by Mary Hooper
As she had feared, there were none, so – becoming very anxious – she made her way to the Sailors’ Rest to look for a ferryman. She found a dozen or more men ‘resting’ in the tavern, all roaring drunk, and went from one to the other, asking if anyone would take her across the river for a matter of life or death. She was refused throughout the tavern, with much jeering and derision, and was despairing that she’d have to go to London Bridge after all, when a ferryman, younger than the others and sober enough to appreciate a pretty face, said he’d take her across for two shillings.
‘Though I don’t promise we’ll get there, mind,’ he said, slurring his words.
‘I’ll give you another shilling if we do,’ Grace said recklessly, mentally thanking James Solent for the loan of his money.
‘Very well. And if we is run down by a barge, then that’s too bad for us.’ He gave a bellow of a laugh. ‘Though I feels luck in me bones today, so I think we’ll survive.’
Grace had now reached a state of mind where she was ready to risk all. As she saw it, she would travel across the river in fog and either they would be run down by a barge, or they would not. Subsequently she would get the certificate, triumph over the Unwins and find Lily, or she would not. It was all in the lap of the gods.
She climbed on to the boat, settled the white muslin more firmly around her nose and mouth and closed her eyes. With a violent shove which sent the boat rocking sideways and sent stinking water over her skirts, they set off.
The ferryman’s method of avoiding other boats seemed to be to put his head down and go as quickly as possible, cutting up the water with short strokes of his heavy oars.
‘I goes like old Nick, as fast as can be,’ he said to Grace. ‘If I gets into trouble, I quickly gets meself out again.’
Grace was so frightened that she kept her eyes closed the whole way across, and so missed seeing the other two craft on the water: a huge coal barge that was so mighty and untouchable that it sailed regardless, and the small coracle of the old man who rowed the river day and night, fog or no, searching for drowned bodies in the water to relieve them of their clothes.
After landing safely and paying the ferryman his dues, Grace found her way to Westminster Bridge Road fairly quickly, getting lost once but luckily discovering a peeler with a lantern at the York Road junction who was directing anyone who’d become disorientated. Reaching Waterloo and the ornate gated entrance to the Necropolis Railway, she saw a man sitting in an office and checking over some paperwork, but he was only watching out for hearses and didn’t notice Grace as she slipped through the iron gates.
The coffin depository had been built as a normal warehouse for goods in transit and only later had been transformed, with sober paint and fittings, into a holding bay for the dead. This had proved necessary because London traffic, especially in the mornings, was so bad that a body setting off five miles away could often take more than two hours to reach Waterloo, thus causing some to miss the train and their own funerals. It was for this reason that the Necropolis Company insisted that all bodies destined for burial at Brookwood should be collected, ready for boarding as it were, the evening before.
Grace had been inside the depository before, and knew what to expect. What she didn’t know was if Sylvester Unwin had got there first. If he had, and had already removed the certificate, then the game was over and she had lost. If he had not, then there was hope.
The iron door to the warehouse was wide, enabling a coffin to be carried in on two undertakers’ shoulders with ease, and it took some strength for Grace to push it open. Inside, rows of sturdy shelves held three layers of coffins in a similar layout to that of the coffin van on the Necropolis train. There were about thirty coffins which had been collected from the various undertakers around London, and also two empty ones, which Grace had been told were kept to accommodate victims of road-traffic accidents or bodies fished out of the nearby Thames. There were a few candle lanterns about the place as a mark of respect to the dead, but generally the place was not well lit, for no visitors were likely.
Grace was shaking with cold by the time she went into the depository, for the riverwater and fog had seeped into her crêpe clothing and caused the heavy material to cling to her clammily. Quickly looking round, she could see that there was no live person in there, and it didn’t seem as if any coffins had yet been disturbed, for certainly no lids were lying to one side. Perhaps she had arrived first.
She hurriedly moved among the shelves, looking up and down, straining to read the brass nameplates in the dim light. All she could remember from the glance she’d given to the coffin at the Unwins’ was that its occupant had a double-barrelled name – and she found three of these here. One coffin named a woman, however, and one had a flag folded on its top denoting that its occupant had been an officer of the armed forces – she’d seen no such flag at the Unwins’. It had to be Mr Truscot-Divine, at the end of the warehouse, on the top shelf.
Grace stood on tiptoe and, taking a deep breath, prepared to slip her hand into the coffin. It was then that she heard, with absolute horror, the voice of Sylvester Unwin from outside, sounding very irate because they’d had to go right up to London Bridge to cross the river.
‘Open up, you watchman, and quick about it!’
‘Who’s there?’ came the response.
‘Unwin! I have a last-minute addition for a coffin going to Brookwood!’
This not being too unusual an occurrence – for a grieving widow would sometimes want to have a last letter or some such thing put in with her husband – there was a grating noise as the outside gate was opened. By this time Grace was running hither and thither like a terrified animal, unable to find anywhere to hide. Apart from the coffin shelves, the depository was blank and featureless; the door she’d come in at was the only opening, and there were no windows to clamber through.
