Mary Copeland: Victorian detective: Book One

By Robbert Jan Swiers

Mary Copeland: Victorian detective examines the life of this young woman who is raised by her uncle and aunt in London in the late nineteenth century and who develops into a detective of stature who works on request for Scotland Yard. As a woman, however, it is almost impossible to fulfil a social function and so she has to do her job anonymously. She is assisted in this by employees of Scotland Yard, with whom she forms a secret unit over time.
The stories, which take place from 1888, include many painters from the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The titles of the four stories are taken from paintings from that time. Swiers impressively manages to portray the London of those days, just after The Ripper Murders and before The London Dock Strike.
In the Netherlands, the first four books on Mary Copeland were published between 2019 and 2022 and subsequent volumes are in preparation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398445215

Robbert Jan Swiers

Robbert Jan Swiers (born in Middelburg, the Netherlands, in 1959) has more than eighty Dutch publications to his name: children’s books, history, archaeology, nature, poetry, novels and he contributed to language and history methods. In addition, he is (or has been) active in music, music theatre, film and cabaret and contributed to many developments in the field of art, archaeology, cultural heritage and culture. He is married and has two children.

Book preview

About the Author

Robbert Jan Swiers (born in Middelburg, the Netherlands, in 1959) has more than eighty Dutch publications to his name: children’s books, history, archaeology, nature, poetry, novels and he contributed to language and history methods. In addition, he is (or has been) active in music, music theatre, film and cabaret and contributed to many developments in the field of art, archaeology, cultural heritage and culture. He is married and has two children.

Copyright Information ©

Robbert Jan Swiers 2022

The right of Robbert Jan Swiers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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

ISBN 9781398445208 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398445215 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

I

Mary Copeland and The Lady of Shalott

The Case of the Desperate Husband

The banks of the Thames were deserted. Here and there a pike-studded bollard stuck out of the muddy soil. It ought to be a full moon, but the light hardly passed through the streaks of smoke and heavy fog. The hundreds of thousands of coal-fired stoves caused an unremitting vapour and that, combined with the fog, caused breathing problems for many people. Mary Copeland knew people who had died from it.

The air also seemed filled with germs that caused so many deaths. She shuddered, but not because she was afraid in this godforsaken part of London, but the cold seemed to pierce through her thick clothes. She had to move; otherwise, she would still be overcome by the cold. However, she looked around a few more times, on the corner of Wapping High Street and Shadwell.

It was the dead tide, but it was low and then the water sometimes showed what it had left behind. She did not venture into the mud, for she knew how treacherous it could be. Sometimes people searched for worms or valuables, which caused deep pits filled with silt that made them look like solid ground, but nothing was less true; one wrong step and you were stuck in the sludge to your waist, without any possibilities to escape again. It was a terrible death because the rising flood would slowly drown you.

Mary walked along the quay, leaving a row of high warehouses behind her. A single pier crossed the riverbed on strangely distorted poles. She cautiously set out on one of the piers and in the meantime scanned the poorly lit bank for traces, which could also shed some light on the recent horrible events. It was the year in which Jack the Ripper had asserted his presence, with the death of eight women in the deserted alleys and streets of Whitechapel and East End.

Especially around Flower and Dean Street, it was extremely dangerous and the people were warned by the newspapers not to go there, especially not alone. The same newspapers did everything to make the murders look as terrible as possible, with drawings and photographs taken on the spot. They sold more than usual and the readers, terrified of the murderer who could strike at any moment, also feasted on the stories, as long as it was not about themselves. At the same time, there were, of course, strange stories in the newspapers; even stranger than those about Jack the Ripper could hardly be.

There had been strange phenomena in several places along the Thames in recent months. It seemed like a story from a Penny Dreadful magazine, to frighten people. It was always the same story. Street boys, fishermen, late workers, early constables; they all had, once or twice, seen the shape of a woman, in a white robe with loose hairs, moving across the water of the Thames as if she were sitting in a boat, but through the fog and smoke a boat was never seen, so it seemed like she was floating over the water. Meanwhile, she recited a poem, it seemed, but no one could ever understand the words, and she was gone before research could be done.

