Death and the Harlot

by Death

  He stood to leave and then sat down again.

  ‘Except… I wonder, Sydney, if you could tell me what happened on the night of the party – as you saw it.’

  Sydney stared at him. ‘Of course. I remember everything.’

  As Sydney began to speak, I realised that he really did have an eye for detail. Our quiet giant of a doorman, whose disinterested contempt for whores and visitors alike we took for granted, was rather observant. He described the arrival of each guest immaculately, remarking on clothes, mannerisms and comments they made. As he described them, even their gait or voice, each one sprang to life in my mind.

  While we had been upstairs, doing what we did, he had spent the evening reading by candlelight and noting the movements of the staff. We learned of excitements, such as Old Sarah scolding the kitchen girl for dropping a pan of milk; and he told us that the extra staff brought in to help with the food helped themselves to some of it as they carried away the trays.

  Davenport, however impatient he must have been listening to all of this tittle-tattle, never took his eyes from Sydney’s face. He knew that, eventually, the information he was waiting for would come. Now he knew that he had a keen observer of people as a witness he was prepared to wait.

  Finally, Sydney gave us Mr Reed’s eviction, with a view from the front door. He had been startled from his reading by my exchange with Mr Reed on the landing.

  ‘Miss Blackwood started screaming. She screamed like a little girl, but the man Reed, he was shouting at her and pulling her arm. I think he wanted her for himself.’

  ‘Go on,’ Davenport shifted in his seat.

  ‘I saw Mr Bridgewater appear suddenly on the landing.’

  ‘Where had he been hiding, Sydney?’ I asked.

  ‘He had been watching much of the sport through the door, Miss Lizzie. When you marched along by yourself with a little candle, he hid behind the chest. I think he would have stayed there, if Miss Blackwood had not appeared and Mr Reed had not tried to cause her harm.’

  So Tommy Bridgewater had been spying on our party, the dirty boy. Presumably he had enjoyed himself quietly all evening – until his darling Amelia became involved.

  ‘He rushed out when he thought Mr Reed had wicked designs on his lady.’ Sydney has a dramatic turn of phrase at times. Perhaps this is because he is French.

  ‘And then the other men came out of the room. Some of them were wearing masks, most of them were not wearing many clothes. The ladies came behind and had not many clothes between them at all.

  ‘Mrs Farley shouted, “Get that man out of my house”,’ he gave a fair impression of her tone, if not her accent, ‘and four men bundled him down the stairs. I opened the door and gave him his coat and they threw him onto the street. I threw the wig. And his hat.’

  He concluded with a flourish of the hand. It was as much as I could do not to applaud.

  Davenport had not finished.

  ‘Who put him outside? Which men? And what were they wearing?’

  Sydney considered this carefully.

  ‘It was Mr Bridgewater, Mr Stanford, and his friends, Mr Winchcombe and Mr Herring. There were four of them. Mr Bridgewater was fully clothed and not wearing a mask. Mr Winchcombe and Mr Stanford had their masks, but not shirts. Mr Herring had a shirt, but his mask had gone.’ He paused. ‘All of the gentlemen, except Mr Bridgewater, were unbuttoned.’ He gestured to his breeches.

  I was astonished that he could remember in such detail.

  Davenport nodded, taking it all in.

  ‘And what of the comments Mr Reed made about Tommy – what did you hear him say?’

  Sydney closed his eyes, as if to remember better.

  ‘There was a moment. At the door. Just as they were about to push him out. He managed to get free from them. I think that the gentlemen were unwilling to hurt him, even if they wished to humiliate him. He looked at all of them and then he started to laugh.’

  ‘He laughed?’ Davenport looked intrigued.

  ‘I remember that too,’ I said. ‘He did laugh.’

  Davenport raised a finger to me in warning, wanting Sydney to continue.

  ‘I saw his eyes. He looked – how to describe it – content. And then he laughed and said that he knew who Tommy was. Then they put him out.’

  ‘Exactly, Sydney. What did he say?’ Davenport leaned forward across the table.

