A Metropolitan Murder (6 page)

‘Balley's Quietener?'

‘Yes, that is the one.'

‘Why, yes, Miss,' he says, surprised, ‘I do. Now, the mixture for Mrs. Harris, I've some prepared; but, how much of the Balley's would you be requiring? Bottle or half-bottle? Mrs. Harris feeling nervy, is she, bless her?'

Clara merely nods. Perhaps she reasons that an unspoken deception is better than an all-out lie. At all events, she does not contradict him.

‘A bottle would be fine, thank you.'

‘Very well, Miss, you wait there. I'll just be a moment.'

The old man disappears beneath the mahogany-topped counter, and can be heard to open several drawers and cupboards. When he finally rises again, he holds a blue-green jar for the benefit of Mrs. Harris, and a clear glass bottle of the patent drug, labelled ‘Balley's' in bold black type. He takes a smaller, empty bottle, and measures out the viscous dark brown liquid.

‘Strong stuff this, Miss,' he says, squeezing a stopper into the bottle, and placing both containers in a paper bag, padding it with a wrap or two of crushed newspaper. ‘You tell Mrs. H. to be careful – not more than a few drops after a meal.'

‘I will tell her,' Clara says.

‘And I'll put it on the account?'

Clara pauses for a moment. ‘Yes, that's fine,' she says at last.

‘Good day then, Miss. Perhaps you could remind Mrs. Harris, the account is due next week?'

‘I will,' she replies nervously, as she takes the little parcel. ‘Good day.'

Clara opens the shop door and steps once more into the busy street. On the corner of Gray's Inn Lane there is now a boy selling penny sheets, with a little crowd gathered about him, the newsprint dirtying their eager hands. Their talk is of ‘murder' and ‘the Underground Railway', but she does not take it in as she passes by. Rather, she makes her dash across Gray's Inn Lane, hoisting her skirts as high as decency allows, running as fast as she can.

It is not five minutes more before Clara White stands outside a house on Doughty Street, just north of Gray's Inn. It is not a large house, and not too dissimilar to
the refuge, with the principal exception that it is finished with stucco painted a smart white, and its front steps are much better polished. She takes a moment to ensure her mother's medication is concealed in her apron, and Mrs. Harris's clearly on display, then descends the area steps, and opens the kitchen door.

‘Where've you been?' asks a voice, even before her face can be seen.

‘I've got Mrs. H.'s medicine, Cook,' she says gingerly, displaying the paper bag to her interlocutor.

Cook, a fulsome-bodied creature with the muscular arms and ruddy complexion of so many of the women in her trade, scowls. ‘And look at the state of you,' she exclaims, gesturing in exasperation at Clara's muddied skirts.

‘Well? What do you want? I can't fly, can I?'

‘Hmph!' says Cook. Her snort of derision fills the room like a little explosion. ‘Don't you cheek me, girl. Clean yourself up, that's all.'

‘Did they miss us?' asks Clara, as she hunts for the clothes brush kept for such contingencies.

‘I reckon not. Alice took 'em breakfast and said you were sick. I ain't telling no lies, mind you. Not if they asks me, personal like.'

‘They won't ask, will they?'

Cook snorts again and shrugs her large shoulders.

‘If they didn't have their heads so high in the clouds, they would. And this house would be a darn sight better for it. That's my pennyworth, anyhow.'

‘Yes, well . . .'

As she speaks there are footsteps on the stairs, and another person appears, a small girl in a plain kitchen-maid's outfit, carrying a silver tray. She is a couple of years younger than Clara, and smiles when she sees her.

‘About time,' she says, as she descends the steps.

‘You scared us. I thought you were Mrs. H.,' says Clara.

‘Come on, when did you last see her down here? Tell us, how's your ma, then?'

‘Awful, Ally. But then she always were.'

It is not a very funny joke, but they both allow themselves a smile. Cook's face merely looks deep into a pan of porridge simmering on the range, which she removes from the hob. The new arrival, whose full name is Alice Meynell, walks over to Clara, and leans close to her.

‘Have you heard?' she says, whispering.

‘What's that?' interrupts Cook. ‘Speak up!'

‘There's only been a murder,' the girl continues, still whispering, ‘on the Underground Railway. There was a girl strangled, right in the railway carriage, right before everyone's eyes. Throttled till she was dead.'

‘Really?' says Clara, still busy with her skirts. She seems less interested by this information than Alice Meynell might have reasonably expected.

‘What's the matter with you, anyhow?' asks the girl.

‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Something my ma told me.'

‘Well, what was this, then? Tell all.'

‘Said she'd seen my sister. And I didn't even think she was in London.'

Cook thumps her fist on the kitchen table.

‘There'll be murder here if you don't do some work, girl. That goes for both of you.'

Alice pulls a face at her, and continues talking. ‘You've never said much about her, your sister.'

‘No. I just wish I knew where she was.'

‘B
EG YOUR PARDON
, sir? What's that? A shilling? A shilling for the Remarkable Compound? No, sir. Not a shilling, though it would be a regular bargain even at that price. Come closer, sir, lend me your nose, as the Bard of Avon would have it. “Ear”, you say? No, I can do precious little with that! Come a little closer, and let the scent of the Remarkable Compound elevate

your nostrils! Don't be fearful now! How does it smell? Sweet? Of course it does. That, sir, is the smell of Vi-tality.'

It is mid-morning and a crowd of two dozen or more persons move a little closer into the corner of Clare Market, a maze of little streets that trail off from Lincoln's Inn Fields towards the Strand. The object of everyone's attention is a man standing upon a wooden crate, waving in the air an unstoppered bulbous bottle made of dark green glass. He is of middling height and, though he wears a dark suit of cheap fustian, it conceals a striking green silk waistcoat, and the hint of a gold chain, which may or may not be affixed to a pocket-watch. His features, moreover, are quite handsome, and his fair hair sleek with macassar oil. He looks, in common parlance, something of a ‘cheap swell'. A good proportion of those watching him are women.

