Lady Lightfingers

On the way home from Potter’s Field Celia devised a plan to return the money to Charles. She’d never felt easy keeping it in her possession, knowing it was his, and what it represented to him.

When they returned to Bedford Square she wrapped the satchel in brown paper, tied it with string and wrote on it in her best hand, Charles Curtis esquire. Hesitating for a moment, she added in smaller letters, because he’d probably forgotten the beggar girl he’d given the money to, and she wanted him to think kindly of that girl she’d been, from Lizzie Carter.

She waited until the Reverend was asleep in his chair in front of the fire before fetching her parcel and concealing it under her shawl. ‘I’m going out for a short while, Mrs Packer.’

‘I’m going to buy him a book he was admiring and I want it to be a secret. I’ll be back in time to take him his tea tray.’ Indeed, she did have her eyes on a collection of the work of the poet, Edgar Allan Poe, as a gift for the reverend. She’d overheard him saying to someone that he’d heard that Poe’s work had an uncomfortable dark edge to it that scared people, and he must read the American one day, and discover it for himself. Celia had checked his bookshelves and discovered he was indeed lacking a volume of Poe.

Celia took Charles’ card from her pocket and looked at the words scribbled on the back before replacing it in her purse. ‘Oxford and Cambridge club . . . Pall Mall,’ she muttered.

She considered walking, but knew it would take her too long. With the latest royalties from the sale of the book she took a cab to the address. It was a men’s club, and several of them were lingering in the porch. Celia kept her head down as she handed the parcel over to the doorman, for she didn’t want to be noticed.

‘Don’t worry, Miss. We’re expecting Mr Curtis. He’s dining with some of his friends, so I’m sure he won’t be long. If you’d like to wait for a few minutes you could hand it to him yourself . . . We can’t allow you inside the club, of course. Gentlemen only, you see. It would be against the rules.’

The breath left her body, and with some alarm in her eyes she gazed up at the man. ‘I don’t want to come into the club, and no, I can’t hand it to him, and he mustn’t see me,’ she said, and she turned and ran back down to the waiting cab.

As they turned into Bedford Square Celia felt jubilant. She’d paid it back. She no longer owed Charles Curtis anything, and a great weight had fallen from her shoulders.

‘Lizzie Carter?’ Charles tasted the name on his tongue as he turned the parcel over in his hands, trying to trigger his memory from the handwriting, which seemed familiar, though he couldn’t place it at the moment. ‘What did the girl look like?’

‘I only saw her for a moment, sir. She was a slim young woman with striking eyes, sir. Her dress was ordinary, not at all smart, and a little shabby. She kept her face shielded by her bonnet and only looked up once. That’s when I caught a glimpse of her eyes. Very appealing, they were; the colour of cornflowers.’

‘Ah yes.’ Charles grinned as he remembered them, and the sooty sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek . . . and the muddy face and tangled dark hair, of course. ‘Don’t wax too lyrical about her, Barton. The woman who left this parcel was a first-class pickpocket.’

Charles grinned, remembering his youthful lust for the girl who’d stolen his card case and returned it to claim a reward. He’d admired her spirit, and had discovered that, although she was a thief, she also had a moral code, and was not about to sell her body to him for any amount of money. Not even a bribe of one hundred pounds had tempted her to stray from the straight and narrow, it seemed.

Was she innocent still? Charles wondered, as he unwrapped the parcel. He encountered a small satchel that was very familiar to him, for his initials were tooled into the surface in gold. He hadn’t expected her to return it, and he’d recalled that he’d asked her to get in touch when she was ready.

He smiled, hesitated, then smiled again as he gazed inside it to see if she’d written him a note. There wasn’t one; the contents of the satchel were the same as when handed to her. The sharp folds and creases spoke of the notes being kept under something weighty – a book perhaps?

‘Well, well . . . you’re an enigma, Lizzie Carter,’ he murmured about the ragged young woman whose services he’d once tried to buy, and who’d placed such value on retaining her purity over a promise made to a dead mother. That was something he’d found touching at the time – still did. ‘You must have decided I wasn’t worth waiting for.’

Or perhaps she’d lost the satchel and someone honest had found it and returned it. But over three years had gone by since then. Although Charles had never really expected Lizzie to honour the bargain they’d made, he’d never expected to get the money back, either.

He’d entertained his friends and acquaintances with the story of the expensive beggar maid he’d tried to buy over the years – now he’d have a fitting ending to the tale.

He couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the girl after all this time, though, and felt a twinge of conscience at making her the object of his jokes as he passed through into the dining room to be greeted by the laughter and chiding of his friends for his lateness. After all, it hadn’t been Lizzie Carter’s fault that she’d been born poor.

Celia had ordered the book she’d wanted from a bookshop not far from the house, and had been told they’d keep it under the counter for her. She left the cab there, and hurried home, relieved to find the reverend still sleeping off his lunch.

Head leaning against the right wing of his armchair, his sparse grey hair was disarranged, as though it had relaxed along with his body, and he gave an occasional quiet snuffle. His shoes stood side by side on the floor, while his feet rested on a shabby footstool. Affection for him raced through her when she saw a small hole in the heel of his black hose. The lump damming the tears in her throat was threatening to burst.

Taking in a deep breath to dispel the feeling, she wrote a note to go with her gift and tucked it under the red ribbon she’d tied round it. It read: To my beloved and finest friend, Reverend Thomas Hambert. No doubt you’ll ask me why I’ve bought you a gift, so here is the answer – it’s because you are you. Celia Jane Laws.

Being careful not to disturb him she picked up the fire tongs and carefully placed coal on the ashes so he wouldn’t be cold when he woke. Positioning her gift in a prominent position on the table in front of him, Celia went to the writing desk, where she took out paper and ink and began to write part three of her magazine serial.

When the clock chimed three Thomas woke with a grunt. ‘Goodness, is that the time already? I must have drifted off to sleep.’

‘I do like fruit cake,’ he said with a laugh. His glance fell on the book with the gaudy ribbon bow. With a puzzled expression on his face he reached into his pocket for his reading glasses and said in a wondering manner, ‘Hello . . . What’s this parcel doing on the table?’

The music recital was held in the hall of a large home of an earl, on the west side of Belgrave Square. He was a patron of the arts as well as the Poor Reform Society, and he’d sponsored the concert . . . or so the reverend had told her.

Celia had felt quite the lady in her blue skirt and evening bodice, until she set her eyes on the fashionable women with their satin, lace and feathers, flashing diamonds and affectations.

The chairs were numbered, and arranged in a fan shape. Their seats were near the back, a few seats away from a plinth – one of many that supported sculptures of composers, now long gone. There was an empty chair beside them. For Charles, she guessed.

The reverend named some of the sculptures for her, Ludwig Van Beethoven, who glowered at the assembly of people. Then there was George Frideric Handel, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Johann Sebastian Bach, whose music she was going to listen to before too long. He had rather an austere face, and his hairstyle – a wig, she imagined – was dressed in precise rolls that reminded her of sausages.

The air was becoming warm with all the people crowding in, and the hall that she’d first considered huge, now seemed a great deal smaller as everyone scrambled to find their seats. Thankful for the small fan she carried in her reticule, she slipped the cord over her wrist and put it to good use as she tried to make sense of the printed programme. What on earth were oratorios and cantatas? She must ask the reverend to explain the terms to her tomorrow. More and more she was realizing how wide a gulf existed between different social environments, and the opportunities available to them.

Celia was glad she wasn’t sitting amongst the ladies in their finery, where she would have contrasted badly, despite wearing her best gown – the one the reverend had bought for her, with a pretty lace collar. She wore short gloves too, and an embroidered shawl that Mrs Packer had lent her, because Celia had been worried that the neck of the gown was lower than was decent. Now she was here, she needn’t have worried, since most of the other ladies’ gowns were much lower.

The audience was a pickpocket’s dream, she thought irreverently, and she glanced over the crowd wondering if anyone was working it. But no, this audience was too expensive and too rarefied for the average dip, who wouldn’t be able to afford the entry fee, or get past the doorman even if they could. There might be a few beggars in the street when the concert was over and the guests were all waiting for carriages to arrive.

There was a buzz in the room that affected her like a glass of wine. She smiled happily at the reverend, distinguished-looking in his evening suit, and wondered if Charles was in the audience.

The crowd was soon settled, the conductor came on to the dais, bowing to much applause before turning to face the orchestra. There was a breathless hush, then he lifted his baton and the music began – glorious music that instantly transported her from being a mere mortal into a world of sound so enthralling, that she wondered if she’d ever breathe again.

Standing a little to one side, for he’d been a little late and didn’t want to disturb the row to reach his seat, Charles stood, partially concealed by the plinth, where Beethoven frowned upon him for his tardiness.

