Little Bones (23 page)

‘Sara Thomson, sir?’

‘She killed her husband,’ he said. ‘Last Thursday evening, the Lord gave her guidance and now not only has she confessed to her sin, she has also told the police where she placed all the pieces, and now the poor man can be buried in one casket.’

Jane’s stomach turned. She saw legs and feet. A hand. ‘I will read the Bible, sir,’ she told him, ‘and I will pray, as I have always prayed.’

The Reverend appeared happy enough with this, saying he would do what he could regarding the letters, though she had to understand, these letters would be read by an officer of Newgate, who would be looking for bribery, maliciousness, or any other kind of trouble that came with letter-writing.

‘I would like people to know where I am.’

Smiling, the Reverend shook his head. ‘If they take
a
London newspaper, they will know where you are,’ he said.

For some time after the vicar left, Jane felt increasingly uneasy. She could not stop thinking of the newspapers. What were they saying? Would people believe them? She usually believed them. She imagined Ivy and Arthur finding a newspaper in Kent, perhaps the sheets had been used as a wrapping, and as her mother unrolled the bottles of sauce, say, or the jars of piccalilli, she would faint dead away, seeing her own daughter’s name written bold as you like across it. And Agnes! Had her sister seen her name on all the billboards? What must they be thinking? Were they on their way to see her? ‘Oh dear God,’ she whispered, ‘I do hope you are on your way to Newgate.’

When the warden thrust a bowl of soup into her hands, Jane asked what the people outside were saying about her.

‘I’m a warden, not a messenger.’

Jane looked into her bowl. A few splinters of bone were floating on the surface of the greasy broth. ‘Do they hate me?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know about hate,’ the woman laughed, ‘but you certainly are a curious monstrosity.’

‘What we need,’ said Mr Henshaw, ‘and need most urgently, are names – witnesses, in other words.’

‘Like Edie and Alice?’

‘Edie and Alice who?’

‘The maids who worked for the Swifts.’

Mr Henshaw looked at his papers. ‘Edith Frost and
Alice
Benson?’ he said. ‘The police have interviewed both at length and are satisfied they know nothing of the doctor’s medical work.’

‘But they do, sir, I know it.’

Mr Henshaw scribbled something down, saying he would certainly make a note of her misgivings, though she must realise that it might be 1900, but the police in general still believed what they wanted to believe. ‘Deaf ears,’ he said, scratching his forehead with his pencil. ‘That’s what it comes down to I’m afraid.’

Exasperated, Jane told him all about Irene Silverwood, that she had now removed to Bristol, and after much deliberation, she told him about Nell. ‘The Silverwood woman cannot be found,’ he said. ‘The police think she has left the Bristol area altogether. As for Nelly Dawson, she has been questioned at length, and though she seems an innocent party, and nothing more than a housemaid, with no one to prove or disprove it, she will be called as a witness.’ He sighed. ‘What we really need,’ he said, ‘are the girls themselves. The girls who came to take the tincture.’

Jane had a very good memory. She could picture most of those pitiful girls. She could see their unwashed hair falling lankly over their shoulders. Their bruised eyes. Their pale nervous hands. And though she could recall many of their Christian names, that’s as far as it went.

‘But of course there was Julia Lincoln,’ she said, her heart beating faster. ‘She must be important to the case?’

‘The woman also known as Brown?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Cannot be found.’

‘But her family are well known.’

‘Well known they might be, but their name isn’t Lincoln. And as for Brown – do you know how many people in the world answer to that dull-coloured name?’

Closing her eyes, Jane remembered Miss Bell. Her friend Miss Bell would speak for her. Jane’s mouth opened and then very quickly closed. She could not do it. She could not shame Miss Bell in front of all the world. ‘Why me?’ she said at last.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, packing up his papers. ‘Why you, indeed?’

‘Well, isn’t this supposed to be a case against the doctor, who isn’t even a doctor, but a sleight-of-hand magician? Didn’t he help Mr Treble regarding poor Miss Lincoln’s trouble? Wasn’t Irene Silverwood running the establishment? Wasn’t I only the maid?’

