Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  Finn Daley wouldn’t take this much trouble: he’d simply torture Child to learn where he kept his money. Any lingering doubt that the Irishman was responsible was dispelled when he lifted the floorboard where he’d secreted three of Mrs Corsham’s guineas in a leather pouch. The guineas were no longer in their pouch. They were balanced neatly on top of it. The men who’d searched his rooms weren’t moneylenders or thieves. They were Home Office and they wanted Child to know it.

  PAMELA

  21 January 1782

  New gloves weren’t a cure for heartache, but they might help.

  On the way home from Mr Agnetti’s house after one of her sittings, Pamela made her watcher take her to Newport Alley, where Lucy had told her she could find Parisian fashions for a fraction of the prices offered on the Strand. The crooked lane had been entirely colonized by Frenchmen: ormolu workers and clockmakers, jewellers and peruke-makers, milliners, mantua-makers and hosiers, as well as Maison Bertin, a haberdashery, where a lady might purchase an entire wardrobe of clothes if she had the funds.

  Gazing at the curved shop windows, with money in her purse, Pamela felt like a grand lady in her new pink dress and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with pale-blue silk. But occasionally, the scene in Agnetti’s hallway would nudge into her thoughts, spoiling her pleasure. The lieutenant and Mrs Agnetti’s whispered exchange, his hand grazing her breast.

  Reaching the door of Maison Bertin, Pamela told her watcher to wait while she went inside. She wandered the aisles, fingering swathes of calico, velvet and brocade. The owner was busy with a gentleman on the other side of the shop, but a young Frenchwoman, who might have been his daughter, showed Pamela samples of leather at the glove counter. A rainbow of colours. She touched a pale-blue piece of softest kidskin longingly. Soon, she promised herself.

  It was a way of discerning a real gentleman from the imposters, Kitty had told her. Kid gloves or leather. Brass buckles or gold. Watch out for hands too – give them a stroke early on to see if they’re soft. A girl didn’t want to waste her good years tumbling clerks who’d saved up for the season. She might miss out on a keeper. Even a husband.

  Feeling the need to practise the art of looking, Pamela stole a glance at the gentleman across the shop. A shabby brown coat. A yellowed wig. Scuffed shoes with brass buckles. She didn’t need to stroke his hands to know to walk on by. Yet as she gazed at the gentleman’s profile, familiarity washed over her. It took her a moment to work out where she’d seen him before. Struck by recognition, she stared.

  Simon Dodd-Bellingham, the lieutenant’s frog-like brother. He looked different without his glasses, in the daylight.

  He glanced up and caught her looking. ‘Madam.’ He bowed.

  She approached him, smiling. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  His brow wrinkled in confusion. He’d only ever seen her dressed as a maid. Even after her performance, in the audience room, she’d still been wearing that old brown dress. She liked not being recognized, mistaken for a lady. Already leaving her old life behind her.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re the girl from Mrs Havilland’s.’ He looked a little dismayed – perhaps by his own myopia.

  ‘I’ve just come from Mr Agnetti’s. I am sitting for one of his paintings. Perhaps your brother spoke of it?’

  ‘No, he did not.’

  A little hurt that he hadn’t mentioned her, Pamela fingered one of the ribbons laid out for Simon’s perusal. Striped French silk. Expensive.

  The owner returned, another two reels of ribbon in his hand. ‘I also have the blue-and-gold and the pink-and-gold, monsieur.’

  ‘I’d like it to match the gold of the ring exactly,’ Simon said.

  He had a little red box in his hand, and Pamela studied the ring he showed the man. Ruby and diamond twin hearts, two smaller diamonds either side. She knew a good stone when she saw one, and these looked very good indeed. Perhaps fifty guineas.

  ‘This one,’ she said, pointing to the green-and-gold stripe.

  Simon smiled at her, and then nodded at the owner: ‘I’ll go with the lady’s opinion.’

  ‘Very good, monsieur.’ The Frenchman held up a list in his hand. ‘The lady’s clothes are to be sent to the same address as before?’

  ‘Yes please. The ribbon I’ll take now.’

  The owner returned to his back room to cut it, and Simon put the box in his pocket.

