Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  Ward drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘You mean women, I suppose? I have heard such tales myself. Whilst not precisely laudable, is it not perhaps understandable in a military man? Staring death in the face, carpe diem, and all that. Once he is married, I am sure he will apply himself to that happy state with the same dedication he has displayed on the battlefield.’

  Caro leaned forward confidingly. ‘This particular rumour is of a more serious nature, sir. An allegation concerning Somerset that has caused my brother’s friend grave concern. I wondered, given your knowledge of the family, if you had heard the story?’

  Ward gazed at her intently, his brow furrowing. ‘Indeed I have, madam, for I’ve friends in the War Office. They will be dismayed to hear that the slander has spread so far. Pray reassure your brother’s friend that the accusation was thoroughly investigated and found to be baseless.’

  The War Office? Caro frowned. ‘I understood that some doubt remained,’ she said vaguely, hoping to draw him out upon the topic.

  ‘Not in the least. It was a vicious lie from start to finish.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to talk me through the investigation, sir? That way I can set the mind of a concerned father at rest.’

  Ward shook his head furiously. ‘No, madam, I cannot. These are affairs of state, not drawing-room gossip. And the more people talk, the more others will assume that there is no smoke without fire – when the only thing burning is the reputation of an honourable man. Forgive me if I grow warm. This is a matter upon which I feel deeply.’

  All very interesting. If the Somerset allegation had been investigated by the War Office, then it must concern something the lieutenant was said to have done whilst serving in uniform. Yet Caro knew that he had never been stationed in Somerset, having sailed directly to fight in the colonies after enlisting. Her eye fell upon Ward’s maps and battlefield plans, and she wondered whether there could be a place called Somerset in America?

  ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘Your certainty comforts me greatly. I will reassure my brother’s friend in the most general terms, and persuade him that he should pay no heed to unkind rumours.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, madam,’ Ward said. ‘Reputations are a fragile commodity. Once shattered, there is no putting them back together.’

  Not a subtle man, he gave her a long hard look. She sensed the story in The London Hermes had offended him deeply. Fat, judgemental fool.

  Ward escorted her back to the hall, where his footman and Miles were waiting. There was no sign of the children. She and Ward exchanged the appropriate politenesses, and as the front door closed behind them, she turned to Miles. ‘Is it done?’

  He inclined his head. ‘You can count on me, madam.’

  She smiled. ‘I know I can. Thank you, Miles.’

  They walked on, past her carriage, into Lyme Street Square. A little gate between the houses led into a half-acre of public garden, land that had somehow resisted the attentions of the property speculators. Deserted apart from an old lady feeding starlings, they made a perambulation of the paths in the warm September sun. Eventually Miles nodded towards the gate. ‘There he is.’

  Ward’s footman was crossing the grass towards them. He bowed to Caro. ‘I hear you’d like to talk to me, madam.’

  ‘Yes, I would. What is your name?’

  ‘Bob Carruthers.’

  ‘I would like to ask you some questions, Mr Carruthers, about a gentleman named Simon Dodd-Bellingham. He worked for a time in your master’s house.’

  ‘I remember.’ The footman’s eyes flicked to Miles. ‘He said there would be a reward.’

  ‘Ten shillings, if you answer to my satisfaction.’

  He pulled a face. ‘T’other one paid me fifteen.’

  ‘Which other one?’

  ‘Fellow who collared me in the Blackbird last year. Had a broken nose. He wanted to know about Simon Dodd-Bellingham too.’

  Erasmus Knox. Caro remembered his sharp, pale gaze and his inky fingers.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If you tell me precisely what you told him, I will match his price.’

  He nodded, apparently satisfied, and they resumed their stroll. ‘Dodd-Bellingham worked in Mr Ward’s library,’ the footman said. ‘I brought him refreshment from time to time. Funny fellow, up to his ears in books and dust, but the Wards doted on him. He dined at table with the family, notwithstanding that he was a by-blow.’

  ‘I heard Mrs Ward didn’t like him?’