But Mary was not here for superstition; she was averse to that. Everything was explainable. If one boy or drunken worker confused a sail of a sailing ship with a woman in a white robe and his own drunken talk with a poem, a story had already been born and if that was told a few times, you could bet your life on it that there were more people who confirmed the phenomenon. Yet there were enough believers, given the seances of mesmerists and the societies that had been established, such as in 1882 The Society for Psychical Research and in 1887 The Golden Dawn.

Psychics like Florence Cook convinced people that there were spirits they could evoke and recently, with the arrival of Madame Helena Blavatsky, a real movement called Theosophy had emerged. In a personal way, Mary was not interested in it at all, since she was convinced that everything was explainable and if something was not, then science was simply not ready to understand it. However, she kept a close eye on this kind of ‘rarities’ because of possible connections with her research.

As a private detective, Mary Copeland was involved in the investigation into The Ripper Murders, which was led by inspector first-class Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard. It was a man’s world, but she had already done her bit so well that she was tolerated; respected was a step too far, but she strove to become that and the investigation into the recent killings would certainly help. In addition, she was also involved in a murder that seemed to have taken place on the same day. This was on behalf of Abberline, who she closely worked with—something that was not entirely clear yet—and for which she was now scanning the banks of the Thames.

It was late December, and she could freeze to death if it got colder. Her only witness of the horrible murder that had taken place along the banks of the river lay in The London Hospital, at Whitechapel; she was going to visit him that night, but what the poor man had managed to tell the constable that found him was not in any way a murder by Jack the Ripper. Tim Harding was fishing late at the Tunnel Pier on High Street when he saw a white appearance with a flat wheelbarrow carrying a heavy bundle along the river. He kept as quiet as possible because Harding felt, in all his veins, he told the constable, that something was wrong.

Junk got thrown into the Thames by many people every day, but this seemed different. More closely, it seemed to be a woman in a long coat, with a dress underneath, said Harding. She had a hood over her head, so he could not see anything of her face. She did not look up or turn and tossed the bundle into the river; with a careless gesture. It was low tide and the bundle floated towards the pier where the fisherman sat trembling.

The shape disappeared and Harding waited until he was sure that she would not return. His curiosity was stronger than his fear, and he scrambled along the poles of the pier towards the bundle and pulled it, with a lot of effort, against the quay and up. When he opened the bundle, a jute bag that was tied with hemp rope, he got the fright of his life. There was a corpse in it, but not just that, no, the body was skinned from bottom to top, from fontanelle to foot sole… At that moment, it all became too much for the poor Harding, and he got seriously confused so that the constable, Irvin Barlow, could not get a sensible word out of him and brought him to The London Hospital with the help of a number of colleagues.

In deep thoughts, Mary walked through New Gravel Lane, The London Dock on her left and The New Dock and the Shadwell Basin on her right, to Saint George Street. There she crossed via New Road to Whitechapel Road and came to The London Hospital. All this time it was dark, foggy and only dimly lit by streetlights with gaslighting. There was plenty of light along Whitechapel Road, although it had difficulty shining through the thick clouds.

London Hospital was well lit and once inside Mary let out a sigh of relief; it was light and a lot warmer than outside. Quickly she searched her way to the room where Tim Harding lay. Harding lay in a bed, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He was a small man, with an unshaven face and thick pustules that betrayed a skin condition. His uncombed hair lay smoothly over his forehead, and slightly trembling hands lay above the blankets along his body. He seemed to be somewhere else. Beside him, Irvin Barlow, with a deep frown on his face, was obviously still impressed by what Harding had told him. Good night, constable, Mary greeted the man.

He looked up for a moment. Miss… He didn’t say anymore. He had already informed her at the police station of the H Division of Whitechapel in Leman Street. Barlow could not tell her anymore at the moment. She pulled up a chair, sat on the other side of the bed and removed her hat. She put two hands on the trembling fingers of Harding.

Don’t be scared, Mr Harding. I am Mary Copeland, and I am researching what has happened tonight. Constable Barlow has already told me what you saw. Very brave of you that you have taken that bundle from the Thames. You seem like a good person to me.

The man’s eyes took a slightly less stare and turned towards Mary. He saw her and his expression became mild. Mary had that effect on people. She was not a fashion model, but she had a sweet face, with a slightly popped nose, red, curly hair that sat up in a wild bun and small freckles down her nose and on her cheeks.

