Mrs Death: The Tale of Tilly Tuppence

London, 1868

Ma Willeford took tuppence a peek from men who paid to watch her daughter about her bathroom through a hole in the wall. The hole was made for this purpose: it was just the same size as a boggling eyeball, a judge’s fat finger or a captain’s knob-end. It cost tuppence, always tuppence a peek. And soon many a fine gentleman, grand lord and other aristocracy came in cloak and secrecy, and took great pleasure to have a peek and a poke. Tilly was taught to act like she didn’t know what was what. Tilly would play innocent as all that, each time for a tuppence, tuppence a peek. Soon word spread and more men came, and Ma Willeford’s money pot got fat.

As Tilly filled out, she grew tall and more knowing. Ma Willeford told her to give them more, show a little something, to keep them coming. So Tilly did as she was told. She’d let her slip slip on purpose, slip slip she’d go. She’d sit and give a peek of her nipple painted red with a beetroot stain. Tilly and her red rosebud nipple popping into the hole. Peeping men loved that all the more; they’d be there, furiously wanking, dripping and sticky and licking and loving it, keen to peek a nipple through the hole. She grew accustomed to the grunts and moans. She knew how to tease them. Fat pink-faced voyeurs paid for this niche and specific treat. Word spread for this rare entertainment and they came and they came, watching her, peeking and sneaking and poking, gentlemen came, queuing each day to see just a bit more.

Ma Willeford had broken Tilly in good and proper. Trained her to be suggestive and ever so playful. More holes were drilled so more men could peek, all at once and from all angles of the toilet hut. I say toilet hut but it was more like a bath hut; there was a painted tin tub in the centre and it was decorated, lit up pretty with candles and posies, pearls and mirrors and dainty things. Ma Willeford even put one peep hole on the roof, so if he fancied it a man could climb a ladder and lie on his belly and watch her from above. He could put his cock in a hole so his cum could rain down on Tilly, and Ma told her if this happened to tilt her head as though catching snowflakes and stick her tongue out. To do that cost more, of course. The big fat judges and old perverts couldn’t quite get up the ladder, so they’d have to make do with the lower holes, watching her, her brown skin shining in the candlelight and the reflections in all the mirrors.

Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a peek!

Ma Willeford would sing

Tilly Tuppence, Tilly Tuppence, tuppence a peek!

Oh it was popular! The customers loved it, they’d jeer and leer. Tilly come here, they’d say. Over here Tilly. Tilly come here. Tilly let me touch it. Ooh Tilly let me put a finger in your sweet treacle. Oh Tilly! Oh how they loved Tilly Tuppence, what a spectacle this rare sweet black cherry girl was. And what a delight. They’d poke their tongues and fingers and knob-ends though the holes. Waggling fingers and cocks would appear in the glory holes in all four walls of the bath hut. She’d learned to put on quite a show for these voyeuristic gentlemen. So slowly she’d undress and take her time. The pretty young girl would tantalise, she’d bend over and show all as they gazed on her.

Ma Willeford was also dark-skinned and she had sad and yellowy eyes. She’d been stolen and brought to London when she was but a slip of a girl herself but she knew her way around men and how to get them to spend their time and their money. She was savvy, she’d educated herself to read and write and do numbers. Mean she was though, and hard, life had made her that shape. Ma Willeford had no teeth, they were knocked out when she was a girl, she had not a tooth in her head. All manner of men paid very handsomely for a juicy wet suck off her. Together they ran a roaring trade, mother and daughter: notorious they were, Tilly Tuppence – the exotic sensation – and Ma Willeford of Limehouse. It was a voyeur’s delight.

Tilly Tuppence was Jack’s first love. It was Tilly Tuppence broke Jack the Ripper’s heart. Jack loved Tilly, adored her – obsessed Jack was – but Ma Willeford had other plans for her Tilly and forbid it flourish before it could begin. She always sent Jack away. She said something wasn’t right about Jack; she said there was something odd about the way Jack was. Whenever Jack came by, Ma Willeford would shoo Jack away and Jack’s tuppence burnt a hole in Jack’s pocket. But Tilly would meet Jack in secret. She liked talking with Jack, besides, Jack brought treats, ribbons, violets and rum, the good stuff.