  ‘Who told you that? He was the family pet. She was forever fussing about his lack of prospects – even suggested to Mr Ward that he teach the children Latin to supplement his income.’

  Caro frowned. This was a very different tale to the one that Simon had told Solomon Loredo.

  ‘Did the children like him?’ she asked, remembering their curious reaction in the hall.

  ‘I haven’t the first idea. But they’re the sort who mind their books.’

  ‘Tell me about the theft,’ Caro said.

  ‘It was Mrs Ward who discovered it. Two jade figurines – expensive pieces from China – had gone missing from the library. No visitors had called that day, and so Mr Ward had all the servants brought in and questioned. Then Mrs Ward recalled that she’d seen the figurines that morning, after the maids had been in to dust. Well, that put me in a bind, for I was the only servant who’d been into the library since, when I’d taken Mr Dodd-Bellingham his afternoon tea. I protested my innocence, and pointed out that no one would have had such a good opportunity to take them as Dodd-Bellingham himself. But Mr Ward refused to think any ill of a gentleman he trusted.

  ‘Just when it all looked bleak for me, Mrs Ward pipes up again: “Ansell, the boy does have debts.” Seizing my moment, I said I thought Dodd-Bellingham had been at the sherry too – that part really was me, but I was past caring about anyone other than myself. Mrs Ward, she shook her head, tears in her eyes, and said, “I fear we have been taken advantage of, sir.” Well, I knew then that I was safe. Ward usually listens to his wife, and so it proved. They asked me to leave so they could discuss the matter in private, and the next thing I knew, Dodd-Bellingham was dismissed, still protesting his innocence.’

  Nothing about the story seemed to sit quite right to Caro. Why had Mrs Ward changed her views about Simon so dramatically?

  ‘Did you take those figurines? I won’t involve the law, but I need to know.’

  ‘No, madam, I did not.’

  ‘Do you think Simon took them?’

  Carruthers grinned broadly, his nostrils flaring wider. ‘Oh no, Dodd-Bellingham was as innocent as I was myself. I know it for a fact.’

  ‘Go on, Mr Carruthers. Don’t keep me on tenterhooks.’

  ‘About a month later, after everything had quietened down, Mrs Ward asked me to take a box of old clothes to the charity for distressed gentlewomen on Fenchurch Street. Her and Miss Ward often donate their cast-offs, but they don’t always check the pockets, and sometimes I find the odd sixpence, or a ribbon a girl might like. Well, this time, guess what I found?’ He grinned again, enjoying the moment. ‘In the bottom of that box, wrapped up in an old shawl. Those figurines.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  EACH BANG RAISED Child fraction by fraction back into the world of his betrayal. His face was in his pillow, dried spittle on his face. Bang bang bang. Daylight. He winced, fumbling for his watch. Midday. Christ. Bang bang bang bang. It took him a few more moments to work out that someone was beating at the door to his rooms.

  Rolling out of bed, he pulled on a pair of breeches, tucked in his nightshirt, then stumbled to the door, trying to rub the spittle from his face. Bang bang bang. He pulled back the bolts and opened the door.

  ‘Hey,’ Child said, his sheepish grin fading as he took in Orin Black’s expression.

  ‘I’ve been sent to fetch you.’

  While Child dressed, Orin paced the sitting room, unsmiling. Then he led the way downstairs to a waiting carriage. He wouldn’t answe
r any of Child’s questions, his face set and sullen, clearly still annoyed about the other day. As if Child needed anyone else to make him feel bad.

  His stomach swirled uneasily at the jolting of the carriage, the Holborn streets bright with coloured parasols. Gazing from the carriage window, unable to get any answers from Orin, he tried to work out what the devil was going on. He presumed they were heading for Bow Street, but when they reached the turning on the Strand, they drove on, through Charing Cross, towards Westminster. To the Home Office? Could they have found out about Richmond Baird, the agent he’d killed? But nobody could prove that Child had done it, not unless they’d caught up with Nelly Diver and she’d talked.

