Death and the Harlot

by Death

  ‘My sister!’ Sallie stood up, arms open to embrace me. She swayed, tottered down the step and fell over in a heap.

  Davenport looked from her to me. ‘Your sister?’ There was a touch of laughter in his voice. ‘Whoring runs in the family, does it?’

  I ignored him and tried to pick her up, shaking her shoulders as I did so.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Came to find you, lovely wench. Need my sister. Need a bed for the night.’

  I had to get her away from the front door before Sydney heard her. Before we had customers.

  ‘You can’t stay here. You’ll not be welcome.’

  ‘Why not? I’m just as good as you. Just not got the right clothes yet…’ She was starting to shout – the way people do when they are drunk and unreasonable. Usually before they announce loudly to the world that they are your best friend.

  She cocked her head over at Davenport. ‘They all want the same thing, Lizzie. They all just want a fuck.’ She leered at him. ‘I’m cheaper than she is, sweetheart. You can fuck me for tuppence, if you like…’ Then she fell on him as he tried to step away.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  I grabbed her arms and pinned them to her side.

  ‘Right then.’ I gritted my teeth, knowing I had no choice but to take her in, if I wanted to keep her quiet. ‘If you’re not going to go away, if you’re going to stand here bothering decent gentlemen, then the only thing I can do is hide you in my room and put you to bed. You can sleep off whatever it is you’ve drunk.’

  ‘My sister,’ she said to Davenport, beaming a wide smile. ‘Shesss very kind to me.’

  ‘And stop calling me your sister, or I’ll slap your cheeks so hard you’ll wish you’d never met me.’ I gave her another shake, to show I meant business.

  ‘I need a piss first. Got to go. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, for the love of God. Walk ten paces away from the house, if you must do it in the street.’

  She did.

  I caught Davenport’s arm. ‘I need your help.’

  He folded his arms and tried to frown, but he was, in truth, shaking with laughter.

  ‘Well, I’m not taking her home with me, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘There’s a thought. You can have her for tuppence – as she’s already told you.’ I giggled and gestured down the street. ‘If you’re not prepared to be so helpful as that, then there’s an alley just a few doors down. It’ll take us to the back of the house. I think I can get her in through the servants’ rooms and up the back stairs without Sydney or Ma seeing. Would you come with us? It’s dark.’

  He nodded, solemn again, understanding my fear. He considered his sword but decided instead to pull a short knife from somewhere inside his coat.

  I threw one of Sallie’s arms over my shoulder and half-dragged, half-carried her, as he led the way into the darkness. The ground squelched softly, and the length of the narrow passage stank, but we reached the end safely and turned into the small courtyard that led to the back of the house.

  The back door was unlocked. A single candle burned in the servants’ room, and Old Sarah was dozing in a chair. Meg was nowhere to be seen. Whispering dark threats in Sallie’s ear, I stole past Sarah and up the stairs to my room. Sallie had quietened down, but I was alert to the possibility of a commotion at any moment.

  Davenport stood mute in the doorway still clutching his knife as I tipped Sallie onto my bed, pulled off her bonnet, and loosened her clothing.

  ‘You can put that away,’ I nodded at the blade. ‘We’re safe enough now.’

  He tucked it into his coat.

  ‘You’ll need a bowl, I think,’ he said, looking over at the sleepy girl. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she threw up before dawn.’

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘Are you in the habit of giving up your bed to drunks? I thought you said that this was a respectable house,’ he said, as I put my washing bowl on the floor beneath her head.

  ‘Don’t breathe a word of it to Mrs Farley, or I’ll be joining Sallie on the streets.’

  ‘Sallie…’ He stiffened. ‘Is this the girl who was picking pockets? The one you spoke about in the White Horse?’

  ‘Leave her alone, Mr Davenport.’ Sallie was snoring quietly. ‘She’s just a girl. She’s full of gin, and you’ve got Mr Reed’s murderer to worry about.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. Turn her on to her side; otherwise, if she vomits, she’ll choke.’

