The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  “In Stepney, where Cath was dossing at the time.”

  “So you’re saying that Miss Mylett tracked down the baby farmer to her new abode in Poplar and was intent on avenging the death of her daughter?” The tone of his voice betrays his doubt.

  Constance grows frustrated. “It’s possible, isn’t it? You didn’t see the look in her eyes. Mad, she was.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t deal in conjecture, Miss Piper. Evidence is my currency, and as regards your theory, I can find none.” He shakes his head as he speaks, but dips his eyes. He knows she will be angry.

  Constance leans forward, scowling. “So that’s it?”

  Hawkins leans back, grasping the edge of the table. “As you know, I’ve been specifically drafted into this division to deal with the Ripper murders.”

  Constance is riled by his reply. “No!” She slaps her palms on the table. She’s letting her old self get the better of her. She needs to control her temper.

  “Miss Piper!” the detective upbraids her.

  She pulls it back. “I’m sorry, Sergeant.” She straightens herself. “Of course, you have your priorities.” The comment carries a barb, but Hawkins ignores it.

  “My inspector does not wish me to work on other cases, and until the coroner has given his verdict, your friend died of natural causes.”

  “And the babes?” she bites back. “You can’t say they tied the ribbons round their own necks.”

  The detective leans forward once more, and when he speaks, it is in a more conciliatory tone. “The hunt for the Whitechapel fiend is taking up all of my time.” Constance knows that to be true. The long hours are showing in his face, gathering in dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. “Would you have me neglect my duty in that respect?” The sergeant shows a flash of temper that Constance has not seen before. I will her to acknowledge the difficulty of his position. She pauses before she answers.

  “Of course, Sergeant. I know you are most diligent in that respect,” she replies in a voice tinged with humility.

  He breathes deeply, as if to rein in his ire, before adding, more gently: “I appreciate that you are taking a special interest in the killing of these infants.”

  The remembrance of the dead baby found at the market flits across her face. “Yes, I am,” she says. She pushes back the urge to cry; from his manner, she is aware that the sergeant is about to say something important. She braces herself.

  Hawkins’s words, when they come, are unanticipated, but welcome. “You should know, Miss Piper, I have ordered a postmortem on the baby found today. I should have the report next week,” he tells her.

  Constance is surprised, but glad of this unexpected fillip. At least there will be some form of inquiry into yet another senseless slaughter of an innocent, by, it would seem, the same hand as the babe in the market. However, the detective has not yet finished. There is more encouraging news. He pins her with a mollifying look. “I was therefore wondering,” he continues, “if you would like to make some inquiries yourself, Miss Piper.”

  The proposal lands with a thud in front of her. I can see she was not prepared for it. Nor, indeed, was I. It is an unorthodox suggestion: a lowly flower girl pursuing an investigation into at least two cases of murder. It would be unthinkable, had it not been for these testing times. Both Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police are at the end of their metaphorical tethers. Their amount of work has become unprecedented, unbearable. Moreover, they are both proving themselves totally incapable of dealing with the dire situation. Chaos reigns.

  Constance’s reaction does not come immediately, and Hawkins suddenly regrets asking her. “Forgive me,” he says quickly, trying to read her face. “A foolish notion.” He waves his hand, flapping away the very idea.

  “No,” Constance snaps back.

  “Gently,” I whisper to her. She knows she has him in the palm of her hand, if she can but realize she will gain so much more by being sympathetic to his dilemma. I think she hears me. More calmly she adds: “No, not foolish at all, Sergeant. You are in a very difficult position.”

  A smile slowly lifts Hawkins’s lips. “So you might consider gathering information?” He detects a flicker of hope. “And, of course, you will have sight of the medical examiner’s report, although”—he breaks off and sticks two fingers down his collar in a vain attempt to loosen it—“although that is strictly confidential, of course.”

  “Of course.” Thoughtfully she nods. “And if I did uncover evidence, you would act on it?”

  Hawkins places his hand on his breast. “You have my word that I will personally follow up any lead that you give me.”

