Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  She tried to think through the implications. But first she had a decision to make. Marrying an innocent man who believed himself guilty was a very different prospect to marrying a murderer.

  For a moment she hovered on the cusp between two lives. To allow the real killer to escape the consequences of his actions, in return for escaping the consequences of her own. It was tempting. But then she remembered the puzzle purses and the threat to Gabriel. The hard iron of the horse’s hooves outside Carlisle House. Pamela, Lucy, Hector. Everything the killer had done. Her anger sharpened, diamond-bright, cold as a blade.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  BACK IN THE carriage, Caro described the scene at the bathhouse to Mr Child.

  Pamela in the empty bathing pool, naked, her face beaten to a pulp. Lord March in the bathhouse, covered in blood, the necklace in his hand.

  ‘I saw the pool when I went to the masquerade,’ she said. ‘It’s very deep. Difficult, perhaps impossible, for the killer to have got the girl out of it alone – not without covering himself in blood. It would have been harder still to bury her in the dead of night without a shovel. Perhaps the killer thought that the others would involve the authorities? Or perhaps he had another reason for wanting everyone to think that Lord March had done it? If Stone was responsible, say, the others would surely have gone to the authorities? They all hated him. But the Dodd-Bellingham brothers would protect Lord March. He was their friend.’

  ‘So the killer created a tableau,’ Child said. ‘Let us call it The Murderous Lord.’

  ‘I think so. He used the blood from Pamela’s vial to stain Lord March’s hands and coat.’ Caro hadn’t bothered to explain her reasoning to Lord March. Let him live with his guilt a little longer. She’d simply told him that she’d think about his proposal, and had left him sitting there.

  ‘Does that mean you don’t think that Pamela was really raped?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She was angry, and rightly so. Swearing at them, threatening them. What if she encountered one of them out there in the woods and went further with her threats?’

  ‘You mean her secret? Could she have been talking about the lieutenant’s massacre? Or Simon and Julia Ward?’

  ‘Except neither one of them has money. So I don’t see how either secret could have made her rich.’

  ‘Then perhaps she knew something about Stone?’

  ‘But what? It still feels like we’re missing something.’

  Child concurred. ‘We may not yet have sufficient evidence to arrest the guilty man, but we can at least get an innocent man out of prison.’

  *

  Two hours later, they were seated around the desk of Sir Amos Fox. Between Child and Mrs Corsham sat Nicholas Cavill-Lawrence of the Home Office. Laid out on the magistrate’s desk were Pamela’s necklace, the puzzle purses, the knife that Child had found at Vauxhall, and the drawings of Pamela and Lucy.

  Earlier, they had called at the Home Office. Mrs Corsham had gone in to see Cavill-Lawrence alone, while Child waited in an anteroom, watched over by a gentleman with a grim face and a suspicious eye. More official sorts, like the men responsible for the assaults on himself and Nelly Diver, for the death of Kitty Carefree, and most probably the murder of Moll Silversleeves. But some battles were too big to fight – Mrs Corsham had convinced him of that. Child consoled himself by returning the man’s steady glare.

  He didn’t know what Mrs Corsham had said to Cavill-Lawrence, but he could imagine: ‘We have the signed confession of Kitty Carefree, who died on Westminster Bridge after an attempted abduction by two of your agents. Everything is in her account: the masquerades, Prinny, a murdered virgin, a syphilitic banker, an illegal loan. It doesn’t take much to draw the lines between them. You desire to protect Prinny. I desire that the murderer be punished. Let us find a way to give each of us what we want.’

  Whatever Mrs Corsham had said, it had elicited results. Cavill-Lawrence was giving Sir Amos instructions.

  ‘I want the Jew, Von Siegel, released. He is innocent of any crime.’

  Sir Amos scratched an irritated pink patch on his neck. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I know what I said. Now I say this.’

  Ever the obedient servant, Sir Amos rose and left the room, presumably to speak to one of his Runners.

  When he returned, Cavill-Lawrence resumed: ‘You are to take a detachment of Bow Street Runners to Muswell Rise. There’s a dead doxy down a well, if they haven’t already moved her. Lord March has confirmed to Mrs Corsham that the girl was murdered. You will question Jonathan Stone and the Dodd-Bellingham brothers. One of them will talk, if they’re facing a hanging.’

