The Butcher of Berner Street Page 7

  Mrs Gower continued to be perplexed about my non-attendance at church, but we generally got on well, having a common interest in watching birds. We’d become quite companionable the previous spring when a thrush had nested in a hedge in the yard. I had been recovering from my burns at the time and was glad to supervise the pale blue eggs on both of our behalf, sending her a celebratory message as soon as the chicks were hatched.

  She half bowed her head in my direction.

  ‘Mr Stanhope. I read your article about the awful events in Whitechapel. I hope they find the men responsible and hang them all. Gangs, I’m sure. Or drunkards.’

  ‘Or a woman. One of the wrestlers at the place was female.’

  Her face took on a strange expression, as though I’d spoken in some exotic tongue she couldn’t comprehend.

  ‘A woman would never kill a man that way,’ she declared eventually, as if explaining household budgeting to a dullard. ‘It’s far too showy. She would simply poison his dinner.’

  Mrs Gower’s outlook on such matters was informed by the books she read – Lady Audley’s Secret and the like – in which the only person a lady would dream of murdering was her husband.

  Outside, her horse and carriage were waiting. It was one of Alfie’s great joys, to leave on a Sunday morning with Constance and Mrs Gower and be driven to church. I imagined his arrival there, helping the women down and leading the way inside, perhaps shaking the vicar’s hand. For a second, I had the urge to go with them, just to see it. Alfie had been unhappy for most of the time I’d known him, until he met Mrs Gower. She was good for him. Unlike me, he needed a wife.

  But even if I’d truly wanted to, I couldn’t go to church. I had to go to Mincing Lane.

  The bells were ringing as I headed east; first the dull bong of St Anne’s in Soho and then the higher, sweeter note of Temple, and finally, drowning out all the rest in a rigmarole of chimes, St Paul’s Cathedral, which brooked no competitor for our ears or our souls.

  Although the weather was dry, it had rained overnight, and the puddles were soaking into my socks. I cursed the pawnbroker who’d promised me these shoes were watertight. I couldn’t buy new ones because any cobbler would notice how small my feet were, so I always got them second-hand and stuffed the ends with newspapers, now reduced to a sodden pulp and squelching with every step.

  Despite the day of the week, I knew the post office would be open. The mechanisms of industry did not pause in their ticking, not for God or anyone; bankers and merchants considered the acquisition of wealth to be the holiest of callings, and their success at it to be proof of God’s approval.

  From the outside, the building was pale and blank-faced, but inside it was quite different: stifling and raucous, containing as many as forty men gathered in a disorderly line, a gaggle of clerks and a telegraph machine that clattered and tapped like a troupe of dancers. Every few seconds, a messenger boy would rush in to be handed a telegram, and rush out again, reading the address as he ran.

  For a few minutes I stood behind a gentleman whom I believed to be the last in line, but turned out to be waiting for someone else, so several fellows who had come in after me were now ahead. This, combined with the wetness of my feet, the emptiness of my stomach and the weariness of my legs, put me into a foul mood.

  When I eventually reached the front desk, an elderly telegraph clerk in shirt sleeves held out his hand.

  ‘I’m not here to send a telegram,’ I explained. ‘I’m a reporter with the Daily Chronicle. I want to know who sent this one on Wednesday.’

  I produced the piece of card and he stared at it as if his mind was so fixed on the normal rhythm of his duties, he was incapable of understanding anything else.

  I thrust it closer to his nose. ‘It was sent at a quarter past twelve exactly and is addressed to me. Do you know who sent it?’

  After what seemed like an age, he shook his head. ‘There isn’t isn’t any way to tell.’

  Across the room, a boy was watching us. I glared at him, and he wandered outside, whistling.

  I turned back to the clerk. ‘Don’t you keep a record of some kind?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  The gentleman behind me, who was sporting a tweed coat and one of the highest top hats I had ever seen, tutted loudly.