He could almost smell Celia, the occasional drift of roses teasing at his nostrils. He wryly congratulated himself on being able to single her perfume out in a hall filled with ladies, when, in fact, the massed fragrance was more like a flower garden in high summer.

He had a good view of her lovely profile, and a good view of some of the men stealing looks at her, some more assessing than they should be. He blessed the fact that he’d been born a hunter instead of the prey. As most people were acquainted with and respected the reverend, he knew she would not be approached within these walls.

Unlike the play, where Celia’s face had reflected the drama, and she’d leaned forward to offer little comments under her breath, she was completely absorbed by the music. She sat upright, but relaxed, smiling a little, or giving a small nod when she was transported into the arrangement of notes. Sometimes her eyes closed, or a runaway tear escaped from under her lids to be captured on the square of lace-edged lawn she carried, and he wondered what was going on inside her head. She clapped enthusiastically when the interval was announced.

Charles joined them at the refreshment table, handing her a glass of lemonade. ‘I’m sorry I was late . . . in fact I’ve been running late all day. I’m pleased to see you kept my seat vacant, Reverend.’

‘I dined at my club with some friends, then we went to the Bailey to watch a fraud trial. Time slipped by. Are you enjoying the music, Celia?’

Her face lit up. ‘It’s wonderful; I’ve never heard a real orchestra and choir before, except in Hyde Park. The notes have such clarity, as if . . .’ Her eyes began to shine. ‘As if icicles were dropping from a branch into a pond, making perfect ripples. It’s precise, yet relaxing . . . so exquisite that I feel like crying. This is the best night of my life and I want it to go on for ever.’

She gave in to a moment of flirtation when the reverend turned aside to greet someone, spreading her fan and gazing over it at him from wide eyes a mesmerizing shade of blue that were circled by a sweep of sooty lashes. Cornflowers, the porter had said. Cornflowers! No, it couldn’t be his Lizzie. He was being ridiculous. Yet the handwriting had seemed familiar. He couldn’t help but ask, ‘What did you get up to today, Celia?’

She started, as though she’d just realized that her gesture might be misconstrued as personal interest in him, then folded her fan and averted her gaze. ‘Very little. We visited my mother’s grave this morning.’

‘No it wasn’t, but then, when is any age a good one? I understand you lost your father when you were younger, so I expect the same applies to you.’

‘After our visit to Potter’s Field, Celia was kind enough to keep an old man company for the rest of the day,’ Thomas interjected. ‘And she gave me a gift, a volume of Edgar Allen Poe’s work.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that the darkness of the human spirit would be of interest to you, Reverend. Some people regard Poe as being not quite sane.’

‘An interesting man for that reason alone, I’d say, and his work might offer some insight into that unhappy condition. He seems a very accomplished poet nevertheless.’

‘Perhaps he has an unhappy soul,’ Celia said giving a huff of laughter, which caused Thomas to chuckle, as if each had complete understanding of the other.

Thomas allowed Charles the privilege of sitting next to her in this public setting. Charles was very aware of her by his side, but involved with the music as she was, to his chagrin she didn’t seem to notice him at all.

She pandered to her own senses, feasting on the music like someone who’d been totally starved of such a delight in the past. Idly, he wondered if she’d indulge in lovemaking with such an all-absorbing passion. One day he hoped to find out.

Her eyes were full of dreams when the music ended. They fetched their cloaks and went out into the street – walking into a thin fog that had crept out of the River Thames to try and rob the streets of their identity.

Charles managed to find a cab. ‘I’ll accompany you all the way home, since it’s a long way and this will probably thicken.’

‘I was going to sleep at my club tonight, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t escort you both safely to your destination. No doubt you’ll offer me a bed for the night should it be needed.’

The fog did thicken, and the cabbie said apologetically, ‘Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to leave you here. I was on my way home when I picked you up. If I’m lucky I’ll just have time to get there in time to bed my horse down before it worsens. Luckily, the horse knows its own way home.’

And worse the fog got, pressing against the house like a clammy mustard-coloured shroud, a bare ten minutes after the sound of horse and cab disappeared.

Her little reticule still swinging from her wrist by its loops, Celia turned back the cover in the second guest bedroom, her fingers unconsciously smoothing the pillow where Charles’ head would rest. She lit the fire, placing the spark guard back around it before going to her own room to remove her bonnet and cloak.

The two men were in the library sipping at a brandy when she went down. ‘Would you like some supper? I expect Mrs Packer has left something cold in the larder for us.’

