[The Victorian Detectives 08] - Fame & Fortune

by Carol Hedges

  Stride and the inspector walk up the spotless path, stand on the spotless step and rap on the door, which is opened by a small boy dressed in the uniform of a page. His eyes open like saucers when he sees who is demanding access. Stride hastily places a foot on the doorstep and leans his elbow against the door.

  “Is the lady of the house receiving visitors?” he says, managing to put air-quotes around the appellation ‘lady’.

  The small boy mentally counts the number of men standing on the front path, realises that he is outnumbered, mutters something about going to see if she is.

  While they wait for him to return, the two men enter. The interior of the house is lavishly furnished, maroon button-backed sofas compete for space with small rosewood tables displaying Chinese vases and flower glasses. The walls are adorned with Japanese fans. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings and the curtains and pelmets are a handsome green colour.

  Eventually, the lady of the house makes her appearance. She is a tall, tightly corseted woman in her forties, preceded by a strong smell of pipe tobacco and some spicy scent that makes Stride want to sneeze. He recognises her instantly as the woman he saw going into Number 55, Russell Square, accompanied by two girls.

  “Good day, gents. Bit early for a morning call, isn’t it?” she says. She has an upmarket voice with downmarket vowels and a smile that does not quite reach her eyes.

  Stride steps forward. “It is Mrs Gresham, I presume? Mrs Bella Gresham? I am Detective Inspector Stride from Scotland Yard. This is Inspector Fitch from the local branch of the Metropolitan Police. We wish to talk to you about your connection with two men: Mr. Munro and Mr. Herbert Black. May we sit?”

  Mrs Gresham’s perfectly pencilled eyebrows shoot up her forehead until they almost disappear under her false fringe of yellow curls. “I am sorry, gents, I do not reckernise either of those names.”

  “Let me place them in context for you, Mrs Gresham,” Stride says amiably. “The gentlemen in question reside at Number 55, Russell Square. Have you ever been to that address?”

  The false front of curls bobs and dances as Mrs Gresham shakes her head. Unperturbed, Stride presses on. “The matter we are investigating is that of procuring young girls and shipping them over the Channel to work in brothels in France and Belgium. To do this, the gentlemen have been obtaining birth certificates under false pretences so that the girls would not fall foul of the Continental police, who do not take kindly to underage girls working as prostitutes in their countries.

  “We showed pictures of one of the men to the clerks in the Registrar General’s Office, and they were able confirm that it was Mr. Munro Black, and that he had obtained many certificates over time. Now ~ and here, I think, you might like to tread warily, Mrs Gresham, my men have been watching Number 55, Russell Square, and both they and I have seen you get out of a carriage with some young girls, and enter the house. So, let me ask you again: do you, or do you not know Mr. Munro Black and his brother? Take your time, Mrs Gresham. Please. We are not going anywhere.”

  Stride’s smile is so stiff and wooden you could use it as an ironing-board. The inspector folds his arms and stares at the chandelier in a fascinated manner as if he has never seen one like it before. Mrs Gresham clamps her lips together. The silence extends and settles round them.

  “Construction can be put upon silence,” Stride observes quietly.

  “I ain’t done anything wrong,” she says at last. “I was only doing what I was asked.”

  And getting paid handsomely for doing it, Stride thinks. He has seen the inside of many houses of assignation. Few boast the fixtures and fittings of this one.

  “What you are doing is aiding and abetting a criminal,” Fitch says. “Have you got any girls on the premises at the moment? We should like to interview them.”

  The woman adopts a mulish expression. “I may have some paying guests, but I don’t have to let you talk to them. It ain’t against the law, is it ~ to have paying guests?”

  Fitch gestures towards the window. “If you would care to take a look outside, Madam, you will see a cab. Inside the cab are several of my best men. If I give them the signal, they will enter your premises, making as much of a row as they can, and disturbing the whole street in the process. Do you want that to happen? Also, given the unfortunate nature of the times we live in, somebody is bound to contact the press. They always do, don’t they? I expect this is a ‘respectable house’? Do you want to see your name splashed across the front of the newspapers for all your neighbours to see?”