  She digests the sergeant’s offer as she studies his face. She knows him to be a good, honest man, even though he sometimes bows to outside pressure. She will trust him to follow through on his promise. “Then I shall make sure you honor it, Sergeant,” Constance tells him, rising. She thrusts out her hand in the only way she knows to seal a deal, the way she has seen businessmen conclude their affairs.

  The sergeant is a little surprised by her gesture. He looks down at the small, bare hand she offers. He is not used to shaking a woman’s hand, let alone one that is not swathed in a glove. He feels a little awkward, but receives it into his grasp, nonetheless. It is cold and rough, but there is a comfort in it. He smiles at her and she at him. After a second, she feels it is polite to withdraw, but Hawkins suddenly tightens his grip a little.

  “Please believe me when I say that I wish to see this case brought to a satisfactory resolution just as much as I’d like to see Jack hang, Miss Piper. It’s only that . . .” His urgent voice trails off as if he has just recognized his own inadequacy. He lets go of her hand.

  “I understand,” replies Constance. She sympathizes with his position, she really does. Hawkins is not at fault. It is the way of the world—the machinery that makes us all mere cogs in the wheel. She is only grateful that she has been given the chance to play a greater part in the apprehension of this monster that preys on helpless babies, and may even have killed Catherine. I can see the weight of responsibility has just dawned on her, but she hides her trepidation well. She regards the detective confidently.

  “Thank you for this opportunity, Sergeant Hawkins,” she adds. “I will do my very best.”

  CONSTANCE

  We shan’t stay up to see in the New Year festivities. There’ll be many from round here who’ll gather at St. Paul’s for the midnight peals that ring in 1889. Flo was talking about going with Danny before they broke up, but she’s in bed before eleven. And me? I can’t think there’s much to celebrate. Seven women is dead in this neck o’ the woods alone, not to mention dear Miss Tindall, and now two babies have joined their number. The year 1888 will go down in the history books as the year of Jack the Ripper, I’m sure of that. It’s a year I’d be happy to forget. The worst of it is, there may be more murders to come.

  EMILY

  As New Year’s Eve draws on, the usual trail of drunk and disorderly rabble-rousers moves through Commercial Street Police Station. It’s certainly a lively place to be tonight. Three revelers are already the worse for wear, and there’ve been two serious brawls, four reported incidents of personal theft, and a stabbing. And all before ten o’clock. Even by Whitechapel standards that is more than on most nights. But the general mayhem is about to seem as mere routine when Constable Tanner walks into the large detectives’ office, heading for Hawkins’s desk.

  “Constable,” greets Hawkins upon hearing the young man’s light tread. He’s already noted the piece of paper in his hand and fears, from the expression on the young policeman’s face, that he is the bearer of bad news.

  Without a word, Tanner hands him the note and Hawkins reads it immediately. After a short pause, as if he needs to process what he has just seen, his head drops and meets his raised hands. When he resurfaces, he sighs deeply. “Inspector McCullen won’t be happy,” he says, drumming his fingers on the paper.

  Constable Tanner nods his head. I
t’s not his place to comment. All the same, he can’t help muttering under his breath: “That’s an understatement.”

  The note reads: Body found decomposed in Thames at Thornycroft’s Wharf. Male, around 30 years. Taken to Chiswick Deadhouse for postmortem and identification. Believed to be Montague Druitt.

  CONSTANCE

  The bells of St. Jude’s are chiming ten as I start to ready myself for bed. Flo’s already dozing as I slip my dress off and fill the ewer with water. In the candlelight, I lean over and start to splash my cheeks. It’s like I want to wash the old year away. The surface ripples, then clears, so that I see my own face reflected back at me. Or at least I should, but the image on the water suddenly clouds and shifts so that it’s no longer me I can see, but—God in heaven—Cath. It’s her face, all right, not mine. She’s looking angry. No, worse than angry . . . mad. Her eyes are wild and she’s screaming at someone. Her arm is raised and . . . What’s that? The knife! I see the knife she showed me in her hand. A second later, I see a shower of blood hit her face.

