Theft of Life (33 page)

‘See, Sister Martha? Mrs Westerman is here to shake hands with you.’

Harriet put out her hand at once and Martha brushed her fingertips with her own. ‘I am sorry if you were uneasy, Martha. I am often told I speak my mind too quickly for most. I am no friend of Mrs Trimnell, I fear, but if I can assist you in any way, you must let me know.’ The girl gave her a shy smile. ‘May I ask you a question? I am sorry if it seems strange, but did you ever see Mr Trimnell wearing the mask he designed for his slaves?’

She heard Mr Willoughby next to her sigh. It was not shock perhaps, but more a weary acceptance that one’s suspicions might be true, just when one had persuaded oneself they were fancy.

Martha looked up at her and nodded. Her face was very round and her nose snub and small, but she was saved from plainness by her large eyes. ‘He did, ma’am. All the time. Since we first came home he would shut himself in his room when not coming here or getting the leaflets made. He would wear it then. Once Miss Lucinda went quite mad with him, tried to pull it off him, but he only went back to his room and left her crying on the floor.’

‘Did he ever strike her?’ Harriet asked.

‘No, ma’am. Not in London. Before he would, from time to time, when she railed at him for the life she led. She was lonely when we were in Jamaica, his plantation being tucked away, tucked under the wing of Sir Charles’s, but no, I never saw him lift a hand to her since we came to England.’

Harriet considered. ‘Was he at prayer when he wore the mask, Martha?’

‘Yes, and at study. And writing. For hours and hours he wrote.’ She looked over her shoulder at her empty chair. ‘May I go back now?’ she asked. ‘I like the talking part of the evening almost more than the listening.’ She grinned at Mr Willoughby as she said this last.

‘Of course,’ Harriet said. ‘And thank you for shaking my hand.’

As she left, Willoughby sank down onto a chair. Harriet perched next to him and waited. He wiped his eyes. ‘When I said I was concerned for his health … I meant that I was worried he had been starving himself deliberately. When he was thrown out of the coffee house, the way he described the violence used against him, I could see he revelled in it. I told him Jesus wants our love, not our pain – but I could not convince him. He had chosen his own path.’ The man passed his hand in front of his eyes, then blurted out suddenly: ‘I had to ask him not to tell me any more of his sins.’

‘Mr Willoughby?’

‘That is
my
sin – that I could not hear him any more, but the scenes he described … those poor children. Hearing him was like watching a man tear off his own skin. I know Hell now, from his words.’ The preacher had begun to weep and Harriet did not know how to comfort him. ‘Oh, Mrs Westerman, and I have the arrogance to lecture these people about honesty. I should have had the strength to hear him, but I could not. My faith was not strong enough.’

Harriet could think of nothing to do for him but sit by his side.

Molloy had spent a fair portion of the day asleep in the private chamber of an inn in Soho which he kept for his exclusive use. When he awoke there was a hot meal waiting for him and a pickpocket who owed him a number of favours. When the meal was eaten and the pickpocket had slipped off into the shadows, Molloy paid a visit to Mr Christopher’s Academy and left with Guadeloupe at his elbow.

They were making for an alley off Little Trinity Street within sniffing distance of the river. As they walked, Molloy took another long look at the boy by his side.

‘You know how to fight, lad?’ And when he only nodded: ‘How then?’

‘Whoever cares less what comes, he wins.’

Molloy was satisfied. ‘Mother Brown’s no fool. She’ll have a man with her, the sort that looks hard and fights slow.’ Again, no response but a nod. ‘When we go in, don’t wait for him to square up. Just drop him.’

‘You want him dead?’

Molloy considered. ‘Not unless you have to. Just put him down.’ They walked the rest of the way in silence.

The doorway was low, Molloy had to bend down to find his way inside. There was a woman seated at a rough wooden table in the centre of the room, sewing buttons onto a blue coat by the light of a cheap candle. Her white cap and black dress, with a black heavy shawl over her shoulders, made it feel as if there was no colour in the room at all, apart from the coat in front of her: broadcloth and with bone buttons she was slowly replacing with brass ones. A simple disguise for goods of doubtful provenance, but Molloy had seen it work time and time again. The back wall of the place was lined with half a dozen trunks bound with leather straps. Around her neck she wore a ribbon with a number of small keys hanging from it. They caught the light of the candle as she worked, and chinked as she lifted her head. She looked a hundred years old, her face as wrinkled and worn as Molloy’s own.

