by Death
‘I don’t know about this Beech,’ Herring spoke over me, ‘I thought we were interested in Bridgewater. Isn’t that what you told me, Stanford?’
Charles shrugged.
Grimshaw took another mouthful of beer and pondered this.
‘Tommy Bridgewater? The young man with the skinny little moll at Ma Farley’s place? He’s got a temper, that one.’
‘It was his name Reed called out when we all threw him onto the street,’ said Charles. ‘Tommy boy, he called him.’
‘That’s right,’ said Herring. ‘What’s happened to Tommy boy?’ He looked over at me, expecting me to know. They all looked at me.
‘He’s disappeared,’ I said.
The older man at the table straightened up.
‘Interesting.’
It was certainly confusing. Mr Winchcombe might be involved with Swann’s gang, but the letters to Mrs Farley suggested that someone had killed Reed for information, not just money. Blackmail was a lucrative business – especially if someone had done all the research for you. But I had nothing more to say to these men. None of them would want to hear about Sallie, or the button, or how she had told Bess and Kitty about a beach in Paris. I needed Davenport, but he was engaged on family business.
‘Perhaps you should be looking for Tommy Bridgewater, rather than trying to turn our friend into a murderer,’ Charles said. ‘In the meantime, we will see Mr Winchcombe – make sure that his accommodation is suitable for a gentleman.’
‘I have food for him.’ I said, gesturing to my basket.
Grimshaw stepped towards me, took the basket from my arm and lifted the cloth.
‘I’ll make sure he gets it.’ He put the basket down on the table. I strode over and put a hand on it.
‘I would rather take it myself.’ I wanted Mr Winchcombe to enjoy the contents, not Grimshaw.
Charles and Herring left the room, with the tall man leading them. Grimshaw laid a hand over mine.
‘No. I said, I’ll make sure he gets it,’ he repeated in a mean voice, eyes on mine. He leaned on my hand, crushing my bones, just so that I understood.
‘Very well.’
He chuckled, pressed harder on my fingers, and stepped nearer. His eyes wandered down to my breasts, with a look I knew all too well. I could smell the beer when he leaned closer and breathed at my ear.
‘Perhaps I’ll pay you a visit sometime, Miss Lizzie Hardwicke; see if you’re as clever on your back as you are on your feet. I like redheads.’
I swallowed back all my usual insults; he was hurting my hand. But, dear God, the thought of having this man in my bed made me want to be violently sick. He released me, and I stood back quickly, unwilling to look him in the eye. I pulled the edges of my cloak tighter about my neck, covering myself as best I could.
‘Good day, sir.’
He gave me a nasty smile. I nodded to the other two men and fled the room.
* * *
Charles had gone from the hall of the courthouse. He and Herring were, no doubt, poking about in the gaol, fussing over Mr Winchcombe and complaining about his treatment to the turnkey and the tall man.
There was a boy by the door, charged with showing people in and out. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, solemn-faced and smartly dressed. I imagined he saw and understood a lot of what went on, even though he was just a child.
‘Where is Mr Davenport today?’ I asked him. ‘He’s a friend of mine and I expected to see him here.’
He narrowed his eyes, deciding whether to favour me with information.
‘He’s gone away for a day or two, miss. Mrs Priddy says he’s out near Twickenham.’
Family business took him away from London, then.
‘He is with his wife?’
The boy looked puzzled. ‘No, course not. His wife’s dead, and his baby. Mrs Priddy said it was a year to the day his wife died; that’s why he’s gone to see her mother.’
His wife and child dead. I thought I had seen sadness in his eyes; now I knew its cause. The poor man was still grieving and had gone to share that grief with her family.
‘He’s gone to his mother-in-law? He has a sense of duty.’
The boy looked thoughtful as he stepped from the doorway. ‘Mrs Priddy says it’s guilt what takes him. He was a medical man, she says, but he couldn’t save his wife and boy.’
