City of Darkness

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

November 10

5:50 PM



Cecil Bainbridge stood outside the Pony Pub that and watched people crowd their way into the small establishment. Tonight was a special celebration, for not only was it the wake for Mary Kelly, but the owner had promised free food and beer. They would drink till dawn, damn the Ripper, and take the morrow on the morrow.

With a deep breath, Cecil pushed open the door. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, God knows he was as ripe as anyone for a drink.

The night before, when he had entered Neddy’s box at the track, two strangers had been waiting. Bill collectors, as it turned out, hired and sent there by Cecil’s own dear friends, and Neddy had even bragged that it had been a kindness to trap him with a social invitation. “The alternative, old chap,” he’d said, slapping Cecil’s shoulder as if this were all some sort of grand joke, “would have been to send them to your home and I would not insult your mother in such a way.”

Was he supposed to thank them for confronting him there at the track, with the townspeople gaping on, rather than in the privacy of his own home? They knew he had no way of settling his bills on the spot, but Neddy had explained – while Cecil’s so-called friends stood silently in the background – that his mother had been seen in her diamond and opal brooch on the unfortunate afternoon of the Wentworth hunt. An admirable piece, was it not? Selling it would not bring enough to settle all his accounts, but it would be a start.

The brooch was the last fine thing they had. The final remains of a love match gone hopelessly awry, and the one item Gwynette had refused to sell. She would do without the carriage and walk to town if she must. She would fire the staff and wash her own stockings, but she would not release her grip on the diamond and opal brooch.

“I’ll get it for you,” Cecil had said, although he wasn’t sure how. “I’ll have it at your office, Neddy, 10 am tomorrow.” And then the man had shown the audacity to offer Cecil a glass of champagne, to urge him to take a seat.

Cecil had walked home alone that night, stumbling in the darkness. At one point a carriage passed and – rather than be spied in his pitiable state – he had hidden behind a tree. He supposed he could get the brooch while his mother slept, but what good would it do to deliver their only valuable object into the graceless hands of Edmund Solmes? Within weeks, the notes would all be due again, this time with nothing to keep the creditors at bay. He’d come to a new low, he had, and as he walked Cecil talked aloud to himself, constructing a plan. It was audacious and risky, but he could think of nothing else. The brooch was the last solid place on which to stand while he built a new life.

When Cecil had arrived back in Winter Garden, his mother, William, and the cook were all asleep, just as expected. He packed his satchel in the darkness. It was not difficult to slip shoeless into his mother’s bedroom, nor to find the brooch in the top drawer of her vanity. What proved more challenging was laying his hands on some actual cash. The account box was empty except for a few shillings. Whatever had William done with the proceeds from selling the carriage?

Try the obvious, Cecil had thought, and he had moved next into William’s room. He was almost to the bureau when he caught sight of William’s jacket, hanging over one of the posts of the bed and Cecil had smiled to himself in the darkness. There were benefits to having a witless brother. Cecil slipped a hand into one pocket and then the other while William gently snored.

From there it had been simple enough to walk to the station, to sleep on the bench outside. To catch the earliest train to London and to find some cheap and nondescript inn where he might stash his bundle and lay his head for an afternoon nap. What was happening at home did not concern him. When he did not arrive at Neddy’s office at ten, he could presume the man had sent his unpleasant minions to Winter Garden where William and Gwynette could quite honestly proclaim to have neither any knowledge of Cecil’s whereabouts nor those of the diamond and opal brooch.

And this, he thought as he claimed a barstool, was the last place anyone would expect to find him. He looked nervously about but luckily the singing and drinking had already begun and his awkwardness went unnoticed. Cecil accepted a beer, slumped forward and began to listen to the stories about Mary. There were some tears, for Mary had been truly liked by many in the East End. Cecil hoisted his mug to every stranger, honoring a woman he had never met. Accepting the buss of a weeping girl in ripped black satin who obviously mistook him for a former client, he tilted his head toward the two men sitting behind him, who were deep in conversation.

“Mary ‘ad family, you know?” sputtered a small sandy-haired man who had pulled a cap over his eyes in a concession to mourning. “Wealthy one’s, they were. Lived up on Mayfair. She used to walk up there at times to check on ‘em. I went with ‘er once, I did. I ‘ate the sons-of-bitches. Mary ‘ad a sweet ‘eart, she did. Always a smile for ‘ol Georgy.” With tears in his eyes, he drank down half the pint and signaled for another.

“Mary ‘ad fam’ly in Mayfair?” His friend did not openly challenge Georgy’s story but his tone was skeptical.

“That she did. A sister. Emma was ‘er name. Mary worried ‘bout ‘er all the time. And ‘er in that fancy house and Mary on the street. Sickens me to think.”

So Mary indeed was the sister of the girl Leanna had befriended, just as he had expected and hoped. And he was not the only one who knew this. His mind spinning with a hundred small adjustments to his plan, he turned toward the men. “Someone ought to get even with that Mayfair bitch,” Cecil said. “Teach that Emma Kelly a lesson.”

