Barefoot on Baker Street

By Charlotte Anne Walters

Barefoot on Baker Street is set in late Victorian London where a life of crime is the only way to escape poverty and servitude for one bright young workhouse orphan. The narrative follows Red on her incredible life-journey as it twists and turns through poverty, riches, infatuation, loss and love. A dramatic escape from the workhouse at thirteen propels Red into a world of slum housing, street gangs, prostitution and petty crime as the rapidly expanding city groans under the weight of the industrial revolution. A chance meeting with the mysterious and eccentric Sherlock Holmes prompts an infatuation which cuts through her street-wise bravado. Red's blossoming criminal career also brings her to the attention of Professor James Moriarty. An autistic savant riddled with obsessive compulsions, Moriarty is a dangerous criminal who draws Red into his life and onto a collision course with Holmes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Dec 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781780922546

Book preview

become.

Prologue

Life in all its complexities is stranger than any fiction and full of so many intricate twists and turns that we sometimes lose track of ourselves, of who we really are.

I think that’s what happened to me. I sprinted into a whole new life and just kept on running; afraid to look back, fearing the memory of the person I used to be.

So, I decided to write it all down. Begin an account of my epic progression from child poverty and criminal endeavours to the person I became.

I thought it would be cathartic; a little project written essentially for my own reference and emotional well-being. A sort of homage to the person I used to be, however inappropriate that seems. It is my goodbye to her, a process of letting go.

This is a documentation of all those twists and turns, the things that shape us, that shaped me. Growing up as I had under the shadow of the Industrial Revolution, the time of empire and social change, experiencing both the very worst and best of the Victorian age.

Chapter One

I know very little about my parents save the few details which were passed on to me as a child in one of London’s most-wretched workhouses - Whitechapel and Spitalfields Union Workhouse.

I was told that they were simple country people before arriving in the city. My mother was a pretty woman with florid cheeks and red hair, my father a poor farmer who toiled on the land in the hope that it would yield enough to feed his family. I presume I had siblings, but do not know what became of them.

During the early 1870s, just before my birth, life was very difficult for rural folk like my parents. It is mere supposition I know, but I believe it was when my mother discovered she was pregnant with me that they made the decision to follow the drift of so many others and head to the bustling city of London.

They would have been seduced by tales of unlimited opportunity amid the huge explosion of industrial growth in the capital.

This was a period of intense urbanisation and the city of London had expanded at a rapid rate. The docklands welcomed goods shipped in from around the world, trade generated by the country’s imperial endeavours. Giant filthy factories belched smoke into the perpetually foggy air, the Thames was rancid with waste. Many people lived in desperate poverty, but my parents probably knew nothing of this and would have arrived full of hope.

My father became a labourer on the railways, the arteries of this ever-growing new organ, transporting the raw materials of industry all over the country. But the occupation was dangerous and my father was killed in an accident at work. My mother was now alone in the city and destitute.

The only assistance available to the poor at that time was to enter the workhouse where squalid shelter and basic food was on offer in return for labour. Conditions were harsh and the work arduous, menial and unpleasant. The house was like a prison, where residents were referred to as inmates and watched constantly by overseers. Families were torn apart as men, women and children all had to be contained separately. It truly was a place of last resort.

Heavily pregnant and with no means to support herself, my mother came to the workhouse in the desperate hope of assistance for herself and her unborn child. But instead she died during my birth in the workhouse infirmary which was administered by promoted inmates without any medical training. I was made an orphan, left completely at the mercy of the house.

The Whitechapel and Spitalfields Union Workhouse had been built in 1842 on the corner of Charles Street and Thomas Street. It was a huge purpose-built structure, with more than a thousand inmates, mainly widows, unmarried mothers, orphans, the old and infirm. There was an infirmary, infant nursery, a huge female block to the north and male area to the south. The Charles Street block was more than five storeys high with a foreboding entrance hall.

This poorly-ventilated, fever-ridden, filthy, grim building was the place of my birth and became my childhood home. I spent my early years in the Infant Nursery, a dormitory without ventilation, which I never left except for an occasional transfer to the workhouse infirmary if I surrendered to a particularly persistent fever. We children all slept four to a bed and fever regularly spread like fire through tinder. Even in the fever wards, we slept two to a bed, such was the overcrowding.

All children received four hours of education a day at the workhouse school. We were instructed in reading, writing, maths, but mainly taught Christianity and usefulness, anything which would make us fit for service. Poverty was understood to be hereditary. It was believed that we couldn’t possibly possess any natural intelligence and the best we could hope for in our future lives was to be a factory worker or servant.

