by Death
Harry Bardwell was engaged in close conversation with Charles and two other men I did not know. Charles saw me and raised a hand to call me over. His face was sombre.
‘Lizzie! You’ve heard?’
‘News came to us only this hour. What happened? Who is it?’
He rubbed a hand across his brow. One of the other men cleared his throat. Mr Bardwell was apologetic.
‘Where are my manners?’ he said. ‘Mr Davenport, this is Miss Hardwicke.’ I turned to the stranger and met a pair of intelligent eyes.
‘We’re here on behalf of the magistrate, Mr Fielding,’ he said. ‘William Davenport of Bow Street.’ He bowed politely and gestured to the other man. ‘This is Jack Grimshaw.’
Mr Davenport was dark-eyed, not quite as tall as Charles, but lean. Most constables were built like bulldogs. Mr Grimshaw was a bulldog, with a neck so thick and so short it was difficult to tell where his head started and his shoulders ceased. He scowled at me and said nothing.
‘You’re a long way from Bow Street,’ I bobbed back a curtesy.
‘Our business takes us further afield every day.’
Mr Davenport flicked a glance over me, making his own judgements, even as I assessed him.
‘What brings you here, Miss Hardwicke?’
I decided to be vague. It was common knowledge that Mr Fielding wanted to keep a check on London’s brothels. I would need to warn Ma if Fielding’s men were in the neighbourhood.
‘My home is not far from here and I know the Bardwells. I heard that a man had been found dead and I was concerned.’ I put a hand out to Harry’s shoulder and squeezed it.
‘Thank you, Lizzie.’ He patted my hand.
The men said nothing.
‘So, what happened?’ I really did want to know.
‘We think it’s George Reed who’s dead,’ said Charles. ‘After we left your house we ended up here. Reed followed us, still shouting after Tommy, but he didn’t come in. Tommy Bridgewater wasn’t with us, in any case. I found the body when I went out the back to piss.’ He looked at Anne, who had ejected enough of her customers and now had her arm looped through Harry’s. The back yard of the White Horse was a mound of mildewed barrels, last month’s chicken bones and dead dogs; it stank of piss. There was a privy out there, but most people just used the rubbish heap – unless it was raining, and they felt the need of a roof.
‘It was starting to get light by then. That’s how I saw it – the body, I mean. I saw a hand reaching out from under a sack, all white and shiny, so went to look. I couldn’t see his face, but it looked like Mr Reed from the size of him. I didn’t want to get too close. He’s lying very still, and awkwardly. I’m sure he’s dead. I didn’t see him earlier when I used the yard – when it was dark.’
He didn’t say it, but plenty of others must have failed to see the man as they pissed over the rat-infested pile.
Mrs Bardwell put a hand to her mouth; the same thought occurring to her.
‘You were the one who found him, then?’ I said. Poor Charles.
‘You had been out in the yard earlier that night, Mr Stanford?’ William Davenport cut across me, making it clear that he oversaw the questions.
‘Once or twice I think. But I didn’t see him then.’
‘And what about this Tommy Bridgewater? Who is he?’
‘He’s a young man. I met him earlier in the evening.’ He paused and glanced at me. ‘As I’ve already told you, there was a jolly party in Berwick Street. Bridgewater was there.’
Mr Davenport turned back to me.
‘I’m here to ask questions about a dead man, Miss Hardwicke, nothing more. But I’m going to assume, for the sake of argument, that you were also at the same party in Berwick Street last night.’
I nodded.
‘With some other ladies of the town and a few gentlemen in high spirits?’
I nodded again. There was little use pretending.
‘I’ll need to speak to them all later.’
Ma would not be happy; she didn’t like the law men, but if I managed to get home before this Mr Davenport, I could at least forewarn her.
‘Had Mr Reed been at the party?’
‘He was there, yes.’
‘Then, he was known to you?’
That was a complicated question to answer.
