‘No–’
‘Yes–’
Martin and Danforth looked at each other, wearing matching expressions of annoyance as dark eyes met blue. ‘Well, it seems you’re at crossed purposes,’ said Sharp, shaking his head and rubbing his bearded jaw. ‘I’ll instruct you all the same: yon fellow was here as usual last night, and as drunk as a lord by eight. He rolled up to his usual bed next door, cursing and spitting as always. Threw him out, I did, but he got the worse of it.’
‘Does he leave full of the drink at such a time in the usual course of things?’ asked Martin.
‘It’s pretty usual, aye. Mean drunk. I turf him when his speech turns violent.’
‘This is all very important, I am sure,’ said Danforth, his tone curt. ‘We seek news of a Mr Walter Furay.’
‘Husband to the dead wench?’
‘The same. Do you know if he is commonly to be seen down the wynd, or if he lodges of an evening in the … the establishment which is your neighbour?’
Before Sharp could answer, the door to the tavern banged open, as it had on their previous visit. ‘Good fellow,’ announced Sir Andrew Boyle, already drawing forth his purse, ‘ale for all, and pray–’ He paused in mid-flow, his mouth gaping as his eyes raked Danforth and Martin. He slammed it shut, before spitting onto the bare floor. ‘Ah, shit and pox upon it. It’s only you same worthless whoresons again. Different horse, same curs.’
‘Hold your tongue, you brute,’ said Danforth. ‘I would have words with you.’
‘Save ‘em, you English prick. I’ve nothing for you. I wouldn’t give you the steam off my piss.’
‘Yes, yes – a fine muck-spout you are. I wonder what the burgh baillies would make of you cozening innocent men.’
‘Ha! A tale-telling clipe into the bargain?’ Boyle spat again. ‘All the same, you rats. And you,’ he added, glancing at Martin, ‘I don’t know what you are, but that you’re a gommy-looking creature.’
‘Yet wait,’ said Danforth evenly. ‘We might be willing to pay for information.’ Martin looked at him, incredulity on his face.
‘Eh?’ Boyle’s eyes passed up and down them again. ‘You have money?’
‘We are gentleman – of course we have money. We seek to know the movements of one Walter Furay, resident of the Hiegait.’
‘Away and shite! I don’t know who you fellows are. What are you offering?’
‘That depends on what you have to tell us.’
‘Bring forth your purse, friend, that I might know you better.’
‘And have it taken? No, Sir Andrew.’
‘Then you’re a fool. For I know all, Mr Englishman, all. And for your greed you’ll know nothing by me. I’m off.’
He turned to leave, and Danforth moved quickly, stepping across the room and grasping at the back of the stained and faded coat. In a lightning movement, Boyle turned, his arm poised to strike; but Martin had moved too, leaping around boxes, and he brought down a fist on the stocky man’s head.
‘Bastard!’ shouted Boyle, ‘You damned whoremongering dog!’ His thick, hairy fist had disappeared into the folds of his coat, the fingers grasping for a blade. ‘You’ll die for that!’
‘Enough!’ roared Sharp, making them all pause. ‘Not in my tavern, he won’t. None of that. Out, all of you – go from my place, else I’ll have the law on you myself.’ Sharp ducked below his bar and reappeared with a long wooden curling broom, the type Stirling men played on the town burn and the Forth when they froze. ‘Out!’
Boyle seized the moment of surprise, half-falling out the tavern in his flight. Martin jumped after him, Danforth following. He stopped outside the door to catch his breath. He was too old for bar brawling. He doubted he had ever been young enough for it. ‘He has flown,’ said Martin, turning his head left and right.
‘He knows this part of the burgh,’ said Danforth when his breathing had resumed its normal pace. ‘We shall not have him easily.’ He turned left and looked over the stable door. Woebegone was still there, unharmed.
‘Yet he said he “knows all”,’ said Martin, wiping his forehead in annoyance.
‘He also said his name was Sir Andrew Boyle, and that he held lands in Argyll. The man is a liar and a coney-catcher, out only to catch fools and relieve them of their money. We might know more than he does.’
‘Still, I should have liked to have wrung something out of him.’
