The Whitechapel Virgin Read online

  ‘Well, if you think that such a post at the tavern is vacant Eddie, then I…’

  He raised his hand. ‘Say no more miss. Wait here, I shall go and visit Madame in her office and see if she will lend an ear.’

  He hurried out of the door.

  Catherine could not help but giggle at his foolish charm and the sudden fervent interest he had adopted in her welfare.

  Outside, loud chimes from the church bells tolled the hour, as if marking the difference between her old life and the beginning of a new existence just ahead. She became aware of the sound of distant chatter from folks in the street below, the many bodies emerging from their homes to attend work or the local marke. Finding comfort in their voices she turned to face the window.

  There she witnessed the same scene as the previous night, only now she could see the fullest picture by daylight, noticing how the clarity of day barely improved it much. There were street sweepers carrying brushes and chimney pots belting out smoke, the ground strewn with hay and layered with smuts of soot.

  Drab looking under-fed people went about their business up and down the cobbled road. Their hats were tilted low over their eyes and some, who were bent right over, hobbled along precariously on wooden sticks. Further along two small grubby-faced children banged two rusty cans near an upturned wheelbarrow where rotting matter spilled out from beneath it.

  She turned and studied the room again and despite Eddie’s positive description, she felt that it really wasn’t a pleasant room at all with its lack of colour and damp peeling plaster. But as drab as it was, she might have the tiny room all to herself and some prospect of work at least. That was more than she had found traipsing around the city the entire previous day.

  Maybe if she worked hard enough at the tavern or in the kitchen she would never have to entice the men down there in the alleyway in the dead of night. And if that work was to be expected of her, deplorable as it seemed, then perhaps she could stay only for a short term or until she had saved enough coins to find a better....

  Her thoughts were interrupted when the door flew open and Eddie barged in with a wide grin.

  ‘Come with me Catherine Bell. Madame Davenport would like to meet you.’

  * * *

  Madame Davenport’s wiry grey hair was swept up into a neat pile above her skeletal frame. A high collared black garment made her appearance heavily stern and aloof. Two thinly painted black lines for eyebrows framed piercing dark eyes. A burgundy slash was smeared across her thin lips.

  The brothel-mistress held tightly onto a cane which bore a silvery-tipped handle. Her hands trembled as she rose to her feet in order to approach Catherine where layers of her frayed old gown trailed behind her.

  ‘So what brings you to our lodging house, Miss Bell?’

  ‘I am homeless.’ Catherine replied truthfully.

  The Madame’s face did not flinch. ‘I have seen many homeless girls pass through these walls and none have thus far impressed me. How did you come to find the Boars Tavern might I ask?’

  Catherine gripped her hands together nervously, realising that she ought not to converse at length on her own sorrowful tale. The old woman’s countenance already showed that she would offer little by way of sympathy.

  ‘I have become orphaned by my aunt who fled in the night. I packed what little possessions I owned there and left as soon as the rental payment was due, for I could not pay it. I wish to seek work and lodgings and it was outside this very door that I stumbled last evening. Cold and weary I ventured inside with only a shilling on my person to seek refuge for the night.’

  The old woman listened carefully, circling the young girl slowly in order to view her from every possible angle.

  ‘And your age?’

  ‘Sixteen, Madame.’

  ‘A young woman, but still a mere fledgling for many of our respectably older clientele. However, I am sure that they would not express any hint of disapproval.’ One side of her crooked lip curved into a smile. With the tip of her cane she lifted the hem of Catherine’s skirt high above the waist.

  Catching her breath Catherine tried not to appear alarmed by the woman’s actions.

  ‘Hmm, your hips hardly amount to much, but you possess a good waist, unspoiled features, a look which still reflects an untainted innocence. You would indeed command a good price if I were to arrange it.’

  ‘Eddie has mentioned that perhaps I could serve at the tavern here,’ Catherine intervened boldly.

  Madame Davenport released her skirt and narrowed her eyes disapprovingly. ‘Young girl, I will decide your position here. That is if you are fortunate enough to be offered any kind of position at all.’

  She faced Catherine directly, lifting her chin with a long bony finger held erect by a large pearl-encrusted ring.

  ‘You have appealing features, Miss Bell. I would be very happy to place you on our list of available ladies, however, I will honour your desire for a short period of settling in. You may stay and begin this very evening assisting Tilly at the serving counter. During the day you will assist in the kitchen with cleaning duties. I will also have suitable attire sent to your room. Remuneration will be one and a half shillings per week, inclusive of one bowl of broth per day and you will also pay a small fee for your room in our lodging house. Is this to your satisfaction?’

  Catherine bit her lip nervously as she contemplated the offer presented before her. The wage was enough to get by on. It may even help her get back on her feet if she could save a few pence a week. It would do for now, even though she did not like the idea of having to contemplate the other kind of position where she would be made to leap the gap from girl to that of a brewery whore. To spend her evenings enticing and entertaining strange men, many of whom she had already seen were stout, vulgar and old.