I longed to learn more than what this pitifully restricted curriculum offered. I was bright, quick-witted and a natural with figures. But instead I was taught to pick apart old tar ropes called oakum with my bare hands, needlework and laundry. I was made to pick away at those ropes for hours on end until the skin of my fingers was torn open and splinters of rope became permanently embedded in my skin.

Generally it was able-bodied men and boys, not girls, who were forced into the harsh physical work, but I was very strong and it was this strength that condemned me to more and more intense labour. I think it was simply forgotten that I was a girl - I certainly had no sense of it myself.

I spent my days in toil and was physically powerful despite having severe fever on two occasions and nearly dying of consumption. How I managed to avoid the dreadful cholera which was so prevalent at that time throughout the London poor, is a sheer miracle of God.

It was not customary for someone to stay for prolonged periods in the house and I was slung out many times over the years, each time full of childish hope but always ending up back there starving and desperate.

I endured spells at orphanages around the city which were always overcrowded and full of intense, overzealous religious discipline. I was wilful, strong and often violent so would always end up being thrown back out onto the streets of the East End to fend for myself. I was alone and poor, and would have no choice but to return to the place of my birth, the only real home I had ever known.

I did not grow up with any sense of the proper way for a young lady to act. I was without manners and grace, simply a raw and almost androgynous being, shaped by poverty and physical labour. This freed me from the conventions which ruled respectable society; the intense morals advocated by Queen Victoria and slavishly aped by the middle classes.

Spending so much of my early life in a workhouse taught me endurance. I gained mental strength beyond my years and my experiences gave me an inner steely toughness which fortified me like a rod of iron running through my very soul. I watched as other people became broken by the struggles and perpetual humiliation, shaking and weeping endlessly from the day they arrived. They were unable to accept the unpleasantness of their situation and struggled to cope with the demands of forced hard labour. But for those of us who had been born there, we bore our hardships with fortitude.

I did not see myself as a victim, or wallow in self pity, because I simply did not know of any other life.

By the time I reached puberty, my labours had provided me with a strong and powerful body, though I did remain short due to malnutrition. The skin of my hands was as hard as leather and my arms were defined and punctuated by an impressive muscle structure. My body was tight; my stomach hard as a board and every part of me was shapely and well defined.

I was very different to the other girls in my dormitory and their skinny fragile frames. But I did not consider myself in an aesthetic way and had no concern how I looked to others. Notions such as beauty were absent from my life. However, the increasing attention from the promoted male inmates and the lecherous school master became difficult to ignore. Equally difficult to ignore was the new swell of my breasts which our basic uniform did nothing to disguise.

Other attributes also started to set me apart as I became older. My facial features sharpened and my complexion was flawless despite being darkened by years of outdoor labours and street life. I had striking icy blue eyes, their colour a perfect contrast to my deep red hair. My cheek bones were high and my lips had developed into a perfect Cupid’s bow.

An abundance of deep mahogany red hair offered me true individuality and each time it was cut it grew back thicker and stronger. Our heads were regularly shaved to prevent the spread of lice and my hair would always be the first to grow back.

It hung in perfect curls, soft, tight and luxuriously thick. Inmates and supervisors referred to me as the Red Girl and over the years this changed to become just Red. And so it remained for the rest of my life. I have held on to it in defiance, because a name can suggest so much about a person and I have always wished to remain impossible to classify.

My name has given me individuality and growing up as I did in such a world of banality, individuality has remained a luxury to me.

Once the girls in the workhouse began to develop into young women, around twelve or thirteen, it was common practise for physical abuse and torment by those in charge of us to begin.

There was nothing that could be done to escape this inevitable fate. The workhouse had powers to detain orphans if it was agreed to be in their best interests and punishments for disobedience were harsh and violent.

So, routinely, girls would be dragged from their beds into the shadows at night and horrible, frantic screams would penetrate the musty air of the dormitories. Then they would be returned to their beds shaken and battered. Their fragile bodies would be littered with bruises incurred by their understandable attempts at resistance.

I watched all this occur wearily from a very young age accepting the inevitability of my own fate without really understanding what exactly it was the young girls were being forced to endure. I was such a strong and brave child, always believing that I would cope better than those around me in any situation. When my own turn came, it was a more decisive turning point than I had ever imagined.

I remember everything about the night it happened. I had fallen onto my shared mattress in the dormitory exhausted from my day spent spinning wool and winding Bengal raw silk, so tired that my whole body ached. Sleep consumed me immediately.

