Daughters of Night Read online

  A shelf next to the bed held writing implements and books: Richardson, Smollet, a few romances, some pornographic pamphlets, and – somewhat to Child’s surprise – a volume of the plays of Aeschylus in translation. A walnut writing box was empty, save for a folded map of the environs of London.

  ‘Didn’t she have any papers? Letters? That sort of thing?’

  ‘Bow Street took all those. Her drawings too.’

  ‘Drawings?’

  ‘By Jacobus Agnetti.’

  Child leafed through the books to see if any papers were concealed between the pages. He found only a few pressed flowers and a card advertising the services of the Magdalen Hospital for Penitent Prostitutes. He showed it to Boscastle.

  ‘Was Lucy thinking about turning her back on this business? Given all her trouble?’

  ‘Lucy? Not on your life. She said: “They mean to stop me, Boscastle, but I’ll make them pay.”’

  ‘They?’

  ‘That’s what she said. I assumed she meant whoever had been trying to ruin her life. I believed her too – that she’d make them pay, I mean. Lucy knew how to hold a grudge.’

  On the reverse of the Magdalen card was a jotting in an elegant ladylike script: 50–60 pineapples, 2s 1d.

  Child frowned. It couldn’t be a receipt. Pineapples cost a small fortune, eighty or ninety pounds apiece, not two shillings, one pence. Nor, given their expense and rarity, did fifty to sixty seem a plausible number. Child didn’t think he had seen more than half a dozen pineapples in his entire life.

  ‘Does this look like Lucy’s hand?’

  Boscastle squinted, then nodded.

  ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘If you’ve a shilling you can.’

  Sighing, Child reached into his pocket. He took a final look around that room where Lucy’s clients had enjoyed her favours, wishing the walls could talk. Then Boscastle showed him up a second flight of stairs to see his other tenant.

  The girl was named Emma and she looked as if they’d just roused her out of bed. Young, with big white teeth, her fashionably brown hair was showing yellow at the roots. For four shillings she agreed to tell Child what she’d seen.

  ‘I was coming home from shopping one afternoon, a week or so ago. Lucy came out of the house, about to get into a hired carriage, when someone called out to her. A redcoat soldier – he had a woman with him, I presumed another whore. He and Lucy exchanged words and then he pushed her.’

  ‘Did you hear what they were arguing about?’

  ‘No, I called over to her, asked if I should fetch Boscastle, and the redcoat and his harlot walked off.’

  ‘Can you remember what he looked like? It could be important.’

  ‘Tall. Short fair hair. Side whiskers. It was an officer’s redcoat, with gold epaulettes. He came close to me when he walked past. Gave me a real look of hate. I saw he had a scar just here.’ The girl touched her temple. ‘Looked like a duelling cut to me.’

  ‘How about the girl?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I was looking at Lucy and the soldier.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him before? With Lucy or elsewhere?’

  ‘Not with Lucy, but I think I’d seen him around Covent Garden. He’s handsome, see, the sort who draws a lady’s eye. If it was the same gentleman, he’s one of those who likes to drink too much with his friends and cause trouble for the taverners.’

  ‘There you are, sir,’ Boscastle said. ‘Not a client.’

  Child questioned her a little more, but she and Lucy had had only a passing acquaintance. He thanked her, and Boscastle walked him down the stairs to the street.

  Mrs Corsham’s theory that Lucy’s murder wasn’t the product of a chance encounter in the bowers was gaining credence in Child’s eyes. The man who’d assaulted her. The person who’d set out to destroy her livelihood. The soldier who’d accosted her in the street. Her killer. Were they one and the same person, or had Lucy possessed a gift for making enemies? At least Child now had several lines of inquiry. He walked with purpose in the direction of Covent Garden.

  PAMELA

  10 January 1782

  The drums rolled like thunder, interrupting the dance of the dryads. The girls froze, hands cupped to their ears in a variety of poses, amidst a glade of wooden trees with paper leaves. Artfully positioned silk garlands adorned the otherwise naked nymphs, their hair crowned with artificial flowers.

  Pamela watched from the wings, heart beating, a little breathless. It was her sixth night in Mrs Havilland’s establishment, and already she knew the acts by heart. The brightly lit stage occupied one end of the ballroom. Beyond it, in the darkness, Pamela could see the glow of the gentlemen’s pipes, the flash of their pocket watches. Smell their scent.