  I leaned forward across the desk. ‘Listen,’ I said, loudly enough for the whole room to hear despite the racket of the machinery. ‘Do you see what the telegram says? It says that a man is dead by means of hanging. Did no one think such a thing worthy of note or enquiry? Are such announcements commonplace here?’

  He gave me the thinnest of smiles and spoke as if I was a simple-minded child who would never amount to anything.

  ‘What you don’t understand, young man, is that all the telegrams we receive here are of the highest importance. Thousands and even hundreds of thousands of guineas rest on our accuracy and discretion. My responsibility is to copy them out precisely. What they say is none of my concern.’

  He beckoned to the fellow behind me, palm upwards for his paper slip. I had already lost his attention.

  ‘Damn you.’

  I pushed my way outside.

  In my nostrils, I could smell ash. Somewhere across the city, a building was ablaze.

  Folks would be gathering to watch the fire brigade employ the steam engine, which would be making as much smoke as the conflagration itself. I put a finger to my cheek, where my skin had lost all sensitivity, as stiff as tanned leather, and imagined my flesh shrinking and cracking like over-grilled bacon.

  ‘Mister?’

  The boy who’d been staring was loitering next to me with his hands in his pockets as if we were two old friends deciding where to go for lunch. He had a narrow face, well-brushed hair, and his voice wasn’t yet broken.

  I found a farthing in my pocket and handed it to him, and would’ve been on my way, except he seemed to have something further he wished to tell me.

  ‘I’m a messenger boy,’ he declared.

  ‘You don’t have a uniform.’

  ‘They don’t have ’em the size to fit me, sir. I’m small for my age.’

  ‘I see.’

  My mind was already pondering on whether Rosie would be finished at church. Her shop was on my route, and I was keen to know whether she had any of yesterday’s pies left over.

  ‘I know who sent that ’gram,’ the boy said. ‘A quarter past twelve on Wednesday. I’ll tell you for the right price.’

  I was jolted back to the present. ‘Really? Who was it?’

  He gave me a terse little smile, not unlike the telegram clerk’s. ‘For the right price, I said.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Everyone calls me Runt.’

  ‘Children can be cruel.’

  He acknowledged the point with an inclination of his head. ‘Better small than dim-witted is the way I see it. I keep my eyes open and I’m here every day, rain or shine.’

  He was tidy enough and seemed well-fed, but that didn’t mean he was honest. He would most likely take my money and give me the name of the last person he delivered to, or one he’d made up. I didn’t want to waste my time searching for an address of someone perfectly innocent or who might not exist.

  ‘What did you see?’

  He took up a discursive posture, as if about to embark on a lengthy story, for which I didn’t have time. A number of gentlemen had tutted as they stepped around us and one had bumped me in the back of the leg with his briefcase, I was quite sure deliberately.

  ‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it, sir? It was the kind of thing that doesn’t happen every day, so I took note. I thought to meself: Runt, you should remember that, because—’

  ‘You call yourself Runt?’

  He shrugged. ‘Like I said, everyone does. And it’s a good thing I did take note because now I have the information and you require it. A shilling seems like a fair exchange.’

  ‘Sixpence.’ I extracted two threepences from my pocket and held them in front of his face. ‘Half now, and half afterwards, if what you say is credible.’

  I felt sorry for the lad and had no desire to torment him, but he could run off with my money as quick as blinking if he chose, and I could ill afford the loss.

  He pulled a face. ‘How do I know what you’ll credit and what you won’t? It don’t sound like a normal happening, which is why it stuck out. You might think it outlandish and refuse to pay, though it’s the God’s-honest truth.’

  ‘That’s a risk you’ll have to take.’

  He seemed on the prongs of indecision, but as I started to walk away, he hurried after me, matching each of my strides with two of his own.

  ‘All right, sir, I will accept your miserly offer in the spirit of goodwill, which I hope you’ll remember when it comes time to requite the balance. That is to say, pay up.’

  I handed him one of the coins, which he rubbed between his fingers. When he was satisfied it was made of metal and of the proper size, he put it into his pocket.