I assumed Mrs Priddy was a housekeeper or cook. There had to be a woman somewhere, supplying all these men with food and drink.
‘And what else does Mrs Priddy say?’
He was suddenly anxious. He knew that he had told me too much. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you any more, miss.’
‘You won’t get into trouble on my account,’ I said. ‘Mr Davenport has become a new friend to me and I’d like to know if I can help him.’ We were out on the street now. Men limping with bandaged legs were not going to persuade me that their pastries were the best, nor would girls with pimpled skin sell me sweetmeats, but the boy might like one. I plucked a penny from my skirt.
‘How did a physician end up working at Bow Street, do you suppose?’
He eyed the penny and I watched him wrestle with his conscience and his hunger. Hunger won out.
‘Mrs Priddy says he was just about managing without his wife and son. He was finding comfort in his work, knowing that even if he hadn’t been able to make them well, he could save others. Then, she says, it was his father’s death that turned his heart.’
This was an odd phrase for a child to use. I imagined Mrs Priddy chewing over the situation with the servants in the kitchen, unaware that her exact words were being locked into a nine-year-old memory. The boy would make a good witness.
‘What happened to his father?’ I let the penny catch the light.
‘He was attacked in the street, they say. Knocked over and whacked on the head for sixpence. His heart gave out. After that, Mr Davenport came to us at Bow Street. Mrs Priddy thinks he’s looking for the men who did his father in and that Mr Fielding likes having such a clever gentleman in his company.’
‘And what do you think?’
He wrinkled his face, giving my question some consideration. I imagined his opinion was rarely sought.
‘He always says good morning to me, miss. I like that.’
I gave him the penny. ‘I think you’re right to like it. But I won’t tell anyone what you said. Thank you for leaving your post and escorting me.’
He shoved the penny into his coat, gave a swift bow and then ran away across the street.
I stood for a moment, watching the swell of people at the market. I remembered the way that Davenport had dealt with Sallie’s body at the side of the river; calmly and methodically, like a doctor examining a patient. He had been frustrated too, because he was unable to help. Now I understood why.
Chapter Thirty-seven
I took a carriage home. I wasn’t looking forward to returning. Once Ma discovered her little bird had flown and her opportunity to pay the latest blackmail letter had gone, she would either hit the gin or hit out at the rest of us. Probably both.
With a sigh, I pushed open the door.
Mrs Farley was boxing someone’s ears. That someone, shrieking murder, was Sydney.
I sprang to defend him, pulling her away as best I could. She was a strong woman and her hands continued to rain blows on his head even as I dragged her off him. He leapt into his room like a frightened stag and bolted the door, screaming.
Ma was also still screeching and ran to the door, pounding it with her hands, as if, unable to clatter Sydney, she would make do with the wood.
‘Ma!’ I tugged her arms. ‘Ma! For pity’s sake, calm down!’
I was yelling now as well. Faces appeared over the bannister rail as Emily and Polly peeped down to see what the commotion was about.
‘He’s not going to come out, Ma. Leave him for a while. Come away.’ I pulled her sleeve again and she gave up, collapsing into great sobs. I could smell the sour odour of gin on her bre
ath. Sydney, behind his door, was crying quietly and soothing himself.
‘Why? Why has he come back to us, Lizzie?’
Ma had fallen into a chair, her head in her hands.
‘You didn’t ask him that before you started beating him?’
Her red eyes glared up at me.
‘Foolish girl! Of course I asked him! He said that he came back because this is his home. What does he mean by that? His letter said that he was leaving us.’
‘And then you started beating him?’
‘Well, he made me so angry. Such a silly thing to say. And then he was screaming at me that this was his home and asking why I was shouting.’
‘You still have his letter in your pocket?’
Her hand rustled through her skirts and drew out the crumpled note.
I patted her on the shoulder and wandered into the hallway.
‘Meg,’ I called out. ‘Can you come and make Mrs Farley some tea? And find her something good to eat? I think she needs a bit of care.’
