The Coven Page 12

  Beatrice had no appetite. She couldn’t stop herself from picturing that split-open goat nailed to the wall of the girls’ dormitory, with its fly-clustered bowels hanging out. Florence playfully tried to feed her some sippets, but she pursed her lips.

  Even though Grace had been only seven when she had been brought here to London and probably couldn’t remember them very distinctly, Beatrice had the feeling that she still sorely missed her family in Barbadoes. All the same, she decided that she would wait until she was better acquainted with Grace before she asked her any more about them. From her own painful experience she knew that some memories, like some poisons, are best kept bottled up.

  After supper, at about half past five, the sky grew black and thunder started to bellow directly overhead. Rain gushed from a broken gutter at the back of the house, and in less than ten minutes the back yard was flooded and the statue of Astraea was standing in what looked like an ornamental lake.

  Beatrice went through to the atelier where Ida was reading inspirational Bible stories to some of the girls.

  ‘I have to go out for an hour or so,’ she told her.

  ‘In this rain? Whatever for?’

  ‘Judith is suffering badly with her dyspnea, and I have no more nightshade to give her. I shall have to go over to the Foundery and see if Godfrey has some.’

  ‘Can’t you send one of the girls, with a message?’

  ‘I need to see for myself what he has in stock. My preference for Judith is solanaceae, but he may have only belladonna. Besides, I will have to prepare it as a tonic, and I doubt if Godfrey will know precisely how to do that.’

  Beatrice found herself lying for the second time that day, but what she was telling Ida was mostly true. Young Judith was gasping for air so painfully that she had taken to her bed, and Beatrice had run out of nightshade, although she usually preferred to give her patients ipecacuanha or opium if they were desperately short of breath.

  She reassured herself that she was only trying to spare Ida’s feelings, after all. If she had explained why she really wanted to go over to the apothecary, she would have had to tell her all about the pentagram and the goat and the missing girls.

  ‘Very well,’ said Ida. ‘But please be careful on an evening like this. Take a hackney.’

  *

  Godfrey was shrugging on his coat and was about to lock up when Beatrice arrived.

  ‘Beatrice! I’m afraid I’ve finished for the day.’

  ‘Please, Godfrey. I know this is an imposition, but I have to analyse one small sample. I can’t explain why, but it’s a matter of great urgency.’

  ‘Is one of your girls ill?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that, thank God. But in its way it could be much worse.’

  ‘Look – I’m meeting some friends at the Green Dragon in less than half an hour. Can I ask you to lock up for me when you’ve finished, and hand the keys to the Reverend Parsons, or Henry if the Reverend Parsons is already at dinner?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And, please, don’t forget to snuff out the candles. I would hate to come back in the morning to find the Foundery burned to the ground!’

  Once he had left, Beatrice took off her cape and went over to the workbench. There were two large candles burning, one at each end. They gave more than enough light to illuminate the whole apothecary, but she filled two clear Florence flasks with water and placed one in front of each candle flame, so that their light was brightened and focused more sharply on the centre of the bench.

  Now she took out her pocket handkerchief and unfolded it, so that she could look closely at the red stain which she had wiped from the pentagram. It was dry now, but unlike blood, which darkened when it dried, this stain had remained the same strong shade of red. She sniffed it, and sniffed it again, and she was sure that she could faintly smell linseed oil.

  ‘As I suspected,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It’s paint.’

  She took a scalpel from the tray of instruments at the side of the workbench and carefully cut her pocket handkerchief in two. She then set two glass dishes side by side and placed a half of the stained white cotton muslin into each one. Into the left-hand dish she shook two drips of spirit veneris, and into the right-hand dish she spooned a solution of mineral alkali.

  The stain in the left-hand dish was unaffected, and stayed red. The stain in the right-hand dish immediately turned a dark violet colour. Although there were several other tests that she could do, Beatrice was now reasonably sure that the pentagram had been smeared on the wall not with blood but with carmine oil paint.

