by Alex Reeve
‘I found out. I didn’t know the details. I didn’t want to.’ She looked up at me. Until that moment, I could never have imagined her weeping. ‘I see what you’re getting at though, and I’ve thought the same. He knew the whore.’
I didn’t like her referring to Maria in that way, but I couldn’t blame her. She was telling me about her husband and, by implication, her marriage.
‘They probably met, yes.’
‘You’ve no need to be so delicate. I knew what he was well enough. He never met a woman he didn’t like, and he never liked a woman he didn’t want to lift up her skirt. He wasn’t above spending some chink too, if that’s what it took, and that was mostly my money by the way, earned with my two hands baking pies.’
Having said her piece, she walked beside me in silence. I contemplated taking her arm, but her expression made me think better of the idea.
‘I believe a major in the army may be involved in some way,’ I said eventually. ‘He knew Maria Milanes. I think he was in love with her, but his father put a stop to it. He sent a letter breaking off their friendship, and he’s desperate to get it back. His name is Thorpe. Did your husband ever mention him?’
She shook her head. ‘No. He was friendly with a good many people, but I doubt any of them were majors. Moneylenders and bookies were more his type.’
She took a deep breath, and looked at me sidelong again. I realised she was assessing me. Her conversation up to this point had been akin to kneading the dough, and now she wanted to roll it out and bake it.
‘What I wanted to ask you, Mr Stanhope, is for a favour. I need to visit that brothel.’
‘What?’ I was certain I must have misheard her, or else the knock on her head had addled her mind. ‘You can’t possibly go to a brothel, Mrs Flowers.’
‘I’ll do as I please, Mr Stanhope.’
‘But why? It’s complete madness.’
She paused, clutching her hands together. ‘I have to speak to them. I think maybe Jack did something foolish, and took some money that wasn’t his. That’d be just like him.’
‘And do you think … forgive me, but is it possible he was murdered for it?’
She bit her lip and nodded. ‘More than likely, I reckon. And now they think I have their money. But I don’t.’
‘Is that why you were injured? The woman at your shop said you were taken to Puddle Dock, to a ship.’
Her hand unconsciously went to her head. ‘Alice had no business saying such things, and anyway it wasn’t a ship, just one of those boats that goes up and down the river.’
‘I went to Puddle Dock. The dock-master had taken a bribe and couldn’t tell me anything useful. Did you recognise the man who captured you?’
‘Never seen him before. Thin. Nasty. About your height.’
The weasel. ‘I think I’ve met him.’
‘He came in polite enough but then starts asking questions about Jack, wanting to know if he’d told me something, and if I had their money. I had no idea what he was talking about. Jack never gave me a brass farthing. Drinking with his mates most of the time, and when he came back he was in no mood for conversation. But the fellow wouldn’t take no for an answer, and kept asking over and over, where’s the money, where’s the money. I told him I didn’t know anything about it, and he said there was important people who wanted it back. He said if I didn’t tell him it’d be the worst for my kids.’ Her face set as hard and cold as ceramic. ‘He dragged me out to his carriage and still he kept asking, where’s the money. When he tied me up on that boat I was worried, I can tell you.’
‘That’s awful. How did you escape?’
‘I was yelling for help, and he kept telling me to stop, but I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He got annoyed and clobbered me over the head, and then probably thought I was a goner. He was trying to shove me overboard. So I kicked him in the tallywags and ran off up to the street. Some people found me and took me to the infirmary.’
‘Did you see anything unusual on the boat? The dock-master said there were coffins onboard.’
‘Coffins? Mother of God.’ She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘No, I didn’t see anything like that.’
‘And you really don’t know where their money is?’
She gave me a look that would have kindled stone. ‘Do you think I would’ve endangered my children? My God, I’d have told him in a second. That’s the point! He could come back, just walk into the shop, any time he likes. I worry every minute. I don’t care what they do to me, but leave my children alone. That’s why I need to go to the brothel, so I can tell those people I don’t know anything about their money.’
There were still some things I didn’t understand. ‘But if your husband stole their money, why did they kill him? It doesn’t make sense. Surely they’d leave him alive so he could tell them where it was.’
‘I have no idea.’
