by Death
‘You see if I’m wrong. He’s gone for good. And where am I to get a new doorman as fine as Sydney? I’m damned if I’m going back to Paris for another one.’
I raised my eyebrows; Ma was quick enough to disapprove of the rest of us when we cursed. She was really rattled. The paper had been folded twice, very neatly. The handwriting was unfamiliar but clear, almost childlike – the hand of a man writing carefully in a foreign language.
‘Mme Farley, I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I need to be somewhere else. I thank you for your understanding. Sydney.’
It wasn’t as clear to me as it was to her that this was a permanent decision. He might need to be somewhere else for any number of reasons. But something nagged at me. If he had never written a note to her before then this departure must be, in his mind, more significant.
There was little I could do this evening. I wandered into the parlour where Ma was pouring herself a glass of gin. I had never seen her like this.
‘Are there any gentlemen in tonight?’
She slumped into a seat, glass in hand.
‘I think Emily is engaged, but the others are out. I am discouraging visitors. I’ll lock up later.’ That was unheard of. ‘I can’t manage the house and the entertainment without a doorman. I need Sydney.’
She threw the gin down her throat and motioned to me to pour another. The bottle smelled strong, even from across the table. Goodness knows what was mixed into it.
‘Do you want me to wait for the others? Leave you to have some peace here?’ I didn’t want to spend all night by the door, but the guilt of having brought Mr Davenport into the house was eating at me. And if Ma was going to drink herself into a stupor she didn’t need to be doing it in view of the street.
‘You’re a good girl, Lizzie. I’ve always said so.’
The gin was obviously starting to take effect already.
In the hallway I sat for a moment on Sydney’s stool, reading over the note and trying to think. Could Sydney have strangled George Reed? Was that why he had run away? I found it hard to believe. More likely he had been frightened by the fact that his little secret had been discovered by a man from the magistrate’s office. In which case, surely he wouldn’t choose to hide in a molly house? It would be the first place we would go looking for him, he would know that. So where had he gone? Was he still in London or had he left for the country? Returned to France? No, I couldn’t see Sydney being anywhere other than London. He had told me that he was pleased to have left Paris. And he would be so out of place in the countryside: his dark skin, which made him seem so elegant and unusual in town, would invite too much attention of the wrong sort elsewhere. He had to be in London.
I poked around the hallway quietly for a few minutes, looking for anything that might offer a hint.
There was no sound from the parlour; perhaps Ma was asleep. As softly as I could I tried the handle of Sydney’s room. It was a small cubbyhole by the front door, conveniently placed for a man who was supposed to be our guard. It was locked. I had never been into Sydney’s private space and I imagined that the only other person to have a key would be Ma.
I stole down the hall to the parlour and peeped through the door. She was snoring, mouth open, feet resting on a stool. The keys might be on the table or in her pocket, if I could just find them and take them without waking her…
The front door flew open with a bang. I jumped out of my skin.
‘God’s blood, Lucy!’ I hissed.
‘Lizzie, what’s the matter? You look scared half to death. Where’s Sydney? And what are you doing, creeping about down here?’
‘Shh. Ma’s been on the gin. Keep your voice down.’
Lucy hobbled to the stairs, sat down and kicked off her shoes.
‘Lord, but my feet ache! Mr Gideon’s chair wasn’t free, so I had to walk in those wretched shoes. Miles I’ve walked. Remind me not to wear them again.’ She rubbed her heels. ‘What did you say? Ma’s been on the gin? What’s happened?’
Lucy knew, as I did, that Ma only got the gin down after a very bad day. Gin was the ruin of prostitutes and it was a mark of Berwick Street’s superiority that we never drank it. We had fine wine on our table from Portugal or France. Of course, we did drink gin – beyond Mrs Farley’s reach and knowledge – but we all knew girls who had gone to the bad on it.
‘Sydney’s missing.’
‘Oh, he’ll be fine. We know where he goes.’ She waved a dismissive hand, more concerned about her aching feet.
