The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  His back is to me, but I see he is a gentleman—tall and broad in a well-cut frock coat. The next thing I know, a baby is crying lustily, filling its lungs with the air of this strange, new world. The gentleman moves aside so that I see for the first time that the woman who cradles her newborn in a shawl is Miss Louisa. She draws back the swaddling so the man can see the child; but instead of showing any interest, he backs away.

  Miss Tindall looks at him and starts to plead with him, but, ignoring her entreaties, he moves toward the door. All the while, he is shaking his head and lifting his hands, as if to push something away.

  “No!” I scream as I jerk up from my pillow.

  “What the . . . ?” Flo’s up, too, her hand clamped on her chest to still her thumping heart. She blinks away her sleep, trying to make sense of what’s just happened before flopping back down. “Gawd save us from your bleeding nightmares!” she cries.

  I don’t make a fuss. “Sorry” is all I say in a breathless whisper as my own heart calms itself. I lie down again, only this time I know there’s no use trying to sleep. I think on the dream and on what I’ve just realized. The gentleman I saw in my vision is not just Miss Louisa’s lover and the father of her baby—he’s also the man who betrayed Miss Tindall. He’s the one who helped send her to her death. He may look handsome and charming on the outside, but inside he’s a coward without a backbone. He’s the one who wouldn’t speak up for what he knew to be right. He even kept silent about a murder, because he was so afraid of his powerful father.

  I feel as though I know him already, and yet we’ve never met. But I have a notion that’s all about to change. I’m not sure how or where, but I’m convinced I shall soon be making the acquaintance of Mr. Robert Sampson.

  CHAPTER 26

  Saturday, January 5, 1889

  CONSTANCE

  East India Docks is no place for a woman who wants to keep herself in tact, if you get my meaning. It’s no place for a woman at all, in fact. Life is hard here, even harder than in Whitechapel. Brutal, you might say. That’s the word. The minute you cross under these massive gates, topped off with the great stone arch, it’s like you’re going into another world.

  For a start, there’s men with turbans or funny upside-down flowerpots on their heads. There’s lascars from India and Chinamen, too. The air’s different, and all. There’s the pong and the salty tang of the Thames, but there’s spices as well: cinnamon and ground ginger. There’s colors that shock the eye and lift the heart, bales of silk in blue, green, and gold. They come in on the great ships that sail the seven seas and all the cargoes need unloading. That’s where the dockers figure. It’s tough for them. The work’s not regular, see. When a ship arrives, the men are chosen by the foreman, who looks them up and down, like they were cattle. He’ll only takes the strongest, or the ones who’ll do him favors. They’re all so eager to get work that they sometimes trample each other underfoot or fight for the chance of a day’s graft.

  And somewhere in among this teeming mass of men, horses, carts, and wagons, I’m hoping to find Cath’s brother, Will. I’m wondering why he hasn’t called to see his ma to comfort her, or why he’ll not be at the funeral, and I’m wondering if he can tell me anything about the company his sister kept that might help track down her killer.

  My first stop’s the foreman’s office. It’s crammed with men, milling around, waiting to be called when a ship comes into dock. The stink’s nearly as bad as a backyard privy, but I take my courage in both hands and push and shove my way to the front. It’s not easy. I’m grabbed and groped as I go, but I manage to fight off the dirty hands and arrive breathless in front of a man who seems to be in charge.

  “Sir!” I yell above the palaver. “Sir, I’m looking for William Mylett.”

  “What?” The foreman’s pockmarked face leers down at me for a moment. He’s got other things on his mind and is shocked to see a woman among the rabble. “Be off with ya!” he scowls.

  “William Mylett!” I yell louder, like my life depends upon it. “His sister’s dead!”

  “What?” He’s taking notice now.

  “William Mylett. I need to find him. His sister’s dead and his poor mother needs him.”

