by Tessa Harris
“What is it, Mummy?” asks Susan, who already knows what Patch has discovered is not a doll.
Grabbing the dog by its collar, Mrs. Webley pries open his jaws so that he’s forced to drop whatever he is attacking. She picks him up, still growling and squirming, and thrusts him into Susan’s arms. “Get into the house. All of you. Now!” she yells.
The children have never heard their mother raise her voice before, let alone shout, and they immediately do as she says. They do not wait to see her bend down to inspect the decaying contents of the white napkin that’s just been mauled by the dog. Nor do they see her vomit in the shrubbery.
CONSTANCE
“The suspect is a sailor. Officers are at East India Docks as we speak, Miss Piper, with orders to arrest him on sight for the murder of Miss Mylett and Mr. Braithwaite.” Sergeant Hawkins, like me, hasn’t slept much. There are bags as big as traveling trunks under his eyes, but he’s on the ball.
“Does this mean that Will Mylett is in the clear?” My mind’s in a whirl and it’s hard for me to think straight.
“We’d still like to question him. After all, Mr. Braithwaite did accuse him of Catherine’s murder.”
“So that means Will had reason to kill him,” I say. I’m thinking out loud, but the sergeant gives me a nod.
“Yes,” he tells me. “And, of course, if there are any developments. . .” He picks up the papers he has in front of him and taps them on the table, so they’re all neat and lined up. We’re sitting in the interview room away from the hubbub of the big office, but he’s as good as telling me to go. Questions race through my brain. I’m not finished yet.
“But what about the baby farmers?” I ask as he stands.
He shakes his head. “Miss Florence was right. It seems they have also fled.” He sees my shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I know how important it was for you to see them brought to justice. But for now, we must concentrate our efforts on finding Adam Braithwaite’s killer. I must get up to Clarke’s Yard now.”
I stand up. “Of course,” I say, even though I think my heart will sink to my feet. I’m turning toward the door when there’s an urgent knock.
“Yes?” calls Sergeant Hawkins.
Constable Tanner’s eager face cuts in. “Excuse me, sir. But you’re needed right away up in Poplar.”
The sergeant nods. “I know. Clarke’s Yard. I shall be on my way shortly.”
But Tanner shakes his head. “No, sir. Not the blacksmith case, sir.” He shoots a look at me, as if what he has to say should be heard in private, then says softly: “They’ve found a baby’s body at Woodstock Terrace.”
Sergeant Hawkins fixes me with wide eyes.
“Oh, God!” I let slip. I desperately need to see for myself. I want to go with him, and as if he can read my thoughts, he asks me: “Miss Piper, will you accompany me in the police carriage?”
* * *
The journey to Poplar takes no more than ten minutes, but we spend much of it in silence. PC Tanner comes with us; but it’s clear from the queer look he gives me, he don’t approve of me muscling in on the investigation. We’re met at Woodstock Terrace by another constable, and Sergeant Hawkins tells him he wants to see the site of the grim discovery first. We’re shown through the hallway and into the back garden, where two more uniformed officers are waiting, alongside a bloke in a long-sleeved vest. He’s armed with a shovel and a pickax, ready to start digging.
I watch Sergeant Hawkins stride the length of the garden to the shrubbery. It’s clear where the body was found. There’s a mound of fresh soil just under a large laurel bush and a shallow hollow at its side. Crouching down, he picks up a handful of earth and weighs it thoughtfully in his palm.
“Take them all out,” he orders, nodding to the shrubs and bushes. I think I’m the only one who hears him say under his breath: “God knows how many more babes there may be.”
EMILY
Meanwhile, back in Whitechapel, news has spread of the horrific murder of the blacksmith in Poplar. The killing is the gossip on every street corner and in every shop, including Greenland’s, the poulterer’s. In the yard at the rear, Gilbert Johns is keen to see what Mick Donovan thinks of the brutal killing. Making sure his master is out of earshot, Gilbert has reason to believe that the Irishman might have more than a passing interest in the murder.
“You knew ’im, didn’t you?” he asks, loading crates of dressed birds onto the cart.