‘We met the day before yesterday. I spent time in his company again last night but would have to say that I knew him only very briefly.’
The faintest hint of a smile crossed Davenport’s mouth as he caught my meaning.
‘But I wonder, Miss Hardwicke, if you knew him intimately enough to tell me if the man in the yard is truly George Reed?’
Charles cut in.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary. Miss Hardwicke doesn’t need to see a dead man and I’ve already told you that it is Reed.’
Davenport looked at him.
‘You said you think it’s Reed, but you also said that you had only made his acquaintance yesterday evening. I don’t think Miss Hardwicke is the sort of lady to faint at such a sight, are you?’ He turned back to me. ‘I would be happy to have a confirmation from you.’
I’m not afraid of dead men; the dead can do you no harm. But I am ridiculously squeamish about blood.
‘Is there much blood?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea until I can turn him over.’
I didn’t want him to think me weak. I stood a little taller. ‘I will take a look.’
Harry Bardwell shifted from one foot to another.
‘Sorry Lizzie, Mr Stanford says the gentleman’s been drinking in here, but I can’t say I knew him well.’
‘It’s all right, Harry. If I am the only person who knows Mr Reed’s body as well as his face, then I must tell if it is him. If there’s not much blood, I shall be fine.’
‘Thank you, Miss Hardwicke, that is most helpful,’ said Davenport.
Mr Grimshaw led the way to the back of the tavern. We followed in serious procession, Anne Bardwell at the back, clutching a cleaning cloth.
Davenport hesitated as we reached the door.
‘Before we see the body, Miss Hardwicke, perhaps you could describe the man you knew, even briefly, as George Reed.’
That sounded like a test of sorts. I could only be honest.
‘He was a cloth merchant from Norwich,’ I said. ‘Around medium height but very large around the belly. I would imagine that he was older than fifty, but not very aged.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s not much more to say,’ I said. ‘He had the sort of complexion to suggest that he ate and drank far too much, and he had gout. I worried about his heart when he came to visit me. Oh, but he dressed very well.’
‘Can you describe what he wore last night?’
‘He had a green coat. Sage green, with gold embroidery and buttons down the front and sleeves. It was well made, but nothing fancy. The waistcoat on the other hand was very pretty. Tabby silk with embroidered flowers. It looked as though it might have been French.’
Davenport was staring at me.
‘You have a keen eye for fancy details, Miss Hardwicke.’
I glowed at the compliment.
‘But I understand that this is often the way with whores.’
I disliked him immediately.
Chapter Nine
It was the stench that hit me first: the warm smell of rotting vegetables and the sharper tang of human waste. I took a deep sniff at the inside of my elbow; as if perfumed fabric and living skin could protect me against the stink of vile decay.
The Bardwells rather grandly described this small walled courtyard as a storage area. Everyone knew, though, that it was a giant rubbish pile, and that they were too tight to pay the soil men to cart it all away regularly. Staff simply threw the old cartons and barrels into a corner at the back, safe in the knowledge that it was all hidden from the sight and smell of the tavern customers – except when those same customers came outside to relieve themselves o
f the beer that had gone through them. Occasionally, when the pile grew too large, Mr Bardwell would bring the stored goods inside, set the little hill alight and burn the waste away, cabbage leaves, rats and all, watching over it just in case a spark set the whole tavern ablaze. It was a time-consuming, smelly, and fretful business. I knew this because he complained every time Anne nagged him to get on with it. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t just pay up and get it removed, like everyone else.
Looking at the heap of old sacks and mouldy boxes, I guessed that she had been encouraging him to ‘get on’ with the task for a few weeks. In the meantime, tavern customers being as they are, it had been well-watered with piss, making it even less pleasant – and even less likely to burn.
The body was lying face down towards the back of this disgusting mound. All that was immediately visible was a fat white hand, poking out from a coat sleeve. Someone was going to have to climb up and turn him over before I could see his face. I was not going anywhere near the rotten stuff.
