by Scipio42
The great city of London, heart of the greatest empire known to man. Through
this magnificent, smoky, metropolis flows Old Father Thames, the mighty tidal
artery of the city, for which it acts as a great gateway carrying trade to and
from the empire. From the fields of Oxfordshire, it snakes through the outlying
western parts of London, winding, wending its way towards Essex and the sea,
snaking first east then north-south, south back to north until in a mighty bend
it reaches the famous Limehouse Reach.
Limehouse – the name comes from the left hand – northern - shore of the river,
St Anne Limehouse, more usually known by its shortened form. But what had been
a rural community where lime kilns burned, on the outskirts of the city, had by
its proximity to the river become a bustling, dirty, crowded centre for trade
with towering warehouses, cheap cramped housing, ale houses and eateries,
boarding and bawdy houses. There were forests of masts, ships being loaded and
unloaded, porters and wagons and people. Rubber, cotton, and wheat - all goods
coming in, and manufactured goods going out. And everywhere – femmes. Drawn
from all parts of the empire, girls of all shapes, sizes and colour, huddled on
ships, filing down gangways in thin cover-sluts on their way at best to the
factors and trading floors and from thence to be bred. At worst to the
Smithfields and Shambles to be butchered and sold.
Besides these sinews of imperial trade, there were people. People packed
cheek-by-jowl, good people, bad people, rich, poor, ugly, fair, honest and
crooked, vicious, kind and mean. They were from all over the world – Indian,
African, Europeans, Russians, and Chinese, the cries of hawkers and sellers,
the buyers and traders were all of the voices of the world. All of the
religions of man were here, under one parish council and with those beliefs
came the virtues and the sins. From all four corners they came to this place in
search of wealth and many found it, but for every one that did find the success
that they desired, a thousand didn’t, and for all its diversity, the variety of
origins, the population were united in their poverty.
Starvation, disease, overcrowding, and unbridled crime – it is only a short step from Whitechapel where Jack the Ripper perpetrated his terrible crimes - these were the defining terms of the termite’s nest which was Limehouse.
There may be a more wretched hive of scum and villainy, but you would have to travel a long, long way to find it - perhaps to a galaxy far, far away.
It was there that we came, Lord Sallyporte,
Lady Shai and myself, by accident and there we met a terrible foe. And there
bizarrely I met Isabelle.
We had been in Paris for the Pris de l’Arc de Triomphe – a horse race -
and it was there that we were invited to a dinner at the home of Le Comte de
Creux, an old friend of my lord’s.
It has never failed to amaze me how patient Lord Sallyporte can be – normally he has no time for fools or foolishness and can, and will, give time-wasters short shrift and I have on occasion seen him use force to get his message over.
However, on this night in Paris he was being particularly taxed by the guest on his left hand, a Ronald Stump.
“Yes, yes! The Count and I are – well, we’re old friends, so old.” The American was telling my lord who wanted nothing more at that point but to savour the bourguignon femmoise that had been set before him – along with a rather fruity burgundy, which I would never have matched with the spicily sauced dish but it worked, to my surprise.
“Do you like Paree?” Mr Stump asked my lord, interrupting him as he conversed with Mdm de Courcelles, on his other side. “Of course, this is not Paree.” In this case I believe the gentleman was referring to the French national past-time of rioting. It is almost their national sport and they will riot at the drop of a chapeau. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the government or the price of girl meat, the parisiennes will take to the street. I understand that the current situation is an altercation between two factions split over the performance of a piece of music, with the garde civile standing between them.
“Back home,” Mr Stump was saying, “Back in the states, I have the biggest herds of femmes, more femmes than you can imagine, very big herds. You should come and see them, they’re so gentle, so lovely. You know my femmes are so docile you can just walk up to them and cup their lovely pussies in your hand. I trained them to do that, it was an idea I had a long time ago, nobody else’s femmes do that. Only mine.”
This last statement caused my lord to pause and regard the American gentleman. He looked at me and I looked back at him across the table, “How extraordinary!” he said, meaning bourguignon femmoise.
“Yes! Yes, it is!” Stump replied thinking my lord had been addressing him. Lord John looked at him, and I have known him long enough to know what he was thinking – ‘my nanny would slap you senseless for the way you’re mangling our beautiful language’.
However, the man went on, “I can’t help admiring your lovely concubine Lord John, she is very good looking, and she is in such good shape.”
At that point all conversation around the table ceased. All the forks paused partway between plate and mouth, mouths stopped chewing, all heads turned.
Not to Mr Stump, who sat there seemingly oblivious to the situation he had caused.
The heads had not turned to regard him however, but rather they were looking at Lord John, who sat there calmly. Lady Shai and I had picked up our glasses (the burgundy was far too good to waste) in anticipation of the explosion I expected to happen at any moment.
Which didn’t actually occur.
Instead, quietly, and to those that knew him, in total control of his anger, John, 9th Lord Sallyporte, stood, dabbed his lips with his napkin, nodded to the count at the head of the table and without a word left.
Back at the hotel Lady Shai was angry, after all she was the one who had been insulted being addressed as if she was a mere concubine or worse, a meat-girl! She was even angrier that my Lord had not challenged the man to a duel. To be honest I have never seen Lady Shai so angry and I was more than a little glad there were no cleavers to hand – Chinese or otherwise. I have heard the stories.
But then we both realised that his lordship was even angrier than she and because he had not been able to call the man out.
“My dearest Shai, beat of my heart, song of my soul, light of my life, I would have run him through in an instant but our ambassador had warned me about him. They told me that Mr Stump is actually a candidate in the upcoming American presidential elections. Though I am inclined to think that it is an outside chance, the Empire does not want to be seen to be interfering with the American elections, that’s the sort of thing the Tsar would do, not us.”
“That man as a president?” Lady Shai virtually spat every word.
“Long shot, I know.” My lord admitted. But that admission was immediately followed by a knowing silence, that hung in the air between the three of us.
My Lord looked at me. I looked at my Lady Shai, and we both looked at my lord John. I reached for a telegram message pad.
“Wire Ladbrokes and get the odds. If they are right I think a hundred guineas on Stump to win would be a good punt, don’t you Boyd?”
“Absolutely my lord,” I agreed, “I think I’ll have fifty myself.”
“Put me down for fifty as well please?” Lady Shai added. (She is a ferocious follower of the horses, and a very good study of the form book and had make a sweet packet on the races that afternoon)
I don’t think any of us had any firm belief that Ronald Stump would win but long odds are long odds and sometimes they’re worth a punt.
With the telegram on its way to London I
retired to my own bedroom.
The next morning a bell-boy knocked with a confirmation telegram from Ladbrokes
and a second message being a letter from the Comte Du Creux, our host
from the previous evening. I took it straight through to my lord and found him
and Lady Shai setting to what is now referred to as a continental breakfast.