  “No!” I gasp, and lurch backward in terror.

  Over in the bed, Flo stirs. I steady myself on the bedstead, gripping it tightly with both hands. I shake my head, trying to banish the image, but I know what I saw was real. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was what Miss Beaufroy would have called a “vision,” just as I saw Miss Tindall lying sick in the bed the other time. It’s what truly happened to Cath. I just know it.

  Still reeling from the shock, I slip on my nightgown and creep beside Flo. I’ve just seen Cath. I’ve seen her with a knife and I’ve seen her face sprayed with blood. But how can that be? She was strangled, so it seems. She wasn’t stabbed; leastways, they say there were no other injuries on her poor body, not even any signs of a struggle. It just don’t make sense. And who’s going to believe me, anyway? I doubt if even Sergeant Hawkins would pay heed to my unlikely tale.

  EMILY

  Inspector McCullen does not take kindly to having his Hogmanay celebrations disturbed, but on hearing the news of Druitt’s death, he thunders into the station, demanding to see Detective Sergeant Hawkins.

  “You were supposed to have this Druitt under surveillance.” McCullen is jabbing a thick file in front of him on his desk. On the other side stands an embarrassed Hawkins. He can offer no excuse. The constable he’d tasked to watch Druitt on that shift hadn’t taken a day off in a month and had fallen asleep on duty. “Now we’ll never know,” murmurs McCullen.

  The young detective could, of course, contradict his commanding officer. If another murder were to occur where the victims displayed similar injuries, then Druitt’s innocence would be proven. He thinks it politic to resist such an urge and remains silent.

  The Scotsman rubs his chin. “You’ll have to make a good account of yourself, laddie, to Assistant Commissioner Anderson. Druitt was his favorite, after all.” He sniffs and loosens the catarrh at the back of his throat. “But, personally, I don’t see why.” He winks at Hawkins. “Between you and me, I think this schoolteacher, or whatever he was, was a red herring, eh?”

  Hawkins is secretly delighted his superior is flexing and agrees with him that Druitt should never have been considered a suspect in the first instance. “It’s not my place to say, sir,” he replies tactfully, tugging his waistcoat.

  “Humpphh!” McCullen blows through his nose and leans back in his chair, as if to draw a line under the matter, for the time being at least. “Now let’s concentrate on finding the real villain, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Wednesday, January 2, 1889

  EMILY

  The inquest into Catherine Mylett’s death reopens this afternoon at Poplar Town Hall. Constance and Florence manage to find seats near the back. Detective Sergeant Hawkins duly attends, too. Naturally, he is hoping Mr. Wynne Baxter, the coroner, will favor the police’s view that the deceased died from natural causes. His life would be so much easier if that were the case, but despite Inspector McCullen’s insistence, I know he is having serious doubts about the nature of Catherine’s demise.

  In the gallery, the detective spots the sisters. He delivers a shallow bow; Florence does not notice, but Constance acknowledges it with a nod of her head. That is all. There is no attempt at conversation. After all, in this matter, she regards Sergeant Hawkins as being in the enemy camp.

  Those assembled are called to rise as the coroner enters the room. Silence falls. Mr. Wynne Baxter is respected in these parts. He’s not one to kowtow to authority. Nor is he in the pay of the police; so when he states plainly at the outset that he wants nothing to do with this “nonsense” of “death by natural causes,” a few constabulary eyebrows are raised. The Commissioner, James Monro, has sent his representatives. It’s clear they believe the verdict is a foregone conclusion. Granted, since the opening of the inquest, more questions have been raised as to the manner of the unfortunate’s death, but the police are confident that the coroner will accept their version of events. Those in the gallery, however, are of a generally different persuasion. They are heartened to know that Mr. Wynne Baxter will not allow himself to be swayed by pressure from the powers above.

  One of the key witnesses today is Catherine’s mother, Margaret Mylett. She’s a frail woman and vague, too. It appears that she can do little more than state her daughter’s age. The barrister sent to cross-examine the poor widow on behalf of the police is sterner with her than the coroner. He wants to know how she earns her living, but little headway is made until Mr. Wynne Baxter steps in.

