The Coven Page 6

  ‘Hey, ladies!’ shouted the one in the cocked hat. ‘A moment of your time, if you please!’

  Beatrice was already holding Florence’s hand, but now she gripped it even tighter and said, ‘Run, Florrie!’

  Ida turned around, too, and like Beatrice, she gathered up her skirts and tried to break into a run.

  It was too late. The alley was as badly churned up as the main road, and Beatrice caught her shoe and stumbled. The man with the blue-shaven head pushed his way past Ida and barred their way into Whitecross Street, waving his knife from side to side and lasciviously licking his gums around his single walnut-coloured tooth.

  ‘We don’t mean you no harm, you rum-doxies,’ said the man in the cocked hat. He was wearing a filthy red frock coat with frayed shoulders, and his buff-coloured breeches were stained dark with urine. ‘All we’re after is some chink, and maybe a bit of rantum-scantum.’

  ‘You can take yourselves off to hell!’ snapped Ida. ‘You’ll get neither! Be off before I scream for a constable!’

  The man with the blue-shaven head came up to her and held the point of his knife close to her cheek.

  ‘You wouldn’t want my chum to fake you, would you, Madam Van?’ said the man in the cocked hat. ‘Come along, be obliging! There’s a doorway back there, and we can go inside and blow off the groundsels on the staircase, where nobody will see us. You can give the young titter here some education in the art of relish!’

  Beatrice saw her chance. She pushed the man with the blue-shaven head as hard as she could on the shoulder, so that he lost his balance and fell against the rough plastered wall. Then she started to run towards Whitecross Street, tugging Florence after her. She could only hope that Ida would take her cue and follow her.

  As she ran out of the alley, the man in the cocked hat caught up with her and knocked her on the back of her head with the end of his cudgel. He managed only a glancing blow, but it was enough to send her tumbling forward onto the muddy roadway, bringing Florence down beside her. Florence’s coat was spattered with horse manure and she screamed in panic.

  Winded and bruised, Beatrice twisted herself around and looked up. Her vision was blurred from the blow on the head but she could see the man in the cocked hat glaring down at her. He was swinging his cudgel as if he were preparing himself to hit her again, and harder this time. His face was crimson with drink and exertion and anger, like a huge bloody boil about to burst.

  ‘You punk!’ he snarled at her. ‘Just for that we’ll give the titter a prigging, too!’ he snarled at her.

  Beatrice was so breathless that her voice was reduced to a high, hoarse screech. ‘Don’t you dare to lay one finger on her, or I will kill you myself!’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ the man mocked her, slapping his cudgel into the palm of his filthy hand. ‘You and the King’s Own Regiment of Foot, I suppose?’

  The man with the ratty-looking wig came up to her and caught hold of her sleeve. ‘Come along, up you get, my darling!’ he said, and she could feel his spit flying against her forehead. Back in the alley, she could see that the man with the blue-shaven head had crooked one arm around Ida’s neck, and was holding his knife up only an inch from her face.

  Still sobbing with fright, Florence climbed onto her feet, and the man with the cocked hat gripped her arm.

  Whitecross Street was quite busy, with shoppers and messenger boys and street sellers. One of the sellers was ringing a bell and shouting, ‘A pudding-a-pudding a hot pudding!’ and another was crying out, ‘Turnips and carrots, ho!’ At least six or seven carriages and hackneys and drays went rattling past, but none of the coaches stopped, and as soon as the shoppers saw that the three ruffians were armed with a knife and a cudgel, they crossed over to the other side. It was more than possible that one them might have a pistol, too, and in recent months several passers-by who had tried to intervene in street robberies had been shot dead.

  Beatrice kept struggling to get herself free, but she had to allow the man with the ratty wig to pull her up, so that she could protect Florence.

  ‘Come along, then, darling!’ the man spat at her, tugging her back into the alley. As soon as he had said that, though, Beatrice heard a clattering of hooves close behind her, and the jingling of harness, and the squeaking sound of a carriage being drawn to a halt.

