Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [83]
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