Theft of Life (31 page)

Francis sprinted up to the carriage at the front of the stand. A gentleman in a long red coat with sleeves wide enough to hide a rabbit in was settling into his seat with a look of vague disgust. The driver was already clicking his horses into a walk.

‘Hold! Hold there! Are you Hodges?’ The driver turned and grunted at the name, but showed no sign of waiting. Francis put his hand to the horse’s bridle.

‘Get off out of it!’ the driver yelled, half-standing in his seat.

‘Just one moment, sir,’ Francis said, holding on tight. He could feel the horse’s breath on his neck, its confused thick animal smell bundled together with the scent of leather from its trappings and blinders. ‘A fare, on Sunday night. A man and a woman who seemed drunk from Paternoster Row. Who was he and where did you take them?’

The man sitting in the cab leaned forward. ‘If you need to speak to the Negro, driver, I can find another man to take me.’

‘Not at all, sir. One moment.’ The driver turned back to Francis, his face puce. ‘Get away from my horse.’ The animal whinnied, trying to pull its great head away.

‘It’s a matter of murder.’

‘It will be, if I ever see your face again.’ He lifted his arm and the movement was so quick Francis had no time to prepare. The thin whip caught him across the cheek and he staggered backwards, covering the place where it had struck with his hands. The cab drove away at a quick trot.

‘You hurt, son?’ Francis’s eyes were stinging and the pain was like a cold brand on his skin. He felt a hand on his arm and looked up. And old, square white man. ‘Let me see, now.’ Francis took his hand away and the man hissed. ‘An inch higher and he’d have had your eye out. It’s bleeding, but put your handkerchief to it and you’ll not stain your collar.’ Francis did as he was told and found he was trembling. The old man smiled. ‘Don’t fret. Ladies all love a scar, don’t they?’

Francis tried to breathe. ‘Thank you.’

‘Mustn’t hold a man’s horse, son. Enrage any fellow, and Hodges is a mean-hearted son of a bitch. Always has been.’

The first shock of the pain had lessened. Francis saw the man was standing by a yoke, wide wooden buckets tied with rope onto each end. He was the waterman for the horses on the stand then. ‘Did you notice anything Sunday night, uncle?’

‘I’ll remember it till my last breath. That vicious bastard what struck you tipped me sixpence. Sundays are normally quiet here by evening. He had a fare kept him busy a couple of hours. Didn’t see him pick the fella up, but he came back saying he’d been all the way up Islington Road and home again. Got tipped five shillings, which went on punch judging by his temper Monday morning.’

‘He said nothing more? Nothing about a woman?’

‘No, son, though he was in ribald humour, if you understand me. Now go and get some ice for your face before you lose your good looks.’

G
RAVES AND MRS SERVICE
both made efforts to prevent Mrs Westerman reading the newspapers, even claiming they had not been fetched in. Harriet was perversely determined to read what had been written. They were for the most part sneering in their tone, and she flinched when she saw one writer’s amusement that Mrs W— had fled her home to pursue Mr C— to London. What distressed her the most was seeing the lightly disguised names of her hosts in the same paragraphs. Someone had taken the trouble to discover that Susan had been removed from her school in Golden Square.

Having finished reading, she left the house without speaking to anyone but the servants, and walked in the gardens of Berkeley Square until her temper had cooled. Deciding to return to the house, apologise to Graves and Susan for exposing them to the gibes and insinuations of the ink-stained monsters, and wait for Molloy, she turned north and began to make her way along the gravel pathways, only to see a carriage coming to a halt at the house and Sir Charles walking up the steps to the front door. By the time she had taken off her cloak and hurried up to the Blue Salon, Sir Charles and Crowther were seated in the cluster of striped settees in the middle of the room. Mrs Service was pouring tea, William handing out the cups and Graves, looking ill at ease, watching from his post by the mantelpiece.

The gentlemen stood as she entered, but she waved them back to their places and took a seat between Mrs Service and Crowther, from where she could watch Sir Charles. He smiled at her with a warmth and sympathy that lifted the corners of his eyes.

‘I came as soon as I saw the news-sheets, Mrs Westerman. I am sorry that you have been subject to these attacks. I wished to say the same to Mr Graves here.’

It was possible Harriet had not entirely succeeded in walking off her temper. ‘Did you, Sir Charles? How kind. I rather thought you were behind them.’

