Before the snow falls

Henrietta

In the city of London, 1870, on this particular street, at this particular time, a man by the name of Jack Lewis was walking along. The street was chilly and there was a prospect of snowfall and a metallic tang on his tongue. He inhaled the crisp air deeply and coughed- smog. He continued to walk, trying to ignore the thick pollution but instead concentrate on the fresh air. The cool wind hit his face as he walked through the thin layer of mist concealing the cobble stones.

Mr Lewis rounded the corner and came to a stop after sighting a strange hump on the ground. With a jolt he realised it was a body and moved closer to investigate.

The body was that of a child's, her pale blue eyes still half open and staring out into abyss. Her tattered clothes showed she was poor. Her skin was a sickly white as were her chapped lips and limbs were spread out around her as if meaning to break her fall.

Mr Lewis stared at the body unable to tear his gaze away from the horrific sight.

"Oh my!" Shrieked a woman behind him.

Mr Lewis turned to see the lady who helped run the bakery staring at the body as well, her hands clapped over her mouth and a basket of bread at her feet, spewing out its contents along the road.

A moment later three police men came jogging along followed by a old man pointing at the girl on the floor.

"There!" He was crying out. "Look! There I told you!"

The officers ushered the man quaking away and came closer for inspection.

Mr Lewis moved out of their way.

"Henrietta Jones," grunted one officer reading off a piece of paper clutched in his hands.

Mr Lewis found the courage to speak up. "But children die everyday," he stated matter-of-factly.

The officer closest to Mr Lewis turned to face him.

"This was murder," he growls. "Blood," he says indicating to the red liquid running through the cracks in the stone. "Turn her over, she might have been stabbed."

Unwilling to find out Mr Lewis turned and began to walk away.

The baker was still standing and staring wide-eyed at the body, her hands clasped over her heart now. Politely, Mr Lewis bent down and picked up the bread which had tumbled out of the basket she had dropped, and replaced it.

"Here you go Mrs Grey," said Mr Lewis standing up and handing her the basket.

"Oh my goodness," stated Mrs Grey still staring at the scene. She suddenly turned her head to look at Mr Lewis as if she had not realised he was there. "Oh thank you, Mr Lewis dear," she said looking down at the basket in his hands. She took it off him and walked back into the bakery, glancing over her shoulder at the three policemen.

Mr Lewis followed after her.

"What can I do for you?" She asked, still looking shaken.

"Three loaves of bread," said Jack, the image of the girls dead face still imprinted on his mind.

"Poor child," said Mrs Grey as she selected the bread. "She'd always sit right on the curb. Every morning. I'd come out to make my deliveries and there she'd be. We fed her every now and then, but we couldn't afford to give her too much, got to make our money, don't we? She was very quiet. Nice girl, I think. It'll be strange without her."

Mrs Grey handed Lewis the bread over the counter top.  "Here you go, sir," she said.

Mr Lewis paid her without a word and trotted back down the road thinking about the little girl.