Ignoring the sweating Allsop, Jay drew the six best miniatures into a group and lined them up precisely in a circle on the veneered table, his long fingers picking up first one then another to arrange them in a pleasing order. Then he stepped away. ‘Have your man wrap them for me, will you.’
Allsop rang for a servant.
Jay walked ahead of Allsop back to the drawing room as if he lived there. Allsop followed him a step behind.
‘Well, Mr Allsop, it has been a pleasure doing business with you again,’ Jay said. ‘Sit down, do. You may be assured I have never set eyes on any notebook. Discretion is a part of my service, so be sure to call on me, should you require anything further.’
‘My notebook. Give it over now.’
‘That? Oh no, sorry, Allsop, I haven’t got it with me.’
‘But I thought—’
‘What, this?’ Jay drew a folded broadsheet out of his waistcoat. ‘It’s just the latest news. I had a little article I was going to publish there if things did not go to plan with a certain client.’
‘Damn your eyes! I’ve given you the fee, haven’t I? Give me my book!’ He lunged for Jay, who sidestepped neatly.
‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.’
‘I’ll call the constable!’
‘Sit down, do, Allsop. You know as well as I you can’t do that. It has been an easy matter to take out the pages of the book that refer to me. But whilst I have the book in my possession . . .’ He let his words sink in. Of course he hadn’t yet removed those pages, but it was safe enough locked in his cabinet.
Allsop sat down heavily, the chair creaked under his weight. He put his head in his hands.
‘Now here is my offer,’ Jay said. ‘I have many contacts, and can supply just about anything in London, and I see no reason why we should not continue our little business. You need a particular kind of girl and, as you know, I can obtain them. There must be many other well-to-do gentlemen such as yourself who will pay for that sort of service. And then again, I suppose there may be other gentlemen who may require a loan in these hard times. I expect you to supply me with some names.’
‘Are you blackmailing me?’
‘That’s an ugly word. I told you, I don’t like ugliness. No, just a little business arrangement. Call the journal my insurance. I would like to meet some of your friends, Allsop, particularly those who are received at court. What could be wrong with that? No reason why we should not grease each other’s palms.’
Allsop wiped the back of his neck with his hand. ‘And if I should decline to do business with you?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that. After all, I’m offering you what you want – your reputation – and you are giving me what I want in return. What could be better?’
‘I need to think,’ Allsop said, pressing a palm to his temple. ‘My man will see you out.’ He rang the bell.
‘If I were you, I would not be too long thinking about it. I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Jay put on his gloves, easing each finger into its leather pocket, then interlacing his fingers. He took up the cloth bundle containing the miniatures from the manservant, bowed slightly to Allsop and bounded down the steps to his carriage.
Behind him, Allsop shut the shutters tight and slammed the bolts on. He summoned the servant and told him to double-check the windows and doors, make sure they were locked. He went over to the desk and tried to rearrange the few inconsequential miniatures that were left. They looked lost without the rest. Impatient, he opened the lid of the desk and thrust them inside out of sight. Then he poured himself a measure of sack and sat ruminating for a long time, before going to his collection of wrought silver and lining it up along the shelf in the cabinet.
He picked up the silver sugar-shaker and turned it in his palm. It had been commissioned by his father and had been his mother’s pride and joy when the new craze for sugar had begun. And now it looked like he would lose it. That snake Josiah Whitgift would bleed him dry.
He had the diary, there was no doubt of it. Trouble was, Whitgift was surrounded by his henchmen. Allsop shut the cabinet door with a slam. Why had he started that bloody journal? He didn’t want to end up in a dark alley with his throat slit. Even if he knew someone to call on, he would not fancy their chances against Whitgift’s men.
Chapter 27
Sadie turned over in bed and stretched her legs and arms. The last few days she felt stiff in the mornings. Partly it was the withering cold, but she guessed it was also because she missed her busyness and exercise, and now her hands were too often idle. Her world was drained of colour and warmth, had become washed out, faded like curtains left too long in the sun.
