A Metropolitan Murder (3 page)

‘Mind your own,' replies the girl, turning on her heels and going into the street, closing the door behind her.

Agnes follows her, traipsing down the steps on to the pavement.

But it is the wrong street entirely; it is not Serle Street, the well-ordered terrace upon the corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields, that daily rebukes the Refuge for Penitent Women with its polished front steps and brass name-plates. It is entirely different: it is not quite like any street in particular, and something like several streets in general. In fact it is narrow and cramped, more of an alley, the sort of place Agnes White used to take the men and boys, or they took her, between the warehouses by Wapping High Street.

Familiar enough.

She walks along nervously, stumbling a little over
the muddy and uneven cobbles, wondering how she has come to be so far from home. There is no gas here, of course, nor any light from any of the warehouses, and there is a mist rising from the river.

Wait. A noise.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. The sound of boots on the stones behind her. It cannot be Sally; she doesn't even have a decent pair of boots. She cannot see anyone. Best to keep walking.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Closer now, feet walking briskly, catching up, hot breath on her neck. A cold hand around her throat.

Then falling, falling, falling.

‘Agnes?'

‘Agnes? Are you awake?'

Agnes White wakes up coughing, her throat so tight she cannot find the strength to sit up. Her skin is cold and clammy, her sheets damp with sweat. The girl helps her up, raising her pillow.

‘Lizzie?' she says, spluttering the word.

‘No, Aggie, it's me, Jenny. You know me, don't you?'

She nods, looking blearily at the nurse.

‘You were dreaming. I'd only just got you off, then you woke me up. You'll wake the Missus and all, if you're not careful.'

Agnes coughs again, a rackety chest-heaving cough, hunching her shoulders so tight they are visible through her gown, like knives embedded in her skin.

‘Don't talk, you'll do yourself an injury. Look, here, I brought some of your medicine. The Missus said I shouldn't, but . . . well, anyhow. Shall I pour it for you?'

Agnes White nods, and so the girl carefully measures the liquid from the bottle and presents a spoonful
to her charge. Agnes leans forward, and willingly swallows the thick brown treacle, like an eager child. It tastes of burnt sugar, and it slips down her throat so easily that she immediately wants more, nudging the girl's arm, urging her to dole out another helping. The nurse shakes her head, putting the bottle aside.

‘Steady now. Half of it's gone already.'

Agnes says nothing. She can feel the dollop of glutinous liquid travelling through her body, falling into the pond of her stomach, and rippling outwards. The soporific effect of the laudanum mixture spreads through her like the warmth of a fire on a cold day; it cossets her, drags her limbs down into the bed, and closes her eyes.

‘There,' says Jenny, ‘that's better, my dear, ain't it? The Missus said your gal upset you, coming here like that. That right, is it?'

Agnes nods, exhausted, falling asleep once more, though her throat is still awfully sore.

‘M
URDER
!'

Outside Baker Street railway station, a young man named Henry Cotton runs as fast as he has ever run. It is fortunate for him that he is young and fit. He darts with impunity between the cabs that stand in the gas-lit rank outside Baker Street, and then out across the Marylebone Road. He does not pay any heed to the passing traffic, and looks neither left nor right in his headlong progress. Likewise, he does not turn back, not even for an instant, to listen to the distant shouts that echo inside the station. He merely dashes onwards, his coat flapping around him, as if driven by some primitive instinct for survival, faltering only when he slips in the viscous mud that lines the road. His arms flail wildly in the air, but he does not fall; instead, he rushes onwards, breathless and frantic, into the shadows.

Of course, his flight does not go unnoticed, but his figure soon disappears from the view of those in pursuit. Moreover, if no-one is quite certain of the direction that he takes, it is not surprising; he himself has no inkling of the name of the road down which he turns, nor why he then chooses another turning, and then another again. In fact, he barely possesses any true impression of the world about him for several
minutes until a terrible shortness of breath finally brings him to a halt.

When he has finally gathered his senses he finds himself to be in a well-kept mews, a sloping cobbled side street where the horses and carriages of neighbouring properties are safely stabled under lock and key. He leans forward against a wall, his lungs bursting, and braces himself against the overpowering dizziness that suddenly sweeps over him. It is impossible to say quite how long he stands there, stock-still, listening to the pounding of his heart.

A horse snorts loudly in one of the stables, no doubt woken from its sleep. Henry Cotton starts at the sound and stumbles on, along the length of the mews, half tripping, here and there, on the uneven stones. He comes to the opposite entrance of the secluded passage, which opens out on to another thoroughfare. A single jet of gas from a nearbly street-lamp illuminates the scene, and the light shows up the thick mud that clings to his trousers.

He takes a breath, then sets off briskly along the way. After a few yards realises he has turned on to Marylebone High Street.

‘Murder?'

‘Aye – look at that, won't you?'

‘Lor! And he ran clear off?'

‘Like a regular devil.'

Henry Cotton keeps up his pace, walking with a determined gait. There is a chill wind, and he pulls the collar of his great-coat tight around his neck, keeping his head down, staring at the pavement.

He finds that Marylebone High Street, a bustling
place by day, possesses none of its diurnal vigour during the hours of darkness. Even the gas-lights seem gloomy, and Cotton passes a mere handful of pedestrians, representatives of the ragged and homeless tribe that wander the streets in the small hours. Their very presence seems almost oppressive. A squat dark-haired fellow, leaning against a wall, an Irishman by his appearance, eyes him with suspicion as he goes past. Two others, hunched in conversation, beetle past, crossing to the other side of the street; he wonders, for a moment, whether they do so in order to avoid him. None of them ventures to ask him for money; he is too dishevelled for that. He tries to brush some of the muck from his trouser legs, but the effort only smears the filth about and dirties his hands.

Turning up his collar once more, he keeps walking, fast as he is able. It is not long before he turns off the street, into the roads that lead through to the Regent's Circus. Here and there, in a handful of the houses, a light still burns in the parlour or bedroom, a hint of warmth behind firmly closed shutters or curtains. But the night air is cold as ice, and, as he walks, he notices the waning moon that hangs in the sky. Time and again, it vanishes behind the rooftops then reappears; but something in its cold grey pallor reminds him of the girl's face, lying upon the floor of the train, and its light seems horribly unwelcome.

‘Has someone gone for the peelers?'

A nod.

‘He won't get far.'

A black cab, smart and polished, hurtles along Portland Place towards the park at top speed, the sound of the
horse's hooves beating a swift clipping rhythm. Henry Cotton waits for it to pass. Only once it has gone by does he spy the police constable standing opposite. The policeman is preoccupied in talking to a girl, a demi-mondaine in a garish emerald dress, who loiters at his side. She touches the constable's cheek coquettishly, and holds on to his arm as if they were stepping out together. None the less, the constable is sensible enough to the world around him to spare Henry Cotton a quick glance, leaving Cotton no option but to proceed across the road.

‘Evening, sir,' says the constable, examining him with a more leisurely gaze.

‘Good evening, officer.'