Much to my chagrin, the boy began to cry, heartbreaking sobs that brought both Stan and me to our feet. But Stan had the better instincts, sitting down next to the lad and pulling him into his lap, soothing him as one might soothe a frightened child; I stood and stared at the scene like an idiot with my mouth hanging open.
Eventually the boy calmed down, and relaxed into Stan’s embrace, apologizing for his outburst and accepting my handkerchief to mop his face. I lit a cigarette and started walking around the room, marking out a Thinking Circle in the unfamiliar space, tripping occasionally on a previously unnoticed bit of furniture.
I had to get this boy away from that brother, but I didn’t know how. Could I just take him home with me to Hyacinth House? Or put him up in another hotel, one more suited to his station? Did I even want to take responsibility for this boy I scarcely knew? Was he as innocent in all this as he seemed? And if so, would he consent to leave his brother? And if he did, where could I take him that Mike couldn’t find him? Was St. James’s far enough? Could my aunt receive him at Foxbridge Castle? Did the Baron have a place in Holland he could go?
“All right, Gabriel,” I came to a stop in front of the divan, where Stan was still comforting the boy, though his caresses were becoming more amorous than filial, “If we could get you away from your brother, would you come?”
“Where could I go?” he wondered.
“We’ll figure that out later; would you come?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a thoughtful silence, “If I ran away and he found me, he’d hurt me bad.”
“If we could take you someplace where he couldn’t find you, would you come?” I insisted.
“I don’t know,” he looked at me with fear and confusion in his eyes, “I just don’t know.”
“Well, then, I’ll give you time to think about it,” I shrugged, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to make the boy decide until I had something more concrete to offer him in the way of a plan, “If you’ll go get the papers, I’ll give you the money; also the pawn ticket for the paper-knife, if you have it. I’ll talk to Gustaaf in the morning and see what he’s able to do for you. Then I’ll call around tomorrow night and we can discuss your options. How’s that?”
“All right,” he conceded, extricating himself from Stan’s arms and heading toward the other room, “Help yourself to a drink, won’t you?”
Stan knew where the drinks were kept, so I resumed my seat by the little fireplace as he poured us a couple of short brandies; he accepted one of my cigarettes and took the other easy chair, and we sat in companionable silence waiting for Gabriel to return — which eventually led me to wonder what was taking him so long.
“I can’t find the ticket,” he said when he came back into the sitting room, now dressed in a gaudy but appealing scarlet silk dressing-gown and apparently nothing under it, which explained his prolonged absence, “But the knife is at Nazerman’s in Broadwick Street. The papers are all here. Would you tell Gustaaf I’m sorry?”
“He knows,” I accepted the papers, looking at them briefly but not understanding what they were or knowing if they were all there — I should have asked the Baron for an inventory — then handed over the fifty pounds, which he tucked carefully between two books on a shelf; he turned off the overhead light, leaving the room softly lamp-lit, and slid out of his robe to reveal a perfectly exquisite body, a Donatello David carved from warm ivory — though bearing some ugly bruises that I assumed Mike must have put there.
“Well, I think I’d better be going,” I got up and reached for my hat.
“Why?” Gabriel was surprised and embarrassed, clutching his dressing gown in front of him, “You’ve already paid. I thought you were going to spend the night.”
“Pond — Reggie, I mean, is waiting for me. Otherwise I’d love to stay, really I would.”
“I’m staying,” Stan got up out of his chair and slipped out of his jacket, taking Gabriel into his arms, “If you don’t mind, Bastian?”
“Please, be my guest.”
“I’ll just have to give Stan both guineas’ worth,” the boy turned in Stan’s arms and put his arms around the man’s neck.
“Two guineas!” Stan gasped, scandalized, “Bastian paid that lout five pounds!”
Gabriel just shook his head sadly and started kissing Stan quiet; I suddenly felt very much de trop, so I quietly backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind me.
“Was he good?” Pond hissed at me when I came up to him in the archway leading back onto the street from the mews.
“Was who good?” I wondered, startled by the venom in his voice.
