The Angel Makers

by Tessa Harris

  I can’t hide my worry. “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  Tanner leans toward me, all confidential-like. “Between you and me, it’s nothing to fear,” says he.

  So I wrap myself in my shawl, don my hat, and don’t waste a minute getting to the station. The duty copper on the desk even smiles at me when I say I’m here at Sergeant Hawkins’s bidding. He shows me to the large office, where I see the detective sitting at his desk.

  “Ah, Miss Piper,” he says, rising to greet me with a smile. I can’t recall him ever looking so at ease with himself. “I have some news.”

  “News?” I repeat. I’m hoping it’s good, although it’s not something I’m accustomed to, but the sergeant’s manner leads me on.

  “You probably saw the police carriage waiting outside.”

  “No.” I shake my head. I was that fixed on what I was about to learn that I never noticed it.

  “Well, there is one,” he tells me with a nod. “And it’s to take Mr. and Mrs. Sampson to the hospital in Reedhampton.” His words puzzle me, until he adds with a smile: “Five babies have been discovered and rescued from a certain minder’s home.”

  At the news, I feel my face lift. “You’ve tracked down Mother Delaney?”

  “Not me, but my colleagues at Reedhampton Borough Constabulary, yes.”

  I gasp with joy. “So Bertie is alive?”

  “Ah.” He’s stumbling over his reply and my heart sinks. “That I cannot say, but there is, of course, a chance that he is one of the five. And you, yourself, will be one of the first to know.”

  “Me? How?”

  I see his lips twitch. “Because I suggest you accompany the Sampsons.”

  I’m not half flattered by the idea, even if I do think it’s right and proper, though Mr. Right and Mrs. Proper are strangers to most in Whitechapel.

  “Yes.” I reply, adding a heartfelt: “Thank you,” even though I’m not sure what part, if any, he played in tracking down the baby farmers.

  Sergeant Hawkins reaches for the door handle. “There’s one more thing you should know, Miss Piper,” he tells me, all earnest.

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  His expression has switched back to seriousness. “When they conducted a thorough search of Delaney’s house, they found a dead child. A boy of about three months.” He works his jaw. “Don’t let the Sampsons get their hopes up too much.”

  EMILY

  While Constance awaits the imminent arrival of Miss Louisa and her new husband, there is activity in the Mylett household in Pelham Street. Fanny tiptoes quietly upstairs, holding aloft a candle. Once on the landing, she opens the door into Cath’s old room. A fully dressed man is lying on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head on a pillow, and his feet, clad in boots, are on the counterpane. Fanny frowns at the sight.

  “Get your ruddy great feet off there,” she hisses, keeping her voice low.

  The man smirks. “Relax, my gal,” he tells her, swinging his legs off the bed. “Remember, Adam Braithwaite is dead and buried.”

  Ignoring him, Fanny picks up a tin mug from the floor by the bed and slams it on the nearby chest of drawers. It’s clear she’s not happy.

  “The Irish lad’s dead. Hanged himself, so they say.” She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t have had a hand in that, would ya?”

  He shoots her a wounded look, then shrugs. “It’s probably for the best. He’d have talked in the end.”

  She walks to the window and crosses her arms as she looks out onto the warren of squalid slum dwellings, silhouetted in the moonlight.

  “And I told you Auntie says she heard footsteps.” Fanny turns sharply and looks pointedly at his boots.

  The man is dismissive. “No one’ll take notice of her,” he replies, with a shrug, pointing to his temple. “Besides, this time tomorrow, we’ll be on that ship, won’t we, my darlin’? Bound for America.” He sits up, pulls her toward him and begins to kiss her neck, but she fends him off and manages to squirm free.

  “It’s a good bleeding job we are,” she tells him, straightening her blouse. “It’s getting too close for comfort round ’ere.”

  CONSTANCE

  Lord knows poor Sergeant Hawkins has his work cut out for him. I’m waiting by the main door of the police station for Miss Louisa and her husband to arrive; all of a sudden, I hear this rumpus. Two coppers are wrestling with a bloke, who’s cussing and hollering. His hands are cuffed behind his back and they’re dragging him toward the cells. As they draw close by, I catch a glimpse of his face—and he of mine—and my body goes stiff with fear. I look down at his hand. He’s the lech I saw in the George that night: the man who nearly killed Flo.