  ‘Maybe only the murderer knows who did it,’ Child pointed out. ‘What if they all deny it?’

  ‘They obstructed justice,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘That’s a crime in itself.’

  ‘You want me to hang them all?’ Sir Amos said.

  Child had had worse ideas.

  Orin Black arrived moments later, bringing Ezra Von Siegel with him. The lamplighter’s face was mottled with bruises, and he carried himself awkwardly. God knows what they had done to him to elicit that confession. Child gave Orin a hard look.

  Sir Amos pointed to the drawing of Pamela. ‘Information has come to light that the murderer of Lucy Loveless also killed this young girl. You were not a guest at the house of Jonathan Stone on the first of March, I take it?’

  Von Siegel looked bewildered. ‘Please, who is Jonathan Stone?’

  Sir Amos nodded. ‘We must therefore conclude that you could not have killed Lucy Loveless. Find his effects for him, will you, Black?’

  Von Siegel stared at them in amazement. ‘You let me go?’

  ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’ Sir Amos scribbled on a piece of paper and signed it angrily.

  Von Siegel looked down at the picture of Lucy, blinking back tears. He pointed to the necklace. ‘I did not know.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Aleha hashalom.’

  ‘What witchcraft is that?’ Cavill-Lawrence said. ‘Some Israelite curse?’

  Von Siegel’s face was very solemn. ‘Prayer for dead Jewish girl.’

  Child looked at him sharply. ‘This necklace is Jewish?’

  ‘Hamsa. Meant to bring luck, to bring protection. But not to her.’

  ‘The necklace didn’t belong to Lucy,’ Child said. ‘It belonged to this girl, Pamela.’ He pointed to the drawing, frowning, his thoughts running ahead of him. ‘She said her father gave it to her mother.’

  Child picked up the necklace and stared at it, his thoughts starting to clear. Pamela’s secret that could make her rich. The tableau with Lord March. Lucy knew who killed Pamela and she said she had proof.

  He looked up and met Mrs Corsham’s eye. ‘I know who killed them.’

  *

  Mrs Corsham rode in the magistrate’s carriage, together with Nicholas Cavill-Lawrence. Child was relegated to the second vehicle, which carried a contingent of Bow Street Runners. He and Orin still hadn’t spoken, but Child eyed him occasionally, feeling uneasy. Before they had left Bow Street, Sir Amos had taken Orin to one side for a whispered conversation in the hall. Child was still wondering what they had talked about.

  The carriages gathered speed, and soon they were at the gates of Muswell Rise. Even Stone’s armed guards weren’t prepared to argue with Sir Amos Fox waving a warrant in high dudgeon. The porter unlocked the gates, and they proceeded down the drive. Stone’s butler came out to meet them, but Sir Amos pushed past him.

  ‘Where is your master?’

  ‘Upstairs in his gallery,’ the butler said. ‘Sir, I ask you to wait . . .’

  But Sir Amos, ever eager to curry favour with the Home Office, charged ahead. Child and Mrs Corsham hurried up the stairs in his wake. They burst into Stone’s gallery, followed by Nicholas Cavill-Lawrence and the Bow Street men.

  Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham and his brother were carrying a statue of a naked woman to one of the plinths. The lieutenant sported a cut to his left eye and a
swollen lip. Stone and Erasmus Knox were conferring by a window. They all turned as one.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Stone said.

  Child pointed. ‘What are you waiting for? Arrest him.’

  PAMELA

  1 March 1782

  Pamela ran through the woods.

  Trees caught at her robe and scratched at her hands. She’d already lost one of her sandals, and stones cut into her foot. She needed to get away from this place, to get away from those shitten bastard fucksters. If she could find a wall, she could climb it. Walk back to London.

  She paused for breath, listening for sounds of pursuit. Wind moaned through the trees and she shivered, bitterly cold. Her eyes were streaming, her nose running. She’d not last out here the night, that was for sure.

  The knowledge spurred her on, her feet flying over the ground as she struggled to think sensibly through the force of her rage. She rounded a bend in the path and nearly ran into him.