Mr Henshaw stood very still. ‘According to the sergeant,’ he said, ‘Dr Swift is not only a medical doctor, and he has seen his certificates to prove it, but he is also a gentleman. Whatever happens in court, and whatever you or I say about him, if we can’t find a girl to speak for you, or some undeniable evidence, then he will step from the witness stand smelling of attar of roses. We have our work cut out. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Then what’s the point?’ said Jane. ‘Really? I don’t know any girl. I don’t know a reliable witness. What is the point of a trial?’

‘The law of course. The law says you must have a hearing,’ he told her, heading for the door. ‘And though
you
say you are guilty, it is up to the judge to express his own decision. To impose a suitable sentence.’

‘Will I hang? Will I be in this gaol for ever?’

‘It is early days, Miss Stretch. I will work on your behalf. Anyway,’ he told her, knocking for a warden, ‘I am both an optimist and a Catholic, so I do believe in miracles.’

THE DOOR OPENED
and Miss Linley appeared with a pot of ink, a pen, a sheaf of papers and envelopes. ‘All yours for drawing pictures,’ she grinned. ‘And did the governor tell you? At Newgate we do a very good line in frames.’

*

To Ned. Boy With Preacher’s Sandwich Board,

The Cock Hotel,

Covent Garden

Dear Ned,

I hope the medicine has worked and you are feeling better. I like to think of you outside the Cock with the board, cursing its weight and the weather. I hope your preacher is still on the booze and is paying you the shilling.

Perhaps you have heard what has happened to me? The doctor was not a doctor after all. There has been a lot of trouble. Whatever they write in
the
papers, please don’t believe it. I am still your friend Jane.

Prison is a lonely place though it is crammed with people, and women have their screaming children at their sides. What a miserable place for a nursery! I only see the wardens, a vicar, and a legal man called Henshaw who is going to speak for me in court. I am terrified. If you are feeling better and the thought of prison does not have you shaking in your boots, you could visit me. I would like to see if you are better. I would like a friend to talk to. We are still friends aren’t we? I will keep my fingers crossed.

Keep well, Ned. Look after yourself. You must wear the warmest clothes when winter comes because that’s how these illnesses start. They find a way through the cold in your bones.

Please come and see me if you can.

Your friend,

Jane

To Dr & Mrs Swift,

121 Gilder Terrace,

Covent Garden

Dear Dr and Mrs Swift,

I am writing to ask for your mercy. I know that deep down, the doctor is a good man. He would not like to see me suffering in gaol for the rest of my life, or swinging in the gallows. Could you not tell the sergeant the truth? Did you not always
say
that I was not a nurse, but a servant? I think the constable wrote it down. I was carrying out my duties. I did what I was told.

Mrs Swift, I would like you to know that I always saw you as something more than my employer. I have never known such kindness. You felt like a family. I have no idea where Ma and Pa are. Kent perhaps, but they might have moved on. My sister Agnes has vanished. If you do hear from them, I beg you to please let me know. It will be a shock to them all. They might not be the best people in the world, and though my mother’s uncle once went to prison for stealing a bag of old horseshoes, they are not used to having criminals in the family. How my mother will weep.

Your once loyal servant,

Jane Stretch

To the Apothecary,

Floral Street,

Covent Garden

Dear Sir,

You will remember me as the cripple girl who worked for Dr Swift. You gave my friend some medicine. I am sure that it helped. Thank you.

By now you will have read about me in the newspapers. I have been told their pages are full of awful details and sketches. I feel very ashamed.

Have you talked to the police about me? Have you told them that the tincture was ordered and
paid
for by (Dr) Swift? I only collected the bottles. Please tell Sergeant Morrell.

I wish I could visit your shop again. I would like to see those great glass jars and your coffee cup. I would like to hear your wife singing. I would order a very good potion. Something that would help me sleep all night.

Please think of me kindly, sir. And please tell the sergeant (Morrell, Bow Street), that I was only doing what I was told, and for the most part, I truly believed he was doing good, and acting like a doctor.

Sincerely,

Jane Stretch

To Agnes Stretch

London

Dear Agnes,

I do not have an address, and you will probably never read this letter. I had to write anyway. I could not leave you out. I hope that you are well and you are happy.

