by Death
I didn’t like this idea. I might well be able to act like an innocent, I could even sob as noisily as Amelia, but she was suggesting deception. I thought it a dangerous game.
‘How will this man react if he discovers I am a fraud? He’s paying for a virgin and he’s not getting one.’
She waved a hand to dismiss my concern.
‘He’s paying me half the sum before he meets her – I mean you – and half once the deed is done. If he has any complaint, he’ll make it to me. I can always negotiate the final amount. After all, he’s getting one of London’s finest girls: he can’t be too disappointed.’
She leaned forward and gave me a knowing look.
‘I have an ointment. Something to make you seem like a maid again. Tighten you up.’
I laid my forehead on the table and closed my eyes. I had heard of such tricks. She would probably expect me to smear pig’s blood on my bedsheet, too.
‘And what happens when the blackmailer demands more money?’
‘The letter says that he’ll not trouble me again. I have no reason to trust him; but he says it’s his last demand.’
I doubted that. If he knew he could get his hands on Ma’s money, then surely, he would try again. I couldn’t be a virgin for ever – no matter how good an actress I might be. She wanted to believe, hope, that all would be well once tonight was over.
I groaned into the tablecloth.
‘All right. I’ll do it. I know I won’t get any money for this, so this is a favour to you, Ma.’ I raised my head, briefly. ‘But after this: no more favours and no more pretence of virginity.’
Even if I were successful in fooling one old man, I didn’t want her getting ideas of doing it again, just because it was lucrative.
‘What time will he arrive?’
She stroked my hair. I assumed the sudden tenderness was gratitude.
‘He’ll be here at five o’ clock. I have a lovely white muslin for you to wear. I’ll bring it up to your room while you make yourself ready.’
She patted my head again and swung out of the room, humming to herself.
It wouldn’t be too bad, I thought. I took men to bed all the time, this one would be no different. I wasn’t losing my maidenhood – it was long gone. I shivered. I didn’t need to act with this man: I only needed to remember.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I won’t dwell on the details.
It was an unpleasant evening and the gentleman who forced himself upon me was not only old, but brutal and bony. The bruises would appear soon enough.
The combination of my kicks and sobs with Mrs Farley’s magic ointment were enough to persuade him that he had been dealt with fairly and he paid her the full balance of the money. A carriage collected him and took him back to the House of Lords.
When he went, I curled up into a ball and thanked God that I had, at least, saved Amelia from him. I prayed that she was warm and safe and that she would never have to face a life like mine – or Sallie’s.
Ma was delighted and, in a fit of gratitude, even slipped a couple of coins into my hand as she came up with some cold supper. I wanted her to go away and leave me in peace, but her thoughts had turned from making the money to passing it on to the mysterious Mr Beech. I was to be out at midday with the money in a parcel. I needed an extra pair of eyes. Davenport was the man I needed, but he was away. I wondered whether I could persuade Charles. He wouldn’t be interested in helping Ma, but he might be sufficiently intrigued by the possibility of catching a man bound up in Reed’s murder.
‘I want Charles to come with me.’ I eased myself up on to an elbow and picked at the bread on the tray.
‘I’ll send a servant to his lodgings and ask him to call tomorrow.’
Having settled my plans, she took her leave. I wasn’t hungry. After slipping the tray outside my door, I rolled back into bed and fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
I woke with a start. I had been dreaming about Mr Davenport: an odd dream where I was running down a country lane after him. I was trying to call out, but my mouth was full of buttons. Instead I was in my bed. It was morning and I could hear people on the street going about their business. A single gold button lay next to my hairbrush on the table. I thought of Sallie.
There was a tap on the door. It was Meg.
‘Mr Stanford is downstairs.’
I sat up, still tired and sore. ‘So early?’
‘It’s not far off midday, Miss.’
I groaned.
‘I’ve brought you fresh hot water, if you want it,’ she said. Meg, I had no doubt, knew what I had done for Ma.
Charles had brought a carriage; it was waiting for us. I grabbed a slab of bread to eat, suddenly hungry now, before we left the house.
‘I have my own reason for visiting the bath house, you know,’ he said as he helped me into the seat. ‘Our blackmailer is widening his circle again, it seems.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a letter waiting for me when I returned yesterday. No one saw who delivered it. It’s full of the same sort of bile that I had from Reed. It’s even signed from Reed, even though it can’t be from him.’
‘May I see it?’
He shrank back into the seat. ‘I’d rather not show you, if you don’t mind. The words are unpleasant…’ He glanced out of the window. ‘But it tells me to leave money for a Mr Beech. Herring’s had a letter too; he’s in quite a state.’
I rested my head on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry that you and Herring are caught up in this again, but I’m glad you’re coming with me.’
He squeezed my knee. ‘You can thank me in so many ways.’ He kissed my neck softly, in the way he knows I like, but any hopes he had of a quick grind as the carriage jogged along were, thankfully, dashed when the driver stopped the horses rather abruptly and yelled: ‘This is your stop.’ Charles’ curse, as he fell off the seat, was almost as loud. He was still muttering as we climbed out.
