A Metropolitan Murder (13 page)

A
S
I
NSPECTOR
W
EBB
readies himself for his journey home, another figure makes a slow and solitary progress through an altogether different part of the metropolis – Agnes White.

For two hours or more she has wandered this way and that, and even the acutest observer would be hard-pressed to find a method to her meandering. None the less, as night falls and a thick river-fog begins to creep from the Thames, she appears to be drawn eastwards. True, she does not take a direct route; rather her journey is characterised by a preference for ill-lit streets and alleys over the regular thoroughfares, and it is only when the fog has settled into a dense brown pall upon the City that she hazards the open roads. Indeed, the mist is black as coal-dust, and soon makes every route seem impenetrable. In fact, as she comes to St. Paul's Churchyard, it seems that even the gas struggles against the darkness, and the proud lamps that line the road, designed to illuminate the great cathedral, are muted and dim. But she presses on past the great church, past the shops of the booksellers and publishers for which the district is famous, their doors long since closed for the night. All the time she keeps her eyes fixed firmly upon the road, though she can see only a few yards ahead, and continues along the
pavement of Cheapside, and into the nocturnal heart of the City.

At last, she reaches the Royal Exchange, passing the stately Mansion House, its interior half visible through tall windows, and by some chance catches a glimpse of draped velvet and chandeliers. She shivers a little, instinctively wrapping her shawl tighter around her head and shoulders, concealing her face and arms. A policeman watches her go by. In truth, it would be easy to mistake Agnes White for an apparition; seeing her in the distance, one might imagine a wisp of life had been breathed into a set of old clothes, with nothing inside.

But the policeman thinks nothing of it; he sees many such sights.

In Doughty Street, Clara White takes a solitary candle and ascends the stairs to her bedroom. She shares the room with Alice Meynell, but the kitchen-maid is still busy downstairs, attacking the pots and pans, which form the residue of the Harrises' dinner. In truth, Clara is not that fond of the white-washed little attic; it is perpetually cold, and she finds the slanting roof strangely oppressive. But she has no other place to go.

She puts her candle down, sits upon the covers, and takes up the needle and thread that she has by her bed. But it is a half-hearted effort; the thread seems reluctant to approach the needle and, once it is finally pulled through the eye, she repeatedly pricks her fingers in the half-light. She had hoped to repair a frayed chemise, a garment that, if truth can be told, warrants replacing in its entirety. Instead, she reluctantly puts it down upon the bed and shifts herself so that she sits by the window. Outside she can dimly make out the rooftops of Doughty Street and beyond,
a forest of brick and sloping tiles, half-hidden by the fog that forms a dense sooty canopy about the houses. She presses her face against the glass to see how cold it is, and feels the draught of chill air on her cheek.

In a matter of moments she is asleep.

Agnes White walks for an hour or two more before she crosses the canal bridge between the East London and London Docks. In the pitch-darkness, she can smell the pungent river, the dirty tidal flood that washes past Wapping Reach, and she smiles to herself.

She takes a brief rest; her feet are sore. Then, after a few minutes, she carries on, hobbling past the warehouses on Old Gravel Lane, then on to the High Street. Here, a dozen or more publics and gin-shops vie for the trade of the innumerable river workers, dockers and sailors who make Wapping their temporary home. Here, too, as in every neighbourhood of the capital, each of these merry establishments appears to be in competition as to the size of the gas-light projecting above the door. She passes one familiar place after another; the raucous shouts and the smell of porter remind her of a time, not long ago, when she would have readily stepped inside.

‘How much?' says a German-accented man, a sailor who splits from a gang of men coming in the opposite direction, putting his arm around her waist as she walks. ‘How much?'

It must be two months or more since she has heard such words. It used to be a simple business, she thinks to herself, picking up the trade on Wapping High Street. A quick fumbling down the nearest alley, or by the shore when the tide was out; it was all done in a minute or two, and a good shilling or maybe two, depending how drunk the man.

