CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THEY HADN’T KILLED him, and Child didn’t know why.
He was sitting in a small, ornate dining room lit by several lamps. From somewhere, he could hear the swell and dip of conversation and the chink of crockery. He guessed he was in a private dining room in a supper house – judging by the short distance they’d travelled, somewhere in the vicinity of Covent Garden. It might even be the Prince of Wales. When they’d arrived, his assailants had dragged him from the carriage, into a darkened courtyard. Through a door, up a flight of stairs, into a corridor decorated much like the room he was sitting in now. They had pushed him through another door, into this chair, and the big man had held up a finger. ‘We’ll be right outside. Cause any trouble and I’ll hurt you again.’
Child took an inventory of the room. On the wall, a portrait of the King. On the mantelpiece, a clock. On the table, a dish of figs, a bowl of walnuts, a bottle of good claret and three glasses. As a weapon, he’d take the bottle over the glasses. But if they wanted him dead, then why hadn’t they killed him already? Child’s unease warred with his confusion. This didn’t feel like Finn Daley’s doing. The Irishman didn’t entertain his overdue debtors, he put a knife between their shoulder blades, and dropped them in the river.
Hearing louder voices in the corridor, Child sat up straight, wincing at the effort. The door opened, and a slim gentleman with an amiable, elfin countenance entered the room. He was followed by a second man, with a long white face and a broken nose. Child guessed from their dress and demeanour that the first man was the one in charge. He was about Child’s own age, though wearing his years a hell of a lot better. On his index finger was a blood-red ring, just like the one Mrs Corsham had found in the bower.
‘Good evening, Mr Child,’ he said. ‘My name is Jonathan Stone. This is my man of business, Erasmus Knox.’
They took the chairs opposite him. ‘Wine?’ Stone asked.
Child’s gaze flicked from one to the other, knowing this presaged nothing good. ‘You’re damn right.’
Broken-nose poured, while Stone produced a sheaf of papers from a leather document case. He slid one across the table so Child could see it.
‘Eighty-three guineas, eight shillings and fourpence,’ Stone said. ‘The sum total of your debts, Mr Child. Your creditors were only too happy to have them taken off their hands. The amount in its entirety is now due to me. We are here to discuss the terms of your repayment.’
Child stared at him in horror, not doubting his word. It would explain why Finn Daley hadn’t been to see him. He took a long pull on his wine, trying to wash the sickness away. ‘Let me guess, you want me to resign from Mrs Corsham’s inquiry?’
‘As it happens, no, I don’t. At least, not for the moment. Mrs Corsham is a stubborn woman. Were you to leave her service, she would simply hire someone else, perhaps someone better. I want you to remain by her side, but report back to me.’
Child’s mind was labouring fast. If he refused, Stone could have him taken to the Fleet Prison. Men died in that dank hellhole. Yet in such dire circumstances, surely he had friends who would help? Sophie Hardcastle, if he could get a message to her discreetly. Orin would do what he could, despite their present disagreement. And there was always Mrs Corsham. Eighty-three guineas was a trifling sum to a woman like her, and if he explained about Jonathan Stone, she might even pay the lot just to spite him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t do it.’
Stone regarded him placidly, tapping his steepled fingers together. ‘I rather feared you would say that.’ He nodded to his companion. ‘Mr Knox.’
Broken-nose had been rolling a walnut across the table from hand to hand. With Child’s uneasy eyes upon him, he took a brass seal from his waistcoat pocket, and brought it down on the nut with a bang. He picked a nugget from the splintered shards, chewed and swallowed.
‘I have recently had the misfortune to spend a few days down in Deptford,’ he said, with a Brummagem twang. ‘There I made the acquaintance of a young man named Andrew Drake. The brother of your late wife, Elizabeth.’
Child drained his glass, hoping the pulse beating in his neck wouldn’t betray his fear. ‘How is the lad? I could tell you some stories about him.’
‘And vice versa.’ Stone gave a faint smile.
‘Andrew was just a little boy when you married his sister,’ Knox continued. ‘But his older brother, the late Frank Drake, was a close friend of yours.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Child replied carefully. ‘He came in a package with Liz. The Drakes are close-knit. Always were.’
