‘James, don’t say that about yourself! You’ve been caring and you’ve been solicitous, and you’ve given me very wise advice when I’ve been tempted to be rash.’
James shook his head again, much more vigorously this time. ‘No, Beatrice. I’ve been cowardly. The truth is that I’ve known all along what George Hazzard does with the girls that he takes from St Mary Magdalene’s. He says that he’s taking them to work at his tobacco factory, but that’s a barefaced lie.’
Beatrice slowly withdrew her hand from underneath his, like pulling off a glove. ‘What? You’ve known that they were going to be murdered?’
‘No – no – not that! Great heavens, no! I’ve never had any inkling of that! But I’ve known that he picks out the prettiest girls and sends them to Leda Sheridan’s brothel, and other brothels, too. They pay him a handsome finder’s fee for every girl he sends them, and as far as I know, a percentage of their earnings until they’re too old or raddled to earn any more.’
He took another drink, almost choked on it, and coughed.
‘As you know, Beatrice, most of those girls at St Mary Magdalene’s have been arrested in Chick Lane or Covent Garden or thereabouts for whoring or thieving. If the Reverend Parsons didn’t regularly go the courts and speak out on their behalf, the magistrates would have sent them to the Clerkenwell House of Correction. Either that, or transported them, or have them hung. But the Reverend Parsons stands up for them and says that if St Mary Magdalene’s Refuge is permitted to take them in, their sinful ways will be mended and they will be turned into shining models of Christian morality. I’ve attended court, and I’ve heard him say it. He’s utterly convincing.’
‘But does he know what’s really going to happen to them? Does he know that they’re going to be bathed and brushed up and taught manners, but then sold off to be better-class whores?’
‘Dear Lord, Beatrice, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. You’re in quite enough peril as it is. But if they’re being murdered—’
‘James, you’re doing the right thing by telling me, believe me. If the Reverend Parsons knows about it, he can’t be allowed to escape unpunished, any more than George Hazzard.’
James swallowed hard, and he was close to tears. He clenched his fists and said, ‘He does know, yes. Of course he knows! So does Ida Smollett. But these girls bring in so much profit for the church, which finances their missionary work, and he considers their lives to be worthless. As far as the saintly Reverend Parsons is concerned, those girls became less than dirt from the moment they first sold their bodies for money. Do you know what he says? “A woman’s virginity belongs to God, and only those husbands of whom God approves should be allowed to deflower them, because they are entering their bodies on God’s behalf.”’
‘And Ida knows about this, too?’
‘Oh, certainly. I would say that almost everybody in the church is aware of it, but the whole congregation shares the same belief – that these girls are irredeemable sinners. Once a girl has sold her purity – that’s what they think – she can’t buy it back. You can’t put an eggshell together again once you’ve cracked it.’
Beatrice reached across and poured herself a small measure of Malmsey, and drank it. Then she said, ‘What about you? Have you always known? And do you think the same, that God is never going to forgive them?’
‘I never thought that, and I don’t think that now. But I looked the other way, to be truthful with you, coward that I am. After my father lost all of his wealth during the Spanish War, it was George Hazzard who lent him sufficient funds to save him from bankruptcy and complete humiliation in society. My father still owes him a fortune, and I doubt if he’ll ever be able to repay him before he dies. Not only that, it was George Hazzard who recommended that the Reverend Parsons take me on as the Foundery’s teacher.’
‘James, if your employment is going to be jeopardized, I can’t ask you to come to Bow Street with me. I’ll simply have to trust that Sir John Fielding’s officers believe me.’
‘No, Beatrice, I’ll come – I will come,’ James told her. ‘I have to redeem myself somehow. How can I possibly hope that you might find it in your heart to return my affection if I allow you to go and report this crime alone? Very well – if the Reverend Parsons gets to hear that I’ve supported you, I might lose my teaching position at the Foundery; and if George Hazzard gets to hear of it, I might even be placing myself at considerable risk of my life. But how will I be able to face myself every morning in my looking glass if I show myself to be weaker than a young defenceless widow like yourself? If you’re not frightened, then neither am I.’