I stopped and faced her as people passed by either side of us. In the fog, they were vague and faded, and we were alone in the world.
‘You can’t possibly go there, Mrs Flowers. You’re a respectable lady.’
She snorted. ‘Respectable! I’m sleeping with a cudgel by my bed. I held a skewer to some lad’s throat yesterday, and he’d only come in for a pork pie. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’ve had enough of that.’
‘Very well then, if you’re not interested in my opinion, what do you want?’
‘I want the address of the place. I went to the police to ask them and they fetched some priggish detective who refused to tell me. For my own good, he said.’
Unexpected wisdom from Ripley; I wished I’d been there to see it. ‘I won’t tell you either.’
She snorted again. ‘You men. You always think you know best. I’ll find out another way then. Good day, Mr Stanhope.’
She turned and walked away, vanishing into the murk. I stood there, feeling the tide of pedestrians flowing against me, pushing me south towards the hospital.
I looked back. Even if I could find her in the fog, Mrs Brafton would never let us in, not while she still blamed me for Maria’s death.
I strode south down Whitehall. It wasn’t my fault Mrs Flowers was so aggravatingly stubborn.
I slowed down.
I looked back again.
Damn it.
I set off after her, and hadn’t gone more than thirty or forty yards before I found her sitting on a low wall.
‘Mrs Flowers! I thought you’d gone.’
She looked away. ‘I don’t know where to go is the truth. Now, will you tell me or not?’
‘I think you’re being very unwise, Mrs Flowers. If Jack did steal the money from the brothel then you’ll be walking into grave danger. How will it help your children if their mother’s dead?’
‘Either I’ll be gone and they’ll be brought up by Alice and Albert, or I’ll make peace and so much the better. Either way, it’ll be over, and that’s what matters. They’ve been through enough.’ She took off her spectacles and wiped her eyes. ‘You don’t have children, do you? You don’t know how it is. In truth, I’m glad Jack’s dead. Isn’t that terrible?’ She looked down at the pavement and gathered herself. ‘He was sweet once, with his smile and his manners. He wooed me. We used to go dancing.’ She smiled at the memory, swaying a little from side to side. ‘He was so friendly to everyone, always joking. Life and soul when he’d had a few, singing in the pub, and then home to me. But I’m a bit of a harpy, and he used to get angry. He said I was the worst gamble he ever lost, and was free with his fists when the mood took him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She gave a little shrug. ‘Don’t be. It’s normal. It was only when he started on the kids I minded.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Robbie’s only five, poor little man, and Lillian’s not even four. He knocked her out clean once, and she only woke up while I was carrying her to the doctor. When she opened her eyes I thought I would burst with relief. I just want them to be safe now.’
The church bells were tolling. Somewhere in my head there was a voice saying that I didn’t have the time and it might not be safe. But the reckless part of me said I had a whole hour to get there and back, and a proud history of idiocy.
‘Very well, Mrs Flowers, if you insist on going, I’ll take you there myself.’
‘Rosie, if you want,’ she offered, apparently against her better judgement. ‘I don’t feel like a Flowers any more, if I ever did. Silly name anyway, Rosie Flowers. Everyone calls me Rosie.’
17
Once again, I wanted to take a hansom cab, but Rosie pursed her lips and was having none of it.
‘Half Moon Street?’ she scoffed. ‘What’s wrong with your legs?’
It was properly dark and raining by the time we got there. A cab would have knocked ten minutes off the time and kept us dry besides, but it didn’t seem worth raising the point.
‘You realise they’ll probably turn us away?’ I said. ‘Last time I saw Elizabeth Brafton we had words. She won’t have forgiven me.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Rosie. ‘Must be terrible to have the mistress of whores thinking ill of you.’
‘You don’t understand. She’s an intelligent woman, educated and experienced. Don’t underestimate her.’
Rosie sniffed. ‘Can’t be easy for her, with so little demand for the goods.’
‘Will you be dismissing everything I say?’
‘Quite likely, if you keep talking such nonsense.’
As we approached the house, a brief, habitual excitement erupted within me, quickly stifled by a kind of torpor. Another girl would be in Maria’s room now, sitting at Maria’s dressing table, brushing her hair with Maria’s brush, probably even wearing her clothes. It didn’t make me angry, it made me feel dislocated, as though time was going more slowly for me than for everyone else.