“Stan!” he hissed again, furious.
“What the devil are you on about?” I turned to face him, getting a little angry myself, “I wouldn’t touch Stan with a fork. I know you like him, I would never go with a man I knew you fancied.”
“Really?” that seemed to shake him out of his jealous rage, and I watched the green-eyed monster fold up its wings and recede into the darkness.
“Really,” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, “You’re my friend, Reggie, as well as my valet. I don’t do my friends dirty like that.”
“I’m sorry I doubted you, my lord,” he said after a moment; I was looking straight at him and this time actually saw Pond taking Reggie’s place right in front of me. It was fascinating, like watching a film of an egg hatching played in reverse.
“Though I have to admit,” I threw my arm around his shoulders and guided him back toward Wardour Street, “I was beginning to wonder what that great walrus mustache would feel like against my skin.”
“You shameless little tart!” Pond, or Reggie — I couldn’t see which — laughed at me.
“Now let’s go back to the Green Parrot, I feel like dancing with a gentleman again, even if it’s only Lady Caroline.”
*****
The next morning, I called on the Baron in his rooms, where he was getting dressed for another long, dull day at Westminster Palace. He assured me that he would do anything he could to help Gabriel, but did not think his resources would be equal to actually keeping the boy in his own establishment in London; and he was very nearly scandalized when I suggested he might take Gabriel back to Holland with him — much as he liked the boy, he wouldn’t risk a dalliance so close to home: though he didn’t say so explicitly, I surmised that he was indeed married, and that his wife had a hold of the purse-strings. He seemed more worried about renting an apartment in Amsterdam than about being seen with Gabriel.
I was a little frustrated by the Baron’s unwillingness to take on Gabriel’s welfare in toto, but I also understood that the man was in a delicate position and had many other calls on his loyalty. I thought about keeping the boy myself, but I didn’t want him as a lover. A roll in the sheets would be fun, but he just wasn’t my type.
No, there were only two solutions I could see: one, take up a collection from the Baron and myself and whoever Pond thought might contribute, and send the boy to another city where he could ply his trade away from his brother, maybe Brighton, or Paris if he knew any French; or two, find some way of getting Mike sent back to prison.
The latter option seemed the better, especially since it wasn’t fair that Gabriel should have to uproot himself from the life his brother had invaded; but it was also more difficult, since I had no idea how to go about getting someone thrown in chokey. I phoned Twister at his lodgings and his office, but he wasn’t in, and I didn’t want to leave a message in either place that might embarrass him; I knew he’d be the best person to help find a way to get rid of Mike Baker.
After lunch, I toddled ‘round to Broadwick Street and found Nazerman’s pawnshop easily enough, but the shop assistant denied any knowledge of the Baron’s paper-knife. I described it in detail, I mentioned my acquaintance with the young man who’d brought it in, I offered three times its value, I demanded to see Mr. Nazerman himself (and was told he died some years ago and the shop was run by his widow), a
nd even threatened to bring the police in if the knife wasn’t brought out to me forthwith.
I raised such a ruckus, in fact, that Mrs. Nazerman came down from her apartment above the shop to see what was going on. She was a terrifying little beldam in an old-fashioned pompadour wig and severe black dress with a high neck and jet trim, her tiny predatory eyes darting in her shrewd wizened face; but when I explained the situation to her, and dropped a couple of florins on the counter, she condescended to check her books and see if she could accommodate me.
“I am sorry, Lord Foxbridge,” the lady sighed through a heavy Russian accent, “But the article in question has already been redeemed. It is no longer here.”
“Redeemed?” I was stunned, “By whom?”
“I fear I cannot say, my lord.”
“Why not?” I wondered if pawnbrokers had the same seal of secrecy as priests and doctors.
“Because I do not know who redeemed the article, Lord Foxbridge,” she snapped at me, “The ticket and the repayment of the loan were exchanged for the item left as collateral. Further than that I am not required to know.”
