‘You’ll have some pie, Beatrice!’ George shouted at her, from the other side of the table. ‘We can’t have you dwindling away! You’re too comely!’
He ordered a whole game pie, which was brought in after twenty minutes by a burly woman with a scarlet face beaded with perspiration, and forearms like hams. The pie was six inches deep and almost two feet in diameter, and freshly baked. After mopping her face with her upraised apron, the woman announced that underneath its decorated pastry crust the pie was filled with finely minced pork and veal, as well as fillets of chicken, pigeon, partridge, hare, pheasant, grey plovers and grouse, all flavoured with allspice and garlic and cockscombs, and filled up with a thick brown gravy of claret and anchovy and sweet herbs.
On any day before today, Beatrice would have loved a slice, but when George cut it open, she had to press her scented handkerchief over her nose and mouth to stop herself from retching. It smelled far too much like a decomposing human body.
George ordered not only pie, but oysters and sweetbreads and devilled kidneys, with side dishes of endive and salsify and leeks and parsnips and potatoes. Between them, he and Edward Veal ate so much that they barely spoke for nearly an hour. Occasionally they stopped pushing food into their mouths for long enough to take a swallow of wine, or to wipe their chins on the sleeves of their frock coats and their hands on their breeches, but most of the time they were completely absorbed in their eating, and their eyes were focused on nothing at all.
Ida ate greedily, too, tearing the sweetbreads apart with her long, chalky fingernails, although it seemed to Beatrice that she chewed every mouthful over a hundred times before she attempted to swallow it, and even when she did her gorge appeared to rise as if she were going to bring it all back up again.
Inside the crowded main room of the tavern, the singing and raucous laughter was deafening, and outside on Church Path, where most of the drovers and waggoners were gathered, Beatrice could hear shouting and whistling and also the squealing of pigs. The Cat and Shoulder of Mutton was a popular stop for pig-breeders bringing their stock down to Smithfield for slaughter. They could have a few beers and a pie before they went on to drive their herd down through the City streets and into the meat market.
George and Edward Veal and Ida had only just finished eating when Beatrice heard a high-pitched panicky screaming, and a great roar from the men assembled on the path.
‘Ha, ha! We’re in luck by the sound of it!’ said George, slapping the table and rising to his feet. ‘Come outside and see the fun!’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Beatrice.
‘Pig-swinging! Tremendous sport! And you can lay wagers if you want to.’
They left the table and went to join the circle of spectators who were standing on the grass opposite the tavern.
In the centre of the circle, two drovers were holding down a small struggling pig, while a third man was smearing its tail with butter. Another man was strutting around them – a short, barrel-chested man with curly grey hair tied back with a scarf, and a brown leather waistcoat. Every now and then he beat his chest with his fists and lifted up his arms like a challenging boxer, and every time he did so he was cheered.
‘What are they doing with that piggy?’ asked Florence.
‘I’m not sure, Florrie, but I don’t think the piggy likes it much, whatever it is.’
Once the pig’s tail was well buttered, the barrel-chested man came over and gripped it with both hands. The pig squealed and kicked, but the two drovers held it still until the tavern’s fat landlord stepped forward. He was wearing a wine-stained blue waistcoat with gilt buttons and a ratty white periwig tied with a ribbon.
‘Usual rules!’ the landlord bellowed, so that he could be heard above the crowd. ‘Whosoever swings the pig the fastest, and can keep his grip for the longest, he shall be awarded the golden cap, and free ale for the rest of the day!’
There was another great roar, and then the two men released their hold and the barrel-chested man tilted himself backwards like a shot-putter and started to swing the pig around by its tail. He lifted it clear up into the air and swung it around and around, while the pig shrieked in a voice that was horribly human. After six or seven increasingly fast rotations, the man lost his grip on the pig’s tail and it was flung, still screaming, into the crowd. It scrambled to its feet and tried to run towards the open fields, but the two drovers hurried after it and caught it.