Meg came to the hall, wide-eyed with anxiety. Polly and Emily were still on the stairs.
‘She won’t bite you. She just needs something to calm her down. Nothing that comes from a bottle.’
‘What about you?’ Polly asked from behind the safety of the rail.
I nodded toward the locked door.
‘I’m going to talk to Sydney. Without boxing his ears.’
‘Good luck.’
‘I’m not sure who I’d rather deal with, Sydney or Ma.’ I grinned at her as she went into the parlour. I waited for a moment and listened for the sounds of Meg and Polly beginning to offer comfort and then stole to Sydney’s room and tapped on the door.
‘It’s me, Lizzie. I promise not to hurt you if you let me in.’
There was silence. The sobbing had stopped.
‘Sydney, I’m not going to hit you.’
Still there was no response.
‘Mrs Farley is in the parlour and has calmed down. Just let me in, please. I need to talk to you.’
The key was turned, and the door opened a fraction. Sydney’s fearful eye met mine.
‘It is safe?’
‘Let me in, please. We need to talk.’
He opened the door and, before he could change his mind, I pushed past him.
Despite my time at Mrs Farley’s, I had never had cause to enter his room before. It was small, but extremely tidy and even elegant in its decoration; the room of a fine gentleman, rather than the doorman at a brothel. The room was on the front of the house, near enough to the main door that he could be there as soon as anyone knocked, but it was a private space. His space.
There was a small table in the corner, upon which sat a few books, some paper, and a pen. The paper was covered with dots and splodges of ink; this was at odds with the good order of everything else in the room.
Sydney retreated to the end of his bed and put his head in his hands.
‘Why? Why does she attack me, Miss Lizzie? I do not understand her. What have I done to deserve such treatment?’
I gave him the crumpled paper from my hand.
‘Maybe it has something to do with the note you left her. Where did you go? Where have you been these past days?’
He looked up, sniffed and unfolded the paper. He read it and then looked up at me with puzzlement in his eyes.
‘What is wrong with my note?’
I grabbed it from him and read it aloud. ‘Madame Farley, I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I need to be somewhere else. I thank you for your understanding. Sydney.’
He shook his head.
‘I thought that she would appreciate a letter.’
‘She believed that you had left for good.’
‘Why would she think that? I have not said so in my writing, have I? I have been away before.’
‘“I need to be somewhere else”, you said. “I am sorry to disappoint you”. Why would you say that if you were not leaving us? When you’ve never written a note to her before?’
He was silent for a moment.
‘Miss Lizzie, you must understand, I have never written to anyone before. Did I get it wrong?’ His eyes were full of shame.
Suddenly I saw it. The childish handwriting, the ink-splattered paper, the small stack of novels on his table, the shameful face. Sydney, the elegant Frenchman who kept us all on our toes, was learning to read and write. His letter to Mrs Farley was him showing off a new-found skill.
I started to laugh.
‘Miss Lizzie, what is so funny?’
‘Oh Sydney, you’ve no idea the trouble this letter has put us to.’
‘Am I in trouble?’ The worry was etched on his face.
‘No, no, not at all. It only needs a little explanation to Mrs Farley and all will be right with the world again.’
I touched his arm.
‘Did you tell anyone that you were learning to write?’
He shook his head.
‘No, I did not. It seemed that writing was a talent that I should have mastered as a child. I hid my inadequacy from everyone.’
‘Who has been teaching you?’
His eyes lowered.
‘Mr Slim. Mr Slim has been teaching me.’
I sucked my teeth. ‘I won’t ask how you’ve been paying him.’ Thomas Slim was well-known around our part of London for his attraction to dark-skinned young men.
‘He has been very generous with his time.’
‘I imagine you’ve been generous with yours, Sydney. Is this where you’ve been? At Mr Slim’s house?’
He shrugged. ‘Mostly, I have been there, yes.’ He was not going to tell me anything more.
