Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  She slipped into the Bear and went directly to the bar. Even now, not so long after noon, the small room was thick with custom, and the air with wood and tobacco smoke. At one table half a dozen Runners, distinguishable by the red waistcoats of their office, were arguing over their coffee. Further from the door there was a similar group of fellows, less noisily refreshing themselves and watching the Runners’ table with something she construed as envy. At the bar a woman stood polishing glasses. Iron-gray hair curled under her cap and framed her square-jawed face. She was heavy and poorly corsetted; from the way she shifted from foot to foot, Miss Tolerance surmised that her feet and her back felt the strain of her work very much.

  “Aye, sir. What can I get for you?” the woman asked.

  Miss Tolerance put a silver piece on the bar. “Ale, please.”

  “Please. That’s nice,” the woman said comfortably. “Most a’ yon paragons of the law don’t say please nor thankee. Here you are, sir.”

  She slid a pewter mug across to Miss Tolerance and filled it from an earthenware jug. “Brewed fresh. You taste that, now.”

  Miss Tolerance did, and smacked her lips. It was very good, and she said so.

  “Polite and knows good ale. Wish we had more of your custom here,” the woman said. She took a handful of coins from her pocket and began to pore over them nearsightedly to discover the proper change.

  “Keep it, please,” Miss Tolerance said.

  Rather than endearing her to the woman, this seemed to arouse her suspicion. “And what?” she asked.

  “Not much. I was curious to know if a constable named Boyse comes in here for a drink.”

  The suspicion on the woman’s face deepened. “You a friend of his?”

  “Mr. Boyse? I shouldn’t think he had any friends,” Miss Tolerance said.

  The woman snickered. “You’re right there, sir. But you won’t find ‘im here. He does his drinking nearer to his own Public Office—don’ t come in here unless it’s to pick a fight. Which I’m grateful for, as you may imagine. If you’re wanting of Mr. Boyse, look in Oxford Street at the Duke of Kent. I’ve a friend married to the barman there, she’s mentioned Boyse more than once.”

  “Not with favor, I gather?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’d stay clear of that ’un were I you, my lad. Unless you want your face more bashed about than ’tis already.”

  “Actually, I’d happily stay clear of Mr. Boyse. I’m looking for a friend of his, a Mr. Millward.”

  The woman shook her head. “Don’t know the name. What’s he look like?”

  Miss Tolerance shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’ve a need to find him without Mr. Boyse learning of it.” She reached for her pocketbook. “If you happen to hear of a Mr. Millward, I would be very grateful—”

  The woman put a hand on Miss Tolerance’s arm. “Keep your money, boy. ‘Fit happens I hear of this Millward, and ’fit happens I get word to you, you can give me a little something then.” She rubbed an affectionate finger on the heavy cloth of the Gunnard coat. “I never had a fancy for brown hair, but even with them bruises there’s something agreeable-like about you.” She took her hand away. “Millward? ‘F’I hear aught of him, where shall I let you know?”

  Miss Tolerance bit her lip to keep from smiling. “You can send a note to me at Tarsio’s Club in Henry Street,” she said. “Address it to Miss Tolerance. I really would be most appreciative, ma’am.”

  The barmaid’s brows drew together and she squinted, examining Miss Tolerance’s face closely. Then her face lit with a lopsided grin; it appeared she was not one to hold a grudge. “Damn, took me in proper, you did. Well, my eyes ain’t what they was. Very well, Miss T. ‘F’I hear of Millward, I’ll send to Tarsio’s to let you know, and you can pay from that wallet. But do you try the Duke of Kent, too.” She turned away, chuckling.

  Miss Tolerance, smiling herself, left the smoky, hospitable warmth of the Bear.

