The Murder of Mary Russell

  She was prepared for threats, and managed to hide her revulsion and terror by lifting the lumpy beaded bag from her knees and placing it on the desk between them. She pulled open its cord and laid out a series of objects on the polished wood: two knives, a gold watch, a silver propelling pencil, and a silver-and-ivory comb with a tooth missing.

  At the last, an exclamation came from behind the throne, and the son lunged forward to snatch up the comb. “This is mine! How—Christ, the bloody tail knocked into me when she come in, and…Oh, I’m gonna—”

  “That’s enough,” the great man said.

  “But Pops, the bitch—”

  “Shut it.”

  “Jesus, wan’t it bad enough that ’er father—”

  The old villain raised his eyes. “Want Jesse to throw you in the cellar?” The threat was quiet but the effect immediate and profound. The son’s mouth snapped shut, and every other man there gave a sort of shudder. The son’s gaze fell, and The Bishop returned his attention to the objects on the table before him.

  One of them was a mechanical pencil. It had rested on the desk blotter when Clarissa Hudson sat down.

  “You’re a fly dolly, give you that,” he said. “Clever fingers, the dive and the pinch.”

  “In fact,” she replied, “what I am good at is the diversion. If you remember, as I started to sit, my back gave a sudden twinge and I was forced to lean on your desk. Each of these gentlemen had a similar distraction that enabled my fingers to remove something he prized from a pocket. My fingers are adequate, but I’m a better actress than a pickpocket. My father and I paid for a week in Paris with three sessions of the Found Note-Case routine. I have been blessed with a remarkably sympathetic face. Would you not agree?” she asked, a veritable study in angelic virtue.

  The Bishop’s own face was undergoing a challenge, the muscles working as if a small creature were caught beneath the skin. Finally he gave way to a cough of grudging laughter. “Missy, you ain’t what I expected.”

  Clarissa permitted a bit of her satisfaction to show. After that, it was just a matter of negotiation.

  His first offer of a partner was old enough to be her grandfather, a decrepit old stork with shaking hands.

  “Most amusing, I’m sure,” she told The Bishop with a cool smile. “Am I right in thinking you must have a number of apprentices in the trade? Boys young enough to be quick on their feet?”

  “Not girls?” he asked, still amused.

  “I do better with lads,” she told him.

  Before the day was out, she’d had a dozen boys paraded in front of her, aged thirteen to seventeen. Each one was either so shifty-eyed any constable with a speck of brains would have him up by his heels to see what fell out of his pockets, or so blatantly righteous as to raise the suspicions of a saint.

  The Bishop’s patience was wearing thin; Clarissa’s ankles were swelling. “Are these all you have?” she asked at last.

  “There’s more. Come back tamarrah.”

  But on her way out of The Bishop’s palace, a small child was coming in. His clothing was sparse and his brown skin had gone a peculiar colour with the cold, but he had about him a cheeky air that caught her attention. “What does that one do?”

  The gang leader had to ask his ginger-haired Demander—Jesse—for information.

  “Billy? He’s look-out for Three-Card Louis.”

  “Is he Greek?” Clarissa had problems once with a Greek lad.

  “Don’t think so. African, more like. He granddad was a street-sweeper.”

  “That’s fine, then. Let me talk to him.”

  Ginger dragged the lad from his bread-and-dripping and set him down in front of Clarissa.

  Three-Card Louis must have been working the lower reaches of the city if this was the lad who watched for coppers. The boy wore a variety of hand-me-downs, none of which actually fit his thin frame, all of which had seen long use before coming to him. Despite that, he’d made an attempt at tidiness, with all his buttons fastened, oversized cap at a rakish angle on his tight curls, and a bright orange scarf hiding the dirt around his neck. He even wore stockings, although he did not seem to have learned to darn yet. His delicate fingers were surprisingly clean, and his skin, out of the bitter air, had taken on a warm colour, like coffee richly treated with milk.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “I’m seven, and you?” he retorted.

  “Can you read and write?”

