A Metropolitan Murder (26 page)

‘I thought you said it was deserted?' asks Cotton.

‘It was,' replies Clara. ‘Something's going on.'

There is something strangely fearful in her voice and, without waiting for Cotton to catch up, she joins the push and shove of bodies that crowd down the narrow passage. Moreover, she moves her way through to the front of the crowd with forceful and colourful language that quite belies any impression given by the neat servant's uniform beneath her shawl. Cotton follows reluctantly behind, jostled and jeered by several larger men, whom he guesses to be dockers. At some point his hat goes flying; at another, he is sure he feels a hand tugging at waistcoat buttons in the hope of finding a watch-chain. His struggle is rewarded, however, as the alley opens into a courtyard. He recognises the large dilapidated house of
Clara's childhood as soon as he sees it. Moreover, in front of it there is a well in the centre of the yard, a small cylinder of brick work around which stand two men, pulling at ropes that dangle into the narrow shaft. And, nearby, a trio of blue-coated policemen, each with a bull's-eye lantern. One peers anxiously into the well, the others vainly attempt to keep back the heaving crowd that has gathered. Cotton finds a place by Clara's side at the front of the mob.

‘What on earth's going on?' he asks, but she merely stares at the scene in front of them.

There is a shout, and the policeman stands back. One of the men on the ropes leans over and grabs hold; a wet and twisted bundle of rags is dragged from the mouth of the bricks and laid carefully upon the ground. All three of the policemen shine their lights upon it.

Clara White recognises the face of her mother.

‘C
LARA!
W
AIT!
'

Henry Cotton calls out anxiously as Clara turns and pushes her way back through the crowd. She does not hear him, or chooses to ignore him. Whichever is the case, she does not wait. Instead, she fights against the surging tide of men and women, all keen to witness what the police have found, until she finds herself once more back on the High Street. There, with nothing to struggle against, she halts.

‘'Ere, what's all this?'

A woman stands before her, dressed in ragged clothing, nodding in the direction of the alley.

‘I don't know,' replies Clara, brushing her aside and walking blindly down the street. ‘Leave me be.'

She stumbles along until she comes to another alley. In this case, however, it leads down to a set of steps, and then to one of the old wharfs by the river. Picking her way down the mossy stones, she continues on to the platform, where a half-dozen small boats are tethered. There is no-one else to be seen; and the only sound is that of the river lapping at the wooden supports. She sits down and looks into the black water. All along the bank, the lights of the warehouses and pubs are visible, but the water does not so much reflect them as absorb them, dissolving their brilliancy in its silt depths.

‘Clara!'

There are footsteps behind her and she turns her head to see Henry Cotton, hesitantly picking his way along the slippery timbers of the wharf. It takes him a little while to come up next to her.

‘Why did you run off like that? Did you know that wretched woman?'

‘My mother.'

‘Lord,' says Cotton, stammering. ‘I am so sorry. I did not mean to . . .'

He stops short, looking down at her, quite lost for words. Clara takes pity on him, and breaks the silence.

‘I used to come here,' she says, looking out along the curve of the river. ‘Or, at least, not far from here, when I was a child. I used to think the river was beautiful at night.'

‘It is beautiful, after a fashion,' says Cotton, unsure of himself. Gingerly, he sits down next to her.

‘No, it's just mud and dirt.'

‘Clara, look, I am awfully sorry. I can't begin to . . . Perhaps I should get you home?'

‘I'm all right. I thought I'd done with Wapping, you see? I thought ma would be fine in the refuge, and that was that. But she had to come back to it, didn't she? I should have known she'd be here.'

‘But why did she come here? How . . . ?'

Clara shrugs.

‘Here,' he says, getting up. ‘Take my hand. I will take you home. Unless you want to . . .' His voice trails off; again he's uncertain of the words, merely inclining his head in the direction of Gravehunger Court, further down the river.

‘No, I don't want to go back there,' she says vehemently. ‘I don't want to go back there ever again.'

He nods, and offers her his hand. She takes it and he helps her upright.

‘My own mother died when I was a boy,' he says, feeling that he should say something appropriate to the situation. Immediately, however, he feels it is quite inadequate. Clara, for her part, looks up at him. Then the blank mask of her face cracks and she begins to cry, tears welling in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks.

‘Ah,' he says, releasing her hand. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here, take this.'

But she does not take it; rather, she just stands still, sobbing. For a moment, he fears she might faint, and takes hold of her arm. Nervously he reaches out and dabs her cheeks with the cloth.

‘Here, I am sorry. Please.'

She takes the handkerchief from his hand, and collects herself enough to wipe her eyes. Without thinking, she mutely offers it back.

‘No, please, keep it,' he says, looking at her face in the darkness. ‘You may need it.'

