The Gilded Lily (46 page)

Titus was reluctant but leaned a fraction closer. The smallest girl began to cry silently, the big tears chasing down her cheeks.

He stepped away hurriedly. ‘It’s foolishness to keep that one here,’ he said. ‘Anyone can see it couldn’t be her.’

‘Them notices said maids with a red stain on their face, and she fits, right enough. You said to keep them as fits the description.’

‘But that’s a scorch mark, not a stain. I did not mean children like this.’

‘You should have been more particular with your bill, then, sir.’

One of the women spoke up then. ‘Let her go, sir, in pity’s name, she’s but six year old. A hot kettle fell off the fire shelf and hit her, her ma’ll be frantic with
worry. And Nan there’s lived on Honey Lane all her fifty years, don’t know nothing about the North Country. None of us do. We ain’t done nothing wrong.’

There was a chorus then, all the women protesting their innocence, and as they moved the chains clanked and their eyes all burnt into him, accusing, as if he were the guilty party.

Titus backed off and turned to snap at the turnkey. ‘I have already said, she’s not here.’

‘Sure and certain? It’s been a mighty trouble to keep them if we don’t get a hanging.’

‘Do you think I doubt my own eyes? Let them go.’

At this the women set to wailing more and rattling to be set free, so that he could bear it no longer and covered his ears and turned and went up the way he came, leaving the turnkey to deal
with the commotion.

He pulled his muffler up close around his ears. He felt badly in need of some pure air after the foulness of the Whit, but London was freezing and he regretted that he had chosen to walk back
from the gaol instead of hiring a sedan or a horse. The ground was hard as flint with compacted snow and his leather-soled boots skidded over the flags and cobbles as he made his way back to the
Blue Ball. On the way he passed crowds of people, shapeless hulks bundled in cloaks with their heads down, shoulders hunched against the cold. He wondered idly how many in gaol would pass away in
this weather.

It was the third time he had been down to Newgate to identify the girl that had murdered Thomas. Each time he’d felt unprepared for the horror of conditions in that desperate place.
Furthermore, when he got back home this day he was confronted by Isobel with her cloak and muffler on and her new jessimy gloves, and her trunk packed.

‘I will not stay a moment more. My chest is so tight with the smoke of London I can barely breathe. You know I have always had a weak chest. If I have to stay a moment longer you will be
calling the physician to bleed me, sure as I speak.’

Titus sat down heavily on the kist at the foot of the bed. ‘You will not be able to find a carriage at this hour, especially in this freeze.’

‘Not so. I have booked three places on the seven o’clock stage. Come, Titus, let us go home.’

The thought of his comfortable home in Shrewsbury with its roomy fireplaces and well-upholstered bed was almost too much for him to bear. ‘No,’ he said stubbornly, ‘you know my
mind. I will not give up, I owe it to Thomas. You presume too much, to book passages without my say-so.’

Isobel opened her mouth to speak but he held up his hand for silence. He sighed, then said, ‘But I am tired of you griping about going home. It is wearing me thin, and your company befits
me ill. You and Willetts may go if you wish, to keep my house in order.’

She sank down onto the bed and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her muslin whisk. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

They sat in silence a while, until he said, ‘The whole business is taking longer than I thought.’

‘I know, dear,’ she said soothingly. ‘But if anyone can find them, you can.’

So that evening he put Isobel and Willetts the maid on a carriage bound for Oxford and as he did so the snowflakes were swirling in the sky.

‘God speed.’ He said the customary words as he handed her in, but as the carriage rattled away he waved long after its lights had turned to a blur in the swirling snow. He hoped the
weather did not worsen, happen she would find the way blocked if it did. He always carried a sword, and now he felt for it, feeling vulnerable. London was full of dark alleys and cramped courtyards
where the unwary could be ambushed after dark. With no woman to protect, his own fear suddenly rose up.

He had no one now, he realized. Thomas his twin was gone. His father was long since deceased and since a fall in the autumn, his mother had succumbed to such forgetfulness of mind that she
barely recognized him. He had no children. Isobel was unable to produce offspring; he knew not why. It made him angry with her. He deserved a son. And now she had left him here alone, so when he
brought those girls to justice she would not be there to see him do it. No one would be there to see him do it. And it would make no earthly difference to Thomas – he was cold in his
grave.

