by M. J. Tjia
“But nobody knows where she is now?”
Sir Thomas takes up the thread of the story. “At first Mr Priestly required my men to look into her activities at the hotel, but upon questioning Monsieur Baudin, we learnt she had left his care most swiftly.”
“I suppose he did not want her now she was in trouble?”
“Something like that, it would seem. Since then he seems to have flown the coop,” says Sir Thomas. “My detectives have since found out that the young lady took a cab to Waterloo where she spent a little over three weeks in a boarding house before moving into another well-known establishment nearby.”
“What establishment?”
Mr Priestly purses his lips for a moment. “A house of ill-repute, it would seem. She moved to an abode owned by one Madame Silvestre.”
“Ah yes, I’m aware of her services,” I reply, thinking of how it’s been many years since I have had the pleasure of the old cat’s acquaintance. “Do you need me to fetch her?”
“If only it were that easy. It seems she has since disappeared. Nobody knows where she has gone.”
The sudden realisation dawns on me. “Are you concerned that she too has been mutilated?”
“We are not sure what has become of her,” says Sir Thomas. “Madame Silvestre might just be hiding her, or maybe the young lady has moved on to another place.”
“Or maybe she is one of the butcher’s victims,” says Mr Priestly. He withdraws a card case from his pocket and carefully takes out a small photograph. He hands this to me. “Eleanor Carter.”
The likeness is of a very fair, young woman. Her face is small and serious and the bodice of her gown is buttoned tightly to the base of her throat.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“She is only seventeen. She is quite small and pretty – this photograph does not do her justice,” says Mr Priestly. “My friend is worried for her safety.”
“He might have thought of that before he threw her out onto the street,” I say, before I can help myself.
Mr Priestly’s brow lifts as he looks across at me coldly. “Although it is out of the question for her to return to her familial home, naturally my friend is troubled. He would like to see her ensconced safely at the nunnery.”
I glance from Sir Thomas to Mr Priestly. “You want me to find her?”
Sir Thomas sits back into the sofa and extends his legs out before himself. He studies his shoes as he says, “Well, as you now know, I have already had my detectives scouting for information on Miss Carter, but they have failed to find her.”
“And you think my womanly touch might avail?” I ask, amused.
Sir Thomas resettles himself again. “As simple questioning has not sufficed, we wondered if you could possibly discover Miss Carter’s movements with more covert methods.”
“Such as…?”
Mr Priestly makes an impatient motion with his hand. “You seemed interested in picking up the mantle of another character again, Mrs Chancey, and that is what we are asking of you. I believe it won’t be too much of a stretch for you, for we would like you to pose as a…” he glances at Sir Thomas, “a ‘gay girl’, I think they’re called.”
I stop breathing for a moment as annoyance flushes through my body. It’s true that I posed as a street prostitute for Sir Thomas, but that was just a lark, and it’s also true that in the dim past I’d worked in many places, both good and bad, but I choose not to think of that now. So, for this absolute pig of a man to refer to me as a mere gay girl makes me angry. I’m no longer a lowly grisette, willing to flatter or implore my way to a few more pennies or ribbons while I try to hide my desperation.
I lift my chin. “You want me to pose as a prostitute?”
“Precisely.”
“At Madame Silvestre’s?”
“If they would have you, certainly,” says Mr Priestly, his voice even. “What better place for you to be situated in order to find out where Miss Carter is?”
I heave myself up from the sofa and stride to the bay window. My skirt bumps a side-table causing a figurine of a Chinese goddess to totter. Go back to work in a brothel, for the sake of a little detection? I’m not so sure.
Sir Thomas puts his hands out entreatingly. “Mrs Chancey, not only can you investigate the disappearance of Miss Carter, you can also look into the other deaths. You can try to find more information about the monster who is harming these women.”
“Who knows?” interrupts Mr Priestly. “You could even pretend to be pregnant and see where that takes you.”
“Be your bait, you mean?” I ask, my voice flippant.
“Whatever it takes, Mrs Chancey, whatever it takes.” Mr Priestly slips his fingers into his gloves. “You may put it about that Miss Carter is a young relative of your own, but in no way must her name be connected back to my friend. Sir Thomas will take care of the case from now on. I am sure you will be remunerated…” he glances around my sumptuous drawing room, “as grandly as possible.”
