A deadly deception, p.19
A Deadly Deception, page 19
Still latched onto him, I see him ignore the main entrance and walk down the side of the building. Next he’s along a narrow alley, heading toward the morgue, and, to my surprise, he goes beyond the door marked MORTUARY. He carries on a bit farther before turning left into a small courtyard. He stops in front of a ramshackle wooden shed, then glances round. I flatten myself against the wall for a second and watch him bring out a key from his pocket and unlock the door.
Sam Doyle is leading me a merry dance, and there’s no lie. All round the houses he’s taken me, ending up at this rickety lean-to. I wonder what’s inside. Of course, I could leave it to Thaddeus to find out, but then again . . .
I skirt round the side. The shed’s base is built of brick, but it’s wood from the knee height up. Looking to the roof, I spy a window high in the planking. There’s a water barrel under the guttering and a ledge halfway up, where a window’s been boarded. I decide to take a chance. Hitching up my skirts, I heave myself onto the barrel’s rim; then clutching the window ledge, I raise myself up on my toes to peer inside. The pane is broken, but putting my eye to it, I see a space below, lit by the soft glow of a single oil lamp.
Squinting into the gloom, I reckon it’s a sort of storeroom. There’s crates and barrels stacked up against the walls, and standing in the center are two figures; one is Sam Doyle and the other . . . It’s not quite dark and, for a fleeting second, I can see in the lamplight the face of the woman he’s talking to. I blink the sight away, then look again.
“It’s true,” I mouth. A storm suddenly rises in my head, raging round my mind. A wind buffets my brain, lightning forks before my eyes. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing, and yet I’ve thought for so long that she’s still alive. Standing close to Doyle, her frame slight and her hair in a high bun, is Mary Jane Kelly.
The shock makes my body shudder and causes me to lose my footing for a moment. Forgetting I am perched on a thin ledge, I step back and slip, but my hands fly up and I clutch hold of the window frame. For a moment I freeze; then my breath returns in short pants and I clamber down quickly. The ground rarely felt so good under my feet as I try to still my pounding heart.
What to do? I ask myself. Miss Tindall, I silently mutter. Miss Tindall, are you there? But there’s no answer in the twilight. I’m alone with a terrible secret that I want to share with the world. But I have to still my tongue. Questions flutter about my head like moths. What is Mary Jane doing there? Is Sam Doyle her captor, holding her against her will? Did he fake her murder? If that’s so, was it Patricia’s body in Miller’s Court?
For a moment I stand in stunned silence. Only a rat stirs and scuttles across my boots. Followed by another. Rats are the only company I keep as I cower against the wall in the gloom trying to decide what I should do. What would Miss Tindall do?
I stay for as long as I dare, before the darkness makes my fear too much to bear. It’s hard to think straight when you’re in the coils of a snake that’s sucking the breath out of you. I need to be—what’s the word?—logical, like Miss Tindall, all calm and reasoned. After a while I can feel my heart slow and suddenly see a way out of my panic. I’m thinking that Sam might return to his lodgings for the night. So I wait. And I wait . . . until, just as the shadows disappear and darkness cloaks the alley, I hear a handle twist. A figure steps out. It’s him, all right. I catch the key click in the lock once more. Mary Jane’s locked in. That Fenian traitor is holding her against her will. She’s his prisoner.
Waiting a few moments until I’m sure the American has gone, I scramble back up on top of the water barrel and look through the window again. The glow from the oil lamp allows me to see that Mary Jane’s back is now against the wall. She’s huddled on a mattress on the floor—only, she’s not alone. I gasp with joy as I spy Timmy, too. She’s cradling him in her arms and singing in her low, sweet voice. I can barely contain my joy. This is the scene that Miss Tindall showed me in St. Jude’s and I almost doubted her. It’s hard to stem my tears of relief, but I know I have to control my emotions.
Taking a deep breath, I tap on the window frame. I see Mary Jane start below, then crane her neck up toward the jagged glass.
“Mary Jane!” I call softly through the hole in the pane. “It’s me. It’s Constance Piper.”