‘No Lucy, he’s written a note,’ I held up the little sheet of paper. ‘He’s never left one before.’
She shrugged, unconcerned, barely glancing at it.
‘Well I suppose we’ll need a new bully. We can’t operate a place like this with no one but you to open the door.’
She was a heartless little piece sometimes. Grumpy too, and it wasn’t just the shoes, I was certain.
‘Mr Gideon’s still not invited you to stay, then?’
‘Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She stamped, barefoot, up the stairs. No, her dreams of a rich man to keep her in silks and jewels had not yet come true. I hoped that they would one day – not only for her sake. She would be a nightmare to live with until one of her lovers made an offer to keep her as his mistress.
Her loud clomping brought Ma, bleary-eyed, out from the parlour. She grunted something incomprehensible at me and followed her noisy tenant up to bed. The keys went with her.
I put Lucy’s shoes neatly on the bottom stair, wrapped her abandoned shawl around my shoulders and padded back to the stool to watch for the others. If I was prevented from searching Sydney’s room, then I was tempted to fetch the gin bottle for company but decided to keep a clear head and think matters through. I was no closer to finding out who had killed George Reed than I had been when I saw his body at the White Horse. Now that he had the letters, Davenport had stopped thinking of me as a murderer – thank God – but I hadn’t helped him much at all.
It was near dawn before Polly finally rolled home. I drew a bolt across the door and, for once, our home closed for the night.
Chapter Twenty-five
Sydney had not returned by the morning. Ma had stationed Meg at the door, which was a bad idea for many reasons. Sarah had been asked to take on Meg’s chores – but she was refusing to do them, on the grounds that she needed to cook. Lucy was forced to pick up her own laundry and carry it downstairs – along with the rest of us – but while the rest of us got on with it, Lucy was not happy. She was still complaining about blisters on her heels, as if such injury would excuse her the menial household tasks. Meg, meanwhile, had positioned herself on Sydney’s stool and now, in this exalted position, with the weight off her bent legs, had begun to take on some of his airs. She was unable to help with the housework because someone needed to welcome guests with dignity and elegance, she said.
I carried water up the stairs and met Polly, bucket in hand, coming down from lighting fires. Neither of us spoke but rolled our eyes at one another. As soon as I had completed my tasks, and as soon as it was possible, I escaped. Someone needed to go and look for Sydney, I said to Ma. And Meg, after all, was far more crucial to the hospitality and good order of our house than I was.
Meg, from the lofty height of the stool, said nothing, but cast a look of extreme disapproval at my choice of gown as I went out. Well, if I have to dress myself, I’m going to look shabby.
I decided to walk west, rather than east, suspecting that Meg had gone towards Covent Garden last night. It was nearly noon, and the air had a moistness about it; threatening rain. Ahead of me, not far from Golden Square, there was a small commotion – an unlikely sound at this time of day, I thought, but even more unlikely given the source of the fuss. It was Susan Groves, George Reed’s landlady.
She was flapping her hands at two boys, squealing as if they were trying to murder her. They looked to be no older than ten and all that had happened, as far as I could
make out, was that they had bumped her arm and upset her basket. More startled than malicious, they had returned her cries with high-pitched wails of their own and all three were in real and unnecessary danger of attracting a crowd.
‘Mrs Groves!’ I greeted her fulsomely with waves and smiles as I scurried towards her. ‘How lovely to see you again.’
She looked confused; she didn’t recognise me.
‘Lizzie Hardwicke – I came to your house with the magistrate’s man, Mr Davenport.’
We hadn’t had much time to talk as Davenport and I poked about her guest room, but I must have made a good impression, for now she gripped my hand like an old friend.
‘Oh Miss Hardwicke, how good to see you. Look what these dreadful boys have done,’ she said with sniffs, her patched red shawl falling off her shoulders. ‘The food’s all over the ground now.’
The lads, wise enough to realise that my arrival offered the chance to escape any further scolding, took flight immediately. I bent down to the cloth parcels that had, indeed, landed on the street.
