The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  She checked the revolver in her pocket.

  When no further noise came, Irene continued down the street. Her visit with Patrick had knocked her legs out from under her. It was one thing to see Patrick, with his boyish good looks and that million-dollar smile, at his bar or even at the Louisiana Grand. It was another to see him track down a laughing little girl named Lydia, his youngest sister, and dunk her in a rusting iron tub. Patrick had been laughing too.

  He looked happy, in spite of the dark circles under his eyes.

  He looked hopeful.

  He’d told her the name of the brothel when she asked. He hadn’t offered any questions.

  The lies of omission rode on Irene’s shoulders.

  And then she’d reached the back of the brothel. The windows were dark. A flight of steps led to a door. Three empty clotheslines were strung along the length of the small lot. A lone clothespin clung to one line, refusing to budge in spite of winter.

  Irene climbed the steps and checked the door. The handle turned easily. From behind came the sound of steps and then voices. Irene glanced back and saw a group of men—six of them—come around the back of the house. She darted through the door and shut it behind her.

  Growing up, Irene had learned about prostitutes the way most proper young women did—which was to say, as a nebulous sub-class of the more general category of loose women. Loose women was an identification that often overlapped with common women or vulgar women. In church, she’d heard warnings about prostitution and fornication and whoredoms. The Old Testament, for example, had been particularly vexed by whoredoms. But that had been the extent of it.

  When she’d gone to Oberlin, though—after her encounter with Francis Derby—she’d heard the other side of the coin. Although her teachers and fellow suffragettes had derided prostitution as an evil, they’d had a much more realistic account of the causes that led women into that profession, and of the need for a sympathetic heart towards such women.

  All of which only made Irene’s first glimpse of a brothel that much more surprising. She stood in a small kitchen. A wood-burning stove held a kettle and a pan of cold grits. Two girls in camisoles sat on stools, teacups arranged on a table between them. The image of a prostitute that Irene had shaped—of a jaded woman, her soul weary, her back even wearier—did not match these two girls at all. Both were young, and while neither was remarkably pretty, neither showed the lifeless, soulless despair. One was laughing, her mouth clapped over her hand, while the other bared an uneven smile.

  The one who was smiling gave Irene a curious look. “Hello, miss. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Anna,” Irene said. “Is she here?”

  The girls traded a look. “I’ll get Kate,” the one with the uneven smile said. “You should talk to her.”

  “No, please. I only need to talk to Anna. Her brother sent me.”

  The girl who had been laughing was staring at the floor now. The other girl was still watching Irene.

  Irene fumbled with her clutch.

  “Put that away. I don’t want your money.” The girl drained her teacup and stood. “Anna might be working. I’ll check.”

  “Lucy,” the other girl said.

  “It’ll be fine. Stay here in the kitchen.”

  She stood up and gestured Irene to her seat on the stool. Irene sat and folded her hands over her knees. She felt flushed and couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or simply the heat from wearing the coat indoors. Lucy looked at her one last time, gave a nod, and disappeared into the house.

  A moment later, the back door swung open again, and the five men trooped into the kitchen. They gave Irene and the girl looks and traded a few coarse comments, laughing with each other.

  “Who’s your friend, Jess?” one of the men asked. He had a pair of scars that ran almost parallel from ear to nose. He stood over Irene and looked down at her. “All skin and bones.”

  Jess—the girl next to Irene—stared at the floor. “She’s nobody, Mac. Just a lady that stopped by.”

  “A lady?” Mac said. He reached down and ran his finger along the side of Irene’s face.

  She slapped his hand away.

  “Kitty cat,” Mac laughed, but his eyes were hard. He grabbed Irene’s chin and tilted her head up. “You look cold. I bet I could warm you up. Would you like that?”

  “From where I’m sitting, you don’t look like you have much to offer.” Irene let her eyes drift to make sure Mac knew what she meant.

  “Mac, she’s not—” Jess started.