‘Ah, but I am frightened,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s just that I prayed last night, and asked God what I should do. And, do you know? – when the sun came up this morning it was reflected in the water of my washbasin, and it hovered like a halo on the ceiling above my head. I knew then that God was blessing my determination to seek justice for Grace. I also believe that when we went to Hackney, he used Florrie’s dog No-noh to direct me to Jane Webb’s remains. It was God, guiding me. It couldn’t have happened by chance.
‘No matter how fearful I am, James, the Lord has charged me with this mission, and I will do everything I can to fulfil it.’
At that moment, the middle-aged woman sitting opposite hiccuped, and made a smacking sound with her toothless gums, and then said, to nobody in particular, ‘Welladay my poor heart! Welladay!’
37
Beatrice and James hailed a hackney to take them to Bow Street, but it was nearly a quarter to five by the time they arrived outside No. 4, which was a narrow-shouldered five-storey building with a peeling black-painted front door.
A rowdy crowd was gathered outside, mostly unshaven men in ragged coats and soiled breeches and ratty perukes, although there were one or two women as well, whose rouged cheeks and lurid red lips suggested to Beatrice that they were either actresses or prostitutes. They were singing and chanting ‘Don’t ’ang ’Arry! Don’t ’ang ’Arry!’ and some of the men were so drunk that they were hanging on to the railings to keep themselves upright.
Beatrice weaved her way between them and mounted the steps, with James following closely behind her. Once inside, they were met in the hallway by a short swarthy doorman in a tightly buttoned-up navy-blue tunic. His forehead was low and the backs of his hands were hairy and Beatrice couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a trained chimpanzee dressed up in uniform.
‘Yes, your honour, how can I be of assistance?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come here to see a constable and report two crimes, and possibly more,’ Beatrice told him.
‘Begging your indulgence, ma’am, could you repeat that?’ said the doorman. ‘Sorry – it’s that mob outside! Some fellow’s up for burglary but it don’t matter how much racket they make, he’ll be dancing on nothing unless the Lord intervenes.’
‘It’s urgent that I speak to someone in authority,’ Beatrice told him, raising her voice. ‘I know of several murders of young women, and where their remains might be found.’
The doorman looked at James as if he were seeking reassurance that Beatrice wasn’t cuckoo.
James said, ‘This lady is a qualified apothecary, sir, and the widow of a church minister. I can assure you that what she has to report is not only genuine, but of the utmost gravity.’
‘I see, sir,’ said the doorman. ‘If you will kindly give me your names, and then follow me through to the waiting room, I’ll see who I can drum up for you.’
Beatrice and James waited for more than twenty minutes in the small stuffy waiting room. The fire had burned down to ashes, and it was growing increasingly chilly. The sombre portrait of Sir John Fielding on the wall did little to alleviate the gloom: he was paunchy and blind, with a black ribbon tied around his forehead, underneath his wig, and his expression was grim.
‘You know what they say about him, don’t you?’ said James. ‘He may be blind, but he can identify three hundred different criminals b
y their voices alone.’
‘He looks exactly how I feel,’ said Beatrice. ‘Miserable and confused, and completely in the dark.’
‘My dearest, you mustn’t despair,’ said James. ‘You’ve been brave enough to come so far, and I believe that you’re right, and that this is what God intends you to do. I’m convinced that you’ll soon see the light. It’s happened to me today, Beatrice. Because of you, I’ve seen myself for what I am, a craven coward, and I’m determined to redeem myself. This morning I was Saul. Now I’m Paul.’
They waited a further ten minutes, and then the door opened and a clerk came in, with a quill behind his ear. ‘Mr Treadgold? Widow Scarlet? The constable will see you now.’
They followed him into an office at the back of the building. Sitting behind a cluttered desk was a thin, beaky-nosed young man in an olive-green frock coat. He stood up when Beatrice and James came in, and inclined his head, although he didn’t hold out his hand. The room was stuffy and hot and smelled strongly of Royal Essence, a perfume made from musk, civet, clove and cinnamon, although it did little to mask the underlying odour of tobacco and stale perspiration.
