The Coven

by Graham Masterton

  The woman looked again at Beatrice, and then at Florence, and then shrugged and said, ‘All right. Come on in. It ain’t St James’s Palace, but if you need a ken to stay for a day or two, and you’re not too sniffy to share a bedroom, you’re welcome.’

  She stepped back so that Beatrice and Florence could enter the narrow hallway.

  ‘I’m Violet,’ she said. ‘Mrs Violet Vickery – as was Thompson, as was Hudnutt, as was White. Widowed now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’m widowed, too.’

  ‘Oh, I ain’t sorry to be widowed,’ Violet told her. ‘Me? Sorry? Not one whit.’

  She hesitated and looked at Beatrice keenly, and then she said, ‘You, though, you’re still grievin’ – ain’t you, love? You ain’t wearin’ black, but you miss ’im somethin’ rotten, don’t you?’

  Beatrice gave her a quick, rueful smile but she didn’t answer. She guessed that Violet was in her late forties, but although she had fine wrinkles around her eyes, and her neck was becoming stringy, she was still unusually attractive. Her eyes were mint-green, and wide apart, and her nose was short and straight, and her lips had an upward curl to them if she found life endlessly amusing. Cockneys must have called her a fair rum-doxy when she was younger.

  They climbed up a creaking flight of dark, narrow stairs. It was smoky inside the lodging-house, and there was a strong smell of burned liver, mingled with tomcats’ urine and attar of roses, which Beatrice could only assume that somebody had splashed on themselves to try and overwhelm all the other odours. Violet led them across the bare-boarded landing and opened the door to her apartments. They were gloomy inside, because the thick burlap curtains were still drawn, but she went across to the window and dragged them open.

  ‘I always thought that George ’Azzard was a queer cove,’ she said. ‘’E mixes with the nibs, and everybody says what a swell ’e is. But I don’t know. ’E gives off the smell of sulphur, that’s what I always said. I bet if you lifted his wig off, you’ll find ’e’s got ’orns stickin’ out of ’is bonce.’

  Violet’s sitting room was airless and cramped, with four sagging armchairs and a footstool and a threadbare rucked-up rug. The fire hadn’t yet been lit, and the grate was heaped up with last night’s ashes, so the room was chilly, as well as damp. The walls had once been papered with a pale-brown trellis pattern, but they were stained and speckled with black mould and in the far corner the paper had sloughed off the plaster like dead skin.

  Violet shouted out, ‘Pammy! Maggie! Betsy! Let’s be ’avin’ you out of your dabs, you lazy slamkins! Eliza’s ’ere, and she’s brought company! Respectable company, too. You, too, Dick. Get your fat arse out ’ere and make up the fire!’

  Beatrice heard groans of protest from a half-open door on the right-hand side of the sitting room.

  ‘Them’s my daughters,’ Violet explained. ‘Why I ever ’ad ’em, I’ll never know. The only good they ever do is bring in some chink.’

  The bedroom door opened wider and a big-bellied young man appeared, blinking and sniffing and scratching himself. He had scruffed-up black hair and near-together eyes and a snub nose like a Staffordshire terrier. His filthy woollen nightshirt came down only as far as his knees, and the stockings that he was wearing underneath were so full of holes so that Beatrice could see his black-rimmed toenails.

  ‘This is Dick,’ said Violet. ‘You’ll ’ave to make allowances for Dick because ’e’s a bit of a ben. Bit of a cod’s head, ain’t you, Dick? Say ’ow d’you do to the lady and ’er daughter, Dick.’

  ‘I’ll put on my breeches,’ said Dick, slurring his words, and then snorted.

  ‘No, Dick, you light the fire first because we’re all feelin’ cold in ’ere and the lady and ’er daughter will be wantin’ a cup of somethin’ ’ot. Now, come on, Beatrice, you sit yourself down and make yourself at ’ome, and we’ll soon ’ave you sorted.’

  Beatrice sat down on one of the armchairs and Florence climbed into her lap, sucking her thumb, while No-noh hid underneath the chair behind her skirts. Eliza took off Beatrice’s cape and draped it over her shoulders to keep her warm, and then she went into the bedroom to talk to her three cousins. Violet came and sat in the chair next to Beatrice, laying a hand on her arm and speaking to her softly and confidentially as if she had known for her years.