If you don’t know this already, your sister is a prisoner waiting for her trial. I am not a good person (I will explain all when I see you) but I am not a monster either. Think of me as you always think of me – your crooked Jane, the pest.

Do you remember when you were ill with a fever and had the most terrible dreams? You thought your hands were disappearing and a man
lived
under the stairs. You would wake shaking and crying. If Ma was home, she would let you into her bed, which was no great treat, what with the stinking bed-sheets, and her snoring, so you must have been desperate. Anyway, for a while I have been having bad dreams of my own. I have seen and heard ghosts. Small chattering children. Whisperings and visions.

If this letter ever reaches you, please come and visit me. Newgate is a terrible place but it has your sister in it.

I miss you.

Your dearest sister,

Jane

To Mr & Mrs Stretch,

Farmlands,

Kent.

Dear Ma and Pa,

If you do not already know it, I am in Newgate Prison having been accused of the most awful crimes. Please do not worry about me. Please do not believe all that you read. I am sorry. Prison is not such a bad place. They have not been cruel to me though I am always hungry and I think about food all the time. I like to think of the meal I will eat when I am free. I have chosen roast chicken, pork sausage, roasted potatoes, carrots, peas, gravy, peach cobbler and fresh Jersey cream.

I hope you are both happy in Kent breathing fresh air and looking after the cows. I have heard Kent is a beautiful place. (I once met a girl from Kent. She had a very pink complexion.)

Please send word and come to me.

From your loving daughter,

Jane

*

The warden brought Jane a letter.

The envelope had already been opened. Jane looked at the writing. It was childlike and sloping. The paper was very small and thin. When she looked closer, she could see the note had been written on the back of an old pawn ticket.

Deer Jane Stretch,

Ned is ded.

From Susannah

Jane could feel herself swaying and stumbled over her hem.

‘Bad news, is it?’ said the warden. ‘Would you like to see the vicar?’

*

She dreamt of Ned. He was dead in the dream and he knew that he was dead. ‘I’ll have to go back,’ he said, ‘later on.’

‘What’s it like?’ she asked.

‘Like here, only warmer.’

Walking by a theatre they saw the chalky-faced actresses in great velvet cloaks, standing in a huddle by the open stage door, smoking cigarettes and spouting lines from a death scene, swooning and gripping their collars.

‘They’ve got it all wrong,’ said Ned. ‘All that melodrama and wailing, you just don’t have the strength for it.’

The women’s groans and sudden hoots of laughter followed Jane and Ned down the lighted cobbled street. Jane kept touching Ned’s arm. ‘I can feel it,’ she said.

‘Of course you can feel it. It’s my bloomin’ coat sleeve, ain’t it?’

‘But if you’re dead?’

‘Coats can’t die,’ he told her.

On the river a ship was dropping anchor, the light was getting dimmer and the stars were coming out. The white sails gleamed like sheets of polished bone.

‘I was on a ship last night,’ said Ned. ‘I was looking for my pa.’

‘And did you find him?’

‘Find him? I went all the way to China,’ he said. ‘I saw five hundred and fifty-nine sailors, and not one Jack tar was my father.’

‘You must have missed him somehow.’

‘Perhaps he was in the Jolly Seaman on the Tottenham Court Road. Perhaps that’s his idea of the Navy.’

Watching the ship moving into the gloom, Jane told Ned not to give up hope on his father. The seas were very large. One day he would come knocking on his mother’s front door, smelling of rum, with a fresh blue
anchor
on his forearm. Ned closed his eyes. They looked like two dirty pennies.

‘I want to go back,’ he said.

Jane shivered. She did not want to be left looking at the river in the dark. ‘Walk me home?’ she asked him.

‘Don’t be daft. Just open your eyes,’ he told her. ‘You’re in your prison cell, sleeping.’

‘WE HAVE A
breakthrough,’ said Mr Henshaw, though his face revealed very little. ‘Swift has been arrested.’

Jane shot up. ‘No!’

Mr Henshaw, calmly saying nothing more for now, smiled and fussed with his matches. Then he took his time lighting his cigar.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Jane urged. ‘Please?’