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.

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, 3^rd 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’