  ‘Here’s what I know, sir. It was on Wednesday last and I’d come back from Dunster Court where a gentleman was receiving the price per ton of something, though I know not what. He didn’t seem pleased and no tip was forthcoming.’

  ‘Is that relevant, R …’ I couldn’t bring myself to address him as Runt.

  ‘No, sir. I include the detail as a bit of garnish to my explanation, so you’ll understand why I was present at the spot. A quick job, you see. There and back in time to see a certain lady waiting to send her ’gram.’

  ‘A lady? You’re sure?’

  There hadn’t been one female in the room when I’d been in there; not among the customers, the clerks or the messengers.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, she was certainly a lady. Her attire was most distinctive. No mistaking that.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. He took my silence as a prompt to hold out his hand again.

  ‘It might be that I’ll remember more specifics when I’ve got the expectation of a square meal or two in the near future, sir. My memory works best when I know my hunger will shortly be assuaged.’

  My own hunger was starting to pinch. We were turning into Eastcheap, a road which would, after a mile and several name changes, go straight past Rosie’s shop.

  ‘First, explain to me why her attire was so distinctive. Was she dressed in an especially feminine way?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes, sir.’

  He pushed his hand further towards me, and with great reluctance I placed the other threepence into his palm.

  ‘Tell me everything you know about this person. There will be no more money.’

  He thrust the coin into his pocket and kept his hand in there also, as if concerned that I might attempt to steal the payment back from him.

  ‘As I say, I was present when she arrived. It was a quiet morning with more lads waiting to deliver ’grams than ’grams coming in, so many of us were stood in the street with our poor bellies rumbling and no chance of a tip. She went in, and I noticed her straight away, so distinctive was she.’

  ‘Please get to the point.’

  Normally, his verbosity would have amused me, but I didn’t have time.

  He breathed in deeply. ‘She was a nun, sir.’

  ‘A nun? Like in a convent?’

  This seemed ridiculous. Surely nuns didn’t visit city post offices in the middle of the day.

  He nodded. ‘Exactly so, sir. Wearing the full attire of nunhood, which is why the moment made such an impression upon me. We don’t get many nuns here, sir. In fact, I surmise she may have been the first.’

  I wasn’t sure whether to believe him, and yet there was something about his tale that made me think it was genuine. If he’d been lying, he would have said it was a tall man in a flat cap called … whatever name popped into his head. William Gladstone, probably, or General Gordon. But a nun? That was sufficiently ridiculous to have the ring of truth.

  ‘What was her name and address?’

  His earnest expression faltered. ‘That’s not information I possess, sir. I mean, she didn’t give it. Surely what I’ve told you is worth what you paid, and perhaps a tip in addition? I have a sister who’d like to eat also.’

  ‘Did you see what she looked like?’

  He took a step away from me, looking rightwards at the lanes leading north.

  ‘Like a nun, sir, more or less. She was a distance away and they all look much the same, which I suspect is their intention.’

  ‘And how do you know she sent this particular telegram and not some other one that happened to go simultaneously?’

  He took another step sideways.

  ‘It’s possible, sir, but it’d be a coincidence, don’t you agree? For her to be so unusual and for you to be searching for a person at precisely that moment.’

  I stopped and faced him. ‘Perhaps, but—’

  Quick as a rat, he was gone, diving between two carts and over the road, no doubt circling back through the alleyways to the post office.

  I walked on, unsure what to believe. Could a nun truly have sent me a telegram about a murder?

  St Paul’s was thundering for one o’clock when I reached Rosie’s pie shop. Her door was opened by her female employee.

  ‘Hello Alice,’ I greeted her, feeling a small burst of pride at having remembered. ‘Is Rosie here?’

  ‘We’re eating lunch,’ she declared, narrowing her eyes, ‘though I daresay that’s why you’ve arrived at this hour.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  I was drinking in the warm aroma emerging from the shop, which was a combination of fruit, meat, spices and pastry so intense that any greater proximity to the source might overwhelm a person and reduce him to gibbering.

