Death and the Harlot

by Death

  Tommy groaned and rested his forehead on the table. I snatched up my glass, not wanting the wine spilled again.

  Davenport watched him. Tommy was a young man with a temper. He was also, now, a man without means. Could he have killed Reed for his purse? Would he be prepared to have Amelia working instead?

  I didn’t see him as Reed’s murderer. He might be passionate and quick with his fists, but everything about Reed’s death suggested someone had lured him there. Reed had no reason to meet Tommy in the back yard of the White Horse. Unless…

  Davenport was there before me.

  ‘How did you come to know Mr Reed? Had you known him long?’

  Tommy raised his head.

  ‘I didn’t know him at all until last night.’

  That was odd, because Mr Reed certainly knew him.

  ‘But the people I’ve spoken to already tell me that he left this house saying he knew who you were,’ said Davenport, echoing my thought. ‘How did he know you?’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth, I didn’t know the man until last night. He tried to shove his hands into Amelia’s gown and I pulled him off her. I called to some other men to help me. There was a bit of pushing and he shouted a lot.’

  ‘Mr Reed was asked to leave,’ said Ma, smoothing her skirt. ‘We don’t like loud people in this house. They upset the girls and the other guests.’

  Davenport ignored her. ‘But as he was leaving he said that he knew who you were. What do you suppose he meant by that?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, I really don’t. I didn’t know him at all. I didn’t mean him any harm, really I did not. I only wanted to protect Amelia.’

  She laid a tired head on his shoulder and he put an arm around her.

  Davenport was not convinced.

  ‘I’m on the hunt for a purse and a watch, Bridgewater. George Reed was robbed as well as murdered. A man without money and without the prospect of employment might be tempted to kill for such a purse.’

  ‘Not me, Mr Davenport. I would not kill a man for his purse. Never.’

  ‘Even though you’ve tried to injure two men with your fists.’

  ‘For the woman I love. Not for money.’

  ‘You won’t live on love for ever,’ said Ma with a laugh.

  ‘We will manage, Mrs Farley,’ said Tommy, ‘we will find honest work and get by.’

  I really hoped that they would, but the world did not treat such innocents with kindness.

  ‘I would like to have a look for Mr Reed’s belongings in your room, Miss Blackwood. I assume that will be acceptable with you, Mrs Farley?’ Davenport stood up.

  She could not refuse.

  ‘Certainly. I will take you up. It’s starting to get a little dark, though, you may prefer to visit tomorrow morning…’ She wanted him out of the house before the evening’s business began. The girls would be coming home with men to entertain.

  ‘It’s quite light enough. I’ll look now.’ He cocked his head to Grimshaw, who rolled himself away from the wall. Ma, resigned to having Fielding’s men around for a while longer, led the way. I followed, with Tommy and Amelia in my wake.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They stamped all the way up to the attic: the heavy tread of the law, rather than the delicate skip of Soho ladies.

  There were precious few belongings for them to search through. Amelia had packed a bag, but Tommy had left in a hurry and had barely anything to his name. For all the Blackwoods’ recent prosperity, Amelia had made herself as poor as a washerwoman, pinning her hopes on Tommy’s employment, or a thaw in her father’s heart. It was oversight – or stupidity – that she had not packed a few jewels or items of silver to pawn. I had.

  It was Grimshaw who was searching through the cupboards, drawers and shelves of the room. I could only assume that Davenport had deliberately decided to let him get on with the task in order to intimidate the young lovers. He stood watching, face severe, as Grimshaw scattered garments over the bed. Ma looked as if she were half-expecting him to find something. Tommy and Amelia clung to each other in the corner, visibly terrified by the sight of the giant-fisted man wreaking havoc on their possessions. For all his courage in the face of Mr Blackwood, Tommy was helpless when dealing with men like this. I, however, was less afraid, and bullies make me angry.

  ‘How dare you do this to their things!’ I grabbed Grimshaw by the arm, to prevent him from tearing a shawl.

  He shook me off as if I were an irritating fly and got on with his task.

