by Death
‘So how did you meet Mr Reed?’
I cleared my throat. ‘He found me in here two days ago and accompanied me home. He told me that he had business in town for a few more days and then he was returning to Norwich.’
‘You had some business with him yourself?’
‘He paid generously to spend time in my company, yes sir.’
‘Was he a decent man? Kind towards you?’
‘You mean, did he treat me so badly that I might have wanted to kill him?’
Davenport regarded me in silence. I couldn’t work out whether he was trying to imagine me strangling George Reed or grappling with him in my bed.
‘Honestly, he was a man of small wit. He talked loudly and at length about the people of rank that he knew and told me a lot about the cloth trade in Norwich.’
He knew the type; I saw it in his smirk.
‘But he visited your house for the party as well? Did you invite him or was he known to the woman who runs your house?’
‘I invited him.’ I ignored the question about Ma. ‘I was trying to get him to leave, that first evening, and I suggested the party just to get him out of my room.’ I took a mouthful of the beer; the taste of it calmed my growing agitation. ‘I didn’t think he would come, but he turned up and was very rude to some of our guests.’
‘In what way?’
‘He became overly familiar with a young girl in the house. Miss Blackwood is staying with us… just until her young man has found work and they can marry.’
Davenport snorted.
‘Until you can put her to work, you mean!’
‘No. She’s not the working sort. She has no business in this city. Tommy is hoping to find honest employment.’ You need to be hard to earn a living here, and Amelia was as soft as kitten fur.
‘Ah yes, Tommy. I was coming to him. Mr Stanford said that George Reed was “still shouting about Tommy” when he arrived here.’
‘Tommy, Tommy Bridgewater, intervened when George Reed was trying his luck with Miss Blackwood. There was a bit of pushing and shoving with the other men and then Mr Reed was asked to leave.’
‘I imagine he didn’t leave quietly.’
‘He made a terrible row about it. He was shouting in the street, much to our disgust. Berwick Street is a decent place and we live quietly among our neighbours.’
The beer was stirring a memory.
‘What?’ Davenport was alert to my expression. ‘What is it? Out with it, girl, it may be important.’
Was it important? I closed my eyes and tried to remember what George Reed had said as he was leaving. It wasn’t even a memory of what was said; it was more of a feeling, something that didn’t fit with the rest of the evening. I frowned.
‘Mr Reed was shouting a lot. But as he was in the doorway he said something quietly – almost under his breath. He said: “I know who you are Tommy, I know who you are” and then he laughed. It was as though he knew Tommy Bridgewater from somewhere else. Then he carried on roaring as he fell into the street.’
‘He already knew Tommy Bridgewater?’
‘That’s the strange thing. His words suggested that he did, but I had formed the impression that they met for the first time yesterday. How odd. Maybe he did know Tommy.’
I met his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think I’m being much help.’
‘Well, Miss Hardwicke, so far you are the one person who knew anything about George Reed at all. That makes you helpful – and of interest.’
‘What about his papers? Are you going to look for them?’
‘Do you know what they were?’
‘He told me they were important documents.’
‘Then I expect that they will be at his lodgings.’
‘And will you be hunting down John Swann’s men, as Mr Stanford suggested?’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘By myself? Do you think a man like me would be a match for a gang of cutthroats?’
I had seen him balance on a wooden box and jump over the rubbish heap in the yard without too much trouble. He was as agile as a cat. Indeed, his dark brown coat was cut generously around the shoulders, rather than being fashionably tight, suggesting that he was ready to chase or climb. He might not threaten a larger man by his physical presence, but I imagined he would know how to use the sword he carried.
I studied him properly for the first time. He had the air of a gentleman in the way that he spoke and carried himself. His wig was simple; pulled into a pigtail with a black ribbon. His clothes were sober but clean and of good quality. The pale waistcoat with small amounts of embroidery and the unfussy shirt gave the appearance of neatness or frugality. He wasn’t above thirty years, but his face was melancholy – as if he were an older man. I spend hours cheering up men like him.
