Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  Daley produced an axe from beneath his coat. ‘Not without arms you can’t.’

  ‘Wait,’ Child cried. ‘I’ll have your money soon. I’m serious. I will.’

  Daley smiled. ‘I’ve heard it all before, Perry. It’s getting tiresome.’

  Child’s lies came thick and fast. ‘I’m working a job worth fifty guineas. I only owe you forty. By next week you’ll have the lot. Christ, Daley. I swear it.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Something special. Just give me a week and the money’s yours. The only reason I haven’t been to see you is because I’ve been so busy.’

  Indecision worked its way across Daley’s face. His axe-hand twitched – but at the end of the day he was a businessman, and head ruled heart.

  ‘Seven days,’ he said. ‘At a guinea a day. Then there’s all the trouble I had to go to, trying to find you.’ He reached into Child’s coat and plucked his purse from his pocket, emptying the contents into his hand, tucking it back. ‘This will cover the latter. Which leaves us forty-seven guineas apart. Don’t even think about running. I’ll make it my life’s work to track you down. I’m starting to take you mighty personal, Perry, and no one wants that.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  SIR AMOS FOX, the Bow Street magistrate, was a long-limbed, cadaverous man with long white hair and irritated pink skin that clashed with his red waistcoat. He kept clasping his hands together and smiling at Caro over the top of them, in a manner he presumably believed to be reassuring.

  Caro forestalled his apologies with a tight smile. ‘Please, Sir Amos, it is no inconvenience at all. I have hardly been able to think of anything other than poor Lucia.’

  The memory of those moments in the bower still haunted her. She had spent her waking hours reliving them, recalling Lucia’s moans and the stench of slaughter. The Bow Street constables had questioned her at the scene, but she’d hardly managed to get the words out. Eventually, Lord March had intervened and told them to leave her alone. Even once she was home, the blood beneath her fingernails had taken an hour of scrubbing to dislodge. Two days later, she was still convinced they smelled of it.

  They were sitting around the magistrate’s mahogany desk. Many portraits adorned the study walls: King George the Third and his queen; the Prince of Wales; prominent politicians, both Whig and Tory, for Sir Amos trimmed his political allegiance to the prevailing wind.

  Mordechai had insisted on accompanying her here. He sat perfectly erect, both hands on the pommel of his walking cane, his knuckles white around his gold signet ring. His profile was slowly becoming their father’s: the same hooded eyes and long nose protruding from the gunmetal rolls of his periwig, even the same fleshy growth in the middle of his forehead. He glanced at her unsmiling, still furious.

  ‘My sister would like to know if you have apprehended the murderer, Sir Amos?’ he said. ‘There has been nothing in the newspapers to that effect.’

  Sir Amos offered them another of his solicitous smiles. ‘Not as yet, Mr Craven, Mrs Corsham. But I am issuing a reward for ten guineas. I hope it will prompt someone to come forward.’

  Caro frowned. She had thought the magistrate’s household would be a bustle of activity – a lady of consequence had been murdered after all. Yet she had seen only two of Sir Amos’s servants, who hadn’t seemed exercised at all, and the magistrate’s paltry reward perplexed her.

  ‘Ten guineas? You do know that Lucia was a cousin of the King of Naples? Has a letter been dispatched to her family? I must write myself.’

  Sir Amos shifted slightly in his chair, regarding her sympathetically. ‘I am seeing to all the formalities, madam, do not fret upon that score. Now I’d like to ask you, if I may, a few questions about your acquaintance with the dead woman. I believe you told my constables that you considered her a friend?’

  ‘Not a close friend. Our acquaintance was rather scant.’ Caro sighed. ‘But I liked her enormously. We first met about two years ago at a supper party. Lucia was visiting England for the first time. Her husband had died a few months earlier, and she was seeking distraction from her grief in travel. We rather hit it off. I am sure we would have seen one another again, but she was forced to return home to Naples unexpectedly.’

  Wine, wit and laughter. That gay spring night when she’d thought she and Lucia were going to become firm friends. The same heady rush as a new amour, followed by a crushing sense of abandonment when Lucia had left London without saying farewell.

  ‘Can I ask who made the introduction?’

