by Tim Standish
‘We should go back to the bloke that steered us here, get back our two and six. Have a word.’ Church took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
I knocked on the door. Then again, more loudly. The hatch opened to reveal the doorman once again, his face a picture of noncommittal vigilance.
‘Look,’ I said to the doorman. ‘I’ll be honest with you. We haven’t come here from the other side of the country just to visit a club, wonderful though I am sure it is. I am from a firm of lawyers endeavouring to speak to one of your employees, a Mr Richardson, about a matter of inheritance.’ The doorman said nothing. ‘You see, a great uncle of his has died and left him a substantial estate which would settle on him a very healthy annuity for life, should we be able to find him before the deadline which is tomorrow at noon. After that time, the money reverts to the government which, I’m sure you’ll agree, would be a shame. So we’re quite keen to find him.’
The doorman’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s his name, this man?’
‘Richardson, he’s called. Herbert Richardson.’ I showed him the photo and saw a brief flash of recognition in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘No one here of that name,’ he said.
‘He might have changed his name. He is estranged from his family you see. This great uncle of his was the only person who had any sympathy for his beliefs. The rest of them turned their back on him.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ came the reply ‘but I still can’t help you and like I told you both, we’re closed.’ He leaned back and reached to close the hatch.
‘Wait!’ I said. ‘There are, of course, discretionary disbursements available for information or actions that enable our successful execution of duty.’
‘You what now?’ He paused, hatch half closed.
‘He means we’ll pay you,’ said Church.
‘Oh absolutely,’ I followed on. ‘We have full authority to offer payments for anyone who can help us progress our search. What would you say, Mr Dent? Ten pounds might be suitable in this case?’
‘I’d say so, Mr Wilkinson.’ Church reached inside his coat and slipped out a crisp new banknote, folded in half, and held it up. The doorman looked at what was probably two months’ wages and seemed quite quickly to reach a decision.
‘Inheritance you say?’ He asked.
‘That’s right,’ I replied, ‘so it’s a very good cause, all things considered.’
‘And you’re lawyers?’
‘That’s right,’ I reassured him and smiled in what I hoped was a matey sort of way.
‘Not rozzers?’
I shook my head, amused at the thought. ‘No, not at all.’
‘He looks like one to me,’ said the doorman, pointing at Church.
‘Ah, well, he was once but now he works for my firm,’ I replied. ‘What they call an enquiry agent nowadays. But a police constable, certainly not.’ I smiled again.
He paused for a moment. ‘Alright then,’ he said and nodded to Church, who gave him the note. It quickly disappeared inside the doorman’s coat and we both stepped up to the door, keen to get out of the downpour.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, and pulled out a sheet of paper that he held under his umbrella. ‘You have to read this. Out loud.’ I glanced at Church: he shrugged and I read what the doorman was holding up.
‘I have been asked to confirm my identity and have done so. I am not a police constable nor in any way employed as an investigator, officer or agent of the law. I realise that if that is the case and I have not declared it, by concealing this identity I indemnify the premises against any investigation resulting from my visit.’
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Fees Willanes.’ And he opened the door, ushering us into a short corridor lit with dimly glowing gas lamps. ‘Entry is sixpence, coats on top of that.’ And he stood aside for us to walk in. We collapsed our umbrellas and headed in through the doorway. I let Church walk in first and as I made to follow to him in the doorman grabbed my arm.
‘Ask for Lily.’
‘And she will introduce us to Mr Richardson?’ I asked amiably.
‘Just ask for Lily.’
He closed the door behind me. I joined Church, who was halfway down the corridor, shaking himself out of his coat while a sharp-faced young woman in a maroon theatre usher’s uniform waited unsmilingly for him to finish. He did so and put his hat and overcoat down on the counter. I added my own and she took them up, managed a wan smile and busied herself finding empty hangers for them. Judging by the others there was no shortage of patrons already arrived.
