by Death
Herring glanced at me before answering. He couldn’t lie this time.
‘I was in town with my family some months ago. Just before Christmas. We were at a party, my brother and I. Reed was there. We were introduced. I saw him at dinner, but did not sit near him.’
‘And did either you or your brother tell him about your unusual arrangements?’ Davenport raised his eyebrows.
‘Of course not. No one is foolish enough to share such matters with a complete stranger.’ Herring gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘He must have overheard a conversation I had with my brother.’
‘You were discussing your wife?’
‘Indeed. We were in a small room, away from the main party. I had some things that I needed to say to him and, as far as I knew, we were talking privately.’
The Herring brothers had sat discussing the wife they shared. Polly and I exchanged a knowing look; I wondered if their conversation had been as vivid as the ones we had about the men we knew and shared.
‘And shortly after this, the letters began to arrive?’ Davenport pressed on.
‘Yes. About a week later. It was clear from the phrases he used that he had been listening to us; eavesdropping on our tête à tête.’
‘I see.’
I wondered what he had felt when he saw Reed at the party. Davenport was thinking the same.
‘You came across him in person at the Berwick Street party. Did you exchange any words with him there?’
He hesitated. Perhaps he was trying to remember the evening – or else make sure that his story was straight in his mind.
‘We were all wearing masks, you will recall. I’m not certain that he knew who I was, although I recognised him; more from his conduct than his face.’
‘His conduct?’
‘Greedy. Eating and drinking a lot. Being too loud.’
Interesting, though, that he seemed able to remember Reed’s manner from only the one encounter. He was lying again.
‘And then there was that business with the young girl on the stairs.’
‘Amelia Blackwood.’ I supplied the name for him.
‘Yes, that was it. Amelia.’ He shrugged at Davenport. ‘Well, I expect you’ve already heard that we threw him out?’
Davenport nodded. ‘Who did the throwing?’
‘I think we all did; Stanford, Winchcombe and me. And that young man – Tommy somebody I think he was. I hadn’t seen him earlier, but he was doing most of the shouting.’
We didn’t need Herring’s half-remembered account when we had Sydney’s precise recollection. I cut across Davenport’s questions, still puzzling over the lies.
‘Can you say again, Mr Herring, whether you had spoken to Mr Reed earlier in the evening or not,’ I said. Davenport swung round at me, scowling at the interruption. Then his face softened and, slowly, he turned back to Herring.
‘Miss Hardwicke is right. You didn’t answer my question. Did you speak to him at all before he was thrown out?’
Herring’s mouth twitched a little.
‘I did answer you, sir. I said that I recognised him, but we did not speak.’
Davenport was quiet, letting the answer go unchallenged. This time I held my tongue. Davenport finished his beer and then stood up.
‘Well I think it’s time I rooted out Mr Winchcombe and Mr Stanford and left you to a pleasant evening.’ He looked down at me.
‘Are you coming, or are you expecting to meet someone here tonight?’ His eyes suggested that he wanted my opinion. I glanced about the room. I didn’t want him to think I was too easy, after all. The prospects for work were promising, but distinctly less exciting than searching for answers with a runner. Besides, despite myself, I was beginning to enjoy his company. I took his hand.
‘I’ll help you find Mr Winchcombe. I probably know the disreputable establishments better than you do.’ I looked at Polly winding her arm around Herring, ‘I’m not sure I’m needed here.’ He nodded and tugged me up from the seat. I blew a kiss to Polly and swished my skirts through the crowds as I left the tavern.
Chapter Twenty-three
I looked out for Sallie as we searched the streets and taverns, peering into every dank alleyway we passed. We were making our way in the direction of Seven Dials, the air thickening with the smell of human existence as we went. The further we went into the squalor, the more I expected to find her, until I really needed to concentrate instead on navigating the squelching mess underfoot. The soil men worked half-heartedly in this part of town. Food stalls offered hot snacks and painted women exuded cheap perfume, but neither could mask the stench of waste that had been emptied, here and there, into the open road. A man across the way raised a hand to us. He was almost hidden in the shadows, but the brazier a yard away meant that we both saw it.
