‘It was horrible,’ Susan said. ‘And everyone knows it happens really, and we wander around pretending we don’t. Eustache didn’t want the names to be lost and we thought he was right.’
Harriet looked round at them all; she felt horrified and diminished by what they might have learned, and sore at the thought of Eustache hurt in Berkeley Square. All to save those names. She wished they didn’t know. They had already seen too much, this odd collection of children, while so many others in their privileged position glided from golden cage to golden cage, knowing neither that the cages existed, nor the blood cost of their building.
‘Mr Glass is there too,’ Miller said with sudden conviction into the silence.
Crowther looked at him with interest. ‘Constable Miller?’
The man puffed out his cheeks as he collected his thoughts. ‘I got some conversation out of a certain cabman. He took a fare, who I’m thinking was this Sawbridge, up to a place near Devil’s Lane. That’s north. Now you say Mrs Trimnell killed Eliza Smith, and I’ll take that on your say-so – but she didn’t carry a fit young lass like Penny out of the shop over her shoulder. I think Mr Sawbridge went to clear up after his daughter. He hits Penny over the head with a bottle and then needs to get rid of her. Now I spent half a day walking round up there, and it’s lonely true enough, but not such a great place to bury a girl on an evening. There’s not enough by way of cover when you’re doing your digging. Hornsey Wood, then, you might think. True, it’s quieter, but there are always folks up at Copt Hall and they’d notice something going on. But if I knew a friendly house out there with a bit of garden, it’d make sense to go there and borrow a shovel. Especially if I knew there were no servants to speak of in the place. I reckon Sawbridge went and covered up the murder done by one daughter by burying Penny in the garden of his other girl. I’d swear to it.’ The constable thought a moment then looked disappointed again. ‘Though if Mr Glass and the dogs had found a grave there, I don’t know why he’d still be standing over it weeping. He’s no fighting man, but I doubt a maid and her mistress could prevent him coming back to tell us what he’d discovered.’
‘Perhaps your Penny is still alive,’ Tobias said. He had been standing listening to them all, his arms crossed over his chest. ‘Alive but hurt, so Mr Glass can’t just take her away over his shoulder.’
Walter brightened. ‘Yes – he’d have to stay and guard her, hope that Constable Miller here had forced the address from the driver and that we’d come after him.’
‘Go and find out,’ Harriet said immediately.
‘Too bloody right we will! Come on, those that will,’ Scudder said. ‘I know a fella will give us good horses off Smithfields.’ He reached for his coat, then he paused. ‘Any of you fighting men? I’ve got a good bit of strength in my arm, but it seems like there’s a parcel of murdering dogs on the loose and I’d as lief have a fellow with us who knows how to handle a gun.’ Tobias stood up to his full height. Scudder looked him up and down. ‘You’ll do.’
‘Mr Crowther?’ Christopher said, turning towards him. Crowther reluctantly shook his head. ‘I will not be able to keep pace with you until my ribs heal.’
‘You must finish it, Mr Christopher, please,’ Harriet said, still holding her son’s hand tightly.
He bowed. ‘But there is something wrong here, my friends. Dauda is not a woman’s name. It is a man’s.’
Susan looked confused. ‘Trimnell says “she”, and “daughter”, and “girl” in the papers he wrote. He calls her “Sir Charles’s creature”.’
William was firm. ‘Mr Christopher is right. It is a man’s name, never a woman’s.’
Harriet and Crowther looked at each other over the children’s heads, and Harriet suddenly understood why Sawbridge’s throat was cut with such a violent blow.
VII.8
‘DAUDA! ONLY GIVE ME enough money to get away and I shall leave at once, I swear it, and I shall never say your name or Sir Charles’s ever again!’