‘I don’t think we should do this.’
‘Then go home,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m not stopping you. But I need to have peace. I can’t live in fear for my children.’
She paused to raise the collar of her coat, obscuring her face somewhat from passers-by, and then marched up the steps and knocked on the door of the brothel as if she did this sort of thing every day.
Hugo opened the door, his vastness blocking out the light. The first time I met him I expected the room to tip up and all the furniture to slide in his direction.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Stanhope,’ he said, and cast a brief, assessing glance at Rosie. ‘No vacancies.’
‘Now you listen –’ she began, but I interrupted her.
‘This is Mrs Flowers, a respectable widow. We’re here on important business with Mrs Brafton. It’s to do with Maria Milanes.’
He stroked his jaw, sending ripples across his bulbous neck, and glanced back inside. ‘You’re best off going home if you know what’s good for you.’
There was a movement behind him, and Mrs Brafton’s face peered round his massive frame.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll make an exception for Mr Stanhope.’
‘Madam –’ started Hugo, but she brushed him aside.
‘And you are?’
‘Rosie Flowers,’ said Rosie with a shallow smile. ‘I think you knew my husband, Jack.’
Mrs Brafton nodded, with a hint of puzzlement, and led us to the drawing room, indicating we should sit. Rosie perched on an armchair, her hat remaining firmly in place. The room was exactly as I’d last seen it, oppressive and somehow too much; too much red in the wallpaper, too many candles on the mantelpiece, too strong a smell of rosewater and too much furniture as well. I eyed the willow-pattern bowl on the sideboard, imagining that Maria was upstairs right now, waiting for me. I could almost hear her laugh.
Mrs Brafton was as immaculate as ever. Maria had told me there were some customers who, upon setting eyes on her, decided she would be preferable to any of the girls, even though she was well over forty years old. But I’d never known her to go upstairs with anyone, except for the Colonel of course.
Hugo reappeared, but she shushed him away and sent the maid to bring us a much-needed tray of tea.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ she said, smiling at us both, making some effort at warmth. I was surprised, expecting a repeat of her previous hostility.
She sat briefly on the sofa and then got up again, eventually choosing to stand with one arm on the mantelpiece as my father used to of an evening while Jane played the piano. Thank goodness no one had tried to squeeze a piano into this small room, though I sensed it was a close-run thing.
‘It may be that I owe you an apology, Mr Stanhope,’ she continued, talking to the rug as far as I could see. ‘About before, at the funeral. Please understand, I was distraught and not really myself. It was such a blow.’ She turned to Rosie. ‘One of our girls was murdered, as you may know, and we’re inconsolable. Who would have thought it? Louisa Moreau. I was shocked when I heard. None of us ever dreamt of such a thing.’
‘That’s why we’ve come,’ said Rosie. ‘My Jack is dead too, but it’s in the past now. What’s done is done, is what I’m saying. I know nothing of his business and he left nothing behind. No money or anything.’
Mrs Brafton didn’t flinch. ‘That’s a shame. You must be very concerned.’ She angled her head sympathetically. ‘I was sorry to hear of your bereavement. But it’s important that we remain resilient in the face of such things, isn’t it? Life must go on.’
‘You’re quite right,’ Rosie continued gamely. ‘I know Jack saw whores and came to brothels. And perhaps he did something stupid and took something that didn’t belong to him. But I know nothing about it. Nor do I care how he died. I’ve three children and a pie shop to run, and I’m content to continue with that and leave well alone. He wasn’t much of a husband anyway, if the truth be told. Drunk most of the time, with a rotten temper. Not much to look at neither and not the brightest.’ And then, as an afterthought: ‘God rest his soul.’
Mrs Brafton’s eyes flicked up to Rosie’s hat, purple and not black, lacking a veil. ‘I’m afraid I hardly knew your husband, Mrs Flowers.’ She stared pointedly at me. ‘But men will have their secrets, won’t they?’
I exchanged a glance with Rosie. She had wanted to make peace, but wasn’t getting a foothold here.
