Birdcage Walk (24 page)

When George got off the train at Kingston upon Thames, it was as though he’d entered a new day. There was no sign that it had rained here at all, the roads dry and the clouds above moving fast and freely, exposing flashes of blue and casting strange shadows on the ground. The air smelt cleaner here and though he supposed he was still in London’s environs, it felt to him like the countryside.

It wouldn’t be for long, though. As he wandered through the unfamiliar streets, wondering if he dared ask directions to his destination, there was evidence everywhere of building; the march of suburban development. New houses, from terraces no grander than Avebury Street’s to villas clad in sugar-white stucco, were at every stage of construction. They looked naked to George as they went up; there was something almost shameful about the open foundations and exposed roof joists, the dead holes where windows would one day be. He stopped to linger outside one half-built house, not so different in size and elegance from the Highbury house. To George’s troubled eyes it looked as though it was being dismantled and destroyed rather than built. He half expected to see torn wallpaper and ragged carpet where the upstairs facade was missing.

“You want something?”

One of the builders had approached him without his noticing it. He jumped at the intrusion into his confused thoughts and the builder, a stocky man with ruddy cheeks, looked even more suspicious. George turned his face back into its irreproachable mask.

“I was admiring your work, it’ll be grand when it’s finished.”

The builder’s face softened and he turned to look at the house with George.

“Yes, and there’ll be another five of these down this road before we’re done. Of course, places like this are not for the likes of us, are they?”

He laughed and George smiled stiffly with him.

“Local, are you?”

The builder had turned back to look at him.

“Not really. I’m from north of the river. I think I must be lost, really. Do you know where the barracks are?”

He gulped as he said it but didn’t think the thickset man noticed; his gaze had returned to his handiwork. When George got the directions, repeating them back before he was allowed to go, he set off at a good pace, concerned that the man’s eyes were on him as he went. Once he’d safely rounded the corner, his trepidation once again slowed him but, still, the route he’d been given was direct and he reached the forbidding entrance to the barracks in what seemed like no time at all. It looked more like a small fortress to George, or perhaps a prison. He found himself shuddering.

A young man about his own height, perhaps an inch taller, was similarly engaged, staring up at the thick walls and apparently in no hurry to pass through the doors. Becoming suddenly aware of someone behind him he turned to grin amiably at George. He gestured at the barracks and laughed.

“Think I’ve changed my mind, what do you reckon?”

George was disarmed by the fellow, his easy manner reminding him of Alf, and he smiled back carefully.

“My name’s Monger, Henry Monger,’ continued the stranger. ‘I come all the way from Islington. Feels like another world down here, don’t it? Not sure I’ve ever crossed the river before.”

A jolt of fear passed through George and he wondered if his face betrayed it. He couldn’t escape it, even down here in Surrey. Islington: just south of Highbury and north-west of Hoxton. He forced a smile; he only had to tell this stranger what he chose to tell.

“It’s a small world, then. I’m from Hoxton. Name’s Slater.”

The word felt alien on his tongue, but in a welcome way.

Monger vigorously shook his hand, apparently glad to find someone from home. He hadn’t notice George’s momentary panic.

“Pleased to meet you. If we live so close then perhaps we can go on pass together. Makes sense, don’t it?”

George smiled sadly, unsure when he would ever return home.

“Here,” said Monger suddenly, jolting George out of his thoughts. “What’s happened to your face?”

George put his hands up to his cheeks and looked down at the ground, his mind blank. Eventually Monger spoke again, his smile still open and unsuspicious.

“Come on then, Slater,” he said. “We should stop putting it off and go in. They’ll be expecting us.”

George nodded and then walked briskly towards the thick oak doors, wondering if he would feel a perverse sense of relief as they clanged shut behind him.

The large room where George and his fellow new recruits slept was draughty and cold, the regulation blankets thin but rigid, so that the material didn’t cleave to or warm the body. As he had feared, the images of Charlotte flooded back into his mind as soon as he closed his eyes. They came in a disjointed flurry and made his head spin like he had taken too much drink. He decided to keep his eyes open instead, staying awake by following the cracks in the plaster ceiling until they fluttered down of their own accord, close to dawn, taking him to the dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

With the comfort of routine quickly established, George’s first few days as a private in the Surrey Battalion passed swiftly enough, though he was plagued by attacks of guilt when he thought of home and his unexplained disappearance. The nights were even less easy to stomach. He had swapped the proximity of his family for nineteen other privates, some of whom snored while one individual chattered on in the dark to invisible companions. George didn’t think he had ever talked in his sleep—surely Cissy would have teased him about it if he had—but the concept of it sowed a seed of fear that, in his anguish over Charlotte, he might catch the habit, and in doing so reveal his flight from the police.

