by Bryn Colvin
The water was starting to chill and the evening was growing cool. Amelia rose from her bathing and reached for towels to dry herself, offering one to Freddy as she emerged. They dried each other in studied silence, each needing to reacquaint themselves with the curves and planes of the other’s body. Amelia admired the firm roundness of Frederica’s bottom, and the high, pointed breasts that were soon beneath her hands, to be rubbed with fabric and then with attentive fingers.
“Will you come to my bed?” Amelia asked, “We never did kiss one upon the other, and I should like to have my tongue in you while you give the same to me.”
“And see who cries for mercy first.”
“I shall give no quarter, not unless you beg me to stop,” Amelia answered, her face flushed with desire and her lips already hungry to taste the other woman’s musk.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Somewhere in the fog, Brendan heard a call. He stopped and listened. Along the narrow cobbled street the wheels of a cab rattled past as he stood aside, but that was not the noise that had attracted his attention. It was a dark city of anguish and pain, and his own dark mood made it impossible to see anything other than shadows.
Two drunks staggered out of the gloom, their boisterous voices muffled in the thick mist that swirled around and the blackness seeping into every pore of London. This was industrial grime, trapped from a million coal fires and thousands of trading enterprises. When the weather closed in it held the evil smoke in its grasp and bound the great city in a film of dust and wet grit. In winter it was an ever-present evil, but a cold snap in summer could cause it just as readily.
Brendan watched the drunks go by. The footman had no idea why he thought there was any chance he would find Caroline Terrington in this part of London, but he had to try. Sean and Terrance must be somewhere, and news of them might lead to Caroline. He tried very hard not to think about what they might be doing to her but, more often than not, he failed in this, and the images that drifted into his thoughts left him sick and angry.
The dim light of a public house faintly penetrated the gloom. It made him realize he was thirsty and hungry, having been searching fruitlessly for many hours. His hope had been to listen to the gossip amongst the Irish immigrants and pick up information that would lead him to Caroline.
Pushing the door, he went into the Spread Eagle pub. The thick atmosphere inside was almost as choking as the fog outside. A few eyes turned to scrutinize him. Then they turned away, satisfied that he was not the law. Brendan pushed his way to the long, scrubbed, wooden bar. A surly man in a filthy apron and with a leather strap on his arm watched him. The man had obviously come up from the cellar to tap more barrels of beer. He wiped his forehead, using the back of his lower arm with the leather band on it.
“What do you want?”
The question referred to the beer, but there was always the scope to ask for more in a place like this.
“Ordinary ale,” Brendan replied. He took his glass and went over to a corner. Sipping at his drink, he recognized the futility of his quest.
“Want some company?”
The voice belonged to a youngish woman. Brendan shrugged. She persisted with her intrusion and sat next to him.
“Don’t look so glum, Sir. I’m sure I can cheer you up.”
She pushed closer to him. He decided on venturing a question.
“Do you know a Sean O‘Neil?”
She shook her head.
“Or perhaps Terence Reardon. They are both Irish.”
“Not my clients, Mister…but you are more my sort,” she winked in a provocative way, and put her hand on his knee.
He pushed her away.
“You stuck up bastard. Think you’re too good for an honest woman trying to earn a living.”
She spat vehemently, and flounced away to another group of men at the end of the bar.
“These men, is there a reward in it?”
He was surprised by the husky voice. A woman stood leaning in the darkness of an alcove, only yards from him. She stepped out and he could see her slim body in the ragged dress. On the side of her pretty face was a blue, swollen bruise.
“Do you know them?” he asked, but kept the question soft. She sidled over and slipped herself by his side on the bench seat.
“What’s in it for me, Mister?”
“Where are these men?”
“Let’s see your money first.”
He felt in his jacket–one silver shilling. A whole month’s money after his meals and lodgings were deducted from the wage. Gripping it in his closed fist, he studied the woman. He needed information but did not have the money to squander on false leads. He supposed Amelia might assist him if he did need more but he had no desire to tell her just why he thought Caroline might be in the hands of his old friends. One mention of Irish Nationalists and she would probably have him behind bars before he could blink, and then he would be of no use to Caroline at all.
“What you looking at, Mister, this bruise on my face? Got that from some man who thought I’d not given him enough satisfaction. Now, I could please a handsome man like you. I’d include that in reward for a shiny shilling, which I know you have in your hand.”
“Where are O‘Neil and Reardon?”
“Not here. Keep your voice down. Come up stairs, Sir.”
“They pushed through the crowd to a door at the far side of the pub. The woman opened it out onto an alley. Climbing the rusting metal stairs, Brendan could hear the clip-clop of their boots against the iron frame. At the very top they went into a small attic room, the only furnishing being a plain, wooden bed covered with a dark-brown blanket, the edges frayed and moth-holes eating away the fabric, as the fog seemed to devour the world outside.
She sat on the bed.
“My name’s Lillian. What’s yours?”
“Brendan.”
“Not much to say for yourself, have you, Brendan? So, is the shilling going to be mine?”
“Tell me what you know about these Irishmen?”
“All right, you look an honest man, Lord knows I’ve got no reason to trust anyone. Well, my handsome Brendan, I was down staying with my mother – she lives on the edge of the marshes in Canterbury. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, in Kent.”