‘Well, Miss Hardwicke, would I deal well with John Swann’s gang?’
I saw no reason to compliment his physique, and his sharp words did not encourage me to flattery.
‘Perhaps you should take Mr Grimshaw with you.’
His mouth puckered at the slight. ‘Well, he’s handy with his fists,’ he said. ‘And he carries the pistols.’
I had drunk my fill. I stood up as Harry ambled past.
‘Do I need to settle with you for Sallie?’ I asked him. ‘The girl I brought in yesterday.’
‘That little diver? No, Lizzie, she didn’t eat or drink any more that I saw. You’ve paid already.’ He patted my shoulder, collecting our tankards and the coins Davenport placed on the table.
‘She wasn’t really picking pockets,’ I said to Davenport as Harry wandered off. ‘Well, she was, but she wasn’t very good at it and she was just hungry, so I brought her in and fed her.’ The words tumbled out a little too quickly. I shrugged. ‘Thank you for the beer, but I need to be getting home, if you’ll excuse me, sir.’
His eyes narrowed.
‘Sit down. I haven’t finished yet.’
I obeyed, uncomfortable at the hardness of his tone.
‘Mrs Bardwell reports that, when you were here yesterday afternoon, you suggested your evening with Mr Reed nearly killed him.’
I sighed and rolled my eyes. It was typical of Anne to turn my joke into a serious matter.
‘It was a figure of speech. He was a fat old man who struggled to spend five minutes with me.’ I giggled, to make light of it, but Davenport’s mouth remained in a fixed line.
‘This isn’t a laughing matter. I have a man lying strangled on a soil heap. His attacker could just as easily be a strong young woman as a man.’
I swallowed hard. He leaned forward, his voice low.
‘You snigger about a dead man, even having seen his strangled body. You’ve made light of a friendship with a common street thief and may, for all I know, be holding stolen items for this woman, who may, in turn, be working for any of the gangs we know of who operate between here and St Giles.’ He held up his hand as I tried to interrupt. ‘You, more than anyone else, were intimately acquainted with Mr Reed and you have already commented on his fine clothes and his wealth. You tell me about a parcel which you suggest that no one else will know about and yet his purse and watch are missing.’
He laid a hand on my arm.
‘You don’t know their whereabouts, do you?’
I shook my head, ashamed of my disrespect for George Reed, and suddenly afraid.
‘I am neither a thief nor a murderer, sir.’
His hand gripped my arm for a moment before he let go and sat back.
‘But you do see my dilemma?’
‘I see that I am an easy target for your suspicions.’ Fear melted as anger began to fill my body. It sharpened my wits. ‘If you believed I had anything to do with Mr Reed’s death, then we would be out of this place and on the way to the magistrate.’
He sucked his teeth and looked away. I had guessed correctly. I was a free woman and he had very little to connect me to the murder. I could walk out of the tavern now.
B
ut my curiosity had been roused. I heard myself say:
‘I can’t prove to you that I didn’t thieve or kill, but I can make it my own business to find out for you who did kill George Reed.’
‘Really?’ He was scornful. ‘You pit yourself above Mr Fielding’s men?’
‘I can go where you cannot, Mr Davenport. I can walk in places, ask questions, I can flirt and wheedle in ways that you could not imagine. I will hear things on the streets that you will never hear, and the people who see things in bedrooms and alleyways will confide in me because they will trust me. They may fear or respect one of Mr Fielding’s men, but such people will not trust them.’ I almost believed all that myself.
There was a long pause. He held out a hand.
‘Then I look forward to seeing the results of your investigations.’
I shook his hand; the face above it was grave.
‘This is a serious business, Miss Hardwicke. You won’t find me easy to deal with, if I come to believe that you’re guilty.’
‘I will be most earnest in my search for Mr Reed’s killer, sir. Not least because in finding him, I prove my own innocence.’
