The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  Lifting up her skirts, she teeters round a large pothole and negotiates a pile of splintered wood that’s been dumped against a wall. She can see the alley narrows, although there is light at the end of it. Still, the fear nibbles at her thoughts. Perhaps she should turn around and head back to the high street. Yes, she should. After all, she’s got her baby to consider, too. And so she wheels round to face the entrance. At the same moment, in front of her, she sees something move in the shadows. It’s a man. She must’ve passed him and not noticed him before. A knot of fear grips her throat. He’s coming toward her. She backs away, but he starts to cough out an odd laugh as he draws closer.

  “Don’t tell me you came down ’ere to take in the scenery, your ladyship.” His voice is gruff and husky and he wears a peaked cap, so that his eyes are hidden. He makes an exaggerated bow and flourishes his hand, so that his palm comes to rest on his breast. On this hand, Florence can see clearly the inked outline of a naked woman. Her eyes widen and he barks out another laugh.

  “Recognize me now, don’t ya?” he smirks.

  Florence swallows hard. “Keep away from me,” she tells him, trying to sidestep. “Keep away!” But he jerks in front of her and grabs her by the arm. He brings his face close to hers. “Your friend never made such a fuss,” he growls into her ear.

  “My friend?” she bleats.

  He pulls her arm back behind her waist. “The one you was with in the George before Christmas.”

  Cath, she thinks. He killed her and now he’s going to kill me. Fear crawls across her skin like a thousand spiders. In a moment, she knows she’ll feel his hands at her throat, and he’ll push his thumbs against her windpipe and she’ll be fighting for breath. He’ll show no mercy, pressing harder and harder until there’ll be nothing but darkness and she’ll fall. Just like Catherine. Then she remembers her baby. She must not give in, for the child’s sake. A great surge of energy floods her body.

  “No!” she screams, and with all her might, she lunges back and breaks free of the brute’s grasp. Wasting not a second, she skirts around the pothole and down the alley, but her freedom is short-lived. He’s back behind her, clawing at her shoulders, but this time she manages to dive forward. With her free hand, she grabs a broken plank. Brandishing it above her own head, she flails blindly behind her until it jars in her hand. She’s hit something hard and the tugging stops. He reels back. She spins round to see him right himself; and this time, he lurches toward her with a clenched fist that slams into her belly. His knuckles rob her of her breath and she doubles over. Pain shoots through her like a red-hot poker. He sees her winded, so he strikes again. She feels his hands about her throat once more. There’s no fight left in her. This is it.

  “What goes on?” A voice comes loud and clear. There’s someone calling from the entrance to the passage.

  Florence feels the brute’s hands slacken suddenly. He pivots and sprints the other way. There’s no time to lose. She recovers herself and, despite her pain, staggers out of the passage, not daring to look behind. She pauses only to catch her ragged breath once she has reached the safety of the high street. Her savior, a balding shopkeeper, stands anxiously waiting.

  “You all right, love?” he asks as Florence doubles up, gasping for air. After a moment, she manages to straighten herself. Her nerves are like bedsprings, flexing all over her body.

  “Yes,” she says. “Thank you,” she mumbles.

  “Can’t be too careful, with Jack and all at the moment,” the shopkeeper warns, as if she didn’t know. She also knows that she has just been attacked by Cath’s killer. She needs to tell the police, but first she has to find refuge and a sympathetic ear. “I’m looking for Clarke’s Yard,” she tells the shopkeeper. “It’s near, ain’t it?”

  “Up yonder,” he says, pointing across the road to the mouth of another passageway.

  “I’m much obliged,” Florence pants with a nod. She starts back across the street.

  “Take care now!” the shopkeeper calls after her. But Florence doesn’t hear him. She’s already halfway over the road and the pain is growing with each step she takes.

  CONSTANCE

  I know what I heard. The blacksmith told me William Mylett jumped a ship to New York the day after he killed Cath. He seemed quite sure of himself, but I don’t know how he can be. I’ve been so deep in thought since I started back home from the Cruelty Men’s office, I’ve not been paying attention to where I’m heading. I find myself stepping off the pavement on Commercial Street and into the path of a cart.

