Dodger of the Dials (10 page)

We had enjoyed a most productive afternoon scouting the suburban areas of London for warehouses to crack and had now retired to this splendid new gin palace in St Giles where we could discuss our findings at leisure. There was a particular well-stocked warehouse we had discovered near Hackney Wick and, after making some discreet enquiries from the porters what worked within, we had hatched a plan to get at the merchandise. Tom reckoned she
was adept enough to sneak into the place during working hours and secrete herself behind some stock or up a chimney and stay there undetected until lock up. Then I would drive up with the large cart once it was good and dark, she would open the locks from the inside and, if we was quick, we would soon make off with a fine haul. Mouse would be needed to play crow and the whole venture was sure to be very profitable for all three of us.

‘Imagine us,’ I said to her, our voices covered by the hissing of the gas lamps, ‘going to all that trouble and then handing over half of our findings to someone who ain’t helped to lift one rug onto the cart. It’s the laziness of it that would irk as much as anything.’

Tom agreed and so we finished our gin and made for the door. Outside we buttoned our coats underneath the fancy parapet as the dark was already starting to draw in. It was early evening but I was keen to get home so we made to say farewell. But, just as we was tipping each other the hat, we heard a deep male voice calling from the other side of the road.

‘Mr Dawkins! Miss Skinner!’

We looked over to see the tall silhouette of a man approaching from the other side of the street. In the dark we could make out his deep scarlet coat and a large carriage was tied up behind him which two other men was climbing out of.

‘There you both are,’ he puffed and rubbed his large gloved hands together in a genial way. ‘A little birdie told me you was here. I’m glad I caught you before you left, I do hate wasted journeys.’

As he grew closer I saw from the gaslight of the gin-house that it was the same man from the fair. He was the only one of the three who was smiling. There was something of the circus about him – he was all teeth and bravado like a lion tamer – and I knew that he was setting Tom as much on her guard as he was me. ‘My name is William Slade,’ he continued as he reached us, ‘and I know both of
you gents by reputation. It is
Miss
Skinner, isn’t it?’ he said tipping his hat towards Tom. ‘I was told that you sometimes prefer to be called
Mister
and, if so, I’ll be happy to oblige in future. How do you do?’

He offered her his hand and, after she had shaken it without much enthusiasm, he then shook mine. I could feel those wooden nubs I had heard about inside the glove. The other two men – both of which was wearing matching red bowlers – began to position themselves either side of us so we could not run off. ‘I would like to convey to you my apologies,’ Slade continued, ‘for sending a certain Morris Bolter to your address this morning. Mr Bolter is a maladroit individual who is apt to give a false impression. I fear that he may have miscommunicated the friendly nature of my invitation.’

I admired his speaking style. His accent had something of the north about it but he knew his way around the dictionary and I made a note to look up the word maladroit at the earliest opportunity.

‘And it
is
still an invitation,’ he went on. ‘In fact, I’ve come here tonight to impress upon you the agreeable nature of the kindly offered hand.’

‘Well there was no harm done, Mr Slade,’ I said back. ‘And if you want to stop by the Three Cripples one night this week then I’ll be glad to stand you a glass of gin. It’s in Saffron Hill and we can discuss any business you would care to at length.’

‘Better yet,’ Slade said as he raised his cane up and tapped it against my right shoulder before I could leave. ‘Why not come with me to Hammersmith now. I own a house there, perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s called Molly Gay’s.’

I hesitated and looked to Tom who was having her own path of escape blocked by the red bowler on the left. Slade’s grin had widened enough for it to start to look painful.

‘It has a very relaxing atmosphere, I think you’ll find,’ he continued, ‘and – while still friendly – this invitation is also insistent.’ Tom looked back at me and shrugged. It was clear that this was not an offer we could afford to go on ignoring.

‘Please yourself, Mr Slade,’ I sighed with much reluctance. ‘Let’s take a trip west then, shall we?’ He looked most pleased and nodded as if he had been expecting no other answer. Then waved his hand towards the carriage as if we had won it in a tombola.

‘Very good,’ he announced as we was led towards the cab and he opened up the door for us. ‘I think you’ll find the trip will be to everyone’s gratification.’

