Dark Shadows (5 page)

Chapter Four

Mercy walked gracefully down to the end of the street. She stood for a moment to get her bearings. This was the point where junctions and wider roads began to emerge. These were the roads that led to the bridge and where the new tramlines began.

Her shoes were pinching just a little, but that wouldn’t deter her from her quest; it would just force her to walk a bit slower. Doreen had told her to walk with her head high, chest out, and waist in. She also added that it wouldn’t do any harm if she were to swing her hips a bit too.

Her burgundy puff-sleeved gown had a small delicate collar with black velvet piping. It was fastened with black velvet buttons, running in a neat line to her waist and matching the black velvet shawl, which Doreen had insisted she take with her. Her bonnet, a gift from the dressmaker, was also burgundy, trimmed in black with black feather plumes at its crown and a black velvet ribbon tied in a large bow under her chin. She carried a small pink and black silk purse and parasol to match.
Mercy, you look like a lady; you do indeed
, she thought as she moved closer to the bridge.

Mercy’s heart quickened: there it was! She stopped at an embankment, the farthest she’d ever walked, and cautiously looked around her in all directions.
Don’t be stupid
, she told herself.
Grandma’s not following you
.

Southwark Cathedral was just ahead on her left, and London Bridge, with its five magnificent arches, was straight in front of her. She crossed the busy road junction and felt her heartbeat quicken.
My God, I might have a heart attack.
She’d never felt so excited about anything in her entire life.

There was a lot of work going on in side streets and on the busy main roads. One could easily believe that London’s entire working population was congregated here, digging and shovelling dirt. They were working on the new sewage system, she determined now. She’d heard that even some politicians and lords had succumbed to cholera. That was what probably urged the government to get a move on and fix London’s stink, she thought, disgusted that it had taken a high-class person to die before they sorted the problem.

Mercy took her first step on the bridge. She attempted to blend in, but she noticed that the bridge’s traffic consisted of heavy carts laden with flour sacks and vegetables, coal wagons, tradesmen carrying pots and pans, and just a few plainly dressed men and women who probably worked on the other side of the bridge. Every now and then, an omnibus would pass. She heard the noise of their passengers before she saw them. They were filled to capacity, and most children sat on parents’ laps. She’d seen these multi-person transport carriages before, but only from a distance – they didn’t come all the way to the Elephant and Castle, just as far as Southwark Cathedral.

Mercy could well understand now why there were no grand carriages or gentry in sight, for with every step she took, the stink got worse. She also knew that she should have the sense to get to the other side as quickly as possible, but she couldn’t prevent herself from stopping every few feet to look down at the water in the Thames and around her at all the comings and goings. Her grandparents had been right about something, she admitted now. It seemed to her that all the people in England had come to this river and left their shit behind.

Carts and omnibuses continued to pass her in both directions. People bumped into her, and some didn’t even say sorry. Men tipped their caps to her when she passed them. Throngs of people were going about their business. She was going on an adventure and couldn’t care less about the smell. She was in new territory now. She was witnessing new and unimagined things. Mercy suddenly wondered if the bridge was safe under the weight of all this traffic, riding and on foot.

She giggled. There was horse dung everywhere, and all the people around her looked as though they were playing hopscotch, jumping over and swerving around all the mountains of droppings. She took her handkerchief from her dainty bag, which was attached to a silk-roped chain, and covered her mouth and nose with the handkerchief, careful not to smudge her newly painted lips.

She could see the north end of the bridge. It was just ahead of her and crowded with people walking in all directions. Some hurried whilst others ambled along in the sunshine with no particular place to be. On the wide grassy verges, children with mothers and nursemaids were having beverages and picnics. Mercy had never seen so many people congregated in such a small space – no, she’d never seen so many people ever!

When she stepped off the bridge, her stomach lurched. She was in London now. She was going to make the most of it, and she had plenty of time to explore some streets before St Paul’s.

She loosened the silk cord and peered inside her purse. Grandma Jennings had given her a couple of coins and had told her to buy something extra nice from the dressmaker for her birthday. Grandma had suggested that hair ribbons would be a good idea. Mercy had bought nothing. Instead, she had kept the money, putting it towards her savings, which she would spend today. She would spend every penny as though it were her last day on Earth.

She walked along and then stood at the corner of Monument. She had studied one of her grandpa’s survey maps of London and was now looking for Thames Street, which, according to the map, would be to her left. She walked a little farther and wondered if she should take tea before reaching her final destination. Her feet were tired, and she was sure she had a blister on her left heel.
Blimey, these shoes were not made for walking!
she decided.

