Meggie's blog

I handed Em a sixpence. “Get yourself something to eat.” I said. “Then stop at the chemist and fetch me a bottle of Woodward’s Stomach Bitters.”

“I likes you.” Em said cheerfully. “You’re nicer than the last del ‘e had.”  Given most of the Rookery girls, I wasn’t sure I really had much competition. She disappeared out the door with Petey in tow and I set myself to slowly gathering up the rest of my clothing.

“Going somewhere, Violet?” I smiled cheerfully. I’d been trailing the girl all day as she made the rounds of Nancy’s friends collecting the money to pay the other girl’s ten shilling fine. Violet looked around her, she was trapped in one of the Rookery’s many blind courts with nowhere to run; which was exactly how I’d planned it. Just me and her, with Cutter lounging in the mouth of the court casually flipping a knife to deter any interference.

Strange trades are carried on in these slums, and occupations are followed which in civilised parts are never dreamt of; except it be in exceptionally bad dreams. - The Standard, 1875

Dressing up to go to the Rookery was rather like dressing for tea with the Marchioness, I thought as I examined myself in the mirror; the object was to make the right impression. Of course, tea with nobility usually didn’t require one to carry knives or some of the other things I had hidden about me.

“But to return to your question.” The Marchioness spoke after a moment. “Caroline is an ambitious woman, perhaps too ambitious, married to an ambitious man. I should not care to come between her husband and a peerage.”

“Will he get one?”

“Perhaps.” She replied. “If he does not over-reach himself, if his vices do not lead to scandal, if … there are many ifs. However, Sir Charles supports certain causes dear to me, so I intend to see him in high office. If that leads to a coronet ...” She shrugged. “Then we shall all have what we desire.”

The invitation came in the afternoon post. I had written the Marchioness that morning, thanking her for her visit and letting her know that I was well and home from hospital. If there was one thing you could count on, it was the Post Office.

I regarded myself in the mirror one last time. The Marchioness knew who I was, there was no point in hiding behind Miss Curran’s drab facade. At the same time, I wanted to look serious, the female equivalent of a banker’s clerk, perhaps. Fashionable, I hoped, but not too fashionable; prosperous, but not flashy like a Haymarket streetwalker.

We played at being a couple for the next couple of hours, Cutter and I. His blood cooled, Cutter was quiet, almost shy; the way he usually was around me. I let him keep an arm around me, ignoring the looks I got.  The men didn’t worry me, Cutter would deal with any trouble there, and they were probably just jealous he’d gotten a leg over; but I was sure I’d upset the plans of more than one girl. I grimaced inside, knowing I’d have to put the fear of God into the lot of them or they’d try to shop me; exactly what I didn’t want.

“Oh, Roderick.” Clarinda said, her bosom heaving like the stormy sea with suppressed emotion. “We can not marry, Papa would never permit it!”

“Not so, my dearest.” Replied the handsome sea-captain, clasping the raven-hair beauty to his breast. “For I have just received word that my great-uncle the Earl of Edgemoore has passed on, leaving his title and his entire estate to me. Certainly your dear father can not fail but to find me acceptable now!”

I always hold in having it if you fancy it
If you fancy it, that's understood
And suppose it makes you fat - I don't worry over that
'Cos a little of what you fancy does you good!*

The squalid and crowded conditions of our former slums were breeding grounds for the most appalling and vile crimes. Men, women, and children of all ages and relations were promiscuously crammed together without regard for basic decency or civility, which wretched familiarity led to the most ghastly outrages. Officially, there was little crime in the slums, since the denizens were not in the habit of communicating with the police. It was only when the crime spilled over into decent neighborhoods that we became aware of it. The razing of the former rookeries, along with the Board Schools and the District Nurse, have gone far towards eliminating these black spots.

From Thirty Years a Detective: Peculiar & Interesting Matters Selected from a Detective’s Casebook. by Det. Ch. Insp. John Pascoe, KPM, ret.; author of The Criminal Mind, Strange Detective Cases, etc.

The Home Office occupied one wing of the looming neo-classical edifice that was Somerset House. I scurried in through the front door clad in the blue uniform of a Civil Service messenger along with the morning flood of men reporting to work. The pair of policemen stationed outside the building to guard against dynamiters gave me no more than a cursory glance.

I sat on a high and brazen throne and watched indolently as my captains piled tribute at my sandalled feet; glittering rubies, polished ivory, curiously wrought figurines of jade, gold in profusion - the fruits of another successful campaign. Trains of quailing captives were led before me and with an idle wave of my hand I sent them to servitude or to die screaming on the bloodstained altars of my gods. I lifted my head and smiled cruelly as my courtiers waited, trembling in anticipation of my whims. Then I spoke, and the words rang from the polished marble floors and sardonyx pillars of the lofty hall.

