by Tessa Harris
“How d’ya mean?”
“Done time, he has.”
“What for?” I ask.
“He’s a docker, down at East India. Done for pilfering. Got hard labor.”
“That’s enough,” Ma suddenly snaps. It’s not like her, but the mention of William Mylett’s name seems to have rubbed her the wrong way. “As if poor Maggie ain’t got enough on her plate, as it is.”
So that’s where our conversation ended, but I must confess it’s one of the reasons I’m so keen to visit Mrs. Mylett. I need to find out more about her son. It wouldn’t surprise me if when she said he worked for the government, she really meant he was toiling at Her Majesty’s pleasure, if you get my drift.
Anyway, Mrs. Mylett has told Ma she don’t want no one going to Cath’s funeral. Just a quiet affair, she says. We have to understand that each of us grieves in our own ways. Some want show, or support, and others just want to spend a quiet time before the burial. But we put our mourning clothes on; the ones were wore for Catherine Eddowes’s funeral back in September, just to show willing. We’re armed with a quarter of tea, half a Dundee cake from Mr. B’s last visit, and a bunch of winter roses, in the hope that we’ll lighten poor Mrs. Mylett’s dark day. It’s like Flo and me are trying to make it up to her for us leaving her daughter to fend for herself. That feeling of guilt is still festering inside me. What if we’d walked a way down the road with her? What if we’d stayed and seen her to her doss house?
I’m dreading Mrs. Mylett will ask us how it was that we left Cath late at night. Never mind that she worked on the streets. She needed protection like any other woman—more than any other woman—in the East End. She was vulnerable and sick. And Flo and me let her down.
The three of us link arms, Ma in the middle and Flo and me on either side, as we walk down Brick Lane. What a sight for sore eyes we must look, but we’re together and that’s what counts. Soon we turn down Pelham Street and knock. The door is answered by a woman the image of Cath, only plumper and with fair hair. It turns out she’s her cousin Fanny, but she don’t live round here. She’s just come to stay with her aunt. She don’t know us from Eve; but when Mrs. Mylett hears Ma’s voice, the old lady shuffles through.
“Patience?” she says, like she’s surprised to see Ma, even though we’d arranged everything beforehand.
“Yes, Maggie. Had you forgotten we was popping round? We said yesterday, at the . . .”
Mrs. Mylett touches her temple. I notice her fingers are like claws with the arthritis. “So you did. My memory’s not what it was,” she replies, managing a smile. “And you’ve brought your girls! ’Tis good to see you all, again.”
We’re ushered into the parlor, where there’s a fire in the grate, and Fanny fetches two chairs from the kitchen so we can all sit down. Mr. Mylett used to labor at the starch works before he passed over. Ma once said he had a bit of a roving eye, and I know life’s always been hard for them, but no worse than ours. And at least William seems to be giving his ma a helping hand, although I bet she never asks where he gets his money.
Looking round the room, I see there’s a photograph on the dresser. I assume it’s of Will—taken with Cath. It’s an old one, because she looks much younger. She was so carefree in them days, and he had wild curls that framed a cheeky face. Fanny disappears into the kitchen to make us all a brew and I offer Mrs. M the cake.
“Plate’s on the dresser, love,” she says, pointing with her hooked finger.
It looks a nice bit of porcelain, painted all fancy with gold edging. I can see Ma and Flo eyeing it, too, before our halved Dundee cake lands on it. Mrs. Mylett cuts it into five small slices with a shaky hand.
“Help yourselves, do,” she says. So I do the honors.
Fanny comes back soon after with the tea. Once we’ve got our cups filled, it’s difficult to know where to begin. The pouring and the fussing was a sort of ritual, like a service in church when everyone knows how to behave, but now that it’s done, we’re a bit stuck as to what we should do next. Fanny’s all settled, but quiet, and Flo and me are hoping Mrs. Mylett will lead us. And she does; but when she does speak, it’s not what we want to be reminded of.
“The police told me you were out with our Rose the night she . . . that night,” she manages. Rose was her name for Cath.
Flo darts me an uneasy look and nods. “We went for a drink,” she volunteers. “She seemed down, so we thought we’d cheer her up.”