‘Next contestant!’ shouted the landlord. ‘But I reckon you’ll be hard-pressed to beat that performance!’
Another man stepped forward, a skinny jarvis with a blue chin and a pointed nose and a tricorn hat, rolling up his sleeves as he came. As he did so, though, Beatrice stepped into the circle herself.
‘Yes, mistress, how can I help you?’ the landlord asked her. ‘I’m afraid there’s no prize for the fairer sex for pig-swinging, but you’re welcome to try your luck!’
Beatrice said, ‘Actually, I think that’s enough cruelty for one day.’
The landlord bent forward and cupped his hand to his ear. ‘I beg your pardon? Did I hear you aright?’
‘You did, yes. You should stop this contest right now. I’ve kept pigs myself and I know how much pain and distress you’re causing this poor beast, for nothing else except your own amusement. Isn’t it enough that by tomorrow it’ll have its throat slit and be cut up for chops?’
The landlord looked around, completely nonplussed. ‘My dear lady, pigs have been swung here every week for more than a hundred years. And – up until today – not a single person except for yourself has expressed anything but sheer delight. Neither has a single pig lodged a complaint – either vocally, or in writing.’
Several of the spectators who had overheard their conversation burst out laughing.
Beatrice held her ground. ‘Animals have no voice, sir,’ she said. ‘That’s why sometimes we have to speak for them. In the name of God, I am pleading with you to call this contest off, and not to mock and mistreat this unfortunate beast any further.’
The landlord looked around again, as if he were seeking further support from the spectators, and when he spoke he was beginning to sound irritated. ‘I appreciate your concern, mistress, and I admire you for being so cockish. However, pigs have no sentiments, and I believe that they were created not only for our dinner, but to amuse us, too. You’re right – they do lack voices. But because they cannot speak they cannot pray, and that which cannot pray cannot reasonably expect God’s protection.’
It was then that George came up behind Beatrice and took hold of her arm.
‘Come along, Beatrice. You won’t persuade these good people to give up their sport.’
Beatrice twisted her arm away from him, but after giving the landlord one last hard stare, she followed him back to where Ida was holding Florence’s hand, and Edward Veal was sucking the last of the grease from his fingers.
‘Perhaps we’d best be getting back to Maidenhead Court,’ said Beatrice.
‘Of course,’ said George. ‘But I have to confess that you’ve been fascinating company. If you were a man, Widow Scarlet, I have to admit that I would tread very softly whenever you came close.’
Beatrice gave him a long look that was half challenging and half curious. ‘You’re not afraid of me, Mr Hazzard?’
George turned around to make sure that nobody else was listening. Then he said, ‘Attracted. Afraid. But there has never been a woman in my life who hasn’t bent to my will, sooner or later.’
Behind her, Beatrice heard the pig screaming again as it was whirled around the jarvis’s head.
‘Let’s leave before we have to witness any more of this,’ she said, taking Florence’s hand. ‘I thank you for entertaining us today, George. In the end, it was more than I’d hoped for. Much more.’
36
They returned to Maidenhead Court around half past three. As soon as they had climbed down from the hansom, Beatrice told Ida that she had to go over to the Foundery. Three girls
who shared a bedroom on the second floor had caught colds and chesty coughs, and she needed to collect some tincture of opium and purple coneflower to mix up some fresh physic for them.
‘Very well,’ said Ida. ‘But please be back in time for this evening’s prayers. It’s the Feast of the Guardian Angels today, as well you know, and I think we need to give special thanks to the messengers of God who protect us, don’t you? Especially since Satan has shown himself to be prowling so close.’
‘I promise you that I won’t be late,’ Beatrice told her. ‘I’ll ask Hettie to take care of Florence for me.’
She was walking towards the kitchen to find Hettie when Ida called after her, ‘You – you haven’t vexed George in any way, have you?’