  For a moment, I think he might help me. For a second, I think he has words in his throat, but the right ones don’t come out. “No. Can’t help. Now get out, will ya, before you cause a riot.” He’s pointing back toward the entrance.

  I turn toward the gaggle of men. They jostle me and grab at my breasts, then one pushes me forward, knocking my bonnet over my eyes, and I fall into the arms of another. Pulling back my hat, I look up and am blasted in the face with the stench of stale breath and see a row of rotting teeth above me. I manage to push away and struggle through more grasping hands, until at last I find the door. I stumble out, straighten my bonnet, and smooth my skirts. There’s a tear in the hem. I’m just inspecting it, when I hear a voice behind me.

  “You need a hand, miss?”

  I switch round to see a scrawny little boy with a freckled face. He can’t be more than ten. I think he’s looking to scam me and I press my hand over my apron pocket, where I keep a couple of farthings.

  “I’ll manage,” I say, looking at him all wary. I straighten up and point myself in the direction of the big gates, but he scoots in front of me. He’s going to rob me, I’m sure of it, but no.

  “You looking for Will Mylett?” he asks, his head tilted to one side.

  I stop in my tracks. “You know him?”

  “I knows him, all right, but what’s it worth to you?”

  You don’t get something for nothing in this neck o’ the woods, so I delve into my pocket and bring out a coin. I hold it in front of him. “Spill the beans, then. Where is he?”

  Freckles shakes his matted head. “Ain’t seen him since afore Christmas,” he tells me. “We was mates, but then he scarpered.” He lunges for the farthing, thinking he’s earned his money. I think otherwise, so I lift it up in the air out of easy reach.

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “Dunno,” he says with a shrug, then reaches again for the coin.

  “Where’s he gone?” I repeat, holding the farthing even higher.

  “They say he’s jumped ship.”

  “Jumped ship? Where’s he gone?”

  “Dunno. I swear. All I know is, he’s been gone nigh on three weeks.”

  “Three weeks,” I repeat. Around the time of Cath’s murder, I think. “His sister’s dead. Does he know?”

  The boy shrugs his shoulders and raises his grubby palms to the sky. “Search me.”

  I think he’s telling the truth, so I hand over his reward. “You hear anything and there’ll be another farthing in it for you,” I tell him. “Just leave word at the George in Poplar. Constance is my name. Constance Piper.”

  The boy nods as he bites my coin. “Will do,” he tells me, lifting his hand to his temple in a little salute before he turns tail and runs off.

  I can’t leave the dockside soon enough, but I’m taking my troubles with me. If Will Mylett has done a runner, why would that be, unless he’s got something to hide, or unless he’s hiding from someone? I’m more confused than ever, and certainly no nearer to finding out the truth.

  EMILY

  The postboys of London are very busy at the moment. Louisa Fortune did not have to wait long for a reply to her letter. It was sent by return.

  Dearest Louisa,

  Your news came as a terrible shock to me. I thank God for your safe delivery and accept that I have hitherto been a neglectful father, but you should not have to go through this difficult time alone. It pains me to think of the deep anxiety this woman is causing you.

  I therefore suggest we meet tomorrow at three o’clock at the tearooms we regularly favored to discuss the matter. Together we will see our way through this problem.

  Yours truly,

  Robert

  It is much later in the day when Albert Cosgrove receives a letter; evening to
be precise. In the relaxing parlor of his rented Poplar home, he is making up a well-deserved pipe. He’ll soon enjoy a glass of sherry and peruse his newspaper before Lotte calls him through for dinner. For all intents and purposes he is a man of means, self-made and comfortable. That is what he would like us all to believe. Today and for the foreseeable future, he will be Albert Cosgrove. That is until there comes such as time, as there inevitably will, when he is obliged to become Austen Richards, Walter Collins, Edmund Blunt or one of a half dozen soubriquets at his disposal. He hopes he can reside at least a few more weeks in Poplar. If they play their cards right and attract no more suspicion, they won’t have to up sticks for pastures new, as they have so often in the past. Two months here, six months there - as if it isn’t hard enough to find work in the drapery business without such interruptions. Then there’s always the matter of forging references. Yes, he thinks. He could get used to this life of a comfortably-off haberdasher. Settling himself in his favorite arm chair by a blazing fire, he opens his pouch and packs down the tobacco into the bowl of his favorite pipe and sucks.

