by Death
He undid his coat, sat down on a chair and casually threw an arm over the back. He smiled up at me, as confident and easy in his own skin as he ever was. The coat, middling blue in colour, was sporting gold buttons. I recognised them. One of them had been on my bedroom table until this morning. He was still handsome, still smiling. But his brown eyes were hard; full of spite. He leaned forward and patted the seat of the other chair, inviting me to sit.
‘Go on then, sweetheart. I’m all ears.’ He grabbed the bottle and took a swig from it, watching me.
I sat down, wondering how many people would hear me if I screamed.
‘Charles Stanford had a crooked back. He lived as a recluse with his uncle.’
He paused with the bottle at his lips, before taking another mouthful.
‘The coat you are wearing, which, I see, now has all of its buttons again, was made by a tailor who will recognise you as Thomas Beech, the servant who collected it on behalf of Charles Stanford. His assistant, originally from Norwich, will swear that Mr Stanford was deformed from childhood.’
He said nothing, but he did not take his eyes off me. I clasped my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling.
‘The ledger in the shop has your signature, Thomas Beech, and a splatter of ink from the pen, similar to the book in the Queen’s bath house, and also similar to the blackmail letter you wrote to yourself – that you alleged was from George Reed. That’s what I know. That’s what I can prove.’
He said nothing, but put the bottle down. He rubbed the edge of the table with one finger. I went on, emboldened.
‘I know that the story about Emily is either completely fabricated, or else unimportant. George Reed knew a much bigger and more dangerous secret – one you thought you’d left in Norwich. I would guess that you met Reed in Paris. That’s why the gingerbread man said Reed was going to make money from someone he met in Paris. It was you he met in Paris, when you were there. He, of course, knew the real Charles Stanford. Then he saw you again at the party and recognised you when you were introduced to him. It makes sense now, why he said what he did when you threw him out onto the street. “I know who you are Tommy.” He didn’t mean Tommy Bridgewater, he meant Tommy Beech.’
‘You have no proof. No letters.’
‘No, you destroyed those when you took the package. I imagine they exist somewhere because Reed was the sort to keep copies of important documents. If they’re not in your lodgings, they’ll be at his Norwich home. He had been writing to you for some time, hadn’t he? I would hazard that the letters started arriving as soon as he discovered your London address. He would have made enquiries when he was visiting on business.’
He took a swig from the bottle and then slammed it on the table.
‘He was a fucking blood sucker. Demanding more money every time to keep silent.’
‘He must have been delighted to see you that evening.’ The sound of the bottle had made me jump, but I didn’t want him to see I was terrified, so carried on regardless – the words pouring out of my mouth in a chatter. ‘Here was an opportunity to have you in his power. No wonder you threw him out so firmly when he called you Tommy boy. And then he followed you all to the White Horse to taunt you further. That was when you decided to silence him permanently.’
‘The bastard kept calling me Tommy, Tommy boy. He told me that he was expecting to make his fortune in London, what with my secret and others. Then he patted his coat and I realised that all those miserable letters were with him. I couldn’t help myself, Lizzie, you must believe me. I followed him out to the back yard. I didn’t mean to kill him. It just all became too much, the taunting. I grabbed him, grabbed his handkerchief and pulled so hard until he stopped breathing.’
He looked up at me with pleading eyes.
‘I was defending myself, you have to believe me. I didn’t mean to kill him.’
Weeks, even days ago, I might have fallen for those soft eyes. Not now.
‘What about Charles Stanford? The real Charles?’ I needed to know, even though I didn’t want to hear it.
The gentle features vanished, and I knew my guess had been horribly correct. It was all an act. All of it. He rolled his eyes.
‘Charles had no idea how to live the life he’d been born to. His parents died and left him well-provided for when he was young, and he was sent to live with his old uncle, who was sure to drop dead in a matter of a couple of years. He had stupidly good luck.’
‘But he had a crooked back, no parents, and no one to look out for him apart from an old man. He might have attracted your pity rather than your envy.’