  The Duke of Kent shared a narrow street front with a stairway to the two upper stories of its building. Once inside, Miss Tolerance perceived that the alehouse was considerably larger than its front suggested. The room described an L, with a massive greasy fireplace on the right wall which looked as if it had not been cleaned since the time of the last King Henry. In contrast to the venerable fireplace, the furnishings of the tavern gave the impression of great impermanence; the bar itself was merely a few boards laid atop sawhorses, with half a dozen barrels stacked behind, each with a label scrawled on in chalk: bitter, new ale, apple beer and the like. The clientele of the Duke of Kent gave an equal impression of rough-hewn unsteadiness. It was not the most disreputable public house Miss Tolerance had ever seen, but neither was it an inviting spot in which to take refreshment. Miss Tolerance shouldered her way through the crowd with as good an impression of masculine impatience as she could muster, and took a place at the bar. When the sullen barman turned to her she ordered apple beer and tried not to notice that the man barely wiped the pot before he tapped the cider into it.

  “Thank you,” she said, and dropped a coin onto the bar. It fell on its edge and began to roll along the rough surface, but the barman was evidently familiar with the phenomenon, and caught the coin before it fell off the edge of the bar.

  “We’re fixing things up,” he said in tones of grudging apology.

  Miss Tolerance nodded. “Is Mr. Boyse in this afternoon?” she asked.

  The barman turned to take another order, then shook his head. “Not yet. Mayhap this evening, around about ten or so. Come in most nights when he’s off duty, like.”

  “A regular, then?”

  The barman pulled off a pot of ale and pushed it in the direction of its recipient. “What you want with Boyse? ‘E’s not the sort a young gent like you ought to be mixing with.”

  “I’ve no wish to mix with him,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “In fact, I’m not interested in Boyse at all—only with a friend of his named Millward.”

  The barman looked to one side and then the other and began to swipe at the surface of the bar with his apron. “Wouldn’t say Boyse ‘ad no friends, like. Even that nancypants mate of ’is don’t drink with ’im above twice a month.”

  “Mr. Greenwillow?” Miss Tolerance suggested. “So you don’t know of a man named Millward?”

  “What am I?” The barman left off polishing the uneven surface of his temporary bar and looked square at Miss Tolerance. “I don’t ask no one’s name. Look, you. If I did know of this ’ere Millward—”

  “I would make it worth your while.” Miss Tolerance slid her hand inside her coat to suggest payment of a sum sufficient to loosen the barman’s tongue. “I believe Mr. Boyse was drinking with him two nights ago. They made quite a batch of it, from what I hear.”

  The man shook his head. “Two nights ago? They weren’t hard-drinkin’ here. Boyse come in, sober and full of hisself as usual, and took up straightaway with Betty Strokum, like he does when he’s in funds. They supped a while, had a few tots of gin, then left.”

  Miss Tolerance took another sip of her apple beer. Despite the unpromising surroundings, the cider was crisp and potent. She considered. “Together? And how long was Mr. Boyse here?”

  “Look,” the barman said firmly. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. Boyse is a constable—I don’t want no trouble here.”

  “I promise you: tell me the truth, whatever you know of it, and I’ll pay you well. If all goes as I hope, you’ll never hear from me again.”

  There was a thoughtful pause while the barman drew another pot of ale and received payment for it. Then the man leaned forward over the bar, close enough that Miss Tolerance could see the rheum in his bloodshot eyes and smell tobacco and juniper berry on his breath.

  “Boyse come in about eight that evening. Soppin’ wet from the storm, of course, but sober as a judge when he got there. Like I told you, ’e was here wiv Bet a few hours, then they left, Bet with her tongue in Boyse’s ear. After that? Ask Mrs. Strokum, if you wa
nt to know what Boyse was doing. That’s all I can tell you, in truth or safety. You’ll oblige me by moving’ along, then, sir,” he added loudly. “We don’t want troublemakers at the Duke of Kent”

  “Right, then,” Miss Tolerance agreed as loudly. More quietly she asked a last question. “Where might I find Mrs. Strokum, sir?”

  The barman laughed, apparently genuinely amused. “Look on any corner hereabouts. Handsome mort, yellow hair and a red dress. She’s got no teeth in the front—makes it convenient-like, see?”