  A copy of the evening newspaper lies folded on the console table by his side. He reaches for it just as Lotte scampers in with his aperitif on a silver-plated tray, together with a fistful of letters she’s collected from the post office.

  “Ah, good,” he says, addressing the housemaid. “I was wondering about today’s post.”

  Lotte sets down the tray, bobs a curtsey and leaves.

  Philomena looks up from her sewing. “More letters, Albert?” She emphasis the word ‘more’ as if to draw his attention to the fact that each one means more work for her, since she is the one who has to reply to most of them.

  Albert seizes upon the stash with glee, just as Mother waddles into the room. “The dear child’s all tucked up, to be sure,” she informs the ‘dear child’s’ parents. Isabel is always so well-behaved for her grandmother, especially compared with the other wretches. Philomena looks at her mother gratefully. Cosgrove, however, is preoccupied with the post.

  “Another crop of desperates,” he mutters, leafing through the envelopes. It’s his custom to study how the address is written. He’s become something of an expert at judging the class of the writer. He always opens the ones from the most-educated first. He knows they can be charged higher fees because they have their reputations to lose as well as everything else. “There are more out there than we dreamed!” he remarks. He’s in a merry mood even before he takes his first sip of sherry.

  Mother seats herself on a winged chair beside her son-in-law. It was she who recommended the wording of the advertisement. Posing as a woman married to a doctor has always worked well in her experience. It gives that extra cache and, of course, it attracts the quality, too. Yes, it was a penny well spent, the day she paid for that advertisement. All they’d had to do was wait for the losers, the nay-sayers and the nowhere-else-to-goers to come flocking to their door. They did not have to wait long. They must have had more than a dozen replies since settling in Poplar. Some of the leads have, of course, fallen by the wayside when a statement of charges was returned to enquirers by post. It seems that a handful were not prepared to pay extra for doctors’ visits and medicaments.

  After all, they are entering into a business transaction. There can be no room for sentimentality. Others enquiries have, however, borne fruit. The first two to arrive at this address were from genteel persons; one a mother enquiring on behalf of her wayward daughter, the other a lady of means. There were two shop girls who’d succumbed to their managers and a bar maid—there are always bar maids.

  Today’s batch of post has produced three more letters of potential interest. One of them stands out. Albert Cosgrove considers the hand to be reasonably educated, but not a lady’s. It’s far too labored for that. And the loops on those g’s and y’s are way too fat. He removes his pipe from between his lips and slits the seal with a paper knife he has nearby.

  “Now here’s an interesting one,” he proclaims, examining the script. He reads aloud: “‘Dear “Mother,” I find myself in a very difficult posishion and have no one in the world I can turn to.’ ” He looks up and smiles broadly. “Violins, please, ladies!” He carries on: “‘I fear that I can no longer hide my condishion and would therefore seek your help in this delicate matter.’” He looks over to Mother. “Worth a pretty penny to us, I’d say.”

  Mother nods, then counting on her chubby fingers, tots up the sums. “Delivery, board, and adoption. Good for fifteen quid at least, to be sure.”

  Both of them are so pleased with the prospect of such riches that are surely about to come their way that the newspaper remains neglected on the console table. Tomorrow its sheets will be separated and laid on the upstairs bed to be used for the next woman to birth. Had Albert Cosgrove but read it, however, he would have seen a small insertion at the bottom of the third page whose headline reads: SECOND BABY FOUND STRANGLED.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sunday, January 6, 1889

  EMILY

  They have agreed to rendezvous at the tearooms off Fleet Street, where they had met before under less stressful circumstances; it is a public place, true, but the establishment has an intimate corner that is screened from the other tables. It is here that Louisa heads, and here that she finds Robert Sampson already waiting. He rises quickly. She thinks him even more handsome than she remembered him: lush, dark hair and those eyes that are so piercing that she knows there is no point in having any secrets.

