by Death
‘I had no idea it was so diverting.’
‘Not so much diverting, Miss Hardwicke, as compulsive. A little like being intoxicated, or in love, I imagine.’
‘You are out of control, then?’
He was about to answer when Davenport returned to the table. His face was grave. Grimshaw was lurking a few yards away, dabbing at his wound with a handkerchief.
‘Can you tell me what you know of John Swann, Mr Winchcombe?’
My mouth fell open a little. I saw Grimshaw smirk.
‘John Swann? Nothing. I suppose you mean the robber they just caught?’
‘I think you know very well who I mean, sir.’
‘Yes, of course I know of the highwayman.’ He looked down his nose at Davenport. ‘I could hardly fail to know, given the ludicrous songs that assail one’s ears in every London tavern.’
Davenport pressed his fingertips together in a steeple and looked directly at Mr Winchcombe.
‘And what of your own dealings with his gang, sir?’
Mr Winchcombe began to say something, then stopped and shook his head. In his eyes there was fear as well as defiance.
‘I have nothing to tell you about John Swann – or any of his associates.’
Davenport sat back and watched with bright eyes as his quarry shifted uncomfortably. I was entranced. What had Mr Winchcombe got to do with John Swann?
‘I don’t think you are telling me the truth, sir.’
For all Mr Winchcombe’s breeding and wealth, he was now sweating like a common cull caught with his hand in someone else’s pocket.
Grimshaw moved to stand at Winchcombe’s arm, blocking his path to the door. As if his presence wasn’t threatening enough, Grimshaw shoved his hands into his pockets, better to display the pistols he had tucked into his breeches.
‘You met a man, someone who gave you money,’ said Davenport.
Winchcombe eyed the pistols but shook his head.
‘And then he wanted something in return,’ Davenport continued. ‘You were overheard, negotiating the details. Gamblers in those places are never very discreet. Do you want me to tell you what they said?’
Winchcombe slammed his fist on the table, causing his wine to spill. Despite myself, I gasped.
‘I swear, Davenport, I had no idea who he was!’ His voice was hoarse, afraid.
The runner watched him, without saying a word, well-practised in letting a man talk himself into his own noose. Winchcombe could yell and bluster for as long as he wanted; he would wait.
Mr Winchcombe wiped the back of his hand across his mouth again, even though it was dry. It didn’t take him long to blurt what Davenport, surely, already knew.
‘He offered to lend me money. I was losing hard, and he told me that he could help me out.’
‘Who?’
‘Damn it, I don’t know. Some man.’
‘Go on.’
‘He gave me a small purse filled with coins, which I managed to use up pretty quickly. I swear, sir, I had no idea who he was.’
Davenport stared at him, incredulous.
‘And it never crossed your mind to wonder why a complete stranger would give you, a losing gambler, a pile of money?’
That did seem an obvious point. Whoever in this world gives their money without wanting something in return? Certainly no one in my business. Winchcombe was a fool and even I could see where this story was leading.
Winchcombe, though, was perplexed by the question.
‘People offer me things all the time,’ he said. ‘I suppose I thought it a little odd, but I was desperate, and I’d been drinking.’ Every man’s excuse for everything.
‘What happened?’
‘I decided to call it a night, having lost the money, and went to find the stranger, to apologise and see how I might be able to repay him. He pulled a knife on me and began to make heavy threats.’ He licked his cracking lips. ‘I’ll admit I was damned terrified. There were a couple of men with him. They came out of the shadows. Fearful creatures they looked all together. They told me they needed a place to keep some of their belongings. I could pay them back by storing it in my rooms.’
I couldn’t believe so fine a gentleman could be so stupid.
‘You’ve been fencing for them?’ I said.
He looked at me, surprised.
‘You know what that is, Miss Hardwicke?
‘I’ve spent long enough hanging around taverns to know what goes on among thieves. Didn’t you know?’
