by Emily Royal
“I do. It happened to my Aunt Lydia.”
“Aunt Lydia?”
“She looked after me at Betty’s; she brought me up. When she disappeared, Papa told me she’d run away, but I overheard him tell Betty she’d been found. Strangled.”
“Oh, Edward, I’m sorry.”
“If you’re going to find who killed her, I want to help you.”
“You’re a child! I want you safe, and so would Lydia.”
“I’m nearly a man, and I want to do it for her. If you need something from Betty’s, I can get it for you. I used to live there.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “I don’t want to go in that carriage on my own. What if something happens to me?”
A cold hand clutched at Jeanette’s stomach. What if an accident, or something more deliberate, befell him on the journey to Sussex? Sanderson had said the boy knew too much.
“Very well,” she said. “Perhaps you’re safer with me.”
*
“Mr. Stockton didn’t say how long you’d be staying.”
The owner of the boarding house, a woman almost as wide as she was tall, ushered Jeanette toward a room at the back of the building.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all, Mrs. Smith. He’s paid me till the end of the month.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”
The woman held up her candle and cast her gaze over Jeanette.
“What’s your husband done?”
Good lord, were Henry’s activities common knowledge among London’s underbelly?
The woman’s expression softened, and she patted Edward on the head.
“No matter,” she said. “We’ve battered wives aplenty here. Mr. Stockton knows I’m discreet.”
She pressed a key into Jeanette’s hand. “Keep your door locked.”
After turning the key in the lock, Jeanette took off her cloak. Uncle George’s housekeeper’s old cloak, moth-bitten and frayed. She opened the valise and inspected the contents—two plain dresses, with spare clothes for Edward. Dear Uncle George! Her godfather had cancelled his appointments and spent most of the day securing her a place to stay in secret.
She drew the curtains to shut out the night, grimacing at the small movement on the floor in the corner of her eye; movement which matched the faint scuttling noise.
“Come on, Edward, time for sleep.”
*
When Jeanette woke, her skin itched. During the night Edward had cried out, pleading to be left unmolested. Later on, more cries had echoed outside the chamber, screams of the other inhabitants, women seeking refuge from brutish husbands, wives of murderers perhaps?
Murderers…
Henry’s eyes had penetrated her dreams, pale blue glaciers staring into the eyes of his victim, the whites of his eyes glowing in the dark, matching his knuckles which whitened as he crushed her throat. He peeled back his lips to reveal sharp, pointed teeth, a low hiss of triumph as he flung the body into the water.
Jeanette’s head pulsed with pain. Pinpricks of light sheared her mind as the pressure on her throat increased. When she’d sat up, the nightmare had dissolved, but the curses outside continued, a male voice demanding to be heard, followed by shrill female cries.
Which of her fellow inmates had been disturbed? Would she go home, forgive her husband, ignore the alcohol on his breath and blame herself for her beatings until once more she appeared on the doorstep of a stranger, begging for sanctuary?
Images of bruises and corpses dissipated, and she roused Edward. Time to visit Betty’s.
*
Jeanette checked up and down the street, as if expecting Henry’s carriage to appear any moment. Pulling her hood over her face, she took Edward’s hand. Betty’s whorehouse was only a short walk away.
As they approached their destination, a voice called out.
“Jeanette?”
“Mama…” Edward tightened his grip.
“Hush, Edward, let’s move a little more quickly.”
Footsteps hurried toward her. “It is you! What are you doing dressed so shabbily?”
A hand clasped her shoulder.
“Charlotte. How did you recognize me?”
“I didn’t. I recognized the boy.”
Edward’s body stiffened.
“Are you following someone?” Charlotte asked. “Henry, perhaps?”
“Why would you think that?”
Pity shone in Charlotte’s eyes. “I hear he’s taken a mistress. He won’t respect you for following him.” She took Jeanette’s hand. “Go home. I counsel you as a friend.”
