The Linnet Bird: A Novel (9 page)

“I believe she was bought for the night, young master. No one will be looking for her until morning,” Pompey said.

“What should we do, then?” asked Clancy. “Whatever shall we do about all of this? The blood. There’s so much blood.” His voice dissolved into tears.

“Shut up, Clancy. Dump her in the Mersey, Pompey,” the man said. “Get it done right away.”

“And what of your father, young master?”

There was silence except for Clancy’s muffled sobbing.

“Clean him up as best you can,” the superior voice ordered. “We’ll leave for London as soon as humanly possible and while it’s still dark. If someone should come to fetch the girl tomorrow, there’ll be no sign of her, or any of us. Anyway, one less doxy is of little importance to anyone but an irate pimp.

“When we arrive in London we’ll say my father died while visiting Liverpool, and have a proper burial there. Nobody has to know about any of this. Only the people in this room know what’s happened here. And none of us will talk. Isn’t that right, Clancy?”

“Oh my goodness, oh, of course not. But—but I’ll be
haunted,
positively
haunted,
by what I’ve seen here tonight.” Again, Clancy’s voice rose to a breathless squeak. “I can’t look, no, I can’t look any longer.”

“Pull yourself together, Clancy.” Young Master’s voice was thick with annoyance.

“But those dreadful scissors, his face, oh dear, I—yes, I’m going to be sick.”

I felt the floor thud with running footsteps. There was a silence, longer than the first.

And then the confident voice spoke again. “I can trust you to do what must be done, Pompey,” it said calmly. “I don’t want anything left, especially not that cursed hair or the damn trunk. Or anyone who might speak of tonight. Anyone. You understand, don’t you, Pompey?”

“Yes, young master.”

I heard no more voices, but the floor vibrated with a set of heavy steps again, and there was the soft click of a door.

I moved my left arm then, and the movement brought out an unexpected and shocking pain, as if the shears had just now plunged into skin and tendon and muscle.
Help me. Somebody, please,
I tried to whisper. But my lips wouldn’t move, and besides, there was nobody to help me, my mother gone, a man called Ram caring only about what coins I could bring to his hand. The pungent odor of burning hair filled the air.

“Pompey?” I finally found my voice and whispered into the thick stink that enveloped me but there was no answer and then the dark Mersey moved in, sweetly, and I let myself go to it.

“W
HAT WAS THAT
?”

Something had brought me back to consciousness. Was it the shout of the voice, muffled, as if by distance or barrier? Or was it a sudden jarring?

I couldn’t see anything, but I also couldn’t tell whether my eyes were open or not. The numbness was still there, holding me in its quietness. I realized I was rocking, gently, as if in a cradle.

The voice came again, closer now. “Gib? Gib, you hear that? Gib!”

There was a grunt, as if someone had been rudely awakened. Next a moan. “I didn’t hear nuthin’. Give us a drink, then, Willy.”

I was cold. Wet. I knew I was on my side.There was a sound, familiar. I strained to recognize it. Oars, small slaps as wood hit water.

“We bin out all night? Near morning, is it then, Willy?”

“No. It’s just gone three by the bells.” The voices came closer, the sound of rowing louder. I grew aware that I was growing wetter. Water was inching into my ear. “I heared a carriage, Gib, and then something hit the water, just over yon. Something heavy.”

A burp echoed. “My missus will skin me alive, so she will. Take me to shore, Willy. I best be off home. If I can get in without waking her, she might not—”

I felt a bump near the top of my head. “By Jesus, you was right, you old bugger. What is it? What is it, Willy?”

Water closed over the side of my face. I felt it on my mouth, felt it snaking through my lips. I could taste it, foul and cold. I tried to swallow, or to spit it out, but could do neither. Nothing—not my mouth or my throat—worked.

“She’s sinking, Gib. Quick, help me pull it up. It’s a box of some kind. Help me haul ’er in, man. Put your elbow into it.”

“It’s too heavy. Here, hook this rope through the handle. We’ll drag it in to shore.”

The water swirled over my face momentarily and then I felt myself lifted. My mouth was now full of water. At the next lurching movement, I grew aware of a heaviness against my back, pressure, something pushing at me.

I was in a box—was it a coffin?
Am I dead?
The water threatened to choke me, a comfort, for I knew I must be alive. But where was I and what was I doing, moving along the river with something heavy shoving into my back? I heard the bottom of a skiff scraping the rough stones on the water’s edge. Then the box was dragged up on the stones. I felt the vibration of them rolling under me, but still couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound.

“It’s a trunk. One of them big traveling ones. Let’s get her open, Willy. Could be somethin’ right valuable.”

“I’m trying.”

“Is there a lock?”

“No. But the latches are right tight. That’s a good sign. Maybe there wasn’t a chance for too much water to get in. Here, I got the last one, and—Jesus have mercy!”

There was a rush of freezing air and silence. I knew now that my eyes were closed; I could see nothing.

“It’s two girls,” the softer voice, the one I knew was Willy, finally said.

“I can see that, can’t I? Lookit how they’s layin’. Like spoons. And what’s all them jars? They’re empty. Not even lids.”

