The city had never built itself back up since the Roman ages, yet it had continued to ooze outward, a crossing ground of global cultures, until it finally arrived at its present state in the early 19th century: a conglomerate of shanty towns and merchant families, crowned by occasional displays of extravagance as exemplified by feats of architecture such as St. Paul's Cathedral.
At the time, it was the largest city in the word, housing approximately eight or so percent of England's total population. It was a maze of a metropolis, complete with hundreds of independently lawless boroughs which Nash and Digby skated through as if they were skipping to the bakers.
The Devil's Acre, as it had come to be called, stood beside Tothill Fields Prison. To others, it was known as the Almonry. It stood eerily close to the Palace of Westminster, one could say it even dwelt in a religious shadow.
It was a terrible cluster of buildings, roughly stacked atop each other, and it was neatly wedged between tall, brick chimneyed townhouses in full view of the Abby at Westminster.
There was no mistaking the smell of it. One was struck by the rank odor of raw sewage that lacked proper runoff well before they entered the labyrinth. Looking into its entrance was like staring into a deep pit from which emerging was doubtful. The sounds of dreary misery and squalid living wafted up out of the compound, and Nash caught a bit of a shiver.
“I hate coming here.” Digby grunted. “It is the worst place in all of London.”
“Aye, and that's saying something coming from us.” Nash looked down into The Devil's Acre, already lost to the day's sun, hid out beneath the Abby's mammoth shadow. “That's why Riphook likes it.”
“Because it's the worst?”
“Aye, something like that.”
“Don't make much sense to me.”
“Come on,” Nash led his hulking companion into the darkness. “Let's be done with it.”
As they climbed the shifting stairs to the top story, they passed all manner of untold horror; the population density could only be measured by room instead of square feet, for there were so many people living here atop one another.
The criminality of the block was openly displayed – a true terror of a place to anyone not of an unsavory character. Even those such as Nash, who had grown up between the Rookery and White Chapel, felt ill at ease when strolling through the Devil's Acre.
Keeping calm, Nash hummed the tune to his favorite lullaby beneath his breath. Two sticks and an apple, say the bells of White Chapel.
At the top of it all, in what could only be described as a dilapidated penthouse, Riphook made his home. It was one of several places that he called his, but if you were to call on him for business then the Almonry was where you would find him.
They waited beside the ash-blasted door, nervously dodging looks from the two massive doormen until they were let in to see the boss.
“What do you want, Nash?” Riphook barely looked up from his bowl of steaming soup.
How can he eat hot soup in the summer?
“I don't see that Benson brat with you.”
“No boss, I don't have her.” Nash gulped down his anxiety and fished out the note. “But I got this from one of my drops. A doctor fellow.”
“Bring it here.” Riphook leaned back from his bowl, plucking his napkin from his remarkably clean shirt. He pushed the bowl aside a bit and reached out his hand for the paper.
“Here you go, boss.” Nash dropped the note into Riphook's hand and took a quick step back beside Digby. Riphook studied the note with intensity for a moment, and then set it down.
“Do you know how The Devil's Acre came to be, you two?” Riphook gestured between the two of them with the folded piece of paper between his fingers.
“No boss.” Digby admitted with a shrug.
“Do you, Nash?”
“No, boss.” Nash and Digby exchanged a confused, nervous glance. Riphook was notoriously unpredictable.
“It's an old thing, old you see. Started back in Medieval times. The priests here,” he gestured behind him at the shadow of the Abby, “they offered sanctuary to criminals, such as us. To them, it didn't settle right that a man should be hung for trying to feed his family. I tend to agree with them. Would you?”
“Sure, boss.” Nash had no clue as to where this rant was headed.
“So, all these hog thieves and pickpockets got their families together, set up shacks on the churchyard. Called it sanctuary, like it was its own city, right beside the minster. If there is one thing those highborn lads couldn't do back then, it was step on the church, so for hundreds of years that sanctuary grew until it was all fenced in by bricks, and then it began building atop itself. It became its own entity, not a part of London, don't you see? It is its own creation.
“So, we can all live here because of the church?” Nash did not understand if there was supposed to be some sort of hidden meaning to the story. Perhaps it is beyond me.
“Well, at first, not anymore. It got to be so the King didn't care one way about the church. Look at all the burnt-out monasteries. Ha! No, the church don't offer no protection no more. We're still here because we became our own creation. Because after all these years, nobody on the outside can touch us.”
Nash decided to take a chance on a response. He said, “But people on the inside can?”
“Exactly!” Riphook pounded his fist on the desk, sending droplets of soup out across the pinewood. “I've always liked you, Nash, you've got a good head on your shoulders. Look at that, twice now I seen him.” Riphook gestured enthusiastically to Digby, standing by Nash's side. “You got your own crew and all.”
