The Fatal Tree Read online

  He fancied himself the wild rogue, to be ruled by no one, and I the haughty jade who needed no man. In truth we both belonged to the prig-napper. We all did in the end.

  Newgate Gaol, 1726. An anonymous writer sets down the words of Edgworth Bess as she confides the adventures and misfortunes that led her all too soon to the judgment of London:

  Cruelly deceived, Bess is cast out onto the streets of the wicked city – and by nightfall her ruin is already certain. What matters now is her survival of it.

  In that dangerous underworld known in thieves’ cant as Romeville, she will learn new tricks and trades. And all begins with her fateful meeting, that very first night, with the corrupt thief-taker general, Jonathan Wild.

  But it is the infamous gaol-breaker, Jack Sheppard, who will lay Romeville at her feet …

  Drawing on the true story that mesmerized eighteenth-century society, the acclaimed author of The Long Firm delivers a tour de force: a riveting, artful tale of crime and rough justice, love and betrayal. Rich in the street slang of the era, it vividly conjures up a murky world of illicit dens and molly-houses; a world where life was lived on the edge, in the shadow of that fatal tree – the gallows.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jake Arnott was born in 1961, and lives in London. He is the author of the The Long Firm, published by Sceptre in 1999 and subsequently made into an acclaimed BBC TV series. His second novel, He Kills Coppers, was also made into a series by Channel 4. He has since published the novels truecrime, Johnny Come Home, The Devil’s Paintbrush and The House of Rumour.

 
  www.sceptrebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Sceptre

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Jake Arnott 2017

  The right of Jake Arnott to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 473 63777 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.sceptrebooks.com

  Since Laws were made for ev’ry Degree,

  To curb Vice in others, as well as me,

  I wonder we han’t better Company,

  Upon Tyburn Tree!

  But Gold from Law can take out the Sting;

  And if rich Men, like us were to swing.

  ’Twou’d thin the Land, such Numbers to string

  Upon Tyburn Tree!

  John Gay, The Beggar’s Opera

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Part One: The Tree of Life

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Part Two: The Tree of Knowledge

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Part Three: The Fatal Tree

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Postscript

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  The

  TREE

  of

  LIFE

  Newgate Gaol, 5th February 1726

  Dear Applebee,

  ‘All of you that in the condemned hold do lie, prepare you, for tomorrow you will die.’ This is the cheerful song they recite to those who await the journey from the doleful prison of Newgate to the fatal tree of Tyburn. At midnight comes the peal of St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, the execution bell, whose sound is carried through an underground passage to the very cell of the doomed wretch. Twelve double tolls are rung and each woeful chime makes its demand. It is the bell of Old Bailey that calls When will you pay me? But we all know the account will be settled soon enough.

  I write to you in the hope that you might provide some credit in the meantime. For as you are aware if the condemned confess to the chaplain here, that holy man will likely sell the contents of an unburdened soul on Grub Street. He might earn twenty pounds if the story is a good one. All those sins remembered in The Last Dying Speech of _____ or The Ordinary Account of the Behaviour, Confession & Dying Words of the Condemned Criminals Executed at Tyburn. A pretty pamphlet sold for sixpence at the criminal’s own hanging.

  Prisoners have learned that it is far wiser to deal directly with a publisher and earn a little money to pay the fees, the garnish, the gaolers charge for any comfort in this purgatory. That is why they send for you, John Applebee, known to all in this particular branch of the trade as its finest exponent, and that is why I trust you are found by this letter. For I can offer you a work that I am certain will interest you as the man who made his fortune with The History of the Remarkable Life of John Sheppard as well as The True & Genuine Account of the Life & Actions of the Late Jonathan Wild. This new account might capitalise on the success of these previous narratives, for we will meet both of these infamous gentlemen within: the house-breaker Sheppard; the thief-taker Wild. And what follows will eventually form a history that links them both: the tale of the woman who tempted the young Sheppard away from his apprenticeship to a wicked life and betrayed him to the corrupt Wild. I present to you the story of Elizabeth Lyon, never fully told before, that lewd soul known as Edgworth Bess, now awaiting judgment here in Newgate, who has agreed to confide to me the details of her adventures and misfortunes. As justice draws near it is surely time for her to give her own testimony.

  In the biography you printed of Sheppard he said of his lover Bess: ‘A more wicked, deceitful and lascivious wretch there is not living in England.’ So now hear her evidence attentively that you might be certain of your own and the reader’s verdict. Accordingly, I enclose with this letter the first chapter of her story. If it meets with your satisfaction and we can agree terms, I will send you the rest in instalments.

