Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  He stopped to peer into her face, then reached out to caress a breast, cupping it, weighing it with his hand. His thumb rolled over her nipple, turning it into a small, hard knob, while his other hand lifted her skirt, slipping beneath to climb upward over the warm flesh of her thigh, finding the soft, furry mound above still wet from her last customer.

  He licked dry lips. "How much? How much for all of it?" he demanded hoarsely.

  "A guinea ter pop it in," she told him archly. "More if ye was a-wantin' me to suck it." As she priced herself, his fingers toyed with her wet button, then slid inside. "Oooh," she cried, throwing her head back, "ye know what ye want, don't ye?"

  "Aye," he croaked. "I'd give you a gold guinea if you was to make me come."

  She drew away from his hand and backed from the doorway, pulling him inside a dingy, smoky room. The place was bare save for a dirty, straw-filled mattress, a bucket of water on the floor, and an oil lantern that hung from a hook on the ceiling. She worked alone, and he was glad enough of that.

  Closing the door behind him, she bent over to remove her dirty white stockings, rolling them down. When she turned around, he'd shed his cloak and was unbuttoning his pantaloons. She moved closer to rub her body against his. A stocky man, he caught her roughly at the waist, bending her backward to give him access to her breasts.

  "Oooh, ye'll drap me," she protested, but he paid her no heed. Instead, he found one of her nipples and began to suck eagerly. "Here now—" Afraid of falling, she caught at his arms. He bit her hard then, causing her to cry out in pain. She struggled as his teeth sank into her flesh, but his hand tangled in her hair, pulling it.

  "Owwww! Look, guvnor, Annie Adams ain't—owww, yer hurtin' me!"

  He pushed her away then, sending her reeling to the floor. She knelt there, wiping the blood from her breast. "Take off everything," he ordered curtly. "And be quick about it."

  She looked up, her eyes wide, then she scrambled on her hands and knees for the door. "Mercy! 'Ave mercy on poor Annie!" she called out before he pulled her back and slapped her hard across the face.

  "Shut your filthy mouth, bitch," he snarled. "And take off the clothes, else I'll not pay you."

  Unable to escape, she stood up as her hands moved to the open neck of her gown. She slowly pulled the dress down, revealing the bare flesh beneath. As the gown slipped past her rib cage, over smooth hips, to fall in a pool of dirty satin at her feet, she ran her tongue over dry lips and tried to smile.

  "How d'ye want it?" she asked him.

  "I told you—I want everything." When she didn't move, he added tersely, "Get down—I'm riding first."

  She glanced nervously toward the closed door, then nodded. "Now ye ain't going ter hurt Annie, are ye?"

  "Not if you was to make me come," he promised. "Lie down, and I'll see you paid."

  She regained some of her confidence. "Ain't a gent alive as don't pop 'is cork fer me," she promised.

  Lying on her back, her legs apart, she reached up to him. "Let Annie show ye, and we'll make it real quicklike."

  Without undressing further, he freed himself and dropped to his knees over her. "Pop my cork, Annie," he said hoarsely. "I want everything as a man could pay for."

  "Aye." Still smiling, she reached up between him to fondle his limp manhood, caressing it lightly at first, then closing her hand over it, grasping it, pumping incessantly. "Ye ain't—"

  "Keep on."

  "But ye ain't—"

  "Shut your filthy mouth!"

  "Now if ye was ter come inside, I got a warm place fer ye," she said seductively. "Ain't a man as don't get ready there."

  "Not yet." His hands fondled her breasts as his mouth smeared wet kisses on her neck. "Keep going," he urged her. "Keep it up."

  "But it ain't—"

  "Make me come, Annie—make me come," he ordered urgendy. "I want you to do it for me." His hands came up to grasp her neck, shaking her head against the hard, dirty mattress. "You got to do it—you got to!"

  "Owwww! Yer hurtin' me!" Desperate, she tried to guide the flaccid flesh inside, closing her body around it as tightly as she could. "All ye got ter do is move," she coaxed, "and it'll come."

  He rocked and pumped, beating against the wet warmth, his hands still tight upon her neck. "Do it, Annie!"

  "Ye ain't lettin' me breathe!" Trying to calm herself, the girl caught at his hands as she struggled beneath him. "Yer hittin' me head!"

  "You got to make me, Annie!" he shouted at her.