Unlike a traditional English breakfast which would normally have an array of
hot dishes – boiled eggs, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, girl gammon
and bacon of various sorts, sausages, femme steak, mushrooms, diced fried
potatoes, tomatoes, mutton chops, kedgeree, smoked salmon or haddock, kippers
and, if you can charm the chef, a slice of fried bread, a continental breakfast
(which is actually an American term) is a much lesser affair, normally mainly
breads of various sorts and sliced meats in a buffet style presentation.
The Comte had written to apologise for the incident the previous evening and – as a token of his best wishes – was inviting the three of us to stay at his chateau on the banks of the Seine near Villers-en-Arthiers, down river from Paris. He promised us various types of sport if we would come to show there were no hard feelings.
My lord did not take long to consider this and rang the desk to get them to make appropriate travel arrangements for us. Just then there was another knock at the door of the suite and I discovered another bell-boy, waiting with yet another telegram.
This time my Lord was summoned back to London as soon as possible by Her Imperial Majesty’s Government. Apparently, news of the incident with Ronald Stump had been heard in London already and the Foreign Secretary – my lord’s cousin – wanted the details straight from his lips. That scuppered the plans for visiting le comte, so while my lord wrote a quick note of apology to him I sent a telegram to le Havre to book passage back to London.
Soon we were onboard ship and making our way up the Channel towards the Straights of Dover. Leaving Dover on our port side we turned north and rounded the North Foreland into the mouth of the Thames estuary.
Off Canvey Island we took on a pilot from the Port of London authority who would guide us through the shifting sands of the narrowing estuary. He also brought a note for the captain
“I’m sorry my lord,” the captain apologised, “But the owner requires me to berth at Limehouse to take on a cargo. They have offered to provide you with a carriage to take you to Westminster so you can carry on your journey with as little interruption as possible.”
“Thank you, captain, and thank the owners for me.” My lord, replied. “This is one star-buggered trip as it is, I dare say a diversion through sunny Limehouse will just add to the fun of it.”
We warped into a berth at Limehouse and sure enough a wagonette was waiting there for us, with a team of two sturdy chestnuts to pull it, and a driver who sprang down to help put our trunks and cases aboard.
The driver emphasised that he was at my lord’s disposal for as long as he needed the carriage. But sadly, when all was loaded there was little room for me to ride inside, so I hopped up beside the driver.
We were making our way through the crowded streets heading east, first towards Whitechapel and the City of London, when I saw her.
It was one of those moments that poets and song writers talk about. She was standing in a doorway, flanked by two hulking great brutes of men, looking out of the passing throng. She wore a long grey skirt and a white blouse clasped at the throat. Her hair was drawn back to make a halo of gold about her head, and for the moment that we looked at each other I saw that she had the most beautiful clear grey eyes.
I would love to say that she smiled at me as I passed but alas, apart from the brief eye contact, she gave no sign that she even noticed me, however she did nod at the driver who touched his whip to the brim of his bowler hat, “Miss Isabelle!” he greeted her.
“Horace!” She called back; in the clearest and most beautiful speaking voice I have ever heard. I declare that I would sit and listen to her read the whole of the Oxford English Dictionary from cover to cover and enjoy every second of it just to hear her speak.
“That’s miss Isabelle,” the driver told me, unnecessarily, I thought, but he’d seen me staring.
“A fine young lady, and well-beloved about here, for the good works that she does, looking after working girls and making sure that they are well cared for.”
“Why the two monsters?” I asked.
“Oh they be not monsters sir, just strapping lads of a ‘useful’ persuasion.” He said in his old-fashioned manner. “You do not find the Parish of St Anne Limehouse a happy place at this moment in time, sir.” I thought perhaps we had been put ashore at a different Limehouse, when he suggested it might be a happy place at other times.
“Oh, I know that not many people would refer to Limehouse as an Eden or a demi-paradise, but truthfully sir the borough is troubled.
“Disappearances, mysterious in nature, young men or women, taken off the streets, a sailor, a working girl, a seamstress and a tailor’s boy. There have been numerous abductions but no bodies have been found, sir.”
“There was nothing in the papers.” I said.
“The police are keeping it under the cushion sir,” He told me, “Keeping it quiet to avoid a panic. The Russians blame the Jews, the Jews blame the Russians and both of them eye the Chinese with suspicion, the Africans and the Indians are ready to go for each other’s throats and the English think that all of the foreigners are up to something. The bobbies? Well, the police are just baffled.“
“So? Your Miss Isabelle?”
“Miss Isabelle is our gift sir, the ray of sunshine in a dark grey world. Isabelle Elizabeth Chatterley came into the borough about a year ago, to help the disadvantaged women of Limehouse. She never raises her voice, sir, but she is implacable. Single-handedly she has moved mountains, raised funds, secured premises and provided care for the women, in this powder keg of a borough she is a calm centre, talking to all and getting respect for her and her work.
“The two young men are her body guards to make sure she stays safe.”
By now we had cleared the busy streets and the driver, Horace Micklewhite, urged the two chestnuts into a trot.
An hour or so later we were alighting at Westminster, Horace the driver would convey Lady Shai on to my Lord John’s Mayfair apartment. An hour after that we had been ‘debriefed’ by the Foreign Secretary who assured us that we had probably not done any harm to Imperial-American relations and that it was probably a good thing that my Lord had not skewered Mr Stump.
As we walked through the Palace of Westminster to the member’s bar, my lord appeared thoughtful. Angry but thoughtful.
“I thought that went well, my lord.” I suggested. I didn’t actually think that, I had watched Lord John restraining himself from starting in upon his cousin – The Honourable Sir John Sallyporte (I am afraid that the Sallyportes are quite conservative when it comes to names, Sir John is known as ‘Jack’ within the family to differentiate him from my lord) who lectured my Lord – and myself – quite extensively on the importance of not duelling with American magnates, especially ones who are in the running for the presidency. It did not go down well with Lord John. He had sat through the whole interview bristling with indignation. By my comment I was hoping to start him talking through his feelings. I was however completely surprised by what he said next.
“Out with it, Boyd! Out with it!” he said.
“My Lord?” I asked.
“There has been some sort of change wrought in you Boyd. Not many would notice it but we have been friends too many years for me not to. I can only assume something happened on the drive here, something I was not party to.
The waiter in the member’s bar took our
order. The chef’s special that day was braised femme in a rich gravy, with
roasted and boiled potatoes, a selection of green vegetables and of course,
Yorkshire pudding. For ‘afters’ there would be Spotted Dick(1).
The femme was particularly nice, sliced thigh meat – cut thick – it had been braised in its own juices and fats until tender, then the chef had added some Herefordshire cider and button mushrooms and boiled off the excess alcohol. The Yorkshires were light and fluffy and rose majestically over the plate, while the roast potatoes had been cooked in a hot oven liberally basted with hot girl fat to get them crisp on the outside whilst still fluffy on the inside.
