The Whitechapel Girl Read online

  Her fear of her father had driven her to become guileful over the years. As she grew older she had become increasingly adept at knowing the moment when she could slip away from the operating theatre at the top of the house and, with a little luck, he might ignore her and choose instead to go to his club with his friends for an evening’s drinking and gambling. And, if Piquet or Faro didn’t tempt him, and he had decided to stay at home for the evening after all, then occasionally she would dare to stir a little something from his laboratory shelves into his whisky. She couldn’t do it too often or he would suspect, but when she did, it was bliss: a whole evening of peace, time to herself without fear.

  The whole household knew about it – what he did to her – of course. Servants had a way of knowing everything that went on, but they never attempted to help her. They were too scared of losing their positions with such a fine gentleman. And, as she no longer had a mother, she had to help herself. So she had done her best to make a haven for herself, a little world of her own, a place where she could escape. On those evenings when she dared use a sleeping draught on her father she would wait and then, as soon as he was safely asleep, she would slip away to his library and read. She read anything which could help her make believe that her world was not the sickening place she really knew it to be, anything that could help her deny the vile reality of her life. Books had thus become her one comfort in that hideous place that was her home, the place which should have been her real sanctuary. Those nights when she could sit alone, undisturbed, and read, were almost the only moments of her young life to which she looked forward. And tonight was just such a night.

  There he was, slumped like a street drunk in his armchair, his head lolling, his drugged breath coming rasping and sour from his mouth. If only the usually immaculate Bartholomew Tressing could see himself, he would be as revolted as she was by the sight of him.

  Celia stood up carefully from her seat opposite his, waiting to see if he would stir. When he did not, she moved quietly from the room, first ensuring that Smithson was not lurking in the hall, and then closed the door painstakingly slowly behind her. Then she made her way as silently across the hall towards the library as her swishing silk skirts allowed.

  Once in the refuge of the library, her well-practised routine continued. She would take the work of fiction from the shelf beside the novel she had most recently finished reading, then settle into an armchair by the fireside, close to the lamp she had set on the small side-table to illuminate her reading, and lose herself in the world of the printed page. This made for some strangely eclectic reading, but it was what she preferred to do.

  Before developing this habit she had been far more selective, and had deliberately chosen her reading matter, favouring the literature from the particular anti-vice league of which her father was such a well-publicised and eminent member. In reading the society’s material she had found a way to help her picture the lives of the women who eventually found their way to her father’s dissecting room. She also found a strange comfort, or at least some measure of reassurance, in the content of its pamphlets and journals: seeing the descriptions of the conditions in which the women and girls of the slums were forced to live made her feel guilty and rather ashamed about her own discontent. It made her own situation seem insignificant in comparison, she had reasoned to herself.

  But even that pathetic crumb of comfort had been spoiled for her when she had read one particular article by the Reverend W. Arthur in an old copy of The Sentinel. In it, the author had stressed that ‘In all countries the purity of the family must be the surest strength of a nation.’ What could she make of such ideas, when she lived an existence of such base horrors with her father? How could a family such as hers be of any value to the nation? But, as always, she had found a way to compromise her own thoughts, a way to carry on. She did so by deciding that the Reverend Arthur must, of course, know far more than she, and that she must learn to accept her lot. But really it was too enormous for her to continue contemplating – it was all so confusing. So she chose instead to ignore the league’s tracts and had begun her systematic working along the shelves which held the novels her mother had so lovingly collected. There was nothing to harm her in those. Or so she thought.

  Tonight, Celia entered the book-lined room and stood there in the doorway savouring the isolation, breathing in the fragrance of the leather-covered tomes.

  She was currently engrossed in the line of books on the topmost shelves – the works of Sir Walter Scott, whose romantic adventures were becoming a favourite of hers. She pushed the library steps along, letting them glide into place, and then climbed up to reach the volume she wanted. Reaching for the green leather-bound copy of The Antiquary, she smiled with anticipation at the thought of becoming immersed once more in its noble portrayal of simple labouring people. But, as she climbed down, some sheets of paper fluttered from between the gold-edged leaves down on to the polished wooden floor below. Celia stepped down, held her skirts to one side, and stooped to retrieve the papers from under the library table where they had settled.

