We went on, up Portland Place, with no more than two or three lamplit windows showing on either side, the road between as dark as a river. Tabby had gone quiet. We crossed the Marylebone Road and walked with the railings of Regent’s Park on our left. I knew where Cumberland Market was because I’d ridden out there one summer day with Amos when the owner of the livery stables had sent him to choose some loads of hay. He’d taken his time, walking from heap to heap, sometimes just looking, sometimes drawing out a handful and sniffing at it like a connoisseur. A couple of times he’d even chewed a blade or two, looking thoughtful. Once he’d simply kicked at a heap and shook his head.

  ‘What can you tell from kicking it,’ I’d asked him.

  ‘Listen.’

  He’d kicked again. A faint rustling came from the hay.

  ‘Thistles in there, look. You can hear them. Now listen to this one.’ Another kick. This time the sound had been as soft as a breeze over standing grass. ‘That’s what good hay sounds like.’

  I remembered that, just as the smell of damp hay came into the cold air round us.

  ‘Nearly there,’ I said to Tabby.

  Cumberland Square was deserted with no lamp showing anywhere. A dark bulk that we bumped into turned out to be an empty haycart. We clambered up and sat on the end of it.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Tabby said.

  ‘Wait for the ice cart.’

  Something else happened first. Heavy steps sounded and a man walked past us. He was smoking strong tobacco. We followed his progress across the square by the red glow of his pipe. A door opened and closed and the scrape of a flint came clearly to where we were sitting. Gradually the outline of a building took shape from the lamplight inside it, an odd shape, like a stubby dome. Beside it was a smaller building, a workman’s hut from the look of it, with more lamplight spilling from a half open door. Ten minutes or so after that, the sound of slow plodding hooves came from the direction of town. Eventually a cart appeared, drawn by a heavy cob, and lurched past us over the cobbles towards the building. The man with the pipe appeared from the hut and said something to the driver. I couldn’t make out the words, but from the tone of it, he was grumbling.

  The driver got down and the two men opened what sounded like a heavy door in the dome. Sure that nobody would hear our steps above the noise of it, I slid down off the haycart and signed to Tabby to follow. By the time we got to the dome, the horse and cart had gone through the door and disappeared inside. The hooves had a hollow sound, as if on a platform. The grumbling man swore and told the other man to make the horse stand.

  ‘He’ll be down the pit cart and all otherwise.’

  The next sound was a clanking of iron and rattle of a heavy chain.

  ‘Right, when I give the word, you turn that handle and winch ’em up,’ the grumbling man said to the driver, who was evidently new to the job. ‘Then when you’ve got ’em up, swing it round and land them in the cart nice and gentle. Got that?’

  I was near the door by then, and heard clearly the ringing sound as a pair of nailed boots went down what sounded like a long iron ladder. Soon after that, an echoing shout came up from the depths and the winch handle started grinding.

  Knowing that both men were well occupied, I risked a glance round the door. The lamplight seemed very bright after the dark outside. The horse was standing on a wooden platform with a patience that suggested he at least was not new to the work. That was just as well, because a dark opening gaped a few feet away. As the winch ground on, a gleaming cube rose into the light, gripped in the jaws of a huge pair of pinchers. A twenty inch block of ice, just as Mrs Hobbes had said. The driver shoved the winch round so that it was above the cart and lowered it not quite carefully enough, so that the boards rattled and the horse twitched. Another grumble came up from the depths. The cart driver sent the giant pincers back down the shaft on their chain. They went rattling down a long way.

  As they got into the rhythm of it, the gleaming cubes came up faster. There was a strange beauty to the process, with the ice blocks rising into the air against the dark silhouette of the man manouevring them, like a slow juggling act. As the cart filled up, I drew Tabby back from the doorway so that we could talk.

  ‘I want to get inside there. There may be a chance when the cart leaves.’

