“The what?”
She tossed her head back, golden curls falling to her waist as she laughed. “I suppose you never heard of it. It gives bachelors directions to a few houses and describes the women who are available. One of the girls is known as ‘Miss Gladiateur,’ like the famous French horse who won the English Triple Crown. She wears his colors and advertises that if you mount her, you’ll feel like you are galloping atop a thoroughbred. And me - they call me-”
“Penelope,” I whispered. “Don’t.”
“They call me the Mute Swan because I wear a nightdress with sleeves that look like swan wings, and I never say a word. I just do a little graceful dance, entwine and drape and bob and dunk when they ask. I used to watch them, the swans. I used to watch how they move.”
She stared at me defiantly but then looked away.
I, too, loved to watch the swans, back in the Broads and here in London, in the river at Victoria Park. Suddenly, my head filled like a poet with a flood of confused, erotic thoughts about love and lovemaking, I remembered how mesmerized I was by them. By how they moved and how they glided across the water, the shiny edges of their delicate feathers glistening in the sunlight. The way they mated always fascinated me. A pair would angle their heads and look at each other and then they would move as one, like an accomplished dancing pair on the floor of a great ballroom. Necks entwined, one bird’s neck draped over his partner’s, they would caress each other, circling and touching cheek to cheek, moving slowly like white clouds across a violet-blue sky. I’d watch them through to satisfaction, always a little aroused and filled with desire - and envy - myself.
I touched her shoulder. “Penelope, tell me who did this to you. If it is the same man who caused the injuries to your back, he must be stopped. I have friends at the Yard. I-”
She shrugged my hand away. “A man. Just a man.”
I sat down in front of her and tilted her chin upward. “Penelope. How did you come to have to live like this?”
She tried to look away again but I persisted. “You are not from Cheapside or Covent Garden or Haymarket.”
“No, I am not. I was raised in... in a nice place. My father was a kind and wonderful man. But he died. And I was not permitted to take his place as I should have been. As I trained all my life to be. And then... and then I found myself with child and the man... he was very powerful, and very married. He sent me away. He said he was sending me to a safe place. He sent me to a woman in Knightsbridge who ran several brothels. She dressed her ladies well - many of my dresses were costly, made in Paris, and I had jewels. Some real, some not. Most of the good ones I’ve pawned. But when the baby was born, she tossed us both out, so I found work on the streets. I took lodgings on Dorset for a while. Then on New Street in Bishopsgate. Eventually I was able to make the connection to my present accommodation house. And the chap who runs it - he’s good to Mary.”
“Oh, Penelope,” I whispered, taking her hand.
She smiled weakly. “That’s not my real name. I’m Kate. Kate Dew.”
“All right. Kate, then. Kate, the first time you came to see me... you said that you saw something that you shouldn’t. What was it?”
She stood up abruptly. “I’ve said more than I should. Might you give me some more medicine? For the cough?”
“Of course.”
I went to my medicine cabinet and retrieved a small bottle. She outstretched her hand and tried to drop a sovereign into my hand. I folded her fingers over her palms. “Keep it. You and Mary need it more than I.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“Don’t consider it charity then. Consider it payment for an enlightening, educational afternoon. After all, prior to today, I knew nothing of the Bachelor’s Pocket Book.”
She actually giggled at that but she still slipped the sovereign into my pocket.
I was about to hand it to her when one of Sherlock’s young errand boys came rushing into the office.
“Miss! ’ere. A message from Mr. ’olmes.”
I recognized the boy; his name was Rattle and he was about eight or nine years of age. Still thin as a scarecrow, still wearing overalls and a frayed cap above his black, sleek hair, he always remnded me of a street sweeper. “One moment, Rattle,” I cautioned. “I am with a patient.”
I gave the bottle to Kate and said, “I’ll see you next week, Kate.”
She nodded and left.
As I took the message from Rattle, a thought split through my brain like lighting rupturing the sky. I stopped and stared into space.
They call her the mute swan, I thought. In that despicable, deplorable bachelor’s guide to women of the night. Her father had died, leaving her penniless. Her father, she’d said earlier, had had to make a living by cleaning urinals at St. James Palace for four shillings a week when he could not do his regular job.
The boy Sherlock had spoken to, Thomas Abnett, told him that a Deputy Swankeeper had died, but his son stayed on for a while and then disappeared. Abnett said he