  A man’s voice bellowed out, ‘Ho there! What do you think you’re playing at, you scum?’ And then, ‘Ida! God in heaven!’

  9

  The man in the ratty wig tried to drag Beatrice further into the alley, but she twisted and wrenched her sleeve away from him, not just once, but twice, so that it tore. He made a half-hearted attempt to snatch at her again, but then he started to run. The man with the cocked hat started to run, too, and the two of them went pelting off along the alley. Halfway back to Bunhill Row, the man’s wig flew off and landed in the mud. He stopped for a second, one hand clamped on top of his scabby head, but then he carried on running, and both he and the man in the cocked hat disappeared around the corner.

  Although both of his partners in crime had vanished, the man with the blue-shaven head continued to hold on to Ida, his forearm pressed so tightly against her neck that she was squeaking for breath.

  The man who had stopped his carriage came up close to Beatrice and said, ‘Are you hurt at all, my dear? What about your little girl? Is she all right?’

  He was not a tall man, but he was broad-shouldered, and he had a strong, rugged face, with a broken nose and a deeply cleft chin. There was something rough-hewn about his looks, as if his cheeks had been sandpapered, but his yellow frock coat and his cream-coloured waistcoat were finely tailored, and he had gold buttons and silver shoe buckles. He was wearing a light-brown wig which was tied with a yellow ribbon at the back.

  His carriage was painted shiny yellow, and it was drawn by four glossy black Friesians.

  Immediately after he had made sure that Beatrice and Florence were uninjured, he crossed the alley to confront the man with the blue-shaven head. At the same time, he drew out his sword and held it up high.

  ‘You – you dromedary!’ he barked. ‘I order you to drop your blade and release this good lady at once!’

  The man shook his blue-shaven head, and twisted his lips into a sneer, but uttered only a gargling sound. It was obvious that he was not only almost completely toothless but also mute. He began to shuffle backwards along the alley, pulling Ida after him.

  The man in the yellow frock coat looked around, frowning, as if he were thinking of something quite different. Then he slid his sword back into its scabbard, unbuttoned one of his coat pockets and took out a brown leather wallet. He produced half a guinea, which he held up in his left hand, between finger and thumb.

  ‘I realize by the desperation of what you have tried to do that you must be sorely in need of the King’s picture,’ he said, and Beatrice was amazed how calmly he spoke. Florence had stopped crying but she was still trembling and now and again she let out a little shivering sob.

  ‘If you release this lady, this half-guinea shall be yours, and no more said,’ the man in the yellow frock coat continued. ‘I shall call no watchman, nor make any complaint against you.’

  The man with the blue-shaven head was staring at the half-guinea, mesmerized. This was enough money to get drunk for a month, or have a harlot.

  The man in the yellow frock coat waited patiently, still holding up the gold coin. Behind him, his black horses were shuffling and snorting between their shafts, eager to get moving again, but he ignored them, and he also ignored the curious stares of passers-by, some of whom had stopped on the corner and were cautiously peering into the alley to see what was going on.

  After what seemed to Beatrice like a whole long minute of indecision, the man with the blue-shaven head released his grip on Ida’s neck and pushed her roughly to one side. Beatrice went across and took hold of her hand, pulling her well away from him, so that he wouldn’t be able to lash out and cut her.

  ‘You must drop your
knife,’ said the man in the yellow frock coat. ‘Then this half-bean shall be yours for the taking.’

  The man with the blue-shaven head gave a snorting catarrhal sniff, and then he tossed his knife onto the ground. He came forward with a slight limp, holding out of his hand for the half-guinea. Beatrice had a terrible feeling about what was going to happen next, and she held Florence close to her and turned her head away. Ida looked at her and Beatrice had never seen a woman appear so relieved and yet still so frightened.

  As the man with the blue-shaven head reached out for the coin, the man in the yellow frock coat slid his sword out of its sheath with a slippery, ringing sound, whirled it around with a flick of his wrist and thrust it straight into the crotch of the ruffian’s grubby grey breeches. It made a sharp, sickening crunch. The point must have pierced him at the root of his penis, almost castrating him, because it caused his breeches to flood instantly with blood.

