by J C Briggs
Rogers had found out nothing from Jemmy Pike. Pike had denied everything. Yes, he was friendly with Evie Finch. No, there was no affair — Jemmy Pike had been indignant — ’e was a married man with kids. Anyways, Evie Finch had been lookin’ elsewhere — makin’ sheep’s eyes at the master’s son. Rogers had not believed him, but they couldn’t prove his relationship with Evie — and Jemmy Pike knew it. Rogers had seen that in the little spark of triumph in the man’s eyes when Rogers bade him good day.
Mrs Feak spoke, ‘I found out who Hubbard is — real name Bertha Raspin. Profession midwife — at least that’s what she calls herself — not what I’d call her.’
‘I’ve heard the name — a servant of the woman Miranda Deverall lived with mentioned her. She is connected to this Mrs Hodson and therefore to the murdered Doctor Plume.’
‘And to Evie Finch who muttered those words about a doctor that Mollie told me about. Perhaps he was to do Evie’s operation —’
‘But he could not — he was dead. And what does our Mrs Raspin know about that, I wonder? I need to see her — unless she has vanished like Kitty Quillian.’
‘Kitty Quillian?’
‘She was there the night of the murder. The servant at Plume’s house saw her. She didn’t go in with Miranda Deverall, but she worked at Mrs Hodson’s, knew Plume, and I want to find her.’
‘You think she might have killed the doctor?’
‘It’s possible if he’d seduced her, too, which is more than likely. Anyhow, I’ve got Constable Stemp looking for her. Did you find out Mrs Raspin’s address, by any chance?’
‘I did — but, you know, Mr Jones, she won’t tell you about Evie — she’ll deny it. And, though I can’t approve of the way she treated Evie, I have to say that some of these girls have to go somewhere. Settin’ aside what happened to Evie, I can understand why she went. No man to support her — he’s got off scot free — and the workhouse, she’d not want that. In any case, she might not have got in. She had no choice, and neither do hundreds of others. I don’t like it, Mr Jones, course I don’t, but there’s many women, single or married, that can’t support a child. I know abortion’s illegal — but I can’t help thinkin’ that it’s a law made by men.’
Jones heard the indignation in her voice. The law was all very well in theory, but he had seen as well as Mrs Feak, the cellars where emaciated women eked out their existence with too many children to feed. He had seen the utter despair of a woman of whose seven children, three had died, and yet there was another to come. He remembered when he was a young policeman, how a mother whose daughter had been a suicide had asked him why the girl should have been forced to bring another slave into the world. He remembered her defiant eyes and her angry grief for her daughter. He had slunk away, unable to answer. He had been taught that children were a blessing, but he had learnt a different tale then. He looked at Mrs Feak, who saw the bleakness in his eyes. Of course, he knew.
‘I know. I know what desperation leads women to. Well, I shall concentrate on Mrs Raspin’s link to Plume and Mrs Hodson. There’s nothing I can do for Evie now, but I have to solve the murder — whether I approve of the victim or not, and if I can give Mrs Raspin a bit of a scare, she might think a bit more carefully about her patients in future. So, tell me where I might find her.’
‘Fox’s Lane, off Northumberland Street — you know, by the workhouse.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, I’ve to go.’ Seeing Jones’s face, she added kindly, ‘You can only do what you can, Mr Jones. This is a hard world and no mistake. And you’ve chosen a hard path, but I daresay you wouldn’t choose another — you’re a good man, I know that.’
She stumped away then. He felt the better for her words. A good woman who did the best she could, too. Now, he thought, I need to find Mrs Raspin. And Kitty Quillian. Had she done it or had she seen something? The murderer? Had she seen Mrs Hodson at Plume’s house or someone else? A memory came to him suddenly. Something that Dickens had said about the Italian boy — he had seen someone approaching the boy in Weymouth Street. Dickens thought the passer-by might have stopped to give the boy something, but the boy wasn’t playing his barrel-organ. He had seemed to be looking at the house. And Dickens had used the words “I hope”, as if he were afraid. A man, Dickens had thought. Somewhere, perhaps, there was a man who had murdered Plume, and who had seen Kitty Quillian and the Italian boy. Kitty Quillian — not the killer, then, but someone in danger from the killer. It was time to look. Raspin could wait. He thought about Scrap — what danger had he sent him into?
