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“So would I,” Margaret agreed. “But not at the cost of danger to you.”
“There’s no more danger than coming here every night,” Hester assured her, with something less than the truth. But she thought the risk was worth it, and it was slight, all things considered. She stood up. “Tell Bessie I should be back no later than midnight. If I’m not, then you can inform Constable Hart and send out a search party for me.”
“I shall be here myself,” Margaret retorted. “Tell me where you are going, so I shall know where to begin looking.” She half smiled, but her eyes were perfectly serious.
“Portpool Lane,” Hester replied. “I have an idea to see a Mr. Robinson who keeps an establishment there.” She felt better for telling Margaret that, and as she put on her shawl and opened the door onto Coldbath Square, it was with more confidence than she had felt a few moments earlier. She turned in the doorway. “Thank you,” she said gravely, then, before Margaret could argue, she walked quickly along the footpath in the rain and turned the corner into Bath Street.
She did not slacken her speed even when she was out of sight of the square because it was better for a woman alone to look as if she had a purpose, but also she did not want to allow herself time to reconsider what she was going to do, in case she lost her nerve. Margaret had an extraordinary admiration for her, especially her courage, and she was surprised now to realize how precious that was. It was worth conquering the fear that fluttered in the pit of her stomach to be able to return to Coldbath Square and say that she had gone through with her plan, whether she learned anything or not.
It was not entirely pride, although she was forced to admit that that did enter into it. It was also a gentler thing, the desire to live up to what Margaret believed of her and aspired to herself. Disillusion was a bitter thing, and she might already have brought about a little of that. She was aware of having been abrupt a few times, of a reluctance to praise even where it was due. The knowledge that Monk was keeping from her something that hurt him had driven her into an unusual sense of isolation, and it had touched her friendships as well.
She could at least live up to the mask of courage that was expected of her. She too needed to believe that she was equal to anything she set herself. Physical courage was easy, compared with the inner strength to endure the pain of the heart.
Anyway, Squeaky Robinson was probably a perfectly ordinary businessman who had no intention of hurting anybody unless they threatened him, and she would be careful not to do that. This was only an expedition to look and learn.
The huge mass of Reid’s Brewery towered dark into the rain-drifted sky, and there was a sweet, rotten smell in the air.
She was obliged to stop where Portpool Lane ran close under the massive walls. She could no longer see where she was going. The eaves dripped steadily. There were shadows in the doorways, beggars settling for the night. Considering that she was in the immediate vicinity of exactly the kind of brothel she would have inhabited herself, had she been driven to the streets, the chances of her being misunderstood were very high. But she had passed a constable less than a hundred yards away. Certainly he was out of sight, but his presence was sufficient to deter the kind of customer who came here even more than most.
She leaned against the brewery wall, keeping away from the edge of the narrow curb, where the light from the street lamp shone pale on the wet cobbles. With her shawl covering her head and concealing most of her face, she did not look as if she were hoping to be noticed. The lane was a couple of hundred yards long, leading into the Gray’s Inn Road, a busy thoroughfare, traffic running up and down it until midnight or more, and the odd hansom cab even after that. The town hall was just around the corner. Squeaky Robinson was more likely to have his house in the shadows up one of the alleys at this end, opposite the brewery. His clients would want to be as discreet as possible.
Did such men feel any shame at the exercise of their tastes? Certainly they would wish it secret from society in general, but what about each other? Would they come if their equals with similar tastes were aware? She had no idea, but perhaps it would
be clever of the proprietor of such a place to have more than one entrance—more than two, even? If so, the alleys opposite would be perfect. This end, not the other, where there was a large, very respectable looking building and a hotel beyond.
Now that she had decided as much, there was no point in waiting. She straightened up, breathed in deeply, forgetting the sweet, decaying smell, and she wished she had not, as she coughed and gasped, drawing in more of it. She should never forget where she was, not even for an instant! Cursing her inattention, she crossed the road and walked smartly up the first alley right to the end, where any building would lie which opened onto both lanes, and onto the narrow streets at the farther side.