Her mouth was small, but she had full lips and a dimple in her slightly pointed chin. Her eyes, almost luminous green, were large and contained a sympathetic spark. Her hands, small and slender, with beautiful, manicured nails, were ivory-white and still lay on Harding’s fingers. She knew that this contact would keep him focused on her, so she left her hands there.

I would like to ask you a few questions, please. You think that’s okay, don’t you? You would really help me with that. She was not talking about the body, not about the man who once lived and was now, horribly maimed, in the mortuary of the hospital. She wanted to keep Harding as far away as possible from the terrible things he had experienced. The man swallowed for a moment and then spoke. He missed a few teeth and some others looked like a neglected graveyard, but Mary kept looking at him, friendly and compassionate; she had seen worse things.

What do you want to know, Miss?

That lady who walked the wheelbarrow; what direction did she come from and where did she go when she walked away?

Harding thought for a moment. I saw her for the first time when she was already on the quay, but she came from High Street.

He paused, and Mary let him think. Then she walked back, but not through High Street, no, she went into one of those streets that ends at Brewhouse Lane, but to be honest, I did not go after her…

That’s quite a lot, Mr Harding. You have already told constable Barlow that you saw a dress protruding under her cape or coat. Have you seen her shoes too? What a strange question, you saw Harding think, but he was touched enough to think about it.

Yes, he said suddenly.

She had those fashionable shoes, with laces and thick heels, but I could not see the colour.

That does not matter, Mr Harding. You are doing very well. Do you know what kind of cape she was wearing? Mary made sure not to make too many suggestions because that could affect the man’s memory. If she would ask him if the hood of the cape or coat was stuck or a loose attribute, then maybe he would talk to her mouth. She now saw him think for himself.

That cap was stuck to her cape. It was not a coat, but a cape, and it was flapping all around her, so, if it was tied properly… I do not think so. He was silent for a moment and Mary waited for one more last bubble, a glimmer of memory that was about to come up again.

Oh, and she had a long shawl, that flew with the cape… He suddenly looked the other way, to constable Barlow.

I completely forgot about that… Now that he had seen the constable, his memories seemed to move in a different direction, and Mary felt him shake under her hands again. Barlow reminded him of his terrible experience.

Take it easy, Mr Harding. You are doing very well. I know you saw something bad…

Red, he said then and looked deeply into her eyes. The moon just appeared and that shawl was red. It contrasted with the black of the cape. Then he sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Let me be, Miss, I’ll get over it, but that will take a while and probably a good number of drinks if you don’t mind.

I do not blame you at all, and I thank you very much, Mr Harding. She put a shilling on the cupboard next to his bed. You can use a few of them, I think, of those beers I mean. He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at the coin on the cupboard and then at Mary.

Thank you, Miss. I will toast to your goodness. Then he closed his eyes again. Mary took her hands from his and looked up at Barlow. She beckoned him, and he followed her to the entrance of the hall.

You have already seen the body, or at least, that’s what you told me at the police station, as well as the fact that it was a man in a state like Mr Harding described it.

Barlow nodded. It was a serious-looking young man, not much older than her, Mary estimated. He had dark brown hair, big eyebrows, a straight nose and high cheekbones. He was neatly shaved, but she could see the shadow of a sturdy beard growth all over his skin. His uniform was impeccable, on his sleeve the letter H of the district to which he belonged, supplemented by his number, 473, which according to her information was to say that he had come to the H Division lately.

Probably, he was still inexperienced, but on the other hand, one didn’t just become a detective constable; maybe he had an interesting history. She would ask him later. Now, other matters were important. Are there any more constables who know about this? He shook his head.

No, Miss Copeland. We have taken the bag with contents over here. I am the only one who has seen the corpse. It did not seem necessary to confront others with it. Times are already grim enough. He looked at her for a moment as if he wanted to know if she knew what he meant.

Certainly, Mary responded. As you know, I am involved in the killings attributed to Jack the Ripper, and I reported to inspector first-class Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard. He is also the one I have to account for about the work I do for the Metropolitan Police Service and Scotland Yard. Just as you yourself suggest, we have enough on our heads to get another murder case, certainly such a gruesome one. It seems to me that Jack the Ripper has nothing to do with this because it is apparently a man and that serial killer has mainly focussed on women and especially prostitutes.