In my dreams I felt a floating sensation, a sense of being lifted. I woke suddenly and became aware that the sense of motion I felt was not a dream at all. I opened my eyes and panicked when I realised that I was being carried by the school master down a dimly lit corridor. He was holding me firmly and tightened his grip as he felt me start to struggle. He smelt terribly of sweat and alcohol.

Then a light began to illuminate the end of the corridor in front of us. The master stopped, panting from his exertions and anxiety.

Into the little circle of light stepped a pale and lanky young boy, carrying a lantern. He was at least a year younger than me but clearly of a weaker constitution. He was naked except for tattered shorts and his ribs protruded prominently from his meagre frame. I squinted through the gloom to see his skeletal face and recognised him from the school room.

I was a very solitary person in the house, trusting no-one, and existed without friends. I did not interfere in the business of others and certainly did not invite people to interfere in mine. One day, however, I had felt overwhelmingly compelled to intervene when the school master dragged a boy to the front of the school room, pulled up his shirt and flogged him violently with a birch stick until his skin cracked and blood poured over his back.

Though I had seen similar violence before and been a victim myself on several occasions, the fragility of the boy and his frightened face wet with tears made me rise from my bench at the back of the room in revulsion. To watch such a powerful, strong adult man abuse a boy in this way seemed to represent all the inequalities in our existence.

The rest of the class just watched, passive observers who had become used to such acts. Workhouse life, the routine and rules, all cast a spell of apathy over its inmates. But in those seconds I momentarily broke free. The boy’s huge frightened eyes caught my own, such a look of fear that I simply had to act.

I rushed at the master with the strength and courage of someone twice my age. Shocked gasps rose from the class behind me as I jumped onto him and grabbed his arm which was holding the stick.

He furiously tried to shake me off but I was determined. I sank my teeth into his arm so hard that I could taste his blood. He dropped his weapon screaming with pain and the young boy fled the room in fear.

The master was finally able to shake me off and I fell to the floor. In his humiliation and pain, he booted me in the stomach and disappeared from the room. The class dispersed amid shocked whispering voices, leaving me lying upon the stone floor.

Timidly, once everyone had gone, the little boy I had saved cautiously returned. He saw me lying there, holding my belly and rushed over to try to help me stand. He was still shaking, his bony little back covered in blood. I brushed him aside impatiently and got to my feet.

Thank you, he said, offering out his hand. I’m Jude.

Such warmth was alien to me and I was unsure how to respond.

Red, I replied curtly.

An awkward silence followed until I walked hurriedly from the room uneasy with such pleasantries.

Now, a year or so later, here stood the same child watching as I was held in the arms of the man who had beaten him so violently.

Jude dropped his lantern when he recognised us and the candle went out, plunging us into darkness. He rushed at the master, punching him and pleading with him to let me go.

Stop it! I cried down to him, I don’t need your help.

But my protests were in vain.

The master began to laugh and simply tightened his grip around me. He kicked Jude aside, though the determined little boy continued to fight.

The master kicked him again, harder than the first time, sending Jude tumbling into a room off the corridor. He reached down to a set of keys hanging from his belt, slammed the door and locked it.

I felt so strangely compelled to protect Jude that I resolved to return and free him somehow once at liberty myself. He would be safe as long as the master was preoccupied with me. I could hear his fists drumming away at the door as I was carried away.

I was thrown onto a bed in the master’s room. I protested as he tore at my clothes but was offered only increased violence in return. As my lip split from a heavy blow and blood began to escape down my chin I realised that surrender would probably protect me more than protestation. I did not want to end up bruised and battered, as was the norm for the other girls.

As vulgar and abhorrent as the situation was, I felt that if I complied with his wishes the interlude would probably pass quickly and I could return to rescue Jude. Compliance would protect me and I decided to do as I was told. I stopped struggling, removed my own clothes, and to my relief the violence subsided.

To a mere child such as I was, his grunting and panting was actually quite amusing. The initial sharp pains eventually subsided and my usual stoicism returned. He glared into my eyes, but I simply glared back in defiance, not afraid, not resisting, all senses fully awake.

He drew back from me as if I were a she-devil, shocked by my reaction. Then his body froze, his face convulsed in the final moment of ecstasy and he collapsed exhausted on top of me. I let out a loud laugh of intense relief.

As the sweaty and grotesque figure lying heavily upon me began to grunt and snore, I summoned all my strength to push him aside and struggle free from his bulk. He did not wake. I hurriedly pulled on my clothes and rushed from the room.

I ran through the dank corridors of the house seeking Jude, my hair bouncing about my shoulders and my bare feet softly padding the tiles. No-one stirred, my whole world was asleep.