  She nodded. It was too dark to see her face, but I could sense the tension in her. Tabby was afraid, and so was I. The last thing I wanted was to go down into that pit of ice, but having come so far, I had to try at least.

  ‘If I’m not out by daylight, I want you to go and tell—’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  I’d been about to say ‘Mr Legge at the livery stables’ until I remembered that Amos was not there. It made the hollow feeling inside me even worse, so I didn’t argue.

  Four o’clock had struck before they finished. We stayed outside, taking a glimpse now and then to see how things were going. The boots came ringing back up the ladder. By then it had struck me that there wasn’t room to turn the horse and cart on the platform, so there must be another door on the opposite side. I watched as the driver shook the horse’s bridle to wake it up. The other man, still grumbling about the time it had taken, stamped across the wooden platform and, just as I’d hoped, opened a door on the far side. Under cover of the trampling and creaking, we dashed inside. The cold struck like a blow. There was no concealment on the wooden platform, under the lantern light. I touched Tabby’s hand and pointed down the shaft. The rungs of the iron ladder rose from what looked like a bottomless pit of glowing pearl. Forcing myself to grasp the top rung and lower my feet down was one of the worst things I’d ever done. My skirt and petticoats bunched round me and my knee grazed against cold iron as I fought for a foothold. As soon as I was as secure as possible and far enough down, I called to Tabby to follow me.

  By now, the cart had gone and the iron door it had left by was closing. Any second now, the grumbling man would turn away from it and cross the platform to the other door. Tabby’s boot came down heavily on my finger. I bit my lip and moved cautiously a couple of rungs further down. The man walked across the platform above us. The other door ground on its hinges and shut. He’d left the lamp burning, so that must mean he expected more trade before daylight. I took a deep breath and made myself look down. The steps went down and down, through the ice blocks and into darkness. I couldn’t see the bottom of the pit, but guessed it must be fifty feet deep or more. At least there were stopping places on the way down. As my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I saw that the ice blocks were stacked in layers, with floors of rough planking in between. The first of those floors was only ten feet or so below us. I climbed down to it, slowly and cautiously, making as little sound as possible. Tabby followed me into a gleaming cave of ice.

  SEVENTEEN

  We crouched against a wall of ice blocks. More layers of ice glinted through gaps in the planks, far down. The cold was like being struck in the chest and my fingers felt immediately numb. There was no sound from the top platform, so the man must have gone back to his hut to wait for the next customer. I stood up cautiously and walked along a board, trying not to slip down the gap on either side. Sand scrunched under foot. I supposed the ice man had sprinkled it to give a better footing. The ice picked up and multiplied the lamplight from above, so we could see clearly enough. Tabby and I walked close to each other, peering into the blocks. Most of them were as clear as diamonds. A few had air bubbles and even leaves from their birthplace in the Norwegian lake. A childish and fearful part of my mind more than half expected to find a woman lying entombed, like Snow White in her glass coffin. Nothing.

  By the far wall, we came to a gap in the ice, with nothing but sand-scuffed planks. There were marks on the sand as if several people had walked there. It seemed odd that there should be a space here, some way from the bottom of the winch. You’d have expected them to load the nearer blocks first. Tabby gave a gasp and went down on her knees. I thought she’d fallen, but she stood up holding something out to me. She mouthed, ‘Look’. I had to move nearer the light to see what it was. Of all things, violets. A spray of artificial violets, made not very skilfully of felt and wire, smelling of damp wool, the kind of cheap ornament a girl might wear on a hat or a belt. My mind went to the painted violets on the prayer card that Janet Priest’s sister had given us. I was sure beyond reason that both had been made by the same hand. Janet and the girl we’d known as Dora had both lain in this gleaming cave.

