Velvet (25 page)

Mrs Dyer’s eyes lit up and her gnarled, yellow-stained hand reached for the gin. ‘Good on you, girl,’ she said. ‘Yer sister is the kind of woman who understands an old lady’s needs.’ She pushed the bottle into the pocket of her apron. ‘See you in a few weeks, then,’ she said, then crossed herself piously. ‘God willin’.’

Velvet hesitated, then asked, ‘Could I see the babies’ accommodation?’

‘No, they’re all asleep.’ Mrs Dyer gestured up to a little window. ‘Wouldn’t want ’em woked up, would we?’

‘Then I wish you good morning,’ Velvet said.

She set off, but before she had reached the front of the house she heard – just as Madame had predicted – the sound of the bottle of gin being unscrewed, of someone taking a gulp of liquid and giving a grunt of satisfaction. Now all she had to do was wait.

Velvet passed what seemed like an interminable time walking around the back lanes of Reading, not enjoying being poor. She was too used to being Madame’s companion, to travelling in her pretty carriage, to wearing satin shoes and taffeta underskirts that swished as she walked, to take kindly to walking the streets wearing cheap shoes and raggedy gowns again.

She sat in a park and thought about George. When, oh
when
would he declare himself? What was holding him back? She sighed, closed her eyes and imagined him kissing her passionately, then getting down on one knee and telling her he loved her. Was that ever going to happen?

Thoughts of George led inexorably to thoughts of Charlie. It was surely more than a month since she’d seen him, so perhaps he’d finally realised that there was no future in their relationship. Either that or Lizzie had won him over. This notion, for some reason, made her feel breathless and anxious, so that she had to start walking and quickly think about something else.

Judging that near two hours had gone, she walked back to Mrs Dyer’s, passing the dogs in the garden, still fighting, to tiptoe to the rear of the cottage. If Madame was right (and she was usually right about such things), Mrs Dyer would be in a drunken sleep. If she was not, then Velvet had a question ready as an excuse for returning, and would have to think again about what to do next.

That Mrs Dyer was sound asleep, however, was immediately evident. Her pipe had dropped on to the ground, where it still smouldered, the gin bottle was empty and the lady herself was snoring loudly. Velvet slipped past her and went inside, where, once through the glass outhouse and into the kitchen, the stench hit her like a wall, so much so that she gagged and had to return to the outhouse to take in some fresher air.

Three deep breaths, then, trying to steady herself for what she might see, Velvet went back into the house, straight through the kitchen (which was full of newspapers, stinking clothes, old plates covered in flies, torn towels and rags, cups and bottles half-full of sour milk) and up the stairs. At the top were two rooms, one with its door open and one shut, and it was into the latter that Velvet went.

She opened the door slowly, her eyes closed, then peeped out through screwed-up lids, unwilling to take in the scene all at once. There was a tatty screen standing in front of the window to stop the light coming in, but her first view was of boxes lined up across the floor – rough wooden crates, such as vegetables came in at the market. Turning to take a breath outside the room, for the stench inside was even more appalling, she went right in and saw that each of the crates contained a comatose infant. None of them wore napkins and each was lying in its own mess on straw or newspaper, apart from one, the smallest, who was swaddled around so tightly that it looked like a little Russian doll. The infants looked to be of slightly different sizes and ages, for only some had hair, and – probably according to the length of time they had been with Mrs Dyer – some were in a worse condition than others, with gummed-up eyelids, cradle cap or bloodless lips.

Velvet, surveying this scene, pushed her nails into her palms and felt her body folding in on itself with horror and grief. Stealing a baby had seemed such a terribly wicked thing to do, but now she had seen these poor innocents, she wanted to take them all out of the hell they were living in. Which one to choose? Which to condemn to death? Oh, their poor, desperate mothers . . .