Jeanette shook her head. “I’m here for another reason. But don’t tell him you’ve seen me.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t say, it’s too dangerous.”
“I’m your friend. Who can you trust if not me?”
Charlotte was right. Jeanette must place her trust in someone.
“Somebody’s murdering prostitutes.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Whores die every day; why concern yourself with them? Men are murdered on the streets as well. If women live in a world as equals, they must die also. Those of us striving for equality must accept the dark as well as the light.”
“I must at least find out what’s happening.”
“And put yourself at risk? You won’t achieve anything. Take the boy and go home. You know I speak sense.”
“I know you mean well, Charlotte, but I must try. If I have no luck at Betty’s, I’ll go home.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth as if to respond before she stepped back and smiled.
“If you have any trouble, my dear, come straight to me. Promise?”
“I promise.”
The skirt of Charlotte’s gown swished from side to side as she walked away, the sunlight picking out flashes of bright blue trimming.
A sharp pain spiked in the center of her palm. Edward stood still, body stiff and erect, his fingers curled into a claw, the nails digging into Jeanette’s flesh.
“Edward, are you all right?”
“The lady. I’m frightened of her.”
*
The main door of Betty’s whorehouse was painted a discreet shade of green, belying the activities which took place inside. The frontal façade boasted nine windows, nine rooms where the women serviced their clientele. How many of them had Henry visited? Had he taken pleasure in every room?
Jeanette knocked, and the door opened with a loud creak. A thin face looked out, dark rings of fatigue under her eyes. At night a prostitute’s face might seduce and tempt, but in daylight, it showed her age, each line in her skin relating tales of sins and suffering.
Jeanette held out her hand. “Are you Betty?”
“What do you want?” Hostility seeped from her tone.
“I’m looking for work.”
“What’s your name?”
“Frances. Frances Smith.”
The woman cocked her head to one side, then opened the door more fully. “Come in.”
The entrance hall reeked of promiscuity. Red drapes adorned the walls, the odor of male musk and cheap perfume permeating the air like a thick fog. On closer inspection, the drapes had frayed edges, the gilt covering the wall sconces peeling off in places.
Betty blocked Jeanette’s path.
“You may be dressed as a whore, but I’m no fool. I recognize the brat, and I know his father. What do you want, Lady Ravenwell?”
Jeanette stepped back. “I want to know what happened to Lydia.”
Betty stiffened. “She died.”
“I heard she was murdered.”
The woman glanced at Edward. “The brat has an overactive imagination.”
“Do you think me a simpleton?” Jeanette hissed. “I heard she’d been strangled, and she wasn’t the first. Why has nothing been done about it? Don’t you care?”
Betty’s hostility thawed a little. “Sometimes a girl disappears. A hazard of our
profession.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
“A patron, most likely, but I can’t turn them all away. My girls know the risks, and I do my best to keep them safe.”
“Like you did for Lydia?”
“That’s enough!” Betty’s face twisted in anger. “You dare judge me? Do you really care about those women, or are you just another pathetic wife come to whine about all the women her husband is fucking?”
“No, I…”
“Get out!” she yelled, “and take the brat with you. Stay away from here!”
Before Jeanette could respond, the woman shouldered her out the door. Her foot caught on the step and she tripped onto the pavement.
Edward followed her and held out his hand. “Come on, Mama.”
“I’m sorry, Edward,” she said. “Perhaps we should go home.”
“There’s another way in,” the child said.
“It’ll be impossible to get that list if Betty’s in the house.”
“What list?”
“A list of her clients. It might help identify who killed your Aunt Lydia.”
The boy nodded. “Betty hides it in the kitchen, among the oats. I heard her say that if she was raided, it’s the last place anyone would look.”
“How do you know that?
He shrugged. “I hear all sorts of things. People forget I’m around. Nobody notices me, except you.”