  Mac’s fingers tightened until Irene grit her teeth. Then he let go and slapped her. Irene blinked and felt tears sliding free. Her cheek felt hot and numb.

  A few of the men laughed.

  “Come on, Mac,” one of the men said. “Quit playing.”

  Mac’s eyes didn’t leave Irene’s face.

  “Right,” he said. “Right, boys. Let’s go have some fun.”

  The men filed down the hallway, their laughter rising at another comment from Mac as he joined them.

  “He works for the Dane,” Jess said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You shouldn’t make him mad. He gets mean when he drinks.”

  “He gets mean when he drinks?” Irene said. “God help him, I wanted to shoot him when he was sober.” She rubbed her aching cheek.

  “You ok?” Jess said. “He likes to hit girls, I think.”

  “Probably because he doesn’t have anything else to offer them,” Irene said.

  To her surprise, Jess laughed, covering her mouth.

  “He doesn’t,” she said, then burst into a fresh series of giggles. “He really doesn’t. I know.”

  Irene tried to laugh. Instead, she felt sick to her stomach.

  Those sheltered suffragettes—herself included—ought to spend a single night in a place like this.

  Perspective was a burden Irene would be willing to share.

  The first girl, Lucy, poked her head back into the kitchen and waved for Irene.

  “Bye,” Irene said to Jess.

  “Thank you,” Jess said.

  Irene didn’t know what the girl meant. Instead, Irene smiled in response. She felt like she was sweeping broken crockery under the stove.

  “Anna’s alone upstairs,” Lucy said. “She just finished.” As they started up the stairs, Lucy eyed Irene. “You really know her brother?”

  Irene nodded.

  “She talks about him a lot, but I’ve never seen him come by. Some families are like that. Ashamed. Disappointed.”

  “I don’t think he feels that way,” Irene said.

  “It’s ok if he does. My folks do.”

  “Do they live here in the city?”

  “No, out in the country. Dad grows corn. It’s a quiet place, but I thought it was too quiet.” Lucy laughed, her eyes bright. “It’s never quiet here.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I have shoes and food and a bed,” Lucy said. She laughed again. “And it’s never quiet. Here’s Anna’s room. Nice to meet you.”

  “You too. And thank you.”

  Lucy smiled again, showing her ragged teeth, and then trotted down the stairs. Irene wiped her palms on her skirt. She knocked.

  “Come in,” a voice said.

  The room was spare, if Irene were generous. If she were blunt, it was Spartan. A bed with a flowered quilt and lace-edged pillows was the only gesture at decoration. The gingham sheets were in disarray. So was the blond girl on the bed. She wore a camisole that clung to her skin. Her eyes were wide and heavy, so that she looked as though she were either waking or falling asleep. Her legs were spread, and she made no effort to sit up when Irene stepped into the room.

  This was the kind of woman Irene had imagined during all those Sunday sermons.

  “Anna?”

  The girl turned listless eyes to Irene.

  “Anna, Patrick sent me. You need to get up and get dressed. Right now.”

  Still no response.

  Irene sat on t
he edge of the bed and took the girl’s hand. Anna’s grip was limp.

  “I know it’s been terrible, sweetheart,” Irene said. “We’re leaving. Tonight. Now. Hurry, though. We have to hurry.”

  “No,” Anna said.

  “What do you mean? Patrick sent me. He told me, Anna. He wanted to come himself, but they’d kill him on sight.” Irene stood and made a circuit of the bed. “I’ll pack you a change of clothes and we’ll leave right now. We just need to get to a cab. Drat. I should have hailed one before I came inside. Oh well.” She glanced over at Anna. “Please, Anna. We can’t linger.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tears welled in Anna’s eyes. She lay there as though dead. The tears spilling down her cheeks were the only signs of life. Fountains in a dead city.

  “He said—” Anna began. She cleared her throat and closed her eyes. “He said if I left . . .”