  ‘Like I say, I always thought that George ’Azzard was a sharper. Too full of ’imself by ’alf. But as for ’im bein’ a miller, that does surprise me.’

  Beatrice told Violet how the so-called coven had disappeared, and how their bodies had been dug up. She also told her about Grace, although she called her ‘a certain young lady of our acquaintance’ and she was careful to choose her words because she didn’t want Florence to realize what she was saying.

  ‘I don’t yet know what part George Hazzard might have played in their demise, or exactly how their lives were ended. Their remains were so decomposed that it was impossible to tell at a glance how they passed. But I do have some very strong suspicions about what might have happened to them, and Constable Rook at Bow Street seems to agree with me.’

  ‘So ’ow do you think they was topped, then?’

  ‘Almost as soon as they arrived at his factory I believe he packed them off to Leda Sheridan’s – the same as he did with that certain young lady of our acquaintance – and that was where they met their end. I admit that some or all of them might have gone willingly. We hadn’t succeeded in converting them all at St Mary Magdalene’s, not by any means, and Leda Sheridan’s has a very high-class clientele. Before we took them in, most of the girls had been plying their trade in back alleys off the Strand and Chick Lane bawdy houses so you can understand that they might have been tempted.’

  ‘You won’t believe this, but I know Leda Sheridan. I’ve known ’er ever since she was a young girl,’ said Violet.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No word of a lie, Beatrice. You might think she’s ’igh-class now, but she was brung up around ’ere, on Fort Street, and she was plain Linda Codd in them days. She used to give gentlemen a stand-up clicket be’ind the market stalls for a shilling. Then when she got a a few years older she used to go and ’ang around Covent Garden, and outside the Theatre Royal, and that was ’ow she met up with some rich old swell what set her up with fancy rooms and whatever she asked for. Captain Something, ’is name was. I forget. But when ’e croaked ’e left ’er enough money to set ’erself up on Brydge Street. She married some lawyer after – a right puzzle-cause ’e was, about twenty years older than ’er – but ’e croaked, too.’

  ‘Eliza told me that George Hazzard came across her selling your pincushions on the street, and he sent her to Leda Sheridan’s,’ said Beatrice. She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound as if she were accusing Violet of being careless, or neglectful. ‘She said that when you heard about it, you didn’t seem to be worried. In fact you gave her your blessing.’

  ‘Yes, I did, but that was before I ever met George ’Azzard and clocked ’im for being a sharper.’

  She paused, and took hold of Beatrice’s hand, and squeezed it.

  ‘Listen, Beatrice, I know that a parson’s widow like yourself will think the worst of me. I don’t blame you. But we didn’t ’ave ’ardly nothin’ to live on in them days. I wasn’t makin’ more than a few farthings out of pincushions and I was too ill with the quinsy to do nothin’ else. My three daughters was all on the streets – what else could they do? – and I was worried sick about ’em night and day in case they got beaten or the watch picked them up or they caught some ’orrible clap. I knew that Leda would take good care of Eliza, and that she’d make a fair bit of wedge, and she might even meet a swell like Captain Something, and live ’appy ever after.’

  ‘But what did you think when Eliza ran away, because she’d heard other girls screaming?’

  ‘I didn’t think nothin’ much of it, to be truthful with you. There’s men what like whippin’ women and there’s women what like to be
whipped, and worse. I took Eliza back because I didn’t ’ave no choice, but I told ’er she’d ’ave to pay ’er own way. Which she did, most of the time.’

  Beatrice made no comment, and didn’t tell Violet that Eliza had been robbing her clients as well as offering them sex, although Violet probably knew that she was. These women were struggling every day simply to survive, and Beatrice didn’t feel that she could judge either of them. Instead, she told her about the five new girls George Hazzard had taken from St Mary Magdalene’s, and how he had claimed to have sent them to Southwark Fair.

  ‘I was going to go to Bow Street and find out from Constable Rook if they returned to the factory last night. And of course I have to go and tell him about us being attacked, and my poor friend James. I have to explain that I only struck Edward Veal to defend myself.’

