“I’m sure you will.”
Brinley appeared from the servant’s entrance and walked across the room to the main door. He opened it and stood back, waiting for me.
I didn’t bother to say good-bye as I strode toward the door.
“And see that the staff are instructed to refuse entrance to Miss Kelly,” Austen said, “so this doesn’t happen again. Put a guard at the door, if you must.”
I huffed and held my head high but turned just in time to see Austen watching me leave over the top of his newspaper.
Two hours later, I found myself at Toynbee Hall, still shaken from my encounter with Austen. But I wasn’t deterred. I would do whatever I could to convince him to help me find Mary.
Toynbee Hall was the first settlement house in the world, and it was only four years old. It was an ambitious experiment led by reformers and educators. The three-story, red-brick building was as out of place in Whitechapel as the Oxford and Cambridge students who lived and worked there. They came to lecture and teach the impoverished inhabitants about literature, philosophy, art, science, and more. They also taught practical skills like cooking, sewing, and blacksmithing. I had started a history club soon after Mary left so I could visit Toynbee Hall to ask about her.
Mother allowed it because she was a patron of the arts and saw my work as charity.
“Good morning, Miss Kelly,” Mrs. Barnett, one of the founders of Toynbee Hall said as I entered the drawing room where I held my weekly history club meetings. The group size shifted each week, with people coming and going as they were able. There were children as young as ten and adults as old as eighty who came tohear my lectures and discuss what they learned. We’d been focusing on the Elizabethan era for the past month, and I’d been teaching them about Queen Elizabeth’s accession to the throne—the very history that Austen had taught me when we were children. The stories that had awakened my love for history.
“Good morning,” I said as I set my satchel on the closest table. I’d brought books with colorful pictures to show the group.
Mrs. Barnett taught a sewing class before mine, and she was gathering her supplies as her students trickled out of the room and mine came in. The drawing room was spacious with large windows, allowing in plenty of light. “There’s been quite a ruckus around here this morning,” she said, shaking her head with sadness. “All anyone can talk about is the murder on Buck’s Row. ’Tis the second murder this month.”
My senses were immediately heightened. The first murder she spoke of was that of Martha Tabram on August 7th. She had been found in the stairwell at George Yard, a building just behind Toynbee Hall. But was her murder linked to the others? If it was, wouldn’t Sir Rothschild have told me? “I heard the news about Buck’s Row. Does anyone know the name of the victim?”
“There have been whispers about her identity, though the police are waiting on an official identification from those who knew her. It was Mary Ann Nichols, but her friends called her Polly.”
I recognized the name. “She’s been here before.”
“Aye, she has. I saw her just last week when we were handing out clothing to the poor,” Mrs. Barnett said. “She took a liking to a secondhand black bonnet, and I saw that she got it. She was so proud to wear it.”
“Are you talking about Polly?” a woman asked as she entered the drawing room. She was a middle-aged woman with a missing bottom tooth and a careworn face. She had told me her name was Mrs. Shaw, and though she was impoverished, she was married and living in a respectable home. She came to our meetings to “better” herself, she’d told me.
Though she was probably there to learn the latest gossip, too.
“Yes,” I said. “Did you know her?”
“Ididn’t know her.” Mrs. Shaw spat her words. “She was a prostitute. I don’t associate withthosewomen.”
Mrs. Barnett lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.
“They say she was last seen around 2:30 in the morning, heading toward Whitechapel Road,” Mrs. Shaw continued, “wearing a jolly new bonnet.”
Mrs. Barnett’s face turned pale, and she took a seat on the closest chair. “Oh, good heavens.”
I went to her and put my hand on her shoulder.
“The bonnet,” Mrs. Barnett said, looking up at me.
“She was found around 3:30,” Mrs. Shaw continued, apparently unaware of Mrs. Barnett’s unease. “Her throat was cut, which accounts for the lack of a scream to alert those nearby.” The woman nodded as if she knew about such things. “But no one saw or heard a thing—isn’t that peculiar? They’re questioning everyone in the vicinity. There are crowds around Buck’s Row even now. It’s all anyone can talk about. I went there to have a look-see myself.”
“I’d prefer if we didn’t discuss it here,” Mrs. Barnett said. “We’ll let the police do their work, shall we?” She rose from her chair and smoothed her skirt. “Please refrain from discussing the situation with your club members, Miss Kelly, at least while in Toynbee Hall. It’s too distressing.”
“Of course.” I nodded as Mrs. Barnett gathered the rest of her things and left the drawing room.
Three other ladies had entered, all similar to Mrs. Shaw in age and living arrangements.
“She was married,” whispered one of the other ladies, “but she’d left her husband and five children several years ago and ended up in Whitechapel.”
“She was arrested for drunkenness, prostitution, and disorderly conduct many times,” added another with disdain, “and was in and out of the workhouse. She couldn’t hold a job because of her need for the drink.”