  Pamela tried to arch an eyebrow, the way she’d seen Lucy do it, but only managed a squint. ‘A lucky lady.’

  Simon frowned. ‘Here, you won’t mention this to Mr Agnetti, will you?’

  ‘The ring? Why not?’

  He hesitated. ‘I have lately come into a little money – a legacy from an aunt on my mother’s side. But I am in debt to a moneylender and, strictly speaking, I should have given my legacy to him. He is a patron of Mr Agnetti’s and I wouldn’t want this expenditure getting back to him.’

  She considered this information. ‘Who is the ring for?’

  ‘A cousin who wasn’t remembered in the will. I thought it might cheer her up.’

  A flush had crept over his skin while he’d been talking. Liar, she thought. She wondered if Simon was keeping a woman. More Dodd-Bellingham secrets, these ones much more palatable.

  He gazed at her anxiously. ‘So you won’t mention our meeting? To anyone at all?’

  She smiled. ‘It will be our secret.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHILD LOOKED AGAIN for Finn Daley, as he walked out of his front door that morning, but the courtyard and the street beyond were deserted. He breakfasted on bread, cheese and claret at his local tavern, expecting at any moment to spot one of Daley’s thick-necked enforcers among the usual mix of drunk soldiers and sleepy whores. All the way down to the river, his hand never strayed far from his pistol. Only when he was ensconced in a wherry, a waterman rowing him down the Thames, did he relax. The trouble with looking over your shoulder the whole time was that it made your neck sore. He rolled his head around, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. Past the Houses of Parliament, past Lambeth Palace, past the Pimlico marshes, to Vauxhall Stairs.

  A small bribe got him through the gate of the Vauxhall Gardens. Child strolled over to the Orchestra, white and ornate as Chantilly lace, blue-jacketed musicians on the balconies rehearsing Handel’s Water Music. He hadn’t been to Vauxhall in years, but he’d brought Liz here once – in the early days, before Arthur was born. They’d watched an automaton play chess, dined on spatchcock chicken, and drunk wine sitting on a bench overlooking the cascade. The memory was like walking on a hobnail – the good ones were the worst. Fuck your feelings, he told himself. Let’s get this done.

  The garden was a flurry of activity: labourers fixing awnings, replacing lantern wicks, mowing the grass. Stallholders preparing for the night’s business. The Prince of Wales’s supper box, with its finial of feathers, was crawling with carpenters and painters. He asked a passing man with a barrowful of flowers for Ezra Von Siegel.

  ‘Try down there,’ the man said, pointing. ‘He’s the one with the beard.’

  Three triumphal wooden arches framed the Grand South Walk, a painted panel at the end depicting the ruins of Palmyra. Child glimpsed a Chinese Pagoda and statues between the trees. He had progressed about a hundred yards, when he spotted a bearded man up a ladder, tending to one of the lamps.

  ‘Mr Von Siegel?’

  The lamplighter wore a red cloth cap, his face gaunt and walnut-brown above his black beard. He was draining oil from the lamp, presumably so he could replace the wick.

  Child introduced himself. ‘I am looking into the murder of Lucy Loveless. Can we talk?’

  Von Siegel climbed down, looking wary. He was even shorter than Child and probably weighed even less than Orin Black. ‘You are constable of Bow Street? You think I kill the poor dead lady?’

  ‘I’m a thief-taker.’ Child held out two shillings. ‘I only want to hear about what you saw.’

  Von Siegel gl
ared at the coins. ‘I want no money. I have daughter.’

  Child smiled. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘You find the mörder? Say to constables of Bow Street to leave me alone?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Von Siegel gestured to him to follow, and they walked down one of the paths until they came to another lamp on the borders of the gardens. ‘I was here, up ladder. I cut the wick. I see the lady. After she pass, she scream. I go see.’

  They continued on to the Dark Walk, Von Siegel counting each bower they passed, until he stopped at the sixth. ‘The lady here scream, in arms of gentleman. After they say he is Lord March. I see dead lady in pink dress. Much blood.’

  ‘Did you see a document on the ground? Looked like a letter?’

