“Now why would I do that?” The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet still audible. “This is just you and me having a quiet chat. Tell you what, why don’t you run along like a good girl and we’ll say no more about it? How’s that?”
Lizzie was conscious of a hollow thumping sound and realized it was the pounding of her heart. She wondered if the other woman was aware of it. Probably; the fingers still holding fast to her wrist were close to her pulse. She nodded and felt a bubble of sweat beading between her shoulder blades burst into what seemed like a thousand droplets of moisture. The back of her dress clung to her body as if it had been drenched with warm water.
“Thanks, Sal. It won’t ’appen again. Promise.”
The girl released her grip. “Course it won’t. Go on, now. Off with you.” Slender fingers patted Lizzie’s arm reassuringly. “And take care, now, Lizzie. You hear?”
Lizzie nodded again. Turning hurriedly and sucking in her breath, she headed for the door. She was a yard or two away when the door opened, admitting a blast of cold air and half a dozen fresh customers; more men with empty pockets and low expectations, already casting longing looks towards the counter and the pay-table in the alcove. Most would be looking for a drink. More than a few wouldn’t have the money to pay for it, but if their name was in the ledger they knew Hanratty would give them credit. Just for tonight, tomorrow could look after itself.
Had it been any other time, Lizzie would have executed a swift about-turn, fluttered her eyelashes, hoisted up her bosom and set to work, but not tonight. Ignoring the gauntlet of crude inducements and wandering hands, Lizzie pushed her way through the new arrivals and out through the open door.
It was only after she had emerged into the street that Lizzie realized she was still holding her breath. She let it out slowly, emitting a soft involuntary moan of relief as she did so. She looked down at her hands and found they were shaking. She clenched her fists, straightened, and moved into the shadows by the side of the building. Leaning against the wall, she waited for her heartbeat to settle. She heard footsteps approaching out of the gloom; two more men on their way into the pub. They didn’t notice her at first. When they did, they looked surprised not to receive a proposition. Lizzie, her cheek pressed against the damp brickwork, remained silent and let them go.
It occurred to Lizzie, as she waited for her breathing to return to normal, that she had still not earned her rent money. She looked back at the pub’s entrance, weighing her options. There was always the George or the King of Denmark. The night was growing colder. The street suddenly looked dark and forbidding and there was a new hint of rain in the air. Lizzie shivered. Pushing away from the wall, she set off towards Field Lane. Tonight, she wanted to be in her own bed. And if that meant submitting to the lecherous demands of Luther Miggs, on this occasion, it was a price she was more than willing to pay.
Hawkwood had seen the exchange between the two women. The expression on the face of the older moll had been intriguing. In the murky interior of the taproom, with shadows playing across washed-out, alcohol-ravaged features, it was sometimes difficult to read a person’s face or mood. But there had been no mistaking the look of apprehension in the big moll’s eyes when she had turned and seen the younger woman standing beside her.
There was a pecking order in all strands of society, Hawkwood knew, and that applied to the oldest profession as much as it did to any other. Whoring was, by nature, territorial. Molls guarded their patch zealously. It didn’t matter if the location was an archway in Covent Garden, an alleyway in St Giles’ or the taproom of the Black Dog, the same unwritten rule applied: trespassers would be dealt with. It was clear that in the Dog some sort of boundary had been crossed. What had been surprising, from Hawkwood’s perspective, was the absence of histrionics. There had been no hysterical altercation, no screaming or scratching of eyes. There had been only quietly spoken, though evidently very persuasive, words. It hinted at some kind of severe warning.
Curious that it had been the older woman who had given way. In the normal scheme of things, Hawkwood would have expected the younger whore to beat a retreat, but that hadn’t been the case. Given that other whores were plying their trade in the Dog, why had the older moll been singled out for chastisement?
