Ace, King, Knave

  Dirty Sam Derrick! For all Betsy-Ann knows, he might have written that very report of the Talking Hound. She says, ‘Do you know Kitty Hartry?’

  ‘I’ve heard of her.’

  ‘A bitch,’ says Betsy-Ann.

  It is almost like old times.

  She has her work cut out all that week, keeping Sam Shiner in ignorance. Plainly he expects some sort of revenge – as well he might, the filthy bastard – but though suspicion stinks up the place like that infernal coat of his, he can’t be resurrecting and spying at the same time. She’s managed to clear every last bit of gold, leaving untouched the buckets of umbrellas, the shoes, anything bulky and deceiving.

  It’s a wonder he hasn’t set a nose on her. She’s been on the lookout, same as him: peeping round corners, turning without warning, but there’s nobody skulking about. Meanwhile, the stock in the Eye’s dwindled almost to nothing.

  Loading and selling the cart has to come last: it’s a job that takes time and can’t be hidden. She could, she supposes, make the journey by night, but it’s not something she fancies: too many blades about and she’d be banging and bawling for the Uncle when she got there, drawing attention to herself. Best wait for a morning when Shiner’s been out and failed to come back, when he’s finally answered the call of the booze. With luck it won’t be too long. Between the foggy weather and the dark of the moon coming on, he goes out regular now.

  There comes a night black as Hell’s arse, and Harry sends word. She’s not supposed to hear so she goes into the bedchamber until the boy has skipped away downstairs.

  Shiner’s cursing like a damned soul.

  ‘What is it, Sammy?’ she says in the lying voice she still uses with him.

  ‘Three at Bart’s. Smalls.’

  At once she’s hopeful. He had a kinchin himself, once, and by all accounts was a fond father: he can’t abide the smalls. Directly he’s gone she undresses for bed where she lies wide-eyed, listening out for the tolling of the hours.

  Sure enough, at four he’s still not back. She pictures him slung across the back of a drayhorse, sliding head first into a hogshead. By five she’s at work, stripping from the Eye every last bottle and boot that might turn a penny, prising up the floorboard to pocket her sweet stash.

  She pushes one sovereign, wrapped in paper, under Liz’s door for luck.

  At last the cart is loaded up and Betsy-Ann behind it, pushing away like a whore with a slow cully. The Uncle’s fly: he’s been warned to expect an early call, one of these days. Before eight she’s ringing his bell, and while Mr Shiner snores away the morning, to wake somewhere with a bear’s head and temper, she disposes of all Mrs Shiner’s earthly goods, cart and all. As for Mrs Shiner herself, that lady is as dead as any other flesh Sam might have trafficked in. Mrs Ledley’s new tenant is Mrs Talbot, a very different creature.

  49

  ‘It’s impossible,’ says Sophia. ‘I have no acquaintance here to speak of, certainly not the kind that would be required. Mr and Mrs Letcher aren’t London people.’

  ‘You give up too soon, Mrs Zedland. Your Mr Letcher will have friends, sporting gents.’

  ‘If he does, I don’t know them. And how could I ask? No, I absolutely refuse.’ Sophia sits up a little straighter. The shared fantasy of fleecing Edmund has provided not a little pleasure, but Miss Blore appears to have got the bit between her teeth in earnest: she must be ‘pulled up sharpish’, as Radley used to say. ‘It’s needless, don’t you see? Our best chance is to stick with the evidence.’ She is about to add, by way of encouragement, that Mr Scrope’s Bow Street agent is on the track of the young person bubbled at Bath, but prudence bids her hold her tongue.

  Betsy-Ann Blore says nothing, but looks distinctly mutinous.

  ‘Are you afraid to give evidence, Betsy-Ann, is that it?’

  ‘I thought you liked the idea of biting him.’

  Sophia laughs. ‘Talking of it, yes. But to do it in earnest ― !’

  ‘Then I misunderstood you,’ says Betsy-Ann Blore.

  ‘If you run any risk in the business, Papa will make sure you’re protected.’

  Miss Blore’s mouth twists into an odd shape, her expression somewhere between the anxious and the mocking. Perhaps it is the word protect, with all its shades of meaning: this can’t be the first time she’s been offered protection. ‘You mean well, I’m sure,’ she says civilly enough. ‘But it’s hard to keep a body safe, once she’s peached. He could pay a man to make me easy, if he don’t care for the job himself.’

