Page 36 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
“And this Fowler?”
“About the same, boss.”
“Well then,” Riphook cracked his knuckles and lit up a thin American cigar with a thick match. He puffed out the smoke in fascination, playing with its patterns for a few seconds. Then he said, “I do not care about the money. She will never recover the amount. What I do care about is her betrayal. Nash, you will go to this Dr. Fowler, you know where to find him?”
“He likes to hang his hat at a brothel or two I know.”
“Tell him that when he returns to tend our lovely little Leah Benson, he will kill her. For that, I will clear his debt.”
“Why can't we do it, boss?” Nash cocked his head quizzically. “I'm a top runner, you know that.”
“Worthington,” Riphook chewed out his words, “is a noble estate. The likes of you and me can't go near to one of them, not within ten miles I reckon'. But this doctor can, and so he'll be the one to do away with her. She's healing, she 'aint going anywhere.”
“What if he won't do it?”
“He will. He'll do anything you say because you hold his world in the palm of your hand, just like I hold this city in the palm of mine. You've done well, Nash, to have brought a doctor under your thumb.”
“Thank you, boss.” Nash felt proud. It was extremely rare that he received a compliment from anyone, let alone from Riphook. That little bit of validation was enough for him to recommit, just as it always was, for he had never gotten it anywhere else.
“Now on with it, I want her dead, you hear me, Nash?”
“I hear you, boss.” Nash nodded. “You think I can get an advance on it?”
“What, the bounty? Is she dead Nash? No! Now get the bloody dash track out of my office!”
“Yes boss.” Nash ducked out before Riphook's mood could worsen. It often happened far quicker than one could prepare for.
“He was in a better mood today.” Digby joked as they descended back into the chasm of despair that Riphook made his nest above.
“Count your blessings there.” Nash nodded, dodging a bucket of waste from an upper window.
“Now what, boss?”
“You heard him, didn't you? Let's go see that Doctor Fowler.”
* * *
The good Doctor Fowler was taking a day for himself. He did this fairly often, for he believed in the leveling of the mind through personal leisure.
To his wife, this leisure meant that he was taking in the St James’s Square, likely between one of the many odd drinking rooms for the male elite of London. He would regale her with tales of quiet lunches, house calls, and attending lectures at the Royal Academy. Alas for Dr. Fowler's wife, but this was much by his design, he very rarely did any of those things.
Dr. Fowler was of old money, although never set to inherit it. So, in his two brother's shadows, he had attended the Royal Academy of Medicine, his grand old father presiding all the while.
He became a doctor, as he had been expected to, but while living in London he grew acquainted with several bad habits, all of which taxed his billfold.
His medical practice could not wholly sustain his taste for prostitutes and gambling houses, and so, again and again, he borrowed from his older brother.
Finally, it had come to pass that Dr. Fowler's brother had become tired, enormously tired, of the charade. So, out of brotherly love, he wrote to Dr. Fowler a note for a considerable sum, the last of which he intended to write.
So, it went that the good old Doctor Fowler took the small fortune and spent the past eighteen years wasting it. Now the last of it had gone down the drain at a gambling house, and he feared for his frailty every time he stepped into the street.
Still, Francis Fowler could not be kept from his lifelong pleasures, namely prostitutes and gambling, and somehow, he always had just enough coin to get by. He greatly looked forward to the prior of the two as he made his jolly way through London.
He was guided by the little black book that he kept close to his heart; it was a hot item.Harris's List of Covent-Garden Ladies, or a Man of Pleasure's Calendar.The little booklet used to be published annually, directing the gentlemen of London to the address of over one-hundred-and-fifty prostitutes of varying reputes. While it was by no means still current in regard to the women it solicited, several of the addresses remained some of the most consistently discreet brothels in all of London.
It was hard to get one's hands on one of these, for they sold out within hours of going on sale each year. Nevertheless, Francis Fowler had his; he got one every year.
It was this little booklet that guided him to his favorite hideaways – discreet house numbers full of secret pleasure.
