The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Tuesday 20th February, 1810

The faint pink fingers of dawn streaked slowly across the wintery sky above the smoking chimneys and spires of London. Constable Woods heard the distant peal of church bells and the hooters from the boats on the Thames as he walked down Hart Street. It was going to be another cold but dry day. The interminable rumble of traffic towards Covent Garden had begun and the Duke of Bedford’s workmen were already hard at work at the ongoing demolition of Raleigh Close. He paused for a moment and watched as another gable of the ancient building crashed to the ground. The labourers stepped back and waited for the billowing dust to settle. Then they grabbed their pickaxes and shovels and began to break up the rubble and transfer it onto a wagon. Horses snorted and stamped impatiently in their jangling harnesses as dust irritated their nostrils.

Woods coughed, crossed the cobbled street and pushed open the low wooden door of Mistress Higgin’s bakery. The smell of warm, freshly baked bread and pastries made his stomach rumble. Despite the disruption of the demolition across the street, it was business as usual.

Jacquetta Higgin stood at the shop counter, lifting dough and dropping it before once again thrusting her hands into the soggy mass. She glanced up and frowned when she saw his uniform. Beside her, the freckled face of her young son peered up at him through sleep-encrusted eyes. ‘Ma! It’s one of them Runners,’ he said in alarm.

‘Good mornin’, Mistress Higgin,’ Woods said pleasantly.

The sleeves of her gown were rolled back to reveal her strong, plump arms, which were dusted with flour. She gave Woods a hard stare. ‘What d’you want?’

‘I’m Constable Woods from Bow Street Magistrates’ Court,’ he said. ‘We are investigatin’ the death of that unfortunate young woman who died at Raleigh Close and I need to ask you some questions.’

‘I can’t ’elp you.’ Mistress Higgin returned to her dough and continued to thump, lift and slap it back down on the counter with considerable force.

Woods paused, a little surprised by her open hostility, and then decided to change tack.

‘Well, first of all, on behalf of Bow Street, I would like to thank you for your public spirit yesterday in summonin’ us to Raleigh Close. Yes, that mewlin’ child turned out to be a bird – a fact you couldn’t possibly have known. If there had been a woman and a nipper in the buildin’, they would have been seriously injured. That were very Christian of you.’

She said nothing but he thought he saw the rigid facial muscles of her jaw relax.

‘As you know we then uncovered the dead body of a young woman and we’re tryin’ to find out what happened to her.’

‘I can’t ’elp you.’ The dough slapped down on the counter.

‘It is possible that you can. Maybe you – and your handsome young fellah here – have seen or heard something important. You may not even realise that you have valuable information which pertains to our inquiries . . .’

‘’Ave you seen or ’eard anythin’ out of the ordinary, Nathanial?’

‘No, Ma.’

‘There you go, Constable.’

‘Perhaps Mr Higgin—?’

‘My Albert were taken with the typhoid two years ago,’ she said sharply.

Woods hesitated. Despite the woman’s truculent attitude he felt a pang of sympathy for her. It couldn’t be easy for a widow to run a business single-handed on this street and bring up a son at the same time. Young boys were a handful and a constant worry to their mothers. Or so Betsy kept telling him.

‘So young Nathanial here is now the man of the house?’ He smiled at the lad and reached out to ruffle his spiky hair. ‘You’ve done well, Mistress Higgin. He’s turned out a fine young man. I realised this yesterday when he first came to collect us from Bow Street. Many lads try to play pranks on the Bow Street officers but no one doubted for a moment that your son was serious and honest.’

The boy blushed red to the roots of his carrot-coloured hair at the compliment. But Woods’ praise for her son didn’t seem to have any effect on Jacquetta Higgin. Wielding a large flat knife, she deftly cut the dough into several portions and shaped them into loaves. She covered them with a cloth and pushed them aside.

‘I’ve done my best with the boy,’ she said, stiffly, as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘It ain’t been easy – especially with so much evil temptation on the doorstep, the gin and the women.’

‘I understand,’ Woods said. ‘I have two lads of my own. Nathanial’s about the same age as my Eddie. They might be peas in a pod, although our Eddie doesn’t have such a magnificent head of ginger hair. May I compliment you, Mistress Higgin, on the lovely colour that you have bequeathed him?’

The smile dropped from her face and her fingers went instinctively to her own head. She pushed back some trailing, faded, ginger tendrils. ‘My ’air is strawberry blonde,’ she said, sullenly.