  ‘Easy?’

  ‘So easy, nothing’ll ever trouble me again.’

  ‘You won’t appear in court, Betsy-Ann. We’re seeking a private settlement. And surely you don’t think he’d ―’

  ‘I don’t think him inclined to it, no. But if it was himself or me, well!’ Betsy-Ann shrugs.

  Sophia thought this day might come. Betsy-Ann’s sort shrink from any dealings with lawyers: her fear was driven out, for a while, by her violent hunger for vengeance, but now that’s on the wane. During the last week she’s spoken constantly of games, disguises, tricks: anything but the process of law.

  ‘We may not even need to use your evidence. And if necessary, we can send you into the country.’

  Betsy-Ann seems less than delighted at this prospect. ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Zedland, but I shouldn’t like that. A new name, and a shop, that’ll do me – if he settles.’

  ‘He will, no question. The facts are plain as day.’

  ‘Nothing’s plain. He’ll get himself men of straw ―’

  ‘Of straw?’

  ‘Tame witnesses. They’ll swear anything he likes against you.’

  ‘Against me? What on earth could they swear to?’

  Betsy-Ann shrugs. ‘That the pair of you was in it together, to cozen your papa and mama.’

  ‘But that’s absurd,’ cries Sophia, laughing. ‘Why should I do anything so foolish – so wicked?’

  ‘Because he said to. So as not to lose him,’ says Betsy-Ann, with an air of stating the obvious.

  ‘Nobody would believe it.’

  ‘They hear of such things every day, Mrs Zedland. Is your man up to all that?’

  ‘He’s experienced,’ says Sophia, her confidence somewhat diluted by these revelations.

  ‘I hear Ned’s quite the gent at Cosgrove’s. He’s plenty of palm-grease – yours, Harry’s, Sam’s, his winnings – if he kicks back, you’ll have to go before the Beak.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Sophia raps out. She rises, rings for the maid and throws herself back into the chair. The women sit in silence a minute, eyeing one another.

  ‘Come to Cosgrove’s,’ Betsy-Ann says at last. ‘See for yourself.’

  Sophia shudders. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t intend that he should meet with you, nor me neither. But you should see the cut of him, Mrs Zedland. By God, it’s a good thing Harry can’t go into those places! If he met Ned looking such a peacock, he’d tear him limb from limb!’

  ‘How do you know all this? Do you go spying on Edmund?’

  ‘Of course,’ Betsy-Ann replies. ‘Be a fool not to.’ She feels in her stays. ‘Here, I almost forgot.’

  Gingerly Sophia takes the paper, which is damp from Betsy-Ann’s skin, and reads: First floor front, Denman’s Buildings, The Strand.

  ‘My new lodgings, should you need to know,’ explains Betsy-Ann. ‘Don’t go there. It’s not a place for you.’

  ‘Am I to write, then?’

  ‘I can’t read. If you want me, send a letter with nothing inside. I’ll know what that means.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  ‘So, we’ll go to Cosgrove’s?’

  ‘I don’t think it would ―’

  ‘Just a peep, Mrs Zedland. Anyone may take a peep.’

  ‘Well.’ She considers. ‘I might, perhaps, but not today. I’ve things to attend to.’

  The food, for instance. This morning’s breakfast was eggs and grilled bone in congea
led fat: even now, at the thought of those gelid yolks, her stomach turns. Without warning, a sour fluid rises in Sophia’s mouth. She clutches a handkerchief to her lips and hurries from the Blue Room to her closet where she retches into the commode. Wiping her lips, she reflects that her recent troubles have affected her digestion. She has been prone to sickness lately, and to sudden revulsions.

  When she returns, Betsy-Ann Blore appears not to have moved. It did occur to Sophia, while she was helplessly vomiting, that her guest had now the opportunity to steal any tempting little bibelot that might catch her eye. She is half ashamed of having entertained such suspicions, but only half: a Greek cup was once removed from Papa’s collection at Buller by a trusted guest, the son of a visiting gentleman. The young man had ample funds, and could easily have purchased what he had stolen: how much more tempting must such things appear to the likes of Betsy-Ann Blore! Perhaps she might be drawn by the marble Cupid on the mantelpiece, a present from Aunt Phoebe. Sophia finds its puffy cheeks, the half-moon chinks of its eyes, downright sinister and would gladly be rid of it.