Francis was sitting under the window with his back to the wall and wiping his face clean with his handkerchief. He felt as if he would never run out of tears. The woman in black on the terrace below had said enough. Eliza had been killed because she thought the English should know what slavery was, and some madman had put a manuscript in her hands that told the truth of it. He could not help wondering whether, if she had not known him, loved him, even, perhaps she would have cared less about the sufferings of the Africans. Perhaps if he had never insinuated himself into the life of the family on Norfolk Street, she would have handed back the manuscript and gone on with her life, her useful, good life that had always seemed to him so surrounded in blessings. Even as he thought it, he told himself he was wrong. It did not need him to make Eliza feel for those slaves. She would have fought for that manuscript even if she had never had a conversation with a man or woman of his colour. She had been a brave heart, a kind heart.
‘I have no money, Lucinda!’ Dauda’s voice had a harsh edge to it. ‘What do you think my life is? If I had been given ready money, do you think I would have stayed here?’
From the bed there came a groan. Francis approached and Penny’s eyes fluttered open. He took the glass from the table and gave her water. She drank a little then groaned again. ‘Mr Glass? Oh, I feel so ill. Where are we, sir?’
He put his hand to her forehead and she closed her eyes again. ‘Do not worry, Penny’, he murmured. ‘Sleep on a little. And if you hear anything strange, stay quiet. Help is coming.’ She would live, surely now she would live. Suddenly he heard the sound of a carriage approaching. Penny’s breathing slowed to an even pace again. He ran to the window on the landing and looked out. It was not Walter, nor Miller, nor any other friend arriving. He went to the table between the armchairs and began loading the guns.
They had heard the carriage downstairs as well. There was a scream and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Francis picked up one of the pistols. The door flew open and the woman in black collapsed into the room.
She was out of her mind with fear. With a lurch Francis remembered the face of a runaway slave he had seen paraded through the town square in the moments after he had been recaptured, the way his eyes seemed to roll in his head. The woman flung herself into the corner of the room, breathing hard.
‘Don’t let him kill me. Please.’ Francis did not answer her but rested the barrel of the gun on his left forearm, his right hand on the trigger, and turned towards the door. It opened again only a moment later and Sir Charles Jennings appeared on the threshold. He looked just as he had outside the Jamaica Coffee House, a man of quiet good taste and confidence. Mrs Trimnell screamed and covered her face. Dauda came in calmly behind Sir Charles and crossed the room to sit on the edge of Penny’s bed. Francis noticed him put one hand on the girl’s flank as if to calm her and keep her quiet.
Sir Charles saw Lucinda panting in the corner of the room and nodded as if pleased. Then he looked at Francis and smiled pleasantly enough.
‘Good morning, young man. And who might you be?’
Francis kept the gun raised. ‘My name is Adisa Enitan. This woman killed Miss Eliza Smith, who was the person I loved best in the world.’ He heard a whimper of fear from the corner, but did not look round.
‘No need to point that pistol at me then, Adisa, my friend,’ Sir Charles said with a smile. He sat down in the armchair nearest to him and crossed his legs. Francis moved away slightly, keeping the gun pointed in his direction. Behind him he heard Dauda move from the bed to the other armchair.
‘Let me go, Sir Charles,’ the woman whispered from the corner. ‘I swear I will say nothing. You will never hear from me again. I swear it.’
Sir Charles did not look at her. ‘Ah, Lucinda. I intend never to hear from you again. But why should I risk my peace, the peace that exists between Dauda and myself, even for a moment?’ He smiled at the young man and kissed his fingertips towards him. ‘I trust my knife a great deal more than I trust you, dear, jealous whore t
hat you are. Now, Adisa, the woman cowering in the corner does not deserve to live. On this we agree. So she shall die. She will be punished properly for her sins and be forgotten. You may return to your life with my gratitude, knowing that your Eliza Smith is revenged.’
Francis shifted his grip. ‘It is not your right to judge and punish in this country, Jennings. That woman will be tried and judged according to the law.’
Sir Charles’s smile tightened. ‘Come now, my boy. You must realise that is not going to happen.’
‘Leave, Jennings.’
The man frowned and got up slowly from his chair. ‘Dauda, you are very quiet. Will you not help me persuade your visitor?’
‘He killed our father, Dauda!’ Mrs Trimnell burst out. ‘I watched him slit our father’s throat because he asked for his help. After all the years our family have served him!’
