Break of Dawn

by Rita Bradshaw

  No more heart-searching. She had to look forward now. But even as she thought it, she dreaded the fight which would undoubtedly ensue in the next months and years before she could gain her freedom.

  Chapter 19

  The day had started dismally for Toby, like the ones before it since he had left the comfort of the house overlooking Berkeley Square. He didn’t remember coming back to his room at the club but when he awoke, fully clothed and lying on top of the covers, he could smell the vomit splattered on the floor at the side of the bed.

  Dragging himself into a sitting position with his back resting against the iron bedhead, he lit his first cigarette of the day and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he reached for the whisky bottle and glass on the bedside cabinet. He poured himself a good measure and drank it straight down, and after a minute or two his hands stopped shaking. Shutting his eyes, he finished the cigarette and lit another with the stub, and had another glass of whisky but he sipped this one, making it last. The bottle was almost empty.

  The angle of the shafts of sunlight slanting in through the high window told him it must be late morning, and when he glanced at his watch he saw it was, in fact, two in the afternoon. He finished the last of the whisky in the bottle and sat for some time thinking of nothing in particular, his mind in the empty vacuum it retreated into these days.

  After a while he stirred himself. There was a small washstand holding a bowl and a jug of cold water in the room, but the bathroom was at the end of the corridor and shared by anyone staying at the club. There were ten guest rooms in all, but only half of these were normally occupied at any one time.

  He swung his legs out of bed on the side opposite to the mess. He’d have to clear it up before he went out. A housemaid came in every day to clean and straighten the rooms, but he had been warned by the manager of the establishment that if she reported finding puddles of vomit one more time he would be asked to leave the premises. Silly little scut. He straightened his aching back and glared around the room. It was her job to clean up after paying guests like himself, wasn’t it? To hell with her. To hell with all women.

  He left the club at four o’clock and made straight for the barbers where he had a shave and a spruce-up. From there he made his way to a fashionable little café favoured by the young blades and those such as he, a place where gossip and character assassination was the order of the day. Ordering his first bottle of wine, he sat and drank it at one of the tables outside, half-asleep in the sunshine. He was about to call for a second bottle when he was clapped on the back by one of a group of young men who joined him, pulling up chairs and sitting down as they shouted to the proprietor to bring more bottles and glasses.

  ‘Toby, old fellow. We thought we might find you here.’ Rupert Forester-Smythe was all smiles, and as the owner of the café bustled out he took an opened bottle of wine from him and filled Toby’s glass to the brim.

  The talk was inconsequential at first; it was only when Rupert refilled Toby’s glass that he said, ‘Saw your wife today, by the way. Did you know she was at the rally in Hyde Park? I’d have thought you’d have kept a tighter rein on her, old fellow. Doesn’t do to let their heads be filled with all this nonsense about women’s rights and the rest of it.’

  Toby peered at Forester-Smythe. He had never liked the man, mainly because he felt that as far as Forester-Smythe was concerned, he was an object of ridicule. The man had a way of making fun of folk and sometimes his derision was downright nasty. Did he know Sophy had thrown him out? Word was getting about. It would be just like him to rub a man’s nose in it. He drank half of his glass of wine before he said, ‘Nothing to do with me. I’ve had enough of her whoring. Washed my hands of her.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Rupert topped up Toby’s glass. ‘Now that’s a shame as I had a little proposition to put to you regarding the fair lady.’

  ‘Proposition?’

  ‘I thought you might persuade her to come to one of the supper clubs after the show tonight, one with a private room for a little . . . entertainment? She seems a spirited young baggage and I’m sure she could accommodate us all in turn without too much trouble.’

  Toby stared at him. He knew what went on in some of these private rooms, he’d even been to one or two such escapades in his time. ‘She wouldn’t listen to me. We’re— I’m staying at my club.’

  ‘I see. Now that’s disappointing, very disappointing. I, we’ – his nod took in the group of smiling men – ‘would be prepared to pay handsomely for such pleasure as I’m sure she can give, but if you don’t think you can oblige us . . .’