  ‘He said, “I know who you are, Tommy boy.”’

  ‘Tommy boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I didn’t recall him calling Tommy a boy, although he wasn’t much more than a boy. Still, it sounded like mockery of a young man who wanted to protect his love, find a decent wage and settle down. Would that slight against his manly pride have been enough to make him kill Mr Reed? I looked at Davenport. He seemed to be weighing up the same question.

  ‘Where is Mr Bridgewater at the moment, Mrs Farley? Is he still living here?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he is, but he isn’t in the house today. He is still looking for work.’

  Amelia’s time was running out.

  ‘I would be very grateful, Mrs Farley, if you could make sure that he doesn’t leave this address. I would like to talk with him again very soon.’

  She looked ashen.

  ‘Very well, Mr Davenport, but if he did kill Mr Reed, then I hope that he hasn’t got a taste for it.’

  Sydney shuddered. We all hoped that.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘Miss Hardwicke, I would like the pleasure of your company for an hour or two.’ Davenport stood up and offered me his hand. Mrs Farley raised an eyebrow. It was not unheard of for the law men to make use of the same women they cheerfully condemned, but this one had not shown any interest until now. This one required my mind, not my body – which he had guessed was in need of a rest. We were going out, it seemed.

  * * *

  There was a man lurking in the street below our front door, not at all neatly dressed, and with a battered old hat on top of a head of lank untied hair. He wasn’t doing anything but standing with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the house. If Sydney had been at the door he would have shooed him away as bad for business, but Sydney was still sitting in the parlour with Ma, Old Sarah and even Meg fussing over him.

  Davenport, who had halted briefly in the hallway to exchange pleasant words with Lucy, joined me as I waited by the railings. This was a decent street with elegant houses and a wide road, not overly bustling with people in the early evening. A man like that, who looked like a common knife-grinder without his whetstone, stood out. He was in the wrong place, as Sallie had been.

  Sallie. I had forgotten about her, with the excitement of the letters. I had promised Kitty and Bess that I would meet her, even if I knew that she would only repeat the story the gingerbread seller had told me. Still, if Davenport and I were looking for three men in taverns and gaming houses, I might pass her on the way.

  ‘Reading!’ Davenport hailed the man with a raised hand.

  ‘You know this man?’ I hissed.

  ‘Yes, of course. He works for me sometimes. John, come and meet Miss Hardwicke.’ The man ambled towards me and grinned with toothless gums at Mr Davenport. He was not old, but his pock-marked face was that of a man who had seen a great deal. He hadn’t had a bath for a long time – if ever.

  ‘Miss Hardwicke, may I present Mr John Reading?’

  I gave as much of a curtsey as I felt appropriate, trying not to breathe in.

  ‘You work for Mr Davenport?’

  ‘That’s right Miss Hardwicke.’ His voice was low and quiet. ‘I watch for him sometimes. Keep an eye.’

  I turned to Davenport.

  ‘Keep an eye on what? Us?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. Reading has been searching for your friends in the nearby taverns. Any sign?’

  ‘Mr Herring is in the White Horse, sir. I have not located Mr Stanford or Mr Winchcombe as yet.’

  ‘Mr Winchcombe will be in a gaming hell som
ewhere,’ I said, recalling the blackmail letters.

  Mr Reading raised his eyebrows at Davenport, who chuckled. It was an unlikely sound.

  ‘Miss Hardwicke is very nearly as sharp as you, Reading. She’s a lot prettier too.’

  ‘Y’know, if you’re going to start operating whores, sir, the other men’ll call you the pimp of Bow Street.’

  Davenport was still laughing, but his eyes had become serious. ‘Miss Hardwicke and I will go and meet Herring while you continue your searches for the others. If you find them, tell them I would like a word over a beer.’

  Reading turned obediently and scuttled off down the street like a thin grey beetle.

  ‘Where did you pick him up?’ I asked as we, in turn, made our way towards the Bardwell’s tavern.

  Davenport watched his man disappear into the distance.