The kitchen was in the basement, and was a large room hung with shining copper pots. The house was built to accommodate a large family and a staff to match. The reverend barely occupied the first two floors.

Through the door was a second room with a copper tub, under which a fire could be lit to boil the water. There was a mangle with big wooden rollers that squeezed water from the garments once they were clean. Overhead were some racks, with pulleys to lower them down, so garments could be hung to dry. The ironing was done on a padded table, and there was a place down here to bathe in private . . . something Celia loved. When she was married and had her own house she intended to take a bath every day and wash away the memories of the dirt of her childhood. And she’d have pots with bright flowers on every table, if she could afford them.

There was a plate containing slices of pork pie, cheese, pickles and bread on a covered marble slab in the larder. The tea tray was laid, the black iron kettle warm and set to one side of the stove so it wouldn’t boil dry. Celia lifted the kettle on to the hob, then added a third cup and saucer to the tray. She was not hungry herself. Her head was full of the music, which had given her a sense of contentment as well as wonder that a man could create such delight from just a few notes of music.

Just as the kettle began to sing she thought she heard a noise outside the window. She drew aside the lace curtain that hid the interior of the room from outsiders and pressed her face against the glass. All she could see was the bottom couple of steps and a railing.

Her heart began to thump. Then she heard a plaintive whine, followed by a yelp. She smiled when she saw a puppy on the step. The poor creature must have lost its way. Well, Frederick’s basket was vacant, and she was sure he wouldn’t mind her lending it to a poor lost pup for the night.

Unlocking the door she pulled it open and stepped outside, stooping to pick it up. Arms closed around her and a hand covered her mouth.

Celia lashed out with feet and her hands; her reticule was ripped from her wrist and thrown aside, scattering bits and pieces. Her hair came loose.

Something dropped on Celia’s head and a peculiar numbing pain shot through her. Her knees gave and she slumped against a man’s body. She wanted to scream, but all she could manage was a sigh before all consciousness fled.

They felt the clammy cold that was pervading the house before they reached the kitchen, where the door stood wide open inviting the fog inside. The trays stood ready, the kettle was boiling, and had been for some time, for the lid was giving off a furious rattle.

Charles had gone outside. He was filled with unease. Something had happened to her . . . he sensed it. The night pressed in on him. There was a yap, and he saw a pup on the step. In the act of picking it up he noticed her reticule on the step, the string broken and the contents scattered over the steps. He scooped it up along with the pup and inspected his immediate surrounds, walking up and down the fog-shrouded street.

He found no sign of Celia, only a metal button ripped from a man’s coat at the top of the steps, which could have been anyone’s. There were also signs of a handcart having been there, the line of a wheel and a heel mark in some horse dung.

They’d not heard a horse and cart, or any signs of a struggle, but they’d been in the back room, and the fog muffled most noises. It would be useless trying to find her in the fog, since Charles couldn’t see more than a yard in front of his face. Even the street lamp was a sickly, yellow glow suspended above, and it sent out no useful light.

‘I think she may have been abducted,’ he told the worried-looking Thomas, ‘and by somebody who knows his way around, even in a fog such as this one. My guess is, this pup was used to lure her out. I found her purse on the step, and the ribbon is broken.’

They searched it together, and there was no sign of her. They searched it again, with the same result, then went back down to the kitchen again.’

Thomas took the pup from Charles, gave it a dish of milk to lap and settled it in Frederick’s basket afterwards. There, it curled up and went to sleep. ‘It’s a pity the animal can’t speak,’ he said. ‘We must inform a constable of what has happened, Charles.’

The unconscious gesture of caring for the puppy touched Charles. The reverend was a gentle and sincere man who acted from the dictates of his heart.

He spread the contents of Celia’s bag on the table to see if they held any clue – a pencil and diary, a handkerchief and a couple of coins. He picked a card up and gazed at it. It was his . . . an old one, black on white. He used gold-embossed now, to impress his clients. It also looked more professional. He flipped the card over. The name of his club was scrawled on the back in his own handwriting.

There was an instant recall . . . of the beggar girl called Lizzie who he’d lusted over; she with beguiling blue eyes . . . of a satchel containing one hundred pounds or so, that he’d won at the card table.

‘Contact me when you’re ready,’ he’d said after he’d kissed her, all arrogance, and not even bothering to act the gentleman, because he’d not long been initiated into the delights of lovemaking and had been suffering all the tortures of a randy tom from the moment he first set eyes on her. He hadn’t known much about attracting women apart from paying for the services of a professional, something that satisfied his body and left his heart untouched.