“Who?” Donovan is chopping the heads off chickens with a cleaver. They’re falling into a pail below.
Gilbert heaves another full crate onto the trailer. “The blacksmith. Braithwaite,” he begins, pausing for breath. “Weren’t he the bloke you vouched for when he was nabbed for that brass nail’s murder?”
The head of another foul falls into the pail; then Donovan lays the bird to one side. “What if I did? I just told the truth.”
Gilbert wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “Got any ideas then?” he asks, picking up another crate.
“Any ideas?”
“About who done it?”
Again the cleaver falls. “No.”
Gilbert can take no more. He strides over to the Irishman and seizes his jaw in his hands, jerking his face up toward his own. There’s fear in his eyes. Gilbert can see it as his gaze bores into him. He thinks he may be telling the truth, but he won’t let him get away with anything. “You better go to the police,” he growls. “Tell ’em what you know, afore I do.”
CHAPTER 39
Tuesday, January 15, 1889
EMILY
Just as Number 9, Woodstock Terrace, in Poplar was an unremarkable house in an unremarkable row, so, too, is Number 7, Lenton Road. It stands in a street in the village of Tillingford-on-Thames, peopled by hardworking souls: artisans mainly—decent, God-fearing men and women, who pride themselves on earning honest livings. All of them, that is, except the occupants of the said Number 7.
The Charltons only moved in last week. They are a seemingly respectable couple in their late twenties. The wife’s mother is a heavily-built Irishwoman in her early sixties. The couple’s two children also live in the house: Isabel, a pretty, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, on the plump side, always immaculately turned out and often to be seen on her mother’s hip, and a baby boy with a shock of red hair and a birthmark on his leg, known as Georgie.
Should anyone ask, the latter was adopted when his missionary parents, who were close friends of the couple, were both murdered by savages in Africa. Should anyone ask, such a yarn usually puts paid to any casual admirer’s awkward questioning as to who has endowed the child with such flame-colored hair by replacing suspicion with sympathy. Georgie is proving a troublesome child, but his griping is nothing a good dose of laudanum can’t remedy. Otherwise he is manageable, eating one meal a day and progressing reasonably well, if a little slow to grow.
Explaining away the steady stream of visitors, almost all young women with babies, is a little problematic, however. The advertisement in the local newspaper, the Reedhampton Mercury, inserted the day they arrived in Tillingford from Poplar, is proving most fruitful. Their new location looks as though it could be a very rewarding hunting ground.
As ever, however, there is a cloud on the horizon. They cannot afford to give rise to misgivings among their neighbors, especially after what happened in London. That’s why Mother Delaney—or should I call her Mother Noonan? That is the name she now goes by—has decided that collecting her prospective charges from the railway station remains the best policy, except in cases where her midwifery skills are called upon. This time, she will dispense with the services of a doctor, too. There’ll be no need for any more death certificates. Three moves and three changes of name within the year are too much for any family.
CONSTANCE
I’m on my way to Commercial Street Station. I’ve left Ma to look after Flo. She only came home from hospital yesterday. Her body’s mending, but it’ll take longer for her mind to heal. Mine too. I jump at every unexp
ected sound, shudder at every shadow. Until the man who strangled Cath and near killed her, then went on to cut Adam Braithwaite’s head off, is behind bars, neither of us will sleep easy at night.
There’s Mother Delaney and her family, too. They’ve disappeared into thin air. By now, they’ll be miles away, but they’ll set up in business again, trading on the heartache and the shame of desperate women. As for Miss Louisa and her husband, I expect they’ll forever grieve for their lost son, even though there’s no body to bury. It’s hard to keep hope alive when there’s nothing to cling to, but I don’t suppose they’ll ever give up looking.
That’s why I dread hearing what Sergeant Hawkins has to say. He’s sent word he wants to see me regarding the dead baby they found in Woodstock Terrace yesterday. I left the grisly sight before they’d finished digging, so I’m praying they’ve found some clue that might lead to wherever Mother Delaney has gone. I’m also praying it’s not little Bertie Sampson that the dog dug up.
