The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

Malinferno cast a glance over his shoulder before approaching an anonymous black door set at the top of a small flight of steps between two sweatshops. The stranger hopped back into the shadows to make sure that his quarry did not see him. The door was opened immediately in response to Malinferno’s rap on the knocker, and he disappeared inside. The stranger hurried up the lane and clambered on the railings that guarded one side of the door. From a precarious perch on top of the spikes, he could just see into the ground-floor window. The ladies who adorned the front drawing room were ill clad to be receiving gentlemen, but that did not seem to put Malinferno off. On the contrary, he was already pressing a coin into an older lady’s hand. The madam of the bawdy house smiled greedily.

Madam De Trou bit down on to the gold coin. It had been a while since Joe Malinferno had visited her establishment, and last time he had left owing money. Still, the sovereign fully paid off his debt and left enough for some fresh credit.

‘I have a new girl you might enjoy. As I seem to recall, you like the fuller figure.’

Malinferno, despite the pressing need to check on the bag of old bones under his bed, had not been able to resist the pull of Madam De Trou’s bawdy house. The money from Dale was burning a hole in his pocket, and the skinny Kitten had been an altogether unsatisfactory encounter. He suddenly realized the madam had asked him a question.

‘What? Oh, yes, I like them more voluptuous, certainly.’

The madam grinned, revealing a set of blackened teeth. Her latest recruit was a lass from Essex who went by the name of Dolly. She was a bit lippy, but keen enough for work to take on a poor payer like the Professor.

‘Then I shall introduce you to Dolores from Spain. Come with me.’

Just as she led Malinferno from the room, there was a clatter outside the front of the house, followed by a distinct groan. Madam waved her bony hands insouciantly.

‘Pay that no mind. We are always getting peeping Toms trying to peer in the window. My doorman will call the charley, and get him seen off.’

The thought of a local watchman, popularly known as a charley, being called alarmed Malinferno. He did not want an encounter with the law until he had retrieved Bromhead’s bag of bones. And discovered what had happened to the little man. He grinned nervously, wondering if anyone might have followed him to the bawdy house. Then he put it out of his mind. Who would be interested in the seedy goings-on of a mere meddler in all things ancient?

‘Lead on, Madam De Trou.’

The scrawny madam led him upstairs to the bedchambers. So it was that Joe Malinferno came face to face with his fate – his nemesis you might say – in the form of a well-rounded and rudely confident Essex girl called Doll Pocket.

The encounter did not exactly start auspiciously. Having been ushered through a door, which had been abruptly closed behind him, Malinferno found himself in a gloomy room, lit only by a couple of candles. He hoped the dimness of the lights was not to conceal the imperfections in the bawd he had just paid handsomely for. Due to the dark, Malinferno was obliged to grope his way forward towards a big, high bed he had managed to discern across the room. He could just make out a pale figure sprawled on the bed. It was female, but it would be an exaggeration to say she was clothed, as she wore only tight short stays and a thin chemise. Thus, hardly anything of the delicious form was truly covered, and the stays held the figure’s ample breasts high. Malinferno moved keenly towards the dark-haired beauty. And tripped over the rumpled rug, measuring his length on the floor.

‘Ouch!’

The figure on the bed giggled and spoke in an accent that had never approached anywhere nearer the shores of Spain than Wapping Old Steps.

‘Blimey! That must have hurt.’

Malinferno sat up, rubbing his nose that had cushioned his tumble on to the bare wooden floor. He examined his fingers and was glad to see they weren’t covered in gore. He didn’t have a nosebleed, at least, but then he realized his left knee hurt like hell.

‘Hurt? I think my knee is broken.’

The giggle turned into a burst of out-and-out laughter. It was a gusty, uninhibited froth of good humour. A pale, languid hand reached out from the bed.

‘Come here, you big baby. It’s just a knock. It probably feels worse than it is.’

Malinferno staggered to his feet, his dignity now hurting more than his knee, though he did manage to feign a limp to gain some more sympathy. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he stared at the round, plump breasts again. Until the bawd’s hand firmly took hold of his chin and lifted his gaze to her face. In truth the woman was a pleasant sight, with long black tresses framing pale freckled skin. Malinferno put her age as no more than five-and-twenty. Her eyes were brown and oval, and her nose straight and shapely. He fancied he could see the Spaniard in her looks. Knowing how in awe the average bawd was of a man of letters, he opened with his usual gambit.

‘I am a professor of Egyptology and of ancient bones. But I can see how young and fine your bones are, Dolores…’

His use of her name started another fit of giggles, and she held her well-formed hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle it.

‘Dolores! Is that what the old madam says my name is now?’

‘Yes, Dolores. It’s a beautiful Spanish name.’

This revelation started another fit of laughter that Malinferno was not displeased to see caused her bare breasts to wobble in a most appealing way. The bawd snorted again.

‘Dolores! Leave it out. Look, my name is Doll… Doll Pocket, and I’m from Essex. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Prof…’

She stuck her hand out as though they were meeting at a genteel soirée. Malinferno was quick to take it.

‘Joe Malinferno. Just call me Joe for now, Doll.’

The girl leaned back on the bed at a rakish angle, her breasts oozing out over the tightness of her short stays.

‘Good, I’m glad that’s settled. And now you know who I really am, would you mind if I took this wig off. It’s bleedin’ ’ot.’

Malinferno was at least glad to see that Doll was not bald under the false black tresses. In fact her golden hair, free of the Spanish fakery, was luxuriant and glowing. She dragged her fingers through it, and shook out the curls.

‘So, Prof, tell me about these old bones.’

Mrs Stanhope was worried. The girl had turned up in the early hours saying she was Mr Malinferno’s sister just up from the country. That she had no accommodation yet, and had to see her brother so she could borrow some money from him. Mrs Stanhope had refrained from saying that if Mr Malinferno had any cash at all, then she wanted it in lieu of rent owing before this slip of a girl had any. The poorly dressed little girl looked as though she needed help, however, and sounded most anxious to see her brother. Malinferno’s landlady doubted if she would get the assistance she needed from him, but in the end she had relented. She had let the little rat-faced girl into Mr M’s drawing room with an injunction not to touch anything. The girl had nodded eagerly, and Mrs Stanhope had left her to it. It was only later that she sat down to thinking with a generous glass of Holland gin in her hand. She could not recall Mr M ever mentioning having a sister. Leaning back in her comfortable chair, she took a sip of her favourite tipple. And then another.

She did not know how long she had been dozing, but suddenly she was awoken by a loud thump from upstairs. It sounded like something or somebody landing heavily on the floor in Mr Malinferno’s rooms. It had to be the girl, as no one else had gone upstairs, of that she was certain. Even though she could see the Holland gin glass was now empty, she was convinced its contents must have been tipped out by accident. She could have hardly closed her eyes for a second or two. No, it could only be the girl. She knew that child was trouble the first time she had set eyes on her. His sister, indeed. She was probably some bawd he owed money to, or even a Thames mudlark or scuffle-hunter on the scrounge. And she was up there right now, helping herself to his goods, which by rights were Mrs Stanhope’s to seize if he failed to pay his rent. She had had her eyes for months on that little green stone shaped like an insect that he called a scare-bob, or something like. That rat-faced thief wasn’t going to help herself to that, oh no. Mrs Stanhope heaved her not inconsiderable bulk out of her comfy chair and waddled over to the stairs.