If it seems like I have lingered over the description of the meal somewhat, I have.
I was loath to tell my lord about the fleeting encounter in case he mocked me for it. After all, it was purely a one-way thing. Isabelle Elizabeth Chatterley had no idea I even existed.
“It is no matter, my lord.” I told him. The waiter brought the dessert which I slathered with lashings of creamy custard.
“I think not.” Lord John countered. I looked at him.
“No, my Lord?”
“No Boyd.” He said firmly. “I see a fundamental change in you my dear fellow. A change so profound, that in all of the years we have known each other I have never seen the like before. It was not there when we disembarked at Limehouse and I first noticed it when we alighted here at Westminster.
“Ergo!” Lord John said triumphantly, “It occurred on the journey here.”
Dabbing my mouth with the napkin, I decided that confession was good for the soul. That and the fact that once he latches onto something my Lord can be remorseless.
“I saw a woman, my lord. As we travelled through the borough to get here. She stood in a doorway and if I say she was an angel sent to be among us_ If Aphrodite had taken human form to walk upon the streets of man_”
“And does this goddess have a name?”
“The driver told me her name was Isabelle Elizabeth Chatterley, and she had established an out-reach mission in Limehouse for poor women.
“And she has the most striking eyes, my lord, quite captivating.”
Lord John shook his head in amusement. I know my lord well enough that he was not laughing at me, merely amused at my fierce fascination with this woman once glanced.
“My dear Boyd, truly you have been struck by Cupid’s dart. And Henry Chatterley’s girl no less.”
“You know her, my lord?”
“I don’t know the young lady as such. I know her father and know of her. Intelligent, headstrong and determined to make her own way. It’s not a lot, I know, but I do know old Henry well enough to get you an introduction – if you wish.”
I have faced charging savages, wild beasts, over-bearing mothers, were-wolves and vampires in my travels with Lord John, but at that moment I’d have faced all of them rather than confront Isabelle Chatterley in a social situation.
“Nonsense Boyd!” Lord S could see it in my face. “You must be introduced - what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well I imagine the worst that could happen is that I would die of embarrassment. Now if you’ll excuse, my lord, I must attend my publisher.”
“Shall we see you this evening?” Lord John asked me.
“Eight o’clock?” I asked, he nodded. “In
that case if I can I will.” And with that I took my leave.
Of course, I wasn’t going to my publishers. I have great respect and a very
deep regard for my lord, and I believe he feels the same. However, a man should
do some things for himself.
The hansom cab driver was loath to take me into Limehouse at first but an extra sovereign did the trick, and some time later I was standing on the pavement in St Anne Limehouse.
If there is one thing that I have learned travelling with Lord John is to pay attention to where you are going, so it was relatively easy to make my way back to the building to where I had first seen Miss Chatterley.
It was typical of any street in the metropolis at that time. Hawkers called their wares – the famous costermongers – selling fruit and vegetables from wheeled barrows. Butchers, on one street there was an English butcher, a kosher butcher, a halal butcher – all rubbing shoulders with each other to sell their birds, beasts and femmes. Haberdashers and tailors, glovers, hatters, iron mongers, chemists each one with its wares on display behind bulls-eye paned windows
There were men and free women crowding the busy streets, though the former out-numbered the latter because this was an area of commerce. All classes, rich, waged and poor, all nationalities. It’s hard to imagine how many people there were on those streets, all going about their business.
And like a common thread amongst all of these individual stories were the whores and harlots. It was said that as many as one in five women was a prostitute, as many as four of them to each man in in the city. (2) Some were indentured to pimps, slaves in all but name but most were free women forced to sell themselves to make a living.
As I reached the street where I had seen Isabelle Chatterley, I was blocked from approaching her building by three large men loading something into a horse-drawn van. They cursed in what I thought was Russian as they placed their bundle into the van.
Once I had passed them I walked up the steps to the door, drew myself up to knock – though to be honest I had no idea what the hell I was going to say – when I noticed that the door was slightly ajar.
As I pushed the door open, I wondered what sort of place I would find there. I expected some sort of work area for the girls, so that they could supplement a living. Perhaps somewhere for them to eat and drink and perhaps somewhere for them to sleep if they needed it.
What I was not prepared for was the mess. Tables, material, chairs and sewing boxes had been thrown over and strewn about, some were even broken. There was no one about but one hardly had to be any sort of scientist to reason that there had been some sort of fight.
A noise in a room off to the side caught my attention. As I moved towards it, a tall man, with haggard features and piercing dark-rimmed eyes came out of the room.
“Yes? What do you want?” His voice was deep and heavily accented and I was minded of the Russians I had seen outside.
“I’m here to see Miss Chatterley.”
“Not here. Has gone home. Come back tomorrow, she be here then.” He was very insistent, blocking the door way with his body.
“Go now! No one here – we close!”
Past his arm I could see into the room and there on the floor was one of the two men I had seen with Miss Chatterley.
“What the devil?” I started to dodge round him but a pistol appeared in his hand.
“It is an unfortunate thing you see there.” Twitching the pistol, he indicated that I should turn around and walk towards the door. “We go now. Go through door, I will keep gun at your back.”
My mind was racing – who was this man, and what could he want with Miss Chatterley? Recently there had been a large influx of Russian emigres – along with virtually every other nation under the sun - fleeing Russia and the repressions of the Czar. Most of them were hard working people, with good skills - furriers, jewellers, crafts people of all types using their skills to make a living. However, there were others among them of less quality. Dissidents, and anarchists, dissatisfied with the regime in Russia they had fled to Britain and France and other places. So many of these were harmless cranks like that German fellow Karl Marx with his dreams of an egalitarian society. (3) On the other hand, there were others who were less idealistic and who were responsible for several explosions and robberies. I rather feared I had fallen in with the latter.
I wasn’t concerned for myself. I had been in worst situations, though usually Sallyporte was somewhere at hand. But I had the confidence and self-reliance of man who had been educated at Harrow. I may be an antiquarian, and man of old books and papers, but I have a fair left hook, I can hit what I shoot at and have on a couple of occasions killed people in self-defence. No need to panic just yet (stiff upper lip and all that) – the street being busy I might have plenty of chances to disarm the man.
“Walk there!” The muzzle of the pistol jabbed into my back and I could see the horse-drawn van in front of us. One of the men I had seen earlier looked at us approaching but opened the door anyway.
After a quick conversation in Russian the man behind me said “Get in!”
One man I might have stood a good chance against but against four - and three of them large chaps – I didn’t think I would do well. Better to see what I could do later.
They bundled me in and shut the door, leaving me in the dark of the van.
Fortunately, I was not bound in any way, just locked in a dark rattling box to heading to who knows where. I also had not been searched, so as the van rattled and shook through the streets, I found my matches and lit one. Looking around I saw several large black bundles one of which had come undone and that revealed the body of the second of Horace Micklewhite’s lad of a useful persuasion – looking very dead.