  “Oi c’n read a ‘Keep Out’ sign and write me naim ’senough to be goin’ on.”

  “If I buy a quartern loaf, a tuppence worth of apples, and tuppence of sweets, what’s my change from a bob?”

  “Why’d’ya buy any of dem fings? They’re easy enough to nick.”

  “I said ‘if.’”

  “Though maybe not if you’re old ’n’ slow, loik you.”

  “You don’t know the answer, do you?”

  “Thruppence.”

  “Good. But you’re not seven years old. I doubt you’re much more than five. And with hands like yours, you’ve been practicing the dip. If you want to work with me, you’re what I need. But I can’t have a partner who lies to me: Can. Not. You either tell me the truth or you keep mum, those are your choices. Your first lie, I hand you back to The Bishop. And I’m very good at catching lies.”

  Most of the time, an inner voice added. As if he’d heard, the lad’s black gaze darted down to her belly, then up to her earrings, before returning down to contemplate the toes of her shoes. And he nodded. “Oi’m six. Oi fink.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  His eyes went sideways to the big man, who said, “ ’Is Mum’s not interested in much but the bottle. His old man’s off on a job for me.”

  Either in prison or hanged, she thought. “Then there’s no one to object if the lad comes with me. We’ll be back in two or three days.”

  “What, you want to make off with one of me lads?”

  “Mr Bishop, you offered me a partner, I’ve chosen one. If you’re not pleased by what we bring you, take him away again. But I need him clean and fed in order to do his job. He’s coming with me. Come, boy,” she said, and walked off.

  After a time, the child followed.

  On the street outside, she spoke over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  “Billy.”

  “Is there more?”

  “William,” he said. “Mudd. Dey call me Wiggins.”

  “Very well, William Mudd, you may call me Mrs Hudson. Our first order of business is to find you something to eat.” And immediately thereafter, she added to herself, burn your clothes and scrub you raw.

  —

  Billy Mudd was an impulse, but one that worked out—short term and long—beyond Clarissa’s wildest imaginings. During the remainder of spring and into the summer, he proved a most efficient partner in relieving London’s streets of excess cash. Scrubbed up and dressed in a white-and-blue sailor suit and straw boater (both of which came from a Sunday morning trip through Petticoat Lane, and both of which he despised) and high-buttoned boots (which he polished daily) he could act the concerned young son of a pregnant mother, or slip in among an Oxford Street crowd assisting a woman overcome by heat, dipping into pockets all the while.

  The Bishop counted himself satisfied, and let it be generally known that Clarissa and the boy were under his protection.

  Clarissa took scrupulous care in dividing the proceeds, which proved generous enough to put some away for the coming weeks when work would be difficult. She even took out a cut for the boy—only some of which went into his hand—and hid away her share in a growing stash of coins and a few pieces of jewellery. A small gold ring would do to pay the midwife: she did not want to be alone at the birth. She even put on her dignity and returned to the hotel, to make pretty apologies and, more to the point, a first payment towards the sizeable bill she’d left behind. The hotel had treated her well, and besides, if things went as she hoped, she would be returning to that lev
el of society before long. Also, she was hoping they might have letters for her, but the only one was from Alicia, posted in November. It was addressed (naturally) to their father, to say that she was betrothed to the young law clerk mentioned in previous letters. She and Raymond McKenna would be wed on April 12: no suggestion that the bride might delay it so her family could be there.

  There was nothing at all from her father. On reflection, Clarissa decided that was not a bad thing. It was now May. Having nothing further from Alicia could mean that her sister knew their father had left England. (Heaven forbid Allie would deign to write a mere sister, Clarissa thought sadly.) Clarissa invested in some good paper and penned a congratulatory letter, enclosing a bank note by way of present. After that, she tried to push her sister from her mind.