  The woman sends him a hate-filled glare. She heaves herself out of her seat. “Follow me, then.”

  She leads them up the carpeted stairs and knocks on a door. It is opened a crack by a very pretty but very youthful girl, her hair in curling rags. Behind her, the men can just see two other girls sitting on a bed, dressed in morning wrappers.

  “Now then, my love,” Mrs Gresham says in a cooing voice, “These gents mean you no harm so do not be afraid. They just want to ask you a few questions.”

  Stride steps up to the crack in the door.

  “What is your name, my dear?” Stride asks.

  The girl flashes a quick crafty look at Mrs Gresham, then back at Stride. “Bluebell Herring,” she says.

  “And how old are you, Bluebell?”

  Another knowing glance. “Twenty-one.”

  Take off five years and you’d be nearer the truth, Stride thinks grimly.

  “And why are you staying here, Miss Herring?”

  “I’m going to be an actress in Paree.”

  “I see. When are you setting off for Paris?”

  “Tonight, ain’t we, girls? Can’t wait. Gay Paree!”

  There is a faint chorus of agreement from the other occupants.

  Stride thanks her, indicating that he has nothing more to ask. The door is closed once more. The men return to the parlour. Mrs Gresham regards them sullenly.

  “I hope you are satisfied, officers. Nobody is forcing them girls to go abroad. They are free to change their minds any time.”

  “Who has the girls’ birth certificates?”

  Mrs Gresham shrugs. “I just delivers the girls to the train station. I don’t know about anything else.”

  “Which station, and at what time?” Fitch asks.

  With grudging reluctance, the woman tells him.

  “Thank you, Mrs Gresham, you have been most helpful,” Stride says. “Bear in mind that a man will be watching the house until you leave with the girls, so I suggest you do not try to contact anybody in the interim, or it will be the worse for you.”

  He sends a tacit signal to the inspector. The two men return to the street.

  “You’d be hard put to find a charge that would stick,” Fitch says. “It isn’t a crime to take young girls abroad.”

  “But once they are abroad, it is a crime to possess a false birth certificate,” Stride says. “The police control the trade in prostitutes over there, and they take a dim view of those who run foul of the law.”

  Leaving one of Fitch’s men outside the house, the two men part company and return to their various police offices. Later, Stride will telegraph the Calais police force and alert them to the young women and the false birth certificates. He is also going to place a man on the train, to follow the younger Black brother, and his three ‘actresses’ to the French coast, where he will make sure he is detained by the French authorities.

  Stride has little doubt that Miss Bluebell Herring and her friends will find alternative employment somewhere else. The younger brother can eke out his time in a French gaol. For now. And so, Mr. Munro Black, he reflects, the net closes a little tighter.

  ****

  Unlike her youthful contemporaries, Maria Barklem is not looking for alternative employment, far from it. She currently has employment. Rather, she is seeking a new roof over her head. So far alas, with little success. After her day’s work is done, she returns to the home that will soon belong to another family and prepares hers
elf for her evening class.

  Yes, Maria knows that in the eyes of the church, and social convention, she is not supposed to engage in public activities during the set period of mourning for a parent, but if she does not break the convention, she risks losing her chance to gain her valuable certificate. She is pretty sure that evicting her from her home also does not feature in any ‘How to Treat Those Recently Bereaved’ booklets, but that isn’t stopping the church Elders from throwing her out, is it?

  In between sessions on geography and arithmetic, Maria joins some of her fellow students in the canteen. Over coffee and buns, she finds herself confiding about her prospective homelessness. She is comforted by the sympathy, and the shared stories of her fellows. It seems that every girl has some similar misfortune in their background.

  Later, just after the close of the final session, as she is gathering up her folders and buttoning her coat, she is unexpectedly approached by one of the female lecturers, Miss Letitia Simpkins.

