by Death
I shuddered and began praying that Davenport, at least, would see the truth of the situation.
Instead of taking me straight to the court, as I had expected, they knocked at the door to the house. An elderly housekeeper in a white cap answered the door and ushered us in. I wondered if this was the Mrs Priddy the young boy had told me about, but I didn’t have chance to ask, as very quickly I was back in the same room I had visited with Charles and Mr Herring. Immediately, I felt the want of their supportive company as I stood alone in a room of five men, feeling more naked and exposed than ever I did at Berwick Street. Grimshaw and Snow, having escorted me thus far, made their way over to the paper-covered table, where three of their colleagues sat. One of them, Davenport, with his back to me, took the purse and watch from Grimshaw. I saw him turn the watch over. His shoulders dropped, almost imperceptibly, when he saw the initials. He was disappointed, I could tell. He had trusted me, and I had fallen short.
A thudding sensation began to pulse in my body. I was afraid.
Davenport turned, slowly, in his seat and looked at me. I let out a shaky breath. I expected him to be angry, but his face was not angry. It was impassive, and that was almost worse because I couldn’t read his expression. He swung the watch on its chain.
‘Well?’ He was, at least, giving me a chance to explain.
‘They said they found the watch and purse under my pillow,’ I said, in as calm a voice as I could manage, judging it unwise to accuse the men of ransacking my room. ‘I did not put them there. I had never seen these things until they showed them to me.’
He said nothing. The other men glanced up, briefly, but then returned to their papers. Grimshaw and Snow were at the other end of the room, pouring themselves pots of beer from a jug and cutting some cheese. They were listening, but not commenting. They didn’t need to – as far as they were concerned, they had done their job.
‘Someone has put them in my room,’ I said. ‘That person has also taken the gold button.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Gold button?’
‘The button Sallie pulled from a man’s coat before she was tipped into the Thames. I traced its owner, by the way.’
‘Really,’ he said flatly. ‘Who is this mysterious owner, do you suppose, Miss Hardwicke?’
I did not like the tone of his voice. He sounded like a man humouring a child before setting it straight. But this was my opportunity.
‘I think it’s someone called Beech.’
That surprised him. I think he was expecting a lame excuse, or a shrug, rather than a name.
‘I’ve not heard of a Beech,’ he said.
‘Mr Beech is the man who collected the coat from the tailor,’ I said, as the suspicious look returned to his face. ‘It’s what Sallie was trying to tell me. Kitty said that she had heard George Reed arguing with a man about a beach in Paris. That he had missed the beach. But there is no beach in Paris, only a river. He was saying something about a Mister Beech. And Mr Beech is the name of the man with the coat. It all makes sense.’
The men at the table, still with their eyes on the papers, had not turned any pages. They were listening intently.
‘Three people have received blackmail letters since Reed died: Mrs Farley, Mr Herring and Mr Stanford,’ I said, trying to remain calm.
Davenport rubbed at his forehead and gave me a weary look.
‘The letters demanded that money be taken to a bath house on Long Acre and left for a Mr Beech to collect. I went there with Mrs Farley’s money and Mr Stanford came with his, yesterday.’ It was frustrating to share the result. I muttered it, still annoyed at my own stupidity. ‘We waited, but we didn’t see Mr Beech. We have no idea what he looks like.’
He toyed with the watch in his lap, turning it over as he took in my words.
‘I think you’re lying to me.’ His voice was quiet.
‘I am not lying!’ There was a ripple of excitement at the table. I had, unintentionally, shouted.
‘Reed’s watch and purse were found in your room. You were always the one most likely to have strangled him for his goods – you told me yourself that you’re keeping back some of your money from Mrs Farley.’ At that, the men looked up, now cheerfully engaged in the drama.
‘How dare you make something of that. I told you my plans in good faith.’
‘I didn’t know then that you were keeping dead men’s watches and purses as well.’ His voice was beginning to get louder.
‘I’ve told you, I did not take George Reed’s watch and purse, any more than I killed him. Why can’t you believe that?’
‘Because they were found in your room.’
‘I’m telling you the truth, sir. I’ll swear on any Bible you have that I never set eyes on them until this morning.’
‘Of course you’ll swear. You’ll say anything to save your neck, I’m sure.’
He was angry now; but so was I.
‘Just because someone is a whore, that doesn’t make her a liar.’
‘Well, experience tells me otherwise,’ he said curtly. One of the men at the table sniggered. Davenport threw him a sharp glance before glaring back at me. ‘I thought you were different; turns out, you’re just like all the others.’
‘No. I’m not having that, sir. I have been utterly straight with you, and you know it. If you’d listened to the people on the street, if you’d visited every tailor this side of the river, as I have done, you would be convinced of my innocence – despite what your dogs have brought in.’ I folded my arms, mirroring him. ‘George Reed was killed by someone who wanted the information he carried, someone he knew in Paris – that’s what I learned from the gingerbread seller. The street girls came to me with a story about a beach and then one of them was killed. Her attacker was a man from Norwich, who got his coat from a tailor near Golden Square. The buttons had canaries on them – birds that people from Norwich have a passion for – and the man’s name was Beech. Now, I might speak French, sir, but I have never been to Paris, any more than I’ve been to Rome or Athens. I have no connection with Norwich, and my name, although not Hardwicke, is not Beech…’
There was a great scraping of chairs as the men at the table suddenly stood. My words dwindled into nothing. Davenport was looking over my shoulder to the doorway where, when I turned to see for myself, stood the magistrate.
