A NIGHT OUT IN WHITECHAPEL
A NIGHT OUT IN WHITECHAPEL
A Night Out In Whitechapel is a short story I published on Wattpad. It forms the first chapter of a much longer tale.
The sun never set on the British Empire so they taught in every reputable public school throughout the lands coloured pink on the world map. Well, those plus a few inconsequential seats of learning where the more affluent plebs sent their offspring.
The sun never set on the British Empire so they taught in every reputable public school throughout the lands coloured pink on the world map. Well, those plus a few inconsequential seats of learning where the more affluent plebs sent their offspring.
But while many
of Queen Victoria’s adoring subjects were basking in sunlight, the view outside
Lady C’s window was far less inviting. The street
outside, assuming it was still there, was hidden from her emerald green eyes by
a thick blanket of smog. To say it was a pea souper would be somewhat of an
understatement for when Mother Nature conjured up the recipe for this one she
added several handfuls of potatoes, some turnips and topped the whole thing off
with a sprig of parsley. It was, in fact, as dense as Lady C’s best
friend Marjory Dimwitty.
It had been a
most tiresome day, the only light relief being the Times account concerning a
string of murders in Whitechapel. Apparently, a number of prostitutes had been
done away with in a most unspeakable fashion and Scotland Yard were still no
closer to catching the culprit.
Not that the
Ripper’s activities were of much concern to the inhabitants of Belgravia where
the heroine of our story lived alone. Alone, that is, if you don’t count the
assortment of hired help she kept beneath stairs to cater to her every need.
Foremost was her butler, Parker, whom she’d sent to find her golf clubs. If she
was going to venture into Whitechapel this evening it would be most prudent
indeed to have at least a sand wedge at her disposal.
As a Hansom Cab
drew up outside the front door, Lady C glanced at the clock on the
mantelpiece. Eight o’clock precisely and she’d sent Parker to look for her
clubs at five. She rang the bell and a second later the door to the drawing
room swung open.
‘You rang,
Milady.’
‘Parker, have
you found my golf clubs yet?’
‘Yes, Milady,
they were where you left them,’ he replied grasping his knees and somewhat out
of breath.
‘Oh and where
was that?’
‘The golf
course.’ He wheezed. ‘I’ve had a devil of a job finding them in this fog.’
‘Well done you,’
she said smiling and giving his chubby little cheek a little pinch. She could
always rely on Parker to go the extra mile to keep her happy, although on this
occasion it had been more like an extra ten.
‘Will Milady be
returning home late this evening?’
‘I’m not sure.
That depends on how things go. Never mind, if I’m not back by twelve you can
toddle off to bed. I’ve got my key so I’ll let myself in.’
Slinging the
golf bag over her shoulder, she stepped outside and made her way cautiously
down the limestone steps from her Town House to the street below.
‘Good evening Milady.’
‘Not so I’d
noticed, James. I trust the usual amount will suffice.’
He tipped his
hat as she pressed a Pound note into his grubby little hand. To tell the truth,
she found the filthy little guttersnipe quite obnoxious. In his favour was the
fact that he could seal his lips tighter than a duck’s bottom and suffered from
reliable bouts of amnesia when required. It’s why she gave him the business.
‘Shall I take
that?’ James said eyeing up the golf bag.
‘Well, I’m not
putting it onto your roof rack myself.’
Sometimes she
shuddered at the plebeian mentality. If the aristocracy and landed gentry
weren’t careful, these people would demand equality, set up home in the same
street, and want to send their brats to Eton and Rugby.
As she settled
into her seat James opened up a little hatch behind her head. ‘Where do you
want to go this evening Milady?’
‘I thought we
might head into the East End for a change. Perhaps you could drop me off in
Whitechapel.’
‘It’s a bit
rough there at the moment.’
‘It’s always
been rough there.’
‘Well, begging
Milady’s pardon but I’d suggest a nine iron might be your best option tonight.’
She’d already
decided on the sand wedge, but she supposed the little twerp knew what he was
talking about and settled down for the journey which gave her time to think.
It had all
started with the untimely death of her father some three months before.
Willoughby
Thrush, 3rd Viscount Piddle in the Wold, had passed away quite
unexpectedly after a night carousing at his London Club. The official cause of
death was heart failure, although the actual circumstances had not been
recorded to avoid a public scandal. Suffice to say it involved a Captain from
the Grenadier Guards dressed as a French Maid and some wet lettuce. If any of
this had ever got into the papers it would have caused a bigger hurrah than her
Cousin Gerald’s recent indiscretion.
The road to that
unfortunate little episode had begun with the reading of her father’s will.
