by L M Jackson
The room to which Sarah Tanner sought admittance was no ordinary drawing-room. For a start, at some juncture it had been knocked through into the room behind, creating an elongated space, more like the lounge of some gentleman’s club. It was not altogether dissimilar: lit by a trio of elaborate chandeliers, it had the same scent of musty tobacco; the same grand leather armchairs grouped around the two fire-places; the same air of luxurious seclusion from the outside world. But it differed in several crucial respects. For one, it boasted a bar along one side of the room, tended by a pretty young woman. For another, there was, at its centre, a baccarat table, around which some twenty or so individuals, men and women in evening dress, stood or sat, observing the play. And there were other games of chance, too, at smaller tables, where the rattle of dice could occasionally be heard. It was, in short, the typical West End hell; the sort of place where, if so inclined, one might readily gamble one’s very life away; the sort of place that was occasionally closed by the Metropolitan Police – but only occasionally.
Sarah Tanner surveyed the players at baccarat, and their partisans grouped around the table. She knew some of the women by sight, and had a good idea of their background. The men, for the most part, seemed a rather smart group. A couple had the moustaches of military gentlemen; another possessed a foreign complexion, perhaps a well-to-do Frenchman or Italian; another had the comfortable port-red cheeks of the English gentry. All appeared, if the counters stacked upon the table were any guide, to have money in abundance. Only one man seemed a little more shabby – his shirt-front not pure white, a collar slightly askew – but he was apart from the others, sunk in conversation with a woman at a corner table, an empty bottle of champagne by his feet.
She made her way towards the baccarat table, intent on circumnavigating it. As she moved forward, however, a figure appeared from the shadows and firmly took her by the arm.
‘Good evening, Sarah.’
He was a man of about thirty-five years of age. He wore the same black evening suit as the rest of the habitués of the place, and his hair – the very colour of his suit – was meticulously slicked back with Macassar oil. His face, moreover, was quite handsome. But he looked at Sarah Tanner with a fixed, stern expression that lent no charm to his features.
She smiled politely.
‘Mr. Symes.’
‘We didn’t expect to see you again,’ he said.
‘I just want a word, that’s all, with Her Majesty.’
‘How convenient,’ he replied, guiding her along. ‘She wants a word with you.’
Mr. Symes led Sarah Tanner towards the very back of the room. There, in a quiet corner by the fire, sat a woman in her sixth decade, quite broad about the waist, in a black cap and crinoline, with a fashionable fringe of hair – most likely not her own – peeking from beneath her headgear. Her only companion was a small dog of the Pekinese variety, which lay in her lap, quite content in the great black folds of her dress. As Mrs. Tanner approached it gave a noisy, aggressive yap.
‘Hush,’ said Her Majesty, patting the dog’s head, a rather pinched sort of smile forming on her face. ‘That’s no way to treat an old acquaintance, is it? No. Not at all.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Her Majesty smiled at her guest, though her dark brooding eyes, which fixed greedily upon her visitor, somehow did not quite concur with her lips.
‘You look well, my dear,’ she said, after a moment’s reflection, ‘prettier than I remember, too.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Sarah Tanner.
‘Please, sit down.’
Mrs. Tanner slowly settled herself in a chair by the fire, with a hesitancy that did not escape her hostess.
‘Come now, my dear. Don’t be so timid, it really does not suit you. I don’t bite, do I, Jap-Jap?’
As she spoke, Her Majesty tickled the chin of the Pekinese, still nestled in her skirts. Obligingly, as if to illustrate her point, the dog made a half-hearted snap at its mistress’s finger.
‘A spirited little creature, isn’t he?’ she continued. ‘No? You do not have an opinion? What do you say, Mr. Symes?’
‘Assuredly, ma’am,’ said the gentleman in question, who stood behind Sarah Tanner’s chair, rather as if guarding a prisoner.
‘Much like a certain female we have before us, eh, Mr. Symes?’
‘Spirited?’ replied Symes. ‘Wilful, if my memory serves me well, ma’am.’
Her Majesty smiled.
‘Quite so. You are quite right to correct me. Some might even say – forgive me, is the word too strong, Mr. Symes? – ungrateful. But then, I suppose, the young were ever thus.’
