The Hellfire Conspiracy

8

Cyrus Barker is loath to miss Sunday morning service at the Baptist Tabernacle, but there was a young girl still missing in Bethnal Green and some things take priority. We had no sooner alighted from the cab in Green Street than we were accosted. The first thing I knew, someone had seized my arm and begun shaking it violently. Automatically, I went into one of the defensive postures Barker taught me, but it was only one of the mudlarks we had spoken to earlier, the woman known as Mum Alice. She was shouting something at us I couldn’t make out.

“Slow down, Alice,” Barker counseled. “Take a deep breath and speak slowly.”

“Ah found ’em,” she pronounced slowly. Despite her name, she was not mum. A harelip coupled with a thick Cockney accent and an excitable manner made her difficult to understand, unless one took the time to listen. “Found ’er cwothes.”

“You found Miss DeVere’s clothes? Where are they?”

“Pe’icoat Wane. Bu’ ’e go’ Annie!”

“Who’s got Annie?”

“Swanson! I wan away ’fore ’e could ge’ me.”

The next I knew we were climbing back into the hansom, Barker, myself, and Alice, all bound for Petticoat Lane. She was bouncing on her seat in excitement. It may have been her first cab ride. As for me, I found the conditions, squeezed between Barker’s hard shoulder and Alice’s soft one, like an immense, unwashed pillow, less than ideal.

Once one passes beyond Aldgate pump, Petticoat Lane is the first street one finds on the right. I paid the cabbie. On Sunday it is sheer madness, but the rest of the week the street vendors are gone and only the permanent shops remain. Barker did not object when Alice took his arm and led him down the street. We penetrated farther into the lane than we’d ever gone before. After several hundred yards, the street breaks up into narrow alleyways, with smaller and meaner looking shops. Alice pulled the Guv down one of the alleys. The shallow open booths there were split horizontally, so that while one vendor sat with his legs crossed an inch above the pavement, displaying secondhand collars, his upstairs neighbor sat a few inches above his head, offering ties, handkerchiefs, and suspenders. Inspector Swanson was standing and talking with Dirty Annie, as solid looking as a lamppost.

“Donald,” Barker said casually, as if he just happened to be doing a bit of shopping in the area and stumbled across him.

“Cyrus,” Swanson responded, affecting the same casual tone.

“It’s ’ere, yer worship!” Mum Alice burst out.

Barker followed her to a booth, and she pointed a warty finger at a square of folded clothing arranged among several others. It was blue and white, with an open collar, and a neckerchief with an anchor design embroidered upon it. A sailor suit. My employer crouched down and lifted one end of the fabric, scrutinizing the label sewn in the collar. He nodded once. It was Rowes of Bond Street. The proprietor of the shop, if indeed one could call the small square of paved space a shop, was sitting so close the Guv might have reached out and shaken him, but he ignored him totally for the moment.

“How’d you find this booth?” he asked Swanson over his shoulder.

“I do this for a living, you know,” Swanson replied. “You’re not the only one who has informants.”

“Has he told you from whence the togs came?” Barker continued, this time referring to the proprietor directly. He finally turned the black quartz lens of his spectacles upon him. The vendor was a jowly fellow with a pendulous, unshaven neck, and a bowler too small for his hoary head.

“He’s nae said a word,” the inspector replied.

“What have you threatened him with?” Barker asked.

“The usual-a hard questioning down at A Division.”

“Take a walk, Donald.”

“No, Cyrus. There’ll be no tossin’ suspects about while I’m in the area.”

Barker nodded, still squatting there, deep in thought. Then he reached out, plucked the man’s greasy tie from inside his moth-eaten waistcoat and slowly pulled the man toward him. He spoke to him in one ear, so low we could not catch a word. Then slowly, he loosed the tie and the man settled down back on the pavement.

“Ask your question again.”

“Your name, sir. State your full name and address,” the inspector demanded.

“Joseph Perkins, three eleven Flower and Dean Street,” the slovenly man muttered.

