Theft of Life (30 page)

Francis spent the morning at Eliza’s shop watching as any number of wholesalers and those sellers who sold to the poor of the city inspected what was left of her business. A few men who sold furniture secondhand had also taken the time to come and sniff at what remained.

The clerk whom Mr Churchill next door had sent to help had made a good job of gathering the majority of the stock together and laying it out in piles according to the damage done. There were a good few volumes of children’s verses with engraved plates, a little swollen with water, but still whole. Eliza had done the illustrations herself. Francis saw a flash of her lying cold on the floor upstairs again and put down the copy he was holding. There were portfolios full of Walter’s work too. It was true, Francis thought, looking at the sketches: the more noble the child, the more they developed a slight squint. Several mysterious bundles of assorted prints and hymnsheets were piled in hopeless confusion, however, by the staircase. The clerk had not had time to organise everything.

The auctioneer Francis had hired to run the sale appeared just then at his shoulder. Churchill had recommended him and Francis was glad of it. ‘I think two lots, Mr Glass,’ he said without preamble. His reputation was of a solid, no-nonsense man who knew the trade. ‘The furniture and fittings for a start. Ten pounds the lot, I’d say. Then all the paper goods. It’s good stock for the pedlars, and that crowd from London Bridge know it. Don’t let all that tutting and shaking of heads fool you. I’ll see you at Chapter’s, four o’clock sharp.’ He looked about him for a moment. ‘Damn shame,’ he said, then disappeared back into the crowd before Francis could reply.

‘Mr Glass?’ It was the clerk from Churchill’s. Francis thanked him for his work and he shrugged. ‘Sad business, but there we are. There’s a girl asking for you outside. She’s come over from Hinckley’s, asking about a reward.’

Crowther was sitting up in bed contemplating the soup when Molloy was shown in.

‘Have you breakfasted, Molloy?’

‘Bacon and sausages downstairs.’

Crowther put down his spoon with a sigh. Molloy picked up a chair from the edge of the room and swung it over to the bed so he could sit at Crowther’s side. He frowned disapprovingly. ‘Good people put in time and thought making that for you,’ he growled. ‘I can wait till you’re done.’

Crowther picked up the spoon again. ‘How are your children, Molloy?’

‘Idiots, the lot of them.’

Crowther laughed. The door opened again and Harriet came in. Her hair was loosely dressed and the cut of her green silk dress showed off her figure rather well. Crowther did not think he had seen her wear it before, and approved.

‘There’s a sight to make the dogs bark,’ Molloy said. Crowther gave him a warning look and Molloy shrugged.

Harriet tried not to smile. ‘Molloy, you are an evil influence, and I have no idea why we receive you.’

A not entirely convincing look of offence rearranged the cracks on Molloy’s face. ‘There’s thankful, and just when I got My Lord High Whatsit to eat his soup.’

‘It’s Keswick,’ Crowther said, wiping his mouth. ‘As you well know, though you may call me Crowther as usual. There, the soup is eaten.’

Molloy yawned. ‘And you don’t “receive me”, my girl. I came up the backstairs. Now where do you want me to go where you can’t?’

Harriet handed him a folded paper, then went and sat at the dressing table. ‘We need the names of the men who beat Crowther and Mr Trimnell,’ she said. ‘Crowther thinks they pawned his clothes and shoes, but there’s been no sign of them, in spite of the handbills.’

Molloy scraped at his stubble with his yellow nails and unfolded the paper she had given him, read it and put it into one of his pockets. ‘They’re sharper than they look, the city marshals. Most of the pop shops near there are well under their eye now. Seems the brokers are never more joyful than when informing on a poor fella just picked up a hanky by chance.’

‘A boy I spoke to mentioned a Mother Brown,’ Crowther said. ‘As someone who asks no questions.’

Molloy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Mother Brown? She’s back, is she, and before her time, I reckon. I thank you, Mr Crowther. You’ve told me something I didn’t know.’

‘I should imagine you’ll still want paying, however.’

‘Well, that’s a matter of principle, son. And necessary expenses.’

Harriet leaned on the back of the chair. ‘Molloy, what have you learned at the coffee house? Mr Palmer said you’d been spending some time there.’