The alley was narrow, but freer of rubbish than she would have expected ordinarily, and there was a light on a wall bracket about halfway along, showing a clear path up the uneven stones. Was that coincidence, or was Squeaky Robinson taking care of the physical sensibilities of his clients by seeing they did not have to stumble over refuse on their way to their pleasures?
She reached the end of the alley, and on the outer edge of the light from the lamp she could see steps and a doorway. She already knew what she was going to say, and there was nothing to hesitate for. She went to the door and knocked.
It was opened immediately by a man in a dark suit, scuffed at the edges and too large for him, even though he was at least average in build. From the way he stood, he was ready for a fight any time one should seem necessary. He looked like a ruffian aping a down-at-heel butler. Perhaps it was part of the image of the establishment. He regarded her without interest. “Yes, miss?”
She met his eyes directly. She did not wish to be taken for a supplicant in distress, seeking to use the brothel to rescue herself from debt.
“Good evening,” she replied stiffly. “I would like to speak with the proprietor. I believe he is a Mr. Robinson? We may have business interests in common where we could be of service to one another. Would you be good enough to tell him that Mrs. Monk, of Coldbath Square, is here to see him?” She made it an order, as she would have done in her old life, before her sojourn in the Crimea, when calling upon the daughter of a friend of her father whose servants would know her.
The man hesitated. He was used to obeying the clientele—it was part of their purchase—but women were stock-in-trade, and as such should do as they were told.
She did not lower her eyes.
“I’ll see,” he conceded ungraciously. “Yer’d better come in.” He almost added something further, then at the last moment thought better of it and merely led her to a very small room off the passage, little more than a wide cupboard furnished with one wooden chair. “Wait there,” he ordered, and went out, closing the door.
She did as he said. This was not the time to take risks. She would learn nothing by exploring, and she had no interest in the interior of a brothel yet, and hoped she never would have. It was easier to deal with the injured women if she knew less rather than more about their lives. She was concerned with medicine, nothing else. And if she was caught she would not be able to explain herself to Squeaky Robinson, and it was important he believe her. There would be enough stretching and bending of the truth as it was.
She had to wait for what seemed like a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and the would-be butler ushered her along the passage further into the warren of the building. It was narrow, cramped for width and height. The floors were uneven under the old red carpeting, but the boards did not creak, as she would have expected. Someone had taken great care to nail them all down so not one moved to betray a footstep. There was no sound in the silence except a random settling of the whole fabric of the building, a sigh of ancient timber slowly consumed by rot. The stairs were steep and ran both up and down within the one corridor, as if two or three rambling houses had been joined to give a dozen entrances and exits.
Finally the butler stopped and opened a door, indicating that Hester should go in. The room was a startling surprise, although only on entering it did Hester realize what she had expected. She had pictured dimness, vulgarity, and instead it was large, low-ceilinged, and the walls were almost obscured by shelves and cupboards. The floor was wood boards covered with rugs, and the main piece of furniture was an enormous desk with a multitude of drawers. On its cluttered surface was a brightly burning oil lamp shedding a yellow light in every direction. The room was also warm from a black stove on the far wall, and the whole place was untidy, but apparently clean.
The man sitting in the leather-upholstered chair was thin-faced, sharp-eyed, with straggling gray-brown hair and very slightly hunched shoulders. He regarded Hester with intelligent wariness, but none of the curiosity she would have expected had he no idea who she was. Presumably word of the Coldbath house had reached him, which she should have expected.
“Well, Mrs. Monk,” he said smoothly. “And what business is it that could concern both you and me?” His voice was light and soft, a little nasal, but not sufficiently so to account for his nickname. She wondered what had given him that.
She sat down without being invited, in order to let him know she did not intend to be fobbed off but would stay until the matter was settled to her satisfaction.
“The business of keeping as many women as possible in a fit state to work, Mr. Robinson,” she replied.
He moved his head a trifle to one side. “I thought you were a charitable woman, Mrs. Monk. Wouldn’t you rather see all the women back in factories or sweatshops, earning a living the law and society would approve?”