‘And up to their armpits in all sorts of unsavoury ventures. Counterfeiting being one of them. Frank was the head of the enterprise. One Drake cousin, a woodcarver by trade, made the moulds out of cuttlefish shells, which Frank would bring back from his slaving voyages. Gives a very delicate design, or so I’m told. Another cousin, a blacksmith, clipped the coins, mixed the scraps, and melted them down to make new coins. And then there was young Andrew himself, scarcely old enough to know better, who had the task of mixing those shiny new coins into a barrelful of nails, then riding out on a pony with the barrel tied to the tail. When the coins were sufficiently scratched, they could be passed into circulation. A capital crime, which, as a former magistrate, you would surely know.’
‘Like you said, Frank was trouble. That’s why we weren’t close.’
‘Close enough that you’d pay regular visits to that smithy down by the river. Andrew saw it all. The Spanish brandy you’d drink with Frank, the forge blazing away in the background. The money you’d take as magistrate to turn a blind eye. Andrew doesn’t seem to like you very much. We won’t dwell on the reasons why. But suffice to say, under the right inducement, he is willing to give evidence against you. I hear the new mayor doesn’t like you much either. He wouldn’t take much convincing to bring a prosecution. The new magistrate is his man, isn’t that right?’
And then not even Mrs Corsham could buy him out of trouble. Child stared at his interlocutors, seeking words of bravado that would not come. He had grown to respect Mrs Corsham. He wanted to catch the murdering bastard who had killed Lucy and probably Pamela too. But not at the cost of his own life.
‘Well, Mr Child?’ Stone said, breaking in upon these dismal thoughts. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Hating himself, Child grabbed the bottle and refilled his glass. ‘What do you want to know?’
Stone smiled broadly. ‘Everything.’
Child’s words came slowly at first, then picked up speed, tumbling from his lips like pieces of silver. He told Stone all their progress to date, leaving out only Cecily and Hector. His conscience had enough to bear, without the responsibility for more deaths.
‘There now,’ Stone said, when he had finished. ‘That wasn’t so hard. And it will be easier the next time, it always is.’ He cocked his head, considering. ‘Tell me, what was Mrs Corsham doing in the bowers on the night she found Lucy’s body?’
‘How should I know?’ Child said. ‘That has nothing to do with my inquiry.’
‘It does now. You must have wondered who she was meeting. So let’s hear your theory.’
Child sighed. ‘I wondered if there was something between her and Lord March. He was in the bowers that night. A witness heard him call her by her given name.’
‘He swears not.’ Stone tapped his fingers together again. ‘If Mrs Corsham has taken a new lover, then I want to know who he is. What was it your namesake said about falsehood, Mr Knox?’
Broken-nose regarded Child stonily. ‘That man’s mind is more susceptible to lies than to the truth.’
‘Not mine,’ Stone said. ‘I have a keen ear for falsehood, but a keener ear still for the truth – and I want to know the truth about Caroline Corsham. Not the face she presents to the world, but the part of herself she hides away. Observe her, Mr Child. Report back to me.’
PAMELA
2–7 February 1782
Other secrets in that ho
use proved harder to penetrate. Three days later, the lieutenant called again. He spoke to Mr Agnetti about Stone’s business and then went downstairs to see Mrs Agnetti. As soon as Pamela had finished sitting for Mr Agnetti, she looked for him. But he must have already left, for she found only Lucy and Mrs Agnetti, talking intently in the morning room. From the way they broke off their conversation and glared at her, she knew she’d interrupted a private talk. By now, she was used to Mrs Agnetti’s hostile looks, but Lucy’s hurt.
Cecily was auctioned that night, her maidenhead sold for a hundred guineas. She and Mrs Havilland were disappointed by the sum, and the fat old lawyer who’d bought her looked pleased with his bargain. The girls commiserated with Cecily, and she and Pamela hugged in the hall – until Mrs Havilland barked at Cecily to hurry up, and she was ushered into the gentleman’s waiting carriage.