I turn from the window, the smile on my face fixed. “I don’t work for Sir Thomas for the money, Mr Priestly. I have my own independent means. I follow inquiries for Sir Thomas purely for the pleasure of it, and in this I would find no pleasure. I’m afraid I will need to decline your kind offer.”
He stops pulling on his remaining glove and eyes me for a few, long moments. “I must assure you that I do not request you to take this case – I insist you take this case.”
“Insist? You cannot make me take this case, Mr Priestly.”
“Mrs Chancey, I know the local magistrate, Sir Herbert Brimm. I know for a fact that he and others are interested in your mysterious activities in the Limehouse area. One word from me and you will be examined by the local police and the doctor in their employ.”
I can feel anger drain the colour from my cheeks and my fingers quiver with adrenalin. I’ve heard of this movement to examine prostitutes for contagious diseases. He would menace me with this detestable law that terrorises prostitutes and offends even righteous women? He would dare threaten me with a disgusting doctor probing my body for sickness?
“That will never eventuate, Mr Priestly. I know far more important and powerful people than you.”
“Ah, you must mean your protector,” replies Mr Priestly. “Tell me, how would he like an examination of your private life smeared in the newspapers for his wife and esteemed friends to see? Think of his poor children. Be sure, Mrs Chancey, the damage can be done before he is able to assist you.”
I grip my waist, my fingertips digging into the unyielding corset. My popularity with patrons is closely tied to my discretion. It has always been so. But in this trembling moment of rage I have nothing to lose. “Do it then, sir. Do your worst,” I say, struggling to keep my voice low.
Sir Thomas steps between us, his hands raised. “Please, Mr Priestly, there’s no need for these threats.” He turns to me. “Mrs Chancey, surely we can come to an agreement on how you can investigate this in a manner with which you are comfortable. We really do need your assistance.”
I look into Sir Thomas’ flushed, kind face and then shrug one shoulder. “Allow me to think it over. And if I do decide to proceed,” I glare at Mr Priestly, “I will only deal with Sir Thomas.”
“That suits me perfectly,” says Mr Priestly. He leaves the room without bidding farewell.
Sir Thomas thanks me profusely and presses my hand goodbye between his clammy ones. “I will be in touch.” He follows Mr Priestly to the front door as swiftly as his short legs will take him.
From the window I watch the men descend the few front steps down. I make sure to stand a little behind the silk drapes so that they can’t see me. Stopping on the last step Mr Priestly turns to Sir Thomas and says, “What on earth do you think a little dollymop like her can achieve?”
“She’s done some very good work for us…” Sir Thomas protests. The rest of the conversation is drowned out by the arrival of their carriage.
I stand very still for a few minut
es, watching the carriage pull away, until I sense someone behind me.
“What are you thinking?” asks Amah. “Are you wondering how you will investigate this dreadful affair?”
I turn my head slightly, and meet her eye. “No. I am considering in what way I will repay the precious Mr Priestly for his insults.”
LI LEEN
I watched her through the peacock’s tail again today. She really is beautiful. She stands so tall, so straight and her nose is little, not flat like mine. I used to be beautiful when I was young and lived by the sea in Makassar. Because we were richer than most I had gold bangles that jangled on my wrists and gold rings in my ears. My hair was black then, only black, without the stripes of white that line my hair now. I never pulled my hair back, I allowed it to drape over my left shoulder and rest on my breast as I counted out buttons or weighed the fruit for customers in our produce store. Oh yes, I was beautiful. The men of Makassar admired me, as did the Dutch men, but no one ever asked for my hand.
She would find it hard to believe that I once was beautiful too. She only sees me as I am now. People notice her when she walks past. They even follow her sometimes. I am anonymous. Nobody watches me. So I watch her.
Sir Thomas admires her; why else does he continue to employ her in this manner, so that she needs to use the skills she has learnt outside the bed? He is twice her age, yet he blushes when he speaks to her. But that Mr Priestly, the one with the big ears, I did not like how he looked at her when she was not noticing. He looked at her long and hard, but like he hated her. And when she turned to him again he smiled that sour smile of his. I am not quite sure what he said that made her so angry, but I hope she is careful. He is dangerous, that man.