  Carmine oil paint was coloured with the ground-up bodies of female coccus cacti insects, or cochineal. She could see the pigment that had coloured this paint had been very finely ground indeed, to give it extra brightness, so that she guessed it had been made by Emerton & Manby. This particular paint company boasted that they used a horse mill to grind their pigments, which meant that their colours were more not only more vivid but could be diluted to make many more gallons of paint than other manufacturers’, and so were considerably cheaper.

  Beatrice stood at the workbench looking at the results of her tests and wondering what she should do. The paint had still been sticky when she wiped off her sample, and that meant that the pentagram must have been applied to the wall only a few hours before she had arrived at the tobacco factory.

  She wished now that she had also taken samples of the spots on the bed sheets and the stains on the floor. They may have been blood, either arterial or menstrual or goat’s blood, but she strongly suspected now that they, too, had been splashes of paint.

  That could only mean that George Hazzard had been warned in advance about her visit, and had set up the whole scenario in the dormitory for the purpose of deceiving her. Otherwise, why would he have gone to all the trouble of doing it? The spattered sheets, the pentagram, the sacrificed goat, the candles – they had all been arranged to make her believe that the girls had formed themselves into a coven of witches. But why? And where had the girls actually gone? And who had told him that she was on her way?

  She was still standing thinking when the door suddenly opened.

  ‘Beatrice!’ said James, coming into the apothecary. He was wearing a sweeping black watch cloak and carrying his tricorn hat. ‘What a surprise to see you here! I was looking for Godfrey.’

  ‘Godfrey has gone to meet some friends at the Green Dragon,’ Beatrice told him. ‘He kindly allowed me to use some of his chemicals.’

  ‘Oh. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Beatrice, and began tidying up the workbench. ‘I’ve done what I came to do.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ James asked her. He picked up her cape and held it out for her. ‘I was going to ask Godfrey if he would care to join me for a draft. Perhaps you would care to join me instead.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, James. I have to get back to Maidenhead Court. Besides, I’ve a great deal weighing on my mind just now. I don’t think that I would be very enjoyable company.’

  ‘Well, at least let me escort you.’

  ‘Isn’t it still raining?’

  ‘No, the storm’s passed over, and even if you choose not to utter a single word I would consider it a pleasure to walk with you.’

  Beatrice remembered the excuse she had given to Ida and took a small bottle of ipecacuanha syrup from the shelf beside her. Then she came around the workbench and allowed James to lift her cape over her shoulders. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You can tell me more about yourself as we go.’

  18

  James had brought along a lanthorn, although most of their walk back to Maidenhead Court was brightly lit by the convex glass lamps fixed to many of the houses. In some of the narrower streets the lamps were much further apart, or no lamps had been lit at all, and the shadows were as black as the ankle-length cloak that he was wearing.

  As they walked, he told Beatrice how his father had come to lose almost all of his fortune, an
d how the family had been reduced to moving from a mansion in the countryside at Edgware to renting a terraced town house in Henrietta Street.

  ‘My father was broken, but I don’t see it as such a comedown. I like living in the centre of the City. It’s much more lively, and we have some very interesting neighbours. Kitty Clive lives only three doors away.’

  ‘The Kitty Clive? The actress?’

  ‘Yes, the Kitty Clive. I see her quite often, coming back from the theatre late at night.’

  Beatrice found James such pleasant company that she was tempted to tell him more about herself, and her life in New Hampshire, but she decided she would leave that for another time, when she had found out what had happened to the missing girls. At the moment that was all she could think about.

  They reached the gate of Maidenhead Court and the grizzled old nightwatchman unlocked it for them. James took hold of Beatrice’s hand and said, ‘We must walk like this again, but in the daylight, and somewhere more amusing. Perhaps I could take you to Ranelagh Gardens, if you could fancy a journey out to Chelsea.’

  ‘I’ll have to see,’ said Beatrice, with a smile. ‘I seem to be occupied every minute from morning till night. If I’m not teaching the girls their letters, or how to sew, or bake cakes, I’m reading them Bible stories and conducting prayers. Even when I was a parson’s wife I don’t think I prayed as much as I have since I came to St Mary Magdalene’s.’

