table sent out blue tendrils of incense, the spicy-sweet scent hiding perhaps the more offensive odors of sweat and musk. She opened the second door on the right and went in without a word to her customer, whose heart had begun to pound with a wild rhythm even though his intentions were honorable. He could hear Becca Black singing again downstairs, and again there was a harsh rasp of female laughter from along the hall before Grace shut the door at his back.
It was a plain bedroom with pale yellow walls and a single shuttered window. The bed was rumpled and obviously had seen hard use tonight. On a small round table sat a triple-wicked candle-holder. The flames gave the room a more romantic glow than it deserved, for Matthew did notice ugly cracks in the plaster. There was a mousy little gray chair, a chest-of-drawers with a washing-bowl atop it, and next to it an hourglass. On the wall was a small square mirror. Pegs held various items of female clothing. The place was neater than Matthew had expected, as the plank floor had been swept clean and everything was orderly but for the bed, and he wished not to look too closely at the sheets.
Grace stood staring at him, her expression blank.
Matthew had no idea what to say. So he began with “I assume you’ve been busy lately,” and immediately winced at the ridiculous statement.
“Your name’s Corbett?” she asked, and then she frowned slightly. “Have I seen you before?”
“Possibly. One night at the Thorn Bush.”
She seemed to be trying to remember, but it was beyond her. She walked past him to the chest and slid a drawer open, trailing the faint odor of peppermint. At least, he thought, she kept her teeth clean.
“You can call me Matthew,” he told her.
She turned around and had a light brown object about seven inches long and oily-looking dangling off her hand. She said, “Put this sheath on yourself and I’ll turn the glass when you’re ready, or if you want me to put it on for you I’ll turn the glass now. What’s it to be?”
Matthew had heard of the penis-sheaths, but he’d never before seen one. Made of sheep’s gut, as he understood. He stared at the thing in Grace Hester’s hand, and in spite of his excitement at being here in this den of pleasure he had a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“I won’t need that,” he said.
“No sheath, no fuck, and I don’t care how much money you pay. I don’t want to be laid up with that damned doctor diggin’ a kid out of me.” She held it toward him adamantly. “Go on, all the gents use it.”
“Not that particular one, I hope.”
“Are you stupid? You use it once and toss it.” She nodded toward a bucket on the floor. “Thank Christ I’m not the one who has to wash ’em.”
“I won’t need it,” he repeated quietly, “because I only want to talk.”
Grace was silent. She blinked as if she’d been slapped. In the quiet Matthew could hear the gittern music and Becca Black’s singing from the parlor. Then all the air seemed to rush back into Grace’s lungs. “Talk? What the fuck about?”
“I would like to ask you a few questions.”
She saw he was serious. She backed away from him, as one might retreat from a frothing dog. “Listen, you,” she said, her voice tight. “One scream and Becca’ll carve your heart out.”
That threat was enough to send a shiver up his spine, but he had to keep his composure. “I hope you won’t scream, as I’d like to leave here with all the parts I brought.”
“You are a loon.” Grace was nearly pushing herself into a corner. “Who the hell talks when they could fuck?”
“I came here to see you for a purpose, and it wasn’t…uh…that. I promise you I won’t touch you. All right?”
“You fool, you paid to touch me.”
“That’s incorrect. I paid for a half-hour of your time. I just have a few questions to ask, and then I’ll leave. I’ll tell Madam Blossom you were a wonderful…” He searched for the gentlemanly word. “Hostess. I won’t touch you, and I certainly won’t hurt you. Please.” He kept his voice low and soothing. “Trust me.”
Grace gave a bitter laugh. Her eyes were no longer vacant; now they held the steely glint of suspicion. She said, with nearly a spit on the planks, “I trust nobody.”
Matthew decided to put himself where she might consider him the weakest. He sat down on the bed.
Her mouth twisted. “So now you’ve changed your mind?”
“No. I just want you to see that you can get out of the room at any time you please, and I won’t stop you.”
“You couldn’t stop me.”
“That’s probably true,” he agreed. He reasoned she might have a dagger or two hidden around here for her own protection, in case Becca was slow up the stairs. “I really do need to ask you a few things. Important things.”
Grace just watched him without speaking. The penis-sheath was caught in her fist. “If you’ll answer them as truthfully as possible,” Matthew continued, “I’ll go on my way and you can get to bed. To sleep, I mean.”
Still she made no response, but Matthew saw she wasn’t going to scream. At least for now his heart was safe.
She took a hesitant step forward and then passed him, pulling herself away so she wouldn’t graze his knees. She returned the penis-sheath to the drawer and then closed it. Her right hand came up and turned the hourglass over, and the sand began to slither through. Before she faced him again, she opened the chest’s top drawer and brought something out that Matthew couldn’t see at first. She went directly back to the corner in which she felt safe and when she turned toward him Matthew saw she was holding close to herself a small, dingy cloth doll with a red-stitched mouth and black buttons for eyes.
“What do you want to know?” she asked warily.
“First of all, what your relationship is with Reverend Wade.”
“Who?”
“William Wade. The reverend at Trinity Church.”
Grace stared blankly at him, with her doll nestled in the crook of an arm.
“You don’t know Reverend Wade?” Matthew asked.
“I suppose I’ve heard the name. I hear a lot of names. But why should I know him?” An evil little grin stole across her face. “Does he come here in disguise?”
“No.” He noted she looked a bit disappointed that the reverend wasn’t walking on the fiery edge of Hell. He himself was dismayed by the response, for he thought it to be truthful from her tone of voice and lack of reaction to the name. “What about Andrew Kippering? I presume you know-” She was already nodding vigorously, so there was no use in finishing it.
“Andy, you mean. Oh, he’s a right fine gent. Big and handsome and the money flows out of him like water under London Bridge. He comes here two, three times a week. Sometimes stays the whole night. Gets a deal from the old dragon. He’s a lawyer, you know.”
“Yes.”
“Wait.” Grace had been warming, but now she froze again. “Andy’s not in any kind of trouble, is he?” She took a step toward the door that made Matthew almost bolt to his feet, expecting the shrill scream for Becca Black. “Hey, who are you to be askin’ questions about Andy? I’m not gonna be helpin’ you put the finger on him, no matter what he’s done.”
“I didn’t say he’d done anything.”
“You can ask any of the girls here. The ladies, I mean.” Grace thrust her sharp chin at him as she crushed the doll against her breasts. “Andy’s made of sterlin’. Just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I mean no harm to Mr. Kippering,” Matthew said calmly. “I was only trying to settle the fact that you knew him. I saw you together at the Thorn Bush, but I wanted to hear it from you.”
“All right, I know him. So does every other lady here. Even the old dragon takes him to bed once in a while, and I hear it’s for free.” Grace spoke that word with disgust.
Matthew couldn’t fathom how to proceed from this point. If Grace Hester didn’t know Reverend Wade, then what had Kippering been going on about that day at the dock? What is it you know about Grace Hester? Kippering had asked, there in the shadows of the masted ships. This can’t get out, do you understand?
