by Death
I had an idea. Before anyone could notice and ask questions, I snatched my hat and cloak and set off into the darkening streets. I hadn’t been able to do anything for Sallie, but I might be able to save Amelia – or at least give her a better chance of avoiding a life like my own.
Chapter Thirty-three
The streets were still damp. It wasn’t so cold now, and the wind had dropped, but the air had a faint chill to it and I was glad of my cloak.
I knew what I had to do to help Amelia, much as it would injure me personally. I knew just the place to hide her; a place where she would be fussed over and cared for like the child she still was. The cost would be Ma’s wrath, if she discovered my treachery, and my own hard-won retirement fund to pay for the rent. I told myself that I wasn’t doing this just because I felt guilty about Sallie.
The pace of my walk, and the thick cloak wrapped about me meant that no one bothered me. Head down, I rattled along the streets in the direction of Golden Square, until I came to a halt outside the house belonging to Mr and Mrs Groves and banged on the door.
Her porker of a husband was out – he might have been late at work, but I suspected that he was eating and drinking their money away. It turned my own stomach to think that my secret retirement stash would soon be funding the expansion of his belly.
I explained Amelia’s circumstances as delicately as I could, and Mrs Groves was sympathetic. I had guessed that they would be pleased to have a new lodger; they were still in need of rent after Mr Reed’s demise. Of course, she would consult with her husband, but, in principle, she would take Amelia in and let her stay for a reasonable deposit and rent – paid by me until Tommy found a job. I assumed that, as long as the money rolled in, Mr Groves would be content with a pretty lodger like Amelia.
We shook hands and shared a small glass of port wine and some apple cake, and by the time I left the house, my spirits had lifted a little. I liked Mrs Groves. Without her husband to cow her she was a bright and capable woman. She had never had children of her own and had longed for a daughter, she told me. I felt a pang of envy as I foresaw the kindness that she would lavish on such a darling as Amelia. But I couldn’t lapse too far into self-pity; not now I was a whore with extra rent to pay and the prospect of a diminished retirement fund.
As I turned the corner, I found myself standing outside the tailor’s shop, where I had sheltered with Susan Groves only two days ago. There were a few candles burning inside. This was not a flashy store, brazenly lighting up to entice wandering customers in from the evening air, but the owner was astute enough to remain open late and compete with his rivals. The shop was empty of buckle-hunting gentlemen, and the tailor and his assistant were scooping buttons into a box.
I put my hand into my skirt and felt Sallie’s button. It was worth a try.
The two men looked up when I pushed open the door. If they recognised me from the other day, they didn’t show it. I put Sallie’s button on the counter.
‘I’d like to know about this button.’ I didn’t elaborate. They stared at it.
‘You want to know about a button?’ The tailor’s face was a mixture of incredulity and disdain. It was a look with which I was becoming wearily familiar whenever I showed anyone the button. Whenever I walked into a shop.
‘It has a small bird on it. I wondered if you could tell me about it,’ I pointed out its finest feature for the seven hundredth time. The tailor shook his head.
‘It’s a canary button,’ said the younger man.
‘A canary button? What’s that?’ It was the first glimmer of interest I’d had.
‘The bird,’ he said. ‘It’s a canary. Means it was probably made in Norwich, or maybe for someone with connections there, who wanted the bird on his buttons.’
Norwich. George Reed’s city.
‘What’s the canary got to do with Norwich?’ I was genuinely interested – beyond the link with Reed.
‘That’ll be the weavers,’ the younger man became animated. ‘My mother’s family is from there.’ The tailor was not impressed and cut in.
‘The weavers in Norwich: yes, lots of them keep song birds. They say it helps them work.’ He frowned at the assistant. ‘Go and fold the neck cloths, Jack. This matter need not detain you from your tasks.’ The young man’s face dropped a little; he had just begun to enjoy telling his story. He sloped off into the back room to get on with his folding.
