by Death
No one stirred. It is good to know that the back door of our house is so diligently guarded.
I found myself wishing that Davenport was with us again, as we came to the head of the passage. This time, though, it was nearing dawn and although it was dark, I could make out a patch of grey ahead of us in the blackness. Nevertheless, Amelia made a small sound of distress as I motioned to her that we needed to go through it.
‘It’s all right,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sure we’re quite safe. I’ve done this before.’
Once before, and with a man carrying a knife, but she didn’t need to know the detail. I took a deep breath, grabbed her hand, and led her, as fearlessly as I could manage towards the dim light ahead. I was very relieved, and almost giddy with my own achievement when we stepped into the street, familiar houses ahead of us.
I hurried her along. The street was nearly empty of people, which meant that we might be easily noticed by anyone looking out of the window. I glanced back once or twice, but we quickly turned a corner along Knaves Acre and were out of view. Only then did I slow the pace a little.
‘Where are we going?’ She noticed that I had relaxed.
‘I’m taking you to Mrs Groves. She’s a good woman who wants a lodger. It’s not another bawdy house,’ I said quickly, seeing the look on her face. ‘Mr and Mrs Groves had that Mr Reed as their lodger – until he was killed. I’ve met them. She’s quiet, a bit of a mouse, but intelligent. He’s a fat pig, but he won’t trouble you.’
She nodded, her head drooping a little.
‘How am I to pay them?’ she said.
I shrugged.
‘Don’t worry too much. I’ve come to an arrangement with Mrs Groves. I’ll make sure you’re not put out on the streets.’
She was astonished.
‘You’re paying the rent? Why would you do that for me?’
I trudged along the street, still with her bundle over my shoulder. It was hard to explain. Not without telling her about my own life. Not without telling her about Sallie, and she didn’t need to know about Sallie. Instead, I said, simply,
‘The life we lead in Berwick Street – it’s not for everyone. It’s not for you.’
We walked for a while without speaking until we came nearer to Golden Square and to the Groves’ house.
She looked up at the windows with apprehension.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’ll be safe here. Far enough away from Berwick Street to escape Mrs Farley, at least.’
‘Will Tommy be able to visit me here?’
I squeezed her hand. If he ever shows up again, she meant.
‘Maybe not for now. Best be as respectable as you can.’
She turned and looked me in the eyes, her own blue saucers beginning to fill with tears.
‘Lizzie, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you. This is such a kindness.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘It’s no trouble. Just pray that Tommy finds work soon and returns to make you an honest wife.’
‘I will,’ she said with passion. ‘And when I am married, I will make it my business to pay you back every penny we owe. No, don’t shake your head, Lizzie. I mean it.’
‘Very well. I’ll agree to that.’ I grinned and put out a hand. She shook it. It would be wonderful if my money returned, but I wasn’t pinning my hopes on seeing it again.
Susan Groves opened the door. She was up early and ready to meet us, as we had arranged. Her dress was neat, unfussy.
‘You must be Amelia,’ she said, her dainty face greeting us from under a plain white cap. ‘I’ve heard all about you from Miss Hardwicke. You are very welcome here. Please, come in.’
I watched Amelia’s shoulders loosen as she stepped across the threshold and into the tender embrace of Susan Groves. I followed her with the bundle and, after making sure that we were not observed by anyone in the street, found myself once again in the Groves’ parlour.
Mr Groves was there, lounging in a chair with his feet on a stool. He wasn’t long out of his bed, but unlike his wife, he had made little attempt to make himself tidy, although I imagined he would be leaving for work soon. He had no wig and was in need of a shave. He was puffing on a pipe; the sweet scent of tobacco almost masking his own unwashed odour. Susan Groves swept Amelia quickly upstairs to her room, after the briefest of introductions, leaving me to attempt polite conversation.
‘Where’s your runner friend, then?’ Mr Groves said with a grunt. ‘Any news of who killed my lodger?’
‘No.’ I wasn’t going to tell him about Mr Winchcombe.
‘Ha!’ He was almost gleeful. ‘These runners, they think they’re so clever. Waste of money, I always say.’
This was obviously one of his pet subjects for conversation. I imagined he had bent the ears of many in the local taverns with his views.
‘Have you formed any opinion as to who killed your lodger, Mr Groves?’
He scowled at me.
‘What’s it to do with me?’
‘Well, where the runners may have failed to notice something, you, surely, would see it and note it as important. I imagine that very little gets past you.’
He raised himself up on the arms of the chair, fingers like sausages. He responded to the flattery, as I knew he would. I am good at flattering men.
‘Well now, as it happens, I might have had a thought.’ He paused, presumably for dramatic effect. He would have shared this thought several times over the beer, too. ‘I think he was killed by one of his servants. Must have followed him here to London.’
I tried not to laugh at his pompous air.
‘That’s certainly an avenue of thinking that Mr Davenport has not explored.’
‘No, well he won’t, will he? Doesn’t have the information like I do.’ He smiled a lazy smile, sank back into his seat, and tapped his greasy nose.
‘What information?’
