Ruth Warburton: Witch Hunt

Phoebe Fairbrother groaned as the light filtered through the tattered red brocade curtains. She had a head on fit to burst, and beside her George Wainwright was snoring like a pig, though that wasn’t what had woken her up. Something else had – a noise from the street. But it was George stopping her from falling back to sleep.

‘Get out!’ She hit him with one of the stained satin pillows from her bed.

‘Wha . . . ?’ He sat up, his hair comically rumpled on one side.

‘I said get out! Nobody paid me for no board and lodging.’

‘But, Phoebe darlin’—’

‘You deaf? Get out!’

She pulled the pillow over her head as he clumped around the room, pulling on his britches and boots, and then stomped crossly down the stairs to the street door. At last it was quiet and she rolled on to her back, trying to recapture the warm languorous dream she’d been having before she’d been woken – but just as she was slipping into unconsciousness it came again. A crack against the windowpane. This time there was a cry, a voice low and hoarse.

‘Phoebe! You awake?’

‘Oh shurr up !’ she groaned. But the rattle of stones came again and this time she got up, pulling the eiderdown around her shoulders, and marched angrily across to the window to fling it open. The sky above the rooftops was paling to grey, but in the narrow alley next to the pub she could see nothing but shadows and the small puddle of light beneath the gas lamp.

‘You can eff off, whoever you are,’ she called. ‘We ain’t open.’

‘Phoebe.’ A tall figure stepped into the light from the lamp post. His face was covered in soot but when he pulled off his cap the lamplight glinted off his straw-coloured hair.

Phoebe’s mouth fell open.

‘Luke Lexton? What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m sorry it’s so early, Phoebes. Please let us in.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Never mind that.’ He shivered into his greatcoat, his breath a cloud of white in the grey dawn light. ‘Let us in before we freeze.’

She was halfway down the stairs before it occurred to her to wonder who ‘us’ was.

Luke let the stones fall from his hand on to the pavement and stood, his arms wrapped around himself, trying to keep in the warmth. Something gusted in the light from the lamp and when he looked up he saw dark flecks against the brightness, like specks of ash in the draught from a fire. But it was not ash. It was snow.

Then there was a sound and he turned back to the door.

‘Bleedin’ thing,’ he heard, muffled from behind the wood. ‘Always did stick, the bastard. Give it a shove, Luke.’

Luke put his boot to the foot of the door and pushed, until it gave suddenly, opening with a rush that tipped him into the narrow vestibule and almost into Phoebe’s arms.

‘Oi, mind yourself,’ she said crossly, pushing him back and straightening her clothes. She was in a stained flowered tea gown, her face streaked with last night’s paint and her breath smelling of gin. Luke could have kissed her.

‘Thank you, Phoebes, thank you. I—’

‘Yes, all right, all right. Shut the door or you’ll let all the warmth out. You can tell me yer bleedin’-’eart story when you’re in front of the fire.’

She made as if to close the door, but Luke put his hand out, stopping her.

‘Wait. I’m . . .’ He took a breath. ‘I’m not alone. Rosa, come here.’

She stepped forward out of the shadows, her face blue with cold and covered in soot and smuts, her grey silk gown still stinking of smoke and the match-factory chemicals. Her long red hair had come loose from its pins and tumbled down her back, full of ashes.

‘What the—’ Phoebe looked amused at first, but then her mouth fell open. ‘What in Gawd’s name are you doing ’ere?’

‘You know each other?’ Luke looked from one to the other. They looked so different – Rosa small and pinched with cold, Phoebe warm and golden and bold. But as they stared at each other they both did a strange thing; each let a hand creep to her throat. Luke recognized the gesture in Rosa; it was what she did when she was nervous, putting her hand to the locket her father had given her as a child, as if it could give her strength. But Phoebe?

‘Yes, we know each other,’ Phoebe said shortly. She let her hand drop and pulled the tea gown tightly around herself, up to her throat. ‘She’s a lady. She can’t come in ’ere.’

‘I have no choice.’ Rosa spoke for the first time, her voice hoarse with smoke and tiredness. ‘P-please. Look at m-me.’

‘Darlin’,’ Phoebe’s face was hard, ‘let me spell it out for you: there’s only one kind of woman comes in ’ere, and it ain’t your kind. Understand? If you’re seen leavin’ here your reputation won’t be worth a bent farthing.’

‘I know what you’re saying.’ Rosa stepped forward and her face was as hard as Phoebe’s. Luke saw her fist was clenched. ‘But we’re all f-f-fallen in one way or another. I don’t c-c-care about my reputation. Please, let me in before I f-freeze.’

For a moment Phoebe hesitated. There was something behind her careless expression, something wary. Then she shrugged.

‘Your funeral, love.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosa pushed past her, into the dusty little parlour of the pub. The embers of a banked-up fire smouldered in the small grate, and Phoebe knelt in front of it for a moment, raking it apart and piling on more coal. Then she brushed her hands on the hearthrug and sat back on her heels.

‘All right then. What’s going on? You two runnin’ away together?’ She didn’t laugh; the idea was too preposterous to need spelling out as a joke.

Luke looked at Rosa and, for a moment, her gold-brown eyes held his. Then she looked away. He bit his lip.

‘We’re in trouble.’

‘I can see that,’ Phoebe said tartly. Her sharp eyes caught something, a flash in the dimness. ‘What’s that on your finger, love?’ She was across the room in a moment, her eyes wide. ‘Strewth, don’t tell me that’s real?’

‘It’s real,’ Rosa said dully. She let Phoebe pick up her hand, turning it this way and that in the light of the fire, her face a mixture of grudging respect and plain envy.

‘Good job you ‘ad gloves on when I met you last, love. If you’da walked through Spitalfields with that in plain view, you’d of lost more than your locket.’

‘It won’t come off.’ Rosa pulled at the ring and for the first time Luke saw that the skin around it was red and swollen and beaded with blood. ‘See? They’d have had to cut off my finger to steal it.’

‘There’s plenty wouldn’t let that stop ’em,’ Phoebe said shortly. ‘I’ll get the kettle from the bar and we can all have a brew.’

As soon as she had gone through to the next room, Luke turned to Rosa.

‘What did she mean about losing the locket?’

‘Oh.’ Rosa’s hand went up to her throat again, and when she let it fall he saw that there was nothing there. The locket was gone.

‘What happened?’ His voice came out harder than he’d meant it to, but she shook her head.

‘Nothing, Luke. Please leave it.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Phoebe?’ He moved to block the girl’s path as she came back into the room, the full kettle in one hand, tea caddy in the other.

‘What?’ she asked, but Luke knew she must have heard his conversation with Rosa, and the expression on her face told him what he already knew. Reaching out, he pulled open the neck of Phoebe’s tea gown.

There it was, hanging just below the hollow of her throat: Rosa’s locket.