A Metropolitan Murder (10 page)

‘Where is Johnstone's ‘History of the Parish Pump'? Really, Clara, I specifically asked for it.'

‘I can't say, sir.'

‘Quite. Quite. Neither can I. I expressly asked for it to be delivered; I was told it was “in stock” and whatever that may be taken to mean, I now am quite unable to say.'

‘Perhaps it was forgotten.'

‘I suppose that may be. But what am I to do?'

Clara frowns and looks suitably thoughtful. ‘I could fetch it for you, sir. If you tell me where it's from.'

‘Could you? Could you, Clara, my dear?' He reaches out and clasps her hand in gratitude.

‘Yes, sir. Where should I go?'

‘Babbingtons, my dear girl; on the corner of Newcastle Street, not far from the church. Do you know it?'

‘Yes, of course, I know that street.'

‘Well, yes, I suppose you do. How easily we forget your past life, eh, Clara? It is a testament to your character.'

He touches her hand again, his fingers lingering on hers. She blushes but says nothing.

‘Well,' he says, turning away and looking at his watch, ‘what are you waiting for? Off you go! Tell them that if they keep this up I may consider taking my custom elsewhere.'

Clara curtsies, and leaves the room, suppressing a smile. She composes herself as she descends the stairs at a trot, and, having ensured that no-one has monitored her progress, she returns to the small scullery under the kitchen steps. There, once ensconced inside, she retrieves two objects from beneath the washtub: a small pamphlet entitled ‘History of the Parish Pump', and the bottle of Balley's Patent Quietener. She hides them both in her apron pocket, then opens the scullery door to go back into the kitchen. As she does so, however, she hears the voice of Mrs. Harris, suddenly booming from upstairs.

‘White! What on earth are you doing down there?'

‘Got to go out, ma'am. Dr. Harris asked me to.'

‘ “Got to go out!” I never heard the like. Where to, for pity's sake?'

‘Bookseller's, ma'am.'

There is a noise upon the landing, something between a sigh and a ‘huff'. It is a noise familiar to Clara White and quite unique to Mrs. Harris, signalling a generalised contempt for the world, for the untidy and thoughtless behaviour of all its inhabitants, and for her husband in particular.

‘Well, I am sorry, but that is quite out of the question. There is too much to do here, without you being sent on fool's errands.'

‘But Dr. Harris told me . . .'

‘My husband,' says Mrs. Harris, with stately superiority, ‘is a clever gentleman and a scholar. I expect to find
him
in bookseller's; that is natural and proper, and to be expected. You, on the other hand, I expect to find here, going about your chores. Finding you in other places . . . well, that will only cause confusion. And now, look, you have me shouting down the stairs like some fishwife!'

‘Sorry, ma'am. It was just a book that weren't delivered and . . .'

‘Really! Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, I am sure. Doubtless Dr. Harris will agree with me.'

‘Tomorrow? Yes, ma'am.'

‘Good. Now, back to your duties, if you please. That window is quite revolting. It practically turns my stomach to look at it.'

Mrs. Harris does not wait for a response and disappears from view. Clara, meanwhile, reluctantly turns around, intending to return her secrets to their hiding place; she finds Alice Meynell standing quietly behind her.

‘Where were you off to in such a hurry?' she asks.

‘Did you snitch on me?' replies Clara, surprised.

‘To the missus?'

‘Sorry. Of course, you didn't. It was just an errand.'

‘Anyone might think you've got a gentleman friend. Sneaking out at all hours . . .'

‘It's just ma again. I told them at the refuge I'd get her some medicine, that's all. She's in a bad way.'

‘And how're you going to pay for that? On tick? I thought you were flat out.'

Clara nervously touches her apron. ‘I'll find a way. She was awful bad, Ally. You'd do exactly the same if you saw her.'

‘She ain't my mother, though.'

‘Count yourself lucky.'

E
VENING FALLS ON
Lincoln's Inn Fields, as the lady superintendent of the Holborn Refuge acknowledges a knock at her door, and calls in one of her nurses.

‘Agnes White again?' asks Miss Sparrow, wearily.

