12

I sat for a few minutes to catch my breath, and then got to my feet and surveyed the church. I’d spent hundreds of days in one much like it, and not just Sundays either. I was sent there constantly, to fetch and carry, lay out hymnbooks, sweep the floor, clean the altar, check the rat traps and examine the cushions for holes. There was no end to it. As a punishment, I was made to polish the wood or clean wax off the candlesticks or dust the books of baptisms, marriages and deaths. And I was punished a lot, so I knew that church better than any other human, and almost as well as the cat.

I understood how churches worked.

Treading quietly, I did a full loop of the nave and then the transepts. In the left-hand one, the parish chest was pushed up against the wall, piled high with folds of cloth that turned out to be curtains awaiting repair. The chest was of a similar design to my father’s, solid and heaving, with a clasp and padlock on the front. And, just like my father’s, the padlock was hanging open. After all, who would steal a parish record?

I lifted the lid, wincing at the creaking of the hinges. Inside, the books were carefully arranged. Apparently, Catholics cared as much about these things as Anglicans.

The books of deaths were of no interest to me as I doubted Drake’s was yet recorded. I ignored the books of marriages too; they didn’t include the groom’s address. I knew this from my idle hours spent making up grisly stories about newly wedded couples – fatal accidents and vengeful lovers – when I was supposed to be putting the books back in order and checking the chest for mouse droppings.

No, it was the baptisms I was interested in.

How old was Drake’s son? I’d seen the infant briefly in his mother’s arms at the penny gaff, but I was no expert at ageing babies. I pulled out the latest book of baptisms and flicked through the pages, going backwards in time. I was so absorbed, I didn’t initially hear the footsteps, and he was almost standing over me by the time I looked up.

‘What are you doing?’

It was the elderly priest. He was frowning.

I swallowed hard. ‘I’m trying to find the address of one of your parishioners. His child was baptised here.’

‘Who?’

‘Oswald Drake. He was killed recently.’

The old man nodded, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. ‘Yes, I heard about that. Terrible business. Did Sutherland give you permission to look in there?’

I couldn’t dissemble. My usual deceit was to keep myself safe; it wasn’t my fault I’d been created awry. But I’d been feeling guilty about lying to Mother Eugenie and wasn’t inclined to repeat the mistake.

I replaced the book in the chest. ‘No. The information might help gain leniency for a Christian woman, but Mr Sutherland said he wouldn’t help me. He suggested I should leave.’

‘I see.’ The old man rubbed his chin and glanced hastily over his shoulder. ‘Well, it really isn’t his decision to make. Sutherland has been known to, shall we say, overstep his authority? I’m the priest of this parish and have been for eighteen years.’

I adjusted my face to a deferential expression. ‘Of course. You’re the senior man.’

‘Exactly. And in my opinion, it’s a reasonable request.’ He took the book from my hands, licked his thumb and turned a few pages, scanning down the columns. ‘Here we are. Reginald, son of Oswald and Elspeth Drake, baptised on the seventeenth of November eighteen-eighty. I remember the day well. We did it right after the service and everyone stayed. Mr Drake provided a cold lunch—’

‘The address?’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He squinted at the book again. ‘Number eight, Cressy Place. Just off the Mile End Road. It’s a ten-minute walk, if you don’t dawdle.’

After the smoke and dirt of Whitechapel, Cressy Place was extremely pleasant. It was a narrow lane, one side of a triangle with two other roads. Along a passageway I could see a scrubby park where an apple tree was struggling to bloom. That square of grass would be the playground for young Reginald Drake when he was older, I supposed. He would climb the tree and ponder on what kind of man his father had been.

Number eight was much like the others: a small front garden filled with roses and a chessboard pathway leading to a brightly painted front door. It was the kind of house I dreamed of living in.

I knocked and waited, but there was no reply. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in through the window. The front room was dim, containing only a few pieces of plain furniture. No books or pictures, no flowers or ornaments. Despite the owner’s recent demise, there was no wreath on the door.

A finely dressed lady came in through the neighbour’s gate carrying a basket of flowers. She blinked at me solemnly.

‘Are you looking for Mrs Drake?’

‘Yes. Do you know where she is?’

