by Sam Gafford
“What you want, then?” she asked. The door was only open a few inches, but I thought I could see another person inside. She did not look directly at us.
“I beg your pardon, madam, I am looking for my old friend, Mary Kelly. Might you know where she is?”
“It’s the middle of the day; she ain’t here. Come back later, maybe tonight.” She finally looked at us directly, and her face opened wider than the door. “What are you doing here? She’s been looking for you!”
“Excuse me?” Arthur said.
The woman stopped and stared. “Wait. It’s not you, is it? What’re you doing, trying to play tricks on me? Go away before I set the ape on you. I told you Mary ain’t here!”
With that, she shut the door, but I did not hear the lock turn.
Arthur turned to me. “Mark this place in your mind, Albert; we will be back.”
We walked back out to Dorset Street and down to Commercial Street. “What now, Arthur?”
“Well, Albert, I guess we’ll take a walk for a bit and head back home. I admit to needing some fresh air after today, and I imagine you do too. Perhaps even a stop at a pub for a bit of lunch and something wet to slake our thirsts. Whitechapel is leaving a distinctly bad taste in my mouth.”
We had barely gone down Commercial Street for a few minutes before I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I looked around and saw Ann standing outside a building down the street. She was waving her arm and calling to me. I felt my mouth instantly spread into a smile—a fact not lost upon Arthur.
“That’s your fellow lodger, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, it is. What could she be doing here?”
“Well, there’s one way to find out. Let’s go ask her!”
As we got closer, I could see that she was smiling as well. I felt an immense happiness over that small fact.
The building she was in front of was a large sprawling affair built primarily from old bricks. There was a spire in front, and it looked like some sort of dormitory. The words “Toynbee Hall” were written over the entrance.
“Albert!” Ann smiled. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. You remember my friend, Arthur Machen?”
“Of course,” she said, “the man who keeps bringing you into dangerous places.”
“Life is a dangerous place, my dear,” Arthur said, “whether one lives in a parlour or a bar.”
Ann smirked. “Another smooth talker. I shall have to watch myself around you two.”
“I take it you are one of the Reverend Barnett’s volunteers, Miss Simmons?” Arthur asked.
“You take it correctly, Mr. Machen. You are familiar with the canon’s work?”
“I should think that there are few in London, rich or poor, who do not know the Reverend Barnett’s name and work.”
“Why?” I asked. “What does he do?”
Arthur smiled. “I think, perhaps, I shall leave you to explain that to Albert, Miss Simmons, and be on my way. You will see him home safely, won’t you?” Arthur winked.
“As safe as the money in the Bank of England,” she answered.
“See here, I think I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!”
They both laughed at that. “Ah, Albert,” Arthur said, “I dearly hope I was never this naïve. I will collect you tomorrow at The Brothers’.”
“Tomorrow? For what?”
“For the inquest, of course!” And with that Arthur bounded down the street. I had the distinct fear that he was heading for the Ten Bells again or some other horrible hole.
I turned back to Ann. She was looking beautiful as usual, but she was dressed rather plainly. I assumed that it was so that she would not attract attention.
“What’s he talking about? What inquest?”
Feeling nervous, I quickly tried to change the subject.
“So what is it that you’re doing here exactly? Is this your volunteer work?”
“In a way,” she replied, aware of my crude attempt to change the subject but letting it pass by. “Come, walk with me. I have to go and talk to the canon back at St. Jude’s.”
She offered me her arm and I gladly took it. Walking down that dirty, crowded street in the poorest, most desolate area of London, I felt as if we were walking down a golden road in Paradise.
“So what is this Toynbee Hall?”
“It’s a social experiment of sorts. The Reverend Barnett and his wife founded this settlement back in 1884 in memory of their friend, Arnold Toynbee. Mr. Toynbee was a social reformer who died when he was only thirty years old with much of his work unfinished. The Barnetts and a few others decided to create this place to try and close the gap between the social classes. So what happens is that college students, and some volunteers, live here at Toynbee Hall and spend time among the poor.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever they can. Teaching some new skills, visiting with some of the older ones, running social clubs, giving legal aid, but also just showing that they can have a better life than this.”
“Does it work?”
“Some might not think so, but I do! Just the light in a child’s eyes when you show him that he can be something more than a street thief makes it worthwhile. But it’s early yet. There’s a great many people who don’t agree with the Barnetts and would like nothing more than to see Toynbee Hall fade away.”
“Why? Don’t they want to help the poor?”
Ann laughed. “What am I going to do with you? Not everyone is as kind as you, Albert. Many of the rich and powerful don’t care about the poor and also don’t want to be reminded of them. They pay their taxes and contribute to charities so that they can pretend that children are not starving a few miles away. The East End is like a different land to them, populated by ugly, horrible monsters that they fear will rise up and destroy them. And someday, they just might.”
“Are you serious? Do you think there could be a revolution here as there was in France?”
