East End Orphan

by Kay Brellend

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

The second in a brand-new trilogy from bestselling author Kay Brelland, inspired by true events, following A Daughter's Heartbreak.

Abandoned twice, can he find a way to trust again?

When orphaned Jake Harding is sent away from his adoptive home aged just seven, he does not understand why - especially as his adopted brother, Toby, is kept by their mother.

Forced to make his own way in the world, Jake falls in with a gang of petty thieves, who make their living lifting valuables from those who are better off. At sixteen, he crosses paths with the charismatic Johnny Cooper and his nemesis George Payne, and risks making an enemy when he attracts the attention of George's beautiful daughter Rebecca.

Johnny Cooper is a rogue with a heart of gold. He senses a kindred spirit in Jake and a talent he could put to good use if Jake worked for him. However, Jake is determined to make something of himself so that no one can ever reject him again. But as he forges his own path, he cannot escape the reach of Johnny, George and their network of cronies, all of which will have far reaching consequences for Jake's future in ways he could never have imagined.

Praise for Kay Brellend:

'Vividly rendered' Historical Novel Society

'A fantastic cast of characters' Goodreads

'Thoroughly absorbing' Goodreads

Release date: September 19, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

She’d never loved him as her husband had. In her opinion the boy was rather too clever for a seven-year-old orphan gifted advantages in life. By birth he would have had nothing but his angelic looks to recommend him. As a baby he had charmed her with his pale hair and brown eyes that had shaded into green. His colouring mirrored hers … a good omen, she’d thought, when bringing him home. But from his developing character she knew they would never have anything else in common. Praise from kith and kin for her handsome son were scant compensation for the challenge he’d present as he grew. She was unwilling to rear the mischievous brat. Others would judge her though so she kept this to herself. Everybody understood a mother on her own faced problems. Educating one child was costly; two were beyond her means if she were to keep this house. She’d made her choices and one of the adopted East End waifs had to go. She knew which one.

‘Is it wise to tell the boy the truth, Mrs Harding?’

‘Wiser than it is to lie to him I think, Sergeant Drover,’ she responded tartly. Having poured the tea, she handed a cup to the policeman. ‘Jake is sharp and has been taught to be honest. I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t practise what I preach.’ She glanced dispassionately at the child standing silently by the door. ‘I hope his new guardians will continue to discipline him so our efforts with him are not wasted.’

The sergeant turned ruddy at the put down. His top lip took on a faint curl. Madam High and Mighty pointed out the boy’s talents but didn’t want him. Such was the way of people determined to be posh. They believed themselves superior but could be incapable of showing kindness. Not that Sergeant Drover didn’t pity her for being widowed in such a wicked way.

‘Has there been any progress on finding the villain who robbed and murdered my husband?’ She had read the turn of his thoughts.

The sergeant took a gulp of his tea then put down his cup and saucer. He swivelled his eyes to the child. He hadn’t reacted but still Drover didn’t think it was right to talk about this in front of him. He appeared a stoic little chap – no wobbly lips in evidence – even so it seemed unfeeling to imagine he wasn’t moved by recent events. He’d lost his father and soon would lose his mother due to her cruelty rather than crime. ‘I’m afraid our enquiries haven’t turned up any new leads, Mrs Harding. But of course we haven’t concluded our investigations.’

‘Oh, investigations!’ She gestured dismissively. ‘Admit it; there’s little prospect of recovering what was stolen.’ The loss of ten pounds and a gold timepiece wasn’t the crux of Violet Harding’s problems, though she could do with the cash and with pawning the watch to raise funds. Without her husband’s regular salary from his position in Whitehall, she found herself reduced to living on his pension. At the reading of Rupert’s will she’d discovered that was not the crux of it either.

The ignominy of being told by a stranger that her husband’s mistress had given him a child of his own had topped everything; unbelievably, worse was in store. Rupert had left instructions that his assets must be divided. The only respect he’d shown his legal wife was allowing her the marital home and banning his paramour from the will reading. Weeks on, Violet’s guts continued to squirm at the idea that she might have found herself sitting a yard away from Molly Deane while the smirking solicitor acted as their referee.