“Go bugger yourself. I don’t want any of that.”

Things were in a state of upheaval when I came home Monday evening. Someone had gotten into the common stair and tried to take a jemmy to Mister Knowlden’s door. They hadn’t gotten very far before Flossie had heard him and he’d run off, almost knocking the girl down the stairs in the process. She was breathlessly retelling the story to everyone as they came in. I clucked sympathetically and shook my head. Obviously an amateur, I’d have been in and out and no one the wiser.

The kitchen of your average rooming house is a busy place. It’s warm in the winter, the lodgers pass in and out to do their cooking, the slavey is back and forth with her ceaseless fetching and cleaning, and it’s usually the only place in the building with running water. More importantly, it’s the landlord that’s paying for the heat and light which makes it a preferred place to sit and have a cup of tea and a chat.

He is sitting on a park bench as I approach, checking his watch and looking annoyed.

“Colonel Goswell.” I keep my tone as flat and official as I can to hide my nervousness.

He looks up at the sound of my voice, a puzzled look on his face. “Yes?”

“Miss Zemynovna will not be joining you, I’m afraid. She seems to have left town rather suddenly.”

His puzzlement changes to a frown. “What? Why?”

We lie together, my head resting on her shoulder as she strokes my hair.

“I hope I haven’t shocked you too awfully much. I was a little surprised.”

“No.” I say. I wonder if I’m playing this properly. Should I have been more shocked? More resistant? “It’s just not something I’ve ever considered. But what about your husband?”

She smiles at my naiveté “Charles has his little amours and I have mine. Everything is fine as long as there’s no scandal.”

I nod, I’ve heard stories of such arrangements among the upper classes.

We have the cottage to ourselves at the moment, Rose and Alice are off to market, and it’s a windy, grey morning with a light rain. Caroline sighs and closes her book.

“We shan’t be going anywhere today, I don’t think.”

“No.” I say, looking at the rain dripping down the window pane. “I don’t think so.”

She stands, adjusting her skirt. “Tea?”

“Please, that would be lovely.” It’s certainly a good morning for tea, damp as it is.

“Another lemonade, Miss?”

I set down my book and smile at the waiter. “Yes, thank you, Roberts.” The young man sets down my drink and smiles back. In the week that I’ve been at the Pemberton Arms I’ve established a reputation as a polite and quiet young lady who tips well, but not extravagantly; I know this from eavesdropping on the staff.

The rozzer tries the door as he walks past. Two minutes until he reaches the end of the block, two minutes that seem to last forever. As soon as he’s around the corner, I’m moving. The key works perfectly and I’m in, I lock the door behind me and crawl behind a desk. Another eternity and I hear the door rattle again. I count to twenty and head for the safe. And stop dead.

The watch in my pocket is buzzing like a wind-up toy. There’s strong magic here. I turn my head and squint, seeing what I fear, the faint wavering that means the safe is warded. At the least, someone will know when they’re disturbed; at the worst, they might trap me here or paralyze me for hours.

I’ve spent three days watching Mister Ellison’s office, day and night, taking turns with Ned Crabbe so we get some time off. We have a pretty good idea of the routine at this point; opens at nine, closes at seven, everyone leaves promptly and the manager locks up. There’s no watchman, but the beat rozzer passes by every nine minutes. The office is a storefront with big plate glass windows looking onto the street which is a bit of a nuisance. I sum all these things up as I watch the manager hop down off the omnibus. I hop down right after him and follow, hoping he doesn’t decide to stop for a drain on the way home.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The bank clerk gives me a polite smile through the bars.

“Good morning.” I reply, smiling back and sliding one of Cutter’s notes across the counter. “I’d like to cash this, please.”

“Of course.” The man takes the note and holds it up with a frown. “Just a moment, please.” He  steps back from the counter to put his head together with an older man. I am starting to get nervous, wondering what the problem is with the note. Part of me is curious though since if it was reported stolen he ought to be checking a list.

On my way back from the ladies’ I stop and look over the crowd below. The music’s stopped for bit and the dancers are congregating around the bars for a drink or two. I watch for a bit, then look up to study the tiers. There’s Mister Worth with Miss Sophia on his arm, and it looks like he's watching something. I follow his gaze and see he's watching Ned and Bill talk.

“What's he up to?” I wonder, because Fatty Ellison is a big man with connections to all sorts of people and robbing him would be like cutting your own throat, pretty literally.