When she found Thames Street, she decided against the tea idea. The street itself was wider than she could have ever imagined. It was as long as the eye could see. It was bustling with carriages, men on horseback, and women strolling, shopping, and buying fruit and vegetables from the market stalls that lined one side of the road.

There were limeburner premises sitting just inside small alleyways, adding to the street’s pungent odour. There were building works going on. Hundreds of workers lined the entire street. New sewage drains and what looked like half-built docks were being dug, installed, and constructed. Barges were moored to the wharf, and beyond were glimpses of the river, with masts of shipping and warehouses on the far side. This was not picturesque at all, Mercy thought. This was her first taste of the city, and her first and lasting impressions would be of chaos, mayhem, and dirt. She would have to avoid walking through that, as she could quite clearly imagine that a ruined muddy-hemmed dress was no way to repay Doreen.

She wouldn’t think about that now. She was far too happy to think about turning up at the shop dirty, covered in dust, wearing dung-filled shoes, a mucky dress, and a blackened face. She would worry when the time came.

She saw an open carriage drop off a couple of men, and she approached it gingerly. This would be her first carriage ride. She had never seen a carriage like it and had no idea how much it would cost or exactly how far away St Paul’s Cathedral was.

“Can you take me to St Paul’s Cathedral, please?” she asked the driver.

The carriage driver tipped his hat politely, nodded his head, and jumped down from his wooden bench seat to open the carriage door.

Mercy wasn’t sure how to lift the piles of material under her skirt, but she did remember that Doreen said women looked more elegant when they took hold of a petticoat hoop, which in turn lifted the front of the dress up, and avoided tripping over themselves. That was the last thing she wanted – to be lying in the muck with her legs flailing about or diving into the carriage head first!

With this in mind, she inched her hands down to her hips and eventually found a hard-boned hoop. She grabbed it from both sides, lifted it, exposed her ankles, put her first foot onto the carriage step, and followed with the other. Before she knew it, she was sitting prim and proper on the soft leather passenger seat.

The driver closed the small waist-high door and tipped his hat again. “I’ll have you there in no time, miss,” he told her.

Mercy smiled to herself. He had called her
miss
. That was the first time anyone had ever been so polite to her. Where she came from, she was called “the orphan” or “gangly Mercy Carver”.

She was now completing another ambition. She had never felt so alive. As the carriage slowly manoeuvred its way through busy Thames Street, she was amazed at just how many people she continued to see. There was a never-ending throng of new faces and costumes, of strange and colourful hats. Blimey, she almost felt as though she were in a different country altogether! People were looking up at her as she passed them. They would be wondering who she was, she thought vainly. Here she sat, dressed in a beautiful gown fitted to perfection, with fashionable hair and bonnet. She was all alone, an independent woman being driven around the streets of London in a grand carriage. Yes, she thought, they might be imagining all sorts of things about her – but they’d all be wrong.

She asked the driver what route he was planning to take, and he told her that they would not stay on Thames Street but would cross the next junction into Cannon Street, which led directly to St Paul’s. It would be quicker, he added, and would get them out of the traffic jam. Mercy nodded gratefully. She was happy to be leaving the madness of Thames Street behind her.
That
was one road she would always remember, but not with fondness.

The carriage stopped at the edge of the square which surrounded the cathedral. After giving the driver some coins, far fewer than she’d expected to pay, she walked no more than a dozen feet before she came across a small but elegant restaurant and tea room. She entered and was seated at a table for two by the window. She looked out of it, mesmerised by the great domed building she had read about in one of her old schoolbooks.

She had heard some neighbours talk about excursions they had taken to St Paul’s. They had all said the same thing about it on their return: the masons and builders had done a wonderful job reinvigorating what had been a dirty and quite miserable building. They’d also said that Queen Victoria herself had been instrumental in its makeover. Apparently, she had been quite distressed by its run-down state and had personally ordered its image to be changed.

Mercy’s eyes widened at a thought that had just burst into her mind: would she ever actually have the opportunity to see where the queen lived? Would she find another day like this to venture as far as Buckingham Palace? Would she be able to wear a gown like this ever again?

She ordered her tea and decided on fruitcake instead of scones. She was still thinking about her bleak future but then decided to push those thoughts aside and instead force herself to imagine a completely different life, an imaginary life. Her belly turned over with all the wonderful scenarios she was so clearly imagining.