The maid arrived with the tea, and Mrs Brafton deftly arranged the saucers and cups. Her hand was steady as she poured. There was a sound of footsteps in the hall, and the head of a young fellow appeared around the doorway, followed by the rest of him. If I’d ever wondered what kind of person visits a brothel on a Sunday afternoon then here was my answer: he was fourteen at most, dressed in trousers that showed his ankles and a shirt that showed his wrists, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Same time next week,’ he called out to Mrs Brafton with a kind of buoyancy, and then we heard the front door slam and Hugo grumbling that the lad had tipped him a farthing on his way out.
How does it feel, to be like him? How did he get to be so cocky?
Rosie sat quietly, nursing her cup between her hands. I could tell the lad had done nothing to revise her opinion of the male sex. ‘I just want to be left in peace to run my shop,’ she said eventually. ‘No one wants to see black crape on the door, do they?’
‘No indeed,’ agreed Mrs Brafton. ‘Our customers come first.’
I wasn’t sure how this exchange was helping. I cleared my throat, but Rosie narrowed her eyes at me and turned back to Mrs Brafton, intent on making conversation.
‘So tell me, how did you start this concern of yours? What’s the story behind it?’
The older woman seemed pleased to be asked. Despite being surrounded by her girls and her customers, I realised how isolated she was.
‘I started here eight years ago. We had just this floor and the next one in those days, and we let all the top rooms to students. There were a few girls here then, but I remember two in particular, Ada and Ethel, who had worked at every place between here and Portsmouth, some of them twice. Their cu
stomers used to queue outside their doors if you can believe it, and when each man came out he would doff his cap to the next in line. Paupers, the lot of them. All these wealthy houses in Mayfair, full of thick wallets and cold beds, and our customers were vermin from the docks and factories.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Rosie.
‘There was nothing I could do, at first. It was Mrs O’Leary who was in charge of the place in those days, a big Irishwoman with a ruddy face. Nancy Gainsford knew her from before. I was just cooking and washing and so forth. Of course, Mr Bentinck owns it all and we’re all in his employ.’ She nodded in my direction. ‘You’ve seen Mr Bentinck, Mr Stanhope. He was kind enough to speak at Maria’s funeral, and a great honour it was for her that he came. He’s related to the Cavendish Bentincks, you know. A very important family. Very important.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Mrs O’Leary was used to running things in a certain way, with the men paying a few pence each. It was what she knew, and there was nothing wrong with it, I suppose, but there was no order. No quality. And then one day she brought in a new girl, a pitiful, mule-faced creature with no teeth and no bosom, and she announced that this girl, I can’t remember her name, Binty or Bunty or something like that, would be perfect for the lower classes. As if we weren’t already catering for the lowest possible! Well, I’d had enough.
‘I went to Mr Bentinck and told him I could make more money with a better class of customer. Nancy Gainsford didn’t like that, I can tell you. She’s always been so common at heart. She’s not really even a bookkeeper, just a secretary, and lucky to be that. But James, Mr Bentinck that is, he’s a man of vision. And he has contacts everywhere: he knows judges and people in the police, here and even in Brussels!’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Even the Belgian royal family, so I heard.’
‘What happened then?’ asked Rosie, visibly discounting the rumour.
Mrs Brafton didn’t notice and paused dramatically, enjoying her tale. ‘He said I had a month to prove my case. So I got rid of Bunty or whatever her name was, and Ada and Ethel and the rest, and brought in better girls, nice girls. And I raised the prices. Well, you can’t even imagine. There was a riot, near enough. Some of these men had been coming here for years, and treated Mrs O’Leary like their mother. She gave them discounts if you can believe it. Suddenly they had to pay two shillings for what they used to get for sixpence, and they weren’t best pleased about it. They soon stopped coming, and after a month we had no customers at all. Not one. Mr Bentinck visited here with Hugo, and I thought … well, Mr Bentinck and I were of like mind, but still, my plan had failed completely. I was perturbed. But he told Hugo to fetch some carpenters and painters and what have you, and make the place like new. “Elizabeth my dear,” he said to me, “if we’re going to bring in a better class of customer, we need a better class of house.” As I say, a true man of vision.