Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘I think you went along with something very bad that night. I think that’s why you’ve made peace with your father, and agreed to marry Clemency Howard, because you’re lost and you’re trying to find a way back. But you won’t. Not unless you tell me the truth. I need you to trust me, Octavius. Together we can take on Jonathan Stone.’

  Miss Howard was watching them too, the earl and the countess frowning across at them. On stage, Charles Surface whipped aside the screen to reveal Lady Teazle hiding there.

  ‘I was angry when you wouldn’t stand by me,’ Caro said. ‘I tried to convince myself that you could be guilty of murder. But I don’t think you’d have tried to kill me. Not when you know that I carry your child. Is it Neddy you’re protecting? Or Prinny? If he was the fifth man at the masquerade, then I need to hear it.’

  She waited for him to say: ‘What fifth man?’, but he only rose, buttoning his coat.

  ‘Was Pamela for him?’ she persisted. ‘Or for Stone? Or for someone else? She told a friend that you used to watch her, that you wanted her.’

  He turned sharply. ‘She was half my age. Of course I didn’t want her.’

  Liar, she thought, wondering if she was wrong about his innocence. Might he have tried to kill her, despite the child in her womb?

  He stood looking down at her, emotion working its way across his face. ‘Pamela is alive and well,’ he said. ‘Lucy was killed by a passing stranger. Perhaps this man, Von Siegel. I don’t know. You have to believe it, Caro. Because if you don’t, you will be sorry. Stone will find a way to make you pay. He always does.’

  *

  Caro left the theatre between the fourth and fifth acts. Drury Lane was choked with carriages, the street a swarm of early leavers and late arrivals. Journalists hovered on the fringes of the crowd, waiting for the Prince to emerge. Theatre spells and other harlots vied for the attention of the departing gentlemen.

  A hand gripped her arm and she turned. Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham. He must have seen her leave the theatre and come after her.

  ‘Don’t you want to talk to me too? I was growing used to our little chats. The way you keep returning – like typhus.’

  No sign of last night’s lazy smile, his blue eyes perfectly frigid. Simon must have told him that I asked about Somerset, she thought, and he’s taken it as a threat, just like he did with Lucy.

  A small party of his redcoat friends caught up with him. She recognized Hennessy and Cartwright from last night.

  The lieutenant raised his voice. ‘You see those scribblers over there?’ He nodded at the waiting journalists, who were eyeing them with interest. ‘Remember those lists they like to compile? Ranking the ladies by complexion and grace and so on? You used to top a few of those, didn’t you, Mrs Corsham?’

  ‘Neddy,’ Cartwright said reprovingly. ‘Not very chivalrous.’

  ‘We all get older, lieutenant,’ she said. ‘Not all of us wiser.’

  ‘Touché,’ one of the other redcoats offered in half-hearted gallantry.

  The lieutenant smiled. ‘Hennessy here claims that not a lady in those lists compares favourably to the average doxy in Covent Garden. Whereas Cartwright says that breeding will out. You want to know my own view? The way some ladies behave, it’s impossible to tell the difference.’

  A ripple of startled laughter ran through the redcoats. The journalists scribbled in their little books, and Caro flushed under their scrutiny.

  Hennessy pointed. ‘Look, there’s Agnetti. Let him be the judge. He’s spent long enough looking at them. Ladies, harlots, he’s painted them all. Signor Agnetti! Hey, over here!’

  The artist, who had just emerged from the theatre, walked over to join them, frowning.

  ‘Settle an argument, will you, Agnetti? Who is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever painted?’

  He studied their eager, pink faces. ‘That would be my wife.’

  The officers exchanged amused glances. ‘Second, then,’ Hennessy persisted.

  Agnetti’s eyes encircled the group, coming to a rest upon Caro, seeming to understand something of the situation. ‘I would never demean my sitters by subjecting them to a contest of looks. Mythology teaches us that such presumption tends to end badly. That being said, Mrs Corsham makes a convincing Aphrodite to any man’s gaze.’ He offered her a stiff bow and walked on.

  ‘Not like Agnetti to play the gallant,’ Cartwright observed. ‘There now, see, Hennessy, breeding will out.’

