Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  For reasons that were unfathomable to him, Child knew that women liked to discuss their troubles with their friends. Lucy had many misfortunes to share: the assault on her person six months earlier; losing her job as a sitter with the artist Agnetti; the anonymous note and rumours that had destroyed her livelihood; her consequent debts. Understanding this chain of disaster, Child felt, was key to finding the man who killed her. He therefore made tracking down Lucy’s friends his next priority.

  Boscastle, Lucy’s landlord, had identified three of them: Kitty, the redhead from the Whores’ Club; Mrs Agnetti, the artist’s wife; and the pox-scarred prostitute with the limp and the brand on her hand. Neither Kitty nor Mrs Agnetti had called in several months, but the unnamed prostitute had been a much more recent visitor. The landlord had presumed she was a friend of Lucy’s from her thieving days, an assumption Child shared. After a midday breakfast of blood sausage at a Holborn chophouse, he walked the short distance to the Bridewell House of Correction, where, according to the Whores’ Club, Lucy had served her sentence for fraud.

  A vast gloomy brick building on the banks of the Fleet, the prison buildings formed two adjacent squares, each with a courtyard at the centre. One half of the prison housed vagrants and homeless children; the other petty criminals, including a great many prostitutes. Child passed them on his way in: lines of women beating hemp in the courtyard, while an overseer barked orders. In another portion of the yard, a half-naked prostitute was being whipped while spectators watched from a wooden gallery.

  Child often had business here, sometimes to speak to inmates who could help with his inquiries, sometimes to give evidence before meetings of the Court of Governors. Oswald Babbage, the Court’s secretary, was a sprawling, ungainly man with several chins and small red lips like the mouth of a purse. Upon payment of a modest bribe, he was happy to give Child the run of the Record Office.

  ‘If she came in through these doors, she’ll be in there,’ Babbage said, gesturing to the banks of wooden cabinets. ‘Just be aware that they like to change their names – sometimes many times over the course of a life on the street.’

  There was a Register of Inmates for each calendar year. Lucy had told her landlord that she’d been branded on the hand shortly after she came to London. And according to both him and Orin Black, Lucy had been living in the city for many years. Child therefore started in 1775, and worked backwards.

  He found no Lucy Loveless in the registers, and he thought it likely, as Babbage had suggested, she’d used a different name in her dealings with the justice system. Child therefore moved on to the more arduous task of consulting the Minutes of the Court of Governors, which passed judgement on the miscreants that came before them. Again, Child started in 1775 and worked backwards, looking for details that would correlate with the little he’d learned from his visit to the Whores’ Club.

  It took three hours before he found her, in one of the minute books for the year 1767, when Lucy would have been just fourteen years old.

  Lucy Redfern, 14, and Annie Yearley, 18, on the oath of Mr Jonah Warren, a gentleman of Red Lion Square, for defrauding of ten pounds for a counterfeit ring in the Sun Tavern on Milk Street, and for being common night walkers, wandering abroad at an unreasonable time and picking up men.

  For Lucy Redfern: Cont. to branding upon the hand and 6 months to be served.

  For Annie Yearley: Cont. to branding upon the hand, a whipping, and discharge.

  Child took the record through to Babbage’s office. ‘Do you remember this inmate at all: Lucy Redfern?’

  Babbage read the entry, then shook his head. ‘Annie Yearley I know. She calls herself Nelly Diver now. Been in and out of Bridewell for years.’

  ‘If Lucy Redfern had brought a child into Bridewell, would it be listed here?’

  ‘Yes, a note should have been made.’

  Child wondered if that meant Lucy’s child had been born after she’d been in Bridewell, or whether it was already dead by then, or whether the child had been cared for by someone else while she’d served her sentence.

  ‘This Nelly Diver,’ he said, ‘does she have curly dark hair? A pox-scarred face? Walk with a limp?’

  ‘Got the scars back in ’75 in the epidemic we had here. She told the Court one of her pimps was responsible for the limp.’

