A Most Dangerous Woman Read online

  L.M. Jackson

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by L.M. Jackson

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407089386

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2008

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  Copyright © L.M. Jackson 2008

  L.M. Jackson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 2007 by William Heinemann

  Arrow Books The Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099498391

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  L.M. Jackson lives in London with his partner Joanne and daughter Clara. He has written four books under the name Lee Jackson, the first of which, London Dust, was shortlisted for the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award. He is fascinated by the social history of nineteenth-century London and maintains the popular website www.victorianlondon.org which is devoted to exploring the minutiae of daily life in the Victorian metropolis. A Most Dangerous Woman is the first in a new series of mysteries featuring lady detective Sarah Tanner.

  Praise for L.M. Jackson

  ‘Victorian London is brought vividly to life from the very beginning … plenty of wry humour … and engrossing historical detail’ Time Out

  ‘Victorian London can be such an evocative place, having captured the imaginations of countless crime writers. To Conan Doyle, Anne Perry, Andrew Martin … we must now add Lee Jackson who [with The Welfare of the Dead ] makes this patch his very own’ Guardian

  ‘[Jackson] demonstrates quite brilliantly what the genre can do. [A Metropolitan Murder] is a rare and succulent piece of work’ Literary Review

  ‘The smoky, foggy, horse-dung laden atmosphere of the London streets steams off the page’ Spectator

  ‘Full of power and substance, London Dust is an assured debut … a compelling and evocative novel that brings the past, and its dead, to life again’ Guardian

  ‘Victorian London is vividly brought to life … for an atmospheric picture of the period it’s hard to beat’ Sunday Telegraph

  Also by L.M. Jackson

  (writing as Lee Jackson)

  London Dust

  A Metropolitan Murder

  The Welfare of the Dead

  The Last Pleasure Garden

  PROLOGUE

  Sarah Tanner bought her coffee-house in the spring of eighteen hundred and fifty-two. It was a small, rather dusty premises, situated upon the corner of Leather Lane Market and Liquorpond Street, in the parish of St. Albans, Holborn. The previous owner – a widower who had taken to drink upon the death of his wife – had rather let himself go, and his old business had rather gone with him. Little remained in the way of fixtures and fittings: only a bronze coffee urn, dull and discoloured, that stood upon the counter, and the faint, melancholy aroma of roasted mocha – or, more likely, the scent of some more economical berry, laced with chicory – which had, over the years, permeated the woodwork.

  To some, regardless of the interior, it might have seemed an unfortunate location for any commercial undertaking. For the district was mentioned in the Police News with disturbing regularity and, if the respectable folk of nearby quarters said anything of their Leather Lane neighbours, it was generally to condemn them as thieves and parasites; or to commend their souls to the care of the local Home Missionary, which amounted to much the same thing. Sarah Tanner, however, had given the matter some thought: the area was a poor one, but she had known worse; the two little rooms and attic above the shop seemed perfectly adequate for her own comfort; and, most importantly, the proximity of the street market meant there would always be a passing trade. From thirsty costermongers, who set up stall at the break of dawn, to the weary females who scrabbled for bargains at the close of day, the pavement outside was rarely empty. And if the occasional cadger or out-and-out villain should stumble upon Sarah Tanner’s new establishment, she did not much mind – as long as they paid their way.

  Mrs. Tanner – she had resolved to appropriate that title to herself at an early stage in proceedings, though only twenty-seven years of age and unfamiliar with the married state – proved to have a sound business mind. The little shop, onc
e cleaned and renovated, soon began to prosper. In fact, it was not long before she employed both a waiter – an elderly man by the name of Grundy, reputed to have known better days – and a certain Mrs. Hinchley, who, upon interview, declared herself ‘a plain cook and no nonsense’, which was precisely what was required.

  Mrs. Tanner’s greatest commercial asset was that she kept regular hours. For she happened to have that most useful of objects, a little mahogany clock – a rarity in Leather Lane – and a striking one at that. Thus she opened her door at precisely six o’clock in the morning, rain or shine, and closed it again at midnight – in marked contrast to the neighbourhood’s more established eating-houses. Her food, too, was both edible and reasonably priced – a rare combination – and provided the costermongers with a breakfast which was, in their own words, ‘a proper tightener’. Tea and coffee came by the pint – one penny – or the small cup – a ha’penny – and something hot was always ready on the grill, from eggs and bacon in the morning to sausage and potatoes at night.

