Child had never wanted a drink more in his life. He wanted to walk out of that room, to think of anything, even his own deficiencies as a husband, except this. But he had forced Mrs Agnetti to open this box, and he had to gaze into it.
‘In the end,’ she said, ‘I ran out of ways to say no. I thought if I did it, then he’d be appalled at himself and things might change. How could he want his wife to go with another man? But he wasn’t appalled, he was pleased. And soon there was another commission, another potential client whom he wanted me to satisfy. Sometimes they rejected me, and Jacobus would laugh at my humiliation. But most of the time, they were only too happy to take what was on offer – which wasn’t everything. Jacobus said I could not couple with them as a husband and wife do – he was desperate for a child and if I fell pregnant, he wanted to know that it was his. So he had me do terrible, degrading things, the things his sitters did to please a man. And afterwards, he would leave me little notes inside my books, or underneath my pillow, calling me whore. The only way I could please him again would be to tell him about the things that I had done, and soon I came to realize that it was not about his paintings or his prospects at all. He simply enjoyed it. Later, he made me do it at home, so he could watch.’
‘But his sitters speak so kindly of him,’ Child said, still unable to comprehend. ‘At the Whores’ Club they only sang his praises.’
‘A man can be kind to prostitutes and also torment his wife.’ She wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling. ‘My resistance, in the hands of Jacobus, was a block of marble, and him the sculptor. One day you say yes to something that you do not want to do, because he is your husband and you only want to make him smile. But there is always another ask, another piece of marble chipped away, until one day there you are, a living statue, and you do not even recognize yourself. Jacobus liked my lovers to think that he was a cuckold, but secretly he was their master, able to give and take away this thing they wanted by his command. He chose them carefully, each designed to humiliate me further. Ugly men, cruel men, servants and tradesmen. He knew I despised Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham for the way he treated women, so he made me pursue him. I drank most of the time. Sometimes I thought I was going mad. Perhaps I was.’
‘Why didn’t you leave him sooner?’ Child said.
‘You think it is as easy as that? I had no money of my own. And Jacobus told me that if I ever left him, he would hunt me down and kill me. And for a long time, I still loved him, despite everything. Sometimes the clouds would roll away for an hour, and he would be kind or sorry, and the sun would shine again. But those clouds,’ she stared at the lamp, ‘they always came back. And in all that time, over all those years, the only person who ever guessed was Lucy Loveless.’
‘Lucy knew.’ Child could see there was a leap he should be making.
‘She told me that Jacobus had no troubles large enough to justify what he was doing. She said I had to leave him. Sometimes I could see the sense in it. But I still loved him – or at least, I thought I did. And I was afraid – of what I would do, of where I would go, and most of all, I was afraid of him. So I stayed, and then, to my surprise, I fell pregnant. Jacobus was so happy – and I was too. I had wanted a child so very much, and I thought if anything would content him then it would be fatherhood. But Lucy said it would tie me to him forever, that he would pass his darkness onto our child. She gave me a bottle of pennyroyal and many times I thought about taking it. But I couldn’t bring myself to kill my own baby. I think I would still be with Jacobus now, were it not for that girl, Pamela.’
‘I was told you disliked one another,’ Child said.
‘I hated her,’ she said emphatically. ‘Jacobus engineered it. He would tell me every day over breakfast how young she was, how beautiful. He said maybe he’d put me in the country, and take her for his mistress. I was so jealous – but now, here at the Magdalen, the clouds are gone, and I can think clearly. I don’t think his sitters really interested him in that way. Those women were their own masters. A transaction freely entered into, the terms understood by both parties, would have held little attraction. For him it was all about love: the price of it, the cost. His heart so blackened, he could only believe he was loved through my defilement. But back then, I believed he wanted Pamela, that they were already lovers. I knew she hated me too. The looks she gave me.’
‘It was Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham she wanted. Not your husband.’