  My head jerks up to see a fist balled and raised at me. “Will you mind where you’re bleedin’ going?” shouts the driver as he brushes past me, missing me by one or two inches. His rant wakes me up. I look about me. I’m a couple of turnings away from Pelham Street. I’ll go and pay a visit on old Mrs. Mylett, to see if she might have any idea about where her wayward son may be. I’ll still be subtle, mind. I can’t go in there with a sledgehammer if I’m going to keep the truth from hurting her. But I need to track him down.

  In less than two minutes, I’ve got the house in my sights. I’m walking toward it, when I see the door open and a man coming out. I stop and turn away, but then turn back to see it’s someone I know. Mick Donovan, the Irish creep. He pulls his cap down and lifts his collar, but it’s him, all right. I’d recognize that walk of his anywhere. But what business would he have with Mrs. Mylett?

  I wait awhile before I knock. Fanny answers the door, but she greets me with a flinty face. I thought she’d manage a smile, but she’s as cold as Christmas toward me. Her features are all pinched and sour, like she’s been sucking sherbet.

  “Yes?” She greets me in such a surly manner that I think perhaps she hasn’t recognized me.

  “It’s Constance. Constance Piper,” I tell her with a smile. “Cath’s friend.”

  She leans against the doorjamb, one hand on the lintel, blocking the entrance. “I know who you are,” she replies. “If it’s Mrs. Mylett you’re after, she’s not here.” She keeps her voice low, but it’s no use. The old dear has heard her and calls through.

  “Who’s that, Fanny?” she asks.

  Fanny rolls her eyes and is mightily annoyed that she’s been found out. I almost think she’s about to lie to her aunt and tell her I’m a hawker or some such. She shoots me the blackest of looks, but then she flings open the door. “I s’pose you’d best come in, then, but don’t be long. She’s tired,” she tells me grudgingly.

  Fanny leads me into the front room, but I’m quite shocked by what I find. Mrs. Mylett is slumped in an armchair, swathed in blankets. Her hair has broken loose from her bun; and her face is so gaunt, you could cut butter with her cheekbones.

  Fanny can see the shock on my face as she hovers by the door. “’Afternoon, Mrs. Mylett,” I say. “How are you doing?”

  The old woman manages a smile when she sees me, but shakes her head. She lifts a forlorn hand, her fingers all crabby and stiff, but I can tell she’s as weak as small beer. “I’m managing, thanks to Fanny,” she mumbles, glancing at the door. “But I’ve lost my appetite, my dear.”

  She smiles, but she seems not to have the strength to shake her tousled head. I glance across at Fanny.

  “Can’t you see she’s had enough?” she snarls. She’s angry with me for disturbing the old lady. I think I’ve seen all I need. I can tell why I wasn’t welcome.

  I bend low. “I’ll ask Ma to call round,” I tell her, patting her icy hand.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” comes Fanny’s snipe. “She don’t need no visitors, just peace and quiet.”

  I straighten myself and walk toward where Fanny stands, all sullen with her arms crossed, by the front door. But it’s what I see on the floor behind her that makes me take notice. There’s a pair of dirty men’s boots by the skirting. There’s no mistaking she’s got male company. She’s seen my look worm its way to the hobnails and her face hardens. She’s clocked I know there’s a man in the house. I’ve nothing to lose,
so I ask her.

  “Still no sign of Will?” I say, all cheeky, tilting my head at her.

  My question riles her and she unfolds her arms and comes for me.

  “You’re nothing but a mischief maker, you,” she hisses, pointing her finger at me and narrowing her eyes. “You’d best be getting out, if you know what’s good for you.” She flings her arm toward the front door. I think she’ll explode with rage in front of my eyes. Instead, she reaches across, grabs the door handle, and almost bundles me out the open door. “And don’t you come back here again!” she shouts after me, as I move sharpish into the street.

  She needn’t worry. I won’t be visiting in a hurry. But I think Sergeant Hawkins ought to.