‘From Mr Reed himself, of course. The first day he was here, Susan was fussing with the maid, trying to get her to read her letters. Susan thinks that it will be good for the girl if she can read; then she can be sent out to buy food without forgetting things.’
I was struggling to see what this had to do with Reed.
‘He said to me that no good came of teaching servants to read. Servants who had too much learning got above themselves, so much as to think they ought to take the master’s place.’
‘That sounds like the sort of thing any sensible man with traditional beliefs would say,’ I said. Men like that always held that women and servants should remain illiterate. I disagreed with such sentiment, being a literate woman.
‘Ah, but then he told me that some servants became so full of themselves, just because they had some letters, that they killed their masters.’
He grinned, triumphant at this splendid piece of information. He no longer possessed all his teeth.
I shook my head in amazement.
‘Well, Mr Groves. That is news indeed. I will be sure to pass it on to Mr Davenport when I next cross his path.’
He grunted again. ‘You and that runner think you’re so clever. I’m the one with the information; the sort of stuff that could make me money, if I chose it.’
It sounded as though he had access to Reed’s blackmail letters, or at least had sight of them.
‘What stuff?’
His toothless smile returned, but he shook his head. If he knew anything about the letters, he wasn’t going to share it.
Susan came skipping in.
‘Amelia is settled,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure that she is cared for.’
‘She needs feeding. I think she’s been starving herself.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘You make sure the rent is paid as well, Susan,’ her husband bellowed from the chair. ‘This is not charity.’
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small bag of money and put it into Susan’s hands.
‘That should do for a while,’ I said. ‘You know where to find m
e if you need more.’
I knew I could rely on Susan’s discretion. Mr Groves, although less likely to be discreet, would not haul his fat carcass towards Berwick Street and his tavern of choice would, undoubtedly, be the one he could stagger to across the road, rather than any I visited. Still, I was anxious that Mrs Farley knew nothing about this. As I thought about Ma, I realised that I needed to return home.
I shook hands with Mrs Groves and bade a polite goodbye to the slumped figure of her husband before making my way back to Berwick Street as fast as I could.
Chapter Thirty-six
I managed, by some miracle, to retrace my steps without incident. The back door was still open; Meg and Sarah were up and about, but neither of them was in the kitchen. No one saw me climb the stairs, I was certain of it. Even so, my heart was pounding as I shut the door of my room and listened for voices.
I removed my outer clothes, to make sure that I looked as though I had been in my room and then, to be even more cunning, untied my hair and got into bed.
I heard a shuffling, thumping sound on the landing, and then a sharp rap at my door.
‘Just a minute, Meg,’ I called, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. I arranged myself carefully. ‘Come in.’
Meg looked at me, I thought, with an odd expression. Or maybe I was just feeling guilty.
‘Mr Stanford is here with Mr Herring. Apparently, it’s urgent.’
It was early in the day for them.
‘Tell them I’ll be down presently. They can wait in the best room.’ I had a sudden thought. ‘And tell Mrs Farley when you see her that my head is sore after last night.’
Her eyebrows rose.
‘Gin,’ I lied. ‘Remind me not to touch it ever again.’
She grinned. ‘It wasn’t that stuff she keeps in the lower cupboard, was it? Looks lethal to me.’
I rubbed my head. ‘It is if you’re not used to it.’
She scuttled away down the stairs and I imagined her chuckling to Ma about my inability to deal with gin. Such weakness would amuse them, but at least they wouldn’t suspect me when Amelia’s flight was discovered. I scrambled out of bed, dressed my hair and made my way downstairs, where I found John Herring sprawled in a seat and Charles Stanford pacing about, waving his hat in his hand, agitated.
‘Lizzie, you’ll never guess what’s happened.’
‘What? What is it?’
‘Winchcombe’s been carted off to the magistrate. Turns out our friend was working for the Swann gang.’
I slapped a hand to my brow and groaned. ‘Charles, I am so sorry – I did know, and I was supposed to tell you. Poor Mr Winchcombe wants you to help him.’
‘All this time,’ said Herring in a weak voice from the chair, ‘we never knew.’ He shook his head with exaggerated sadness. ‘The associate of a highwayman, no less.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
‘Do?’ said Herring, raising himself up a little to look at me. ‘Are we supposed to do something? I’ve not had a felon for a friend before.’
‘Well, shouldn’t you go to him, perhaps? See if there’s anything to be done to help him.’
Herring’s face suggested that he would rather not; that commenting on a friend’s misfortune was one thing, but that assisting any friend in trouble was a terrible chore and best avoided. I turned to Charles. ‘I think that’s what he would want.’
Charles weighed up the situation with more sympathy. ‘Come on, Herring, don’t you want to see inside the gaol? Might be your only opportunity, unless you start keeping company with robbers like dear old Josh.’
Herring stirred himself at that, his interest piqued, at least, if not his compassion.
‘I wouldn’t mind joining you, if you can bear my company,’ I said. ‘The last time I saw Mr Winchcombe, he looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in a while. I’ll bring some food and wine if you’ll wait.’ And I needed to speak to Davenport, to tell him about Mr Beech.
Charles’ arms were around my waist in an instant.