At that point three things happened in quick succession. Firstly, the match went out, secondly the van wheel struck a raised cobble and I fell onto one of the bundles, at which point and thirdly, said bundle gave out a very surprised and more than a little annoyed squeak. Actually, the sound was more of a ‘owwwfffffmmmnnnfffffffh!’ but the word squeak will suffice at this point.
With the aid of another match I was able to find the cords tying the opening of the bundle, and then I was able to open it. With a third match lit I found the occupant to be a young lady, bound and gagged, and looking at me quite murderously.
I wasn’t able to hold a match and under her gag, so working in the dark, I uncovered her mouth while apologising for falling on her and telling her that I was there to help.
To which she replied, “Oo the fuck are you then?”
“I do beg your pardon, young lady, allow me to introduce myself - Daniel Boyd!” I would have offered my hand to shake but hers were tied at her side.
“Are you a peeler?”(4) She asked hopefully.
“I’m a writer.” I told her, she looked down-hearted at that.
“But a very resourceful one at that!” I said as I untied her hands.
“Well, you’d better be, Mr Daniel Boyd, writer, because we’re right in the shit and no mistake!”
Working in the half dark, catching fleeting glimpses of her face my impression was a pretty woman, not beaten by her choice of what I assumed was her profession, with a strong voice, not to heavily accented or flawed, but all of that was moot as we were still prisoners.
“’Ave you got a plan Mr Boyd?” she asked.
“Boyd will be sufficient miss er?”
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Croft. Boyd? Just Boyd?”
“Quite.” I assured her, “Never really seemed to need the rest of it.”
“So? What’s yer plan then Mr Boyd?” She asked.
“I don’t really have one,” I said, “But it’s been my experience of things like this that opportunities present themselves at unexpected times, so it’s best to be ready to take them when they appear.”
“’Things like this’? You get thrown into the back of vans with a load of abducted women on a reg’lar basis, Mr Boyd?”
“Not exactly this situation but sort of similar. Now, how many more of you are there?”
“Five I think.”
“Come on then, let’s get them loose.”
The journey was start and stop and we had
just gotten each of the women unbound by the time the van stopped and I heard
the sound of a gate being shut outside. I was surprised and more than a little
concerned to discover that Isabelle Chatterley was not among the captives.
Elizabeth spoke to each of the women as they were released and there was a
strong sense of tension in the dark confines of the van, fear and nervousness
mixed with anger. These were women of the streets, most of them were capable of
looking after themselves. They had been taken by surprise before, the plan was
that once our captors opened the doors to the van, expecting to find them bound
up and bundled the odds would be evened up. They were to go out scratching and
biting and make a break for the streets if they could.
“And wot about you Mr Boyd?” Elizabeth asked, “Wot’re you gonna do?”
“I came here to see Miss Chatterley; I have to find out what happened to her. I’ll tell you what Elizabeth, when you get out send a cable to Lord John Sallyporte and tell him where I am?”
“Lord Sallyporte? You know some posh people for a writer, don’cha?”
“He’s a friend of mine.” I told her, “Just
get him here.”
Our abductors weren’t particularly good, any woman who was in any way
fashionable in London wore a veritable arsenal of brooches and pins of various
lengths - from half an inch long to hat pins the length of a small dagger. With
these pins in both hands the women exploded from the van as the doors opened.
The pins sought out faces and eyes, jabbing and stabbing, if they made contact
the needle-sharp daggers would sink deep into the unprotected flesh. But while
the guards sought to defend themselves the girls used it as an opportunity to
slip past them and I saw at least three at the door in the main gate, as I
turned and went towards the looming warehouse. And it was just as I turned that
a voice behind me said “Where to next Mr Boyd?
“Elizabeth! Why didn’t you go with the others?” I asked her, leading her by the wrist we ran the opposite way to the fight into the brooding bulk of the warehouse in front of us.
“You didn’t give me no money for the telegram.” She said simply. “An’ anyway, them girls can look after themselves. You? I’m not so sure about.”
Right there and then was not the place to have a conversation about her safety, we needed to get away from the yard. Which we did.
Inside the darkness of the warehouse we swerved into a side corridor, and a small room before I stopped. I shut the door and turned to her before I drew myself up to my full height and in a loud whisper said, “I am quite capable of looking after myself Miss Croft. I have ‘looked after myself’ in some very dangerous places. The South Seas, the Carpathian Mountains and far off jungles, all deadly in their own way.”
“That may well be true, Mr Boyd. But you’re in my jungle now, and it’s just as deadly as them far-off places.”
“But Miss Croft, this is no place for a young woman, I suspect there are bad things happening here. You should get out of here and get to safety.”
In the semi-darkness Elizabeth Croft gave me a wry smile. “Awww! Bless.” She said. “It’s nice to know that there’re are still gentlemen like you around, Mr Boyd, looking out for us free-born women. It's kind of cute.
“And being ‘onest, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you before you find your young lady.”
“Miss Chatterley is not my ‘young lady’!”
“So why was you calling on her?”
“I er! I – er!”
“Oh, don’t worry none, Mr Boyd, I won’t tell on yer. Now let’s find ‘er and get the fuck out of ‘ere.”
“What do you know about our captors, Elizabeth?”
“Not much really. A few months ago, women – an’ some men, started disappearin’. Just one here an’ there. An’ that’s not uncommon in my line of work, sometimes a girl’ll get herself a fellah and get set up somewhere, and she’s off the streets. Some of them make the switch over to respectable and some don’t, but it’s a fair bet we don’t see ‘em again. Then a few more went and these seemed different somehow. Like they wasn’t the kind what would go off.
“Anyway, the rumours started and then Miss Chatterley appeared, an’ started her mission for us girls. Things died off a bit then, but then this afternoon we was there and all of sudden them blokes came in and started bundling us up and we was piled into the van. The next thing I knew you was landing on me.”
“Any idea who they are, the people who did this?”
“No idea – the bloke with the pistol was giving his orders in a foreign language_”
“Russian, I think.” I said.
“Russian? Okay.” She nodded, “He was the one doing all the talking, and he sounded proper angry too. The big bokes they didn’t say much, just did what he told them to do.”
“Who was it killed the two escorts?”
“’He shot them both. An’ I tell you something Mr Boyd, I have seen some violent blokes in my time but he was just cold. Bang! Bang! Not even a blink.”
“Why did they take the body?” I wondered, “Why not both?”
“Perhaps they was goin' to an’ you interrupted ‘im? You’ve not got a gun on you, ‘ave you, Mr Boyd?”
“No – they probably would have found it when they put me in the van if I had. They’re not much for searching but that I’m sure they would have done.”
I looked out of the door of the room, it all sounded quiet. We slipped into the corridor. I turned away from the entrance and found some stairs that led us upwards. Fortunately, the place was solidly built, rickety or creaky steps would have been a disaster.