His voice booms through the marketplace.

‘You, ma'am! Yes, you! Won't you take a sip, gratis? Really? Is that so? No, ma'am, rest assured, I would not hazard to bother, befuddle, nor bamboozle a lady such as you! As my old father said to me, “You can bring an horse to the trough, but you can't make him drink.” Really? No, ma'am, I did not compare you to an equine, you misunderstands me. I has a great deal of respect for horses . . .'

The crowd laugh and the man smiles; he is no more than twenty-eight years of age, but he has the booming voice and assurance of someone much older. He puts his hand out, asking them for silence.

‘We may have a jolly time of it, my friends, but I might ask of you to stop and think. How many of you is suffering from a sickness? How many of you would likely benefit from the remedy of the Remarkable Compound? How many, aye, more's the point, has been on bended knee to the blasted relieving officer, and taken his blessed chit to the doctor, but has found no relief? Aye, a good number, ain't it? Of course, I cannot promise you long life and health, nor can any fellow on God's green earth. But there is steps a man may take, good long strides, which sets you on the right road. What's that? Proof, you say? The Compound is its own proof positive, ma'am, rest assured. Really? Well, let us put it to the test. Now, what do I see here? You, Miss? Yes, you at the back. I ain't a gentleman for saying it, but you are suffering from an infirmity, are you not? Do come forward, if you will?'

A girl of about fifteen or sixteen years of age steps forward from the back of the crowd; she wears a striped cotton dress, and her face is barely visible under a tangled web of chestnut-brown hair that falls loose about her shoulders. As she walks to the front she
visibly limps, and a few of those nearby notice that she cradles her left hand under her shawl, supporting it with her other arm. The street doctor beckons her forward and puts his arm around her, though she looks uncomfortable to be the focus of everyone's attention.

‘Now, Miss, I ain't so green that I can't see something is amiss with that peg of yours, and your hand there. Now show us your arm, will you? No need to be ashamed of a natural infirmity, Miss. Go on.'

The girl blushes, but brings out her arm, showing her hand to be crooked and arthritic in appearance, and blistered about the knuckles. A couple of women in the crowd mutter in sympathy.

‘Now, I don't know what your hospital man would say of it, but that is what we commonly called “withered”, ain't it, my friends? That is an awful burden for a young gal, ain't it? Now, here you go, my beauty, you try a sip of this.'

He hands her a bottle from his tray, laid out beside the box, and the girl hesitantly takes a couple of sips.

‘Now,' says the man, gravely, ‘tell us how you find the effect, if you will?'

‘A little better,' says the girl, shyly, still hiding her face beneath her hair.

‘It make you feel a little better? And that is just two sips, ladies and gentlemen. Now, Miss, I do not want to supply you with false hopes, but may I make a suggestion?'

The girl looks puzzled and nods.

‘Apply a couple of drops of the Compound to your hand, Miss.'

‘My hand?'

‘Yes, to your hand. And rub it in. Rub it in good.'

The girl looks shocked, but takes up the bottle again and drips a couple of drops of the liquid on to her crooked wrist. She gives back the bottle, then massages
the liquid along the length of her hand, rubbing her fingers vigorously. As she does so, a delighted smile gradually spreads across her lips and, when she is done, her hand is suddenly not half as crooked as it was, and the blisters have all but vanished. The street doctor looks triumphant, and motions to everyone to gather closer.

‘There, Miss, now how is that? Not bad for a free sample, is it?'

‘I can move my fingers!'

‘Do you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? Her fingers! Now, that is what we might call Remarkable, is it not? Now, I cannot bring myself to name the full price for this Remarkable Compound, not when we have witnessed this here child's happiness. I will not say it is elevenpence, nor tenpence, but I must say ninepence unless I am bent upon starving my own poor family. Miss, would you care to buy an actual bottleful? You would? Yes? Anyone else?'

And several hands fumble in pockets and purses, all of them willing to give the doctor's elixir a try. One, however, is a short gentleman in a decent suit of clothes, who swiftly pays his money, and immediately raises a bottle of the liquid to his lips. He swills it around his mouth thoughtfully, then stretches out his arms in an attempt to prevent further transactions.

‘This, sir,' he exclaims, ‘is a mockery of the medical science. It is nothing more than sugared water!'

The street doctor frowns, weighs up his antagonist, and attempts a rebuttal.

‘That, sir, as I just said, is the taste of Vi-tality. Would it not taste sweet to any man?'

‘I, sir, am not
any
man. I am an assistant-surgeon at St. Bartholomew's. And I tell you that this concoction is nothing more than coloured water, pure and simple, except perhaps that I doubt it is very pure. It
is utter fakery! And as for this girl's hand . . .'

The street doctor blanches a little, but is seemingly about to make a reply, whilst attempting to continue the transactions he has already begun, when he spots the distinctive uniform of a police officer appearing abruptly around a nearby corner. At this sighting, the doctor simply turns and runs, making no pretence of doing anything else. He leaves a clatter of medicine bottles behind him. The girl, meanwhile, suddenly loses all semblance of infirmity and follows in his wake as fast as any trained sprinter. The crowd is quite stunned, not least the half-dozen or so already having exchanged their money for goods, unsure whether there is any advantage in taking an abandoned bottle, regardless. The policeman, meanwhile, merely shouts out, ‘Stop! Stop, thief!' and pursues both man and girl at full speed.