  Dick was kneeling in front of the fireplace now. He had shovelled out the ashes and relaid the grate with crumpled-up newspaper and kindling sticks and lumps of coal, and he was blowing on it with a mooing noise like a cow that badly needed milking.

  Violet said, ‘Tell you what – I’ll come with you, lovey, seein’ as ’ow I know George ’Azzard, and Leda, too. The girls will look after your little darlin’ for you, don’t you worry. Maggie ’ad a baby boy of her own, Stevie, so she knows all about carin’ for kids. Stevie died from the measles when ’e was only six months, poor mite, but ’e was ever so ’appy while ’e was with us.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Violet, thank you,’ said Beatrice. ‘Florrie, do you mind staying with Eliza and the other girls while Mama goes out for a while? I promise I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll get Betsy to make you some ’ot porridge,’ said Violet. ‘And we’ve got plenty of bones for that doggy of yours.’

  Florence nodded, very gravely. Beatrice couldn’t help thinking that even if Francis hadn’t been her father, she had somehow inherited his seriousness, and his sense of duty.

  Violet stood up and said, ‘I’ll just go and get myself dressed. P’raps you’d care for a cup of ’ot chocolate before we go. I always prefer a brandy, myself.’

  ‘Do you know something?’ said Beatrice. ‘I do believe I might join you.’

  42

  They arrived outside No. 4 Bow Street a few minutes before eleven o’clock. The pavement was even more crowded than usual, not only with protestors, but with curious spectators and four or five men in dusty frock coats who looked as if they might be journalists.

  Beatrice was about to step down from the hackney when she caught sight of a yellow carriage waiting by the corner of Russell Street, at the very end of a row of hansoms and hackneys and other carriages.

  She said to Violet, ‘Wait. I believe that’s George Hazzard’s carriage. He must be here already.’

  ‘You ain’t afraid to face ’im, are you, after what ’e’s been a doin’-of?’ asked Violet.

  ‘Violet, he tried to have me and Florrie murdered, and he had James killed. I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, but think about it, lovey. From what you told me, them bodies is goin’ to speak for themselves, ain’t they? ’Ow’s George ’Azzard goin’ to explain ’is own accountant bein’ there, wearin’ that lookin’-glass mask and all, and ’ow’s ’e goin’ to explain your poor friend, stabbed in the throat?’

  ‘I still don’t want to face him, Violet. He’s sure to have some plausible explanation for what happened, and I can’t risk being arrested for killing Edward Veal, even if they only charge me with manslaughter. How can I possibly prove that I was only defending myself, when Florrie and I are the only living witnesses?’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ said Violet. ‘Me – I’d believe a parson’s widow against a ratbag like George ’Azzard any day of the week.’

  But as if God had stage-managed it to confirm Beatrice’s fears, the door to the justice house suddenly opened, and George Hazzard stepped out. He was accompanied by a stout man in a gold-braided frock coat with a black ribbon tied around his forehead, and Beatrice recognized him from his portrait in the waiting room. It was Sir John Fielding, the blind magistrate, and the founder of the Bow Street justice house.

  The two of them were talking and nodding and then George Hazzard patted Sir John Fielding on the back and shook his hand.

  ‘Let’s go, before he sees me,’ said Beatrice. ‘Just look at the two of them, chatting like old friends. I need to think what I can do next.’

  ‘You want to talk to that constable, don’t you?’ said Violet. ‘’E sounds like ’e’ll believe you.’

  ‘Are you two ladies gettin’ out ’ere or what?’ their jarvis shouted.

  ‘No, we ain’t!’ Violet shouted back. ‘Take us back where we come from!’

  ‘Gor blimey!’ he retorted. ‘I wish you’d make your bloody minds up!’

  ‘What’s it to you, you clunch, so long as you get your fare?’

  The jarvis cracked his whip and turned the hackney around in the middle of the street, so that they could rattle their way back to Black Horse Yard.

  Beatrice said, ‘I know what I’ll do. I’ll write to Constable Rook and explain exactly how we were attacked, and why we’ve gone into hiding. I’ll also ask him if Judith and the rest of our girls are back at the tobacco factory. We can send a messenger, can’t we, and he can wait and bring back an answer, without having to reveal to Constable Rook where I am.’

  ‘What if he writes back and says that the girls are there?’

