by Death
‘You’ve found her killer, then, Mr Davenport?’
‘No. Just paying my respects.’
He eased himself away from the gate and fell in with us as we made our way towards the warmth and comfort of the tavern. He didn’t say anything more and we walked in silence as the girls chattered away a few paces in front of us – the sad event of minutes ago now forgotten as the prospect of drinking and earning money beckoned.
We reached the door of the White Horse. Bess and Kitty were disappointed: it was far too quiet. This was not surprising, given it was before noon, but they were hoping for some fun after having been forced to be religious for a whole ten minutes.
‘Come on,’ I said, pushing them to a table. ‘I’ll buy you a bowl of hot punch to share, and something to eat. We should raise a glass to Sallie, at least. She’d do the same for us – especially if someone else was paying.’
‘And the bowl was very big,’ Bess giggled.
Chapter Thirty
Davenport decided to leave us alone with our punch, guessing, probably accurately, that we would spend all afternoon getting steadily and noisily drunk enough to face whatever waited for us in the evening. He skulked over to Harry Bardwell and engaged him in conversation, presumably about the night of Reed’s death.
I am not fond of punch – it makes my head spin too quickly – so sipped at a large glass of brandy while the girls knocked back what I’d bought them. It wasn’t long before they began to annoy me with their antics. Davenport looked over when Kitty squealed with laughter and I caught his eye, silently pleading with him to be relieved of my nurse-maid duties to these infants. He hid the smirk as well as he could and turned back to Harry. He continued to talk to the landlord for a minute or two before stepping from his stool and wandering over, beer in hand.
‘May I have a quiet word?’
Relief flooded over me as Kitty, even then, let out a screech and sent a slice of bread skidding off the table.
‘Oh yes, please.’ I stood up before he could change his mind. We moved to a table over the other side of the room. The girls barely noticed. They were trying to attract the attention of a couple of young, serious-looking clerks who had wandered into the White Horse for light refreshment. The poor fellows had probably wandered west, imagining that the taverns of Soho were quiet; the haunt of gentlemen. Such innocent wretches were easy prey for Kitty and Bess – now filled up with drink and game for anything. I turned my back, knowing that Anne Bardwell would soon throw the jolly pair out if they started harassing decent customers. A bit of a joke was one thing, creating havoc was another. Anne glared at me. I shrugged back at her: I had only bought the drink. How they behaved having drunk it all so quickly was their own concern.
‘Were you as wild as that, when you were their age?’ Davenport asked, nodding over to their table.
‘What makes you think I’ve left those ways behind?’ I asked with a wink.
His mouth twitched into a smile. ‘You’re far too refined.’
‘Well, you’d have to pay to find out just how wild I can be,’ I smiled back at him, taking a delicate sip of my drink, happy enough to flirt. ‘You might be surprised.’
He sat back, clasped his hands behind his head and regarded me for a moment, without speaking. His was not the sort of gaze I was used to. Men watch me all the time. They look me up and down, working out how much I’m worth, what I might look like without my stays, or how I’d feel lying beneath them. This one scrutinised me as if he were weighing my soul. I shifted in my seat.
‘Why are you looking at me?’
‘I imagine that you’re used to being looked at.’
‘Not like that, I’m not.’ He was one of those strange ones, perhaps. The ones we tried to avoid. Every girl had a story of a peculiar customer.
‘I’m just wondering what you’re doing here, that’s all.’ He continued to watch me. ‘I mean, you’re not like most of the girls I see. You’re clearly not someone who’s grown up on the streets like those two, you’re not a servant making a few shillings on the side, you don’t strike me as country lass tricked into sin – you’re far too smart for that. You have the manners of a well-bred gentlewoman, but although I imagine you’re older than you look, you’re not old enough to be a widow fallen on hard times. You’ve already confessed you’re estranged from your family, but you’ve told me nothing more. So, you see,’ he relaxed his arms and rested his elbows on the table, ‘you are an enigma to me, Miss Hardwicke. I would rather like an explanation – to put my mind at rest, if you understand me.’