“I don’t know, do I? Jesus, Gib. What are we to do?”

“They’re dead for sure, ain’t they, Willy?”

“Must be. Lying so still like that.” I heard the rustle of clothing and the softer voice came almost in my face. “Although they ain’t dead by drowning; only half their heads is underwater.” I smelled the beery stench of his breath.

“You’re right. That front one looks about the age of your youngest, Willy.” There was a tug on my shoulder. “Stabbed. Right in the heart, from what I can see.”

“Same with the other?”

More rustling, more movement, this time the weight behind me shifting.

“Nope. This one has her throat cut. Maybe there’s something of value on the bodies.”

“Not likely. Nobody’d go to the bother of killing ’em and throwing ’em in the river without first taking any valuables.”

“Hey, Willy, maybe we could sell ’em to them sawbones up at the infirmary.”

The second voice grew loud. “I ain’t about to get messed up with no body snatching.”

“Keep yer voice down, Willy. We ain’t takin’ ’em from the graveyard. They come floatin’ to us, fair and square.”

“No, I won’t do it. I ain’t selling these girls to them with bloodied hands so they can do their dirty work. Bad business, that is, cuttin’ up the dead for their own learnin’. And we’ve got nothin’ to wrap ’em in, and nothing to haul ’em in. No. I won’t do it, Gib,” he repeated.

I heard a soft rasp that might have been a hand scrubbing over a stubbled face. “Could be you’re right. If we was to get caught with two dead girls . . .” A sigh. Now I heard the skiff rubbing on the stones in the kissing lift and fall of the shallow water on the bank. “But them dresses might fetch us somethin’, Willy.” The voice rose hopefully.

“There’s a lot of blood. And it looks like the green one is cut down the front.”

“But the blood is fresh. It would wash out easy. And my good woman is right handy with a needle and thread. We could sell ’em down at the market. That flowery one looks pricy. It might bring in a shilling or two. And the trunk itself, well, surely it would fetch a good price. Go ahead, Willy. Start on the green one. I’ll get this one off. And throw out the goddamn jars.”

There were rough, jerking movements behind me, the sound of glass breaking.

“I’m a Christian man, Gib, and a father. It don’t feel right, stripping these girls and throwing them back into the river. Don’t set right with me at all.”

“Don’t think about yer own girls now, Willy. I bet this dress alone—” There was a low whistle. “This ain’t no girl after all. Look here.”

Silence. Then, “You’re right, by Jesus. What’s he doin’ all trumped up like that?”

I was pulled up again. “Who knows? And who cares? But this front one here is. I can tell, even with her hair all chopped off.”

“She’s so small.”

“Stop thinkin’ about it, Willy. They’s dead and in no need of their clothes, whether they’s boys or girls, young or old. A dress is a dress.”

I’m not dead. Can’t you see? I’m not dead.

The movements behind me continued. “Quit starin’ like you seen a spook,” the rougher voice said, and there was a rush of cold air as the body behind me was pulled away. I knew now that it was Clancy. “Lookit this throat, would you? Ear to ear. Like a big red smile, it is.”

There was a small splash and then the thud as Clancy’s body was dropped back behind me. “Here. Give the dress a good shake, then take it to the edge and wash that blood out.”

My arm was grabbed, and two jars that must have been caught in the folds of my skirt clanged together. “Why you just standin’ there, Willy? Do wot I says. If you haven’t the stomach for it, I’ll look after it all. But the dresses is mine, then.” I was pulled up, but in the next second dropped back. “She don’t feel like the other one,” the man called Gib said. “Not as cold. Willy? I’m not sure this one’s dead.”

My waist was kicked with the toe of a boot, and at the sudden rough movement I involuntarily emitted a watery gasp as the stinking Mersey trickled out of my mouth.

“Damn. She’s alive, all right,” Gib said. “But from the looks of her she’ll be gone soon. She’ll never miss her dress.” He pulled it off my shoulder.

“Gib. No,” Willy said.

“Wot?”

“You heard me, Gib. Leave her be.”

“Wot you talking about? Willy?”

I felt hands under my arms, pulling me out of the trunk. The jars that were still on my dress crashed onto the slimy stones. Something warm and soft pressed against my breast. “Cold water likely slowed the bleeding,” the softer voice said. “Could be the water that was to kill her saved her instead. Who’d a done this?”

I gagged suddenly and with the wretching movement brought up more watery saliva. It was as if it cleared my throat. “Pompey,” I murmured.
It must have been Pompey, following orders to throw me into the Mersey. And he thought I was already dead, so there was no reason to slit my throat, as he had Clancy’s.

“Calling for her father,” Willy said. “She’s wanting her pappy.” And then I was roughly dragged over the stones, and the pain in my breast returned, as did the blessed darkness.

Chapter Six

I
WAS ROUGHLY SHAKEN.

“Wake up, girl. It’s time you were awake. Come on now.”

The shaking brought on such an exquisite pain that I cried out, opening my eyes and looking into the drawn face of a middle-age woman.

The pain was everywhere. I couldn’t move, pinned in place by the pounding in my temples and the terrible pain in my chest.