  ‘You’re a very rare woman, Beatrice,’ said James. ‘If I pray for anything, it’s that you find somebody who will make you happy again.’

  He continued to hold her hand and she could feel that he wanted to draw her closer and kiss her, but eventually he said, ‘I’m teaching tomorrow, but perhaps I’ll see you the day after, if you have any time free. Goodnight, Beatrice. Have wondrous dreams.’

  He stood by the gate and watched her until she had climbed the steps of St Mary Magdalene’s. After she had knocked, he waved his lanthorn to her like a sailor signalling from a passing ship.

  Ida opened the front door for her. She was wearing a nightcap and a long nightgown with an embroidered bedjacket over it, and she was carrying a lighted candle, since the chandelier in the hallway had now been extinguished.

  ‘Ah, Beatrice. I was just going up to bed. Did Godfrey have what you wanted?’

  Beatrice held up the bottle of ipecacuanha syrup. ‘He had no nightshade, but this should be equally effective.’

  ‘I must tell you that you’ve been doing exceptionally well here at St Mary Magdalene’s,’ said Ida. ‘I’ve grown to value your assistance greatly, and I know that the girls feel most affectionate towards you.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’ve grown fond of them, too.’

  A draught from the dining room made Ida’s candle flicker, and so she cupped her hand around the flame.

  ‘That pleases me,’ she said. ‘However, I feel that I must repeat the caution that I gave you when you first arrived.’

  Beatrice frowned to show Ida that she wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

  Ida said, ‘I warned you that some of the girls may lead you to believe that they have mended their ways, when they have not. From the way they talk, and the earnestness with which they pray, you would think that they have almost become nuns. Behind their seeming piety, though, they still hanker for the life they lived in the bawdy houses and brothels. They are only professing to have been saved from sin because it has allowed them to escape from being punished by the law.’

  ‘Well, yes, I’m aware of that,’ said Beatrice. ‘But if only half of their number give up prostitution, surely that’s better than none at all.’

  ‘Of course. But if we lose some after they have left here – if they go back to the squalor and the immorality from which we tried to rescue them – you mustn’t feel in any way to blame. They are old enough and experienced enough to decide what course they want their lives to take, and what they choose to believe in. They may turn their backs on you, and turn their backs on God, but you have done everything humanly possible to rescue them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Beatrice. She didn’t know what else to say.

  Ida bade her goodnight and climbed the stairs, holding up the hem of her nightgown so that she wouldn’t trip. For some irrational reason, Beatrice almost expected to see that she had a goat’s hooves, instead of feet. Those blue candle flames in the apothecary had reminded her of that book about the Devil by Daniel Defoe, and he had written at length about Satan having goat-like feet, although he was sceptical about it himself.

  Whenever Satan has Occasion to dress himself in any humane Shape, be it of a fine lady or of an old Woman, yet still he not only must have this Cloven-Foot about him, but he is oblig’d to show it too; they will not so much as allow him an artificial Shoe or a Jack-Boot, such as we often see contriv’d to conceal a Club-Foot or a Wooden-Leg; but that the Devil may be known wherever he goes, he is bound to shew his Foot; they might as well oblige him to set a Bill upon his Cap, as Folks do upon a House to be let, and have it written in capital Letters, I AM THE DEVIL.

  Beatrice followed Ida upstairs, for she had no candle of her own. Once Ida had gone into her bedroom and closed the door, she would be plunged into total darkness, and she didn’t want that to happen while she was thinking about the Devil.

  She entered her rooms very quietly, so as not to wake Florence, and quickly undressed, folding her clothes over the back of her chair. Once she had climbed into bed she gave Florence a kiss on her hot little forehead, and then lay back and thought about Ida’s words of warning.

