The Murder of Mary Russell (14 page)

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 level 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.

“H
ow 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 bladder. 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.

Even before noon, the crowds proved that London was eager for the sun. Boys ran past with balls; women in summer dresses strolled the paths on the arms of men in straw hats. Billy had brought his hoop-and-stick, the sort of camouflage that doubled as actual boyish fun (little enough of that in his life, she thought), and she smiled as he wobbled away down the path from her, his oversized shoes churning, a boy with nothing more pressing on his mind than where to spend the tuppence in his pocket.

She let him race about for twenty minutes while she enjoyed the simple sensations of a walk in the sun. Then fleeting time drew back the reins on her pleasure and moved her feet towards the Zoological Gardens. On Sundays, when the zoo was reserved for Members, this would be a realm of bright parasols and silk hats, but even on a Saturday there were few cloth caps inside the gates. The afternoon proved lucrative, the zoo-goers both amiable and distracted, an ideal combination for Clarissa and her young partner (partners plural, in fact, since the blond curl atop little Samuel's head proved to have a remarkably softening effect on the women). Every twenty minutes to half hour she slid another handful of coins, silk handkerchiefs, watches, and even a couple of notes into her reticule, and when she stopped a little before three to retreat to the Conveniences to feed Samuel, she transferred a satisfying quantity into the dress's larger inside pocket.

Once Samuel was fed and asleep, Clarissa took Billy for a restorative cup of tea and some sticky cakes. She was profoundly grateful for the chance to sit, and when Billy had scraped his plate down to its glaze, she gave him permission to wander off and look at the hippopotamus. The sun warmed her in more ways than the mere physical. This past month had been hard, but the tide, she thought, had turned: she would find her feet again, pay off her debts, and figure some kind of life for herself and her son. If it meant being a part of The Bishop's criminal empire, so be it. There were worse things than being a swindler. Being an irresponsible mother, for one.

Clarissa ran a lace-covered finger across her son's downy scalp. Soon, she would have to turn him over to a nurse, since a babe in arms was as clear a sign of the working class as dirt, a bare head, or an apron covering one's skirts—any of which would make her stand out in the moneyed crowds. Still, she promised herself, she would take care of him. Always.

A child screeched, somewhere in the distance. As Clarissa automatically raised her head to look, something caught at the edge of her gaze. She searched, not sure what had snagged her attention, but saw only a figure in the act of turning away into a group of people. Her impression was that it had been a young man—quite young—and that he had been watching her.

Not all that unusual. A mother and small infant drew the attention of half the world, even young men. No, this was merely a curious lad—turning away in embarrassment, perhaps, at his inner musings over the process by which a babe in arms had come into being. Still, the impression of an intent gaze stayed with her, although she'd seen little of his face. All she was certain of was the tilt of his silk hat and the exaggerated degree of white cuff at his wrist, as if his limbs were outgrowing his jacket.

Still, it might be best to take a break for a while. It was near to feeding time at the lion cage. If she had not seen that lad again after the big cats were finished, she would risk a few more turns at the swells.

By the time the lions had dragged their gory dinners off, Clarissa was about to drop. She'd kept a surreptitious watch on all sides, alert for young men with protruding cuffs, but though the nape of her neck crawled with imagined eyes, no one seemed to be interested in her. Still, the watch had taken the last of her energies. When she told Billy it was time to go home, he did not object much, either.

At the park exit, Billy turned automatically in the direction of the omnibus, but at the thought of that packed and sweltering box on wheels, Clarissa stopped him. “Let's take a cab,” she said, then modified it to, “a hansom.”

He was as astonished as he was thrilled—less for the rare luxury than for the sheer adventure of the thing. She handed Samuel up to him as she manoeuvred her skirts up the step, and settled inside—a snug fit, the little doors barely shutting across her knees, but the air was fresh. As the high carriage swerved and cornered down the crowded streets, Clarissa peered through its side window at the weaving tapestry of identical cabs. Billy asked what she was looking for.

“Nothing,” she told him. “Just—see how funny the horses look, all trotting head-on like that?”

He was distracted. They spent the remainder of the ride with her hand clenched through the back of his trousers while he stood, leaning over the side and staring backwards, a wide grin on his face.

She really did like this young lad quite a lot.