  ‘Pamela,’ Simon said. ‘What are you doing out here all by yourself?’ He smiled reassuringly, and her rage erupted again.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘About that man with the pox. When you promised me that I’d be safe. You knew.’

  ‘I couldn’t say anything because of Stone,’ he stammered. ‘None of us could. We didn’t want any part in it, but we owe Stone money and . . .’

  As she listened to his excuses, all her senses seemed to infuse with her rage: a black cloud in front of her eyes, a roaring in her ears, she could smell it like a bonfire, taste and touch her fury.

  ‘Liar.’ Remembering her fear, she wanted him to feel it too. ‘Maybe I’ll tell Mr Stone what you’ve been up to.’

  He frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I knew you from before,’ she said. ‘I was a maid at the house in Cheapside by St Mary-le-Bow. You used to come often to see my master. I realized who you were when I saw you buying those clothes in Maison Bertin. You weren’t wearing your glasses.’ She smiled. ‘I used to listen at keyholes. I heard you plotting with my old master. And now I’m going to tell Mr Stone.’

  She watched his expression change, the fear creeping into his soul. ‘Pamela,’ he said. ‘No. Please. Wait.’

  ‘What do you think he’ll do when he finds out? I hope you hang.’

  ‘Please,’ he said again, casting an anxious gaze around. ‘Calm down, why don’t you? Let’s talk about this.’

  She raised her voice over the wind. ‘Simon Dodd-Bellingham is a liar. A cheat and a thief and a liar.’ She laughed, hearing the shrillness in her own voice.

  The blow took her by surprise, coming in the midst of his pleas. Not a slap like his brother had given her, but a fist. She fell to the ground, touched a hand to her nose, and tasted blood. The fuckster. She hadn’t known he had it in him.

  He stood, looking down at her, nursing his hand. Fear rolled in again. She scrambled to her feet and ran, back towards the house. She could hear him coming after her, crashing through the trees. Heavy in foot, not sleek like his brother, but she was tiring. Glimpsing the lake between the trees, she changed course, heading for the bathhouse. It had a bolt inside the door. She could hole up there until Kitty, or Stone, or one of the others came to find her.

  The lake was smooth as glass against the deeper black of the night sky. Pamela picked up her pace, hearing Simon’s feet thudding across the grass and the rasp of his breath. Only yards to the bathhouse door now. Her feet flew over the grass . . . into nothingness.

  She fell, hitting stone, ten feet down. A crack as she landed. A sharp pain seared through her arm. She’d fallen into Stone’s empty bathing pool. Cradling her arm, whimpering a little, she looked up and saw Simon standing on the edge.

  She spoke very fast, through her gasps of pain, telling him that she was just joking. That she wouldn’t tell Stone, she wouldn’t ever tell a soul. That she’d only intended to ask for some of his money, just three thousand pounds, enough to clear the lieutenant’s debts. But she didn’t want to marry his brother any more, so he could keep it.

  Simon jumped down into the pool. Pamela was crying now, pleading, but he wasn’t listening. She put a hand to her necklace – her father’s only gift to her mother, other than an unwanted baby – the hamsa that was supposed to offer her protection.

  Simon was casting around for something. He bent, and when he straightened, he had a large stone in his hand. He walked towards her.

  ‘Elohim ya’azor-li,’ she whispered, trying to grasp the old prayers she’d learned in the little orphanage attached to the synagogue. All the ancient words she’d tried to forget.

  They died on her lips as she watched the stone fall.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  SIR AMOS DREW his pistol and fired. Simon dived behind one of Stone’s plinths, and the bullet took the head off a statue. Child rounded on the magistrate. ‘Put it away. We want him alive.’

  The Bow Street Runners had drawn their weapons too. Child remembered Sir Amos’s whispered conversation with Orin Black in the hall. They don’t want a trial, he thought. Nothing that can harm Prinny. They want Simon dead.

  ‘Simon?’ his brother cried, bewildered.

  Simon was running for the door. One of the Bow Street Runners levelled his pistol, but Child barged into him as he took the shot, and the bullet went wide. Simon went through the door, knocking over a large urn in his haste. Child ran after him, glimpsing Jonathan Stone’s anguished face. Simon had closed the door and was trying to lock it, but Child kicked it open, half falling into Stone’s library. Simon grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and swung it at Child, forcing him back. Then he ran through another door, and Child pounded after him – onto the galleried landing surrounding the entrance hall and stairs.