The tailor turned the button over in his hand, feeling the weight of it. He looked at it in an odd way, as if he recognised more than just the canary, now that he held it.
‘You’ve seen this before? Do you know who it belongs to?’ It was more than I could hope. His eyes narrowed at me.
‘Why? Where did you come across it?’
‘A friend of mine found it.’ It was not quite a lie. ‘Can you tell me anything more?
He hesitated. ‘We made a coat, some months ago. I’m sure, now that I see this button properly, I’m sure it had these buttons.’
I could hardly breathe for excitement.
‘Could you tell me, sir, please? Who did you make it for?’
He looked uncertain. He didn’t like to talk about his customers, I could tell. I exercise the same professional restraint. Then, in a very helpful, if unprofessional way, he went around the back of his counter and pulled out a ledger. He flicked through it, turning over pages until he found what he was looking for.
‘Mr Beech.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A Mr Beech collected the coat. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.’ He shut the book firmly. It was all that he was going to share.
The younger assistant popped a head around the door. ‘Mr Andrews, I’ve been thinking about the canary button. I think I recall the coat.’
‘Thank you, Jack,’ the tailor said sharply. ‘I’ve given this person everything she needs.’
The boy lowered his eyes and pulled himself back to the work he was supposed to be doing. I wasn’t sure I did have everything I needed, but there was a prickling sensation on my neck. Mr Beech. I knew the name but couldn’t quite remember why.
‘I’m grateful to you, Mr Andrews,’ I said, putting a hand over the button and drawing it back into my pocket. ‘It isn’t much help, but it may be something. My friend will be glad to know.’
We nodded to one another and I left the shop thinking to myself that I had missed something.
The beach.
I stopped walking. Sallie’s ridiculous message now became entirely clear. ‘Missed the beach’ and ‘Mister Beech’ sounded almost the same.
That was what Kitty said Sallie had told them: George Reed had ‘missed the beach’ in Paris. She had been adamant about it, but she had also been full of gin, had only half-heard. George Reed, in an argument that had no connection with either sand or sea, had spoken of a ‘Mister Beech’ in Paris.
Or else he had spoken to Mr Beech. There was a man walking the streets who we did not know; another of his blackmail victims, perhaps. Was this a man from Norwich, or Paris, who Reed had wronged in some other way? And was his coat missing a canary button?
Chapter Thirty-four
The house on Berwick Street was quiet when I returned. I thought I might manage to sneak upstairs unnoticed, but the bottom step squeaked – as it always did – and Mrs Farley poked her head around the parlour door. She had been at the gin again. Sydney’s absence was causing her a great deal of anxiety.
I felt guilty as soon as I saw her. Tomorrow, her precious virgin would be spirited out of her clutches and away to a secret location. Little did she know – and she never could know – but the Judas of the act would be me. I was glad that she had been attacking the gin; she wouldn’t notice my discomfort.
‘Lizzie! Where have you been?’
‘Nowhere special, Ma. Probably a waste of my time, I’m afraid.’
She shook her head, assuming I had spent my evening with poor customers.
‘Ach. You waste your time too often on bad pennies
, Lizzie. You should look to Lucy for advice…’
‘Maybe,’ I cut in before the customary lecture began. She had forgotten the coins I had dropped in her strong box only hours before and settled, instead, into the familiar whine. ‘Have you opened the gin, Ma? I could do with something before I retire upstairs.’
I stayed away from gin, as a rule, but something was bothering me about her behaviour. I needed to talk, and Ma seemed in an expansive mood.
She lurched back into the parlour and I followed, determined to have only one small glass. Ma poured me a large glass and helped herself to another with an unsteady hand. I wondered how many she’d had.
‘You all right, Ma?’ I asked casually as I sipped my drink. The bitter taste stung my tongue. ‘You seem a bit out of sorts.’
She rubbed her fingers into her temples; strands of grey hair worked themselves loose from where they had been pinned.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s having that runner about. I’m still worried that we’ll be closed down. And I’m fretting about Sydney, about getting a new doorman, about where Sydney has gone and why he might have left us.’
