‘No more soup.’ She does not bother to turn to her guest and continues scrubbing a rickety table.
‘I am not here for soup.’
Henrietta pauses, and then wrings her rag. She scrubs again.
‘What can I do for you, Clovis Fowler?
Even people who are captains of their own ships form habits. Those who have the freedom to come and go as they please, rely on some ritual to mark their day. It is Nora Mockett’s ritual to cross the Commercial Road when there is a lull in the traffic, well after the two-thirty bell tolls. Three weeks after her visit to Bermondsey Street she wraps a package for Mr Wright, the cabinetmaker across the road. He is a good customer, a loyal one who is in constant need of syrups, tonics and lozenges for his large family.
These last three weeks Nora has had to work a little harder to muster the smile she normally brings to his workshop. Lately she grows impatient with his neighbourhood gossip and is eager to return to her own place of business. Each day she awaits news from Bermondsey and would not like to miss a message.
When she has collected the payment and indulged Mr Wright for a short but polite time, the road is already moving again at a quick pace. Nora stands on the kerb waiting for the traffic to subside, with a chopped view of the Mockett shopfront. It really does outshine any others on the Commercial Road she thinks, and then turns her head to seek an empty slot so that she might make a dash. Suddenly she catches the odour of something like weak stew, with a prevailing scent of onion. She is hatless, and without her shawl, neither needed for her daily ritual, and so feels a warm breath on her neck.
Nora is on the verge of turning her head to see who crowds so close to her, when a firm hand is pressed onto her back. One shove and she goes down.
Nora hears a distinct crack near her temple. How cold the pavement feels against her cheek, she thinks. It is her last thought before a coach-and-four trample her. She lies dead, her eyes open, her neck broken, her body crushed.
A woman walks calmly away from the shambolic scene, pulling her cloak tightly around her green dress adorned with black velvet bows.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
1852
Mockett feels he will lose his dinner when Clovis enters his shop. It seems the tip of a hot, searing blade slices at his innards. He has closed early, and now that she has arrived he hastily pulls down the canvas blinds with lightning jerks.
‘Owen, you have lost your colour. Why do you secrete us here like this?’
Owen silently rages. I could choke her over and over again. Though she cannot die, I would make her wish she could.
He slams his fist on the counter.
‘Do not speak!’ he shouts at her.
Overwhelmed with a desire to grab her by her thick mane, hold her back and slit her throat, he forces his hand into his jacket pocket from where he produces a letter.
‘Read it.’ He thrusts it at her.
Clovis first takes a glance at the signature and then looks carefully at Owen.
‘Read it,’ he repeats.
Her face remains placid at first but as she reads on her expression changes to one of pity.
‘I would laugh outright at these writings of a murderous woman if it did not soil the memory of the late Mrs Mockett. No, Nora and I were not the closest of friends, but my God, Owen. How could you think me capable of this?’
‘I think you capable of anything,’ he says, coldly.
‘Henrietta Martin was guilty of infanticide. And she let another hang for the murder of her baby. She is the woman who killed your Nora. I tried to help her at Millbank because she wove a pitiful story of regret. Ask anyone and they will tell you it is true. But when she did not change her ways, and took advantage of my good will, I stopped wasting time on her and she turned on me. I will tell you this Owen, she is evil at her core. When I refused to help her again she threatened to one day ruin me, hence this, her false confession.’
Owen snatches the letter from her. Unshrinking, she approaches him gently.
‘Owen, did Nora tell you that she came to visit us in Bermondsey? Did she tell you I promised that if Rafe ever came down with another fever that I would call for her immediately?’
‘No. She never said.’ Owen is uncertain of the truth of it.
‘Do ask my entire household. They were all present, Owen, all witnesses to my promise to your wife. Ask any one of them.’
‘Why didn’t Nora tell me this herself?’
‘Well …’ Clovis looks away demurely.
‘Well, what?’ he snaps.
‘She attacked Rafe.’ Clovis appears to struggle. ‘She demanded that he produce his fever, as if he could just turn it off and on. Again, ask Finn if you wish, he will not deny it. We wanted to spare your feelings and not cause trouble between you and your wife … knowing how difficult it must have been for her.’
All the fight drains from him. He can believe this to be true.
Clovis sees she has won and dares to touch his shoulder.
‘It is time for you to do what you dearly love, Owen.’
His upper lip perspires with her so near him. He cannot help it.
‘You cannot go on much longer here without raising questions.’
Damn her, she is right. As the years ticked over, his customers who once relied on him for relief of minor ailments began to seek a cure for deafness, gouty pains and other ailments of ageing. The comment, ‘How well you look, Mr Mockett.’ grows in number, and the women especially look at him askance while perusing his skinenhancing formulas.
‘We must go underground,’ Clovis continues. ‘That is our plight and one of the sacrifices we make. But you are the luckiest of