Sir Charles looked at her. ‘You scheming, vile little whore. If you weren’t so destructive, you’d be amusing. You have a feeble prettiness and a feeble mind, and you could never understand why Dauda should have all this while you deserved nothing more than Trimnell and Cheapside.’
He looked back towards Francis and stood up, took a step forward.
Francis edged away slightly. ‘Leave here, Jennings.’
‘Come, Adisa, enough of this. Give me the gun, boy.’ He took a straight-edged razor from his pocket and opened it, never taking his eyes off Francis.
Mrs Trimnell made a run for the door behind him. Sir Charles span round and grabbed at her arm with one hand, the other holding the knife raised in the air. Francis pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but there was no explosion. He stepped forward, thinking he might at least strike Jennings before he managed to use his blade on the woman and there was an explosion behind him. The sound was deafening in the small room. Francis felt as if his head would burst. He clapped his hands to his ears and choked on the smoke of the gunpowder. He heard Mrs Trimnell scream, but if it was from pain or fear he could not say. His own gun fell to the floor and he rubbed his streaming eyes. Mrs Trimnell was gone, the door to the stairs open. In front of him, Sir Charles was lying against the wall, his hand pressed to his side. A red bloom was beginning to show, seeping through the pale fabric of his waistcoat. His face was dead white, and he was staring past Francis at where Dauda was standing, the smoking gun still in his hand. While Francis watched, Dauda lowered the gun and placed it gently on the table. ‘Now I have peace,’ he said.
They arrived while the smoke was still clearing. Walter was sent to fetch a surgeon, while Constable Miller went in pursuit of Mrs Trimnell. Scudder took Francis’s place guarding Penny, and Tobias Christopher stood in an elegant drawing room on the ground floor, his shoulders hunched and a glass of excellent brandy in his hand. He had not yet emptied it when Francis joined him. His shirt and waistcoat were badly stained with blood from when he had tried to staunch the bleeding in Sir Charles’s side while waiting for his rescuers, and Dauda had watched without moving from the armchair, immaculate as ever.
‘Well?’
‘The surgeon is hopeful Sir Charles will live. Walter assists him.’ Francis threw himself into one of the chairs, not caring how he spread the blood spilled around the place. Tobias filled a second glass and gave it to him.
‘My name is Tobias Christopher. Your name and business here I know.’
Francis nodded and drank. ‘I’m glad to meet you, Mr Christopher. Dauda is packing a bag. I have given him what ready money I have, but how far it will get him I do not know. He makes for France.’
Tobias frowned. ‘For his sake I hope he gets there. If they do not hang him for shooting Jennings, they will find a way to kill him for …’ He gestured around the room.
‘Sodomy?’ Francis said. ‘Yes, well, this is England. Sir Charles could be Lord Mayor with everyone knowing he was complicit in the deaths of thousands of men, women and children, but that he might be thought a sodomite? Of course, he had to murder one of his oldest servants to keep that a secret.’
The corner of Tobias’s mouth twitched. ‘You have a fine turn of phrase, Mr Glass. I think perhaps you have a touch of Igbo blood.’ He refilled his glass and offered the decanter to Francis, and on getting his nod refilled his as well. ‘So what does little Dauda plan to do if he reaches France?’
Francis nodded towards the harpsichord. ‘He is a musician and had nothing to do here but practise. I think that is how he means to earn his money.’
Tobias took out his wallet and from it drew an impressive number of banknotes. He handed them to Francis. ‘Give the boy that. It should carry him to Paris and on a bit if he is careful.’ Francis took them, amazed, and Tobias caught his look. ‘Ever since I could afford to do so I have carried my purchase price with me at all times. It has been one of my several precautions against being retaken. As well as lawyers. And learning to fight well enough to take on a shipload of traders.’ Francis laughed into his drink. ‘I only received my manumission a week ago, Mr Glass. I am still not used to being a free British man.’
‘Were you baptised also?’ Francis said with a grin.