  It is, of course, hoped that the moral of this confession might keep the public sensible and cautioned of temptation, even where its sensational details might incline them to be otherwise. All should be warned of the salacious nature of some of the elements described in the recounting of this wretched life. But sincere penitence insists that every sin should be depicted in all its wickedness and true justice requires a full report of its own shadow.

  And to that shadow-land are we now headed, with its queer customs and foreign tongue. I have retained Elizabeth Lyon’s use of the thieves’ vernacular so the readers might acquaint themselves with the strange dialect of this wicked world, whose canting-crew contains filchers, bung-nippers, spruce-prigs, punks and mollies: the St Giles’ Greek better known as flash. For example, in flash talk the evil trade of Edgworth Bess is spoken of as buttock-and-file, that is, whore and pickpocket. If possible a full glossary of terms should be provided in the end pages. A guide for the reader, like the link-boy who leads with a lantern through the alleys at night.

  For you will know to beware of that other whore and pickpocket: the writer. That hackney-scribbler always ready to filch someone’s life and fence it cheap. Dissipated talents who trade in feigned sentiment and dulled wit, those poor wretches who reside in Grub Street. It is said that this thoroughfare was once called Grape Street and before that Gropecunt Lane where, as the name suggests, the very lowest forms of harlotry could be found. You may think, as many do, that its present inhabitants merely follow this tradition. I have some reputation in this dubious profession but can be trusted to write a faithful account and to deliver it in a timely fashion. For the moment, however, and for reasons I will explain in due course, I wish to remain anonymous. So I would beg your indulgence and request you direct your reply to my subject here at Newgate.

  You might consider this just another petty story to be sold and one of doubtful value but I am certain that in the publishing of this account a handsome profit could be realised. As you know, now is the fashion for criminal narratives, ever more extreme and each loudly boasting its authenticity. Most are badly told lies. But if the public really craves the truth, to hear the lamentable voice calling out of the condemned hold, I can assure them that each word that follows comes from the very mouth of that hell.

  So here begins the tale of Edgworth Bess, related by me in her own words and a darker narrative for those that would look a little closer. A hidden history that must be told in secret: of lives too scandalous even for the Newgate Calendar. And of love lost, which is the saddest story of them all.

  I am, sir, your most obedient servant,

  the author of the below

  THE TRUE & GENUINE ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE & ACTIONS OF ELIZABETH LYON

  I

  I was born in the small town of Edgworth, some ten miles north of London, the year Queen Anne came to the throne. If any seek significance as to why the place of my birth was later to provide my notorious alias, they might note that the old Roman road from
there makes one straight line to London, without a single turn or bend in it, and ends directly at where Tyburn now stands. So this was my swift journey from innocence and, in truth, I was headed for the gallows of that wicked city too soon and far too young.

  For I was not always so harsh in my manners or so coarse in language. I grew up in a noble household and as a child I learned some etiquette, some reading even. I used the proper words for things then, not the canting tongue I would later be schooled in. When I tell the flash citizens of Romeville that I grew up in a gentry-ken, they laugh, but it is true. A fine country house in a small park with an ornamental garden, a fish pond, and a summer-house – that was my world when I was a child. Our master, Sir Wickham Steevens, had it built in the classical style with the great fortune he had made in the Americas.

  I lived downstairs, of course, in a small room I shared with my mother. She was servant to Lady Steevens and, though the rules of the house were strict, I was allowed some liberty when young and was raised partly with the family. I was always expected to fetch and run errands, but there were times when I took the opportunity to gain some education in the little while I spent with our master’s children. Learning by imitation and enquiry rather than direct instruction, I acquired a fickle wit but a keen and curious spirit.

  The staff were ruled by Fenton, master of the household, a stern cove who had served as a sergeant in the Foot Guards. He ordered all the servants, the footmen, the cook, the kitchen maids and the gardener. He chided me sometimes for being too familiar and warned me that I would soon have to learn more of duty.

  My happiest memories were of playing, and my dearest playmate was Richard, the eldest child and only son, who was but a year older than myself. I was as fond of the boys’ games as those the girls played but I had a warmer affection for Richard than for his sisters, who in their turn could be quite offhand with me. As I grew to be their servant they soon forgot that we had once all been mere children together. Because of the closeness of our ages, Richard had a gentler recollection of when we were almost like brother and sister.

  My mother died when I was thirteen and I took her position. Within the next two years I grew tall and strong and my figure ripened at hips and bosom. The master’s son now looked at me differently. He would still act towards me in a playful manner but there was a new game to be learned.

  It happened one day that he came running up the stairs calling up to his sisters. I came from where I was alone in a room and met him in the doorway. I said to him, ‘Sir, the ladies are not here. They are walking in the garden.’

  His breath was quick, his manner bright and full of haste. He clasped both my arms. ‘Bess,’ he hissed. ‘That is all the better. Are you here alone?’