  Toby’s lower jaw moved from one side to the other as he thought rapidly. She’d thrown him out, humiliated him, ruined his life. He had been doing all right until he’d married her, and then it had been like she’d put a curse on him. She’d stood by when the theatres had refused to give him parts tailormade for him and hadn’t lifted a finger, and why? Because she was too busy having her fun with every Tom, Dick or Harry. He knew. He wasn’t as stupid as she thought he was. As for Gregory, she’d been his mistress for years, he could see it all now. She’d kept the man sweet and feathered her own nest along the way, and what did he – her lawful husband – have? A stinking room in his club and a notice of her intention to divorce him.

  He glanced at Rupert. ‘How much is handsomely?’

  Rupert smiled. He knew when he’d nailed his man. ‘Name your price, old fellow.’

  Toby nodded. ‘All right, but like I said, she wouldn’t listen to me, supper club or no supper club. I’ve another suggestion, however.’

  ‘Oh yes? I’m all ears.’

  Toby reached into his pocket and held aloft a key. ‘This opens my front door. You could be waiting for her when she gets back from the theatre and who’s to say she didn’t invite you home with her?’

  Rupert liked it. If the baggage complained, it would be his word against hers that she hadn’t been game for a bit of hanky-panky, and who would take the side of an actress? They were teasers, all of them, and this one in particular. He was itching to bring her down a peg or two. She wouldn’t be so haughty when they’d finished with her.

  ‘She has a maid-cum-housekeeper living in – you’d have to deal with her.’

  One of the other men guffawed. ‘An ageing crone? We met her this morning, didn’t we, Rupert,’ he added slyly.

  Rupert scowled. His stomach was still tender from the steel tip of Sadie’s parasol. ‘We’ll deal with her, all right – we might even allow her to watch the fun. So’ – his hand reached for the key but Toby held it just out of reach – ‘what’s your price?’

  An hour later the deal was done and Toby had his blood money. Rupert and his cronies had sauntered off, glancing back at him once and then sniggering as one of them murmured something. Toby watched them go as he finished the last of the wine they had left. Let them look down their aristocratic noses at him, he thought morosely. He didn’t care. If any of them traced their family tree back far enough they’d find they came from murderers and rapists and scoundrels; the aristocracy was littered with dubious ancestors.

  His fingers caressed the wad of notes in his pocket contentedly. Tonight, he could go and see Chan. Chan’s place was a cut above some of the other opium dens and he provided a degree of privacy if you could pay for it. And he could. But first he needed a drink, a proper drink. Whisky. Or brandy perhaps. He could afford a good malt.

  He stood to his feet, holding on to the back of his chair to steady himself once he was upright and then tottered off in the direction of a public house he frequented, swaying slightly as he walked.

  The proprietor of the café watched him go, shaking his head slightly. How could someone who was married to one of the most successful and beautiful actresses in the theatre end up like that? But that was the demon drink for you. So thinking, he gathered up the plethora of empty wine bottles and glasses and, humming a merry tune to himself, walked back into the cafe.

  Sophy left the theatre immedi
ately after the last curtain call without bothering to change or remove her stage make-up. She wanted to get home and lie in the hot bath Sadie always had waiting for her when she walked in. It was times like tonight when she realised she still wasn’t completely well, even though all visible signs of the attack which had left her dangerously ill for some time were gone. But it wasn’t just that, or even the tiring day and the confrontation with those awful men when they were leaving the park earlier that had her feeling tired and depressed. She had had a letter from Patience yesterday in which her cousin informed her she was expecting a baby. And she was glad for Patience, genuinely glad – but it had brought home that such an avenue was now closed to her.

  She had read the letter twice and then put it away and refused to think about it, but tonight every word Patience had written was printed on her mind.