  She moved again, to a pair of rooms in a worn but clean lodgings-house. The establishment was in a less-desirable corner of a decent neighbourhood, thus safe but cheap. The air smelt of baking and laundry rather than pig and neglected cesspits. Clarissa found it a great relief to have a proper bed, and a separate room for the rest of life. She bought a cot for Billy, two comfortable chairs, and a small table. The noises that came through the window were less the voices of children playing street football or games of cat and more the grinding of wheels or the cries of costermongers, but with the racket came peace of mind. Lamp-lighters arrived morning and night, her skirt-hems stayed clean thanks to the crossings-sweepers, and the wares of the muffin-men and the Italian ice-man were fresh and wholesome.

  She could go days without being wakened by the sound of a police rattle and the shouts of a chase.

  Billy was less enthusiastic. This new neighbourhood was for him a place of strange accents and too-broad streets, although he was immensely impressed by having a flowered basin with running water in the corner of the bedroom, the services of both chambermaid and cook, and a bath just down the hall. He’d never seen a hot-water geyser before. Nor had he seen such things as a slate and schoolbooks.

  “When the school year starts,” she told him, “you’ll be going.”

  He objected mightily, that classrooms were for nancy boys and The Bishop wouldn’t like it, but she stood firm. “You’ve grown too much to look like a baby,” she explained. “If you’re not in school, people will ask why. And you wouldn’t want me to get in trouble with the law, would you? Besides, education is never wasted.”

  He grumbled, at the demands of book-learning and of bathing, but she also noticed that he used more than his share of soap, and spent more hours than she required bent over the tasks of literacy. She enjoyed having him there as she sewed by the lamp-light from his table. She took pleasure watching the gauntness fade from his bones, now that bread had butter again and dinner had meat.

  By June, she and Billy had achieved a little comfort in their lives and, with The Bishop’s authority behind them, even a degree of security. The boy was bright, he wasn’t too careless, he listened. Some days, their odd partnership even felt like a family.

  She should have known it couldn’t last.

  She should have known her father would be the end of it.

  “How the devil did you find me?”

  But James Hudson was just staring at Clarissa’s swollen belly. After a minute, his gaze went to her left hand, seeking out the thin gold ring she wore there. “You’re married.”

  “No,” she said irritably. “The ring’s for idjits like you who think it makes a difference. Papa, how did you find me? Have you been here in London all this time?”

  “You’re not married?” He sounded horrified, which Clarissa rather thought took a prize, especially for a man in his derelict condition. James Hudson had obviously been putting in hard physical labour—on a ship, by the looks of him. He stank, his remaining teeth were yellow, and his hair looked like a home for lice. He seemed to have shrunk with the sudden onset of age, and the crooked smile that had once charmed the ladies in Monte Carlo now just looked crooked.

  “It’s none of your business if I’m wed or no. What are you doing here? And why did you not write, so I knew you were alive?”

  He looked puzzled. “Write? I dunno, I guess I’ve never written to you, just to Allie. She’s married, can you believe that? Little Allie.”

  “So I heard. You are aware that The Bishop is hot for you?”

  That name finally got his attention. “You know The Bishop?”

  “It would be hard not to, Papa, with his ginger-haired Demander accosting me on the street. You owe him money. A lot of money.”

  “I owe him? It was for your dresses!”

  “And your card games and suits and horses.”

  “Anyway, I paid him. Some.”

  “He wants the rest. I had a time convincing him not to take it out of my skin. If we’re seen together, I’ll be in for it. You have to go.”

  “Clarrie, you can’t—”

  “Don’t call me that! And don’t come back until The Bishop is paid.”

  “Clarrie—Clarissa, child, I used my last bob finding you.”

  “Yes, how did you do that, exactly?”

  “The hotel.”

  “Oh…damn!” she cursed. No good deed went unpunished, no responsible payments of debts failed to turn around and bite. It wasn’t as if Alicia ever wrote her anyway. “How much do you need?” she asked, turning her back so he couldn’t see into her beaded reticule.

  “I don’t want your money, dearie. I thought maybe we could, you know…”

  She turned around, in her outstretched hand two five-pound bank notes. It was more than half her worldly goods, but she did not hesitate. Her father did, but only for a moment.