Fanny smiles and pats her aunt’s shoulder. Mrs. Mylett shakes her head. “She’d not been well for a while. Troubled, she was.” Her voice quavers. “Little Evie dying . . .” Her tired eyes brim with tears. “I said I’d have her, you see, that I’d look after the mite. Rose was that excited to think I’d be minding her, instead of that woman. But the good Lord saw fit to take her before I could.”
That woman. The second I hear her say “that woman,” I feel my hackles rise. I think of the haunted look in Cath’s eyes when she spoke of her lost little one.
“That woman?” I say out loud this time.
Mrs. Mylett nods. “Little Evie’s minder. Rose was going to put her up for adoption, so when I said I’d look after her, well, she was that pleased.”
I want to know more. I need to know more. My mind flashes back to that last night in the George and to Cath’s fiery words: “It’s not right. The babes, dying so young.” I think of the dead baby in the marketplace, too, and the one washed up on the riverbank. Then I’m minded of Miss Louisa’s Bertie. There’s a link. There has to be. Miss Tindall’s brought them all together in front of me. I just need proof that the same woman is the one behind all three deaths.
My mind’s all in a whirl when something Ma says brings me back to the moment. “I’m sure William’s being a comfort to you,” she says as Fanny pours us all some more tea. But the mention of his name doesn’t seem to go down that well with Mrs. Mylett, nor with Fanny. Ma searches her friend’s face for an explanation.
“Does as he pleases, ’e does,” replies Fanny, shaking her head. “We’ve not seen him since . . .” Her voice trails off.
“I’m sure he’ll be round soon,” says Ma. She always sees the good in everyone.
Mrs. Mylett dusts talk of her son under the rug and switches to me and Flo. She says: “There’s a few bits and bobs that our Rose left in her old room. Just nicknacks. I’d like you girls to help yourselves to a keepsake of her. I can’t manage the stairs no more. Fanny’s things are in there at the moment, but there’s a tin. You’ll see it. Will ya do that for me, now?” She’s tilting her head and managing to smile. “Up the stairs and to the right. Off you go.”
I look at Ma. She nods her head as if to say: “It’s what Cath would’ve wanted.” So we both rise and take our leave, climbing the steep stairs up to a small room. I’m ahead of Flo, and as I cross the threshold, I suddenly feel peculiar again.
“You all right?” Flo asks me sudden, peering at me like she’s worried for me. Of course, I can’t tell her that I’m not; I’m feeling how I felt just before Miss Tindall came to me.
“Yes,” I answer.
On top of the chest of drawers is a biscuit tin with a picture of a pretty cottage on it. Me and Flo swap wary glances. We’re both pulled to it, even though it seems all wrong doing this; it’s like we’re crows picking over carrion.
“Go on,” says Flo to me as we eye the tin. “Open it.”
“Why me?” I protest.
She comes back: “You’re the one who’s good with death. You’re more comfortable with it than me.” I think it an odd thing to say, but I suppose it’s true. It certainly feels strange going into someone’s room when they’re no longer among us, but there’s something almost comforting about it, like they’re next door. I look about at the single bed and the chest of drawers, only I don’t just clock them. Suddenly I see what they’re made of, every detail: the knots and grains in the wood, the stitches and weave of the coverlet on the bed. Everything’s drawn into sharp focus, clear and crisp
as a frosty morning.
The tin looms up into my vision, then settles down again. I know I’m meant to open the lid, so I do. There’s not much inside. A lock of blond hair—Evie’s, I guess—tied with a pink ribbon, a needle case, a sprig of dried hop flowers—a souvenir of when she went picking in Kent—a large whelk shell, a few odd buttons, and another faded photograph of Cath, taken when she was much younger. The smell of the hops fills the room. It reminds me of tea leaves and hay. Flo picks up the needle case. It’s made of cream felt. There’s a pink rose embroidered on the front. I recall there was one like it on her hankie.
“Why does Cath’s ma call her Rose?” I ask.
Flo’s lips twitch. “She used to say she were her rosebud when she was little. It just stuck, I s’pose.” She opens the flap on the needle case.
Inside there are three needles and a few pins.
“You have it,” I say.
