Arthur Micklewhite picked up the newspaper to be greeted with a headline announcing that the Queen had given birth to a daughter, Princess Beatrice. He glanced at the date on the top of the paper, 14 April 1857, and worked the numbers in his head. Queen Victoria was thirty-eight years old and still bearing children.
He grunted as his mind took him to Dolly Daydream. Where was she now? Slamming the paper down on the kitchen table he was angry that his step-daughter had run away. That young’un would have kept his bed warm for a long time to come. She could have cooked, cleaned and maintained the house as her mother had previously.
Arthur looked around at the dirty dishes piled up in the old brownstone sink, the crumbs on the floor and the pile of washing by the back door. It was no use, either he undertook these tasks for himself or he had to find a woman to do it for him.
Wondering how he could find the money to pay a cleaner/washerwoman, Arthur ambled outside to the privy. On his return to the kitchen he searched the cupboard for something to eat. Nothing. It was empty, barring a few breadcrumbs and a fly. Batting away the pesky insect, Arthur dropped onto the chair feeling completely miserable.
He was hungry, but with no money, his cupboard would remain bare. It was time to go and find a few wealthy folk and relieve their pockets of their wallets. Maybe a trip to the market where unsuspecting housewives might leave their purses unattended in their baskets.
Pulling up his braces, Arthur then shoved his feet into his boots. Grabbing his jacket from the nail hammered into the back door he slung it over one shoulder and left the house. Number twenty-seven was at the end of Rea Terrace and quite a way from the market hall but it was a sunny day and Arthur walked with a spring in his step; the prospect of having a meal that day lightening his mood.
The Macassar oil on his centrally parted hair had kept it in place despite his having slept, so he had no need of a comb. Too lazy to sharpen his cut-throat razor on the leather strop, Arthur was out and about with a day’s growth of whiskers. His shirt was none too clean but the waistcoat covered most of the grime. Worsted trousers would soon prove too warm in the clement weather as he strode forth towards the market.
Arthur Micklewhite had weasel-like features and eyes so dark they appeared to be black, giving him a sinister look. As he proceeded further into the town, he thought about the life he’d led when wed to Avril Perkins.
Scouring the newspaper columns of the deceased, he had spotted the notification announcing the funerary arrangements of a prominent manufacturer who lived in the wealthier area of Great Charles Street. Mrs Perkins, the widow, would be an excellent candidate to take care of him he had surmised, which had proven to be the case.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he recalled attending the interment posing as one of her dead husband’s business acquaintances. Over time he inveigled his way into her affections and, after a suitable period of mourning, had begun to court her. He had been especially kind to Avril’s crippled daughter, Dolly, which had only added to his kudos as a prospective husband.
Eventually they had married. Before long, he’d sold on her late husband’s business. Arthur never had any intention of working a day in that cardboard factory. It hadn’t taken him long to spend the money from the sale and even before Avril’s passing, he was on the lookout for another wealthy widow.
As for Dolly Daydream, she would have been no use to him other than as a housekeeper and occasional bed warmer. Her withered leg would have prevented her from working, and she would have just been another mouth to feed. So, all in all, he felt he was probably better off without her.
A frown replaced the smile as Arthur considered again how dire his circumstances were becoming. He had to find a woman with money – and soon. He could not afford to rely on the newspaper, he must now go in search of someone who would lift him from his impecunious state and restore him to being a sybarite. The question now was – how to go about it?
The lifestyle afforded him when he had acquired money had suited him admirably. The seemingly endless stream of parties, soirées and balls; the mixing with the higher echelon of society was dizzyingly addictive, and Arthur missed it now it was gone.
Folk were fickle; if you were monied, you were admired and welcomed. But once your wealth disappeared then so did your so-called friends. Now Arthur Micklewhite was alone and penniless, a situation he needed to remedy as soon as possible.
The market hall which had opened in 1835 and the wonderful big Town Hall were things Birmingham could brag about and frequently did. The town was now producing 50 per cent of the world’s manufactured goods and would, in the future, be known as the city of a thousand trades. It boasted botanical gardens, gas street lighting and a wonderful new railway station. Five years ago, St Chad’s had been raised to Cathedral status by Pope Pius IX, and in 1853, Birmingham Mint had been contracted to produce the first pound sterling coins. Although it was set in the heart of the Black Country, and constantly covered in a layer of smoky grime from chimneys and factories, the people were fiercely proud of their town.
Arthur passed the baker’s horse with its bread panniers and the smell of warm fresh baked goods made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. A little further on, a blind beggar rattled a few coins in a pannikin, the clink of metal on metal ringing loudly. Stopping, Arthur dipped his fingers in the cup and took out a threepenny bit before moving swiftly on; the beggar’s ‘thankee guvnor’ making him grin.
Wheelbarrows full of fruit and vegetables were being pushed between stalls, annoying crowds of women intent on finding a bargain. All around, vendors called out the prices of their wares, adding to the cacophony of noise. There was an excitement about the place as people pushed and shoved their way down the narrow aisles between the stalls. Here you could usually buy anything you needed, but if not, there was always a man who could get it for you.
Arthur slipped on his jacket and began to weave his way through the throng of people, his eyes finding an escape route in the event he was detected. It was very busy so he thought his best option would be to mingle in with the crowd. Should he be lucky enough to pick a wallet or purse, he would empty it quickly before dropping it on the floor.
Spotting a likely victim, Arthur stepped closer to the woman with a basket on her arm. Her purse was in full view and within reach but as he stretched to retrieve it the woman snatched it away. She gave Arthur a glare which could burn a man to a crisp. He muttered an apology as he leaned forward to examine a pair of second-hand boots on the stall. With a sniff, the woman paid for her item and pushed her way through the closely packed people. Arthur began to sweat – that was a close thing. Continuing on, he was determined to be more careful. He wanted to eat today – but not inside a gaol!
Micklewhite’s jaunt into the market was successful and now back at home he congratulated himself on a job well done. He decided to steer clear of that particular place for a while as the bobbies would be out searching for the culprit once the thefts were reported.
Buying food on the way home, Arthur’s larder was now fully stocked and sitting with a plate of bread and cheese and a hot cup of tea, he reflected on his life.
After running away from the orphanage at the age of twelve, he had lived on the streets and fallen in with a bad lot. They had taught him how to lie, cheat and steal and this had then become his trade.
Arthur had never worked a day in his life and with a smile he determined he would not start now. Early on he had learned how to target lonely women who were only too happy to buy him clothes and gifts in exchange for his companionship. He would escort them to balls and the theatre at their expense and he became accustomed to living the high life. Arthur gained a reputation as a perfect gentleman, and on odd occasions – an ardent lover.
He used to scan the newspapers every day and select wealthy women very recently in mourning. Attending the funerals, he would introduce himself as a colleague of the deceased. Thereafter he would go calling on the widow to assure himself of her wellbeing. The rest would fall into place with gifts and money following swiftly on.
Then he’d met Avril Perkins and had married her in order to get his greedy hands on her money. Avril was not so ready to part with her coin as the others he had courted and so a wedding appeared to be the only lucrative outcome.
Leaning back in his chair, Arthur rolled himself a cigarette and smiled. Avril was dead, Dolly had run off and the house and all its contents belonged to him. A little pelf every so often would keep him going whilst he sought out a future target or two.
An avaricious man, it was not Arthur’s intention to remain low on funds for long. His acquisitive nature would ensure his rise to the upper middle class once more. He had been quite a rakehell in his time; he was proud of it and was determined to be one again very soon. For now, however, he was content to continue to relieve others of their hard-earned coffers.