  "And I'm a-tryin'!" She wriggled and writhed, working all the while to hold him inside. Moving one hand between them, she used the other to rake his back, urging him on to no avail. "Mebbe if I was ter get on top," she gasped.

  "No!"

  "I could suck ye," she said earnestly. "I could try it fer ye."

  "I want it now, Annie! I want it now! Don't you understand, bitch?—I want it now!"

  "Aye, but—"

  He worked so hard against her that he panted from the exertion, and still there was nothing.

  "But ye ain't going ter come like this!" she cried.

  He hit her across the face then, his heavy gold ring cutting her nose and cheek. "Damn you! Damn you, Annie! Aye, you'll make me—you will!"

  "Look—some old gents—"

  She got no further. His hands tightened around her neck, frightening her, and she began to fight him. Her hands grabbed for his face, gouging at his eyes, raking his cheeks with her fingernails as she sought desperately to get him off her.

  His face a mask of unpent anger, he yelled at her, "You promised me, Annie—you promised me!"

  She fought to tell him he was killing her, but her words were cut off with the air. She was stifling, her lungs were bursting, and his grip on her throat was like iron. Her eyes felt as though they would pop from her head as she made one last futile effort to push him away. Then all went mercifully black.

  He continued banging her head as her body became limp beneath his. "Damn you, bitch! Damn you!" He rocked against her unresisting warmth, striving hard, gaining nothing. Finally, he rolled off her and gazed into her blank stare. "Worthless tart!" he shouted at her. "Wake up, damn you, else you'll pay!" Drawing his knife from beneath his waistcoat, he plunged it into her. "Damn you!" When she did not move, he stabbed her repeatedly, cutting into her lifeless flesh, cursing her in his fury. "Damn you! Damn every one of you! You're all the same, ain't you?"

  When his anger ebbed, he stared down at his bloody hands, at the wet spatters on his coat, then rose unsteadily to stagger to the bucket of water she probably used to clean herself. He pulled off his jacket, flinging ii onto the dusty floor, then removed his ring to wash away the blood beneath. Stooping, he picked up the satin gown and wiped his hands and face with it.

  Self-loathing washed over him, making him heartily lick, and he vomited onto the floor. Again, he wiped his face with the harlot's dress.

  Someone pounded on the door. "Annie! Annie!" a man called out. "Are ye all right? I heard ye!"

  "Go on wi' ye!" he answered thickly, trying to sound like one of them.

  "Ye ain't Annie! Yer a cove!"

  Panicked, he moved behind the door, hoping the fellow would go on, but instead, the door swung inward, covering him for a moment.

  "Annie?" The man looked to where the woman lay, her face vacant, her body slashed across her breasts io the bone beneath. "Gor blimey!" the fellow gasped, dropping down beside the soaked mattress.

  He bolted then, running through the open door into the narrow street as fast as his unsteady legs would hold his bulk. Behind him, the man pursued, shouting, "Stop 'im—stop th' cove! 'E's murdered Annie!"

  As luck would have it, a curious woman stepped out between them, giving him time to round the corner and hide himself behind a garbage wagon. His pursuer passed him, running into the watch.

  "Here now—ain't no need—"

  "I got ter find th' cove as killed Annie!" the man cried.

  The watch grasped his arm firmly, pulli
ng the fellow into the dim yellow light. "Oh, 'tis ye, is it? Go on wi' ye!"

  " 'E stuck her like a pig, I tell ye! Th' devil's killed me Annie!" Gesturing back to the open door, the man babbled, " 'E's killed 'er, I tell ye!"

  "Been tippin' the cup a bit, Johnny?" Taking the fellow's arm, the watchman pushed him back toward the room where Annie Adams lay dead.

  "Hit were a right fat cove—I saw him wi' me own peepers!" the man protested loudly. "Ye got ter get 'im!"

  The old man ran again, scarce conscious of the watchman's shout of discovery, knowing now that he ran for his own life. It was not until he reached the end of the street that he dared slow down. One block over, he could hear the hue and cry. He leaned against a deserted building and caught his breath, then walked slowly away. It had been a near thing, but he'd managed to escape again.

  But as he crossed over to the other side of the street, they came around the corner, their number swollen to half a dozen. He started to run, but he was too short of breath to sustain the pace. Within a hundred feet, they caught up to him.

  "Hit's him, I tell ye! 'Tis the bloody cove 'as done it!"