  Sergeant Hawkins appears at his door to find out what all the noise is about and reads the look of terror on my face.

  “It’s him,” I bleat. “The sailor with the tattoo.”

  The sergeant comes close. “I’ll deal with him, Miss Piper. You are required elsewhere.” He shoots a look behind me and I turn to see Miss Louisa and her husband walk toward the desk.

  “Yes,” I reply. I know there’s nothing more I can do here and at least I can leave safe in the knowledge that the lech can’t hurt no one else, for the time being at least.

  EMILY

  There is strong liquor on the sailor’s breath. Normally, he’d be put in the cells to let its effects wear off, but Sergeant Hawkins knows that this sort of man could drink a whole bottle of rum and not feel any worse. He stands over him in the interview room.

  “Where did you find him?” he asks one of the constables.

  “In the George at Poplar, sir.”

  “Let me see his hand,” he instructs. The prisoner, now more compliant, is uncuffed and the officer grabs hold of his hand and thrusts it out on the table in front of Hawkins. On it, inscribed in blue ink, is a large tattoo of a naked woman. Hawkins knows it’s going to be a very long night.

  CONSTANCE

  As we head out of the city in the police carriage, I tell Miss Louisa and her husband all I know. It’s early evening and the highway is quiet. We’re soon on the Bath Road, a little way short of Slough. The couple sits side by side, with me opposite. Miss Louisa is most fretful. First she smiles at the thought of seeing her son; then she dissolves into tears for allowing herself to be hopeful.

  And me? I’m mindful of Sergeant Hawkins’s words: “Don’t let the Sampsons get their hopes up too much.” But that’s easier said than done. Both Miss Louisa and her husband have been treated so cruelly by Mother Delaney that they don’t know which way to turn.

  “Perhaps a dose might calm your nerves, my dear?” suggests Mr. Sampson to his wife. She nods and opens her reticule to bring out a small brown bottle of laudanum. She uncorks it and swigs it back. Within five minutes, she is fast asleep.

  So now it’s just Mr. Sampson and me. My skin prickles. He makes me feel uneasy, and I him. I know he’s remembering what happened the last time we were alone together, when Miss Tindall came inside me and I became her for a moment. I’ve been calling her all evening, but I’ve not sensed her. Perhaps she’ll come to me now so that she can speak to Mr. Sampson on his own.

  Despite the darkness, the carriage blind remains open. The lights of Slough have come into view and I’m watching them grow nearer so that my face is turned away from Mr. Sampson. Taking advantage of his wife’s sleep, he reaches for his silver cigarette case. It seems he wouldn’t ask the likes of me for permission to light up. From the corner of my eye, I see him open the case, choose a cigarette, and tap the tip twice on the cover before taking out his vestas. As he strikes a match, I turn toward him; and in that moment, the flame lights up my face. It’s then that I feel her presence. Miss Tindall comes to me like a rush of wind.

  “No,” murmurs Robert Sampson as he looks at me. I know from his changed features that it isn’t Constance Piper, the flower girl, who’s staring at him from out of the darkness. Emily Tindall wants to speak to him and bids me take my leave. She has control of my mi
nd and my body and my world grows dark. I remember nothing. I must’ve blacked out for a moment, because the next thing I know is that we’ve hit a pothole and my head jerks up again. I blink as I try to focus. The lights of Slough are behind us.

  “You all right, Mr. Sampson?” I ask, aware that he is gazing at me, openmouthed.

  “Miss Piper?” He needs to make sure it’s me.

  “Yes, Mr. Sampson,” I reply. “I must’ve dozed off.”

  “But you just . . .” He shakes his sleek black head as he fingers the rim of his topper. He takes a deep breath and starts over, like I’ve just walked back into the room. “I want to thank you for all that you have done.”