  ‘Mr Davenport, is this necessary? This destruction?’

  He blinked at me.

  ‘Destruction, Miss Hardwicke? Mr Grimshaw is searching for a purse.’

  ‘He can search well enough without tearing clothes and throwing everything about,’ I was shouting, the anger burning hot behind my eyes. ‘Miss Blackwood has little enough as it is, without him ruining her property.’

  Davenport shrugged. Then, after a moment, he called Grimshaw away from his task.

  ‘My apologies, Miss Blackwood, Mr Bridgewater. Mr Grimshaw, here, is used to dealing with rougher folk.’

  Grimshaw was rough enough himself. Amelia would want to wash her shifts now his grubby fingers had handled them.

  ‘Did you see anything, Jack?’

  Grimshaw shook his head. ‘Nothing here, Will.’

  Davenport bowed to Amelia.

  ‘Then we’ll be on our way for now.’

  The men left the room and descended the stairs. I pushed past Grimshaw on the landing, caught Davenport by the arm and shook him.

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, Miss Hardwicke, but I wanted to see how Tommy reacted.

  ‘Well, he was obviously terrified.’

  ‘He was. Which rather suggests that he isn’t a murderer – or even a thief.’

  We paused on the landing as Grimshaw made his way down ahead of us.

  ‘You don’t think he killed Mr Reed?’

  ‘Well, if he did, it wasn’t for his purse. But he might have been defending Miss Blackwood, and he’s got a quick temper.’

  We were outside my own room. I put a protective hand to the door – a mistake.

  ‘Is this your room?’ My hesitation was all that he needed. He called his friend back. ‘Jack, in here.’

  I growled at him. He was playing a part in front of Grimshaw, I could tell.

  ‘You can drop the hard man act with me,’ I said, hissing at Davenport as he pushed past. ‘I don’t want my petticoats torn or my hats battered.’

  Grimshaw started opening drawers and pulling out clothing.

  ‘Go easy, Jack,’ said Davenport, gesturing to the garments. ‘Miss Hardwicke’s outfits are worth more than your wages, so try not to rip them.’

  I followed behind Grimshaw. Where he emptied, I re-folded and re-packed.

  I suspected that Grimshaw was getting his own peculiar pleasure from rummaging through my small clothes. Although having a man under my skirts is a daily occupation, watching him running his hands through my stockings and shifts was making me uncomfortable. If he’d been in Emily’s room, rigged out with birch rods and chains for those who sought their pleasure in pain, it would have been he who was embarrassed. I was half-inclined to send them down to her room. It would certainly amuse Emily – but Ma would have kittens about it.

  Once the room had been thoroughly turned over, Davenport put a hand on Grimshaw’s shoulder and called him off the search. There was, as he had probably expected, no sign of Reed’s purse or watch, but every sign of an irate woman.

  The two men skulked out. I kicked Davenport’s ankle as he passed me. Hard enough to make him aware of my fury.

  ‘You deserved that.’ I said, as he looked at me in surprise.

  ‘Probably,’ he said, evenly, ‘but you entertained Mr Reed here, and Mr Reed is now dead.’

  I watched, hands on hips, as they tramped down the stairs and out of the house, waiting for my anger to subside before following
them out of the front door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Afternoon was tipping into evening. The air was chilly, but this did not deter people who were seeking pleasure. It never did. Gentlemen and ladies will walk the streets hunting for a warm body, a warm pie or a warm beer whatever the weather. I was searching for none of these – although I had offers of all of them. I was looking for answers. And proof of my innocence.

  My customary saunter became a more purposeful stride towards the corner of Wardour and Compton streets, and to the White Horse. It was still in darkness, but a crowd had gathered around the doorway, where Anne stood illuminated by several lamps, making her look like an actress from Drury Lane. She was telling the sorry tale of poor Mr Reed to a captivated audience. There were some small embellishments here and there: how he had spent the evening being lured into sin by wicked whores (that would be me) before showing himself a fine and most generous patron of that very tavern. He had drunk plenty of ale and praised the good order of the establishment, according to Anne. He must have gone to drink there when Charles was off with his twopenny whore. Apparently, passers-by had told of howls and blood curdling screams as he was strangled to death even as he went to relieve himself. It was strange that none of these passers-by had seen fit to answer Reed’s cries for help.