On the cab ride home from the galling episode, Violet had understood something else, equally hurtful: she was barren. She’d believed her husband to be at fault when she’d not conceived in eighteen years of marriage. Both her sisters had children but no, he had had a natural daughter, named Rebecca. By her calculations the child had already been born when they adopted their babies from the orphanage.

Had Rupert not been set upon when leaving his club on a stormy evening a month ago she’d still be ignorant of any of this. In a way, she was glad about that. She might have stabbed him herself, had she known.

Violet had little recourse to revenge now he’d gone, though she dearly wanted to hurt him back. But Rupert had had a favourite son even if the boy wasn’t his flesh and blood. Cutting ties with Jake would be little hardship for her but her dead husband would be grinding his teeth to dust in his grave. The child she had come to adore would miss his brother, but Toby would be occupied with a good education and forget Jake in time.

‘You should go to Lambeth and ask the lady who lives there about my father. She might know what happened to him.’

Violet swung around to stare at Jake, who’d unexpectedly reminded her of his presence with his shocking outburst. ‘Be quiet and speak when you’re spoken to,’ she hissed. After the sergeant had gone she’d interrogate him about how he knew where Molly Deane lived. She felt enraged that Rupert might have taken Jake with him when visiting his paramour.

‘What lady might that be Master Jake?’ Basil Drover bent his knees, lowering himself to gaze into a small face that was earnest and undeniably handsome.

‘I saw them walking together in Andover Street,’ explained Jake. ‘There was a girl with them as well … smaller than I. She had brown hair like the lady.’ He was sure he was being helpful but though the policeman seemed interested, his mother was angry.

‘Stop that nonsense,’ she snapped. ‘Go to your room, Jake.’

‘Let the lad have his say.’ The sergeant sounded blithe but there was a curious gleam in his eyes.

‘I told you he is a clever boy,’ said Violet. ‘It doesn’t do to encourage him, Sergeant. He likes being the centre of attention.’

‘I’ll hear him out. He might have a point … about the lady … ’

‘I doubt he saw anything. He has a vivid imagination,’ Violet fumed. ‘He entertains his brother with his made-up tales. Don’t you?’

Jake nodded.

‘A Charles Dickens reader, eh?’ chortled Drover.

‘Certainly not,’ she snorted. ‘The boys are instructed in the classics.’

She jabbed her head and Jake obediently left the room, although he knew the policeman wanted him to stay. Outside, he hesitated to listen to what happened next but he saw Dora Knox hovering some yards away. Being the clever child he was, Jake realised the maid had brought in the tea tray then loitered to find out what the policeman wanted. His mother had sent her outside saying she’d pour herself.

They stared at one another and the girl gave him a sympathetic smile before disappearing downstairs to the servants’ quarters. She was the only one left now. The proper cook had left soon after the day of the funeral. Now Dora did everything and the meals were horrible because she was only sixteen and untrained. Jake could hear a muffled conversation through the door panels but gave up trying to make out what was being said. He guessed it was about him misbehaving. He heard a scuffling noise and saw his younger brother peeping from between the banisters. Jake bounded up the treads to sit beside him.

‘You’re not really going away are you?’ asked a mournful Toby.

‘I am, but you won’t have to go,’ Jake said and put a reassuring arm about his shoulders.

‘Don’t want to be here on my own without you.’

‘You’ll be all right; Mother likes you.’

‘You’ll come back though, won’t you when you’ve learned to be good?’

Jake nodded, although he knew he wouldn’t. His mother didn’t want him any more. He felt upset but also invigorated at the idea of a new beginning and another place to explore. He’d liked his father but he was gone, and now it was his turn to be released from a home he’d never fitted into. Jake wondered if his late father had felt uncomfortable too and that’s why he’d stayed out a lot and become friends with another lady. He’d miss his brother, although he truly believed Toby would be all right without him. Their mother was different with Toby. She called him her poppet, whereas he himself was referred to as ‘the boy’, or ‘the orphan’.