  Shocked by what I’ve just uncovered, I start to make my way home. Will Mylett may be Fanny’s cousin, but he’s also his sister’s killer and he’s being sheltered. I need to warn Adam Braithwaite. He already knows too much. He’s in real danger. I have to get to Clarke’s Yard to raise the alarm before Will Mylett silences him for good.

  EMILY

  The door shut on her unwelcome visitor, Fanny returns to the front room. She’s worried, but she’s not sure what to do, so she decides to plump up her aunt’s pillows.

  “She’ll not trouble you again,” she tells the old woman, smoothing her blanket. “The neck of it, calling round here, waltzing in like she owns the place.”

  Margaret Mylett isn’t, however, paying attention to her tetchy niece. She’s too occupied with her own troubles. From out of the blue, she announces: “I know he’s upstairs.”

  Fanny stops fussing with the blanket. “Beg pardon, Auntie?” she says, feigning a smile.

  “I hears ’im,” mumbles the old woman, lifting her eyes toward the ceiling. It’s been months since she could manage the stairs. Her arthritic hips put paid to that, but she’s adamant. “I may forget things, but I’m not deaf. I know he’s up there. I hears ’im with his big boots.”

  Fanny’s eyes widen, but she tries to stay calm. “You’re mistaken, Aunt Maggie. There’s rustling, for sure, on account of the mice, but no one else. Just you and me.”

  The old woman is unconvinced, or is it perhaps that she hasn’t understood a word her niece has said. Either way, she shakes her head.

  “Why can’t I see him?” she whines. “It’s because he don’t trust me, ain’t it?” Her face suddenly crumples into a scowl. She thought she could rely on Will, but he’s turned out to be more like his father, a fly-by-night, than she’d originally supposed. “Whatever he’s done, I’m still his mum, and if you can’t trust your own mother, then there’s no hope left in this world.” The old woman begins to weep.

  CONSTANCE

  Darkness is closing in by the time I reach home. Ma’s got a candle burning in the window. I’ll just reassure her that I’m safe before I set off for Poplar to see Adam Braithwaite. I’m counting on Flo coming with me. I find Ma in the kitchen, slicing a loaf.

  “Flo not back?” I ask. I don’t want to go to Clarke’s Yard alone.

  Ma puts down the knife. “No,” she replies, like she’s surprised at my asking. “She told me she was going to meet you.”

  I frown. “I ain’t . . . ,” I start to say, and then I trail off as I remember the conversation Flo and me had last night, about me not being able to visit Mother Delaney’s house. The idea suddenly blooms inside my brain, like spilt ink on blotting paper. “Oh, my God!” I cry.

  “What is it, love?” Ma frets. “Tell me, Con?”

  I feel my stomach start to knot as I think of Flo taking on Mother Delaney single-handedly. “I know where she’s gone!” I cry.

  EMILY

  The men who work in Clarke’s Yard are already beginning to pack up for the day. It’s almost dark as Florence edges her way along the dank passage toward the workshops that stand lopsidedly against each other. Her heart has steadied a little, and the fear is subsiding, but the pain in her belly is worsening. She’s no idea how she’ll make it back to Whitechapel alone. The thought of the long walk terrifies her. That’s another reason why she’s seeking out this Adam Braithwaite, the blacksmith who was Catherine’s man. He’ll help her, she’s sure of that.

  A brazier offers a little light in the courtyard and some of the men carry lanterns as they file out. One barges against her shoulder as he passes. Already on edge, she expels a cry. The laborer simply peers at her in the semidarkness, then laughs.

  “Lookin’ for business, love?” he gibes, and his friend roars with laughter.

  Florence bites her lip. She feels like crying, but she’s made of sterner stuff. She presses on, squinting into the gloom. Ahead of her in the blackness, she can make out a red glow. She thinks it must be the forge. She quickens her pace toward it.

  “Hello,” she calls nervously, ducking down below a beam at the entrance. The heat from the furnace makes the forge warm, but the fire’s long gone out. Yet there’s an odd smell. She sniffs. It reminds her of Greenland’s, when they singe the fowls’ feathers to dress them.