  The alternative choice would be to flee now, try her chances elsewhere. But she already knew that the factories were full to the brim and there were no housemaid positions to be had for a girl with such few skills.

  And sooner or later a gentleman will want his way with me anyway.

  ‘I will take the position you offer with the deepest of gratitude, Madame.’

  Madame nodded and smiled.

  ‘A wise decision Miss Bell. You may go and settle into your room before your duties begin.’

  FIVE

  Edward Louis Cross picked up the Saturday newspaper and leafed through it with only mild interest.

  Flicking through the crisply pressed pages he took care to avoid the ever-repetitive and tedious announcements of visiting freak shows and wonder drugs for hay fever. He paused only momentarily at a brightly worded entry offering, “Cocaine tooth-drops at the competitive price of fifteen cents a box. Shipped immediately on demand.”

  Damn to hell those piffling Americans now peddling their wares all over England.

  He dropped the paper and inhaled a large lungful of air whilst looking about him. It was unusually clear and mild, and from his seat beside the new avant-garde coffee-house window, he noticed that the streets were still empty and silent.

  The fair young flower-seller who often circled the square with her wicker basket filled with wrapped arrangements was nowhere yet to be seen. Nor were the knock-knee’d paperboys calling out the latest headlines.

  Still, it was only seven thirty am and Cross had a good hour left to spare before heading home to confront his blasted house maid for burning a hole into his favourite silk vest.

  Affordable and hard-working the girl might be, but she was hardly worth the trouble if she couldn’t manage a simple undertaking as pressing one’s very expensive garment. He would now have to invest in a second one, even though he had only had the good fortune to wear the original item once.

  Disgruntled by his own thoughts
, he summoned over the waiter and ordered a second cup of coffee, deciding that he ought not to allow any more dismal thoughts spoil his planned end of week activities.

  There was a trip to the Pavilion to watch a stage play, some confoundedly odd theme of a romance on a ship wreck, not exactly his thing but highly preferable to loitering suspiciously at the door of the crowded Ten Bells. Then there was the pre-arranged squash match with Thomson, his ex-college acquaintance. Three outright wins and Thomson was seething with disappointment, so Cross was jolly well looking forward to upping his score now to four.

  An appointed trip to the quack the following week for a bothersome pain in his left leg threatened to dampen his spirits, but he decided to completely stamp out that vulgar thought too. There were no set plans for the rest of the day however, other than perhaps a leisurely stroll through town in the early evening, then perhaps the digesting of a hot rum with a companionable lady, or two, at Spitalfields.

  He swallowed the last bitter dregs of his coffee and exited the modern establishment. A man pushing a barrel organ sauntered past and tipped his hat to him. Cross reciprocated the gesture, though he was in no mood for pleasantries and so he hurriedly pressed on, reminding himself that the ghastly deed with the housemaid must be done so that he might spend his afternoon in relative peace and tranquility.

  No more than ten minutes later, he arrived at his destination. A modest five-roomed basement abode at the corner of the middle class racket along Commercial Road, possessing its very own outdoor space—and a bathroom! Masculine, yet tidy. It was a place he had inherited from an old well-to-do long-deceased uncle whom he’d never actually met. Being the last living male relative he had been fortunate to inherit the property.

  It was a mere stone throw from all the basic essential amenities, theatre, library, the up and coming Covent Garden market, and his frequent visits (one must cut down when physical ailments strike) to the least degrading whore-houses in the festering alleyways behind.

  Through the wrought iron-gate he descended a ridge of tiny steel circular steps which led directly to a brick-red front door, which he unlocked to inhale the familiar scent within.

  With some time to spare before the housekeeper’s arrival back from the market, he made his way to the study, a musky little cove with walls panelled in silken green. The long window was shielded by heavy damask drapes and in the corner stood a heaving bookshelf, a large rosewood desk and a sturdy carved high -backed chair. Almost all of the furnishings within the room had previously belonged to his uncle.

  On receiving the key to the residence, Edward and his mother had immediately packed up their belongings and moved down to London. Contrary to his country-loving mother Cross had always pined for city life, and was ecstatic to discover that they had inherited a property there. It had been waiting for a new owner and he had relished putting his own stamp on it.

  But things had not worked out as expected when his relationship with his mother, which had always been strained and difficult at best, became even more tempestuous in the cramped city apartment. Never agreeing with her son upon anything, Bessie had decided she detested London life and promptly moved back up north within the month to lodge with an old friend.

  After forwarding his mother’s belongings on, he quickly replaced her hideous flowery designs with the original ones, exuberant over the re-establishment of gothic cut glass chandeliers and fabrics in masculine earthy colours.

  Now, as he settled back into his comfortable chair, he poured through his latest correspondence. There was a greeting card from his mother, which he flicked aside. A bank statement he rarely bothered to check, since his uncle’s monthly stipend to his own account was more than sufficient for his adopted lifestyle, and an invoice for a sterling silver snuff box with an intricately enamelled design; highly desired for his own recreational use.

