A Metropolitan Murder (25 page)

There is a long pause. Lizzie steals herself to speak, though she cowers a little beside her husband, her back and shoulders curled up and tense.

‘I am sorry, Tom,' she says, her voice low and timid. ‘Really I am. It was an accident.'

Tom Hunt looks at the mess on the table.

‘You best go get a cloth to clear this up.'

Lizzie nods, and stands up.

‘What'll we do now, eh?' he says, angrily.

‘I saw my sister last night,' she says, eager to change the subject.

‘Clara?' he replies, saying the name almost fondly, looking up at her. ‘How is she doing? Where did you catch her? Prigging some gent's wallet, was she?'

‘She ain't in that line any more.'

‘After all I taught her? That's a crying shame. She had good hands for it, not like some clumsy little madams I could mention. What's she doing then?'

‘Housemaid.'

Tom looks astonished and abruptly all signs of petulance and anger disappear from his unshaven face. Instead he laughs, thumping the table with his fist, griming his hand with ink even further.

‘Maid? Clara White? You are having me on, my love, ain't you?'

Lizzie shakes her head. ‘She's changed, different from when you knew her.'

‘I never heard so much gammon,' he says, laughing in between words. ‘Here, come here, will you?'

He leans forward and beckons Lizzie to come closer. She leans towards him, warily, and he whispers to her, ‘What sort of place has she got? Big house?'

‘A place on Doughty Street, by Gray's Inn. Three or four storeys.'

‘A gentleman's house, then?'

Lizzie nods. Tom suddenly leans a little more and grabs his wife by the back of her neck, pulling her face an inch from his, his mouth by her ear.

‘Get this mess cleared up, then come back and tell me everything about it.'

Lizzie nods; as she goes to the bar for a cloth, Tom Hunt sits back in his chair.

‘No-one,' he mutters to himself, ‘no-one changes that much.'

He smiles.

‘Clara bloody White. Ha!'

C
LARA
W
HITE STANDS
nervously outside Doughty Street, watching the brougham containing her master and mistress depart to the manifold delights of Sydenham. Once it is out of sight, she returns to the kitchen, where Alice Meynell is sweeping the floor.

‘Wish I was going with them,' says Alice.

‘With them?'

‘Well, not with
them
,' she replies. ‘They're going to the opera, ain't they? I've never been to the Palace, though.'

Clara smiles. ‘Well, maybe if you work that broom hard enough, I'll get some Prince Charming to whisk you off.'

‘I can't even get the baker's boy to look at me.'

As Clara is about to reply, the front doorbell rings.

‘Ain't that typical, when they've only just gone,' exclaims Alice. ‘They ain't expecting anyone, are they?'

Clara says nothing, but runs upstairs, with a mixture of trepidation and excitement agitating her stomach. She opens the door to find Henry Cotton. He is dressed in a decent suit, though not the formal evening wear of the previous night, and smiles as he sees her.

‘Miss White.'

Again Clara stands there, uncertain what to say or
do. In consequence, the visitor lets himself into the hall.

‘May we talk?' he says, offering her his hat and coat. She does not take them.

‘No,' she replies hesitantly. ‘Alice is downstairs.'

‘No Cook? She was a charming woman, I must say.'

‘She don't live in.'

‘Perhaps in here, then?' he says, opening the dining-room door for himself, and walking briskly in, before Clara can object. She follows him, looking nervously back towards the stairs, in case Alice might appear.

‘What do you want with me?' she says in exasperation, once inside the room, closing the door behind her. ‘Alice will know something's up. She's no fool. And neither am I.'

‘Clara . . .' he says, sitting down on a chair beside the fireplace, but pausing in his speech. ‘May I call you Clara?'

She nods mutely; it is not the sort of question to which she is accustomed.

‘Clara, I know you must think me a lunatic or worse, but as I said yesterday I mean you no harm. Please rest assured, you have nothing to fear from me. I am, well, for want of a better term, a journalist of sorts. And I believe you can be of immense assistance to me.'

‘Journalist?'

‘Well, a writer, at least.'

‘And how can I help you?' she says, frowning, disbelief in her voice.

‘Dr. Harris has told me something of your history, and I have seen your handiwork myself . . .'

At this, Clara blushes. She starts to speak, but

Cotton raises his hand.

‘Wait. I was going to say, please understand that I
have no great wish to see you before the Bench. Rather, it was fortunate that I saw you because you could be so invaluable to my work.'

‘I ain't prigging nothing for you.'

‘Lord! Do you take me for some Fagin? Rather, I want your help.'

‘I still don't understand you,' says Clara, anxiously, glancing out of the front window lest her employers should unexpectedly return. ‘I don't understand anything you're saying.'

‘Forgive me, I am not making myself clear. Clara, I know your background, your past. I know also that you are a clever girl, who has found a place here with Dr. Harris. And I know you are not averse to lifting a woman's purse, even now, so please do not tell me you are quite reformed, for I do not believe that. The reason I am speaking to you like this is that I am hoping to write at length about the various evils of our society. Indeed, I believe I can make my name by doing so. But I have found that I can only do so much unaided. I have even disguised myself to penetrate the worst sort of places, and converse with the folk who inhabit them, but my words always give me away the very instant I speak. I confess, it is hard for me to gain their trust, and I can never rely upon what I am told. You, on the other hand, are a unique find. You can help me uncover places and people . . .' He pauses for breath, as if coming to the conclusion of a complex piece of logic. ‘You, Clara, can show me the
underworld
.'