  When I had arranged her to his satisfaction, I walked him down the front stairs, where we found Sydney and Mrs Farley welcoming a small party of boisterous young men. Davenport slipped out, unnoticed, as I made a great show of expressing my delight at their arrival.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I am experienced enough, by now, to know how to entertain men out of my bed, as well as in it, so Sallie was able to sleep undisturbed, while I stayed downstairs. It helped that Polly was with me all night – and that the silly boys drank a lot of wine. I crawled up to my room alone as dawn was approaching, a fat purse bulging with coins from happy customers who had enjoyed what they had declared to be the liveliest of evenings. Sallie had not vomited and was still asleep. I tried – with difficulty – to get comfortable in a chair until she woke.

  Once awake and sober, she was as sweetly grateful as when I had fed her at the White Horse. Even so, I had to get her out of the house. While Ma might imagine Amelia working with us, offering gentle refinement and wide-eyed innocence, she would never dream of taking in Sallie. Sallie was attractive only to men who like their whores soaked in gin. She would not be welcome here. Once on the street, she would drink to numb herself in order to work – and she would work to buy the drink. And I had to put her back there.

  It was late in the morning, and most of the household were sleeping off the night’s work, so we left without being caught and walked together towards the location of Kitty and Bess’s lodgings – which she now remembered. She still couldn’t recall where she had been on the night George Reed was murdered but promised to find me if anything came to her. I felt in my pocket and gave her a couple of crowns. She fell on my neck and thanked me extravagantly.

  ‘You mustn’t spend it on drink, though,’ I had little doubt that she would do just that. ‘Some rent for Bess, some pretty ribbons and food to put colour in your cheeks will be far better than gin.’

  She clutched the coins. ‘Oh, I will, I will. I promise.’ She gave me a wicked grin. ‘I’ll have to land on your doorstep more often, sis.’

  I pushed her away, not gently.

  ‘I’ll treat you to some more gingerbread, if you’re lucky, from that chatty gingerbread man we met last night. But come and find me in the White Horse, not in Berwick Street next time, or I’ll box your ears.’

  She giggled, blew me a kiss and ran to find Kitty. I groaned, as I walked back home, knowing that I was saddled with her: my grubby drunken little friend who would wheedle coins from me in the rare moments she was sober – because she knew I felt sorry for her.

  * * *

  Several hours later I was back at the White Horse.

  ‘It’s full in here tonight,’ I said, settling myself between Charles and John Herring and helping myself to a mouthful of someone’s beer. ‘I said there was nothing like a murder to encourage business.’

  It was open again and heaving with people. Anne Bardwell had decided that one day was quite sufficient to mourn decently for Mr Reed. It was also enough time for news to have travelled widely.

  Harry Bardwell, as short as he was stocky, was lost in the crowd, visible only by the small tray he carried aloft, to deliver the pots. He looked worn out when I finally caught sight of him. Anne was likewise red-faced with effort, perspiration on her brow. I motioned to her that I would like a drink and she rolled her eyes. I wouldn’t be getting one for a while.

  ‘I wonder whether Mr Bardwell has managed to clear the yard yet,’ I asked, relying on someone to know the answer. ‘Or whethe
r Fielding’s men have found anything in that stinking pile.’

  ‘It still looked pretty sordid when I went out earlier,’ said Joshua Winchcombe. He was turning a coin over and over in a state of agitation. Perhaps he was itching to get to a gaming table.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Charles, draping an arm around my shoulder and drawling in that affected tone he knows I loathe. ‘How is that dreadful Davenport getting on, do you know?’

  ‘And what have you discovered so far, as Bow Street’s latest recruit, Lizzie,’ asked Mr Herring, pulling a silver snuff box from his pocket. ‘Have you caught the fiend?’

  I pushed Charles’ arm from my shoulder and sat forward, as if ready to share information. They all leaned in to hear above the hum of tavern.

  ‘As it happens, Mr Davenport wondered where you were, each of you, on the night of the murder. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t think that any one of us had anything to do with that man’s death,’ said Charles, the drawl disappearing in favour of a sharper tone.