“A bit of one, at least.” Nash blushed a bit. The praise was well received; he had been in need of emotional support since his failing with Leah.
“You know a Doctor F?” Riphook inquired suddenly, snapping back to business.
“That'd be Doctor Fowler.” Nash pieced together. “He owes me off some gambling houses that he couldn't keep out of.”
“How the rich love to give away their money.” Riphook chuckled. “He says he treated the Benson girl, some place called Worthington. Have you heard of it?”
“No, boss.”
“Do you trust this Dr. Fowler?”
“Sure, I do. Knows he can't get away from the debt so he's paying it.”
“Fair enough.” Riphook bit at his lip. Nash knew this as a sign that he was thinking something serious over. “How much did she owe?”
“Few hundred pounds as far as I recall. But she stole another handful on her way out.”
“And this Fowler?”
“About the same, boss.”
“Well then,” Riphook cracked his knuckles and lit up a thin American cigar with a thick match. He puffed out the smoke in fascination, playing with its patterns for a few seconds. Then he said, “I do not care about the money. She will never recover the amount. What I do care about is her betrayal. Nash, you will go to this Dr. Fowler, you know where to find him?”
“He likes to hang his hat at a brothel or two I know.”
“Tell him that when he returns to tend our lovely little Leah Benson, he will kill her. For that, I will clear his debt.”
“Why can't we do it, boss?” Nash cocked his head quizzically. “I'm a top runner, you know that.”
“Worthington,” Riphook chewed out his words, “is a noble estate. The likes of you and me can't go near to one of them, not within ten miles I reckon'. But this doctor can, and so he'll be the one to do away with her. She's healing, she 'aint going anywhere.”
“What if he won't do it?”
“He will. He'll do anything you say because you hold his world in the palm of your hand, just like I hold this city in the palm of mine. You've done well, Nash, to have brought a doctor under your thumb.”
“Thank you, boss.” Nash felt proud. It was extremely rare that he received a compliment from anyone, let alone from Riphook. That little bit of validation was enough for him to recommit, just as it always was, for h
e had never gotten it anywhere else.
“Now on with it, I want her dead, you hear me, Nash?”
“I hear you, boss.” Nash nodded. “You think I can get an advance on it?”
“What, the bounty? Is she dead Nash? No! Now get the bloody dash track out of my office!”
“Yes boss.” Nash ducked out before Riphook's mood could worsen. It often happened far quicker than one could prepare for.
“He was in a better mood today.” Digby joked as they descended back into the chasm of despair that Riphook made his nest above.
“Count your blessings there.” Nash nodded, dodging a bucket of waste from an upper window.
“Now what, boss?”
“You heard him, didn't you? Let's go see that Doctor Fowler.”
* * *
The good Doctor Fowler was taking a day for himself. He did this fairly often, for he believed in the leveling of the mind through personal leisure.
To his wife, this leisure meant that he was taking in the St James’s Square, likely between one of the many odd drinking rooms for the male elite of London. He would regale her with tales of quiet lunches, house calls, and attending lectures at the Royal Academy. Alas for Dr. Fowler's wife, but this was much by his design, he very rarely did any of those things.
Dr. Fowler was of old money, although never set to inherit it. So, in his two brother's shadows, he had attended the Royal Academy of Medicine, his grand old father presiding all the while.
He became a doctor, as he had been expected to, but while living in London he grew acquainted with several bad habits, all of which taxed his billfold.
His medical practice could not wholly sustain his taste for prostitutes and gambling houses, and so, again and again, he borrowed from his older brother.
Finally, it had come to pass that Dr. Fowler's brother had become tired, enormously tired, of the charade. So, out of brotherly love, he wrote to Dr. Fowler a note for a considerable sum, the last of which he intended to write.
So, it went that the good old Doctor Fowler took the small fortune and spent the past eighteen years wasting it. Now the last of it had gone down the drain at a gambling house, and he feared for his frailty every time he stepped into the street.
Still, Francis Fowler could not be kept from his lifelong pleasures, namely prostitutes and gambling, and somehow, he always had just enough coin to get by. He greatly looked forward to the prior of the two as he made his jolly way through London.
He was guided by the little black book that he kept close to his heart; it was a hot item. Harris's List of Covent-Garden Ladies, or a Man of Pleasure's Calendar. The little booklet used to be published annually, directing the gentlemen of London to the address of over one-hundred-and-fifty prostitutes of varying reputes. While it was by no means still current in regard to the women it solicited, several of the addresses remained some of the most consistently discreet brothels in all of London.
It was hard to get one's hands on one of these, for they sold out within hours of going on sale each year. Nevertheless, Francis Fowler had his; he got one every year.
It was this little booklet that guided him to his favorite hideaways – discreet house numbers full of secret pleasure.