When I arrive at the station, Sergeant Hawkins shows me into the interview room. My guts roil as my eyes settle on a familiar-looking box on the table. I steel myself to glance in, but there’s no body. I’m that thankful. Instead, I see a white napkin, a bloody handkerchief, and the yellow binding that’s become so familiar to me.
The sergeant catches my curious gaze. “They’re to be photographed,” he explains, motioning me to take a seat. “There’s already been a postmortem.”
“A boy?” I ask, all fearful.
He shakes his head. “A girl. A newborn mulatto.”
I feel my shoulders slump, even though I hate myself for showing my relief at the news. Any dead babe is a tragedy, but I’m grateful this latest-found child can’t be the Sampsons’ Bertie.
“As you see, she’d been strangled with the same sort of binding and a rag had been stuffed in her mouth.” His eyes skate across to the box.
I am no longer surprised, but I can tell there is something else Sergeant Hawkins wants to share with me. From out of his coat pocket, he brings out a cloth bag.
“Our search of the garden at Woodstock Terrace also revealed this, Miss Piper.” He tips up the pouch and out onto the desk falls a knife. “Is this the one that Miss Mylett had about her person the night she died?”
For a moment, all I can do is stare at the blade that’s still smeared with blood. I recall the wildness of Cath’s eyes as she showed it to me in the George and how I feared she might harm someone. All I can do is nod.
“It had been buried in the bushes,” the sergeant tells me. “It is proof of a link between Miss Mylett and Mother Delaney and her associates, but no more. You told me, at the hospital, that Miss Mylett attacked the haberdasher.”
“So the man with the tattoo is still your main suspect for Cath’s murder?” I ask.
The inspector nods. “As I told you, Miss Piper, there are officers stationed at the East India Docks with orders to arrest this man and Will Mylett, too.”
“The docks, yes,” I say, suddenly rising to my feet.
“Miss Piper?” The sergeant is trying to read the look on my face. He knows an idea has just taken root in my head. He’s starting to read me like a book. “Miss Piper, I must warn you the docks are no place for . . .” He stops himself. He almost said “a lady,” but he didn’t. He still doesn’t think I’m worthy of the name, like he did when we first met and he thought me Miss Beaufroy’s companion. But his attitude toward me only strengthens my resolve and makes me more determined to win his respect.
“My sort can take care of ourselves,” I tell him straight. I may not be a real lady, but I can surely handle myself. “Good day, Sergeant Hawkins,” says I. I know exactly where I’m going next.
I’m angry as I head out of the station, walking sharpish, when who should I bump into but Mrs. Greenland, the old poulterer’s wife? But she doesn’t seem to notice me. She’s in that much of a blather as she makes for the duty sergeant’s desk. I stop to watch.
“Someone come. Pl-please, someone come q-quick,” she stammers.
Sergeant Halfhide deals with her calmly. “What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Greenland?” he asks.
The poulterer’s wife shakes her hatless head. “The most shocking thing. The most shocking thing,” she says over.
“Shocking, eh?” The hirsute sergeant raises one of his bushy brows. “What would that be, madam?”
Mrs. Greenland leans forward, as if she doesn’t want anyone else to know her business, and says in a loud whisper: “A murder, Sergeant. He’s dead.”
I can’t hold back. I rush up to the old woman and look at her straight. “Who?” I say. “Who’s dead?”
Mrs. Greenland fixes me with dazed eyes. I can see she’s in shock. Her whole body’s started to shake. “One of the boys,” she replies. “One of the boys.”
I know I’ll not get any sense out of the poor woman, but I don’t want to wait for the coppers to get their act together. Instead, I rush out the door and down the road to the high street, where I can see the red-and-white–striped awning of the shop. I break into a run, and in a couple of minutes, I’m down the alley at the side of the shop.
A huddle of men stands in the little yard, outside the hanging shed, clustered around Mr. Greenland, but Gilbert’s not there. “No. Please, Miss Tindall, no,” I find myself muttering again as I barge my way to the front, toward the shed. One of the blokes tries to stop me. He grabs hold of my arm.