She’d strayed from her traditional haunt, Hawkwood surmised, and had chosen the Dog because it was warm and because it was payday and maybe there’d be enough men with money in their pocket or credit to go around. The reason for the older moll’s abrupt departure was probably that simple. She’d just made an unwise choice of hunting ground and had been sent on her way by the Dog’s matriarch, who, having emerged victorious from the encounter, was now weaving her way through the tables towards Hawkwood’s side of the room.
Watching her progress, Hawkwood noticed the way the other whores seemed to give way before her. He wondered if it was his imagination, for it appeared as if most of them were trying to avoid eye contact, acknowledging her superiority within the pack. She’d seen off one weaker rival and the other girls knew it; judging from their collective demeanour, they heartily resented her for it.
Unlike most of the others, she had the looks; there was no disputing that. There was a swagger about her that suggested she revelled in it. The obligatory tight, low bodice accentuated her pale skin and slender curves to their best advantage, but it was her face that drew the attention, the dark eyes especially. She’d have been a pretty child, Hawkwood suspected, and had probably traded on that to get her way. There was certainly self-awareness in her manner. It spoke of someone who’d experienced a catalogue of despair and degradation at the hands of men and had, by force of character, risen above it, most likely at the expense of others. In this sort of place it was sometimes difficult to gauge a person’s age, male or female. Somewhere in her mid twenties, he guessed, though she could have been younger.
Even when she stopped at his table, it wasn’t easy to tell. He realized then what the confrontation had been about.
She looked down at him and grinned. “You’re a lucky man, sweet’eart.”
“Is that right?” Hawkwood said. “How come?”
“I just saved your arse. Another ten seconds an’ Fat Lizzie would’ve been all over you like a bad rash. An’ she’s ’ad more than a few of those in her time, I can tell you. She likes to pass ’em on, too, if you know what I mean.” The girl winked suggestively.
“Lucky I had you watching over me, then,” Hawkwood said.
“Glad I could help, darlin’.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward. In the well of her unlaced top, the dark valley between her breasts beckoned invitingly. “My name’s Sal.” Her gaze moved suggestively to Hawkwood’s groin. “Nice breeches.” Her eyes drifted back to his face. “What brings you to the Dog? You lookin’ for company?”
“Not tonight,” Hawkwood said.
At that moment a customer at the adjacent table rose unsteadily to his feet, fumbled at the flap of his breeches and cast an eye towards the back of the room and the doorway leading to the privy. He was barely out of his seat when the girl reached over, grasped the empty chair and pulled it towards her. Spotting the move out of the corner of his eye, the man turned to remonstrate. “What the bleedin’ –?” Then his eyes fell on the culprit and his red-veined cheeks paled.
“Don’t mind, do you, Charlie?” the girl said, taking her seat. “Only I noticed you weren’t usin’ it.” Her dark eyes glowed.
For a second the man looked as though he was about to speak. Indecision moved across his face. Then his shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Sal,” he said hollowly. “Best be goin’, anyway.” Turning quickly to avoid the embarrassed looks of his companions, he left the table and teetered off across the sawdust-smeared floor.
The girl turned back to Hawkwood as if nothing had happened. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, you said you weren’t lookin’ for company.” She arched an eyebrow. “You sure? We could call one of the other girls over. They’ve got rooms out the back. We could have some fun, the three of us. How’s that sound? You up for it? I know I am.” She gave Hawkwood the eye once more. “I’m always up for it.”
“Another time,” Hawkwood said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
The girl placed her right forefinger between her lips, sucked on it suggestively and ran its moistened tip along Hawkwood’s sleeve. “Been waitin’ a while, though,’ aven’t you? You sure they’re going to turn up?”
“He’d better,” Hawkwood said. “There’s money in it if he does.” He took a sip from his mug. “Maybe you’ve seen him around? He said he’d be here. His name’s Doyle, Edward Doyle.”
The girl’s brow furrowed. “Can’t say as I know the name. What’s ’e look like?”
The girl listened to Hawkwood’s description of what Doyle would have looked like if he’d had a pulse and all his teeth, and then shook her head. “Sorry, sweet’eart. Still don’t ring any bells. You sure ’e meant the Dog? There’s