  We’re thrilled, of course, and William has already gone out and bought the most splendid perambulator, even though the baby isn’t due until October. In truth I am so surprised I can scarcely take it in. I suppose I had never thought I would be a mother, Sophy. It is something so wonderful, so womanly, and I have never felt worthy for such a role. But William thinks I will be an excellent mother, and as he is always right about everything . . .

  In spite of how she was feeling, a small smile touched Sophy’s lips. Dear Patience. No one could doubt that her cousin’s marriage was a love-match. Lucky baby, to be born into such a happy home.

  She had been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t realised they’d reached the house until the driver of the cab jumped down from behind the horse and opened the carriage door.

  ‘Here we are then, Mrs Shawe,’ he said cheerfully, helping her down onto the cobbled pavement. Sophy was one of his regulars and he liked her, not least because she always tipped well. ‘Another minute or two and you’ll be able to put your feet up.’

  ‘Thank you, George.’ Over the months and years he’d been collecting her from the evening performances at whichever theatre she was playing at, she’d found out he had ten children, thirty-nine grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, and knew most of the goings-on in their lives. She always sent George and his long-suffering wife a large hamper at Christmas, knowing most of their brood descended on them Christmas Day and that money was tight.

  After paying him, she said goodnight and let herself into the house, wondering why the hall was in darkness. Calling Sadie’s name, she opened the door of the drawing room and stepped into the room. Several things happened in quick succession. As she took in Sadie sitting between two young men, one of whom had his hand across her mouth, someone grabbed her from behind. She uttered a piercing scream which brought another man out of the shadows on the far side of the room, saying, ‘Shut her up, for crying out loud.’

  As the two men who had been waiting behind the door tried to hold on to her, she screamed again, twisting and turning in their hands and kicking out with all her strength. She managed one more scream before the hand came across her mouth and nose in an iron grip, a voice in her ear saying laughingly, ‘She’s a real little wild cat, this one. She’ll take some taming.’

  She recognised Rupert Forester-Smythe as he came towards her and her terror increased. She knew why these men were here and what they were about to do. Her frantic eyes met Sadie’s for a moment. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, in her own home.

  When the front door burst open and George charged into the room wielding the heavy wooden cudgel he kept tucked behind his seat, Sophy was on the verge of fainting. The hand across her face was cutting off her air supply.

  George didn’t wait to ask any questions. He brought the lethal-looking weapon straight down on the head of one of the men holding Sophy and he went down like a stone, and as Sophy jerked herself free of the second man George struck him too, causing him to stagger backwards with blood pouring from his smashed nose and teeth. George wasn’t a small man and he was built like a wrestler and as tough as old boots, neither did he hold to fighting within the constriction of the Queensberry Rules.

  The two men who had been holding Sadie had jumped to their feet but seemed uncertain as to what to do, and as Rupert shouted, ‘Get him! Get him!’ they still hesitated, clearly intimidated by the fury and prowess of the man in front of them. Rupert had grabbed his walking-stick, which he brought with a thwack round the side of George’s shoulders, and as the other two men made to join him, one was hit from behind with a heavy vase which Sadie had picked up and used with unerring accuracy.

  George was bellowing like an enraged bull and as he swiped wildly with the thick club and caught Rupert on the arm, the crack of bone and Rupert’s shriek of pain added to the mayhem.

  Leaving their two cronies who were out cold on the floor, Rupert and the other two who could still walk fled the scene, with George following them and still aiming blows halfway up the street, before he turned and ran back to the house. By now the neighbours either side of the house had been alerted and were on the doorstep, and lights had gone on in several other residences.

  It was ten minutes before someone returned with two burly constables. By then, Sophy and Sadie were sitting swathed in blankets on one of the sofas drinking a cup of tea that Mrs Webb, from next door, had made. George was standing guard over the two unconscious men who were still stretched out on the carpet amidst blood and splintered pieces of fine Meissen porcelain, a couple of the neighbours at his elbow.

  The two constables surveyed the scene in front of them as Sophy explained what had happened, and then looked at George who was still holding the cudgel in case one of his victims came to and attempted to make a run for it. ‘We could do with you on the force, mate,’ one said dryly.