‘Vexed him?’ said Beatrice, turning around. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, today he invited us to Hackney so that you and he could patch up your differences and be friends again. Yet I thought that you treated him very frostily.’
‘It wasn’t intentional, Ida, I can assure you.’
‘Perhaps not. But you must remember that George is by far our most generous benefactor, and that we can’t afford to put his back up. He would only have to withdraw his funding, and we would find it almost impossible to keep St Mary Magdalene’s open.’
‘I can’t imagine that I gave him any reason to be offended,’ said Beatrice. ‘But I’m still mourning the loss of my husband, Ida, even after all this time, and George does have a way of being over-familiar.’
‘You should try to accept his interest in you with good grace. Men can be devilishly worse than over-familiar.’
Beatrice hesitated. She had the feeling that Ida was about to tell her how badly she had been treated by some man in her life, but all she said was, ‘You won’t be late, will you? Prayers are at six.’
*
Beatrice reached the Foundery gates just as James’s scruffy pupils came tumbling out of their classroom, laughing and shouting and scuffling with each other, so she had to wait at the door until the last one had left – a shy girl, painfully thin, who smiled at her. When she was able to step inside she found that the classroom was empty. She was worried for a moment that James had already left, so she walked quickly along the corridor that led to the apothecary, to see if Godfrey knew where he was.
She was only halfway along the corridor when James came out of the apothecary door, and said, ‘Beatrice!’ and opened his arms to her in greeting. As handsome as he was, Beatrice thought he was looking a little waxy, like a sick poet, and his chin was prickly with dark stubble.
‘Thank goodness,’ she told him. ‘I thought you might have gone.’
‘No. But I’ve been suffering an infernal toothache all day, and Godfrey’s given me some laudanum for it.’
‘You should have asked me. My father devised a most effective cure for the toothache. He made it with pressed garlic and oil of cloves.’
‘Not very conducive to kissing, I would have thought. But I didn’t expect to see you today. This is not about Grace again, is it? I’m sure you’re still fretting about her, but you have to consider your own safety first, and Florence’s.’
‘I know that,’ said Beatrice. ‘But today I’ve discovered something even more dreadful. I’ve discovered what happened to the seven girls who were supposed to have summoned up Satan – the coven. I believe that I have, anyhow.’
‘What? How? My God, Beatrice, you’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘George Hazzard invited us up to Hackney today. He was trying to convince me that he was not responsible for the girls’ disappearance. But while we were there—’
‘Beatrice, not here,’ said James, looking behind him. ‘Let me collect my books, and then we can go somewhere private to talk and you can tell me everything. I’m on my way back in your direction anyway, so perhaps we can find ourselves a quiet corner in the Salutation.’
Taking her arm, he led her back to the classroom. He picked up the two books that he had been using for his lessons that afternoon – A Description of a Great Variety of Animals and Vegetables, and Divine Songs Attempted in Easy Language – and stowed them into a leather hunting bag. Then he ushered her out and locked the door behind him.
‘I don’t trust those children one inch! If I left the door unlocked they would come back at night with their older siblings and steal all the furniture!’
They walked together down to Newgate Street, saying very little. The streets were unusually deserted, and the breeze was becoming colder and harsher, so that the signs outside the taverns and coffee houses all along the way started swinging and creaking. Beatrice noticed that several signs featured a woman’s hand holding a coffee pot, which indicated to knowledgeable Londoners that there was more than coffee available inside.
They went into the smoky Salutation tavern and James led Beatrice past the bar and up the narrow stairs to a room overlooking the street, where women could sit. The only other person in the room was a tired-looking middle-aged woman with bedraggled silk flowers in her bonnet, staring at her empty port-wine glass as if she could mesmerize it into refilling itself.
‘Now, tell me what you’ve discovered,’ said James.
Beatrice waited for a moment while a freckly red-haired serving girl came up from the bar to ask them what they wanted to drink, and if they wanted food. James ordered a decanter of sweet white Malmsey for both of them.
