“You did, but I explained I could not make the most of your kind offer, for my own reasons,” Marianne said, letting her own voice harden. She would not be bullied by this stranger, even if she owed her for the bath and the food.

  Cecilia tossed her head and left the room abruptly. Marianne was confused and alarmed. She turned to Harriet. “I am so sorry to be personal, but who is she?”

  “Oh, she’s our friend,” Harriet said unhelpfully. “Don’t worry about anything. You speak well. Everything will be fine. For you. But you must do as we say.”

  That, too, had an alarming undertone to it. Cecilia came back, carrying a long dark blue cloak and a matching hat, in an old style that covered more of the hair than was currently fashionable, but it was good enough and commonly seen on older ladies. She threw the cloak around Marianne’s shoulders, while Katie went for Marianne’s head, wrenching off her dented hat and headscarf, and replacing it with the new bonnet.

  “There. You can pass anywhere, now.”

  “But I don’t wish to.”

  Katie remained at one side of Marianne, and Harriet came up to the other. They looped their arms into hers. Marianne repeated her warning about lice, but they laughed, and tightened their grip. “You have nothing to lose by coming with us.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really,” Cecilia said. She turned and left the room, and Marianne was towed along behind by her two guards.

  She could have fought back. When they stepped out into the street, having had to negotiate the doorways sideways, she thought briefly about making a run for it. She could take them by surprise and get away, she was sure of it.

  Then she would never find out anything about Mistress Decker.

  So she submitted, or let it appear that she submitted, and the two women relaxed their grip on her arms as they walked along the street, heading for the gaudy, glitzy shops and businesses in the heart of London.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They went shopping.

  Marianne was surprised. But Cecilia led the way and took them into a large, showy shop that sold hair ornaments, hair pieces, ribbons and all manner of head decorations. There were also perfumes and pomades, brushes and combs, hand mirrors and pins and braids. It was fine, upper-class stuff. Marianne shrank away, keeping herself to the back, trying to stay out of sight. She knew that she didn’t quite fit in, and she cringed.

  Cecilia spoke to them with such self-assured arrogance, however, that they assumed she was a rich eccentric, with her parcel of eccentric friends. One of the staff, a male manager, invited them all to sit and take tea while he arranged for the wares to be shown to them, and when Marianne answered his offer in her usual, well-bred accent, he relaxed and so did the others.

  The rich and respectable classes could get away with so much, she thought.

  Trays of delicate ornaments in tortoiseshell and copper were laid out for them. There were other wooden boxes with wirework and precious stones, emeralds that dazzled, even a diamond tiara. The three women cooed over them, trying them on, spinning around and giggling to one another. Marianne remained seated, sipping her tea, wondering what was going on. She watched them carefully.

  The manager paid Marianne special attention while his staff paraded the items around, bringing trays out, and returning the rejected ones, in a continual cycle. The manager seemed to understand that Marianne, in her long cloak and old bonnet, must be a widow, or chaperone, or someone otherwise respected in the social circle. Cecilia seemed to encourage that by occasionally asking, “Ivy, are you quite well? Ivy, do your legs ail you? Ivy, do tell us if we tire you.”

  So the manager watched Marianne. And Marianne watched the three women. And it was well that she did so, because she started to notice exactly what they were doing.

  The huge muff that Cecilia carried was not for her hands. It was also a receptacle for pilfered jewellery. She would pick up two delicate hair ornaments in one hand, one tucked behind the other, examine them closely with both hands, and then return only one to the tray, sliding the stolen one into her muff with a practised sleight of hand.

  Harriet and Katie were doing the same. Small items slipped like magic from their hands and into folds of their dresses.

  Eventually Cecilia chose one small, low-priced item to buy. The manager pursed his lips in disappointment but he could not argue. Katie bought a fascinator made of peacock feathers, which cost a little more, and Harriet bought three yards of wide golden ribbon. The staff packed the goods up so that they could take them away instantly rather than have them sent for or delivered.

