Birdcage Walk (23 page)

As she had promised George and Ted, Annie had indeed visited the police station on the evening of Christmas Day. It had taken her hours to find Joe Bruce’s family home. Of course, Charlotte would have known in a second where to, go but Annie had only partial recall of being told where they lived. Finally, in a street where the houses were a shade bigger and neater than her own, she knocked on a door and spoke and recognition flooded the face of the old lady who had answered.

“Oh, I know the Bruces. They live just three doors down from here. You’re lucky you’ve caught them, they’re moving on after Christmas. Don’t need so many rooms now the children are grown. What a blessing that their Joe is back in time for Christmas.”

“He’s back? You’ve seen him?”

Annie was torn, grateful but also wanting to rush down the street and hammer on the correct door immediately. If Joe was back and Charlotte had met up with him . . . Annie tried not to permit her heart to soar with hope.

“He’s back alright! I seen him with my own eyes, walking down this street two days ago like he’d never been away. Course he’s sunburnt like he’d never get here. I was ever so glad in my heart to see him, so many won’t have come home, won’t ever come home.”

“Thank you, thank you very much.” Annie clasped the small, plump hands between her large ones, the old lady’s skin as dry and soft as kid.

She hurried down the road, her mind strangely blank though her heart thudded in her chest.

Some of the Bruces were in, but Joe was out, seeing old friends.

“He’ll be back shortly if you want to wait and ask him yourself,” his mother said, having made Annie sit down with a cup of tea.

“Mind, I don’t think he’ll tell you any different. He’s been here with us since he got back and didn’t set foot outside the door last night, I wouldn’t have let him, having only just got him back.”

“Has he mentioned Charlotte to you?”

“His sister asked him if he would see her but he got ever such a black look on his face. Said he’d written her letters but hadn’t heard a dickie bird back. Said he wouldn’t be bothering with her no more, someone had told him she was stepping out with someone else and had been for months. As soon as Joe was gone she was off with this new fellow, or so he’d heard.”

She looked down, her lips pinching with the effort of not showing further disapproval.

“George,” Annie muttered under her breath.

An awkward silence descended over the small group in the cramped front room. The smell of other people’s cooked food hung in the air and began to make Annie feel queasy. She put down her untouched tea and rose unsteadily to her feet. Both her heels had blistered from all her walking. She hadn’t felt the rawness of the rubbed skin until now, having rested for a minute.

The nearest police station to Avebury Street was on King’s Cross Road. She expected it to be empty on Christmas Day at half past six in the evening but it was not. Slumped on a hard chair was a man with a bloody handkerchief clamped to his head while two women reeking of gin and perfumed sweat sneered at her as she edged past them to reach the front desk. Annie ignored them. The constable behind it looked wearily up at her, raising his eyebrow in a question.

“I’ve come to report a missing person. She’s my sister. Charlotte Cheeseman is her name and she’s only a little thing. It’s so cold out and she’s been gone since . . . ”

“Hold your horses, missus. I’ll need to write this down. Now, first, how long has she been missing?”

“Since last night, but—”

“That’s not much time at all, especially on Christmas Eve. Why don’t you come back in the morning? I expect she’ll be back by then. They usually are.”

“No, you don’t understand. My husband said the same as you, that it was too early to tell, but I know my sister and there’s something wrong. She don’t stay out like this. I’d be worried enough on any other day but to stay away for Christmas! She don’t have anywhere to go but to me, and to her sweetheart, and he’s not seen her since Christmas Eve neither.”

“If your husband said you should wait, and he knows her, then maybe you should listen to him.”

Annie took a deep breath. The constable looked impassively back at her and then reached into his ear with a meaty finger to scratch it. She knew she mustn’t lose her temper now, start screeching like that pair behind her.

“Perhaps if you could just take down her . . . her particulars. You never know and I’ll only be back first thing tomorrow anyway.”

He sighed and reached for a pencil.

“Go on then. What’s her name again?”

“Charlotte Cheeseman.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Hair colour and build?”

“Long brown hair, reddish brown, chestnut, I call it. She’s slim, not like me. Her hair’s got a curl in it, a natural curl.”

She couldn’t read what he wrote but could tell that he wasn’t writing many words. She wanted to cry or scream or grab hold of his collar and shake him into alertness but she didn’t move.

“What was she wearing when you last saw her?”

“She had her best on. A black hat with a tall feather in it. A little green velvet jacket buttoned up the front. Black skirts and her button boots.”

“And she hasn’t been seen since last night?”

“No. She had a row with her sweetheart about eight outside the Britannia on Hoxton Street. He went off and left her there by herself. Nothing since.”

