A Most Dangerous Woman

by L M Jackson

  Arthur DeSalle sat down rather awkwardly in one of several armchairs placed around the walls of the parlour, in the manner of a railway station waiting-room. Mrs. Tanner sat down beside him.

  ‘I can see you are new to our establishment, sir,’ said the woman, with a broad smile, ‘and I don’t believe I know your lady friend,’ – Sarah Tanner shook her head – ‘but we keep a decent house. And we do our best to oblige our guests, so – let me say it plainly, sir – now that you’ve found us, there’s no need to be shy. There! I’ve said it; we keep things all frank and natural, here, sir; that’s our way.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said DeSalle, a slight quaver in his voice.

  ‘Of course. Now, how can we oblige you this evening? A glass of something, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well then, what can we do, sir?’

  Arthur DeSalle hesitated.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I should like to see a girl …’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘A girl who does not object to …’

  Arthur DeSalle’s words failed him, but he glanced rather deliberately at Sarah Tanner as he spoke, and the intimation was not lost on his hostess.

  ‘Mixed company?’ said the woman. ‘Of course, sir; nothing could be easier. Now, are you sure you wouldn’t fancy a glass of fizz, while you wait, sir? Or perhaps for your friend?’

  ‘Well, perhaps I might,’ replied DeSalle.

  ‘There, sir! That’s nice; that’s natural. I won’t be a moment, sir,’ said the woman, as she quit the room. ‘Do make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring down a couple of our girls; you can choose who’s the most agreeable.’

  Mrs. Tanner waited until the woman was out of ear-shot, before whispering to her companion.

  ‘“Oh, I should like a girl who would not object terribly to … to … to …”’ she said, teasing.

  ‘Sarah, please, I am doing my best,’ replied Arthur DeSalle, blushing scarlet. ‘It is not my custom to frequent such places.’

  ‘And the champagne will cost you double,’ she added.

  ‘I think,’ said Arthur DeSalle, ‘that is the least of our worries.’

  The bedroom, upon the second floor at the rear of the house, was small, no more than ten square feet, decorated in dark, rather plain fashion: an oak wainscoting around the walls, and plain red paper above, the floor merely the polished boards. An iron bed, with pristine white sheets, dominated the room, and a large mirror, set in an ornate gold frame, was fixed upon the wall directly facing the bed. The girl who led Sarah Tanner and Arthur DeSalle inside was about eighteen years or so, wearing a dress of red cotton.

  ‘Here we are then,’ she said.

  ‘Here we are then …’ echoed Arthur DeSalle.

  The girl chuckled at her client’s patent discomfort. ‘Louisa, sir. You forgotten already? Can I get anything? Are you hungry? How about some more fizz, or some oysters? We can have ’em sent up.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘How about you?’ added the girl, turning to Sarah Tanner. ‘You can take your hat off, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I suppose I can, now.’

  The girl glanced at Sarah Tanner’s face, as she removed the veil. She had expected bruises, or the scars of smallpox; but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Sarah Tanner, for her part, cast a telling glance in Arthur DeSalle’s direction.

  ‘She’s pretty, your friend,’ said the girl, addressing DeSalle once more. ‘You’d better tell us what you fancy then.’

  ‘If you could take off your dress, ah, Louisa …’ said Arthur DeSalle, hesitantly.

  The girl said, immediately turning her back, ‘That’s more like it, sir. You undo me, then, eh?’

  DeSalle coughed. Nonetheless, he undid the dozen buttons that ran the length of the girl’s back. Unembarrassed, she shuffled her arms free from the sleeves, revealing a white chemise and the outline of her stays beneath. She sat down on the bed, briskly pulled down the flannel petticoat that the waist of the dress had held in place, and finally took off the dress itself.

  ‘Now, ah, if you would just stand up … facing my … facing my friend,’ said Arthur DeSalle.

  ‘Stand up?’ said the girl with a coquettish smile, ‘I hope this ain’t nothing too peculiar.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ said Sarah Tanner, ‘but I’m afraid it is.’

  The girl frowned. But before she could reply, she felt Arthur DeSalle grab her hands, pulling them behind her back, and looping a length of cord around her wrists.