After the serving girl had clattered back downstairs, Beatrice said, ‘I’ve no absolute proof of this yet, James, but I believe that all the girls are probably dead, and that they’re buried at the back of George Hazzard’s factory.’
She took Jane Webb’s left-facing crucifix out of her pocket and set it down on the table in front of him.
‘So – what’s this?’ he asked her.
She told him how Florence had found the crucifix, and how No-noh had dug up what looked like the ragged remains of a red linen dress, and a human scapula.
James didn’t interrupt her, and even when she had finished he sat back and thoughtfully scratched his stubbled neck and said nothing for almost half a minute.
At last he asked her, ‘This Jane Webb girl – you’re sure this crucifix is hers?’
‘I don’t have the shadow of a doubt.’
‘So what are your proposing to do now?’
‘To go to Bow Street, of course, to Sir John Fielding’s justice house, and report it to one of his constables. He can send officers to Hackney to exhume the body – or bodies, if all seven of them have met the same fate.’
‘My God, Beatrice, you’re treading on very dangerous ground here. And what evidence do you have? Only this crucifix, which could have been anybody’s, and your glimpse of a human bone – or what you thought was a human bone.’
‘I know my anatomy, James. And have you ever seen a crucifix with Jesus looking to the left? Have you ever seen any painting or sculpture of the crucifixion with Jesus looking to the left?’
‘Well, no, I can’t say that I have. But George Hazzard will have only to deny that he knew that there was anybody buried in his factory garden, and what charges can be brought against him?’
‘We’ll just have to find somebody who’s prepared to bear witness against him,’ said Beatrice. ‘He wouldn’t have taken a spade himself and dug Jane’s grave, would he? He must have assigned some of his factory workers to do it, or maybe he paid some casual navvies. And somebody must have carried her body to the grave and laid her in it.’
James shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Beatrice. Any witnesses will have been well bribed to keep their mouths shut, or else they’ll be terrified to speak out against him. Don’t underestimate what a powerful man he is, and what influential connections he has. He belongs to the same club as Sir Crisp Gascoyne, for goodness’ sake.’
‘I’m still going to go to Bow Street and tell them what I saw. I’m simply asking that you come with me, to give me moral support. They’re far more likely to take me seriously if I have a man with
me, especially a teacher like yourself.’
James remained silent while the serving girl brought up their wine. He poured himself a glass, but Beatrice laid her hand on top of her glass to show him that she didn’t want any. She needed to have a clear head for what she intended to do. As a woman, it was going to be difficult enough to persuade the officers at Bow Street to investigate what had happened to the coven, without them smelling wine on her breath.
She could see that James was turning something over in his mind, something that was troubling him deeply. He was gnawing at his lip and staring at her with his amethyst-blue eyes, and his fingertips were drumming on the tabletop. She had the feeling that what he was thinking about could change his life forever.
When he still didn’t speak, she leaned forward and said, very softly, ‘Whether you agree to accompany me to Bow Street or not, James, I still intend to go. I owe it to Jane, and I owe it to Grace, and all of the other girls. They might have been prostitutes, but they were all God’s children, and they deserve justice. So do those who so cruelly ended their lives.’
James swallowed some more wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I can’t contain myself any longer, Beatrice. I’ve fallen in love with you. Not because you look so much like my poor lost Sophie, although I freely admit that was the reason I was first attracted to you.’
‘James—’
‘No, Beatrice – hear me out, please! I think about you constantly, day and night. I think about you when I wake up in the morning and I think about you when I retire to bed at night. I think about you even when I’m teaching. Every moment I spend with you only strengthens the spell that you are holding me under.’
He reached across the table and laid his hand on top of hers. ‘It’s not only your beauty, and your natural grace. It’s your courage, and your determination, and your charity to others, and your Christian sense of fairness. By comparison, you make me feel weak and grubby and despicable.’
The Coven Page 27