We soon came to an upstairs room, from the look of it a dis-used office. Dirty, dust covered windows looked out into the ware-house and as we edged towards them a bizarre sight appeared below us.
The floor was a veritable hive of activity. The dark-eyed man supervised several of his henchmen and some quite brutal looking henchwomen as they hurriedly threw things into bags. They were obviously making ready to leave.
“It looks like some of your friends got away, Elizabeth, they’re leaving before the police arrive.”
“Look there!” She motioned with her head.
Below us, to our left and close under the window was a cage, which contained four women. One of them – Elizabeth informed me – was one of the women who had been captured with her.
Even more startling was that several of the underlings were carrying carcases, flayed of their skin but recognisable as both women and men. Other’s carried rolls of leather. While some carried weapons in the form of rifles, and swords.
Just then a roar erupted from behind us and we both found ourselves held by some of the Russian henchmen.
I was transported back to school at Harrow again, when the older boys used to bully us smaller ones. Immediately I started twisting and kicking backwards with the heel of my boot. I was rewarded with a roar, as I raked down his shin. His hands at my throat were like a vice, but the shock of pain from his shin allowed me to throw my head back, aiming to contact his face somehow. I was rewarded with the sound of bone breaking as his nose broke under the impact of my head.
Briefly I was free and able to turn to face my attacker, just in time to see Miss Croft deliver a wicked kick to the groin of the man that had attacked her. Right in the pills! I could empathise with his pain but I had no sympathy for him. And it wasn’t a single kick either, twice more she slammed her foot into the poor man’s groin.
“And I ‘ope that’ll teach you to keep your ‘ands off wot you can’t afford!”
I don’t know about the Russian but I was convinced.
We went to leave the room but as Miss Croft came through the door behind me an arm came out of the darkness and went around her throat.
“Not move!” It was the dark-eyed man, and his pistol was now aimed at Elizabeth Croft’s head. “You move; I kill. This would be pity, she has a fine head, would be shame to spoil it.”
“Twat the bastard!” Elizabeth Croft snarled at me, “Don’t worry about me Boyd, smash his fucking teeth in!”
“Is great shame about dirty mouth!” The Russian said, giving Elizabeth a savage jab with the muzzle of the pistol.
“Fuck off!” Elizabeth told him, trying to get her head so she could strike him. “Get out Mr Boyd, and don’t be such a bloody gentleman.”
I couldn’t do it. Elizabeth Croft was a free-born woman, I’m an English man, women and chi***en first, play up play the game and all that.
I put my hands up. “Don’t hurt her, I’ll behave.”
“Boyd! You bloody idiot! You should have gone when you had the bloody chance!”
“I shall not hurt her – yet, Englishman.”
He sneered at us. “Now go – that way.” He called back over his shoulder at the
two underlings, one of whom was still clutching his pills and gasping like a
steam train, while the other’s face was covered in blood from his ruined nose.
On the main floor of the warehouse the activity was lessening as two vans drove
out of a back gate. Two more remained and we were guided towards one of these.
Just then two more of the large underlings appeared with Miss Isabelle Chatterley.
I was about to express my joy that she was unharmed, when she addressed the dark-eyed man in Russian. His answer seemed to intrigue her.
“And who would you be, sir?” She asked me, in a clear, unaccented voice.
“My name is Daniel Boyd.”
“Are you a policeman?” She asked.
“No.” I told her, “I am an author.” It occurred to me then perhaps I should think of a better way of describing myself.
“What in Heaven’s name brings a gentleman like yourself to Limehouse, Mr Daniel Boyd, author?”
Why do women do that, I wondered.
Miss Chatterley paused “I have seen you before!” She said slowly, then as if recalling it. “With the carrier earlier today.
“Did you come to see me Mr Boyd? I wager you did. I would also bet that you wish that you hadn’t!” Her laugh was most unpleasant. “Get them out of here, I’ll question them when we get away from here.”
The dark-eyed man rode with us to the next location, his pistol never wavering.
“What do you intend to do with us?” I asked.
“You find out soon.” He said. “She –“ he nodded at Elizabeth, “She has good skin, fine head and good meat. Will be – er – what is word? Is processed? She will be processed.
“You? I don’t know, perhaps she kill you – don’t know.”
“She?! You mean Miss Chatterley?”
“Medvedev! Not Chatterley – Countess Medvedev.”
Next to me Elizabeth gently nudged me in
the ribs, “We ‘ad no idea either!”
We were turfed out of the van at the next location and with our escort and his
pistol we were forced to behave.
It was much quieter that the previous location and from the smell was closer to the river. We were both directed deeper into the building, to a cage in a larger room full of people busily working away.
“Countess tell me to wait for her, you two wait here!” With that he locked us both in the cage.
“’Ave you found your opportunity yet Mr Boyd?” Elizabeth asked me with a wry smile.
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” Despite the circumstances I was able to laugh.
“So, does this sort of thing happen a lot to you then?” She asked.
“When you’re around Lord Sallyporte for any length of time,” I told her, “Yes it does. Enough, at least, to make life interesting.”
I turned to look into the room. It wasn’t brightly lit but I could see two things that made my heart sink a little. At a table nearby a small man was carving collops off the body of the young man that had been guarding the fake Miss Chatterley. These were then diced and then minced by his helpers and placed into bowls. I could see them adding garlic and herbs and then shaping them into pastry dumplings.
“Pierogi.” Elizabeth said beside me. “’Ave you never ‘ad them?”
“I have but never knowingly with male meat.” I told her. “What about you?”
“Looking at the number they make ‘ere, I guess I must ‘ave.” Street vendors sold all sorts of food in Limehouse, this looked like one of the places where it came from.
“What are they doing there?” She pointed at the other place we could see.
The other area we could see was even busier. A woman’s headless body was laid on a table and a man was carefully skinning it. The skin was carefully peeled off and put on one side, but I could also see that others were tanning other pieces of hide and stretching them on frames. I have already mentioned that many of the incomers had crafts like furrier and the like. My guess was that they were producing quality leather goods, but rather that paying out for femme stock they were using free-born women, which cost them nothing. They would also profit from the pierogi and other foods that they were making. “Looks like they’ve got a nice little racket going on ‘ere Mr Boyd!”
“Quite so!” The voice of Countess Medvedev interrupted us. “So much surplus, and so easy to harvest.” She told us with a smile.
“Fuck off bitch!” Elizabeth spat.
Medvedev’s smile never wavered. “Say what you like, street whore, in a few minutes I will be looking at your cooling body. And soon after that I shall be dining on your flesh.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“Why does it matter?” Countess Medvedev, who I still thought of as Isabelle Chatterley, replied. “My family fell out of favour in Russia, penniless we were forced to flee. We had had the finest clothes, palatial houses and the finest foods, and we end here in this despicable pit of filth and unwashed humanity. You do what you can I suppose.