‘With luck and the rule of law, the hangman might one day wring the life out of him.’
Martin fell silent for a moment. ‘That’d be a hard punishment.’
‘It is the law for such as he. And this realm needs laws, for it has as many brutal men as England, though fewer people.’
‘You are strange, Simon.’
‘How is that?’
‘For a man who detests lawyers, as I recall you once claiming to, you’re a stout man in defence of the law.’
‘There is a difference,’ said Danforth, ‘between loving the rule of law and disliking the pettifoggers and caterpillars who practice it.’ In London the Inns of Court had churned out innumerable lawyers and encouraged many more young students to waste their time in idle jesting and whoring in the nearby stews. Many of them did not even pass the bar. Yet the English breeding of lawyers had led to the lawmen encouraging disputes amongst neighbours, until it was customary for every man to be legally at odds with another more than once in his lifetime. By the time Danforth had left the city, it seemed like no Londoner could blow his nose without another suing him for catching cold. ‘The law, when properly handled, keeps the society of men in order. Too much of it and there is great tumult and disorder. Too little of it and there is the same.’
Danforth’s speech was interrupted by a shrill voice. ‘This yours, jock?’ He turned to the stable, where the filthy young ostler had appeared, and was looking sidelong at Woebegone. There would be no feeding or brushing of the lodgers here, thought Danforth. The horses would be lucky not to have their shoes stolen.
‘It is my horse, yes. You, young sir, were nowhere to be seen.’
‘I don’t live in the stable, man.’
‘Indeed – it is too good for you,’ sniffed Danforth. ‘Tell me, do you know a fellow that calls himself Andrew Boyle?’
‘What’s it worth?’
‘It’s worth your ear remaining attached to your head,’ said Martin.
‘Then no. Bugger off.’
‘And what shall this bring?’ asked Danforth, producing a penny. The boy eyed it greedily, then shrugged.
‘Hard to say from here.’ Danforth passed it to him. He bit it, though it was plain he did not know why, and then dropped it into his filthy, unlaced shirt. ‘Might’ve seen him. Sure I have, in fact.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Dunno. Can’t say.’
‘Then we have no further business. Be gone.’ The boy turned gave them an obscene gesture before turning to walk barefoot through the ordure, to a little door that led out the back of the stable, into some enclosed vennel behind the tavern.
‘You shouldn’t have given him anything,’ said Martin.
‘You surprise me, Arnaud. You say you recall my dislike of lawyers. That is fair. I recall your Christian charity towards the unfortunate.’ Danforth was a little disappointed. Formerly – in fact, during the bulk of his life in Scotland – he had turned his face from people, even from suffering, because he had thought his own struggles more important. Martin had aided him in turning back towards the world, in part through his good nature and charity. ‘Have you turned miser?’
‘Tres drôle, sir. No, but I can see a deserving case from an undeserving one. That boy won’t spend money wisely, nor accept charity with gratitude.’
‘Oh,’ said Danforth, unsure what else to say. Still he was a little disappointed. People were contradictory creatures. As if answering his thoughts about the stews of London, the door at the top of the stairs beside them opened. Danforth tensed, expecting Sir Andrew Boyle to poke out his head.<
br />
Instead, a young girl emerged, a bucket clasped in pale hands. She was dressed in a cheap gown, low-cut to reveal an underdeveloped bosom. Her hair was pale, the washed-out colour of straw. She took the stairs carefully, trying to keep an eye on the contents of bucket with each step. She looked at them when she reached the bottom, and Martin swept off his cap. Despite the air of poverty and desperation that hung about her, she might have been pretty. She was, thought Danforth, glumly, exactly the type of sorry little waif that Martin would try to adopt.
When she reached the bottom, she went to the middle of the street, held the bucket out from her and upended it. Immediately she stepped back. With horror, Danforth realised that it had held thin vomit, the stink rising. There was no sewer channel; the foul contents sat bubbling on top of the cold mud. The girl looked down again at the bucket, thinking, and then cast it aside by the stairs. She moved to go back up them, looking over her shoulder at Martin and Danforth.
‘Good morrow to you, gentleman.’ Her voice was high and piping. She could not have been older than sixteen.