He waved the thought away.
‘He wasn’t the only orphan in the world. He had wealth, breeding and opportunity waiting to be used on adventure. What did he do with it?’ He spat out his hatred. ‘I’ll tell you what he did with it. He sat in his room reading books about philosophy and science. He didn’t hunt, nor ride much. He never went to balls or parties; he had no desire to come to town. He wouldn’t even play dice or cards. He had all of that wealth and he squandered it on books.’
‘Not every man lives for drinking and gambling.’ There was a gentleman in my father’s parish, I remembered, who devoted his life to collecting insects. My brothers and I had thought him dull, but he was happy in his pursuit.
‘But to see it all wasted!’ He shook with anger. ‘It was more than I could bear. So, I constructed a plan to take him away.’
‘You were close to him? I understood that you were a servant in the house.’
His nose wrinkled.
‘I was a footman with nothing to do because he never rode out anywhere. But I was lucky to have a smattering of reading, so I asked him if I could read his books and get a bit more learning. I told him I wanted to better myself and he, like a fool, agreed.’
He took another gulp of brandy. I was needing some myself, but he didn’t offer.
‘It took years. He looked on me as a sort of experiment, I think, little knowing that I was the one in control. I read so many dull books, but my reading improved, and, over time, he was teaching me the manners of a gentleman too. He had me writing as well, but I was never so good with a pen, as you’ve observed.’
‘You didn’t become closer to him? Learn to appreciate his scholarship?’
‘No. He was a bore; a pompous disfigured bore. I put up with it because I could see that he enjoyed the thought of teaching me. I hoped that when he came into his inheritance, that he would set me up in the world.’
‘Give you money enough to pass for a gentleman?’
‘Exactly. But his uncle died, and he told me that he intended to give money to the furtherance of science. There was a man in Paris, André, a young chemist, who needed money to develop his work. He was determined to support him, and others like him.’
‘And that was how Paris came into it. You must have been upset.’
‘I was furious. All those hours spent reading drivel with him and he wasn’t going to give me a crown. Why should some equally dull creature get a fortune for glass bottles and tubes when I got nothing?’
I sat as still as I could. This was the man I had given myself to over and over again. A man who had been witty, bright and charming. I had been impressed by his attentions; he had declared himself my darling and everything about his conduct had suggested that he had been besotted with me – even in love. I watched him knocking back the brandy and lolling in the chair opposite me, and the memory of our congress made me feel sick. I had to keep him talking; had to give Davenport time to arrive.
Chapter Forty-nine
‘You took him to Paris?’
‘I planted an idea in his mind. It took a while to root – he was worried about his back – but eventually it did. He wrote to Monsieur André telling him of his decision to support his important work and that he desired to travel to Paris to see it for himself.’
‘Wasn’t this Monsieur André expecting to see him in Paris? And receive the money?’
‘He
was. He sent back a letter saying how honoured and delighted he was, and that Stanford could visit his rooms at any time.’
‘Monsieur is still waiting for his money, though?’
‘Stanford sent another letter a few weeks later saying that he had changed his mind and would not be travelling to Paris. His financial situation had altered, and he was unable to fund the work.’
‘You wrote that letter?’
He nodded, an arrogant smile across his face.
‘After all, it was a shame to put my studies to waste. My French is not at all bad, even if my handwriting is poor.’
‘Charles set off for Paris expecting to meet Monsieur André, ready to hand over his fortune, when André was no longer expecting him,’ I said.
‘Rather a splendid plan, don’t you think?’
‘That’s one way to describe it.’ I thought it vile.
He held the bottle up, shook it a little and squinted at how much liquid was left. He had drunk most of it.
It was getting dark in the back of the slaughterhouse.
‘I thought he might even enjoy getting out of the house, find a new lease of life, find some life even, and become a more interesting person,’ he said.
‘You hoped that he would lavish gifts on you, as well.’
