The Coven

by Graham Masterton

  The whole room was in chaos. The men were shouting and groping the women, hauling up their petticoats and feeling up between their legs, as well as tugging down their bodices and baring their breasts, while the women were busy unbuttoning the front of the men’s breeches and plunging their hands inside so that they could prise out their erections.

  Beatrice’s heart was beating hard and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She sat down on her chair again and lowered her head, but the room began to grow dark and the shouting and laughter sounded muffled and distant and she knew that she was close to fainting.

  A man in a blue frock coat came up to her and said, ‘Hey there, my darling, how about some rantum-scantum?’

  She couldn’t even raise her eyes to look at him. All she could see was his frock coat and his breeches.

  ‘No,’ she said, and her voice didn’t even sound like her own.

  She managed to stand up. She didn’t turn towards the stage, although she could see that the hairy man had now jumped down from the table and was lifting his arms up like a champion boxer. She steadied herself by holding on to the back of the chair, and then she weaved her way through the over-excited crowd.

  Out in the hallway she saw Leda Sheridan talking to two men in black pirate masks, and laughing. She walked straight past her but Leda Sheridan didn’t even turn to acknowledge her. She went to the front door, where the scarlet-uniformed flashman was standing, looking bored. He opened the door for her, and said, ‘A very good night to you, miss. You’re leaving early. You did enjoy yourself, I hope.’

  Never in her life before had Beatrice been tempted to tell anyone that they should be damned, and burn in hellfire forever, but she was close to saying it then. She said nothing, though, and stepped out into the night, to go and find James.

  33

  James was sitting in the smoky back room of the Denmark coffee house with a pewter mug of ale and a copy of the London Chronicle spread out on the table in front of him. A drunken rabble of men standing at the bar gave Beatrice whistles and shouts of approval as she walked past them, obviously thinking that she was a pretty prostitute who had come into the tavern to find herself a gentleman client.

  As soon as he saw her, James folded up his newspaper and stood up.

  ‘Beatrice!’ he said. ‘What’s happened? You look white as a ghost! And – my God – you’ve been crying!’

  He came around the table and held her in his arms. She still felt cold, as if she would never know what it was like to be warm ever again, and she couldn’t stop herself from shivering.

  ‘Sit down,’ James said. ‘Would you care for something to drink? A glass of brandy, perhaps? Please, tell me why you’re so distressed.’

  It took her almost half a minute and several deep breaths before she was able to explain how Grace had been beheaded for the entertainment of Leda Sheridan’s braying crowd of revellers. James sat still and listened, his face grave, holding her hand.

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘I’ve heard stories about wealthy men who are willing to pay hundreds of guineas to watch girls being murdered, but I always believed that they were nothing more than figments of somebody’s depraved imagination. You must have been shocked to the very core! Are you sure I can’t order you a brandy?’

  ‘We should go the justice house in Bow Street,’ said Beatrice. ‘The evidence will still be there. How will Leda Sheridan be able to deny that she had Grace killed when her poor young body is lying there for all to see? Oh, and all the blood! The blood was everywhere!’

  James thought for a moment, still holding her hand. Then he said, ‘I realize how barbarous this was, Beatrice, and those responsible should be arrested and sent for trial. But you need to be extremely careful. You will be the only witness who is prepared to give evidence against Mrs Sheridan and the men who perpetrated this crime. Nobody else in that audience is going to admit that they paid money in the expectation of seeing Grace having her head cut off in the heat of a carnal act. To admit that would make them accessories to her murder in the eyes of the law, and even if they weren’t hung or gaoled or transported for their participation, it would have a most toxic effect on their reputation.’

  ‘In the name of everything holy, James – don’t you think they deserve it?’

  ‘You’re missing my point, Beatrice. You will be the only hostile witness and without your testimony the case will have little chance of success.’

  ‘But isn’t her body proof enough?’

  ‘Proof that she’s dead, yes, of course. But who was it who gave her the cuts that killed her? You saw only a figure in a white hood. It could have been anybody. Leda Sheridan might well say that he rushed in without her knowledge and approval and cut off her head before anybody had a chance to stop him. And how is he to be identified? For all you know, Beatrice, it was Satan himself.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t Satan. It was a man. Nim gimmer, they called him – a surgeon.’

  ‘How do you know for certain that he was a man if you didn’t see his face? You know from your own experiences that Satan is abroad in London at the moment.’

  ‘James, it was a man, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Who killed Grace is not really relevant, Beatrice. What is relevant is that Leda Sheridan has many close connections in high places, and that there were probably members of her audience who would take any steps to prevent it being public knowledge that they had paid her to stage such an atrocity. If they had no compunction about murdering Grace for their own sexual entertainment, they would surely have no compunction in doing the same to you in order to preserve their reputations.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do, James? Nothing? I saw an innocent young woman beheaded in front of my eyes and I should ignore it, as if her life was worth nothing?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, Beatrice. I’m saying that you need to think seriously about your own safety, and Florence’s too. Grace was a former prostitute, and she was black, and the courts may well consider that her life was of very little value.’

  ‘What about you? Do you think her life was of very little value?’