‘And finally to
my only daughter, Chlamydia Thrush, I leave my Mayfair Townhouse and the sum of
£50,000 pounds on condition that she marries by her twenty-fifth birthday. The
said amount will be paid in full upon validation of the marriage to the
executors of my estate.’
She was
mortified. A life of servitude to a sponging husband and dozens of screaming
children was not what she wanted at all. She was suddenly in desperate need of
a short term solution. A sham marriage which would satisfy the terms of her
late father’s will and leave her free to continue to enjoy life. But where
could she find a suitable match at such short notice?
For days she’d scoured
the society columns in the Times searching for a victim and finally came across
the eldest son of the Marquis of Cranberry.
Richard William
Everhard stood out a mile. Filthy rich beyond description he wouldn’t be
interested in her modest little inheritance. He wasn’t too bad looking either
so, if she were to drink too much sherry one evening, it wouldn’t be a total
disaster. Not that she had any intention of allowing Lord Dickie Everhard
anywhere near her. The mousetrap between the sheets trick had worked dozens of
times before and by the time he was fit and well again, she’d have the divorce
all worked out. She might even get away with a slice of his cake as well.
And so the
courtship began with a chance meeting at one of the debutantes balls held every
summer around the capital.
‘I’m so sorry,’
she said as he careered across the floor and smashed his head on a coffee
table. ‘I didn’t mean to trip you up like that. Here you come and sit with me
and Lydia will kiss it better.’
‘Who is Lydia?’
She rolled her
eyes and pursed her lips seductively. ‘Why, it’s me you little sausage.’ With
one arm up his back, she gently guided him to a quiet corner of the room and
sat him down. He still seemed quite woozy, which she considered to her
advantage. ‘Now you sit here and Lydia will soothe that little bump on your
head for you.’
‘Where is
Lydia?’ he asked, looking around the room with a vacant expression glued to his
face.
‘It’s me, you
poor darling,’ she replied. He still wasn’t the full ticket. Better for her, she
supposed.
Lady C clicked her fingers and a waiter appeared. ‘A bottle of claret and two
glasses.’
He nodded and
dutifully returned less than a minute later. Setting down the glasses he poured
their drinks and placed the bottle next to them.
Dickie Everhard
was still staring off into space so she used the opportunity to remove a small
phial containing a colourless liquid from her sleeve.
She’d acquired it
from a despicable old crone from Bethnal Green, who lived in a rundown little
terrace near Wharf Place. According to James, who’d tipped her off about the
supplier, she’d be able to get a potion for just about anything depending on
her need. Apparently, poison was the woman’s main stock in trade, although she
was quite adept at making up other concoctions as well.
Dickie Everhard
seemed to be regaining his senses so she quickly put a few drops of the love
potion into his glass and put it into his hand. ‘You need a drink.’
It took a moment
for her words to sink in and she waited with baited breath as he took a sip,
followed by another and then another until the glass was empty.
It was as if
every gas lamp in the house had been turned on at once. ‘You’re ravishing,’ he
said. ‘I could make love to you right now.’
‘Steady on,’ she
replied, never expecting it to work this quickly or this well.
‘And I’ve been
dreaming of someone like you all my life,’ said a familiar voice.
She turned to
find Cousin Gerald standing behind her, gazing into Dickie Everhard’s eyes. To
make matters worse he was staring at Gerald like a lovelorn pigeon.
‘There’s no one
in the billiards room at the moment,’ he said brandishing a door key.
And that was the
end of that. The next thing anyone knew the pair had disappeared to Florence
and set up home together. It was all over the papers inside a week.
And so that
brings me to Lady C’s reason for wanting to go into town on such a foul
night. She needed to find someone to groom into a prospective husband to
satisfy the terms of the will. It couldn’t be an East Ender of course, that
would never do. What she needed was a good old Johnny Foreigner whom she could
pass off as a Count. Preferably not German or Italian as all the titled
families were too well known. Someone from Eastern Europe would be best and
from what she’d heard there were quite a few Poles living in Whitechapel.
As the cab drew
to a halt, James slid back the hatch. ‘We’re here Milady.’
She peered
through the window into a dimly lit street. ‘Where exactly are we?’
‘Brick Lane.
It’s where all the immigrants live. They’re mainly Jews and Poles at the moment
although you might find the odd oriental chappie or two.’
Looking at the
density of the fog she couldn’t imagine finding anything, but she hadn’t come
all this way to turn back now.
‘Want me to wait
for you?’
She gave James a
look which put the little twerp in his place.
‘I’ll get you a
club.’
Handing her a
nine iron, he settled himself down to wait for her return.
Further along
the street she could hear the sound of a piano amidst a chorus of voices and
decided to head off in that direction. She’d absolutely no intention of
entering the establishment so found a suitable place from where she could
observe the area around.
