C. Sansom - Dark Fire

'Ever been to a whorehouse?'

'Yes,' I said shortly. 'But a better class of one.'

'Ah, with gardens and shady nooks?'

'When I was a student and knew no better.'

'The Winchester geese can be shy birds if they think you're anything official. If we let out even a hint we're on any business other than trugging before we're well inside they'll fly off down the alleys faster than you could believe. You need to follow my lead here.' He looked at me seriously.

'Very well.'

'Take off your robe – it'll scare them. We'll pretend we're customers, all right? I'm your servant that's brought you over the river for a bit of fun. The madam will invite us to have a drink with the whores; if she offers you food, take it, no matter how much it costs. It's one way they make money if the whores are cheap, which these will be.'

I took off my robe and stuffed it in my satchel. It was a relief to be rid of it.

'When we're inside I'll ask for Bathsheba Green, say she's been recommended, then you get her alone and question her. I wouldn't get too familiar, though. These houses are famous for the French pox.'

'How do you know she's there?'

'I've contacts among the street urchins, I've paid them to watch a house for me before.' He smiled and lowered his voice. 'A member of the conservative faction, a most holy cleric, used to frequent one of the boy-houses down here. That information was very useful to my master.'

I shook my head. 'Is there nothing he won't do?'

'Not much. The lads know Bathsheba's working times – she'll be there this afternoon.'

We passed into a warren of small timber-framed houses, the unpaved lanes stinking with refuse, among which pigs and skinny dogs grubbed for food. The cloying stink of the Southwark tanneries rose in the hot air. In accordance with the Southwark regulations all the brothels were painted white, standing out against the dingy plaster of the other houses. Each had a sign with a lewd reference outside the door, a naked Adam and Eve or a bed or a nightshirt. We stopped before a poor-looking house where the paint was flaking, a bishop's hat crudely painted on the sign outside. Shutters were drawn over the windows. I heard a raucous burst of male laughter from within. Kicking away a couple of hens rooting outside, Barak knocked confidently on the door.

It was opened by a middle-aged woman. She was short and stocky, with a square ugly face surrounded by curly red hair. She had been branded as a whore in London at some point for a dark 'W' stood out on her white cheek. She looked at us suspiciously.

'Good day, Mistress.' Barak smiled. 'I've brought my master over from the City, he's a taste for a quiet house.'

She looked me over, then nodded. 'Come in.'

We followed her into a dark room that was even hotter than the street, with a fug of unwashed bodies and cheap tallow candles barely disguised by the cheap incense burning in a corner. The smoky candles lit a table where two middle-aged men sat, shopkeepers by the look of them. One was fat and merry-looking, the other thin and ill at ease. They nodded to us. A pippin pie was set on the table and the men had plates of food before them. A whore sat beside each, a buxom creature for the fat man and a nervous-looking girl of about sixteen for the other. Both women had opened their bodices so their breasts spilled out. Sitting thus at table, they looked bizarre rather than erotic.

The madam indicated a cupboard, where a thin boy in a greasy jerkin stood by a jar of beer. 'Will you eat with us, sir?'

'Yes, thank you.'

She nodded to the boy, who poured two mugs of beer and set them on the table. The plump whore leaned across and whispered something in her client's ear, making him laugh throatily.

'Half a groat each that'll be, sirs,' the madam said. I passed across the money. She peered closely at the coins before slipping them into a purse at her belt and smiling at us, a red slash in her face, showing decayed teeth.

'Make yourselves comfortable. I'll get a couple more girls to join us, we'll make a merry lunch.'

'Only a girl for my master,' Barak said. 'He's a shy fellow, wants a girl to gentle him, treat him softly. We've heard of a girl called Sheba, or Bathsheba, who works here.'

Her eyes narrowed at once. 'Who told you that?'

'Someone at the Guildhall,' I replied.

'Which company?'

'I can't remember, it was at one of the dinners.' I forced a smile. 'Only I like a gentle girl and he said Bathsheba was kindly. I'd pay more for a gentle girl.'

'I'll see.' She disappeared through an inner door.

'My one's sweet and plump enough,' the fat shopkeeper said. 'Eh, Mary?' The woman winked at me and laughed, her large, veined breasts wobbling as she put an arm around his neck.

I heard the madam calling from somewhere within the house. 'Daniel, here!' The boy ran out of the room. I heard a muted whisper and a minute later the madam returned. She smiled again.

'Bathsheba will see you in her room, sir. Bring your drink if you like.'

'Thank you, I'll leave it.' I rose from the table, trying to look enthusiastic.

'You don't want to waste time in there drinking, eh?' The fat shopkeeper chuckled.

The madam led me down a dark corridor with several closed doors, her heavy feet stumping on the uneven floorboards. I was suddenly afraid, very conscious that I was alone. I jumped as a door opened, but it was only a faded whore who looked out quickly then slammed the door shut. The madam knocked at another. 'Here's Bathsheba,' she said, smiling her horrible smile as she ushered me inside. She closed the door behind her, but I heard no retreating footsteps and realized she was standing outside, listening.

The room was small and mean, the only furniture a cheap trunk and a large old truckle bed. The shutters were half-open, but the room still had a sweaty stink. A girl lay on the bed. For some reason I had expected Bathsheba to be pretty, but although young she had pasty, heavy features and a swarthy complexion. There was something familiar about her face, though I could not place it. She had made no effort to pretty herself and lay there in a stained old dress, without rouge, her black hair disordered on the greyish pillow. Her best feature was her large, intelligent brown eyes but they stared at me not in welcome but, I saw, with fear. She had a large bruise and a half-healed cut on one cheekbone.

'Well, Bathsheba,' I said quietly, 'I am told you are a gentle girl.'

'Who told you that, sir?' Her voice was scared, faltering.

'Someone I met at the Guildhall.'

'I've only had one customer of your class,' she said. 'And he is dead.' To my surprise I saw tears in the corners of her eyes. It seemed Michael Gristwood's feelings for her had not been one-sided. She continued to look at me fearfully. How had they realized so quickly I was not an ordinary customer? I studied her scared face a moment, then laid my satchel on the edge of the bed and sat down carefully.

'I swear I mean you no harm,' I said soothingly, 'but I am here to enquire into the death of Master Gristwood. I am a lawyer.'

'I know nothing of his death,' she said quickly.

'I didn't think you did. I only want to know what he talked about with you. Did he mention his work?'

I saw her glance at the door and lowered my voice.

'You will be paid, I'll see to that.' I paused, then said, 'You cared for each other?'

'Yes.' Defiance entered her face. 'We both needed kindness and we gave it to each other. Madam Neller didn't like me getting close to a client but it happens.'

'How did you meet?' I felt pleased with my quick progress.

'He came here one day with some Augmentations clerks. They'd come on a roist south of the river and ended up here. Michael pleasured me, he made me laugh and he visited again on his own. He had a hard time with his wife. He said she had no laughter in her.'