He wasn’t a customer. He wasn’t even odd. He was simply intelligent and curious – as a magistrate’s man should be, I suppose. He wanted to know who he was dealing with. I was surprised that he had thought so carefully about me, though.
‘Are you beginning to suspect me of killing George Reed after all?’
‘Maybe.’ He was quiet again. Then he said with a grunt that sounded like frustration, ‘You don’t belong here. You just don’t fit. I can’t make you fit. So, I wonder who you are, where you come from, Lizzie Hardwicke – if that’s even your name.’
Oh, he was a smart one. I had gone to a lot of trouble to lose my name and lose my past along with it. No one had questioned it before; I was Lizzie Hardwicke at Mrs Farley’s establishment. But then, no one had needed to question it. Now I was staring at a man who might still think me a murderer, and anything could be construed as guilt if he had a magistrate on his back, demanding results. It was better to tell the truth than have him suspect me just because I didn’t ‘fit’.
And perhaps I wanted to tell him.
‘Well, I didn’t kill George Reed, any more than I killed Sallie.’ My mouth had become dry. ‘But I wasn’t born to this life. You’re right about that.’
The tavern was just noisy enough to cover my confession. It was too early for the real fun to be happening and, although more people had wandered in for food and conversation, and a decent drink, it wasn’t heaving with customers. Harry and Anne were occupied: Harry was telling a tale to some older men at a corner table. It was evidently going to be a long tale, because he had sat down with a beer and filled himself a pipe. Anne, rolling her eyes at him, was on her way to evict Bess and Kitty. The timid clerks had wisely moved tables and left the girls engaging in a spitting contest – the men having foolishly bought them more punch before escaping. It was only a matter of time before things became messy. Anne was very happy to serve drunkards – as long as they kept their drink inside them. She, experienced landlady that she was, knew the signs and was making a move.
Davenport leaned across the table. ‘You’re gently born. You can’t hide it.’
‘It’s what Mrs Farley calls my “edge”. I have an edge over the others, apparently. What I lack in beauty or experience, I make up for in knowing how to talk, how to behave politely. It brings a better sort of gentleman to her house, she says.’
‘Hardwicke isn’t your real name?’ He asked it as a question, but we both knew it was a statement of fact.
‘No. It was my mother’s name. But I am Elizabeth.’ That was all he was getting. He appeared to understand this.
‘How did you end up in Berwick Street?’
‘Polly found me when I arrived on the coach last September.’
He frowned. ‘Before that, I mean.’
I took a careful sip of drink and felt the liquor warm my mouth. It was difficult to know how to start; how far I could pretend not to care.
‘My father threw me out.’ I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. He waited for me to continue. No one ever gave me chance to talk. No one was ever interested in who I really was. But this man was.
The brandy had made my throat thicken. I cleared it. ‘My father threw me out because one day he arrived home earlier than expected and found me in bed with the squire’s son.’ My voice was confident enough, but the memory of that day made me tremble, even now.
He grimaced. ‘He found you? He saw you? That must have b
een unfortunate for all concerned.’
It had been. I closed my eyes, remembering the look on my father’s face as he had stood in the doorway. I would never forget it.
‘He didn’t allow you to marry the man?’ Davenport was saying. ‘Keep it quiet and make a decent thing of it?’
It would have been the obvious solution. I had, indeed, been fond of Edmund and marriage to him would have contented both our families. My father may even have recovered, in time, from the shock of what he had witnessed. Edmund had been, I thought, a fine and vigorous young man, of good breeding and decent fortune. I had fixed on him as the way of escaping my uncle; carefully and quietly using my new-found skills to draw him into bed – and, I hoped, into marriage. He had been happy enough to take a tumble with me, but I had not reckoned on his utter cowardice when confronted by my father.
‘Ah, well now, Mr Davenport, you need to know two things. Firstly, my father was, and still is, a clergyman, the sort who is extremely committed not only to morality but also to his lofty social position. To be fair, he was in a state of distress, as well as anger at the time.’