“It would not surprise me, Albert. These people are poor and angry. For years they’ve been kept down by the upper class, and all it will take is something to mobilise them. I tell you, Albert, I fear for this city. I am always waiting for the sounds of a mob in the street.”
“Surely it won’t come to that?”
“Albert, you don’t know. You haven’t seen these people, the absolute despair in which they live. I have seen over a dozen people living in one disgusting room and young girls selling their bodies for a crust of stale bread. I have looked into the eyes of children who, I would swear, have no souls. When you herd so many people who have nothing left to lose into such a small space, can you really be surprised if they strike back?”
We had been walking for a short time, and I could see the spire of a church coming closer. I assumed that it was the St. Jude’s that Ann was heading for. In the distance, I could hear loud voices—but, as I was learning, loud voices are a common thing in the East End.
“Surely there are some places for the poor to go? Somewhere they can get something to eat and a place to stay?”
“And who would provide those places? Certainly not the Government: it doesn’t care about these people and I should not be surprised if it purposefully did nothing so that the poor died off by themselves.”
“You mean the Government does nothing for these people?”
“Oh, it does plenty all right. It makes sure that the workhouses and poorhouses are kept operating. Little does it care that those who enter those places rarely leave again. It is a terrible and vicious cycle, Albert. The poor can never get out from under their situations. They are born into this hell and their only escape is death. And, of course, the Government makes sure that all the prisons are full.”
“So is there no hope?”
The voices were getting louder as we got closer to the church. I could see some people out in the yard in front of the church and they seemed to be arguing.
“There is always hope, Albert, alway
s. Every day that the Lord makes gives us hope. Every sunrise is the promise of a better day. If we didn’t believe that, how could we go on?”
We were very near the church, and I could see that a group of three men were menacing another man who, if I was seeing correctly, was trying to fend them off. He was an older man, probably in his mid-forties, but he looked as if he were capable of taking care of himself.
“Oh, no, not again!” Ann said as she caught sight of the group.
“How can you call this a church?” one of the men was screaming. “You don’t even help us! You’d let us all die here!”
“I’ve told you before, Maitlain, you’ll find no handouts here. You know my policy.”
Ann was running up to them, and I followed close behind her.
“Damn your policy, Barnett! My children are starving! What am I to feed them?”
Barnett’s face was stern and unmoving.
“The church is not a place for this. You must learn to stand on your own. Manage your money. Do not spend more than you have.”
“‘More than I have’? I have NOTHING! How can I spend less than NOTHING?”
“You know the rules, Maitlain. They stand for everyone!”
“And what do you stand for, Barnett? You and your bloody social programmes. We don’t need teachers and students talking to us all day, we need food!”
“You’ll find none here.”
“You rotten piece of filth!” The man lunged for Barnett. I jumped between them as his friends pulled him back.
“Calm yourself, man! This is a church!” I said.
“This is no church!” he screamed. “This is a house of hell and he is the Devil!”
Suddenly, the man leaned forward and I moved to catch his blow, but instead he spit into Barnett’s face.
“Come along, George,” one of his friends said. “I told you you’d find no help here. If this is God’s house, he’s surely moved to a better neighbourhood.”
Grudgingly they moved away. Some people had gathered to watch the fight, but now they slowly walked off. Ann came up to us as the canon was wiping his face with his handkerchief. She smiled gratefully at me as she turned to the Reverend.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Ann. Unfortunately, such things happen all too frequently these days.”
“It will only get worse, Reverend, you know that,” Ann said.
“But eventually it will get better too. Now who is this who so admirably leaped to my defence?”
“Reverend Samuel Barnett, may I present Mr. Albert Besame.”
“Indeed? The Mr. Besame that you have talked so much about these last few days?”
Ann blushed, and I admit that I was rather surprised to hear that she had been talking about me.
“A pleasure, sir,” I said and shook his outstretched hand. It was surprisingly strong and I sensed that there was some muscle behind his coat.
“And has our young Miss Simmons recruited you for Toynbee Hall yet?”
“Ah,” I mumbled, “not just yet.”
Barnett looked at Ann in mock amazement. “And why not? We need smart young men like this to teach reading and literature to our young ones.”
Ann laughed lightly. “Give him time, Reverend. He is just now settling into a new position as a cataloguer at Robson & Carslake. I didn’t want to overwhelm him.”
“Nonsense! He’s a fine, strapping young lad!” He turned to face me. “I want to see you at Toynbee Hall next week, son. There’s always so much to be done. We are facing a crisis here and we are in grave danger of losing every soul in the East End.”
“What did those men want? Help of some kind?”
Barnett’s face grew hard. It was the same look he had when he faced down the men a few minutes earlier.
“They wanted the worst kind of help: charity. They wanted the church to give them food and shelter. Once we do that, they will never learn to stand for themselves.”
“But if they were starving, surely giving them some food would not be harmful.”
“It’s the worst kind of harm, lad. ‘Give a man a fish and you feed him once. Teach him to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.’ No good comes from simply providing ways for people to avoid their responsibilities. ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ It gives me no pleasure to deny people food, Albert. I know the pain it causes, but I also know the pain it would cause to allow people to rely on such charity . . . and then have it withdrawn.