  I needed to work quickly. If Anne was telling her own version of events, then very soon it would become gospel truth and the more ignorant would be prepared to swear to its accuracy.

  The streets were busier now and filling with more of the people who might have seen something last night. It was the street walkers, link boys and gin sellers I wanted.

  The little oyster girl was still out, at the back of the tavern, and near to Milk Alley. She was without her basket, so probably selling something other than oysters now, to make ends meet. Near to a brazier, a man in an oversized hat stood with his gingerbread cart, laughing with a girl in a pretty pink gown.

  ‘You didn’t get very far tonight, then, Sallie?’ I said, catching her by the arm as she swayed.

  ‘One or two uprights in an alley, sis.’ Her words were slurred.

  The gingerbread man laughed.

  ‘She’s a sweet one, this girl,’ he said, ‘spends more time drinking her money than earning it, I reckon.’

  Sallie would be running out of coins and picking pockets again soon.

  I bought us both a slab of gingerbread. It was hot and sweet.

  She wasn’t capable of conversation, so I chatted to the gingerbread man instead, while she leaned on the handle of his cart. He had a friendly face under the hat, and he was plump and cheerful – as would seem only right for his trade. Who would buy gingerbread from a thin-ribbed man, after all? He was happy to talk.

  ‘Were you here last night?’ The warm spices filled my mouth. He nodded.

  ‘I’m here most nights, moving down Wardour Street.’

  ‘Why this spot?’

  ‘This is my pitch. Has been for a couple of years now.’

  ‘A good place to sell, then?’

  ‘Not bad at all. I moved here when the better people did. Where they lead, those who want to be like them will follow. And they are the ones who love my gingerbread.’

  Clever man. It was the same with bawdy houses. If you wanted a better quality of customer, you moved nearer to the people of quality. Those who aspired to wealth and decency required a better sort of establishment and there were we – ready to provide it for them. That had been Mrs Farley’s shrewd assessment when she set up her business, and she had been right. Soho was developing quickly and fine new houses were being built at a rapid rate.

  ‘Take the man I saw last night, for instance,’ he went on. ‘Told me that he was about to become very rich. He was on the way to making a deal, he said. He was a man who looked like he enjoyed the finer things of life.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘He took three pieces of gingerbread from me. Large belly to fill.’

  ‘A large man? He wasn’t wearing a green coat, was he? Big saggy face?’

  ‘That’s him. Friend of yours?’

  ‘Someone I knew. He died last night.’

  ‘Wasn’t the gingerbread as killed him?’ His face had an anxious grin.

  ‘Definitely not. This is good stuff, you know. I can’t imagine three pieces would kill a man – although a cartful might make him ill. No, this man was strangled. Just over there.’ I pointed down the alley to the back of the White Horse.

  ‘I would have seen a man being strangled, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘No, I mean behind the wall. In the back yard of the White Horse.’

  ‘Bardwell’s place? I wondered why it was closed tonight.’

  ‘I think they are keeping it closed tonight out of respect for the deceased.’ That was what Anne was telling the crowds. ‘It’ll be full of people again tomorrow.’

  ‘There’s some villains abroad, that’s for sure.’ He tutted and rearranged his wares. ‘And him just about to come into money, too. Poor devil.’

  ‘Did he tell you how he had come by this deal?’ It was news to me. Mr Reed had given no indication that he was going to be rich – and he was the sort of man who had otherwise boasted about his wealth.

  ‘He seemed keener to eat his gingerbread than talk about his business, but he said something about Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘I don’t like the Frenchies so I didn’t take to well to that. A good Englishman doesn’t need money from the French.’ He puffed out his substantial chest and stood a little taller, as if he spent his life eating roast beef.