‘Of course. It really wouldn’t have cost him much to make me a wealthier man. Some decent clothes, gold jewellery, fine women,’ he saluted me with the bottle, ‘but he was utterly set on getting the money to Monsieur André. I was neglected.’
If he was searching for sympathy I wasn’t going to give it. This grasping man had spent years cultivating a friendship with a recluse just to get at his money. And he had killed for it.
‘What happened to Charles Stanford?’
He shrugged.
‘It was an accident, of course. We reached Paris, and the night before we were due to visit the scientist, he drank something that disagreed with him, fell ill and died in his sleep. You can’t trust those French taverns to provide decent ale, you know.’
From what he had said of Charles Stanford, it was unlikely that he would have visited a tavern.
‘How did you get rid of his body?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. I had secured our rooms and the concierge believed that I was Charles Stanford, and he was my servant Thomas. They were nearly as upset as I was when my servant died, and very keen that the authorities didn’t find out that he had died in their room. They kindly found an undertaker and the body was taken away.’
I was aghast.
‘Charles Stanford lies buried in an unmarked grave in France?’
‘I believe so. I was too upset to attend the funeral. But then, I moved to a much better establishment on the livelier side of town, found decent lodging and began to get acquainted with the locals.’ He grinned again. ‘Especially the ladies.’
‘You met Mr Winchcombe and Mr Herring there?’
‘Yes, lovely boys they were, both keen to enjoy life to the full. Quite my sort of people.’ He frowned. ‘And we would have continued to live like kings had Mr Reed not been in Paris at the same time. I had no idea who he was, that odious toad of a man, but he saw me at a gaming house and began threatening me. He knew Charles Stanford too well; knew his uncle. He liked to get acquainted with people of quality, liked to use their names to help his business.’ That was the George Reed I had encountered, certainly. ‘I made excuses to my companions and left for London immediately. It’s a good place to go to ground.’
‘It all sounds very easily done,’ I said. He had managed to fool everyone except George Reed.
‘Oh, people will readily assume you are who you say you are if you carry yourself with sufficient airs. The bank gave me my inheritance, shop keepers sent me their wares, knowing I had means to pay, and once you have the clothes and the gold, everyone is happy to greet you and call you friend.’
He was right. The only thing that separated me from the girls on the streets was my smart address and expensive clothes. I was still a whore – and he, beneath his silk waistcoat, was a murderer.
‘Tell me about Sallie.’
‘What of her?’ he shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to tell. She saw me taking some letters out of Reed’s parcel and putting them in my pocket. I didn’t think she had realised what I was doing – she was swaying with the gin – but when those little strumpets told you she had something to say about Paris I couldn’t risk it.’
‘So, you threw her into the river.’
‘She would have died all by herself soon enough.’
She had died because he hit her hard on the head. I had seen the blood.
He fingered one of the buttons on his coat.
‘Thank you for looking after this, by the way,’ he said, seeing me watching him. ‘I wondered where it had gone.’
‘You took it from my room when you left Mr Reed’s watch and purse,’ I said. ‘And then you sent a note to Bow Street.’
He said nothing, but his smile had begun to turn sour. He had been quite prepared to let the magistrate believe me a thief, and even a killer. My presence was becoming inconvenient.
Like all the Berwick Street girls, I employed the skills taught by Ma – to sit perfectly still and to exhibit no emotion; to be elegant, refined and ready for anything. Now I sat in fear of my life, but to anyone chancing upon this scene I would have appeared like a polite hostess – back straight, hands neatly folded in my lap, face serene and unmoved by anxiety.
‘And Mr Groves?’ I asked. ‘Do you intend to leave him there on his face?’
He jerked his head over towards the office.
‘That fat fool; he’s almost as bad as Reed, you know. I swear that he was planning to start blackmailing me, just as Reed did. He knew. That bastard Reed had said something to him – just like you thought he had.’
I didn’t want Mr Groves’ death on my conscience. I would never be able to look Susan in the face again.