She rubbed her hands for a moment, a gesture she often made when she was thinking, but it could just as well be seen as a sign that she was cold. That is how Barlow interpreted it too because he did not yet know her that well.

We can go to a more heated room if you wish, he politely suggested.

Mary looked at him kindly. That is very nice of you, constable Barlow, but I suggest another place that is, unfortunately, a lot colder. Shall we go to the mortuary? I want to see the body itself and…

Are you sure? Barlow interrupted her with a shocked expression. It’s really awful and…

I’ve often seen corpses, dear constable, even in awful conditions, after having been in the water for days, for example, or being torn to pieces by wild animals. However, I can well imagine that you don’t want to be confronted with the body again.

She looked at him for a moment, but the young man did not shrink. His face looked normal again. I had never seen such a thing, Miss Copeland, but if I want to do a serious murder investigation as a policeman, I will have to get used to it. She nodded and together they left the room, where the poor Harding was still processing his experiences with his eyes closed.

They walked through a few corridors, down a staircase to the cellars and came to a door that accessed the mortuary. Mary waited a moment before she went inside. The identity of the victim is not yet known, right? You have not had the time for that, I assume.

Barlow nodded. First, I wanted to get something out of Harding, but that did not work until you arrived. I have asked others if someone is missing, and I honestly expect to be notified at any time.

Mary thought about what Barlow had said. It does not seem sensible to me that more people know about the state of this corpse and the way it has been mutilated. Don’t you agree?

Barlow thought for a moment. You only want us and the doctor to know?

And, of course, inspector Abberline because I have to report to him. Barlow nodded that he understood. Then I wait here for my colleague. I assume you will inform the doctor?

Mary confirmed his assumption. This, dear constable Barlow, is no ordinary murder. Someone who peels another human being has a disturbed mind and is extremely malicious. It would not surprise me if such a person strikes again after such a gruesome act and in these months… Well, I do not need to explain that to you because you already understood that. Have any knowledgeable journalists surfaced yet?

No, but now that you mention it; what if Harding tells anyone?

A good point, constable. I have to think about that. If you do that also. Two minds know more than one. Then I will go inside now. I hope you get a message soon. Barlow, impressed by the firm attitude of the young woman, who was half a head shorter than he was with his six feet two, kept the door open for her and let her in. He closed the door behind Mary and waited for his colleague to come with the possible identity of the victim.

Mary was in a room where she had been before. It was cold, bare, grim and consisted of tiles on the floor, the walls and, if it could have been, the ceiling. Every day the room was cleaned with an improbably dirty substance and that’s what it smelled like. There were a few wooden tables on which the bodies lay as they were examined and in one of the walls were steel niches where they were kept until the investigation was over and relatives could collect their loved ones for an orderly funeral.

Of course, there were not only bodies of murder victims. There were also people who had died in accidents or because of illnesses or old age. If there was only the slightest reason for suspicious circumstances, they were brought here. This night there was only one body under a white sheet, which had already been soaked with blood.

Sir Matthew Anderson stood over a desk and read something in a log. When he heard the door, he turned and looked over his small, round glasses to his visitor. Sir Matthew was a tall man, but because of his work, he was already slightly bent. He was balding, had some grey hair on the sides, but compensated for his hair loss with a huge beard, which hung above his chest and which was still interlaced with brown hair.

He wore a three-piece suit under his long, white coat—with blood smears here and there. It was a neat man. Uncle Matthew. Thank you for being here. Apparently, you’re on duty tonight.

Hello, Mary. Indeed, even though I have to say that these late nights are becoming more and more annoying. I would really like to lie in bed now. What brings you here, in this dreary place? I thought you were busy with the recent murders, but I don’t think that the famous Jack the Ripper killed tonight. Or are you looking for clues to the gruesome murder of this unfortunate man?

He turned to the bar on which the body lay. I don’t know if he has done anything, but one does not want a death like that.

He then turned to Mary again. You have seen this before, eh, child? However, this should be a shock for you too. You don’t come across a skinned person every day. What do you want to know?

Everything, Uncle Matthew. Was he already dead when he was skinned, with what object was it done, how long ago, were there any other traces found than just his bare body, what was his last meal… Sir Matthew laughed at her mildly, while he grabbed a towel and