  I took another step and stumbled over something lying across the planks, pitched forward, dropping the violets through a gap, only just stopping myself from crying out. Tabby caught me by the coat sleeve. The smell of damp hessian was rising round us. The thing that had made me stumble was loosely wrapped in sacking dark with moisture. I waited until my heart steadied then kneeled down and put out a hand to touch the sacking, trying to find the resolution to pull it away from whatever was inside. Before I could manage it, wheels rumbled from outside and above us, echoing like thunder from wall to wall of the pit. Two horses, stepping more quickly than the first ice cart horse. With both doors shut, there was no chance of hearing what was being said, but it was a certainty that any minute now the door above us would slide back and the ice man come climbing down. Tabby caught my eye and pointed that we should climb down to a lower level. I nodded, but there was something that must be done first. I started folding the sacking back then pulled my hand away. I’d touched hair. Damp hair, just as my own felt after washing it. Damp, thick woman’s hair.

  When Tabby saw my face she kneeled down beside me. Her hand, more resolute than mine, pulled the sacking down further. When the pressure of it was released, something white surged out, so white that it seemed to carry a light of its own. When I touched it, it felt soft but springy, like the pelt of a healthy animal. My mind went back to a fitting room in Piccadilly. This is what it must have. See. The contessa, eyes bright, holding the fur of the Arctic fox against her cheek. My hand slid away from fur onto velvet, mulberry-coloured velvet, rich and new. When I drew velvet and fox fur aside, her skin was stretched tight over her cheekbones, pale as paper. The lids closed over her eyes looked so tight and thin that I half expected the amazing colour of them to shine through. I made myself touch her face, as if against all sense and reason there might be life there. It was colder than the ice itself. I folded the cloak hood back over her.

  ‘Another one,’ Tabby said. Her voice was level and sounded calmer than I felt, but then she’d never met the contessa.

  Above us, the door was grinding open. The ice man still had his pipe in his mouth and the whiff of tobacco hung round him as he began climbing down the steps. By then, I’d gripped Tabby’s shoulder and pushed her towards the ladder, down to the second layer of ice. I went after her. Another set of footsteps followed the ice man down to the tier above us. They were making straight for the cleared space where the hessian bundle was lying. I let go of the ladder and moved towards the same space, but ten feet or so below.

  ‘Well, are you waiting for something? Pick it up.’

  The voice came from the newcomer. He spoke drawlingly, like a man accustomed to giving orders. He had a foreign accent, but I couldn’t place it in those few words. Looking up through a gap, I saw the jowly face of the ice man as he bent down, then straightened up. The woman in the sacking was a light weight and he carried her easily on his shoulders up the steps. The other man followed him, not hurrying. The horses above were less patient than the cart horse had been, trampling on the boards and snickering uneasily. They weren’t used to this, any more than we were.

  ‘Up,’ I said in Tabby’s ear.

  I went first, moving fast. It wouldn’t take long to load that bundle and drive away. I hoped we could get ourselves outside when the ice man opened the opposite door and the noise of the vehicle departing hid our rush in the other direction. Up we went through the top layer of ice blocks, blinking as the pearly light changed to the glare of the oil lamp on the loading platform. I’d mistimed it. The vehicle was still there. Not an ice cart or anything like it. I was looking at the back of a gentleman’s travelling chariot. As soon as I set eyes on it, it started moving. Knowing we might have no more than a second or two, I scrambled onto the platform, landing on my knees. Tabby was so close behind me that her head banged against my shoe soles. The chariot started moving, at a walk. I straightened up. We could do it, just. While the ice man was closing the exit door, we could get out the way we’d come in and . . .