‘I know that now. Lucy told me. Pamela put the pennyroyal in my wine, we suspected, because she thought my child was the lieutenant’s. I had a very severe reaction to it, and almost died. Jacobus was furious about the baby. He said it was my fault. He made us go out to a ball, when I was still weak from the miscarriage and the pennyroyal. I could barely stand, shivering and jaundiced. But he didn’t care, he just wanted to punish me. That night he made me debase myself in the garden with the lieutenant while he watched – the most vile thing he’d had me do yet. I knew then that I had to leave before he killed me, or I killed myself. So the next day I went to Mr Stone’s house on my husband’s business, and asked him for money. If I’d had to, I would have placed my life in his hands, told him everything. But it was enough for Mr Stone to know that I wanted to leave my husband. People speak ill of him; I understand why. But that day Jonathan Stone saved my life.
‘I left that same evening, taking nothing but the clothes I was wearing, which I later burned. I stayed for a time at a quiet lodging house in the village of Kensington under an assumed name. I called myself Hester Rainwood, a former governess, of good family, of limited means. But my money would have soon run out, and I needed to find work. When I saw the advertisement for the position here at the Magdalen, I applied for the post. One of Lucy’s clients gave Hester Rainwood a letter of reference. Lord knows what she told him. I thought I could help these women, as Lucy had helped me. Jacobus beat Lucy badly, trying to make her say where I was – but she insisted she didn’t know, and in the end he believed her.’
Theresa looked around the little room, as if amazed at how far she had come. ‘I remain here within these walls, lest I ever meet anyone who thinks they recognize Theresa Agnetti. My skin is perfectly yellow from the pennyroyal, so I hide behind my mask. I eat what I like, I read what I like. I am content with my lot, such as it is.’ She frowned. ‘But there is another girl living in my old house now and I am afraid for her.’
Child thought of Cassandra Willoughby: her cropped hair, her fragility, her distress after her visit to the bowers with Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham. Agnetti’s cold fury with her that day at the Rotunda.
‘I mourn Lucy so deeply,’ Mrs Agnetti said. ‘I wanted to do as she asked – to give Kitty’s testimony to the newspapers, but I was afraid that if I did, Jacobus would find me. He is still looking for me, you see. He employs agents, writes letters. And if he tracks me down, there is no doubt in my mind that he’ll kill me.’
Child shook his head, trying to clear it so he could think. ‘How did Kitty know to send the letter to you here?’
‘Lucy confided in her. Poor Kitty was so distressed to learn the truth about Mr Agnetti. She wrote to tell me about her marriage, said I wasn’t to worry about her any longer. I never should have shown Lucy, but I felt bad about Pamela. Lucy had convinced me that she’d been murdered.’
‘Why did you tell me about her distinctive carriage and the evangelical church? You wanted me to find her?’
‘You said she was in danger. Kitty came here to see me in that carriage on the day Lucy was killed. Lucy had brought me Kitty’s testimony only an hour earlier. Had they encountered one another and talked, I wonder if things would have been different. Kitty was angry with me for telling Lucy. I tried to calm her down, but she was so agitated. She said people would come looking for her, that she might be forced to give evidence in a trial.’
‘Did Kitty know the rest?’ Child asked, his voice rising in urgency. ‘About the pennyroyal? That Lucy gave it to you? That she helped you to get away? Did Kitty
know?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Agnetti said. ‘Kitty was our friend. She knew everything.’
Child remembered Orin Black’s description of the bower. Mad or bad, a real frenzy. He recalled his own words, on that first day of his inquiry: Maybe the killer had just found something out about Lucy that he didn’t like.
Kitty didn’t go to Vauxhall Gardens to see Simon Dodd-Bellingham, he thought. She went to see Jacobus Agnetti. To tell him that Lucy Loveless had helped his wife to murder his child. He knows.