‘Mother Brown,’ he said.

She gave a tiny nod of her head and out of the shadows in the corner a great figure of a man stood. He had the look of a fairytale giant about him. Before he had got to his full height, Guadeloupe had spun out of the doorway behind Molloy. Molloy caught the glimmer of a blade, and as the giant turned towards it, Guadeloupe’s arm came out in a wide arc. The giant fell, clutching at his throat, and Guadeloupe stepped back, watching him until he was still.

The old woman turned back to her sewing. ‘Whatever Molloy is paying you, I’ll double it, boy.’

He bent down and wiped his blade on the giant’s coat. ‘Too big not to kill,’ he said. ‘I’ll do no work for a witch,’ he added, then stepped back.

‘That’s a shame, boy. I could use you. Use you more than Molloy here who spends his time kissing the hands of the gentry and helping them across the street.’ She laughed.

Molloy grabbed the edge of the table and turned it over, knocking the coat and candle to the ground, then he gripped the woman and shoved her hard against the wall, his own knife out now, one arm across her chest, the blade in his other hand tickling just below her ear. The only light now came from the feeble fire. He brought his face against hers.

‘You think I’ve lost my teeth, Mother Brown? Think I’ve softened, do you? Is that what they’re saying up north? I told you ten years ago not to come back to London breathing. I meant it.’

She looked at him. No fear on her, just a slow reassessment of her situation. Then she dropped her eyes.

‘What’s the fine?’ she asked.

He released her and folded his knife. ‘Clear up here. Then get back to Newcastle and tell them you were misinformed about me.’

She looked down at the body in disgust. ‘It was a bad day for me when I conned you, Molloy. I’ll say that.’

‘And you’ll keep saying it while you have breath in your lungs, woman.’ He picked up the chair on which she had been sitting and set it down straight. ‘But first I want information on some clients of yours. Sit down and tell me where you got that handsome coat from. And remember, I can smell a lie like a dog smells blood.’

F
RANCIS ARRIVED AT HINCKLEY’S
booksellers in a dark mood after a largely sleepless night. When he did sleep he dreamed of the fire and his early childhood, the two memories bundled together so he was once again in his village, but then he saw his father’s compound in flames and realised his brother and Eliza were both inside. Or he dreamed he was sitting drinking tea with Eliza, but his brother was there too and Francis was terribly afraid he would ruin the portfolio of prints he was looking at, although Eliza kept telling him not to worry and that the wound in her eye did not hurt at all.

He was trying to forget the fragments of these dreams which had clung to him by calculating when George Smith might receive the news of his sister’s death, and how quickly he might make his way back to London. Wishing for him, Francis kept his eyes down until he was almost on the doorstep. When he looked up, what he saw came as a shock – clean and sudden as a knife wound. The front door of the shop had been forced open. Cutter was on the steps, looking out for him. He hurried down and took his arm.

‘It’s mess and bother for the most part, Mr Glass,’ he said in a rush, while all Francis could do was stare. ‘The office, back parlour and everything under the counter has been torn up and gone through, and some bugger has pulled down all the volumes on the street side.’

Francis was still too shocked to speak. He was aware of a little crowd of neighbours gathering at his back. ‘Joshua?’ he said at last.

‘Scared, is all. He heard the noise in the shop, nipped out the back window, sneaked out of the yard then ran to the watch-house. By the time he dragged a constable back here the place was empty again.’

‘Why was I not called?’ Francis said. He pushed Cutter away from him and went into the body of the shop.

‘Mr Ferguson lodges just over the way,’ Cutter said, following him. ‘He came over, hearing the noise, and he and Josuha slept on the shop floor to make sure no one came back. But what was the point in calling you when there was no light to see by, and no one to tell us who had been here or what they had done? We all wanted you to get a night’s rest and a good breakfast before you looked this in the face. We all thought it and said it, so if you want to tear a strip off us, you may. But we were all of one mind, and that’s that.’

‘I should have been called,’ Francis said, but weary rather than angry.

