by Dray Wray
‘Farringdon, at an inn by the Fleet River.’
‘A tavern?’
Flora nodded. Ned poured more gin for her.
‘Its name, Miss Flora?’
‘Let me just lay my head down,’ said Flora, ‘and I’ll tell you.’
‘No,’ said Ned, ‘tell me now and then you can sleep.’
‘You will be too late,’ she said. ‘It’s all too late.’ Her eyelids closed and she was gone into a stupor, the only kind lover left to her.
‘You wait for me here, Miss Tully,’ said Ned, getting to his feet. ‘You look done in.’
As he left, I turned to Flora and nudged her to wake up.
I heard a sound so soft, no more than a candle being snuffed out. Her eyes opened and she looked at me, lifeless. A trickle of blood ran from her mouth. She was dead. And that was when I saw Pretty Poppet, waiting at the door, and I knew why she was there.
Chapter Fifty-One
By a half-cocked moon, we made our way steadily through the streets and alleyways of Clerkenwell. I stayed close on the heels of Pretty Poppet until we reached the banks of the stinking Fleet. There stood the Hedge Tavern, a hunchback building, its beams bowed by the damp from the river.
Pretty Poppet took hold of my sleeve as I went towards the door.
‘Don’t use that jigger. That’s where they are,’ she said, pointing at the roof. ‘In the sky parlour.’
I followed her round to the back of the tavern through a midden of garbage, piled with empty barrels, where, clinging to the building, was a rickety staircase. I could feel Pretty Poppet’s excitement; it fluttered from her as at last she neared her prey. Not a sound did she make on the steps. I took out the pistol and pulled back the catch as I had seen Mr Crease do when he fired it at the bottle. Now voices could be heard – not words, groans.
Pretty Poppet stopped. ‘You have to show me to them,’ she said.
‘I will.’
I put my hand on the door.
‘Wait,’ said Pretty Poppet, and I watched as she pulled the flesh from her face so it was no more than a cloth covering her skull, her eyes floating in their sockets. She smiled at me. ‘I brought my friends – the ones like me.’
I turned and behind me beamed three dead faces. One carried a doll and they all glimmered with the energy of revenge.
‘They’re here for the same reason as me,’ said Pretty Poppet. ‘Make us visible and don’t fire that pistol until we are finished, ’cause we have waited longer than you for our turn in the dance.’
I heard the impatient tap of bone on wood, the victims waiting for the justice that no judge had seen fit to give them. I concentrated with all my being. If my gift was ever to be of any worth, this was the time.
‘Let them be seen,’ I prayed to the lord of chaos. ‘Let them be seen.’
‘Now,’ said Pretty Poppet. ‘Now, now!’
I pushed on the door. It was locked.
‘Who’s there?’ called Captain Spiggot.
‘It’s only me,’ said Pretty Poppet, ‘and some of my acquaintances, come to kiss your arses goodnight.’
There came a breathy laugh.
‘Go away, we don’t need anything, not now.’
‘Oh, but now it must be.’
We heard groans from behind the door and I thought that they were doing to Mercy what they had done to me. The noise grew into a duet of raucous grunts.
Pretty Poppet smiled at me and put a bone to her mouth. Her hand was webbed with skin that fell into small folds from her fingers. And then I felt a great pressure growing all around me, the noise of it grew and grew, the sound became a ferocious, whispering wind that rolled up the stairs with such strength that it blew the door open as if it were made of papier mâché.
Mercy was not there. My husband, his breeches round his ankles, was bent over a table, his hands gripping the edge, his fingernails digging deep into the wood. Wrattan was leaning over him and both were nearing the height of their pleasure. They looked up and slowly ecstasy was replaced by wilting horror.
Pretty Poppet flew at them and they pulled away from one another, Wrattan’s weapon rapidly losing its power. Spiggot covered himself with his hands.
‘What the devil…?’ he said.
Wrattan, white with fear, backed away, Pretty Poppet spinning round him, pulling at his clothes.
‘Mr Wrattan,’ she said to him, ‘don’t you want to see Eve’s custom house again?’
‘No!’ shouted Wrattan. ‘No!’