‘She moans in her sleep something terrible, ma'am. And if she's awake, she coughs.'

‘Well, I fear we must let it take its course. She is bent on being ill; I am sure of it.'

‘Should we not . . . ?' asks Jenny hesitantly. ‘I mean, should we not call the doctor? The other gals are saying it's a brain fever, that it might be catching.'

‘Well, I am, at least, quite sure it is no such thing. Indeed, I can find nothing much wrong with her, except her nerves and drink. Besides,' says Miss Sparrow, looking up from her books with a look of frustration, ‘where should I find the money for a doctor?'

‘I just thought . . .'

‘And your compassion does you credit, my dear,' says Miss Sparrow, sighing. ‘But we must set limits. And needs must.'

‘Her daughter said she might buy her another bottle of the Balley's, ma'am.'

Miss Sparrow smiles. ‘Now, nothing would suit me more. Still, in the meantime, I suppose we must see if
we can calm her. You may go and do your best, Jenny. Remind her that this is the Quiet Hour. Remind her of that.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

The girl stands there, nervously.

‘Well, was there something else?'

‘You'll think I'm foolish, ma'am,' says the nurse, unfolding a piece of paper she has been holding behind her back. ‘It's just something silly that Aggie said, about Sally. It's just, I was reading about this murder last night at Baker Street – you've heard about it, ain't you? And I was thinking about Sally and . . .'

‘And what?'

‘Well, it couldn't be her, could it, ma'am? I mean, it says here “flame-haired”. I mean, that was the girl that were killed.'

‘Really, Jenny, you must do something about these awful fancies of yours. What would Sally Bowker be doing upon a train? Show me that,' says Miss Sparrow, her face quite composed.

Jenny steps forward and hands her the broadsheet. Her employer scans it briefly before looking up at her.

‘You'd do better to read nothing at all, Jenny, rather than read such nonsense.'

‘Sorry, ma'am,' says Jenny, a little abashed.

‘Yes, well, go and see what can be done for White, will you? At least keep her quiet.'

In her mind's eye, Agnes White sits upon a wooden stool, in the tap-room of the Black Boy. There is noise, and bustle, and jollity. She is suddenly a pretty young woman again, nineteen years of age.

But then she looks down and sees that she is carrying a child. She touches her face and finds it slightly fattened and flushed. And, whilst with one hand she
cradles her balloon belly, with the other she holds a glass of gin. She places it upon the table, and tops it up from a half-bottle of Cream of the Valley, then takes another deep swig. The burning liquor slips easily down her throat, but she still feels the tightness in her back, iron fingers tugging at her womb.

She downs another measure, then gets up. It seems a dizzying, tumble-down kind of place but she staggers to the looking-glass and examines her face properly. Something is wrong with it, she can see that, but she cannot place it; but she has not trusted her reflection for twenty years or more.

How old? she wonders, looking at herself. How old are you?

Really? That old. Lord spare us.

‘Aggie,' says the nurse, gently stroking her face as she turns this way and that upon the mattress, ‘Aggie, come on now. You'll be choking yourself again . . . That's better, you just sleep nice and quiet. I'll get you up later, when supper's ready.'

‘Take her to the workhouse!'

‘Whorehouse, more like.'

‘You take her!'

Aggie White crouches by the hearth of the Jolly Anchor. They are arguing about her, she can hear that much; they want her to go to Wapping Workhouse; and there is a fiddle playing in the background, the same melody again and again. She gets up, unsteady, holding on to a chair. It topples over and she falls back into the dust.

‘If she drops it here, there'll be hell to pay.'

But, too late, here it is; there should be pain, but
perhaps she has forgotten that part. It is a baby, a girl, blood-blue and screaming as a woman finally cuts the cord with a penknife.

She cannot remember if it was Clara or Lizzie.

Lizzie?

‘I want to see her. Tell her, I want to see her.'

‘Who, Aggie?'

‘Lizzie!'

‘Don't get upset, dear. Your daughter? She was a nice girl. She'll be back, I'm sure,' says Jenny, rearranging her pillow. ‘You just rest now.'

‘I want to see her, tell her I'm sorry.'