  They drove on, past the Home Office, past the Privy Garden, past Parliament and its spires, crossing the abbey precincts, coming to a halt on Petty France, a quiet street of residential houses on the edge of the Pimlico Marshes. Orin opened the door and they climbed out. Child followed him along an alley running between two of the houses, emerging into St James’s Park, about a hundred yards from Birdcage Walk.

  Orin turned left, hugging the rear walls of the Petty France gardens, until they came to a larger walled plot, which extended out into the park itself. A Bow Street Runner was stationed by the gate, and he stood back to let them pass. Child’s spine tingled with nerves, a sickness on his palate that wasn’t only down to last night.

  Beyond the gate was a vineyard, the plants standing in ordered rows, wasps darting in and out of the fat bunches of grapes. Spotting more Bow Street Runners standing over something on the ground, Child’s ears filled with a high-pitched hum, which he wasn’t sure came from the wasps or his own head.

  Running forward, he pulled up short, staring down at Hector’s body. The boy’s shirtfront was stiff with dried blood, the fabric torn where a knife had plunged into him several times. His white face resembled a startled angel’s, his blue eyes drained of their knowing glint.

  Child’s throat swelled, as rage flooded through him – at the world and its hardship and misery, at the men who’d bought and sold Hector, at the killer who’d tempted him here and butchered him, just like he’d butchered Lucy. And at himself. He had foreseen this nightmare, and then pretended he hadn’t, because he’d wanted the boy’s information. Just another customer seeking to satisfy his needs.

  ‘Your card was in his pocket,’ Orin said. ‘They thought you should see it.’

  They. Child looked up and saw two thickset gentlemen walking towards him. They wore sober black coats too hot for this weather, and grim expressions beneath their brown powdered wigs. Official sorts.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Orin said, already moving away. ‘I had no choice.’

  The men grabbed Child under his armpits and hauled him to a corner of the vineyard. He barely put up a fight. One pushed him up against a wall.

  ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘Do I have what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘Kitty’s testimony? No, I don’t.’ Part of him noted that they didn’t dispute it.

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Does who?’

  ‘Mrs Corsham.’

  ‘No.’

  They exchanged a glance. ‘We’re looking for a friend of ours,’ the second man said. ‘Name of Richmond Baird. You seen him?’

  ‘No,’ Child said.

  ‘You sure?’

  He started to deny it again, but the first man, losing patience, drove a fist into his mouth. His head struck the wall, and he slid down it. They worked him over well: face, ribs, stomach. Child almost welcomed it: penance for Hector, for his betrayal of Mrs Corsham, for Liz and their boy and all the rest.

  When they eventually released him, he lay there fighting for breath, wincing at the pain each one caused him.

  ‘Tell her you resign. No more Lucy Loveless. No more chasing after missing doxies. No more Priapus Club. Understand?’

  How can I resign? Child wanted to say. Jonathan Stone won’t let me.

  Not that they’d have cared. Either they took his silence as affirmation, or the question was rhetorical, for they walked off, leaving him down there in the dirt.

  PAMELA

  22 February 1782

  Pamela stared at the painting. It was like looking at herself in the mirror, her body and the altar just lines in charcoal and chalk, but her face flesh and blood, her eyes alight with fear. She found it incredible that all those tiny brushstrokes could produce this smoothness, like real skin. Vermillion and lead-white for her, a touch of carmine for Peter Jakes’s ruddy face.

  ‘Now that I have started painting, I will only need one or two more sessions of sketching,’ Agnetti said. ‘But I should like to use you again. When you find new lodgings, you must let me know your address.’

  She smiled. ‘I’d like that, Mr Agnetti.’

  ‘Here, I have a present for you.’ He held out a package wrapped in blue-marbled paper, tied with a yellow ribbon. ‘To thank you for being so patient a sitter.’

  She unwrapped it eagerly. A book.

  ‘It is Euripedes,’ Agnetti said. ‘The play about Iphigenia that my wife was reading the other day.’

  Disappointed, she forced a smile. It was kind of him, and the volume was plainly expensive, bound in rich green calfskin, like Mrs Agnetti’s own edition. Turning the pages in a show of enthusiasm, a piece of paper fell out and wafted to the floor. She picked it up and gasped.

