a waterman, is plying his trade just off Thornycroft’s Wharf, in Chiswick. It’s more sheltered here than the Thames proper, but he’s only taken four passengers this morning. The weather is foul and turning fouler by the hour. The rain is slanting and it’s so cold that he swears snow must be on its way. He’s dreaming of sitting by the blazing hearth, eating toast, when he spots what he thinks is a log in the water. Rowing closer, however, he sees that he was mistaken. Calling for help and a billhook, he inspects the floating object. Moments later, at around one o’clock, he heaves the bloated body of a man ashore.

  CONSTANCE

  By now, the winter light is growing weak. The rain still falls. I loosen Miss Louisa’s fingers and rise to go from the kitchen to the front room. My eyes adjust to the gloom as I walk over to the window to draw the tatty drapes. In the corner, Flo stirs. She’s been asleep the whole time that Miss Louisa and me have been talking. The trouble is, I don’t want her to know what I’m about to do. She’ll mock me, and that’s for sure, so I’ll do it on the quiet, in whispers, in the dark. I go back to the kitchen to find my visitor bent double, slipping on her stockings.

  “If we’re to do this, it must be now,” I tell her in a low voice.

  She nods. It’s like I’m her teacher and she’ll do anything I say. We sit at the upturned crate that serves as our kitchen table and I snuff out the candle. It’s soot black. In the darkness, I find her hands. They’re smooth, not calloused and rough, like mine. I take a deep breath to settle myself and clear my mind of all earthly thoughts, just how I do when I pray. I close my eyes and I imagine Miss Tindall, standing right in front of me, bathed in the light, just as she was that night on Brick Lane. I will her to come to us and appear to Miss Louisa, too.

  “Miss Tindall,” I whisper. “Miss Tindall, we are here. We are here and we need your help.”

  I feel Louisa’s grip tighten. She is tense. “There’s nothing to fear,” I tell her as we wait.

  The sounds of the street filter into the silence of the room, but I manage to block out the clatter of the carts and the church chimes. They recede into the distance as I focus on the image of Miss Tindall’s face.

  “Miss Louisa is here and she needs your help,” I state. “Your friend needs to know if her son has joined you. Is he with you?”

  I still see Miss Tindall’s face glowing brightly out of the darkness, but something is not right. I do not feel her presence. Her image is only in my mind. The room remains cold and hard and empty. She is not here. There is no warmth, no power. It does not feel how it has felt before. My heart quickens. I try to steady my breath as l find myself becoming uneasy. “Is there a child in the room?” I ask once more. “A baby?” Again Louisa squeezes my hands. “Give us a sign,” I plead.

  For a moment, it’s all quiet. We can barely see each other, let alone anything around us, when suddenly I spot a pinprick of light in the blackness of the front room. I hear Louisa gasp. She sees the light, too, traveling across the space like a sprite. It dances on the wall for a second, then comes to rest just above Flo’s head as she sleeps.

  “Bertie,” whispers Miss Louisa. “Bertie, darling, is that you?” And before I know it, she’s up from the table and out into the front room, blindly rushing toward the glow.

  “No!” I cry, scrambling after her. She mustn’t touch a spirit. I know she can’t touch a spirit. “Leave it!” I yell as she approaches the window.

  The next thing I know, she’s letting out a terrible scream that shakes the room. Flo wakes and screams, too. It’s then I see the man’s face leering in at the window.

  “What the f . . . !?” cries Flo, leaping up from her chair.

  The light falls and disappears. My head’s all of a spin. I don’t know what to do. I fumble about in the gloom. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Have I unleashed the demons of hell? It’s then there comes a loud banging on the door. I hold my breath, my heart bouncing in my chest.

  “Miss Piper,” booms a gruff voice. I glance through the window to see the light of a lantern. “Constance Piper.” I freeze. “Open up. It’s the police.”

  EMILY

  The police wagon transported Constance to the station. It parked at the end of the street, forcing her to brave the rain and the twitching curtains of White’s Row. The neighbors will all be thinking that she’s been done for thieving—or worse, after the incident with the infant in the market. She knows Flo will set them right; but for now, she is more concerned about the dead babe washed up on the shore. She’s praying it’s not little Bertie.

  “I will spare you the sight of the child, Miss Piper.” Detective Sergeant Hawkins is looking grave. Constance sits opposite him in what she now knows is the interview room, her clothes still soaking. The room is where they question suspects before letting them go or remanding them behind bars for trial. It’s cramped and dingy. The solitary window is high up and the only furnishings are a table and two wooden chairs. Comfort has not been a consideration. It is, for all intents and purposes, a cell.

  “Was it a boy or girl?” she asks anxiously. Wet straggles of hair hang limply from her bowed head. Her hands are in her lap.

  “A girl,” he replies, “but a few days old.”

  Relief floods through her veins, even though she knows it’s not right. Bertie might still be alive. The dead child, wrapped in a napkin, was washed up at Bow Creek, near Blackwall.

  “The heavy rain seems to have flushed the infant’s hiding place, and brought it downriver. It may have been in the water for several weeks,” Hawkins tells her.

  There’s an oblong box on the table, similar to the one Constance has seen before. She forces herself to look inside. There’s a sheet of brown paper folded in four and a square of white muslin. But it’s a sodden piece of ribbon, measuring no more than two feet
in length, that interests the detective. She’s seen the pattern before. Or so she thinks. Hawkins dangles it in front of her. “Around the child’s neck was this binding. It was tied under her left ear.”

  Constance’s jaw drops in astonishment as her gaze clamps onto the yellow ribbon. “But it’s . . .”

  “. . . an exact match with the material found on the infant in Whitechapel. Yes.”

  Constance looks up, her pretty face crumpled in a frown. She’s twisting the edge of her soaked apron.

  “So the same person . . .”

  “I fear so.”

  “Where was the child found?” she asks in a more measured way. I think her question shows reason.

  “By mudlarks at Bow Creek.”

  “So she was washed down from somewhere else?”

  “Yes. Down the River Lea. From Stepney way.”

  “Stepney,” she repeats. The mention of the place where Catherine Mylett once lived causes Constance to pause for a moment.

  Hawkins gazes at her intently. Something is happening in that mysterious mind of hers, he thinks. He tents his fingers, but says nothing, choosing instead to wait for her to put her thoughts into words. They come soon enough.

  “There is something you should know, Sergeant,” she says quite formally. “Cath Mylett put her little girl, Evie, with a minder, a baby farmer, last year, and she died. Cath was sure the old woman killed her.”

  I can tell he’s not quite grasped the connection. He’s not ready to cut her off, but Constance needs to explain herself quickly. “The night she died she was angry. Something had set her grief off again. She had this look in her eyes.”

  Hawkins listens intently. He reaches for his notebook. “And where did this baby farmer live?”