  They hurried out, cramming together and giggling, clutching their parcels, pushing Marianne along in front of them, and did not relent until they were three hundred yards down the street and around a corner.

  Marianne was furious and Cecilia could see it. She laughed lightly, as if she were about to share a joke, and patted Marianne’s shoulder. “You saw it all, didn’t you? It’s such fun.”

  “But you stole from him!”

  “No, you silly mare. We stole from the shop. Goodness me, do you take us for common house-breakers or street robbers?” She addressed Katie and Harriet, who laughed merrily.

  “Is this how you live?” Marianne asked.

  “Of course. How else? Would you have us sell our bodies on the street? Heavens, we have more dignity than that. We would not stoop so low, and neither would you. So, this is what we do. We merely exact a little tax from wealthy businesses that can easily absorb the losses. No one will lose out because of this.”

  “He has to pay his staff and feed his own family.”

  Cecilia groaned dramatically. “We took a fraction of his stock. We did not clear him out completely. He might have to eat cabbage not goose tonight – what of it? It will do him some good. Tell me the truth, Ivy – are you not intrigued?”

  Well-bred women, not prostitutes, acquiring money and claiming that the practice harmed no one. Yes, it was intriguing, and she was making some connections between these activities and the situation of her friend Mary, too. To find out more, she had to continue the pretence. This was an opportunity. So she said, slowly, “Yes, I am intrigued. But I am also worried. And why me? You are doing so very well on your own. You did not need me, and you took a risk by taking me there. I could have spoken out and exposed you all.”

  “I knew you would not, and you didn’t. You are so like us. You are one of us already, but you simply don’t know it. Anyway, we would have apologised for your outburst – mad old aunt that you were – and they would not have searched us for any missing items because what gentleman would lay hands on a lady like that? You distracted the manager just perfectly simply by existing. You are a natural!”

  “But I could have called out and when the police came, they would have brought a matron who would happily search you.”

  “Oh, we have no trouble with the police. Mistress Decker sees to that. Now, ladies, shall we hand over our spoils?”

  They began to walk through the evening crowds, and Marianne pressed herself to be alongside Cecilia. “You do not keep these items?”

  “What use are they? I may ask to keep one or two things but actually, the stuff I bought was the stuff that I really wanted. No, the rest will be handed over, and sold, and then we receive money, or at least, we get some of it. It is a nice enough way to earn a living, don’t you think?”

  “So there are more of you?” Marianne guessed.

  “Dozens.”

  They were a gang. A crime syndicate. And a very good one. Who would suspect a well-spoken lady and her friends?

  “At least forty,” giggled Katie, who was elbowed and hushed by Harriet.

  “Are we going to see Mistress Decker now?” Marianne asked. She was keen to meet this women at last.

  Cecilia didn’t reply until they got to the end of the street. There, she stopped. “We are, but you are not. You may keep the cloak.”

  “Then...?”

  “Go back to where you are staying. Blackwall Buildings, isn’t it, with Bel Hughes? We have eyes everywhere, Ivy, and now that we have met you, we intend to keep you.”

  “What is stopping me from going to the police right now?” Marianne asked, trying to keep her tone light. She did not want to cross Cecilia. Under that light, girlish exterior was a hardened criminal.

  “You are one of us. You are guilty. You’ve eaten with us, even bathed at my lodgings. You came shopping with us and saw what we did and did not speak out. The manager saw and so did his staff. You’re complicit, you daft mare, and you cannot wriggle away now. Anyway, why should you want to? You will have earned a share of today’s doings, and we will have the money sent to you as soon as we can.”

  She didn’t want the tainted money. But she could not refuse it without angering Cecilia further. “Thank you.”