CHAPTER TWO
I watch the front of Mme Silvestre’s house from my carriage. It’s a bleak evening, the gas lamps shedding only hazy light. The terraced house looms tall, its exposed, dark bricks gloomier than its painted neighbours. I’m really loath to leave the comfort of my warm carriage to re-enter this world I’d left several years past, but I know I must. It’s the only way forward.
I adjust my bodice to push up the fullness of my bosom. I pat my hair to make sure it is neat, and press a finger lightly to my mouth to ensure the rosy lip rouge is still in place. Looking once more up at the house I notice the sash curtain on the lower window twitch, allowing a sliver of light to appear. Someone has noticed my presence.
I hop down from the carriage with the help of my coachman. He’s a small, wiry man dressed in the tight-fitting black and red silk livery I’d chosen for him a year beforehand.
“Thank you, Taff,” I say as I step over the mud in the street to the pavement. I clutch my skirt and petticoats high and stand on tip-toe to keep my slippers from the muck. “Can you wait for me here with my baggage? I might be a while.”
“Of course, Miss Heloise,” he says, his voice gruff. “I won’t go no further without a word from you. These be’m rough parts we are in.”
I pause for a moment and peer into the gloom. I can see why Taff thinks this area is rough. The road is full of dirt, and the stench of horse manure and rotten food is strong. Most of the passers-by are slow and dishevelled, some smelling of gin and piss. The muckers across the way sift through the refuse for anything that can be salvaged or sold. The men, women and children are uniform in the murky light, with their grey, patched clothing and sunken cheeks. They search for scraps with the same dogged determination of hopefuls who pan for gold. It’s a different world from my home in Mayfair on the pristine, quiet South Street. I grin at Taff. “What? Have you forgotten Toxteth Docks, Taff?”
“It’s a long time since we’m been there, Miss Heloise,” he grumbles.
“Yes, I suppose it has been,” I murmur. And thank heavens for that. I step briskly up the path to Mme Silvestre’s front door.
I tap on the door which is almost immediately drawn open by a huge, bald man. He blinks and says, “Well, if it’s not Hell’s Bell.”
I laugh. “Mr Critchley! You still here?”
“Of course. Where else would I be?” He moves back against the corridor wall, but what with his large stomach and my voluminous gown the space is somewhat restricted. “You’d better go straight into the drawing room, Hell. Madame Silvestre will be pleased to see you again.”
I admire his optimism. I’ll be very surprised if I’m welcomed warmly, especially as I’d robbed Silvestre of some very lucrative business when I had left her protection. I push the door open to my right, and a surge of warmth, musky body odour and perfume assail me. Two large chandeliers light the long room, and numerous candles twinkle from the picture rails and tables. Luxurious rugs the colour of golden straw line the floor and the room is strewn with women in various stages of undress draped over velvet damask sofas and settees. Despite it being early in the evening, several men, dressed neatly in silk top hats and long coats, already hover over their favourites. As I pick my way slowly through the room, I notice that the bar is manned by a rather robust looking woman with lavish amounts of rouge rubbed into her cheeks and that an old acquaintance of mine, Tilly, is thumping out a tune on the piano which she accompanies in an unmelodious, yet enthusiastic, manner.
At the end of the room on a raised platform, seated in what could only be described as a throne, is Mme Silvestre. She is a very wide woman, and the billowing folds of blue and yellow satin that engulf her only make her appear broader. Her vast bosom wobbles close to where her chins finish, and she wears a Chantilly lace cap over her brown hair. In her lap is a white, long-haired cat, also of large proportions. Directly behind her, above the fireplace, is a painting of a sweet, simpering girl clutching a posy of peonies, her chestnut curls cupping her divinely pretty face. This is a portrait of Mme Silvestre in her younger, more innocent, days, before wine, fine food and lovers had spoilt her figure, but strengthened her business acumen.