The brothers understood they were adopted children: when of an age to comprehend their beginnings, their father had sat them down and explained that the Great War had made it impossible for their real mothers to keep them. He’d said that even though they looked alike, they weren’t blood brothers but a different sort of brothers. From the moment they’d been chosen by him and his wife, they’d no longer been orphans, he’d said, but their sons and they would always be loved and cared for in a nice home. Their father had lived up to his promise but their mother had stopped halfway.

‘Come on, let’s go and play in the bedroom with the train set.’ Jake grabbed his brother’s elbow and urged him to run up the stairs.

‘Where is the school you’re going to?’ Toby looked up from removing items from the Hornby box.

Jake shrugged and leaned forward on his knees to put a locomotive down on a length of track. ‘Somewhere in London, I think. Sergeant Drover’s coming back later in the week to take me there. Mother doesn’t want to go with me.’

‘London … so it’s not far then.’ Toby sounded relieved. ‘You’ll come back at the weekends I expect.’

‘Perhaps … ’ Jake doubted he’d be allowed back and knew he’d miss Toby. ‘I heard them say it’s Dr Barnardo’s home so I suppose he’s the headmaster.’

‘Doctors are nice,’ said Toby, remembering when he’d had chicken pox and a kindly old gentleman had given him medicine to soothe his skin. ‘I bet you’ll have lots of friends,’ he said wistfully. ‘You won’t forget me, will you?’

‘Never … ’ Jake solemnly promised and sat back on his heels to gaze at his younger brother.

In the parlour, Sergeant Drover sucked his teeth in sympathy while being regaled with the shocking costs of funerals these days and school fees shooting ever upwards. Inwardly, he was wondering why Mrs Harding didn’t move to a less fashionable address to keep the family together. She couldn’t really prefer her big house to her little son, could she? He allowed her the benefit of the doubt; the woman would still be in shock over her husband’s murder and in a panic over the prospect of coping without him. She might right the wrong she’d done young Master Jake by fetching him home in the New Year when she was more herself. Whatever excuses he found for her it seemed a mean thing to do to any child just a month before Christmas. He was a bright kid, no doubt about it. Thanks to him there was another lead to follow in this murder case.

The upstanding husband had been walking with a dark-haired woman in Lambeth’s Andover Street. No prizes for guessing the nature of that relationship. Parts of Lambeth were renowned as popular with rich gentlemen who wanted to house a mistress. Not flash enough to draw attention, but not too shabby either. An ambitious young woman, living on her looks, would find the area most acceptable.

‘Does your late husband have kith or kin Lambeth way?’

‘I told you the boy was fantasising, Sergeant Drover.’

‘So … nobody for Mr Harding to have visited over there that you are aware of? Female cousins or nieces of any sort?’

Violet resisted calling him insolent. Later in the week he was to do her a great favour; she wouldn’t antagonise him. ‘I know my husband’s family, Sergeant. We were betrothed for two years and married for eighteen more.’

‘Yes … of course.’ He put away his notebook and pencil. ‘Well, I’ll be off for now then.’

‘You won’t forget to come back, will you?’ She picked up a letter from the Barnardo’s home in Stepney. ‘They have confirmed arrangements and expect Jake at ten o’clock on Friday.’ She should thank him for having offered earlier to escort the boy for her when she said she was loath to ask the solicitor to do it for an exorbitant fee.

‘I will, unless you change your mind and wish to accompany him yourself.’ He hesitated in taking the letter.

‘It would be too upsetting for me to go there.’ And indeed it would be, she thought. Offloading a child at an orphanage was what the lower orders did. ‘Thank you for assisting in this, Sergeant.’ Drover was treated to the first smile of his visit. ‘I appreciate your help. I won’t change my mind, you see.’