  From between the trees, a girl in a goatskin strolled, holding a bow, a quiver of arrows on her back. Cecily was a little older than Pamela, from a village to the east of London called Dagenham. Her hair was yellow as quince, her limbs long, dusted with gold. The nymphs ran to flank her, crouching on either side.

  Next to Pamela in the wings stood George, a former town crier. ‘Behold the goddess Artemis,’ he bellowed.

  Cecily made a show of bending to pluck a silk flower, giving the men a view that set them cheering. She aimed her bow at several members of the audience in turn, and they cried ribald compliments.

  When the cheering died, Mrs Havilland walked onto the stage. Regally tall in rich purple silk, with petticoats of yellow crêpe trimmed with fine black lace, her piled hair was adorned tonight with a golden chain of enamelled flowers.

  ‘Gentlemen, I ask that you pay homage to Artemis, huntress of the forest.’ She waited again until the applause had quietened. ‘Many have attempted to storm Fortress Artemis, yet she stands before you inviolate, untouched by man. In three weeks’ time, we shall discover whether there is a stag among you worthy of this skittish fawn.’

  Cecily ducked into a defensive crouch, her expression startled, bow ready. An appreciative chuckle arose from the audience.

  George gave Pamela a nudge. ‘Ready?’

  Oh, she was ready. Not that her costume had required much preparation. Her face scrubbed so her skin shone, cheeks pinched to a healthy glow. Her dress thin, made of brown cotton, not unlike the one she’d worn on her arrival. Bare feet. Her ebony hair unwashed and tangled.

  On the first night, she’d thought she’d be a laughing stock. She looked like a drudge. Why couldn’t she be the goddess Artemis? She’d complained to Mrs Havilland and received a sharp response. Yet at the end of her performance, much to her astonishment, the ballroom had resounded to the gentlemen’s cheers.

  Even Mrs Havilland had softened: ‘You made a good start, child, but there is room for improvement. Put in the work required, and by the end of next month, they’ll be queuing all the way to Ealing Common.’

  Since then, she had only got better. Pamela stood back as Cecily hurried past her, off to the audience room, a swift pat for luck. The curtain had come down, and the orchestra played a rousing refrain. On stage, Mrs Havilland’s footmen were hastily rearranging the tableaux. A stove, an oaken table, a chopping board, a chair. The floor sprinkled with flour and vegetable peelings. In need of a maid.

  The curtain rose and the room filled with an expectant hush.

  ‘Behold,’ George bellowed, ‘the maidservant, Pamela Andrews. Her beauty matched only by her virtue.’

  She stepped out onto the stage, and applause swelled like a choir. Taking up her broom, she swept the floor, while the fiddler played a jaunty tune and the men clapped along. The oddness of it all still tickled her. To leave the house in Cheapside to perform a facsimile of her chores here for a paying crowd? Yet she’d never been appreciated at the house in Cheapside like this.

  George gave a signal in the wings, and she walked to the table. The music took on an ominous note.

  ‘Behold, the rakish squire, Mr B.’

  The ballroom echoed with hoots and hisses. Peter Jakes would be creeping towards her fr
om behind, wearing an oversized periwig and a suit of maroon velvet, a pillow strung under his coat to plump him out. Pamela chopped a carrot as the hoots increased in volume.

  He was directly behind her now. Pamela could smell onion and porter on his breath. She tensed as he seized hold of her, pressing his lips against hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth, though she’d told him not to. Her arms flailed, and she pricked him with the knife, a little harder than she was supposed to. He released her with a shout, and she staggered to the front of the stage.

  For a moment her mind went blank, though she’d sat up late learning her lines. Relief washed over her as it all flooded back.

  ‘Sir, you are Lucifer himself in the shape of my master, or you could not use me thus.’

  Jakes gripped her by the arm, digging in his fingers so it would bruise. ‘Since you take me for the Devil, how can you expect any good from me?’

  She hung her head. ‘I will bear anything you can inflict on me with patience even to the laying down of my life. But I cannot be patient, I cannot be passive, when my virtue is at stake!’

  Applause, the loudest she’d had yet. Jakes grimaced and seized hold of her dress with both hands. The bodice had a false seam secured with pins, and the garment rent in artful tatters, exposing her bubbies.

  A collective intake of breath. A cymbal crashed. Then she pulled her dress together, so they’d have no more than that one tantalizing glimpse. Gazing out at the gentlemen from beneath her eyelashes, summoning a tear, she made her appeal: ‘I am truly sorry for my boldness, but indeed he doesn’t use me like a gentleman. I trust that God will deliver me from this Philistine.’

  Stamping their feet, the room vibrated to the sound of their acclaim. She basked in their desire, holding the gaze of the gentlemen who looked the richest, as Cecily had taught her. Then she caught sight of another man, and though he had few outward signs of wealth, found she could not look away.

  His scarlet redcoat marked him out as a soldier. She knew about them, but this one couldn’t be more different to the coarse infantrymen on leave she’d encountered around Cheapside. Sleek. Well groomed. An officer. A gentleman.

  He grinned at her, a flash of white teeth. His blond hair cropped short, in the new style she rather liked. A long lean body and a long lean face to match. What looked like a duelling scar cut through the outer edge of one of his eyebrows. A handsome devil, and he knows it. It was a favourite phrase of Rachel the cook’s. She said it like it was a bad thing, and yet somehow him knowing, and Pamela knowing that he knew, only made her pulse beat a little faster.

  Mrs Havilland walked on stage to list her virtues, and Pamela’s task was to stand mutely, gazing at the floor. But she couldn’t resist another glance at the soldier, and this time when he grinned, she smiled back. As she walked meekly off the stage, to another round of heady applause, she sent up a prayer to Artemis, goddess of virgins: Let it be him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RAIN BLURRED THE vibrant colours of Vauxhall Gardens. Fat drops pitted the paths, washing away the puddles of wine and vomit, flowing in waterfalls off the waxed-cloth roofs of the supper boxes. By daylight the place had lost its magic. Without the lights and the music, it had a squalid, tawdry air.

  ‘Officious little guardsman, isn’t he?’ Caro murmured to her footman, Miles, nodding at the back of the gatehouse porter who strode in front of them.

  She had come here intending to go directly to the bowers, to look for the document she was certain she’d seen next to Lucy’s body. Yet the gardens were closed until that evening, and the porter hadn’t wanted to let them in. Spotting Jacobus Agnetti’s distinctive yellow phaeton tied up in the carriage-park, she’d claimed an appointment. Even then, the porter had insisted on accompanying them to the Rotunda.

  ‘I heard the Prince of Wales is due to visit Vauxhall soon,’ Miles said, angling the oilskin umbrella over her head. ‘I suppose they have to be careful.’

  His broad, freckled face was unusually sullen, his Welsh lilt absent all levity. Caro guessed he still blamed her for giving him the slip here the other night. Mordechai must have torn him off a strip.

  He probably also resented her for making him stand so long last night in Mr Child’s dingy rooms with their foul odours. Had it been a mistake to hire the thief-taker? She wasn’t sure. Mr Child was an unprepossessing creature in his ill-fitting coat and ridiculous wig, his nose bulging with so many veins it resembled a damson. Yet he had spoken with confidence about the case, and his beady black eyes were sharp. She kept reminding herself that Harry had valued his talents.

  The Rotunda’s roof resonated to the low drum of rain. The place seemed deserted, and yet someone had clearly been at work. A trestle table stood beneath the dome, with several paintings laid out on it, not all of them framed. Sketchbooks, folders, knives, pencils and other clutter lay between them. More paintings and empty frames leaned against the table.

  ‘I’ll wait for Mr Agnetti to return,’ Caro said.

  The porter squinted at her suspiciously. ‘Then I’ll wait too.’

  Caro paced the Rotunda, footsteps echoing on the tiles. She had never been an admirer of Agnetti’s work, though there was no denying his talent, nor his eye for a commercial opportunity. Ever since the controversy over his Rape of Europa, everyone wanted an Agnetti for their drawing room – murder and defilement sitting tolerably well with a glass of brandy. The painting before her seemed a case in point.

  It depicted a verdant landscape scattered with broken pillars. In the foreground stood an altar of carved stone. A dark-haired girl, little more than a child, lay struggling upon this altar, held down by an older man, a soldier. The girl’s robe had slipped to expose one milk-white breast, against which the tip of the man’s sword rested, drawing blood. Her face was twisted in terror, imploring eyes gazing into death’s abyss. The Sacrifice of Iphigenia. It made Caro think of the scene in the bower. Swiftly she moved on to the next canvas.

  She was still staring at it a minute later, when Jacobus Agnetti walked into the Rotunda. He stopped when he saw Caro, black eyebrows drawn together over his hawkish nose. ‘Mrs Corsham, good day to you, madam.’

  He spoke with a rich Italian inflexion, which was known to drive the society matrons wild. A large, dishevelled bear of a man, his greying black hair was swept back from his forehead in suitably dramatic fashion, his cravat unknotted, worn loose around his neck. In the cathedral light of the Rotunda, his frayed plum-velvet frock coat put Caro in mind of a cardinal’s cape: a moth-eaten Medici, which seemed an appropriate analogy, for scandal attached itself to Mr Agnetti like burrs.

  He bowed. ‘I trust you are well. And your brother Ambrose? It has been some time since I last saw him out on the town.’

  Caro murmured her usual story about Switzerland and the hunting season, waiting for Agnetti to smile, as if he could well imagine the manner of feathered game Ambrose Craven was chasing. But Agnetti only said – a little impatiently, she felt: ‘What can I do for you, madam?’

  ‘This lady said she had an appointment with you, sir,’ the porter said.

  ‘Not an appointment precisely. I should like to talk to you about a private matter.’

  Agnetti turned to the porter. ‘You heard the lady, sir.’

  Muttering beneath his breath, the porter left the Rotunda. Miles retreated to the door.

  ‘A private matter,’ Agnetti said. ‘I am intrigued.’

  Caro turned back to the painting. ‘That’s her, isn’t it? The woman who was murdered? Lucy Loveless.’

  The scene depicted another murder: a woman standing over a naked, dying man, axe in hand. He had crawled from a stone bath, his lifeblood streaked across the mosaic floor. The woman’s chestnut hair was unpinned, her robes dishevelled, her flesh pliant. She had a high, arched forehead, blazing eyes, and a small mole on her upper lip. Caro imagined her dark hair coiled beneath a black lace headdress adorned with ostrich feathers, her face flushed with the heat of the crowd, enlivened by a puckish smile:
Lucia di Caracciolo, dazzling at Carlisle House. She imagined the skin drained of all colour, the lips grey, desperate to speak: Lucy Loveless, dying in the bowers at Vauxhall Gardens.

  ‘Yes, that is Lucy,’ Agnetti said softly. ‘I heard the sad news from one of my other sitters only this morning. It grieves me greatly. Lucy was an inspiring muse.’

  ‘It was I who found her,’ Caro said. ‘Whilst taking the air near the bowers.’

  His eyes widened. ‘How very shocking. I didn’t know. I am sorry you had to go through such an ordeal.’

  ‘It was nothing compared to Lucy’s.’ Caro drew a breath. ‘Had you known her long?’

  ‘Since first I came to London – about three years. Here you see her as Clytemnestra murdering her husband, Agamemnon. Lucy loved this painting. I gave her a volume of Aeschylus so that she could read the story behind it. Perhaps I should take it down, under the circumstances.’

  ‘If she loved it, then it should stay,’ Caro said. ‘I confess I cannot get her out of my head. Will you tell me about her? The manner of woman she was?’

  Agnetti considered the question, still facing the painting. ‘We talked often when she sat for me. Usually about my work. She enjoyed the myths and history that inspire my paintings, and would ask me questions, sometimes to the point of distraction. About my hometown of Naples too – she said she’d like to visit one day. To walk where the Romans had – to see the sights. Like many of my sitters, she had an earthy wit, but there was a sadness there too. Her life had not always been easy, I suspect.’

  ‘I imagine not, given her trade.’

  Agnetti gave Caro a considered glance. ‘Do not pity overly much. Lucy’s trade gave her the freedom she desired.’

  ‘Do not pity? She died in enormous pain.’

  ‘I was speaking of her life, not her death.’ He studied Caro’s expression, the colour heightening on her cheeks. ‘I too used to pity my sitters, but later I came to admire them. They wear their sins openly. Polite society condemns them, but they hold their heads high. That takes a certain courage, don’t you think?’