‘You are a philosopher, ma’am,’ said Symes.
‘You are too kind, sir,’ replied Her Majesty, graciously. ‘But I do wonder – forgive me, but I really do – why the fickle, ungrateful creature has suddenly returned to our bosom? How long has it been?’
‘Almost a twelvemonth, ma’am,’ said Symes.
‘I wonder,’ she went on, ‘does Miss Sarah Mills crave our forgiveness? Is that it? Has she come crawling?’
‘No,’ replied Her Majesty’s guest, although apparently quite content to be addressed by a surname which – in Leather Lane at least – was not considered her own.
Her Majesty’s affable smile dropped abruptly, like the fall of a stage curtain, and settled into a distinct scowl.
‘No? Have a care, my dear. It is charming to see you once again, but do have a care.’
‘I’ve got some news,’ said Sarah Tanner, bluntly, ‘if you care to hear it.’
‘News? Now you fascinate me,’ replied Her Majesty. ‘You know I adore gossip, my dear. Do tell.’
‘Georgie’s dead.’
There was a distinct pause.
‘You mean George Phelps?’ said Symes, leaning forward, surprise evident in his voice. Her Majesty, meanwhile, kept perfectly quiet, her features placid and inscrutable.
‘He was murdered, last night,’ she continued, keeping her voice low, conscious of the chatter of the gamblers not a dozen feet away, ‘Holborn way. And I saw the man that did it.’
‘And – merely for curiosity’s sake – how did you happen to be there, my dear?’ asked Her Majesty, with glacial calm.
‘I just did. You haven’t heard the worst of it – there was a Peeler that was after him, following him. It was the Peeler who killed him.’
Symes laughed. ‘If you say so, Sarah.’
‘I saw him with my own eyes.’
‘Well, then, what of it?’ asked Symes, a little more serious. ‘Was there a fight?’
Sarah Tanner paused. ‘I didn’t see it happen. I found him, just after. It wasn’t an accident, I can tell you that much. What had you got him doing?’
‘Mr. Phelps? Only a little hotel work, my dear,’ replied Her Majesty, ‘nothing in particular. Nothing to trouble the constabulary.’
‘Something that got him killed. He wouldn’t have picked a fight, not George. He wasn’t a brawler.’
‘Again, my dear,’ said Her Majesty, ‘have a care. I am sure I am grateful – if that is the word – for the sad tidings. And, if what you say is true, I am sorry for poor young Mr. Phelps. He was a charming, agreeable young man. But do have a care.’
‘Well, aren’t you going to do anything?’
‘Do? What can I do?’ said Her Majesty. ‘A weak and feeble woman, such as I?’
‘You could find him; whoever he is, the man that did it, teach him a lesson. You’ve done it before. I can describe—’
‘Please, my dear,’ said Her Majesty, ‘that is quite enough. I make it my business not to interfere with the police. You know that. If poor Mr. Phelps, rest his soul, had some petty dispute with this officer of the law, and came off the worse, it is none of my affair.’
A look of frustration flashed across Sarah Tanner’s face. ‘He did not “come off the worse”. He was butchered.’
‘I can see you still possess a temper, my dear,’ said Her Majesty. ‘You should attempt t
o contain it.’
‘Perhaps I should,’ replied Mrs. Tanner. ‘Perhaps I should have known better than to come to you.’
‘You used to have a tenderness for the young man, did you not?’
‘No!’ protested Sarah Tanner. ‘Lord! I shouldn’t have come. I knew it.’
‘Oh, my dear, don’t say that.’
Sarah Tanner took a deep breath. She brushed down the folds of her skirt and made to rise from her chair. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll bid you good night.’
Her Majesty, however, shook her head, and motioned to Mr. Symes, who placed a firm hand on Sarah Tanner’s shoulder.
‘I think you forget your position, my dear,’ said Her Majesty. ‘It is a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, but there is the little matter of your past conduct.’
Sarah Tanner sighed. ‘I’m sorry for the business at Norwood. I never meant—’
Her Majesty waved her hand, as if to dismiss the words as worthless. ‘I spent six months on the Continent because of you, my dear. I could not show my face in London, let alone in Society. All because of your sickly little affair of the heart. All because you took pity on a certain wretched youth.’