When she looked around the room it gave her no cause for cheer – the blackened grate, the chipped earthenware pots, the grey moth-eaten bedcovers. Out of the window the snow had melted and then refrozen; the sullen Thames cut the landscape in two, a faint mist rising from it to pall over the mudflats. Dennis had not been up at all and it bothered her. She was lonely. She wondered if he’d seen the padlock on the door and thought they were out, not thinking to knock. But at least she felt safe. Nobody knew she was here; it was almost like she did not exist.
That day Sadie was surprised to hear the jangle of the lock even before ten of the clock. Ella pushed open the door, bringing with her the usual overpowering fragrance of lavender and rose oil.
Sadie took a step back. Ella seemed to take up too much space. She was clad in her stiff green velvet gown with the green riding cloak over it. A scarf of squirrel fur was wrapped around her neck. Her hair was rigid as if carved of wood, her face white and expressionless, except for her lips. She no longer looked like Sadie’s flesh and blood, or for that matter flesh and blood at all. Ella did not notice Sadie staring, but held the back of one gloved hand to her nose, toying with the key to the lock in her other.
‘It stinks in here. It smells like a midden. Must be the river.’ Ella put her basket on the table. Sadie unpacked the basket whilst Ella prowled round the room as if unable to settle.
Sadie took out some onions, a turnip and some wilting leeks, but pounced on a little greaseproof paper bag at the bottom and sniffed it.
Anxious to mend the bad feeling between them, Sadie said, ‘Oh my word, bacon. I can’t believe it. That’s top, Ella. I’ve got some flour left for lardy cakes, so I’ll be right well fed. And what’s this?’ She drew out another little package, wrapped in brown paper.
‘It’s silk, and needles. You said you were bored with nothing to occupy your time. So I thought you could knit us stockings. You’ve always been neat with a needle.’
Sadie could hardly speak. She was choked. After their fratch the other day she could not believe Ella had bought her a present. Tears threatened to well up in her eyes.
‘Thanks, Ell.’
She opened the package wonderingly, and brought out a pair of fine bone needles and a ball of silk so light the threads were almost transparent. She made as if to hug Ella, but Ella stepped back, saying, ‘’Tis naught. Is there enough silk? For a pair of stockings?’
Sadie held the silk up to the light. ‘By, it’s like spider-silk. I’ll likely need another skein, three more for two pairs. Oh, Ell, they’ll be finished in no time. I love knitting.’
Ella nodded stiffly. ‘I’ll get some more silk when I pass the haberdasher’s again,’ and she turned and rustled her way to the window.
Sadie ran the thread between her finger and thumb. ‘What news, Ella? Are the notices down?’
‘Not yet. But maybe it won’t be long now.’
‘How is it at Whitgift’s? How are you getting on with saving?’
‘Saving? Chance would be a fine thing on what I get.’
Sadie dropped the silk and needles onto the table. ‘But I thought they’d promoted you. Don’t you get better pay now?’
‘No. They take for board and lodgings. And I have to share my room now. There’s a new girl. Polly.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s
pretty, in a common sort of way, but she’s a bit of a prattler.’
‘Come and sit down and tell me all about it. It’s been that dull here at home. Have you seen anything of Dennis? Is Ma Gowper better? I haven’t heard her coughing the last few days.’
Ella drifted back towards the table, but did not sit.
‘He’s taken her off to the country to his auntie’s. They’ll be there a week. Ma Gowper had a funny turn, he said to tell you.’
‘When was this?’
‘Monday? Day afore yesterday, maybes?’
Sadie opened her mouth to chastise Ella for not telling her, but Ella continued, ‘Sorry, Sadie, I can’t stay long, there’s a sedan waiting for me outside . . .’
‘A sedan? But you promised!’ burst out Sadie. ‘You promised you’d stay longer today, and I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘I know. But Polly’s sick, and there’s nobody to look after the Lily. He said I could just pop out for a minute, but I have to hurry back straight away.’