  ‘You can’t trust Agnetti’s judgement,’ Hennessy protested, forgetting that he had called for it in the first place. ‘Didn’t you hear him? His wife wasn’t a beauty.’

  ‘Perhaps she was to him,’ Caro said, quietly.

  The redcoats moved off together, still arguing. ‘You can’t chalk that one up to breeding,’ she heard Hennessy say. ‘She’s a Craven. City money doesn’t count.’

  ‘Stay out of my business,’ the lieutenant said, still eyeing her coldly.

  ‘Or what? Am I to be murdered? Like Lucy and Pamela? Or will you try to rape me, like you did poor Miss Willoughby?’

  He laughed richly. ‘Rape? Is that what she calls it?’

  ‘Yes, and I believe her. A witness saw her leaving the bower in utmost distress.’

  ‘That lamplighter, I suppose? Who is likely to listen to him? Who is likely to listen to Miss Willoughby for that matter? She has a loose reputation and she went willingly with me to the bower. What did she think would happen there? A meeting of prayer? Girls who are loose with their morals cry rape all the time. Not a court in the land would convict me, and you know it.’

  PAMELA

  25 February 1782

  On auction nights, the tableaux house was always packed to the gilded rafters. The competition between the bidders was sport for the spectators in itself. Pamela fiddled nervously with her silver necklace as she watched from the side of the stage, feeling the anticipation in the room. Seven near-naked girls were tending a painted tree of golden apples.

  ‘Behold the hero, Heracles,’ George cried.

  Peter Jakes squeezed her arse as he pushed past her onto the stage, wearing only a loincloth.

  Pamela had spent the day with Mrs Havilland, making preparations. Going over everything, leaving nothing to chance. No mistakes, no displeasure, or no money.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about with me,’ Pamela had told her.

  ‘See that I don’t.’

  Now her calmness deserted her, her hands fluttering, her skin damp. She tried breathing slowly, overwhelmed by this odd threshold on which she stood. A new life beckoned. No more scrubbing floors. No more tears on long cold nights. No old bitch with a silver scratcher to stand between Pamela and her lieutenant.

  George gave her a little push. ‘Go on, love.’

  They cheered as she stood blinking in the stage lamps. Men standing in the aisles, to the sides, pressed in between the tables. She gave her last performance her all, letting them gaze upon her breasts a beat longer than usual, before drawing the tattered garment closed.

  Afterwards, the rostrum was carried out, and a large flamboyant gentleman took the stage. He worked by day at James Christie’s auction house on Pall Mall, and liked to waggle his eyebrows encouragingly when the bidding fell quiet. Not that there was much chance of that tonight.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the auctioneer said, ‘now that you have had the opportunity to admire this first-class piece of goods, I will commence the bidding at a hundred guineas.’ He brought his gavel down, and immediately several gentlemen rose to shout their bids. Listening as the amount climbed – ‘one hundred and twenty’, ‘one hundred and fifty’ – Pamela studied their faces with trepidation.

  Her heart leapt as a flash of scarlet caught her eye. ‘One hundred and seventy-five,’ Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham cried.

  Their eyes met and he grinned. Somehow he had found the money. Her heart sang, a glorious choir of angels.

  But could he afford to keep bidding? Steadily the p
rice kept rising. She willed him on as, one by one, the bidders dropped out. Two hundred guineas. Surely he’d have to drop out now? Unless he’d taken on more debt, just for her?

  ‘Two hundred and ten guineas? You, sir? No? Come now, sirs, a trifling sum.’

  The lieutenant raised his arm again, and another bidder threw up his hands. There was only one left against him now: an old man who’d viewed Pamela in private twice before. He had a glass eye and silver furze on his sunken cheeks. To her dismay, he waved his handkerchief. ‘Two hundred and twenty.’

  ‘Two hundred and thirty?’ the auctioneer asked.

  The lieutenant raised his hand again. Pamela prayed to Artemis, Hestia, and all the other virgin goddesses. I’ve asked for nothing much before. But let it be him.