It is Christmas Eve, a foggy night, when Jack waits for Tilly down by the wharf. Jack has rum and gifts for Tilly. She is so excited. Jack produces a black velvet box and inside it a beautiful silver locket, with a rabbit engraved on the front, on a short thick silver chain. Tilly gasps and wears it proudly and asks Jack if it is pretty around her throat. Oh yes, says Jack, very pretty . . . Pretty as a princess! Tilly grins, Thank you, she is so pleased and so giddy. She plays with the locket in her fingers, feeling the engraving and the smooth silver edges.

She drinks the thick rum in the thick fog, and she sings to Jack. They sit on the ledge and swing their legs in unison by the murky water. There is a pea soup fog, so thick you can hardly see your hand nor the other side of the river. Tilly drinks the rum fast and greedily. She is full of joy and song, she says she has dreams. She tells Jack that one day she’ll live in a big posh house, with servants and furs and everything her heart desires. She laughs gleefully, she drinks and sings, how happy she is, so merry. Merry Christmas, Jack, she sings, Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Tilly.

Quite suddenly Jack reaches and grabs the locket and uses it to pull her to kiss her. One kiss, Jack pleads. One kiss, Jack begs. No. Tilly pushes Jack away. Don’t be so. But Jack has her by the chain around her throat. And again Jack pulls. Tilly pushes and wriggles and says, No need to be so, Jack, but Jack pulls harder and rougher and kisses and slobbers and overpowers her and Jack rolls and drags her down to the shore. Jack wants to have her, to have her, to have her. So sudden, a fever, so quick, a frenzy. Swiftly, Jack cuts Tilly’s throat. Then stab stab stab, Jack goes. Jack’s knife goes stab stab stab, stab, stab, stab . . . Jack wields the knife, bringing it down sharp and pointed. Jack slits her wide open, guts and slices her down the centre like an eel. Guts and blood, so much blood. Silence. The soft lapping of the tide. Jack pulls at her, hands all full of guts and intestines and stink. Jack rolls her poor lifeless body into the Thames. Her heat, her black hot blood and innards on Jack’s filthy hands, how it oozes and steams in the cold night air and the sight of it thrills Jack. Her blood now stains Jack forever. Jack runs away and disappears into the fog.

As for Ma Willeford, well, she searches high and low for her girl. She stands on the docks wailing, calling into the wind. Customers come and go but with Tilly missing the bath hut is nothing but cold and empty. Men leave crude and clumsy messages on the hut walls. Someone leaves a posy of violets. Someone else a tuppence by the door.

When Tilly finally washes up, all slashed and gutted and bloated and blue, Ma Willeford, well, she goes berserk with grief and mad with booze. She drinks herself into oblivion. She sits babbling in the gutter of the docks with the shit and the rats. Her heart broken, she drinks and drinks and loses her mind. Ma Willeford is eventually carted off to Bedlam – she dies there and that’s where she’s still buried now.

Jack was only just fifteen then. It was over twenty years until Jack dressed up as Jack to kill again – but you never forget the first time. Tilly was the first time Jack the Ripper made a murder and sang for Mrs Death’s supper. Jack the Ripper? Jack’s real name was Mary: Mary Jackson of Shadwell. And well, no copper was out looking for a woman in camouflage, an invisible woman, a woman dressed as a man and a most prolific female serial killer. Eventually, Mary Jackson died alone in her bed of cholera, with everyone still searching, looking for a man and a killer they called Jack the Ripper and nobody none the wiser.

If you stand on these docks on Christmas Eve, and the wind is blowing from the wrong direction, if you listen, you can still hear poor old Ma Willeford, Martha Willeford, wailing for her youngest daughter, a jangle of coins, singing her song: Tilly Tuppence, Tilly Tuppence, tuppence a peek.