Her voice cracked on the last word but the constable didn’t appear to notice. She gave him her own details so that they would know where to come if . . . but she couldn’t think of any comforting reason—and thinkable reason—why they would so she told him her address and closed her mind to anything else, at least for the time being.

Christmas had passed George by in a whirl of anxiety and anticipation; Boxing Day dragged. When the men were dismissed for lunch, George felt as though he’d already worked a full day. His limbs were heavy and stiff, unresponsive, as though he had aged while he slept. He looked back at the hope he’d felt just a few days before, before Charlotte had spoken to Captain Drew, and before they had gone to Tottenham, and he despised his own nonchalance.

“Heavy day yesterday, was it?”

Alf was suddenly in front of him, grinning amiably.

“You look worse than when I last saw you. Day off is supposed to be a rest, you know.”

The pair walked out of the print, Alf rubbing his hands together as they stepped into the bleak day. The blue sky of the previous day had given way to something more appropriate to George’s mood. He hitched his red scarf higher and wrapped it tighter so it covered his mouth and he could feel the wool growing damp as he breathed into it.

“What do you fancy, then? I want a pie, I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Ma burned our dinner yesterday, I couldn’t believe it. I’d been dreaming about that dinner and it was ruined.”

George was glad of Alf’s company—he would happily talk on and not mind the lack of response. They bought their tuppenny pies though George wasn’t hungry and ended up giving most of his to his ravenous companion. Alf was still licking his fingers, sticky with gravy, when they reached the newspaper stand. A boy no older than Cissy was installed there, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm, his nose red and his face pinched with the chill.

Alf fished in his pockets and pulled out a collection of ha’pennies, lint and a spare button. The boy took what he needed and handed Alf his paper with a crooked smile. As they walked slowly off, Alf shaking the paper out as they went, the boy went back to trying to shift his pile. George hadn’t registered his words before but he heard them now, as though all the other sounds in the noisy street had been abruptly muted.

“Murder! Murder on Christmas day! Murder on the marshes! Only a penny.”

George stopped. He had no choice in that, his legs refusing to carry him forward as he fully absorbed the words. He waited until the cry went up again; he hadn’t misheard. His mind began to race. It might be a man that was dead. It might be Hackney marshes. People were murdered in this city every week, more over the holidays. How many times had his eyes skimmed over similarly lurid headlines? He broke into a run to catch up with Alf, who had walked on, unnoticing. Though his mind had raced, George had halted for only a few seconds.

“Let’s have a look at that, Alf.”

George grabbed the paper, deaf to Alf’s protestations. The story was on the second page. He tried to read it slowly but his eyes flew on, scanning too fast, jittery over the blurred black ink. If there was any small morsel of doubt left in his mind, it was soon extinguished. The murder had occurred on Tottenham’s marshes, not Hackney’s. The dead woman had been found early on Christmas morning. At present, she remained unidentified. She had worn a black hat and a green jacket.

He sat down heavily on the ground, his hands cradling his head. The surface of the pavement was damp, it had rained earlier and, despite what he had just read, he dimly registered the discomfort of it soaking through the fabric of his trousers.

“You alright, George? You having a funny turn?”

Alf’s face loomed close, concern and confusion etched on it. George stayed motionless, his mind oddly blank. From his position on the edge of the pavement, he was perilously close to the splutter and heave of traffic on Old Street. One hansom cab running close to the gutter of the road would have crushed George’s feet if Alf hadn’t pulled him clear.

“What is it, George? George? You’re putting the wind up me now.”

Alf’s voice had become high-pitched so that he sounded like a young boy. His panic penetrated George’s reverie and he got to his feet slowly, as if he might otherwise break apart.

“I’m alright now. Sorry to give you a start. I felt dizzy, that’s all.”

He got up, handed the paper back and started walking, not looking back to see if Alf was following. When he passed the turning for the print he heard his name called but didn’t break his stride. He hadn’t consciously decided not to return for the afternoon shift but as soon as he had walked on, the notion of going back to work seemed ludicrous, shameful. Alf’s shouts soon died away and he knew he was alone.

He knew he must go straight to Annie’s and tell her about the paper. Perhaps Ted would have seen it already but in case he hadn’t, George knew he had to go. No other thought was in his head as he walked as fast as he could to Hoxton, the gradual ascent making the muscles in his calves stretch and burn. It struck him that he hadn’t walked so briskly home from work since Christmas Eve, when he didn’t want to be late for the Highbury party. A lifetime ago. That it was a mere two days ago was simply incomprehensible.

The rain started falling again just as he turned off the New North Road. Within half a minute it was sheeting down relentlessly, the force of the downpour making the water bounce off the road the instant it made contact with it. He pulled his scarf tighter and his cap lower. The temperature had felt too low, too still for rain but now the wind got up too, George flinching as a large piece of scrap cardboard was flung into a nearby doorway.

