The River Maid

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Dilly Court 2018

Cover photographs: Front © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Background © Shutterstock (ships/harbour)

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008199609

Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008199616

Version: 2019-03-27

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

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Chapter One

Limehouse Hole, London, 1854

Essie Chapman pulled hard on the sculls as she rowed her father’s boat towards Duke Shore Dock. It was dark and the lantern on the stern of the small, clinker-built craft bobbed up and down, shedding its light on the turbulent waters of the River Thames. Essie fought against the tide and the treacherous undercurrents, but she was cold, wet and close to exhaustion. Her mysterious passenger had not spoken a word since she had collected him from the foreign vessel moored downriver. The task would normally have fallen to her father, Jacob, but he was laid up, having slipped on the watermen’s steps the previous evening. He had fallen badly and had been carried home to White’s Rents on an old door, the only form of stretcher available to the wharfinger’s men at the time. He had lain on the sofa like a dead man for twenty-four hours and when he awakened he could barely move a muscle.

‘You’ll have to do my next job for me, Essie, love. It’s a matter of life and death.’

His words echoed in her mind as she battled against the elements. By day Jacob’s small craft scurried up and down the river doing errands considered too small by the lightermen and watermen, but by night things were different. Sometimes it was the odd barrel or two of brandy that had to be sneaked ashore before the revenue men laid hands on it, or packets wrapped in oilskin, the contents of which would forever remain a mystery. There was always a messenger waiting on the shore to grab the cargo and spirit it off into the darkness. Money changed hands and Jacob would spend most of it in the Bunch of Grapes, coming home reeking of rum and tobacco smoke. Sometimes, when he felt generous, he would give Essie twopence to spend on herself, but the money was usually spent on necessities like bread, coal and candles.

The tide would turn very soon and Essie was anxious to reach the shore before the current took her downriver. She shot a furtive glance at her passenger, who was wrapped in a boat cloak that made him merge into the darkness. His face was concealed by the hood and she could not tell whether he was young or old, although his lithe movements when he had climbed down the ship’s ladder and boarded her boat suggested that he was in the prime of life. Getting him to dry land was uppermost in her mind and she put every ounce of strength into a last supreme effort to reach the wharf. The sound of the keel grating on gravel was like music to her ears, although it was as much as she could do to rise from her cramped position. Then, to her surprise, her passenger was on his feet and had stepped over the side, wading ankle deep in water as he dragged the craft effortlessly onto the mud and shingle.

The top of the wharf towered above them, menacing even by moonlight. The great skeletal ironwork of the cranes was silhouetted against the black velvet sky, and an eerie silence hung in the still air, punctuated only by the slapping and sucking of the water against the wooden stanchions. It had to be well after midnight and yet the river was still alive with wherries, barges and larger vessels heading for the wharves and docks further upstream. It was slack water and soon the tide would turn and the river would churn and boil as it flowed towards the coast. Jacob always said that river water ran in his veins instead of blood, and as a child Essie had believed every word her father said, but now she was a grown woman of twenty and she was not so gullible.

She stood up, but before she had a chance to clamber ashore the stranger leaned over and lifted her from the boat as easily as if she were a featherweight. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the scent of spicy cologne mixed with the salty tang of the sea. Most men of her acquaintance stank of sweat, tar and tobacco, but this was altogether different and oddly exciting. She had barely had time to catch her breath when he set her down on the ground, pressed a small leather pouch into her hand, and, without a word of thanks, he strode off, heading in the direction of the stone steps.

Driven by curiosity, Essie hurried after him, although her progress was hampered by her damp skirts and flannel petticoat. She reached the top of the steps in time to see him climb into a waiting cab and it drove off into the night, leaving her alone on the wharf amongst the idle machinery. The brief moment of quiet was shattered when the door of a pub in Fore Street opened, spilling out a group of drunken men, who cavorted and sang in good-natured tipsiness until someone landed a punch, which started a brawl.

She weighed the purse in her hand and it was heavy – this had been no ordinary job. The tall stranger with strong arms and gallant manner was not a common seaman, and if he was carrying contraband, it was something small that could be easily concealed beneath his cloak. There was nothing more she could do and she was tired. She might never know the identity of the man who smelled of the sea and spice. What his mission was must remain a mystery – but she was chilled to the bone and the thought of her warm bed was uppermost in her mind.