  Miss Tolerance blinked, then laughed. She put a half-crown piece flat on the bar so that there was no chance of its rolling away, then turned the collar of her Gunnard coat up, tucked in her muffler, and went in search of Mrs. Strokum. She did not believe she would have much luck at—she checked her pocket watch—three of the afternoon. Still, she walked in an expanding circle around the Duke of Kent, looking for a blonde woman with a convenient lack of teeth, wearing a red dress. A few streets away from the tavern she came upon a whore in an ancient bottle-green velvet coat, leaning against an iron fence and calling drunkenly to passersby. Despite the coat and a patchy fur tippet wound round her throat, the woman’s teeth were chattering so hard it made her offers of pleasure hard to understand. Miss Tolerance noted a rosy chancre at the corner of her mouth and shuddered.

  “Mrs. Strokum?”

  The whore’s head turned so quickly she nearly lost her balance. “I can do you better than she, sir,” she said.

  Miss Tolerance sighed. “No doubt. But I have a specific need to talk to Mrs. Strokum. Do you know where I may find her?”

  The woman cackled and glanced around her; as she did so she kicked at something—a square blue gin bottle near her foot. “Why should I send you to Bets when I got you here, young gentleman?”

  “Because I will pay you to do so—and given that your lips are as blue as that bottle, I’d suggest you buy yourself something warm to eat.” And see a surgeon and get yourself cleaned of the pox that’s eating your face, she did not say. Seen close to, the woman was likely Miss Tolerance’s age, but she looked far older. Miss Tolerance was aware of a sudden unlikely desire to take this poxy sister in tow, get her cleaned and fed and doctored. As well try to drink the ocean dry as save all the whores in London from their fate.

  “Let’s see the color of your money, then,” the woman said. She stepped closer to Miss Tolerance, weaving on her feet, and belched so foully it was all Miss Tolerance could do not to reel away.

  “All I need to know is where to find Betty Strokum,” Miss Tolerance said. She took a handful of coins from her pocket and selected a half-crown, which she held firmly between her thumb and forefinger. “If you please?” she prodded.

  The whore shrugged petulantly. “Down there—” She pointed along Eastcastle Street. “Two streets down. I saw her half an hour ago, draggin’ a gent into the mews. She’s likely done with ’im now. Or ’e with ’er.” She snatched at the coin and would have missed it but that Miss Tolerance pressed it into her hand.

  “Thank you. Eat something hot,” Miss Tolerance advised again. The woman had already turned away in the direction of the Duke of Kent. At least, Miss Tolerance thought, while the money lasted she would be drunk inside, near a fire.

  She picked her way along Eastcastle Street. Clouds were beginning to thicken overhead, giving the streets and pedestrians a gray cast. Underfoot the sludge in the gutters was beginning to ice over, and the crossing-sweeps looked more interested in picking pockets than clearing a path through the muck. The mews the hedge-whore had indicated opened onto the street through an arched gateway, but the gate itself had long ago rusted out of use, and the alley leading to the stables was lined with crates and barrels and rotting bales of straw. Miss Tolerance suspected it had been some time since any horse had been stabled there.

  She misliked walking blindly into any alley, particularly one which seemed providentially designed to hide attackers. She pushed back the skirt of the Gunnard coat, put her hand to the hilt of her sword, and advanced slowly. Thin gray sunshine lit the left side of the alley and left the right in shadow; once off the street the rattle of carriages and horses and handcarts abated a little; the quiet increased a sense of dreadful anticipation. She heard something, rustling and a mutter of voices, ahead and to the right around the corner. Cautiously she stepped forward, peering into the shadows. Against the dirty brick wall she saw a man’s shirted back; his pants were dropped to reveal pale buttocks, pumping furiously. Miss Tolerance blinked and realized that the splash of color that framed the man was a red dress, rucked up waist-high.

  She retired to the street.

  Some few minutes later the man left the alley, calling some rude pleasantry over his shoulder. He saw Miss Tolerance waiting at the gate and called out cheerily, “I primed ’er for you, mate!” as he continued on his way. Miss Tolerance did her best to banish all the unfortunate images this called to her mind, and stepped back to meet Betty Strokum.

  As the barman at the Duke of Kent had said, she was missing her front teeth, top and bottom, which gave her smile a quality of idiocy at odds with the shrewdness of her eyes.

  “My, ain’t I the popular one today?” Mrs. Strokum said pleasantly. The red dress which had lately been hitched up and splayed around her patron was now back in place, the bonnet which covered her blonde curls only slightly askew. “What’s your pleasure, dear?”