Her head jerks up. “Oh, God!” I hear her exclaim.
There’s a rustle in the murk and she stands. I clamber down, and a moment later, to my surprise, a key clatters in the lock and I see the door come ajar. She wasn’t locked in, after all. I’m confused. There she is in the doorway, Timmy at her skirts. For a second we just stand and stare at each other; then suddenly I feel her hand round my wrist as she grabs me and pulls me inside.
“It’s you. It’s you. I knew you were alive! I just knew it!” I cry, unable to contain myself.
I fling my arms around her. “I knew it was you,” I say again. I can’t stop my tears flowing as I hold her tight. She cries, too, and Timmy’s clutching at my skirts. For a moment it’s like my Christmases and birthdays have all been rolled into one, I’m so full of mirth. Then suddenly my merriment stops as soon as it started when Mary Jane pulls back from me. I realize the joy at her discovery is one-sided.
“What you doin’ here, Con?” she asks, her voice drawn so tight I think it might snap. “How did you find us?” Looking into her eyes, I see there’s fear in them. “No one knows you’re here? No one followed you?”
I shake my head. “No one,” I assure her. I can tell from her shaking hands that beneath her happiness at seeing me, there’s a greater terror.
“How did you find us?” she asks again.
I bend low and pick up Timmy, balancing him on my hip. “Sam Doyle,” I say.
“Sam?” she repeats.
“I followed him. He ain’t hurt you? Has he . . . ?” I look at Timmy, thinking it must have been Samuel Doyle who took him from school. I hold his little hand tight in mine. “Timmy’s not hurt?”
Mary Jane sings out a half laugh, the way she used to when I knew her in happier times. “No, he’s none the worse.” She reaches for her son and hugs him to her. “And I’m fine, too. Sam’s a good man. He’s helping us.”
“Helping you?” I repeat, ignoring her last question. “Helping you to do what?”
She shakes her head and lets out a deep sigh; so deep, it sounds as though it’s been pent up since last November. “I’ve got some explaining to do, ain’t I?” she admits.
“I’ll say you have.”
“Let’s sit,” says Mary Jane, perching on an old crate, Timmy at her feet. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
So she does, as best she can. She tells me how she met Sam Doyle through Joe and his Irish friends. “He were always kind to me. Different from the rest.” She smiles wanly and there’s a flicker in her eyes. It was Doyle who warned her that she was marked, because General Millen told her of the plot to blow up the Lord Mayor’s Parade, and how she needed to escape, for fear that her life was in danger.
“What did he say?” I’d asked.
“He said he knew Joe was worried I’d rumbled their plans for the bombing and that I’d grass to the coppers.” She takes another deep breath. “He said me and Timmy should get away—for good.”
I frown. “So the murder at Miller’s Court? The body? Whose was it? I don’t understand.”
Mary Jane shakes her head, and her eyes start to brim with tears. “That’s the thing,” she sobs. “That’s the most terrible thing.”
EMILY
Constance’s questions are forcing her to face the most shocking secret of all; so, gulping back her tears, Mary Jane Kelly decides to unburden herself. For the first time she will relate what exactly happened on the fateful night of the eighth of November, the eve of the Lord Mayor’s Parade, to Constance.
Twisting her apron in her hands, she begins: “I’d been fearful for a while—fearful because I knew Joe and his brothers wanted to plant a bomb at the parade, so I’d got to thinking. I went to Sam and told him about the plot a few days before and he said he already knew what Joe was up to, but that I wasn’t to worry because he’d see to it.”
“See to it?” queries Constance.
“He said he could make it safe.”
“How?”
“All I know is, he said he’d not let the bomb explode, and as soon as the parade was over, he’d help me and Timmy leave London.” She continues: “We had it all planned. That night I sang Timmy his favorite lullaby and he soon went off to sleep. That’s when Alice came to take him. She laid him in an old cart she’d borrowed, and pushed him back to her place, then I left to stay at Sam’s.” She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand.