  “I am glad to have been of service, sir,” I reply with a nod. I don’t know what Miss Tindall has just said to him, but he seems more at ease. Nevertheless, I pray this long and uncomfortable journey will end well.

  * * *

  We arrive at Reedhampton Hospital shortly before nine o’clock. The five babies have been put in a little room all to themselves. The doctor, a kindly old man with a monocle and hunched shoulders, wears a white coat that almost reaches to the floor. He shows us into the room. A policeman stands at the door.

  A plump little girl, dressed in pink frills, sits on a nursemaid’s knee, playing with a floppy rabbit. For a second, I’m hopeful that perhaps the babies have been cared for, after all; but then the doctor breaks the news that this child is, in fact, Mother Delaney’s granddaughter.

  “I warn you the other children are not as healthy,” he says sternly.

  I dart a look at Miss Louisa and see her swallow hard and brace herself as we are directed toward five cots ranged against the wall. I feel my stomach knot as the moment of truth arrives. She peers over into the first cot. A tiny girl lies asleep; her little arms are like sticks. Next to her is another painfully thin babe, who is shaking violently.

  “What ails the child?” asks Mr. Sampson, a deep frown creasing his brow.

  “Laudanum,” explains the doctor. “She is displaying typical withdrawal symptoms.”

  Miss Louisa gasps at the thought as she gazes on the baby in the next cot: a boy with blond curly hair and sores on his hollow cheeks.

  “Marasmus,” says the doctor.

  The fifth and final cot contains another boy, bigger than the other one and with a shock of red hair. He’s kicking his legs, and although he’s bony, it’s clear he’s got a bit of life in him.

  I look at Miss Louisa, but she only has eyes for the baby in the cot. Without a word, she bends low and scoops him up in her arms, tears streaming down her face.

  “Bertie! Oh, God! My darling little Bertie!” she cries, nuzzling her cheek against his.

  Mr. Sampson puts his arm on her shoulder and peers over to see his son for the first time through a mist of pent-up emotion.

  “You’re sure he is your son?” asks the doctor with a smile.

  Miss Louisa, choking back tears, manages to point to the baby’s thigh. “The birthmark,” she says. “He is our Bertie.”

  I feel myself choke up, too. I think my heart will melt. I’ve never seen such love and joy on anyone’s face. Mr. Sampson’s having a little weep as well, and I can see the old doctor’s struggling, too. It’s an amazing moment, and one I feared I’d never see. I just wonder how many other young mothers won’t ever have the chance to see their lost babies ever again.

  We spend a few more minutes at the hospital, weeping and smiling, before we part: the Sampsons, and Bertie, for a nearby inn and me back to London in the waiting carriage. But just before I go, Mr. Sampson draws me aside. I fear what he might say, but he looks at me with those piercing blue eyes of his and whispers: “Tell Miss Tindall I’m so very sorry and thank her for me, too. I cannot express . . .” He wells up again.

  I pat him on the arm. “I understand” is all I say.

  EMILY

  Detective Sergeant Hawkins is beginning to think he is on a losing wicket. It soon became evident to him that despite his initial assumptions, the sailor with the tattoo, although undoubtedly a violent man, is probably innocent of Catherine’s murder, although he does admit to being one of her regular clients. Nor can the detective find any connection with Adam Braithwaite.

  The sailor is not charged with murder, although he is detained until such a time that Florence can identify him—or not—as her attacker. Once again, in the hunt for Catherine’s murderer, Detective Sergeant Hawkins finds himself at a loss.

  CHAPTER 42

  Thursday, January 17, 1889

  CONSTANCE

  The police carriage reaches the East End in the small hours. Try as I might, I haven’t been able to sleep a wink. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy for the Sampsons. That little Bertie is alive and safe, well, it makes my heart leap for joy. But now that old Irish witch is behind bars, I’ve still got my work cut out for me. Cath’s killer remains at large and I can’t rest until he’s found.

  I pull up the blind in the carriage to see a familiar landscape of brick warehouses and workshops and I realize we’re traveling back through Poplar, near the docks. And there, on Commercial Road, at the junction with Jubilee Street, I see the George Tavern. There’s lights still burning.