And then she remembered the two empty coffins. These were soon located, for although they were a conventional coffin shape they were but temporary things made of cheap corrugated cardboard, and were on the lowest shelf just inside the door. Grace quickly ran to the nearest one, climbed inside and pulled the lid over herself. There she lay in complete darkness, striving not to move, shiver or scarcely breathe.
For a moment there was silence, and then Sylvester Unwin crashed through the door, holding a lantern aloft. He stood for a moment, looking around him. Grace, of course, could not see him, but sensed that he was close in the same way that she had sensed his nearness on other occasions: because his proximity caused such terror as to render her faint and nauseous.
Perhaps it was this terrible fear that made her reckless, for she had a sudden urge to confront him, to show him that he could not go through life trampling down those less fortunate than himself. She would not be a silent, faceless victim a moment longer!
So she sat up.
There was a swish as her coffin lid fell to the floor and Sylvester Unwin wheeled around in considerable fright. Grace, seen in the dim light, her head draped in white muslin, made a formidable apparition, for some wisps of fog had penetrated the building and propitiously formed themselves into a mist about her, causing her to look mysterious, terrifying and other-worldly.
Filled with rage, yet clear-headed and fully aware of what she was doing, she pointed at her enemy and cried, ‘“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord!”’
Sylvester Unwin screamed in terror, clutched his heart and fell to the floor, dead.
x
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Dead?’ James Solent repeated. ‘Sylvester Unwin dead? I don’t understand. When did he die? How?’
Because of the fog, James had been late getting to their usual meeting place – in fact, he had nearly decided that he wouldn’t go at all, for he’d felt sure that Grace would never venture out on such a night. About eight o’clock, however, a light breeze had blown up and begun dispersing the fog, and by nine o’clock when he was just about to leave the spot, the air was almost clear. Sud
denly Grace appeared, running towards him, breathless and crying.
‘He’s dead because I killed him!’ Grace said, sobbing. ‘I didn’t mean to, but I did.’
‘You mean you . . . you stabbed him?’ James asked in dismay.
‘No.’ She tried to quell her sobs. ‘No, not that.’
‘Then how?’
‘I . . . I was in the coffin depository.’
James looked curious. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a warehouse at Waterloo where the coffins go before they catch the train to Brookwood.’ James still looked puzzled, so she added, ‘You see, he brought the forged adoption certificate to the funeral parlour this afternoon, and I took it and hid it in a coffin . . .’
James’s face was a picture of bewilderment.
‘They started looking for it and realised it must be with the bodies, but they were at Waterloo by then. So Sylvester Unwin went after it, and I went after him but got there first. I was hiding in an empty coffin and I sat up and he saw me and . . . and I think he died of fright.’
As she spoke, she watched James’s face nervously for his reaction. Was he going to tell her she must go to the police? Perhaps, as a representative of the legal profession, he would insist that he took her there himself. And then she would be locked up for ever and never see Lily again.
‘You were hiding from him – so why did you sit up in the coffin?’ James asked, endeavouring to understand.
Grace swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘I hated him so much, I wanted to frighten him.’ Then she corrected herself, saying, ‘What I wanted to do was kill him, although I didn’t really think he would die. But . . . he did.’
‘But why did you hate him so much?’ James still looked puzzled. ‘Because of the inheritance? Because of what he’s stealing from your family?’
Grace shook her head. ‘Not that. It’s something else. Something he stole which was . . . was even more precious than money. And he stole it from me, and from my sister, too.’
James looked at her closely, and then he offered her his arm. ‘I can see there is more to this than you are telling me,’ he said. ‘There’s a seat in a little garden along the road. Shall we perhaps walk to it and sit down for a moment?’
Grace nodded and they walked along the dark street in silence until they came to a paved garden with a stone horse trough and a small wooden bench.
‘Do you want to tell me the whole story?’ James asked, placing Grace on the seat and then sitting down beside her. ‘You don’t have to, but you might feel better for sharing it.’
Grace was silent for a long moment, trying to get her feelings under control, then sighed and said that she would tell him everything.
‘Lily and I were in an orphanage after our mother died,’ she began, ‘and were reasonably happy there. When I was fourteen we were moved to a training establishment where she was to be taught domestic work, and I was to learn to become a teacher.’ She paused, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, then went on, ‘We were told that our accommodation and training were funded by a wealthy and important man anxious to give working girls a start in life, and that we were very lucky to be there.’ She shuddered and, after a little while, continued in a small voice, ‘Unfortunately, this man believed that if he funded the training of a girl, it meant that he could . . .’ here she stopped and took a deep breath ‘. . . could visit her bed.’
James took her hand at this, but Grace shook it off, saying he must hear the full story before he offered sympathy. She closed her eyes, the easier to speak.
‘I had a child,’ she said in a voice little above a whisper. ‘And it died. The day . . . the day I first met you at Brookwood, I wasn’t there to mourn my mother. I was there with the sole purpose of burying the little thing.’
She paused again, and this time when James took her hand she was so grateful for the comfort of it that she didn’t take it away.
