Don Gutteridge - Governing Passion

“Well, I do hope to stay, Marc.”

“First, let’s get this letter finished and inthe mail.”

The young man dipped his pen in the ink andbegan to write again.

***

Three days later, Robert was waiting for Marc in thedining-room.

“I’ve got some news that may spell trouble,”Robert said.

“What’s happened?” Marc said. “Has Thériaultreplied?”

“No. A body’s been found — out at theParliament building.”

Sarie Hickson made her way carefully through thesnow-clogged alleys of Devil’s Acre. Her feet read the way as ablind person reads Braille. She was humming a merry tune to herselfbecause tonight was an evening when she would be free of thebrothel, of its smells and its animal cries and its dialogues ofdespair. Sure, she was still a prostitute and was going to continuethat service when she reached her destination, but there would bemuch more than a mere groping in the candle-lit dark, and such areward afterwards. And she would be called upon to use skills shehad learned as a child in pageants and tableaux. Thinking of this,she unconsciously put her hand up to the big blond wig she waswearing and felt the swish of her long gown against the driftsbeneath her. She was ready.

She came out onto Jarvis Street, swung southto King, then east again to George. Here she soon found the houseshe was looking for. It was a brick mansion of two storeys with aportico in front and a set of elegant steps leading up to the frontdoor. She did not use them, however. Instead she went around oneside of the house along a well-worn path until she reached thetradesman’s entrance. She knew from past episodes that her loverwould have liked her to have made a grand entrance into the foyer,but that discretion forestalled this regal gesture. She rappeddiscreetly on the door. Carswell, the butler, answered it, andwithout looking directly at her, waved her inside. She followed himdown a winding hallway until they came to the master’ssitting-room. She entered and the door closed softly behind her.Secrecy, she knew, was paramount, and only Carswell among theservants knew what she was up to. The mistress of the house, asusual, was visiting her sister in Streetsville.

“Come in, Madame La Marquise.”

The voice was orotund and excited. Sarielooked across the room, past the roaring fireplace and the silvercandelabrum on a polished mahogany table to where the gentlemanstood awaiting her arrival. And this was no ordinary gentleman, forhe had a crimson cloak trimmed with ermine drooped over hisshoulders and falling in folds around him to the carpet below. Uponhis head there glittered a jewel-encrusted crown — at least itappeared thus in the flickering light. The rest of him was attiredin an Elizabethan doublet and hose, with a conspicuouscod-piece.

“Please remove your cloak, Your Highness,”the royal gentleman commanded.

Sarie smiled. “Yes, my dear Louis.” Sheremoved her coat to reveal the full splendour of her evening dress,fluffed and ruched and cut low to reveal two-thirds of her bosom. Astring of fake pearls — courtesy of King Louis — graced her neck,and upon her head sat a glorious blond wig.

“Madame de Pompadour, how thoughtful of youto grace the royal presence,” intoned Gardiner Clough, smiling asMadame de Pompadour curtsied before him.

“My wish is your command, Your Highness.”

“And you know what the king wishes of youtonight, don’t you?”

The Marquise de Pompadour began pulling thegown away from her breasts. “To be ravished by royalty, YourHighness.”

The king jerked his cod-piece aside and moved- in not too kingly a fashion — towards her. .

Later they play-acted a scene they hadperformed several times in the past. In bed (the folds of a rug), after spirited love-making, they nibbled at fruit and Louis toldher of the many battles he had fought in and the many soldiers hehad dispatched to Heaven or Hell. Then he pulled out a sheet ofpaper and read one or more proclamations, glorifying his power,while his mistress stroked his penis and lavished epithets ofpraise upon him. Sarie was particularly proud of this part of theperformance, never missing a cue and feeling quite cosy and safefrom the various terrors of the world outside.

“Would you like me to read a proclamation?”she said this evening, deciding to improvise a bit in order toprolong the performance.

“As you wish, my love.” Clough handed her thepaper he was holding.

Recalling a speech he had given last week — Sarie had a great memory — she mouthed the ringing words of aproclamation ordering out the troops to quell a riot in the streetsof Paris.

Suddenly, Clough snatched the paper away fromher. “I hope you didn’t look at the name at the top of that paper!”he said sharply.

“Oh, no, sir, I didn’t,” Sarie said. But shehad. She couldn’t help it. The paper he had decided to use had hisletterhead on it: Gardiner Clough, Esquire. Part of the arrangementthat Clough had with Madame LaFrance was that Sarie would know himonly as Sir Lancelot. She had been given directions to his house,but told nothing else. Nor did she want to know. Five shillings forhalf a night’s work was not to be sneezed at. But she had seen hisname and was afraid it showed on her face.

But Clough said evenly enough, “All right,Sarie. I believe you. You’re a good girl.”

“What will we do next week?” she asked.

“Robin Hood and Maid Marion.”

Sarie left happily with the coins in her coatpocket. She made her way back to the Jarvis Street entrance toDevil’s Acre. She had one more alley to negotiate when she heardthe thump of footsteps, heavily, behind her. She turned just intime to see the blade of a knife aimed at her throat.

***

There was a small crowd around the body when Cobbarrived. He had to nudge his way towards it and Dr. Withers,kneeling beside it.

“Throat slashed, just like the first one,”Withers said.

The body was lying face down, but the girl’sface was turned to the right, as if jerked that way by the slash ofthe blade that killed her. The snow, freshly fallen the previousevening, was soaked with her blood.

“A God-awful way to die,” Withers said.

“Who found her?”

“A woman named Nell from Madame LaFrance’sbrothel, she said. She’s standing right behind you.”

“I recognize this face,” Cobb said, turningtowards Nell. “She worked with you at the brothel.”

“It’s Sarie Hickson. Oh, God, poor Sarie.”Nell let her tears flow again.

“What time did you find her?”

“About an hour ago. She was supposed to behome by midnight, but when she didn’t come in, we figured she’dstayed over at her customer’s place. When she didn’t come forbreakfast, we began to get worried. So Madame LaFrance asked us togo out searching for her. We soon found her. Our house is justbeyond this alley.” She let out a sob. “She almost made it.”

“And what’s this?” Cobb asked as he bent overand picked up the big blond wig that lay in the snow a foot or sofrom the body.

“That’s the wig she wore fer thecustomer.”

“It looks like some sort of stage-wig,” Cobbsaid to Withers. “And that dress of hers looks like the costumefrom some play.”

“But she had the wig on her head, I’d say,”Withers said. “It just toppled off when she fell here.”

“So we’ve got another blond woman with herthroat slashed,” Cobb said.

“And it looks like the same knife, I’d say,although I’ll need to examine the wound carefully to be sure — backat my surgery.”

“Somebody don’t like prostitutes,” Cobb said,gazing sadly down at the lifeless body. “Any guess as to the timeof death?”

“Well, rigor has subsided, even in thisweather, so I’d say early this morning or late last night.”