Tom and myself was then bundled into the vehicle and sat crushed between the two heavy men. Slade meanwhile climbed into the driver’s seat, took the reins himself and sped the horses westwards through the city.

Chapter 7
How to Sin

Relating the events surrounding my first formal visit to the house of Molly Gay

It is often claimed – and always by the sort of authoritative coves what would seem to have conducted the census themselves – that there are as many brothels throughout the city of London as there are public-houses. And considering the sort of rough rookeries what I was most familiar with – Saffron Hill, St Giles, Seven Dials, Whitechapel – I would have thought that this was even a low estimate. Round my way every second abode rented out rooms to pragmatic ladies of industry and their many dependents but a fellow would sometimes have to turn two street corners before finding somewhere decent to drink. But it was also well known that if you moved outward from the heart of the metropolis – and away from London’s glittering West End – then houses of ill-repute do become more scattered, rare and mysterious. By the time Slade’s carriage had thundered through the main thoroughfare of Kensington and had entered into the streets of Hammersmith, I was already beginning to wonder if any of these more genteel houses we was passing could ever be the lair of such a notorious bawd. With their black cast-iron boundary rails, white-painted frontages and well-kept flower gardens none of them seemed to betray the barest hint of shame.

‘Woah there!’ we heard Slade cry as the horses reared up in a pretty
lane close to the riverside. ‘Miss Molly Gay’s, gentlemen! House of pleasure!’ I was surprised by the boldness of this announcement – he did not seem to care if the whole neighbourhood heard. Although it was dark now we could still see that the house we was being led towards was as modest as every other in the vicinity, with a paved path of little red and black tiles winding through the rose garden and up towards the tall front door. The drawn curtains however was deep crimson and we could hear from within the sounds of sweet female laughter and stringed music. So this, I thought perplexed as I tried to see what was going on inside the lighted front parlour through the crack in the curtains, is the hellish place from where Lily had fled. It looked from the outside to be so much more pleasant than where she had ended up.

The door bore the brass image of a goblin woman’s face with the knocker in its mouth to which Slade pointed after rapping on it. ‘See that,’ he explained to Tom and myself as we waited on the steps behind him, ‘it’s supposed to be Queen Victoria. Looks nothing like her, does it?’

‘I dunno,’ said Tom. ‘I can see the likeness.’

I was expecting to be received by Molly Gay herself or perhaps by one of the girls what worked there. And, though I had no mind to lie with any others while Lily was my woman, I must confess to feeling some excitement as I heard the chains being unlatched from within. Considering the reputation of this establishment I could only assume that I was about to be presented, as the door swung open most soft, with some of the most heavenly harlots that this great city had to offer. I straightened my hat in anticipation of what delights was about to greet us.

‘Yer here, then,’ said Morris Bolter as he peered out from the light of the doorway, his scowling face even uglier than the one on the knocker. He was holding an over-filled brandy glass and
swirling the liquid as he eyed me with contempt. ‘I knew he’d get yer afore long, Dodger,’ he sneered as if he had just won some imagined victory over me. ‘Hope yer’ve left the shrew at home and bought some manners with yer this time.’

‘Move out of it, Morris,’ Slade said as he pushed inside first and made the former charity boy stagger backwards into the hall and spill brandy over his shirt. ‘You’re not to be answering doors or helping yourself to the drinks cabinet, eh? Gentlemen of quality do not wish to see your ugly person when entering a house of sin. It’d put them off, I should think.’ Bolter looked about for something to wipe the brown stain as Slade turned and welcomed us across the threshold. ‘
Messrs
Dawkins and Skinner are important guests,’ he declared in his theatrical way, ‘and will be treated accordingly.’

The reception room was warm and wide and its rich-patterned carpet went all the way to and up the staircase. A grandfather clock ticked away against the wall and various instruments of nautical interest hung from the walls. I had burgled many a home as fine and as fashionable as this one but never before had I been invited into one as a guest. The man who followed Tom and myself into the house shut the door behind us before taking our coats and hats. There was a number of hatstands along this hallway and I noticed some more of those curious red bowlers hanging from them. Slade meanwhile continued to bully Morris Bolter for what appeared to be our amusement.