  ‘Not far from here, as it happens. I thought he was fencing goods for a local thief in the hovel he calls his home, but it turned out that it was a neighbour. When I was asking questions, I saw that not only was he a reasonably honest man, but that he was observant. We caught the fence; we managed to take the thief as well, thanks to his careful descriptions.’

  ‘Are you certain he didn’t just lay the blame on someone else to save his own neck?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. He’s been a reliable and useful informer ever since, so I don’t think so. The small amount of coin that he gets from me keeps him just the right side of the law.’

  ‘A beneficial arrangement to you both, then?’

  ‘Mr Fielding’s men need eyes and ears on the streets, Miss Hardwicke. There are precious few of us otherwise. We rely on people like Reading for information.’

  ‘Well as long as he doesn’t hang around Berwick Street too often, I won’t argue. He fits the shadows of Seven Dials better than the gentler prospects of Soho.’

  ‘He has plenty to keep him busy elsewhere, I can assure you. He was only waiting to meet me.’

  We reached the door of the White Horse; it was already full and lively. Harry Bardwell greeted both of us like long-lost cousins. I could see that Anne was carrying trays full of plates to tables. The food smelled good – even through the tobacco fog.

  In a quiet corner, Mr Herring the philosopher was exercising his silver tongue down a very pretty throat.

  ‘Polly!’

  She pushed him away and waved to me. ‘Lizzie! Come and join us!’

  I was strangely grateful to find her here; a friend in an uncertain time. Her mouth was over-kissed, and her cheeks were flushed with arousal. Business was mixing with pleasure again for lucky Polly. I hoped he was paying her well.

  I shoved up next to her on the bench, while Davenport introduced himself and made the acquaintance of Mr Herring.

  ‘It’s busy in here again,’ I said to Polly. ‘And it’s still early.’

  ‘Anne Bardwell is pretending that the increased custom has nothing to do with the murder,’ she said. I glanced across the room and saw Mrs Bardwell appreciating the full tables with a quiet smile.

  ‘Well, I’m glad the Bardwells have done well out of Mr Reed’s misfortune, at least,’ I said, taking a mouthful of the wine she was ignoring.

  ‘Have you gone any way to catching his killer, Mr Davenport?’ she asked.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘At the moment, my best guess is Miss Hardwicke here, and she’s not much of a guess.’

  ‘Lizzie? Why on earth would she want to kill Mr Reed?’ Polly was incredulous. ‘He wasn’t the most charming of men but, really Mr Davenport, if we killed every man who was less than charming then we would halve the population of London overnight.’

  He laughed at that. Pretty, flirty Polly was full of wit when she had drunk a glass or two. The tavern lad brought over drinks and a plate of bread and cheese for me and Davenport.

  ‘There are others who might have had a reason to want him dead, it is true.’ He turned to Mr Herring. ‘I imagine that he wasn’t a friend of yours Mr Herring, given that he had been blackmailing you for a while.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Herring was startled, and a flush of colour spread over his pale cheeks. ‘I didn’t know the man until the night he died.’

  ‘I have written evidence to the contrary, sir.’ Davenport lifted his beer to his lips. He smiled up at Mr Herring before taking a gulp. ‘I am happy to show you your letters, if you would like, to remind you.’ Herring put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘But I see that you are beginning to recall the details.’

  John Herring, married to a flighty wife who was, probably even now, in bed with his brother. Of course, the fact that John Herring was a frequenter of brothels and had been, moments ago, all over Polly like a rash would be of little consequence to most sensible people in England. Everyone understood that a man might have needs that took him away from his marriage bed; for a wife, finding love, fun and comfort elsewhere was a very different matter. But adultery with a relative was disastrous for everyone. No wonder Mr Herring wanted to hush it up.

  Mr Herring spoke from under his fingers. ‘I didn’t kill him, Davenport. I really didn’t. But I am very glad someone else did.’ He peeped up at us, unsure of how such honesty would be greeted. Davenport carried on drinking his beer, unmoved.

  ‘You are probably not the only one,’ I said.