Georgy nodded so vigorously he nearly slipped off his stool, but his more sober friend’s face was still full of doubt. “Like what?” he asked. “What could the likes of us do to a lady who had found ‘er way to Mayfair?”

Georgy gulped down his remaining ale and slammed down his mug in disgust on the table top. “Dunno, but ‘e’s right, the man is. Mary deserves better.”

Cecil smiled at Georgy, who would clearly prove useful before this affair was done. “Well, Sir, it looks like you’re about ready for another pint.” He passed his own mug toward Georgy and signaled to the barkeep for a replacement.

“Sir? I’m no sir,” answered Georgy, looking up at Cecil. “But I am thirsty. Thanks, mate.” He grabbed the mug and swallowed almost half in the first gulp. “Don’t think I seen ye before, mate.”

“I’m not from London, but I knew Mary from a long time ago. Damn that Ripper, she was such a sweet girl.”

“I know, Mary and me was close. I’ll miss her more ‘an anyone in this room.”

“And to think she was living so poor but had family in Mayfair,” Cecil reminded him. Essential to keep the man on track. The friend, with some eye rolling, stood and departed in search of livelier conversation and Cecil slid smoothly onto the stool the man vacated. “Undoubtedly Mary’s heart was bigger than their whole house. What did you say the sister’s name was, Emma? And you know where she is?”

“Not ‘ere, that’s for sure,” Georgy said, looking about wildly. “Safe on ‘er cushion, takin ‘er tea, too fine to give poor Mary the time of day. I’d like to fix ‘er fancy bottom.”

“Family is family,” Cecil said sanctimoniously, as Georgy drained his glass. “Mary might be alive today if Emma had helped her. But what could we do?”

“I be thinking,” Georgy promised, foamy spittle in both corners of his mouth.

“And I’ll help you. You know, I think we should put a real scare in them. Let them feel terror the way Mary did,” Cecil said. “What about this? We could send a letter to Mayfair. Tell them Mary had a baby and we’d been caring for the tot since her death. We’d tell them they should have the baby since they’re blood family, but for our trouble we’d want a hundred pounds. We’d have them meet us down here. Then we’d hire someone to rob them and rough them up a bit. We could split the money and buy sweet Mary a proper tombstone. That would be getting even. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I like the idea, rough’em up a mite,” said Georgy, his face lightening, then falling. “But ‘ey didn’t care for Mary, so why should ‘ey care for ‘er baby?”

Funny time for the dolt to begin getting logical, Cecil thought. He’d been relieved to note that up to this point Georgy had asked no questions about his accent or his clothes.

“Because it’s a baby. Everyone cares about a baby. Anyhow, it’s worth a try. For Mary’s sake. If it doesn’t, I mean, if it don’t work we’ll think of something else. You can’t turn your nose up to fifty pounds each, can you?”

“Fifty pounds could buy ‘ol Georgy a proper holiday.”

“First we have to find someone who we can hire to do the robbing and roughing up. Do you know anyone, Georgy? This is my first trip to London. I haven’t a friend.”

“Lemme think.”

“Someone big and scary looking.”

“Know just the brute,” Georgy said, rising unsteadly to his feet and waving down a passing man. “Hey chap,” he said, “Whassa name of that ugly Pole from the slaughterhouse?”

The man turned to consider both Georgy and Cecil. Cecil felt his confidence erode a bit, since it was clear this fellow was completely sober, perhaps the only person in the bar who could claim that distinction. When he had looked at Cecil, he had clearly noted the gilded buttons on his jacket and the cleanliness of his hands.

“You want Micha,” he said.

“Micha, that’s the one,” Georgy said. “‘e’d put the fear in the devil himself.”

“’True,” the man said slowly, still gazing at Cecil. “Micha will do anything.”

Cecil felt a strange chill, although he couldn’t have said precisely why. His plan was coming together with lightning speed, as if ordained by the angels themselves, and yet there was something about this fellow that made it clear he was not deceived by Cecil in the least. He had stretched out the word “an-y-thing” with a strange sort of emphasis. Of course, he seemed foreign, with that dark skin and the ridiculous girth of his mustache, quite possibly a Pole himself, so perhaps he was simply over-enunciating a word that was not common to him. Cecil feigned interest in his beer and the man slipped away into the crowd.

Georgy was pounding the table in delight. “Micha, yeah, ‘e’s as big as Gibral’eer. And mean enough to murder ‘is own mum for ten pounds.”

“How do we find this fellow?”

“Leave it to ‘ol Georgy.”

“Good. Then I’ll draft a letter and have it sent to the Mayfair home. Could you show me where it is?”

“I’ll take ye in the morning. Mary will ‘ave a beautiful tombstone to lay at ‘er ‘ead.”

And Leanna will jump at this bait like no other, Cecil thought, quite pleased with himself. A do-gooder like his little sister wouldn’t let a maid venture to Whitechapel alone, and venture for a helpless baby they surely would. Cecil sat back and smiled at Georgy. Life was so much easier when you were surrounded with idiots.