She sighed and put down her basket. ‘Elspeth had to leave rather suddenly, poor love.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not for me to say. But I’ll tell you this: the poor girl doesn’t deserve any of it. Not one bit. I’ll miss her, is the truth. We used to play backgammon. I taught her, but she was better than me in no time.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

She gazed at me, sizing me up. ‘You don’t look like a debt collector.’

‘I’m not. My name’s Stanhope. I’m a reporter for the Daily Chronicle. I’m investigating what Mr Drake was doing that led to his murder.’

‘Aye, well, that’s a good question, isn’t it? Some might say he got what was coming to him.’ She glanced hastily up and down the street. ‘Wait here.’

When she came out again, she was holding a piece of paper, which she gave to me. ‘It’s Elspeth’s new address. She didn’t want me to have it. I think she was ashamed. But I insisted.’

‘Labour in Vain Street,’ I read out loud. ‘Is that really what it’s called?’

‘Apparently so. By the wharves, she said. Don’t tell anyone else how you got it.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘If you see her, tell her Mrs George sends her kindest wishes. The very kindest. She’s always welcome here for a pot of tea and a game of backgammon. And baby Reggie too, of course.’ She wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘And tell her to take care of herself, if she’s able.’

I thanked her politely and headed south, occasionally consulting my map. Most of the journey was tolerable enough, along streets lined with houses and shops, including a newsagent with a billboard outside: Nun Arrested for Vicious Murder. But as I crossed over Commercial Road and headed south towards the docks, the greenery of Cressy Place quickly became a vague memory, replaced by high-walled warehouses and, behind them, booming factories sending black clouds of smoke into the air. I could smell the river too: oil, silt, rotting waterweed, excrement and fish.

How did Mrs Drake end up here, after the calm and prosperity of Cressy Place? I knew how I would feel if I lost my lodging with Alfie and Constance, and this poor woman had lost her house and husband both, with a babe in arms to care for as well. She must feel desolate and abandoned, as if her life had ended at the same moment as Oswald Drake’s.

The road sloped down, passing alongside the docks at Shadwell, a sorry slum stained white with salt. Four stevedores were staggering under sacks and crates, shoulders broad and shoes heavy, unloading their burdens on to barrows. I couldn’t imagine what such work would be like. After a few years of it, a man of my age would look fifty, and a man of fifty would probably be dead.

As I watched, one of the crates started to move; the slats of its wooden side were being prised apart from within. A tiny brown hand appeared and then a face, peering through the gap, disturbingly human-like; a monkey, no bigger than a cat. I’d seen such creatures before at the zoo. One of the stevedores cried out and pointed, but before he could stop it, the beast had squeezed out and bounded along the jetty, tail in the air. The fellow gave chase, but he was hopelessly out-classed. The monkey looked once over its shoulder and danced up the wharf building, leaping along the gutters and perching briefly on a pulley arm before disappearing from view. The entertainment didn’t stop there. Back at the crate, another face was already peeping out. The stevedores lost three before deciding that their time was better spent repairing the crate than chasing the animals around the dock.

The appropriately named Labour in Vain Street ran close to the basin. The water was high after the spring storms, lapping over the quays into great muddy pools.

The number I wanted was scrawled on to a concrete pillar next to a short stairway descending to a basement door. Looking down, I could see a baby in a basket through the grubby window, and then Mrs Drake herself. Her mourning frock was finely embroidered, but her hair was straggling out of a too-large mob cap, making her look more like a junior housemaid than a lady who’d recently been living in Cressy Place.

Unaware she was being watched, her expression was one of simple adoration, gazing down at her son as if unable to believe that such perfection could exist. I had the impression she could watch him for ever, and in truth I could have watched her watching him for ever as well.

She had a blanket in her hands. I thought she was about to tuck it around her baby, but instead she started to fold it, first in half, then a quarter, then an eighth. As I watched, she gently placed it over the infant’s face and began to press down with both hands.

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairway, she had whipped the blanket away and thrown it on to the floor. The baby began to emit a thin, piercing wail, followed by an intake of breath and then another wail, even louder. I’d never felt so delighted to hear a baby’s cry.

I hammered on the door and she opened it. Only some strange sense of decorum prevented me from pushing past her and gathering up the child in my arms.

‘What were you doing?’ I demanded.