Hurriedly, Velvet looked the babies over. Madame’s only stipulation was that the child should be a girl, and there were four of these. The smallest, the wrapped baby, looked to be the pinkest and healthiest, so it was probably a new arrival, but Velvet could not spare the time to undo its wrappings and discover what sex it was in case Mrs Dyer woke up. She therefore picked up the girl nearest to her and quickly cleaned her as well as she could on a piece of newspaper. The child was as thin as a skinned rabbit, with legs held in a frog-like position and stick-thin, dangling arms.

Quickly opening her basket, Velvet lifted out a blanket, unfolded it and placed the little girl within it, then loosely rolled it around her and put the bundle on the cushion in the basket. The child did not move or murmur during these attentions, and Velvet, suddenly frightened that she might be dead, made herself open the blanket in order to watch the baby’s little chest rise and fall several times before she went on.

Going downstairs and finding Mrs Dyer in the same position as before, Velvet was filled with a fearful anger. She realised she need not have concerned herself about the ethics of stealing a baby, for Mrs Dyer would be only too pleased it was off her hands – it would save her the trouble of slowly starving it to death. Seeing the evil woman slumped there before her, lumpen, drunk and gross, Velvet felt she could have kicked the chair from under her, but knew that to do so wouldn’t have helped the poor infants upstairs. All at once it struck her that there were many degrees of evil in the world. She’d thought her father wicked, but his doings were nothing compared to the heinous crimes of this woman.

Upon arriving at Paddington station, Velvet decided to walk to Madame’s house, not wanting to take the basket on to a crowded omnibus in case it got bumped and caused the baby within to start crying. For this reason also she had travelled from Reading back to Paddington standing alone in the guard’s van, peering in at the baby every few moments and hoping and praying that, once Mrs Fortesque had taken possession of her, she might recover her health and strength. How dreadful it would be if she had chosen a child to replace Mrs Fortesque’s dead Claire, only to have that child die, too.

Reaching Lisson Grove, her mind refusing to dwell on anything but the horrors at Mrs Dyer’s house, Velvet came to the street corner and stopped abruptly. She knew her way home quite well, so could not have said exactly what prompted her to turn, quite deliberately, in the wrong direction. And then she came in sight of the blue lamp which indicated a police station, and she knew why she had come that way.

Clasping the basket tightly in her arms, she began running towards the gleaming blue lamp. She wanted – oh, most desperately wanted – to see Charlie.

Chapter Sixteen

In Which Velvet Speaks to Charlie about Baby Farms

Sitting in the vestibule of Lisson Grove police station with the basket beside her, Velvet had to wait ten minutes or so for Charlie to appear. She checked on the baby repeatedly, but she did not make a sound in all that time. There was a duty policeman behind the desk but, busy with paperwork, he didn’t even glance their way.

A headache pounded Velvet’s skull and she felt giddy, her mind whirling, so that she hardly knew what she was doing or what she was going to say. When Charlie appeared around the corner, his tawny hair showing bright as a lamp in the dark corridor, she was so terribly relieved to see him that she felt she wanted to cry.

He surveyed her anxiously. ‘Ki— Velvet, whatever’s wrong?’

‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘please will you sit down a moment?’ She patted the bench on the other side from the basket and tried to calm herself.

He sat. ‘It’s lovely to see you whatever you’ve come for – but you’re not ill, are you? You look very flushed.’

‘No, Charlie.’ Velvet shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Something upsetting has happened to you, though.’ He studied her carefully. ‘I can see it in your face.’

‘Yes, it has. There’s something really important I want to report, Charlie.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But I don’t want anyone to find out that it’s me who told.’

Charlie nodded. ‘It’s that Madame Whatsit of yours, I bet. You’ve found her out and she’s as crooked as a five-bob note, eh? Or is it that folderol fancy man of hers who’s playing you up?’

‘No, it’s neither of them,’ Velvet said, ‘and really, I don’t want to fall out with you about them, Charlie. I just want to tell you something and please, oh,
please
, you must tell someone and they must do something!’ And so saying, Velvet burst into the tears that had been threatening ever since she’d set foot inside Mrs Dyer’s house.