‘Come on,’ Davenport caught my elbow and steered me swiftly towards the dark doorway. It was John Reading. His hat was pulled down and he wore a scarf that covered his mouth.
‘I’ve found Mr Winchcombe.’ He gestured with a thumb at the door behind him. It looked a desperate place. It was certainly no place for a gentleman.
‘What sort of state is he in?’
Reading pulled down the scarf and rubbed his misshapen nose.
‘Pretty deep cut, sir, and losing badly.’
‘Is Stanford with him?’
‘No sir.’
Davenport scratched the side of his chin.
‘We’re not going to get much sense from him now.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Reading, keep an eye on him and watch where he ends up. I’d like to speak to him in daylight – preferably sober. Make that clear to him. And keep looking for Stanford, would you? I’m sorry, Miss Hardwicke, we seem to have had a wasted journey. I’ll escort you back to the White Horse, it’s near my way home.’
‘You live near the White Horse?’ I hadn’t really thought about where a man from Bow Street would reside.
‘Gerrard Street. Close enough to Covent Garden to do the bidding of Mr Fielding, but far enough away to breathe purer air.’
Strange that a place called the Garden should be thought so clogged and rancid, but in our quieter squares and streets around Soho there was a lot less of a stench. Fewer bodies jostling for space as well. We picked our way back down the dark roads to the White Horse, avoiding the foul stuff under foot as best we could. Soho’s streets were cleaner, but even they were never free of filth – and in the dismal light could be just as hazardous for pretty shoes. I was glad I’d worn my sturdier boots.
The lights of the White Horse shone brightly through its windows. It was still heaving with custom and I could hear the music from out on the street. Davenport tipped his hat and made to move on and I was about to push on the door when, through the glass, I saw Charles. It was only a glimpse, but I knew him from his shape; the tilt of his head, the way he carried himself.
‘Oh, Charles is here, after all’ I said. Davenport spun round.
‘Here? When we’ve been all the way over to Seven Dials to look for him?’ He muttered a blunt curse and pushed open the door. ‘I suppose I’d better speak with him now. It’s late, but there’s no knowing where I’ll find him tomorrow.’
I wanted to know the story of Charles and the woman mentioned in George Reed’s letter. The woman he had loved.
He was, as I might have expected, sitting with a red-cheeked blonde, laughing and drinking. He saw me, trotting behind Davenport, and raised his eyebrows as we neared his table.
‘Is this the best man you can find tonight, Lizzie? Dearest, you are down on your luck.’ His tone was merry enough, but his eyes suggested disapproval.
‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ I said, nodding at the cheap trollop who was snuggling into his coat. ‘Off you go, little girl. Go and find yourself another gentleman to clap. This one’s mine.’
She opened her mouth to protest – she looked the whining sort – but Charles gave a short laugh, kissed her full on the lips while looking at me, then pushed her roughly away. She got up and stood pouting for
a moment until he pressed a coin into her hand and waved her off as though she were a small child or a puppy. I took her place next to Charles and pinched his arm.
‘Is this what happens if I leave you alone for a moment?’
He shrugged and lifted his tankard to his lips.
I thumped him on the shoulder, deliberately causing him to splutter into his ale. I nodded over at Davenport, who had taken the seat opposite and was watching us, frowning as our drinks were brought to the table.
‘Mr Davenport’s not interested in me at all. He’s come to talk to you about George Reed’s letters. One of the other runners found them in the yard.’
‘I heard,’ he said in his drawling tone, scowling at me as he wiped beer from his cravat. He turned to Davenport. ‘I bumped into Herring as he was leaving. He told me you gave him a tough time about his marital problem. I presume you’re going to quiz me about Emily now.’
