The Wanderers of the Water-Realm

by Alan Lawton

  Almost six weeks had elapsed since Marsie’ and the wisewoman had begun working at the Cleopatra and both women had now become quite used to the routine of the establishment. The women were roused at about nine o’clock in the morning by one of the maids and were usually free to do as they pleased until midday, unless they were required to take an occasional early turn behind the public bar. Afternoon duties occurred about twice a week, but every woman who was not entertaining a client in one of the private rooms, was expected to be on duty in the public house or the music hall, from seven o’clock in the evening until about midnight when the last client had departed. Waiting upon the tables in the body of the music hall could be hectic in the extreme. For the clientele were mostly drawn from the same social class as those who frequented the pudding and pie establishment, and they often filled the music hall to the doors when ‘out on the town,’ for their Saturday nights entertainment. Even so, there were many nights of the week when the artists on the stage were performing to thin houses and Mrs Pasco would give half of her staff the evening off. Sunday, of course, was a day of rest.

  Mildred placed no restrictions upon the movement of her female employees and Marsie’ and the wisewoman often spent some of their free time wandering around the city. They admired the expensive wares within the shops and the newly constructed shopping malls and viewing the houses of the well-to-do merchant’s where copies of classical sculptures stood amidst colourful beds of flowers, giving visual evidence of their owner’s prosperity. However, Hetty always planed a route that never took them close to the canals, where there was always a slight possibility that she might be recognized by some passing boatman.

  She picked up a tablet of scented soap and reflected upon the men who had been her clients for the past six weeks as she rubbed the fragrant oils into her skin. A mixed bunch of men, she concluded. The majority had been middle aged businessmen, possibly bankers and leading merchant’s, a fact the wisewoman had been easily able to define from their general lack of physical fitness, their slack muscles and smooth un-calloused hands.

  Some had been quite explicit and openly stated the nature of their businesses without divulging their names. “Had a good day in the Cotton Exchange,” one had said, as he leaned over the supper table and freed Hetty’s ample breasts from her bodice, “made a thousand pounds in the first hour of trading, lass, so I deserve a good tumble here in the Cleopatra.” The cotton factor had been a competent lover, she recalled, despite his rather prominent beer belly, but some of her clients, strange as it might seem, had no wish to indulge in sex and contented themselves with an evening of quiet conversation; sadly recounting their fears and frustrations to a prostitute rather than burdening the deaf ears of their unloving wives. Once, a thoroughly distraught man had spent the hours of darkness, weeping in her arms as he grieved for a dead friend, and the wisewoman had quickly realised all the ills of the world were not confined to the poor of Manchester.

  A great deal of unhappiness was to be found beneath the thin veneer of middle class respectability.

  One of the waitresses cum prostitutes was occasionally expected to visit a client at his own residence and was given an extra remuneration for providing this service. Only once had Hetty been required to undertake this duty. On that occasion a private coach had taken her to a large house near Didsbury, where she graced the bed of a grey haired old gentleman who had once been a magnate in the coal trade. The man had wined and dined her on champagne, beefsteak and oysters, and had sent her home in his coach with two golden guineas in her purse.

  Hetty stepped from her bath and towelled herself vigorously. She was far from satisfied with her enquiries within the Cleopatra, for despite keeping her eyes and ears open, she had been quite unable to discover anything of Albert Pike’s affairs, or indeed gain any information that might help to clear her son’s name. However, by discreetly questioning some of the girls, she had learned that Pike occasionally indulged his carnal nature by spending a night with one of the women. The fight-promoter’s habit was to sit in the body of the Cleopatra, with a group of his drinking friends and select the woman whom he would visit the following evening. Pike, it seemed, frequented the establishment for sex about once a month and a visit was now well overdue; these few facts, however meagre, had been sufficient to stimulate the wisewoman’s curiosity, and she had devised a plan to uncover the fight-promoter’s secret’s. Hetty covered her nakedness with a nightshift and a heavy bathrobe and followed the stairs and passageways that led to the bedroom she shared with Marsie’ her companion.

  “Beware Albert Pike,” she muttered sleepily to herself, as she slipped between the warm bed sheets. “You are a man with well-kept secrets, but fate has now decreed that you will share your knowledge with Hetty. The wisewoman of Elfencot”.

  The day was overcast and rain was falling upon the city of Manchester in sheets, as Hetty entered the side door of the Cleopatra. She removed her soaking wet cape in the hallway and hurried up to her bedroom and began stripping off her drenched undergarments. It had been no fit day for a person to be abroad on the streets. Yet the bad weather had suited the wisewoman’s purpose, for it had concealed her movements when she visited the boat-chandler, to collect the small package that Jenny had dispatched by post from Elfencot, in accordance with her written instructions.

  She dried herself and donned fresh clothing before opening the package that had been wrapped in sailcloth to protect it from the rain. The package contained a small wooden box, no more than three inches long and with a sliding lid. Inside, cushioned in lamb’s-wool, lay a tiny glass vial and a small bundle of needle-sharp blackthorns tied together with a strand of cotton thread.