He’d initially asked Bessie to approach the girl for him with an offer no self-respecting beggar, or brothel owner, could refuse.

As he thought of Bessie his blood ran cold. The pimp wouldn’t have forgotten the money he’d dangled under her nose, nor forgiven the girl who’d deprived her of it.

‘No constables please, Reverend. Not yet. I think I know where Celia might be and it would only put her in more danger. There’s nothing we can do until morning, except wander around in the fog. Now . . . I’m of the mind that we need to have a chat. I want to know everything there is to know about Celia Laws and her background . . . including the reason why you were both at the theatre visiting a man called Daniel Laws.’

‘You might have to if you don’t want her fate on your conscience. If it will help, I’ll tell you where and when I first set eyes on her. It was about four years ago. I was with a group of my acquaintances and we were making bets on the outcome of a rat and terrier contest. Celia . . . though I didn’t know her name then, was reciting poetry. She was none too happy with the terrier promoter for moving in on her patch, but there was nothing she could do about it. I tossed her sixpence and she smiled at me and walked off. I was enchanted by her, and hung around the place at every opportunity, hoping I’d see her again.’

‘I couldn’t tell how old she was because she wore some shapeless rags. I thought she was older. It wasn’t until later that I realized how young she was . . . that was after she’d stolen my card case. But she didn’t lack in ingenuity; she returned it and claimed a reward for finding it.’

A tender smile spread across Charles’ face, though he wasn’t about to tell Thomas about the one hundred pounds he’d given Celia. ‘She told me her name was Lizzie Carter, and that her mother had just died and she had a baby sister to raise. She said she was going to the country to live.’

‘I finished my education, did the tour and then moved to Dorset to join your nephew’s practice. You know the rest. Lizzie Carter often came into my mind, but I didn’t realize that she and Celia Laws was one and the same person, until tonight. She’s changed . . . grown into a beautiful woman. Now . . . perhaps you’d tell me about Daniel Laws. Who is he?’

‘Celia thought he might be her father.’ Thomas sighed. ‘He isn’t her father, just a distant relative. He did know her father in the past though. Jackaby Laws died before she was born.’

He made the tea, and the two men sat at the kitchen table and ate the supper Mrs Packer had provided. Though both were frantic with worry and neither of the men were really hungry they knew there would be no sleep for them that night.

‘Mrs Laws was a decent women who came from a good home, Charles. Having met her I can vouch for that. She fell on hard times, and did her best to cope with her situation.’

‘So you have.’ Thomas folded his arms on his chest. ‘That’s all I’m prepared to tell you. It’s up to Celia if she wishes to confide in you in the future . . . but don’t count on it. I’d advise you not to push her.’

When Celia woke it felt as though her head had been pulped. Blackness pressed in on her. Cold invaded her bones and she began to shiver, so her teeth chattered together like a bag of loose bones. She was in a cellar, she thought. The damp air contained all sorts of foul vapours, most of which she’d smelled before, and had tried to forget.

She was on a pile of rough sacks. Lifting one arm her fingertips touched against the ceiling. She swung them outwards and touched a wall either side. Squeaks and rustles scattered before her as, getting to her knees, she crawled around her prison, exploring the slimy wall as she measured the space. There was hardly any headroom and she couldn’t stand.

And her beautiful gown would be ruined, she thought, the female in her coming to the fore, because when all was said and done it was the least of her worries.

Panic nearly overtook her when she discovered there was no door, so no way to get out – and that thought made her feel as though she was suffocating.

‘Be sensible. There must be a way out, otherwise they wouldn’t have got you in here,’ she whispered, the sound of her own voice calming her a little.

And there was a draught, from above. Feeling along the ceiling, she traced the directions of the floorboards, and two cuts across, where a trapdoor had been fashioned.

Lying on her back in the dirt she placed her feet against the trapdoor and applied pressure. It didn’t give an inch. There was something heavy over it.

If they’d intended to kill her she’d be dead by now, so whoever had abducted her would be revealed sooner or later. In the meantime she intended to conserve her strength in case she got the chance to escape. One thing was certain. If they demanded a ransom the reverend would pay it, and he’d call out the constables and have them all arrested.

Sinking back on to the sacks she curled up, and, ignoring her aching head and the other long-legged inhabitants of her prison, she thought of something more pleasant, the music she’d heard earlier . . .