‘If you would be so kind, sir. The letters explain a little, but I would hear your side of the story.’
‘I’m not certain I wish to tell it.’
He sat staring at Davenport, saying nothing. Then he sighed and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.
‘You’ll appreciate, it’s a story that does not show me in my best light. It happened when I was young, and I was… well, I should have known better.’
‘I appreciate your reluctance, sir, but you can be assured of my discretion.’
Charles shrugged. ‘It’s not complicated. Her family is decent but has no wealth or standing. She believed that we would be wed, when I, of course, had no intention of marriage.’
It was an old and familiar story. He wasn’t the first man to hint at marriage to get a girl into bed. At least he seemed to recognise that he had done her a great wrong.
‘Her parents didn’t encourage you to marry her?’ I asked.
He rubbed an eyebrow. ‘They might have done, but Emily tried to drown herself. I told them that she was mad, and that talk of marriage had been her own fabrication. They believed me, rather than her.’
‘You told them that she’d thrown herself at you?’
He nodded, gazing at me for a moment before hanging his head. ‘I’m not proud of what I did. In fact, I’m ashamed of myself, truly.’
The poor girl. The flimsy dreams of marriage to a wealthy and attractive man had vanished once he had tumbled her, and her subsequent distress had only served to confirm her as a flirt. And a mad flirt at that.
‘How did Reed find out about it?’ Davenport’s question cut across my thoughts.
‘Well, I didn’t tell him,’ Charles’ eyes flashed with annoyance.
‘You told me once that you grew up in Norfolk, with your uncle,’ I said. ‘Did he know about Emily? Might he have said something? George Reed was a merchant from Norwich.’
He gave me a scornful look and pulled away from me.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘My uncle had his faults but associating with merchants was not one of them.’
He let out a long breath. ‘But now I think about it, Emily had an aunt who was rather indiscreet. I had to leave the county for a while because of her insinuations. Some of the lines in Reed’s letters had the ring of her voice in them, I’m sure.’ He sighed again. ‘Stories told by gossips are lapped up by dull people with no intrigues of their own.’
‘You lived with your uncle, sir?’ Davenport said. ‘I hadn’t realised that you inherited from your uncle rather than your father.’ His voice was smooth. He took a gulp from his beer and waited.
‘My parents both died when I was an infant. My uncle took me in and made me his heir.’
‘That was a kind thing for him to do, even if it was a family duty,’ I said.
Near to us, several young men were noisily discussing moving on to a gaming house. Charles knew them well enough to raise a hand. He wished to go with them, I guessed.
‘I lived like a prisoner there,’ he said. ‘He barely gave me an allowance and disapproved of all the usual vices a gentleman takes for granted. I imagine that was why I chased after Emily and behaved so badly.’
It sounded like an excuse for his behaviour; probably one that he had told himself for a while.
‘You decided to make up for it when you came into your inheritance?’
He laughed heartily and smacked my thigh.
‘I most certainly did, you gorgeous wench, I certainly did.’
He kissed me hard, his tongue tasting of beer. Then he stood up, clearly indicating that his interview with Davenport was over. We had learned a little, but his wildly rakish behaviour now made sense. He had been contained for most of his life by a dutiful but earnest relative, away from excitement. Now he was spending money as though he had an endless supply, living a fast life and enjoying every moment of new-found liberty. I felt a pang of envy.
Davenport nodded solemnly as Charles grasped one of his friends by the arm and fell, still laughing, towards the door. No doubt Mr Davenport would have extended his sympathy to the uncle rather than to the nephew. I would have offered mine to Emily.
The tavern was emptying of young men. I was not in the mood to entertain any of the old goats who were hanging on in the hope of desperate whores. I was not so desperate. I could only hope that the gentlemen I would inevitably find back at Berwick Street were younger and richer than the poor culls in my view.
‘I think I should make my way home, sir,’ I said, standing. I didn’t even wish to finish my drink.
‘I’ll walk you there.’