  Glass-eye bid two hundred and forty guineas, and a hush fell over the room. Everyone looked at the lieutenant, but he wasn’t bidding. Smiling regretfully, he showed Pamela his palms. Her eyes swam hotly, as Glass-eye received the congratulations of the men around him.

  ‘Are you going on, sir? No?’ The auctioneer raised his gavel. ‘Are you sure?’

  The lieutenant wasn’t even looking at him. He was gazing across the room at a gentleman with a long, white face and a broken nose. The gentleman nodded and the lieutenant raised his arm once more. ‘Two hundred and fifty guineas,’ he shouted.

  Glass-eye banged the table in frustration, but shook his head at the auctioneer. She could hardly hear the auctioneer’s words over the angels’ song. ‘No, sir? He’s out. The soldier has it!’ His gavel came down and the room broke into frenzied applause.

  Then Mrs Havilland was ushering her off-stage. She twisted to see the lieutenant’s face, but he was surrounded by men pounding him on the back. Mrs Havilland told her to wait, and the girls came over to wish her luck, envious of her handsome soldier. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  One of Mrs Havilland’s watchers escorted her to the audience room. To her surprise, the lieutenant was standing alone outside the door. She went up to him, bolder now. ‘I hoped it would be you.’

  ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘your price was well beyond my reach.’

  Her smile faded. ‘What do you mean?’

  The watcher tapped her on the arm. ‘He’s in there,’ he said, gesturing to the audience room.

  Angrily, she shook him off. Who was in there? Had the lieutenant been bidding for someone else? His friend, Lord March?

  ‘Not my choice, treasure,’ he said. ‘But it won’t be so bad.’

  Like emptying a chamber pot. She wanted to hate him for misleading her, but found she could not.

  ‘But afterwards? When he’s . . . had me. We will spend some time together then?’

  He gave her an odd look, almost tender, and her heart swelled. ‘Yes,’ he said, a little distantly. ‘I’m sure we will.’

  The watcher tapped her again, and she walked angrily into the little red room. Seated inside with Mrs Havilland was a gentleman she didn’t recognize. He had a small, elfin face, the skin shiny and unlined, so she couldn’t have said if he was thirty or twice that. Dressed impeccably in grey moleskin, a silver wig, a diamond cravat pin. She’d seen worse.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘My name is Jonathan Stone.’

  Curiosity overcoming her disappointment, she studied him with interest. In the past few weeks, she had learned much about Mr Stone. Mr Agnetti and the girls who sat for him had answered all her questions. About India. About his money. His big house at Muswell Rise. His antiquities. His masquerades. His paintings.

  Mrs Havilland poked her hard in the back with her scratcher. Smile.

  Mr Stone addressed her kindly. ‘Are you here of your own free will, Pamela? Nobody has forced you here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Nobody has forced me.’

  He smiled. ‘The lieutenant has done well for once. You too, madam.’ He rose and kissed Mrs Havilland’s hand. Then he turned to Pamela and did the same. ‘I will send for you in a few days.’

  ‘You’re not taking me home tonight?’

  ‘Soon. Mrs Havilland has said that you can stay here for the time being.’

  He gave her one last look of consideration, and Pamela felt a surging sense of power. I know a secret about you, she thought. One you don’t even know about yourself.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHILD VISITED A couple of the nearby livery halls, where he discovered that the Worshipful Company of Fruiterers did not own a hall of their own, which was why they held their meetings and dinners in taverns like the Devil. They did rent offices in the hall belonging to the Worshipful Company of Parish Clerks, but by the time Child had limped across town to Silver Street, the hall was closed for the night. Frustrated, his head pounding, he trudged home.

  A letter from Mrs Corsham awaited him there, in which she insisted that he call upon her first thing tomorrow morning to report his progress. Judging by her tone that he could put her off no longer, he dashed off a reply, gave it to his landlord’s boy to deliver, and then took his aching body off to bed.

  The following morning, his body all mottled with purple bruises, unable to face the walk, he took a hackney carriage to Mayfair. As he walked through Mrs Corsham’s morning-room door, her look of reproach was swiftly supplanted by one of concern. ‘Mr Child, you are hurt. What has happened?’

  She listened, her face drawn, as he told her about Hector’s murder and its aftermath.