  Mrs. Tanner also understood the value of advertisement. After two or three weeks in the business, she hired a Frenchman, a self-proclaimed genius with a brush, much down upon his luck, to hand-paint a signboard, which spelt out the words Dining and Coffee Rooms in black and gold. Then came tickets, announcing ‘A Good Dinner for 8d.’ and ‘Leg of Beef Soup, 2d. per cup’, placed prominently in the window, above the red curtain that concealed diners’ lower extremities from passers-by. And, of course, there was the best advertisement of all – the rich smell of sizzling chops, kippers or Yarmouth bloaters that occasionally escaped from the narrow confines of the kitchen. And it was a narrow little room – for the shop was not a large one, by any means. The front, which consisted of a small plate-glass window and a very plain door, set back a little from the street, could not have measured more than twelve feet across. Inside, there was just enough space for four booths against the wall, the serving-counter, and a pair of tables by the window. It was only after purchasing the lease that Mrs. Tanner discovered the room itself was rather irregular and wedge-shaped and, upon close inspection, she found that the walls buckled inwards slightly, as if the victim of monumental tight-lacing. Still, she was not daunted by the discovery and it soon became clear, to anyone who took an interest, that the new coffee-house on the corner was being admirably managed and maintained by its new proprietress.

  But what of Sarah Tanner herself? Now, there was something of a contradiction. For example, it was said that she had the good manners of a respectable upper servant but was far too young to have been pensioned; that she spoke as if she had received an education, but knew the costers’ slang as if she were born-and-bred to it; and that she not only had no husband – which was a commonplace on Leather Lane, where husbands came and went with remarkable ease, generally via the local beer-shop – but seemed never to have possessed one. This latter point was particularly remarkable, since she had a pretty face, with dark brown hair and deep hazel eyes, and a full, graceful figure – a figure which, upon first sight, some of the more impetuous costermongers even remarked upon to their wives. It was, doubtless, these unfortunate remarks that prompted a few of the coster-women to declare Mrs. Tanner a queer character, not quite ‘on the square’; and to suggest that she had got her shop and money somewhere, and they didn’t care to inquire where that might be.

  One thing was for certain: Sarah Tanner was not going to tell them. And if, upon her arrival, she was the subject of gossip, it was the proverbial nine-days’ wonder, soon over-shadowed by more exciting news, like the mysterious theft of old Bill Teach’s donkey during the night, or Sal Perkins ‘clouting’ her rival in love outside the Presbyterian Chapel. Indeed, the streets between Leather Lane and nearby Saffron Hill, whatever the morals of their inhabitants, howsoever poor they might be, were never short of incident. The mystery of Sarah Tanner was soon put to one side and Mrs. Tanner, for her part, was quite content with the outcome. For she went about her business with – well, not shyness by any means, but a certain degree of reserve. And even Ralph Grundy, who saw her every day, would happily testify that his employer was ‘a close ’un, and no mistake’. And, if asked to say any more on the subject, Mr. Grundy would merely tap his nose, raise his glass, and refuse to reveal any dark secrets.

  To a degree, this was a natural discretion on Ralph Grundy’s part; but, principally, it was his own ignorance of Sarah Tanner’s history. All the same, relying upon the wisdom of his years – for he was in his sixties, and rather given to solitary speculation – he privately concluded that his employer had ‘a past’ of one sort or another, one that might well catch up with her.

  And, of course, he was quite right.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It had just gone half-past eleven at night and the little coffee-house on the corner was quite empty of customers. Mrs. Hinchley had long since gone home and Ralph Grundy was busying himself in the kitchen. Sarah Tanner, meanwhile, had moved from her usual seat behind the counter to stand in front of the fireplace and warm her hands. It was just as she stood there that she heard the shop-door creak behind her.

  ‘Sarah? It’s never you, is it?’

  The interruption startled Mrs. Tanner. It was peculiar for anyone on Leather Lane to address her by her first name. She turned to see a figure at the door, a man two or three years older than herself, dressed in a smart brown suit and hat, with a russet-coloured waistcoat and rather extravagant red cravat.

  ‘Don’t say you don’t remember George Phelps?’ continued the newcomer, an exaggerated look of sorrow on his face. ‘Don’t say it, old gal!’