Graves coughed into his tea. Sir Charles’s expression, however, did not change. ‘No, no. I am sorry you ever considered such a possibility. You over-estimate my influence. I fear your interference in the matter of Mr Trimnell may have been misconstrued in some quarters as an attack on the city itself. I am certain, however, that your motives are pure.’

‘Your confidence is a great compliment,’ Harriet said. ‘Have you heard that Crowther thinks the men who attacked him on Monday evening were the same who were responsible for Mr Trimnell’s death?’

Sir Charles turned towards Crowther who was sitting back among the cushions. The bruise on his jaw had developed all the colours of sunset. Crowther, Harriet noticed out of the corner of her eye, appeared to be enjoying himself. ‘Indeed, Mr Crowther, is that so? I understood from Bartholomew that you saw very little.’

‘I did not need to do so, Sir Charles. Their pattern of attack was distinctive enough.’

Sir Charles nodded very slowly. ‘How interesting. Could you see, Mr Crowther, if they were white men or Negroes?’

Crowther’s expression tightened. ‘I could not.’

Sir Charles put down his cup. ‘I see. Well, I am sorry indeed, and I make this apology in my role as Alderman and on behalf of the city, that you were injured while doing our coroner a service. I wished to tell you also that no effort is being spared in searching for Mrs Smith’s maid. She is suspected of the killing.’

Harriet extended her arm across the back of the settee. ‘When did you conclude that Mr Trimnell needed to be locked in a madhouse, Sir Charles?’

He hesitated, upon which Mrs Service lifted her hand. ‘William, would you offer Sir Charles one of those delightful lemon cakes?’ William did so. ‘They are so sweet without being overwhelming, I think. Do take one.’ Sir Charles gave her his most grateful smile, and for a moment Harriet’s rage increased to the point where it swallowed Mrs Service too and all her rules of hospitality. Then the frail-looking widow continued in the same voice: ‘Opponents of slavery are to be locked up as mad now? Why, Graves, we should make arrangements to have ourselves committed at once.’ Harriet loved her again.

Sir Charles set down his plate. ‘Mrs Service, a reasoned debate with a lady such as yourself must always be a pleasure …’

Graves had recovered from his cough. ‘Perhaps you might like to debate the trade with Mrs Westerman’s senior footman.’ He nodded towards William, who without a flicker of expression bowed very slightly from the waist. Harriet felt almost giddy.

‘I would debate the trade with any reasonable man or woman,’ Sir Charles said, irritation cracking his words into flint-edged syllables. ‘But Mr Trimnell was not reasonable. I know you have heard, Mrs Westerman, that he was seen trying to grab his mulatto by-blow off the street. He ranted and raved on the public highway and spread about him the most toxic mixture of half-truths and wild fantasy. He was trying to do active harm to the reputations of honourable men, men who have served this country and her interests quite as loyally as anyone in this room.’

‘William,’ Harriet said lazily, ‘remind me when you received the injury to your leg.’

‘I fell from the rigging when Captain Westerman’s ship was demasted. It was during the holding of Admiral Barrington’s line at Barbados, December ’seventy-eight, madam.’

‘Oh, of course, I remember now,’ Harriet said.

‘Honourable men,’ Sir Charles repeated fiercely. He controlled his breathing. ‘William, I thank you for your service.’

Crowther’s voice was dry and clear. ‘What did Mr Sawbridge say to your plan, Sir Charles? Was Mrs Trimnell happy to have her husband declared mad?’

Sir Charles looked at him, frowning. ‘The conversation was between myself, Dr Drax and the Reverend Fischer. Fischer was well acquainted with Trimnell in their younger days, Drax is a medical man and Trimnell was a neighbour of mine for a long time. Before we had the opportunity to speak to Sawbridge or Mrs Trimnell, Mrs Westerman had arrived at the balloon-launch with news of Trimnell’s death.’ He got to his feet and the company did also. ‘Those cakes are delicious, Mrs Service. West Indian sugar, I’d know the taste anywhere.’

‘Is it indeed?’ Mrs Service said, offering him her fingertips. ‘I must speak to the housekeeper.’

Harriet let Sir Charles bend over her hand. ‘I have not had the opportunity to ask after Mrs Trimnell. Is she comfortably settled in your family?’

He let her hand fall. ‘Mrs Trimnell’s stay with us was only ever to have been of short duration while Sawbridge arranged rooms where they might live together.’

