‘Yes,’ Constance says. ‘We will have him.’
Verity nods in agreement.
‘I ask that you visit Mr Mockett. Please,’ Clovis adds. ‘Ask him to watch over our home.’
‘As you wish,’ Constance agrees.
‘There is something else. There is a man. He …’ Clovis has not had time to think this through, nor time to concoct an explanation for Benedikt’s presence. ‘He acts for us as a … protector. The baby’s protector. He will come and go, he will communicate with you by way of written correspondence. He may bring you word of our proceedings. You can trust him. You must trust him.’
‘How extremely odd,’ Constance says.
Clovis places the baby in Constance’s arms.
‘There is a final matter. I have no time for delicacy.’ Soon to be arrested, Clovis is still capable of picking her moment. ‘We will most likely need your help with financial burdens that may be ahead. I would not impose if …’
Constance lifts her gaze from the baby and meets her squarely. ‘You are very bold in your troubles, Mrs Fowler. But we will help where we see fit.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Fitzgerald. We will repay you, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘The boy, Mrs Fowler. Are there any instructions for the boy?’ Verity asks.
‘The boy? Oh. Yes.’ Clovis shakes her head, as if she has just remembered Rafe exists. ‘He is ready for pap and milk. His feeding has been in the Icelandic way until now. There has been no time to collect his clothes.’
‘We will see to it all tomorrow.’
‘I must go.’
Clovis turns. She runs into the night and does not look back.
‘Extraordinary,’ Verity says. ‘She does not love this child.’
‘No, sister, she does not. She loves only herself.’
‘Why would he need a protector?’ Verity asks.
‘Curious, indeed.’ Constance sways gently with the child in her arms. ‘Carry the lamp into the kitchen, sister. We’ll feed him when he wakes.’
The evidence of Bertie’s absence from this bizarre turn of events stands upright on the kitchen table. Three empty bottles of ale it is tonight. She will be snoring in her room, her jaw slack, and her mind oblivious of the surprise to which she will wake.
Verity cuts through the bread and warms a splash of milk. Soon a slice torn of its crust turns soggy. The sisters gaze at the baby’s tiny sucking mouth, his cheeks doing their work to take nourishment. His eyes are fixed on these new adoring faces that look at him so intently.
‘Arthur. I am sorry! Do sit for a glass.’ Verity beckons to the violinist, who has been standing forgotten and ignored in the doorway.
Verity pours cognac and indicates for him to sit.
The wind has left them and blows, perhaps out to sea, maybe to the west; wherever it flies a hush is left in its wake. The boy is satisfied and struggles against sleep. He kicks a bit and his wee fingers splay. The musician drains his glass then places his chin upon his violin and picks up his bow.
It is but a hint of a melody, soft and slow, yet the sisters recognize the old tune. They look at each other with their shared pasts between them, with ‘who would have thought it’ written across their faces. Constance begins to sing hesitantly, unsure if she is still capable of it. The old man plays on and when he begins a new verse her voice reaches the baby in a whisper.
I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest
In a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow.
To the shosheen ho of the wind of the west
And the shularoo of the soft sea billow.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
There is nothing more entertaining for the people of London than to see a man hanged.
At the junction of Holborn and Newgate Street townspeople gag and cover their noses when they pass under the windows of a particular building five storeys high. Male prisoners piss out of the windows onto the heads of unsuspecting free people. Along with gambling, fucking and drinking, it is one of the inmates’ favourite pastimes.
Rotting. Filthy. Stinking. Verminous. Everything that is dark and putrid festers within Newgate Prison. The Tower, the royal palaces, none are as awe-inspiring. There is no place more famous. All eyes are on Newgate.
The men who snatch these notorious criminals, made wicked by their crimes, have their own stories to tell. Two will hone their tale, shaping it to please a rapt audience: the night they captured the ravishing woman, who is as cold as the country from whence she came.
They were waiting for Clovis when she returned home. She knew they would be there, and rather than run until her life was in even more danger, she stole into the back garden and, with her hands, dug into the ground to unearth one of the purses of coins buried there. She dug fast and deep, like an animal burrowing, until she struck gold. The rest could be got at later; this would buy their immediate comfort.
It was almost four when she entered her home to find she could have dug the rest of the night had she wished. The remaining constables who had been assigned to this evening’s raid had helped themselves to Finn’s sherry. They were half drunk when she flew inside, panting, with her face flushed and hands caked in dirt. One of the constables caught up in her whirl made a grab for her and groped her breasts, then his scaly hand moved down her skirts searching for a prize. She knocked him over in one fell swoop. The crack of his cranium on the table’s edge sent a shock through her.
He lay like a dead man. The other constable was instantly sobered. He curled his lip and pointed a stub of a finger at her.
‘Oh yer done for it now. Murderess.’
‘I defended myself. It was an accident.’
‘Really, now. Let’s see how the jury sees it then.’
‘If you tell the jury the truth