After he’d gone, she went upstairs and called Jake from the bedroom where he and Toby were mimicking the sounds of steam trains. He closed the door obediently behind him and she gave him a stern look. He held her gaze steadily without flinching. She found him far too sure of himself and those green eyes of his were quite unsettling at times. ‘This woman you spoke of,’ she said. ‘When did you see her with your father, Jake?’

‘Last Christmas. Carol singers were in the street—’

‘Last Christmas?’ she interrupted, in surprise. She had imagined it had been a recent sighting, not almost a year ago. ‘Were you with your father?’

‘No … with Mr Nash. He was taking me to a Christmas concert in Lambeth. Toby didn’t come. He was in bed with a cold.’

So not only did Jake know about this woman and Rupert; the boys’ tutor did as well. Nash would be dispensed with soon in any case. Arranging a boarding school for Toby was next on her list of things to do. She’d miss his company, but if he were to fly high, a good education was essential.

‘I think you are mistaken; it was a long time ago and you might have forgotten exactly what you saw. No more of it, to me or to Sergeant Drover. Do you understand?’

He nodded solemnly. As his mother turned away he said, ‘I remember it, though. I don’t forget anything.’

Well, the deceased Lothario had a wide-ranging taste in women, thought Basil Drover as he entered the house in Andover Street and followed Mrs Deane along the hallway. Harding’s widow was a slender blonde, in her late thirties; his mistress had a buxom figure and dark hair and was easily fifteen years younger.

Once in the back parlour he glanced around but there was no sign of the child Master Jake had spoken about. He knew there was one; when making enquiries in the street to discover at which house he might find a dark-haired woman with a young daughter, the neighbour had confirmed with a sniff that he was looking for Mrs Deane who lived at number two.

‘So what can I do for you, Sergeant?’ asked Molly Deane with admirable insouciance considering her fists were clenched behind her back. She feared she knew what he wanted, and after a night of carousing had left her with a thumping head, she could do without this trouble.

‘Well, as I said, madam, I’m investigating a crime and I believe you might have known the unfortunate victim.’

‘A crime?’

‘A murder.’

‘Oh, Mr Harding, you mean.’ She’d been mistaken in what had brought him here and had allowed a note of relief to creep into her voice. Rupert Harding’s comings and goings had been regular and over time neighbours had cottoned on to their relationship. An account of his murder and his photograph had been in the newspaper as he was a bigwig in the City. She imagined somebody had ratted on her and brought the coppers sniffing around.

‘Did you think I’d another crime in mind?’ Drover’s ears had pricked up at the inflexion in her tone.

‘No … although I have to say the area is going downhill. Three times this week I’ve been tormented by little blighters playing knock down ginger. If it happens again, I’ll summon you myself.’

‘I see … well, as to Mr Harding, you did know him then. Might I ask the nature of your relationship?’

‘You might, though I imagine you are able to guess at it. We are both adults, Sergeant Drover, so no need for either of us to act coy.’ She gave him a cheeky smile. He wasn’t bad looking and probably only a few years older than she was. Having the name of the local rozzer in her little black book could be a smart move.

His sardonic smile let her know he’d regretfully decline. ‘You have a daughter I believe, Mrs Deane. Is she Harding’s child?’

‘Who told yer that?’ Molly barked, forgetting to act refined.

‘I can’t disclose my sources. Is she his offspring?’ Drover sensed he’d touched a nerve.

‘Yes,’ she said and turned away. ‘Out of respect for all concerned I’d like that to remain between us.’

Basil nodded his agreement although it seemed bit late to consider the feelings of the betrayed wife. He began to sympathise with Violet Harding and to understand why she was a sourpuss. Maybe she’d known about her husband’s mistress and had been protecting her pride by keeping schtum about her rival.

‘Where is your daughter?

‘Staying with a friend. Now if that is all … ’

‘Had you seen Mr Harding on the night he was murdered?’