‘How long before you abandon hope of him returning and find a new man?’
She sighed heavily, knocking back the evil liquid. ‘I’ll have to look soon. I can’t have the door left unguarded at night. Most of our neighbours are locking up earlier, not that locks will keep out Swann’s men, from what’s said of them. You know how dangerous it could be for us without a man at the door.’
A house full of women, visited by men high on drink and lust. It was always potentially very dangerous. I was surprised she hadn’t found a replacement already. Instead, along with Meg, she had become our doorkeeper, knocked out on gin and weak on her feet, rather than the lady of the house, exuding welcome and the promise of pleasure. The strain was getting to her. We sorely missed Sydney’s solid male presence.
Still, the descent into drink was unusual. A hard-headed business woman like Ma should have been out scouring London for a doorman, not sliding into ruin before our eyes.
‘Are you sure it’s just Sydney, Ma? Nothing else bothering you? You seem so out of sorts.’
Her hands went back to her eyes. She was pressing hard at the sockets now, as if trying to shut out some darker problem. I waited. Eventually she removed her fingers; her eyes were red and sore.
She shook her head. The voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
‘That man, George Reed.’
I looked as encouraging as I could and poured her more gin.
‘Mr Reed?’
‘He was a very evil man.’
Oh, dear God. She had killed him. I had no idea how or why but something in my bowels told me she had killed him, and this was a gin-addled confession. I held my breath, not sure how to handle whatever came next. I necked a gulp of gin and felt it burn my throat.
‘He’s dead, Ma.’ My voice rasped.
‘He’s evil, I tell you. Even beyond the grave he’s taunting me.’
What was she talking about?
‘Taunting you? How?’
‘The bastard had some information about my past, Lizzie. It was a long time ago. Years ago. When I was young and living in Paris. There were some… indiscretions. Some things I would rather no one knew about, I mean.’
I wondered what sort of indiscretions might embarrass a bawd. Enough to make her language coarsen, at least. This, like the gin, was a sign of her distress.
‘He started to send me letters.’
‘Ah.’
‘Blackmail. Like he did with Sydney, although with me he had real stories and not speculation. Stories that might hurt me – and others.’ She rubbed her face again, pinching her cheeks. This had really troubled her. No wonder she had been so upset to find him at the party that night. No wonder she had been so angry with me.
‘He’s dead, Ma,’ I repeated. ‘He can’t hurt you now.’
She looked at me with bloodshot eyes.
‘You don’t understand, Lizzie. I thought it was all over when he was killed.’ She groaned. ‘I vowed I would shake the hand of the man who strangled him. He deserved nothing less as far as I could see. But then it all started again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A couple of days ago. I had a note pushed through the door. Sydney brought it up to me – before he disappeared. It was from George Reed.’
‘It can’t have been. He’s dead, very dead. I saw him myself.’
‘I tell you, it was the same handwriting. Same comments. Same request for money. And another one since then.’
It made sense now: she hadn’t found a new doorman because she was looking out for whoever was delivering the letters. There was no loyalty to Sydney. She was watching the street all day, every day. It wasn’t just the gin that caused her red eyes.
‘Have you paid him money?’
She nodded.
‘Where did you take it? How did you pay?’
She started to pick at a fingernail, worrying a piece of skin around the edge.
‘I had to take it in a plain packet to a bath house near Covent Garden. The man at the reception received it and I had to tell him it was for a Mr Beech.’
The gin hit the back of my throat and I coughed wildly until I had thumped my chest for a moment.
I guessed that the man at the desk would be taking a cut for his trouble. It would be worth making a trip to the baths and engaging in flirtatious conversation with him to find out more about Mr Beech. Something about her comments bothered me, even as my mind was racing with this new line of thought.
‘Do you know this Mr Beech, Ma? Is it someone you knew in Paris?’