  ‘Not as valuable as yours, or Florence’s. Like all of those girls at St Mary Magdalene’s, she chose a career which was always going to put her at risk.’

  ‘She was trying to redeem herself. God forgives those who show true repentance, or have you forgotten that?’

  James said, ‘Now you’re talking like the widow of a parson. Come on, let me take you back to Maidenhead Court. You need a warm drink and a warm bed and a good night’s sleep. The shock of this will have worn off by the morning.’

  Beatrice was about to say, ‘The shock of what I saw tonight will never wear off, not for the rest of my life,’ but she knew that James was right, and she needed to get back to her rooms, and to Florence. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, but she needed warmth, and comfort, and time to think.

  They left the coffee house and stood outside on Drury Lane to hail a hackney. The night was cold now, although there was fresh horse manure steaming in the middle of the street. James looked down at her, and gave her a rueful smile.

  ‘I shouldn’t have agreed to take you to Mrs Sheridan’s, should I? Sometimes in life I think we’re better not knowing the worst.’

  *

  When she returned to St Mary Magdalene’s she knocked softly on Judith’s door. Judith was sitting up in bed with her hair in rags, stitching a tapestry sampler of vegetables and apple trees with the motto All Things Grow With Love.

  ‘Oh, Beatrice, you’re back,’ she said, with a smile. But then, ‘Has something alarmed you? You look deathly pale, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I’m just a little tired,’ said Beatrice. ‘How was Florrie?’

  ‘She woke up once and said she’d had a dream about her brother coming into the room. She was upset at first, but I gave her a drink and sang her a song and she soon went back to sleep.’

  ‘Thank you, Judith. I’m
very grateful.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’

  ‘No. I need to get some sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I must, too. This candle’s almost burned down and I don’t have another.’

  Beatrice said goodnight and went to her rooms. Although she was so exhausted, she doubted if she would be able to sleep. She kept seeing the startled expression on Grace’s face as the knife sliced her larynx in half, and hearing the dull thump as her severed head dropped onto the stage.

  Once she had lit the candle on her toilet, she looked into the bedroom. Florence was fast asleep, all twisted up in her sheet with her bare feet showing, and sucking her thumb. The poor little girl hardly ever mentioned her brother Noah, but occasionally Beatrice had overheard her talking to him, as if they were still playing together.

  She took off her blue silk dress and her corset and her petticoats, and put on her long white nightgown with the wide lace collar. She knew there was no point in her going to bed. She would only disturb Florence, and even if she managed to fall asleep, she would only have terrible nightmares. Instead, she took out her quill and opened her inkstand, and began to write down everything that had happened that evening at Leda Sheridan’s whorehouse, in as much detail as she could. Even though they had all been masked, she listed as many of the revellers as she could remember, describing their wigs and their clothes and their jewellery. She was sure that it would be possible for some of them to be identified in a court of law, particularly the man in the orange frock coat with the gold braid and buttons, and the long-nosed Venetian mask.

  She thought about the warning that James had given her about reporting Grace’s murder to the law officers at Bow Street. She appreciated that he was thinking only of her own safety, but surely such an act of barbarity couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished. She also began to suspect that if George Hazzard had sent Grace to be beheaded for the sexual gratification of Leda Sheridan’s clients, perhaps a similar fate had befallen Jane Webb and the other six girls that he had called a ‘coven’. And who could tell how many other girls he had spirited away in the past, so that a sadistic crowd of wealthy revellers could delight in seeing them raped and bloodily murdered?

  When James had advised her in the coffee house to keep her peace, Beatrice had thought that he was being over-cautious – cowardly, even. She had been threatened several times by corrupt and violent men when she was in New Hampshire, and she had boldly faced up to those threats. But on reflection she had to concede that the situation here in London was different, and potentially far more dangerous. It was one thing to stand up to your enemies, but quite another if you weren’t at all sure who your enemies were.

  She decided to pretend that she knew nothing at all about Grace’s fate – for the time being, anyway. She would also make sure that George Hazzard had no idea that she was still determined to discover what part he might have played in the coven’s disappearance. Neither would she voice any of her suspicions to Ida, or the Reverend Parsons, or even to James.

  She finished writing her account of Grace’s murder, and sifted sand across the paper to dry the ink. Then she blew out her candle and sat for a while in darkness, listening to the sounds of the night – the bells dolefully ringing the hour, the watchmen calling in the streets below, and three or four men weaving their way along Aldersgate Street and drunkenly singing ‘Oyster Nan’.

  ‘Poor dear Grace,’ she whispered. ‘I hope Jesus is holding you in his arms tonight, and soothing you.’

  34

  Beatrice was just stepping out through her sitting-room door the next morning when Eliza came running upstairs in her white stockinged feet, holding up her petticoats.

  ‘’E’s turned up again!’ she panted. ‘Mr ’Azzard! For the love of God don’t let ’im know that I’m ’ere!’

  ‘George Hazzard? Of course not, Eliza. I wonder what he’s after this time.’

  ‘I don’t give a tuppenny toss what ’e’s after, so long as ’e ain’t after me! ’E’s the very Devil, that man!’