  He uttered a weird, distorted scream, like some of the eerie cries that Beatrice used to hear coming from the woods in New Hampshire at night. The man in the yellow frock coat twisted his sword around and then drew it out, his expression still as calm as it had been before. The man with the blue-shaven head staggered backwards, falling against the wall and then dropping to his knees. He was clutching himself between his thighs with both hands but blood was dripping quickly between his fingers. He had stopped screaming but he was making a thin, whining sound, like a hungry cat.

  ‘You had best find yourself a surgeon as quick as you can,’ said the man in the yellow frock coat. ‘I promised not to call a watchman, and I will be true to my word. Bart’s Hospital is less than a mile off, if you can manage to walk there. Otherwise God help you. At least if you bleed to death you won’t have to polish the King’s iron with your eyebrows.’

  He sheathed his sword and held up the half-guinea again, almost under the man’s nose. ‘I said this would be yours for the taking, did I not? But since you failed to take it, I shall regrettably have to keep it for myself.’

  With that, he took out his wallet again, and dropped the coin into it.

  ‘George,’ said Ida, tearfully. ‘I cannot find sufficient words to thank you. I was certain that he was going to cut my throat.’

  ‘Come on, let us leave here instanter,’ said George. ‘I could scarcely believe my own eyes when I saw those vagabonds manhandling you and your companions here.’

  He ushered them over to his carriage. His liveried coachman was about to climb down and help them but the door was still hanging wide open and he called up, ‘Stay where you are, Michael! Let us just quit this place as quick as maybe!’

  They climbed inside and George folded up the steps and closed the door. The interior was upholstered in the softest tan leather and Beatrice thought she had never sat in a carriage so comfortable. However, when Michael geed up the horses and they started to trundle southwards on Whitecross Street, the furrows and potholes in the roadway set the carriage swaying and jostling and lurching so much that Beatrice had to cling on to the hand-strap, and keep her arm tightly around Florence to stop her from sliding across the seat.

  ‘You must have been sent by the Lord himself, George,’ said Ida. ‘I am quite certain that those varlets would have robbed us and had their way with us and then murdered us for sure.’

  ‘It was hardly miraculous,’ said George. ‘I had agreed to meet you in any event at two o’clock but I went to the Foundery because your blackamoor girl told me that you were still there. By the time I arrived, though, the Reverend Parsons said that you had already left, so I was returning to Maidenhead Court.’

  ‘All the same, I can only believe that it was divine intervention,’ Ida told him. ‘You won’t face any retribution for having pronged that fellow, will you?’

  George shook his head. ‘No – no, God, no, absolutely not. He appeared to be speechless, and I doubt if he can write, either, so how can he possibly make a complaint to the constables? Besides which, he would have to admit that I wounded him because he was attempting to rob you and worse, and we have witnesses to prove it.’

  The coach jolted so violently that Ida had to cling on tightly to one of the straps. But she managed to lay one hand on George’s shoulder and say to Beatrice, ‘This gentleman who appeared at such a fortuitous moment is Mr George Hazzard. George – this is Beatrice Scarlet, widow of the Reverend Francis Scarlet, who tragically lost his life in New Hampshire. And of course her daughter Florence.’

  ‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Scarlet,’ said George. ‘And you, too, Florence. I wish only that we could have met under less exciting circumstances.’

  ‘George is the owner of Hazzard & Son, the tobacco factory in Hackney,’ Ida explained. ‘Sadly there is no longer a son, but George continues to prosper, and he has used his prosperity to give my girls gainful employment. At the present time, eleven of them are working for him – eleven, isn’t it, George? But over the years there have been more than fifty, all of whom eventually found well-paid domestic positions, or husbands – or both, some of them – and so have been rescued from squalor and degradation and moral turpitude.’

  ‘I have been a supporter of the Nonconformist church from the very beginning,’ said George. ‘Its works of Christian charity are second to none. There is so much desperate poverty in London, and, in particular, so many young girls have been forced onto the streets or into nunneries.’