‘I told you, I am sorry for that. But you would have ruined him.’
‘Ruined? He was a pigeon, my dear Miss Mills, like all the others before him. You were content to see them plucked. What was so different in young DeSalle’s case, eh? He was a handsome lad, I grant you. Was that it?’
Sarah Tanner shrugged.
‘Really, my dear. There might have been a brief spell of incarceration for passing the bank-notes; it would not have done him any harm. It might have toughened him up. The fool would have done it, too, had you asked him.’
‘And his reputation? What about that?’
‘Tell me,’ said Her Majesty, gesturing rather disdainfully to the baccarat table, ‘how many of our friends here tonight truly value their “reputation”? My dear girl, they consider it part of the stake; a calculated risk. It adds a little spice to proceedings.’
Mrs. Tanner fell silent, extremely conscious of the weight of Mr. Symes’s hand, still resting on her shoulder.
‘Besides, where is he now, your young man?’ asked Her Majesty, her voice quiet and measured. ‘Is he here, by your side? Do forgive me, my eyes are not what they were. I am afraid I do not see him.’
Sarah Tanner merely shook her head. Her Majesty, in turn, chuckled to herself.
‘Men of that class do not marry their mistress, my dear, no matter how pretty or clever she may be, especially if they discover she is a liar and a thief. Indeed, in my experience, they are wont to discard even the finest specimens of our sex, whenever it suits their fancy. Maybe it has taught you a lesson. I pray that is the case. Still, I do not care to gloat. I am sure there is another more pressing, practical matter – Mr. Symes?’
Symes removed his hand and took out a small pocket-book from his jacket, which he proceeded to consult.
‘Fifty-five guineas, ma’am,’ said the gentleman with some satisfaction.
‘Fifty-five guineas,’ repeated Her Majesty. ‘We shall forget the other indiscretions; one can become used to the Continent, during the Season, after all. Do you still have the money, Miss Mills?’
Sarah Tanner shook her head. ‘I cannot pay it back.’
‘You mean you do not care to?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ said Mr. Symes with relish, placing both hands on Sarah Tanner’s shoulders, his thumbs brushing the nape of her bare neck. She shuddered. Mr. Symes’s employer, however, motioned for him to stand aside.
‘Come back to us, Miss Mills,’ said Her Majesty, in low confidential tones. ‘You were a valuable little creature; you might be again. I would forget our little disagreement. You have not lost your looks. I am sure there are men here tonight who would appreciate your encouragement at the table.’
‘Or elsewhere,’ added Mr. Symes.
Sarah Tanner looked round the room. A couple of the men lounging by the table glanced in her direction.
‘I’d sooner die,’ she said at last.
‘Please! Please, my dear,’ exclaimed Her Majesty, rubbing the Pekinese’s neck as she spoke, ‘say nothing you might regret.’
‘I can find the money, give me a week.’
‘Foolish girl. I will give you twenty-four hours, my dear; twice round the clock. What do you say, Mr. Symes?’
‘Ample time, ma’am.’
‘Ample. Quite. We are agreed. Miss Mills?’
Reluctantly, Sarah Tanner nodded.
‘She will not find the money, ma’am,’ said Mr. Symes, watching Sarah Tanner quit the salon. ‘She has spent it. And even if she had the means, we would be the last to see a penny of it.’
‘I know that full well, Symes,’ replied Her Majesty, tetchily. ‘Send Jones after her. He knows the girl, does he not? I am curious to find out where she has been hiding herself.’
‘And then?’
‘Tell him he may take fifty-five guineas out of her hide. In whatever manner he chooses.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Sarah Tanner left Her Majesty’s establishment and set off briskly towards the Regent’s Circus. She found the street quite devoid of life and the night grown colder. Indeed, even as she passed beneath the yellow flame of the ornate gas-lights, planted at intervals along the great thoroughfare, she shivered, and pulled the coarse material of her shawl tight about her shoulders.