  She had to lie on the floor and reach out full stretch to collect the last elusive sheet. Satisfied that she had found them all, she brushed down her skirt and then spread the papers out on the table to inspect the mystery.

  Celia let out an almost inaudible whimper of distress. There in front of her, in full, hand-painted colour, were pictorial depictions of those things her father whispered to her when he forced himself upon her.

  She grabbed the depraved things – those appalling illustrations of her nightmares – from the table and rushed to the fire. She would destroy them, burn them until nothing but cinders were left. She raised her arm, ready to consign them to the flames. But something made her stop. What would her father do to her if he could not find them? What new punishment might he inflict upon her?

  Coldly, she stacked the papers into a neat pile and reinserted them between the now defiled pages of the novel. How could such things exist in her beloved library? Her haven was no more.

  She climbed the library steps and replaced the book alongside its companions. She would never take it down again, she determined, but what could take its place? Would anything ever be able to help her escape from the nightmare that was her existence here in this house with her father? And how could she cope with the hypocrisy which allowed such depictions of degradation to exist alongside his pamphlets from the anti-vice society? Her mind swirled with confusion. Somehow, being there on paper, in front her, made those things that he did to her take on a reality that she had always tried to deny, that she had tried to separate from the normal world of young ladies of her age and class: the world of taking tea, choosing dresses, and meeting friends and beaux. In seeing those depictions she now knew that it was the so-called normality of the sun-filled daytime world that was, for her, the lie.

  Celia stood quite still, deep in thought, her only movement the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest as she took rapid, shallow breaths. She remained like that for some minutes. Then, quite suddenly, she walked purposefully towards the place where the pamphlets were kept and ran her fingers along the shelves. She knew exactly what she wanted to find, and what she would do once she had found it.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I’m going to tell Billy before he finds out for himself,’ said May, standing up from the stone step with a decisive gesture which belied the butterflies racing around in her stomach. ‘Might as well get it over with, eh?’

  She raised her eyebrows to signal that she wanted at least her brother’s support, if not his approval for the foolhardy action she was about to make, but Alfie didn’t answer. What with Maisie’s garbled account of the night’s events and how tired he felt, he wasn’t really sure what was going on, and the last thing he fancied was a fight with Billy. So he thought it best to just let her get on with it. His only contribution was to edge along the step out of her way so she could get past him and into the passage.

  Maisie went into th
e dark hallway and climbed warily up the bare, creaking wooden stairs. She crept past the half-open door of the room which doubled as the living room and her and her mother’s bedroom and gingerly turned the doorknob of the room in which her three brothers shared a bed. She poked her head inside and saw Tommy sprawled out across Billy, the single grey blanket in a screwed-up knot round their feet. Their breathing had the even sound of deep sleep but, with the paper-thin walls, she wasn’t taking any chances of waking Myrtle or any other occupant of the two-storey tenement. She touched Billy gently on the shoulder, making him moan irritably and flick at her as though she were just another bug out for a feed on his blood. The sound disturbed Tommy – that was all she needed, her little brother shouting the odds.

  ‘Ssshh, it’s all right, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘You go back to sleep, it’s only me.’

  Tommy rolled over, pulling the blanket with him and buried his head deep into the coverless bolster which served as the three brothers’ only pillow.

  ‘Billy,’ she hissed, her lips almost touching his ear. ‘Wake up. It’s me, May.’

  ‘Whad’yer want?’ he mumbled, failing in his sleepy attempt to get any of the blanket back from his snoring, open-mouthed little brother. ‘Leave me alone, can’t yer?’

  ‘Bill,’ Maisie insisted. ‘Will you wake up?’