Davenport, who didn’t appear to be affected by the smell, issued instructions.
‘Mr Stanford, Mr Bardwell, a hand if you will. You too, Jack. We need to roll him down.’
Charles was repulsed at the idea and hesitated. Harry, probably feeling guilty at the size his rubbish mound had grown to, stepped from foot to foot, muttering ‘poor, poor man’ to himself. Even Jack Grimshaw looked unhappy. They shuffled forward.
Davenport took a well-placed step on to a wooden crate. It held his weight and he jumped from it to the back of the pile.
‘I think I can push him over from here by myself. But I’ll need you men to pull him from the front.’
Davenport was strong. He braced himself against the dead man’s right shoulder and then tipped the whole body. A rat scuttled over a broken barrel stave and dived out of sight. Grimshaw and Harry sprang forward and steadied the man as he tumbled, easing him on to the ground.
It was George Reed. He was definitely dead.
‘Well?’ Davenport was suddenly next to me, flicking dirt from his sleeve.
Mr Reed was still in his embroidered waistcoat. His coat was wide open, so I could see it in all its loveliness. His shirt had come untucked from his breeches; possibly there had been a struggle. It was his neck, though, that drew my eyes. For around it, pulled excessively tight, was his own handkerchief: the one we girls had mocked. I could even make out the embroidered ‘G.R.’ on the corner. Someone had garrotted the man with his own ludicrous handkerchief. His face bulged over the top of it, eyes staring into nothingness. I took a deep breath.
‘This is Mr George Reed. It is the man who visited me the day before yesterday and who attended our party. A cloth merchant from Norwich.’
Anne Bardwell stifled a sob with her cloth, and then ran back into the tavern.
‘Poor Mr Reed,’ said Charles. ‘No man deserves to be strangled while he’s relieving himself.’
‘I don’t think he came out here for that reason,’ I said.
‘Of course he did, Lizzie. Why else would anyone come out here?’
William Davenport was kneeling on the ground, feeling around the dead man’s head, and inspecting the red weal underneath the handkerchief. He stopped and squinted up at me.
‘Why do you say that?’ he said.
I hesitated. Surely, they must see what I saw? Or was I being foolish?
‘It’s his breeches, Mr Davenport. They are firmly done up. Surely, if he had been attacked while he was at his business they would have been undone?’
Davenport looked to where I pointed and then back at me.
‘You’re quite right, Miss Hardwicke. I hadn’t noticed.’
‘That still doesn’t mean that he didn’t come out here for that purpose,’ said Charles. ‘This place is known enough to customers at the tavern. Anyone could have told him – or followed him.’
Mr Bardwell groaned.
‘But the surrounding wall isn’t so high, either,’ Charles went on. ‘Someone could have climbed over and attacked him. There are a lot of John Swann’s men in town, people are saying.’ He peered over the body. ‘I’ll bet he’s been robbed as well as strangled.’
Davenport stood up and wiped his hands.
‘Well, he has neither purse nor pocket watch,’ he said. ‘So, I would say that he was robbed – although whether he was killed first or robbed first, I cannot tell.’
Something wasn’t entirely right about Mr Reed. As Harry Bardwell worried aloud to Charles and Mr Grimshaw about thieves and murderers climbing his wall and drinking in his tavern, I squatted down to the body. Something else was missing.
‘What do you see?’ Davenport’s voice was sharp.
‘It’s more what I don’t see,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Something is missing. Have you gone through all of his inside pockets?’
‘Yes. He has nothing with him.’
I bent down and patted Reed’s coat. It was definitely missing.
‘He had a packet with him. A parcel full of papers. He was very careful with it and I think it was important to him.’
‘They’ll have been after a purse, not papers,’ Jack Grimshaw said.
‘That would be the most likely explanation,’ Davenport agreed.