Dickens came in then to relate what he had found out from Jenny Ince and about Lawson.
‘Jenny Ince couldn’t tell me much more than we learned from Mrs Pook and Susan Bliss. She confirmed what we know about Lavinia’s illness and about the sheets she was given, which she washed and gave to her son and his family. But, she did wonder, of course, about the blood, but she didn’t dare ask.’
‘Anything about Plume?’
‘No, she knew that a doctor came, but nothing about him.’
‘And Edward Lawson?’
Dickens told Jones about the man’s grief for his wife and his loathing of Plume, whom he held responsible for his wife’s condition.
‘Yet, I do not believe that he killed Plume. It is true that his grief has driven him almost to madness. I pitied him.’
‘I do, too. You are sure that he did not kill Plume?’
‘Had you been there — had you seen him, heard him, you would have known it, too. There is something else. Lawson was there on the night of Plume’s murder — and he saw someone going in — at about twenty minutes to seven.’
‘Not the boy?’
Dickens told him about the man in the black hat and coat, and his remembering the figure with the Italian boy. He saw how Jones’s face betrayed a sudden apprehension.
‘What? What have you thought?’
‘I remembered your saying that you hoped the figure was giving the boy sixpence, as if you were uncertain, and I think about the missing boy and the missing Kitty Quillian. You say Lawson saw a man entering Plume’s garden at twenty minutes to seven or thereabouts. Where was our Italian boy then? Bark saw him at about five-thirty. Suppose our man saw the boy when he came out of the house. He might have been hanging about, hoping for food or something.’
‘But what about Kitty Quillian? If our man went in at twenty minutes to seven, then Miranda must have gone. Why would Kitty Quillian be hanging about to be seen by him when he came out? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Whatever she was doing, she was there, and she may have been seen by our man in black. Now she is missing and that concerns me. We need to find both of them before our killer does. And, I need to find Scrap. I worry that I have put him in danger. I’m going to Kitty’s lodgings now — there’ll be a landlord who might know something. And I’ll leave a message for Stemp at The Neptune pub, telling him to look out for Scrap and bring him home.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Chapter 17: A Fiend in Human Shape
Mary Brady was frightened. In her head, she had a list of things of which she was terrified. The lump in her breast was not at the top. Death, she thought, would be a blessed sleep. That sleep she longed for, anything to escape the feverish nights of pain and terror. At the top of the list was poor little May. Not that she was frightened of her, but for her. May, left to the mercy of her brother, Jimmy — and her father, Paul Brady. And of those two, it was Jimmy who was the worse.
Jimmy, her first born at her breast, his hard, greedy, little black eyes staring at her. Even then he hated her. She remembered his fierce little mouth sucking the life out of her, biting with his tough gums. He had exhausted her, and she wasn’t surprised when May came, unfinished, into the world. Jimmy had done that. He had taken all the life from her. After May, there had only been miscarriages or dead babies. Not that she wanted to bring any more children into the dank cellar where Jimmy terrorised her and May. He flew
into rages, broke things, beat and bullied them both. Paul encouraged him — little man, he called him, but she knew that his favouritism was born of fear. Sometimes, even Paul beat him, but the boy didn’t care. He was a fiend in human shape. He was capable of any vile thing — and it was her fault. She must have done something to deserve him.
In the early days, she had still prayed. There had been a little statue of the blessed Virgin. Many a time, she had fallen on her knees, begging the Virgin to intercede. Paul had laughed at her, but Jimmy, at five, had swept the statue to the floor and had ground it under his heel. Paul hadn’t dared do that. May had collected the pieces. They were still in a drawer, and sometimes she looked at them hopelessly, knowing that there would be no intercession. But, perhaps, that was what the lump was — a punishment that she must endure for her sins — until she was taken to the rest she craved. If it were not for May, she would welcome death now.