She started to shake, covering her eyes with her hands and sobbing. After a moment, she hunched forward and buried her face in my shoulder, weeping fit to burst, and me a stranger. I didn’t know what to do, so I patted her gently on the back and waited for the eruption to subside. I couldn’t imagine what anyone would think if they saw us, embracing in the doorway in full view of the pavement above.

Thoughts flew through my mind. I couldn’t leave the child with her, as she was clearly a danger to him. Should I call for someone to fetch a policeman? Should I steal the child away? I knew of an orphanage where boys were given decent food and discipline in preparation for a life in the army, and the owner wasn’t above taking a bribe if you didn’t want questions asked.

Eventually, she prised herself away. Now I could see her properly, I realised her face still had its adolescent bloom. She was eighteen or even less and had been married to a man old enough to be her father.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I must’ve given you a fright. I wouldn’t hurt him, not really. I stopped before any harm came. You saw that.’

I was concerned she might fall to weeping again, so I took half a step backwards, putting my hand on the outside wall of the building. It was wet, but not from the rain. In the room behind Mrs Drake, damp had spread in a great stain across the ceiling and was beading on the windows and glistening on the floor. The stink of mildew clogged my throat. I poked at the sill and it separated under my fingers, revealing a plump woodlouse underneath.

‘Do you remember me?’ I asked, as gently as I could. ‘I was at the penny gaff after your husband … after he was found. My name’s Stanhope, I’m a reporter with the Chronicle. May I ask you some questions?’

She nodded. ‘But you can’t come in. I don’t want any gossip.’

This seemed a fine insistence on propriety after she’d wept on my shoulder in full view of anyone passing, but I supposed it was her choice to make.

‘The police have someone in custody,’ I said. ‘Do you know Irina Vostek? It’s her, except … well, it turns out she was living a double life. Did you ever have reason to believe she wished ill on your husband?’

Her expression was blank, as if I’d mentioned that today was warmer than yesterday or that I’d recently bought a new pair of socks. You would never believe I’d just told her the name of the woman who had made her a widow.

‘That’s a great shame,’ she said eventually. ‘Irina was always very kind to little Reggie.’

She picked up her child and began to rock him gently as if she had a slow song in her head and was keeping time.

‘I went to Cressy Place. Mrs George sends her regards. Why did you leave there?’

‘For this palace, do you mean? I was evicted. Oswald hadn’t paid the rent. Once the landlord found out my husband was dead, he came knocking, and I didn’t have enough. Everyone thinks I’ve inherited a fortune, but the only thing I got was debt.’

‘When did you realise?’

She pulled at her lace collar, as if it was constricting her. ‘Only after he was dead. Turns out, he was stringing everyone along, making promises, you know. Trying to keep our noses above water. He could talk the angels down from heaven.’ She ran a finger down the condensation on the door jamb and it formed a rivulet, dripping on to her step. ‘No one’ll loan money to a penniless widow, will they?’

I pulled out my notebook and pen, delighted that someone was finally willing to provide me with some information. ‘Do you know who made the investment in the gaff ? It might be—’

She interrupted me. ‘I don’t know anything about that, Mr Stanhope.’

I was disappointed, but it made sense. A man like Drake wouldn’t share his affairs with a woman, let alone one so young. If she was eighteen now – and she hardly looked even that – she couldn’t have been more than sixteen when she gave birth.

‘How did you meet your husband?’

She gave me a sharp glance. ‘At a society ball, of course. He requested the first dance and we kissed on the balcony. The Duke of Whitechapel invited us.’

Like an idiot, I’d almost begun writing that down before realising she was mocking me.

Judging from her age and accent, there was a more obvious answer. ‘You were a pauper. He took you in with the others.’

She smiled, but it was bleak. ‘I was a pauper before and I’m one again now. Almost makes it worse, wouldn’t you say? Seeing what life’s like when you have money, and then having it taken away.’

She put a hand to the back of her neck, massaging her skin, and I wondered if he had beaten her. She was inches shorter than me with a waist smaller than one of his biceps.

‘And what now, Mrs Drake? Or may I call you Elspeth? Will you be staying here?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t even afford this place beyond today and I can’t go back to having nothing. That’s why …’ She gazed down at her baby now sleeping peacefully. ‘Maybe we’ll go for a little swim tomorrow, just him and me. Go together.’