‘Please, take a seat,’ said the beaky-nosed young man. ‘Jonas Rook is my name. I understand that you have some felony to report.’
‘Murder,’ Beatrice told him, but as she said that she suddenly had a picture in her mind’s eye of Grace’s expression as her throat was sliced open, and she had to stop for a moment and take several deep breaths.
Jonas Rook had been idly leafing through some papers on his desk but now he looked up at her with one eyebrow raised. The clerk was sitting in the corner with his quill poised to take down whatever Beatrice said, and he stared across at her too.
‘More than one murder,’ said Beatrice. ‘Two at the very least, and possibly as many as eight.’
‘Go on,’ said Jonas Rook. He didn’t sound at all shocked, but he kept his eyes on her now, and didn’t look down at his papers again. The clerk dipped his quill in his inkwell again, to freshen it, and licked his lips.
Beatrice started by telling Jonas Rook how George Hazzard had come to St Mary Magdalene’s, and how he had selected the seven prettiest girls to work in his tobacco factory. Then she told him how the girls had disappeared, and how George had claimed that they had summoned Satan, who had given them the power to be witches, and fly away.
‘And what evidence did he have for this?’ asked Jonas Rook.
‘A pentagram, painted on the wall, and the body of a goat, which he claimed the girls had sacrificed. I saw these for myself.’
‘But what caused you to doubt that these girls had actually succeeded in raising the Devil?’
Beatrice explained how she had analyzed the ‘blood’ that had been used to paint the pentagram. Then she told him about the goat’s head appearing on the dinner table in front of her, and how she had taken a sample of its beard, and analyzed that, too.
She went on to tell him about the man with the looking-glass face, and the claw marks in her door, which had exactly matched the three-pronged grappling hook that she had picked up on New Queen Street, down by the river.
James reached across and laid his hand on her arm, because she hadn’t told him about the grappling hook, but he didn’t try to interrupt her.
In the plainest words that she could, and omitting none of the graphic details, Beatrice described the sexual revelry at Leda Sheridan’s brothel, and how Grace had been beheaded. Finally, she produced Jane Webb’s crucifix, and leaned forward to place it on top of Jonas Rook’s papers, and explained what she had discovered this afternoon in George Hazzard’s factory garden.
‘A human shoulder-bone?’ said Jonas Rook. ‘You’re quite sure about that?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘And red dress material, too. And I could smell putrid human flesh. I’ve no doubt at all that there’s a body buried there.’
Jonas Rook sucked in his cheeks. He turned to his clerk, who was still frantically scribbling down Beatrice’s description of the hooded executioner who had murdered Grace.
‘“Nim gimmer”, did you say?’ asked his clerk. ‘Is that what they were shouting?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘They knew what was going to be done to her. That’s what they had paid good money for. I have no idea what Mrs Sheridan had charged them to see Grace being violated and murdered, but I imagine it was quite a sizeable sum.’
Jonas Rook picked up the crucifix and turned it around and around between his fingers. ‘I had occasion to caution Mrs Sheridan myself last year. One of her clients was complaining that a moidore had been stolen from his fob, and Mrs Sheridan’s bullies beat him so hard that they took out his eye. If I remember rightly she was asking fifty guineas to witness a young country girl having her virginity taken by two men at once. I can only guess that she must have charged at least a hundred guineas a head to see your poor blackamoor being despoiled and dispatched.’
Beatrice said, ‘You believe me?’
Jonas Rook sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together. ‘Yes, Widow Scarlet, I believe you. In fact I’ve been waiting for a long time for a credible witness such as yourself to come here to Bow Street and report on Mr George Hazzard’s activities. It would not be appropriate for me to tell you of all the accusations that have been made against him, but apart from his involvement in prostitution, we’ve received intelligence about extortion and bribery and evasion of the import tax on tobacco.’