  With a loud exhalation of breath, Billy dragged himself to wakefulness. Rubbing his eyes he propped himself up on his elbow. ‘What’s up,’ he said softly, glancing down at Tommy as he stirred luxuriously in the lion’s share of the bed.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news, Bill,’ Maisie said sheepishly.

  Now she had all Billy’s attention: ‘Aw yeah?’

  ‘It’s Ettie, she’s…’

  Before she had a chance to finish, Billy was sitting up and had her arm firmly in his grasp. ‘What’s happened to her?’ he demanded to know.

  ‘Nothing,’ May said, not very convincingly. ‘It’s just that, well…’ She paused, looking for the right way to tell him. ‘It’s just that Sarah’s lodger’s upset her again, and she’s…’ Maisie bit her lip, not knowing how to put it. Finally she said bluntly, ‘Well, yer see, she’s gone.’

  Billy was up out of bed and on his feet, not caring whether he woke up his little brother, the people across the landing, or even his mother Myrtle herself. Not needing or waiting for further explanation, he stepped into his trousers, had his braces over his shoulders, and was in the doorway before May could stop him.

  ‘Bill, don’t. Please. Don’t go after him. He’ll only hurt Sarah. He’ll take it out on her.’

  Billy turned and looked at his sister. ‘Why don’t you shut your mouth?’ he spat under his breath. ‘And keep yer interfering nose out of it.’ Then he was gone down the stairs.

  May looked down through the dingy glass of her brother’s bedroom window into the court below and saw Billy pushing past Alf.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on now?’ demanded her eldest brother as Billy shoved past him. ‘Good bleed’n night and all, I don’t think.’

  Maisie thrust the sash window up until she could get her head out. ‘Shut up, Alf,’ she hissed, ‘before yer wake the old lady up.’

  ‘And what do yer think’ll happen then?’ asked a sarcastic voice from behind May. ‘When the old lady wakes up?’

  Maisie turned round to see her mother standing in the doorway. With the sleeves of her nightgown rolled up to expose her strong forearms, and her fists tucked into her waist, she looked more than ready for battle.

  Maisie tried a smile, but there was no swaying Myrtle when she was in full flight.

  ‘Right,’ said Mrs Bury, elbowing Maisie out of the way and poking her head through the open window to see Alfie, her errant son, still sitting on the doorstep, a picture of innocence. ‘Up here, you. Now. I’m fascinated to know who’s gonna explain this little lot.’

  * * *

  Dawn still hadn’t quite broken and Jacob had to lean forward to find the keyhole.

  ‘When yer said yer’d put me up, yer never told me yer was living near Victoria Park,’ said Ettie, impressed. ‘I never thought I’d be staying in Bow.’

  ‘Ssshh! You’ll wake the neighbours,’ hissed Jacob. Then, ‘Damn!’ as he dropped the key on to the steps.

  ‘Yer’d think there’d be a light outside a nice place like this, wouldn’t yer?’ said Ettie, tilting back her head to take in the full splendour of the four-storey house.

  ‘Ssshh!’ he warned her again as he bent to retrieve the key. When he eventually managed to open the door he ushered Ettie inside. ‘Wait here just a moment,’ he whispered.

  Ettie stood inside the doorway and listened to the muffled sound of his shoes as he walked away from her along the carpeted hallway.

  ‘There.’ With a fizzing and popping, he had lit the gas. He flicked the spent match into the grate that was set ready with paper, kindling and logs. ‘You can see where you’re going now, Ettie. Come in.’ He closed the front door behind her and ushered her forward. ‘Welcome to my home.’

  Ettie walked warily along the corridor and into the high-ceilinged room and gazed around in wonder. The place was crammed with so many things, many of them casting fantastic shadows from the lamplight. It was all very orderly and neat, but everywhere her eyes rested there were books and strange objects, most of which she didn’t recognise, let alone know what they were called. Most wonderful of all, the entire floor was covered in rugs.

  ‘So how can yer afford to live here, then?’ she asked, looking closely at a mysterious wooden carving standing on a cloth-draped table, then, even before he had the chance to answer, turning her attention to a tall jar fashioned from vivid blue glass.

