Kerry Tombs: The Worcester Whisperers

WHITECHAPEL, LONDON. AUGUST 1888

She paused beneath the archway of the old building, drawing the veil slowly down across her face, seeking to distance herself from the world into which she now entered.

This was not her first visit. During the past year she had ventured into the labyrinth of streets and alleyways on numerous occasions, seeking out the information she had required, fitting the fragments of the past together, ever discarding the lies and the deceitful, and always seeking to understand why it had come to this.

She remembered the first time she had entered this other, strange place, with its loud noises and never-ending activities, its overcrowded hovels, its lingering smells of decay and death; places where the thick sickly air had sought to encompass her within its darkness and choking vapour. On that first visit she had been easily repelled and had fled quickly from its streets, gaining the sanctuary and relief of the countryside, vowing never to return, and deciding to relinquish her quest before it had begun.

But then as the months had passed, she found herself unable to rest, and the old desires had come once more to play upon her mind, eating into her very soul, until she had felt compelled to accept the inevitable — and knew that she would have to renew her journey, before she could ever hope to be at peace with herself.

At first she had only dared to return to the area during the day, attemping to gradually familiarize herself with the streets and buildings, the shops and drinking places, the markets and cheap lodging houses — and always changing her appearance so that she would not become noticeable, or thought different from those around her. Then as she had become familiar with her new surroundings, she had returned during the hours of darkness, walking the narrow alleyways, always seeking to converse with those who lingered beneath the shadows of the crippled buildings to slowly gain their confidence. When she had learnt all that she had sought, she had withdrawn into the dimly lit corners and doorways, where unnoticed by all those around her, she had begun to watch those who now interested her.

Now she knew that the time had come.

She waited anxiously. Somewhere in the distance she heard a clock chime the hour. Perhaps the boy would not come after all? He had taken her money — perhaps he would have decided that the prospect of further recompense was not worth the effort. She would have to find someone else who could lead her to the man whom she now sought above all others.

She paced back and forth, straining to peer through the lingering fog at any noise she could hear, waiting to commence the sequence of events for which she had planned for so long. The idea that she had come so far, and that she might yet be turned away from her purpose, was a thought she could not bare to countenance.

‘Miss!’

It was the voice of the child. So he had come after all. Money was always the persuader.

‘Miss!’

The speaker emerged before her; a ragged child not above ten years of age, but no doubt far more knowledgeable, above his years, in the ways of the street.

She felt in her purse and took out the shilling.

‘Take me to him — and there will be more,’ she said holding out her hand.

The child seized the coin from her outstretched palm, and looked up at the strange woman who was dressed entirely in black from head to foot, and whose face he could barely see from beneath her veil.

‘Follow us, lady,’ he said, turning away.

She nodded and followed the boy down the dark alleyway.

They made their way down a succession of streets and narrow twisting walkways, the boy pausing momentarily now and then to glance behind him, to see that he had not lost his companion in the darkness of the night.

Their journey took them past a number of drinking dens where the noises of the revellers and the songs of the piano escaped through the open windows before drifting upwards into the enveloping fog. Then onwards past the rows of squalid houses with their ever changing smells and decaying fabrics — until she began to realize that they were gradually making their way out of the streets with which she had become so familiar during the previous months.

Now they appeared to be walking into an even darker unknown world, where the sounds of the night seemed to fade away into nothingness, until all she could hear was the noise of her own boots on the cobbled pavements. She began to feel afraid that perhaps the child was taking her to a place from where his accomplices might be lying in wait for her, and from whence she might never return. Her own life was of little consequence to her, but it was the sudden realization that her mission might then come to nought that now increased her anxiety.

‘How much further?’ she asked, seeking to regain her breath.

The child said nothing — and continued on his way.

She paused for a moment. She told herself that there was still time to put an end to it all, to abandon this mad desire, that she should retreat from the darkness, and return once more to the world of purity, light and sunshine, and to the hills which she had known for nearly all of her life.

‘Down ’ere!’ said the boy, breaking into her thoughts, and suddenly turning off the alleyway. ‘Mind the water miss.’

She realized that they were now walking by the side of a canal. She could hear the gentle lapping of the waters as she pressed her handkerchief close to her nose in a vain attempt to extinguish the smells that rose from the decaying waterway. Occasional glimmers of light from the hanging lanterns of the barge boats lit the cobbled towpath before them, making their way easier.

Suddenly the child led her away from the canal and down a narrow passageway where the darkness seemed to close in around them once more.

‘Monk, up there!’ The boy pointed upwards towards a light that flickered at the top of a flight of steps, which led from out of the yard in which they now found themselves. ‘He be expecting you, miss.’

So this was where he had brought her, to a lonely warehouse in this dark forgotten corner of London. She felt inside her purse and took out the crown. As she placed the coin in the child’s hand she could see the light reflected in his eyes as his fist closed greedily around the coin.

‘You must wait for me here,’ she began, but the child turned on his heels and ran quickly down the alley, leaving her alone at the foot of the steps. Had he taken her to this lonely place merely to abandon her? Clearly he had been only interested in her money. She could have expected little else. Perhaps the man she sought was nothing more than a figment of the child’s imagination, but then she remembered it had been she who had learnt of his arrival in the city and who had instructed the boy to find him.

Slowly, knowing not what she might find, she made her way up the narrow steps on the outside of the old warehouse, until she reached the door at their head. Realizing that it was slightly ajar, and that she would be expected, she pushed open the door and entered.

At first she could see nothing in the room, except the flickering flame from a solitary candle that burned somewhere in the distance. Cautiously she drew near, saying nothing, but aware that there was another there who had awaited her arrival, and who was now observing her every move.

‘You are the man they call Monk?’ she enquired, in a voice that seemed unlike her own.

‘The child said you would come,’ said a voice from somewhere in the darkness beyond the candle. ‘Take a seat, my good lady.’

She almost stumbled into the wooden chair that had been placed before the table, but quickly recovered her composure and seated herself.