* * *
The Queen’s bath house was on the corner of St Martin’s and Long Acre. I wondered whether it was an establishment that Charles knew, but he said not.
Mrs Farley’s money was wrapped in a plain packet, but I held it firmly, even in the carriage. Given what I had done to secure it, it felt like my own.
Charles was less anxious. People who have money don’t need to worry about it like those of us who work for a living. He was at ease with life, elegantly dressed in a maroon coat and gloves, and sporting a new wig: a gentleman of fashion.
He was at odds with the surroundings. The Queen’s bath house was decidedly not a fashionable place. In fact, it looked rather dreary from the outside and inside it was shabby, even squalid. A heavily-spiced perfume that I couldn’t identify lingered in the air, very nearly masking the more unmistakable smells of sweat and lust. In the area that might generously have been called a reception, a thin man draped in a silken gown and wearing a small red turban, perched on a stool behind a desk. He was no more a Turk than I, but he was trying his best to look oriental. He smiled a mouthful of black teeth at us.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said in a heavily-accented voice. ‘Welcome to paradise. What is your pleasure?’
Such an introduction would have caused me to giggle, had it not been for the nature our mission.
‘We have many pleasures, I can assure you,’ Charles said, taking charge of things, ‘but today we wish to leave two packages for collection.’
The man nodded solemnly, as if leaving packages were a regular occurrence, or maybe solemn nodding was part of the act.
‘And who is to collect these packages?’ He maintained his strangely foreign tone as he relieved us of our burdens.
‘Mr Beech,’ said Charles.
‘Ah yes,’ the man nodded again. ‘Mr Beech will be here this afternoon. Later, perhaps later…’ He pushed an open ledger across the desk and dipped a pen into a filthy pot. ‘Sign in here, please.’ He handed the pen to Charles, who scribbled as best he c
ould, splattering ink, while grumbling about how useless it was.
‘I’ve got ink on my fingers, now,’ he complained.
The Turk’s eyes took on an almost dreamy look. ‘Now, are you ready to sample our delights?’
I shook my head. The moisture in the air was making my clothes stick to my body. I wasn’t going to set foot in this stinking hole, even if Charles was. I tugged him away.
‘I think that this lovely lady would rather lift her skirts elsewhere. Perhaps I’ll come back another time.’ Charles said.
The man shrugged. ‘Your loss.’ His Turkish was abandoned in favour of a more comfortable London twang.
The snigger I had been holding back emerged as we pushed through the door and landed back on to the street.
‘Are you ready to sample our delights?’ I intoned the words in the same way as the man in the turban.
Charles laughed. ‘I’m always pleased to try your delights, sweetheart, but you were right to leave. I suspect that the only thing I’d sample in there is the clap.’
‘And you’d leave grubbier than when you arrived – which is no use in a bath house.’
We stood on the pavement. He looked up and down the street.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked. ‘I suppose we just wait for this Mr Beech to call by?’
He frowned.
‘I think we have to do just that. At least the weather’s kind.’
It was not unkind. A little chilly, but dry at least.
We stood in silence for a time, each of us peering at people passing by, wondering which of them was Beech.
‘I’m not cut out to be a guard,’ Charles huffed after only a few minutes had passed. ‘This is extremely dull.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, trying to make the best of it, ‘I’m enjoying watching the people, wondering who they are and what they might be up to.’
He shifted from one foot to the other.
‘This is what those runners should be doing: waiting here. Where’s that Davenport of yours got to, when we need him?’
I laughed and punched his arm. ‘He’s not my Davenport, Charles, and it won’t hurt us to stand here for a while.’
‘We don’t even know what we’re looking for.’
Charles was right. We had no idea whether Beech was a young man, or an older one.’
John Groves’ comment returned to me. ‘I think he might be a servant; even Mr Reed’s servant.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s what Mr Groves said to me,’ I said, ‘the butcher who let the room to Reed. He told me that he thought Reed was killed by a disgruntled servant.’
Charles snorted. ‘People always think that sort of thing. Servants are always out to murder their masters, aren’t they? I’m quite sure mine are.’
‘I got the impression that Reed had told him something, a story about a servant.’
‘Perhaps this Beech is one of Reed’s servants,’ said Charles. ‘It would make some sense for his servant to be collecting the money, especially if he’s taken over from his master. We could go and see Mr Groves and ask him if he knows anything.’
I laughed. ‘You fancy yourself as a constable, do you Charles? We spent too long in Bow Street yesterday.’
‘Certainly not,’ he said, shaking out the lace in his cuffs. ‘I don’t wish to spend my time grappling with footpads and murderers, thank you.’
For a few minutes, we stood side by side, watching the world pass by, everyone with something to sell.
‘You know, I wonder,’ he said quietly, ‘What if “Beech” isn’t even this man’s name? What if he’s just using the name when he collects his money?’ He paused. ‘I keep coming back to Tommy Bridgewater. Tommy was the name Reed called out that night. Reed obviously knew him, and to call him “Tommy boy” so gracelessly suggests that there was bad blood between them. I only met him once, but he did have the air of a truculent servant.’
