Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

“Except through the booby-hatch,” Carrie blurted, then slapped three fingers across her lips.

Marc sat bolt upright. “Are you saying that there is another way into this house?”

Mrs. Burgess blushed, started to look daggers at Carrie, then turned to Marc and said with a sigh, “I’m afraid so.”

It’s right down here.” Mrs. Burgess directed Marc and Cobb along the narrow hallway that led to the three cubicles and water closet. (It was a cistern Marc had noted on the outside wall.) The curtains were tightly drawn across the doorway to the murder scene; Marc noticed Mrs. Burgess shudder as they passed it. Once at the end of the hall, she stood to one side and pointed at the lower wall. Marc squatted down with Cobb peering over his right shoulder. The outline of a small door, hinged on top like a hatch, was just visible, but he could see no latch or handle. He pushed at the door but it did not move.

“It opens only with a key,” Mrs. Burgess said. “You can get in or out by kneeling down and squeezing through.”

“But why on earth would you put a door like this right next to the rooms where your girls work and sometimes fall asleep?”

“It’s really an escape hatch. I had it put in when the house was first built. I wanted a secret door so if there was trouble in the parlour or these rooms, one of us could slip away and get help.”

When Marc looked skeptical, she said pointedly, “You’d be surprised how folks around here help one another out. We have to; nobody else will.”

Marc stood up and stared at the end wall. Unless a direct light were thrown on it-even in the afternoon the windowless hallway was gloomy-the hatch was barely detectable. Which would explain why neither Cobb nor Sturges had spotted it last night. And Carrie, for whatever reason, had chosen not to point it out when she accompanied Cobb on his inspection of the windows earlier.

“There’s no knob inside or outside,” Mrs. Burgess said. “You need a key to unlatch the lock and to pull the door open.” With that, she reached down into her ample cleavage and drew out a large key on a thin gold chain. She knelt down, inserted it in the keyhole close to the floor, and, using it as a knob, eased the hatch upward. Then she locked it again and returned the key to its bower.

“But how would one of the girls be able to use this as an escape route? Do they all have keys?”

“Of course not. That would be foolhardy. I had the locksmith on King Street make only two keys for this lock. I keep one around my neck. The other is tucked behind that picture on the wall there.”

Marc looked at the dusty, framed engraving of an English racehorse hanging on the wall well above the hatch.

“Only my girls and I know it’s there.”

“Well, we’d better check to make sure, don’t you think?” Marc asked patiently.

With a resigned gesture, Mrs. Burgess lifted the picture off its hook and turned it over in both hands. A small groove had been carved into the bottom slat of the frame to accommodate the key.

But the key was not in it.

Once again they were back in the parlour, and ready for another go-round. And this time there was a different kind of tension in the air.

While the three girls sat somewhat stiffly around Mrs. Burgess and exchanged furtive glances, Marc began. “It now appears that one of your customers may have stolen the escape-door key and used it to slip unnoticed into the hallway, murder Sarah McConkey, and get away into the night.”

Mrs. Burgess sat tight-lipped. Clearly she had been shaken by the discovery of the missing key. Marc could almost hear the wheels turning in her head.

“Do you have any idea who might have taken it or when?”

Mrs. Burgess shook her head.

“When did you last check to see if it was still in place?”

“I do so every few days,” she said with some of her former defiance. “The safety of my girls is uppermost in my mind. It was there two days ago.”

“Did any of you girls see anyone who might have taken it in the past two days?”

They too shook their heads.

Finally it was Molly who spoke, looking not at Marc but at her mistress. “It could’ve been Michael, couldn’t it, Mum?”

“Michael?” Marc exclaimed. “Who in hell is Michael?”

Mrs. Burgess reddened. “I suppose I must tell you. I didn’t see how it was of any importance earlier.”

“Tell me what?”

“About Michael Badger. He’s our bruiser. But I sent him packing yesterday morning.”

This announcement elicited cries of surprise from the girls and a gaggle of questions. Once they were calmed enough to listen to a rational explanation, Marc and Cobb leaned forward with fresh anticipation to hear what the mistress of the house had to say now.

“Please continue,” Marc prompted, gently but firmly.

“Michael’s the young man who’s been acting as our bruiser off and on since last fall.”

“A bruiser’s usually a big fella who keeps the customers from flippin’ their wigs or bustin’ their flies,” Cobb explained to Marc. “Most of the cathouses and some of the rougher waterin’ holes keep one or two on a leash.”

“And Badger was this sort of protector?” Marc asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Burgess said. “Not that we needed much, mind. You’ve probably been wondering why I spent good money to buy land here and build an expensive residence for the trade.”

“That question had entered my mind.”

“Well, the answer is simple. It’s safer in here than in the town. We haven’t got any policemen or sheriff to protect us in here, but we look out for one another. We got rules and we got people who will help see that they’re followed.”

“Why the bruiser, then?”

“All of our callers are gentlemen, so we have little trouble there. But whenever a ship arrives or some hooligan’s just come into cash from thieving or gambling, sailors and the like come pounding on our doors and cursing at our windows, annoyed when they can’t get in and threatening to wreak havoc. So, whenever we suspect there might be that sort of trouble, I send for Michael and he comes for the duration.”

“And he was intimidating enough to scare off any troublemakers?”

The girls whooped at this, and for the first time Marc caught a glimpse of the happier, youthful side of their personalities that had been cowed by grief and fear.

“He was a big fella?” Cobb asked, which excited more giggles.

“Michael Badger is as tall as Mr. Edwards and a foot broader in the shoulders,” Mrs. Burgess said. “And he’s got a shock of orange hair as wild and shaggy as a lion’s mane. One look at him and they’d run like rabbits.”

“Were you not worried that he’d intimidate your clients or pose a danger to the girls here?”

This comment induced more tittering.

“In here, Michael was a softie, wasn’t he, Mum?” Molly said.

Mrs. Burgess paused before saying, “I gave him strict instructions about his duties and deportment when I first took him on. I realized that the girls might be a temptation to him, so I specifically warned him that they were off limits. If he was desperate for a woman, I told him he could go on up to Madame Charlotte’s and I’d pay the fare. I offered him a wage he couldn’t hope to make anywhere else in the city.”

“So he abided by your rules?” It was hard to imagine anyone not doing so, Marc thought.

“He teased us a bit, that was all,” Carrie said.

“He did make us laugh, didn’t he, Mum?”

“Oh, how he could tell a story,” Molly added.

“He sounds like the perfect employee,” Marc said. “So tell us, Mrs. Burgess, why you summarily dismissed him yesterday morning and failed to inform your girls.”