“Who sold you these clothes?”

“Didn’t give their names and I didn’t ask ’em.”

“Isn’t it customary to ask for names and addresses when purchasing clothing?”

“It may be down near Aldgate High Street, in the prime sites. We ain’t so p’ticular back here where the sunlight don’t get through.”

“Were you aware a girl was missing wearing just such clothing?” Swanson demanded.

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Girls go missing every day.”

“There is not an epidemic of missing girls in the East End of London,” Swanson stated, as if he were giving evidence in court.

“Suit yourself, then,” Perkins said with a shrug. “Don’t know nothing, didn’t see nothing.”

“You saw something, all right,” Barker growled. “Describe who sold you this sailor suit.”

“Were just a girl and her mum. She looked the right size for the clothes, though the frock she had on weren’t nothing to speak of. Family resemblance; had to be mother and daughter. Girl looked about twelve, her mum…It’s hard to tell in Whitechapel.”

“She was from Whitechapel?”

“Didn’t say that. I assumed. They was pretty draggle-tailed. Came in late yesterday and mum seemed nervous. Didn’t speak English much. She wore a ’kerchief round her head. I didn’t know about the sailor suit then or I’d a turned her down, but it is a beauty. Gave her a bob for it.”

“Do you remember a name?” Barker growled. He was still balanced on the balls of his feet, as solid as if he were cemented there.

The man was quiet a moment. He closed his eyes. “Yer. She called her by an odd name, the mum did. What was it? Orma? Una? No, it was Ona, I think. The girl had stepped over to look at that booth there selling ribbons, and her mum cracked the whip hard. ‘Ona, come, child.’”

“That’s all you can recall?” Barker demanded, looking as menacing as only he can.

“That’s the lot, Push. Honest.”

Barker stood then, slowly straightening his knees.

“You’re taking the clothes I shelled out for and not leaving a penny, aren’t you?” Perkins demanded of the inspector.

“Any time you want to visit them, you can see them in A Division,” Swanson replied.

“Like I’m gonna go to the Yard voluntarily,” the vendor grumbled.

“How long was your time?” Barker asked.

“Five years hard in Princetown for ’sault. Thought he was a bloke what owed me money. How was I to know he were a solicitor?”

By now the two women were dancing about behind us. Barker instructed me to give them each sixpence to send them on their way. They shot off like horses at Ascot. Finally, he had me pass a shilling to Mr. Perkins.

“You’re a gentleman, sir!” Perkins said. “Thank ye.”

“What you are,” Swanson corrected as he bent down to pick up the clothing, “is a soft touch.”

“‘Rob not the poor because he is poor,’” Barker quoted.

“I’ll see you two gentlemen again,” Swanson continued. “The commissioner will want to see these.” He disappeared down the lane, or almost. Being a head taller than most, we watched his bowler hat bob through the knots of shoppers.

“We must work a little harder to stay ahead of Donald Swanson,” the Guv said.

“He has informants.”

“Aye. Canny ones. Let us hurry.”

“Why bother?” I asked. “It seems certain now that Gwendolyn DeVere is dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Her clothes were right there. You’re not going to find two outfits by Rowes of Bond Street for sale in the East End, and I think it unlikely she is alive somewhere unclothed.”

“Perhaps, but we have a name at least. Ona. I believe it is Lithuanian.”

“Jewish?” We were in the heart of the Jewish quarter. In fact, we were surrounded by hoardings in Yiddish.

The minute we were away from the watchful eye of Inspector Donald Swanson, I pulled out my notebook and began flipping pages.

“Ona, Ona, Ona,” I repeated until I finally saw the name. “Miss Hill said she was the only girl Miss DeVere would speak to in the Green.”

“I believe we should speak to Miss Bellovich and her mother.”

“Perhaps. Let us return to the Charity Organization Society.”

“But, sir, it is Sunday. Surely they will be closed.”