His hair was tied back and she tugged at it, pulling chunks from his scalp. He yelled in pain.
‘But I’m Pretty Poppet – you told me to dance for you. You said you wouldn’t touch me if I danced for you. But you did, until I danced no more.’
‘Victor, who are these fiends?’ cried Spiggot, his legs giving way as Pretty Poppet’s three acquaintances came fast into the chamber, on winds of retribution so powerful that the windows broke as the spirits whirled frantically this way and that. Their bony fingers pinched the men’s faces, pulled at their clothes. They laughed as they spoke.
‘You called me Chitty-Face,’ said one to Wrattan. ‘You jiggled me here – ’ she pointed to the front of her ‘ – you jangled me here.’ She pointed to the back of her. She turned over the table. ‘You broke me, you choked me, and you didn’t care.’
My husband’s face glimmered with sweat. Urgently he pulled up his breeches, and shouted at Wrattan. ‘Get my pistol – it’s in my coat.’
‘You called me Spider Shanks,’ said another spirit. ‘I was to cure you of the pox by my water fountain.’
And another said, ‘You called me Gundiguts, Mr Wrattan. It didn’t stop you taking me through the back door, your fingers round my neck. Don’t ask me to breathe, I never will.’
As Wrattan took the pistol from Spiggot’s coat, Spiggot was sidling round the room towards me.
‘Fire that pistol,’ said Pretty Poppet, baring her teeth at Wrattan. ‘Fire it, for all the good it might serve you.’
The girls joined hands and danced round and round, faster and faster. Spiggot, I could see, was coming for me.
Wrattan lifted the pistol. A look of recognition came over his face as he pointed it. ‘It’s you,’ he said. ‘I’ll fucking kill you, witch, if you don’t stop them.’
Spiggot was nearly on me. I held Mr Crease’s pistol with both hands and aimed at Wrattan. My pistol fired, as did Wrattan’s, and, at that moment, Pretty Poppet pushed me out of the way. Spiggot stumbled forward and fell to the floor.
Finding myself unharmed, I shouted, ‘Where is Mercy? What have you done with her?’
Wrattan’s face was a picture of horror at seeing his friend wounded. He reloaded his pistol.
‘I’m shot,’ said my husband, incredulously. ‘I’m shot.’
‘It was her, that witch,’ said Wrattan, pointing his pistol at me again.
Pretty Poppet whirled in all her grotesque finery and caught the bullet as you would a ball from the air.
‘Victor,’ moaned Spiggot.
Truly terrified, Wrattan ran from the chamber, Pretty Poppet in pursuit. She was not about to let him go. Her acquaintances, having taken their revenge, leapt out of the window and broke into a thousand specks of light, finally released of all earthly cares.
Mercy was not to be found anywhere in that labyrinth of chambers. I went back to the room where my husband had been left, and found him crawling across the floor, leaving a trail of blood.
‘Help me,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, help me.’
I knelt beside him. ‘Tell me where Mercy is and I’ll help you,’ I said.
‘You bitch. I wish I’d killed you.’
‘Where is she?’
His head dropped heavy on the floor and I felt a hand grab my shoulder.
Spiggot moaned. ‘She shot me, my wife shot me.’
I still had hold of Mr Crease’s pistol.
The innkeeper managed to find a doctor among his drunken sops of customers and alth
ough he had the shakes he seemed to know what he was about as much as any drunken doctor might.
‘The two gentlemen kidnapped Mercy,’ I said to the constable who arrested me.
‘There will not be much mercy for you, my lad,’ he replied.
It hadn’t yet dawned on him that I was a woman. He took me downstairs and I held my head up for outside there was quite a crowd. They weren’t staring at me, but had their eyes glued on the roof of the tavern where Wrattan was clinging to the chimney pots.
I said, ‘You should arrest him for the crimes he’s committed.’
The constable was not listening for he, like everyone else, was transfixed at the sight of Pretty Poppet who was standing on the edge of the roof while Wrattan clung to a chimney pot. I tried to break free, but the constable had me held firm. With a tug he pulled me away to a waiting wagon.