‘But it wasn’t John Groves who sent blackmail letters, was it? It was you. You sent a fresh letter to yourself. You sent letters to Mr Herring and Mrs Farley.’
He chuckled.
‘Oh, she’s been a very naughty girl, you know. I was delighted to read Reed’s comments about her. Even that scratchy writing couldn’t hide her sins from me.’ He sniggered into the brandy.
A new sensation prickled behind my eyes. Not fear, but fury. Ma had been distraught. She had turned to drink, bled us all dry for money and forced me into bed with a monster. Memories of that night would haunt me for years. The hurt Charles had so casually caused made me want to scream.
I still sat, silent on the outside.
‘What did you hit him with?’
He sighed, as if this were a dull question.
‘It’s a butchery, Lizzie, there are mallets and cleavers in the back. They keep them in a cupboard.’
I hadn’t noticed the cupboard; the dead man on the floor had rather put me off examining the furniture.
‘And what will you do, Charles? Where will you go?’
He rubbed an eyebrow idly, as if he were pondering a holiday.
‘I rather fancied going back to Paris, you know. I liked it there.’ He leaned forward and proffered the brandy bottle which, by now, had only a few fingers of liquid left. ‘You could come with me.’
I took the bottle and had a small sip, just enough to let it touch my tongue and give me courage. I forced a laugh.
‘Be a rogue like you? Living on the road as your doxy? You might want to make it sound more attractive.’
He smiled at me again, almost fondly this time.
‘Well, you’re either coming with me or staying with Mr Groves.’
He didn’t need to make the meaning plainer. I steadied the bottle on the table and smoothed my skirt, careful not to glance at the door even as I readied myself to run.
I smiled back.
‘Then I suppose I’d better brush up my French,’ I said, sounding as bright as I could.
I l
eaped to my feet, catching him off guard and flinging myself towards the door. But even as I pushed my own chair back, I heard his scrape and clatter to the floor. He was faster, and he didn’t have skirts clinging about his calves. I didn’t make it more than a couple of yards.
His hand dug into my upper arm as he grabbed me and spun me around to face him. There was rage in his eyes.
‘Stupid bitch!’ He smacked me hard across the cheek and I crumpled to the ground at the force of the blow. The pain tore through my face somewhere between my mouth and eye and I wondered whether he had broken bone as well as skin.
Before I had chance to put a hand to it he was on me. On top of me. His fingers pressed into my neck until I was fighting for breath. Then he stopped squeezing my throat, sat back and let me gasp for air. I tried to scream but only a gurgling noise came out.
He tugged my skirts up and kicked my legs apart. He laughed, one hand pressing me to the hard floor.
‘One last fuck, eh Lizzie, for old times? You were always such a willing little slut.’
I had been willing enough before; I was not willing now. He was strong, but he was also unsteady, and his breath reeked of brandy. He fumbled at the buttons on his breeches. There was a split second when he lost the focus of his intended course, and his eyes strayed briefly from my face to his own crotch. I was sober, and I was anticipating it, and it was just enough. With all my strength, I jolted him off balance and thrust him to one side.
Face throbbing with pain, throat sore, I ran for the door, only to find that, again, he was faster. He reached the door, slammed it and stood glaring at me.
He pulled a short knife from inside his coat and began to walk slowly towards me. I inched back in step with him, as if we were engaged in some sort of horrific courtly dance. Then I turned and ran for the steps of the wooden bridge.
There was a hard laugh behind me as I ran up the steps. I saw why he was laughing. The bridge was not symmetrical. There were steps only up one side. The other end of the bridge, to which I was running, ended in the wall. I was trapped.
Chapter Fifty
He climbed the steps after me, taking his time. He had the knife in one hand and, in the other, a long pole. I could make out the curved metal crook at the end of the pole, even in the dark of the ceiling. The slaughterhouse floor looked a long way below me; I couldn’t land without breaking a limb, at least.