  ‘Here!’ she protested. ‘That ain’t what I—’

  Her protests were cut short, however, by Sarah Tanner bringing the blade of a pocket-knife close to the girl’s confused face.

  ‘If you scream,’ she said, her voice stone cold, ‘I will have to use this on your tongue. If you help us, and give me no reason, we’ll be on our way, and no harm done.’

  Warily, the girl nodded her head.

  ‘Good girl. Now, I am looking for a friend of mine, by the name of Norah. They brought her here last night.’

  ‘I cannot believe that I allowed myself to be drawn into this wretched business,’ said Arthur DeSalle in a whisper, as he ascended the narrow gas-lit stairs.

  ‘Why?’ murmured Sarah Tanner.

  ‘We are burgling a bawdy-house, for heaven’s sake,’ whispered DeSalle. ‘And I have just left a young woman downstairs bound and gagged. I should think my reasons were quite plain.’

  ‘I know some who would pay for the privilege.’

  DeSalle blushed once more. ‘I hardly think it amusing.’

  ‘Nor do I. And I hardly think you needed to apologise to her so fulsomely. But I am sure she will remember you kindly when they untie her. In any case, hush, we are there.’

  The stairs had come to an end upon a narrow landing, in the attic of the house. There was a solitary door, with a bolt drawn shut. Sarah Tanner opened it slowly, and cautiously crept inside.

  It was an attic room, the roof sloping at a sharp angle upon one side. There was no light, save that which came in from the landing. Nonetheless, even in the semi-darkness, it was possible to make out a bare mattress laid on the floor, and the figure of a girl curled upon it.

  ‘Is that her?’ asked Arthur DeSalle.

  ‘God help us, yes,’ muttered Sarah Tanner. ‘You wait outside. Keep watch.’

  Arthur DeSalle nodded, whilst Sarah Tanner crept into the room.

  ‘Norah … Norah, wake up.’

  ‘Please,’ mumbled Norah Smallwood, wearily, ‘please, have pity, won’t you? I ain’t done nothing. Just let me be.’

  Mrs. Tanner crouched down beside the mattress.

  ‘Norah, it’s me.’

  Norah Smallwood opened her eyes wide. For a second she seemed uncertain as to whether she might still be in the depths of a dream.

  Then she threw her arms around Sarah Tanner’s neck and burst into tears.

  ‘I’m a sight, ain’t I?’ exclaimed Norah Smallwood, as her sobs finally subsided.

  Sarah Tanner peered at the girl’s face. It was bruised and puffed, its natural symmetry distorted by swollen flesh.

  ‘It’ll heal up, don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.’

  Norah bowed her head.

  ‘Too late for that, I reckon. I swear, missus, I didn’t know who he was. I swear I didn’t know nothing.’

  ‘I know, Norah. You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘No, but I thought you were done for, missus. Honest. And then they brought us here. So I told ’em everything, about Georgie and you and all. I’m sorry; I know it weren’t right, but I thought you was dead. And he kept thumping me, and the other one, he watched, all the while, like he was at a play or something. So I told ’em. And that other one, he just watched, even when he …’

  Norah’s voice broke, as she rubbed her tear-stained cheeks.

  ‘I hadn’t never done it before, missus,’ she said, almost inaudible, her vo
ice trembling. ‘But I couldn’t stop him, could I? And the other one, he watched us all the while.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘Come on, get up, unless you want to stay here?’

  Norah shook her head. Unsteadily, she scrambled to her feet.

  ‘Now,’ said Mrs. Tanner, forcefully. ‘Help me out of this dress.’

  ‘The dress?’ said Norah.

  ‘My friend Arthur’s on the landing. You can trust him. If you put on the dress, and the veil, he can take you back out; just keep quiet and stand up straight and they’ll think you’re me – or, at least, the same girl he came in with. There’s a carriage waiting; he’ll take you somewhere safe.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Norah Smallwood. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve borrowed a dress,’ said Mrs. Tanner, putting down Louisa’s red cotton frock which she carried with her, bundled under her arm.

