It was twenty-five minutes to ten on the morning of Tuesday, 3 September 1878, and Martha was on the move again. Best was in his room completing his reading of yesterday’s edition of the Islington Gazette, filling in time until he could leave for Victoria and Helen, when he heard the thump of number seven’s front door closing.
He rushed to the window just in time to see Martha turning left again towards Liverpool Road. She was carrying a flannel-wrapped bundle and a small valise. He grabbed his hat and jacket, opened his door and, making no attempt to be discreet, bounded down the stairs past a surprised Daisy, the wispy, young maid-of-all-work.
Up to now Daisy, who came in every day, had only seen this strange invalid creeping cautiously around as if any sudden movement might cause him to fall to pieces but Best was determined not to lose track of Martha this time.
Once again, he caught up with Martha at Liverpool Road. There was no sign of young Smith and his ice-cream cart, but then he wasn’t supposed to be on watch until eleven o’clock and that was an hour and a half away.
This time Martha had walked further along to the right as far as the oddly turreted Islington Poor Relief office on the corner of Barnsbury Street and when she crossed the Liverpool Road did so less recklessly than before. She had swopped her usual dreary squashed black hat for an almost girlish, pale-yellow straw, trimmed with a cheeky marguerite which bounced as she walked. That should make her easier to keep track of in a crowd. Indeed, there was a different air about her today – purposeful but lighter somehow.
They were off again. Same route. Down Barnsbury Street towards Upper Street. It was a beautiful morning. Bright, sunny and still yet with a freshness and dewy quality to the atmosphere. A good-to-be-alive day.
Best was looking splendidly dark and handsome. He had treated himself to the cleanest and most careful of shaves and his moustache was perfectly trimmed. The toes of his best, side-sprung, mock-buttoned Balmoral boots glinted in the sunlight, the nap of his chestnut-brown bowler had been brushed silky smooth and he had compromised his quietened-down attire with a waistcoat which, while black, had threads which gleamed oh so discreetly as he moved. He was a poem in brown and black. Not for him the dull, black-only uniform of so many males these days.
Several young ladies turned a speculative eye upon this vision as he strode by, but his mind was fixed anxiously on Helen and their appointment. He had re-lived their meeting so many times. He couldn’t forego it now! That would be too much to bear. Still time, still time, he told himself. Martha’s probably only going down the road and back again.
Martha turned left into Upper Street. Yes, the same route. That made him feel better. Even though he had lost her last time he knew she had arrived back home soon after he had. He relaxed a little. As before, they passed the draper’s, boot and shoemaker’s, upholsterers-cum-undertakers, and so on. On they went. Suddenly, just about where he had lost her before, she turned into a shop, one of the smaller, cheaper drapers along this stretch. He, too, stopped, his eye ostensibly caught by their window display of gentlemen’s stiff collars cunningly arranged into circular towers.
He saw Martha talking to a small, scrawny, bird-like woman. The flannel bundle was on the counter between them. Martha unrolled it and began holding up several items one after the other. They were mostly baby clothes and shawls. Best remembered that it was heaps of such items on the premises which had helped hang Mrs Waters – their presence poignantly indicating just how many little mites had passed through her hands.
Martha began shaking her head and started to rewrap her parcel. The small woman stayed her hand, pointed to something in the heap. Martha held it up – a brown dress with cheap, torn lace at the neck – just like the one Nella had worn! There was more talking then Martha shrugged and nodded resignedly. Money changed hands.
Martha was leaving. He turned his head away but could see by the window reflection that she was turning left. Best waited a second or two then followed again. He would rather have gone into the shop to have a better look at that dress but there was still the matter of what was in that valise and he daren’t lose her again.
She made a quick dash across Upper Street then went straight down Canonbury Lane and on into leafy Canonbury Square with its elegant tall, dark Georgian houses. What on earth was she doing here? Where could she be going? The square, like much of Islington, had begun to go downhill somewhat now that the ever-expanding railways were allowing the better-off easy access to the nearby countryside, but the inhabitants of Canonbury Square remained relatively well-to-do. Maybe she had a servant friend here?
Cutting across the centre of the square was Canonbury Road, the start of an important artery into the City of London. It was here that Martha turned left, then crossed the road and continued northwards towards Highbury Corner.