  Sometimes, Child thought, you just got lucky.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHILD’S LUCK DIDN’T last. The Bridewell Register contained no address for Nelly Diver, though she’d served time there only last year. Babbage had told him most whores who came before the Court claimed to have no fixed abode, because they didn’t want the authorities keeping track of them. It was frustrating, but at least Child now had a name.

  He had several informants amongst the lower sort of whore, especially those who dabbled in thievery on the side. But they’d still be in bed, sleeping off the excesses of last night’s business, and wouldn’t appreciate a visit until later. He was also due to meet Orin Black that evening, and it was possible he’d come across Nelly Diver in his time. Child therefore decided to defer this particular line of inquiry until then, and in the meantime look into the redhead, Kitty Carefree. He took himself off to a nearby tavern and perused Harris’s List over a bottle of claret. Kitty Carefree didn’t prove hard to find.

  Miss Ca––ee, No.31 Golden Square

  Her eyes enflam’d and sparkling too;

  Her cheek, the rose and lily’s hue;

  Her nose is straight, and just its height,

  Her lips than coral far more bright;

  Her breasts two little hills of snow,

  In which two vivid rubies glow.

  This decent, well-bred young lady, K––ty Ca––ee, is about twenty-eight, and was brought up in Hampshire, her late father being a merchant, whose ambition was the cause of her ruin. The whole of the father’s effects went to pay his debts, so that being totally out of subsistence, she applied to one of those handy old women who oblige gentlemen with the newest ware. After losing her maidenhead for a goodly sum, she was taken into keeping by a certain peer of the realm, until they parted by mutual consent. Since then she has had recourse to a more general commerce, and has for some time past obtained a decent livelihood.

  Miss C––ee possesses a good deal of vivacity, though on occasion can prove a little fretful. She has a very pleasing upturned nose, dimpled cheeks, and excellent teeth. A Titian Venus would envy her glorious mane of fire, and she has plenty of the same-colour hair upon the enchanting spot of love. Frequently to be noticed in the green boxes of the theatres, and in the season at Ranelagh and Vauxhall, she keeps a chariot and a boy servant. Her education has been liberal; her conversation is easy and unaffected; her taste for literature would not disgrace the greatest genius of the age. The harpsichord and watercolours round out her list of accomplishments. If we could pass over in silence her present mode of life, she has every qualification to render her an ornament to the female world. In her business there are very few who are her superiors. She has a wonderful art in raising up those of her male friends who are inclined to droop while in her enchanting company. It is no exaggeration to say she is one of the finest women upon the town. Her price is from eight to twelve guineas.

  Forty minutes later, having walked across the city, Child knocked on the door of thirty-one Golden Square. Soho was as much devoted to pleasure as Covent Garden, and in many of the windows that overlooked the square, women were sitting in their paint and finery, displaying themselves to passers-by. A strapping African footman in blue-and-gold livery opened the door and looked Child up and down. ‘You sure you’re in the right place? There’s a half-guinea bagnio on Carnaby Street might suit you better.’

  ‘I’m looking for Kitty Carefree,’ Child said.

  ‘You and everyone else. She moved out back in May. If you’ve got five guineas to spend, there’s other girls here.’

  ‘Did Kitty leave a forwarding address?’

  ‘Afraid not. Think she foun
d herself a keeper. That’s usually what happens when they leave suddenly like that. Guess she didn’t want her former customers looking her up.’

  Then the unhelpful redhead he’d spoken to at the Whores’ Club was unlikely to be her. ‘She had a boy servant, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Hector. She paid the lad off.’

  The boy from the Whores’ Club, the one Child was convinced had slipped the satyr card into his pocket.

  The footman glanced at Child, as if reappraising his interest. ‘You with that other lot? They asked about Hector too.’

  ‘What other lot?’

  ‘Couple of coves came yesterday, asking questions just like you.’

  ‘What kind of coves?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gentlemen. Official sorts. Talked to my mistress about Kitty. Made me wonder if she’d gotten herself in trouble. You’re not with them, then?’

  ‘Can you remember what they looked like?’ Child held up half a crown. ‘I’m paying.’

  The footman regarded him coldly. ‘I don’t take bribes. Be on your way.’