  “Miss Barklem, may I trouble you for a private word in my teaching room?” she asks.

  Maria follows her into the classroom and is invited to take a seat. Miss Simpkins draws up another chair, and to her surprise, takes one of Maria’s gloved hands in her own.

  “I overheard your conversation in the canteen,” she says. “Allow me to offer my deepest sympathy upon the death of your mother. I also lost my Mama at a young age, and the loss of the one person who believed in me made all the difference to the course of my life.”

  There is a pause. Maria withdraws the hand, fumbles for her handkerchief and mops her eyes. Miss Simpkins waits patiently for her attention to return. Eventually it does.

  “I was lucky enough to be given the chance of an education, Miss Barklem, although I had to fight for it. It may seem strange to you, but five years ago, it was almost unthinkable for a girl from a ‘nice’ family to want to have a profession. We were supposed to stay at home until some man came and asked for our hand in marriage.”

  Maria studies her lecturer. Letitia Simpkins is tall, flat-chested and gawky, her clothes unfashionable, her mousy hair scraped back in a bun, her face plain and without the slightest vestige of prettiness. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of spectacles. She does not seem like the sort to ever attract a suitor.

  And yet there is a glow about her that has nothing to do with her physical appearance; she walks with a sense of purpose, and the eyes behind the thick lenses are bright with enthusiasm. Miss Simpkins has a way of disseminating information in a lively and interesting way. All the students enjoy her classes.

  “I had to face the disagreeable revelation that my father was not my real parent, and upon the death of my mother, I, too, faced the prospect of being made homeless,” Miss Simpkins continues. “Even now, I am sometimes haunted by the memory of packing my small trunk and carrying it out into the street. Were it not for the help of an old schoolfriend, who took me in, which in turn allowed me the opportunity to complete my studies, my life might have turned out very differently indeed.”

  Maria sits and processes this for a while. Then she nods slowly.

  “I sense in you, Miss Barklem, a kindred spirit,” her lecturer says. “I have also marked you out as having an exceptional talent for pedagogy. Your essays and your contributions in class discussion demonstrate that you would be a great asset to the profession. It would be a dereliction of my duty not to offer you what assistance I could to complete your studies and gain your certificate.”

  “I am grateful,” Maria replies. “Indeed I am. But unless I can find somewhere to live ~ with a rent I can afford on my meagre salary, I do not see how that is to happen.”

  “May I offer a suggestion? I have good friends who run a kind of ladies’ club, based in Langham Place, off Regent Street. They have a few rooms they rent out to young women in similar situations to yourself, who are in need of temporary accommodation while they finish their education. I could write a letter of introduction, recommending you for one of their places, if you wish? The rent is nominal and some meals are provided.”

  Maria is overcome. Tears fill her eyes. After a lifetime struggling against opposition in the form of some malign authority or another, such kindness is like balm to her battered soul.

  “I cannot express how grateful I am, Miss Simpkins,” she says, brokenly.

  “Then it shall be done at once. If you care to wait in the canteen, I will write the letter of introduction for you. I sense some urgency in your situation, am I correct?”

  Maria nods mutely.

  “If all goes well, you will have a place to stay before the week is out. And I urge you also to consider going in for the Cambridge Junior Locals ~ they have been open to girls for the last two years and are a stepping-stone to the next stage of education. Now, I shall write that letter. I wish you well, Miss Barklem. You have the chance of a good career. Seize it with both hands.”

  Miss Simpkins goes to her desk to write her letter, leaving Maria to return to the canteen and bury her grateful nose in another cup of coffee. Although she doesn’t yet know it, this evening will be the turning point in her life. She will indeed go on to take the Locals, and after them, the Higher Locals, which in turn will lead her to a place at Benslow House in the small market town of Hitchin. Under the tuition of Emily Davies, and with support from visiting professors from Cambridge, Maria Barklem will be amongst the first women to study a degree course at any English university.