‘Indeed?’ Harriet answered. ‘She seemed so comfortable there. Will she not be a great loss to the family circle?’

‘Her place is with her father,’ Sir Charles said shortly. ‘Good day.’

William showed him out of the room and Crowther settled again into his place among the cushions. ‘Mrs Service, I believe you have cured me. So, Mrs Westerman?’

‘I trust Molloy will track down those thugs. And when they do, I am sure we shall find in their pockets the gold of Mr Sawbridge or of Randolph Jennings. They care for Mrs Trimnell and could not bear her humiliation any longer. The others only wished him to be shut away where he could not tell the world about their crimes.’

‘Chivalry then?’ Graves said, curling his lip.

The Chapter Coffee House was as full as Francis could have hoped. The large open room, split with booths like box pews in a church, was loud with male voices, laughing, jeering and jostling. The half-dozen waiters dashed about the place with the dented coffee pots, and tobacco smoke hung around the brass chandeliers in slowly shifting clouds. The back wall showed a map of the Americas and, what was looked at more, a clock like a full moon tapping out the seconds. The daylight found its way in cautiously through the high windows and a glass door that opened and closed a dozen times each minute.

Auctions of this type seemed always to be exclusively masculine preserves. There were several women in the book and print trade, often daughters or windows of sellers, all called ‘Mrs’, like Eliza, whether married or not. They were treated with avuncular respect by the men, and given credit for their good sense when they showed it, but they would not jostle in an auction with them. The only woman present this afternoon was the well-preserved matron of the coffee house who sat behind the bar keeping a tally of pipes and pots and saying little, only nodding to her regular customers like a queen at a review of her troops.

The business of the furniture and fittings was swiftly dealt with, the price of ten pounds reached exactly as predicted. The dealers then melted from the crowd, leaving the room the province of print. The auctioneer called them to order. ‘We all know what we’re about, gentlemen,’ he shouted out when the noise had been reduced to a rumble. His voice was professionally loud and came from his belly. He could shake the glass in the windows with it. ‘The remaining contents of good Mrs Smith’s place of business with whatever stock on site as seen today. Mr Glass stands for the family. One price for the lot. You’ve had your chance to view, so there’ll be no carping afterwards, thank you. All present stand witness to that. Before we start, however, you’ll bow your heads a minute by the clock in memory of the lady herself and in hopes she’ll help us into Heaven with her, for the Lord knows you’re a miserable bunch of scoundrels, slanderers, back-biters and ink-stained reprobates, and each soul here present will need all the help it can get when it reaches the Gates.’

There was a low rumble of laughter at that as the men nodded and shoved at each other, then a silence, broken only by the soft footsteps of the waiters and a settling sigh or two from Mrs Smith’s more sentimental colleagues. When the minute was up, the auctioneer said, ‘Now then, gentlemen, I’m opening at twenty pounds. Up and at ’em for a bargain. Speak up and speak fast.’

The bidding was brisk and soon Francis was able to release the breath held in his lungs. The price would be fair at least, and he’d be able to look Master George in the eye. It climbed to somewhere near the limit of his hopes and slowed. Looked like the winning bid would come from one of the warehouses which sold stock to the pedlars. There was a longish silence and the auctioneer raised his eyebrows and his arm, ready to call it, when a small voice to his left piped up and added an extra five pounds to the bid. The gentlemen all turned to stare and a whisper began between them. Several men half-stood in their seats to look at the one who’d bid, then sat again, shrugging to their neighbours and shaking their heads.

The auctioneer frowned. ‘Sir, you’re a stranger in the room. It’s ready money only, and all costs of clearing and carriage fall to you.’

‘Agreed,’ the voice said. Francis too craned to look at him but could see only the side of his face.

‘No more bids? Sold then, to the gentleman on my left for fifty pounds.’ He struck the hammer on the bargain, but before the puzzled crowd could fall back into conversation, he held up his hand again. ‘One more word, gentlemen! A vote of thanks to Mr Glass, who risked his neck to try and save Mrs Smith – and all strength to his arm as he tries to find the bastard what did for her. So say we all.’

Loud and full the crowd cried, ‘Hear, hear!’ to it and Francis looked at the ground, his throat rather tight. The conversation became general, and when Francis had recovered himself he tried to see the stranger again. One of the unsuccessful bidders arrived at his elbow. ‘That’s an oddity, Mr Glass.’