Birdcage Walk (29 page)

By the time Milly turned into Aberdeen Park, the wind was getting up. She thought about George, left behind in his bare cell. One of the panes in the barred window had been cracked; there would be a terrible draught coming through it now.

Before going up to the house, she went over to the small green in the centre of the street’s loop and let herself into the diminutive churchyard by the gate there. The church itself was deserted at this hour but she found herself tiptoeing as she approached the red-brick building. She didn’t go to church herself now she had left home, secretly believing it to be a lot of nonsense, especially all that evangelical bible-thumping they did in Islington at the new church there. At least here, at St. Saviour’s, the congregation had a bit of dignity. It had been built for the Catholics, Catholicism being much more proper in Milly’s view. She thought that if you were going to go in for all that, then church ought to be about being meek and respectful. She liked a bit of ornamentation too; a bit of gilt and fancy work to look at when the sermon went on too long.

She let herself in, surprised that the door wasn’t locked. Perhaps there was an evening service later. She wasn’t sure why what had made her come in, she had never bothered before, but as she took in the surroundings she was glad she had. It was always peaceful on Aberdeen Park. The road’s entrance, giving off the appearance of a private estate, did not encourage strangers to leave the main road to explore it, though there was nothing to stop them. Many people who thought they knew Highbury’s streets inside-out had never discovered it at all. Inside the church, however, Milly found a different degree of stillness. Even the sound of her breath echoed off the cool flagstones and the intricate tiles on the walls.

She sat down in a pew near the back and bowed her head. The last of the afternoon’s light filtered down through the stained glass windows to colour her in shades of gold and green.

Her eyes closed and the weight off her feet, she thought back to the station and the interview with Chief Inspector Pearn. The room had been stifling, but he hadn’t opened the window. She was no fool but he really was a clever one, Pearn, that was for certain. He had seemed to know so much about it all: her name for one thing. She still thought it was curious that George hadn’t thought to mention that to her. She supposed he’d forgotten and yet she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been tricked, though in no way she could put her finger on. Surely there was nothing she’d told Pearn he didn’t already know. A man like him knew everything, saw everything, he would know all there was to know about poor George Woolfe. But even as she reassured herself, her stomach remained clenched with apprehension.

Clasping her hands together, she muttered a short prayer, feeling like a charlatan as she did. She wished she could stay for longer—she could think clearly in the cool space—but Clemmie would be getting worried, not to mention Mrs. Drew.

Sure enough, Clemmie had been hovering around the hallway for some time, behaviour that had further exasperated Mrs. Drew and ultimately led to her early retirement upstairs with a headache. Milly found herself accosted before she had closed the heavy front door, the whining of the wind shut off as she did.

“Here you are at last! I thought I would go mad waiting for you to return. It’s nearly dark and I couldn’t think where you’d got to. I was beginning to worry that you’d been imprisoned yourself.” The words spilled out of her in a deluge.

Milly frowned at her and beckoned Clemmie to follow her to the back of the house.

“Now, miss, you must calm yourself. If you don’t, then I just don’t think it’s wise that I tell you anything. The state you’re getting yourself in before I’ve even taken off my coat, I don’t know.”

Clemmie clenched her jaw with impatience but was quiet, allowing Milly to check that cook was busily employed and Mrs. Drew safely out the way.

“First of all, I did see him.” Clemmie gasped with excitement at this, but then stifled it when she saw Milly’s black look.

“He’s not looking too bad. I’ve seen worse to come out of a night or two in a cell. Like you thought, he swears he didn’t do it, didn’t hurt her, but I must say it’s not looking good for him. If I was the judge I’d think it was probably him.”

“Milly, how can you say it?”

“I’m just telling you what I think, miss, I didn’t say you’d like it. As it stands, he’s in a good deal of trouble. He never should have run off when he did. Anyone would think that was a sure sign of his guilt.” She stopped at looked down at her hands.

“Go on, what else did he say?”

“He said it was a great comfort to hear that you’d never believed he could do it.”

“I’m glad, but there’s something else. Tell me, Milly.”

Milly took a deep breath, her face still but her work roughened hands trembling.

“When I come out from seeing George, there was this man there. Tall, he was, with a nice coat on. Didn’t like his face though. It was handsome enough but there was cruelty in it.” She looked over at Clemmie, who stood enthralled, her dark eyes like saucers in her small face.

“He overheard that I’d said I was George’s sister but he had already met George’s sister, he said.”