Mme Silvestre’s heavy jowls lift into a smirk when she spies me. “Ah. A compliment, to be sure, Martine,” she drawls in the cat’s ear. “Miss ‘Eloise, come to pay us a call, ‘ave you? Or must we refer to you as Mrs Chancey now?”
Mr Critchley places a spindle back chair next to the throne for my use. “Of course you can always call me Heloise, madam,” I say politely, as I sit down, arrange my gown and gaze around the room.
Mme Silvestre is actually from Hackney, and has obscured a rather sordid past with a French background, just as I had done really. Her voice is deep, and with many years’ practice, she has perfected an accent that rounds her speech as if she is sucking on a small plum, the French intonation facilitated by the cockney dropping of aitches, although once in a while a deep-rooted turn of phrase or word is surprised from her painted lips.
I have to speak loudly over the sound of music, women squealing and men laughing. “I see business is still good.”
“This business will never go out of fashion, my dear,” she says. “But ’ow is the acting going?”
There is a quizzical cast in the fat woman’s eye. We both know my acting is just a pleasant pastime that takes no real place over my career as a courtesan. “I adore it. Did you see me as Peaseblossom? Not a large role, I must admit, but the costume was divine – Aspreys lent the diamonds for the gossamer wings, and the fairy dress was so transparent all I could see when I looked to the audience were opera-glasses trained upon me.” I grin at the memory. “But I am taking a rest from stage-acting at the moment.”
A look of surprise lengthens Mme Silvestre’s face. “You ‘aven’t come ‘ere to ask for your position back, ‘ave you?”
My back stiffens. That’s exactly what I’m here to do, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words. I watch the women working the room. They appear to be enjoying themselves, carousing and playing with the gentlemen, and I realise that, apart from Tilly, I don’t recognise any of them. Unlike me, most of the other ‘older’ women would have had to move on to a less exclusive establishment or maybe even the streets. I’m not sure that I can face the uncerta
inty of an evening’s quest, the uncertainty of who will share my bed. And how will I have time to carry out my investigations if, like in the past, my whole time is monopolised by Charlies? It’s too haphazard to consider. Damn that Priestly. I’m a good investigator. I don’t need to be flat on my back or flashing my breasts to find this Eleanor girl. And I don’t relish lying in wait, a sparkling lure on the hook, in order to catch the man mutilating doxies.
I decide upon a new tack.
“No,” I answer, finally.
“No. You’ve been gettin’ along grand without us,” Mme Silvestre says tartly.
I ignore the sour tone in the older woman’s voice. “I’m actually here to ask after a friend of mine. Her name is Eleanor Carter and I believe the last time she was seen it was here, with you.”
“Ho! A friend of yours, was she?” Mme Silvestre sneers. “A nice, refined girl like that? Although…” her eyes narrow. “Although, maybe it was you ‘oo steered her wrong in life, was it?”
“Listen, Mildred,” I have the satisfaction of seeing Mme Silvestre blink at the sound of her real name. “It doesn’t matter how I know Miss Carter. All I want to know is if you know where she is now?”
“No, I don’t. She was ‘ere for barely a day, so why you all thinks I know where she is, is a mystery to me,” she says crossly, stroking the white cat rather forcefully.
“Why was she here?”
“That stupid Tilly brought her, didn’t she? I give the girls a tip when they bring me a nice piece of muslin. But the squawking your Miss Carter set up when old Mr Bench put ‘is ‘and on ‘er knee was enough to make yer teeth chatter out of yer ‘ed, so she ‘ad to go.”
“Where?”
Mme Silvestre’s head rears back a little. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know. That’s not my concern now, is it? I run a business ‘ere, in case you’ve forgotten, Mrs Chancey, not a bloody orphanage.”
I have to clamp my mouth shut in vexation. I’m getting no further than Sir Thomas’ stolid male detectives. I look around again at the other women in the room. There are seven of them, all differing in height, build and colouring. A petite blonde leads a tall man down the hall, while a girl with pale orange hair lies back on a couch nearby, offering her pert nipple to a man so young he still has acne rash on his cheeks. I wonder if Sir Thomas’ other detectives had interviewed Mme Silvestre at this productive time of evening and enjoyed the sights.