  ‘My brother, Ambrose. He knew Lucia’s family from his Grand Tour, when he visited the ruins at Pompeii. What does any of this have to do with Lucia’s murder?’

  ‘Bear with me, please, Mrs Corsham. You met her again recently, I understand?’

  ‘Three days ago – at a masquerade ball at Carlisle House. Lucia apologized for not having written, and I forgave her. We conversed for a time about trifling matters, until I was taken ill by a bad oyster and returned home. I felt better the following day, and attended the exhibition at Vauxhall as I’d planned. I was walking past the bowers, when I heard a woman groaning in distress. You cannot imagine my horror when I realized it was Lucia.’

  Caro’s throat was dry. She had anticipated these questions, and had prepared her answers accordingly, but she was conscious of the magistrate’s beady eye and Mordechai’s glare. Yet she wished to tell the truth, in as much as it was possible.

  The magistrate paused delicately. ‘May I ask why you were in the vicinity in the first place?’

  ‘I felt a little nauseous and went to take the air. It turned out I wasn’t quite so recovered from that oyster as I’d first thought.’

  Her lie came more smoothly than it had last night. Mordechai had questioned her for hours, peering at her like a bloody witchfinder: I am not a fool, Caro, and your husband isn’t either. Who were you meeting in the bowers?

  Sir Amos grunted, equally sceptical, doubtless jumping to the same wrong conclusion. At least their suspicions were better than the truth.

  ‘My sister was quite innocent as to the nature of that part of the gardens,’ Mordechai said – family closing ranks, his greatest talent. ‘I imagine Lucia was too, being Italian.’

  ‘On that latter score,’ Sir Amos said, ‘I regret not. That is the principal reason I asked you to come down here today. I have no wish to compound your distress further, Mrs Corsham, but I fear I must. The woman you found dying was not an Italian noblewoman. Nor was her name Lucia di Caracciolo. She was no stranger to the bowers at Vauxhall, nor indeed to the London taverns and coffeehouses. You understand my meaning, I am sure.’

  They stared at him aghast, Caro’s astonishment quite genuine.

  ‘You mean she was a prostitute?’ Mordechai spoke each syllable heavily to underscore the depth of his displeasure.

  Sir Amos bowed his head. ‘I wanted to tell you in person, out of respect for your family, sir. To have you read it first in the newspapers would never do.’

  Caro shook her head. ‘I think I would know if I’d been conversing with a prostitute, Sir Amos. Lucia spoke knowledgeably about Naples. We talked of politics and art and fashion.’

  The magistrate spoke kindly, but firmly: ‘You must not blame yourself for having been taken in by this meretrix. Doubtless your brother, Ambrose, was too. These women learn from an early age how to emulate ladies of fashion. Many have been upon the stage. Their tricks are legion.’

  ‘But her gowns were fine,’ Caro said, still unwilling to accept it. ‘She wore ostrich feathers. Silks. Her gloves were kid.’

  ‘Do you imagine your average doxy is starving in a doorway? Allow me to disillusion you, Mrs Corsham. Satan’s harvest reaps rich rewards, I’m sorry to say. A pretty jezebel can earn five, ten guineas a night from her gentleman callers. They dine out on the town, take boxes in the theatre, some even ride there in their own carriages with their own footmen.’

  Mordechai glowered. ‘These are not matters for my sister’s
ear, sir.’

  ‘I saw a woman die before my eyes,’ Caro said. ‘I assure you that was rather more indelicate. Sir Amos, if it is so hard to tell a woman of the town from a lady, then how can you be certain in this instance?’

  ‘After we removed her gloves, we discovered that at some point in the past, she had been branded upon the hand for thievery. She wore no wedding ring, but she had the marks of childbirth upon her body. By then I was fairly certain what we were dealing with. I had my men take a look at the corpse, and sure enough, some of them recognized her. Lucy Loveless was her name – at least the one she was known by in the taverns. Her landlord identified her this morning.’

  Caro was silent a moment, taking it all in. It seemed so implausible, and yet it would go some way to explaining a few discrepancies that had troubled her about Lucia: her sudden disappearance last year, her circumspection about where she was staying, her knowledge of certain matters that should lie far outside the experience of an Italian contessa.