My own eyes stray back to the photograph. I lift it up from the tin and study Cath’s girlish face. Her look seems so eager and full of hope, and her lips are shaped in a smile. I don’t remember seeing her smile of late, except when she talked of her Evie. Come to think of it, she didn’t have much to smile about at all. How did her life go so wrong? I wonder. How did it go from this pretty, happy girl to . . . ?
And just as the question is flitting through my mind, just as I’m pondering on her misfortune, I think I notice her image change in front of me. As I hold the photograph in my hand, Cath starts to age. The skin on her face is scraped back and pulled tight over her cheekbones. Her eyes narrow and there’s a fear in them. Lines appear on her forehead and around her mouth. Her expression is suddenly pained and the lips, which have lost all their plumpness, begin to move. I watch transfixed as I realize she’s trying to say something to me. I want to scream. This isn’t real. I want to be rid of the photograph, but my hands are locked on it, just as they were locked that night at the Egyptian Hall. And then I hear her voice. Distant at first, like a whisper, until it grows louder and louder and I can hear what she’s saying. “She killed her!” she cries. “She killed her.”
A heavy weight presses on my shoulders and chest. Panic seizes me, but I can’t shake it off. I feel my tongue thrashing inside my mouth, and the words are fighting to break free. “Who?” I choke back. “Who killed who?”
“What?” asks Flo, swirling round, the needle case still in her hand. “What you on about?”
As she turns, I see a scrap of paper fall out of the case and float down to the floor; and suddenly I’m released from whatever had a grip on me. I look at Flo, then glance back at the photograph. Cath is a young girl again. My eyes drop to the floor and I know I need to reach down and pick up the paper because it is not just a loose scrap. It’s a fragment that’s been torn from a newspaper.
“What you got there?” asks Flo, craning her neck to get a view.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just a bit of old scrap,” I tell her. I pretend to turn my attention to the rest of the tin’s contents as I study the cutting before dropping it into my apron pocket. It’s caught my eye, you see. It’s an advertisement and the sight of it has slammed into my brain and sent my heart racing. It reads: Respectable woman and her doctor husband seek up to four children to call their own. Good food and sound education guaranteed. Terms from £10. Address: Mother, Post Office, Poplar.
The woman who minded little Evie must be the same woman who’s stolen Miss Louisa’s Bertie. She must be Mother Delaney. This torn piece of paper might be the proof I’m looking for. It may even hold the key to at least one murder. It’s up to me to follow the lead.
CHAPTER 24
EMILY
In a shabby boardinghouse in Cheltenham, Louisa Fortune is writing a letter. It is to the father of her child, the man who seduced her and then who, because of his family’s disapproval, abandoned her when he discovered she was pregnant. Most men would sympathize with him, no doubt. He stood to lose his inheritance, after all. Most women, however, would call him a lily-livered coward, incapable of facing up to his responsibilities. But I am not here to judge. I am merely reporting what I see.
The room is ill lit. There’s a rush lamp on the table, which serves as a writing desk. A small fire has long burned itself out. Its residual heat is fast ebbing away and Louisa twitches her shawl around her shoulders as she re-reads the letter she has just penned. It is her fifth draft. She began very stiffly—Dear Robert—but her tone has softened with each version, for she remembers how much she loved him, and he her. Her fourth draft was ruined by her inconvenient tears, which caused the ink to run. For the fifth, she kept her handkerchief in plain sight and managed to sign her name before she began to cry once more. The letter now reads thus:
My dearest Robert,
Believe me I have no wish to burden you with my woes. We agreed that it would be best for all our sakes to go our separate ways. I can now tell you I was safely delivered of a beautiful, healthy boy in October. I named him Robert in your honor. Although it broke my heart, I left him, as we previously discussed, in the care of a woman who assured me she would love him as her own. I, however, found it harder than I could have imagined to part with our dearest little boy.
Before I paid her the last installment of her adoption fee, I confess I succumbed to my maternal weakness and would have asked her to board our son on a weekly basis. However, this minder, a woman of previously good character who supplied excellent references, has betrayed my trust. Twice she has failed to produce him at our appointments, on very flimsy pretexts, so now I am distraught beyond words. At our second meeting she told me she had already placed him with adoptive parents. Worse still, she will not tell me where they live, or indeed anything about our child’s welfare or whereabouts. She is taking advantage of my sex and my vulnerability by treating me so contemptuously.