  Cecilia laughed. She was always laughing. It hid her darker core, perhaps. She hugged Marianne suddenly, and said into her ear, “I don’t mind the lice but you maybe should do something about it. Find somewhere else to live. That Bel Hughes is too good for herself, if you know what I mean. And don’t tell her about this. You know that she wouldn’t understand.” Then she broke away from Marianne and brushed down the front of her gown. “Well, ladies, let us allow Ivy to return home and reflect on her new life! Such adventures await.”

  “So lovely to meet you,” said Katie, and Harriet murmured the same. They smiled, then broke into grins of sheer delight, and the three of them linked arms and walked off, a pure cloud of delightful feminine innocence hanging over them.

  It was nearly dark, the night coming on early. Marianne did not feel hungry. She felt unsettled, but curious, and fired up with both anxiety and intrigue. She waited until the three women were almost out of sight, and then slipped along after them. She pulled the bonnet from her head as she went. She had her shawl under her long cloak, and she pulled it free and wrapped it over her hair, and then shrugged out of the cloak and folded it so that it was nothing but fine cloth in a bundle over her arm. Now she was back to being Ivy-in-hiding, poor woman of the streets once more.

  Although perhaps they really did have eyes everywhere, and even now she was being watched.

  She walked on, quite slowly, as the three women she was following had no hurry about them. They turned into a wide residential street, one of the new improvements being made to the city as a side-effect of the constant expansion of the railways and the underground. The houses here were terraced like any backstreet slum, but they rose up tall and wide, in beautiful cream and yellow brick, with large white-painted sash windows. Each house was an individual residence, not split into lodgings, and each had a little yard in front with black metal railings, and roses in buckets, and clean front steps. The pavement was almost empty and Marianne shrank back, unwilling to expose herself here. She did not belong at all.

  The terrace curved elegantly and she kept them in sight, but then three private carriages in a line passed in front of her and came to a halt. People flooded out of them, well-dressed women and elegant men in top hats and tails. Marianne could not see anything.

  She cowered to one side, pressing against the wall, as a woman passed her on her right. The woman did not look at Marianne but there was something in her manner and the set of her jaw that sparked a remembrance.

  It was Caroline Vane, hurrying towards the carriages.

  No; she was not part of that crowd. No one looked at her. She passed through, with a few nods and tips of hats.

  Caroline Vane was a well-dressed woman of means, Marianne thought. Could she be connected with these strange female-criminals and Mistress Decker herself?

  The pavement had cleared. The carriages rumbled off. And there was no sign of anyone at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marianne felt like she had made progress. She had a likely explanation for Mary Sewell’s independence and wealth, although she hated the idea of her friend’s long duplicity. At least she wasn’t a lady of the night – it was ridiculous that stealing was somehow better, in Marianne’s eyes – but there it was. Mary had fallen, but she had not been utterly lost.

  Marianne had seen Caroline Vane in the vicinity of the criminal women, Cecilia and her friends, and she had probably seen the house where Mistress Decker lived. Even so, some things were not quite adding up. If Caroline was linked to them, then how? And why was Marianne really being targeted by them?

  But that night, as she hunkered down on her blanket, she was grateful for another thing. Cecilia’s cloak, though it had been a gift barbed with expectations, was thick, warm and luxurious, and enabled her to sleep almost in comfort.

  She rose early the next morning. She wanted to find out more about Eliza Payne and Grace Clatterbridge, but also Mistress Decker. She started close to home – at the range, in fact. Belinda Hughes was combing her hair while Juliet brewed up some tea in a huge, stained pot.

  “Mrs Hughes, I...”

  “Belinda, if you feel formal, and Bel if you don’t,” the older woman said. “I pay no mind to hat honour and the like.”

  Definitely some kind of Quaker, she thought. “Belinda, I wonder if I might ask you some questions?”

  “Ask me anything you like, dear one.”

  “Have you heard of two young ladies, who might not be connected, called Grace Clatterbridge or Eliza Payne?”

  Belinda half-closed her eyes in a meditative recollection. “No, I am afraid not.”

  “Juliet?”