To be a grown-up was a wonderful thing, she decided. Her spirit, her yearning to explore, to seek adventure, and to meet new and diverse societies was becoming even more wondrous in her mind. Her heart told her to follow a different path than the one laid out for her. For eighteen years, her grandparents had made sure she’d been fed and clothed. Neighbours pitied her orphan status and the stigma that surrounded her. She’d also had to endure taunts and spiteful references about her father’s suicide. She’d been ostracised by girls and boys her own age because she’d not been allowed to socialise with them. She knew very well what people thought about her. She was the orphan of a deranged idiot who’d plunged a dagger into his own throat; she was the girl who was marrying a man almost ten years older than her father would be now if he were alive.

Mercy looked out onto the street, cast her eyes upon the beautiful square and cathedral, and then stuck her nose in the air. She didn’t care what others thought about her. They would probably never have tea in central London in a dress like this or see what she was seeing. Others might tell her how to live her life in the future, but there were always dreams of escape and adventure to keep her mind busy. No one could take those dreams away from her.

Chapter Five

Sam Bigly and Eddie Gunn stood at a street corner a few doors away from the establishment where Mercy sat contentedly drinking her tea. They had spotted her going into the tea room. Eddie had decided there and then to set up shop and add her to the cargo already in the back of the carriage. She would be the last pickup on this, one of their last business trips to the capital. She would probably be one of the most highly valued, for her beauty was undeniable and probably greater than all the stock they had already accumulated.

The two men had travelled a long distance. It had taken them twenty-eight hours from the centre of Liverpool to the madam’s safe house in Knightsbridge. They had done this journey many times. They were well paid for their specialised job, which was one of danger and illegalities that could see them hang. The job involved perfect timing, keen eyes, knowing when to strike, and knowing when to retreat. They were good at what they did, experts in the art of abduction.

They were trusted employees of a woman in Liverpool and worked exclusively for her. Both knew her well. She didn’t take kindly to failure. Failure was unforgivable in her eyes. It was not in her vocabulary and was not tolerated. Sam and Eddie had both seen what happened to others when she was displeased. Therefore, they had good reasons to succeed every time they went on a job. The first was the bonus they got when they returned home with a full load. The second was their continuing employment, including bed, board, and the odd fuck with one of the madam’s girls.

The madam always demanded her cargo from the most exclusive areas in central London. She never travelled to London herself and maintained complete anonymity. She was the ghost at the head of dangerous but lucrative operations. In Liverpool, she was known as Madame du Pont. The two men had always thought it a bloody stupid exercise when the madam switched accents from broad Liverpudlian to a soft French chic, depending on whom she was speaking to at the time. But she was a good businesswoman; they both agreed on that. She knew how to fill her whorehouse, and they’d seen her turn men away on occasion for lack of girls or just lack of space. She could even do that to important, powerful men, and they would always come back begging for more.

Sam and Eddie knew little of her past. It was clear to them that she was from Liverpool and that she had come up with a dangerous business concept that only courage and self-belief could pull off. She had had made a fortune over the years and a name for herself in the most important social circles of the industrial North. They supposed she had no family and no real friends, bar her customers. But they did know one thing: she was one of the most, if not
the
most, powerful women in Liverpool.

All her whores came from London. She specialised in young, graceful upper-class girls, virginal in appearance and, whenever possible, in body. Sam and Eddie took attractive girls who still had a good chance of being untouched by a man. There were exceptions, of course, but they weren’t expected to examine the girls they abducted – that was Madame du Pont’s job.

Sam and Eddie didn’t particularly like the madam, but they did admire her enterprise and the profits she made. She had a mansion in Liverpool with grounds the size of a park, and she also owned a house in Knightsbridge. They often wondered why she had chosen that spot. It was a mews house with stables housing two carriages and four horses at all times. The location didn’t sit well with either man, as it was too close for their liking to the places where the girls were picked up.

Eddie had asked her once why she took such risks. Why did she keep the girls so close to the abduction sites? Her answer had been quite clear, and she’d scoffed at his ignorance. “It’s called hiding in plain sight, Eddie boy. It’s the safest place in all of London, for who would dare to think that his stolen child was but a street or two away?”

Madame du Pont had no connections on paper to the house in Knightsbridge. The man and woman who ran it held the lease. Therefore, if they were caught with abducted girls in the basement, they would go down for the crime, not her. The team were always on hand to look after the girls’ essential needs until transport day. Never once had any copper knocked on the door asking about a missing girl, not in all the time they’d been there.

The madam, in the men’s opinion, could have made a good living out of local Liverpool girls who went willingly into the Liverpool brothels. But Madame du Pont offered an alternative experience for the type of men who frequented her house. She charged at least ten times more than any other brothel, and she had absolutely no competition whatsoever in the high end of the prostitution and gambling market.