  ‘And who’s to say that you didn’t strangle him for his gold?’ said Herring in a mean voice. ‘You wouldn’t be the first harlot whose greed got the better of her. I bet that’s what Davenport thinks.’

  ‘Mr Davenport does not think I killed him, thank you, sir. And neither should you, if you wish to enjoy the hospitality of our house again.’ I pursed my lips. ‘Anyway, he asked me if you’d seen anything, not whether you’d killed Mr Reed. I told him what I knew. None of you saw anything because two of you were losing a fortune in a gaming house and one of you was tupping a cheap whore in an alley.’ I glared at Charles. He glared back and then suddenly roared with laughter, downed his drink in one and kissed me, his mouth wet.

  ‘Have any of you been to Paris?’ I wiped my hand across my lips.

  There was a flicker, a glance, that passed between them. Charles said, ‘We’ve all been to Paris, Lizzie. It’s how we three met. What of it?’

  I had no idea how gentlemen of quality became acquainted. It intrigued me.

  ‘You met there? When was that?’

  Herring examined his pinch of snuff thoughtfully. ‘It was before I married, certainly. And Louisa and I have been married for, ah, about eight months.’

  Not happily, if he was falling into brothels already.

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘It’s the tour, Lizzie,’ said Winchcombe, hands painting the breadth of his travels in the air, ‘you make the tour, and see the splendid cities of the continent.’

  You do, if you are a gentleman of means. The rest of us are lucky to see the splendour of a clean room.

  ‘I preferred Rome,’ said Herring, sneezing into a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘It was perfect.’

  ‘No, Herring,’ said Charles, drawling again, ‘the sites of Paris were much the prettier.’

  Winchcombe sniggered. ‘Wasn’t it in Paris that you discovered philosophy, Herring?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll love this, Lizzie,’ Charles took up the hint. ‘Herring became obsessed with the writings of some Frenchman, I forget his name, and used to attend meetings with very dull and earnest men to talk about life. Except,’ he glanced at Herring who had tucked away the handkerchief and was beginning to turn red in the face, ‘one afternoon he made a great fuss about inviting us to join his new friends. We went along, only to discover that Herring had the wrong day entirely.’

  Herring shifted, in visible discomfort.

  ‘He was so concerned with the working of man’s mind that he quite forgot how to work his own.’ Winchcombe finished off the tale with a line that the two of them had obviously used before.

  ‘What happened?’ I couldn’t help but play.

  ‘We took him to meet some new friends of ours. Some ladies. He learned a lot more about life from an evening with them than with those dreadful thinkers.’ Charles slapped Herring on the back. Herring took it well and laughed heartily, but there was a hard look in his eye. He was a proud man and did not take kindly to being mocked.

  Anne Bardwell finally arrived at the table with my beer, and more for the men. Charles leaned across the table and gathered the empty pots for her, helping to pile them on the tray.

  ‘There’s no need for you to bother, sir, I can manage,’ she said, as if his assistance was unwelcome.

  ‘Tell me, did you meet Mr Reed in Paris?’ I asked, taking a gulp of beer when she had gone.

  ‘Reed?’ said Charles. ‘Certainly not.’

  Herring had his thin nose in his beer and Winchcombe scratched his cheek and blinked.

  ‘What about you two?’

  Herring withdrew his tankard and shrugged, still sore from the teasing. ‘I don’t recall meeting him until that night at your party,’ he said in a tight voice.

  Winchcombe shook his head with some vigour. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that someone on the street behind the yard said he was talking about Paris. I wondered if it was significant.’

  ‘Why would Paris be significant?’ Charles frowned at me.

  ‘I think he was about to receive some money from a man from Paris.’

  ‘Well, if he had a full purse, then even more reason to suppose he was killed for it,’ said Charles. ‘I still say it was Swann’s men.’

  I patted his arm. ‘I think Mr Davenport is inclined to agree with you, but I’m not convinced.’

  ‘And someone said Reed was talking about Paris?’ Mr Winchcombe asked.

  I was about to tell him about the gingerbread man when I saw Polly arrive with Sydney. She waved cheerfully to our group and skipped over. Mr Herring brightened as soon as he saw her. She put one arm around him, and another around me as she leaned down to our table and spoke into my ear.