  Hetty carefully picked up the vial and pondered momentarily upon the green liquid. “Aye, this will loosen your tongue, Albert Pike” she thought. For the liquid contained within the vial was a potion known only to a handful of the most adept herbalists, as ‘Truth.’The potion was prepared from a tiny blue flower that was only found upon a few of the highest crags of the Pennine hills.

  ‘Truth,’ had once been a common flower growing in the primeval uplands, but only a few roots of the plant now remained and the species must soon disappear into extinction. Indeed, the potion Hetty now held in her hand, had been prepared by her Grandmother half a Century ago. Along dead Shaman had named both the plant and the drug ‘Truth,’ because a person who was pierced by a thorn, dipped in the potion, would become semiconscious, and in that condition would truthfully answer any question put to them. In addition, the subject would have no recollection of the unwitting indiscretion.

  Hetty smiled grimly as she replaced the vial in its container, for the time had now arrived for putting into action the plan that had slowly been maturing in her mind ever since her arrival some eight weeks ago. She intended to meet Albert Pike during one of his visits to the Cleopatra and then play upon the man’s sexual appetite until he was in the grip of uncontrollable desires. She would then administer the drug whilst the fight-promoter lay locked in her arms. In this manner she hoped to discover the hidden details of the man’s relationship with her son, Darryl. The strategy, however, was not without risk to herself, for the potion had dangerous side effects and could mentally impair the subject or even kill him. Indeed, it was not beyond the realms of possibility for the wisewoman to hang for murder.

  The drug had arrived at the boat-chandlers store just in time to serve Hetty’s purpose, for only yesterday evening she learned thatAlbert Pike would be at the Cleopatra this very night.

  Mildred had called together the five waitresses, including Hetty, who were required to be on duty the next evening. “Now see here girls.” She had said, in her usual authoritative voice. “My brother Albert is comin’ to the music hall tomorrow night so as to celebrate his birthday. He and his friends are to be given anything they desire and I want to hear no complaints afterwards.”

  “No bloody complaints,” a blonde girl called “Rose” had muttered in a low voice. “I waited on yo
n bugger’s party, last year, and me arse got pinched so bad that I couldn’t sit down for near a week.”

  “It will be you who needs to watch your arse Albert Pike.” The wisewoman thought, as she hid the container away in her dressing table. “Time you got punished for pinchin’ ladies bum’s you bastard.”

  The second act of the night, a troupe of Italian tumblers, were performing on the stage of the Cleopatra when Rose nudged the wisewoman gently in the side and told her that Albert Pike and his party were entering the main body of the music hall. Hetty turned and noticed the group in question were seating themselves at a number of tables being the responsibility of the two women. Rose, who was free at that moment, hurried over to the visitors and took an order for some fifteen pints of strong ale and a varied assortment of wines and spirits. “Best get yer’ present order done with,” she said to the wisewoman as she loaded her tray with brimming tankards, “for that bugger Pike and his crew seem well drunk already, and might turn nasty upon us if we keep them waiting over-long.” Hetty nodded and delivered her current order of drinks, then hurried over to the bar to collect some of the wines and spirits required by the birthday revellers. She paused, momentarily, at a long mirror by the bar and quickly checked over her appearance. She smoothed her long red hair falling around her shoulders and viewed the reflected image of her breasts swelling out from the plunging neckline of her low-cut black velvet dress, an outfit that she had chosen especially for Pike’s benefit. Hetty smiled. “Not bad for an old lass.” She concluded with satisfaction.

  She carried her tray with its load of bottles and glasses, over to the half a dozen tables, situated close to the stage where the fight-promoter’s party had chosen to sit.

  Hetty quickly ran her eyes over the birthday gathering. Pike, she immediately recognised from her son’s description, but the remainder were a very motley crew.

  Four of the guests were muscular young gentlemen who appeared to be professional fighters, probably from the Sparta gymnasium, whilst two more were dressed in smart dark suits and might have been country clerics, had not the scars on their faces betrayed them as being hired thugs. The remainder were obviously middle class friends of the fight-promoter, men who probably frequented his numerous venues and possibly sought his company for the sporting entertainment that he was certainly capable of providing; some might even have been close businesses associates of the man. One thing was obvious, with the exception of the scar faced minders; they were all on the way to complete intoxication. Hetty unloaded some of the bottles and glasses at the first table, and then moved on to the next where Pike and some of his cronies were drinking ale like drowning men. “Here’s part of your order Mr Pike,” she said, smiling sweetly as she transferred the bottles and glasses to the tabletop and stretched over the table to collect some empty glasses giving the fight-promoter a close-up view of her very ample cleavage.

  “I’ll be back soon with the rest of the order,” she said, and strode back to the bar, knowing instinctively that Pike’s eyes were now riveted upon her.

  She placed the tray upon the bar and reaching behind her back with both hands. She deliberately began smoothing out the wrinkles in her velvet dress, allowing her fingers to run seductively over her well-formed buttocks. She turned her head slightly and out of the corner of her eye she noticed, with satisfaction, that the fight-promoter’s eyes were still fixed upon her.