People were robbed often enough in London, and on the roads. John Swann had been brought to town only yesterday and other gangs might well be nearby. Grimshaw was probably right: but Mr Reed struck me as the sort of man who would carry a small amount in his purse but keep important documents close about his person at all times. He had, after all, brought them to Berwick Street.
‘I suggest that you and your fellow runners start asking after Swann’s men,’ Charles said to Davenport, sounding like a man issuing instructions to his staff. ‘You’ll find some of the more decent thieves ready to point you in the right direction in exchange for their liberty.’
‘Thank you for your advice, Mr Stanford,’ said Davenport in a measured voice, ‘I’ll be sure to follow it as soon as I’ve completed my own investigations.’
‘Well, don’t leave it too long. We don’t want too many innocent men murdered in the taverns, do we?’ Charles threw an arm over Mr Bardwell’s shoulder and grinned. ‘It won’t be good for business if we’re all too afraid to relieve ourselves.’
Harry laughed, but his eyes were worried.
‘People are saying the gang is around Soho. Our customers’ll go elsewhere if they know a man’s been murdered.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said quickly, ‘I’ll bet Mrs Bardwell is hoping a murder will bring plenty of revenue. There’s nothing like a scandal to draw in the gawpers.’ I nodded to the doorway. ‘I expect you’ll find that she’s already scrubbing tables in preparation.’
Mr Bardwell scuttled back inside and then poked his head out to call to us.
‘You’re right about the cleaning. She’s humming to herself.’
His face fell again when he saw the body on the ground.
‘May I ask someone to take him away?’ He addressed Mr Davenport.
Davenport nodded.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said. ‘We’ll make enquiries about relatives, but he’ll need to be buried soon. If you can see to it, we’ll make sure that you’re not left short.’
Harry went back inside.
‘I’ll see you home if you like, Lizzie.’ Charles was suddenly protective, even though it was daylight. Still, I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to walk the streets with my arm through his.
‘That would be very kind.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Stanford, but she’s going nowhere until I’ve asked her some questions,’ said Davenport, lifting his eyes from the corpse to us. ‘You may go, sir, if you wish.’ He turned back and began poking the heap of rubbish with his toe, flipping over a broken box.
Charles, a gentleman of wealth and breeding, was free to leave. I was a whore with an eye for fancy details – like watches and purses. George Reed had, af
ter all, been one of my customers. I could see how Davenport’s mind was working and it made me nervous.
Charles took my hand.
‘I can stay with you, Lizzie, if you want.’
The concern in his face made me smile. I didn’t want to be alone with Davenport and Grimshaw, but I needed to warn Ma that Fielding’s men would be making their way to her house very soon. After her lecture this morning, I thought it wise.
I pulled Charles inside the tavern and spoke as clearly and quickly as I could.
‘Charles, never mind the business here. Davenport and Grimshaw are Mr Fielding’s men. I need you to hurry to Mrs Farley and tell her that they’re on their way. I’ll try to keep them talking here long enough to give her a chance to make the house look respectable.’
He nodded. He understood.
‘If you’re sure…’
I gave him a gentle push.
By the time Davenport and Grimshaw came in from the yard, Charles had already gone.
I flashed them my best smile, ready to keep them close to me for as long as possible.
Chapter Ten
‘You can save your charming smile, Miss Hardwicke; it won’t work on me.’
William Davenport scowled, as if to emphasise that he was immune to any feminine magic I might employ, and gestured me towards a table by the wall, set with benches either side. Jack Grimshaw scowled too, although that seemed to be his only expression. He left the tavern after a few quiet words at the door from Davenport and sloped off up the street. I imagined him kicking a dog or a small child on the way back to Bow Street – he looked the sort.
Davenport threw his legs over the bench opposite me and wrapped his hands around the pot of beer Harry Bardwell had brought him. Harry had brought one for me too. I examined the liquid, not knowing what to say or how best to behave. The beer in the White Horse is good; not overly strong, but helpful for calming your nerves if you’re being questioned about a murder.