I hesitated for a moment but judged that I would reach home unbothered and a good deal faster if I walked with my arm through his. I would not make a habit of it.
Chapter Twenty-four
Berwick Street was quite safe enough, even at this late hour, but Davenport insisted on walking me as far as the front door. He had been silent ever since we left the White Horse and I was glad not to talk. The shops and the elegant houses of the street were, mostly, shut up for the night. Ours wasn’t. Our house was never shut. I could see windows still blazing shamelessly with candlelight – a sure sign for any passer-by that the folk of this house were not quietly tucked up in their beds but cavorting about on top of them. For any gentleman looking for pleasure, the windows offered a welcoming sight.
For me, they were a reminder that a night’s work still stretched ahead, however weary I was. I would be bright and sparkling; competing with the lights and commanding far more attention.
‘Are you coming in, sir?’ I asked because he was a man on the doorstep of a brothel, and I was expected to ask. Ma would expect me to ask.
There was a short, rather awkward silence.
‘No. But thank you for the invitation.’ He smiled, took my hand and, quite gently, lifted it to his lips. It was such a tender gesture that I was amazed. No man was ever usually so courteous, unless he wanted to take me to bed.
He bowed stiffly and then walked back the way we had come. He didn’t look back.
I stood, watching him until he was gone, then climbed the four steps from the railing to the front door and pushed it open, smile at the ready, expecting to be rebuked by Sydney for my late return.
Instead I found Ma pacing up and down. She spun around as I came in.
‘Where have you been?’ Her face was anxious, rather than angry.
‘Hunting for men.’ True enough, although not in the sense that she would understand.
She dashed out of the door and peered into the street, this way and that. This was unusually undignified for Ma. But there was something odd going on. The house was very quiet.
‘Where’s Sydney?’
She pulled herself back in from the doorway, closed the door and leaned heavily against it.
‘He’s disappeared.’
‘What do you mean, disappeared?’
‘Gone. Left us, walked out, I don’t know, Lizzie.’
She rubbed her hands over her cheeks, closing her eyes. Sydney had a life bey
ond Berwick Street – that we all knew – and he wasn’t permanently fixed to the stool in the hallway, but this was different.
‘Hasn’t he just gone to wherever he goes when he leaves the house?’
She looked at me wearily.
‘He left a note, telling me that he needed to be somewhere else. He never leaves a note when he visits other establishments. He has never written to me before. I’ve had Meg call at every molly house I can think of.’
Poor Meg. She would not be pleased to be hobbling about the streets looking for Sydney.
‘Has Meg returned?’
‘An hour ago. No sign of him. He’s gone for good, I think.’
This was bad. A bawdy house without a decent doorman was prey to all sorts of unsavoury visitors. Sydney, despite his affected bearing towards us, was a large deterrent, useful with his fists, wiry and strong.
It was Sydney, I recalled, who had finally thrown George Reed out of the house at the party.
Other concerns crept around my head and entertained themselves. This sudden departure had something to do with the interview with Mr Davenport. Sydney was, then, being blackmailed by George Reed, even if there was no letter. Had he left because he believed that his sexual depravity would be exposed if he stayed in the house? Or was there a darker reason? Was Mr Davenport right to be suspicious?
Sydney’s flight suggested that possibility, even if I found it hard to believe.
I wasn’t the only one to make the connection.
‘Of course, he’s been frightened by that runner you brought to the house.’ Ma folded her arms and glared at me in accusation. ‘I’ve lost the best doorman I’ve ever had because Mr Davenport made insinuations.’
I said nothing. There was little point arguing with her. She was distressed at Sydney’s disappearance and casting around for someone to blame. I was standing next to her and it was I who had brought not only Mr Davenport, but also Mr Reed to the house.
‘May I see his note?’
She rummaged inside voluminous skirts and plucked the note from her pocket.
‘Here.’
She thrust it at my hands and turned away towards the parlour.