  ‘Are you well now, Mrs Zedland?’ Betsy-Ann is studying her, making no attempt to disguise the fact.

  ‘Thank you, I’m quite well.’

  ‘You lace pretty tight, considering. I always think that’s right. A woman likes to keep her shape as long as possible.’ Betsy-Ann’s features have assumed the impudent smirk of a midwife, as if she expects Mrs Zedland to continue the intimate revelations that Mr Zedland began. Sophia stares at the leering, baby-faced Cupid. It would be a relief to her feelings if she could take it up and fling it at Betsy-Ann’s head. Instead she says, ‘My mama was a great believer in narrow lacing. She thought it essential to good posture.’

  ‘I’m quite of her opinion,’ says Betsy-Ann Blore.

  *

  Fortunate wakes to the boom and crash of rolling barrels. The ship is taking on fresh water. Then he sees a plastered ceiling above him, stained with damp. He stretches out on the bed, cold and stiff from lying in his clothes. In the yard below men are cursing as they struggle to unload the dray; the horse curses along with them, whinnying fretfully as they call to one another.

  With difficulty he rises and goes to the window. There is Clem, the man he saw yesterday, wiping his hands on his apron while others do the heavy work: a person of authority. Clem looks upwards, as if knowing himself observed. Fortunate steps back, out of sight. He studies the sky. It is so even a grey that the sun might be anywhere.

  His guineas are still in place, tucked into the wadding next to his breast. He removes one and checks the others are secure. The king’s head is darkly picked out, as if inked. That is the churchyard soil, filling in the gaps. He shivers at the memory of the Spirit, hoping it is now far away, but he has no way of knowing: in his panic after leaving Matt and Jim he ran blindly, perhaps in the direction of the church, perhaps away from it. And those other shadows in the churchyard, what were they? Names come back to him: Sam, Pete. Davey. Men’s names. Though they seemed to be men, they carried the smell of decay.

  He takes up the pistols, tips out the powder into his palm and replaces it with fresh dry powder from the box. Then he slides both weapons into one pocket and shrugs on his coat.

  Downstairs the tavern is almost empty. Last night’s revellers are at home, nursing their heads. Clem can be heard outside the window, telling someone to leave that one on the side.

  The woman sits behind the counter, heeling a man’s sock. It is a strange choice of task, when all around her the room is dusty and stained, and the serving-bar, as he can see from where he stands, is sticky with spills.

  She looks up as he approaches. All he observed of her last night was her seeming good will. Now he notices her hair, which is as dark as his own. Its natural form seems to be straight, but it is piled up on top of her head, stiff and dull, and fixed in place with pins. She has a pale, pleasant face, not distinctive in any way but mild and womanly. As soon as she smiles, the effect is ruined by a mouthful of brown, jagged teeth. Fortunate keeps his distance, wary of her breath.

  ‘I trust you slept well.’ She looks as if she might laugh, after saying that. ‘Will you be staying on another night?’

  She might mean only to tease him for sleeping late, but it strikes Fortunate as a good idea. He needs another day of rest and food to make him strong.

  ‘Another night, yes.’

  ‘I’ll trouble you to pay for the two of ’em now. And will you want feeding? Breakfast, dinner?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  He is embarrassed, at first, about bringing out the coin from his pocket, until it strikes him that his embarrassment is pointless. He must carry the money somewhere about him. If these people intend to steal it they will find a way.

  ‘My!’ she says, seeing the gold. As she is giving him his change, Clem enters and nods.

  ‘Here’s our young gent back,’ says the woman, as if she had not seen her husband’s greeting. Clem understands something by this, for he turns and looks Fortunate up and down.

  ‘Too small,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘But a draw. Trust me.’

  Plainly these two have discussed him while he slept. He wonders if they have advertised him, and if the Pinched Wife is already on her way.

  Perhaps he is to be robbed and murdered. The tavern is in the familiar style: he must be in Romeville, now, where a man with money is surrounded by false friends. He should have thought of this before.