“Here is the painful truth: there is not enough food to feed everyone in the East End. Despite all the slaughterhouses and fishmongers, we would never be able to feed everyone who needed it. If I fed one family, they would all come—and how would I choose who ate and who went hungry? It is a burden that is beyond me, even if I did not believe that such charity would do more harm than good.”
“Now, Reverend, it is not time for a sermon already, is it?” Ann chided.
Barnett laughed. “True, true. I do get carried away sometimes. Now, Ann, was there something you needed?”
Ann’s face clouded for the first time that I could remember. “Yes,” she said, “I do need to speak to you. Albert, I wonder if we could be excused for a moment?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “I’ll wait out here.”
“Thank you, I won’t be long.”
They went inside and I stood in the small yard and studied the church. It was an older building and somewhat Gothic in design. Not terribly large but not especially small either. If there was one thing that I had noticed in London, it was that all the churches were dark and gloomy. They were not like the local church back in Cornwall, which was bright and cheery. If pressed, I would probably say that being in a London church was like standing in the Old Testament from the Bible. At any moment, you expected the wrath of God to rain down upon your head.
I had never made much of a study of churches before, nor had I ever paid much attention to buildings or architecture. But I was finding that buildings had as much character and soul as many people, or as little. I wondered if places could be more evil and sinful than a human being.
Chapter 10
I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark and raining, and I saw more fog and mud in a minute than I had seen in a year. I walked from the Custom House to the Monument before I found a coach; and although the very house-fronts, looking on the swollen gutters, were like old friends to me, I could not but admit that they were very dingy friends.
—Charles Dickens
Ann had only been inside for a few minutes when I started to feel light-headed. Dizzy, I sat down on one of the marble steps, which for a summer’s day were surprisingly cool. The events of this morning seemed so far away in time that I had trouble believing they had all happened that same day. I breathed slowly and the world gradually regained its footing.
By that time, Ann had come back outside looking for me. As she saw me sitting there, her face instantly grew grave and she ran over to me.
“Albert! Are you unwell? Are you hurt?”
In the midst of my throbbing head, I could see genuine concern on her face, and that made me happier than I could ever expect to be. Slowly, I told her the events of the morning, including my altercation with the mysterious robber.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? And here you’ve been walking all about the East End and, I’m sure, without a bite to eat since breakfast.”
“Actually, Arthur and I were planning on having some lunch when we came upon you.”
“So I am responsible, in part, for your health, then. Come inside, the Reverend Barnett will let us take something from the kitchen, I’m sure.”
Ann led me inside the small rectory attached to the church where a group of women were meeting.
“My apologies, Mrs. Barnett, I wonder if we could have a bit of a cold lunch from the kitchen?” Ann asked.
A small, older woman looked at her and smiled. “Oh, dear, Ann, you know what the canon would say.”
“Then perhap
s we should not tell him?” Ann grinned. “Besides, he is on an important errand just now.”
Despite herself, Mrs. Barnett grinned as well. “I never could say no to you, dear. But please do make it quick, won’t you?”
“We will, Mrs. Barnett. Oh!” Ann stopped suddenly. “Where are my manners? May I present Mr. Albert Besame?”
Mrs. Barnett’s face lit up. “Indeed! This is the Albert you’ve told me so much about? Well, I should never forgive myself if I refused my kitchen to young love. Take all the time you need, dear.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barnett.”
“And you as well, dear. I assume that I shall see you around much more if Miss Ann and my husband have anything to do with it.”
As we left the room, I could hear the women’s voices tittering excitedly like a group of small birds.
“Are we the subject of their conversation?” I asked.
“We are now!” Ann exclaimed.
The kitchen was small but clean and serviceable. Ann put a pot of water on the stove for tea and found some bread and meat which she made into sandwiches. I could not suppress feeling guilty that we were about to eat food that the canon had just refused to give others. I resolved to eat as little as possible and asked Ann to make mine just a half-sandwich. Smiling with understanding, she cut the sandwich in two, and we shared it.
“I’m afraid we won’t have enough time for a proper meal, but perhaps this will serve until we get home to Mrs. Hutchins.”
I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I started eating. I fairly devoured the sandwich and several cups of a very strong green tea. I could feel some of the fog lifting from my mind as the food reached my stomach.
“Now,” Ann said, “let me take a look at your head.” She felt over my skull until she found the sore spot, making me wince. “Yes, that is a good-sized bump. Albert, whatever are you doing up? You should be home resting.”
“Arthur needed my help.”
“With what? I’m beginning to think that your friend has a very unhealthy obsession with the East End. What do you really know about him? What were you down here for?”
I told her the tale of the murder and of going to the morgue. What I didn’t say was why Arthur was in the East End to begin with or who he was looking for. For some reason, I felt that I shouldn’t talk about that just yet. Not to Ann at least.