Ma greeted the news with grumbling.
‘I don’t need a doorman with his nose in a book. I need one who will be handy with his fists.’
‘He’ll always be our Sydney,’ I said, ‘his size is enough to deter intruders, but perhaps his conversation will be more learned.’
‘He’s already pompous,’ said Meg, cross that Sydney was back in the stool she had recently occupied. ‘He’s forever lording over the rest of us. Reading and writing will just make him even more superior.’
‘Then maybe it’s time you learned your letters, Meg,’ I said, ‘so you can read the same books and argue back at him.’
She snorted.
‘I’ve no time for books, miss, and I can argue with Sydney whenever I want. I don’t need books to do it.’
There was no disputing that.
‘Well, at least it means that he’s back with us, and you don’t have to find a new doorman, Ma. Next time he leaves us, he’ll write a note to you without causing such grief.’
‘Perhaps, next time, he might ask permission first,’ she frowned. ‘Or, at the least, tell me when he is going to return.’
She was pleased that he was back, but she wasn’t one to show her gratitude – to Sydney or to me.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Meg took the tray from the table and left us.
Ma had calmed down considerably, but she was still picking the edge of her sleeve. I guessed why she was anxious, but the guilty feeling in my gut meant I didn’t dare comment.
She reached across the table and clutched at my arm. ‘Have you had any thoughts about those dreadful letters?’
‘No, Ma, I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to help poor Mr Winchcombe.’
‘Mr Winchcombe? What’s he got to do with this?’
I gave her a brief account of all that had befallen Mr Winchcombe.
‘I can’t see how that helps my situation.’
‘I’m doing my best, Ma.’
‘You are not.’ Her eyes squinted at me. ‘You’ve been idling your time away with Mr Stanford and Mr Herring instead of earning more money. Unless they paid you to accompany them to Bow Street.’
I was silent.
‘And another thing,’ she began to bite a nail, ‘Amelia’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ I feigned surprise as best I co
uld.
‘She’s gone. Left the house. She’s taken most of her clothes. I don’t know where she’s gone – or how she thinks she’ll manage on the streets with no money – but she’s taken scared and run away.’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose you can hardly blame her. It’s not a life that anyone wants, is it? And knowing what was about to happen probably made it worse.’
‘But Lizzie!’ She sounded exasperated. ‘Think of the money I’m losing! Never mind the silly little chit: I’ve got to find more money.’
She fiddled with her rings.
This blackmailer had really got under her skin. She might have been an experienced bawd, but until now she had always been kind-hearted. She had never pressured us for money. Suddenly, she was grasping, and only interested in her own problems.
‘Have you been told to make another payment?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Tomorrow. It’s to go to the bath house again for Mr Beech.’
This was the chance I needed.
‘I’ll take the money for you, Ma. I’ll have a look around the bath house and ask a few discreet questions. Flutter my eyelashes, that sort of thing.’ I grinned.
‘Well that would be a very good plan, Lizzie, were it not for one thing: I don’t have enough money yet.’ Her mouth hardened. ‘This was why Amelia was so important. I was going to make a tidy sum from her this evening: enough to pay up and have a little left over for myself.’
Greedy old witch. Still, I could see she was worried.
‘How far short are you? Can we help out, do you think?’
She sat back, considering me carefully. Then a thin smile grew on her lips.
‘The gentleman calling for Amelia is an older man,’ she said slowly. ‘Perhaps not so clear-sighted. I wonder whether we can’t persuade him that you aren’t his little sweetmeat.’
I laughed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ma. I haven’t been a maid for nearly a year and I’m too old to pretend.’
But she was warming to her idea and looked me up and down becoming more enthusiastic as she spoke.
‘You’re a good little actress, Lizzie, you’ll know well enough how to go about it. You’re small enough to look sixteen, and you’re still the freshest girl in this establishment. I’m sure that in dim light you can pass.’