The next day, when Cecily came to collect her money and her things, she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. ‘It’s easier than some will tell you,’ was all she’d say. ‘Harder than others. Follow Mrs Havilland’s instructions and you’ll be all right.’
Pamela watched the hackney carriage drive away, a black fog settling upon her mood. Kitty always made her feel better about the things a girl needed to do to make her way in the world, and she resolved to talk to her at Mr Agnetti’s.
But when she walked into Agnetti’s morning room later that day, she found Kitty locked in conversation with Lucy. Another discussion swiftly curtailed by her entrance. Kitty was dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of lace.
‘What are you talking about?’ Pamela asked.
‘Running away,’ Kitty said. ‘A new life.’
‘Why would you want to do that? You love your life in London, don’t you?’
Kitty only rose from the sofa, closing the door too hard behind her.
‘It’s not you,’ Lucy said. ‘Don’t take it to heart. Come, sit with me. Tell me about your day.’
Secrets she didn’t understand. She didn’t like it.
Over the next few days, Pamela maintained a stealthy presence in that house. Listening at doors was a skill: one which, like most servants, she’d perfected as a maid at the house in Cheapside. But her endeavours proved fruitless. Everyone talked in whispers, creeping about.
Only the Agnetti marriage was quite without mystery. To hear Mrs Agnetti wax on about her husband’s genius, or how they fell in love, or how dutiful a husband he was when he could be convinced to step away from his work, you’d think she was as innocent as milk-water. But then she’d be scurrying off to meet the lieutenant the moment her husband’s back was turned, or greeting Mr Agnetti with cold silences, or picking a quarrel with the maidservant, or giving Pamela one of her hard stares. Never Lucy or Kitty, who seemed quite taken in by her wiles. As was the lieutenant.
He called often at the house, supposedly on Mr Stone’s business. But Pamela knew it was largely on Mrs Agnetti’s account. The transformation that came over her on these occasions was marked. She’d be nervous when she knew he was coming. But when he walked through the door, she would greet him with the softest smiles, shy and girlish. He lapped it up. It’s all a performance, Pamela wanted to tell him. She’s calculating, cold, unkind.
She was also an obstacle to Pamela’s plan.
Kitty had told her that once she lost her virginity, she should find a keeper as soon as possible. And if she was going to be with one man only, then she wanted it to be him. His debts were another obstacle, but if he married an heiress, then things could be different.
On the morning of the seventh of February, she arrived at the house to be greeted by a loud crash. Alarmed, she put her head into the drawing room. Mrs Agnetti was glowering at her husband. At his feet were shards of china.
‘That was one of your favourites,’ he said softly. ‘These things you do, you only ever hurt yourself.’ He walked over to his wife and tried to take her in his arms.
Mrs Agnetti – she was never Theresa except to her face – caught sight of Pamela in the doorway, and her face contorted with rage. ‘Get out,’ she screamed.
Pamela fled upstairs, and when Agnetti joined her a little later, he spoke to her for the first time about his marriage.
‘I am sorry you witnessed that scene. Theresa’s spirits have always been turbulent, but since we moved to England, her unhappiness sits on her like a cloud. Sometimes I think that we should never have come here, but I have had success in London I never could have dreamed of in Naples.’
‘You don’t have to explain,’ Pamela said. ‘I’m sorry.’
His face was etched with sorrow. ‘I think on it like an illness. One to which there is no cure except patience and love. Only sometimes I am rather lacking in the former.’
‘You are a good husband, Mr Agnetti. Don’t do yourself down.’
‘It will be different when the baby comes. Motherhood will restore her to happiness. It is God’s blessing.’
Deluded old fool, Pamela thought. You could see the elation shining out of him when he talked about the child. Apollo if a boy. Juno if a girl. They had picked the names together, he said.
It’s not God’s blessing, she wanted to say. It’s Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham’s. But if she told him, then he might challenge the lieutenant to a duel. The lieutenant would win, of course, but with Mr Agnetti dead, Mrs Agnetti would be rich and free to marry again. No, things were better as they were. Soon the lieutenant would tire of her wanton ways.