“Street girls are so useful,” she mused, “You can use everything but the foul language. Meat, fine leather for gloves and bags.”
“What do you do with the heads?” Elizabeth asked.
“The hair for wigs, teeth for dental replacements, and some we leave whole for collectors.”
“People collect ‘em?”
“Oh yes!” Suddenly the Countess smiled. “Ah! I see what you’re doing, keeping me talking. It will do no good. The police are swarming all over the other warehouse, you will be dead and digested long before they think to look here.”
“Oh well, you do what you can, I s’pose.” Elizabeth replied.
At this point there was a loud boom where they had brought us in.
The Countess snarled and turned towards it, shouting in Russian, the workers franticly started gathering their tools while the heavies rushed towards the explosion.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked me.
“With that kind of timing my bet would be that it’s my friend.”
“How?”
I looked at her and shrugged, “No idea! He just does it.”
The sound of pistol fire and the occasional boom of a shot from a rifle filled the warehouse. The underlings had produced weapons from somewhere and a fire-fight had started, though the Russians – and I am mindful of what Napoleon once said about fighting Russians, that it wasn’t enough to shoot a Russian, but you had to then go up and push him over – were out-numbered and would soon be over-whelmed.
I turned to check on Miss Croft, only to find her bent over the lock with a hair clip.
“Piss poor lock this Mr Boyd. Countess Bitch-face went through there,” she pointed. “I’m fucking fed up of being abducted and bundled into vans and I have just had E-FUCKING-NUFF!”
With a wave she pushed the door open and we set off after Countess Medvedev. We kept low as we ran between the tables, the vats, and the ovens, with the odd bullet spanging off a fitting, though it was difficult to know if it was a police round or one of the Russians.
Elizabeth Croft was determined in her pursuit, moving as fast as her skirts and petticoats would allow. She would not allow me to pass her, though I might have caught up with the Russian faster. Instead her chase was relentless, until at last, twisting in and out of the corridors at the back of the building, we saw her.
“You fucking cunt, you! Come here and I’ll show you who’s going to be fucking cooling and getting’ eaten!”
“As if, shlyukha!” And the Countess turned to face Elizabeth. I slowed slightly, something felt wrong. Suddenly I saw the dark-eyed man appear in a doorway. What Miss Croft had said was true, I had had enough as well. It is many years since I played rugby, but there are some things you never forget.
He never saw me, intent as he was on ambushing the charging Miss Croft. My shoulder hit him mid-chest as I barrelled into him as fast as I could. He gave a great whoooosh! As he went down. Then I was on top of him flailing my fists (not terribly good form, I used to box too, many years ago) at him.
But the truth of it was that, like my companion I was completely fed up being poked with a gun and ordered about, in that brutal way.
Once he was down and unconscious, I looked for Miss Croft.
I believe they call this sort of thing a ‘cat-fight’. Aristocratic woman versus girl of the streets in a fist fight, it was always going to end one way,
The Countess Medvedev was being swung round by her hair, which Miss Croft had a hand full of, while at the same time she was being slapped and punched, and kicked by the English woman.
“Yeah, ‘ow do you like it now? Ain’tn’t so fucking big without your muscle, are you?” Elizabeth taunted her. And this went on until battered and bruised the Russian Countess fell to the floor begging for mercy.
I recovered the dark-eyed man’s gun, and we sat with the two of them, recovering our breath.
“You really do lead an interesting life, Daniel Boyd, if this sort of thing ‘appens more than once in a while.”
I realised I had gotten a thump over my eye and it was starting to swell and hurt like buggery. “Well once you get to know Lord Sallyporte, you do long for the quiet weekends.”
“Wot d’you mean ‘get to know’?”
“I assume that he’ll want to meet you Miss Elizabeth Croft, if only to learn about your fighting style. Lady Shai will love you.”
Elizabeth looked at her bruised knuckles and laughed.
“And on top of that,” I told her, “There’s bound to be some sort of reward.”
“A reward? For wot?”
“For breaking up a gang of murderers and kidnappers. There has to be a reward.”
“You’re a lovely bloke Daniel Boyd, but they won’t give that to me. I may be a free born woman, but I am still just a woman. They’ll give you the reward and I shall be on the street tomorrow.” I was struck by the heaviness in her voice as she said that, and her frustration, which she vented by giving the unconscious dark-eyed man, a kick in the groin.
I reached over and took her hand, “I would like you to understand Miss Croft, that I think you are far more than ‘just a woman’. We’ll see about the reward, but tonight we will celebrate our freedom.”
“Okay, Daniel Boyd, we shall do that.”
We sat quietly for a few moments, both exhausted.
“Oo’s Lady Shai then?”
“Lord Sallyporte’s companion. She’s a Chinese lady and he first met her when she was fighting off cannibals who wanted to eat her.”
Silence again.
“I bet you do look forwards to them quiet weekends, don’tcha?”
“You’d be surprised how much.”
Sallyporte arrived a few minutes later, with most of the Limehouse Police
Division at his back. We surrendered our prisoners to them and after checking
that I was alright, as I had predicted he made much of Elizabeth’s role in
this.
After we had both told our story through, and then again to the police, who told me that I would be getting a reward for breaking the ring up. We went out of the warehouse with my lord. He continued to celebrate Elizabeth – totally ignoring her profession, he treated her as a social equal. Soon we were in a hansom cab heading to my lord’s Mayfair residence.
“But you must both dine with us tonight, I am sure that Lady Shai will not rest until she has heard your story, and made certain that you are okay, Boyd.”
I felt Elizabeth tense up next to me. It was nice to know that some things gave this fearsome woman pause.
As we alighted outside of Lord John’s London house, in Mayfair, Elizabeth smiled, “You’ll ‘ave to forgive me Mr Boyd, I don’t come down round these parts that often. Make sure you tell me which fork I need.”
“You’ll be fine. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about forks Elizabeth, it could quite easily be chopsticks.”
“Chopsticks?!” She laughed, “Like wot the
Chinese use?”
Lady Shai was graciousness embodied as she greeted Elizabeth warmly, whipping
her off into the guest quarters, her arm draped round her shoulders as if they
had been friends all of their lives.
For myself it was a stiff drink and a cold compress as I attempted to reduce the severity of the goose-egg(5), the throbbing of which had now dulled to an ache.
“Your lady friend is quite a fire-cracker, Boyd.” Lord John said as he handed me a very large brandy, after the doctor had finished checking my wounds.
“You shall not say a word against her my lord. That young lady is as fierce and as brave as a lioness. I doubt me that I would be sat here talking to you were it not for her.”
“Easy my friend,” Lord John smiled at my eager defence, “I meant no slur, far from it. I have the utmost admiration for her. You did exactly what I would have expected you to, what I would have done myself, and yet she stepped up to the mark and fought alongside you.”
“Quite so my lord. She could have escaped but chose to stay. She picked the lock of the cage, and I wish you had seen her vanquish Countess Medvedev. I would not fight her.”