  Alice appeared to share that opinion and was disinclined to let me take the risk.

  ‘Very well then,’ she said, and went to close the door.

  I put my hand on it. ‘I just want to speak to her for a minute.’

  Alice sniffed and stepped aside. ‘You’re here more often than her late husband ever was.’

  I could hear voices coming from the back.

  The counter was empty and spotless, and the racks, where pies the size of a boxer’s fist were displayed every other day of the week, were covered with tea towels.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Rosie, and her face appeared round the door. ‘Leo! Come and join us. Mutton stew and dumplings. There’s enough.’

  The family was crammed around a tiny folding table, the two youngest children sharing a single chair, and all were holding their plate in their hands except for Rosie’s eldest, Robbie, who was attempting to balance his plate on one knee while reading a book. Rosie shooed him to get an extra setting for me, and indicated I should take the poor lad’s seat, but I shook my head and remained standing.

  I could barely contain my appetite. For one accustomed to meals cooked by Constance – whose stews and pies were almost indistinguishable – it was heavenly.

  Before we could start, Albert, Alice’s jovial husband, bowed his head, and we all followed suit. Everyone but me crossed themselves in the Catholic manner.

  ‘Bless us, O Lord,’ he said. ‘And also bless these, Thy gifts, that we’re about to receive from Thy bounty. Though soon to be parted, we are always grateful. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.’

  He crossed himself again, and we could start on the food.

  ‘What do you mean, “soon to be parted”?’ I asked.

  Rosie took Alice’s hand. ‘They’re going to go and live with their son and daughter-in-law in Hastings for the summer. We’re going to miss them terribly.’

  Alice turned to me. ‘We want some sea air, what with Albert’s health, though it pains me to leave Mrs Flowers to the mercy of goodness knows what.’

  Rosie let go of her hand. ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’ She smiled in my direction. ‘Where have you been this morning, Leo? Have you made any progress regarding poor Mr Drake? Tell us everything you’ve discovered.’

  ‘All right.’ I put my plate on the table. I had only consumed one mouthful so far and the anticipation of the rest was agony. ‘I visited the post office where the telegram was sent and spoke to a messenger boy who was able to tell me the kind of person who sent it.’

  ‘Well that’s good,’ she said. ‘And what kind of person was he?’

  ‘Not he, but she. A woman sent the telegram warning me of the murder.’ I eyed my steaming plate and resolved to make my explanation as brief as possible. ‘A nun, in fact.’

  Rosie’s expression hardened. ‘A nun?’

  ‘In full habit, apparently. I paid the boy sixpence for the information, but I’m certain he was being truthful.’

  A look was exchanged between the other adults, the meaning of which escaped me.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ said Rosie firmly. ‘Nuns live in prayer and quiet contemplation. They don’t go out into London streets and they certainly don’t send telegrams.’

  ‘Well, this one did. I intend to enquire at the local convents. Someone must know who she is.’

  Rosie shook her head firmly. ‘Any woman can put on a habit, Leo. It doesn’t mean she’s a real nun, does it?’

  I waved away her objection, which seemed to me to make no sense at all. ‘Why would anyone do that? It would draw unnecessary attention.’

  Rosie shoved her plate on the table next to mine and sat back, her arms folded. ‘You already know she sent a telegram to announce a murder, so she clearly craves attention. And that’s even assuming the boy’s telling the truth. More likely he’s spun you a fine yarn and you’ve believed him.’

  Everyone had stopped eating now. Alice was giving me a look that would have curdled water.

  ‘Perhaps, but isn’t it more likely she was a real nun? It would be the duty of a godly woman to inform someone if she was aware of a crime.’

  ‘But that’s not what happened, is it Leo? Whoever she was, she didn’t tell the police or a priest, she told you, a newspaper reporter. And if you remember, your previous belief was that whoever sent the telegram was complicit, perhaps even the killer. You can’t accuse a nun of that.’