How could he not?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
NEMO MALUS FELIX. Peace visits not the guilty man. Not unless he drinks himself to oblivion.
The sun hurt Child’s eyes, the streets busy with people talking too loudly, in cheerful morning voices. In lieu of breakfast, he stopped off at a Puss and Mew in Carnaby Market. The shutters of the house were closed, one of them carved with a relief of a cat, holding out a wooden paw. ‘Puss,’ Child called. ‘Puss, are you there?’
A pause, then a shuffle behind the window. ‘Mew,’ came the answer. ‘Mew mew mew.’
The shutter remained closed, a necessary precaution given the gin laws. This way buyer couldn’t inform on seller, and everyone went away happy, except the magistrates. Child pushed two pennies through the slot in the cat’s open mouth. Then he reached into his pocket for the leather cup he carried for this purpose, and held it under the cat’s paw. The gin gurgled as it flowed from the concealed spout.
The spirit tasted foul, in keeping with Child’s mood. Illegal distilleries like this adulterated their gin with vitriol and turpentine. A pint of it could kill you. Today the prospect seemed quite tempting.
He had betrayed his client to their mutual enemy. He would be forced to do so again – give Stone information that could hurt Mrs Corsham. Unless he could talk her out of continuing with her inquiry.
But a short time later, when he faced Mrs Corsham in her dining room, she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Stop?’ she said. ‘How can I? The magistrate has arrested poor Mr Von Siegel. For no other crime than for being Jewish, and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sit down, Mr Child. I have much to tell you.’
Gloomily, he sat listening as she told him about her conversation with her brother and Cavill-Lawrence. Occasionally, her tale was interrupted by her infant son, who sat opposite them at a table that could have sat twenty, making messy work of a bowl of pottage. Mrs Corsham’s own plate of food was untouched. Her ginger footman hovered discreetly, looking at Child as though he was about to make off with the silver. Seeing Mrs Corsham here, in this domestic tableau with her son, his guilt returned full-force, so that he was hardly able to take in what she was saying.
The Prince of Wales. Mixed up with Jonathan Stone and his masquerades. Little wonder the Home Office were in such high dudgeon.
His client seemed more troubled by the involvement of her family’s bank than that of the heir to the throne. First her lover was embroiled in this, Child thought, then her brothers. But that was the trouble with the beau mond
e. They were a tight, exclusive circle, because that was the way they liked it. Marrying sisters and cousins. Keeping their money close. But throw a man like Stone into the barrel and the rot spread closely too.
‘Mrs Corsham,’ he tried again, when she had finished. ‘I beg you to see reason. The Prince of Wales could be the fifth man at the masquerade.’
‘I dearly hope not. But he could have easily travelled from Northamptonshire to Muswell Rise. It’s two days’ ride at most, one at a gallop.’
‘What if he killed Pamela?’
‘Surely not. He’s just a boy.’
‘He’s nineteen years old. Men far younger than him have committed murder. I don’t much fancy taking a stroll up to St James’s Palace to arrest the heir to the throne. And even if the Prince is innocent, the Home Office will never allow these crimes to come to trial. Not as long as the House of Hanover risks being drawn into it.’
‘We will find a way to make it happen,’ Mrs Corsham said, doggedly. ‘Lucy did – her letter to the Home Secretary might even have worked, if she hadn’t been murdered. And we can keep the Prince and the Craven Bank out of it, I am sure. I’ll not let them hang poor Mr Von Siegel for a crime he didn’t commit. Nor will I be bullied into silence.’
Child wondered if there was some other route out of this mess. A way to bring down Stone, before he could hurt Mrs Corsham. Whatever had gone on at Muswell Rise that night with Pamela, Stone was plainly up to his neck in it – and quite conceivably guilty of murder himself. If Child could get to the truth and do it fast, perhaps it would give him the means to fight back against Stone? It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only one he had.
‘Lucy said to Hector that the Priapus Club’s greatest strength was also their greatest weakness,’ he said. ‘She must have meant the Prince.’
Mrs Corsham nodded. ‘My brother and Cavill-Lawrence weren’t telling me everything, I think. There is more to it, but I don’t yet know what.’
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