That was when I saw Flora. She smiled at me, her teeth gleamed white, none missing. Diamonds were in her hair and her beauty had returned to her, unblemished. The constable stared at her, open-mouthed. Flora said not a word but took hold of his arm and snapped it as if it were nothing more than a chicken bone. He was so shocked that for a second his scream was silent and by the time he’d let out a howl we were gone.
‘Tish tosh,’ said Flora. ‘I have diamonds in my hair again.’
‘Take me to Mercy – please, Flora, I beg you.’
‘I drove in rich carriages and lay down on soft velvet. Come,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you. And then I’m going home.’
She walked along the bank of the Fleet, her feet never once touching the water. By a warehouse not far away, she stopped.
‘She’s in there,’ said Flora, and walked into the middle of the sluggish river. Whirling round, she threw her arms out and, free at last, dissolved into a myriad of diamond lights. I was alone, just me and the half-cocked moon.
It was an empty wooden structure. The moonlight shone through the slats on a shape hanging by a rope from a beam. Mercy’s feet were balancing precariously on a chair. I ran to her and lifted her body so she wouldn’t drop. Time stopped and all that had been, all that would be was no more than just that moment. If I let go, Mercy would die. I have no idea how long I held her, only that when at last Ned cut her down we fell together, willow leaves intertwined. I felt her hand flutter in mine.
‘Live,’ I whispered to her. ‘Live.’
I was arrested for attempted murder of Captain Spiggot and the grievous wounding of a constable. Victor Wrattan was not arrested: he had been trying to save his friend from a vengeful whore. I was taken to Newgate and there was nothing more I could do but pray for Mercy, pray to a God who I doubt cares tuppence for whores like us.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Hope arrived early on the morning of the trial, weighed down with boxes. It seemed such a ridiculous sight and my cell was so small that there was hardly room for us to stand. Undaunted, she set to organising where everything should go. She had put a great deal of thought into what costume would emphasise my innocence and had settled on a petticoat embroidered with buttercups. The gown was of a liquid grey silk that caught the light when I moved.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘considering the fabric, it looks modest and yet at the same time not without appeal.’
‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘How is Mercy?’
‘Better,’ said Hope. ‘But it will take a long time for her to get her strength back. She told me to tell you to speak clearly, for only the guilty mumble their words.’
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘Hope – do you remember the first time you dressed me? In Milk Street?’
‘Yes,’ said Hope. ‘You were such a lonely little thing, so pleased to have sisters.’
‘I still am.’
‘Oh, stop it, stop it.’ She blew her nose. ‘This is hard enough without feasting on memories.’
She pulled my stays tight.
‘Ouch,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m pregnant and I must show it. After all, I am pleading the belly.’
She loosened the laces and concentrated on making sure the gown fitted me to perfection. My kerchief high, my hair modestly pinned, and at last I began to recognise myself. I was paler of face, that was true, but I still had a glint in my eye, a speck of determination.
Mr Gately had told me that he would not call me to the witness stand unless it was absolutely necessary. One small comfort was that the constable had dropped his charges against me and now blamed his injury on an unknown person in the crowd. It seemed he had thought better of exposing himself to public ridicule by admitting that his arm had been broken by a woman.
I know now that nothing can prepare you for a courtroom; the noise of it, the smell of it and how small the space is. Theatre at its most intimate, the play is performed without an ending or rather with one that is at the jury’s discretion.
The moment I arrived in the dock a huge cheer went up mingled with booing. I was in a bear pit. The gallery was full to bursting and among the crowd, apart from Mr Attaway and Mr Tubbs, were Queenie, Mr Crease, Hope and Mofty, as well as Sir Henry Slater and, more surprisingly, the Duke of H.
A woman leaned over the rail and shouted, ‘London should be cleaned of harlots.’
There was much jostling and among the faces leering down on me I was certain I spied Cook. I was trying to catch another glimpse of her when I felt an icy chill on my right side. I shivered. Pretty Poppet stood beside me.
‘I ain’t leaving you,’ she whispered, lacing her bony fingers through mine.
