Walking in Pimlico (4 page)

And he’s there.

He stands agin the wall with the lamp behind him.

He knows I see him.

For he begins to run, his boots cracking on the stones. Crack. Crack. I hear them in my sleep now.

And then I turn and run, thinking that if I can reach the road and the light I will be all right. So I run. I run without breathing. Like as if I’ve forgotten to breathe. And I don’t look back, for I know he is there. Running after me, with his boots crack, cracking on the stones.

So it was Constable Tegg I found in the bluebottles’ nest, having his mug of char and a pipe by the fire. He saw me from the parlour and waved a halloo, and then I suppose realized something was up with me, for he came out. Tegg is like an undertaker’s best pal, mute as a fish, and it was at that moment, when I knew I was safe with an honest Englishman, like Nelson would have been proud to introduce to his mother (as Mr Figgis used to say), at that moment I broke down completely. I am not ashamed to say I wept, which I did, and Tegg took me into the parlour and give me tea and a drop to warm it, and stood silent by me until I recovered myself.

Grown men cry. It is a fact, and I have seen it often. Hard men, who have seen some service and carried a sword or a gun, weep
when a baby dies. Or when their best dog breathes his last. Or when Little Willie or Eliza goes to the angels in a Pavilion drama by Mr Trimmer. Englishmen are not wanting of emotion, for they will sing about England’s glory and the true hearts of the sailor and soldier with a tear in their eye. And sure, when the soldier lads come a-marching by in their red coats, with the drum beating and the flag a-fluttering, many a hardened barrow-man or coal-heaver will cough and water his eyes, excusing himself to whoever wants to hear that it is the dust what has flown in.

So Tegg watched while I regained myself, and listened while I told what had happened. And listened again while I told it to Inspector Rudd, a reduced sort of nobbler, hardly tall enough to scratch his own head, but who spoke half-refined and with education. He rounded up Sergeant Bliss and Constable Fowkes, another bluebottle, and give them instructions to go with Tegg and me back to the Constellation, size it up and report back to him sharpish.

‘You did right coming straight here,’ he said, giving me a clap on the shoulder, ‘and you have no need to fear. For Her Majesty’s constabulary will protect you to the best of their strength.’

That made me feel warmer inside, and along with Tegg’s tea and bracer I was ready to go back to the Row. When we got outside (and it is strange how clear certain things are in my head), there was a soft light in the sky, and I realized it was getting near dawn. Whitechapel-road was empty enough, a wagon rattling past with a driver fast asleep and horse who knew what was what. A lone swell, face bent close to the gutter, ready to take his pick or looking for his door key. Dogs on their way home, trotting with a purpose, and cats, already home, waiting on window sills. And in the doorways and passages, what might be heaps of rags thrown in, only an arm or a foot hanging out to show that they were men and women, with no home to go to. And here and there smaller bundles, wrapped tight, sometimes struggling. I knew them like I knew my own skin, for
hadn’t I been left like them, only wrapped in a theatre bill, and covered in ink. And shame, I suppose.

It was four of us, then, that arrived back at the Constellation, and I took them to the front door, and hammered hard to be let in, and soon we were standing in the public, where I been with Lucy, and then Gov and Missus, and looking through the bar to the hatch where the murderer had stood. Perhaps I appeared a bit shaken again, for Tegg touched my shoulder and nodded me to the seat by the fire (which had been raked and lit and was burning bright) where Lucy had sat a few hours ago. Gov stood everyone a drink (though I noticed it was not his best brandy) and made some brave remarks about the bluebottles being able to sniff out the murderer and no mistake. He could not hide, said Gov, even in this great city of ours. But no one was impressed, and indeed he started to look foolish, and would have carried on with the nonsense if the Sergeant hadn’t said it was time they got on and did their duty, and he had better show them the business.

Gov fumbled with his keys, all fingers and thumbs, and trying not to show that he was afraid. But he was. We all was, I do believe, even Sergeant Bliss, who said he’d seen more dead bodies than had the bottom of the Newgate new drop. When Gov did open the door and we all trooped out into the yard, which was lighting up now with that greyish-pink light what picks out strange things – the edge of the stable door, I noticed, and the brick of the wall to the Row, all crusty – Gov hung back. The bluebottles went first, then me, but Gov stood in the doorway, turning the key over and over in his hand and licking his lips and getting his wipe out to dry them. Sergeant’s face was pinched as a corpse as he looked out over the yard, and he cleared his throat and straightened his back and went over to where Bessie was still lying.

I stood by the door, but I could see her purple gown, one of Perlmann’s best, spread out about her, and how pale her arm
looked against it, lying upon the stuff and her hand just hanging there, like she was asleep. Her hair was let down, brown curls falling out over her shoulder and face. Bliss stood for a while looking down at her, and then walked around her, with his hand over his mouth. Then he called young Fowkes over and said a few words and pointed to the body, but being only a green constable, when he saw it he was much affected, so that he was forced to pay a visit to the very grate where I had stood the night before. It was Tegg who was sent into the stable to fetch a blanket to cover Bessie, and then to stand at the yard gate to keep out unwelcome visitors. For they were beginning to crowd around, word travelling fast along Whitechapel, and the Gov was eager to get back into his house and open the doors and play the Big Man to all his neighbours and catering pals and start making out as
he
found Bessie and chased off the murderer and, no doubt, nearly caught him. Not a man to miss the opportunity of making a shilling over a penny, was our Gov.