‘That they like to hear themselves complain while they count their money, like most men of business. Wolves that like to pretend they’re patriots. It’s all business – what’s good for it, what’s bad for it.’ He stood and brushed down his cloak. ‘And they’ve gone through a quantity of ink in there, these last days. I wouldn’t read the paper till yer breakfast is settled, Mrs W.’

Harriet groaned. ‘The paper? Oh Lord, that will mean another letter from Rachel.’

‘What about you, Molloy, and your work with Mr Palmer?’ Crowther asked.

Molloy gave a surprisingly elegant bow. ‘I’m thinking I can be wolf
and
patriot both – when there’s money in it.’

‘Of course. There’s my purse by the door. Take what you think is right. And there’s a boy of apparently rather dubious morality named Guadeloupe staying at Christopher’s Academy on Soho Square. Should you need assistance, you may find him helpful.’

Molloy picked up the purse and counted a number of coins into his hand. There was a chink as he set it back down. ‘I’ll send when I have news. Enjoy your healing, Mr Crowther. My best to you, Mrs W.’ He let himself out. Crowther looked at the purse he’d left behind him.

‘Good Lord, we might make an honest subject of him yet.’

Harriet yawned. ‘I doubt it. He chinked the coins in his pocket, your purse he emptied. “A matter of principle”, I’m sure.’

T
HE GIRL WHO WAITED
for him outside was not someone Francis would have chosen to be seen with in a public place. She was not more than twenty, but looked far older. Her eyes had the slightly lost stare of a gin drinker. She looked him up and down.

‘You the one asking about Penny?’

‘I am. Do you know something of use?’

She tutted. ‘Nice manners on you! I was told there was a reward.’ She slurred her words a little.

Francis thought of Eliza, her unfailing charity, and had the grace to feel a little ashamed. God alone knew there were enough Africans in London who had escaped from their memories with a gin bottle in their hand. ‘My apologies, miss. I
am
asking after Penny. I was a friend of her mistress, Mrs Smith who was murdered, and now I worry Penny might have been hurt too. Did you know her?’

Her expression softened, and Francis caught a glimpse of the girl she might have been. ‘I did. I thought it wouldn’t take, her coming here. And when I saw her come out and get lifted into a carriage by some fellow, I was sorry. Thought, Oh it was all a play, after all; she’d just got some rich fella.’

‘When was this?’

‘Couple of nights past. He was sort of carrying her. Thought she was flustered. She never could take her drink.’

‘You did not speak to her?’

The girl laughed, dark as tar. ‘I was entertaining a gentleman. Not really the moment for conversation with a old friend now, is it?’

He could only look at the ground beneath his feet. ‘Did you recognise the man, or the driver? It was a carriage, you say.’

‘The driver I know. Miserable bastard named Hodges, works off the stand on Cornhill. The fella, thought I’d seen him looking for company round here from time to time. That was why I thought …’ She scratched the back of her neck.

‘Thank you, thank you indeed.’ Francis took her hand and shook it briefly before searching in his pockets for a coin or two. ‘If I need to speak to you again, where might I find you?’

She seemed surprised, staring at her fingers for a second where he had touched them, then she waved his tribute away. ‘Find a place nearby that stinks of gin, lift the lid and holler for Mary-Anne. You’ll find me. And keep your coin, handsome. I’m drunk already.’ She turned away and headed off, unsteadily, in the direction of St Martin le Grand. Francis watched her go, then put the coins back in his pocket and set off for the stand on Cheapside.

Molloy should have realised that having spent the last few hours fast asleep and snoring in the servants’ hall, his visit would be widely reported in the house. He had made it almost to the kitchen though before Lady Susan found him, threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him hard on his unlovely cheek.

‘Mr Molloy! Oh, I haven’t seen you for an age! You weren’t going to sneak away without seeing me, were you?’ Her eyes were glimmering and large, her skin the delicate pink of some expensive cream in a shop window down Piccadilly.

‘I was. And I would have sneaked faster if I knew you were going to cover me in scent and rouge.’

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the library. ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t wear rouge or scent. I’m too young. Tell me how everyone is in Tichfield Street. I so long for news.’

He looked down at her and spoke sharp. ‘Long for news, do you? Then go and visit. Your boy Graves still owns the shop there, doesn’t he? And if you wish to greet me, Lady Susan, a civil nod is enough. Fine thing it is for a man of my reputation to be handled like a lapdog by a member of the peerage. And what would people think of you? Have some sense.’