Fifteen years of marriage was enough to warn Woods that he was now on dangerous ground. ‘Quite, quite,’ he said quickly. ‘Now let me ask you some questions.’

‘Look, ’ave you any idea what it’s like tryin’ to live around ’ere and run a business in these ’ere parts?’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘why don’t you tell me?’

‘It’s difficult, Constable. Difficult. Apart from the disruption from the lewd women and the drunkards from the taverns, the local crooks demand payment from traders like us. If we want to stay safe, we ’ave to keep our mouths shut and our eyes closed. There’s more criminal activity goin’ on ’Art Street every night than in the whole of London.’ She waved her hand dramatically in the direction of the city.

‘Oh dear.’ He had a strong suspicion that the criminals in the Seven Dials would make those on Hart Street look like amateurs but the woman was on a righteous mission and it wasn’t in his best interests to contradict her. Her face had flushed the same colour as her hair.

‘That place across there – Raleigh Close – it’s been a flash-ken for years. Dishonest dealin’s and suchlike take place every night. Prostitutes wantonly ply their trade in the Close, outside on the street and inside the rooms. And what ’ave you fancy constables from Bow Street done about it?’

‘It must be difficult,’ Woods sympathised, sidestepping the question. ‘Especially livin’ opposite such a place and havin’ a young lad to bring up on your own.’

‘But what I don’t understand,’ she continued, her voice rising with indignation, ‘is why can’t you do anythin’ about those lewd women? It’s like all the prostitutes in the kingdom ’ave pitched upon this blessed neighbourhood for a place of general rendezvous. In fact, there are so many of ’em, they could people their own mighty colony!’

The woman clearly had a strong dislike of the Covent Garden Nuns and he wondered if this was the root cause of her reluctance to help. Did she think April Divine was just another prostitute? Was it a case of good riddance to bad rubbish as far as she was concerned?

‘I will pass on your concerns to Magistrate Read at Bow Street,’ Woods said. ‘But in the meantime, Mistress Higgin, I’d be grateful if you helped me with our inquiries about the death of the young actress, April Divine.’

‘She were an actress?’

‘Yes, Mistress Higgin, she was. With the Sans Pareil Theatre, as it happens.’

‘A lot of them women claim that they’re actresses.’

‘Well, in this case the claim was genuine. She were a respectable young woman, probably from a good family.’ He saw that this news made a difference to her. ‘Have you ever seen that gal before yesterday?’

‘Well, I didn’t get a real good look at ’er, mind but no, no, I don’t believe so. I’ve got a good memory for faces too. I’d a remembered if she’d been in the shop. What about you, son? ’Ave you ever seen that woman afore?’

‘No, Ma.’

‘Poor lamb.’ She patted the boy affectionately on the head and gave a huge, bosom-heaving sigh. ‘No child should ’ave ’ad to see a sight like the one we saw yesterday.’

‘I agree,’ Woods said. ‘Have you been aware of any suspicious activity over at Raleigh Close a couple of days ago? P’raps on Friday or Saturday?’

‘No.’

‘You see, we have reason to believe that Miss Divine was held captive over there for a while.’

‘What? A prisoner?’

‘Yes, she may have been kidnapped for ransom.’

‘Ooh, that’s not right, poor gal.’ Mistress Higgin’s plump face frowned with concern. Woods knew that she was thinking hard.

‘Is there anythin’ else you can think of, which might help us, Mistress Higgin? I’m sure that you want to help us find the villains that sent that poor gal to kingdom come, as much as we want to track them down.’

‘Well, there is one thing . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Nathanial? Go into the back for a minute, will you, son?’ The young lad opened his mouth to protest but then saw the determination on his mother’s face. Reluctantly, he dragged himself off through the curtain and disappeared into the rear of the bakery. Jacquetta Higgin lowered her voice. ‘If anyone were usin’ that place to keep a prisoner, they would ’ave needed permission from that rat, Darius Jones. “Dirty Dar” we call ’im.’

‘Who’s he?’ The name was vaguely familiar.

‘’E’s a pimp, Constable Woods, a whoremaster. There’s no nice way to speak it so I’m tellin’ you straight.’

‘I appreciate that, Mistress Higgin.’

‘’E runs several gals on this street and makes frequent use of Raleigh Close for their trysts. If the poor gal was ’eld prisoner in there, Dirty Dar would ’ave known about it and ’as been paid to keep away from the place for a while.’