She shook her head, surprised. ‘No. I’ve no idea who he is.'
‘You’re expecting more of these requests, aren’t you?’
She sighed heavily and ran a hand through her hair. It looked like a bird’s nest once she’d finished. This was not the Mrs Farley I knew.
‘This person, Mr Reed, or Beech, or whoever he is, has intimated that he knows enough about me to ruin this business. I could be finished, Lizzie, if I don’t pay up. And you girls will be looking for a new home too. I have to get more money together before the next letter arrives.’
Amelia. This was why she had decided to sell her off. She had sold Amelia’s virginity to the highest bidder, because she needed the cash. And I, treacherous jade that I am, was now planning to steal Amelia away to a safe place. Ma would be out of pocket and without the means to pay her blackmailer. If she discovered my plot, she would be so far beyond furious that I would never work again. If she left me alive, that is.
I thought about my retirement fund, hidden away in my room.
‘I’ll do what I can to help you, Ma. If another letter appears.’
I am too soft for my own good. Or guilt-ridden.
She patted my hand.
‘You’re a good girl, Lizzie. Just keep smiling that smile of yours at the rich gentlemen and we’ll be just fine.’
I laid my hand over hers. She was a tough old bird, but something about the letters had rattled her. Someone – and someone other than George Reed – knew something about her past that she would rather keep hidden. Had it been enough to make her kill Mr Reed?
Chapter Thirty-five
I had managed to bring Sallie into the house without anyone noticing; now I was going to get Amelia out of it. It had to be done carefully, but at least I wasn’t dealing with a drunk this time. Amelia could cry noisily enough, but she would appreciate the need for quiet, and she wouldn’t be shouting to the world that she was my sister. It was still dark when I dressed, listening hard to the creaks of the house and straining to hear whether anyone was awake. Mrs Farley liked to rise early to go to the market – a somewhat eccentric trait that she had brought back from Paris – but she had been downing gin and I gambled on her staying in bed with a headache. Sarah, I hoped, would also be in bed. Meg, flushed with her new importance, was unlikely to rise early because Sydn
ey never did. None of the girls would be up before dawn; Lucy wouldn’t emerge before noon.
As quietly as possible I stole up to Amelia’s room and tapped gently on the door.
Amelia had not been to bed. She was dressed and sat gazing forlornly out of the window. Her face was thin and pale. She wasn’t eating much, by the look of it, although whether it was Tommy’s absence or the reality of the life stretching before her that caused the lack of appetite, I didn’t know.
Whichever it was, the man paying Ma for her supposed virginity would surely not be impressed by such a bag of bones, but even with her cheek bones starting to protrude and dark circles around her eyes, she was still extremely pretty.
‘Gather your belongings, Amelia, we’re going to leave,’ I kept my voice quiet but firm.
The wide eyes grew even bigger.
‘Leaving?’
‘Yes. But we need to go immediately. Do you have a bag? Many clothes to carry?’
She continued to stare at me, not understanding.
I began hunting around the room for clothes and trinkets, throwing them into a large shawl on the bed while I hissed at her. ‘Do you want some disgusting old man pressing his attentions on you this evening, or will you hurry up and help me?’
At that she sprang away from the window and put on her shoes.
‘I don’t need any more, Lizzie. If we’re leaving, then I can leave now.’
I tugged the ends of the shawl together into a bundle and we slid as quietly as we could down the stairs. There was no one in the hall, but the door was locked and bolted; impossible to open without Ma’s keys. There was nothing for it, but to steal through the kitchen to the back. Meg and Sarah slept in a small room, to the side of the kitchen. The door was pulled to, but not closed, so I touched a finger to my lips in warning to Amelia. She nodded understanding and we padded as softly as we could to the door. The key was still in the lock but turned without a sound as I held my breath. The hinge, which needed rubbing with grease, gave a low squeak, and I stood, frozen, waiting for the servants’ door to be flung open.