‘I couldn’t tell anyone.’
‘But no one could blame you for what this man did,’ he said gently.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘There’s one more thing you should know. The baby I birthed – I couldn’t afford to give him a proper funeral, or even a coffin, so I put him in with someone else who was about to be buried.’
‘I have heard this is sometimes done.’
‘The coffin I chose . . .’ she hesitated, and then said in a rush ‘. . . contained the body of your sister.’ She looked at James anxiously. ‘I only chose her because she sounded kindly. I felt that she wouldn’t mind having my child with her.’
James didn’t speak for a time, then merely said, ‘You poor girl.’
‘I didn’t know then that my aggressor was Sylvester Unwin, but I do now. And later I found out that he had violated Lily, too.’
James nodded slowly. ‘He kept several institutions going and there have been rumours about his conduct in girls’ homes. Last year two complaints were made against him.’
‘And was he charged with anything?’
‘No, because unfortunately the accusations were dropped. Whether he paid the girls off or frightened them into not pressing the charges, I don’t know.’
Grace sat back on the bench, breathing deeply, for it had been difficult and painful for her to say what she had.
‘And so . . . so the adoption certificate remains in the coffin?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I have it here. I tiptoed around his body on the floor and retrieved it.’
‘That’s excellent news!’
‘But what will happen?’ She looked at James fearfully. ‘Will I be accused of murder?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘because you didn’t murder him.’
Grace turned an anxious glance on him.
‘Well,’ said James slowly. ‘He went into a warehouse and had a heart attack, that’s all. No one can discover the circumstances because there’s no evidence – and anyway, who could tell whether or not his heart attack occurred because of your actions at that precise moment?’ He looked at her searchingly. ‘I trust no one saw you?’
‘No one,’ said Grace. ‘I was terrified and hid behind the door for five minutes or so, until his driver came in looking for him, and as he went in, I crept out. I was probably halfway down York Road by the time he found the body.’
‘Very well. That’s it. That’s all we’ll say on the subject. The matter will never be mentioned between us again.’
Grace looked at him with apprehension. ‘I don’t have to go back to the Unwins, do I?’
‘Of course not!’ he said, smiling. ‘And I shouldn’t think you’ve had time to go to Somerset House for the birth certificates, have you?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I have not. And now I’ve spent the money you gave me.’
‘That’s of no account. I’ve been there and obtained them myself.’
Grace caught her breath. ‘And is everything as you hoped?’
‘Indeed. The certificates are completely unambiguous: your father and mother, Reginald Parkes and Letitia, née Paul, were married in April 1840. Your sister, Lily, was born in –’
‘Lily!’ Grace echoed, for in the last couple of hours she had hardly been thought of. ‘Where is she?’ She gave a sigh. ‘How am I ever going to find her again?’
‘We will find her,’ James said with certainty in his voice. ‘I promise.’ Grace smiled at him gratefully and he went on, ‘So, Lily was born in 1844 and you, Grace, in 1845, if I remember correctly.’
Grace nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Your father’s name is given on both birth certificates, but on yours it’s written that he’s in foreign parts.’
‘Do you have them with you? Can I see them?’
‘Not at the moment, because they’re with Mr Stamford.’
Grace’s expression brightened.
‘I’ve acquainted him with your circumstances and he’s most interested.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, interested isn’t strong enough a word – he’s ecstatic at the
thought of being connected with the famous Parkes case and with thwarting the Unwins at one and the same time. And to see Mr Stamford ecstatic is a strange and unusual thing.’
Grace managed to smile at this. ‘What will happen next?’
‘Mr Stamford has spoken to the partners at Binge and Gently, and they’ve called the Unwins to their offices at midday tomorrow. Now that we have the forged certificate, we’ll go there, too – before the Unwins. I intend to go to Mr Stamford this very evening to acquaint him with the latest happenings. I’ll say we have the adoption certificate, but not speak about how it was come by.’
‘And will the fact that we have this help us?’
He nodded. ‘It will. Had the Unwins handed it over, they might have got away with it. But now they’re under suspicion, the certificate will be checked and double-checked – and someone will also verify that there never was an original at Somerset House.’
Grace’s eyes widened. ‘You said tomorrow. But the Unwins have two funerals to conduct. The bodies are already waiting at the warehouse.’
‘I’m afraid that’s of no consequence,’ James said. ‘The Unwins have not been invited to Binge and Gently as much as been summoned. Besides, they’ll be eager to go along because they’ll believe it’s the final hurdle before getting the money.’
‘They will have heard of the death of their cousin by then.’
‘I don’t think that will affect them too much,’ James said dryly. ‘If I know the Unwins, it’ll just mean more money for those who’re left.’
They sat for some moments longer on the bench, each busy with their own thoughts (Grace’s very much on Lily and her possible whereabouts) until the initial glow of excitement wore off and the intense cold began to cause her to shiver alarmingly.
James immediately stood up and offered her his arm. ‘What am I thinking of? Come, I must get you to warmth and shelter straight away.’