The court rose as the judge took his seat. A small man, he was almost lost inside his ludicrously large wig. I remembered seeing him at one of Queenie’s assemblies. On either side of him sat gentlemen in equally large wigs and imposing robes. I couldn’t tell who they were, but all I knew was that they were intimidating, their well-fed faces lacking even a shadow of compassion. Above the judge’s bench, square, dirty windows threw gloomy light on the proceedings. The courtroom was airless, the atmosphere made worse by the constant waving of burning herbs that smelled of ink and pen nibs rather than anything beneficial to the health.
My indictment was read out – not one word of it lost on its eager audience.
‘Tully Truegood, of Queenie Gibbs’ house in Lincoln’s Inn Square, is indicted for the wilful murder of her husband, Captain Ralph Spiggot, on the first day of September, 1756. The incident took place in a certain chamber called the Club Room, belonging to an alehouse known as the Hedge Tavern. Here, it is alleged, she wilfully and with a malice aforethought did shoot the said Captain Spiggot. He was attended there by Mr Potts, a surgeon, and was then taken to Mr Wrattan’s lodgings at Great Ormond Street. The captain lived for a week and died there.’
Mr Barrow, the prosecution counsel, stood up and called for Mr Potts. He looked only marginally more sober than when I had last seen him.
On being questioned by Mr Barrow, he said that he had found Captain Spiggot conscious and the captain had stated that the prisoner had shot him.
Mr Gately started his cross-examination. ‘Is the accused here, Mr Potts?’
‘No,’ said Mr Potts, looking round the court. ‘I can’t see him.’
There was a roar of laughter from the gallery.
‘Miss Truegood was dressed as a young man, Mr Potts.’
Mr Potts peered at me, unconvinced.
The cross-examination continued and Mr Potts became more confused with every question.
Mr Gately said, ‘Would you say the bullet entered through the front or the back of the victim’s body?’
‘The back,’ said Mr Potts. ‘No, the front.’ He looked round the courtroom for guidance. ‘The front.’
The judge looked unimpressed and began to shuffle some papers that were set before him.
‘I ask you again, Mr Potts,’ said Mr Gately. ‘Where did the bullet enter the body?’
I could see perfectly well that it meant nothing to the jury whether the bullet went in the front or the back. It made little difference. T
he facts were that I had shot my husband dead and all that they had heard so far had only confirmed their suspicion that I was guilty as charged.
Mr Potts looked in need of a drink and was relieved when no more questions were asked of him.
Next, Mr Barrow called the landlord of the Hedge Tavern, followed by the constable, who both gave fairly damning evidence against me, identifying the pistol I was holding when I was apprehended by the silver engraving on the stock. Mr Gately had no questions.
Victor Wrattan took the stand and I could see that the licentious libertine was relishing this public performance. Here was a man who was auditioning for a part in a play. Like the jury, he was certain of the outcome. He painted an elegant portrait of Captain Spiggot as a most honourable man who had tried to save his wife from the whorehouse.
‘You are a liar, sir!’ shouted Queenie from the gallery. ‘A liar, a rapist and a murderer.’
Wrattan smiled. ‘That is rich coming from one of London’s most notorious brothel-keepers.’
A burst of laughter came from the court.
‘Silence,’ ordered the judge.
Victor Wrattan, seeing that he had the jury’s full attention, continued. ‘That woman,’ he said, and pointed at me, ‘manipulated a fortune out of the late Lord Barbeau, a sick and vulnerable man. By her wanton cunning she robbed Lord Barbeau’s nephew, a penniless parson, of his rightful inheritance.’
The jury gasped in horror and there were cries of ‘Shame on you!’ from the gallery.
‘Objection, my lord,’ said Mr Gately, on his feet. ‘This is immaterial to the case.’
Mr Barrow rose to his feet. ‘My lord, Mr Wrattan is illustrating the nature of the woman who is on trial today.’
‘Continue,’ said the judge.
‘My good friend,’ said Wrattan, ‘had a wife who was given to sudden fits of violent temper, a vicious and devious whore who…’
On he went, ending by saying it was in one of my rages that I had cold-bloodedly shot Captain Spiggot, and he, Wrattan, being afraid for his own life, had run onto the roof for safety.
The jury had enjoyed the performance so much I expected them to give Wrattan a standing ovation. On this testimony my case was lost. I was startled to find myself confronted by the prospect of my death.