And Paul? What was he up to? He had money. Where from? Workin’, he’d said. None o’ your damn business. And he had money for drink. He’d given her some, though — guilty about something. Then he’d gone. But, she’d heard tales, strange tales. They said the alleys was haunted. Kids’ talk, she thought, but Jimmy said it was Satan. ‘We works fer Satan,’ he’d boasted, ‘me an’ Pa. We does ’is work.’ Mary half believed it. They’d work for anyone. There was an Italian family living not far away. Annie Leather said that there was someone called the gangmaster who the Italian family had to pay money to. ‘Rich, ’e was, but ’e dint live in the alleys,’ Annie said. ‘No one ’ad ever seen ’im, but ’e ’ad ’undreds under ’is control.’ Mary couldn’t make much of it all, but somehow the money and Jimmy’s boasting and Paul out all night, merged into one sense of danger. The danger was like some dark, cloaked figure stalking her dreams, coming nearer so that she woke in terror, listening to May’s soft breathing and biting on the rough blanket so that she wouldn’t cry out.
She slept with May now in the little dank room, the size of a small pantry. It was cold as the grave, but she could keep May safe. Paul didn’t want his wife now. There was someone else, she could tell. He was never in. Keepin’ her somewhere, she supposed. Paul was still handsome with flashing black eyes and he could talk when he wanted something. And he hated the disease, he was frightened of it — perhaps he thought it was catching, she’d wondered bitterly. She wished it was. No, it was the idea of something eating away at her that revolted him. He avoided her eyes. Let him have who he wanted. More fool her — the girl, whoever she was. But if she died and Paul left with a new woman? If? When — for it would come. Would May be left with Jimmy? Oh, please, God, let May be safe.
Jimmy had seen her and Paul in the days when Paul wanted her. She’d seen him watching, black eyes gleaming in the dark. And she saw now how he watched May. She knew what he was thinking, what he wanted, and that frightened her more than anything. Jimmy was angry with Paul, too, angry that Paul wouldn’t take him with him to wherever he went — to his fancy woman’s, she supposed, leaving her to deal with him. If only Mrs Hodson had not gone away. If only Kitty Quillian was not missing. Surely Kitty would have looked after May. She would have found her a place somewhere. Mary had kept the most of the money Paul had given her. She would have given it to Kitty. But now? To leave May with Jimmy. God forgive her, she wished him dead.
But he was very much alive. She could hear him out in the street shouting at someone. She went up the ladder to see what he was up to.
Scrap found himself in Bones Alley. He’d heard on his searches that an Italian family lived somewhere in the lanes off East Street. Maybe the Italian boy lived hereabouts. He saw a boy a bit older than him — thirteen or so. Rough looking and tough, but Scrap knew his way about — and he had money. The lad was lounging against a tumbledown wall. Occasionally, he looked up and down the alley. Waiting for someone, perhaps.
Scrap approached him. The boy looked him over with hard black eyes. Scrap saw how his hands curled into fists. Well, two could play at that game. He stared back. But he noticed that the boy was thickset and there was something in the eyes, something expressionless. Scrap had seen a lot. He could hold his own in a fight and his quick tongue and fast feet got him out of most trouble, but, here he sensed something different, something inhuman almost, and for once he felt a prickle of fear.
‘Wot d’yer want ’ere?’ Stone hard voice. Older than the boy’s years.
Scrap wanted to run. Pride kept him where he was. Never failed Mr Jones yet. Told ’im I could look arter meself. Bloody fool, I am. Gettin’ soft. He folded his arms. Forced himself not to look behind. ‘Lookin’ fer someone.’
‘Well, ’e ain’t ’ere, nancy boy.’ A coarse laugh.
Scrap kept his temper. ‘I’m payin’ fer information.’
‘Oh, perlice are yer? Dint know they ’ad kids in the force. No wonder they don’t catch no one.’
‘Dint say that, did I? ’Im wot I works fer wants ter find a lad — Italian.’
The boy’s eyes seemed to gleam suddenly. Found ’im, thought Scrap.
‘’Ow much yer payin’?’
Scrap calculated. A tanner wouldn’t do. ‘A bob.’
‘Deuce. Now, or yer can whistle fer it.’
Scrap gave the two bob. He knew it was a risk — the lad might not tell him, and he worried about the way those hard eyes seemed to see right through him.