I ran past dormitories full of exhausted bodies. Their hands were like my own, slashed and hardened by oakum picking, bodies wrecked and minds numbed by infinite hours of physical labour. I contemplated how surreal and pointless life seemed in such a place. But my thoughts were diluted by the immediacy of my search and Jude’s certain fate unless I could reach him before the man who had just taken my virginity.

I found the room and stood in front of the locked door, panting slightly.

It’s Red, just keep quiet and I will get you out, I whispered.

I needed a key; there was no other way to open the door. I sighed heavily, resigned to what I had to do.

I’ll come back for you, I promise, I called out and hoped that the resolve in my voice would calm his fears.

I could hear him whimpering and retching, sick with fear and the knowledge that another beating would probably be his last. I felt humbled by the notion that someone so weak had been so brave for me.

I headed back to the scene of my earlier detestable experience with renewed revulsion for its perpetrator.

My bare feet trod softly back into the school master’s room. I was afraid to breathe for fear of waking the pale and bloated form. I looked about for the keys. The master had thrown his trousers and belt to the floor and I presumed the keys would still be attached. I could hear the silence, it was so oppressive, hear the beating of my heart. I did not take my eyes off the sleeping monster and grappled with the trousers and belt frantically on the floor.

A voice suddenly came from behind me.

Looking for these?

It was like a cannon blast cutting through the silence. For a second I was too scared to move, listening to the rapid beat of my heart. For some reason I glanced from my crouched position towards items which caught my eye beneath the bed. I had a remarkable eye for detail, an observant and watchful nature. What I saw was about to change my life.

I leapt and turned around to face the voice. In the doorway stood the manager of the house, his huge powerful frame throwing menacing shadows into the room. The motionless figure on the bed began to wake.

In the weak light from the single oil lamp beside the bed I could make out the manager’s fine clothes and unblemished hands, the mark of a man who supervises the labours of others.

He reached over to a hook beside the door and took down the keys for which I was searching. Clearly my assailant had hung them there when we entered the room and I was too distracted in the struggle to have noticed.

The manager shut the door behind him and locked it. I was very afraid as he was regarded by all in the house as a ruthless man. He aspired to give the house such a fearful reputation to the outside world that no-one would come to his table unless they were utterly, utterly desperate.

Get up! he shouted to the figure on the bed. The master jumped up and grappled with his trousers.

Why do you think you are free to wander at will child? the manager asked in his sinister voice.

He was standing very close to me now, his warm, foul breath drifting across my face. I stood silently defiant, looking him squarely in the eye, refusing to show my fear. Then, I felt a painful sting across my face as he slapped me.

Answer me, damn your impertinence! he cried, his face turning deep crimson. Answer me! he bellowed, lunging for me, throwing his body against me and clamping his hands around my throat.

She’s the Devil’s child this one, sir. Look, said the school master as he held out his arm, see the scar from where she bit me in the school room a year ago.

Then I will punish her as she deserves, declared the manager as his grasp around my neck tightened even more.

I couldn’t breathe; I thought of Jude, the injustice of it all and that I didn’t want to die so young. And then I remembered what I had seen under the bed.

I forced myself to think clearly. I reached for the oil lamp and swung it into the manager’s face. It shattered and he screamed as glass and flame tore at him. He let go of me and I fell, purposely tumbling as close to the bed as I could and lay motionless pretending to be unconscious.

The schoolmaster walked over to help his superior who was screaming obscenities and scratching at his face.

While they were preoccupied I reached under the bed, retrieved what I needed and then became still again. My heart beat furiously but I was determined to stay calm.

I lay perfectly still, not even flinching when the manager recovered enough to turn his fury on me.

I waited until his hands were about my throat again crushing me to the floor, his body on top of mine. Then, I swung the knife which I had snatched from under the bed and sank it into his side. As he raised himself in shock and pain I stabbed him again in the chest, and again.

Blood gurgled from his mouth and he rolled away as more blood oozed over the floor. The school master was frozen with shock.

I got slowly to my feet still holding the knife. The school master was now clearly afraid of me. The balance of power had shifted in my favour and he held up his arms in surrender as his manager lay dying.

I swiftly knelt and reached back under the bed for the pile of rolled notes which I had noticed at the same time as the knife. The manager let out a final rattle, stopped thrashing and became motionless, silent.

I had killed a man but could think only of what I must do next. I reached down for the keys which the manager had dropped when he lunged at me, unlocked the door and backed out before locking it shut again with the school master inside.

As I ran down the corridor I could hear him hammering on the door screaming out about how I was a devil, a guttersnipe. I ran past silent dormitories, everything so familiar but strangely different. This was no longer my world, I had transcended it now, permanently broken the spell of apathy. I had finally woken up.