Child rose from the table. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CARO AND AGNETTI stared at one another. Cassandra Willoughby gazed up at him silently. It was the same with Theresa, Caro thought, recalling her odd and awkward flirtations. What did Agnetti do to his women that they submitted to his will like this?
‘You killed Lucy,’ she said to him, not quite understanding, but certain of it. ‘You killed Hector. You tried to kill me.’
How confident he must have been. How brazen to invite her here. Forcing Miss Willoughby to seduce her footman, to serve his wicked compulsion. A celebration of his cunning in getting away with murder.
Then there was Cassandra herself. Her namesake in antiquity had told the truth and had not been believed, whereas the woman in front of her had lied and lied again, in thrall to the man she loved. ‘You painted the puzzle purses,’ Caro said to her. ‘And you took my son from the park.’
Agnetti turned. ‘You sent her paintings? Why the devil would you do that?’
Miss Willoughby stammered: ‘I wanted to scare her. I was worried for you, Jacobus.’
For a moment, as he glowered at the girl, Caro glimpsed the beating heart of his rage, before he seemed to recall the problem at hand.
‘Fetch one of my canvas knives,’ he said.
Miss Willoughby departed obediently. Caro’s heart was thumping, her mouth filling with acid.
‘You would kill me with my carriage outside, and your servants asleep upstairs? The world saw me walk out of Vauxhall on your arm. How will you explain my disappearance?’
Miss Willoughby returned. Wordlessly, she handed Agnetti the knife, the handle tied with red string, like the one that had killed Lucy. Agnetti ran his thumb along the edge.
‘There will be no murder,’ he said. ‘Only a tragic act of suicide. All London knows of your shame. The fate that awaits you when your husband returns. You are simply sparing your husband and son the shame of divorce. We will say that I was painting you upstairs, and went to fetch some wine. When I returned, you were not there, and I presumed you’d gone home. By the time Miss Willoughby discovered you lying here in the dining room, your wrists slashed, it was too late.’
Caro screamed, hoping that the servants at the top of the house might hear her, or it would bring Miles running in from the carriage outside. A few seconds was all she managed before Agnetti’s hand closed around her throat, forcing her backwards, up against the wall. He squeezed, smiling, enjoying her distress. Blackness began to creep over her vision, when he released her suddenly, dropping her to the floor.
‘I am with child,’ Caro said weakly. ‘You would murder a baby too?’
‘A child conceived in sin,’ he said. ‘Your whoring will not save you now.’
He crouched down beside her, knife in hand, and she kicked him in the chest. He fell sideways, and she tried to get up, but Miss Willoughby pushed her down. Agnetti grabbed her with his free hand, and she struggled, clawing and scratching. If I am to die, she thought, let there be evidence of a struggle, evidence of murder.
Agnetti grunted, and passed the knife to Miss Willoughby. ‘I cannot hold her with one hand. You’ll have to do the cutting.’
‘The way he treats you,’ Caro said, as Agnetti pinned her down, kneeling on one of her arms so she gasped in pain. ‘Those things he makes you do. That isn’t love. It is cruelty. It is inhuman. It is wrong.’
Agnetti seized her other hand, wrenching it round. Miss Willoughby frowned at the knife.
‘Why did you really send those puzzle purses?’ Caro said desperately. ‘They were evidence that an artist was involved in these crimes, evidence that might have led us to this house. I think some part of you wanted all this to stop.’
But Miss Willoughby knelt, readying the knife. Caro struggled, but Agnetti was too strong.
‘He used to do these things to his wife too,’ she said. ‘That’s why Theresa left him. Did he tell you he is still looking for her? He has agents hunting for her, he’s writing letters. Either he wants her back, or he wants her dead. Is that truly a man worthy of your love?’
Miss Willoughby rocked back on her heels. ‘Jacobus?’
‘She is lying,’ he said shortly. ‘There is only you. Now cut her wrist.’
‘If you do this,’ Caro said to Agnetti, ‘you’ll never find Theresa. Only I know where she is. The truth will die with me.’