“Oh no,” said Clemmie, her hand clapped over her mouth.

“He took me off to this room, like an oven it was, and asked me all these questions. I was frightened of him, miss, but he said I might be able to help George if I told the truth. I didn’t think that was likely, by the look of him I couldn’t imagine him helping anyone, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

She looked down sheepishly.

“I thought he was going to lock me away if I didn’t tell the truth. And the heat from the fire in there was making my head spin.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I don’t think I said anything he didn’t know about George but I did have to say where I worked. He’d got it into his head that I was his sweetheart, said he’d heard my name from George earlier today, and that confused me. I didn’t want him thinking I was involved. I’ve heard of girls who persuade their man to get rid of their intended and I couldn’t have him thinking I was one of them. I had to give the address though, he said I must.”

She hung her head but Clemmie covered the maid’s hands with her own. When she spoke she sounded suddenly older.

“It’s not your fault, Milly. You were right to tell the truth. It’s always better that way and we don’t have anything to hide here, do we? The police can speak to me if they wish and I’ll tell them what a good person George is and not a . . . not a violent sort of man at all. Listen, Milly, I have sent a note to my Uncle Charles. He will know what to do.”

A carriage pulled up sharply outside no.9 Aberdeen Place and a sprightly old man got out and tipped the driver.

“Thank you, Mr. Booth,” he said from his high seat, taking the coin and doffing his hat. Snapping the whip with a flick of his wrist, the carriage moved off again, the clopping of the horses’ hooves echoing around the quiet street.

Booth looked up and spotted his goddaughter at an upstairs window, gazing down at him with an anxious look that wasn’t like her.

“Now what on earth can this be all about?” he muttered to himself as he climbed the steps and rang the bell.

When Milly opened the door and bobbed deferentially without a word he grew even more perplexed. The little maid was generally ill-mannered towards him and he always rather looked forward to her cheek. Before he got his hat and coat off, Clemmie was upon him, clasping his hands between her own.

“Oh, Uncle Charles, I am so glad to see you.”

“My dear Clemency, you have an old man quite confounded. What is all this cloak and dagger business about? Your letter read like a ransom note.”

“Is that Mr. Booth, come for a visit?” Mrs. Drew could be heard getting to her feet. “What a wonderful surprise!”

She bustled into view, pinching her cheeks as she did. She didn’t notice Clemmie’s pleading look aimed at Booth. He paused only a moment.

“Good morning, my dear Mrs. Drew. You look in rude health, if I may say so. I hope you don’t mind my calling by, admittedly entirely uninvited.”

He looked at Clemmie as he said this, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. She smiled back gratefully.

“Of course we don’t mind. It’s always an honour. But will you excuse me, Mr. Booth? I must see that Milly fetches us some elevenses. We are only a little early for it. Clemmie, take our guest through to the drawing room. I see that he has already put a smile back on your face. For that alone, Mr. Booth, you are more than welcome here.”

Clemmie led Booth to the sofa and sat close to him, taking his hands once again.

“Now what is this all about, my dear?” he asked. “You don’t seem at all yourself.”

“Please don’t tell mama what I’m going to tell you. Do you promise?”

Booth frowned slightly though he patted her hand for reassurance.

“I don’t think I can promise any such thing. Why don’t you tell me what’s worrying you so much. You said in your letter it was a matter of life or death. I only got it last night when I returned home from my club or I would have come sooner.”

Clemmie knew her mother would be back very shortly; she had no choice but to tell him. She would worry about him telling her mother later.

“Do you remember George Woolfe, uncle?”

“The birdcage boy? Of course, though I had forgotten his name. A face I never forget but names will often elude me. I spoke to him briefly outside when I arrived for the party on Christmas Eve though I didn’t see him after that, now that I think of it. What of him?”

“Have you not read the newspapers these last few days?”

“Only the
Times
, my dear, and even that very fleetingly. I have been writing up my notes for the final volumes of
Life and Labour
these last few days and I get so absorbed in it that I have to be reminded to eat my dinner or go to bed. Calling in at the club yesterday was an idea of my dear wife’s. I think she wanted me out of the study so the maid could tidy it.”

Clemmie almost interrupted him, knowing her mother would be back, but just managed to stay her tongue. She would have to go directly to the heart of the matter.

“George has been arrested for murder.”

Booth blanched and sat back in his seat.

“Murder? It’s not possible.”