“You can’t go in there,” he yells at me. But it’s too late.
I duck down through the door. Gilbert’s the first person I see; and for that, I’m so thankful. He’s standing among all the dead chickens and geese on hooks, his eyes wide and fixed. There’s flies everywhere and a stink, too. I hold my breath, but then I turn to follow his gaze to see Mick Donovan. He’s there, all right, only like the fowl, he’s dangling from the rafters; eyes bulging, tongue lolling, hanging from the end of a rope. I can’t hold my breath no longer. It comes out as a scream.
CHAPTER 40
EMILY
We shall leave Constance to recover from her terrible shock in the capable hands of Gilbert Johns while we venture to the village of Tillingford. It’s a pretty settlement on the banks of the Thames, three miles downriver from Reedhampton, the county town of Brentshire. Mist rises up from the river and there’s still a nip in the air. The ground is muddy underfoot. There’s been a fair bit of rain overnight, and the path is already churned up by horses’ hooves as they heave barges laden with beer and seeds to London. One such barge is slowly hoving into view, heading toward the bank.
A silver-haired bargeman is at the back. He’s pulled the rudder toward him as he rounds the bend, bringing his vessel closer to the reeds. He’s fixed on the bank close by, making sure he steers well clear, when suddenly he lurches forward. Wait. He’s spotted something in the rushes. He’s coming alongside and peering down into the reeds. Grabbing a punt hook, he pokes about in the dead stalks and branches that the winter storms have broken off.
A parcel, he thinks as he jabs. Linen or some such. He sticks out his tongue from between a grizzled beard as he concentrates. Suddenly he manages to get a purchase and starts to drag the parcel slowly and carefully closer to the boat. “Gently does it,” I hear him say. Then I see his arms tense and, in one swift movement, he hauls the parcel onto the deck of the barge. He’s unwrapping the brown paper now, tearing at it with his hook. When that’s out of the way, there’s a layer of thick flannel fabric underneath.
“What ’ave we ’ere?” he asks himself, pulling at a large white handkerchief with his calloused hands.
I want to close my eyes, but I cannot. I have to watch as the bargeman peels away the flap of white cotton to realize with horror that what he’s looking at is a little human face, its eyes mercifully closed. The bargeman utters a most terrible sound. It’s a cross between a wail and a retch.
“No! Oh no! Oh, God!” he cries, over and over.
There’s a length of yellow floral binding tied
tight around the baby’s tiny neck and fastened behind its left ear.
CHAPTER 41
Wednesday, January 16, 1889
EMILY
The borough constabulary at Reedhampton may not enjoy the prestige of the Metropolitan force, but they are proving themselves every bit as adept, if not more so, at tracking down criminals. An eagle-eyed constable, when examining the wrappings in which the latest infant was found, detected a local address written on the brown paper. Subsequent inquiries have led him and his sergeant to a house not three miles distant. It’s no surprise that the address is Number 7, Lenton Road.
Although the new occupants have only been in situ for a few days, they’re already getting a reputation among their neighbors for being a most welcoming family. Indeed, so eager is the matriarch of the household to encourage visitors to her home that when she hears her daughter answer the door to yet another knock, she is really quite gratified. It’s only when the young woman appears in the company of two police officers from Reedhampton Borough Constabulary that she becomes a little less welcoming.
“Bridget Delaney, you’re under arrest,” says the sergeant.
As Philomena protests and feigns her innocence, her mother turns belligerent. She suspects the game is up.
“What the hell do ya think . . . ?” she curses as she’s clapped in handcuffs.
“Save your breath for the station, old woman,” advises the sergeant. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
CONSTANCE
There’s a knock at the door. It never brings good news these days. When I see Mummy’s boy Tanner standing on the doorstep, my heart misses a beat. I’m expecting to hear they’ve found another dead baby, but no.
“’Morning, miss,” he greets me, all friendly. “I’m sent to tell you that Detective Sergeant Hawkins wishes to see you at the station,” says he.