Jeanette struggled to her feet, her breath catching in her throat at the spike of pain in her ankle. Edward led her into an alleyway between two houses. At the end, a gate led into a narrow passage in almost total darkness.
A warm hand took hers. “I used to hide here all the time. When the men looked at me, Aunt Lydia told me to hide.”
“Good God, Edward, what kind of life have you led?”
“Hush!” the boy hissed, “I hear something.”
Footsteps approached, and Jeanette heard a cough followed by hawking and spitting, then silence.
A lifetime of hiding in the shadows had taught Edward self-preservation. Huddling together, they shrank back against the walls of the passageway.
Lighter footsteps joined the first. Murmured voices rose, the hoarse tones of a man and the lighter voice of a woman, coaxing, giggling. Soon, the rhythmic sounds of flesh against flesh accompanied female moans and male grunts, culminating in shrieks of pleasure. After a moment of silence and a rustle of fabric, the footsteps receded.
“That’ll be Rosaline,” Edward said.
“Rosaline?”
“Aye. Betty hadn’t had her long when I left. She was shy at first but soon settled in. Betty was always complaining about her taking a fancy to some of the clients over others. She said she liked to give free samples to her favorites.”
Was this the same Miss Rosaline that Sanderson had spoken of? Was that who Henry had established as his mistress?
“Follow me, Mama.” Edward’s matter-of-fact tone disturbed her. Witnessing two fornicating savages must have been an everyday occurrence for him.
“It’s a dead end.”
“No, it’s not. We’re at the back of the brothel. I know a way in.”
Jeanette could make out a door, but when she tried the handle, it was locked.
“No,” Edward said. “Look down.”
He pointed to a hole in the ground. Jeanette couldn’t see anything inside. It could be three feet deep or thirty. She sniffed at the smell of damp and dust, and something else, a metallic odor which reminded her of sitting on Papa’s knee by the fireplace back at home.
A coal cellar. Edward lowered himself into the hole. It was barely large enough for him to squeeze through, and Jeanette would never fit.
“Wait by the door.”
He disappeared, and a minute later, the bolts drew back. With a creak of protest, the door swung inward to reveal Edward’s face, smeared with coal dust. With a grin, he pulled her into a small hallway. No longer in use, the windows had been boarded up. Slivers of light picked out silvery threads where the spiders had done their work over the years. Dust motes swirled in the air, as if angry at the intruders disturbing their rest.
“Nobody’s about,” Edward whispered. “The women sleep during the day, and the cook doesn’t come till sundown. Only Betty stays awake, and she spends her time in the parlor with her gin.”
Edward gestured toward a door.
“That leads to the front hall. The one next to it leads to the kitchen.”
Before Jeanette could answer, she froze at a familiar voice. Edward’s sharp intake of breath told her he’d also recognized it.
“Go to the kitchen, Edward,” she whispered. “I’ll follow in a minute.”
She crouched at the hall door and peered through the keyhole. Her stomach churned at the sight before her. A man and a woman stood together, bodies molded into an embrace. The woman gave a hoarse moan of pleasure, her body heaving with lust.
“Oh, Lord Ravenwell,” she purred. “Has your wife driven you into my arms at last? I thought you loved her.”
Henry grasped her by the neck. “I’ve never loved her, Betty, and I never will.”
“Why did you marry her?”
“Out of pity,” he replied. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure. I’ve repented from the moment I shackled myself to her.”
He gave her a swift, brutal kiss. “I’ve not come here to talk about a whore. I’m here to do business with one. And I won’t leave unsatisfied.”
He took Betty’s arm and pushed her out of Jeanette’s view. A door slammed and silence fell.
How could Jeanette have been so blind? In her naiveté, she’d hoped to confirm he had nothing to do with the disappearing women, that he loved her. In her folly, she’d clung to his isolated, occasional acts of kindness as a drowning man reaches out for driftwood. But nothing could save her; hope sunk to the riverbed, buried under the silt and debris of reality.