  “I was wondering if you would like a bowl of stew,” Miss Tolerance suggested.

  The whore looked as if she had not understood. “Stew? To do what with?”

  Miss Tolerance’s imagination failed her. “To eat, ma’am. I am hungry. Are you?”

  “You offerin’ to buy me dinner?” Mrs. Strokum looked her up and down and apprehended what her sister down the street had not. “You’re female.”

  “I am. I’ve a few questions to ask, and am happy to pay for answers—but I’m also cold and hungry. Would you like to dine, Mrs. Strokum?”

  The woman made a face, half amusement, half disbelief. “Why, certainly, Your Highness. So kind of you to ask.” She caught up the skirt of her red dress, righted her bonnet with a tap, and swept past Miss Tolerance out of the mews. Once on Eastcastle Street Miss Tolerance took the lead and turned left, away from Oxford Street and the Duke of Kent.

  Mrs. Strokum tried to stay her. “There’s a place I know—” she began.

  “Where you are well known, I collect? For our purposes, m’am, I think you will prefer a more anonymous spot.” Miss Tolerance firmly led them several streets to the east before she began to look out for a public house. Several times Mrs. Strokum suggested gin houses they passed, but Miss Tolerance wanted the whore sober and of a reflective mind for their talk.

  At last she found a neat chophouse of rather better character than the neighborhood that surrounded it, and steered Mrs. Strokum through the door. She chose a table well away from the door and the one grimy window onto the street, and settled Mrs. Strokum at it. The girl who came to serve them looked rather sniffily at the whore, but evidently had decided that custom was custom, and did nothing worse than explain that there was no stew, only mutton soup with barley, or joints of beef or mutton. Mrs. Strokum’s eyes lit greedily; she ordered a beef bone and bread to soak up the juice. Miss Tolerance made do with a bowl of soup.

  Mrs. Strokum went about making herself comfortable, removing the several wool shawls with which the upper part of her body had been wrapped. The shawls she draped over the back of her chair, trailing on the greasy floor; her red gown, which must once have been a handsome morning gown, had been cut down in front to display highly compressed breasts which looked as if they might burst across the table like weapons. Mrs. Strokum patted at her hair, straightened her bonnet again, quite uselessly, then leaned across the table toward Miss Tolerance, further compressing her breasts.

  “Now, darling, what’s to do? What’s so dire we can’t talk about it at the ol’ Duke a’ Kent?”

  “Shall we wait unti
l the food comes?” Miss Tolerance suggested.

  “Suit yourself.” Mrs. Strokum shrugged. “Nasty weather, ain’t it?”

  They discussed the savagery of November for several minutes more, until the serving girl brought the food. Mrs. Strokum wasted no time in applying herself to the beef. Miss Tolerance stirred her soup and considered.

  “I understand you’re a friend of Mr. Boyse’s,” she said at last As she had feared, the greedy light in Mrs. Strokum’s eyes dimmed, replaced by apprehension. “I don’t make no secret of it,” she said. “What’s it to you?”

  “I only need to know if you were with Mr. Boyse two nights ago, and if you are acquainted with a gentleman named Millward.”

  Mrs. Strokum’s face hardened. She leaned back, picked up the beef bone in her fist as if it were a club, and raised it to her lips. The missing front teeth meant that she had to gnaw the bone using her side teeth, which gave her a savagely wolfish look.

  “Happen I was with ‘im. What then? I don’t keep count a’ who I’m with here and there.”

  Miss Tolerance pushed her bowl away and leaned forward herself. “Mrs. Strokum, I have a witness who puts you some time in Mr. Boyse’s company on that evening. I merely need to know for how long, if he spoke with Mr. Millward, and where I might find this Millward.”

  “You know Mr. Boyse?” Mrs. Strokum asked. Miss Tolerance nodded. “Then you know he ain’t the sort of man you want to peach on. ‘E finds out I been a talkin’ of ‘im behind ’is back—”

  “I shan’t tell him. Only help me find this Millward—” Miss Tolerance took out a purse and let the gentle clink of coins on the table speak for her.