  He pointed. ‘Ja, hier.’

  It lent weight to Child’s theory that one of the constables had taken it and passed it on to the magistrate, Sir Amos Fox. He stepped into the bower himself, and spent a few minutes poking around in the undergrowth, finding nothing.

  ‘How did Lord March seem to you? Were his clothes disordered? Was he upset?’

  ‘Nein so. He try . . .’ Von Siegel made calming gestures with his hand. ‘Lady upset. He say her name.’

  ‘Mrs Corsham?’

  ‘Vorname. He say Caro.’

  Child took a moment to congratulate himself on his instincts. Perhaps Lord March had arranged to meet Mrs Corsham in the bowers, and encountered Lucy there by chance? Knowing she was a threat to him – because he had also murdered Pamela – he had seized his chance and killed her. It was a good theory, but not the only one he had.

  ‘Mrs Corsham said that as she approached the bower, she nearly collided with a man in a plague doctor’s mask. He must have walked past you too, when you were up the ladder?’

  He shook his head. ‘I not see him. I say to constables.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else acting suspiciously either before or after the murder?’

  The lamplighter thought for a moment. ‘Small time before I see Frau Corsham, I see gentleman and lady. They go to bowers. Small time after, come back the lady. She look upset.’ He shrugged. ‘It is not so very uncommon.’

  ‘Did the gentleman follow her?’

  ‘Nein, I not see him again.’

  Then this gentleman would have been in the bowers alone around the time of the murder. ‘Can you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘Tall, jung, red coat like soldier. But with gold here.’ He pointed to his shoulders ‘And short hair, cut like gentleman.’

  ‘Did he have a scar like this?’ Child traced a line through his temple.

  He shrugged. ‘No lamp. Very dark.’

  ‘What colour hair?’

  ‘Fair, like girl. Her hair short also. Very pretty. Very tall.’ He held a hand above his head.

  The man could well be Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham. ‘You said the girl looked upset when you saw her the second time?’

  ‘She cry. She go fast.’

  Child asked him a few more questions, but achieved nothing more than frightening the poor man further. He allowed Von Siegel to return to his duties and walked back along the path to the place where Mrs Corsham had encountered the plague doctor. Gazing towards the Rotunda, he identified the spot where Ezra Von Siegel had been up his ladder. If the plague doctor hadn’t passed him, then where had he gone?

  He walked on, peering into the undergrowth on both sides. Spotting a patch of trodden-down grass, he paused. The shrubbery was thick, but not so thick that a man couldn’t pass through it. Shielding his face from the branches, Child walked into the undergrowth himself. He soon reached the high boundary wall, topped with broken glass. The killer wouldn’t have been able to scale it unaided. He kept moving, the wall to his right, looking into the greenery around him, disturbing a jay that flew out of the bushes in a great bother. An overgrown privet bush blocked his path, and he was about to retrace his steps, when he caught sight of something wedged in a knot of roots at the base of the bush. Pulling on one of his gloves, he crouched down and retrieved it gingerly.

  A knife, about eight inches long, the handle tied with red string, the blade thickly coated with dried blood.

  The killer walked in here to get rid of it, Child thought. Didn’t want to risk taking it out of the gate. Probably changed out of his costume at the same time, but he took that with him. Ezra Von Siegel ran to help when he heard Mrs Corsham scream, so he wouldn’t have seen the murderer when he came back out.

  Returning to the path, he followed the reverse of the route Mrs Corsham would have taken. Ahead, he could see the Rotunda, rising above the supper boxes and fountains, the shape of one of those little French custard cakes. The door stood ajar and Child walked inside, the shade a relief after the heat of the garden. Circling the walls, he studied the paintings. Pamela, laid out on a stone slab, a soldier readying his sword to plunge it into her. Lucy Loveless as Clytemnestra, butchering her husband and his concubine.

  Both women had sat for Agnetti. The Priapus Club sat for him too. The artist seemed to be the lynchpin that connected the different strands of his inquiry.