Sadie looked at Ella’s mask-like face and her heart sank. Although it sounded reasonable enough, an instinct told her Ella was not telling her the truth. Sadie slumped on her stool, bit her lip and returned to her silent protest.
Ella shifted from foot to foot. ‘Sorry, Sadie, but I have to get back. There’ll be longer tomorrow, promise.’
Sadie did not react, she could not bear to look at her, standing there in her stupid little lambskin gloves.
‘I’ll try to bring more silk too.’ Ella’s voice held a slight note of appeal. She went back to the door and opened it, turning to face into the room in order to fasten the lock. ‘See you tomorrow then?’
Ella was framed in the doorway, a painted wooden figurehead without a ship. Sadie deliberately looked away.
Chapter 28
Foxy sat on the front seat of the boxwagon rubbing his hands together through his knitted gloves. The nag was restless. A rangy bay with a balding mane, it seemed to be able to pick up the dark and distress that always accompanied this wait in Tannery Row – the gloomy alley with its smell of the river.
Tonight the passage was quiet as usual. During the day it teemed with wagons bearing the carcasses for the tannery from the slaughterhouse in the next street, with dogs snatching after scraps as they passed.
Lutch was longer than usual and Foxy was cold, anxious to be off for their usual ale supper and to have a gamble on the skittles. And he knew, the longer he hung around the more suspicious it would look. This was the second time in a week he’d drawn the closed wagon up next to the ginnel to the river. He hated it when it was silent like this. He didn’t know what was going on, whether the girl was gone or not. He preferred to hear them struggle and plead. It was with relief that he saw Lutch round the corner, unaccompanied, his bamboo stick dangling from his hand.
‘All right?’ Foxy said as he climbed up beside him.
‘River’s running slow. There’s patches of ice near the bank.’
Foxy clicked and the nag shied and jerked into motion.
‘King’s Head?’
Lutch nodded.
A few minutes later they trotted into the yard at the King’s Head. The horse knew its way and headed for the trough at the back. Foxy hung up the reins.
‘You were a while, back there.’
Lutch shrugged.
‘That was the second mott this week. The more we do, the more risky it is. I don’t like it. It was better when it was just the burglaries, wasn’t it?’
Lutch grunted.
‘Does it not bother you?’
‘Depends. These ones pay more.’
‘I know. But don’t you ever feel sorry for them?’
‘Sorry?’ Lutch looked at him with incomprehension.
‘When you – I mean, when they go.’ Foxy was embarrassed to have started on the subject at all. ‘I mean, even doing the Christmas goose gets to me. Such a waste somehow.’
‘Plenty more, though, ain’t there. We don’t have no trouble finding them.’
‘True enough.’
‘All of ’em after something for nothing. Eating out of our hands soon as you say the name “Lord Allsop”. Change their tune after, though, don’t they? You’ve seen ’em. He breaks ’em somehow. Reckon I do them a service.’
He was right. That last girl for example. When they’d picked her up she’d never stopped talking – feverish with it, she was. But after, well, she was pale as a wraith, in a kind of stupor. She’d gone with Lutch and his throttling cane meek as a lamb.
‘Trough’s frozen,’ Foxy said.
Lutch jumped down and stabbed at the ice on the surface of the water with his cane. He rubbed the horse on the forehead as it dipped its nose. It brought its head back up and shook it, before lowering it again. Lutch knew what it wanted. He fondled its ears. ‘There, Titan. Who’s a handsome fella-my-lad, eh?’
Tindall was late working in Walt’s office. Walt had long gone up to his bed. These days he grew tired sooner and he was grumpy about all the comings and goings at the Gilded Lily. The chattering in the yard made it hard to concentrate on his reckonings.
‘Can’t get no peace, no more,’ Walt said. ‘I’m sick to death of women’s prattling. Don’t know how our Jay stands it.’
After Walt retired at night, Tindall often found an excuse to work on, partly because he enjoyed the act of writing up the day’s ledgers, but mostly because Walt’s office was always warm and it was a shame to waste a good fire. He had not told Walt his own billet was a grim room in the rotting sheds of Whitechapel, shared with an itinerant preacher who was nearly always drunk and two Irish tinkers who treated the room as their slophouse.
