The rain does not wash London clean, not East London anyway. It gathers in filthy puddles among the spewing rubbish, bringing up the smell, filling the gutters, painting the streets slick and grey. It drips off the edges of every filthy roof in thick gobs of dirty water, pooling at your feet, seeping in round your collar, unseasonable enough even to keep the Irish indoors.
It was chucking down in bucketfuls as Grace took refuge in the Britannia. There was Mary Kelly, pretty thing, sat at the bar, unusually sober for that time of the evening. She spotted Grace and smiled radiantly. Save for a purple bruise on her cheek she looked right enough.
‘How’s tricks, Miss Mary?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain,’ she replied sweetly, in her County Cork accent, as if she had stepped off the boat last week.
Off she went to prowl her usual spot, across the street outside the Ten Bells. Grace watched the rain run down the window in little rivulets, like turgid veins, and wondered when she might see Jack next. After their visit to Limehouse he had disappeared and she had been too occupied all week to think much about him. She made a dip, an elderly gent who mistook her for a brass; she let him ply her with gin, then relieved him of his wallet and melted into the street as he visited the bar.
The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, whipping around in the thick night air, poking her with clammy fingers. The street was thick with people, chattering and pointing, children running, moving like a tide down towards the docks. She caught a wisp of smoke in the air, a dark smell as if it was November. A little unconscious, she drifted with the crowd down Leman Street. In the distance a thick orange glow spread against the night sky, drawing them on, like a spell. At Cable Street they could hear a rumble, ominous like Judgement Day, growing louder, roaring down Dock Street. An acrid scent blew on the breeze like a ghost; waves broke in Grace’s ears and she was running through the village again, past the juniper bush, up the lane, watching herself go. Licks of flame escaped and blazed into the dark. London Docks was a raging ball, scorching their dumb faces.
An explosion split the air, drawing synchronised gasps from the crowd, bursting like fireworks over Grace’s head–belching heavy black smoke from the warehouse on Spirit Quay, which houses the East India Company’s fine brandy and, under cover of darkness, our handsome Jack Tallis. Her heart seemed to shrink and drag down through her guts, as if she were back on the Big Wheel.
People were turning out from Garrick’s, and the Pavilion, pushing in from the back. Sally Ann’s vacant face bobbed up a few feet away. The drunken theatre mob would have been tempting to dip any other day but Grace didn’t spare it a thought. She watched in horror at the gates as the warehouses burned to the ground.
Of course Jack wouldn’t be at the docks at this hour! He’d be drinking in the Queen or the Saracen’s Head. She stopped off at both to put her mind at rest. He was at neither, and no one had seen him since six o’clock, when he had been spotted leaving the Camel, lurching off in the direction of the river in need of a lie-down. Michael Robinson poured her a gin and told her he hadn’t seen Jack since yesterday, which Grace knew was true. Michael Robinson has handsome hands, dependable, that look as though they make things and as if he tells the truth–which, indeed, he always does, though he chose not to divulge his suspicion that Jack might be entertaining a lady friend.
Assuring herself that this must indeed be what he was up to, she walked home, sunk in her own thoughts. At the corner of Cable and Cannon Street Road she came upon Nelly Holland. Nelly was a good girl. She kept herself clean and sober for the most part and looked after her ragged friends. She was searching for Polly Nichols, who had been thrown out of her lodgings the day before and had been seen that very afternoon, blind drunk, in a brand-new bonnet. Nelly was worried and wanted to put her to bed. Grace said she hadn’t seen Polly all week and they parted company. Not five minutes later whom should she come upon, staggering, clutching the wall?
‘Polly!’ she said, gripping her by the shoulders, trying to penetrate her glassy eyes. ‘Nelly’s out looking for you. You must go back to MacMurphy’s. She’s a bed for you there.’
Polly Nichols struggled to focus upon the apparition before her, trying to make sense of what she was saying. She got Grace sharp for long enough to recognise her–though she couldn’t have told you her name–before she saw two of her again, and laughed helplessly, a private fit, making sense impossible. Pointing her back the way Nelly had gone, Grace watched her weave down the road, cackling at nothing.
She listened to her own footsteps for another hundred yards or so, her brow knitted; told herself again she mustn’t fret about him, he’d be safe somewhere. If only he would turn up. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep until she saw him.
Drawing near to the lights of the Frying Pan she picked out a silhouette, unmistakable through the steam on the window, and stopped on the kerb. He was laughing, in his charming way, flashing his beautiful teeth. She saw him leaning in close to the girl, slipping an arm round her waist. Grace held her breath, frozen to the pavement, quite, quite foolish.
The London Docks raged until midnight when the blaze began to die down. There were scattered fires still as morning broke; the usual crowd formed, to see if there would be work today clearing the wreckage. They pressed their faces to the gate, staring in at the smoking ruin.
Some twenty-three miles away, resting his stout legs by the road and peeling an apple with all the meticulousness of a surgeon dissecting a rat, sat Mr Horatio Blunt. He was on his way into London to settle an ancient score, and meant to be there today. Now Mr Blunt might be an altogether crooked man, remorseless and greedy, but the very worst part of his character was the bitter grudge that he held, hardened with time, and he longed for the sweet taste of revenge. He might look from a distance a jovial sort of fellow–being large and ruddy–but if you’d asked him for directions you would spot the ugly glint in his eye. He crushed a small beetle underfoot before hoisting himself upright, and pressing on towards London.