Much of the action in my Victorian novel, The Somnambulist, takes place in East London – and I was to return to those haunts last week when being interviewed and filmed for the 2012 TV Book Club.
One of those settings, in the middle of Bow, and just five minutes walk from Mile End underground station, is the actual location in which my imaginary narrator, Phoebe Turner, has been brought up, living with her widowed mother Maud, and Maud’s much younger, more glamorous sister who once had a singing career on the stage - the rewards for her fame now keeping the family in style.
Tredegar Square is a beautiful collection of houses which surround some well-kept gardens, a development that would not be out of place in the more affluent parts of Kensington or Chelsea. The north side of the Square is the grandest, with fine stucco and classical decoration – all of which has hardly changed since the mid-nineteenth century.
The land upon which the houses were built was originally used for pasture, later leased out to builders by Sir Charles Morgan of Tredegar, whose ancestral home was in Newport, Wales - which explains why the streets in the surrounding estate have names with Welsh connotations - such Rhondda, Aberavan, or Cardigan. By the time the development was completed, aroundabout 1860, it had its own school, shops and church, along with several public houses. And, in time, it had its own murderer.
The land upon which the houses were built was originally used for pasture, later leased out to builders by Sir Charles Morgan of Tredegar, whose ancestral home was in Newport, Wales - which explains why the streets in the surrounding estate have names with Welsh connotations - such Rhondda, Aberavan, or Cardigan. By the time the development was completed, aroundabout 1860, it had its own school, shops and church, along with several public houses. And, in time, it had its own murderer.
Henry Wainwright lived at number 40 Tredegar Square, along with his wife and four children, while running a brush-making business on the nearby Whitechapel Road. Right next door to that premises was the Pavilion theatre - and Henry did love a trip to the theatre, socialising with many performers, even inviting them back home to dine with his wife in Tredegar Square - though the younger, prettier actresses were entertained elsewhere, and when Henry met a hat maker by the name of Harriet Lane, he set her up as 'Mrs King' in various East End residences, the last being in Stepney's Sidney Square.
But, or so the story goes, Henry tired of Harriet's charms. She was murdered and her body was buried under the floor of his Whitechapel warehouse, which is where it was to remain until, a year later, in 1875, with the warehouse sold and about to change hands, Henry was said to have exhumed the corpse, cutting it into pieces which he wrapped in thick canvas cloth. When trying to move those remains he asked a member of his staff to help with transporting them to the site of his new premises - claiming the packages contained hair that was used in the process of his trade. When the poor workman complained at the stench, Wainwright assured him that it would 'blow off'. A little while later, out in the street, when the workman complained again at the weight, Wainwright became exasperated, leaving his employee alone with the parcels while he went off to find a cab, into which the parts were then loaded as Wainwright travelled on alone. But, during his brief absence, the suspicious employee had sneaked a look inside the offending parcels and discovered a human head and hand and although he said nothing at the time, fearing he might also be murdered, as soon as the cab set off he sought out a constable to inform and, in due course, Wainwright was detained - literally red-handed, with blood seeping out from the cloth in his arms.
When Harriet's death was eventually known, Thomas had long since disappeared and some believe that he was the real murderer but that Henry, having already been ruined when discovered with the grisly 'proof', sought to protect his brother's name by taking the blame for Harriet's death, until the time of sentencing when he was reported to have said -
"...standing as I now do upon the brink of eternity, and in the presence of that God before whom I shall shortly appear, I swear that I am not the murderer of the remains found in my possession. I swear that I have never in my life fired a pistol. I swear also that I have not buried these remains, and that I did not exhume or mutilate them...I have been guilty of great immorality. I have been guilty of many indiscretions, but as for the crime of which I have been brought in guilty I leave this dock with a calm and quiet conscience. My Lord, I thank you for the patience with which you have listened to me."
This story has been briefly alluded to in the pages of The Somnambulist, but I think there is the seed of a entire novel in Henry's final statement. And for those who wish to research him more, and perhaps to visit his old stomping ground, I recommend a visit to The Morgan Arms just to the east of Tredegar Square. The food is very good and the atmosphere most convivial - as Henry Wainwright might also have found back in the mid-nineteenth century.
My debut novel, The Somnambulist, is a Victorian gothic mystery set in the London Music halls, the docks and a nearby cemetery, as well as a sprawling country house that may, or may not, be haunted. The paperback was published earlier this month, and for more information about the book, please visit www.essiefox.com.