Though he said as little as possible to his fellow soldiers, terrified he would give too much away or even break down, George had managed to stay in with Henry Monger, who himself had found it easy to make many new friends but had kept with the quiet George nonetheless. He proved to be the ideal companion, happy to lead the conversation just as Alf Jones had, but with none of Alf’s well-meant questions.

On the Thursday of their first week in Kingston, both men were given the opportunity to take a day off. Monger suggested they travelled together into London to visit their respective homes in Islington and Hoxton. In his heart, George didn’t think he ought to risk it but when the question was put to him by Monger so innocently over breakfast, he found himself unable to resist. Surely there was no harm in him going to London; he would decide when they reached Waterloo whether he would continue north-east to risk a visit to Wiltshire Row. Besides, he told himself, it would look suspicious if he didn’t take up the leave at all.

When Monger had finished both his breakfast and George’s, whose appetite had not yet recovered, they set off. The day was bright and George wondered if it augured well for the visit. The wind was sharp but George found it didn’t penetrate the thick, densely-woven serge of his new uniform too much.

At Waterloo, George felt suddenly anxious among the crowds of people, their faces too numerous to seek out and discard as strangers. Monger wanted to buy a paper but caught sight of George’s face as he said so.

“What’s up with you, Slater? You’ve gone even paler than usual.” He laughed and strode over to the stand, handing over the money and starting to read as he stood there. So familiar was the scene to George that he felt a rushing in his head that made him sway on his feet. Eventually, Monger ambled back over to where he stood and they went to catch a bus. As they walked, the cheap, brittle paper of the
News of the World
rustled tauntingly under Monger’s arm and George thought about snatching it and running across the busy concourse to find somewhere quiet, where he could read it alone.

Perhaps Monger sensed something because once they were installed on a bus that would take them on a meandering route towards the Angel in Islington, he tossed the paper onto George’s lap.

“Go on, have a read. So you know what’s going in the real world in case anyone asks.”

George forced himself to read the front page first. His eyes scanned the words without comprehending their meaning, though they seemed familiar when he read them again. When he thought sufficient time had elapsed he turned the page over, his eyes hungrily searching out certain words though his heart dreaded finding them.

It was a small item, the interest in the story having apparently diminished in a mere handful of days. Or perhaps it was due to the lack of progress in the case, with no arrests and no leads on the disappearance of the chief suspect. None of this occurred to George until later, when he had time to reread the snippet in his mind’s eye. For the present, the only sentence he truly absorbed was the one containing her name. So it was true. Charlotte was dead. He had known it before he had seen the policemen and he had known it afterwards. Now, all doubt finally extinguished, he couldn’t honestly say he felt altered by the knowledge. He stared at the fine black and white print and realised that before now he had only ever seen those two words written in his cramped hand or her rounded, childish one.

He allowed himself another minute staring at the same page before he gently closed the paper. He passed it over the narrow gangway of the bus to Monger, who had gone to sleep. His face was slack, his brow smooth of worry, and George thought he had never envied anyone so much. The city passed as a blur, the bustle of the Strand and grand uniformity of Aldwych giving way to leafy squares and then, finally, the crooked streets close to Farringdon. He shook Monger awake.

“We’re nearly at the Angel. I think I’ll walk from there rather than wait for another bus.”

Monger looked blearily up at him.

“Righto, Slater. Shall I meet you later, to travel back together, or will you make your own way?”

“I think I’ll be alright on my own.” George managed a twisted sort of smile. “See you back in the barracks tonight.”

He watched Monger saunter off down the street, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the glances his uniform earned him. As George stood there watching his friend disappear gradually out of sight, a bus drew up. Its destination was Highbury Barn, just a minute or so’s walk from Aberdeen Place.

For the good it would do George, the house may as well have ceased to exist on Christmas Eve. More accurately, he had thought of it—when he had allowed himself to think of it at all—as being suspended in time; the party forever whirling on. Now, unaware of the people pushing irritably past him, he thought he suddenly understood the truth of it. Life had continued there just as it always had, with hardly a pause for breath when he went out of it. His absence would signify no more than a tall, tapering Christmas tree candle blowing out as a door slammed. Although he had always dimly worried that he wouldn’t amount to much, the absolute fact of it had never been so precisely brought home to him as now, standing alone at Angel’s congested junction.