  The young woman shook her head. “No. I knew a Gracie but she was dead by fourteen. Here’s your tea. There’s no sugar today.”

  “Thank you. What about a lady called Mistress Angelina Decker?”

  “Mistress?”

  “Exactly that; I have not heard any other title.”

  Juliet passed a cup to Belinda with a quick and meaningful look, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second too long. Marianne noticed it but did not remark on it. She waited.

  Belinda sighed. “Yes, I have heard of Mistress Decker. I would advise you to avoid her, if you can. She is not entirely respectable, but that is not a problem. I worry for the girls who fall into her circle, as Mistress Decker lacks morals. She is, alas, fallen far from the grace of Our Lord, and though she can be saved she chooses not to be.”

  “Is she a brothel-keeper?” Marianne asked, outright. It was never a question that would have passed her lips in ordinary society or at Woodfurlong, but she’d heard much worse in her weeks in Whitechapel. And no one blinked at her question here.

  Belinda shook her head. “No, she is not a madam. Nor does she keep a club or indulge in any immoral acts of a sexual nature.”

  That tallied with what the urchins had told her. “Then what is her business? How does she live?”

  “There are rumours but I do not wish to be part of such a thing.”

  Marianne knew Belinda well enough to not even bother trying to persuade her otherwise. She would not spread false gossip or risk slandering anyone. So she let the conversation turn to other things, and waited until Belinda had left for the day. She was intending to preach the gospel in a busy shopping street.

  “Juliet, how does Mistress Decker make her money?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

  Juliet lowered her voice. “I don’t like to talk about her because she has spies everywhere. Maybe even here. They say she always knows if someone speaks about her, and she will get her revenge.”

  “It cannot matter if you only tell me the truth.”

  “The truth is what Bel told you. She ain’t on the straight and narrow, not a bit. Her gang of girls does things for her what ain’t to be done by decent folk.”

  “Stealing?”

  “That’s only the half of it. More besides. If you want something doing, that ought not to be done, then you could ask her, but you’d pay highly for it, and the police would never touch you.”

  “That’s interesting. Thank you. Don’t look so worried! She can’t have overheard that.”

  “Can’t she?” Juliet turned away and pulled her shawl tight around her upper body. Marianne left.

  She had plans to meet Adelia and compare notes about their latest discoveries. She had a feeling that she had more to tell Adelia, than Adelia would have to tell her.

  ADELIA WAS ALREADY waiting for her. She looked dejected. Marianne tried not to greet her smugly, replete with her own information.

  “I found out nothing,” Adelia said. “There are no connections between any of the theatre staff and the three victims of the Murdering Ghost.”

  “Well, then you did find out something. An absence of a fact is a fact in itself.”

  “You’re cheery. There’s a look on your face which tells me you have had better luck.”

  “I have indeed. Firstly, thank you for passing on my message to Phoebe.”

  She shrugged. “It was the least I could do. At least I’ve been successful in something.”

  “You have. And I think we can find out even more, but I will need to be in disguise.”

  “I can do your hair, and find you some clothes.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Marianne pulled the new cloak around her. “But let us use Simeon’s particular services.”

  “Oh! Yes. That’s a good idea. But you must tell me everything as we walk.”

  “I will.”

  By the time they arrived at Simeon’s workshop, Adelia was reeling with the information that Marianne had given her.

  “I have heard of Mistress Decker!” she said in a low, awed voice. “Who hasn’t? But I have never been allowed to write about her or investigate her. Actually, like you, I assumed she ran a bawdy-house. Maybe she does, and everyone is just pulling the wool over our eyes.”

  “I don’t think Belinda would lie or mislead us.” They clambered up the wooden steps to Simeon’s first floor workshop. “Nor Doddy, or Juliet. But my suspicions are growing when I think of Caroline Vane. And Harry, also, but he is hard to get close to. He knows me too well. The cabbie said he took them both home. I am certain that he lied.”

 

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