He sped up, the turning into Avebury Street just ahead. As he reached it some instinct made him pause, even as the rainwater streamed down his neck and saturated his socks inside their leaking boots. He peered around the corner wall, his hands gripping the wet bricks so hard that his fingers found the pointing’s grooves and made them crumble further, like wet sand. Outside Annie’s door stood two uniformed men and a third man, taller than the others and wearing a dark coat and hat. One of the policemen held a large umbrella over him. The rain and the wide upturned bowl of the umbrella conspired to obscure George’s view. He couldn’t see Annie or Ted at the door, and the wind, whining mournfully now through the iron railings of Bridport Place’s terrace, made it impossible to catch a single word of the conversation.

Beyond the sombre group lay his own rooms on Wiltshire Row, where his father would be working quietly on his birdcages, Cissy chattering at his side or out in the push and shove of the market. He felt quite alone where he was. He could not go back home, not only because his path was blocked but because they would be calling on him next. Charlotte was dead, and while he couldn’t make his brain accept it yet, he knew with a sudden and absolute clarity that he would be suspected of killing her. And their suspicion would only be the start of it. He would be accused, arrested; he would hang for it. As he stood there under the deluge, his head bent forward and his back against the sodden wall, he could almost feel the chafing of the rope around the fine white skin of his neck.

He didn’t dare glimpse around the corner again. Tucking his chin further down behind his scarf, he hurried back to the New North Road and turned south, his gait awkward as he fought the urge to break into a run. Walking towards the nearest bus stop, he looked back over his shoulder, fully expecting to see the trio of men in pursuit. The rain suddenly got harder as he did, as though a handle had been turned, but he was glad of it. Every figure he passed was obscured by the torrents of water lashing down, their features a blur. He, like anyone else, would be rendered unrecognisable.

He jumped aboard the first bus to trundle along before it had come to a standstill, earning him a ticking off from the conductor. He thought of answering back but swallowed the words instead, knowing he should remain inconspicuous. The bus was full and all the seats had long been taken. The only space George could place both feet comfortably was next to the open back entrance, his hand gripping the pole. As the bus swayed along, creaking like it might come apart at the seams, the passengers were uniformly silent, except for the odd hacking cough. Every face spoke of exhaustion, features drawn by the winter weather and hard work. The curious stink of damp, grubby wool rose into the air in a sour cloud and made the windows blind with condensation. George was glad to be close to the exit, so that he might know where they were going. He hadn’t noticed the destination board when he got on and so he decided he would stay on till the end of the route, see where it took him. He just needed to get away; he couldn’t think in peace where he might be spotted by someone he knew.

He passed the journey in a dream, allowing himself for the first time since he’d seen Alf’s newspaper to think about Charlotte. It was strange how he’d known it was her, though it hadn’t said, and had given only the barest description of her. Annie must have reported her missing the previous evening and the connection hadn’t been made until after the paper had gone to press during the night. He had known that Charlotte was dead, at least in his gut, before her own sister and he felt bad for it. If he’d had any lingering doubts, or hopes, then the sight of the policemen and the man who must have been a detective had put paid to them.

He thought that if he had been alone in the dark, where no one could see him, then he might have cried. But even at home, in the bed so close to Cissy’s and not much further from his father’s, he would still have been forced to keep silent, the tears streaming down his cheeks, but the hard lump of grief undiminished in his throat where he couldn’t sob aloud. On the bus, he couldn’t do either and it was a strange sensation, allowing the pictures in his mind to unfurl and fill with colour and noise inside his head while his face was forced to remain unchanged, a clay mask that would shatter if it fell.

In between the memories, some content, others mundane, his mind conjured up images of a dead Charlotte. They interspersed his genuine recall in short, painful bursts and he knew he would see them again when he finally shut his eyes to sleep tonight, wherever that might be.

The only dead body he had seen was his mother’s. She had been quite wasted by the time she died but that was not the only reason she was almost unrecognisable to George when he was taken in to pay his respects. He’d had preconceptions about what a dead person would look like and it was true that her body looked empty, as though it had long been vacated by whatever had constituted its spirit or soul. What George hadn’t expected was how utterly sexless she looked in her slightly awkward repose on the rumpled bed, neither female nor male. She hadn’t gone easily, and her eyes were difficult to close after her heart had finally stopped. George had overheard the woman who came to lay her out complaining about it to a neighbour on her way out.

