Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [78]
A dray passed them, the horses’ flanks lathered with sweat. Two women were shouting abuse at each other. It seemed to be an argument over a pail of oysters. An old man was asleep in a doorway, or perhaps he was drunk. Half a dozen children played a game with a little heap of stones, balancing them on the backs of their hands and then tossing them into the air, shouting and cheering when someone performed the maneuver with particular skill.
Opposite Pentecost Alley the sweatshop was still busy. The windows were open and they could see the women’s heads bent over the needles. They had many hours to go yet before they could leave and go home for the short night before half past four, and time to return. Some of them actually lived there.
Tallulah stopped and looked at Emily. Now that it came to the moment, both found their courage evaporating. Could they really go into this brothel and ask to speak to one of the women? How would they know which one? Perhaps it was all rather ridiculous.
Emily drew in a deep breath. “Come on. If we stop now, we’ll never do it.”
Tallulah stood rooted to the spot.
“Is Finlay innocent or guilty?” Emily whispered fiercely. “Did he strangle that poor woman and leave her?”
“No! No, of course he didn’t!” Tallulah clenched her fists and strode forward up the steps with Emily behind her. There was a wooden door at the top, streaked with damp. It was closed, but there was a tarnished brass bell beside it. Tallulah yanked on it hard.
Nothing happened, and she tugged again, still facing it, and not looking at Emily. She was shivering, in spite of the close heat.
A few moments later the door creaked open and an enormous woman with a bloated face peered out.
“We got one room, duck. Can’t take two o’ yer. This is an Ouse o’ business.”
“We don’t need a room, thank you,” Tallulah said politely. Emily, standing a step behind her, could see her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into the palms. “We’ve come to speak to one of your … residents. We’re not quite sure who, but she saw a young man the night poor Ada McKinley was murdered, and we need to speak to her.”
The larger woman’s naked eyebrows shot up. “Wot fer? Yer in’t rozzers, so ’oo are yer?”
“We used to work with Ada,” Emily put in before Tallulah could speak. “I was a ladies’ maid in the same house. Lula here was laundress. My name’s Millie.”
Tallulah gulped. “That’s right. May we speak to her, please?”
“Well, that’d be up to Rose. I’ll ask ’er.” And with that she closed the door again, leaving them standing waiting.
“That was brilliant,” Tallulah said with admiration. “Now we’ll just have to hope Ada was in service at some time.”
“It’s a good chance,” Emily replied. “If not, we’ll just have to pretend we got the wrong person.”
“If she’ll see us,” Tallulah added.
They waited in silence the few moments until the fat woman returned, this time smiling. She ushered them in.
“That’s Rosie’s room,” she said, pointing to a door some way along the passage.
“Thank you.” Tallulah straightened her shoulders and obeyed, knocking sharply on the indicated door. As soon as she heard an answer, she opened it and went in, Emily hard at her elbow in case she should change her mind.
Inside the room was opulent in a garish way, lots of red and flounces, a huge bed with tattered red-pink curtains tied back with cord. That would have done for strangling someone, Emily thought grimly. She wondered if that was what he had used, if Ada had had the same.
Rose herself was a handsome woman, probably in her middle thirties. There was no paint on her face at this hour, and she had had a good day’s sleep. Emily could see that in other circumstances, cleaner, properly dressed, she could have been beautiful. Now she was looking at them curiously, leaning back a little in the one chair in the room.
“So you knew Ada, poor cow?” she said coolly. “Wot yer want wi’ me? I can’t ’elp yer. If yer cared so much abaht ’er, w’ere was yer w’en that bleedin’ butler done ’er, eh?”
Tallulah looked blank, her face