The shop looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane. Volumes torn from the polished shelves and thrown to the floor. Cracked spines and crumpled pages, they looked like so many corpses of birds smashed down by the wind. The ink-bottle had been knocked off the counter and bled darkly into the floorboards. The books which had fallen near it had gathered its staining into their pages. The neatly kept volumes where Cutter and Francis recorded each book purchased had been opened, thrown down, then stamped flat.

Francis could not speak so instead picked his way across the wreckage and into the office. Paper everywhere. All the loose manuscripts awaiting his attention in the cubby-hole where Eustache had been working had been taken out and cast about. The comfortable-looking room was buried under a storm of words. All the cupboards had been opened and the contents swept out in armfuls. Each piece of furniture was on its side, as if knocked over by the stories that now gabbled incoherent and confused around them.

Francis swayed on his feet. Cutter saw him and with one arm caught hold of him, while with the other he snatched up a low stool, shook the pages off it and set it down so Francis could sit before he fell. ‘It’s not as bad as it seems, Mr Glass.’

‘It is bad enough,’ Francis said thickly. ‘Where is Joshua?’

‘Ferguson’s taken him off for his breakfast. They’ll be back in a moment, sure. He was in a state, poor little fella. Seems he’s decided he’s a curse to anyone who takes him on.’

‘He’s a good boy. I’m glad that Ferguson is kind to him.’

Cutter grinned. ‘Aye, they’ve taken to each other, no doubting it.’

‘Jesus save us!’ Francis looked up to see Walter Sharp standing in the door, his eyes as wide as saucers. ‘I came as soon as I heard! What in God’s name … Do you think it was a critic? Or an author displeased you wouldn’t print him?’ Francis almost laughed, but he didn’t have it in him quite. ‘Anything taken, Cutter?’

Cutter shook his head. ‘Not that I can tell. Whoever that bastard was, he had no use for the sort of books we sell, it seems. Mr Francis keeps the monies with him, and they didn’t even take the leaving of the bottle of aquavite you gentlemen opened last evening. It had been knocked over and had soaked three copies of
Evelina
through.’

‘A warning, perhaps,’ Francis said slowly. ‘Someone who does not like our asking questions about Eliza’s death?’

Walter looked about him. ‘I think we must be asking the right questions then. God, I hope we find that girl. I swear between them, Scudder and Miller have asked every soul who ever bought a shilling print off Mrs Smith if they knew of any enemies she had. They’ve had nothing but good words from them all and tales of what a righteous and helpful woman she was.’ Walter shifted his weight. ‘A couple of ’em thought it worth mentioning there was a black fella kept calling round, pointing their finger at you, Francis. Though both gentlemen were fairly free in telling them what they could do with talk like that. Miller’s going to go and growl at your cabman when he’s broken his fast, by the way.’

Francis remained crouched on the stool in the middle of the room where Cutter had set him down, his head in his hands. Walter was used to seeing him go through life with a straight back and a quick smile. Always glad to help his neighbours and friends, stepping over any insults thrown at his feet as if he hadn’t noticed them and grateful for the small kindnesses of friends. Walter had borrowed money from him a dozen times and never paid it back, relied on him as a friend he could stay with when he was thrown out of his lodgings, and the shop he regarded as a sort of free club where he could find refuge and company when it suited him. He wondered what Hinckley paid him, and felt certain it was not as much as he deserved. Walter had always thought Hinckley more sharp than kindly. Perhaps having a manager who was an African served him particularly well. It made him seen liberal, almost revolutionary, and it meant he got loyal service from an intelligent man for less than he would otherwise have paid.

Walter found himself wondering too what
he
had done for Francis over the years they had known each other. He had perhaps thought the charm of his company was enough, even that he was conferring a favour on Francis. He was as bad as Hinckley. No – the thought came up from his heart, uncomfortable and sore, he was worse.

‘Francis, leave this to us,’ he said, and Francis looked up in surprise. ‘Clearing up this mess will break your heart and it will do us good. Let me and Cutter and little Lord Whatever he’s called, and Ferguson and the rest go to work.’

‘You are kind, Walter, but I cannot—’

‘I am
not
kind!’ Then more calmly: ‘I am not, Francis. But let me try to be so, this once at least. We can put the manuscripts back together easily enough. These writers have appalling handwriting, but at least it is appalling in different ways. We shall replace what is undamaged on the shelves and stack what is hurt for your inspection. What say you, Cutter?’