“Did you not hear about the girl who was killed on Tottenham Marshes?”

“On Christmas morning, wasn’t it? I heard the newsboys hollering about it. Dreadful thing. But, I can’t believe this—they think George Woolfe is responsible?”

“She was his . . . sweetheart, his intended. He never mentioned her but it said in the paper that they had been courting for months.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, my dear. What do they have on him?”

Clemmie looked confused, her eyes darting from his to the hall where she expected her mother to appear any moment.

“I mean, on what grounds have they arrested him other than the fact of their courtship?”

“Oh, it’s a terrible mess,” Clemmie buried her face in her hands. “I just know he can’t have done it but he must have been frightened the police would think it was him so he ran away. He joined the army under a false name. His poor sister had to identify him at the barracks. He’s been kept at Stoke Newington police station since Sunday.”

Booth handed her a clean handkerchief and sighed deeply.

“Clemmie, his running away rather points to his guilt, don’t you think so?”

“It wasn’t George,” she said stubbornly. “He wouldn’t have hurt her. He isn’t like that. Think back to when you met him. He’s a gentle sort of person, isn’t it? Not rough at all. I knew he hadn’t done it but then Milly went to see him and he confirmed it. We must do something to help him. He has no one to defend him but us. They won’t even let his father visit him.”

Booth’s brow furrowed as he tried to absorb all that Clemmie was saying.

“Milly went to see him? But why?”

“I persuaded her to. I couldn’t bear to do nothing any longer. I was waiting for the newspaper to arrive each day, unable to sleep, but entirely impotent. I thought that George would just give up all hope unless he got word that his friends didn’t believe he could do such an unspeakable thing. I thought that if I could get word to him, through Milly, then it would give him strength. So that he wouldn’t sign a false confession.” She handed him the newspaper story.

If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Booth thought he might have laughed. Clemmie was in such earnest; he wondered if she had been reading too many crime novellas, what with her talk of confessions forced out by desperate policemen. And yet, he couldn’t connect the memory he had of George Woolfe with any sordid murder. If there was something he had learnt from his research, it was that nothing could be lightly assumed about the city’s mass of impoverished. To say that all but the oldest and most infirm were part of the undeserving poor; that sufficient hard work was enough to lift any man out of the mire was a gross injustice.

He had once dismissed reports that so many of London’s inhabitants were truly needy. He was a Conservative and had despised those that would wring their hands over the city’s poor while they continued to enjoy their own inherited privileges. But when he had embarked on his walks around some of London’s most blighted parishes he had come to agree with those do-gooders, as he had always called them, though he hoped he avoided the worst of their condescension. Those thousands who worked hand to mouth had no source of appeal when they were in trouble with the law. George was now one of their number.

Mrs. Drew hurried in then and sank gratefully into her chair.

“Mr. Booth, I do hope my daughter isn’t bothering you with her whispering.”

She smiled benevolently at the pair of them, but she was irritated by Clemency’s odd behaviour. She’d been huddled talking sotto voce to the maid only the previous day. At first she had been glad to see Clemmie had shaken off some of the torpor that had stricken her since Christmas but Mrs. Drew wasn’t sure she preferred the nervous excitement that had mysteriously replaced it.

Milly came in then, her cap only just visible above the loaded tray she carried. Mrs. Drew felt a little brighter at its arrival and stood to fuss around the maid while she poured tea into the best cups.

“Mr.Booth, will you take a piece of our lemon gingerbread? It’s very good. I must say I’ve grown rather partial to it. It warms up the blood on these chilly mornings.”

“I am very tempted, madam, but the man who makes my suits will thank me if I choose the seed cake instead. Just a small slice please, Milly.” Booth winked at Clemmie who, despite her seriousness, half smiled.

They ate in silence for a time, Milly hovering near the fireplace straightening ornaments so that she didn’t miss any of the conversation. Eventually Booth cleared his throat and set down his cup with a tinkle of brittle china. Mrs. Drew looked at him expectantly and Milly stopped her tinkering. Clemmie looked down at her slippers and clasped her knees so hard that her knuckles turned white.

“Mrs. Drew, I felt I must pay a visit when I saw the news. I apologise again for calling in unannounced but I felt that time was of the essence.”

Mrs. Drew leant forward in her seat, forgetting about her last shard of gingerbread.

“I never read the papers, Mr. Booth. I find them far too disturbing. There are so many scoundrels abroad—as you might very well know from your perambulations around the city with the police.”