  ‘By all accounts,’ Sir Amos said, ‘Lucy was the toast of the town for a time, though she was nearing thirty and her star had faded somewhat. The landlord says that artist fellow – Agnetti – liked to paint her. Do you know if Mr Ambrose Craven also met her again recently?’

  Caro glanced up. ‘Our brother has been abroad travelling for almost a year.’

  He made a note. ‘And you had no other dealings with the dead woman other than those you’ve described?’

  The magistrate’s eyes were searching, and a warmth suffused her skin. ‘No, Sir Amos. None at all.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Then I see no reason to trouble you further. The evening newspapers will report the dead woman’s true identity. My reward may entice someone to come forward, it may not. The death of a whore’ – he made a gesture – ‘doesn’t prompt much pity.’

  Caro was still trying to reconcile the magistrate’s revelation with her memories of Lucia. For the past two days, she’d been consumed by grief and guilt. Despite Lucia’s deceptions – Lucy, she supposed she must call her now – those emotions couldn’t simply be snipped away like a loose thread. She imagined the magistrate’s Bow Street Runners lining up to look at the corpse. Coarse rough men, of the bantering sort, jostling, laughing, their relentless gaze.

  ‘How old is the child?’ she asked. ‘Losing a mother is a terrible tragedy, whatever the circumstances. I’d like to help in some small way if I can.’

  ‘Your compassion does you credit, Mrs Corsham,’ the magistrate said. ‘Alas, no child was found to be living at Lucy’s lodgings, and her landlord says she never mentioned one in his hearing. I imagine it was given away as a foundling or died in infancy. Some prostitutes even starve their own children at nurse, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Then they should hang,’ Mordechai said, with a shudder of feeling.

  Caro glanced at him in irritation, wishing Ambrose was here instead of him. The thought made her eyes smart and she looked away.

  ‘I suppose she was in the bower to meet a client,’ Mordechai said. ‘Do you think he killed her?’

  ‘Lucy’s clients were men of wealth and status,’ Sir Amos said. ‘Considering the savage nature of the crime, the number of wounds and so forth, I think it highly improbable a gentleman was responsible. I suspect she was awaiting such a client, when she took the fancy of a passing villain. He desired to sample the goods without paying up, and things took a turn for the worse, as you saw.’

  ‘No,’ Caro said, looking up. ‘I’m sure she knew her killer. Lucy spoke to me, you see. She said: “He knows.”?’

  The magistrate pondered it a moment. ‘He knows. She might have been talking about anyone. God, perhaps. Her sins would have weighed heavily upon her mind at such a time.’

  ‘So would her murderer. Did the constables tell you about the man I saw in the mask?’

  The magistrate sifted through his documents and drew one out. ‘Long black coat, black hat, average height, perhaps taller. A plague doctor’s mask. Unfortunately, there are many stalls selling such masks and costumes operating within the confines of Vauxhall. It might have been an innocent reveller you saw. And if it was the murderer, then he could have been any one of three thousand men enjoying the gardens that night.’ He licked his palm and smoothed his hair, trying to cover one of his bald patches with little success.

  ‘Have you talked to Lord March? He heard me scream and came to my assistance. And there was another man too. Short and shabby, with a beard. Lord March ordered him to fetch the garden constables, I think.’

  ‘I have spoken to Lord March. He doesn’t remember seeing anything suspicious.’ Again Sir Amos consulted his notes. ‘The other man you mention is named Ezra Von Siegel. A Jew. He is a lamplighter employed in the gardens. Did Von Siegel give you cause for suspicion at any time?’

  ‘No. He was shocked, but kind.’ Caro remembered Von Siegel procuring blankets to cover the body and to keep her warm. She hadn’t been able to stop shaking.

  ‘Do you suspect the Jew of involvement?’ Mordechai asked.

  ‘There was no blood on Von Siegel’s clothes,’ Sir Amos said. ‘I’m keeping an open mind. He is a foreign subject, a German.’

  ‘What about the letter?’ Caro said. ‘I wondered if it might have been dropped by the killer.’

  ‘The letter, Mrs Corsham?’

  ‘It was lying next to Lucy in the bower. At least, it looked like a letter. A document, anyway. I saw a wax seal. It was stained with blood.’