Dearest Robert, I know that our circumstances will forever keep us apart, but I would ask one last thing of you—that you support me as I approach this woman a final time so that Bertie and I can be reunited.
I will be forever in your debt.
Yours most truly,
Louisa
Meanwhile, several miles away in a room that is even shabbier and colder than Louisa Fortune’s, Constance is also writing a letter. Her hand is rather more labored than the governess’s. There are few curlicues and loops. Hers is the sort of script copied on a slate in the ragged school, but she learned her lessons well, and the hours of replication she has completed are evident in the even spacing, neat formation, and accurate crossing of t’s that I, as her former teacher, would have expected of her. Her spelling and punctuation are also remarkably good. I spot just two mistakes. I will her to rectify them, but she takes no notice of me. This evening, she does not heed my presence. However, on this occasion, it is of no consequence. Her letter is in reply to the advertisement that was secreted in the biscuit tin in Catherine’s room.
Of course, I directed her there, and she has acted upon its discovery, as I hoped she would. It is no coincidence that the address given in the cutting is in Poplar, nor that the wording is exactly the same as the advertisement Louisa answered, too.
Constance wisely chooses to write under my name. Her response reads thus:
Dear “Mother,”
Seeing your advertisement in the East London News the other day, I pray you can help me. I find myself in a very difficult posishion and have no one in the world I can turn to. I fear that I can no longer hide my condishion and would therefore seek your help in this delicate matter. I beg you to consider taking me in for my delivery any time now.
My circumstances mean that I cannot keep the child and, to avoid shame on my own family, I would seek its full adoption. I would like the child to go to a loving and Christian family and would ask that you consider it.
If you are interested, perhaps you could kindly send a line to let me know where and when we might meet.
Please address your reply to 29 White’s Row, Whitechapel, London.
&n
bsp; I am your servant, madam,
Emily Tindall (Miss)
CHAPTER 25
Friday, January 4, 1889
EMILY
Today it is the turn of little Nellie. “Well, what a bonnie thing you are, to be sure,” says Mother, inspecting the infant as she lies on the kitchen table. “That dress has come up nice, so it has,” she tells Philomena, examining the flounce on a garment that once belonged to another child, now deceased.
Her daughter nods. It wasn’t easy putting the creases back into the gown. Lotte proved completely incapable of the work. Moreover, in this weather, even a crimping iron feels the cold, but she’d managed it and was pleased with her efforts.
“I’m off to Paddington,” Mother announces, tying the child’s bonnet. She’s rough and takes no care. She sets the little girl crying.
Philomena picks up Isabel, who’s standing nearby. She’s worried the babe’s whimpering will set her off, too. She hugs her and strokes her golden hair.
“A couple from Bath,” Mother continues, scooping the baby into her fat arms. “They’re paying handsome for this one, so she’s got to look her best.” But wait, something snags on her shawl. The matron looks down to see the child still wears a silver christening bracelet. “Well, I’ll be,” she says with a tut. “We’ll be having that, won’t we now.” She scowls at her daughter from under her bonnet. Philomena steps forward quickly and unfastens the bracelet. It’ll be added to the stash they have amassed since Christmas.
CONSTANCE
The day has seemed even longer than usual, but until I’ve had a reply to my letter, there is not much more I can do. I can’t say I’m sorry when it’s time for bed, but even then, sleep brings little relief. I finally drift off, thinking about the photograph I saw on Mrs. Mylett’s dresser, the one of Cath and her brother. But it’s not them I dream about.
Tonight I’m looking at a young woman on a bed. She’s in the pangs of labor. Her hair’s wet with sweat and plastered round her head. Her red face is all screwed up with pain. She fills the room with noises that come from somewhere deep inside her. They don’t sound human. At her shoulder stands another woman, about the same age, who’s trying to comfort her. Wait! It’s Miss Tindall—her hair, the way she carries herself. Yes, it’s Miss Tindall. She’s been sponging the other woman’s forehead, whispering to her, saying it won’t be long now. But a shadow is suddenly cast across the bed and her head lifts to see a man standing at the foot.