‘That’s one and six,’ said the usher, putting two brass discs and two numbered, cardboard tokens down on the counter. ‘Entry and coats. First drink included.’
I gave her one of my dwindling supply of half-crowns and cheerily told her to keep the change. This brought a smile to her face which, if not exactly bright, seemed to be fuelled by something like genuine enthusiasm. ‘Have a good evening, gentlemen, welcome to the Fever Lens. Straight through the double doors.’
The front door was soundproofed in some way, I realised as we walked along, for not only was the rain now inaudible but I could also make out the sound of music, then cheering and applause coming from within the building.
And it suddenly clicked.
‘I know what this place called.’
‘So do I, she just told us. It’s the Fever something,’ said Church.
‘No it’s not. It’s pronounced “Les Filles Vilaines”.’
‘That’s what she said,’ he replied.
‘No it isn’t.’
‘Alright, Jean-Pierre. What does it mean?’
‘Naughty girls. Wicked girls. Something like that.’
‘So, it’s a brothel,’ said Church. ‘French dancing maybe?’
‘Sounds like it.’ I pushed open the doors and we found ourselves in the auditorium of a theatre, enveloped by an atmosphere of warm beer, loud laughter and cigarette smoke. A dozen or so large, round tables were arranged across the floor of the auditorium. The tables were mostly filled with older men except for the few brightly dressed, younger women dotted here and there among them and a raucous group of overdressed young couples sitting near to the stage.
The applause was fading as we emerged from the doorway. Sitting at the back of the stage a small ensemble bashed out something loud and cheery with varying degrees of success as a boatered and blazered Master of Ceremonies ran on from the wings, shouting through a megaphone for the crowd to raise their hands one last time for the wonderful Stella. The audience responded enthusiastically, clapping, cheering and, in not a few cases, hammering the tables to show their appreciation.
A woman walked up to us, raising her arms in welcome. ‘Messieurs! Bienvenue aux Filles Vilaines!’
She was wearing a man’s three-piece suit the same colour as the coat girl’s uniform, though closely tailored in a way that accentuated rather than masked her form. A stiff, high collared white shirt and slim black cravat completed her outfit. Her short hair was slicked back from her face, her face powdered and rouged. She beamed a warm smile at us.
‘Enchanté mademoiselle,’ I replied, ‘Nous sommes ravis d’être ici et nous attendons avec excitation un spectacle merveilleux.’ I gave a slight bow.
Her smile faltered a little and when she replied it was with a broad Lancashire accent. ‘Right, well, we’ve nothing down by the stage,’ she said, ‘but there’s a table on the top if you like?’ I nodded and she led the way across the rear of the auditorium, out through some doors at the back and up some stairs. The first floor was set up in a similar way, with the chairs removed, tables in their place and a small bar along the back. She led us across to the far side to a small table, just big enough for the two of us, and waited till we sat. ‘Now then. What would you like?’
‘A pair of coffees and a pair of large whiskies would be wonderful,’ I said. ‘Soda please, but no ice. And would you mind telling me where I might find Lily?’
She smiled. ‘Oh she’ll be along. I’ll let her know you were asking. She likes an admirer does our Lily.’ And she walked off to the bar.
I looked around the tables on this floor. Again, mostly men: well, though not richly, dressed. A few glanced across at us but otherwise our entry attracted little attention. The MC was back on stage, running through a comedy routine ahead of the next act, doing an impression of the Prime Minister and what I realised was General Gordon. He capered elegantly between the two imitations, as if they shared a house together. He ran through a pretended conversation over breakfast, with the two statesmen awkwardly exchanging pleasantries, discussing the weather, home life and so on and, in doing so, inadvertently letting slip excruciatingly embarrassing details about themselves. The crowd delighted at his antics, greeting each double entendre with peals of laughter. I had to admit that, even three or four drinks behind the majority of the clientele, I thought he captured the two of them, and the faux politeness of their election campaigning, perfectly. I found myself laughing out loud a few times, not a sound I had heard myself make very often in the last eight years.