  ****

  But all these events will take place several years in the future. Now, it is night-time, and a wolf’s howl of wind whips against the window and rattles the chimneypots. Midnight finds Gerald Daubney still lying awake in his bed, letting his thoughts wander down the dark labyrinthine streets of his mind. The house is silent, but even an empty house can still be loud with ghosts.

  Outside, the moonlit city is a haunted tangle of shadows and threats, a world of creatures that scream and howl. Far from being a sanctuary, somewhere to hide from predators, he now sees it for what it is: a place of noise, foul smells, a dark landscape of chaos.

  Since his accident, he has not ventured further than his front door. It is as if an invisible hand holds him back from crossing his own threshold. He wanders from room to room, as he once wandered the restless nocturnal streets. Occasionally, the doorbell rings and he hears the girl whose name he cannot remember opening the front door and speaking to someone. At which point he cowers silently. It is the kind of silence that wraps itself round someone who doesn’t want to be discovered.

  Church bells chime. The watchman calls the hour. Sleep is a fugitive who has escaped and will not return. Daubney rises, wraps himself in a dressing gown, lights his candle and pens another letter to Detective Sergeant Cully.

  This letter informs Cully that, having once again had no news of his missing collection, nor any visits from Scotland Yard to keep him abreast of the latest developments, nor a response to his last letter, he will be attending the detective in his office tomorrow morning. It is reasonably polite but with sharp critical undertones. He rereads it a couple of times and is satisfied that it strikes the right note. He does not want to leave the officer in any doubt of his dissatisfaction.

  He places the letter in an envelope, addresses it, and leaves it on the hall table with written instructions to the servant girl to post it as soon as she comes in. Daubney then returns to bed. He must be at his intellectual zenith tomorrow, to extract from the elusive detective why he was asking Mortlake, the dealer, about other collectors of netsuke, and why he brought up the Edo cat. There is some mystery here about which he is being kept in the dark.

  Eventually, Daubney sleeps, blissfully unaware that Zanthe, the real white cat, is busy chasing moths downstairs. In hot pursuit of a particularly big juicy one, she will jump onto the hall table, skid across it, and knock his letter down the back next to the wall, where it will lie, unnoticed, for many weeks.

  ****

  It is not often that Detective Inspector Stride
views the front pages of the London papers with any sense of equanimity, but today, even The Inquirer has managed to surpass itself in his estimation. Over a rather dramatic picture of a couple of women clad in what the artist clearly wishes the reader to understand is the sort of attire worn by ladies of negotiable affections, is the headline: Metropolitan Police Foil Filthy Foreign Trade in Female Flesh. The two women are depicted walking down a gangplank accompanied by a figure in police uniform, while a villainously bearded man looks on from the deck rails.

  Stride checks the other newspapers on his desk, noting with satisfaction that each presents a variant on the same headline. The Times even goes into some technical details about the purchase and use of forged birth certificates, having conducted its own investigation on the back of the tip-off.

  He tries to imagine the effect of this upon Munro Black. He hopes that the arrest of his brother, combined with the disappearance of his ‘heavy’, will be enough to throw him off his guard. So far, he has heard nothing from the constables patrolling the area, but it cannot be long before Mr. Black reacts. And when he does, Scotland Yard’s finest, in the form of Greig and Cully, will be there to apprehend him.

  Stride is just about to send out for his second mug of coffee, when there is a knock at his door. The on-duty constable appears.

  “There’s a gentleman in the outer office to see Detective Sergeant Cully, sir,” he says.

  “So, go and tell him,” Stride growls.

  “He isn’t here, sir.”

  Stride rolls his eyes. “Does the gentleman have a name?”

  The constable tells him.

  Stride groans.

  “Are you quite sure Jack Cully isn’t on the premises?” he asks.

  “I’ve checked the rota, sir. He isn’t due in until after lunch,” the constable says. “Shall I tell the gentleman to call back later? Only he seemed to think he had an appointment arranged.”