for a wee touch of torture.
No question which venue Jean preferred though she felt her customary lowering of spirits as she trailed Lily below. It was dark and a bit damp, you could catch your death of cold in the place.
When she entered the chamber, Francine was leaning against the studded wall, arms folded, her self-made leather apparel skin-tight around her slim, sinewy frame.
She had based the design on a portrait of the Egyptian goddess Isis that she saw one time in a Paris museum. When the goddess’s brother and lover Osiris had been cut into fourteen pieces and scattered far and wide by her other brother Set, who tended to be a bit on the violent side, Isis had painstakingly reassembled the whole of her lover, save for the phallus which had been eaten by a crab of the Nile.
For some reason this story appealed to Francine and so she recreated the dress of the goddess in black leather.
It left her arms and most of the bosom exposed while tightly sheathing the rest of her body, save for the one slash up the side that gave a necessary freedom of movement and through which a beautifully formed white leg emerged.
She had also toyed with the idea of a headdress, but found it somewhat impractical with the low ceiling.
Lily wore a simple white robe. Like a priestess.
Jean looked at them. They made a fine pair. So, what was wrong on this occasion?
Francine’s dark tempestuous face was set in its usual dramatic lines but there was also an element of puzzled and genuine outrage.
Without uttering a word, she pointed contemptuously at the naked body of a man who lay strapped face down on the Berkley Horse.
Since he obviously could not turn over, Jean moved to be within his field of vision.
‘Are you the whore-mistress?’ he asked, apparently unperturbed by his somewhat immodest situation.
He had made an entrance with the rest of the election clamjamfry. She hadn’t fancied the look of him then and liked it even less now.
‘I own this establishment,’ was her polite reply. ‘I am responsible for the welfare of my girls, and for the measure of satisfaction provided to my clientele.’
‘Good,’ he responded, making no attempt to hide the sneer in his voice. ‘Then you can tell the French bitch to do as I command.’
Jean stiffened at the words and tone.
‘You’re scarcely in a position to command anything,’ she observed.
‘I am a customer of your bawdy house. I pay my money. I demand my pleasure.’
Francine threw her hands up in a Gallic gesture of despair as Jean looked at her questioningly.
‘He wants me to draw blood. It is against my skill of principle. I do
The man’s back, which was white and hairless, was indeed covered in a welter of stripes and weals, the flesh livid and ridged.
It was Francine’s professional pride at stake here. She took her clients on many a painful journey to the Castle of Masochism, but the idea of blood horrified her.
‘Blood is for
Lily watched intently. She adored to see Francine in a bate, the aftermath was such sweet passion.
‘I want it running down my back.’ The man looked up at Jean. ‘I want to feel it. Like a river. You are the chief procuress. You pimp. You pander. Arrange it.’
There was a cold contempt in his eyes. Of course he might be just trying to provoke her. If so, he had, only too well, succeeded.
Jean Brash had performed many strange acts in the course of her profession; one memorable time she and a colleague had stripped down to the bare scud and, while doing so, had wrung half a dozen pigeons’ necks in front of a young man who expressed his gratitude most copiously.
She had felt sorry for the pigeons but business was business.
That and many other episodes possessed a curious innocence, however, compared with the feeling she now had as she looked into those pale-blue eyes and wondered what twisted thoughts fuelled these perverse desires.
Be that as it may, business was business. She turned abruptly away from the man and addressed Francine.
‘The client’s desires are paramount. Give him what he wants. Here – I’ll make a start for ye.’
So saying, she took a thin birch rod from where it had been soaking in water to keep it green and pliant, then brought it down with considerable force on the man’s buttocks. There was an indrawn breath in response, and a thin smear of blood showed where the blow had landed.
She handed the rod to Francine who thought to protest then, catching the hard, stony glint in Jean’s eyes, thought otherwise. The Frenchwoman shrugged, made a moue of sorts with her full red lips, then got on with it.
As Francine stepped up, Lily darted to be under the man where her manual dexterity might be called into play.
Because of the ingenuity of the structure of the horse, his private parade dangled within easy reach.
Just like milking a cow, Jean thought. And left them to it.
Outside the door, she took a deep, damp breath and glanced up to see Hannah Semple at the top of the stairs.
‘I’ve been searching ye out everywhere, mistress,’ she said. ‘I have news tae relate.’
Hannah was dressed in her customary plain clothing, hair scraped back to expose the prominent forehead and stubby features.
She was no beauty, never had been, and now in her older years looked like the wreck of a ruin, but the keys round her waist proclaimed her keeper of the bawdy-hoose and she took that responsibility to heart.
One look at her face and Jean realised the news was not good.
‘Tell me,’ she said simply.
‘Wee Tam Marrison knocked at the door. I payed him. But I’d wish for better tidings.’
Marrison was one of the street keelies who operated as an unofficial network of spies for Jean, to keep her privy to any of the rough happenings in Leith.
‘There’s another one been found. Like Sadie Gorman. Split tae buggery.’ Hannah’s face was grim.
‘Do they know who the girl is?’ murmured Jean.
‘Not yet. McLevy was near hand, but the man got away in the fog. The inspector was bellowing like a bull.’
‘He wouldn’t be pleased,’ said Jean.
The remark was inconsequential, mundane, but both these women had been on the streets in their time. A part of that death belonged to them. They could feel it in their bones.
They stood on the stairs as if frozen in space. Above them, the tinny music of the piano played and some voices sang …
Behind Jean, muffled through the door, came the faintest sound. As if someone had stood on an insect and the shell had cracked.
Francine, in the chamber, had just lifted the thin rod and brought it down like the hand of the Almighty. The blood began to criss-cross on the white body and trickle slowly this way and that as if searching for escape.
Lily squeezed for all she was worth. A grunt came in response from the spread-eagled form above.
She popped up her head and blew a kiss to Francine. The Frenchwoman wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, lifted the birch once more, and then let it whistle through the air.
Horace Prescott bit deep into his lip. It had been a hard campaign. This was the perfect end.