I recognised it in her, that despair. It called to me like an old friend, drew me in, wrapped itself around me. There are few things more comforting than despair.

But she didn’t know how hard it was to drown.

‘There’s no need for anything like that. I know of somewhere you’ll be safe, I promise. It’s a Home for Penitent Females and they’ll take you in. And little Reggie too. The matron is a decent woman.’

I was determined that she and her baby should come to no harm. None of this was her fault.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want a handout.’

‘It’s not, I assure you. You’ll work for your board.’

She looked up and I detected a glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘Is that true?’

‘Of course. Get your things. We’ll go straight there.’

It had to be now. I couldn’t leave her behind, not even with a promise to return. I didn’t know what she’d do in my absence.

‘What if they turn us away?’

She clung on to the door jamb and I could see that she was reluctant to leave her dank little basement, no matter how ghastly it was. Even having so little, one can still fear having less.

‘They won’t, I promise. Look, Mrs Drake … Elspeth … sometimes, you have to move on. Everyone does. I’ve left places myself, places much nicer than this, and I’ve never regretted it.’

She gave me an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Very well, Mr Stanhope. I want no charity on my own behalf, but for Reggie’s sake I’ll put my trust in you.’

She spent a minute or so stuffing her meagre possessions into a cotton sack, and then looped Reggie’s basket over her arm and hoisted Reggie himself on to her hip. We were about to climb the steps to the pavement when a shadow of a man appeared against the sun, now low in the sky.

He was holding a cane, which he pointed at me. ‘You again?’

I recognised his voice. It was the dandy, Coffey, who’d accused me of Drake’s murder at the gaff.

Elspeth squinted up at him. ‘What are you doing here, Nick?’

‘I came to find you, of course. Why didn’t you tell me where you’d be? I had to get it from your neighbour.’ He tapped his cane on the top step. ‘Took a bit of persuading.’

‘You wasted your time,’ I said firmly. ‘She’s coming with me.’

I ushered her towards the stairs, intending to guide her past Coffey before he could come down, but he blocked the gate.

‘We need to talk, Elsie.’ He sounded almost plaintive. ‘Oswald’s dead and he ain’t coming back. I keep thinking I’ll pop along and see him, but I can’t. It’s just you and me now.’

‘I miss him too,’ she replied. ‘It’s hard to believe I’ll never hear his voice again. But there’s no money, Nick, if that’s what you’re hoping. There’s nothing. He was in debt up to the crown of his head.’

‘It ain’t that, honest it ain’t.’ His voice cracked a little and he wiped his face. ‘I’ve had my eyes opened of late. I was living in his shadow is the truth, but there’s a better world coming, and I’m going to be part of it.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re not part of any better world.’ She gestured at his empty sleeve. ‘You can’t even scratch your nose and your backside at the same time.’

I couldn’t see his expression, silhouetted as he was, so was surprised when he laughed. ‘That’s a good one, that is. Scratch my nose and my backside, I’ll have to remember that.’ He beckoned to her to follow him. ‘Come along. You don’t want to stay with him, do you? He ain’t one of us. You belong with your own, and Reggie too.’

‘Where would we go?’

He shrugged. ‘I got plans, Elsie. Don’t you want to see?’

I caught her arm. ‘What about my offer? The Home for Penitent Females will take you and Reggie in, I’m sure. There’s no charge.’

She pulled her arm away. ‘It’s been my experience that there’s always a charge, Mr Stanhope. Nothing’s for nothing.’ She slowly climbed the steps and handed her cotton bag to the dandy. ‘All right, Nick, Let’s see this better world you’re talking about.’

I tried to follow her, but Coffey jumped down the steps, lifted his boot and thrust it into my chest, shoving me backwards through the still open doorway. My heel caught and I sprawled on to my behind, sending jolts of pain through my back. He followed me, raising his cane above his head, and I curled away from him, covering my face. But the blow never landed.

‘Leave him, Nick,’ I heard her say. ‘He was trying to help. Let’s just go.’

By the time I had got to my feet and climbed the steps again, they’d disappeared. The only creature in sight was a monkey, crouching in the centre of the street with its tail held high, scooping puddle water into its mouth.