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “Go.”

  “You don’t mean that, my—”

  “I do. I will not work with you again. I don’t want to see you again until you have repaid Mr Bishop. I can’t afford it, Papa. I have responsibilities now. I want you to go.”

  Dark fury stirred in the depths of his bloodshot eyes. For an instant, Clarissa was huddled on her childhood mat while drunken feet came up the stairs.

  “Clarrie, my back’s against a wall, here.” He was trying to cajole, but they both heard the menace in his voice.

  “Papa, I cannot help you.”

  She braced herself for the rising fist, but in the end, faced with a grown woman nearly as tall as he, James Hudson deflated with a foul-smelling sigh. “Right. Well, I got one last card up my sleeve—I was just hopin’ to rest up a bit before playin’ it. Get back on my feet, like. There’s an old friend in Norfolk will help me out—though he don’t think of himself that way. But if you won’t have your old Pa, you won’t.”

  He lingered, offering her a last chance to back down, then his shoulders slumped and he turned away, her bank notes vanishing into his noxious garments. She watched him shamble off. Then she took a shaky breath and closed the door.

  —

  The waiting began again. Clarissa fully expected her father to reappear on her doorstep, but days passed, and he did not. She could only imagine the reaction of the “old friend” when confronted by James Hudson in his current condition, but the man seemed to have relented enough to take her father in. She did not like thinking of Papa sleeping rough in a doorway—or beaten to death by The Bishop’s thugs.

  The summer wore on, turning wet, and so dreary that street-surface Cheats became all but impossible. The alternative was moving inside to shops and museums, but tight quarters increased the risk: fleet-footed Billy might dart away from the hard hand of the law, but she most definitely could not. A number of days, she and Billy remained at home, her with swollen ankles raised, him bent over his books. Even when the wet relented, she did not last for long before exhaustion claimed her.

  The Bishop was not pleased. Nor did she manage to send the hotel anything that month other than a note of apology, in hopes of staying the manager’s wrath.

  On August 20, her back ached dully, and the child within drummed merry heels on her bladde
r. The third time she clambered awkwardly up from her chair, warm water gushed down her thighs. She was appalled at the loss of control—until she realised what it meant: the baby was coming early.

  She gave Billy every pence she could spare and sent him to The Bishop, telling the lad to fetch the midwife on his way.

  Nine and a half hours later, Clarissa’s son came squalling into the world, a small, crumpled, red-faced creature with wisps of pale hair, who bellowed his outrage at being shoved from a dim and comfortable home. She called him Samuel, a name held by no man in her acquaintance, but which shared three letters with that of her mother.

  Samuel proved an irritable child, easily upset by unchanged napkins, infuriated with any delay in a meal. He woke often at night, with rashes and twitches and periods of inconsolable wailing that she feared would have them evicted.

  When Samuel was a month old, Billy returned—or rather, was returned, with Jesse’s hand heavy on his shoulder. The Bishop’s ginger-haired Demander told her in no uncertain terms that baby or no, The Bishop expected her to resume work the next day.

  Ill-fed and ill-slept, the following morning they were out on the streets. Samuel stretched his blue eyes at the brightness, then objected to everything. Billy had no need to feign the scorn of an older brother. The only advantage was, a wailing infant made men all the more eager to be clear of her, and less likely to check their pockets when they’d made their escape.

  The first week out passed in a daze of forgetfulness and exhaustion. School was set aside for the time—without Billy, she’d have been arrested for sure. Even with him, they had a couple of close calls, and their working days were short.

  If only the accursed rain would stop! Everything was damp, foreign visitors hurried on to warmer climes, museum crowds became so sparse the guards had time to meditate on the oddity of this trio and wonder why a mother this new was not at home.

  At last, towards the end of September, came a Saturday that dawned clear. Clarissa took extra care with her clothing and hair, fed Samuel and wrapped him in his good blanket, and they set off for Regent’s Park.