  It seems there’s no one about and her heart sinks. Perhaps the blacksmith has left for the day. She may even have passed him on his way out. As her eyes adjust to the gloomy light, all the paraphernalia of a farrier is before her. From a beam on the roof, there hangs an intimidating array of tools that, if she didn’t know better, she’d think were instruments of torture. There are chains and tongs and long-handled pincers that could rip out a tooth or tear off a finger, just as soon as they could remove a nail from a horseshoe.

  “Mr. Braithwaite,” she calls, only a little louder this time. There’s no one here. She ventures farther into the workshop. She thinks she can make out another door in the wall. Gingerly she steps toward it, just in case he’s working out the back. It’s many a long year since she’s prayed, but she’s praying now. She mumbles under her breath, “Where are you? Please be here.” She’s hoping that he’ll soon emerge and take care of her. Constance said he seemed a caring man. He’ll look after her and protect her from the brute with the tattoo. He may even see her safely back to Whitechapel.

  She’s edging forward, when suddenly another terrible pain shoots through her, cutting her in half. It takes a few seconds to pass. Just as soon as it does, she retches and her whole body convulses. As she tries to straighten herself, she realizes she’s just by the back door. She moves toward it. It’s slightly ajar, and her heart misses a beat. If he is there, then she is saved. Supporting herself on the workbench, she steps forward to reach for the handle. As she does so, she feels her right foot collide with something on the ground. Looking down, she sees the body of a man . . . a man without a head.

  In the yard, the few men who remain are alerted by a scream that shreds the air. The next second, a distressed young woman stumbles from out of the forge. She’s whirling round in a circle as if she’s looking for someone, anyone, to rescue her from a nightmare.

  “Someone. Please! No!”

  “What’s up, my gal?” asks an old cooper hobbling over to her. He stretches out an arm, but she suddenly bends double again. The pain lances into her womb. She staggers toward the entrance, one arm clutching her belly, the other groping for the wall.

  “You ill?” asks the cooper. He turns and calls to his workmates. “Over ’ere. Bring a light!” He stays with her as she tries to steady herself, leaning against a gatepost for support.

  An apprentice sprints up with a lantern and holds it up to Florence’s face. He realizes that it’s creased in agony. Her whole body is heaving.

  “Best call a doc!” yells the cooper.

  Florence screams again and suddenly her torment turns to terror as she looks down to the ground. “No!” she cries. “No!” The lad with the lantern follows her gaze and lowers the light to reveal a rivulet of blood running from beneath her skirts. At the sight, Florence’s eyes roll back into her head and she slides down the side of the wall.

  “Oh, God!” cries the apprentice in panic. “Is she dead?”

  The cooper hollers
for more help. “Police! Call the police!”

  CONSTANCE

  There’s a knock at the door. My heart jumps. It can’t be Flo. She has her own key.

  “Never fear, ladies.” For once, I’m glad to hear Mr. B’s voice.

  “You seen Flo?” I ask him, flinging wide the door.

  He tenses and flicks a look at Ma, who’s by my side, her face all puckered with worry. “What’s up? She in trouble?”

  “She could be,” says I. “She went up to Poplar and should’ve been home a while back.”

  “Poplar?” he says sharpish. “But that’s where . . .” He can see I’m fretting, even though he doesn’t know the real reason why.

  “Oh, Harold, she’s not been well lately. What if . . .” Ma dissolves into tears.

  Mr. B puts his arm around her. “Calm yourself, Patience.” I can see he’s thinking to himself as Ma weeps. A moment later, he knows what to do. “We’ll get the committee lads on the case,” he says, clicking his fingers. “We’ll have her back safe in no time,” he tells Ma.

  EMILY

  Up in Poplar, the word is out. Windows are thrown open. Heads appear from upper floors. Someone spots two flaming torches progressing along the high street. Something’s afoot. People start to gather. In the distance, they hear two blasts, then two more, closer this time. The police arrive at the scene to find a young woman whose blood is pooling around her.

  “Keep back!” cries a constable, trying to control the growing crowd. His colleague has gone to see what’s amiss. “Keep back!” he shouts again. Another officer, just arrived, wields his truncheon threateningly, but it’s too late. One of the Whitechapel lads who’s been mustered by Mr. Bartleby—one with a torch—careens down the alley.