I didn’t reply. It didn’t seem likely that Tommy was involved, and he was more fiery-tempered than truculent.
‘You say he’s disappeared?’ Charles asked.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve not seen him for some days.’ Neither had Amelia.
‘What about if this is just about Tommy wanting to get his hands on some money? He found Reed’s notes and he’s making use of them even now?’
It was possible.
‘What about the Paris business, though? Has Tommy been in Paris? I doubt it.’
‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘He might have gone with a former employer. Servants do travel, Lizzie. Where is Tommy now, though? Scribbling notes to other victims? Is he our Mr Beech?’
Perhaps he would turn up at the bath house.
Now that Charles was convinced of his own argument, he would hear no counter from me. He sniffed the air, confident. He had solved the crime and would look forward to sharing this with Mr Davenport.
He nodded over to a coffee house across the road.
‘Shall we find some coffee? We can keep an eye on the street from inside.’
I was ready to drink a coffee. The sun had disappeared behind clouds and the thought of a warm drink cheered me.
The coffee house was clean and friendly-looking and mostly empty. I settled into a chair at the window and we ordered two coffees from the keen lad who leapt on us for custom as soon as we sat down. The coffee was poor, but it was warm.
‘The turban thought Beech would arrive this afternoon, didn’t he?’ said Charles, looking out of the window.
It was already well into the afternoon.
Chapter Forty
We sat and watched through the window for what must have been an hour, commenting on the passers-by. We saw men saunter into the Queen’s bath house looking hopeful and saunter out again shining with moisture and sated lust. The place did a good trade, of that there was no doubt. From time to time we saw a woman, garishly dressed, on her way into work. I recognised the look. They were outwardly cheerful, brightly painted, laughing with people on the street. But when they moved away their faces took on a familiar care-worn expression and the shoulders slouched a little as they passed inside the door.
More people entered the building than left; it would surely become busier as the day progressed.
We scanned the street for anyone who looked as we expected Beech to look.
I saw a man I recognised. Charles was fiddling with a button on his glove, but I saw him as clear as day.
It was Mr Herring.
‘Charles!’
‘Hmm?’ he looked up, his mind on other matters.
‘Look – it’s Mr Herring!’
He peered through the window.
‘Really? Damn it all, it really is Herring.’ He made to bang on the window, but I grabbed his arm.
‘No, Charles, wait.’
Herring walked past the door of the Queen’s bath house, paused, and then walked back towards it. He hung around the entrance for a moment and then slipped inside.
‘What the devil would Herring want in a place like that?’ said Charles. ‘He can find cleaner and fresher beauties at many other establishments we know.’
‘Really? Many establishments?’
‘Oh, sorry, Lizzie, I didn’t mean…’
‘…didn’t mean to tell me what I already know? Never mind that now. Don’t you see? Mr Herring has just gone into the bath house. What if he is Mr Beech?’
‘Herring? You think he’s Beech? Don’t be foolish, Lizzie. It’s Bridgewater we want.’
‘I’m not being foolish.’
‘No, I’m sure you’re wrong. Herring’s had a letter too, don’t you recall? He’s bringing money, just like us.’
Charles stood up and dropped some coins on the table.
‘I’ll go over to the bath house to find him.’
I stood up. The coffee was cold in my cup.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, you stay here and look out for Bridgewater. I’ll deal with Herring.’
<
br /> I had no time to argue, as he sped through the door. I sat down and watched him go into the bath house.
The little serving boy removed the cups and gave the table a wipe with a filthy rag. Charles had left enough money for another cup, so I ordered it and kept an eye on the street. The bitter liquid sharpened my mind. Mr Herring had certainly lied to Mr Davenport in the tavern. He had lied twice.
He had lied when he said that he had met Reed just before Christmas; Winchcombe had told me that he and Herring had met the man in Paris, which was months earlier, even before he was married. Then Davenport had asked whether he and Mr Reed had exchanged words at the party in Berwick Street and he had said not but that he had recognised him, even with the mask. That too was a lie, I was sure, but what was it that made me know this?
I rubbed my temples and tried to remember the evening for myself. Reed had sat next to me at dinner, and I had been asked to remove him to another room by Ma before all the fuss with Amelia.
Outside, it was becoming busy. Street sellers carried their carts to and fro, powdered women swung their hips as they sauntered along, and people passed the time of day with one another, occasionally obscuring my view of the bath house entrance. A pair of young rakes, weaving their way along the road, already full of wine, nearly collided with an elderly man. He said a few words to them and they moved on, bursting into laughter after a few paces. The old man turned and scolded them, waving his stick, and they slunk away like chastened schoolboys.
I remembered.
That night, I had seen Reed speak to Mr Herring and Mr Winchcombe. He had looked, from a distance, to be awkward in the evening’s company. He had moved to speak to them and they had walked away, leaving him standing alone. I had, at the time, assumed that he had embarrassed himself, said something foolish, forcing them to abandon him. But what if he had recognised them immediately by their conduct – as Mr Herring said he had recognised Reed by his conduct? What if he had gone to them, not seeking companionship in an unfamiliar setting, but deliberately wanting to unnerve them or threaten, even?