  The woman says, ‘You look to me like a good-natured lad. And an honest one.’

  ‘I am honest, Madam.’

  ‘I hope you are, ’cause I’m about to make you an offer.’

  ‘To buy something from me?’ he says, the shoes pressing on his flayed heels.

  ‘Am I right when I say you’ve been in service?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There you are, Clem! Knew it by the clothes.’

  ‘I have good shoes,’ he says hopefully.

  ‘Are you in a place now?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Are you in search of one, then? Clem and me was wondering.’

  Somehow he does not think Clem wants him. He says, ‘To work?’

  ‘Naturally to work. And live in. You’re lucky, see.’

  How can she know that his name, in his own language, means just that? Then he realises: she means he’ll fetch in the customers.

  ‘Mornings and afternoons, it’s mostly dead.’ She waves towards the empty benches. ‘Evenings we’re as full as we can handle, you’ll have to be nippy. Know the trade?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘It’s only serving food and drink.’ She grins, showing her horrible teeth. ‘I’ll show you what to do. If you want the situation. Do you want it? Don’t say much, do you?’

  She hasn’t given him a chance. ‘I shall work for you, Madam, if – if I have something.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘I hope you ain’t one of these saucy blacks, Mr Lucky.’

  With care he slides off a shoe and shows her one of his heels. His stocking is worn through, showing tortured flesh bright and angry with pain. The woman whistles. She bends and picks up the shoe he has taken off, sees the bloodstains and says, ‘Sweet Christ.’

  ‘They hurt me.’

  ‘Aye! They would! Well, I know a woman who’ll fetch you something.’

  ‘Shall I work without shoes?’ He asks knowing that London people set great store by these things but she shrugs, as if to say it’s of no importance. What matters, he concludes, is his complexion.

  ‘What shall I call you, Madam?’

  ‘Keep with Madam. That’ll do. My name is Mrs Harbottle.’

  ‘You are married to Mr Clem.’

  ‘Lord, no! What gave you that idea?’ she giggles. ‘Mr Harbottle was my dear dead husband.’

  Fortunate sees how it is. She believes that if the words are not used, the thing will not be known.

  ‘And you? What’s yours?’

  He is a
bout to say Titus, but why help the Pinched Wife to find him? ‘Lucky is a good name. Shall I start today, Madam, and not pay my shilling?’

  Again she favours him with her dreadful smile. ‘It’s after four, did you know that? Come down to the kitchen.’

  After breakfast, if food eaten in the afternoon may be so called, she takes Fortunate back to the bar to teach him his new trade. Demand is mostly for gin, but he will also be asked for wine, port wine, rum, beer, brandy, ale or porter. Some people, says Mrs Harbottle, can’t drink like Christians but must invent ‘such nasty slop as you couldn’t pay me to swallow’. The nasty slop she has in mind is huckle-my-buff, which turns out to be hot beer with eggs and brandy.

  ‘But there,’ she says, winking, ‘I let the world go by.’ He understands that the mixture is profitable. ‘Anything you don’t know, you’ve only to shout out.’

  It is well for him that business is slack and his mistress easy-going, for he is sorely tested. It is not that he is too small, as Clem feared. He is quick on his feet – once the shoes are off – and quite strong enough for the work, but there is one thing he cannot help: he is a person not used to drinking.

  Each time someone places an order there is immediate silence, followed by cheers and groans and the sound of coins being swept up from the table.

  ‘Not know swizzle!’ somebody cries. ‘Sure the man in the moon knows swizzle!’

  It seems they are laying money on him. A few times he surprises them: once, with French Cream, because he heard Eliza and Fan talking about it, and again with Bristol Milk, or sherry-wine, because some of Dog Eye’s women drank it, long ago. Most of the time he is at a loss, and they bait him with their hotpot, stitchback and callibogus, their stewed quaker and red fustian, their kill-devil, bishop and bub, besides many more names heard and forgotten as he scuttles about behind the bar. He fumbles, spilling the drink, while Mrs Harbottle stands by laughing.

  When they have gone it is a different story. ‘Mixtures is one thing,’ she says, ‘but not to know heart’s ease! You’ll have to do better than that, my lad. And I showed you how to do three threads, and no sooner was it done than you asked me again!’