When he tried to imagine a lifeless Charlotte, he saw her on the same bed, the sheets creased and rucked up under her thighs as if she’d kicked and struggled her way to death. In the disturbing glimpses George saw, her eyes were defiantly open in a bold stare and she was wearing the green jacket. There were no visible injuries on her body and for that he was grateful to his imagination. From the few lines he’d forced himself to read in the newspaper she had been left in a bad way, beaten around the head and bloody. In a sickening heave of feeling he realised that her damaged body still existed somewhere, no longer alive but not safely buried and hidden either.

The end of the route arrived too quickly for George. The bus shunted to a graceless stop, and the conductor leaned over to pull the chord twice. They had reached Trafalgar Square. George stepped off onto the pavement, tilting his head up to look at the clouds. The sky was still heavy with unshed rain, but the showers had eased off for the time being. Crossing the street over to the square, he walked slowly round its perimeter. When two policemen approached him on the south side of it he couldn’t help but search their faces fearfully, expecting to see a start of recognition and then feel a firm hand on his shoulder. One met his gaze but it remained uncomprehending, noticing no one of consequence.

After one slow circuit, he wandered aimlessly towards the new National Portrait Gallery. The edifice dwarfed him and the other people milling about outside it. Each huge pale stone had been a perfect facsimile of its neighbour but now they were beginning to be scarred by London’s chimneys, scorch marks on a white sheet. A small group was beginning to form close to the entrance of the gallery, though George was too far away to hear the figure they were clustered around. Though he was hardly interested, his mind quite occupied enough, he found himself drawing closer. As he did, he saw that the man was in full uniform, an Army officer of good rank. A young boy with his nurse or perhaps a maiden aunt had piped up with a question.

“See those stripes there, lad? On my shoulder? I’ve got two and that means I’m a corporal. Call out if you see a man with three because he’s my sergeant and I’ll have to salute on the double.”

He stood to attention in exaggerated fashion and the boy laughed delightedly. Soon the small gathering began to disperse, the boy reluctantly led away, leaving a couple of men about George’s age, as well as George himself. The corporal beckoned him closer as he spoke to the others.

“St. George’s Barracks is on Orange Street. If you go over there today, they can have you signed up in less than an hour, and never mind that it’s Boxing Day. There’s no time like the present, as they say. You’ll be posted off to your regiment, and there you’ll get your uniform, brand new, mind. You’ll earn decent money but you won’t need to spend it. We give you all you need—good food three times a day, tobacco, a clean bed. Some of the men send all their wages home, and it’s a godsend if there’s not much to go around.”

He looked expectantly at the three men before his eyes came to rest on George’s face.

“What’s your trade, young man?’

He thought of lying but couldn’t think straight, worrying he would look simple if he didn’t answer quickly.

“I work at a print.”

“And do you like it?”

“Not so much. I like the— well, I like some of the etchings I see in the books I work with.”

One of the other men looked like he was about to smirk at George’s words, and he grimaced with embarrassment. The corporal saw the exchange.

“It’s a good job, working at the print. Not everyone could do it. But you’d likely make the same money with the Army, you could put most of it aside, and you’d get to see the world at the same time. You got brothers and sisters, younger ones?”

“My sister’s fifteen.”

“There you are. You could send your mother some extra for her housekeeping and your sister an exotic present or two. I bet she’d like some Indian silk, wouldn’t she? What about your sweetheart?”

George coloured and dropped his eyes, his heart stumbling in its rhythm.

“Well, we won’t dwell on her, whoever she is!” the corporal grinned at the other two, who laughed with him.

To steer the conversation away from himself, George racked his brain for a neutral question.

“What would you need to join up, then? Do you need a note from your employer?”

“You don’t need anything other than what you stand up in. Present yourself at St. George’s, give a name and, if you’re in good health, you’re in. We need young, fit men such as you. It’s my job to find them.”

George was sure when the corporal had said ‘give a name,’ rather than ‘your name,’ it was a mere slip of the tongue, with no other meaning to be inferred from it. Nevertheless, it got him thinking. He couldn’t go home now, he felt sure the police would be waiting there for him. It was already two in the afternoon, they would wait until six—the hour he was expected home at the latest. He wondered with a lurch of his stomach if they were there now, the two policemen outside the door and the detective inside, awkwardly perched next to his father and sister, letting a cup of insipid tea go cold.

As the corporal had promised, it didn’t take him long to reach Orange Street and the barracks there. In little under an hour he emerged out on the street again, his join-up papers clutched in his hand. The lunchtime hoards had dispersed and the sky had further darkened while he had been inside, the first heavy drops of a new shower staining the grey paving stones. He tucked the papers inside his jacket, careful not to bend them too much, and then set off in the direction of the river. Never mind if his clothes got wet, he would be getting a new set when he reached his destination. He fancied making the journey to Waterloo station on foot.