‘Don’t try to leave London. I, and others, will hunt you down and find you. That’s what we do.’ He smiled pleasantly enough, swung his legs off the bench and stood to offer me a hand up. The smile disappeared as his fingers gripped me hard. ‘I mean it: if you’re conning me, and I’ve been played for a fool by a murderous whore, then I’ll drive your cart to the gallows myself.’
I stumbled through the door of the tavern, lurched around the corner and threw up the contents of my stomach.
Chapter Eleven
The house was alive with conversation.
Charles, who had hardly been allowed across the threshold before being pumped for news, was giving an account of Mr Reed’s demise to a noisy audience. Mrs Farley kept interrupting him, wanting details. Polly, Lucy and Emily were on the stairs, leaning over the rail with Meg and Sarah. Sydney was in his usual place by the front door, but he was so keen to hear what had happened that he didn’t notice me come in. Mr Winchcombe and Mr Herring were also in the hall – I wondered how they had heard of it so soon.
Charles saw me.
‘So, how was the constable, Lizzie?’
They all turned to stare.
‘Mr Davenport thinks I killed George Reed.’
My head started to spin and Sydney, who by now was not only aware that I had come in, but that I was not fully myself, leapt from his stool and offered it to me.
‘What nonsense! How can he possibly think that?’ Mr Winchcombe said, his loud voice prevailing as they all fired questions at me. I waited for the noise to die down a little before stating the obvious.
‘I’m a harlot with a dead customer. Look at it from his point of view.’
‘How ridiculous. Reed’s death doesn’t make you a murderer,’ Winchcombe responded.
‘I said as much to Mr Davenport.’
Charles cut in.
‘But if he thinks you murdered Reed, then why are you here and not in front of the magistrate?’
He was cleverer than his friend.
‘I would love to tell you that I charmed him, but the truth is, he has nothing to incriminate me other than supposition.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ He pushed past the others and wound an arm about my waist.
‘As am I,’ Ma stood with her hands on her hips, scowling. ‘And now Mr Stanford says that we’re to expect a visit from your constable.’
I nodded, wearily.
‘He’s looking for a killer, Ma. And unless we’re hiding one here, I’m sure he’ll leave us alone.’ I hoped, rather than knew this to be the case. ‘This is a respectable house – like you said.’
Her lips pinched together. ‘Well, we had better make it so before he arrives.’ She began to issue orders and the small crowd drifted away to get on with transforming a brothel into nothing more than a milliners’ shop which, from time to time, offered tea and polite conversation to well-bred gentlemen. Davenport would not be fooled in the slightest.
The three gentlemen who were currently in our hallway – none of whom was interested in hats, tea or even much conversation – made to leave. Mrs Farley had not given them any instructions, after all.
I tugged at Charles’ coat.
‘Wait – I need you to help me find who really did kill George Reed.’
‘I will be very happy to help you.’ He still had an arm around my waist. He decided that trying to put a hand in my gown was the most helpful thing to do. I shoved him away.
‘Charles, I’m serious. I’ve told Davenport that I want to ask questions and form my own ideas as to who killed Mr Reed.’
The three men found this amusing.
‘Mr Fielding is recruiting whores to Bow Street now?’ Charles’ voice was full of laughter.
‘Don’t be dismissive. I want to make sure that I’m not hanging for a murder I didn’t commit, that’s all.’
‘The runner has agreed to let you hunt for Reed’s killer?’ Mr Herring asked, equally incredulous.
I nodded. ‘Do you want to hunt with me?’
‘Well, I think Stanford has it right,’ he said. ‘Reed was probably done over by John Swann’s fellows. It is rumoured that they are here in London now, on their way towards St Giles or Seven Dials, like as not, and thieving as they go.’
‘My father used to tell me of a man near Harrow who was robbed of tuppence and all his clothes when he was a boy,’ Winchcombe joined in. ‘The footpads were caught trying to sell the clothes in a tavern. Men like that would think nothing of grabbing a man’s purse while he was taking a piss.’