Essie started walking. Home was a small terraced house in White’s Rents, a narrow alley leading to Ropemaker’s Fields. It was a poor area with several families crowded into the two-up, two-down dwellings. Chimney sweeps, brewery workers, dockers, street sweepers and sailmakers lived cheek by jowl with the families who raised ten or more children in the tiny houses, with a shared privy at the end of the street. The constant reminder of what fate might have in store for the less fortunate inhabitants was Limehouse Workhouse, just a short walk away.

Essie quickened her pace, but all the time she was aware of the deep shadows where danger lurked at any time of the day or night. The yellow eyes of feral cats blinked at her as they slunk along the gutters in the constant search for food, and skinny curs prepared to fight for survival. Drunks, drug addicts and thieves on the prowl might lurk in the shadows to attack the unwary, and it was a relief to arrive home unmolested.

‘Is that you, my duck?’ Her father’s voice boomed out like a foghorn from the sofa as she opened the front door, which led straight into the front parlour.

‘Yes, Pa.’

‘Is the job done?’

‘Yes, Pa.’ Essie trod carefully as she made her way across the floor in almost complete darkness. The curtains remained drawn back but there were no streetlights in White’s Rents, and clouds had obscured the moon. ‘Do you want anything, Pa?’

He reached out to feel for her hand. ‘A cup of water would go down well, Esther. I’ve drunk all the ale, but it didn’t do much to help the pain in my back.’

‘We should get a doctor to look at you.’

‘You know we can’t afford it, love. I’ll be all right in a day or two.’ Jacob shifted his position and groaned. ‘Did he pay up?’

Essie tightened her grip on the purse. ‘Who was he, Pa?’

‘It’s not for us to know. Where’s the money?’

‘I have it safe.’

‘Give it here, there’s a good girl.’

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Pa. Right now I’m tired and I’m going to bed.’ Essie opened the door that concealed a narrow staircase, and she closed it behind her, cutting off her father’s protests. She would give him the money, but not before she had taken out enough to pay the rent collector and buy food. She had not eaten anything since a slice of bread and a scrape of dripping for breakfast, but she had gone past feeling hungry. Pa might be content with a couple of bottles of beer, but Essie could not remember the last time they had sat down to a proper meal. She climbed the stairs to her room where she undressed and laid her damp skirt over the back of a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the tiny room apart from a truckle bed. She slipped her cotton nightgown over her head and lay down, pulling the coverlet up to her chin, but through the thin walls she could hear the infant next door howling for his night feed. The organ grinder who lived at number three was drunk again, and, judging by the screams and shouts, was beating his poor wife. Someone was singing drunkenly as he staggered along the pavement below, banging on doors and laughing as he made his way back to the dosshouse in Thomas’s Rents, an alleyway situated on the far side of the brewery.

Essie leaped out of bed and went to close the window, shutting out the noise. Clouds of steam billowed into the sky above the brewery, filling the air with the smell of hops and malt, which was infinitely better than the stench from the river and the chemical works. She returned to her bed and lay down again, closing her eyes but, tired as she was, she could not sleep. There was no saying where the next job was coming from and the money in the pouch would not last long. Her father was well known on the river and work was put his way, but it was a man’s world and she was little more than a girl. She was tolerated because she was Jacob Chapman’s daughter, but on her own she might as well be invisible. For both their sakes, she could only hope that his injury was not serious.

Next morning, having made sure that her father was ready for another long day on the sofa, Essie set off with money in her pocket. Her first stop was at the pharmacy to purchase a pennyworth of laudanum. That done, she visited various shops in Fore Street to buy enough food to last for a day or two only, as it was summer and milk went sour overnight, cheese grew soft and oily, and flies feasted on meat, leaving their eggs to develop into squirming maggots. Essie bought bread, dripping, two meat pies and a small amount of tea. Then, as a treat, she added a few lumps of sugar. It was an extravagance, but she felt she had earned it.

‘Hold on, Essie. What’s the hurry?’

She glanced over her shoulder and saw her friend walking towards her. ‘Haven’t you any work today, Ben Potter?’

‘I’m just about to start now.’ He lengthened his stride, slowing down as he fell into step beside her. ‘How’s Jacob? I heard about his accident.’

‘Not very good. I’ve got some laudanum to dull his pain, but I think he ought to be in hospital, or at least see a doctor.’

‘What about the bonesetter?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Essie said, frowning. ‘But I’ll see how Pa is by this evening. We really can’t afford to throw money about unless it’s going to do some good.’

Ben nodded, pushing his cap to the back of his head. ‘I’ve got to go or I’ll be late and the guvnor will dock my wages. Old Diggory used to knock me for six when I first started my apprenticeship, but I’m bigger than him now and he’s a bit more respectful.’