“Ah yes Countess Medvedev!” He said, “I sent a message to my cousin Robert. (The Home Secretary)(6). I briefly outlined your roles in the affair – both of you. He has replied saying that he is most impressed with both of you and he would like to meet the two of you. I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a knighthood in this for you, Boyd_”
“I shall not take it, my lord.” I said interrupting him. “Not unless there is something of equal status for Miss Croft.”
“God love you Boyd, and you’re right. Anything else would be wrong.”
At that point we separated to dress for
dinner.
An hour later - washed and changed – my lord and I waited for the ladies to sit down for a late dinner.
Just before nine o’clock, Fulcrum – my
lord’s butler opened the door and the ladies entered the room.
Lady Shai is a beautiful, elegant lady. She is a handsome woman who always
looks good no matter what she wears. She prefers understated to ostentatious,
simple to complicated and tonight she embodied both of those philosophies. A
simple pearl silk gown, off the shoulders as is the fashion with a full hem,
almost but not long enough to be a train. She wore several simple pieces of
jewellery – eschewing diamonds for simple, and quite solid gold.
Elizabeth walked beside her. I knew it was Elizabeth because of the gleaming
white bandage covering the knuckles of her left hand. But that was the only way
I would have known otherwise.
Also in a simple gown, this time of a holly green in colour with gold embroidery at the throat and at the hem, she was a different woman.
Let me explain. It has become normal, in later years, as it appears to have been in earlier times, that prostitutes and women of the street wear less and less. I suppose it is mainly to make access easier, and in addition it advertises the seller’s wares. In all weathers these ladies ply their trade in the flimsiest of garb. Not so at the time in which I met Elizabeth. The working girls wore the fashion of the day, which were skirts and petticoats, a bodice, a blouse, and most times at least one jacket. Hats were de rigeur, often with gauze decorations – hence the proliferation of hat pins. To be truthful disrobing must have been an effort. This meant however I had not really been aware of Elizabeth as a person more of a bundle of clothes.
Plus, we had spent the day mostly in dimly lit rooms, with other things diverting our attentions away from each other.
Bathed, and with her hair loose, I finally saw her for herself, a beautiful woman, clear eyed, tall, upright and of good posture. The Russian had been right; Elizabeth did have a fine head and very good skin.
Lady Shai indicated where we should all sit and I held Elizabeth’s chair to allow her to sit.
“Thank you, Mr Boyd.” She said as we sat.
Fortunately, there were no chopsticks set at the table. “Do you like Miss Elizabeth’s gown Boyd? Lady Shai asked me as the maid brought the soup.
It complimented her blonde hair, and I said
so. I do believe Elizabeth Croft blushed
Lord John has some very good staff and the head chef at his Mayfair home is one
of the very best. The soup was a fiery hand soup, based I believe on a Chinese
recipe and that was followed by grilled turbot.
The main course was femme chops, with apple sauce, potatoes and green vegetables. The flesh was tender and the potatoes cooked to a lovely fluffiness(7).
Elizabeth was surprisingly quiet during the meal. I know for a fact she can be quite voluble – even chatty – at times, but she was quiet as she ate. She ate neatly, but quite efficiently, consuming the food in front of her, but without any awkwardness, even where the cutlery was concerned, though she did look relieved when my lord picked his chop up to strip the flesh from it and she attacked hers with gusto.
“Is everything alright, Elizabeth?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” She said with a huge smile dabbing her mouth with a napkin, “It’s been a while since I saw this much food, it’s delicious and very well cooked.”
“Are you doing well in your chosen profession?” Lord John asked, curious.
“I get by,” Elizabeth told him, “Of course it doesn’t help when your pimp takes more than ‘is fair share. But gen’rally I have enough to live on.”
Lord John nodded. “Do all the girls have a pimp?”
“Some say they don’t, but they’re just’ kiddin’ ‘emselves. we all do.”
“And would you give it up if you could?” Lady Shai asked.
“In an ‘eart-beat.” Eizabeth told her. “But I don’t have many skills. When my Thomas died, we didn’t have no money, which is why I was forced to do what I do. Not that I’m not bad at it. And I keep myself clean.” She laughed with a touch of pride.
“But it’s a buyer’s market, as they say. So many girls all competin’ for the same number of customers.”
“You were married?” I asked.
“We was goin’ to be.” she said sadly. “He was like me, learning to get by, when he fell ill and we used all we had to pay for the doctor’s bills.”
“So, you were born a Croft?” Lord John asked cautiously.
Elizabeth nodded. “My mother was. An’ before you ask my Lord, she was the daughter of Sir Henry Croft of Croft Manor(8). Only because she fell pregnant, she was sent away. I was raised in the city and met Thomas here.”
“My lord knows Sir Henry,” Lady Shai told her, “I am sure he would meet with you, after all you are his grand-daughter.”
“Thank you very much my Lord, but it won’t be necessary.” Elizabeth replied, “Because fuck ‘em! There was ample time for ‘em to talk to my mum when she was still alive, and they never did, so fuck ‘em I say.
“There are few members of the upper classes like you my lord, and Lady Shai, and I’m not sure that there’s any of ‘em like Mr Boyd, ‘ere, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that we’re all the same when we’ve got our clothes off. Some people ‘ave more money than me, but present company excepted,” she said, looking round the table, “There ain’t many of ‘em that’s better than me.”
“I might be just a girl off the streets, but I do my best, and I ‘old my ‘ead up. And I thank you for your hospitality and the offer of a bed tonight, because tomorrow when I go back to my ‘profession’ I will say I dined with some really nice people.”
“Ah! About that_” Lord John, said quietly. “Lady Shai, and I discussed your current situation, and wondered whether perhaps you might consider a change of career?”
“’Ow do you mean, my lord?”
“We had been considering engaging a companion for Lady Shai for a while. As you will appreciate things can sometimes get a little – erm – ‘energetic’, in our lives. I have the faithful and ever dependable Boyd; it would be good if Lady Shai had someone she could depend on.”
“Do you mean like a servant?” Elizabeth asked.
“Are you a servant Boyd?”
“Good heavens, my lord, not at all.”
“Boyd is one of our family Miss Croft. As would you be.
“If we were to recruit a companion from the usual sort of young woman that does that sort of thing, our lives might prove too much. At least we know that you can look after yourself.”
“Does it pay?”
“There is a stipend, a monthly sum. Plus, anything else you earn you can keep; I will not demand a cut.” Lord John laughed.
“’Spose I s’ll have to speak better an’ not swear as much.”
“My dear Miss Croft I there is absolutely nothing wrong with the way that you speak or the words that you use, except that sometimes – depending on the company - it might be tactful to use fewer anglo-saxon terms.”
“Where will I live?”
“Why here and at Porte Hall, of course, and anywhere else you go. Will you do it?”