I reached Jude’s room, unlocked the door and lifted his fragile body. He had fallen unconscious, winded badly by the kick in his stomach and consumed with fear.

I walked back out into the corridor, covered in blood, knife in hand and with Jude over my shoulder. I walked hastily to the entrance hall. Never again would the manager sit in his office watching the main doors, keeping people in and keeping people out. His murder had assured me safe passage.

Once in the hall, I ran to the door, pulled back the bolts and pushed it open. I stepped out into the cold winter evening air, which jolted Jude from his senseless state.

I felt more alive than ever, far less alone. Jude was standing beside me now, shocked and shaken, concerned by my split lip, bruised face and bloodied hands. We looked back at the Whitechapel and Spitalfields Union Workhouse, the only world we had ever really known, the only consistency and stability in our young lives. Then we turned forward and looked ahead into the black London night.

We stood for a few seconds, holding hands like the children that we were, then ran furiously into the labyrinth of Whitechapel streets, and disappeared.

Chapter Two

I was very particular about the fire in my study. Unless it was constantly roaring I would flounce from the room and summon a minion to add more logs. Such was the nature of my life during my first marriage. I believed that I had achieved absolute power and distinctly remember pondering this concept before my meeting with Mr Eustace Whitaker.

I settled back into a leather chair behind my magnificent oak desk and lifted my tumbler of Scotch. A nameless servant poked the fire. My every wish was catered for and I felt intellectually and physically superior to all those around me. I had their complete respect, submission and fear. Or so I thought.

I stared into the amber depths of my glass as the servant scurried from the room. The flames of the fire were straining for the mantle shelf once more. Everything was perfect.

Moriarty, you may wish to add this to your safe, said Mr Whitaker, bouncing into the room proudly carrying a bag of loot and a fist full of notes, with Jude following behind.

Whitaker was a well respected thief with a modicum of intelligence and flair, an old timer past his best but eager to please. He handed me the thick pile of notes.

Clearly you have had a successful evening, I exclaimed, motioning towards the chair at the front of my desk.

Whitaker settled himself opposite me. Jude lurked at his shoulder while I put the money on the desk.

It’s everything from the safe at the house, enough to cover the amount I borrowed from you plus the agreed interest, he explained.

I began idly counting the pile. An excellent return on the figure we lent Whitaker to finance a team and plan this burglary. The team, of course, consisted mainly of my own personnel as it was a condition of the loan. I needed to ensure that operations would run smoothly and trusted the expertise of my own team above all others.

And how about the painting? I asked.

Whitaker smiled and heaved an artwork wrapped in brown paper onto the desk. I pealed back the paper to reveal an exquisite rural scene. I checked it for damage and then counted out the amount due to us from the pile of money. I handed him the remainder.

More than enough for my retirement, he smiled, fingering the notes.

You wish to retire? I inquired.

Indeed yes, this was the very last time for me. I am so weary of the game, Moriarty, so tired of it all. I shall use this to leave the country and begin a simple life somewhere in Europe, away from this dammed impenetrable London fog, he replied.

Will you not miss the excitement of it all, the application of your skills, the wealth? I asked as I slowly opened the top draw of my desk and took out a Colt Navy revolver.

Why should I? I have sufficient funds now to last comfortably for the rest of my life and care nothing for the excitement anymore.

Then you and I are very different, Mr Whitaker.

I raised the revolver and fired the projectile straight at his heart, piercing his body like a knife slicing through softened butter.

As his arms clawed at the air, I gathered up the money I had given him and returned it to the pile on the desk.

Check his pockets Jude, I’m sure he has more money, I said, and Jude began his task as Whitaker gurgled his final breath.

He found various sums in different pockets.

Please attend to the body as we planned, I instructed as I stood and lifted the painting. I must take this to my husband.

Why does he want it so desperately? And why insist on Whitaker being killed? Jude asked as he began to lift the body from the chair.

Ours is not to reason why, I sighed, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze and leaving the room to take my husband his spoils.

My journey from the poverty of Whitechapel to a palatial town-house, from which I assisted my first husband in the running of his vast criminal empire, would fill a whole journal by itself.

I remember so clearly how initially elated Jude and I both were when we ran away from the workhouse on that memorable night, overjoyed to be free and have a world of possibilities to explore together.

We kept running until we came to a panting halt somewhere by the docks, utterly overwhelmed by the activity around us. Huge ships were being unloaded, their vast cargo of goods from the empire being hauled ashore. The place was alive with exciting new sights, smells and sounds.

We explored like eager children, hiding behind crates and baskets, trying to get as close to the ships as