‘Mr Reed didn’t go to the yard for that purpose. His breeches were secure – didn’t Charles tell you?’
He had ignored my observation in favour of his own opinion, it seemed. I decided to appeal to their sense of adventure; make an investigation sound daring but not too dangerous.
‘We could go and see the place where it happened? Take a look? Charles and I have just come from the White Horse, and, if the undertakers haven’t arrived yet, there’ll be a body. We could search the yard. Besides, you might recall something important if we talk over a drink; something to help catch a killer.’
The truth was, I wanted to go back there, to see if there was anything that would tell me what had happened. And one of the men might just recall something of interest.
It took a fraction of a second for them to agree to this new excitement. It was broad daylight after all, so we were unlikely to be set upon by the dangerous associates of a highwayman. I slipped my arm through Charles’ as the four of us set off down the street.
‘Why were your friends in the house?’ I asked him, as we walked slowly behind the other two. ‘I was surprised to see them so early in the day.’
He laughed. ‘It’s not early, as far as they’re concerned; it’s late. I passed them on the way, rolling out of a gaming house. Winchcombe’s an extremely committed gambler – not a very good one – and Herring was with him.’
Now I looked, I could see that both men were in the same clothes as last night. They looked a little dishevelled. Mr Winchcombe needed to straighten his wig.
‘They were out all night?’
‘Herring said that Winchcombe disappeared off from the tavern by himself. He asked around the other drinkers and discovered that a new gaming hell had opened up recently. He decided to take a look and found Winchcombe there, losing heavily. He said that the wine and the company were very bright, though, so they both stayed until morning.’
‘What about you? Weren’t you with Herring?’
‘I didn’t fancy going, so I stayed at the White Horse.’
‘Alone?’ That was unlikely.
He pinched my arm and gave me his most appealing grin. Not alone.
‘I hope she was kind to you,’ I said in my haughtiest tone. I hoped she was deserving of his attention, the lucky trollop.
‘She wasn’t as charming as you, of course.’ He dodged as I punched his shoulder – not entirely in jest.
‘She can’t have been without charm, if Anne Bardwell let you have a room.’ Anne was picky about who she allowed upstairs. I wondered who he had found.
He didn’t say anything. I pulled his arm, curious. ‘Who was it? I want to know?’
He shrugged me off and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking ahead. ‘Didn’t ask her name. We had a few drinks and then left.’
‘You went back to her lodgings?’
He turned to scowl at me, annoyed that I’d pressed him. ‘An alley, if you really must know. Very brief. I paid her and went back to the White Horse. The other two had both disappeared by then, so I had another drink on my own. By that point it was nearly dawn, I think.’
How delightful men are. They have an itch; they scratch it and carry on with life. I hoped he hadn’t caught anything nasty. But I’m hardly in a position to question his morals.
Herring and Winchcombe had reached the tavern ahead of us and were arguing with Anne Bardwell in the doorway. When Charles and I arrived, it was clear that the White Horse was closed. Anne stood, jaw set squarely, arms folded over her belly.
‘No, you’re not coming in. I’ve only just got rid of the constable and we’ve still got a dead man to move because the undertakers are in no hurry.’
We tried for several minutes, but Anne was having none of it.
‘Perhaps we might talk to you and Mr Bardwell about what happened last night,’ I said, peering into the empty tavern, hoping to catch a glimpse of the landlord.
‘It’s no good you looking about for Harry. He’s helping the men carry Mr Reed away to their cart. That unfortunate gentleman’s too heavy for the little shrimps the undertakers finally sent us.’
Anne Bardwell would probably have managed to carry out George Reed by herself, such was the width of her shoulders. She was no shrimp.
‘Are you sure we can’t come in and wait for him?’ I knew that he would be more willing to talk than his wife. ‘And have a drink and a bite to eat?’