Breathlessly Elizabeth nodded.
This was greeted with a call for champagne. “Of course, there is another benefit to all of this!” My lord laughed. We all looked at him quizzically.
“At least Boyd will not have to travel to
Limehouse to see you in future!”
Later on, that evening.
Elizabeth Croft – companion to Lady Shai, the lifelong companion to John, 9th lord Sallyporte, and I were alone in the sitting room at my lord’s Mayfair house, drinking the champagne my lord had opened.
After supper Lord John had told Elizabeth the story of how he and Lady Shai had met and she sat open-mouth at the tale of their adventure. She gazed with open admiration at Lady Shai when my Lord told of how she had despatched the attackers in her chamber.
In return they made us tell our story through. At this point I had to admit the reason why I had been going to Limehouse in the first place. At which point Elizabeth nudged me and laughed, saying “I knew it!”
As we concluded, something occurred to me. “How in Heaven’s name did you know where we were my Lord?”
“Ah! Yes!” He explained. “When we parted, we were in the Member’s Dining Room at Westminster. And just after you had gone, in walked Old Chatterley himself, with his wife and daughter, a young lady with the same fiery red hair as her mother, Chatterley’s only daughter, Isabelle. Definitely not the young lady you described as Isabelle Chatterley. She also had her lover with her at the time. But I quickly concluded that the person you were going to see was not the person she claimed to be.
“I hurried after you but arrived just in time to see you bundled into the back of a horse-drawn van. I followed the van to the first warehouse and was there when the girls escaped. They summoned the police, but I reasoned that the kidnappers would shift their operation so I looked around and saw several vans leaving through another gate. The cab driver followed them to the second warehouse, the real centre for their operation. I sent the cab driver off to get the police to the new location and we made our entrance.”
“And I for one am heartily glad you did, my lord.”
After that Lord John and Lady Shai retired.
It wasn’t strictly ‘good’ behaviour for us to both be alone, but as Elizabeth had said earlier in the evening “Fuck ‘em!” there would be no improper behaviour, and if there was – well we were both consenting adults. Soon I would retire to my room, and Miss Croft would go to hers,
“Is that right then Mr Boyd?” Elizabeth.
“Is what right? And please, Elizabeth, either call me just Boyd, or Daniel - one or the other.”
“Alright,” she laughed, “Is it true then Boyd? That you’d travel all the way out to Limehouse to see me again.”
“Would it be a bad thing if I did – just one friend calling to see another?”
“Street girls don’t really have male friends.” She said a little bleakly. “They ‘ave clients.”
“Well now, you’re a companion to a lady, you can have them. And lots of other things, like fine clothes and jewellery.”
“There’s so much you’re goin’ to ‘ave to help me with Boyd!”
“You will be fine. There isn’t actually a lot to ‘do’, you’re a companion, not staff. Just be your sharp alert self. Watch what’s going on and enjoy it.”
My lord had received another note from the home secretary and had allowed me to break the news. “You probably don’t know this yet, but your new role allows you to receive rewards from Her Imperial Majesty’s government for breaking up gangs of kidnappers and murderers.”
Elizabeth looked at me in shock. “Yor ‘avin’ a laugh Daniel Boyd?”
“Not at all!” I told her. “Three hundred guineas, Elizabeth(9). It may not make you independently wealthy but it’s a decent nest egg.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth fanned her face as she took another drink. “Well, it’s been a strange old day and no mistake. I got up this morning, I’ve been kidnapped, sat on, mauled by a Russian henchman – or two, poked by a pistol, caged and threatened. I sat down to dine a poor girl, and now I’m goin’ to bed with three hundred guineas, and I didn't have to sleep with no one. And I seem to have acquired a new male ‘friend’.
“Did I miss anything?”
“You did.” I smiled.
“Wot? I meant_ Oh fuckit I’ll talk proper in the morning. Wot did I forget?”
“Well, they were talking about a knighthood for me for my part in this.”
Elizabeth jumped up, “That’s nothing less than you deserve!”
“But I declined.” I said quickly.
Her cause for celebration over, Elizabeth looked at me in surprise. “Why would you do that?”
“I declined it because my friend who went through the exact same thing, wasn’t offered one as well.” Her eyes flicked across my face, as she tried to make sense of what I had said.
“Me?”
I nodded, “They weren’t sure about that, so it may never happen – but the money is nothing to sneeze at. Do you have a bank account?”
Elizabeth nodded, “I have a few quid squirreled away. That reward’ll come in handy, eh Boyd?”
I didn’t say anything but Elizabeth knew immediately what I had done in giving her all of the money.
She smiled and tutted at me, “You’re a proper gentleman and no mistake, Daniel Boyd.”
“Tomorrow, will you come back to Limehouse with me so I can get my things such as they are? I can also give my ‘notice’ in as well.”
“Of course, I will, though I suspect it may be a day or two before you can go back. You’ll need to get some new clothes – to fit with your position. But don’t worry, we’ll summon the outfitters here for you. After that’s all done you can head back to Limehouse for your possessions.”
“Right then! It’s a plan. I’m off to bed.” Elizabeth paused at the door, “An’ just so’s you know Daniel, if you do ever want to come calling on me, I wouldn’t turn you down.”
“You’d not kidnap me and put me in a pasty?”
Now up to this point Elizabeth had been all
business, her professional skills had not come into play at all. However, the
look she gave me as she looked around the door at me smouldered! “Oh! I might
kidnap you,” she said, “But I wouldn’t be shovin’ you in no pasty! Good night
Daniel.”
Footnotes
(1) Spotted dick is a British pudding, traditionally made with suet and dried
fruit and often served with custard. However in modern times it is now most
commonly made without suet, using rather other fats and egg, more similar to a
sponge cake. It does not contain any portions of the male anatomy.
(2) True fact, estimates vary between 50,000 and 80,00 women were on the game
in Victorian London.
(3) Marx’s Das Kapital was written based on his studies in the John
Ryland Library in Manchester, in England, before it was taken up by Trotsky and
Lenin.
(4) A nickname for a policeman after Sir Robert Peel who created Britain’s
first police force.
(5) A common term to describe the contusion I had acquired during the fight.
(6) For non-English readers the Home Secretary is the member of her Imperial
Majesty’s government responsible for affairs concerning domestic law and order.
(7) Served with an excellent dry cider, from the orchards at Porte Hall
(8) Yes. THAT Croft Manor. And yes, this makes Elizabeth a distant great-aunt
of the Tombraider. It is highly unlikely, however, that she would appear in a
Croft family tree. People were excluded from ‘the official record’ for various
reasons, unwanted pregnancies being one of them, insanity, and even marrying
outside of their class – such as marrying someone who was a tradesman.
(9) In real terms 300 guineas is £315 (pre-decimalisation) at the time for a
girl like Elizabeth a sizeable amount, in today’s values it would be worth
approximately forty to fifty times more.