‘Italian lot live down Beggar’s Lane — yer go down them steps.’ Jimmy pointed to a narrow opening. ‘Do ’e ’ave a name? I might know ’im.’ Suddenly Jimmy seemed almost friendly.
‘Joe Seppy.’ Scrap, usually so canny in reading character, made a mistake.
The eyes were blank again. ‘Nah, niver ’eard of ’im. Now, get lost.’ Jimmy picked up a large piece of brick.
Scrap went without another word. Beggar’s Lane then.
Mary Brady had listened. She watched as Jimmy spoke to the other lad — nice lookin’ kid, she thought. And she thought about the Italian boy and the talk about Satan. She saw Jimmy pick up the brick, and she saw his face, calculating and sly. He knew something.
Chapter 18: Brimstone and Treacle
Mrs Brimstone, Kitty Quillian’s landlady at Dab Lane, had a face the shape of a flat iron, narrow at the brow and broad at the chin, and as featureless. There was a nose, but nothing to speak of, and a grim crease for a mouth. The eyes were oddly mud-coloured and opaque. If the eyes were the windows of the soul, then hers were closed. She was solid — the wash tub on which was perched the iron. House-proud, too. There was a smell of carbolic and vinegar — and something sulphurous? The room in which Dickens and Jones stood was clean, if sparsely furnished.
Jones was surprised. Somehow, he had pictured Kitty Quillian — and Miranda Deverall — in miserable lodgings. Kitty Quillian had left Mrs Hodson’s employment, yet she had been able to afford a room at Mrs Brimstone’s. Interesting, he thought — where did her money come from?
Mr Arthur Brimstone was tall and thin and yellow with dark brown eyes — dosed, thought Dickens, with sulphur and treacle, perhaps. He imagined Mrs Brimstone as Mrs Squeers, stirring her immense basin of brimstone and treacle, and her husband with a wide open mouth ready to receive the wooden spoon and taking the whole of the bowl at a gasp. He didn’t look to have much of an appetite; perhaps Mrs Brimstone’s philosophy was that of Mrs Squeers: brimstone and treacle spoils the appetite and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. Interestingly, he seemed much younger than his wife — perhaps thirty or so to her forty or more years. How had he fastened himself to this plain, stout woman? Not that he was what one might call attractive. His face was too long.
‘Kitty Quillian,’ repeated Jones. ‘Have you any idea where she is?’
Mrs Brimstone regarded the policeman impassively. ‘No, I don’t — never heard a word of her since that night the police come for that murderess. Friend of Kitty’s, supposed to be — I didn’t want her here. Kitty said she was going back to Ireland so I let her stay. Few nights, Kitt
y said. Then the murder happened and Kitty disappeared. Hope she wasn’t mixed up in that business.’
Jones ignored the reference to Miranda Deverall as a murderess. ‘Did she have any friends around here that she might have gone to?’
‘Friendly with Mrs Brady down Bones Alley — Irish, of course. They stick together.’
They knew she wasn’t there. May Brady had said that Kitty had gone. Still, it was worth asking Mrs Brady if she knew anything. She’d know more than poor little May.
‘How long had Kitty Quillian lived here?’
‘About six months.’
‘Why did she leave Mrs Hodson’s?’ Jones hoped the suddenness of that question and the revelation that he knew something of Kitty Quillian’s past might sting Mrs Brimstone into some unguarded comment. He was wrong. Her expression remained unmoved.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Did she have employment?’
‘No.’
‘How did she pay her way?’
‘Savin’s, she said. It wasn’t my business. As long as she paid.’
Impasse, thought Jones. She won’t tell me anything. He thought about the money. ‘Her room — I’d like to see it, please.’
Mrs Brimstone made no sign of assent or denial of his request. Dickens glanced at Arthur Brimstone. He saw how the man’s eyes darted to his wife, and how he licked his lips nervously. He noted the feverish hands coming in and out of the pockets. Something to hide here.
Just at that moment, they heard the sound of a baby crying. It came from upstairs. Again, Mr Brimstone looked uneasy. Dickens thought he saw a sudden flicker of alarm in his eyes, but the man looked down quickly, furtively. He said nothing. He hadn’t said anything at all.
