Walking in Pimlico (3 page)

‘Come on, girl. You’ll be all right. But we must tell someone, and get this swell caught and brung up.’ And I give it her a dozen different ways, but no, she will have none of it. We stand in the stable, and it is nigh on a quarter of an hour before she can speak and longer before she can say anything sensible.

And then, with a great sigh, like she will never breathe again, she says in a whisper, ‘Ah, Corney! He saw me! What shall I do? Heaven help me! He saw me!’

Corney Sage – Whitechapel, London

T
here was such a commotion. The streets were packed and buzzing from morn till night for days on end. But, like I said, not that murder wasn’t common enough. And death too. Here were starvations and death from want and cold – two a penny. Here were wives hit too hard by their masters, and pimps taking a chair leg to their girls. But Bessie’s murder was different, for it was done by a swell, another theft from them who have nothing by them who have everything. And so there was a strength of feeling around the Whitechapel-road which might make
any
individual not directly of the area, so to speak, feel unwelcome. Hard words were said, and no doubt punches thrown, even at clerks and City men who strayed East on business, and as to the gawpers and holy Joes who flock around misfortune like flies to a privy, they were mostly shunned and ignored. And when all’s said and done, who could blame us (for I count myself one of them)? Who could blame us for turning our backs upon the sneaking Jeremiahs and flash swells, or taking a poke at anyone who got too close? For Bessie might have been our daughter. Or sister. Or girl.

But I get ahead of myself. As per.

I shall put myself back to that night. Lucy and me crouched in
the stable until we were both frozen, Lucy coming over stiff and staring. She hadn’t fainted away, for her eyes were clear open and staring, but when I spoke to her about going inside and fetching the blue boys, she clutched my hand ever tighter and shook her head. It was like she was frozen up with the fear of what she had seen. I sat as long as I could, and, true, it was a terrible thing, out there in the gloomy stable and seeing the outline of Bessie’s body, like a black stain on the yard, and knowing what horror the darkness covered up. But the cold was sinking deep into my bones and I was aching until I could have cried out with it, so miserable did it make me. Finally, I could bear it no longer and took Lucy by the hand, staggering myself in pain and stiffness, and steered us both back to the house. But she was most reluctant, and would have stayed hidden among the stinking straw and puddles all night if I had not insisted. Her fear, and she expressed it over and over like a charm, was that the villain had seen her, and was waiting to do for her in the same way.

‘Oh, Corney,’ she said, ‘he has seen me! I looked into his face and him into mine! He knows me! He knows I saw what he did!’

And so piteous and low was her voice that my heart bled for her. I believe I caught some of her fear, for as we crossed the yard, past poor Bessie’s body, and treading carefully around her (I made sure that we did not step in the blood which, though I could not see it, must have collected in the channels between the cobbles), I felt uneasy myself, all the time wondering if he was watching, perhaps lurking behind the wall or spying upon us from the dark, blank windows of one of the empty houses that looks into the back yard.

The moonlight came and went in the cloudy sky as we crept across the yard, but it was never really dark. And of course in the city it never
is
dark, like it never
is
silent. There is always a window lit or a lamp left burning, and always someone shouting or crying. Like on this night, where the yard was bright though there were
great pools of darkness like blood, and there were noises of shifting and shuffling and the scraping of boots. Only I tried not to see or hear them. Just to hurry Lucy inside the house. And me also.

Of course, it was thick dark and quiet in there, everyone having gone home, and I closed the door, quiet as quiet, and stopped to get my eyes accustomed, Lucy hanging heavy on my arm. I could hear her breathing and smell her when she moved, salty and sour. We stood there, by the outside door, as I say, for some minutes trying to see through the darkness, when I heard someone behind us, outside in the yard, clear as a lark’s song. A step and a turn like that person had stopped and perhaps looked across the yard. I know Lucy heard it, for I felt her hold her breath. I also knew that beyond the door, which I could touch with my very hand as I stood there, was whoever had done Bessie to death. Stood there breathing the same air as we had not a moment before. It came into my head what I should do if the door opened of a sudden and he should appear, knowing that he had seen us for certain. Not being a hero (though I have seen plenty on the stage), there would be no roaring about honour, but yours truly making haste across the floor and shouting for the Gov like my life depended upon it.

I have thought about it many times over, and have come to the notion that there must have been moon and clouds that night. For how else could the concert room be suddenly bright and then dark through the roof lights like it was? Tables and chairs, the black hole of the hatch into the bar, shapes in the mirrors, all of them coming into view and going again. Keeping to the sides of the room, I nudged my way along the wall, Lucy’s cold hand in mine. In the public bar, the fire was still warm in the grate, hot embers rather than flames, but I parked her beside it, threw a rug about her shoulders and stirred it up, all the while whispering to her, ‘You’re all right, Lucy girl. You stay quiet here and get warm. I’m getting us a drink.’

She grabbed my arm hard, and I could feel her nails through my shirt.

‘Don’t leave me, Corney! My God, I’m so frightened!’

‘You’re safe now,’ I says. ‘Stay here by the fire. I’m only going into the bar.’

But it was a few minutes before I could get away from her, and all the time she was shaking and starting to cry again, till I was worried Gov would hear her. But suddenly she let go, like she’d given up, and I patted her shoulder and said I’d be back quick as quick.

I was more certain now that we would both benefit from a sniff of the Gov’s brandy, and I struck out for the bar, a double-sided affair, opening into the public and with a useful hatch overlooking the concert room, where the waiters called for and collected their orders.