Essie shot him a sideways glance. She had known Ben all her life and when they were children they had roamed the muddy foreshore together, searching for valuables or coins that lay hidden beneath the surface. When he was fourteen Ben had been apprenticed to Diggory Tyce, a waterman who had won the Doggett’s Coat and Badge in his youth, and whose knowledge of the River Thames was second to none. Ben was ambitious, and Essie admired that in a man.

She smiled. ‘They say that wherries will soon be replaced by steamboats.’

‘Aye, they do, and that’s the future as far as I’m concerned, but the guvnor will take a lot of convincing.’ Ben came to a halt at the top of Duke Shore Stairs. ‘I’ll call round tonight when I finish, if that’s all right with you, Essie.’

‘Yes, but I can’t promise to be there. It all depends if I can find work.’

‘You shouldn’t be working the river on your own. It’s hard enough for a man, but it’s dangerous for a slip of a girl like you, especially after dark.’

‘I can beat you at rowing any day of the week.’ Essie blew him a kiss and he waved cheerily as he made his way down the stone steps to the foreshore where Tyce’s wherry was about to be launched. The passengers were already seated, and judging by their appearance they were seamen returning to their vessel from a night ashore, some of them very much the worse for wear. One had a black eye and another had his head bandaged, blood seeping through the grubby dressing.

Essie sighed, hoping that someone would offer her employment, although it seemed unlikely. She walked on, heading for home. It was still early but White’s Rents was alive with activity. Small, barefoot children had been turned out to amuse themselves in the street, and the boys were rolling around in the dirt, scrapping and testing each other’s strengths like playful fox cubs. The older girls sat round plaiting each other’s hair and chatting while they kept an eye on the babies.

On the other side of the road Miss Flower was bent double, using her little trowel to pick up deposits left by feral dogs. The smell added to the general stench, but she seemed oblivious to it and trudged on her way, heading in the direction of the tannery where the contents of her wooden pail would be used in the tanning of leather. She said that, on a good day, she could get a shilling for her efforts, but Essie would not have traded places with her for a king’s ransom. Miss Flower’s occupation was almost as unenviable as that of Josser the tosher, who earned his living by venturing into the sewers in search of valuables that had been washed down the drain. Josser and Miss Flower lived at number ten, sharing the house with the night-soil collector, several railway workers and a succession of Irish navvies. Essie wondered how anyone could exist in such conditions, but the poor had to make do in order to survive. She hurried past a group of slatternly women, who stopped talking to look her up and down and went on to whisper and giggle like schoolchildren. Essie was used to this and she walked on, ignoring their taunts.

As she entered the front parlour she was surprised to find her father sitting up.

‘Did you bring beer, Essie?’

‘No, Pa. I spent the money on food. I’ll light the fire so that I can boil the kettle.’

He slumped back against the worn cushions. ‘I need something for the pain.’

‘I bought some laudanum, but you’re obviously a lot better. At least you can sit up now – you couldn’t do that last evening.’

‘Give me the bottle and I’ll dose meself, Essie, love.’ Jacob’s tone changed and he gave her a persuasive smile. ‘Help your poor old pa, there’s a good girl.’

She snatched up the basket and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’ll mix some laudanum in water and then I’ll get the fire going. I’m dying for a cup of tea.’

‘I’m dying for a sip of ale. You could have bought a couple of bottles. What if I give you the money and you take a jug to the pub and get it filled?’

Essie hesitated in the kitchen doorway. ‘What if you give me more money so that I can pay the rent on time every week, Pa?

‘You’re an ungrateful child, Esther Chapman. Your poor mother would turn in her grave if she could see how you treat me.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Essie said angrily. ‘I do my best.’ She closed the door on him and busied herself unpacking the contents of the basket. Her memories of her mother were hazy, and probably enhanced by time, but everyone said that Nell Chapman had been a remarkably pretty young woman. She had come from a good family and had married Jacob to spite her father, who had tried to come between her and the penniless boatman who had captured her heart. The only thing that Essie could recall clearly was the sound of voices raised in anger, and her mother’s tears when Jacob came home from the pub the worse for drink. The sickness that had taken her ma to live with the angels had almost claimed her own life, but Essie had survived, largely thanks to the care of her brother, George. She dashed her hand across her eyes – George had left home after a furious row with their father. She had been only six years old, but that day was etched in her heart for ever.

But there was no point dwelling on the past. Essie heaved a sigh and returned to the parlour where she used the last of the coal and kindling to light the fire.