  I nodded and his eyes sparked with mischief as he pushed me back into the room.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, as he turned from me to close the door on us both.

  He took hold of me once more, pulling me to him tightly and kissing me on the mouth. Even as I pushed him away I felt my blood fire up. He reached out to trace my cheek gently with his fingertips. ‘Bess,’ he whispered.

  His face came close to mine, eyes hooded, the mouth a trembling pout. His lips brushed mine and he seized me once more. I was possessed by a strange fear as I yielded to him. Not of him, though. He was but a stripling and I might have wrestled him off. No, my fright was at something inside myself.

  Presently he stopped and we stood just looking at each other, both scant of breath and in wonder at a strange new joy discovered. I remember noting at that instant how Richard looked all the prettier in a disordered state, his curls falling loose over a dampened brow, his cheeks flushed in a rosy glow.

  ‘Bess, I am in love with you,’ he told me.

  And that spell worked its glamour on me. A foolish girl tranced, never doubting the truth of what he said. I believed these words as if I had uttered them myself and there lay the folly: Bess was in earnest but Richard was not.

  He went to the window and looked out. ‘My sisters are coming back,’ he said, and turned to leave the room. As he passed me he took my hand and kissed it, holding my gaze all the time. ‘Will you be mine, Bess?’ He let the question hang in the air as he rushed out, calling to the daughters of the house as he thundered down the stairs.

  The next few days passed with hardly a word shared between us but we rarely missed the chance to trade a glance, smile or gesture. Those silent expressions made me as heady as his spoken words. More so, perhaps, as they told of some great secret that could not by reason be deciphered, only by the senses.

  Then the day came when all his family were out on a visit and the house was empty but for the maids below stairs. He found me in his sister’s chamber, rudely caught me up in his arms and carried me to her bed. Once more he spoke of his love for me as he unlaced my stays. He set to work on loosening every part of my rigging, then unpinned the handkerchief at my bosom. I gasped as his eager hands sought out my naked flesh. I did not quite know all his intent, as I was innocent then, so I offered little resistance to his attention. Indeed, I was too pleased with this new game to think of where it might lead. Then Richard thought he heard somebody coming up the stairs so he got up and urged me to reorder my dress.

  It was then that he took my hand and put a guinea into it. Well, I was as charmed by the money as I had been by his words. I imagined that the coin was a token of love, not a bargain for it. He asked again, ‘Will you be mine, Bess?’

  And I nodded, thinking that this was a promise of the heart. I kept the gold piece he gave me on the table by my bedside.

  By arrangement he came to my room in the middle of the night. I lit a candle and he crept into my bed. I stayed his hand as he pulled at my shift but he entreated me with such persuasion, saying all would be reckoned well when he came into his estate. Once more I did not doubt the honour of his words, being of such childish inexperience that I thought of love as but a simple story ending in marriage. And so I soon lay exposed before him.

  With a sigh he ran his hands across my form, examining it by the yellow flicker of the candle and remarking at its beauty in a way that appealed to a vanity I’d never known. My excitation quickly matched his. And the very urgency and danger of my predicament spurred me on, especially as the debt of my virtue seemed secured by some destined guarantee. All these things blew the coals of my desire and I readily gave myself to him.

  A fierce pain soon gave way to tantalising pleasure. Richard seemed possessed by some demon as he bucked away at me. I felt the yearning of joy, just out of reach, lost somewhere in the frenzy of sensation. Then he shuddered violently, his whole body clenched in some furious ecstasy. For a moment I thought that this spasm might be a fit of the falling sickness. Then he groaned and with an addled-headed grin rolled over and fell into slumber.

  Sleep did not come so readily for me, though. I snuffed the flame and lay in the gloom, brooding on my circumstance, wondering idly on imagined prospects, bewildered but utterly ignorant of how forsaken I really was. And it was this vain attempt at comprehension that contributed to my ruin, for I slept late and woke to find Richard still in my bed. I tried to rouse him but it was too late. One of the other maids had seen him and told the mistress of the house what she had witnessed.

  So we were discovered and the shame of it laid bare to the whole household.

  Richard’s mother was in a fury. ‘You have let this whore snare you, is that it?’ she demanded of him.

  And he meekly agreed to this hateful lie. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he muttered, becoming her little boy once more. ‘She took a guinea for it.’

  ‘Is this true?’ she asked me.

  ‘He entreated me,’ I tried to explain. ‘He asked me, “Will you be mine?”’

  ‘And so you were his?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  It was then that Lady Steevens spied the coin on the table by the bed. She picked it up and held it in front of my face. ‘For a guinea?’ she sneered. ‘You took this from my son?’

  ‘No!’ I protested. ‘He gave it to me.’