He shrugged. It was a pathetic sight. A broken man, mired in his debts, caught in a world of crime by his foolishness. He appealed to Davenport.
‘I had no idea. No idea at all that they were from Swann’s gang. I knew that they were no good, but I thought that they would return quickly and take their things.’
‘Not their things,’ said Davenport calmly. ‘Other people’s things. Stolen property.’
Winchcombe closed his eyes as if in pain.
‘I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t realise.’
Davenport leaned forward and grabbed Winchcombe’s cravat sharply, pulling him forwards until their faces almost touched. Winchcombe’s eyes popped open and met Davenport’s hard expression.
‘You see, sir, I have no idea whether you are telling me the truth – that you are, indeed, extremely stupid and gullible – or whether you’re a very clever liar and the fence for Swann’s gang that some of us have been wanting to find for a while.’
Winchcombe didn’t speak. He just gaped like a fish. Davenport released him, and he fell back. Grimshaw edged closer still, standing right behind him in case he decided to bolt.
Davenport sat in thought for a moment. Then he turned to me.
‘You recall what was in Mr Reed’s notes about this man?’
I did recall.
‘That he was gambling his father’s money and his father was losing patience. Reed was asking for money to keep quiet about the losses.’
Mr Winchcombe looked extremely exercised.
‘What a nasty piece of work that man was. He knew of my father’s principles and exploited them to get money from me.’
‘You met him in Paris?’ I had to ask. Davenport stared at him. He was probably about to ask the same question.
Winchcombe nodded miserably.
‘Herring and I met him when we were over there. It was such a gossipy place. Too many people were ready to tell him about my predicament, even as I was doing rather well. My luck changed when I returned to London, alas.’
‘But he knew enough to make life difficult for you?’ I asked.
‘My father believes that I am making my way in the world and living a good and honest life. If he knew the sorts of places I visit – and what my life is like…’
‘You would be disinherited, I imagine.’
‘More than that. His disappointment would be more than he could bear.’
He looked so utterly crushed by the very thought of it that I formed the impression of a man who really did love his father and hoped to please him one day. I reached out to touch his hand.
‘You’ve never pawned your ring, I see.’
‘It’s his ring, his gift to me, Lizzie. I cannot lose it. Not even for a win.’
He had a shred of dignity left. It was a small hope.
‘But why did you continue to visit the gaming hells – why did you go to those fearsome places beyond St Martin’s – if you knew Mr Reed was dead? Surely, with your tormentor gone you had the opportunity to pull yourself together?’
He shrugged at me.
‘I was still desperately trying for a win. And that’s when I met the men you tell me are Swann’s men.’ He looked up at Davenport. ‘They tricked me, sir. They tricked me royally and now my life is in such shit that I am lost.’
Davenport was not interested in his self-pity. He straightened his back and nodded to Grimshaw.
‘Mr Winchcombe, your debts will land you in the Fleet, I have no doubt, but the magistrate needs to hear
more from you concerning the stolen property you have in your rooms, and the death of Mr George Reed. You’ll come with us, please.’
There was no alternative. Jack Grimshaw pulled him to his feet. Davenport stood too, grim-faced.
‘Miss Hardwicke, I don’t think I’ll be needing your assistance from this point.’
He had caught his man. Davenport thought that Mr Winchcombe was a murderer as well as being in league with John Swann’s men. I wasn’t so sure, but there was little I could do.
Mr Winchcombe looked terrified, as if the realisation of his situation was only now sinking in.
‘Lizzie,’ he begged, ‘find John Herring for me. Or Stanford. Tell them. Get them to find help. I haven’t done anything wrong, you must believe me.’
I nodded. I think I did believe him, even if the case against him, whether for fencing or for murder, looked perfectly reasonable. I’ve known men hang on flimsier evidence, especially if there were other men willing to testify against him to save their own necks. He had mixed with highwaymen, wittingly or not, and the penalty for such a stupid risk might be his life.