He studied her face. ‘You are lying.’
‘Can you be certain?’
The knife cut into her, and she cried out. But Agnetti pushed Miss Willoughby roughly away.
Blood rolled down her arm. Agnetti put his face up to hers. ‘How do you know?’
She smiled through the pain. ‘Kitty told me.’
‘Kitty said she didn’t know.’
‘She was lying.’
He placed his hand on her throat again. ‘Tell me where she is.’
She laughed. ‘No. Never.’
He hit her in the face and the explosion of pain silenced her. He drew his arm back and hit her again.
Miss Willoughby tugged at his arm. ‘Jacobus, no. There will be bruises.’
He turned on her. ‘You will speak when you’re spoken to.’ His grip on Caro’s throat tightened. ‘Where is she? Tell me and this will stop. Otherwise we will keep going until you do.’
Again he hit her. Blood filled her mouth. He lifted her hand. ‘Tell me where she is, or I’ll break your fingers.’
Except the sentence did not end like it should, but in a strangled gasp. Agnetti dropped Caro’s hand. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. Miss Willoughby pulled the knife from his back and stared at it a moment. Then she plunged it into him again.
Agnetti slumped to the side, and Miss Willoughby withdrew the knife as he fell. She knelt beside him and plunged the blade into him again and again and again, until Caro managed to crawl to her side, and gently prised the knife from her hands. Then she took the girl in her arms and held her while she wept.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHILD CALLED UPON Mrs Corsham the following afternoon. Her ginger footman, looking a little chastened, showed him into her morning room. She was seated in an armchair, her feet upon a settle, covered in a blanket. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, casting an unforgiving light upon her bruises. Child had arrived at Agnetti’s house in the aftermath of the bloodshed last night, where he had witnessed Mrs Corsham at her most imperious, after a hapless Bow Street Runner had attempted to arrest Miss Willoughby for the artist’s murder.
‘Don’t look like that,’ Mrs Corsham told him now. ‘The doctor says nothing is broken. I will heal.’
He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘And the baby?’
‘Oh, it lives, I am certain. Truly, I think this child will survive anything. Tell me, please, how is Miss Willoughby?’
‘In the care of Mrs Hester Rainwood at the Magdalen Hospital.’ He gave her a pointed glance.
‘That is the name she chooses to continue living by? If she came forward, she would inherit her husband’s estate – be a wealthy woman.’
‘She chooses not to. If anyone will know how to help Miss Willoughby, then it is her.’
‘I am glad of it,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘When I think of everything those women have been through. Perhaps you could give her some glad news. My brother and Nicholas Cavill-Lawrence called to see me earlier. I told them that if there was any attempt to prosecute Miss Willoughby for Agnetti’s murder, then I would give evide
nce in court on her behalf. The prospect did not please them. Tell her there will be no trial.’
‘I’m on my way to see Humphrey Sillerton,’ Child said. ‘To inform him of his wife’s death. He won’t take it well, I think.’
‘A sad business.’ She sighed. ‘I still struggle to believe that Kitty plotted to kill her dearest friend. And to use Agnetti to do it – given everything she knew.’
‘She was desperate. Prepared to do anything to protect her new life.’
‘In the wrong hands a secret is a weapon,’ Mrs Corsham murmured. Then she pointed to a purse lying on the tea table. ‘Your commission, Mr Child. I have also written to Mr Stone, and settled your debt with him. I didn’t want you ending up in the Fleet Prison.’
Child felt himself blushing. ‘You didn’t need to do that, madam. Especially after everything I did.’
She held up a hand to silence him. ‘You are going to be in the newspapers, I’m told. Two murderers caught in one day. Your skills as a thief-taker will be in demand.’
Child took the purse, weighing it in his hand. Everything he’d prayed for. If only he felt like he deserved it.
‘Well, then.’ He held out his hand and she shook it. ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know that one, Mr Child.’
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