Ah, this was more like it. Up here there was a plant nursery and higgledy-piggledy groups of small, older village dwellings, undisturbed by rebuilding. He knew they were still there because the Islington Gazette reported that some of the residents were complaining to the Vestry about cabmen washing their vehicles in their small square and goats being allowed to run around unrestrained. It could be that Martha had a relative down there.
Suddenly, she stopped – right alongside the tradesman’s side entrance of the rather grand Northampton Lodge. Best was taken unawares and had no choice but to keep on going despite the fact that she seemed too preoccupied to have noticed him.
Glancing back, he saw that she had made no effort to gain entrance to the Lodge back gates but was standing on the edge of the pavement looking north. Then Best, stopping to light a cigarette, saw her stretch out her hand. Of course – she’d been waiting for the omnibus!
As its horses clattered past him and came to a halt, another woman came up behind her. Best ran back to join them. Drat it. There were only two seats downstairs and the ladies took those as ladies tended to do. Climbing the steep ladder was difficult in their long dresses and there was always the risk of exposing a leg or even underwear. As he put his foot on the platform the conductor barred his way.
‘Sorry mate. Full up.’
Best was aghast. ‘Oh, but I must get on,’ he exclaimed in the manner of a distraught and fussy gentleman. ‘I have to see my mother who is ill!’
‘There’ll be another along in a minute,’ murmured the conductor unmoved as he reached for his bell.
‘But it might be too late!’ Best insisted in a panicky voice. ‘They telegraphed me and … ’
The conductor gave him an old-fashioned look, but was sweetened by the coin which was being tucked discreetly into his pocket.
‘Well, you can stand on the platform – if you hold on tight and keep out of my way. We don’t want to lose our licence for being overloaded, do we?’
Best stayed there, hanging on as the bus jerked and swayed on down the Canonbury Road to where it metamorphosed into the New North Road. Not a move from Martha.
At the third stop there was an exodus from the top deck and the conductor waved him up there. Best tried to resist, but the man was adamant. Any more fuss and all eyes would have been upon him, so up he went. Fortunately, there was room on the bench facing the pavement where he could keep anxious watch on those alighting. Should Martha be among them, he hoped he would have time to leap up, fling himself down those steep stairs and off – before the omnibus started again or Martha did another of her disappearing tricks.
But she wasn’t getting off. Every time they juddered to a halt Best strained to see over the low barrier keeping his eyes skinned for the bobbing Marguerite atop the primrose straw. Once, when they started up without warning he nearly fell over the side and just righted himself in time. He could see by their glances and tut-tutting that he was beginning to irritate his fellow passengers who had probably decided he was at the least eccentric, or worse.
They continued on past Moorfields Eye Hospital, Old Street and on down the City Road. Still no emerging yellow daisy. Could she have alighted with a crowd at some point? Had she realized he was shadowing her and deliberately given him the slip?
He dragged out his watch. It was ten past ten. At this rate he might miss meeting Helen! His heart sank and he felt like crying with frustration. He just didn’t know what to do. Should he stay on the bus even if she got off? It would turn westwards at London Bridge towards Westminster. He should still have time to get a cab or another omnibus or tram to Victoria Station if he did that.
Helen’s train could even be late. They sometimes were, and that terrible train crash at Sittingbourne might still be causing delays. But if he did jump ship now he would be putting the whole case in jeopardy. More babies’ lives could be at risk. This could be an important breakthrough. He knew he should keep on following Martha and meet Helen later. She would understand. Somehow that thought didn’t comfort him. He wanted to see her now.
When they approached London Wall and Bishopsgate, the streets began to fill with City gents wearing silk toppers and carrying tightly rolled umbrellas.
The arrival at London Bridge was the signal for a mass exodus which took Best completely by surprise. Frantically, he tried to keep watch on all the disembarking passengers as he pushed his way to the top of the stairs and climbed down. Now convinced that he was mentally unstable the other passengers gave way nervously.
There was no sign of Martha anywhere. Not on the omnibus nor among those now joining those alighting from other buses and heading up Swan Lane in a crowd. Best had no choice but to follow the flow.
Just as he became certain that he must have lost Martha altogether and that his self-sacrificing journey had been completely in vain, there she was, joining the queue at the top of the gangway which led down to the old Swan Pier. She was engaged in earnest conversation with a heavy-set man with tightly curled fair hair and a red face. Good grief! Murphy!