Our drinks arrived: mugs of coffee, tumblers of whisky, a half-size syphon. I splashed some soda in my whisky, swirled it round and drank a sip. Church drank his neat, downing half of it and putting the glass back down on the table. He nodded to himself and looked around. ‘Not a bad place is it?’
‘Seems popular.’
‘It does,’ said Church. ‘Mostly regulars if that rigmarole getting in is anything to go by.’ He poured the rest of his whisky into his coffee, then spooned in some sugar from the bowl on the tray. ‘I didn’t see Richardson anywhere on the way in.’ He tasted the coffee. Added another spoon of sugar.
‘Neither did I. The staff are mostly women by the look of it.’ I swallowed down the rest of my whisky, the warmth of it starting to permeate. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, ‘and there is a brothel in here somewhere. View the goods on stage with a private visit later if you can afford it?’
‘Maybe.’ Church took a gulp of coffee. Looked at the mug with narrowed eyes. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is horrible coffee.’ He put the cup down. ‘Let’s get hold of this Lily, find out where Richardson is and get ourselves back to civilisation.’
Back on stage the MC had finished his sketches and was announcing the next act. Behind him the musicians were readying their instruments.
‘My Lords, Ladies, gentlemen, other gentlemen and associated hangers-on. Les Filles Vilaines is profanely pleased, profligately proud and partially paroxysmal,’ he waited for the brief burst of applause to die down, ‘to introduce that most sylph-like of songstresses, the lovely, the luscious, the lyrical… Lily Lovelace.’
The tables around us burst into cheers, applause and whistles as the singer walked out onto the stage, dressed for a walk by the Serpentine in a canary yellow dress that was extravagantly sleeved and grandly adorned with a floral motif. A parasol of the same colour completed the outfit. As the whistles and shouts continued, Lily began to walk about the stage in a winsome manner to the tune of ‘Strolling through the Park One Day’. The overall effect was, it has to be said, most becoming and only partially spoiled by her short, neatly trimmed, but still very visible, dark grey beard.
‘Well,’ said Church. ‘that’s two solved for the price of one. There’s Richardson and this,’ he caught the eye of a waitress and beckoned her over, ‘is a molly house.’ He raised his voice. ‘Two of these.’ I shook my head. ‘Make that one more of these darling, but without the coffee this time.’
Down in the auditorium Lily had enticed one of the men from the audience up on stage with her as she began to sing of how she had been ‘taken by surprise by a pair of roguish eyes’, circling her new-found paramour to delighted whistles and shouts from the audience.
‘And how does this compare to the others you have been in?’ I asked once the waitress had gone.
Church smiled. ‘Looks better than most. Of course,’ he added, ‘the view’s a bit different when there’s a van load of peelers charging through the place.’
The waitress arrived with our drinks and put them down on our table. I asked her to wait and passed over the tokens we had been given plus a few coins to cover our bill.
Below us the hapless volunteer was being helped down off the stage by the MC, to raucous applause from the audience and a blown kiss from Lily.
Church downed his whisky in short order. Looked at his watch. ‘Right. Let’s find our welcoming host and see how much a ticket backstage costs.’
11. Arpeggio
The room was small, the decor fading, and badly lit by a pair of mismatched standard lamps. There was a faint smell of fresh perfume on the air that did a fair enough job of covering the background odour of longstanding artistic residence. A collection of male attire variously hung or lay on a small armchair at one end of the room. At the other end an old and battered bureau stood in as a dressing table. A few cards from well-wishers were tucked around the large mirror that hung on the wall above it. On the right of the dressing table was a three-tiered wooden box, the top halves pulled open, showing a jumble of partially tidied creams and cosmetics; brushes and pencils lay abandoned in haste next to it. Next to this box stood a bottle of champagne, part of our price of entry, the cubes in its ice bucket tinkling as they melted in the warmth of the small room.