“They have a smaller group of women working on Sunday, headed by Miss Levy. As she is Jewish, it is not her Sabbath and she can tend to the unfortunates who need aid when the society would otherwise be closed.”

We caught a cab back toward Bethnal Green. Once inside the C.O.S., Barker walked up to the attractive but tart Miss Levy and asked to speak to her privately.

Amy Levy looked hard at him, trying to come up with a reason to refuse, but finally stepped outside with us.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Barker?”

“Miss Levy, I would like to say a given name to you and perhaps you can supply a surname in return. Are you agreeable?”

She nodded hesitantly.

“The name is Ona.”

“Yes,” came the immediate response. “Ona Bell. Actually, it is Ona Bellovich. She was one of our charity cases here, along with her mother, Svetlana, when they first arrived in England six months ago. Ona was friendly with Gwendolyn, though I cannot say it was much reciprocated. She is a sweet girl. She acts as interpreter for her mother, who speaks mostly Yiddish. But how have you come across her name? Surely the Belloviches have not done anything criminal.”

“Perish the thought, Miss Levy. As enquiry agents, we must track down all leads in an investigation. Her name came up this morning. Perhaps she spoke to Gwendolyn the day of her disappearance. Is it possible that the charity might have their present address?”

Miss Levy held back. “You merely wish to question her, do you not?”

“Of course. Does Mrs. Bellovich have a husband or male relative I might speak to first?”

“No, the two are alone in England. Her husband paid their passage but has been unsuccessful so far in gathering enough to follow.”

“I see. And the address?”

She demurred another moment, but finally came to a decision in Barker’s favor. “Wait here. I shall look up her file and bring it to you.”

She disappeared into the building while we stood on the pavement and watched traffic on Green Street and Globe Road. It was a warm day, warm enough to be uncomfortable in my cutaway. As usual, the building was lined with applicants using the walls for support, as if they had been glued there as ornamentation.

Miss Levy soon returned and pressed a note into Barker’s hand. There was a bloom in her olive cheeks. If I had known how many attractive girls the charities employed, I might have become a socialist long ago.

“Thank you,” Barker said gruffly.

“You will be gentle, won’t you?” Amy Levy asked.

“I am a professional, Miss Levy. Leave it to me.” We raised our hats and left her standing there looking pensive.

“They live in Cheshire Street,” Barker said, thrusting the note in his pocket. “Now, here is what I want you to do. When we get inside, stand in front of the door and hold your stick in front of you. I want you to do your best to look as imposing as possible.”

“That does not sound gentle to me,” I said.

“I made no such promise to Miss Levy, if you will recall, lad. This woman and child may be the only people who can lead us to Gwendolyn DeVere, but I fear they shall not give information to us voluntarily. They are Lithuanian, and as such have been subjected to raids by Cossacks and secret police their entire lives. They will not trust us, no matter what inducements we may give.”

“How shall we get the information, then?” I asked.

“By giving them what they expect. We must frighten them into giving us the information.”

Cyrus Barker smote the rickety door of a squalid tenement in Cheshire Street. His cane, like my own, was malacca with a brass head. Malacca cane is very flexible, and with the weighted head it provides a hard thump, whether on a wooden door or a human skull.

The door was jumping on its hinges, in danger of falling in, but still nobody answered our summons. It wasn’t hard to picture Barker as some sort of secret police officer or Russian Cossack. All he needed was a fur hat. Granted, England didn’t have secret police, but I’m sure fear of authority had been instilled in them since birth.

Finally, a shrill, quavering voice came from inside and the door opened to reveal a wide-eyed woman of about five and thirty, in a smocked dress with a kerchief tied around her head. Barker pushed his way in, speaking what I assumed was Yiddish. I followed Barker’s instructions, closing the door and standing in front of it, my cane held horizontally and a fierce expression on my face. I don’t think that I was going to frighten anyone, but I didn’t need to. Barker was doing an excellent job of that all by himself.