Chapter Forty-five
Mr John Fielding was leaning on the door frame, head to one side. As I stopped speaking, he applauded softly.
‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘That’s a very pretty speech. But, tell me, what is your name?’
He was not a young man, but neither was he especially old; no more than forty. His wig was heavy, rather than fashionable, which made him appear older, and on top of it he wore an ordinary black hat. There was nothing about his person or dress that suggested anything other than gravity, intelligence and sobriety. In fact, the only aspects of him that drew notice were the band around his eyes and the thin stick, currently tucked under his arm.
‘Elizabeth Vessey, sir.’ The name sounded odd to my ears; it had been months since I had used it. ‘But I’m known as Lizzie Hardwicke.’
He eased himself away from the door and pulled off his hat. He was familiar enough in his own surroundings to find his way to the table, where Davenport pulled out a chair. One of the other men poured him a beer and set it in his hand. None of them spoke as he drank. He set down his pot and turned in my direction, a slight frown on his brow.
‘Are you related to Sir Francis Vessey, by any chance?’
The question startled me. ‘Sir Francis is my uncle, yes; my father’s brother.’ Davenport shifted his position. Mr Fielding grunted.
‘Then no wonder you’ve changed your name.’ He said no more, but I was left with the impression that he had met my uncle at some point and that the meeting had not been favourable.
‘You’re a long way from home, though, Miss, ah… Hardwicke. And, I think, a long way from the life you are supposed to be leading, if you are
standing arguing with my men about stolen property.’
‘You are correct, sir. London is not my home; but it is my career now.’
He ran a finger under his cravat to loosen it a little.
‘That’s a pity,’ he said. ‘From what I heard when I came in, you sounded like a lawyer – and more intelligent than the one who was wearying me on my walk home from church. But I interrupted you. You were, I think, giving these men a precis of your investigations.’
‘Jack and Snowy found George Reed’s watch and purse in Miss Hardwicke’s room, sir,’ Davenport said, cutting across the magistrate.
Mr Fielding smiled to himself. ‘They were under her pillow, no doubt.’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Really, Will, does Miss Hardwicke strike you as the sort of woman who would hide treasures under her pillow?’
Davenport glowered at me but said nothing.
‘I’m not a man to be swayed by pretty looks, Miss Hardwicke,’ Mr Fielding addressed me again. ‘Indeed, I can only imagine that you are pretty. If you’re playing my men for fools, you’re wise enough to know the consequences for your games. But I try to be a fair man, and if you have information, or evidence, then we should hear it. I know the matter; Mr Davenport has shared with me the details of your party, who was present, and how Mr Reed was discovered.’
I swallowed hard.
‘At the moment, sir, all that I have are pieces of a puzzle. You heard most of it, I think, from the doorway.
‘You’ll have to do better, you know,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘You are still the person most likely to have killed him, at the moment. Try again.’
They were all listening now.
‘We are looking for a man called Beech – or perhaps…’ it came to me as I was speaking, ‘a man who goes by the name of Beech sometimes.’ If I could use a different name to escape my past, why couldn’t he?
‘Go on.’
‘When Reed was murdered, I noticed he was missing a packet of papers. I told Mr Davenport about them straight away. When the packet turned up, a day after the death, some of the papers were missing, but the rest were blackmail notes and copies of letters. Several people were being blackmailed. Any of them might have killed him, given the nature of the notes, but none of them, as far as I can see, did kill him. They were all somewhere else at the time.’
He considered this.
‘And what do you conclude from that?’
‘That if Mr Reed was killed by someone he was blackmailing, and none of the people mentioned in those letters did kill him, then we must be looking for another blackmail victim – one whose name was mentioned only in the missing letters.’
I frowned at him. ‘But everyone who was at the party was being blackmailed. Mr Herring, Mr Stanford and Mr Winchcombe were. He was making insinuations to Sydney, our door man, Mrs Farley and a couple of the gentlemen have had letters even since Reed’s death. Indeed, there is only Tommy Bridgewater who wasn’t mentioned in the letters we found. Tommy was the name Mr Reed shouted as he left our house. “I know who you are, Tommy boy,” was what he said.’
‘So, the conclusion you reach is that Tommy Bridgewater killed him? Or that Tommy Bridgewater is really Mr Beech?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Until last night I would have said that Tommy was unlikely to have killed him. He’s a hot-headed boy, but I don’t think that Reed had any information on him – and I really don’t think they had met until that night. But yesterday, I saw Tommy breaking into a house.’
He dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand.
‘Leave that for now. If Tommy Bridgewater did not kill Reed, what is your alternative?’
It came to me, even as he asked the question.