  ‘Ma says you’re to go home, Lizzie. There’s a gentleman asking for you, and only you will do, apparently.’

  I had promised Mrs Farley that I would behave. Ignoring the usual dread of who or what awaited me, I nodded and said I would be on my way. Sydney, who had been sent to escort me home, loomed at the side of the table.

  Polly was already beside me on the bench, next to Mr Herring, flirting and preening, although anyone could see from his face that he was hers for the night.

  ‘My apologies, gentlemen, I am being called home. I hope that you have a pleasant night.’ Charles kissed me again, with cleaner lips, and Joshua Winchcombe nodded to me from across the table as I stood to greet Sydney.

  Two painted girls pushed their way through the crowd and, seeing me, came over, some relief and purpose in their faces. It was Bess and Kitty.

  ‘Lizzie, we’re so glad to find you,’ said Bess. ‘It’s Sallie, she says she wants to talk to you. You’ll have to come with us.’

  ‘I’m not able to talk now,’ I said, aware of Sydney’s hand on my arm. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Really, she sent us to find you. She says she’s remembered something.’ Kitty tugged on Sydney’s sleeve, but he was not going to let me go with them. Mrs Farley wanted me home and we both knew better than to dawdle. Harry Bardwell pushed between us to gather empty pots on to his tray, meaning that Kitty had to shout.

  ‘She says she knows something about Paris – if that means anything to you.’

  It did. Sallie had heard my conversation with the gingerbread man, so I doubted that this was anything new. Even so, I couldn’t deal with her now – not with Ma waiting.

  ‘But we were just speaking of Paris, weren’t we Herring?’ said Winchcombe, in his booming voice, overhearing, ‘And how much you enjoyed your time there.’ Herring’s attention was fixed on nearer delights.

  ‘What’s this about Paris?’ said Charles, ‘Who’s talking of Paris?’

  Herring pulled his face away from Polly’s neck and looked over at me.

  ‘Just a girl we know, Sallie something. Wants to tell Lizzie about Paris.’ Kitty’s eyes swept over the men as she leaned over. ‘You won’t mind if Lizzie nips out for a while, will you? We can k
eep you company, if you like.’

  ‘She’s just repeating something I already know, I’m sure,’ I said to Kitty. ‘Tell her I’ll find her tomorrow afternoon if she’s sober.’

  ‘But she said it was important. She keeps on about Paris and says it’s a matter of life or death. You said you’d come.’

  I felt Sydney squeeze my arm.

  ‘I’ll find her tomorrow, Kitty. If I don’t get back to Berwick Street, it’ll be my death I’ll worry about.’

  Kitty wasn’t listening. She and Bess were squeezing themselves between Charles and Winchcombe, neither of whom were complaining.

  Chapter Twenty

  My head throbbed, and my body was sore. The room reeked of a night’s toil. There is, as my father often lectured me, no peace unto the wicked. He would probably tell me again even now – if he were still speaking to me.

  I lay quietly and listened. It was early, according to the bells. The house was almost silent – apart from some scratching behind the wainscot. This was my favourite time of day: before work, before the busy chatter of my companions rattled the tranquillity, before the sounds of London rang out incessantly.

  I could hear a bird, I thought. There was a mouse or a rat pattering inside the wall; a bittersweet reminder of the countryside that I would never see again. The half-open shutter revealed a clear spring sky. I pulled the covers up under my chin and stared at the brightness, knowing that the same sky was reaching over the little room in my childhood home. I could not let myself remember; Berwick Street was my home now. And my father had no daughter.

  I am clean forgotten, as a dead man out of mind. I am become like a broken vessel. The words drifted into my head. Psalm 31.

  I turned over and went back to sleep.

  Meg woke me later, clattering up the stairs to bring me water for washing.

  ‘Good morning.’ She heaved the jug on to the dressing table and hobbled about the room gathering up laundry. ‘There’s a man to see you.’

  I turned my face to the pillow and tried to stifle the groan. ‘It’s too early, surely?’