  ‘I shall be thankful, of course. But I really don’t believe that they are. Why do you think George Hazzard has come down from Hackney to talk to Sir John? I’m sure that he’s pulling strings to get himself out of trouble. Do you know, Violet, if only I could find out how those seven girls were murdered. They couldn’t have died of natural causes, not all seven of them, but unless we know how they died, George Hazzard can’t be touched – and neither for that matter can your friend, Leda.’

  ‘What about your blacky girl, the one what ’ad ’er ’ead whopped off? They can’t deny ’ow she got topped.’

  ‘If we could find her body, then we’d have some proof. But I doubt that we ever will. They probably cut her up into pieces and dropped her into the river, or burned her, or buried her in some plague pit. Who can say?’

  They arrived back at Black Horse Yard. When they went back upstairs to Violet’s apartments, Beatrice found Florence in her daughters’ bedroom. The three girls were all very different: Pammy was petite and flaxen-haired, with a pretty heart-shaped face; Maggie was a plump brunette who wheezed when she breathed; and Betsy was red-haired and freckled and looked Irish. Beatrice didn’t ask, but she guessed that all three girls had different fathers, and that one or two of the fathers hadn’t been Violet’s husbands.

  They were all laughing, though, and so was Florence. They had perched her up on the windowsill and they were making her face up: powdering her nose and painting her cheeks with rouge and lining her lips with red beeswax.

  ‘There!’ said Eliza, giving Florence’s mouth a final dab with a pad of Spanish wool. ‘A real gentry-mort! All the nibs will be after you, my darling, there’s no mistake about that!’

  Beatrice forced a smile. She didn’t find it comfortable to see Florence being amused by four young prostitutes, but she was grateful that they were taking her mind off her horrifying morning, and she was deeply relieved that Violet had given them somewhere safe to hide from George Hazzard, at least for now.

  She went into the sitting room and sat by the fire, where the coals were now glowing hot. She took her travelling penner and inkwell out of her purse and turned to the first blank page in her small brocade-bound diary.

  ‘Dear Constable Rook,’ she wrote,

  I am desperately hoping that I can rely on your support and also your utmost discretion. You will of course know by now of the tragic incident at St Mary Magdalene’s this morning, in which Mr James Treadgold was ruthlessly murdered and Mr George Hazzard’s accountant Mr Edward Veal also met his maker. These are the exact circum
stances, regardless of what Mr Hazzard might have imparted to Sir John Fielding.

  She described James’s killing and Edward Veal’s death in detail, and then she told him that she and Florence were remaining at a ‘confidential address’ until they could be guaranteed protection. Finally, she asked him if the Hackney watch had reported that Judith and the other girls had returned to the tobacco factory last night, or if they were still missing.

  When she had finished, Violet sent Betsy across the court to fetch the skinny nine-year-old son of one of her neighbours, who supported her five children by taking in washing. Beatrice instructed the boy where to take her letter, and to wait for Constable Rook to write a reply. When he returned, she promised that she would give him sixpence.

  ‘Make sure that nobody follows you on your way back,’ she told him. ‘If you think that they are, wait in a doorway until they’ve gone past.’

  ‘I ain’t no mopus,’ he told her.

  ‘And don’t read it,’ she said, as she handed him the letter, but he simply stared at her as if she had spoken to him in a foreign language. He had never been to school and never would.

  All she could do then was sit and wait, and listen as Violet’s daughters played with Florence. After an hour or so, Pammy and Betsy started to dress and put on their own make-up, because it was time for them to be going out on the streets to make what Violet called ‘chink’. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to pay the rent, and there wouldn’t be any food on the table.

  It was five past one before the boy returned with a letter from Jonas Rook. He looked exhausted. The sole of one of his worn-out brown boots had started to flap loose when he was walking along Butcher Row, and so he had been forced to hop most of the way back. Beatrice gave him an extra threepence as well as his sixpence, so that he could have it mended, but he took it with a scowl, and left the door wide open on his way out.

  When she first read Jonas Rook’s reply, Beatrice was surprised how pessimistic he seemed to be. Yesterday he had given her so much encouragement, and had appeared so eager to pursue a prosecution, but the tone of this letter was completely negative.