By the time he entered his chilly chamber at the Blue Ball he was in a mighty depression. He asked the landlord for a double measure of brandy and took it up to his room, telling himself it
might stave off the cold. When he had downed it he crawled into bed still fully dressed and pulled the blankets up over his head. He was almost relieved to feel the room start to swim and soon he
fell into a deep slumber.

The next day he ignored the noises from the street outside and dozed in a stupor until he was roused from his bed by a sharp knock at the door. He tried to get up, but his legs were tangled in
the sheets and he toppled out with a thud.

‘What is it?’ he bellowed, rubbing his knee.

It was the landlord. ‘There’s a young man and his lady friend asking after you.’

‘What do they want?’ he shouted at the door.

‘They say it’s urgent and it won’t wait. The woman wanted to come straight up, but I said not,’ came the landlord’s voice.

Titus recovered himself. ‘Quite right too. My wife could have been here alone. Just a moment. I’ll be there directly.’

He splashed freezing water over his head and neck, brushed down his crumpled coat, and hurried downstairs. The landlord indicated a pleasant but agitated-looking young woman in a dark cloak and
close navy blue bonnet, waiting at a table by the door. He recognized her straight away as one of the perruquier’s girls. Sitting beside her was a tall surly-looking lad in a black hat and
cloak, who stood up when he saw Titus coming.

‘Jacob Fletcher,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Titus greeted them both and sat down opposite the woman.

‘Tell him, Mercy,’ said Jacob.

Mercy smiled, showing a row of pearly teeth. She leaned in and began to whisper in an urgent undertone.

Five minutes later he was back in his chamber putting on his outdoor apparel and whistling.

After leaving the barber-surgeon’s Sadie crept back into Corey’s house, cradling her sore arm in a sling made from her shawl. With relief she heard the snores from
Corey’s mother asleep in the back room. Sadie could not settle, but sat at the window waiting for Corey to come with news of Ella. Just after the noon bells Corey’s square bustling
figure appeared in the alley and beckoned her outside. Sadie untied the shawl and wrapped it over her head and face to hurry to join her.

‘Have you seen her?’ asked Sadie as soon as they were out of earshot of the house.

‘How’s your arm?’

‘It’s all right. Stitched. Was she there?’

‘No. They wouldn’t let me in. Some great battleaxe of a woman in the office sneered at me – told me I needed an appointment. I tried but I didn’t get past the door.
There’s a man sat outside, he’d break your jaw soon as look at you. It’s not for the likes of us, Sadie, they’ll only let quality in.’ Corey said ‘quality’
as if it was something that smelt bad.

‘But did you see her? Tell me.’

‘I’m coming to it. I looked through the window and I caught sight of a woman stood there, but she had yellow hair, and looked that thin—’

Sadie laid her hand on Corey’s. ‘It was her, I know. She looks right different now.’

‘Anyways, I got shooed off, the man outside told me it were shut for the Frost Fair. But I hung round, asked a lad. He said it was Corey Johnson in there. So then I knew it was your Ella.
Bloody cheek.’ Corey sniffed and grimaced. ‘But I couldn’t get near to speak to her. The lad told me a few things though – made me angry fit to burst, it did.’ Corey
blew on her hands. ‘Come on, let’s walk a little. My blood’s freezing solid stood here. Pull your shawl over your face a bit more, we’ll only go to the end of the
road.’

They set off slowly, arm in arm, trying to keep a footing on the slippery cobbles.

‘This lad, was he tallish, nice-looking, with sandy-coloured hair, brown eyes?’ Sadie asked.

‘No. He was—’

‘Oh, never mind. Just tell me what he said.’

‘Wait till you hear this.’ Corey stopped and turned to face Sadie, her round face full of disgust. ‘Your Ella’s fine. Gadding about with Jay Whitgift. The lad says the
other night he got the horses ready and Jay Whitgift helped her into his coach. By all accounts they were off to Whitehall, to Lord Sedley’s house. He remembered she was dressed in a scarlet
gown with a squirrel fur scarf against the cold, and that they didn’t bring the horses back till nigh on four in the morning.’

‘That can’t be right. I don’t believe it. To a lord’s house?’

‘Heartless pig. She leaves you to rot whilst she gallivants all over London in her fancy coach. I hope they do bloody catch her. Hanging’s more than she deserves.’