But something has changed. She feels uncomfortable,
though she cannot say why. Perhaps, she thinks to herself, she has grown too old. Or was it something her daughter said?

She looks round. The German has gone back to his friends, cursing her in guttural eruptions of a language that she cannot fathom.

It does not matter, she thinks. She must keep going.

What was it Lizzie said?

‘I want to go home.'

Lizzie Hunt lies beside her husband on a rough woollen sheet, laid out neatly on the floor of Bill Hunt's little room. The latter is sound asleep, still in his work clothes, lying upon the bed in the corner. Her husband, upon the other hand, buttons his flies and sits up, leaning against the wall; she straightens her skirt and sits beside him, resting against his arm.

‘We ain't got no home, remember? Not since they chucked us out. That's why we're here.'

‘And it's shaming, with him 'ere,' she says, looking at the prone figure of her husband's cousin.

Tom Hunt smiles. ‘He's dead to the world. Where's the harm?'

Lizzie says nothing but curls up next to him, nuzzling against his chest for warmth.

‘You should wash,' he says.

‘He ain't got any water.'

Tom looks around to confirm this suspicion, and grunts acknowledgement of the fact.

‘You'd better be going then,' he continues, touching her cheek lightly.

She starts a little, sitting up straight. ‘Do I have to, Tom? Not tonight?'

‘In particular tonight, after this morning. We need the bloody money. Go on.'

He pushes her away, not too hard, but enough to dislodge her from his side. ‘And don't come back after five minutes neither.'

Lizzie nods, a look of resignation on her face; she gets up, finds her boots and puts them on.

‘Here,' says Tom, beckoning her back to him.

‘What?' she replies wearily.

‘You do think about me when you do it with them, don't you? Like I said.'

‘Yes,' she replies.

He smiles, and gets up to kiss her on the cheek.

‘Good girl. That's the best way.'

A
CONVERSATION
:

‘Born? I was born in Wapping, sir. A place by the river. The Black Boy.'

‘In a public house?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘A curious place.'

‘It were my mother's doing, sir. She was drinking there.'

‘I see. What is your mother's name?'

‘Agnes, sir.'

‘Agnes White, is it not?'

‘You know her?'

‘I have met her. Tell me, what does your mother do?'

‘I don't like to say.'

‘Come, speak up. You may be frank with me.'

‘Well, she's always been a sloop, sir.'

‘What? Ah, that is the river slang, is it not? Sloop of War?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And your father?'

‘He was most likely sailing on an East Indiaman that was moored at St. Kats. That's what my ma reckoned. I only know that much, sir, nothing more.'

‘A sailor? I see. And have you any brothers or sisters?'

‘Only one that lived more than a twelvemonth. Lizzie.'

‘A sister? And she is still alive? How old is she?'

‘Fourteen now.'

‘And your mother raised both of you, relying on her own devices?'

‘And my gran'ma – she had a big house by the river, near Wapping Stairs. Gravehunger Court. She took in lodgers, and we stayed with her, on and off.'

‘And tell me, Clara, do you like this life that you have now? Do you take to it?'

‘No, sir. I don't like it much.'

‘And would you change, if you had the opportunity?'

‘I would change, sir, quick as you liked, if there was something better for me. But there ain't.'

‘You are a good girl. It is a good thing I chanced upon meeting you, my dear. A very good thing for you, rest assured. Now, my name is Harris.'

Alice Meynell tiptoes into the Doughty Street attic bedroom, and sees her room-mate slumped by the window, an exhausted candle sitting upon the bedside table. She puts down her own light and she gently persuades Clara's semi-conscious form to lie properly upon the bed, teasing out the blankets from beneath her, so that she can then cover her body and get in beside her. She herself then unties her boots, removes her own dress, corset and petticoat, and, in her chemise, climbs into the bed, which they are obliged to share.

In the darkness, she looks for a moment at Clara's face, and wonders what she might be dreaming about.