Besides, if he had killed George Reed, or was involved in his murder, then perhaps he had killed Sallie too.
Chapter Thirty-two
I didn’t have much time to worry about Mr Winchcombe when I returned home; I was engaged for most of the afternoon. The miserable weather had brought in the men, seeking warmth and solace. A few more coins made their way into my secret store, even as I brought the lion’s share down to Ma in the parlour.
She sat, as she always did, at the table, with her ledger and pen, noting down our earnings with care one moment – and greedily shovelling what she referred to as our ‘rent’ into her strong box the next.
Emily and Polly joined us, and we sat drinking tea, while there was a lull in the custom. We chatted, and Ma quietly counted and added up the daytime takings.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ I asked. ‘She’s never around when we’re busy.’
Polly rolled her eyes and hitched her shawl back onto her shoulder.
‘You know Lucy. She’ll have found a lovely old gentleman and gone off in a carriage to a large house with discreet servants—’
‘—A widower—’ said Emily with a faint sneer.
‘—an extremely rich one—’ I added. They were always rich.
Polly started laughing. This was a familiar conversation.
‘She’ll have spent less than five minutes on her back and the rest of the afternoon stroking his fine porcelain.’
‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’ I started to giggle. Even Emily was beginning to crack a smile.
Ma Farley looked up and narrowed her eyes. For an old bawd, she could be ridiculously disapproving of lewd conversation, even when we were by ourselves. I nudged Polly and she tried to contain her mirth but ended up snorting into her tea cup.
‘Sorry Ma,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long afternoon.’
She patted the box.
‘I know,’ her eyes glittered. ‘But not quite long enough. I hope you’ll all be busy this evening, just like our Lucy.’
How Lucy managed it, though, we never quite understood. She was simply the best at hooking rich men and she never had to strain herself with overwork. To say I was envious, after the afternoon I’d had, was an understatement.
We heard the front door open. Emily, Polly and I eyed each other, as if gauging which of us was the least exhausted and most in need of money as we readied ourselves for the men who would be seeking our pleasures. Meg was still answering the door, so Ma hurried out to greet the guests and the three of us sat in silence, straining to hear voices.
The visitors were women, not men.
Lucy had returned. Amelia was with her.
‘I found her out on the street… no, down by St Anne’s…’ Lucy was still speaking to Ma as they came in. Amelia’s clothes had that crinkled look about them as if she had been out in the rain earlier and only recently begun to dry. Her face was pale.
I gave her my seat, nearest to the fire, and poured her some tea. Ignoring Ma’s look, I spooned several lumps of sugar into the cup and pushed it towards her. She was unused to walking the streets. I wondered how she had dealt with the attention that would have, undoubtedly, come her way if she had been on her own. She didn’t have the smart remarks that every street-wise harlot knows. She wasn’t sharp or scheming, like Bess and Kitty. She was more vulnerable, even, than Sallie. I shivered, remembering Sallie’s battered and bloody body by the river, and imagining Amelia in her place.
Emily’s mouth started to twitch. She was becoming impatient with Amelia. A girl this pretty could be raking in the gold, just as soon as she stopped dithering and got on with earning. What Emily couldn’t see was that it was different for Amelia. The rest of us had started our careers already ruined by careless or heartless men. We had nothing to lose and plenty to gain by charging for what others had taken for free. Amelia was destitute, young and beautiful; she was also, as far as we could tell, unspoiled and untouched. In a world that prized virginity – even as it wallowed in whoredom – her decision mattered.
‘She hasn’t gone and offered it up on the streets has she?’ Ma was near-enough shaking Lucy by the arm, as if it were somehow her fault.
‘No – at least, I don’t think so,’ Lucy looked almost as white as Amelia. ‘She was just wandering about in the rain. I took her to a coffee house and got her warm.’
Ma Farley let out a curse in exasperation. This was not a good sign.