Edward looked up as Jeanette entered the kitchen. He held his hand up, a dog-eared piece of parchment between his fingers. The list.
She unfolded it and read the names. Henry’s was there, of course, and his friends. De Blanchard’s name came as no surprise, neither did Guy Chantry’s, and her other dinner guests. But a name near the bottom of the list made her breath catch.
“Sir Daniel Winters!”
“Aunt Lydia talked about him all the time,” Edward said. “She was his favorite—tipped her extra special.”
Poor Charlotte! Did she know Sir Daniel, with all the mild-mannered demeanor of a devoted husband, cheated on her as much as the rakes she had once serviced?
Jeanette folded the piece of paper and tucked it into her bodice.
When they emerged from the kitchen, a hush had descended over the house. Holding her hand up for Edward to be quiet, Jeanette pushed open the door to the hall.
A body lay on the floor.
“Betty!” Edward ran toward the lifeless form.
The whore’s limbs were twisted at grotesque angles as if she had engaged in a wild, savage dance. Her face bore an expression of shock and betrayal. Mouth open, her tongue protruded from between her teeth, thick and swollen where she had bitten through it. Dark lesions adorned her throat.
She’d been strangled.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jeanette stepped back and collided with a solid mass.
“What do we have here?” A male voice chuckled and thick arms circled her waist.
“Mama!”
“No, Edward!” she screamed. “Run, remember what I said!”
“Get him!”
Jeanette kicked against her assailant who grunted as her foot came into contact with his shin. Edward sprinted across the hallway and slipped through the main door.
Twisting herself free, Jeanette curled her hand into a fist and rammed it between her assailant’s thighs. With an airless gasp, he doubled up and collapsed onto the floor, clutching his groin. Seizing her chance, Jeanette sprinted out the front door and into the street. Her lungs ached as she
drew in air, and a metallic taste rasped in her throat, but she maintained her pace as the footsteps behind her drew closer.
A man appeared to her right, blocking her route to Mrs. Taylor’s. With luck, Edward had managed to reach there, but Jeanette had no wish to lead them to him, so she continued along the street.
A carriage stood at the end of the street. The window lowered and a familiar voice called out.
“Jeanette!”
“Charlotte?”
The door opened and Charlotte ushered her in.
“You look terrible!”
“Charlotte, someone’s after me. I must get away.”
“You poor dear!” Charlotte rapped her hand against the side of the carriage, and it set off with a lurch.
“Jeanette, what’s happened?”
“Murder,” Jeanette choked. “Oh, Charlotte! I believe Henry’s involved.”
“How dreadful! You’re sure?”
Jeanette nodded, “I heard him speak of it, and I saw him at the whorehouse.”
“Damn him!” Charlotte’s face twisted in anger before pity and compassion glossed over her eyes. “Let’s take you home.”
“There’s no time,” Jeanette panted. “I must tell the authorities. I have a list of names and have to hand it to them.”
“We need to take care of you first, Jeanette.” Charlotte lifted her hand to interrupt Jeanette’s protest. “You know yourself what little heed the men who rule this world pay to the account of a woman.” Her eyes hardened for a moment before she blinked and the cold expression disappeared. “Once you’re cleaned up, and with Daniel and I by your side, they cannot fail to listen to you.”
“We must find Edward first,” Jeanette said. “He’s alone and in danger.”
“Let’s get you safe, Jeanette,” Charlotte said, “then I’ll send someone for him. Where is he?”
“We’ve been staying at a boarding house, Mrs. Taylor’s on Vine Street.”
When the carriage drew to a halt, Charlotte ushered Jeanette into a townhouse. Ignoring Jeanette’s protests, she summoned her housekeeper and instructed her to bathe her friend. The woman nodded, wrinkling her nose at the stench of dirt and sweat on Jeanette’s clothes. Charlotte was right. If servants treated Jeanette with disdain, what prejudices would the authorities have in a world where appearance mattered over substance?