Listening to her friend’s sorry tale, Constance has suddenly realized the truth. “So you’d no idea that your sister was in London looking for you,” she whispers.
Mary Jane’s face screws into a grimace. “If only I had. Sam told me later that she’d been searching for me.”
“So Patsy tracked you down and was waiting for you in Miller’s Court,” she mutters, horrified.
I can only shine a light on the thoughts that Constance already holds. Piecing together the information from Lady Kildane, and now from Mary Jane, she is now certain that the poor woman found dead was none other than Mary Jane’s sister, Patricia. The unfortunate Irish girl had already been in Whitechapel for three days, in search of her wayward sibling, but when Patricia finally found where Mary Jane was living, her sister had already fled in fear for her life. Patricia had merely let herself into the dwelling to await her sister’s return. Of course, she waited in vain, and the fiend who did visit that night butchered her beyond recognition.
“Oh, God,” wails Mary Jane. “Sometimes I wish I’d stayed. She didn’t deserve to die like that!”
Constance puts her arm around her. “And nor did you,” she comforts. “No one did. You mustn’t blame yourself. You’re the innocent victim in all of this.” She pauses for a moment before she asks the question that everyone wants answering: “Do you have any . . . ?”
“No,” comes the quick response. “All I know is it wasn’t Joe. He’d have realized it wasn’t me. He was a bully, yes, and a Fenian, but I know he wouldn’t have done that.”
Constance isn’t so sure, even though she knows that whoever killed Mary Jane’s sister wanted it laid at Jack the Ripper’s door. She recalls the vision I showed her at the end of her street and begins to doubt herself. Could it be that she was mistaken? In the gloomy street she was so sure she saw Joe Barnett raise the knife to kill Alice, but perhaps . . . After all, it was dark and she hadn’t managed to get a proper view. “So, who do you think then?”
Mary Jane shrugs. “A demon, and that’s for sure, but I’ve no idea who, and that’s the God’s honest truth, I swear.”
“So . . . after the body was found, Joe called the bombing off?” Constance tries to remain calm and collect her thoughts in a logical manner.
Mary Jane nods. “That’s right. Sam said Joe was as shocked as anyone at the murder.” Her voice is tinged with an odd sadness. “But Joe called the whole thing off because he was worried I’d grassed.”
“So the bomb was never planted?”
“ No.”
“But Joe believed it was you in Miller’s Court?” Constance asks.
Mary Jane shakes her head. “Only up until the time he had to see the body. That’s when he knew it weren’t me.”
“So he lied to the police?” Constance is shocked.
Mary Jane shrugs. “Patsy’s eyes were green. Mine are blue. He’d have known it wasn’t me, all right.”
“So he’s been looking for you all that time?” asks Constance.
“Yes. I did get away from London for a while.”
“But you came back because of Timmy and Sam.”
“That, I did,” she tells me, a weak smile suddenly spreading across her face. “And we’ll be gone real soon. When Sam’s got the money for our tickets, we’ll be out of here.”
Constance smiles back at her, only more out of sympathy than conviction. She fears what lies ahead for her friend and her son. As well she might.
CONSTANCE
I’m sucked into Mary Jane’s sorrow, and I can’t see any way out for her. She thinks I’ll keep things on the quiet, but I know I can’t. She needs more than a sympathetic ear. She and her son need protection.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I say, holding out my hand to her. She pauses for a second, then shakes her head.
“I’m not leaving,” she says softly, eyes to the ground. Then she looks up at me and sticks out her chin. “I’m not leaving without Sam.”
“But you can’t stay here,” I plead.
“It’s as safe as anywhere.” She dips her voice. “As long as you don’t betray us.”
A worm of guilt wriggles inside me. A chasm has opened up between us. Mary Jane stands on the other side. I need to reach out to her.
“You know we must tell the police.”
“No!” she cries with a shake of her head. She clamps her hands on Timmy’s shoulder. In the lamplight I see her eyes fill with tears. “This is our only chance. Don’t take it away from us, Con.” She reaches out her hand to me. “They’ll jail Sam. I beg of you, please. No police.”