“Not even for the police?” I asked as a matter of interest, rather than as a threat; I’d begun to consider her as an opponent instead of an obstacle, and was enjoying myself, “What if it turned out to be stolen?”
“I am not a fence, my lord,” the old lady glittered at me, her head high and her lip curled, “If an article can be shown to have been stolen, then I would provide the police access to my records of the transaction. But otherwise, my books are confidential.”
“You couldn’t even tell me what the person who redeemed the knife looked like?”
“I do not pay attention to appearances, my lord. Just as I am sure your lordship would not wish me to remember your appearance if you came to me to pawn your family heirlooms.”
“Ah, I see,” I considered her point; her business was not so different from a priest’s or a doctor’s, after all: there was an inevitable element of shame involved, “Thank you for explaining it to me.”
“Now, is there anything else with which I may help your lordship?”
“Actually, yes,” I gave up the game and turned my attention to other matters, “There is a gorgeous little figurine in your window that caught my eye, a sort of Grecian youth holding a jeweled bouquet. I wonder if it’s on offer.”
Surprised by my sudden turnaround, but game for a sale, the old lady came out from behind the counter and escorted me to the window case, where she extolled the virtues of the little bronze nude and set a price so ludicrously high that I would be forced to haggle with her. Haggling was much more fun than demanding information, and Mrs. Nazerman was an expert saleswoman: I ended up buying a couple more bronze figurines and a Regency watch-fob before I left.
The fob was meant as a gift to Lady Caroline, with whom I was going to be lunching on Saturday. I had decided, while dancing a tango with her at the Green Parrot, that I was indeed going to marry her someday; therefore it was incumbent upon me to start spewing gifts. A bunch of carnelian and agate intaglio seals on a gold-mesh Regency fob would be a good present for a cross-dressing débutante, as she could wear it in either guise, on a watch-chain or as a brooch.
I stopped into a cheerful-looking pub on Wardour Street to kill a little time before dinner; I didn’t want to go all the way back to St. James’s and then return to Soho to meet with Gabriel that evening, and so planned to dine there at one of the numerous restaurants, and perhaps stop in at the Green Parrot before returning home.
“Well, if it ain’t my pretty little lord!” Stan greeted me loudly before my eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness, “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hullo, Stan!” I returned, wondering if this was the sort of place you could call people ‘pretty little lord’ without arousing suspicions, “Stand you a drink?”
“Thanks, mine’s Guinness,” he grinned and hoisted back the last of his stout.
I squeezed in at the bar and asked for a couple of glasses of Guinness, paid while exchanging a few idle pleasantries with the barman, and carried the glasses back to the rail where Stan was leaning.
“Mud in your eye,” I saluted him, leaning beside him at the rail.
“What brings you to the slums of Soho so early in the day?” he asked me when he’d taken a long draught.
“Just browsing around. I haven’t been here in the daytime before. It’s very lively, isn’t it?”
“Compared to Mayfair, I guess,” he grinned at me. The districts were barely a mile apart, and Soho had been just as fashionable and filled with elegant mansions as Mayfair, fifty years ago; but now it was home to piano factories and queer bars, cheap restaurants and shabby tenements, showing just how quickly things can change in the Metropolis.
“I don’t quite live in Mayfair, exactly,” I corrected him with a gentle smile, “I live just south of it in St. James’s. Do you live near here?”
“Not me,” he frowned, almost as if insulted, “I’m out Mile End way. I come here for me work.”
“And what is your work?” I wondered in my usual Nosy Parker way.
“You’re quite a little question-box, ain’t ye?” he laughed again.
“It’s my greatest character flaw,” I smiled flirtatiously, “Won’t you indulge me?”
“Well,” he looked around to see if anyone was listening, “I’m a bookmaker. Got me a share in a little betting shop down St. Anne’s Court, though we do most our business out at Sandown and Epsom.”
“A racing tout!” I was thrilled that I’d guessed his profession at first glance; but I cocked my head at him, curious about his reticence, “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, is it?”