  ‘I only have the rooms on this floor,’ he said with a regretful smile, ‘not the whole house.’

  ‘Rooms? Yer mean yer’ve got more than one? Just for you?’

  ‘I have this one, which has to double as my dining and sitting room, a bedroom, and a kitchen, smallish but very convenient. Although Mrs Hawkins – a charming lady who comes in for a few hours a day to do for me – finds it rather cramped, I’m afraid.’ Ettie’s chin nearly touched her chest. ‘What bank did yer rob?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘I have a little money,’ he said, shrugging dismissively. ‘Enough for my immediate needs.’

  ‘Blimey,’ she said staring around her. Then she turned on her heel and frowned at him suspiciously. ‘If yer’ve got all this, how comes yer working the penny gaffs then?’

  ‘What’s so wrong with penny gaffs?’ he asked, sounding more curious than defensive.

  ‘Well, they’re common.’

  ‘No, Ettie, not common. The gaffs are a world of dreams. Treasure houses of fantasy.’

  ‘They’re sodding flea-pits!’ she countered.

  ‘They are an escape from the daily grind of drudgery and poverty. A haven. A palace of pleasures for the poor. What is so wrong with that?’ He smiled. ‘And anyway, you go to them, Ettie.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t got no choice, have I?’

  ‘In truth, Ettie, nor have I. For the time being, at least.’ Ettie narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out this puzzling man she had put her trust in.

  ‘I’ve not been in England for some time, so I need to build my reputation here. Gain recognition by preparing a new, exciting performance.’

  ‘Where yer been then?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, running his finger along one of the crammed bookshelves. ‘I have been to many places, Ettie. Paris was my last stop.’

  ‘You ain’t English, are yer?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I lived here once. For several years. I had a house; rather a nice house, in fact. Close to Hyde Park. Most of these things came from there. I left them in storage while I was on my travels.’

  ‘Hyde Park?’ Ettie was astounded. ‘Yer lived up West? Look, I know Bow ain’t as bad as Whitechapel – I don’t reckon nowhere’s as bad as Whitechapel – but whatever did yer come to the East End for? Blimey, I k
now if I had the chance I’d be bleed’n miles away.’

  ‘Well, we will have to see what we can do, won’t we?’

  ‘Eh?’

  His expression became intense as he walked towards her. ‘Ettie,’ he said, ‘if you work hard you can do anything. We can do anything. Live anywhere we like.’

  She held her breath. It was the closest he had been to her since they had entered his rooms.

  He hesitated for just a moment then turned towards the grate. ‘It may be nearly summer,’ he said, his back to her, ‘but the early morning air is still very brisk.’ He bent down and put a match to light the fire. Then, using a pair of brass tongs from an ornate companion set, he added several large nuggets of coal to the blaze.

  Ettie went and stood next to the kneeling man. ‘Blimey,’ she said, amazed yet again. ‘Yer really using all that wood and coal just for one fire? Yer should have seen us last winter. That would have done us for days. No, a week.’

  ‘I understand that for many Londoners it was a bad time.’

  The kindling wood began to blaze and crackle, sending dancing shadows round the walls and ceiling of the lamplit room.

  ‘Bad time?’ she repeated, stretching out her hands to catch the first rays of heat. ‘I should say so. Everyone was cold and hungry. Everyone. Well, everyone round our way was.’

  ‘I read that there was rioting in some parts.’

  ‘That was more up West, near where you used to live. Didn’t have nothing to do with that round our way. All I know is that some bastard thieved the banisters out of our stairwell. We didn’t even have them left to burn.’ Ettie sat down on her haunches by the fire, appreciating the blaze. ‘It wasn’t so bad when me little brother was around,’ she continued, screwing up her eyes in the bright gleam of the firelight. ‘He used to nick wood off the barges for us, see. I can’t do it, I’m too tall. They can spot me a mile off.’