the same time asked the young man more about Finlay FitzJames, but beyond establishing that he had been there several times, they learned nothing else. The young man had no idea whether the Friday of the murder in Whitechapel was one of those occasions or not.
They thanked him and left, without a glove.
“Well, it could be,” Emily said as soon as they were on the pavement. “It was certainly the sort of party she described, that much at least is true.”
“You believe her, don’t you?” Charlotte said seriously.
“Yes, I do. I really want to help. I know what it feels like to be suspected of something you didn’t do … something you could be hanged for.”
“I know,” Charlotte said quickly, taking her arm. “But you really didn’t do it.”
“I don’t think he did either,” Emily replied. “I’m going to do everything I can to help!”
The following morning Emily wrote a hasty note to Tallulah outlining what she further planned and asking if Tallulah would come with her. If so, would she send a reply with the messenger who delivered the letter.
An hour later a note was returned in Tallulah’s scrawling hand saying that most certainly she could come. She would meet Emily at seven o’clock at St. Mary’s Church, Whitechapel, and from there they could follow their campaign. As requested, she would be dressed very plainly indeed, in order to be inconspicuous, taken by a casual observer to be a maid on her day off, perhaps visiting her family.
Emily was nervous sitting in the hansom clipping smartly eastward from her own highly fashionable street with its elegant windows overlooking wide, clean pavements, private carriages with liveried coachmen and footmen, its front doors and side entrances for servants and tradesmen. The surroundings changed as she came through the City itself. There were more business premises and shops. The traffic became heavier. There was far more noise. The hansom had to stop frequently where the roads were congested.
Gradually she moved beyond the banks and trading centers and under the great shadow of St. Paul’s, closer to the river. It was a balmy summer evening. There would be pleasure boats out, perhaps music, but she could not hear it above the clatter of hooves and wheels.
Soon she was on the Whitechapel Road. It was narrower, grayer, the buildings high and small-windowed, the footpaths sometimes mere ledges where people scurried by, heads down, with no time to stroll or chatter. The traffic was different also. Now there were carts and drays, wagons, even a herd of pigs blocking the road and making everyone stop for several minutes. The smell of manure was sharp in the air.
She alighted at St. Mary’s Church and paid the cabby quickly, before she lost heart and changed her mind. What if she couldn’t find a hansom back again? What if she had to walk? How far would it be? Would people take her for a street woman? She had heard that perfectly respectable women had been arrested by the police for being alone in the wrong places … even in the West End, never mind here. What would Jack think? He would never forgive her. And who would blame him? Would he understand that she had come to try to help clear the name of a man who faced ruin for a crime he did not commit? Charlotte would have done the same. Not that that was any mitigation.
Where on earth was Tallulah? What if she did not come?
Emily would have to go home again. It was still broad daylight. In fact, it was sunny and quite warm. She did not need to hug her shawl around her as if it were midwinter.
“Are you lorst, luv?”
She spun around. There was a short man with an ugly, friendly face staring at her. His cap was on crookedly and he had gaps in his teeth. There was a smear of dirt across his broad nose.
“No … thank you.” She gulped, then forced herself to smile back. “I’m looking for someone, but she doesn’t seem to be here yet. This is Saint Mary’s Church, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Yer ain’t lookin’ fer Mr. Jones, are yer? The Rev’rent? ’Cos ’e’s up Coke Street wi’ Maisie Wallace. She lorst ’er little girl yest’dy. Scarlet fever. She’s taken it ’ard, an’ ’e gorn up there ter sit wiv’ ’er.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily said quickly, her own fears vanishing. She thought of Evie at home asleep in her clean, quiet nursery in the afternoon sun, with someone to watch over her all the time, and Edward, his fair head bent over his books as he had been when she left. “I’m very sorry.”
“Bless yer, luv, it ’appens. ’Appens every day ter some poor soul.”
“I suppose so. That doesn’t stop it being like the end of the world when it happens to you.”
“Course it don’t. Yer sure yer all right, now? You in’t from ’round ’ere, are yer?” His eyes narrowed with concern. Suddenly she realized what he might imagine-an elopement, or far worse, a respectable woman fallen on desperate times and taking to the streets as an attempt to meet impossible debts … or worst of all, perhaps, seeking an illegal abortion. She forced herself to smile cheerfully and frankly at him, meeting his worried eyes.
“Yes, I am all right,” she said firmly. “But if she doesn’t come, perhaps you can tell me where I could get a hansom to take me home again? I have the fare,” she added hastily.
“Right ’ere’s as good as any place,” he answered. “Or yer could try Commercial Road. That way!” He pointed, stretching out his arm. “Well, if yer all right then, I’ll get ’ome ter me tea. Gor’ bless yer.”
“And bless you too,” she said with warmth. She watched him walk off and turn down an alley to the left, and wondered what he did and what family he was going back to.
She was still facing the way he had gone when a hansom stopped a dozen yards away and Tallulah scrambled out, paid, and came hurrying towards her. She looked untidy, very different in a navy stuff dress with no frills, and a gray shawl.
“I’m sorry I’m late!” she said breathlessly. “I had to tell so many lies to get away without Papa thinking there was anything odd. Sometimes I get so tired of being told what to do. And now Mama has agreed I really must accept the next remotely reasonable offer of marriage if there’s a title, whether there’s money or not. Papa is going to insist.” Almost unconsciously she glanced at the church, then back at Emily again, her eyes dark with foreboding. “Of course there won’t be one, if Finlay’s charged. Do you really think we can do anything?”
“Of course we can,” Emily said boldly, taking her arm. “And I do believe you about seeing him at the party.”
Tallulah looked at her curiously.
“What I mean is,” Emily said quickly, “I am not merely accepting your word, which is pleasant but of no use. I went there yesterday evening and met a young man. He had no idea who was there on that occasion, but he does know Finlay.”
“How does that help?” Tallulah asked, standing in the middle of the footpath, her face creased with anxiety.
“Well, it doesn’t prove he was there, but it shows he could have been, and that you at least know the place. And presumably you could prove that you were not where you told your father you were … if you had to?”
“Well … yes …”
“Good. And about Jago,” Emily proceeded to the next subject. “That may be hard, but we’ll try. But first we must find those wretched women who say they saw Finlay that night. They must be wrong. They saw somebody like him-that’s all. Maybe it was only a gentleman with fair hair. There can’t be many ’round here, but there must be thousands in London.”
“Yes, of course there must,” Tallulah agreed. She glanced up the street ahead of her. “Isn’t it grim around here! I think Old Montague Street is that way.” She gave a little smile. “I asked the cabby.”
“Good.” Emily started off at a brisk walk, Tallulah by her side. “I didn’t think to.”
They crossed the road and went up Osborn Street, then sharp right into Old Montague Street. The collected heat of the day shimmered up from the gray cobbles and the smell of middens and drains was thick in the air. Emily found herself wanting to hold her breath, but of course it was impossible. Memories flashed back to her of going with Charlotte into a filthy house-it seemed like years ago-and finding a sick woman huddled under old blankets in the corner. The pity she felt was almost as sharp now as it had been then, and the wish that she had never known, so it would not hurt.
A dray passed them, the horses’ flanks lathered with sweat. Two women were shouting abuse at each other. It seemed to be an argument over a pail of oysters. An old man was asleep in a doorway, or perhaps he was drunk. Half a dozen children played a game with a little heap of stones, balancing them on the backs of their hands and then tossing them into the air, shouting and cheering when someone performed the maneuver with particular skill.
Opposite Pentecost Alley the sweatshop was still busy. The windows were open and they could see the