I pause for a moment. What would Miss Tindall do? Timmy’s face is all screwed up and he’s starting to whimper. He’s clearly afraid.
“Think of him,” I say suddenly. “It’s not safe here.” My gaze falls on Timmy. “For his sake. Please.”
Just as I reach out toward the lad, she bends low and scoops him up into her arms; then, to my surprise, she bares her teeth and growls at me like a lioness. “You take him and I’ll kill myself. I swear.” Her eyes are suddenly on fire and I know she means her threat.
Her desperate tears force me to think on my feet. “I know someone who’ll help,” I tell her, thinking of Thaddeus. “He’s a friend and he’s kind. He’ll know what to do.”
Making toward the door, I’m about to reach for the handle, but she sidesteps in front of me, blocking my way. In the lamp’s glow I see desperation in her eyes.
“You understand they’ll kill me if you go to the police,” she cries.
I glare at her. “Who? Who’ll kill you, Mary Jane?” I press.
She draws in a ragged breath and pins me with a fearful stare. “The gents that failed the first time.”
I think my heart will break, but I can’t lie to her, so I lunge for the door. She lurches after me, grabbing at my sleeve, but I manage to unlock the door before she can get a proper hold and I slam it behind me just in time. I hear Timmy’s cries suddenly mix with her own sobs, but I’m certain I’m being cruel to be kind. I know it’s the only way to save them both. She’ll not follow me, and that’s for sure. I hear the key click in the lock behind me. I know it’s late, but the section house in Cloak Street will be my next port of call.
EMILY
Samuel Doyle arrived back at his room off Hanbury Street not ten minutes ago. He’s thrown down his jacket and shucked off his boots. By now, it is dark, although by the light of the streetlamp outside, he can see to pour himself a large whisky from a bottle he keeps at his bedside. He slugs it back in one as he sits perched on the edge of the bed, then bends double. Grabbing between the bedsprings and the mattress, he brings out a small metal box. Placing it on the covers, he opens it reverently. Inside, there are bank notes and a few coins. He reaches for a candle and lights it so that he can see to count his savings. Flicking through the notes, he tots up the cash. There’s almost enough. Almost.
Shutting the lid, he conceals the box under his mattress once more, then lies back on his bed. With his hands clasped under his long, wavy hair, he dares to imagine his future. He’s just drifted off to sleep, dreaming about Mary Jane, when he’s woken by the sound of a gun being cocked in his left ear. At first, he thinks his dream has turned into a nightmare, but when he clocks the familiar raw voice that he’s not heard for nigh on nine months, he realizes he is awake.
Blinking away the sleep, he knows he dare not move a muscle.
“How did you find me?” he asks, still prone on the bed.
Joseph Barnett gives a flat smile and blows through his nose. Doyle did not see him in the shadows, standing, arms crossed, in the alley opposite the shed. He’d been following Constance and had seen her loitering by the London Hospital. The secret is out.
“My brothers and me have your number,” he says, standing by the bed. “You know what we do with spies, with traitors. You’re in the pocket of the English, aren’t ya? Did they order you to kill my Mary Jane, too?” He jabs the barrel of the gun deeper into Doyle’s ear. “Only, you killed her sister instead, didn’t ya?” Suddenly his voice softens a little. “Met Patsy, I did. She came to stay with Mary Jane where she lodged a while back.” He shoves down the barrel once more. “It was Patsy all right. I knew it soon as I saw them eyes.”
“No!” yelps Doyle.
“And that’s why you went on the run. Ain’t it?” Barnett jabs again.
“No. No, you got it wrong.”
“Did they give you extra for the good job you did on Patsy, eh?” Barnett withdraws the gun from Doyle’s ear and thrusts it to his temple.
“It wasn’t like that. I swear.” Beads of sweat have broken out on the American’s forehead, but Barnett persists.
“My brothers are on their way to get Mary Jane now, and she’d better be alive. Timmy too.”
Doyle licks his dry lips. “She is. I wouldn’t hurt her.”
