Page 2 of Death of a Courtesan
‘I assume the chief inspector is aware of this case,’ Riley said.
‘Oh aye, he knows right enough.’ Barton rubbed his bulbous nose with the back of his hand. ‘Went right pale when he heard about it, then disappeared into his office and closed the door. Ain’t seen him since.’
Riley thought that odd. Danforth enjoyed lording it over the troops, despite the fact that they knew their jobs far better than he ever would and resented his interference. The bawdy houses in and around Covent Garden were well frequented by theatre-goers and occupants of the many taverns surrounding them. All classes of society—with the possible exception of Riley’s own, which could afford to be more selective—rubbed shoulders in them. Anyone who could pay for the eclectic range of services provided by the better establishments, such as the one they were about to attend in Maiden Lane, were welcomed there. Danforth would know that, of course, and Riley wondered why he didn’t want to be seen upholding the contentious laws that generated constant complaints from the Temperance League and bible bashers.
Prostitution wasn’t illegal but earning money from sexual services, such as running a brothel and creating a safer working environment for the women whose services were in such demand, was. Thankfully, attempting to enforce that particular law did not fall to Riley’s lot. It was called the oldest profession for a reason. Men, it was generally accepted, needed an outlet for the more obscure sexual desires that their wives couldn’t be expected to satisfy.
It was a delicate balancing act. The proprietress of the establishment they were about to visit would pretend that money didn’t change hands and the police would pretend to believe her. Undoubtedly his uniformed colleagues responsible for that particular beat were recompensed in one way or another in return for turning a blind eye. Riley found it hard to disapprove. Sometimes common sense trumped the rigidity of the law. He knew it would be a damned sight harder to maintain order, despite the views of the sanctimonious minority, if such establishments did not exist.
Riley suspected that this would prove to be a sensitive case and would need to be handled with kid gloves. Had Danforth instructed Barton to give it to him for that reason? Come to that, why had Barton been the one to pass on Danforth’s orders? The chief superintendent liked to allocate murder enquiries to an inspector in person—usually the one least suited to a particular situation, just so that he could make an obscure point.
‘The doctor’s been sent for,’ Barton said.
Riley thanked the sergeant, leaving Salter to brave the elements and hail a cab. Given the weather conditions, he’d be hard pushed to find one.
‘What do we know about Maiden Lane?’ Riley asked when he and Salter were finally installed in a conveyance that made slow progress through the heavy traffic.
‘I’m a family man, Inspector,’ Riley thought the shock was feigned, but it was hard to be sure with Salter. He’d gone unnaturally quiet since telling Riley about the nature of the crime and its location. ‘You can’t expect me to know anything about brothels.’
Riley chuckled. ‘No married man has ever set foot in any such establishment, I’m sure,’ he said.
‘My wife would castrate me with a blunt knife if she thought I’d done so for any reason other than to solve a crime.’ Salter looked worried. ‘And perhaps even then…’
Riley winced in sympathy. ‘Stay close to me, sergeant. I’ll protect your honour and save you from Mrs Salter’s carving knife.’
‘Much obliged to you, sir, I’m sure,’ Salter replied.
‘The premises we are about to visit are, I think we’ll find, famous for their diversity.’
‘Themes, like?’
‘Precisely so. All tastes catered for. Spanking is very popular, so I’m told—’
‘Be popular with your lot then,’ Salter shot Riley a devious look. ‘Not talking from experience, sir?’
Riley met Salter’s insolence with a bland look. ‘Not my bag, sergeant.’
‘Can’t see it myself. What gratification a man would get from enduring pain, I mean.’
Riley sighed. ‘It takes all sorts, Jack. You ought to have learned at least that much from some of the cases we’ve investigated.’
‘Aye, but even so…’
Traffic ground to a halt for the third time in five minutes. Rain pounded on the canvas roof above their heads, leaking a steady stream of water onto their hats. Riley ignored the discomfort, allowing his thoughts to dwell upon all the other ways he could have occupied his time that morning, in the warmth and comfort of his own drawing room. He felt a moment’s sympathy for his mother’s point of view, but it was fleeting. His employment gave him a legitimate excuse to avoid the tedium of the upper classes at play as well as a sense of purpose—something that his mother would never understand.
Their jarvey engaged in a shouting match with the driver of an omnibus which had got stuck in a rut. Several other drivers offered colourful advice on how best to free its wheels, most of which Riley knew would be anatomically impossible.
‘The fine establishment we are about to visit is run by a woman who calls herself Mrs Sinclair,’ Riley said, glancing at the document that Barton had given him and trying to keep it clear of the constantly dripping water.
‘I know that name,’ Salter said. ‘We were nicking her every other weekend when I was still in uniform. She held her own though, I’ll give her that. A well-spoken woman from a good background was the impression I got. The men treated her respectfully enough, I seem to recall.’ He chuckled. ‘I dare say one or two of them knew her in her professional capacity and didn’t like to see her locked up for providing such an essential service. Anyway, she always had a decent brief and never got anything more than a slap on the wrist and a stiff fine.’
‘She came from the upper middle classes,’ Riley replied, wondering how Barton had put together so much information so quickly. Presumably it had been collated from her earlier arrests. Barton could be a tricky customer, one whom it would be unwise to get on the wrong side of, because he was very good at his job. He kept detailed records of anyone who passed through his cells, once cynically telling Riley that they would likely take advantage of the accommodation again sooner or later, so it saved time to know as much about them as possible. ‘Educated by a governess and expected to do well for herself,’ Riley said, flipping to the second page. ‘She married a man twenty years older, presumably because her family forced her to. Not sure what happened. Barton’s intelligence is scanty in that regard, but she left him and now runs an upper-class bawdy house.’ Riley returned the papers to the shelter of his inside pocket. ‘Perhaps she will enlighten us regarding the intervening years when we talk to her.’
Salter sniffed when the cab rattled to a halt. ‘Is this it?’
Riley peered through the rain at a substantial yet narrow red brick building that rose up over three floors and nodded. The house had leaded casement windows, ornate double doors accessed by three shallow steps and more steps leading down from street level to the basement. There was nothing to indicate what went on inside the premises. Presumably, if one needed to ask, one couldn’t afford the services on offer. Constable Peterson stood outside at attention, protected from the worst of the elements by an overhanging porch. An impressive sight in his uniform complete with tall hat, he straightened up and saluted when he saw Riley emerge from the hansom.
‘You can stand inside the doors, Peterson,’ Riley said. ‘No one expects you to drown in the execution of your duties.’