‘Even so -’
‘And secondly,’ I said, ignoring him, ‘my sweet lover chose to lay the blame entirely at my feet. He told my father that I had seduced him, that he was certainly not the first man to have been in my bed, and that, in fact, I was nothing more than a common strumpet.’ My voice began to wobble a little. I cleared my throat again. ‘My father, you’ll recall, had already seen enough with his own eyes to reach much the same conclusion. He decided that if I were a common strumpet then I couldn’t also be his daughter, and there was no place for me in his house. There was no place for me in his family.’
There was a long pause. He sat watching me, saying nothing, while around us people chattered and laughed.
‘Was it true, the man’s insinuation?’ he asked.
The answer was more complicated than he knew.
‘It was true.’
There was a look of disappointment in his face. I was, then, as I had first appeared to him. I was just like Kitty and Bess, but with better clothes. I felt my face grow hot with shame. I did not want him to think badly of me.
‘It was my uncle.’ The words escaped in a rush, louder than I wanted. The serving girl who, at this point in the day was only serving beer and not herself to the customers, stared at me for a moment before carrying on with her work, gathering up empty glasses and tankards on to a tray.
‘Your uncle?’
‘The man… the one before Edmund… It was my uncle who…’
I saw him begin to comprehend.
‘Your own uncle?’
‘My father’s older brother. He took a fancy to me last year, and…’ I didn’t want to say any more.
‘Ah.’
He was constructing his own interpretation of my past. It would be almost accurate.
‘You said that Hardwicke was your mother’s name. She’s dead, I take it?’
‘She died when I was an infant. I have two older brothers.’
‘You couldn’t speak to them about your uncle? Or tell your father?’
‘No, of course not. My father would have been appalled if he had ever found out. That’s what my uncle told me, and I think he was right.’ I stared at my drink. ‘I couldn’t speak of it to anyone.’
We were both silent. I drained my brandy.
‘Still, I’ve been lucky so far, haven’t I?’ I swept a hand around the room, smiling brightly to dispel the possibility of fear or self-pity. ‘I mean, who would want to miss all of this?’
‘If lucky means a well-bred lady ending up in a brothel.’
‘I could have ended up in places much worse than Mrs Farley’s. I may be paying a heavy price for my transgressions, Mr Davenport, but I am not out on the streets.’ I sat up straight and shook the cuffs of my gown, reminding him – and myself – of my relative prosperity and freedom. ‘I’m warm and clean and I don’t have to beg for food or lift my skirts just to eat. I’ve enough of a reputation that I can earn money while I still have my looks, but I’m not so stupid as to think I’ll be in luxury for ever. I’m saving for my retirement.’
A tiny smile flickered over his mouth.
I banged my fist on the table. ‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘I swear I’m not laughing at you. I’m only smiling because you’re the first working woman I’ve ever met who has a retirement fund.’
I shrugged. ‘Some girls hope to become mistresses of benevolent gentlemen. They spend all their money on hats or gorgeous gowns in their attempts to snare one. Since the day I left my father’s house I’ve never trusted any man to care for me. I don’t trust anyone. I keep a little back from Mrs Farley; accept gifts from men and hide them away. She doesn’t need to know about my secret store – I’ve earned it and it’s there for my future.’
‘So, where does your future lie? What are you going to do with your savings, when you retire?’ He was smirking again.
I ignored the smirk.
‘Maybe I’ll take over from Mrs Farley one day. Or perhaps I’ll open a shop and sell ribbons to young ladies.’
‘No firm plans then?’
‘All I know is that I didn’t intend this life, but I will make the best of it, and one day I will leave it. Too many girls catch the pox, or something worse, and die alone in the dark. I would like something else.’
‘Would you marry?’
Such a ridiculous question made me laugh aloud. He began to laugh with me until the two of us were almost losing breath. And then it wasn’t funny anymore. The cold truth was that no one decent would marry me, even if I wished it. I had lost all respectability the day I caught my uncle’s eye and, full of girlish lusts, flirted with the devil. If you fall into sin, you pay the price. That much I had learned from my father.