  It’s been six months since they parted. She remembers the date very well, the sixteenth day of July. In the evening, she’d contemplated taking her own life. She’d even trudged to Waterloo Bridge and pondered on joining the many who throw themselves off its parapets most weeks. And then . . . she’d remembered that she would have been taking not just her own life, but another’s, too. So, forlornly she’d turned and walked away from the water.

  Of course, she’s explained everything, albeit briefly, to Robert in the fifth draft of her letter. She’d contemplated tearing that one up, too, and starting again, but then she’d thought better of it. There was no harm in revealing her anguish. She was already vulnerable and she lacked the will to hide it. It seems to have achieved the desired effect.

  Robert watches her as she appears. The flame inside him flickers, but he must douse it, in public at least. She proffers her hand by way of formal greeting and slides gracefully onto the banquette. He thinks she has lost weight since he last saw her, but it only adds to her fragility. How delicate she looks to him. How he longs to protect her. He hopes she will allow him. They sit opposite each other. He orders tea for two. Lapsang souchong—their favorite—and a plate of langues de chat for her.

  As soon as they are alone, they both begin talking simultaneously.

  “Louisa.” “Robert.” “My dear.” “My love.” “Forgive me. I . . .”

  Their words buff against each other. They are united in their concern. Robert reaches across the table and Louisa puts both her small hands in his. “I cannot tell you how . . .”

  “No. No, you must not blame yourself.”

  “But I do.”

  “We agreed that he should be adopted.”

  “Only because I didn’t have the courage to stand up to my father.”

  She knows what Robert Sampson says is true. He had been forced to make a choice, and he had chosen his father over her. Part of her thought it understandable, but the other thought it unforgivable. Her heart is so full of feelings that she thinks it might burst. And yet, despite this, despite the hardship and the unbearable suffering he has caused her, I still see love for him in her eyes. It is such a strange thing; this candle that burns so brightly inside some of us who have been wronged, as if we are moths drawn to a flame. And yet, wait . . . there is something in Robert’s eyes, too. He has admitted his own weakness. Perhaps there is hope that this flame may also be rekindled.

  It was, indeed, his weakness that contributed to my own passing. I shall n
ever forget that fateful night. I knew great evil was being perpetrated against some of the girls who were my pupils at Sunday school. I suspected a regular visitor to my class. Dr. Melksham claimed to be the agent of a benefactor, but I discovered he was abducting the girls and delivering them into prostitution. That is why I followed the doctor’s carriage one afternoon, when I knew he had one of my girls on board. To my horror, I found she had been drugged and taken to some sort of vile quasi-Masonic ceremony to initiate new members. Robert was one such.

  I came from out of the shadows to save an innocent child from being so cruelly abused, but he did nothing to protect me. He betrayed me to his domineering father and his vile cohorts. He could have defended me, but he chose not to. The stain will be on his character for the rest of his life, unless he repents and atones for his grievous sin against me. Facing up to his responsibilities for Louisa and his son would go some way, and I am beginning to think he may be on the verge of making amends.

  Louisa stirs sugar into her tea, contemplating the vortex her spoon is creating in the muddy liquid. After a moment, she lifts her face. “What shall we do, Robert?”

  He juts out his chin in a show of defiance. “We shall find him.” He takes her hands. “We shall find our son.”

  “But how? The woman will tell me nothing. I don’t even know where she is living now. She was in Stepney, but has since moved and could be somewhere in Poplar, although I have no idea where.” The words tumble out breathlessly before she pauses to say: “And going to the police is out of the question.”