She shakes her head, but she is still crying. He puts his hand to her cheek, wiping away a tear.

Then, without a word of warning, he leans down and kisses her.

‘W
E THEREFORE COMMIT
her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection . . .'

A wet wintry day in February.

Heavy rain bounces off the black umbrella held aloft by Henry Cotton. He looks down at the lowered head of Clara White, who stands by his side, under its protection; together, they listen to the clergyman complete the last few words of the simple funeral service. When he is finished, the man nods, pulls up the collar of his coat, and dashes away along the muddy path that leads out of the churchyard.

The churchyard itself is an old, run-down place, situated east of the Limehouse Basin, by the side of the Bromley Canal. Although it is not a quarter-mile from the grand church of St. Anne's upon the nearby Commercial Road, it bears no relation to that wellknown edifice. Instead, the plot maintains a peculiar freedom from any such ecclesiastical attachment. The small country church, to which it once belonged, was, in fact, levelled long ago, although whether this was achieved by the ravages of time or the work of a speculative builder, no-one can recall. Now the plot merely
abuts the backyards of a hastily constructed row of cottages, and, to all appearances, is quite neglected. The land itself is, however, property of the parish of Wapping, though the circumstances under which the parish made such an acquisition have, likewise, slipped from popular memory. None the less, a wooden sign testifying to ownership, and addressing various cautions to trespassers, is posted upon the stone gateposts. Likewise, the churchyard is girded around by iron railings, to ensure its tombstones and solitary weeping willow are free from the unwanted attentions of local children, or any passers-by who might wish to loiter amongst the graves. But no provision has been made to protect the place against greedy Nature, and the spread of weeds and briars that accompanies the passing of each year. In consequence, what must once have been a neatly kept patch of consecrated earth resembles the unworthiest piece of wasteland. It is, regardless, the best resting place that the Parish of Wapping can provide for Agnes White, and, if truth be told, her grave is better than many a pauper's lot. True, all the coffins that reside within it, half a dozen or more, are made of unplaned wood and stacked with only an inch of earth between them; but such are the pitfalls of relying upon the Parish.

In any case, once the clergyman has departed, a grave-digger, who has been lingering by the gate, comes forward wordlessly, spade in hand. Although the rain still falls in dense black sheets, he begins to fill in the ground, shovelling in the clay-rich clods on to the wooden lid, which itself rests only a couple of feet below the surface.

Clara, meanwhile, raises her head, covered by a tatty black bonnet, and looks up at Henry Cotton. He stands there silently, observing the man at his work.

‘I must thank you for paying for the service, sir,'
she says, her voice quiet and subdued. ‘I cannot think why you should, but I thank you.'

‘It was the least I could do,' he replies. ‘If I had not taken you to Wapping . . . well, besides, the man hardly said a couple of dozen words.'

‘Still, it was more than I could do for her.'

‘Surely Dr. Harris might have made some arrangement?'

Clara frowns. ‘No, not even a kind word. I had to beg him to let me come here.'

Cotton raises his eyebrows, but says nothing in reply. A minute or two passes.

‘Shall we go then?' he says at last. ‘It sounds as if you will be missed before long, even today. Were you expecting any others to come?'

Clara hesitates, looking at the grave and the simple wooden cross that marks it.

‘I had thought my sister might be here. Perhaps Miss Sparrow.'

‘Miss Sparrow?'

‘The superintendent of the refuge. She was at the inquest yesterday.'

‘Ah yes, of course. I would have gone myself, but I had business to attend to.'

Clara stares at the grave.

‘Still, I do not think anyone is coming,' says Cotton, observing that his companion still seems rooted to the spot.

‘No, it seems not,' she replies. ‘We ought to go.'

Cotton takes Clara's arm, and leads her gently away, through the gateway to the churchyard. From there, they take a track that joins the footpath by the canal, and leads back towards Limehouse. The canal path is empty of traffic, as no-one else is promenading in such weather. None the less, Henry Cotton looks anxiously about before he speaks.

‘Clara,' he says, ‘I hope you do not think too badly of me?'

She says nothing, but it is plain from her face that she does not fully understand his meaning.

‘Why should I?' she asks.

‘I mean to say, two days ago, when your mother was . . . when I found you by the river, and I took advantage of your distress.'

She stares at him blankly.

‘Damn it!' he exclaims to himself nervously. ‘I mean to say, I am sorry that I kissed you. It was not the act of a gentleman.'

Clara looks at him in surprise. Her face is still wet with tears, but a slight smile comes to her lips.

‘You're a queer sort of gentleman, Mr. Phibbs. I know that much.'

‘I have made you laugh,' he says, half annoyed with her gentle tone of mockery, half pleased with the result.