  Cornered, he had no choice but to brazen it out. He swung around and pointed at his pursuer. "Ye ain't a-murderin' me also! Devil take ye fer killin' th' gel!"

  The watchman was torn for a moment, then advanced on him. "Where's yer coat?" he demanded.

  He licked his lips. "He was tryin' to rob me," he gasped breathlessly. "I saw 'im kill the gel, and I ran."

  " 'E's lyin'—th' filthy bloke's lyin'! There's blood on his shirt!"

  The expressions of the men around him were menacing, ominous as they took in his torn waistcoat and his scratched face. He backed away, begging the watchman, "You got t' keep 'em away from me! If any's lying, 'tis him!"

  But the watchman was peering closely at his face. "That yer coat back there?" he demanded.

  "Aye, but—" He cast a wary eye around him. "She was a tart—we was doing it—"

  "And the bloody cove killed 'er!"

  He licked his lips again and tried to quiet the fear within. "He came in—was goin' to rob me." Nearly sobbing, he choked out, "I'd give m'gold to the gel, and so I told him—he turned on her—"

  " 'Tis true, Johnny?" someone demanded.

  "Blood's on 'im—not me," Johnny retorted.

  Rough hands grabbed him then, dragging him back to the dingy room, thrusting him inside. For an awful moment, he feared they were going to hang him from the exposed beams above. But the watchman turned over the gold ring with the toe of his boot, then bent to pick it up.

  "Blood on it," he declared succinctly. Looking across the room, he asked, "Yers?"

  "No."

  "Hit don't fit me!" Johnny protested loudly. "Make 'im put hit on!"

  "Your coat?"

  "Aye."

  "If it weren't 'im, 'ow'd he get the marks on 'is face?" one of the men wanted to know.

  "Your cloak?"

  "Aye."

  "Damme if it ain't got a hood onter it!" someone discovered gleefully. "We got 'im! 'E likely killed Peg and th' other also!"

  "You are lookin' at the wrong man!" he cried. "I can explain—"

  "Aye, ye can—ter the constable," the watchman growled. "Ye'd best come along wi' me."

  "Listen—I got money—'tis Bartholomew Rand as you've got, you fool!"

  " 'E said 'e didn't 'ave any!" Johnny shouted triumphantly. " 'E's the cove as has murdered me Annie— and 'era gel as was only a-tryin' ter earn 'er bread!" Overcome, he had to stop to wipe at his eyes with his dirty fist. " 'E killed 'er!"

  "Old Rand, eh?" the watchman said, looking him up and down. "Aye, ye'll need yer blunt, I'll wager."

  "This is ridiculous!" Rand spluttered. "You ain't taking his word above mine surely?"

  " 'Tis ye as has got the blood about ye," was all the fellow said. Closing his hand over Rand's arm, he gestured toward the others. "Billy, you watch o'er the body—the rest o' ye come with me t' take 'im in."

  Patrick woke up to an urgent note from Bartholomew Rand, requesting that he attend him at Newgate. Making haste to the Bailey to enter a plea in for a client, he encountered Peale, who told him nearly everything about Rand's capture, declaring the constable and magistrate were on their way to providing the prosecution a damned good case. Stunned, Patrick canceled his morning appointments by messages to Byrnes and Banks, then he crossed Newgate Street to the prison.

  "Well, it took you long enough," Rand said sourly when Patrick was ushered into the damp, cramped cell. Looking around himself with disgust, he grumbled, "They ain't givin' me a better place until I pay 'em for it. Pigs! This ain't fit fer pigs, sirrah, and they've put Bat Rand into it! Well, I want out—I want you to get me out now! Not tomorrow nor the day after, but now, you understand me?"

  "I think you'd best sit down," Patrick said quietly. "Sit down! The devil I will! I ain't staying in this filth, I tell you!"

  "The charge against you is murder."

  "Murder!" Rand snorted contemptuously. "She wasn't nothin' but a dirty little cock's inn!"

  "The charge is still murder," Patrick pointed out evenly.

  "She was unfit to take air with decent people!"

  "If I speak with Peale, perhaps it can be arranged to plead you Thursday next. Even then, I doubt any of the justices will agree to set bail given the charge, not to mention that there is a continuing investigation."

  "Thursday next! Damme if I shall wait for that, sir— damme if I will!"

  "Sit down, Mr. Rand."