  ‘I mean, how will you get out?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sarah Tanner waited on the attic landing, listening to the footsteps of Arthur DeSalle and Norah Smallwood descending the stairs. The house, despite its warren of corridors and rooms, was remarkably quiet, its business admirably conducted. The only noise to be heard was the occasional discreet opening or closing of the panelled oak doors that led to individual rooms, doors which were heavy enough to muffle any sound that might come from within. And if there was an occasional lapse – if a single scream or guttural moan escaped – the noise was so quickly stifled by the muted respectability of the establishment, that it was impossible to distinguish its origin, or, indeed, tell whether it signified pleasure or pain.

  Sarah Tanner shuddered; the thought of Norah Smallwood at the mercy of Bert Jones, an object of Stephen Symes’s amusement, made her stomach turn.

  The footsteps diminished. She peered down the gaslit stairs but could see nothing. She guessed they had reached the ground floor.

  She pictured the grande dame bidding her new client good night; then, no doubt, the doorman would hold out his hand, in expectation of sixpence or a shilling.

  She should have mentioned that to Arthur. Could Norah hold her nerve?

  The seconds seemed to turn into minutes.

  What if Arthur let something slip? It would not take much.

  Then it came, the sound of the door opening; the distant click of the bolts being loosed; then the door slamming shut.

  Had they done it?

  The house seemed eerily quiet.

  They had.

  She smiled to herself. Now, she pondered, there was just the small matter of her own departure.

  In fact, she had a plan. She had foreseen that there would be, at the very least, one man guarding the street door. And, more than likely, there were others, not far distant, who would come running, in the event of any trouble. For that reason, she had ruled out the possibility of simply fleeing the building and forcing an exit: there was no telling where that might lead, even if she were armed with a pistol. She had foreseen, too, that all the windows would be bolted; for it was not unknown for certain young gentlemen to attempt an ungentlemanly exit after taking their pleasure. The one remaining possibility, therefore, was to escape through the front door, unnoticed. She knew as much before she had set foot inside the house.

  She held her breath, and waited.

  Ralph Grundy, standing in the shadows, upon the corner of Avery Row, watched Arthur DeSalle’s carriage roll by, its window blinds drawn up. Beside him, a boy lolled against the nearby wall, a street Arab no more than ten years of age, dressed in a fustian suit that appeared not so much tattered as all but shredded, his hair thick and matted, his feet unshod.

  ‘You saw the house he came out of?’ said Ralph Grundy.

  ‘I saw it, guv’nor,’ replied the boy. ‘I knows it and all.’

  ‘And you know what you’re a-doing?’

  ‘I ain’t fresh from the farm,’ replied the boy, mildly indignant. ‘I knows it; I’ll do it, I told you. Long as you pay up.’

  ‘You’ll get your two bob. Go on then,’ urged Ralph Grundy. ‘And remember, you run like the Devil and say nothing to no-one.’

  The boy tilted his head in a rather cock-sure fashion, as if to suggest that his abilities in the running department were not in question. Glancing over his shoulder, he sloped off along the street. He allowed himself another glance, upon reaching the middle of the road, a short distance from the house, doubtless accustomed to watching out for Her Majesty’s Police, even at the best of times. Then, without any further ado, he picked out a handful of sharp stones from his jacket pocket, and, one by one, flung them in swift succession at the brothel’s upstairs windows.

  The boy was a good shot, and the glass shattered in every pane it struck. For the most part it simply left a jagged hole where it flew inside, although in one instance the window smashed entirely.

  The sound of splintering glass echoed along the street.

  ‘Peelers!’ shouted the boy, at the top of his voice. ‘Hook it! It’s the Peelers!’

  And, with that, he ran like the Devil.

  Sarah Tanner struggled to contain a smile. For the quiet which had reigned upon the stairs was suddenly overthrown by a hubbub of confused voices, doors opening and closing, exclamations and curses.