“Not ashamed so much as cautious,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “People ‘round here know I work at a bookmaker’s, but they don’t know I own a share in the shop. We always blame everything on ‘Mister Cavendish,’ that’s the name on the sign out front, when we have to collect. Cavendish went to meet his maker twenty years gone, but we keep his ghost on as a scapegoat.”
“That’s frightfully clever,” I said, impressed by the cunning of it.
“Blokes as owe us money wouldn’t think so,” he winked at me, “So this is entry noose, right?”
“Strictly entre nous,” I winked back, then turned to look around the pub, “So tell me about this place, is it...you know?”
“Not specially,” he said, leaning back against the rail and taking another pull at his stout, “But nobody minds our sort here. They know we ain’t all shrinkin’ violets, and we can stand up for ourselves.”
“Well, if a brawl breaks out, I’ll be right behind you,” I joked.
“If that’s what you like,” he smirked lewdly, “Though I think I’d rather be behind you.”
“You’re awful!” I pushed at his chest playfully.
“I’m actually very good, Bastian,” he said very seriously, using what he’d obviously adopted as my pet name.
“I’d find that out for myself, if I wasn’t bound by friendship,” I said just as seriously, “I have my agreements with old Reggie. We don’t tread where the other fancies. He has quite a pash for you, Stan.”
“Yeah?” he looked thoughtful suddenly — or perhaps he was in pain, I couldn’t tell, “Maybe I should take him up on it. Maybe I’m wasting my time on pretty pieces like you, maybe I ought to settle for a bloke me own age.”
“Never settle, Stan,” I punched his shoulder to lighten the mood, “But old Reggie’s a good sort. And I’ve heard — from mutual acquaintances, mind — that he’s good fun when you get him alone. You might find you like him if you get to know him.”
“Well, maybe I will,” he conceded, swallowed off the rest of his stout, and pushed himself upright, “But I’d best be getting back to the shop. We do a good business when the men get off work of an evening, a day’s pay burnin’ through their pockets.”
“See you around, Stan,” I lifted my glass to him as he left the
pub, then took the barely-touched brew back to the bar to exchange it for a whiskey and soda. I didn’t really like stout or bitter, but I’d learned some time back that it was safest to order nothing a woman might drink, in a pub I didn’t know: I was too pretty and posh, people would make fun of me (or worse) if I ordered anything remotely feminine before I’d taken the measure of the place. The Wardour Street pub was safe enough for a whiskey, but I wouldn’t have dared a gin or a sherry.
I took my drink to a table by the window, which was already occupied by a very old man who smiled kindly at me when I asked if I could sit, but did not seem to care for conversation after that, answering my friendly inquiries with bare grunts before simply turning away from me. Instead, I amused myself observing passersby, of which there were quite a number and variety passing outside.
I actually cried out in surprise, though, when I saw Baron van der Swertz passing by on the other side of the street, his huge silent manservant stalking along behind him. What in the world could he be doing in this neighbourhood? Did he come here to see Gabriel? Though I had told him where the boy lived, I’d also explained my plans to go see him later that day, as well as to get back the paper-knife, there was no reason for him to come; so what was he doing so far from Westminster Palace, dressed in his top-hat and morning coat, walking quickly south toward Shaftesbury Avenue? And why did he have Nilssen with him?
Unfortunately, I was too surprised to act quickly, and before I bethought myself to get up and go ask him all the questions I’d just asked myself, the pair had disappeared into the crowd. So instead, I just sat and puzzled and drank my whiskey until I started feeling hungry.
I walked back to Dean Street to dine in the French restaurant that stood above the Green Parrot, wondering if it was as queer as the nightclub in its basement or if it was respectably unaware of its naughty neighbour. It turned out to be somewhere in between: just a little camp, all of the waiters were effeminate in a quiet and dignified way, and the menu attempted an Escoffier elegance that was a bit too ambitious for its kitchens; but it was a pleasant-enough place, comfortably furnished and filled with artists and artistic types, rounded out with a brood of Bright Young People making a genteel racket at one end and a clutch of elderly Canadians being scandalized at the other.
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