  ‘When did he start writing to you?’ Davenport put his tankard down, keener to find answers than make sympathetic noises.

  Mr Herring closed his eyes and slowly rubbed his hands on his cheeks as if the memory needed soothing away.

  ‘About a month ago,’ his voice was quiet and unsteady. ‘If you have read copies of those letters you’ll be aware that things are not quite as they should be in my marriage.’

  ‘Your wife is having an affair with your younger brother, I believe.’ Davenport was not going to spare his feelings, then.

  Polly, who had been gazing into the distance in a drunken haze, suddenly pricked up her ears and leaned into the conversation. Even the sweetest harlots love gossip.

  Herring sat up a little straighter, puffing out his chest. We were left in no doubt that his wife had chosen the inferior brother, at least in his own mind.

  ‘My brother is a very appealing sort,’ he said. ‘I used to admire him. He is not the cleverest of men, but he is pleasant to look at and enjoys riding about the countryside on fine horses. Louisa also prefers being out of doors far more than I do.’ He looked wistful. ‘I imagine they are far better suited to one another than she and I ever were.’

  That was generous of him, I thought, even if it did sound like a practised line.

  If Davenport was at all sympathetic, he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘You want to keep the scandal quiet because exposing your wife’s unfaithfulness also brings shame to your family.’

  He nodded.

  ‘It may seem hard to believe, Davenport, sitting here with women like Polly and Lizzie, but I am a dutiful son and I do try to please my parents. That’s why I married Louisa, I think, to please them and to extend the family line.’ His pale eye lashes fluttered. ‘Louisa is the daughter of an earl. She brought with her the sort of connections and society that my parents so desperately wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘I brought wealth.’

  His parents wanted to move in better society and found a titled family strapped for cash. It was usually the other way around. Herring’s family would gain no name or title by the marriage, but if his social-climbing parents longed to operate among titled people then this was their way in. Sadly, for John Herring, they chose to push the wrong brother in Lady Louisa’s way.

  ‘Do your parents know about the affair?’ I asked.

  ‘They know.’

  ‘Have they tried to end it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘They have spoken with Edward, but they don’t want to cause a fuss. I think they hope it will end quietly.’

  More likely they didn’t care very much as long as they continued to enjoy t
heir new-found social status. Any child born to Louisa would, at least, bear the Herring family likeness, so no one would ever know. For an extra-marital affair, it was surprisingly neat and tidy – until someone threatened to turn it into a very messy public scandal. Lady Louisa would be disgraced, of course, but so too would the Herring family, tainted by association, known to have turned a blind eye.

  ‘Do you want her back?’

  He looked at me as if I were stupid.

  ‘Back? She hasn’t left home.’

  Well, that was all right then. Carrying on in the family home was acceptable. It was probably a very large family home.

  ‘I don’t mean that, Mr Herring. I mean, do you wish her to love you again? Above your brother?’

  He considered the question as if for the first time.

  ‘All I know is that my family would be in a very difficult position if the affair were made public. While it’s quietly going on at home I am personally offended, but not publicly shamed.’

  It had never been a love match and had not had time to become one. I had shared my bed with enough married men not to be surprised at this, but his indifference was odd.

  ‘Mr Herring, were either of your parents aware of Mr Reed’s threats to you?’ Davenport cut in.

  ‘No. I have means of my own to pay.’ He seemed bored by the question.

  ‘You don’t have to pay him anymore, though.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him. I told you that.’

  We were all quiet for a moment. Near to the door there was a scuffle taking place: a sure sign that someone had had too much beer – and that business was, once again, flourishing for the Bardwells. We watched as two men tumbled outside, laying into each other with fists as well as insults. Davenport was alert, ready to call for assistance should real injury occur, but prepared to let a drunken quarrel take its course. I saw his hand drop down to his sword. Associates of the scrapping pair fell out on to the street with them and pulled them apart, dragging each to safety and, it should be hoped, sobriety.

  ‘How did you first meet Mr Reed?’ Davenport pulled his eyes away from the door and fixed on Mr Herring again.