  ‘Can I talk to your mistress?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘You’re not even going to ask?’

  The footman bent down to give him a hard stare. ‘She don’t like shabby little pipsqueaks cluttering up her halls. Now move along before I give you a helping hand.’

  Seeing that he’d offended the last honest servant in London, Child walked on. He wondered if the visit of these ‘official sorts’ had any bearing upon Lucy Loveless’s murder. Yet ‘gentlemen’ didn’t sound like Bow Street, and Kitty had moved away several months before Lucy had been killed. It could just as easily be an unrelated matter.

  Child knew he’d have little luck with Lucy’s third friend, Mrs Agnetti. Like everyone else in London, he’d read about the Agnetti marriage in the newspapers. How Mrs Agnetti had left her husband, the celebrated artist, which was no more than he’d deserved, all things considered. No one knew where she had gone, and it had been suggested she’d left the country. Child decided there were better uses of his time than trying to solve that particular puzzle, especially given Mrs Agnetti’s disappearance predated Lucy’s troubles by many months.

  Glancing at his pocket watch, he saw he still had an hour before he was due to meet Orin Black at Bow Street. So he walked down to the Golden Pear Tree on Compton Street. Like everything else in the capital, gambling clubs came in many different guises to suit different pockets. The Golden Pear Tree was the kind of place where the gaming counters were made of ivory, and a thousand acres of cornfield swapped hands on a throw of the hazard dice. Child talked to the doorman standing guard outside.

  ‘Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham been in today?’

  ‘Not yet. He owe you money?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He grinned. ‘Better get in line.’

  ‘He ever cause trouble here? I’ve heard he does elsewhere.’

  ‘Good as gold, or we’d stop him playing. Wait and you’re bound to see him. He’s late today.’

  ‘Did he ever come here with a prostitute named Lucy Loveless?’

  ‘Her who got herself murdered? She came here sometimes. Don’t ever remember seeing her with the lieutenant, but it’s possible. He usually has a whore or two in tow. Sometimes more, if he’s with his friends.’

  ‘What friends are they?’

  ‘Sometimes his brother, sometimes his fellow officers. A few times he brought Lord March, the Earl of Amberley’s heir.’

  Child noted this with interest. Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham, the soldier who’d accosted Lucy in the street, was friends with Lord March, who’d been in the bowers on the night she’d been murdered.

  The doorman nudged him with his elbow. ‘You’re in luck. Here he comes now.’

  Two gentlemen in army redcoats were walking along the street towards them. Child recognized Dodd-Bellingham by the scar.

  He stepped back as the pair drew close, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Gentlemen could be slippery customers, and you only had one opportunity to take them by surprise. He wanted to find out more about Dodd-Bellingham and his acquaintance with Lucy Loveless before putting him to the question.

  Taking a long look at his quarry, Child knew instantly that he was a fuckster of the first order. It wasn’t just that he was tall and handsome, both qualities Child resented in a man. It was his supercilious gaze, his braying laugh, the way he walked as if he owned the street. The pair swept past them into the Golden Pear Tree, without tipping the doorman. Child wondered if that was why he’d been so forthcoming with his information.

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk to him?’ the doorman said.

  ‘Not just now,’ Child said. ‘He’ll keep.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE ROAD WOUND north of London, through a patchwork of green and yellow fields and prosperous villages. Caro’s carriage slowed as the horses felt the strain of the incline. She gazed absently at gibbet-like scarecrows, white sailboats on the Fleet River, and a murmuration of starlings shrieking and swelling against the cold-ash sky. This will be my world, she thought, when I am banished to the country – if Harry doesn’t come home in time, if I am too scared to take the tincture. There will be nothing but silence and trees and bracing walks and every day will be as purgatory.