From the Circus itself, she turned east, retracing her steps. Oxford Street likewise proved quite deserted. Another woman might have thought twice about walking its length unaccompanied, but she paid little heed to her surroundings. Her mind was preoccupied with George Phelps and the consequences of her expedition to Her Majesty’s salon. She was so preoccupied, in fact, that it was several minutes before she even glanced back along the road. It was only then that she noticed a man, no more than two hundred yards behind her, loitering in the shadows.
She was not certain at first. She kept walking, then turned her head again, moving her hand as if to adjust the loose arrangement of her shawl.
The man was still there, lurking in the doorway of a shop.
Sarah Tanner silently cursed. She recognised her pursuer. But she could go no faster than a brisk walk; not in the fashionable crinolined skirts of her gown.
She had gone no more than a few yards further along the road, when she heard the fast, rattling wheels of a cab. It was a hansom – empty as far as she could discern – being driven swiftly eastwards. She turned her head and could just make out the cloaked, slumping driver perched high on his seat at the back, snapping impatiently at the reins. He was going at full pelt; it was too fast for her purpose, she knew as much. Indeed, the cab was already almost upon her; it would be madness to interrupt its progress.
Impulsively, she gathered up her skirts in one hand and darted into the road, waving her arm, standing directly in the vehicle’s path.
The cabman, to his credit, shouted a muffled warning, allowing a clay pipe, which had hung loosely from his lips, to tumble on to the roof of the cab and perform an inelegant pirouette on to the muddy pavement. He tugged violently at the reins with both hands – but it was too late to stop. Rather, the horse, relying on its native intelligence, pulled the cab sharply to the right, wrenching the shafts sideways, the iron-shod wheels passing inches from Sarah Tanner’s feet, riding up on to the opposite kerb, then dropping noisily back down on to the road with a jolt. Finally, the vehicle came to a halt, some twenty or thirty yards along the road.
The driver’s face – the weather-beaten face of the hardened night cabman – was a picture of exasperation and anger, breathless and flushed.
‘Are you mad, woman?!’ he shouted. ‘You damn near got us both killed!’
Sarah Tanner looked anxiously back along the street, then ran up to the cab. Her shawl had fallen loose about her shoulders, revealing her dress; she pulled it back around her neck.
‘I am sorry. Please, it is important … take me to Gray’s Inn Lane.’
‘Take you to Gray’s Inn Lane, if you please!’ exclaimed the cabman. ‘If you wanted a ride, you’ve a fine way of going about it!’
‘I am sorry,’ she repeated, urgency in her voice. ‘Please – I need your help.’
‘Don’t give me that. I know your sort, my gal, fancy get-up or not. Don’t think I don’t. Gray’s Inn Lane! Down on your luck tonight, are you? Well, you can bleedin’ walk home.’
The cabman raised the reins, ready to move off. But his would-be client grabbed at the side of the vehicle.
‘Please,’ she said, pleading, ‘there is a man following me.’
‘Who’d have thought it!’ exclaimed the cabman, sarcastically.
‘I’ll pay double. A half-crown. Look, I swear, I have the money.’
The cabman paused as she reached into her pocket, and pulled out a silver coin. He glanced over his shoulder.
‘I don’t see no-one,’ he said.
‘Please.’
‘Go on then,’ said the cabman, reluctantly. ‘Get in. And if you baulk us, I’ll bleedin’ do for you.’
Sarah Tanner nodded and clambered inside the cab, closing the folding doors over her skirts. The driver, meanwhile, said nothing more, except for some mumbled word of encouragement to the horse which, combined with a touch of his whip, prompted the patient animal to break into a steady trot.
In truth, it was not a very comfortable ride. The macadamised road between Oxford Street and Holborn seemed to grow increasingly irregular and afflicted by pot-holes as it progressed eastwards. The journey through the nocturnal streets, however, took no more than ten minutes. Sarah Tanner kept her face pressed against the glass window of the cab throughout. At last, as the hansom drew to a halt upon Gray’s Inn Lane, she swung open the twin doors, and clambered down on to the pavement.
‘Oi!’ shouted the cabman. ‘A half-crown! Do you hear me?’
But his fare did not reply. She was distracted by the sight of a second carriage, pulling round the corner at the end of the lane. The cabman, in turn, looked over his shoulder, following her gaze.