  And nothing. I was at the door but where Tabby’s footsteps should have been behind me, there was silence. I turned, to see what was keeping her, and found the worst thing I could have imagined in the circumstances. She was there, on the back of the departing chariot, in the footman’s place, if there’d been a footman, standing there wide-eyed, holding onto the strap with one hand. The other hand gestured to me to join her, urgently and impatiently as if I were the one who’d taken the wrong turning. In her terrier mind, there’d been nothing for it but to stick to a hot trail and she thought the same thing was in my mind. A terrier’s human being goes where the terrier goes. I picked up my skirts, sprinted across the echoing boards, jumped up and joined her on the footmen’s platform just as the chariot cleared the doors. Her hand closed round my wrist, steadying me. The ice man had turned away, to close and bolt the door. Alerted by my rush past him he turned, shouted something. Too late. As soon as we cleared the surrounds of the ice pit, the horses broke into a trot and we turned sharply into Cumberland Market and out towards Albany Street. The ice man was shouting behind us, but the shouts faded. Either he lacked the energy to follow, or whatever he’d been paid didn’t cover the extra effort. Tabby kept hold of my wrist and guided my hand towards the second footman’s strap.

  ‘Bleeding hell, what were you waiting for?’

  Fine language from an apprentice to employer, but I said nothing, not having the breath.

  Tabby was used to this. As soon as she could toddle, probably, she’d joined the urchins in the park, daring each other to cling to the backs of carriages. If I’d been able to speak, I’d have asked her why she’d thought it was a sound idea to cling like flies to a chariot, driven by somebody unknown but probably murderous with a dead body on board.

  We were going at a fast trot, heading southwards towards the centre of town. No sooner had I worked that out than we turned right without slackening speed, going along the south side of Regent’s Park. I cannoned against Tabby as we swung out to the left, but she kept her footing and nudged me back upright. The roads and pavements were deserted, so no reason for the chariot to slow down and no chance for us to jump off without serious injury. With that decided for the moment, I began to think that Tabby’s reckless decision was not necessarily a bad thing. If the murderer were following the same pattern as with the Achilles statue, his intention would be to leave the body in some very public place, where she’d be found at daylight. What better proof could we have than to see him in the act of doing it? All we’d need to do was cling on to the end of the journey and stay there while the man, or men, unloaded the body and arranged it as required. He, or they, would be intent on their task and have no reason to look behind the chariot. The question was, how we’d get away once we’d seen what happened. An idea began to form.

  ‘We’ll stay here until it stops,’ I said to Tabby, not even bothering to whisper because of the noise of the chariot. ‘We’ll watch what they do, then run out, get on the box and I’ll drive us away.’

  I’d driven various carts and carriages so had no doubt of my ability to manage this one. There was piquancy in the idea of arriving at some police station, not only with the case practically solved but in possession of the murderer’s own vehicle. It would take a lot of influence in high places for the guilty ones to explain that away. Tabby simply nodded, as if I’d proposed a walk to the shops.

  We turned sharp left into the New Road, then left again at Lisson Grove and down to Bayswater Road, past the Flora Tea Gardens, heading westwards at a canter. This area was familiar to me from rides on Rancie and I considered where they were likely to leave the body. We were well past the Achilles statue by now, heading for Kensington. If they intended to leave it in a place as prominent as the first two, there weren’t many choices left. Only Kensington Gardens and Kensington Palace lay ahead before we were out into the country, heading for Kew and Richmond. Still at a canter, we passed Kensington Palace. A few lights were gleaming in its top windows. The working day had started, with the early servants getting out of bed in the attics to rake out grates, clean boots, set water to boil. It was cold, so cold that I felt as if my hand were frozen to the strap.

  Once or twice we sped past slow carts creaking from the other direction. They were no more than shapes moving in the darkness, except for one pale, astonished face of a rustic carter who had just escaped being hit by us, head on. Farm carts, probably, with potatoes and cabbages for Covent Garden. We sped out of Kensington, towards Chiswick. A breeze blowing from the Thames brought the smell of water and mud. Could Kew Gardens be their chosen place? I doubted it. The previous two bodies had been left in places where all London would know and talk about them. At this time of year, a body might lie undiscovered in Kew Gardens for days. They wouldn’t want that. There was a pattern to all this, and although I couldn’t guess what it was, it depended on the bodies being found at a particular place and time. Besides, if we were making for Kew we’d have to cross the river. Our driver gave no sign of doing that and went on westwards, back to a trot now, but a fast one.

 

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