Her gated mansion stood in the most exclusive part of Liverpool. It was far enough away from the docklands and bustling streets that surrounded it, and it was separated from the run-down housing areas by a large park. Only mansions and high-quality restaurants sat on her side of the park, and only well-to-do people crossed it.

The mansion was exquisitely decorated. There were salons adorned with paintings on walls lined with red velvet material. There were soft leather couches in every room. She provided private poker rooms, a bar, and servants who served champagne and whisky in crystal glasses from silver trays.

The house had sixteen bedrooms situated on the first and second floors. Madame du Pont’s suite was on the ground floor, and the servants’ quarters were in the attic.

Her whores were both beautiful and educated. They were soft-spoken and, more often than not, innocent and naive, which, according to Madame du Pont, made them easy pupils to manipulate. They were all, without exception, young ladies, not common whores who customarily opened their legs for men, rich or poor.

The girls had to be well trained in the art of seduction before they were put to work servicing the madam’s customers. But their training also involved brutal punishments and, on the odd occasion, death for those who wouldn’t listen or accept their new situation. By the time their training was complete, the girls were either too afraid to argue or were simply defeated. That meant the madam had done her job well.

Sam and Eddie envied the madam’s power and her fortune. They were the fools who took all the risks in what was a dangerous job, but she paid them good money, and as long as the money kept coming, they would do her bidding, no questions asked.

They were given a finder’s fee for each girl. Forward planning and the execution of the plan itself rarely varied. It required speed, precision, and nerve. The victim was enticed to the back of the coach and its windowless wooden doors. Once there, the young woman disappeared inside the carriage and was never seen again until they reached Liverpool.

The key to success was timing. If, on the odd occasion, people or another coach came too close to their position for comfort, they would move on; the entire operation was inevitably cocked up and cancelled.

Sam and Eddie were both good-looking young men. Each had a good set of teeth, wore good-quality clothing, and softened his broad Liverpudlian accent in order to fit in with Londoners who frequented the most exclusive parts of the city. Sometimes their carriage would sit in the same spot for hours or drive in circles all day just to get one girl, but there were also days when they managed to pick up four or five in quick succession. It was a hit-or-miss affair, a bit like waiting for the madam to give them a girl to use.

When the madam was in one of her dark moods, she would break their contract and refuse them access to her girls. This cruel denial could go on for weeks. Then there were the other times when she was in a particularly good mood, when they were given permission to fuck until their brains pickled and their balls felt as though they were going to fall off. They were denied certain girls. These were the best of the bunch and Madame du Pont’s greatest assets. Virgins, she told them, were too good for the likes of them, even after the girls had been broken in by a customer, for they would always be virginal in her eyes.

London was a vibrant city. Season after season, more girls from country estates arrived with their families to be bartered for money and power. The aristocracy and old money families attended endless balls and tea parties with the sole purpose of marrying off their daughters to wealthy and powerful families.

It was approaching late October, the final days of the season and the last major ball. In Eddie and Sam’s opinion, this was the best time to strike, for girls had adjusted to London life by now; they were more adventurous. The capital’s glamorous streets tempted the debutantes with independence into what they thought were safe environments. Some took tea alone, like the girl they were watching now. Some went on shopping trips, combining them with walks in Hyde Park, where aristocratic young bucks rode their horses. Hyde Park, with its romantic lake, was the meeting point for many secret trysts between bucks in need of wives to run their estates and keep their family lines going and debutantes who wanted nothing more than to become wives and mistress of their own homes. The girls Sam and Eddie abducted had one thing in common: they were rebellious enough to go out alone, albeit in the most exclusive and safest areas of the city. They were confident and comfortable in familiar environments, thus allowing an easy abduction to take place.

Sam and Eddie rode around London in a Clarence cab. It was a closed carriage with curtained windows. The carriage they used for the transportation to Liverpool was quite different, in that it looked more like an omnibus carriage than a private passenger carriage. It was closed in and long in length. It had tiny barred windows high on each side and heavy windowless double doors at the back end. Inside, there were two long benches and enough room for eight to ten people. On the return journey to Liverpool, it was usually filled to capacity. This particular transport was always safely tucked away in the mews stables with the horses, and it only ever came out on departure day, for it was an ugly-looking thing that was conspicuous on these grand streets.

Eddie and Sam were going home today but had found themselves in the wrong part of London due to roadworks and new drainage systems being dug on many of the roads they usually took. Mayfair, Piccadilly, and Knightsbridge had been clear of roadworks, but upon leaving those areas, they’d been blindsided by diversions. Subsequent roads had led them into unknown territory. Thus they found themselves just to the left of St Paul’s Cathedral and around the corner from the girl who would, with a bit of luck, be their final unexpected but welcome victim.