Booth sighed very quietly.

“I think it very wise of you not to read the more sensationalist press. You would think from reading them that a person could scarcely go about their business without feeling a blade in their ribs.”

Mrs. Drew’s plump hands fluttered near her mouth and her eyes widened.

“My point, madam, which I must get to, is that a great deal of progress has been made in the last half century. Not at any point have I felt especially fearful for my safety, even walking around the worst—the most infamous—streets of St. Giles or Whitechapel. You must remember that at one time these streets were so lawless that not even the most foolhardy policeman would venture down them. Thankfully, that time has passed.”

“Sir, you surely do not claim that there are no criminals left in London?”

“Of course not. There are streets, marked in black on the poverty maps I have devised, that harbour many criminals, some of them vicious. The criminal element can never be entirely eradicated. But while those streets are hardly less poor than they always were, I believe they are somewhat safer.”

Booth became aware that Clemmie was looking intently at him, one of her little slippers drumming with impatience on the floor.

“Listen to me discussing my work once again. I will drift from subject to subject, and I apologise. Mrs. Drew, I asked you whether you had seen the papers. The reason I enquire is that there is bad news concerning a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

Mrs. Drew, who had picked up her gingerbread again, let it fall to the plate with a clatter.

“Oh dear! Tell me quick, Mr. Booth, or I shall faint.”

“Madam, you must remain calm or I will not risk telling you.”

Mrs. Drew became very still, her flush fading.

“I am quite well, please continue.”

“You remember George Woolfe?”

She nodded, eyes narrowing with disapproval as she glanced over at her daughter, whose eyes remained downcast.

“There is no delicate way of saying this. He has been arrested for the murder of a girl called Charlotte Cheeseman. She was a girl he had been courting for some time. Their families believed they would be married soon.”

“She was the girl who came to see father about George, mama,” Clemmie added softly.

Mrs. Drew sat stunned, fanning herself with her napkin. Eventually she spoke.

“I can’t comprehend it. A girl that was here is now dead, and George her killer? It’s impossible. Oh, and that poor baby, murdered too.”

“There was no pregnancy,” said Booth gently, after a pause and with a look over at Clemmie. “The papers are very quick to report it when there is. That must have been an invention of Miss Cheeseman’s.”

“Well, I suppose that is something. So . . . he hadn’t thrown her over because she was with child, after all. She lied about it to my husband for what reason, then? Does he say he is innocent?”

Milly spoke up then and Mrs. Drew remained too shocked to think her impertinent.

“He swears he never touched her, ma’am, and I believe him. He said he was with her that evening and they quarrelled but she was fine when he left her.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“I made her go,” Clemmie spoke out clearly.

“You? Dear me, this is too much to take in.”

“Mrs. Drew,” said Booth, “this is a shock to all of us. However, as we sit in this elegant room eating our elevenses, Mr. Woolfe is locked up for a murder he claims he didn’t commit. He has not been allowed to see his family since his arrest; that Milly got in to see him for a few minutes was sheer luck. Until I have spoken to him myself I do not know what I believe, but I do think he deserves that much.

“The murder happened in the early hours of Christmas morning, on Tottenham Marshes. Due to the timing of it, and the grisly injuries inflicted on the poor girl, the press were clamouring for an arrest. Now they’ve made one, they want a trial and no doubt a hanging shortly afterwards. Remember, George has no recourse to any influence or money. I would like to make sure that justice is served, that is all.”

Clemmie looked anxiously at her mother, gauging her reaction. She thought for some time but when she spoke again she seemed newly determined.

“I do believe you’re right, Mr. Booth. I was so disappointed when George let us down but if that poor girl lied about being with child then it puts quite a different complexion on George’s conduct in our house. We must certainly give him the benefit of the doubt, mustn’t we? What can we do?”

Clemmie rushed over to kiss her mother and almost upset her teacup in her rush.

“Is this why you have been so secretive, my dear? I thought you must be plotting against me in some way.”

“I think the most sensible course of action is for me to go straight to the police station and see if I can’t get in to see him,” said Booth. “The Stoke Newington station is not far from here and I know a few of the constables there, thanks to my tours. One of them was very amenable, name of Mason—I looked up my notes this morning or I never would have remembered. By a strange coincidence it was he who brought me to this street in the same week we also toured Stoke Newington. Of course I didn’t tell him I knew it quite well already.”

“Will you go now?” asked Clemmie.