There was a commotion at the door. Jack Grimshaw was trying to get into the tavern with another man. He had the man’s arm twisted up his back – something that this gentleman was not taking to kindly. He was protesting quite loudly.
It was Mr Winchcombe.
Chapter Thirty-one
Jack Grimshaw half threw Mr Winchcombe across the room. He landed at our feet, stumbled to his knees and then groped his way to a seat.
He slumped across the table holding his head and groaning a little.
When he finally raised his eyes, I could see that they were bloodshot. He had not been to bed for a long time.
Grimshaw stood behind him, arms folded and face like an angry dog. There was a cut to his cheek, small but deep, and bruising was forming around it. It looked as though he had been punched by someone wearing a jewelled ring.
Mr Winchcombe’s magnificent amethyst glittered on his right hand. I could almost see the blood on it.
‘Ah, Mr Winchcombe, how good to see you,’ said Davenport, finishing his beer as though he had all the time in the world; no longer interested in my past, but Fielding’s man once more. ‘My name is William Davenport, and I am acting on behalf of the magistrate to find out who strangled Mr George Reed in the yard of this tavern six days ago. I see that you’ve already met Mr Grimshaw.’
Winchcombe was silent.
‘It’s taken us a while to meet,’ said Davenport. His manner was curt, he was still annoyed that we had taken an unnecessary journey to find Mr Winchcombe the other night. ‘You knew that we wanted to speak with you, ask a few questions about the night of the murder. Miss Hardwicke told you, I think, as did a man called Reading. Yet you seem to have been avoiding us.’
Winchcombe shrugged.
‘I’ve been occupied in my own affairs.’
Grimshaw sloped off, presumably in search of refreshment.
‘I need a drink.’ Winchcombe’s voice was rough. A drink was the last thing he needed, but he raised a hand and the girl came scurrying over to take his order.
‘I gather you’re not having much luck with the dice at the moment.’ Davenport said.
A jug of wine was sl
opped down in front of the unfortunate Mr Winchcombe and he grasped at it, pouring a glass and drinking almost all of it in one go. He wiped his hand across his mouth and stifled a belch. His skin, I noticed now that I was close to him, was greasy and marked with small spots, as if he hadn’t washed it in weeks. His lips were dry and he needed a shave. Very little of the spring sun had caught his handsome face.
‘That’s putting it mildly. Everywhere I go they seem to have queer dice. Although I’m no luckier with cards.’
‘Why the need to play, when Mr Herring says you have a reasonable allowance?’ I asked.
He looked at me with a frown.
‘That’s not your business,’ he said.
‘It might be my business, sir, to know just why you are so keen to secure a winning streak at present,’ Davenport cut in. ‘I understand that the places you have been visiting recently are notorious for their high stakes.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ He fiddled with a loose thread on his cuff. I wondered if he had been sleeping in his coat, the sleeves looked so crushed. There were wine stains on his breeches. He was a mess.
‘Excuse me for a moment.’ Davenport rose abruptly from the table and made his way across to Jack Grimshaw. I could see that Grimshaw was engaged in a rather animated conversation with another man – almost as large and ugly as himself. Another runner, perhaps, or someone who acted as an informer, like John Reading. The two of them spoke to Davenport and I saw the third man pointing over at our table. Winchcombe was oblivious, drinking.
‘Are you dreadfully in debt, Mr Winchcombe, or is it the thrill of it that keeps you
returning?’ I leaned over the table to him, touching him softly on the hand.
He shrugged. ‘A little of both, I imagine. When you win, it’s such a thrill – especially when you have a large win. And when you lose, well you just keep going to get it all back.’
I, who had only recently possessed my own money, could not understand the desire to lose it so lightly. My small box of coins would, slowly, and over time, be my complete independence. It was only the thought of what I would do with it that kept me from despair. Despair drove women to desperation and all sorts of poisonous powders designed to lighten their mood – and the powders cost them their fortunes. Girls who had once been the toast of the town, who had rolled themselves in silks, had died penniless and alone because despair had driven them to packets of powder or gambling dens. We’d all heard the stories.