‘I was expecting him to call but he didn’t turn up. I assumed he’d gone straight home. He did that sometimes if he came out of his club the worse for wear.’

Drover knew from the coroner’s report that the deceased had been intoxicated on the night in question. ‘Will you be leaving here now your circumstances have changed?’

‘What concern is that of yours?’ she asked spikily.

‘I might need to speak to you again and wouldn’t want to find you gone.’

‘I’ll be here; Mr Harding wasn’t my only gentleman friend. I don’t think I need to say more than that. Now, if you’ll excuse me … ’

He allowed her to lead him back along the hall and once outside set off into the early dusk of the November afternoon. He put away his notebook and buttoned the pocket flap over it. There was no point in stirring up a hornets’ nest because the dead man couldn’t keep his trousers buttoned. Sergeant Drover decided to close his line of enquiry with Mrs Deane. Pursuing it unnecessarily would only unearth sordid details to upset the victim’s family and spoil the children’s memory of their father when they were older.

From behind a screen of curtain Molly Deane watched his back until he was out of sight around the corner. Before she dropped the net into place, she spotted someone along the street, emerging from the shadows.

George Payne had been the love of Molly’s life for years and she believed she held the same place in his affections despite his roving eye. He was holding a young girl by the hand and hurrying her in the direction of the house. When she stumbled, he picked her up and carried her.

‘What was that all about?’ George Payne had burst out with a question before the door was shut. He put the girl down and the bag containing the bottles of brandy and port was carried into the kitchen and dumped on the table.

‘Nothing I can’t deal with,’ Molly retorted. ‘What did the doctor say about Rebecca?’ She bent to soothe the six-year-old, who’d trudged up to her mother and started to grizzle.

‘Tonsillitis he reckons.’ A medicine bottle appeared from a pocket. ‘He said to dose her with this twice a day.’

Molly kissed Rebecca’s pale cheek. ‘Let’s get you into bed then I’ll bring you up some warm milk.’

The little girl nodded her dark head.

George followed mother and daughter up the stairs. ‘I’ve got a delivery turning up later; I don’t need coppers sniffing around. I recognised him and he would’ve known me if he’d caught a look at me. Drover’s his name and he’s a bloodhound from the other side of the water. Must be my lucky day: clocking him first and getting under cover.’

Molly soon had her daughter tucked up in bed in her nightclothes. Then she turned to answer George. ‘It was Sergeant Drover. He’s investigating Rupert’s murder. I suppose I should’ve guessed I’d get a visit about that.’ Molly sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the child’s hair until she put her thumb in her mouth and started to doze.

The couple tiptoed outside the room and shut the door then Molly lit two cigarettes and handed one to him. ‘No need to fret, Georgie.’ She patted his cheek. ‘Your pals can come with the stuff this evening. Now I think about it, I reckon his wife’s got a bee in her bonnet after the will reading. The cow sent Drover here.’ She smirked. ‘Can’t blame her, I suppose. The copper’s not a fool though; he knows she’s a jealous woman with her claws out. Drover won’t be back.’ She blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. ‘So, it’s business as usual.’

The Christmas shoppers were out in force which was the way he liked it. A crowd of people was useful to somebody who never knew when he might need to hide.

At just sixteen years old, Jake Harding had already attained the build of an average grown man. His precocious maturity meant he could browse merchandise without appearing out of place. In other ways his looks were a drawback. His artfully tilted Homburg didn’t adequately disguise his pale blond hair or the memorable colour of his eyes. At this time of the year, staff were extra vigilant and he could already sense the weight of a suspicious stare. He was an old hand at it now, but never blasé. He paid the sales assistant for the gentleman’s vanity case he’d been examining, earning himself an apologetic smile. A scent of leather wafted from his fingers; a redolence of childhood and his father’s brush and comb set encased in calfskin. He’d not thought about any of his family for a while and wanted to bury the memory. He couldn’t afford sentimentality distracting him into having to pay for goods. The woman took his cash to ring into the till and while she was occupied with her business, he did his.