  WHORE

  ‘What is it?’ Agnetti said, turning back from the painting.

  Hastily, she slipped the note into her pocket. ‘Does Theresa know that you gave me this book?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She wrapped it up for you herself.’

  Pamela nodded, seeing the escalation for what it was. ‘Then I shall be sure to thank her, when I next see her.’

  *

  Did Mrs Agnetti think Pamela would take it lying down? First the threat to kill, now this nasty note. Such acts of hostility demanded a response.

  Lord March called later that afternoon. Usually he came with Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham, and Pamela presumed he was downstairs with Mrs Agnetti. Normally she would have enjoyed the looks Lord March gave her, but not today.

  When Mr Agnetti sent her out, she crept upstairs again. In the bedroom, she pulled out the basket of rags and groped around for the little bottle. Putting it into her pocket, she went downstairs. In the hall, she listened at the drawing-room door. She could hear the lieutenant’s heavy breathing. A soft moan escaped the lips of Mrs Agnetti.

  WHORE. It was ironic, all things considered.

  The morning room was empty, neither Lucy nor Kitty around today. A half-drunk glass of Madeira sat on the tea table. When Mrs Agnetti returned from her tryst with the lieutenant, she would surely drink it.

  It is a kindness, she thought. To Mr Agnetti most of all. Surely she cannot expect him to raise another man’s child? And if he discovered the deceit and divorced her, then the lieutenant, an honourable man, might marry her out of obligation.

  Unstoppering the bottle, she hesitated. One of the girls had said that the herb could make a woman ill. But it surely could not be that bad if so many girls took it? Before she had time to change her mind, she added the tincture to the glass. To win great love, you had to be prepared to kill for it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CRISPIN, THE DOORMAN at the Shakespeare’s Head, took one glance at Child. ‘You looking for more bruises to add to that collection?’

  ‘Hector is dead.’ The words hurt Child’s mouth. ‘He was murdered last night – by the same man who killed Lucy Loveless.’

  Crispin’s vicious smirk twisted into a thunderous scowl. He jerked his head towards the staircase. ‘Go on up. She’ll want to know, and I don’t want to be the one who has to tell her.’

  Hauling his aching body up the stairs, Child was greeted by the familiar haze of perfume and hashish smoke. The Whores’ Club was in session and he pushed his way through the girls on the landing, ducking under batted fans and coils of h
air.

  Amy Infamy, the chairwoman, scowled at him. ‘How did you get past Crispin? Someone call him.’ Flicking one of her black tresses over her shoulder, she nearly dislodged her squirrel, which was perched there nibbling on an apricot.

  Child gestured to the empty chair next to her. ‘Hector is dead.’

  All around him, beautiful faces crumpled. Child spoke into the stunned silence, telling them about the scene at the vineyard he’d witnessed.

  ‘Then this is your fault,’ the chairwoman said, when he had finished.

  ‘In part, but it’s also yours. If you had helped me in the first place, then Hector wouldn’t have decided to seek me out. He wanted me to find the bastard who killed Lucy. And he paid the price. Now will you help me?’

  A murmur rippled through the room. Becky Greengrass, one of the whores who had gone to the Priapus Club with Pamela, raised her skirts to show him her cunny. ‘Go boil your piss, you fat old fuckster.’

  Ceylon Sally spoke up in agreement: ‘Hector shouldn’t have got involved. He knew this club’s decision, and he went behind our backs.’

  ‘What if Lucy’s story was true?’ someone said. ‘What if those men really did kill that young whore at Muswell Rise?’

  ‘How is that our business?’

  ‘Many of us go to those masquerades. Who is to say the killer won’t try again?’

  ‘We were wrong to throw her out,’ another girl cried. ‘I’ve always said it. Lucy died thinking that we hated her. And now Hector too.’ She started weeping.

  ‘I told you, nothing happened that night,’ Rosy Sims said. ‘They’ve arrested some lamplighter for Lucy’s murder. And Hector was probably killed by a murdering molly. Didn’t you just say he left Birdcage Walk in the company of a gentleman?’