  The proprietress of the Dining and Coffee Rooms visibly paled at the sight of her visitor.

  ‘I know you all right,’ Sarah Tanner replied quietly, stealing a nervous glance over her shoulder, towards the kitchen. The man, in turn, grinned and sat down onto a bench seat in one of the shop’s little booths.

  ‘How are things with you, eh?’ he inquired. ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘Never mind that. What do you want here, Georgie?’

  ‘Me?’ said George Phelps, removing his hat with something of a flourish, and setting it down upon the table. ‘I don’t want nothing, old gal. I was going my merry way and just saw you standing there, large as life. Gave me a shock, seeing you in these parts. Last I’d heard, you’d ran off with a certain young gent.’

  ‘Then you heard wrong,’ replied Sarah Tanner emphatically. As she spoke, the rattling sound of Ralph Grundy industriously cleaning the gridiron echoed from the kitchen. She softened her voice. ‘I mean, I’m sure it’s good to see you, Georgie, but, if you don’t mind, you can oblige me by leaving.’

  ‘Leaving?’ replied George Phelps, scratching his chin. ‘That’s a fine welcome, when I only just pitched up! Don’t an old friend deserve better than that?’

  ‘An old friend might.’

  ‘Come on, Sarah, don’t be like that. Now, for one thing, the way I recall it, you still owe me two bob for that last cab we took from Norwood. I weren’t planning on calling in my debts, mind you. But, seeing as I’ve found you here, well, I reckon it’s fate we met up. We might do some business, you and me.’

  ‘So it’s money you’re after.’

  ‘Sarah, I just happened to be passing …’

  Sarah Tanner dismissed George Phelps’s reply with a shake of her head and walked over to the shop-counter. Opening the till-drawer that lay beneath, she retrieved two shillings and placed them on the wooden surface.

  ‘Now we’re square,’ she said. ‘You can go.’

  ‘Square?’ he replied, contemplating the money. ‘Maybe. You’re pretty free and easy with that moneybox. Do you work here? Is that it, eh?’

  George Phelps sounded incredulous, as if he could not truly conceive of such a thing. But Mrs. Tanner had no chance to reply. For, at that moment, Ralph Grundy’s grey head appeared at the kitchen-door. The waiter peered into the shop.

  ‘You all right, missus?’

  �
�Yes, Ralph, thank you. Mr. Phelps here – he’s an old acquaintance of mine.’

  Ralph Grundy glanced in Phelps’s direction, but found the stranger’s face inconveniently obscured by the curtains that divided the booths.

  ‘You finish off, Ralph,’ continued Mrs. Tanner. ‘Then you can help me with the shutters.’

  Ralph Grundy nodded and returned to his duties. Sarah Tanner, meanwhile, looked back at George Phelps. Her visitor was chuckling quietly to himself.

  ‘“Missus”?’ he said. ‘You? Don’t tell me you’ve gone and settled in this queer little rat hole? I’d never have believed it! Not in a million years!’

  ‘I’ll have you know, Georgie Phelps,’ she replied, a degree of indignation in her voice, ‘that I do very nicely here. I don’t need the likes of you to spoil things for me.’

  ‘“The likes of me”!’ he exclaimed, still visibly amused. ‘Oh! Sarah, I never thought—’

  ‘Never thought what?’ she said impatiently.

  But George Phelps fell silent. Moreover, in an instant, all humour had drained from his face.

  ‘What?’ said Mrs. Tanner, puzzled.

  ‘Hush, listen!’

  George Phelps dropped down into the booth, his back to the window. Hunched up, concealed from the street, he motioned for Sarah Tanner to come and sit opposite him. His expression was so urgent and insistent that she obeyed.

  The sound was that of heavy footsteps – sturdy boots, walking at a steady pace, along the street outside, close by the shop-window. Sarah Tanner peered out through the glass. Directly beneath the flare of gas that illuminated the Dining and Coffee Rooms sign-board stood a tall, blue-uniformed figure, a heavy-set man with large side-burns and moustache, and a high glazed hat.

  ‘It’s a Peeler, ain’t it? Big fellow, whiskers?’ said Phelps.

  She nodded.

  ‘Don’t catch his eye, for God’s sake,’ said Phelps, pulling her back.