‘I’m not having it!’ she snapped at Lucy. Lucy’s eyes widened. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that by Ma. It happened often to me.
Ma agitated the heavy gold rings she wore during working hours.
‘Are you all right, Ma?’ Polly could see, as I could, that something was amiss. She had been off with us ever since we came down to the parlour.
Ma sat down and looked directly at Amelia, who was staring dismally into her tea.
‘Amelia, I think the time has arrived for you to make a decision. I cannot keep you in this house unless you are working. You are stretching my patience and my hospitality.’ She laid her hands on the table and spread out her fingers, as if trying to calm herself. ‘I’ll have your answer by tomorrow morning. There’s a very wealthy gentleman waiting on my word. He would like to spend an evening with you.’
Amelia’s head lowered further towards the cup. We held a collective breath for a long time until Ma suddenly stood, nodded to us, and hurried out of the room.
There was little that we could say. We all knew that if Amelia was going to stay in Berwick Street she was going to have to pay rent. And rent only came by one means. She didn’t have much choice.
I only hoped that the gentleman Ma had lined up for her was as kind as he was wealthy.
Amelia managed to contain the sob that was so obviously rising in her throat.
‘What were you doing out on the streets?’ I asked, trying to break the awkward silence. ‘Lucy said you were down by St Anne’s?’
Lucy nodded. ‘That’s where I found you, wasn’t it?’ She patted her shoulder in an unusual display of kindness. ‘With a damp cloak and a battered hat.’
‘It’s been so miserable this morning,’ Polly said. Talking about the weather like a benign grandmother helps any situation, as we know.
Amelia lifted her head slowly and sniffed back the tears.
‘I decided to go and see my father.’ The voice was quiet and querulous, so I guessed that it hadn’t been a happy meeting.
‘Why ever did you go and see him?’ I said. ‘I thought he had thrown you out?’ My own father would set the dogs on me if I went home.
A fat tear slid from her left eye and splashed in the tea cup. She didn’t seem to notice.
‘I thought that I could persuade him to take me back, forgive Tommy and let us marry.’
She was brave, I’ll give her that. Stupid as well, though.
‘He didn’t rece
ive you?’
She shook her head and another tear dropped down her nose.
‘He wouldn’t allow me inside the house.’
‘And Tommy still hasn’t found work?’ Lucy asked.
The tears told their own story.
‘He’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ I pricked up my ears. ‘Have you any idea where he’s gone?’
She shook her head.
‘He was looking for work. He went out yesterday afternoon and I haven’t seen him since.’ Her shoulders sagged, whether at the loss of Tommy, or the realisation of what awaited her, I couldn’t tell.
Emily passed her a handkerchief.
‘Cheer up,’ she said as she pressed it into Amelia’s hand. ‘I can teach you a few tricks if you like; help you earn a few guineas.’
I pinched the top of Emily’s ear.
‘Ow! What’s that for?’
Polly scowled at her.
‘You’re so heartless sometimes, Emily,’ Polly said. ‘This isn’t any easier for Amelia than it was for us.’
‘You’ve become such an old hand at whoring that you’ve forgotten what it’s like,’ I added. She could be such a mean crow.
Emily bristled. She wasn’t old by most people’s standards, but she was no longer considered fresh, and she knew it.
‘I’m only making a kind offer…’
‘No.’ I said. ‘You’re not making a kind offer at all. At least, not one Amelia wants to accept.’
Emily shrugged, but backed out of the room, leaving the rest of us to deal with Amelia. Polly rubbed her heaving shoulders and Lucy got up to find some more tea. I stood and watched the street from the window, wondering why an innocent man like Tommy had made a run for it – for surely that was the truth of it. He would not have abandoned Amelia otherwise, knowing Ma’s plans for her.
Amelia had lost her protector, and even Polly’s tender words would not help. She was a lamb about to be thrown to a ravenous wolf. As I had been once.