  “You say your son, William, allows you so much a week, Mrs. Mylett. Where does he live?”

  At this seemingly simple question, the witness becomes even more agitated. “I cannot say.”

  Mr. Wynne Baxter’s lips twitch in an ironic smile. “Come, now. He allows you so much a week. How do you get it?”

  The old woman licks her lips and scans the courtroom nervously. “I went for it a week or two ago.” Then, more confidently, she adds: “My son is in a government office.”

  The coroner remains unimpressed by this new information and repeats his original question twice more, but when no credible answer is forthcoming, he realizes there is little point in questioning the hapless woman further. He allows her to step down to make way for what he hopes will be more enlightening testimony from the medical examiners.

  CONSTANCE

  The coppers are looking smug. There’s four of them, counting Sergeant Hawkins. He just seems a bit awkward, to be honest. It’s like he doesn’t really want to be here, or rather he doesn’t want to sit next to his bosses. They are stuck in the mud and won’t budge at the moment. Catherine was drunk and accidentally strangled herself, that’s what they’re saying, but I’m hoping what Mr. Harris, the surgeon, and Doctors Brownfield and Hibbard are about to say will wipe the smiles off their smarmy faces. And it does.

  You can hear a pin drop as they give their evidence. They all say Cath died by another’s hand. It’s not what Old Bill wants to hear. But then, Dr. Bond takes the stand and it’s all changed. He agrees that Cath died by strangulation, but that she wasn’t murdered. All hoity he is when he says that in his opinion Cath fell down in what he called “a state of drunkenness,” and that the neck of her jacket pressed against her windpipe, so as she couldn’t breathe. The memory of her touching her collar, just before she left the pub, reappears in front of my eyes, but I dismiss the notion that it could’ve killed her. I’ve never heard such a load of tosh in my life. At my side, Flo’s fuming. I can tell she’s a mind to stand up and give this Bond a mouthful, but I clamp my arm on hers to stop any such rashness. She’ll only be given the boot from the court, and that won’t do any good at all.

  The day hasn’t turned out like we hoped it would. As we rise to leave, I glance over to where Sergeant Hawkins sat. He’s on his way out, trailing behind that Scottish inspector of his, like one of them bloodhounds they planned to set a-sniffing on Saucy Jack’s trail. He doesn’t bother to look my way. Flo’s still on edge. />
  “Any fool will tell ya she was murdered,” she mutters to herself as we slowly make our way out of the main door. There’s bodies pressed all around us. It’s like half of Poplar’s turned out for the inquest, so it takes a while for us to reach outside. When we do, who should we see but Sergeant Hawkins’s boss speechifying to a pack of pressmen?

  “So, in conclusion, gentlemen, we are still holding to the theory that no murder has been committed.”

  The little cluster of men with notebooks erupts around him. There’s a flash and the sound of breaking glass as a photographer’s bulb hits the ground; but undeterred, Inspector McCullen plows on through them toward his waiting carriage. Behind him follows Sergeant Hawkins. We stop to watch the police’s top brass as they pile in.

  Flo nudges me. “’Ere, look there’s your man again.”

  We watch as he’s about to climb in the carriage, when he turns and catches sight of me. I can’t be certain, but I think there’s almost a look of an apology on his face.

  “He’s no man of mine” is all I say to Flo.

  CHAPTER 23

  Thursday, January 3, 1889

  CONSTANCE

  We’re off to pay our respects to Cath’s mother, Margaret, in Pelham Street. Ma’s already been round to offer her sympathies, but seeing her yesterday at the inquest, all lost and frail, made us feel that sorry for her. It also got me thinking. The answers she gave the coroner were so woolly that, at the end of the day, no one took her serious. Only there was something she said that made me sit up and pay notice. Cath never mentioned she had a brother.

  “Did you ever meet William?” I ask Flo before we reach the end of our row.

  “Na,” she replies. “Bit of a black sheep, he is.”