  Orin and another Bow Street Runner were at the top of the stairs now, cutting off Simon’s escape. He ran in the opposite direction, along the landing, knocking over a startled housemaid with a pile of bedsheets. He opened a door, looked inside, then ran on to the next and threw it open. Child, hard on his heels, presumed he was seeking the servants’ staircase. Another pistol shot rang out, then another. The Bow Street Runners were firing from the other side of the landing. Child lowered his head as bullets crashed into the elaborate plasterwork around them.

  Simon pulled on the final door, but it was locked. He kicked it, but it wouldn’t give. His escape cut off, he turned, facing Child.

  ‘Surrender to me,’ Child said. ‘If you don’t, they will shoot you dead.’ There were questions he wanted to ask him. Parts of this puzzle that still didn’t add up.

  Dimly, he could hear Orin Black remonstrating with his fellow Runners, instructing them not to fire, in case they hit him. Deptford till we die, Child thought bitterly.

  ‘Don’t give them what they want,’ he said to Simon. ‘In a trial, you can bring Stone down with you.’

  Simon turned his head from side to side, still seeking escape. ‘My brother will be implicated. He disposed of Pamela’s body.’

  ‘You’re worried about him?’ Child said. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he screamed at the Runners. ‘You’ve got nowhere left to go, man.’

  But as it turned out, Simon did. He pushed past Child, placing a hand on the mahogany balustrade, and vaulted over it. He landed in the entrance hall, fifteen feet below, falling forward onto his face, his glasses skittering across the floor.

  As he staggered to his feet, Orin levelled his pistol. Child’s cry was drowned out by the shot. Simon staggered a few paces and then fell backwards onto the floor, blood pooling on the marble tiles around him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  LIEUTENANT DODD-BELLINGHAM KNELT by his brother’s side, weeping. Child stared hard at Orin, who was taking congratulations from the Bow Street Runners. Mrs Corsham hurried up to Child, and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Thank heaven you are unhurt.’

  Cavill-Lawrence emerged from the gallery, and peered down at Simon. Seeing there was nothing to be done for him, he grunted his satisfa
ction. Child and Mrs Corsham followed him back into the gallery. Jonathan Stone was on his knees, collecting the pieces of one of his pots, looking stricken.

  He glanced up as they entered. ‘Simon killed Pamela?’ He sounded astonished. ‘I thought it was Lord March.’

  ‘Simon made it look that way,’ Child said. ‘Principally, I think, because he didn’t want anyone – especially you – asking why he might have killed her.’

  ‘I’m asking that now. What reason did he have?’

  Everyone looked at Child expectantly. The others had heard a garbled explanation earlier at the magistrate’s, but they plainly wanted to hear more.

  ‘Pass me your ring,’ Child said to Stone.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Your ring.’

  Stone slid it off his finger, and Child took the ring to the window, holding it up to the light. He examined the garnet carved with the head of a woman, and on the reverse, the head of a goat. The gold setting, he noticed now, held a slight coppery sheen. You’d probably never notice it, unless you were looking for it.

  ‘It’s pinchbeck over brass,’ he said. ‘I believe the lieutenant said you paid forty guineas apiece for those rings. And much more for this, the original. I suspect they’re all fakes. I think Lucy realized after she stole the lieutenant’s ring to trick Moll Silversleeves. After all, she was familiar with frauds like this.’

  He thought of Nelly and Lucy, all those years ago, in the Sun tavern on Milk Street. We had a forty-guinea gold ring what I’d napped off a client, and we looked for a certain sort of gentleman: the confident, crafty sort who’d take advantage of a trusting lady. Lucy made out she didn’t know the ring’s true value – offered it for sale at ten guineas. She did all the talking, I made the switch. Gentleman takes his gold ring home to celebrate his cunning, only to find he’s paid ten guineas for pinchbeck and polish.

  ‘Lucy said she knew who the killer was,’ Child went on. ‘She said she had proof of his guilt. I think she was talking about that ring. It’s why she took it to the bower, to show Mrs Corsham.’