Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [151]
Dorothea proved to be a bright, saucy Londoner, born and bred in Saint Nichol, much more indelicate in her speech than Jane and coarser of feature, more like Christine in this regard, though her eyes were cornflower blue, not hazel. She cooked me a sturdy breakfast that I ate at the counter in the drafty, dingy kitchen, a room with a high ceiling, gray walls, an iron stove crouching on clawed feet, and a chimney covered in plaster. While she tidied up I asked her essentially the same questions I had asked of Jane. Her answers shed no new light on Christine’s death, but when I pressed her, she disclosed that Christine had tutored her in the art of pleasing a man, with particular attention paid to the pleasing of one man, the mysterious masked client.
“I think she fancied him,” Dorothea said. “Which was odd considering she was a bit of a Tom.”
“Christine was a lesbian?”
“She had her lady friends, let’s say, but now and again a man would catch her eye. And him with the mask—she’d ride him to Bristol and back if given the chance. When he paid for the three of us, often as not Jane and I did nothing more than lie about and coo in his ear for all the attention she paid him. Why, I recall this one—”
“I don’t think it necessary to explore specifics,” I said. “Why did you choose to remain in the house after her death?”
“Money,” she said, leaning on her broom. “What else? Mister Richmond sacked the rest of the girls, but he made Jane and me a most generous offer to stay. The work is easy—a few men and mostly none at all. I feel like a regular toffer and not some dollymop in a bordello. Of course . . .” She winked at me. “Now there’s you.”
“I doubt I shall be long in residence,” I said. “Certainly not long enough to establish the kind of relationship you imagine.”
“Oh, la!” She laughed and danced her broom around. “It don’t take that long to establish, believe me. And it’s not me who’s doing the imagining. It’s Jane. She fancies you, she does.”
“Indeed? Jane?”
“Yes, sir! She told me so herself.”
I pooh-poohed the notion.
“You’ll see,” she said. “Jane will be polishing your trinkets before you know they’re out in the air. You’ve heard what they say about girls from the north?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
“Give them an inch and they’ll take the whole yard.”
I felt myself blushing. “What do you know about Jane?”
“Oh, she’s nice enough. Very caring, she is. She was always looking out for the other girls.”
“I mean before she came to the house.”
“She never talks much about her past.” Dorothea idly swiped at the floor with her broom. “She did tell me that when she was a child, she and her sisters were the support of her family up in Newcastle. They worked in the theater, playing imps and angels and the like. Her father dosed them regular with gin, hoping to keep them small. So they could still do the job, you understand. But Jane sprouted up and he threw her out of the house when she were but nine. I’d have put a blade in his neck.” Dorothea swatted at a spiderweb that spanned between the stove and the wall. “Jane loves the theater. She and Christine would talk about it ’til all hours. I reckon that’s why they formed a stronger bond than what I did with her. Me, she trained for the bedroom, but with Jane she went the extra mile. She taught her etiquette, how to dress elegant and speak nice.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Was your childhood similar to Jane’s?”
“My mother whored, so you might say I was born to the trade. But thieving was my specialty .