A Metropolitan Murder Read Free

earlier as well. This afternoon.

    Tea-time. Twenty girls saying their prayers.
    â€˜Our Father who art a Heathen,’ whispers Agnes White.
    There, that’s done.
    â€˜Pardon me, Aggie, dear.’
    Agnes watches Sally Bowker excuse herself and leave the table. Miss Sparrow’s little pet, they call her, the other girls. Pretty little Silly Sally. Agnes dislikes her intensely; she puts on airs and graces, even though everyone knows she would snap open her legs wider than the Thames Tunnel for a kiss and a kind word. Pardon me, indeed!
    Sally curtsies to Miss Sparrow, and makes her way upstairs. Agnes leaves it a moment, then gets up and follows her.
    Odd. It is a different house from what she had expected; the stairs seem quite out of place. No matter.
    â€˜Goin’ out?’
    Sally has on her best cotton print, and her red hair tied up loosely with an old maroon ribbon, fraying at both ends. She wraps her shawl around her shoulders; it is a dirty old rag, thinks Agnes White, and it suits her. Dirt cheap.
    â€˜Mind your own,’ replies the girl, turning on her heels and going into the street, closing the door behind her.
    Agnes follows her, traipsing down the steps on to the pavement.
    But it is the wrong street entirely; it is not Serle Street, the well-ordered terrace upon the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, that daily rebukes the Refuge for Penitent Women with its polished front steps and brass name-plates. It is entirely different: it is not quite like any street in particular, and something like several streets in general. In fact it is narrow and cramped, more of an alley, the sort of place Agnes White used to take the men and boys, or they took her, between the warehouses by Wapping High Street.
    Familiar enough.
    She walks along nervously, stumbling a little overthe muddy and uneven cobbles, wondering how she has come to be so far from home. There is no gas here, of course, nor any light from any of the warehouses, and there is a mist rising from the river.
    Wait. A noise.
    Tap, tap, tap, tap. The sound of boots on the stones behind her. It cannot be Sally; she doesn’t even have a decent pair of boots. She cannot see anyone. Best to keep walking.
    Tap, tap, tap, tap.
    Closer now, feet walking briskly, catching up, hot breath on her neck. A cold hand around her throat.
    Then falling, falling, falling.

    â€˜Agnes?’
    â€˜Agnes? Are you awake?’
    Agnes White wakes up coughing, her throat so tight she cannot find the strength to sit up. Her skin is cold and clammy, her sheets damp with sweat. The girl helps her up, raising her pillow.
    â€˜Lizzie?’ she says, spluttering the word.
    â€˜No, Aggie, it’s me, Jenny. You know me, don’t you?’
    She nods, looking blearily at the nurse.
    â€˜You were dreaming. I’d only just got you off, then you woke me up. You’ll wake the Missus and all, if you’re not careful.’
    Agnes coughs again, a rackety chest-heaving cough, hunching her shoulders so tight they are visible through her gown, like knives embedded in her skin.
    â€˜Don’t talk, you’ll do yourself an injury. Look, here, I brought some of your medicine. The Missus said I shouldn’t, but . . . well, anyhow. Shall I pour it for you?’
    Agnes White nods, and so the girl carefully measures the liquid from the bottle and presents a spoonfulto her charge. Agnes leans forward, and willingly swallows the thick brown treacle, like an eager child. It tastes of burnt sugar, and it slips down her throat so easily that she immediately wants more, nudging the girl’s arm, urging her to dole out another helping. The nurse shakes her head, putting the bottle aside.
    â€˜Steady now. Half of it’s gone already.’
    Agnes says nothing. She can feel the dollop of glutinous liquid travelling through her body, falling into the pond of her stomach, and rippling outwards. The soporific effect of the laudanum mixture spreads through