‘I don’t recall telling you to make yourself comfortable, Morris,’ he said as he snatched the brandy glass away from the smaller man. ‘You’ve enough chores to keep you occupied until doomsday, I would’ve thought. Where is Miss Gay? She should be here to greet our callers.’

‘She’s upstairs,’ Bolter sniffed after producing a handkerchief and rubbing at the spillage. ‘Getting painted again. Yer asked me to
greet the
gentlemen
, remember?’ He glanced over at Tom as he said this and curled his lip. Then he lowered his voice and addressed Slade in a dark manner. ‘While yer other men are down at the bottom of the garden,’ his smile was cruel as he whispered. ‘Seeing to yer guests.’

‘Very good,’ nodded Slade and then turned to give Tom and myself a small bow. ‘I have some quick business I must attend to in the outhouse, gentlemen. Perhaps meanwhile Mr Bolter will show you through to the sitting room,’ he pointed towards the shut door behind where the peculiar string music was heard, ‘and you will have whatever you desire.’ Another toothy grin cracked out across his face. ‘We serve all the poisons.’

So that is what a harp sounds like, I thought, as we was led into the plush and smoky sitting room and saw what was making such an agreeable sound. I had often seen such things illustrated in books but until now I had no idea of their tallness and just how marvellous they sounded when played by someone with talent. In the far corner of the well-furnished room was a gifted young lady, dressed only in a loose bedsheet and holding onto the neck of her instrument with one hand while strumming at the strings with the other. She was being ogled by one ancient old gent from the settee opposite who looked old enough to have been born when togas was in fashion. This pug-nosed fellow puffed on his cigar and paid neither Tom nor me any mind as we sat ourselves on nearby chairs. There was also two more half-dressed young ladies draped either side of the old reprobate and one was filling up his flute glass with more champagne.

‘We’ll have some bubbles an’ all please, Morris,’ I said to Bolter as he slouched over to the drinks cabinet in his sullen way. ‘The best you got.’ I pulled over a fancy foot-rest and stretched out on the chair as he popped open another cork and muttered to himself.
He must have been most disgruntled to be serving me after the unpleasantness of our last meeting and was doing little to disguise it. ‘Take a sip yourself if you care to,’ I went on pretending to ignore his attitude. ‘I won’t tell no one.’

The door opened behind us and I turned to see what lovely visions was approaching us. But even if I had of been entertaining wicked thoughts about betraying Lily in this den of iniquity – which I swear I never was – then they was soon dashed when I saw what was being offered. It was two girls, both very pretty and smiling all sweet with their powdered faces and little nightdresses on. The eldest of the two came up to where I was sitting and enquired whether or not I wanted company for the night. She could not have been older than twelve.

‘No thank you, dear,’ I replied in a thin voice. ‘You run along and play.’

They turned and left the room again and I looked back to Bolter in disgust. ‘Not funny, Morris,’ I said. ‘They was kinchins.’ He sniggered as he poured the champagne glasses to the brim and brought them over.

‘They’re the newest,’ he said as he handed the first glass to Tom. ‘And they gotta learn on someone, ain’t they? I’d wager yer Lily was about that age when she first went to work here.’

Bolter was sort of creature what was begging to be punched in the face at the best of times and so I was all fixed to stand up and oblige him then and there. The other champagne glass was still in his outstretched hand and he was waiting for me to take it. I just stared back at him and thought on how satisfying it would be to drag him over to the harp and shove him through it like a slicer. Bolter sensed my aggression and altered his tone.

‘There’s others upstairs, yer know,’ he told me with a less steady
voice. ‘Older ones. Yer can have whatever yer care for, Dodge. It’s like the man said – we got all the poisons.’

It was Tom who broke the silence.

‘We’re thieves, Bolter,’ she told him after taking a strong swig of her champagne. ‘And we don’t pay for nothing. We got women at home what sleep with us for the pleasure of it – something I doubt you could ever boast of. Now give me a refill and run off. We’re both sick of the sight of you.’