  “Who? The Dane?”

  Anna nodded. “He’d bring Lydia here instead. He said there are men that like—men that like that.”

  Irene’s knees went weak. “She’s only a child.”

  Anna didn’t respond. With her eyes closed, her breathing soft, she might have been asleep.

  Or dead.

  “No,” Irene said. She grabbed Anna’s hand and pulled her upright. “Come on, Anna. We’re leaving. We’ll protect Lydia. We’ll protect all of them. We can send them away, or hide them—” Irene’s eyes were burning. She dragged at Anna. It was like trying to lift one of those massive rugs, which were always bending and folding in inconvenient ways and far too heavy to pick up all at once.

  Irene let Anna drop back onto the bed. She wiped her eyes.

  She’d never met the Dane. She thought about putting a bullet in the back of his head.

  “Anna, get up right now, or I’ll walk downstairs and tell Kate I caught you trying to go out the back.”

  Anna’s eyes flashed open. “She won’t believe you.”

  “She will. I bribed Lucy and Jess to get me up here. You think they won’t take a little bit extra to sing a new song?”

  “You wouldn’t.” Anna’s breath came faster. “You don’t dare.”

  Irene moved towards the door.

  “No,” Anna cried. She tumbled off the bed, her legs folding under her, and latched her arms around Irene’s waist.

  The two women fell to the floor. Irene pulled at Anna’s hands. Her elbow cracked against the washstand, and tingles ran up Irene’s arm. She heard a thump as they landed.

  It took Irene a moment to wiggle free. She flexed her arm. Not broken, which was something, but it still ached. Then she saw Anna.

  The fair-haired girl lay on her side at the base of the washstand.

  Irene dropped to her knees. Anna was still breathing, but she’d knocked herself out cold.

  Perfect. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  Perfect.

  Irene opened the door. She had half a mind to call for Lucy and ask for the girl’s help. There was no way Irene could carry Anna on her own.

  But when she looked out into the hall, Irene stared Harry Witte in the face as he came up the stairs, his hands moving down the waist of a red-haired woman.

  Moving very far down her waist, to be precise.

  Shock flashed across Harry’s face.

  Irene blinked.

  “Irene,” Harry said. His eyes moved past her.

  “Anna,” the red-haired woman said.

  “Harry,” Irene said. It felt somewhere between a swear and a call for help.

  The red-haired woman pushed past Irene, and Harry moved to join Irene at the door. He glanced down at the half-dressed girl and then back at Irene, and one of his eyebrows went up.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Irene fumbled for an answer. Her cheeks might as well have been molten steel.

  And then, from further down the hall, she heard the thump of a falling body.

  Thank God, she thought.

  Cian tasted carpet. His head felt like a broken egg. He groaned, opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. The gas lamps overhead drove spears through Cian’s aching brain.

  The bearded man looked down at him. He raised his pistol and shook his head.

  In life or death situations, Cian discovered he was remarkably intuitive. He got the message almost immediately.

  Don’t move.

  That was fine with Cian. He was pretty sure his brain would slip out his ear if he tried to get up.

  Voices came from further down the hallway, and the bearded man turned to look. Then he called, “Ian. Joe. You get your asses up here now.”

  “You find him?” a second voice answered. “Eileen said he’d be here.”

  “Just get up here.”

  The sound of steps on the stairs. Cian rubbed his eyes. Eileen, God damn her. She’d sent Byrne’s men after him. The realization made Cian tired. The Colt was an uncomfortable wedge of metal against his back, and he thought about shooting the bearded man. Then he thought about how loud that shot would be.

  His head ached too much.

  The steps on the stairs were closer now.

  “Excuse me,” a new voice said. A familiar voice. “If you could just—”

  There was a surprised shout and then the sound of someone falling down the stairs. Hard.

  Cian’s eyes flicked open.

  Harry Witte stood at the top of the steps.