It was a squalid room full of broken furnishings, and it reminded me of my past. The dining table was heaped with the makings for paper flowers, a depressing little industry in which my late wife’s family had been employed. One had to make hundreds in a day, and then sell those hundreds to people who had little use for them, in order to make even the most negligible of profits.

Barker spoke gravely with Mrs. Bellovich for several moments. The poor woman was so terrified, she was trembling. She kept shaking her head as if to confirm that her daughter was not there.

“Ona Bellovich!” the Guv called out in English. “You had better come out at once. I would hate to take this good woman down to police headquarters.”

Svetlana Bellovich stared apprehensively at my employer, though it was obvious she didn’t understand what he had just said. What a life she must have lived already that the presence of officers of the law, real or spurious, was enough to turn her into a quivering mess. What terrors and deprivations she must have gone through before arriving on our comparatively safe shores.

“Miss Bellovich!” my employer went on in a loud voice. “No one holds you responsible for Miss DeVere’s disappearance, but if you do not show yourself, we may be forced to search the house.”

Someone began knocking at the door behind me, and I heard men’s voices calling out in a foreign tongue. The handle jiggled, but I dug in my heels and refused to allow anyone to enter.

“Very well,” Barker said, heaving a sigh. “Mr. Llewelyn, take Mrs. Bellovich to jail. I’ll start searching the rooms.”

“Nyen!” a voice cried from somewhere in the house. A girl of about twelve years old came running out, into the arms of her mother. The two spoke to each other quietly for a moment, while outside the beating on the door continued.

“Miss Bellovich, I have no wish to cause harm to you or your mother, but you must come forward and speak to the police. I work for Gwendolyn’s parents and am trying to find her. You have information that may help us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. The girl looked like a younger version of her mother and wore a similar print dress and kerchief.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Why don’t you tell the gentlemen outside that you are safe and that we are only going to talk to you? Lad, open the door.”

When I did, three men fell in, almost at my feet. They rose quickly. One seized my wrist and I was about to clout him with my stick, while the other two went for Barker, when Madame Bellovich raised her hands and spoke. Whatever she said convinced them to leave with nothing but mutterings and frowns in my direction.

Barker and the mother and daughter sat down at the wobbly table, and Ona began to speak quietly. My employer put questions to the girl, while her mother left and returned minutes later with cracked mugs full of strong, evil-tasting tea. Our assault upon their house began to take on a more domestic aspect. Barker shook his finger in Ona’s face like an uncle admonishing his niece. By the end of it, the Guv had both the girl and her mother nodding and smiling, though there were still tears in Ona’s eyes and strain on her mother’s face.

Barker pushed himself out of his chair, which squeaked in protest. He shook hands with both women, and when he gestured toward me, I raised my bowler in response. When we opened the door, all three men were waiting outside, but we merely made our way past them, like rent collectors on the first day of the month. It confounded them enough to let us pass freely down the stairs and into the street unmolested.

“So let me get this straight,” I said, after we were settled into the vehicle trundling down Commercial Street. “Miss DeVere borrowed a dress and kerchief from Ona Bellovich and slipped out of the C.O.S. without being seen. A sailor suit would have been noticed by dozens of people in those streets, as would a cloak in this warm weather. But why did Ona help her?”

“She complied because Gwendolyn insisted upon it. Apparently, this was to be her grand exit. She planned to run away with Ona and stay hidden for the rest of the day, all night, if necessary, until her mother agreed to quit the volunteer work. Ona says Gwendolyn thought her mother’s duties to be degrading. She had planned everything rather well, but of course, she had not planned on Mr. Miacca.”

“You think he has her?” I asked. “He has definitely not stated as much. It might still be white slavers. With her peasant clothes they might have taken her for a poor girl.”

“The slave trade would have tried to get her out of the country by now, and, as I said, I have an associate guarding the ports, with a competent crew. Scotland Yard is watching Newhaven and Dover, as well. I don’t believe anyone could have successfully smuggled her out from under our collective noses. More likely, Miacca has her here, and you know what he does to bad children.”