  I knock on the roof, then open the window to shove my head out.

  “Stop here, if you please!” I yell up at the driver.

  As soon as the carriage comes to a halt, I tell him I’ll find my own way home, but first I’ve got a call to make. With all that’s happened, I’d forgot, until now, how I’d told the little lad with freckles that if he saw or heard anything about Will Mylett, he should leave word here, at the tavern. I never expected he would, of course, but when I speak with the landlord, it turns out he has. Freckles left a message, all right, yesterday evening.

  “You’ll find ’im at low tide, under London Bridge,” the landlord tells me. That’s about now, so that’s where I head. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m pushing the fear of an East End night to the back of my mind, I’m so set on solving Cath’s murder.

  The sight of Mick Donovan in the hanging shed has seared itself on my brain, and all. I can’t unsee those bulging eyes, or the look of anguish on that face. Gilbert told me he knew Mick was in trouble; he’d delivered a sack from the docks for someone—he didn’t know who. They’re waiting on the postmortem report. The coppers are saying Irish Mick hanged himself, but I think different. Moreover, I reckon whoever killed him could’ve killed Adam Braithwaite, too. My money’s still on Will Mylett.

  That’s what drives me on through the darkness and down to the Thames. That’s what brings me here, to this filthy stew pot, against my better judgment. I only hope I don’t regret it. The smell of the river is scouring my nostrils and the reek’s stinging my eyes. I’m praying Miss Tindall is watching my back as I step gingerly down the slimy watermen’s steps to the cluster of vagabonds and ruffians that congregate in this church of the damned after dark.

  The miserables, as the better-off refer to them, have lit a fire from driftwood under the pile. It’s not big, but it’s where they all huddle, young and old alike. Some’s come out of the clink; some’s not right in the head, but all of them seem to have lost everything, even any hope of making some sort of life for themselves. The flames light up a few faces, but throw others into shadow. There’s no chatter, neither. It’s like cold and hunger have gagged their sorry mouths.

  I’m not sure how I’ll find the little kid. I’m peering into the straggle of doomed souls, when I suddenly feel a tug at my skirts. At first, I think one of the rascals is filching from me and I strike out, but when I look down, I see it’s him. It’s Freckles—and I’m so pleased, I want to hug him.

  I bend down to his eye level. “You want to tell me something?”

  He nods, but he’s looking afeared. “Not here,” he says.

  “Let’s walk.”

  We clamber back up the steps and shelter in the doorway of a warehouse nearby. I feel in my apron pocket a
nd take out a farthing and show it to him. I think he’ll snatch it, like he did before, but he don’t. He’s scared. I can see it in his eyes. He’s not the cocky little sod I first met on the docks. He’s shivering, too, and I’m not sure it’s just with cold.

  “You know where Will Mylett is?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “If you want this, you’ll have to do better than that,” says I, holding up the coin.

  He swallows hard. “I did know. He was ’iding, miss.”

  “Hiding?”

  “In a place near here.”

  “He’s not there now? What happened?”

  The boy looks down at the ground and scuffs his old boots, which are way too big for him, through the dirt. “Someone came.”

  “Who?”

  He shakes his matted head. “I told Mr. Will about his sister, that the court said she were murdered.”

  “The inquest?”

  He nods. “So he says he’d leave after that and he’d need me no more. He gave me a shilling and that’s the last I saw of ’im, I swear. God’s honest. Only . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Only as I was going down the stairs this other gaffer came up. He pushed me away and I fell. He frighted me, so I hid.”

  “What happened to Will?”

  Freckles frowns. “I don’t know, but I ’eard noises.”

  “What sort of noises?”

  “Angry voices and then something fell. I didn’t know what to do, I were that frit. I waited awhile, until the bloke came down the stairs again.”

  “Was he alone?”

  He nods, but then I see him chew his cracked lip. “But he ’ad a sack over ’is shoulder.”

  I gasp. “Oh, God!” I try and think straight. “This man with the sack? What did he look like?”

  Freckles shakes his head. “Hard to say, miss. Not big. Dark hair, oh and . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “He had a patch over his eye.”