‘Someone is lying.’
Someone else was, like the red-haired musician in the tavern, dressed up and pretending to be something that he, or she, was not, to fool the crowd.
‘So,’ Mr Fielding was saying, ‘either someone is lying to you, or else Tommy Bridgewater killed Reed.’
There was a racket outside; shouting and jostling in the street. The door flew open with a bang and a man fell into the room, his face bruised and cut. It was the older man I had seen at the table the other day. He saw the magistrate and saluted.
‘Mr Fielding! Grimshaw, Snowy, come and help. We’ve got them!’
Grimshaw and Snow leapt to their feet in a flash and dashed out. Davenport and the others raced to join them. Mr Fielding was slower. He needed no help from me but marched quickly to the street armed with his stick. I ran out too – recognising a chance to escape.
‘What’s going on?’ Mr Fielding was gazing into the street, unable to see what was happening, but assailed, as I was, by the yells and shouts.
Davenport, Grimshaw, Snow and the rest were helping two runners and – how very odd – Tommy Bridgewater, wrestle four other men towards the magistrate’s gaol.
‘It’s Swann’s gang,’ panted someone. ‘We’ve got them all.’
Mr Fielding clapped his hands with undignified glee. ‘Well done men. Another success!’
I flattened myself against the door and watched as the men were marched into the cells. I could hear them shouting and cursing through the thick walls. Mr Fielding was very pleased. Tommy Bridgewater saw me and shrank a little behind the others.
The older man with the bruised face, whose name appeared to be Carter, told Mr Fielding in excited tones how the gang had been discovered in a hovel somewhere between Covent Garden and St Anne’s. He dragged Tommy forward and stood him in front of Mr Fielding.
‘It’s this young man we have to thank, sir. It was his quick thinking and bold courage that led us to them.’
Tommy’s cheeks reddened, although Mr Fielding would not have known that.
‘Don’t be shy, son,’ he said – as if he had, indeed, seen the blush. ‘Who are you? What manner of man are you?’
‘Thomas Bridgewater, sir. I’m a farrier. Well, when I have work I am.’
Mr Fielding cocked his head to one side and looked in my direction, anticipating where I would be.
‘Is this your Tommy Bridgewater, Miss Hardwicke?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I think you have the answer to your dilemma, don’t you?’
Tommy looked puzzled, but Carter broke in.
‘Mr Fielding, but we could do with a man like him with us. He’s young, but useful. Not only did he lead us to Swann’s gang, having overheard them talking in a tavern, he helped us climb into their room through the window. We waited nearly a day for them to return this afternoon while Tommy here kept watch and then, just as we were giving up hope, they came back from ransacking houses in the west. We sprang on them and brought them here.’
‘Indeed. Well, if he’s as useful as you say he is, then perhaps I’d better take him on, Mr Carter. I trust your judgement. Come and see me tomorrow, Mr Bridgewater and I’ll see what I can offer you.’
Tommy glowed, both at the praise and the prospect of a job. It wasn’t what he had looked for, and it would bring its own dangers, but it was work.
‘Off with you all, now, please; I have matters to attend to. Go and celebrate your victory in the usual way. Mr Carter—’ He reached for a small purse at his waist and found a handful of coins. ‘Make sure they don’t have sore heads tomorrow.’
While the men were congratulating one another, and while they were still distracted by their good fortune, I slipped away. He did not see me leave, but I guessed that Mr Fielding would know that I had disappeared.
Chapter Forty-six
The urge to flee had been overwhelming. Now I had to deal with having fled. As I walked back towards Berwick Street the realisation dawned that I had probably just done the most foolish thing in my life – apart from inviting George Reed to our party. I had just given Mr Fielding and Mr Davenport all the evidence they needed that I was mixed up in Reed’s death. Why would an innocent woman run away? Escaping while they had been distracted now seemed irredeemably suspicio
us. And stupid.
I slowed my walk and tried to stem the tide of curses that were flowing in one long mutter from my lips. Ma would have slapped me, had she heard.
I could not return to Berwick Street. That would be the first place Davenport would go, once he realised I had disappeared. I might be welcome at the Groves’ – although I would not be able to earn a living from Susan’s house, and Davenport would probably search that house too. Thinking of Mrs Groves made me remember Amelia: I ached to tell her about Tommy and his new job. They would, at least, be able to pay their rent. I was sure that Susan would want them both to stay. I was wandering towards Golden Square; I could easily give Amelia the news.
I nearly bumped into Susan Groves as I turned a corner. She had her head down and was scurrying along like a little mouse. She even squeaked when she saw me.
‘Oh, Miss Hardwicke. How lovely to see you.’ She chattered about several different matters, even before I was able to open my mouth. Amelia was settled, she was eating again, she – Susan – had been baking and the two of them were enjoying each other’s company. John had been called out to the butcher to pack a cart which was highly unusual because it was Sunday and it was likely to put him in a bad mood. A note had summoned him that morning and he had been most displeased, and she was fretting about what to cook. Finally, she stopped to draw breath and I told her that I had important news for her.
