A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [110]
“And at night?”
“Apparently, she dismisses him after her services, earlier on the other evenings. However, you’ll have to keep an eye out for the night guard, who prowls the Temple building itself.”
“Thanks for the warning. I can’t think she’d have him in the Temple overnight, though, and I’ll be away long before he reports for duty in the morning.”
“Take a gun.”
“I will not. It would be found, and I’ll not risk shooting a guard or even the tedious Marie just for the sake of your nerves.”
He was not happy, but left it.
“You’ve decided how you will get in, then?” he asked.
“I can hardly borrow a child or two, so I shall go as an unfortunate and very young lady of the evening, at odds with her procurer.”
“A prostitute beaten up by her pimp.”
“I’ll need foul teeth and a few fresh bruises. Which reminds me: What was it that you put on my wrist to make the fading bruises for the benefit of Inspector Dakins?”
“Algae from the water closet mixed with pipe cleanings. A pretty effect, is it not? I shall give you caps on two teeth and a yellow mouthwash I’ve been working on. It will stay on your tooth enamel even if you eat, although it won’t stand up to brushing. The taste is pretty appalling, I’m afraid.”
“I wouldn’t have expected any less.”
I rested during the middle of the day, and ate again. Holmes returned, given entrance by Q as I was scraping the last of the cheese from the plate. He deposited an armload of clothing and a stained and mottled canvas grip on the table with a fine disregard for propriety. I snatched up the underclothes and carried them away, then returned, to find him with a plate of his own.
“Thank you, Mrs Q,” I called.
“Wig, or dye?” he asked around a mouthful of lightly curried chicken.
“Dye, for safety. I haven’t been red for a while. A fiery redhead, that’s the job.”
The colouring was good enough to resemble a hennaed exaggeration of a natural red rather than a complete change in colour. Glasses, I should have to do without, carrying a pair in my pocket for the occasional peep. Skin lightened, two teeth capped and the rest stained with the revolting mixture. Mrs Q was seething with curiosity but said not a word. Holmes and I played chess and drank coffee all afternoon, and after a light, early supper, I went to dress.
The brassiere emphasised everything I hadn’t thought was there; the dress was pathetic, particularly with the weight I had lost in the last two weeks. I overdid my hair, then pulled half of it into disarray. Holmes helped me with the bruises and reddened one of my eyes, and I stood back, waiting for his approval. His face, though, was as closed as ever I had seen it, and his jaw tightened briefly before he spoke.
“I suppose I shall become accustomed to this eventually,” he muttered.
“I don’t plan to wear this sort of thing regularly, Holmes,” I protested.
“It’s not the clothing you wear; it’s the lion’s dens you insist on walking into. You’d best go, before I’m tempted to lock you in your bedroom.”
With a splutter of indignation, I thrust my arms into the sleeves of the ragged coat and slammed out the door. That the doorman did not immediately seize me and hand me into charge confirmed what I had begun to suspect of the building’s bohemian ways.
I walked to the Underground station at Russell Square, occasioning a number of scandalised glances and the attention of several police constables, and rode the stinking depths to Liverpool Street. There, I emerged, to climb into an omnibus that took me into Whitechapel. The district was, as always, dreary and oppressive, and I was feeling queasy again and uncertain. I bought a hot pie from a vendor, but it did not help much, and I would have given the remainder to a starved-looking cat, but a child snatched it away before the animal could do more than sniff it.
I wandered up and down for the better part of an hour, cursed and driven away first from one corner and then another by their rightful occupants, approached by two separate men, both of whom lost interest