Doctor Fowler was about to enter one of these establishments when a large, gruff hand came down on his shoulder, causing him to jump with fright.
“Off to see a doxy, dear?” Nash's slick voice floated into Francis' ears, and he paled in terror. “Take a step into yonder alley, would you, Doctor?”
The large club hands that steered his shoulders took Doctor Fowler to a crooked alleyway, obscured from the bustle of the streets nearby.
“Listen, Nash, I can get the money–”
“Shut it, doc.” Nash snarled, and nodded to the large man beside him.
The thug smashed Francis in the stomach with his huge hand, and he doubled over, the wind cleared from his torso.
“Please!” he cried out, reaching blindly for his glasses which had spiraled from his face. “Don't kill me!” He cried out loud enough for someone to hear, hoping help would suddenly appear, but it didn't. He was alone with the thugs.
“I 'aint going to kill you.” Nash uttered, crouching down in front of Francis. Francis, his vision blurred, felt Nash's bony hand clutch around his flailing wrist.
“What then?” Francis stuttered, terrified in his semi-blindness. “What do you want? You know I don't have the money. That's why I left the note.” he was pleading, at the mercy of these wayward youths.
“It's that note I'm here about.” Nash growled. “You gonna' see her again, 'aint you?”
“Yes, in a week's time.”
“Good. When you go there in a week–” but then Nash stopped talking, as if he were thinking deeply about what he was about to say, as if he didn't want to say it. But then he said it anyway, and Fowler's fate was sealed. “You're gonna kill her.”
“I cannot!” Fowler cried out, astonished by the command. “You cannot ask this of me!”
“I can and I will,” Nash had once again asserted the confidence his voice usually possessed. “or maybe I pay a little visit to your wife? Hmm? She know what you've been up to?”
“I–” Dr. Fowler had no words. He was rattled, confused, full of dread, and in pain. What's more, he struggled to draw breath still from the blow to his stomach.
“You'll do it. Then you won't owe me nothin.” Nash said. Francis could feel the young man prying open his fingers, and into his palm he placed the missing eye glasses. “Or I'll be seeing you.”
Nash released his wrist, and Francis hurried to get his glasses back onto his face. They were vastly expensive, custom made, and invaluable to Dr. Fowler's everyday life.
Once his vision blinked back into focus, he saw that they were gone. He crouched alone in the narrow passage of brick, clutching his stomach. He felt sick at the thought of his assignment, but even sicker at the thought of his secret life revealed to his wife. His entire career would be undone with the rumors of gambling houses. The employment of prostitutes was fairly standard for London's elite, but the sin of losing money to the poor, degenerate lower classes would haunt him.
His wife, on the other hand, would almost certainly take offense to the prostitutes. It was all so muddled inside his head, and he was caught in the midst of despair.
Will I truly kill this woman? Can I, even?
Chapter 11
Kenneth was rolling into London, trying not to think about Leah. Her previous words still batted around in his head, running circles around in his conscious mind.
Ηe tried to force these thoughts away by taking in the scenery, of which there was much. The gentle grass fields and clumps of trees dotted the land beyond the shore-based marshes, and white clouds wafted by with delicate uninterest with the world below.
He was quite looking forward to the distractions London would bring him. If there was one thing the city could offer him – beside the dull worries of the family business – it was a break from all the worries of his estate.
Not that he worried about his estate often; not much there ever perturbed him beyond a slight thought. However as of late, Leah's piercing eyes continued to paint themselves upon his mental canvas.
“Where specifically shall I direct the driver, Your Grace?” Daniel asked him, leaning over the coach's center.
“Sorry?” Kenneth blinked back into the present, washing Leah's water-colored visage from his mind.
“The coach, Your Grace,” Daniel said gently. “to where shall I direct it?”
“Yes, of course.” Kenneth sat forward, tipping up his hat with the end of his cane. He did not need it for walking; it was merely for appearance, although he did find it useful for balancing occasionally when at galas, and when drinking. “Take us by the office.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Daniel bowed his head, stuck his head out the window of the now-stationary carriage, and called out the address to the driver, who then spurred the horse team into London pr
oper, leaving the sprawling shanty towns behind them.
“It just keeps on growing, doesn't it?” Kenneth said, watching the poverty roll past.
“What does, Your Grace?” Daniel inquired.
“All this sadness.” Kenneth whispered, rolling his knuckles past the window at children running barefoot through the uneven street, skinny as skeletons.
“It's not all bad, Your Grace.” Daniel insisted. “Look here, we’re coming on now.”
Kenneth turned to look forward as they rolled across the river, catching glimpses of the elegant bridge and the tall dome of the Old Bailey. She promised justice from afar, standing tall over the London labyrinth. She was the center of criminal court, although a criminal was only tried if the prosecutor could pay for it, so justice was very rarely and selectively dispensed.
The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 11