  Cian groaned.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the bearded man said. He took a pair of steps towards Harry. “I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

  “I hope you don’t,” Harry said. “I rather like my neck the way it is.”

  The bearded man shoved the gun into his trousers. “You came down here the wrong night, buddy.”

  Harry sighed. “It’s always the wrong night for me, I’m afraid.”

  Cian got to his knees. For a moment, he was certain that he had been right, and that his brain was about to fall right out of his head. Then the world put itself back together. He pulled out the Colt. Everything was still slightly out of focus, and Cian figured he’d be lucky if he could hit the floor.

  “Hey,” he shouted.

  The bearded man glanced back.

  Before the bearded man could turn back, Harry pulled out his revolver and fired. The round knocked the bearded man onto his backside. He was still twisted about, staring at Cian. He blinked once and fell.

  Screams rose throughout the brothel.

  “Hey?” Harry said.

  “It was the best I could come up with.”

  Harry opened his mouth to say something else, but a bullet slammed into the wall next to him, dislodging a chunk of wood. Harry turned and fired. A sharp cry came from below.

  “You brought friends,” Harry said.

  Cian got to his feet. The world rocked, and he grabbed onto the door frame. He closed his eyes for a minute. Another gunshot came from nearby.

  When he opened his eyes, Irene was standing in the hall.

  Cian groaned again. “This is a bad dream, right?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Harry said. He had taken a position near the stairs, out of sight of the shooters below. “Irene, would you like to explain what you were doing alone in a room with an unconscious prostitute?”

  With a blink, Cian said, “Yes. Please explain.”

  Irene looked like she’d baked in the sun. “It’s a long story. How do we get out of here?”

  One of the doors along the hall opened. A balding, heavy-set man stumbled out of the room, naked except for a pillow held in front of his privates. His eyes were wide. Behind him, a naked woman stared at Cian and then slammed the door.

  The balding man took one look at the hall and turned to pound on the door, begging to be let back in.

  Harry shook his head in disgust, poked around the corner, and fired down the stairs.

  “Cian, your head,” Irene said. “Can you walk?”

  �
�Of course I can walk.” Cian did not, however, let go of the wall. Walking was one thing. Standing upright was completely different.

  “Check the rooms,” Harry said. “Find the damn mask.”

  Irene looked at Cian.

  “Go,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  She darted back to the room she had come from. Cian turned to the next door and tried the handle.

  Locked.

  Taking hold of the frame, Cian drove his heel into the handle. The frame snapped, and the door flew inwards. A half-dressed girl knelt on the bed, holding a Bible like a weapon. She screamed.

  “Stop that,” Cian said, waving with the Colt. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The girl continued to scream.

  “Fine. Have it your way.” He paused again. He hated himself for taking a second look, but then again, she was only half-dressed, and Cian was only a man. And she was—

  Cian shook his head. “Pull your dress up,” he said, more for the benefit of his conscience than anything else. Than he got onto his knees and crawled under the bed.

  Nothing.

  As he scooted out from under the bed, he felt something heavy collide with the back of his head, plastering Cian’s nose to the floor.

  Overhead, with something approaching seraphic triumph, the girl shouted, “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  Cian probed his nose. Not broken, thank God. Then he got to his knees.

  The girl brandished the Bible.

  “Damn it,” Cian said, looking focusing on the black book instead of the girl’s more noticeable traits. “I told you to pull your dress up.”

  As he got to his feet, though, Cian paused.

  The girl raised the Bible in warning.

  “There’s a boy who comes here,” Cian said. “Blond. Annoying. The kind that would rob a priest. Goes by Sam. You know him?”

  After a pause, the girl nodded.

  “Who’d he visit, last time he came here?”

  “He always goes to Nell.”

  “Always?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Which room is hers?”

  “Two doors down.”

  “Good. Now, get under your bed and stay there until things quiet down. And for God’s sake, don’t hit anyone with that thing again.”