‘There’s no harm done, dear Mrs Groves, don’t be distressed. Look here, the bread has been perfectly protected because you’ve wrapped it so carefully.’ I handed up the two items – bread and, I imagined a portion of cake – and she examined them fretfully.
‘Oh no, oh dear, the cloth is so dirty.’ She fussed about with it.
‘But it’s only the cloth,’ I said, ‘I’m sure the bread is just fine.’ I began to suspect the reason for her agitation had little to do with the dropped bread. ‘Where are you going at this hour?’
Her face fell. ‘I’m taking this basket of food to John’s place – to the butcher’s – I forgot to give it to him before he left. He sent a message home.’
I took the bread parcel from her shaking hands before she dropped it again and, rubbed some of the dust away with the corner of my cloak. I gave her a half-smile. ‘Perhaps if we put the bread at the bottom of the basket, no one will notice the dirt on the cloth. I think it’s mostly clean now.’ I crouched down and tucked the bread under the rest of the food, along with the cake, and spread the paper packets of meats and cheese over the top. ‘He’ll never know.’ I smiled up at her. Her face, beneath its squashed brown bonnet, was a mixture of astonishment and embarrassment.
‘Thank you very much, Miss Hardwicke. You’re really very kind to stop and help.’ She fought a sob that was growing in her throat. ‘You must think I’m very foolish to make so much fuss about a bundle of bread.’
I shook my head. ‘Not at all. Would you like me to walk with you to the butcher’s – to prevent any further accidents?’
She hesitated for a moment. It was understandable: respectable women don’t walk with the likes of me. Then a soft glint of rebellion appeared in her eyes. ‘I’d like that.’
We walked arm in arm, silently at first, as neither of us wished to pry into the life of the other. Then she said, ‘Are you… on your way home?’
‘I’m looking for a friend who has gone missing.’
‘A friend?’
‘Our doorkeeper. His name’s Sydney. He disappears sometimes, but this seems more than just a casual flit. I’m worried that he’s gone for good.’
‘Why would he want to leave your house? Is he in trouble?’
She was sharp, for all she was timid.
‘Possibly. I don’t know. I hope not.’
‘But you’re concerned for him?’
‘If he is in trouble, I want to help him,’ I said.
‘Does this have anything to do with poor Mr Reed’s death? Has his murderer been found? Is it anything to do with that highwayman?’ Her shoulders tightened, as if she were fearful of imminent attack. ‘They say he has men roaming London.’
‘I don’t think Mr Davenport is any closer to finding out who killed him. He discovered some letters, though. They were in the yard at the White Horse. Blackmail letters sent by Mr Reed.’
Her eyes widened.
‘No!’
‘It’s true. He wasn’t as respectable as we thought.’ Well, I’d never supposed him to be respectable, but then, I’d seen a lot more of him than Mrs Groves.
We turned down a narrower street, Mrs Groves still turning this information over in her mind and saying, ‘Well, I never’ to herself and shaking her head, when she stiffened a little.
‘We’re here. This is the butcher’s.’
It was a large place. The shop front was already hung with hams; a young lad was lifting strings of trotters high up onto hooks with a long crook-ended pole. The hooks were above the hefty rounds of pork; he was concentrating so hard on his task that he didn’t acknowledge our arrival. Even so, Susan Groves dropped my arm.
‘I won’t come in, if you don’t mind,’ I said, sensing her apprehension. ‘I’m not keen on butchery – all that blood makes me feel ill.’
She gave me a grateful smile. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind waiting.’
I nodded and watched her step into the butcher’s, head lowered. It was the sort of place that was doing well – feeding the well-to-do who lived in this pleasant neighbourhood. Not grand enough to command the attention of the finest houses, the frontage – with its carefully displayed wares – nevertheless suggested that the customers would be discerning and moneyed. The actual butchery was around the back of the shop. I could smell it – and see traces of blood and bits that had splattered along the gutter – and knew that it would be full of carcasses on the ground and joints of curing meat swinging from the ceiling. A better establishment would site it further away, so that housekeepers, cooks, or even lowly maids from the finer houses in St James would not have to meet with the distressing reality of entrails. This butcher, although still rudimentary, sold decent meat. Mr Groves was earning a comfortable living. The fact that he kept his wife short of money – I’d seen the patched-up clothing and battered bonnet – was something to wonder at. A man who bullies or beats his wife won’t care about letting her go about the street without any air of fashion – and that, too, is an unkindness.