  ‘That poor boy.’ She clutched her necklace, casting an anxious look at her son, who was spinning a top on a patch of parquet.

  ‘He is dead because of me,’ Child said. ‘Because of our inquiry.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘We cannot blame ourselves. This is the fault of one man alone. Let’s save our anger for him.’

  Sombrely, they talked about their discoveries since their last meeting. ‘If I’m right,’ Child said, ‘and Lucy’s note about pineapples refers to the gentleman seen riding in that carriage with Kitty, then he might well be the one keeping her. Perhaps he led Lucy to her door?’

  ‘And he might lead us there too.’ Mrs Corsham smiled. ‘Let us hope your theory is correct.’

  She insisted on coming with him to talk to the Fruiterers. Child didn’t relish her company, afraid she would let slip some secret that Jonathan Stone might later coax out of him, but she would not be dissuaded.

  Not that her company was entirely without advantage. On the ride across town, her comfortable carriage was a sight kinder on his aching bones than a hackney cab. And a short time later, when confronted by the blank face of officialdom in the guise of the Fruiterer’s chief clerk, he could not deny that Mrs Corsham at her imperious best elicited results.

  ‘What do you mean your records are confidential, sir? We are talking about a crime, a matter of murder.’

  The clerk, who had a face the colour and texture of an old oyster, blanched at her tone. His office was a small, dim room that smelled of tobacco and ink, the Fruiterer’s coat of arms painted onto the old oak panelling above their heads. Rather than burden the clerk with the sorry truth – that one of his members was a likely whoremonger consorting with a notorious harlot – they had described the man they sought as a potential witness.

  ‘Forgive me, madam,’ the clerk said, ‘but my members—’

  ‘Are law-abiding gentlemen who would be quite appalled to think that their clerk had refused to help. Do you want me to return with the Lord Mayor, sir? He has banked with my family for years. As does the Sherriff of London, the Chamberlain, and the Recorder.’

  She listed half a dozen other names, important City gentlemen of her acquaintance, until the clerk, looking utterly alarmed, capitulated entirely.

  ‘I am happy to help, madam, but there were over fifty fruiterers at the dinner. I have no knowledge of who came in which carriage.’

  ‘We believe this gentleman to be a grower of pineapples.’

  ‘That is a highly skilled trade. Only about a dozen of our members have tried their hand, I believe
.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘Give us their names, please, sir.’

  The clerk rose, looking most unhappy, and went to a filing cabinet. Returning to his desk with a ledger, he perused it for some minutes, pausing occasionally to write a name on a sheet of paper. Eventually, he handed them the list. Fourteen names and addresses, most residing in the countryside outside London, on estates surrounded by their orchards and market gardens.

  Mrs Corsham gazed at Child in dismay. ‘Why, it will take us the best part of a week to visit them all.’

  ‘The man is around fifty,’ Child said. ‘Perhaps a little older.’

  ‘That will narrow it down. If you will return my list, madam?’

  He made several crossings out, leaving them with eight names.

  Child fished the Magdalen card from his pocket, the one he’d found in Lucy’s rooms. 50–60 pineapples, 2s 1d.

  ‘How many pineapples could a fruiterer grow in a year?’ he asked. ‘Fifty? A hundred?’

  ‘A hundred?’ The clerk laughed. ‘It takes three years to bring one to fruit, and a grower will lose several for every success. Even a highly skilled gardener would be fortunate to produce more than a dozen specimens in a year.’

  Child studied the card again. 50–60. And they were looking for an older gentleman, rising fifty. If those numbers referred not to the pineapples, but to the gentleman himself, then perhaps the other numbers – 2s 1d – referred to him too.

  ‘Which of these men have children?’ he asked the clerk, in a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘I think the gentleman we’re looking for has two sons and a daughter.’

  Mrs Corsham looked at the card in his hand, making the same leap. ‘Oh, very good, Mr Child.’

  The clerk made more crossings-out on his list. ‘I don’t know all the family histories,’ he said, ‘but I do know that two of these gentlemen are bachelors, and that Mr Collins lost his only son in the American war. I can’t speak for the others.’

  That left them with five names: