Ace, King, Knave (52 page)

‘O, Mrs Ledley,’ she says when they have shaken hands. ‘Are you able to write the direction for me, nice and plain, so I can give it my friend? My lady friend,’ she adds, as if Ledley cares.

Mrs Ledley can read but not write. However, Mrs Sutton from the back pair is quite a scholar and always obliging provided there’s no ribbon tied to her door handle – that is, no intimate ‘conversation’ taking place within. Mrs Sutton comes to the door frowzy and bored, seemingly glad of distraction, and invites Betsy-Ann (though not Mrs Ledley, who goes sniffily downstairs) to step into her rooms.

The air within is every bit as stale as in Betsy-Ann’s own place. There’s the usual greasy bed, one leg missing and its absence supplied by a rough length of timber, plus a jerry and a bowl for bathing, should visitors be particular. Over the mantelpiece Mrs Sutton has pinned a piece of paper covered in print. The last time Betsy-Ann saw something of this kind, she was told it was a prayer.

‘What’s that?’ she enquires, nervous lest she should have misjudged her company.

‘O, nothing of importance.’ Mrs Sutton reaches down the gin from a shelf. ‘A gentleman gave me the
Bath Chronicle
– he’d just come back from taking the waters – and that part entertained me, so I cut it out and kept it.’ She hands Betsy-Ann a full glass. ‘To health and happiness.’

‘To health and happiness,’ Betsy-Ann echoes as they clink and smile. ‘Would you be so kind as to read your – chronicle – to me?’

‘Of course.’ She goes over to the mantelpiece and peers.
‘Mail from Flanders and Stockholm. A few days ago a small hound was brought here from Angermansland, and shown by one Garney, a book-keeper, which has been taught to speak.’

‘To speak!’

‘The hound, not the book-keeper.
He not only utters whole words, but whole sentences one after the other, in the French and Swedish languages, and among other expressions, he speaks plain, Vive le Roi.
’

‘Veevla?’

‘God Save the King, in English.’

Though Mrs Sutton’s mouth and cheeks are dimpling up, Betsy-Ann is unsure whether to be astonished or amused. ‘Can a dog really do that?’

‘No, no!’ cries Mrs Sutton, openly laughing now as if delighted at the question. ‘Some sham or other.’

‘I wonder how it was worked.’

‘How should I know? I fancy he pinched it, made it cry out.’

‘Poor little cur.’

‘Aye – out of luck, like others I could mention!’ Herself for a start, Betsy-Ann thinks. The way Mrs Sutton holds up her head, her speech, her broad, creamy features, her pleasure in a scrap saved from the newspaper – all these suggest a life begun in comfort and respectability.

‘I see I’ve made you curious,’ Mrs Sutton observes. ‘I’m quite the usual thing, I assure you. A promise of marriage – he’s in India, now, and the child in the Foundling.’

‘And your family?’

‘Cut me off.’ She shrugs dismissively. ‘When I first came on the Town, I wasn’t well known. But Mr Derrick puffed me in
Harris’s – a fine witty wench, eminently well adapted to a man of solid parts
, it said – and after that I was more in request.’

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 congealed 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.