‘Such a caring creature you are. I hope that’s the only comfort you’ll be offering our friend.’ He began to cover my neck in fierce kisses, to remind me that he, not being locked in a cell, was ready for my comfort at any moment. I pushed him away and wriggled free, laughing.
‘You think an unwashed man in a piss-stinking cell would be attractive? I don’t think he has gold enough to tempt me, thank you, sir.’
I left the two of them to call a carriage, while I loaded a basket with bread and cheese from the kitchen and found my hat and cloak. Within very few minutes we were clattering over the cobbles to Bow Street.
* * *
The magistrate’s house stood among the taverns and brothels at the far end of Covent Garden. It was an impressive building. It looked much like any other of the fine houses in the area, save for the courthouse next to the front door, the iron grille at the window of a locked cell, and the thick-set constable standing outside it. When Henry Fielding had become the magistrate, he had made the astonishing suggestion that people might report crimes to him and his associates at Bow Street, and, even more astonishingly, they had. In a matter of years, his small band of men, a rag-tag band of constables, thief-takers, clerks and others, had suppressed several ruthless gangs of robbers and murderers. Henry had died, exhausted by his efforts to rid the streets of London of the horrors of crime, and his brother John had taken his place as magistrate. He was not as well-known as his literary brother, but he was much less of an old rake. Instead, Mr John Fielding had set about cleaning the streets with a more meticulous strategy: he was not only interested in the bravado of gangs and the highwaymen, but in the low-level activity of petty criminals and street girls. He was blind – the result of an accident in his youth – but his sense of hearing was legendary. It was said that he could identify thousands of people just from hearing their voices, and that once he had heard you speak in his court, he would never forget you. I sincerely hoped he would never have the opportunity to hear my voice in such a setting.
My companions had no such reason to fear the magistrate. Charles swung himself out of the carriage with all the nonchalance of a man who was visiting his tailor, or about to enjoy an evening at the theatre. Mr Herring was similarly unperturbed. I, on the other hand, was doing my best to hide my anxiety by tugging at my sleeves and straightening my bonnet.
It did not take long for us to establish that Mr Winchcombe was still in the cells. My companions had spent the journey from Berwick Street deciding that they would try to secure his release – by speaking of his family name and his good character. In the courthouse office we found Grimshaw and three other men gathered around a table, covered in documents and rolls of paper. The men appeared unmoved by the petitions, although this may have had something to do with the presumptuous air in which both Charles and Herring addressed them. Mr Winchcombe, we were assured, was going nowhere, regardless of his respected name.
I stood in the doorway with the basket over my arm, watching with growing irritation. Davenport was nowhere to be seen.
‘He hasn’t given us enough yet,’ I heard one of the men say. He was a tall man; leaning over the table he looked like a tree bent by the wind.
Another, much shorter, and almost as thick-necked as Grimshaw said, ‘The magistrate wants to know if he also killed George Reed.’
‘He didn’t kill Mr Reed,’ I said – louder than I intended.
They all turned to look at me, just a woman in the corner of the room. The tall man straightened up, impressive in height and in the width of his shoulders.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is Miss Lizzie Hardwicke,’ Grimshaw said, before I could open my mouth. ‘Soho harlot.’
His words were supposed to silence me. I ignored him and spoke to the tall man.
‘It’s all about the letters, you see, not John Swann. Where’s Mr Davenport? He would understand.’
‘He’s not here,’ said the man. ‘Some busines
s with his wife’s family.’
I was taken aback. I hadn’t thought of Davenport as a man with family. There was a wife, then, and perhaps children. Strange that he hadn’t said. But then, there was no reason for him to mention a wife to the likes of me.
‘What letters?’ The third man at the table, older than the others, had been examining the papers with his spectacles held to his nose, ignoring the argument about Mr Winchcombe. Now he seemed interested.
‘Mr Reed was writing blackmail letters, sir. There were a number of recipients – including Mr Winchcombe and these two gentlemen here – but also some letters are missing.’
Herring swung around at that.
‘Missing?’
‘The packet Mr Grimshaw found in the yard of the White Horse was not complete.’
Grimshaw reached for a tankard of beer on the table. ‘She’s right. That’s what Will said.’ He took a drink, watching me.
‘Go on,’ the man at the table gestured to me that I should continue.
‘Mrs Farley – the woman who is my landlady – she received letters from him too. But she has received further letters since his murder, suggesting that someone might have been interested to make use of the information in the letters. Interested enough to kill for it.’
‘I suppose you’re now going to tell us who this person is,’ said Grimshaw, smirking.
I frowned. ‘I did think it was a butcher called John Groves. He lives just off Golden Square. Reed was lodging with him and he said something very odd to me. But really, I think there is someone else, someone we don’t know. There’s a man called Beech involved.’
‘Beech?’ Charles said. ‘Who is this Beech?’
‘I don’t know.’ All I had was a button.
‘Any ideas, Herring?’ Charles pressed his friend. ‘Have you heard of a Mr Beech at all?’
‘No,’ said Herring. ‘Perhaps someone else who had a letter from that terrible man?’
‘No, he’s the person collecting the money, whether for himself or someone else, I don’t know,’ I said.