  Banishing the paperwork to a drawer, he impatiently pulled open a hidden compartment beneath the desk to extract a rich brown leather diary. He admired the sight of it as he flicked open the cover to reveal his last entry, licking his lips with anticipation.

  Miss F possesses a sweet temperament, she is genteel, though she can be a braggart in certain areas of intellect, which may or may not prove attractive to some. Her hair is a flaxen gold, blue eyes penetrative and fiery. A cottony thigh, which she unfolds, offers a tempting journey towards private lands. This lady is almost always spirited and jolly, and to employ her services a guinea would usually amount to more than enough.

  Cross thumbed through the index where he had compiled a list of details containing no less than fifty beauties, and all living within fairly close proximity. That would exclude, of course, those which might have succumbed to some of fate’s less desirable endings, but there really wasn’t much he could do about that. Even though he had kept an account of his encounters and affairs with these fillies, he was in no way responsible for their upkeep and welfare.

  Looking back, he recalled how some ladies had been a good bit older than his own thirty-two years, which would certainly bend an ear or two in social circles, without question. In fact, at least two thirds were very much pushing above their fortieth year, and there was that one unforgettable widow he recalled, ah yes - Mrs Benton, who insisted on being no older than fifty, but was in reality, closer to sixty-five. He chuckled as he remembered her surprising agility and the impressive stamina she possessed for a decomposing old mare.

  He recalled too how some were surprisingly open about their circumstances. He didn’t want to hear the hideous details of their past, he never proffered an interview from them, but sometimes they’d speak openly anyway.

  For courtesy’s sake he would obligingly listen as they swore over drunken ex-husbands who had cast them out from their homes, unforgiving family members who had disowned them, and how some had come straight out of the workhouse before taking up the game having never known family life at all.

  Grotty stuff indeed, he enthused, but still he deigned not to ponder on those frothy and dull observations, for his visits served a very important purpose. Firstly, there was the insatiable and necessary element of pleasure.

  What healthy, virile bachelor could successfully deny that his life revolved around its temptations, secretly or otherwise?

  And if one thought about it in a more practical fashion, he had in these encounters contributed to the livelihoods of many of these women, for he was certain that there were more than a few ladies over the years who might otherwise have ended up stealing scraps of crumbs from the street gutters, or worse.

  This very diary, the one he now held as tightly as a treasure freshly unearthed from the ground, would eventually be positioned before the eyes of a greedy Editor who, if he had any right mind at all, would see its potential right off the bat.

  He would make sure that it held a burgeoning potential. It would be pricey, he decided, but laden with the sexual specialities and details of at least a third of the region’s prostitutes. A tome that would no doubt be of interest to even the most aristocratic men in society. Their puritanical and prudish wives would never spot it, for his intention would be to emboss the cover in an inconspicuous dark leather or embossed gold, (clerical in form) with no hint as to its true content. Gentlemen could easily slip it between their ledgers or high up on their bookshelves.

  He almost cried at the brilliance of it all, when he was reminded of just one small bothersome issue which inwardly plagued him.

  The manuscript needed sizzle.

  Some type of ‘spectacular’ addition to provide the reader with unprecedented gratification, some such acquirement as a few entries of fresh girls, or some younger unspoiled breed.

  Now that would be a money shaker.

  The mere thought of describing his association with a chaste virgin made him tremble with excitement. In the last few years he had only ever be
en able to come across two such suitable specimens, twins in fact, both barely in their fourteenth year with pasty complexions, but highly eager to please. He recalled how they had succumbed to a terminal case of scarlet fever not long after his encounter, and so not much of any use at all to his diary entries.

  Scratching his chin, he sighed, feeling altogether deflated again.

  He returned his thoughts to Paris. A different story altogether, as Thomson nearly always delighted in telling him in solitary company.

  There, you could have anything and anyone you wanted. Any age, any size, and at any price! Why you could have more than one at a time.

  How can the male sex ever resist women like that?

  In fact, it was often impossible to feel anything less than pure jealousy when Thomson went off into a lewd discussion in finer detail on his ventures there, and because of his own wretched envy he didn’t much like to listen, but could barely help himself. Along Whitechapel Road he had nothing but a rotational pick of the very same washed up wenches that had been grazed upon by more than half of London’s male rodents.

  Even the Boars Tavern on Goulston street (near the ole hamlet by Dirty Dick’s) appeared increasingly dull and had never been a favourable haunt.

  Oh, where to find fresh encounters?

  His stream of thought paused here, for he recalled a recent incident which suddenly sprang to mind.

  Ah yes!

  The fresh young maiden who had stumbled at his feet a few weeks ago.

  Cross sat back habitually rubbing the hair on his chin between finger and thumb whilst trying to re-capture an image of the girl. If there was any such a thing as luck perhaps she had remained at the Boars Tavern lodging house or had chosen to reside within the area.

  The sound of a key turning in the lock startled him. He quickly slipped the diary back inside the drawer, locking it firmly with a key. He wouldn’t want the ignorant housekeeper to discover it and be frightened off. The work was far too valuable to allow any uncultured or illiterate person to decipher or denigrate its content. It was too important.