  A trestle table was piled with sketchbooks, unframed canvases and tools. Child picked up one of the canvas knives. It was identical to the one in his pocket, right down to the red string. Which meant it wasn’t a chance slaying. The killer had known that Lucy would be in the bower. He took one of Agnetti’s knives and went to find her. But why there? Why then? Why take such a risk?

  Hearing raised voices and approaching footsteps, he put the knife down and stood back from the table. Jacobus Agnetti strode into the Rotunda, followed by a young, very tall girl with close-cropped fair hair – much like the one Ezra Von Siegel had just described. Child wondered if she was Agnetti’s assistant, the one he’d read about in the newspapers. The pair seemed to be mid-argument, Agnetti’s expression as dark as January, the girl on the verge of tears.

  He stopped when he saw Child. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was just having a look at the paintings.’

  ‘During the day, this room is private. Come back tonight, if you wish to see the exhibition.’

  Feeling the weight of the knife in his pocket, taking a last look around at the bloody scenes on the walls, Child nodded. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CARO PAIRED HER oyster satin with peacock feathers and her mother’s sapphires. She applied white lead paint, a little carmine rouge, her eyebrows blackened with burnt cork. Finally, a few dabs of Attar of Roses.

  All day she’d been unable to keep anything down. Between the bouts of vomiting, she’d slept, and Gabriel had cried because she couldn’t face joining him and Mrs Graves on their trip to the park. Feeling a little better by the evening, she’d forced herself out to Carlisle House because she knew her suspects would be there.

  The ballroom was a moving tapestry of damask and brocade; the orchestra playing a contredance, the dancers weaving in and out on invisible threads. Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham cut quite a swathe as he strutted a duet at the head of the line, his partner a rather leaden-footed girl, heiress to a fortune in whale oil and ambergris. His brother, Simon, evidently returned from the country, was surrounded by a party of scholarly-looking men, who’d struggle to cut a swathe in a field of grass. Jonathan Stone prowled the peripheries, before guiding a worried-looking gentleman into an alcove, doubtless to discuss the parlous state of his affairs. And Lord March sported Clemency Howard on his arm, a smiling, dew-faced girl from a long line of Norman barons and minor Plantagenets. He was drinking too much and sometimes Caro felt his hot, angry gaze slide over her.

  Other eyes were on her too, faces turning in the crowd. The attention puzzled her. Surely word of her misadventure at Vauxhall couldn’t have spread so far, so soon? Not liking their scrutiny, in need of cooler air, she sought the privacy of the water closets off the cloakroom.

  When she emerged into the corridor, she found Lord March waiting outside
. Grabbing her by the wrist, he pulled her into a deserted billiard room.

  ‘What the devil was all that about yesterday? Inciting that thief-taker of yours to question us like that?’

  ‘I found Neddy’s ring in the bower where Lucy Loveless was killed. You don’t think that merited further inquiry?’

  ‘Not like that, I don’t. The Dodd-Bellinghams are one of us. You can’t walk into our houses and question us like criminals.’

  One of us, the old families. Even within the beau monde there were ranks within ranks, and those at the top of the tree never let you forget it.

  ‘I ask again what all this is about? Some sort of strange Craven revenge for Miss Howard?’

  ‘You believe highly in yourself, Lord March, if you think I’d use a woman’s murder to get back at you.’

  She had never seen him like this before. He looked like he wanted to hit her.

  ‘What were you doing that night in the bowers?’ she said. ‘We both know you weren’t taking a stroll.’

  ‘You know what I was doing.’

  ‘Do I? You never mentioned that you knew Lucy Loveless when we spoke the other day.’

  ‘Barely. She was sometimes at Agnetti’s house. What? You think I killed her and then waited around for you?’

  ‘Then what were you doing?’

  ‘I saw you leave the Rotunda and I followed you. I wanted to tell you about Miss Howard. Now I wish I hadn’t taken the trouble.’ He took a folded sheet of newspaper from his coat pocket. ‘Have you seen The London Hermes? Perhaps this will give you pause.’

  A bead of sweat crawled down her spine. The popular scandal sheet was much-read in London society, the identity of those unfortunate enough to grace its pages thinly veiled by pseudonyms. Part of the game was to guess the identities, and it was never especially hard. This was a blood sport after all.