With his wrapped purchase in one hand, the other remained in his pocket while he wove through the throng. He cursed beneath his breath at his accomplice’s ill-timed grab on brushing past. Jake resisted turning around to see if the clumsy idiot had dropped the five leather wallets on the floor. He changed direction and headed towards the haberdashery department. He’d seen something in there that would make Old Peg’s eyes light up. She’d asked him to look out for things that would make good Christmas presents. Pretty stuff was what everybody was after right now, she’d said. He could do without pretty; he wanted practical from Santa. A nice cash bonus to boost his savings. Old Peg wasn’t known for her generosity though, at any time of year.

A loud woman was helpfully commandeering the assistant’s attention while other customers tutted and grew impatient to be served. Jake turned over boxed handkerchiefs with one hand while the other helped silk scarves to slither off the display at his elbow and into his pocket. Only a necessary few remained to cover the depleted stand so he stepped away and adjusted his hat: a signal that he was heading for the exit to find pastures new. He didn’t rush; store walkers were on the lookout for thieves making a dash for it, but he wasn’t dawdling either while heading off through the gentlemen’s hosiery department.

He almost crashed into a pillar as he spotted people up ahead he had amazingly appeared to have conjured up. Or perhaps it wasn’t them; he hadn’t seen them in close to a decade … he could be mistaken.

His heart was thudding in a mixture of thrill and trepidation that outdid anything experienced on a shoplifting expedition. The risk of loitering with the stolen scarves on him was momentarily forgotten. He changed direction to circle the square counter set in the centre of the aisle. Two assistants were serving, one each end. Jake stationed himself on the opposite side to the youth and the woman, keeping his face lowered. He glanced up from beneath the brim of his hat and a twinge of dormant emotion stirred in his chest. His mother barely got a look in; he couldn’t stop staring at his brother, and did so a second too long. A pair of quizzical eyes on him startled Jake awake. He melted away into the crowd and a woman behind soon filled his space, shaking the socks she wanted to buy to gain the assistant’s attention.

He might be adept at making himself invisible but Jake couldn’t blot his family from his mind. His mother was as slim and elegant as he remembered but appeared older now her hair was speckled with grey. His younger brother had some catching up to do to match his height, although he was already stockier. Toby’s hair had lost its bright blondness and turned mousy but his eyes were still vivid blue. Jake recalled where he was, forcing himself to stay alert. Using subtle glances, he located his accomplice, relieved to find him close to the exit. But he couldn’t resist taking a last look. Toby had forgotten seeing him already, probably having settled on mistaken identity.

Being a thief, Jake knew straight away why the girl was crowding too close to his family. She was behind Toby and her lively eyes were directed over his shoulder at the merchandise. Her fingers were descending towards his pocket. Jake noticed they were slender and white before they disappeared. Then she was off, too hastily in his professional opinion. She’d trodden on toes, drawing attention to herself. But her victim remained unaware of what had happened.

Jake upset her getaway by bumping into her and casually touched his hat brim in apology. He kept going. So did she, clueless as to what he’d done. He’d been right thinking her an amateur.

‘You dropped something.’ Having made another tour of the sock counter, he’d nudged and spoken to his brother without losing step, trusting Toby would retrieve the wallet that had fallen at his feet.

Once outside Jake glanced around and spotted his pal pacing by the kerb. Before he’d taken two steps in that direction he felt his elbow yanked. He struggled but couldn’t break free of his captor.

‘Now, what’ve you been up to, eh?’ asked the fellow with a thin moustache and thick eyebrows arched over a pair of dark eyes. But what really drew Jake’s attention was the white scar that ran along his jaw and disappeared beneath his chin. It looked as though at some time in the past his throat had had a lucky escape.

Despite the man’s piratical appearance Jake relaxed. This wasn’t a plain clothes copper; and it wasn’t one of the store detectives either. He knew all of those operating in the West End. He’d made it his business to. In Selfridges was a short stocky. . .