  George didn’t smile. ‘Thank God I was checking one of Maggie’s hooves and hadn’t driven straight off, else I might not have known anything was amiss.’

  Sophy echoed the sentiment. But for George this night might have ended very differently. Now the danger was over, she found she couldn’t stop shaking.

  Over the next hour or two the assailants were taken away in the police wagon to hospital, statements were taken and descriptions given of the three men who had escaped. The fact that Sophy knew the name of one of them caused the constables to smile in satisfaction. They were solid, working-class men and had little time for the idle Hooray Henrys of the world, especially those who abused their position and wealth.

  It was four o’clock in the morning before everyone left, and Sophy and Sadie sat looking at each other in the kitchen where Sadie had made the umpteenth pot of tea of the night. ‘And you say they came in using a key?’ Sophy asked for the third time in as many minutes. ‘But how? Where would they have got it and how did they know it was the key to this house?’

  Sadie bit her lip. Sophy wasn’t a stupid woman, far from it, and it had been clear the way the constables’ minds had been working when she’d told them about the key and they had asked all those questions about Mr Shawe, but Sophy was shutting her eyes to it. Deciding plain speaking was in order, she said gently, ‘As far as I know there’s only you, me and Mr Shawe who’s got a key to the house, ma’am. I’ve got mine and you’ve got yours, so . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think it’s a possibility we have to consider.’

  ‘No.’ Sophy was working the fingers of her left hand into the skin of her throat, and becoming aware of this, she made herself stop. Toby was weak and foolish and had become increasingly unpredictable and violent over the latter days of their marriage, but he would never do anything like this to her. He wouldn’t. It was unthinkable. There was a different explanation, there had to be.

  ‘No,’ she said for the third time. ‘I know him, Sadie, and all his faults, but this? He wouldn’t.’

  Sadie made no reply. She felt in her water that Mr Shawe was behind this and her water was never wrong. She was going to send for Mr Gregory in the morning and ask him to arrange for the front door to be mended and the locks changed, and see what he said. Herself,
she wouldn’t put anything past Toby Shawe. If ever a man was going to hell riding on a handcart, it was him. But Sophy wouldn’t see it, she’d never see it.

  Toby was woken by something furry running over his face. He opened his eyes and stared into the inquisitive ones of the rat for a moment before it scampered off. And then the pain hit. In every part of his body. Whimpering in his throat and in agony he tried to move but it was beyond him. And then he remembered. The men he’d been chatting with in the Horseman’s Hounds, they’d followed him when he’d left to go to Chan’s. They had knocked him to the ground and gone through his pockets, and when he’d tried to get up they’d used their feet on him, kicking and stamping and jumping. The pain brought a red mist in front of his eyes as he tried to take a breath and the metallic smell of blood was in his nostrils.

  He must have lost consciousness again because when he next became aware of anything beyond the excruciating pain, it was the rat just inches from his face. His eyes, which seemed to be the only thing he could move without passing out, took in several more browny-grey shapes behind the leader.

  The shout he tried to muster was merely a soft gurgle in his tortured throat, and when the big male, bolder than the rest, took a tentative bite from the piece of flesh nearest to it – Toby’s bloody arm – he could see the yellow teeth as they fastened on his body.

  Chapter 20

  Kane stared at the policeman. ‘You want me to tell her that? Why me? Can’t you or one of the others do it?’

  The Inspector shuffled his feet. ‘We thought it might be kinder coming from you, sir. That’s all.’

  Kinder? Kane ran a hand through his hair. How did you break the news to a wife – and Sophy was still Toby’s wife, or his widow, to be exact – that her husband had been found beaten to death in a squalid, filthy alley and half-eaten by rats? Moreover, this was the same husband who had virtually sold her to be raped and goodness knows what just days ago. He had been barely able to believe the statements made by the two men George had apprehended; how it had affected Sophy he didn’t dare to imagine. And now all five men involved were in custody.