  Beyond Highgate, the road grew steeper, the houses grander and more intermittent. The village of Muswell Hill, on the edge of the Hornsey woods, was a place of rural retreat for city merchants and stockjobbers. It was here that Jonathan Stone, owner of the ring she’d found at Vauxhall, had built his estate. Caro’s coachman, Sam, eased the horses to a walk as they approached the gates. A porter emerged from the gatehouse, and she told him in her most imperious tones that she was an acquaintance of Mr Stone’s and wished to see him. The man insisted on taking a message to his master, and she was forced to sit waiting in the carriage for nearly half an hour. From time to time, a gamekeeper with a fowling piece over his shoulder peered at them through the gates. Stone was evidently conscious of his security.

  At last the porter reappeared and unlocked the gates. The estate sat on a plateau of a gently undulating hillside, and as they trundled down the drive, Caro admired the views of the city to the south: a dove-grey streak of human endeavour beneath a corona of yellow fog, a hundred steeples melting into the sky above. Stone had pulled down the old red-brick house that had once stood here, but he’d kept the majestic oaks that flanked the drive, as well as an ancient woodland to the north. Between the house and the wood curled a serpentine lake and on the far bank stood a new white building that resembled a classical temple. Evidently an enthusiast for the natural style of landscaping, Stone had planted many copses of trees around the lake, joined by winding paths. They passed more groundsmen and gardeners busy cultivating these miniature Edens – and many more armed keepers patrolling the grounds.

  The house was large, white and Palladian, topped with a glazed dome, flanked by smaller pavilions. A butler and several footmen awaited their arrival on the gravel outside. The carriage rattled to a stop, and Miles fitted the steps for her to descend. The butler spoke a few words of welcome, and then escorted Caro into a magnificent hall.

  Two curved staircases soared to the piano nobile above, light cascading down from the glazed dome. Plasterwork nymphs and youths with lyres danced across the duck-egg blue walls, interspersed with painted panels of Arcadian paradise. In the oval space between the staircases stood an enormous stone sarcophagus. As they ascended the stairs, Caro could gaze right down into its interior. On the galleried landing above, the butler knocked at a pair of ornate double doors. Receiving a command to enter, they walked into a long room with lofty windows overlooking one of the copses of artful wilderness outside. Jonathan Stone and Simon Dodd-Bellingham were conferring over a large urn on a table by one of the windows. A third gentleman she didn’t recognize hovered nearby. The master of the house broke off his conversation, walked towards her and bowed. ‘Mrs
Corsham, what an unexpected pleasure.’

  His accent held no hint to his class or his place of origin. Mr Stone was said to enjoy the mystery he inspired and played up to it. About forty, he was trim in the waist, with no physical signs of his rumoured debauchery. His small, elfin face seemed to glow with pleasure at her company. He wore a suit of brushed moleskin – which fitted him like a smooth grey pelt – a silver periwig and silk stockings in silver-buckled shoes. On his right hand he wore a blood-red ring just like the one she’d found in the bower.

  ‘My collection,’ he said, with a sweep of his arm, encompassing several life-size sculptures on marble plinths: an athlete poised to throw a discus, a rearing horse, a bearded man reclining in a chair, another holding a bunch of grapes, and a woman in robes so delicately carved they flowed like water. Between the sculptures, glass cases displayed smaller exhibits: pottery fragments, coins and figurines. The walls were hung with classical scenes, much of it Agnetti’s work.

  Simon Dodd-Bellingham had also walked over to join them. He bowed to kiss her hand. ‘Mrs Corsham.’

  ‘Do I take it this magnificent assembly is your work, Mr Dodd-Bellingham?’

  ‘My greatest privilege,’ he said, ‘though it is a joint endeavour. Mr Stone has a true passion for classical antiquity. His collection is the finest in the country. Perhaps the world.’

  An unprepossessing creature, plump, pallid and bespectacled, Simon had a smattering of freckles across his snub nose, matched by a smattering of snuff across the paunch of his striped waistcoat. His yellowing periwig was the same shade as his darned stockings and awkward teeth. The sort of man who edged into rooms, rather than strode.

  The third gentleman hung back with servile deference, his lumpen white face and broken nose an incongruous fit with his gentlemanly dress and brown tie-periwig. He had large white hands spattered with ink and sharp, pale eyes.

  Stone introduced him. ‘My man of business, Erasmus Knox.’