  Hetty served a number of other customers and then returned to the fight-promoter’s party, bearing a tray loaded with steaming bowlfuls of pig’s trotters and freshly cooked marrow-bones. She placed some of the bowls on Albert Pike’s table, but as she did so, he reached out and took hold of her by the wrist. “You must be one of my sister’s whores,” he said with beer dribbling down his chin. “I think I’ll take you upstairs right now, and celebrate my birthday by givin’ you a bloody good rodgerin….”

  The fight-promoter proceeded no further with his drunken threat, for Mildred appeared at the wisewoman’s side as though conjured by magic. She pulled the man’s fingers from Hetty’s wrists. “Steady there Albert.” She said in a steely voice. “Not even me own brother is goin’ to maul me girls. You can have her tomorrow and ride her raw, besides, you couldn’t screw yer’ own shadow the state you’re in right now.”

  Mildred’s final comment drew a burst of laughter from Pike’s immediate companions and the manageress ushered Hetty back to the safety of the bar, “get yerself’ up to yer’ room.” She ordered. “The rest of the girls can manage and get ready to give Albert a bloody good bouncing tomorrow night. Now shift yerself’!”

  Alady singer wearing a vivid scarlet dress was finishing the last of a medley of sentimental songs as the wisewoman left the hall. “Enjoy the singing, Pike.” She thought. “Tomorrow night you’ll be singing a different tune. Aye and I’ll be the one doing the listening.”

  Fabric ripped, as Albert Pike burst open the wisewoman’s bodice in his eager desire to fondle her breasts. Hetty’s dress, petticoats and drawers already lay in shreds alongside the bed, whilst she herself was stretched out across the embroidered coverlet, as the sexually aroused fight-promoter began licking and sucking her nipples with the eagerness of a child in desperate need for sustenance.

  Pike had knocked upon the door of the private room less than ten minutes earlier and, upon being admitted, had completely ignored the Champagne, oysters and other delicacies spread out upon the dining room table. Instead, the man had dragged Hetty, his woman-for-the-night, into the adjoining bedchamber and stripped himself stark-naked, before roughly tearing the clothing from her body.

  Hetty continued to endure the fight-promoter’s initially brutal attentions, until his mood began to change into one of languid passion as he feasted avidly upon her breasts, whilst the wisewoman encouraged Pike’s mood-change by gently stroking his back with the tips of her fingers. The man groaned, then ran his right hand down the length of her body, parting her pubic hair with his fingers and began expertly massaging her pelvic area with the tip of his index finger. Hetty responded to the man’s arousal technique by arching her spine and driving her fingernails into his back until she drew blood

  The wisewoman’s action further stimulated the fight-promoter, who forced her legs apart and drove his penis into her body in a single movement. Hetty moaned in response and raked the man’s back with her fingernails, then, as the fight-promoter began ploughing into her she reached out with her right hand, retrieving one of the six drug impregnated thorns lying hidden beneath a napkin on her bedside table. Again, she raked the man’s back, using his pain to mask the prick of the thorn, which she slipped beneath his skin.

  Pike grunted and continued pushing into her vigorously for another minute, then his movements slowed to a stop and his once rampant penis became flaccid and slipped out of the wisewoman’s body. Hetty laughed quietly in triumph, then slipped from beneath Pike’s body and turned him over onto his back. She took another of the thorns inserting it into the man’s arm close to an artery.

  Pike was now quite unable to move and his eyes wandered aimlessly as the wisewoman began her interrogation.

  Do you know Darryl Littlewood the ex-boxer?

  “Yes.” He answered.

  “Were you responsible for the ambush leaving him branded as a murderer?”

  The man’s eyes focused upon her face for a moment. “No.” He grunted.

  Tell me, who was to blame for the attack at “Hell’s Corner,” she said, pressing the thorn a fraction deeper into the man’s flesh.

  “Silas Oldshaw.” Came the reply.

  Hetty was amazed by the answer and she began to realize the plot, that had ruined her son, was deeper and far more complex than she had ever imagined.

  She paused and visited the dining room to retrieved a glass and a bottle of Champagne, for it was now obvious that the interrogation would be long and complicated.

  “We have the whole night before us, Albert my lad,” she said, looking down upon the prone form of the fight-p
romoter. “I’ll know all of your secrets, even if the drug should leave you stone dead”.

  Hetty opened the curtains and allowing the dawn light to flood into her bedroom. She was tired!

  The interrogation had taken most of the night, and had required all of the wisewoman’s wit, plus five of the six drug impregnated needles to glean the information that she required.

  Albert Pike lay unconscious on the bed and his face was ashen white, yet his pulse was strong and the wisewoman had no doubt that two or three days rest would restore him to his usual self.

  Hetty poured the last of the Champagne into her glass and pondered upon the importance of the information that she had extracted from the fight-promoter.

  Joe and Mildred Pascoe, as she had suspected, were people of straw, who, despite their undoubted managerial expertise, held only a small financial interest in the eating house, the two commercial hotels and the music hall cum brothel.