‘Don’t. I can’t believe she’d just leave me. Happen it’s my fault, we had a terrible row, you see. She wouldn’t . . . there must be some mistake . . .’
She tailed off.

Corey took hold of her by the shoulders. ‘Now look here. How could it be your fault? You’ve just got to face it, Sadie, she’s a proper bitch.’

Sadie squirmed away, scuffed the snow with her boot. ‘Maybe she forgot she’d locked the door.’

‘And hens will lay golden eggs. Forget her, that’s my advice.’

There was silence then.

‘What’ll you do?’

‘Go back home to Westmorland, I suppose. I can’t stay here. I can’t even walk the streets with them notices out. I’ll need money, though, and my things. Don’t know
how I’ll get back into my lodgings.’

‘That’s easy. There’ll be a file in my brother’s workshop, he’s a smith. We’ll go get that door open tonight, fetch your things out. And I’m telling you
– I can’t wait to see the face on Lady Uppity when she stoops to go back there and finds you gone, and the place empty as a barn. Serve her bloody well right.’

It was dark when Corey got back from work.

‘No trouble with my mam?’ Corey asked.

‘No. I hid out the back behind the dairy when I heard her stir,’ Sadie said.

Corey nodded. ‘Good. Look, here’s the file. Get your hood up and let’s go.’

Sadie and Corey took turns to hold the lantern for the long task of grinding through the hasp. Corey was amazed when she got a better look at the hole in the door.

‘Blimey, did you do that? It must have taken an age.’

The file slipped out of its groove if they tried to go too quick. There was no sign of Dennis or his mother, and Sadie was sad. She would have liked to say a proper goodbye, not just disappear
into the night without settling the rent. He would think the worst of her and it pained her.

‘Keep going, Corey, don’t give up,’ said Sadie, as they sawed the file back and forth over the hasp. Finally the lock fell off with a great clunk, and they pushed open the
door.

‘Is this it? Where you live?’ Corey stared round her in disapproval. Sadie tried to hide her shame. It was nothing like Corey’s cosy house with all the pots and pans lined up
in a shining row and a fire blazing in the hearth. It smelt of mildew and rot already.

‘It’s better with a fire lit,’ she said. Corey sniffed.

The yellow gown was where Sadie had left it on the table, with the pot of ceruse still with its lid tied on. Just looking at it made her feel embarrassed somehow. She picked up the chap-book of
Barbary Bess and tucked it into her bib front.

‘Come on, let’s get your things downstairs,’ Corey said. ‘Eh, you’ve not much, have you? Looks like we can manage it, just the two of us. Have you got anything to
put it in?’

‘No,’ said Sadie, ‘only my apron. I could make up a bundle with that.’

‘That won’t do. Not to travel all the way to Westmorland. No, you start getting everything down into the hall and I’ll go up the road to the fodder merchant’s, see if
he’s got a sack for a farthing. Don’t forget to keep your head down.’

After Sadie had carried the first load down, Corey arrived with a folded barley sack under her arm and they put everything in it.

‘You’ll need water in that flagon,’ Corey said, pointing. ‘Leave the sack here a minute, and we’ll just nip round the corner and fill it.’

The well was in a small square, walled off from the street, with channels to drain the excess water when people took their domestic animals there to drink. There was a large trough below for
washing clothes and watering cattle, and a bucket above for clean water. There was no lantern, and their breath made more white patches of fog. Sadie tried to wind up the bucket. It was heavier
than usual. Corey had to help her turn the handle to wind the rope in. The bucket clinked, and when it reached the top there was a good hand’s depth of ice to pull out.

‘By, will you look at that,’ Sadie said. ‘Haven’t seen ice like that even in Westmorland.’

‘Thames is frozen over further up, so you’ll have to walk. Are you sure you want to go? There’s no boats, you know.’

‘Thanks for helping, Corey. But I’ve decided. I’m going to go to Ella tomorrow morning and talk to her – I’ll get in to Whitgift’s somehow. I can’t just
leave London and not tell her.’

‘I don’t see why. She never cared aught for you.’

Sadie did not answer. Corey’s words stung.

Corey stood up and stretched her short spine, her hands either side of her back. She glanced idly at the alleyway, but then her attention was taken by something and she stared hard. She laid one
hand on Sadie’s shoulder to stay her. Her eyes narrowed. Suddenly she grabbed Sadie by the arm and said, ‘Quick, get down.’