‘Where’s me tea, Essie?’ Jacob demanded crossly. ‘I’m parched.’

‘All in good time, Pa. I’ve only got one pair of hands.’ Essie sighed and scrambled to her feet. The pail, which was normally filled with water, was empty and that meant a short walk to the communal pump at the end of the street. Jacob normally undertook this, although it was done under protest. She left by the back door and went out through the tiny yard to the narrow passageway that separated White’s Rents from the ropeyard, the tarring house and the other buildings associated with rope making. The smell of hot tar lingered in the air, filling her lungs and making her cough, but she hurried to the pump and joined the queue of ragged women and barefoot children.

‘Looks as if it’s come straight from the river,’ the woman in front of Essie complained. ‘I dunno why we don’t just dip our buckets in Limehouse Hole and hope to catch a few fish as well.’

‘This water’s got legs.’ Her companion sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand as she stared at the murky water in her bucket. ‘Fish can’t live in this stuff.’

Essie knew better than to join in the conversation, but she had no intention of drinking the water in its present state. An old woman who had survived the cholera epidemic of 1848 had told her to boil water before drinking it, and she had done so ever since. Pa had said much the same thing, only he used it as an excuse to sup more ale. Essie filled her bucket and returned home, but as she entered through the back door she heard the sound of male voices coming from the parlour.

She stopped to fill the kettle before going to investigate, but the front door closed as she entered the room. ‘Who was that, Pa?’

Jacob gave her a gap-toothed grin. ‘The answer to our problems, girl. We’ve got a lodger and he’s willing to pay handsomely for a room, with no questions asked.’

‘We haven’t got a spare room, for a start, and who is this mysterious person?’

‘It’s only temporary, and I can’t get up the stairs while I’m like this, so I told him he can have mine. You’d best see to it. Put clean sheets on the bed, or whatever you need to do to make it comfortable.’

‘All right,’ Essie said slowly. ‘But I’d like to know who it is who’ll be sleeping in the room next to mine. I might be murdered in my bed, or worse.’

‘You don’t need to know his name, and you won’t be seeing anything of him. He’ll sleep all day and go out at night. It’s only for a short while, so don’t ask questions. Anyway, he’s paying good money for the privilege, so leave it at that.’ Jacob shifted on his seat and pulled a face, uttering a loud groan. ‘Where’s that laudanum? I’m in agony.’

Essie returned to the kitchen and poured the last of yesterday’s boiled water into a tin mug, adding a few drops of laudanum. She took it to her father, holding it just out of his reach.

‘Don’t tease me, Essie. I’m in agony.’

‘I’ll give it to you when you tell me who this “lodger” is and why he’s hiding here.’

Jacob glared at her, licking his dry lips and grimacing with pain. ‘His name is his own business, and that’s all you need to know. I’m not telling you anything else, girl, so give me my medicine.’

Essie could see that this was getting her nowhere and she handed him the mug. ‘When do we expect him to arrive, Pa?’

‘Just leave the back door unlocked. He’ll come and go as he pleases. You don’t have to do anything other than keep out of his way.’

‘I dislike him already,’ Essie said bitterly. ‘He must be a criminal if he has to creep about in the darkness. I don’t like it, Pa. I really don’t.’

‘Here, take this.’ Jacob pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and placed it in her outstretched hand. ‘Maybe that will change your mind. Pay off that bloodsucking rent collector and get some proper food in, and some ale. What our friend does is none of our business.’

‘Friend!’ Essie tossed her head. ‘I’ll go along with it because there’s nothing else I can do, but I hope you know what you’re doing.’

That night Essie lay in her bed, listening to every creak and groan of the old timbers as they contracted after the heat of the day. The background noise from overcrowded dwellings, street fights and infants wailing was always the same, whether it was noon or the early hours of the morning, but tonight was different. She had tried to elicit more information about their mysterious lodger from her father, but he had refused to be drawn, and now her mind was buzzing with questions and she was apprehensive. Life was difficult enough without getting directly involved in criminal activities. The night runs she had done with Pa had been testing, but work was hard to find and they had to eat. She dozed and eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep, but was awakened suddenly.

She sat up, straining her ears. The hinges on the back door were rusty and she was certain she had heard the scrape of boots on the flagstones in the kitchen. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and seized her wrap, slipping it around her as she stood up and went to open her bedroom door. Her heart was pounding and she hesitated as she heard the door at the foot of the stairs open and close again, as softly as a whisper. Then the shadowy outline of a man filled the narrow space and he was ascending the stairs, two steps at a time.