Charlie put an arm around her. Even though Velvet made an effort to shrug it off, he persisted and she was immensely comforted by crying on to a navy serge shoulder. But she only allowed herself to be fragile for a few moments before turning to face him.

‘We’re wasting time, Charlie,’ she said urgently. ‘It was the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen. You must tell your superiors and get a deputation and go and take them all away!’

‘What on earth do you mean, Kitty?’ Charlie asked, and it was a measure of Velvet’s anxiety that she didn’t put him right about her name. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Babies. A woman who runs a baby farm. She lives in Reading – Parkby Close, right at the end of the road. She’s got about seven babies there and they all . . . all . . . look close to death.’ Tears trickled down Velvet’s face and though she had a handkerchief in her basket she didn’t dare to reach in for it in case she disturbed the baby and Charlie realised what she’d done. ‘Please, please don’t ask me how I know, Charlie. Just go there as soon as you can.’ She pushed him away from her. ‘You must go now!’

‘What’s her name?’

‘She calls herself Mrs Dyer, but I don’t know if that’s her real name.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Charlie, nodding sagely. ‘Amelia Dyer. Sometimes she goes by that name, sometimes by the name of Smithers, sometimes Lee. When she was Mrs Lee she had a house on this patch.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. She’s been in prison several times. She gets caught, serves her time, comes out and starts another baby farm under a different name.’

‘Then she must be stopped again! Please say you’ll go down there now and arrest her and take the babies away.
Please!
’

Charlie stood up. ‘We’re a different division, you know,’ he said. ‘We’re the Met, and that’ll be down to Reading Borough Police.’

‘But . . .’

‘It’s all right.’ Charlie patted her shoulder. ‘I’ll go and tell the chief right now. He’ll get on to it, alert the other force.’

‘Straight away?’

Charlie nodded. ‘He’s got children of his own. Besides, he knows that wicked witch from old.’

Velvet heaved a great sigh of relief. ‘Oh, thank you, Charlie!’ She rubbed her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and picked up the basket. ‘I must get home.’

He caught hold of her hand – her right hand, thankfully, so he didn’t notice the false wedding band. ‘
Home
. Is that big place really home to you?’

‘Charlie! Don’t start all that again.’

He looked at her and gave a rueful half-smile. ‘Very well. But come back to the station in a day or so and I’ll tell you what happened to the wicked witch.’

‘I will,’ said Velvet. ‘But go and tell your chief now. Please, just go!’

Charlie patted her shoulder awkwardly, and went.

The baby, Claire, as she was called henceforth, was received gladly by Madame, who had already bought blankets and a set of baby clothes. Madame had also taken advice from a physician regarding the best and most nutritious way of feeding an ailing infant, and little Claire was bathed, swaddled, put to sleep in a drawer in Velvet’s room and fed a small amount of goat’s milk every two or three hours throughout the night. This regime was continued all through the next day and night until, on being taken to a doctor to be checked over, she was pronounced healthy and likely to survive.

On the morning of the séance, although she was still unnaturally quiet after days of being fed sedatives, her cheeks were certainly pinker and she even opened her eyes briefly. ‘The child is desperately undersized because of lack of food,’ Madame said to Velvet as they looked at her in the drawer, ‘but the doctor said she’ll soon catch up.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t think about size or age – I just took the nearest girl and got out,’ Velvet said. She shuddered. ‘Is there anything more wicked than a baby farmer?’

‘I’m sure they’re not all like that,’ Madame said. ‘Some do care for the children they look after.’

‘But not she. Not Mrs Dyer.’

Madame shook her head. ‘No. She appears to be one of the very worst. She feeds babies sleeping powders so that they’re too tired to feed, and they gradually die of starvation.’

‘But the mothers of these babies, don’t they ever report her?’

‘The mothers are too ashamed and guilty about using her in the first place,’ Madame explained. ‘They’re young, unmarried girls who have little experience of life and nowhere else to turn.’