  Sir Amos glanced out of the window. He’d done his duty by the Cravens, handling a delicate matter with tact and discretion. Now Caro sensed he was tiring of the conversation. ‘We found no letter, madam. Perhaps you imagined it? It would be easy to do so in the moment.’

  Had she imagined it? She didn’t think so.

  ‘Is the murder inquiry to be handled by Guildford?’ Mordechai asked.

  ‘Vauxhall, as you say, rightly falls under the jurisdiction of the Surrey magistrates, but given the sensational nature of the crime and the distances involved, I have offered to look after it myself.’

  Mordechai reached inside his frock coat. ‘My sister’s husband, Captain Corsham, is in France at present, serving on Mr Hartley’s diplomatic mission to Versailles. Yet I know I speak for him when I ask that you do whatever you can to keep Mrs Corsham’s name out of the newspapers.’

  Sir Amos bowed his head. ‘Rest assured, Mr Craven, I will do everything in my power to prevent a scandal.’

  They shook hands, and Caro saw a folded banknote pass between them.

  ‘What will happen to Lucy’s body?’ she asked. ‘If no one claims her?’

  ‘Her landlord attests that she left considerable debts. These women might earn a good living, but they spend their money like water. I’ve authorized her landlord to dispose of her possessions to settle her account, but I doubt there’ll be much left by the time he’s done. Which will mean a pauper’s grave, I’m afraid to say. A sad story, all told, but one of the victim’s own authorship. Let us hope it gives the young women of this kingdom pause.’ Rising to his feet, he held out an arm to assist Caro from her chair. ‘I do hope you can put this matter behind you.’

  Caro summoned a faint smile, thinking of Lucy’s final moments. Her fingers entwined in Caro’s own. That bone-white, pleading stare. He knows.

  She blinked to dispel the image. ‘I hope so too.’

  PAMELA

  5 January 1782

  Eight months before the murder of Lucy Loveless

  Twelfth Night. The bells of St Anne’s striking four of the afternoon. Soho under snow, as though an ermine cloak had been laid across it. Icicles clinging to the leaden guttering of the shops and houses, bright as diamonds in the dishwater light.

  The girl’s arms ached under the weight of her heavy carpet bag. Her stockings were soaked inside her boots. The cold raked through her thin cloak, her flesh stippled like orange peel beneath her cotton dress. She took the scrap of paper from her pocket and studied the d
irection upon it, glancing up at the number on the black door in front of her.

  For many months she had imagined this moment. On the walk across London, she’d hardly dared accept she was finally doing it. Yet now that the moment had arrived, all the misgivings she’d wrestled with over the preceding weeks assailed her in the voice of Rachel, the cook: It’s all lies, you little fool. There’s no feather beds or fancy clothes. Just tricks to cozen vain, lazy baggages like you.

  She could still go back. Nothing was done that couldn’t be undone. Then she thought of her thin horsehair mattress, the ice that froze inside the windowpane. The chill of the flagstones when she was kneeling to lay the kitchen fire. Washing dishes with chapped fingers. Trimming cabbages if she was lucky. Emptying chamber pots.

  With sudden resolve, she lifted the heavy iron knocker.

  *

  The owner of the house was named Mrs Maria Havilland. She was about sixty years old, the girl judged, still thin as a marrow spoon. Her movements were languid and considered, as was her speech. She was seated upon a gold-and-lime divan, wearing a demi-train gown of green watered satin and a choker of emeralds – all of which the girl took to be promising signs. Her hair was a towering edifice of lard, pomade and powder, three silver spiders creeping their way up it. Her rings glittered in the lamplight, as did her narrow eyes.

  The girl was naked. Her nipples hard as hailstones, despite the warmth of the fire and the curtains of indigo velvet. She hoped her breasts didn’t look too small as a result, and resisted the urge to cover them. Instead she focused on the richness of the parlour’s furnishings: the harpsichord between the windows, and the number of candles burning brightly in silver sconces. Over the fire hung a portrait of a much younger Mrs Havilland: bold of eye, a budding mouth, and a creamy complexion that the woman on the divan had attempted to recreate with lead paint and rouge. She was assessing the girl the way men did when you passed them on the street: face first, then bubbies, then legs, then face again, then finally they turned to see your arse.