‘Good morrow,’ said Martin, replacing his cap. ‘I don’t much like your business.’ She looked at him, confusion on her face, and then again at the dejected bucket.
‘Oh, you mean getting rid of the puke.’
‘Indeed.’
She shrugged. ‘Needs to be done. Can’t have it stinking out the place. It’s stronger even than the scent the mistress pours about.’
‘You’re employed above? You tend to the place, keep it clean?’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m a whore.’ Danforth was horrified by her revelation and the calm way in which she delivered it. ‘No shame in it,’ she said, spotting the look on his face. Her neat little features twisted into a scowl. ‘Better than dying on the street.’
‘I think not,’ Danforth muttered, turning his back on her. He had seen prostitutes before. They haunted the streets of Edinburgh, trying to tempt men into sin. In London, there were entire districts dedicated to the maintenance of their trade, where it was said even members of parliament and the high-ranking gentlemen of the clergy spent their wealth. As with everything sinful and dangerous, London had found a way to make a thriving trade of it. He knew that some women drawn or dragged into the way of life were corrupted young, for some men were themselves twisted enough in the mind to wish for fresh flesh. He preferred to ignore the practice, to pretend it didn’t exist. It was an uncomfortable reminder of just how fallible man was. And here was this girl voicing not shame and repentance, but a kind of misguided, truculent pride.
‘Is it true? You’re … you are used by the men of the burgh?’ Martin’s voice was strangulated.
‘Used by? Aye. I’m safe up there.’
‘Yet you can’t, surely you can’t enjoy such work? There are places you might go, might find aid, charity.’
The girl sighed. ‘If you’re thinking of saving me, sir, think on. I know all about those places, and some of them no better than where I’m at now. If you wish to use me, then you’ve to go above.’
The conversation was too much for Danforth, and he began moving back to the stable to loose Woebegone from his moorings. Still Martin was talking. ‘Stay, girl, what’s your name?’
‘Louisa.’ A look came into the girl’s face not unlike a horse trader sensing an easy mark.
‘Louisa. It’s a pretty name.’
‘Thank you. It was my mother’s.’
‘She is … above?’
‘God’s feet, no. Well, she’s somewhere above, I hope. She died having me. Then my father followed her, and I fetched up here. Where I’m safe. Where I’m alive.’
‘Tell me, Louisa, do you know a Mr McKenzie?’
‘Doctor McKenzie?’
‘If you like.’ Behind him, Martin heard Danforth whistle an irritated hiss through his teeth. ‘Ignore my friend. He’s of a delicate nature. In what manner did you come by your knowledge of this man?’ The girl, Louisa, cast a surreptitious glance upwards.
‘I don’t know that I’m meant to say.’
‘Please. For me.’ Martin smiled, a flash of white against dark stubble. ‘You’ll get in no trouble from your …’ He trailed off. Danforth, listening, suspected he had been about to say ‘owners’.
‘I … well … the man is abed upstairs.’
‘Is that so? Louisa … would you take me upstairs, into your rooms?’ Excitement lit his face, whilst disgust coloured Danforth’s.
‘If you like, sir,’ she sighed. Evidently she had heard such speech before: the pretence of hoping to help, the feigning of Christian charity. The ultimate request to share a bed. The friendly smile disappeared, a blank, destitute mask falling once more. ‘Come upstairs. You pay first.’
Danforth had re-emerged from the stables, Woebegone’s rein in his hand. ‘What is this, what is happening?’ he shrieked. Martin was skipping up the stone steps to the stew, the young whore ahead of him, swinging her hips.
He spluttered and reddened to no avail. The door of the stew closed on Martin’s back, his friend swallowed up by the brothel.
10
Within the stew, Martin found a short hallway stretching to the back of the building. The whole place stank of sickly scent, like boiled roses, oversweet and choking. The place was lit by wall sconces, which cast cheerful light on walls painted in garish scenes. Grotesque, naked fawns pranced through sylvan woodlands, whilst naked women protected their modesty with their arms. Here and there scraps of paper were pinned to the walls, each illustrating further crass images of humans entwined in each other’s arms.