Her face fell, all the life wiped out of it, and she looked as small as a beaten dog. ‘You’ve never called me Lady Susan before.’ Her lip trembled.

‘And that’s something to snivel over, is it?’ He produced a handkerchief and handed it to her – clean and hemmed by his own wife who, bless her, had learned long ago that tears made no miles with him. ‘I hear you’re at odds with young Graves. Time was, you offered me your mother’s own ring to keep him out of debtor’s prison. Why you so peevish with him now?’

‘He wants me to be a lady.’

Molloy had never read a novel. He avoided them because he had always suspected they were full of foolish women with full bellies saying things of this sort. ‘You
are
a lady, you daft child. That’s not his fault, so you’d better learn how to act like one.’ He lifted his finger and narrowed his eyes. ‘Like not kissing men like me in front of your servants. Or kissing any man, for that matter – Graves and your brother excepted. You’re not a child. What are you thinking of?’

‘There was no one there.’ Her voice shook.

‘And would it have stopped you if there had been? Christ, give me patience. And no more crying, or I’ll forget my station enough to show you the back of my hand. Don’t think I won’t.’

She managed to control herself and looked up at him carefully, as if perhaps she’d managed to crawl out of her own head for a second and look around. ‘You wouldn’t.’

He folded his arms across his chest and studied her. So she had some sense yet. ‘No, like as not. Graves would have me in the stocks for it. What’s your gripe at a few dancing lessons and learning your manners? Want to disgrace your friends and sundry, do you?’

She was still managing not to cry, but began twisting his handkerchief in her hands. ‘They are never going to let me do anything interesting, and then they shall force me to marry some monster with money and a title.’

He whistled up at the ceilings. ‘What
troubles
you do have! Force? Your brain’s gone soft. Talk to me about force when Graves walks you to the altar with a knife at your throat, or locks you in a dungeon to starve. Force!’

‘Well, what am I to do?’

‘Lord above us, Sue. You’re in this house and you come hammering on me for guidance? I’ve eaten creatures with more sense. Come to an arrangement, girl. Tell Graves the “interesting things” you want to do and see what he says. Graves is a soft-hearted bloke, but he’s not a fool. He’ll negotiate. Now, if he’s telling you you need to know the rules before you go blundering about in the world, he’s right, and all your sniffing and maundering shan’t change it. For the rest show some sense and some backbone. You hear? And give me back my handkerchief.’

She did, though reluctantly. ‘I hear. I miss Mother and Father. And Soho and the shop, Molloy.’

He remembered her there. Full of mischief as a monkey and a hero with all the gutter urchins in the street for her jokes and mocks. ‘It’s only right you should miss them, sunbeam, but my bet is if you’d stayed in Soho you’d be itching to be out of it by now.’ She did not say anything but continued to look at the carpet under her silk slippers. ‘Will you think on?’

‘I will try.’

‘That’s a good brat. You’ve got a fine heart. Listen to it and stop picking fights where none need to be had.’ He put a hand on her arm and squeezed. She straightened her back, and squared her shoulders like a trooper. Then looked him in the eye. Better.

‘If Graves does lock me in a dungeon, will you break me out?’

‘More like I’ll throw one of my kids in there with you.’ She giggled and he at once scowled until his eyes became almost invisible under the brim of his hat.

‘Enough. I’ve got a duty to make some folks curse the day I was born, and another minute in this house will turn me soft as a milkmaid. Off with you, girl. And my best to boy Sussex.’

Francis walked the length of Cheapside with his head down. He would find the cabman, then the fare, and then the reason why Eliza had been killed. The streets were dry and the rattle and crunch of iron wheels on the dirt seemed to push him on. He was hardly aware of the people around him, their various conditions and complaints filling the pavements, peering in at the shop windows, their hands in their pockets feeling at their purses for the measure of their worth. He passed the Mansion House and the Royal Exchange, the embodiment in stone of British Pride, and instead watched only for the cab-stand, the fine heavy horses and dull yellow carriages, the cabmen in their long blue coats.

He stepped up to the man at the back of the line. ‘I’m looking for a driver named Hodges.’

The driver yawned and peered up at the carriages in front of him. ‘Best hurry then, son. Looks like he’s got himself a fare.’