So when Walt went up to bed, Tindall penned on for a while, toasting his bare bunioned feet in the hearth, enjoying the companionable sound of the ticking watches and relishing having the chamber to himself. After he had finished, he blew out the candles and took off his hat, preparing to lay himself out for his sleep by the fire. Cockerels would wake him long before Walt got down here, and he could be away for a wash at the pumphouse and then back at opening time as usual. The dogs were used to him, and he knew to wake the nightwatchman as he passed, so that he knew Tindall was going ‘off duty’.
The yard was quiet after the last of the customers had left the Gilded Lily, though sometimes the noise of their comings and goings went on until two of the clock. So it was with surprise that just before dawn he heard the noise of hooves and wheels outside. He peered out of the back window and saw a closed boxwagon draw up outside the gates. He pressed his nose to the glass.
Jay Whitgift came out and asked the nightwatchman to open the gate. Tindall saw the two men climb down and come inside, leaving the carriage in the lane. One was a wiry red-haired chap he had seen about the yard before – usually headed for Jay’s chambers. The other was a barge of an individual clad in a thin coat and leather vest, with no cloak or gloves despite the bone-cracking cold. Jay must have been watching out for them. As he passed he looked sideways at the office window as if to check his father was abed. Tindall withdrew. He did not want Jay Whitgift to know he was still there, he would tell Walt. Tindall had no wish to reveal his embarrassing circumstances.
The heavier man brought a small parcel wrapped in dark cloth and passed it to Jay. Jay was still fully dressed, despite the hour, and unwrapped the parcel there and then. Tindall caught a glimpse of something glittering in the moonlight before Jay covered it again and put it down on the frozen cobbles. He nodded, and counted out a large sum of money from a coin bag. The two men fished their pockets from their breeches and tucked the money away. Not a word was said, so this must be a regular occurrence. He had not noticed it before though, likely he was asleep. Tindall was curious. Who were these men, and what were they doing skulking in Walt’s yard at this hour?
‘Everything all right?’ Jay’s whispered voice drifted up. ‘Next one’s Saturday – Mr Wolfenden again, Allsop’s friend. Don’t forget, he likes them young – and maidenly.
Though I know that’s asking some. The younger the better – he complained to me the last one was too old.’
‘Same price then, if you want them tidied up afterwards. And what are we bringing?’ asked the shorter man, setting off towards the gate.
‘Two pair of silver-mounted ladies’ pistols. Don’t leave Wolfenden’s without them.’ Jay’s voice was faint now as they traversed the yard.
The men walked to the gate, where he saw them have a few more words before the watchman locked up, and Jay walked back towards his chambers, glancing once more at the window where Tindall ducked out of sight.
Tindall lay down in front of the greying embers, blew on them a little to bring back the glow. What sort of transaction was that, then? His instinct told him it was some scurvy business Jay did not want his father to know about, so he was even more determined to get to the bottom of it. Jay Whitgift had always been a two-faced weasel, even when he was small. But poor Walt couldn’t see it; Tindall was always astonished that his friend thought Apollo himself rose in his son’s eyes. Even now, despite Walt’s outward huffing and puffing about Jay and the blasted Gilded Lily, Tindall could see the ridiculous light of pride in Walt’s expression whenever he talked of it.
But just last week, the perruquier from Friday Street had been over asking for Jay. She said she had reason to believe Jay had hired a young girl who had robbed and killed her employer. Well, that would not surprise him one jot. She said Jay had sent her away, telling her the girl had been dismissed. But Tindall was not so sure; the woman in the Lily, Miss Johnson, she had that country look, not grey like those raised in the smut of the city. He’d like to find out more about her background. He knew that, like everything about Jay Whitgift, the Gilded Lily would have two sides to it – like Gemini, the sign Jay was born under. One side all sunshine and light, and the other – well, Tindall meant to find out all about the other. He owed it to Walt.
The Gilded Lily Page 27