  He was obviously using the euphemism for bawdy house for Florence’s sake, for which Beatrice was grateful. She began to think that if St Mary Magdalene’s benefactors were all as sensitive and brave and well-mannered as George Hazzard there was no limit to what good work she might be able to achieve. It would be her loving tribute to Francis – her own way of carrying on the charitable mission to which he had devoted himself ever since he was a boy.

  His grave might be in New Hampshire, but his memorial would be here in London.

  10

  They arrived at Maidenhead Court, which was a handsome square on the east side of Aldersgate Street, of four-storey terraced houses with lawns and plane trees all around. The court even had its own gate, which could be locked at night to keep out cracksmen and budges and other riff-raff.

  The carriage stopped outside No. 14, and Michael the coachman jumped down to open the door for them and fold down the steps. As Beatrice climbed down, George Hazzard offered his hand to help her. She could see the pale faces of several young women crowded together in the windows of the house, watching them.

  ‘We seem to be the objects of some considerable curiosity, Ida,’ said George, with a smile.

  ‘Well, George, you know that your visits are always a cause for great excitement,’ Ida replied, as she adjusted her petticoats. ‘The girls are always anxious to find out which of them you will choose to work for you. After all, it is their first step towards a happy and a prosperous future.’

  Florence said, ‘I’m hungry, Mama!’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Ida told her. ‘We have bread and cheese and cold mutton aplenty. And you shall have some bergamot bomboons too, for being such a brave young girl.’

  They went up the steps to the teal-painted front door, which was opened for them before they had knocked, by a strikingly pretty black girl in a mob cap and a long striped apron.

  ‘Thank you, Grace,’ said Ida. ‘This is Widow Scarlet, who I was telling you about last week, and this is her daughter Florence. Would you take them up to their rooms, please, so that they can rinse their hands and rest for a little while? Their luggage will be arriving shortly.

  ‘Beatrice, after you have seen your room, perhaps you would care to come downstairs to the drawing room to meet some of our young residents, and for refreshment.’

  The hallway was narrow and the stairs were steep and uncarpeted, with creaking treads. As they started to climb up behind Grace, Beatrice heard giggling coming from the half-open drawing room door. A girl with curly blonde hair popped her head out to stare at them, and just as qu
ickly popped it back again, followed by even more giggling.

  Ida looked up and said, ‘You must take no notice, Beatrice. They tend to be highly excitable, our girls. They are used to leading very robustious lives and, by comparison, they sometimes find the routine at St Mary Magdalene’s to be rather restrictive. But it is only through routine that they will find fulfilment in this world and salvation in the next. Not to mention cleanliness of body and mind, and constant prayer.’

  ‘Well said, Ida,’ George told her, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder.

  Ida and George went into the drawing room, while Grace and Florence and Beatrice continued to climb. ‘Where are you from, Grace?’ Beatrice asked her, as they reached the first-floor landing.

  ‘I was bringed here from Barbadoes by my master when I was seven years old, to be trained in service,’ said Grace. She had a slight West Indian accent, but she spoke very clearly and sweetly, almost as if she were singing in chapel.

  ‘And then?’ asked Beatrice.

  ‘My master’s wife, she died of the spotted fever. She was a good woman and always kind to me. My master married again but his new wife beat me and treated me harsh. In the end I could stand it no longer so I ranned away.’

  She paused for a moment, and then she said, ‘I was took in by this woman Mrs Starling in Chick Lane. She took the best care of me but of course I had to please all the men who came calling. That was before I was saved by Mrs Smollett, who brung me here, God bless her.’

  They had reached the third-floor landing now, and Grace led them down to the end of the corridor. She opened the door of the very last room, and Beatrice stepped inside.

  It was so much less spacious than she was used to – an oak-panelled room no more than twelve feet by ten, with a two-seater sofa and a single armchair. A small toilet stood under the window, with a view overlooking the treetops of Maidenhead Court; and less than a mile away, rising behind the cluttered rooftops of St Martin’s Le Grand and Newgate Street, the great grey dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, the tallest building in London, if not the world.