  Hurrying down to join the chaos, she found that a crowd seemed instantly to have formed upon each landing. It comprised a mix of both men and women, equally eager to quit the building – or, at least, not be discovered inside it in a state of deshabille. The men seemed bent upon making hasty adjustments to their dress, tugging at collar-less shirts whilst attempting to put on a jacket; fiddling with trouser buttons whilst running down the stairs. The women, on the other hand, seemed worse afflicted as to their dress, most of them wearing little more than a cotton shift and petticoats. She threw herself into the confusion, and ran down the stairs with the rest.

  The doorman, it turned out, had already yielded the front door. For the grande dame needed his help in coralling the girls, or, at least, providing the reassurance that they need not rush out on to the street, or to the back door. The clients seemed to accept no reassurance whatsoever and, whether silently scurrying from the house, or bombastically protesting at being so heinously imposed upon, they all seemed of a mind to depart. Sarah Tanner fell in amongst them, idly wondering how many had excused themselves from paying.

  She was almost at the door, when a young man in a lounge suit barged past, pushing her back. Then, before she could move, she found her way suddenly blocked, by a man coming in the opposite direction, entering the house from the street.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ he said, staring Sarah Tanner full in the face.

  It was Bert Jones.

  Mrs. Tanner cursed, as a smile spread over the big man’s face. Doubtless the footman had returned to torment Norah Smallwood. For a second, she contemplated flying at him with her pocket-knife. But it was only a small blade, and Jones, she was sure, was too fast and too strong for her. If nothing else, she would be caught in the struggle. She stepped backwards into the hall. There was still sufficient confusion for her to push through the mêlée and so she ran towards the back of the house.

  With no basement, the kitchen was simply down a few steps at the rear of the building. She had already passed the cook in the hall; the room was empty, with only a couple of pots left simmering on the stove, and the pervasive salty aroma of oysters. For the second time in as many days, she prayed that the back door might be open.

  Instead, she found it locked.

  Keys?

  She saw them in an instant; hanging from a hook by the door through which she had entered. And right beside them stood Bert Jones.

  ‘They always said you had nine lives, gal,’ said Jones. ‘Lor! I would have sworn you was a dead ’un and here you are again. Wait ’til Her Majesty hears about this. I reckon she’ll give me a bleedin’ medal.’

  Sarah Tanner pulled out the knife fro
m her pocket, brandishing it. The big man, however, merely laughed.

  ‘You want to play that game, gal? With that little pig-sticker?’

  Bert Jones shook his head. There was a carving knife lying on the table beside the door. He picked it up and wiped the greasy blade upon his sleeve.

  ‘Well, do you then?’ he said.

  She looked about her. Bert, she was sure, would stay by the door, in case she attempted to run past him. But there would soon be others behind him; and then she’d be done.

  What else was there?

  The footman had taken the knife that lay upon the table; the pots of water – no, too heavy to lift; not as a weapon, at least. Nothing upon the polished flags of the floor, a hint of disinfectant mixing with the scent of the oysters.

  There. A narrow door to her right.

  Sarah Tanner ran across the room, pulled the door open and dashed through, slamming it behind her.

  Bert Jones chuckled to himself. He sauntered casually across the room, and stood by the door.

  ‘Now, that weren’t too clever, was it, my gal?’

  Mrs. Tanner caught her breath. She understood Bert Jones’s crowing, as the door led nowhere; or, to be more particular, it led to the pantry. The only light was that which seeped under the door from the gas-lit kitchen, and, around her, in the darkness, lay the household’s cleaning stuff, mops and buckets, and rags and bottles.

  ‘Now, why don’t you come out, like a good gal, eh?’ said Bert Jones, his voice booming.

  Sarah Tanner coughed. The air in the pantry had a peculiar scent. What was the smell? The same as on the floor.

  ‘Or shall I come and get you? How’d you like that? Is that what you fancy, gal? Some rough-and-tumble?’

  Bert Jones, apparently unprepared to wait for an answer, swung the door open with considerable force. He stood silhouetted in the doorway, the knife poised in his hand, a self-satisfied grin upon his face.

  ‘Now, that won’t get you nowhere, will it?’ he said, finding her crouched, her back to the wall, her blade raised. ‘Drop the chiv and maybe I’ll go a bit easy on you, eh?’