  I murmured agreement at his concern, although I’ll take coins from any man, whatever his country, and Soho is full of French.

  ‘True. But did he say any more about Paris?’

  ‘Not really. What was it, then? Something about meeting someone in London who he had known in Paris. This man was going to pay him a lot of money. That’s what he said. A man from Paris was going to pay him a lot of money.’

  ‘Lucky Mr Reed.’

  ‘Well I wished him luck and Godspeed and he rubbed his hands together and went off that way – back towards the Bardwell’s.’ He sighed. ‘He was killed you say? I wish I had told him not to take money from a Frenchman. No good ever comes of dealing with foreigners.’ He shook his head.

  Could this be something? A man from Paris was going to make him rich? Maybe he was killed for his purse after all. Reed had made some sort of deal with a Frenchman, was carrying extra gold and someone had overheard or seen the gold and killed him for it.

  Sallie had finished her gingerbread.

  ‘I’m so tired. I need to sit down.’ She hobbled to a doorway and sank down on to the step.

  I went and shook her.

  ‘Sallie! Wake up. You can’t stay here all night. Where are your lodgings?’

  She didn’t answer. She was sleepy and half-cut. Anything could happen to her in this state.

  ‘Don’t worry, miss,’ called the gingerbread man, ‘I think her other friend is just around the corner. She might know where to take her.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll go and look.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on her, don’t you worry. Not that she’s got anything worth stealing, by the look of her.’

  I walked back toward the White Horse and saw Bess, standing listening to Anne’s latest tale. She raised a hand when she saw me.

  ‘Is this the man you were talking about earlier? The man who was strangled? They say his screams could be heard as far as St James’s.’

  I snorted.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Anne Bardwell tells a good story but if his screams were so loud then how come nobody heard them?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see your point… what’s the matter?’

  I had pulled her away from the crowd.

  ‘It’s Sallie. She’s lying bowsy in a doorway. She needs to get back to where she’s living. Do you know where that is?’

  Bess rolled her eyes.

  ‘She’s lod
ging with me and Kitty until she can find her own place, although the way she drinks she’ll never have any money for rent.’

  ‘The way she drinks she’ll be dead by Christmas.’

  ‘Truth be told, she’s not the best of companions. Kitty and I are looking for a better sort of gentleman these days. Sallie’s happy enough with thruppence or even just a beer and a pie.’

  There were far too many girls on the streets who were the same. Drunk, poxed, full of lice and ready to lift their skirts just to eat.

  ‘Good evening ladies.’ It was a man’s voice that interrupted, just as I was about to encourage Bess to take Sallie home. I wasn’t sure I had the energy for a customer, and I didn’t make a habit of picking up from the street. When I turned around, it was William Davenport tipping his hat.

  ‘Why, Mr Davenport! Good evening to you, too. It can’t be more than an hour since we parted, and now here you are, looking for me again.’ I thought he had been heading home. ‘Are you looking for some sport, after all? An hour of pleasure in the arms of a beautiful lady?’

  He frowned at me.

  ‘I’m trying to catch a killer, Miss Hardwicke.’

  I put my hands on my hips, swaggered and leered at him like a common bunter. ‘That’s a cryin’ shame, sir, cos I can offer very reasonable rates, to a handsome gent’man like you.’ He opened his mouth to respond but then closed it, recognising that I was teasing him. His face relaxed a little.

  I laughed at him. ‘But would you buy me a nip of ale, though? I might have some news for you about Mr Reed.’

  There was a moment of hesitation. He still thought that I was offering something else.

  ‘Really, I do mean just a drink.’

  He offered me his arm and we walked, leaving Bess to deal with Sally, away from the White Horse. He didn’t speak, but walked with purpose to a tavern on Peter Street and ushered me politely through its door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I told Davenport of my words with the gingerbread man and he listened carefully, head on one side. We must have looked a very serious pair. Around us, life was less complicated: men of every age and condition were buying drinks for women in the hope of passion. A couple of musicians kept the room entertained with a familiar tune and the staff danced along as they carried trays of food to well-watered customers.