There was no good brandy on the shelf, of course. The Gov’nor was a mean-spirited man, and he took that description to heart, for he was mean
with
his spirits, and hid away his brandy inside the big pot he kept under the bar, which he said held the greatest evil in the world, and must never be opened. Bunting, our carpenter, said that it contained the slops from the Missus’s jerry, emptied there by the maid and which, if true, certainly would be the greatest evil in the world. But I didn’t believe any of it, having seen him with my own eyes, when he thought no one was looking, put in his paw and bring out a bottle of the best brandy. So I released the greatest evil in the world and filled our glasses, mine and Lucy’s, and had a good snort first to steady me up.

All was quiet. Standing by the closed hatch, I listened, and the silence wrapped round me until I could hear it buzzing and swishing. Like it was singing in my ears. Like it was hissing. Like it was breathing.

Yes. Like it was breathing.

And then I realized that it
was
breathing. Someone was there,
just around the corner, out of sight. Someone breathing hard down their nose, clenching up their teeth. Trying not to make a noise. Someone was standing on their toes, too, and they was in boots, for every now and then I could hear the leather creaking.

I knew who it was, would have put hard cash upon it. Here was poor Bessie’s murderer come back to set about those who saw him do it, creeping about in the dark waiting for his moment. Lucy was his intended, I had no doubt, but he was not about to leave me to summon the hue and cry, so I was up for taking an earth-bath too.

Is there a right way of going about it? I cannot tell. I am no hero, as I have said before, and if I had truly followed my legs I would have been over the bar and out of the front door with all speed. But I did not, though I reckoned that he might be waiting there in the dark for his moment, and the thought of this set me trembling so hard that my hand shook best brandy all over my boots. In the theatre, heroes are always quick-thinking men, able to halt an engine or steer a runaway boat down a rapid like they was born to it. But I argue that most men cannot do these things, and are slow-witted and need time to work things out. If I had been a regular William Goodheart, no doubt I would have come up with something much stronger, but as I am only Corney Sage I did what I do best. I struck up a song. I took a deep breath, and bellowed out the first chorus that came into my head.

Do you know my Sally?
Lives down Pleasure Row.
She can strike my alley,
With her what-d’y’-know.
I asked if she’d wed me.
She answered, ‘Corney dear,
You shouldn’t have to ask me
Just whisper in my ear . . . ’

And I clattered into the bar, glass in each hand and tripping a few steps around the table like I was doing my turn. Chorus now, two, three, four, and:

Sal-ly. Sal-ly
You’re the one for me.
Down in the alley
Tickled my one-two-three.
My pal Sal-ly. When will you agree
Sal-ly. . .

Lucy’s face, turned towards me in dim light, was a picture of amazement and fear, and she stood up and put a shaking finger to her lips like she was talking to a child. But it was too late. My little performance had woke up Gov who was even now charging downstairs with his candle in one hand and the Missus’s gamp flapping in the other. And she herself followed, in her nightcap and a gown so wide it might have launched a fleet. Which was indeed a terrible sight. Together they stood like marvels in a freak show, while the little maidservant who had also been woke appeared from the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and, when she saw us all looking so queer, starting to cry. Always one to lend a comforting hand, Missus covered the floor in two and slapped the poor girl’s head about the doorway for so long it became dull, when Gov was forced to step in and change the tune. Raising the gamp to me, he started his own rant, but I cut him short.

‘Now, Gov,’ I cried, ‘don’t you start on them what has done you a favour.’

He brought it down on my head with such vigour that the spokes flew out and the whole contraption opened up, almost blinding Missus, and allowing the maid to escape.

‘You bloody little ruffian!’ cried Pickuls, struggling with the gamp and his Missus and not winning with either. ‘Waking up
the household with your drunken—’ which was when he saw the brandy glasses and smelled it too. ‘What have—’

But it was time to put him straight (and save any further abuse), and so I told him, with Lucy’s help, what had happened. How Bessie had been done to death by the gent, how Lucy was afraid for her life, since he had seen her, and how, being concerned for my own skin also, I had heard him in the concert room. At this last, Missus and Lucy, and the little maid who had been listening from the scullery, screamed out, and it took the Gov shouting the odds at them all before they stopped.

‘Is he there now?’ Gov naturally asked and, since I couldn’t tell him either way, we went into the concert room to investigate.

No, he was not there, but the outside door what I had closed was swinging open, and the cool night air filled the room. Gov got lamps all round, and shouted up the lad, and we went out into the yard, where I knew what we would find. The black mess of Bessie’s poor body was still there, in the same place where me and Lucy had walked round it, and it was no less terrible now.

Gov had a good look and took some long breaths, for his shoulders raised and lowered a few times before he spoke.

‘Go and get the police, Corney,’ he said, ‘but be quiet about it. This might bring us extra customers, or it might not. So play it careful until we get a scent of the chase.’

You’re right if you think I felt disgusted with him, for I did, and was inclined to say so. But no good would have been done, and arguing over that girl’s broken body. . . well. So I tripped out the back gate and into the Row.

Now here’s a thing. And I will tell it how it happened, for I think about it often.

More than that, since I’m being confidential. It haunts me, and has me waking up in the night of a sweat, and has me avoiding dark places, and Rows especially.

For I stepped out, as I said, into the Row, and looked up and down it. Up towards the Whitechapel-road and the lamp what stood directly at the head of the Row, like a beacon. And down towards Club-row what cuts across, and Belvoir-street what goes beyond, and the lamp what stands at the junction. Standing in the gateway, I look down to Club-row and it’s empty, and up to Whitechapel, and it’s empty. And I step out. I shut the gate behind me, tugging hard on it for it’s stiff. And I look down again. Down to the lamp at the junction.