  If she hadn’t known otherwise, she could almost have believed that Ida knew already about the seven girls disappearing, and the pentagram, and the slaughtered goat. They may turn their backs on God, she had said, and what more emphatic way could there be to turn your back on God than to make a sacrifice to Satan?

  It took her nearly an hour to fall asleep, and when she did, she didn’t have the ‘wondrous’ dreams that James had wished for her. She dreamed instead that her late mother was sitting on the end of the bed, looking sad and singing ‘Stript of Their Green’.

  *

  The next morning was gloomy again, with a steady drizzle. Beatrice spent the morning teaching the girls tapestry and reading from The Pilgrim’s Progress. Not long after one o’clock she heard a knock at the front door, and when it was opened, she heard George’s voice. Ida said something to him, but she couldn’t make out what it was. They both went into the drawing room and the door was closed.

  After about twenty minutes, Grace came into the atelier.

  ‘Mrs Smollett asks if you could join her,’ she said.

  Beatrice told the girls to carry on with their stitching and followed Grace through to the drawing room. George was leaning against the fireplace with his usual proprietary air. Ida was sitting beside him with her lips pursed, looking tense. She had painted two spots of vermilion on her cheeks today, so she looked clown-like rather than deathly.

  ‘Hallo, Beatrice,’ said George. ‘I’ve told Ida all about the girls and their witchcraft. I’ve also explained that I requested you to stay silent about it until I myself had the opportunity to tell her what happened.’

  ‘I’m deeply, deeply shocked,’ said Ida. ‘I can’t tell you how wounding this is. All seven girls! I thought that all of them had truly changed and found God. Instead they might as well have torn the pages out of the Bible and spat on them.’

  Beatrice said, ‘Have you had no word of their whereabouts yet?’

  ‘I’ve put word out, but none whatsoever,’ said George. ‘Since they’ve clearly acquired magical powers for themselves, they could be anywhere by now. They could have flown to Scotland for all we know, or over the Channel to France. I doubt if we will ever hear from them, ever again.’

  ‘Seven of them,’ put in Ida. ‘The right number to form a coven, and to summon Satan. You have no idea how guilty and ashamed I feel. I have let them down completely.’
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br />   Beatrice said, ‘Ida, you told me only yesterday evening that if any of our girls should go back to a life of sin, I shouldn’t blame myself. By the same token, neither should you.’

  ‘Yes, but these girls didn’t simply return to prostitution – they called on the Devil to give them supernatural abilities. God only knows what terrible crimes they are going to carry out. How can I not feel guilty? I should scourge myself for my failings.’

  ‘No, Ida,’ said George. ‘Each of those girls was born into wretched poverty and brought up to know nothing but immorality. They were steeped in sin from the days when they were suckled at their mothers’ breasts. You did everything you could to show them the light, but it was almost inevitable that they would turn back to the darkness.’

  Beatrice said nothing. She could have challenged George with her chemical analysis of the carmine paint, but she felt that she needed more conclusive evidence. Supposing the girls had originally drawn the pentagram in blood, and painted over it themselves before they left? Supposing they had arranged for an outside accomplice to bring a wagon to the tobacco factory during the night, and take them all away, along with their luggage?

  Of course, both scenarios were highly unlikely. Where would they have found the paint, and a brush to apply it? How would they have been able to get in touch with an accomplice when they were isolated inside their dormitory? And how could they have left the factory with all their possessions without anybody seeing them?

  It was also questionable that George had known nothing about the girls’ disappearance until he had realized that the factory’s goat was missing. But Beatrice sensed that she should tread very carefully. If he had been prepared to kill the goat and deface the dormitory simply to delude her into believing that the girls had summoned up the Devil and flown away like witches, then who could guess what he might do to keep the truth concealed?

  She found it more than a little uncomfortable to be thinking this way. Her first impression of George had been of a warm, generous and charitable man. In New Hampshire, though, she had known men like Henry Mendum, a prosperous and seemingly community-spirited farmer. Beneath Henry Mendum’s bluff exterior, he had turned out to be cruel, greedy and rapacious.