  Eliza went back to her room while Beatrice continued downstairs. When she reached the hallway, she heard George Hazzard’s voice in the drawing room, and Ida laughing. She gave a light knock at the half-closed door and then went in.

  George was wearing his usual yellow frock coat and was just about to light a cigar with a taper. When Beatrice walked in, he lowered his cigar and blew out the taper and gave her an exaggerated bow.

  ‘Beatrice! You look charming as ever! That shade of green is most becoming.’

  ‘Good morning, George,’ said Beatrice, trying not to sound too cold. ‘Ida.’

  ‘George has come to gather up more girls,’ said Ida. ‘Since those seven disappeared, he has been left gravely short of workers.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said George. ‘I have more orders than my factory can cope with, especially for cigars. My Lord, White’s Club alone have ordered twenty-five cases! If I’m forced to turn customers away, I may lose their business for good and all. There are more than seventy other tobacco factories in Hackney and Clerkenwell, and they are all circling like wolves, eager to steal my business.’

  ‘I see,’ said Beatrice. ‘How many more girls do you need? I’m afraid the ones we have left are not quite as becoming as the seven you took before.’

  George came across to Beatrice and looked her directly in the eyes. She noticed for the first time that his left eye was brown and his right eye was greeny-blue.

  ‘Beatrice, I’m well aware of your suspicions. You believe that I failed to take sufficient care of those seven girls, and that their disappearance was somehow my fault. You also believe that I was responsible for the goat’s head appearing on the dinner table, and for the scratching at your door, and the demon with the looking-glass face who threatened you at Ranelagh Gardens.’

  Beatrice said nothing, but waited for him to continue. Ida stood watching them both, tugging nervously at her lacy cuff.

  ‘I can only apologize to you, Beatrice,’ said George. ‘Deeply, deeply apologize. I was offended by your suspicions, and I reacted aggressively, which was wrong of me. I confess that I’m the kind of man who doesn’t take criticism lightly. I wouldn’t be able to run my factory so efficiently if I weren’t. But I’ve been thinking over the way you responded to the coven’s disappearance, and I can understand now that it was only natural for you to be sceptical.’

  ‘I believe in Satan, George,’ said Beatrice. ‘It was just that I found these particular manifestations to be less than credible.’

  ‘But if they weren’t the work of the Devil, my dear, what else could they have possibly been?’ George asked her. ‘How did that goat’s head magically appear on that plate? How did that demon with the looking-glass face know that you were visiting Ranelagh Gardens? Whatever beast it was that clawed at your door, how did it manage to enter the house, and how did it know which door was yours?’

  ‘Well, I expect that you’re right,’ said Beatrice. ‘Who else could have done such things but Satan himself?’

  She looked back into George’s face with his broken nose and his rough dry-skinned cheeks and she could have spat at him. He was standing so close that she could smell the sour tobacco on his breath. She was aching to tell him that he had lied about Grace being sent to the Earl of Coventry’s house, and how she had been horribly murdered right in front of her eyes, but she knew that she needed to save that for the time when she had more evidence against him.

  George said, ‘Beatrice, my dearest – I should like to believe that you and I are good friends again. I should also like to think that if you are ever threatened again by his satanic majesty that you can call on me for protection at any time, day or night.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Beatrice. ‘I sincerely hope that I never have to do that.’

  ‘Now, George, you need to select some girls, don’t you?’ Ida put in, with undisguised impatience. ‘How many altogether?’

  ‘Four or five, if that’s possibl
e. I can give each of them full-time employment stripping tobacco leaves and rolling cigars. I find that bunters are particularly nimble with their fingers. They will all be fairly paid. As I say, business is booming and I need all the staff that I can recruit.’

  ‘I’ll call the girls now,’ said Ida. ‘In any event, they have to come down for their breakfast.’

  When she had left the room, George said to Beatrice, ‘I hope you believe that my apology is sincere. And I assure you that I will pay much closer attention to the welfare of these new girls than I did to that coven of witches. I believe now that it must have been one of the seven who persuaded the other six to summon up the Devil, so I doubt if it will happen again. But, all the same, I will alert my staff to keep their eyes and ears open for any sign of satanic symbol, or of chanting, or any kind of ritual sacrifice. Crows, chickens, rabbits. The Reverend Parsons tells me that it isn’t important what kind of a creature a Devil-worshipper kills to summon Satan, so long as a life is taken, and there’s blood.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Beatrice. She was growing desperately anxious to leave now. George’s presence was making her feel shivery again, especially since she had proof that his contrition was so blatantly false. He had arranged for Grace to be murdered as surely as if he had cut her head off himself.

  George went over and relit his wax taper from the hot coals in the fireplace. He puffed at his cigar for a few moments, and then he said, ‘Perhaps it will calm your suspicions if you come out to Hackney to visit these new girls once they’ve started work. Then you’ll be able to see for yourself that they are safe and well-cared-for. Come out tomorrow with Ida, or the day after tomorrow, and bring you delightful little girl with you. You can have a walk in the country, and afterwards we can go to the Cat and Shoulder of Mutton tavern for some lunch. Who knows? We might even see some pig-swinging.’