Page 16 of A Shop Girl’s Christmas (Pennington’s Department Store #3)
Later that evening, Stephen walked through the centre of town and along Bath’s sloping cobbled streets, heading towards the river. With each step, the aromas of roasted meats, cooked vegetables and spices wafting from open restaurant windows, and the high-pitched gaiety of the richly dressed men and women, lessened. Instead, the stench of rotten food, human waste and the murky smells of the River Avon increased.
A strange sense of familiarity enveloped him as he continued ever closer to the slums and shacks of poverty and away from the sand-coloured town houses of wealth and prosperity.
Any sense that Bath was far removed from the deep, dank streets of London faded as the cries of hungry babes blended with the cursing and swearing of painted prostitutes and stumbling drunkards. His instincts were on high alert as people pitched back and forth along the street, their glazed eyes and their cheeks ruddy, personifying their misfortune.
The name of the street he searched for was stamped on his memory, the map he studied earlier in the evening clearly drawn in his mind. If his mother had wondered at his slovenly state of dress, the purposely applied streaks of charcoal on his face and hands, she hadn’t questioned him. Instead, she’d merely assessed him from head to toe as he’d passed her in the hallway to the front door, nodded and continued on her way to the kitchen.
His old life hadn’t remained a secret for long inside Pennington’s, but he’d worry what to do about that in good time. For tonight, he wanted to see the location of the murder that had further inflamed Joseph Carter’s need to seek retribution for his dead wife.
He reached the railed embankment edging the River Avon and hitched up the collar of his overcoat, bending his head away from the stagnant smells that whipped along the walkway on a steadily rising wind. He passed darkened forms squatting in corners, some with earthenware jugs clutched in their hands, others with their eyes closed in slumber or distress.
Stephen’s stomach lurched at their plight, but he pushed onwards until he came to the area he’d circled on his map, determined by the clippings Carter had given him and through his own research. He stared along the narrow street, with shacks and run-down houses either side, pleased to find the street empty of any humanity, merely inhabited by a couple of stray mongrels as they rooted through discarded trash.
The deeper he walked into the foetid space, the more memories assaulted him. Once again, Constable Walker, Hettie and Fay invaded his thoughts and deepened his guilt. This street bore a horrible resemblance to the place where their bodies had been discovered. The same brown moisture glistened on the mossy walls to pool in dirty puddles at his feet. The same smells of filth and refuse infused his nostrils. The only source of light came from an overhead window and the street lamp at the far end.
He pulled a rag from his pocket and pressed it to his nose and mouth.
The murder had taken place only days before, but nothing was left to give him an idea of motive or perpetrator. The woman had been stabbed and her basket of offerings thrown to the ground, her killer pocketing all he wanted before fleeing. Stephen could hardly blame Carter for concluding to the similarities between this recent attack and that of his wife. Yet, for Stephen, the similarities held little meaning when stabbing and bludgeoning happened all the time throughout England’s capital city.
But did they happen with the same frequency in Bath? After scouring the newspapers, past and present, he thought not. Assault on women trying to help the people unfortunate enough to find themselves trying to survive here was abhorrent and surely unusual enough to raise concern, even amongst the slums’ downtrodden residents.
Why would someone attack the very people trying to help them and their neighbours? Unfortunately, logic rarely existed amid desperation and depravity. When a person was starving, sleep-deprived and desperate, they lashed out and took what they could without preamble. When a father repeatedly failed to keep his family fed and warm, he could turn vicious and violent. But what sort of person plunged a knife deep into a women’s belly, withdrew the blade and struck a second and third time? That was the similarity that bothered him. It didn’t speak of a hungry man, it spoke of an angry man. A man intent on settling a score. Of taking revenge.
But why against these particular women? Were they targeted? Or was it their charity that awoke the beast? Either way, if the perpetrator came from the lowlier side of Bath, it was probable he was still in town. The odds of getting out of the slums were stacked against children born into squalor to a nearly impossible height. Years of resentment, struggle and death seeped deep into their blood and marred their souls. Meaning they remained here to adulthood and eventually death.
Footsteps a distance away, followed by the crash and bang of something metal hitting the cobbles spun Stephen around as his muscles tensed. He slid his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around his cudgel, the blunt weapon his only defence. He wasn’t foolish enough to venture into an area such as this without protection.
A man in a dark overcoat and tattered top hat lumbered towards him.
Stephen braced for whatever might come next. ‘You there. What are you doing?’
Still, the man came forward. As he stepped closer, Stephen took in the tears and patches on the stranger’s overcoat, his laceless boots and the bottle gripped in his hand. A modicum of tension left Stephen’s shoulders. If the man was drunk it would be to Stephen’s advantage, but if he was playacting…
‘Stay back,’ he growled. ‘I want no trouble.’
The man stopped a few feet away and swayed back and forth. He lifted his head and his dark eyes glinted in the half-light. ‘Who the bloody hell are you? I saw you come in here and waited for your return. Thought a gentleman masquerading as a dropout might be needing some help from someone who knows this stinking place.’
Not taking his gaze from the man, Stephen glared. ‘You live around here?’
‘Live?’ The man tipped his head back and laughed, revealing a few blackened teeth and a puff of breath so rancid, it practically scorched Stephen’s eyelashes despite the distance between them. ‘A man don’t live here, sir. He bloody survives, is what he does.’
The man fell against the wall beside him, his shoulder acting as an anchor and Stephen risked a few steps closer. ‘Do you know about the murder of a young woman down this way a few days ago?’
The vagrant took a swig from his bottle and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Yeah, what of it?’
Barely two feet separated them as Stephen tightened his grip around the cudgel. ‘Did you know her? The woman who was murdered?’
‘’Course not. She was hardly the type to give the likes of me her name, was she? She was a good sort, though. Kind. Pretty.’ He took another tug on his bottle. ‘Came here to do good and got killed for her efforts.’
Surmising by the conversational tone of the man’s speech and his relaxed demeanour he was unlikely to stage an attack, Stephen withdrew his hand from his pocket. ‘Did you see anything that night?’
‘Nothing. They reckon she was dragged into this street from down by the river, so someone must’ve seen something. Not that anyone would admit to it. Who wants the law on your back when you can barely remember your own name?’
Stephen considered what use this man could be to him. A possible ally or informant was better kept close. He extracted a few pennies from the inside pocket of his jacket and held the coins out in his palm. ‘Here. Take this.’
The man eyed the money, his body a little more upright than before. ‘What’s that for? I ain’t one of those nancy boys, you know.’
‘I’m sure you’re not, but I’d appreciate you asking a few questions about the murder to some of the people who live, drink or sleep around here. What do you think?’
The man reached out and slowly took the money, staring at it before slipping the coins into his shoe. ‘You’ll be coming back then?’
‘Yes.’ Stephen nodded and walked past the man towards the light at the end of the street. ‘I’ll be back.’