Tobias opened his eyes wide. ‘Yes – a week after I arrived, may my fathers forgive me! I handed that crow priest money I needed for bread for his trouble, and it was a year before I was told it was no help before the law.’ Francis had begun to laugh again, and this time he could not stop. Christopher did not seem to mind; he spread his arms open wide. ‘The Christians have some fine poetry, I shall give them that. I make great use of it when I am talking to the whites. When I am too old to fight I shall become a preacher and roar them into righteousness. I was born to be evangelical!’
He began to laugh himself and the two men were both still in the throes of it when Miller came in. The constable looked between them with a nervous smile.
‘Miller, my friend!’ Tobias said, pointing at the decanter. ‘Come have a drink with us. Justice and liberty! You found the wench?’
The man took the drink that was offered. ‘I did. She hadn’t got far. I could almost have pitied her and there’s the truth said.’ He drained his glass then looked at the empty vessel with sudden appreciation. ‘She’s in the watch-house in Islington, and the constable there will take her to the Guildhall in the morning.’ He looked suddenly confused. ‘Do you think I should arrest Sir Charles?’
For some reason this made them all laugh again. They could not stop, even when Walter and Scudder came to complain. The newcomers were given their share of the brandy, and were soon adding to the noise.
VII.9
MRS WESTERMAN AND MR Crowther arrived at the house of Dr Drax too late. His housekeeper opened the door to them in tears. She had woken that morning a contented woman whose greatest problem in life was the fact that her master’s pet monkey had a dislike of her and a talent for finding ways of showing it. Now, before she had even had her bit of dinner, she was without a position, and her only remaining duties were packing up the rest of her master’s goods. Harriet was sympathetic and within a few minutes they were seated in Drax’s office.
‘I woke up this morning to find him packing his things,’ she said wetly. ‘And all day there have been his patients coming to see him, some of them important personages too, and they become angry with me when I say he’s not here! Means more to me than it does to them.’ She wiped her nose. ‘He left me wages for the quarter and said he’d write and tell me what to do with all his books, but after three years’ service to say no more – and I swear that bloody little monkey was laughing at me all the while. Forgive my language, but it is upsetting.’
‘Naturally it is,’ Harriet said, and patted the woman’s knee. ‘And he really said nothing else, left nothing else behind him?’
She sniffed again. ‘Only one thing, but it made no sense to me. He said if a red-headed female and a man who looked like a priest were to come calling, I was to show them the waistcoat he went out wearing last night.’ She frowned and looked between them. ‘I shall just fetch it.’
&n
bsp; She was back in a moment, walking into the study and holding the garment high. ‘I don’t understand. It’s very dirty.’ She turned it so they could see the front of it: a pattern of yellow and pale blue stripes, and across in, from left to right, a falling spray of blood. Crowther stood up and took it from her.
‘A confession that he was there at Sawbridge’s murder – and a declaration of innocence all at once,’ Harriet said.
‘Indeed, Mrs Westerman.’
The surgeon insisted on keeping both Penny and Sir Charles where they were until he was sure they were out of danger. Mr Christopher and Scudder both chose to remain on the premises while Francis, Walter and Miller were sent back to London. Francis was given notes for both the Scudder and Christopher households and an address in Berkeley Square. The notes he trusted to Cutter for delivery, who flung his arms around him when he finally entered the shop in the late afternoon like a father greeting a lost child. Joshua too clung to him, and as he told them what had happened, and in turn heard about Eustache and the manuscript, Ferguson the compositor was sufficiently moved to reach over and shake his hand several times.
When they had all convinced themselves that their friends had survived without serious harm, Francis returned to his lodgings to wash and change his clothes. His landlady shrieked when she saw him, but at least he knew, having told her the story, that everyone else within a mile would have heard it by the morning. He then went to the address in Berkeley Square he had been given to tell his story once more. When he was done, he could hardly find the energy to move, and Graves insisted that he would return to his lodgings in the family coach. Francis accepted the offer, thinking it was somehow fitting that he had spent one evening of that week sleeping on the floor of a grocer’s kitchen and another having the hospitality of an Earl pressed upon him. Before the carriage was ordered, however, he asked if he might make another visit in the house.
Theft of Life Page 33