The first doorway lay on the left, opening into a hall. This was not, however, a cheerful family reception room, but the payment area. Before Martin could reach it, the doorway suddenly filled with an enormous woman in a red dress faded to pink, her bosom heaving. Her hair was thinning, the flickering lights illuminating patches of scalp; yet it was laced through with ribbons, elaborate curls sticking out in all directions. With one large hand, she gripped the doorframe.
‘What kept you,’ she barked, seeing Louisa first. Then, catching sight of Martin, ‘oh, but you caught a rabbit. Welcome, sir, welcome. A young gentleman, too.’ Lascivious eyes appraised him. ‘The girl’s yours, lad. But in this house you pay first.’
‘Very well, um …’
‘Mistress Sneddon. Hereafter you might call me Marjorie. After you’ve paid.’ The woman swivelled her bulk on the spot, releasing a cloud of sweetness mingled with stale body odour. He followed her into the room. The reception room was like a crude pastiche of the Furay hall, or the great hall at Martin’s mothers. Instead of sedate wood panelling and whitewash, the walls were painted again in various bright colours, the idea presumably being to excite the passions. Candles were everywhere – in candelabra, in single sticks, in a cheap, imitation chandelier.
On a small three-legged stool sat a scrawny older man, a wooden board across his knees forming an improvised table. Beside him sat a strongbox. ‘What’s this, Marge? Custom?’
‘Aye, young flesh come to be broken in.’
‘Welcome, son,’ leered the man. ‘I’m McGuire, owner of The Old Nag.’
‘The Old Nag?’ asked Martin, his eyes flitting to Marjorie Sneddon.’
‘This house.’ McGuire caught the line of his sight and smiled, revealing yellowed tombstone teeth. ‘Though I don’t blame you for asking.’ He laughed, wheezing and racking. ‘Which are you after? In this house, you pay first.’
‘So I told him, Jimmy,’ said Sneddon. ‘I’m not daft.’
‘Hold your clack, woman. This is my house. You’ve grown large, but not too large for my rule.’ Marjorie Sneddon closed her mouth, thick lips whitening and jowls quivering. ‘You pay me, boy, and then you might do as you want. Which girl’s taken your fancy?’
‘Louisa,’ said Martin, fumbling for coins and passing them over. McGuire held out an open palm, the pads calloused and rough. It closed on the coins.
‘A fine choice, that. The litt
le wench hasn’t lost her blush, not like some.’ Again, he cast a sideways glance at Sneddon. Martin wondered at the nature of their relationship. Perhaps they were lovers or had been. Perhaps they were married. It was a strange thing to have turned to such a business, and for it to have been allowed to pass unmolested by the burgh officials. What a conversation they must have had in the founding of it. ‘This’ll fetch you,’ McGuire went on, ‘only an afternoon’s entertainment. You can’t stay the night on it.’
‘I’ve no wish to lodge the night.’
‘Just so we’re clear, son. Have at it.’
Dismissed, Martin turned and left the hall. Neither Sneddon nor McGuire made any effort to follow, and so he pulled the door closed behind him. Louisa had waited, her expression blank, albeit coloured by a little weariness.
‘You’ve paid?’ she asked him.
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, come on, then, and do as you wish.’
He followed her further down the hall, past two closed doors, until she stopped at a third. Although the house was narrow, it must have been deep, extending further back even than the tavern next door. ‘Well, this is the chamber I use.’ She pushed open the door and stood back, letting him go first.
‘Jesus, what a low place.’ The tiny room was empty save a wide cot with a stuffed sackcloth and a board set on thin blocks of wood serving as a rickety table. On that was a water basin. The walls had been whitewashed, and at some point in their history plastered over; now they were chipped and stained. A tiny window, wooden-shuttered, lay beyond the bed, a single candle burning on the sill. The place had succeeded in being both mean and gloomy.
‘Better than nothing, especially in the winter.’
‘Better a cold body than a cold soul,’ whispered Martin.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Each girl has a room according to her station. I’m still young, I’ll work my way up.’
‘Very pretty.’
‘Me?’
‘The order of the place.’
‘Oh.’
‘But you too. And well spoken.’
‘They make us talk proper.’
The Royal Burgh Page 11