  "I ain't—"

  Patrick closed his leather folder and called for a guard. The old man paled, then sank onto the narrow bench, the chains at his ankles clanking against the floor. "I ain't used to being ordered about, Mr. Hamilton," he noted testily. "In my business, I'm doing the ordering."

  "This is my business."

  "I'm paying you to get me out of here!" Rand snapped.

  "I am not here to work against you, but I require a modicum of cooperation, else I shall not be able to represent you," the younger man reminded him. "And I'm afraid I've not much time ere I have to appear in court again. Now—" He took a seat beside Bartholomew Rand. "Now I would that you told me the whole. Otherwise, I shall simply send Mr. Banks to take your statement tomorrow;"

  "Tomorrow!"

  "Tomorrow, sir."

  "But there ain't nothing to tell, sirrah—nothing. I ain't done nothing, that's all I got to say."

  Patrick looked pained. "You are charged with the murder of a Miss Annie Adams, sir—and according to Mr. Peale and one of the magistrates, there is the possibility that you will also be charged with that of Miss Fanny Shawe."

  "Demned free with the 'misses,' ain't they? Miss Adams! Miss Shawe! Why, they wasn't nothing but filth upon the earth, Mr. Hamilton!"

  "Did you kill Annie Adams?"

  Rand stared hard at him for a minute, then his lip curled. "No, but 'tis a good enough riddance, ain't it?"

  "I pray you will not say that in court, sir," Patrick said coldly. "It will not play well with the jury." "Truth's truth, ain't it?"

  "Do you deny all knowledge of Miss Adams?"

  "Course I don't deny it! M'coat and cloak was there, wasn't they?"

  "I should prefer to ask the questions, Mr. Rand."

  "Eh?"

  "If I am to take the case, sir, I shall expect total honesty between us."

  "I got enough gold to make you richer'n Golden Ball, Hamilton!" the old man retorted. "Don't go a-dangling 'ifs' between us."

  "Honesty, Mr. Rand. If I accepted every client willing to meet my fee, I should be sadly overworked. Now—how did you know Miss Adams?"

  "Wish you'd cease calling her a miss," Rand growled. "She was no more a miss than one of them rats as in the cellars."

  "Mr. Rand—"

  "All right," the old man muttered grudgingly. "I was doing what you'd think there. Gave her a guinea for everything, she said."

  "Given the place, a pound seems rather a lot, does
n't it?"

  "Dash it, sirrah, but you wasn't borned a fool, was you? I was gettin' over, under, and a tongue-licking, too—there, I have said it, ain't I?"

  "Go on."

  "Ain't much else to tell."

  "There is the matter of Annie Adams's murder. Did you witness it?"

  "Aye." Rand looked up at him from beneath heavy brows. "Don't know as what Mrs. Rand and Ellie are going to say to this," he muttered. "It ain't as what I'd like 'em to know."

  "No doubt," Patrick murmured dryly. "Now, what precisely transpired last night when you were with Miss Adams?"

  "I told you to cease calling her a miss! She was a whore, sir—a demned whore!" Seeing that Patrick's patience was thinning again, he raised his hand, then dropped it to his knee. "Well, we was doing the business when—"

  "How were you dressed, sir?"

  "Dressed? Devil take you for a fool, sirrah! What would you think I'd be a-wearing when I was a-going at her?"

  "Where was your cloak? Your coat?"

  "My cloak was on the floor where I took it off. I was bang-tailing her, wasn't I?"

  "And the coat? Did you have it on?"

  "You ain't got no right to ask all my business," Rand grumbled.

  "Were you wearing your coat?" Patrick persisted.

  "Don't see what difference it makes. I had my pantaloons unbuttoned, and that was all as was needed, if you get my meaning."

  "One last time, sir—were you wearing your coat, or had you removed it?"

  "Cannot remember," the old man said mulishly. "Cannot think why you was to ask it."

  "Your coat was found on the floor by the bucket, sir. As was a ring that fits you."

  "Then I must've taken 'em off before."

  "You took off your ring first?" Patrick asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  "Not the ring. Her Johnny come for the money took it from me, I suppose."

  "Then how did you get blood on the coat?"

  "Damn it, sir! I don't have to stand for this—no, sir—not at all! You are supposed to get me out of here, not ask all the demned questions as don't concern you! How the devil am I to know what happened, I ask you? All I was doing was putting the cock to the pudding."