‘You have been most helpful, Mistress Higgin.’ Relief flooded through Woods; at last they had something to go on.

‘You never ’eard it from me, you understand?’

‘Of course.’ He pointed to a tray of fresh pastries at the end of the counter. ‘Before I go, may I pay you for one of those delicious-smellin’ raisin tartlets?’

She beamed as she took his coin and handed him the pastry. ‘I saw you were a man who likes his food, the second you walked in,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to tell those other constables at Bow Street about Jacquetta ’Iggin’s bakery, now will you? ’Ere, have a free one for that detective pal of yours. ’E were real clever to work out the mystery of that wailing bird. Funny fellah, though. I didn’t understand ’alf of what he said.’

‘He’s very clever,’ said Woods, ‘and educated. He speaks like a toff sometimes and he knows too much of that Latin.’

‘Oh, that reminds me, Constable. I don’t know if it will ’elp you, but there ’ave been an awful lot of Frogs on this street recently.’

‘Frogs?’

‘Yes, Frenchies. Ruddy furriners. I’ve ’eard them jabberin’ away in their nasty language outside in the street while I’ve been tryin’ to get to sleep.’

‘French? Are you sure?’ He remembered the Spanish
escudo
Barnaby had discovered beneath the floorboards of Raleigh Close.

‘Well, I’ve had no education like your detective, Constable. But I know the King’s English when I ’ear it, and that were definitely not the King’s English they were talkin’.’

Rather than go straight to Bow Street, Woods decided to try and locate Darius Jones. Woods remembered him now. A tall, bald man with features ravaged by opium addiction, the Bow Street officers had been aware of his illicit activities for some time but the man was as slippery as a jellied eel and they had never managed to find enough evidence to convict him of any crimes. Although it was still early in the morning, several of the sleazy taverns and gin shops were open for business. Many of the wagon drivers who had brought in the produce for Covent Garden had driven through the night. Still swathed in their thick coats and scarves, they were now slumped at the rickety tables, red-eyed and exhausted in front of a flagon of ale and a meat pie. Each time Woods entered a tavern, a hush fell on those assembled when they saw his distinctive uniform.

‘I’m looking for a Darius Jones,’ he informed the barmen and patrons alike. ‘He’s not in any trouble with the law but I need to speak to him.’ Each time his enquiry was greeted with sullen silence or growls.

Frustrated, he decided that he might have better luck with one of the Covent Garden Nuns, who were already milling around in groups outside the taverns beside the piles of stinking refuse and dank puddles that littered the cold, uneven cobbles. They were a miserable bunch: thin, and clad in gaudy, ill-fitting and frayed clothes, their rouged faces lined with poverty and hunger. Several of them hugged their arms to their sides and stamped their feet to ward off the chill. One of them took long swigs from a bottle of brandy.

‘And what can we do fer you, Constable?’ cackled the oldest of the group as Woods approached. The sharp smell of body odour and stale alcohol made him stop in his tracks, but the women surrounded him.

‘I’m looking for your pimp, ladies: Darius Jones. Do you know where I can find him?’

‘Why d’ya want Dirty Dar?’ asked one.

‘I have some business to conduct with him.’

The women shrieked with laughter. ‘Business, eh? D’ya want our services, Officer?’ asked one. ‘We do a special rate fer you Runners.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he replied jovially, ‘and no doubt it is worth two groats.’

The women laughed again.

‘Martha and I can do you the beast with the two backs for an extra shillin’,’ the swaying girl with the brandy bottle offered. She was toothless when she grinned, her gums black. ‘Yer look like the kind of fellah that can handle two of us at once, a big fellah like you.’

‘Maybe another time, ladies,’ he said. ‘But I need to speak to Mr Jones right now. Do you know where he is?’

‘Oooh! Listen at him wi’ his “ladies” and his “Mr Jones”!’ The eldest woman, their leader, spat onto the ground. She had badly dyed blonde hair and her powder and rouge were caked into the lines of her face. Beneath it, Woods thought he saw a hint of disease. ‘We do our own pimpin’ now, Officer,’ she said.

‘Aye,’ muttered the other women.

‘We ain’t seen hide nor hair of Dirty Dar for days. In fact, we’ve been usin’ his lodgings to conduct a little business of our own and it’s been good to keep all of the profits for once.’

The women giggled, obviously pleased with themselves.

‘What’s your name?’ Woods asked her.