She’d been
standing beneath a gas lamp for just a minute or two when a figure of a man
emerged from the smog. At first glance he seemed a respectable type and as he
drew closer she was able to get a better look at him.
Dressed in a
well-tailored suit, complete with a top hat, he was certainly presentable
enough and, if he turned out to be a foreigner, might prove to be a suitable
candidate.
‘You are here on
business,’ he said, raising his hat.
‘Yes, that would
describe why I’m standing under this lamppost at such an unsociable hour.’
His lips curled
into a smile. ‘My name is Ludwig Schloski.’
‘You’re Polish.’
‘Yes. And you
are?’
‘No I’m not
Polish.’
‘I meant to ask
you what your name is.’
‘Lillie
Langtry,’ Lady C replied, feeling that a pseudonym would serve her best if he
didn’t want to go along with her little scheme.
Ludwig glanced
around. ‘The streets here are dangerous. Would you like me to escort you home?’
Not
unless you’re willing to walk behind the cab. ‘That
won’t be necessary. I thought we might just talk for a while.’
His brows arched
with surprise as if he should have been the one saying that last line. ‘What
would you like to talk about?’
‘Oh, I don’t
know. Maybe we could talk about the joys of marriage. Ever been married?’
‘Yes, three
times. My first two wives died from eating poison mushrooms.’
Lady C made a
mental note to tell Cook to take mushrooms off the menu. ‘So you are still
married.’
‘No, sadly my
third wife passed away after sustaining a brain haemorrhage.’
Although she
wasn’t normally sympathetic, she actually felt for him. ‘Oh my gosh! A brain
haemorrhage. How did that happen?’
‘She wouldn’t
eat the mushrooms.’ Then he chuckled, although his humour was lost on her and
she instinctively gripped the club behind her back a little tighter.
‘Are you
hungry?’ he said opening up the little black bag he was carrying.
She hoped it was
where he kept his sandwiches. Unfortunately, the item he withdrew from the bag
didn’t look anything like one.
If her
expression could have killed he’d be dead on the pavement by now. But, sadly,
no amount of disapproving looks from her would be sufficient to fend him off let
alone lay him low. ‘That’s a lovely knife. Was it made in Sheffield?’
He paused for a
moment, stood directly beneath the streetlamp and tilted the blade towards the light
to read the words etched on the blade. ‘It says Messrs....’ His words were cut
off by a well aimed blow to the back of his head. A moment later he pitched
forward and lay stretched out on the ground.
Lady C quickly looked around to see whether she’d been observed. As luck would have
it, no one else was about and she decided that this particular plan was just as
ill conceived as the one with the love potion. She needed to return home, take
a long hot bath and rethink her entire strategy.
She didn’t have
too much trouble finding James in the fog. He’d dozed off and was snoring
louder than a fog horn. A well placed dig in the ribs with the end of the golf
club soon wrestled him out of the arms of Morpheus.
‘That was
quick,’ he said, stifling a yawn as he leapt down to open the door.
Climbing aboard,
she made herself comfortable.
‘There’s a
bottle of brandy under the seat,’ he said.
Pouring a
healthy measure into a glass, she settled down for the journey and uttered
those immortal words, ‘Home, James.’
An hour later
they were back in Belgravia and she let herself into the house and dumped her
golf bag in the hall.
It was eerily
quiet so she supposed everyone else had retired to bed.
As she entered
her bedchamber she was greeted by the sight of Parker standing on a chair
dusting the chandelier.
He seemed just
as surprised as James had been by her early return. ‘Evening, Milady. I wasn’t
expecting you home so soon.’
‘Evidently not,’
she replied.
‘I’ll finish up
in the morning,’ he said, stepped down off the chair and headed towards the
door.
She barred his
way and gave him an alluring smile. Perhaps it was the adrenaline still pumping
through her veins after her close encounter with death. Maybe it was the half
bottle of brandy she’d consumed on the way home. ‘There’s something I want you
to do before you go, Parker,’ she said huskily.
‘Yes, Milady?’
‘Now don’t be
alarmed,’ she said brushing a fingertip beneath his chin, “but I’d like you to
remove my dress.”
‘But, Milady, I
couldn’t.’
‘Parker!’
‘Yes, Milady.’
‘Now that wasn’t
so difficult was it? Next I want you to remove my corset.’
A look of sheer
horror crossed his face. ‘But Milady, I couldn’t possibly.’ A moment’s
hesitation followed, but he reluctantly complied.
‘Now,’ she said,
fluttering her lashes and taking a firm grip of Parker's wedding tackle before
pulling it in the direction of Cape Town and giving a forty-five degree twist
towards Kathmandu.
‘Yes, Milady,’
he croaked as his eyeballs bulged.
‘Don’t you ever
let me catch you wearing my clothes again’
wonderful :)
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