Bliss scribbled in his little book and asked questions about times and places, and who was here and there, and reminded Gov that we would all have to be sent for when he made his report back at the Station House. And he told him, in no uncertain terms and with much wagging of his finger, not to touch Bessie’s body.

‘For,’ says he, ‘I know your sort. You’ll try and make a penny out of a poor girl’s misfortune. If I catch you charging for even looking over the wall, I’ll have your licence, and your skin and all.’

Gov threw up his hands and swore nothing was further from his mind (having already sent out for extra pies and brought in the cellarman on his day off).

We trooped back into the house, where the Missus and Lucy were up and sitting by the fire drinking tea and getting chummy. Bliss was a charmer with the ladies, and they liked him too, for he was a tall and handsome bluebottle and sported fine weepers and curly locks, both of which he combed and oiled with great care. His
manner with the fair ones was always gentle and low, making them comfortable and listening hard to them like they knew something. So seeing Missus and Lucy, snug by the fire, he smoothed his weepers and tiptoed over to them, like they was fairies, and gave them his best (but not his fiercest) salute.

‘Compliments, ladies,’ said he. ‘Sergeant Bliss, Whitechapel, C Division. And sympathies for the ’orrible tragedy what ’as ’appened in your midst.’

Pause while the ladies dabbed with their wipers and thanked him.

‘If there is anythin’ what you can tell me, anythin’ at all, just you send for me. I want to catch this beggar – pardon me, ladies, but I feel strong about it – as I say, I want to catch ’im and string ’im up, and then we shall all feel safe in our beds.’

I thought he could have laid it on a bit thicker, having the weepers and hair to his advantage, not to mention the uniform to which many ladies are partial, but in the circumstances he did well enough, and Missus and Lucy promised they would follow his instructions to the point. With Tegg standing sentry-go at the back gate, Bliss and Fowkes departed for the station, reminding Gov not to touch Bessie’s body, for they would be sending around a surgeon to sort it out. And indeed, a very few minutes later, Dr Gould arrived with his men and a flat cart and took her off, so that by dinner-time there was hardly any sign of her having been there at all, Pickuls directing the stable lad and the maidservant, with buckets of water, to wash away the worst of the blood. But he took care that the stain remained, foxy old devil that he was, haunting the yard and inspecting his new money-grabber. And within the week, in spite of what the Sergeant had warned him, payment of a penny would let you see the ‘Site of the Whitechapel Horror!’. ‘Come and See the Very Place where a Young Girl’s Innocent Blood Was Spilt!’

The Judge and Jury, even the Poses, were put on one side for the duration of the Whitechapel Horror. Gov was enthusiastic for a show of some kind, and even brought in the Chinns to see what they could recommend. But they were God-fearing, of the Roman persuasion, and as well as doing a deal of jiggery-crossery about their faces and chests, and murmuring the while, they made it clear they was not going to be playing in-and-out overtures for Gov’s exhibition. I think he was disappointed and surprised, expecting everyone to be of his ghoulish temperament, and when I told him to sling his hook also, he became frayed and annoyed.

The truth was that I was eager to get clear of that place. Lucy had started leaning on yours truly a bit more than he wanted. Not that I was unhappy about sharing a crib with her, for I could get accustomed to warm skin alongside. And she had pretty ways and a sweet nature, and always paid her way, which was no bother unless I considered how she came by the shillings she put on the table. But after a couple of weeks I got to feeling crowded and, the Constellation offering no prospects, I went round to Mr Tidyman’s the Talbot Arms to have a look at the
Era
.

Nothing pleased me more on a warm autumn Sunday morning than to take my coffee, hot and strong, in Mr Tidyman’s back room, with the sun lighting up the Classified columns for ‘Wanted, for a respectable concert room’. Tilbury Docks (the cellarman, his actual name and no mistake) was within calling distance for words difficult to cipher and, for a penny, a letter written in a commercial hand. Here was a music hall, here a theatre, and here a circus. There were many shops for a man of my talents, and I was hopeful of a new berth. So when Lucy arrived with the sleep and injuries of the previous night on her face (for she had not been home), I did not let it bother me, but just shouted to the Docks for another cup. Lucy sat herself opposite me and picked away at her nails until she’d got her words right and ready what she wanted to say, and then let them all out together.

‘I’m getting away from here, Corney, and quickly, for I fear he’s looking for me, and I think he will find me if I’m here much longer. And if he finds me with you, he will do for the both of us. So I’m going.’

I wasn’t surprised, for she talked all the time of her fears and was nervy as a thoroughbred, and true to her, if Bessie’s killer thought she’d seen him, she was done for if he found her. And me too, though I tried not to dwell upon it. So I said the right things, that she must let me know when she got fixed up, and had she got the readies to see her by. But she was nodding and impatient, and interrupted me.

‘See here, Corney, you’ve been a good pal to me, and that’s all’ (and I was relieved to hear it, too), ‘but I need you to be a pal again. The best one ever.’

She put her hand inside her little jacket and brought out a packet wrapped up in oilskin and tied with string. Pushing it towards me she said, ‘I want you to keep this for me, Corney. Keep it safe.’

Naturally I wanted to know what it was, although I have to say I had an inkling.

‘It’s about Bessie. And the swell what done her in. I’ve written it all down, Corney, in here, for I’m too scared to tell the police. I think
he’d
find out if I told the police, and he’d come and get me. I don’t want to be trampled to death like poor Bessie.’ And she put her hands over her eyes like she was trying to press the picture of it out of her head.