Clemmie sat in the drawing room, unable to get comfortable on the slippery, overstuffed chair.

“Stop fidgeting, my love,” said her mother, without looking up from her embroidery. “Why don’t you go and practice your piece again?”

Clemmie sighed and flexed her fingers, the slender bones stiff.

“I practiced for two hours yesterday.”

Her tone, unusually sharp, made her mother put down her silks.

“What is it? You’ve been out of sorts for days now.”

“You know very well what is it, mother. It’s George. I hate the way he had to leave the party, like he was a criminal. I know what he did was . . . “ Her voice tailed off.

“What he did to that girl was unspeakable. Taking advantage and promising marriage. Women’s lives are ruined by men such as he every day.”

Mrs. Drew took off her half-moon spectacles and massaged her temples wearily.

“I am generally such a good judge of character. I can’t believe he pulled the wool over my eyes but he seemed such a sweet boy. I was wrong, though—we were all deceived by our Mr. Woolfe. Now, Clemency, you really must put him out of your head.”

Clemmie stood up, too frustrated to sit still any longer. She drifted out to the hallway and picked up the newspaper from the low table there. Her father had gone back to his ship the day after Boxing Day, and no one else bothered to read it but him. She stood on one foot as her eyes skittered distractedly across the page. Nothing on the front page caught her interest and so she turned over the page, careful not to get ink on her fingers. Before the page had even settled her eye had snagged on the name, as if it was as familiar as her own.

Nearly losing her balance in her hurry, she stumbled back into the drawing room. Her mother looked at her over her glasses with astonishment.

“My dear, you are not yourself today. What is it now?”

“Mother, what was the name of the girl who came to see father about George?”

There was no doubt in her mind but she had to hear it spoken aloud. Her mother took an agonising time to answer, rearranging herself in her seat and carefully securing the needle in the sampler she was working.

“It was an unusual name, I seem to remember. Cheesing? Cheeseman. That was it, though I must admit I don’t remember the Christian name. I believe it also began with C, though. But Clemency, I really must insist that you not dwell on this dreadful business a moment longer. It’s evidently not good for your constitution.”

Clemmie had paled and now gripped the doorway she stood in for support. Mrs. Drew got up and called for Milly. Clemmie allowed herself to be led up the stairs by the maid, who was a head smaller than her but far stronger. Mrs. Drew stayed at the bottom of the stairs, her face both concerned and perplexed.

When Milly softly closed Clemmie’s bedroom door behind them and went to pull back the eiderdown, Clemmie grabbed her arm.

“What is it, miss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Lie down there now and I’ll bring you some sweet tea. Or would a nip of brandy be better?”

Clemmie lay down obediently and allowed Milly to slip off her shoes before she spoke again.

“Milly, have you seen the paper today?”

The little maid looked suspicious at the urgency of Clemmie’s tone.

“Now when do I have time to sit down and read the paper?”

She fussed around the bed, smoothing the coverlet down and going over to the window to pull the heavy drapes across, shutting out the hard, bright winter light. Clemmie lay still, her eyes unfocused and glassy on the ceiling above her as her mind whirred over the words she had read. Milly came to stand next to the bed, her sharp features concerned.

“What is it, Miss Clemmie? You can tell me. I’ve not seen you like this before.”

Clemmie turned to her, still ashen-faced.

“Do you remember that girl who came to see father about George?”

“Her? Course I do. Bit of a madam, that one. I know I wasn’t sure about George at first but I can’t help thinking it’s the man who’s the victim when you’re with a flighty bit like her.”

“She’s dead.”

Milly’s eyes widened and two dark spots of colour appeared in her cheeks.

“Dead? What do you mean? She can’t be, she was only here the other day.”

“I saw it in the paper. She was murdered on Tottenham Marshes, they’ve only just identified her. They say she was killed late on Christmas Eve.”

Milly sat heavily in the little nursing chair by the bed, shaking her head.

“Good God, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Sorry for swearing, miss, but I can hardly believe it. Have they got him yet?”

Clemmie sat up with a jolt.

“Have they got who yet?”

“Whoever done it to her, of course. He should swing for it, whoever he is.”

“That’s just it. Milly, they think it’s George. They’re looking for George. He’s gone missing.”