There is a pause, and Clara looks at the young man astonished. He seems breathless and excited, but she cannot help her reaction. It starts as a half-smile, then a wide grin, then an out-and-out laugh, her hands clutching her waist as she steps back, supporting herself against the nearest chair.

‘The “
underworld
”? You sound like some penny dreadful!' she exclaims.

‘Do I?' he replies, mildly annoyed but almost laughing with her. ‘Don't you see? That is why I need someone who knows what it is to live . . . well, as you have lived. Someone whose guidance I could rely upon. Just think of it. I might even pay you a little something.'

‘Pay?'

‘I cannot afford much. But I know you wish to better yourself, otherwise you would not be working here.'

‘What about the purse? Will you tell?'

‘I saw your agitation before you did it. It was not quite the work of a hardened criminal, I know that. But you know that life, do you not? That is why I need you.'

‘How can I do anything like what you want? Mrs. Harris would never hear of it.'

‘Mrs. Harris need never know.'

‘And I can't go behind her back. Nor the doctor's, either. They've been good to me.'

‘Come, you've done it before. Besides, they are out tonight, are they not? I saw them leave, that is why I came now. We have a good three or four hours; come with me.'

‘Now?' she replies, amazed. ‘And do what?'

‘Well, let me see. For a start, you might show me the area where you were raised. I believe you had an exciting youth, so Harris told me. Wapping, was it not?'

‘To Wapping?'

‘To begin with. I will take some notes, and then, for tonight, we are done.'

‘What about Alice?'

‘You can get round her, surely. I will bring you back
in good time, I promise. We can take a hansom, if needs must.'

‘What if I don't want to? Will you tell them, about what you saw?'

‘But don't you want to?' he says eagerly. ‘It will be a marvellous adventure.'

She looks at him, undecided.

‘Come,' he says, offering her his hand.

C
LARA SITS BESIDE
Henry Cotton as their cab rattles along the muddy cobbles of Wapping High Street, nervously tapping the straw-covered floor of the carriage with her foot. Though it is almost dark, she peers between the warehouses at the river. She can make out the tall masts of ships; in the blackness they resemble the tree-tops of some barren forest, swaying gently in the breeze. Cotton watches his companion, a notebook in his hand, and makes the occasional annotation. Finally, about halfway along the road, Clara bids the cabman to stop; this information is then passed to the horse by means of a shout and a sharp tug upon the reins, such that the vehicle pulls up with a jolt. Cotton smiles at Clara's discomfort as she is thrown forward by the sudden movement.

‘You don't travel by cab too often, I expect,' he says, opening the door and descending on to the road.

‘No,' replies Clara, tartly, accepting his hand as she follows him. ‘And I can't believe I was fool enough to come here.'

‘Clara, I swear you can trust me.'

The cab leaves them standing upon the High Street in front of a tavern named the Black Boy. It is a small riverside place, less ostentatious than many of its rivals, with only its sign to herald its function as a
place of entertainment: a clumsy representation of a naked black child; he seems content enough, though in constant danger from an unprotected jet of gas that flares directly above his head. Inside, however, the warm glow of a fire can be seen through the steamed up windows and the sound of numerous voices raised in animated conversation can be plainly heard from the street.

‘Well, like I told you, I was born here,' says Clara, gesturing towards the door. ‘By the hearth, so my ma told me. Do you want to go in?'

‘Born in a public house?'

‘Do you want to go in?'

‘No, not for now. We shall come back here. First take me to the house you used to live in, the one by the river. Harris told me of it. He said it was a very curious place.'

‘Gravehunger Court.'

‘That was the name?' says Cotton, clearly amused by the sound of it.

‘It was. But it's deserted now.'

‘Why?'

‘There was hardly anything left of it. It got flooded almost every year we were there.'

‘None the less, take me there, if you will.'

‘We can't stay too long, you promised.'

‘Clara, we have only just arrived. If I am to make a study . . .'

‘You promised,' she says again, emphasising the latter word, looking nervously around. ‘What if someone sees us?'

Cotton touches her arm. ‘Please, just take me there. We won't stay long, and I will get you back, I assure you, in good time. Surely it is not far?'

She concedes, and the pair of them walk east along the High Street, past the outfitting warehouses, ships'
chandlers, sail-makers, and a dozen more types of maritime establishments that appear upon every corner. Though the road is not particularly busy so early in the evening, they pass men of several nationalities, from Swedes and blue-jacketed Germans, to swarthy Lascars. It is possible that some of these sailors pass ironic comment on seeing such a respectable-looking gentleman and servant-girl together in such a location, but their words and accents are incomprehensible, even to Henry Cotton.

After five minutes or so, they finally come to a particular alley; at its entrance, a small row-boat is upturned upon the pavement, smelling of fresh tar upon its meagre hull. For a moment, it appears that this obstruction, the pride of some local river scavenger, is the point of interest for a gang of young boys who loiter nearby. As they draw nearer, however, it becomes apparent that the alley itself is a hive of activity, with a good few locals pushing past them, pressing to gain access.