Church leaned on the wall by the door while I made myself almost comfortable on a low wicker stool next to the dressing table. We waited in silence as the distant roar of music and applause began to die down. There was a moment or two of quiet, then more applause, slowly fading, and we heard the sound of heels hurrying in the corridor outside. The door opened and in walked the singer we had watched from the balcony, parasol in hand, dress swishing noisily. He strode into the room and sat in the chair in front of the dressing table, swivelling it round to face us both. There was a moment of artful arrangement, the yellow satin dress rustling, before we were given full attention.
Richardson was thinner than his photograph with slim, delicate features. Seen close up the make-up was careful and not too exaggerated; more demi-monde than panto dame. It struck me that, without the beard, he could easily pass for a woman. When he spoke, the voice was light and airy; feminine rather than falsetto.
‘Champagne! Well how lovely! What darlings you are.’
‘Good evening Mr Richardson, thank you for seeing us. My name is Wilkinson. I am a lawyer.’ I reached across and gave him a card.
He looked at it. ‘A lawyer?’
‘I work for a firm in Kent,’ I said. ‘I’m here to talk to you about a case of police negligence that we are currently pursuing.’
Richardson glanced at the card I’d given him then looked up at me. ‘Well I must say, Mr Wilkinson, you don’t look much like the kind of lawyer that I usually come across and he,’ indicating Church with the card, ‘doesn’t look like any kind of lawyer at all.’
‘Mr Dent is our firm’s enquiry agent,’ I explained. ‘He, well, enquires for us.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong, though, have I? I mean there’s nothing against singing in a theatre is there?’ He was trying to make a joke of it but there were nerves now, just creeping in at the edges of his voice.
‘No, Mr Richardson, nothing like that. Actually, we are in need of your help.’
‘Well. I can’t imagine what that might be, but do carry on and if this is to be a protracted conversation, might we please have some refreshment?’ A gloved hand indicated the bottle of champagne.
‘Of course. Most remiss of us. Mr Dent, would you be so kind?’ I asked. Church nodded slightly and moved to open the bottle.
‘The matter of it is, Mr Richardson—’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘would you mind doing me the kindest favour?’
‘Of course.’ I smiled, encouragingly.
‘Would you mind calling me Lily?’ Richardson said. ‘It’s just. Well, I have to go back on again in twenty minutes and I t
ry to stay Lily when I have a break. It makes it so much easier when I’m back on stage.’ He smiled. ‘I am sure you understand?’
‘Of course,’ I said, as Church popped the bottle and began to pour a glass ‘So… Lily, my firm is acting on behalf of a number of clients who have lost loved ones, murdered in and around Whitechapel over the last few years—’
‘My God,’ Richardson interrupted. ‘Is it the Ripper? Is it happening again?’
‘Our enquiry is connected to the Ripper murders, but I can assure you that they are most definitely not happening again. We have been engaged on the premise that both Metropolitan and City police forces should have learnt lessons from the Ripper case and become more expert at preventing the recurrence of similar violence.’ Church handed Richardson a glass a champagne which he half emptied with a first, long sip as I carried on. ‘Our contention is that this has not happened. The number of assaults and, even worse, murders of women has increased. In short, if the police had done their job our clients would not be grieving the loss of their wives and daughters. ‘
Richardson took another sip of his drink. ‘Won’t the two of you have some with me? It’s very nice,’ he said.
I nodded at Church who poured me a glass then came and leaned on the wall behind me. I took a sip. Much to my surprise it actually tasted like champagne. I reached over and lifted the bottle half out of the bucket. Bollinger. I raised an eyebrow in surprised salute.
‘It is good isn’t it?’ Richardson said to me. ‘Gwen is always so particular about making sure we have the best available, particularly for special visitors.’ He smiled, his voice even, his confidence returning.
