James McGee - The Reckoning

“Not well. Told me I’d have to join the bloody queue.” Jago’s face turned serious. “You do know that, if you hadn’t turned up, she’d have waited. There’s no one else. There’s plenty who’d like to step up but, until she heard otherwise, it’d be you she’d be holdin’ out for.”

“I told her she’d know if anything had happened,” Hawkwood said.

“Reckon we both would,” Jago said sombrely, and then he grinned once more. “So I’d still be in the queue for your bloody rifle. I’d raise a glass, too, though, for old time’s sake. You can count on that.”

“I’m touched,” Hawkwood said.

“Aye, well, you’d do the same for me, right?”

“Depends,” Hawkwood said.

“On what?”

“On whether you had anything worth leaving.”

“Jesus, that’s harsh.”

“The rifle would have been yours anyway,” Hawkwood said. “I’d already left provision.”

“Now I’m touched,” Jago said. “Mind you, the times I’ve watched your back, it’s the least you could do. And so’s you know, if I had bought a horse and carriage, I’d have left you them in my will.”

“You would, too, just to be bloody awkward.”

Jago grinned. “And then I’d come back to see the look on your face.”

Emptying his glass, he placed it on the table and looked up. “So, when you plannin’ on visiting the Widow?”

“Soon as I finish my drink.”

Jago raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Dutch courage?”

Taking a last swallow, Hawkwood pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “You ever hear of a black widow?”

“Don’t ring any bells. She a coloured girl?”

“No. It’s a type of spider.”

“A spider?” Jago said doubtfully.

“After she’s mated, she eats the male.”

Jago’s mouth opened and closed. Dropping his gaze, the former sergeant stared down into his own glass as if something might be concealed within it before lowering it slowly to the table.

He looked up. “Any of them around here?”

Hawkwood smiled grimly. “Could be I’m about to find out.”

Outwardly, there was nothing to distinguish the house from its neighbours. Not that Hawkwood had been expecting any sort of sign above the door. There might have been only a mile or so separating them but the square was a world away from the stews of Covent Garden and the alleys of Haymarket, where, for a pint of grog and a few pennies, you could negotiate a quick fumble in a doorway with a pox-ridden hag who was as likely to rob a man blind as to roger him senseless. Pennies bought you nothing here. The Salon provided for a far more affluent clientele, which meant there was no requirement for it to advertise. Its word-of-mouth reputation was enough, as was the locale.

Bounded on all quarters by three- and four-storeyed townhouses, the centre of the square had been laid out in the style of a formal garden, patterned with winding pathways, ornamental shrubbery and several tall plane trees, all protected by a palisade of wrought-iron railings that looked newly painted. In the far corner, on the square’s north side, could be seen the boundary wall of an imposing brick mansion set back from the street, more evidence that the further west you lived, the more affluent you were likely to be.

Traffic was light. A couple of carriages clattered past, harnesses clinking, followed by a trio of riders dressed in smart dragoon uniforms, while a handful of pedestrians picked their way carefully around the carpet of horse droppings that smeared the road. The smell of fresh dung lingered on the damp afternoon air.

Watching them trying to negotiate passage on to cleaner ground, Hawkwood wondered idly how many of the square’s residents were aware of the goings on inside this particular house. Most of them, he suspected. And how many of them had visited the premises? More than might be imagined, he was prepared to wager.

Approaching the black-painted front door, a quick glance at the windows above him revealed the drapes on the upper floors to be fully drawn. It was one indication that he’d come to the right address. In lower-ranked brothels, working girls used the windows to display their wares, leaving little to the imagination in the process. In contrast, the houses at the upper end of the scale masked their entertainments by shielding the view from the street.

Hawkwood pulled on the bell handle and waited. He sensed he was being perused for he’d seen the spyhole in the door. Debating whether or not to wipe his boots against the backs of his breeches, he thought, to hell with it. He’d had the breeches cleaned after his graveyard jaunt and he was damned if he was going to dirty them again that quickly. If whoever was studying him through the woodwork chose not to open the door because of his less than pristine appearance, he could always hammer on it with his tipstaff and yell, “I demand admittance in the name of the law!” It wouldn’t be pretty but it would be a very effective means of gaining entry, because the occupants wouldn’t want that sort of commotion on their doorstep. It would lower the tone of the neighbourhood.

He was reaching for his tipstaff when his summons was answered.

The manservant, a thickset, competent-looking individual in matching grey jacket and waistcoat, looked Hawkwood up and down, paying close attention to his greatcoat and his boots. When he glanced over Hawkwood’s shoulder towards the street, Hawkwood wondered if he was searching for the carriage that had dropped him off.

“I walked,” Hawkwood said, “all the way from Bow Street. I’m here to see the lady of the house, and don’t bother asking if I have an appointment.”

Because I’ve had enough of that.

At the mention of Bow Street, the manservant’s gaze flickered. The raised eyebrow that had been there when he’d opened the door was replaced by a new wariness.

Hawkwood sighed and took the tipstaff from his coat. “That would be sooner, rather than later.”

The manservant’s jaw flexed. “Name?” he enquired, stepping aside to allow Hawkwood entry.

Hawkwood resisted the urge to wipe the supercilious expression from the manservant’s face, gave his name and fixed the man with a look. “Yours?”

The manservant hesitated and then squared his shoulders. “Flagg.” Adding, somewhat reluctantly, “Thomas.”

Through what sounded like teeth being gritted, the manservant instructed Hawkwood to wait. Then, turning, he strode across the hall to a closed door, knocked and entered the room beyond, leaving Hawkwood to mull over a noticeable bulge in the back of the manservant’s jacket. A small cudgel stuck handily in the waistband, Hawkwood guessed; definitely not a pistol, which would have been harder to conceal.

Ellie Pearce – or Lady Eleanor, as she was choosing to call herself these days – clearly took the matter of personal security very seriously. Hardly surprising; most establishments of this sort – regardless of their status – employed protection in one form or another, some more covertly than others. Even girls working the street tended to have a pimp hovering nearby, though their presence had more to do with ensuring the safety of their investment than guaranteeing the girls’ welfare.

The manservant’s absence provided an opportunity to take in the interior of the house, which was as tasteful as the exterior had suggested it might be.

Given the greyness of the day, the lobby should have been cast in a sepulchral gloom, but by the strategic use of candles set in mirrored alcoves, the entrance hall was cast in a warm and welcoming glow. It was a far cry from the cheaper East End houses, which were apt to equal Smithfield on market day for both noise and activity. The main cause for the rowdiness was alcohol. In the rougher parts of the city, the only businesses that outnumbered the brothels were the gin shops.