‘So what will you do now?’ asked James.
Jonas Rook looked up at the clock on the wall above his clerk’s head, and said, ‘It’s dark now, and plainly too late to do anything today. But I’ll present your evidence betimes tomorrow to Sir John. If he agrees, I’ll arrange for the necessary warrant and organize a party to disinter the remains of these young women – always supposing that they’re buried where you believe them to be.’
He stood up, and Beatrice stood up, too.
‘Thank you for your courage in coming forward, Widow Scarlet,’ he said, and bowed his head again. ‘If only more Londoners were as brave as you. But I have to warn you that Mr Hazzard will do anything to discredit you, and may even threaten you with injury or worse. I agree with you that those so-called satanic threats that you received could well have been his doing, and if he was prepared to go to such extraordinary lengths to warn you off, he may try to silence you with even greater finality.’
James was still seated. He said, very quietly, ‘It was him. It was George Hazzard. At least one incident was, that I know of.’
‘Really?’ asked Jonas Rook. ‘And which incident was that?’
‘The man at Ranelagh Gardens with the looking-glass face.’
Beatrice said, ‘James! You knew about that?’
James nodded. ‘I’m ashamed to say that I did. But I sincerely thought that if you were cautioned to stay out of Mr Hazzard’s business, it would be safer for you. I had no idea then that those seven girls might be dead. I did know, though, that Mr Hazzard is not a man to be trifled with. Three of his employees who tried to make off with a hogshead of his tobacco were found drowned in the Lea with their eyes put out and their legs broken, and other people who have tried to cross him have come to a very sorry end.’
‘You knew about that man, even on the very morning you took us there?’
‘Yes, Beatrice, I did. I admit it. The thing of it was, I told the Reverend Parsons the day before that I was intending to take you to Ranelagh Gardens. I told him in all innocence, believe me, because I was so pleased and excited about it. But the Reverend Parsons dined that day with Mr Hazzard, and must have told him, too. Later that afternoon he came back to say that we would be followed there, and that you would be approached by a man who wouldn’t hurt you in any way, but whose appearance would alarm you sufficiently to deter you from prying into his affairs any further. Those were almost his exact words.’
Beatrice couldn’t think what to say. She turned to Jonas Rook but all Jonas Rook could do was shrug, as if to indicate t
hat there was nothing he could do, and this was a matter that Beatrice and James would have to resolve between them.
‘I’ll send word to you at St Mary Magdalene’s in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’ll also let you know what we succeed in digging up at Mr Hazzard’s factory, if anything.’
‘I’m still praying that I’m wrong,’ said Beatrice. ‘I would far rather those girls were alive and working in a brothel than dead and buried in that garden.’
‘Well, amen to that,’ said Jonas Rook. James said nothing.
*
They hailed a hackney and returned to Maidenhead Court. They didn’t speak until they were passing St Paul’s.
James said, ‘I suppose that you find it impossible to forgive me.’
‘You could have told me earlier, couldn’t you, when you were having your Damascene moment in the Salutation?’
‘Yes, I could, and I should. I feel utterly wretched.’
‘I’ll send you a message tomorrow to let you know what Constable Rook has decided to do, and later, if he finds any bodies,’ said Beatrice. ‘But you need to heed his warning as much as I do, James. If George Hazzard finds out that you’ve helped me to give evidence against him, your life will be in jeopardy, too. I’ve seen him run a man through with his sword, right in front of me.’
‘I’m not teaching tomorrow. I could come around to see you.’
‘No, James. I’d rather you didn’t. I need time to think about our friendship, and so do you. I know you believe that you love me, but there’s more to love than romance and physical attraction. There’s absolute honesty, too. “A man of words but not of deeds”? I was badly frightened by that man with the looking-glass face, and what’s worse, you knew that I would be. What else haven’t you told me?’
‘There’s nothing else, Beatrice. I’ve told you everything now. If only you knew how mortified I feel.’
They turned into Maidenhead Court and the jarvis helped Beatrice to step down.
The Coven Page 28