She emerged smiling.
‘I didn’t see John,’ she said, breathing quickly and trying to hide the relief of having avoided him. ‘Gave the basket to one of the lads.’
I took her arm and tugged her away. It was starting to rain and, even though her cheap hat might be improved by the dampness, I didn’t want my own beribboned creation to get wet unnecessarily.
It was one of those sharp spring showers; usually over quickly, but heavy enough to drench anyone unlucky to be caught in it. Shop keepers began to drag their wares inside, or pull large awnings down to protect their goods as the shower became heavier. Servants with baskets scurried a little faster to finish their errands and, as the heavens poured forth, some took shelter in doorways.
I tugged Susan Groves into a shop without thinking; the nearest one. It was not my usual sort of establishment, being a gentlemen’s outfitter. I realised my mistake only after we had run inside, but, rather than appear foolish, I loudly suggested to Susan that we examine the buckles displayed in neat rows in the window. We might as well pretend that we had intended to shop here. The buckles would, I said, look very fine on her husband’s shoes. Gamely, she played along, picking up items and staring thoughtfully at them in the grey light of the window. The old tailor eyed us suspiciously, as if he thought we were likely to slip a buckle or two into our pockets. His younger assistant was gazing at us – well, at me – as though he’d never seen a woman before. I winked at him and his face coloured as he began to rearrange the bolts of cloth. One of them fell on the floor.
‘So,’ I said, noting that the rain had eased to a light drizzle, and nudging her arm, ‘do you think he would like a new pair of buckles after all, or might he prefer a new pocket handkerchief?’
She stifled a small giggle. Turning to the shopkeeper she dropped a neat little curtesy and thanked him for the opportunity to look at his wares, assuring him that she would return presentl
y with her husband to make a purchase. She did this with such gentility and seriousness that I saw his face soften and smile at the expectation of a future sale. Mr Groves, I was confident, would not be wearing new buckles from this shop or any other.
‘Thank you,’ she said to me as we found ourselves on the street once more. ‘That was a delightful shop and I really did enjoy myself – more than I thought was possible.’ I bade her farewell, knowing that I needed to be back in Berwick Street, doing my best to avoid the puddles of rain that had collected in the street’s ditches. Susan Groves trotted off with a lively gait, oblivious even of the children jumping into the same puddles, splattering muddy water everywhere. If a few minutes looking at shoe buckles had made her so merry, then this was truly a woman who did not have much to keep her entertained at home.
‘Lizzie!’
The shout came from across the street. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t seen the two girls leaning against a doorway, arm in arm. I waved to them, wished them good day, and then remembered that I had yet to speak with our mutual friend.
‘Where’s Sallie?’
Kitty shrugged. ‘She’s gone off.’
‘Gone off? Gone off where?’
‘We don’t know,’ Bess said, kicking at a stone, unconcerned. ‘We think she went over to Covent Garden.’
I crossed the street to speak with them.
‘Or maybe she’s down the Strand?’ Kitty said.
The Strand: last refuge of the desperate. I was not Sallie’s sister, despite her jokes, nor even a close friend, but I did feel oddly responsible for her. ‘When did you last see her?’ I frowned at Kitty, but she was watching a young man who stood preening himself in front of a shop window.
She turned back to me with a sigh. ‘She went out yesterday in the early afternoon and she hasn’t come back yet. She’s probably drunk somewhere.’
‘Or maybe she’s found herself a new pitch. Somewhere more suitable to her own sort,’ said Bess.
The cheap sort. The I’ll-do-whatever-you-want-for-a-meal-sir sort.