A fine sea-fog has rolled over the city, covering the covering the streets in a gray-yellow blanket that is half fog, half coal smoke.  Above it all, the Castle squats on its rock like a toad; it looks rather like a ship at sea, I fancy.  From where I am perched, five stories up on the roof of an Old Town tenement house, the sounds of the street below are muffled and indistinct.  I watch as the fog rolls past, little clumps of it catching on the chimneys and spires below, tearing off for a moment before rejoining the main mass.

(Meggie's attempt at Tavlo's writing exercise.)

I turn and look at myself in the pawnshop window, adjusting my hat to a fashionable tilt. A thin face framed in limp blond hair looks back.

"You're filling out," I think and it's true, a couple of months of better food and my face is starting to lose the pinched look.  Not filling out anywhere else, though. I sigh and fiddle with my hat again, trying to get it to stay in place.  

"When you'd get so vain?" My friend Liza chuckles from her place by the barrow.

"Good morning, Miss."  The young man behind the counter smiles cheekily at me. "What's it today?"

I smile back and slide my bundle of letters under the grille.  "All first class today."  I've become a regular customer ever since Mister Worth has hired me to work in his office.  Whatever he's planning, part of it involves me learning office routine; which means going to the Post Office three times a day.  Not that I mind much, it's only a block or so and better than sitting behind a desk and fending off salesmen.

Arthur Hesseltine is the embodiment of a banker; a large, solid man in a sober but expensive suit.  He studies me with some puzzlement from behind an equally large and solid walnut desk.  "How may I assist you, madam?"  He asks pleasantly, no doubt preparing to pass me off to an underling.

"I have come into possession of two items that may be of interest to you.  This is the first."  I hand him the letter of credit.

He reads it quickly. "I knew it!"  A meaty hand slaps his desk.  "Where did you find this?"  He looks at me with a shrewd glint in his eyes.

"Mister Thrushton has been rather careless."  I say.  "You may wish to note the signature on that document."

He frowns.  "That would appear to be mine."

I spend a day trailing Thrushton. A day in the life of Jonathan Thrushton appears to consist mainly of drinking, smoking, chatting with friends, and attending the racetrack and the theater before stumbling home at a late hour.  Which is not such a bad life if you can pay for it, even if it strikes me as rather dull. Maybe the blackmail livens things up a little, it would not surprise me if Thrushton was doing it as much for the excitement as for the money.  Now this is probably where I should make a comment about the road to ruin and the temptations of the city, but I shall not because it would be odd with me being pretty much ruined myself and my own line of work and all.

"It's eighteen shillings a week, no attendance, plus gas and coal." Mrs. Hooper says, crossing her arms over her ample bosom and looking around the two bare rooms.

"Hmmm." Eighteen shillings is a bit dear, but no attendance means no maid poking her nose into my things and the location over a milliner's shop in a quiet neighborhood is certainly much nicer than the Rookery. There is even a bit of back garden, shared with the small hotel next door, leading to the alley behind the house, useful for slipping in and out.

"I'll take it." I say, handing Mrs. Hooper a sovereign. "Let me know how much, if there's more for the gas and coal."

"Shouldn't be more than another shilling or two." The older woman says with a smile, as she pockets the coin. "You can stop round the kitchen if you're needing a bit of hot water."

I examine my work. I have scraped out the mortar on three sides, almost as deep as my blade will reach, and the stone seems as firm as ever. What I need is a jemmy or a crow, not that I have either. I rummage through my pockets and come up with a lump of what looks like putty wrapped in a twist of paper. There is even a bit of fuse wrapped up with it. "This should do the trick." I think. 

About half the juice fits nicely into the crack on the top of the stone. A match to the fuse, and I dive for the other side of the room. There is a sharp "CRACK!" and then a thud as a large chunk of stone falls out of the wall. There is just enough space for me to get my fingers on the bolt, a few minutes and some skin left on the on stone later and I am easing the door open onto an empty hallway. It is dim, the single gas light casting long, ominous shadows.

The corpse tosses me over a shoulder and shambles after the mage. The fog has closed around us and I can barely see the sides of the lane. If I lift my head I can just make out the mage's back as he calmly picks his way around the piles of filth that dot the slimy pavement and I wonder if this is how he has avoided being seen.

Davey's cold hand is clamped to the small of my back. I do not think he should be this cold yet, not more than a few minutes dead. He is not someone I mind seeing dead; he had told me once what he planned to do to me if he ever caught me alone and this makes things even more gruesome, to my mind. A coach is waiting at the end of the lane and he places me inside at the mage's command.

"That will be all." Says the mage with a gesture and Davey's body collapses to the pavement. The mage climbs into the coach and regards my limp body.