“Right, my fine-looking fellow. Most folk think it’s all beautiful cathedral and fine town. They don’t see the poor shepherd people, living out on the wet marshes, trying to feed themselves and their families: nine of us, the rest all younger than me. Someone had to earn money for them since my dad died. This…” she spread her arms to indicate the room and her life of prostitution…“is what I do.”
Lillian shrugged and sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“But you aren’t interested in that. Well, it was when I went to Canterbury last week that those names were mentioned. Two men in a pub - the St. Thomas Inn it was--they were called by those names. Proper Irish accent they had. Could hardly understand them.”
Brendan wondered if it was just a tale, but for some reason, he trusted her. He handed over the shilling. Lillian bit it to check it was genuine. She stood up, went to the window, pulled the drapes shut, turned and lifted her dress over her head. Naked in the half-light, Brendan thought she was beautiful.
“Well then, Brendan. How do you want me?”
He was not here to indulge his lust. His mission was to find Caroline. Lillian’s body enticed his weary senses. Brendan hesitated, thinking about the fair woman he meant to rescue and the fragile beauty before him. He supposed it would be a kindness to show this working girl a genuinely good time, as opposed to the rough and brutal encounters she had so obviously had to endure.
* * * *
“Damn their eyes, Jenkins. Next time they have the impudence to visit a gentlemen’s club, show them the door.”
Sir Jasper tossed aside the envelopes Jenkins had tried to hand to him as he left The Albemarle Club. Akenfield headed for Charing Cross Railway Station,
the fawning, apologetic words of the doorman still in his ears. Of course, he had dismissed the insinuations of unpaid debts, but he knew his situation was daily becoming more precarious. Soon the game would be up and ruin would be inescapable.
Jenkins had informed him that two callers at the club had left copies of their overdue accounts. One was that fellow Girling, who had the outfitters in Bond Street and then the little weasel, Robertson, had the gall to openly impute a gentleman’s honour by leaving his charges for wine and telling a servant like Jenkins that they had been outstanding for over twelve months.
“A first class return to Folkestone,” Sir Jasper snapped at the ticket clerk.
He grabbed the ticket, marched off to platform seven and was just in time to catch the train. It crawled out of the station, over Hungerford Bridge and headed through the grimy houses of South East London. Once clear of the junctions and local traffic, the train built up a good head of steam and rattled down the line and into the County of Kent.
“Blasted tradesmen,” Sir Jasper muttered as he looked out of the window.
“Pardon, Sir?”
The rather foreign-looking gentleman tucked in the corner reading his London Illustrated News, and the only other passenger in the carriage, looked at the fuming Sir Jasper.
“Please excuse my language. I did not mean to speak out loud,” Sir Jasper smiled an unfelt apology.
“Your welfare is, naturally, of interest to me,” the man offered, and ran his finger over his waxed hair, thick with pomade.
“Do I know you, Sir?” Jasper asked, still keeping the comment civil.
“We were to meet in Folkestone, Sir Jasper, but I was anxious to make direct contact.”
“You must explain, Sir?”
“Come, come, Sir Jasper, you have an appointment with certain Mehemet Kemel to discuss, shall we say, financial matters. Then it is well met. I am that gentleman.”
He offered his hand.
“Damn funny way to conduct business,” Sir Jasper grumbled.
“Perhaps your request to be loaned the sum of twenty-thousand pounds without any sureties is in itself a strange request, Sir Jasper,” the man grinned in a way that did not please Akenfield.
“How did you know I would be on this train, Kemel?”
“Simple deduction, as any clever detective would say,” Kemel smiled and showed his row of broken white teeth. “I am surprised that you British, with your love of literature, have not yet created such a fictional character. Let me explain my reasoning. You arranged to meet a representative of our bank at a certain time on the docks at Folkestone Harbour. It is an easy matter to calculate that the only train to leave London today able to meet such a schedule is the one we now sit on.”
Akenfield took an instant dislike to this foreign fellow. Much too clever, he thought, and wondered why he had got involved with his organization. The truth was that the more respectable financial establishments would have demanded solid collateral for the enormous loans he was drawing down pay for his lifestyle and bad business investments.
“So, Kemel, if we must conduct our affairs on a train, let us get the matter over and go about our respective lives.”
“That would be my wish, Sir Jasper, but I am sure you will understand that the sum you have now requested is very substantial…and of course you are unable to pledge the one asset which would back such a loan.”
“My family home is not mine to offer, Kemel. I have told you before that it is in the name of a trust and, whilst my mother lives, it is her signature alone that will release this matter.”
“Just so, Sir Jasper. Then we must look to other ways to secure a felicitous outcome to these negotiations.”
“I sense you have a suggestion,” Sir Jasper said suspiciously, mistrusting this Ottoman Turk intensely.
“I see we have reached Tonbridge Station,” Kemel said.
“Very interesting,” Sir Jasper retorted sarcastically.
“Oh, but it is of interest, Sir Jasper. For we will alight here and meet some of my associates.”
Kemel got up as the train came to a complete standstill and opened the carriage door.
“Sir Jasper?”
It was a request for him to exit first.
They walked along the platform with the steam billowing up from the engine. It half-obscured Mehemet Kemel and gave him the appearance of a magician disappearing as a trick on stage. Outside the station a horse and carriage awaited them, the driver sitting up top, muffled and wrapped against a chill, wet day. They drove in silence – Kemel smiling as if he had some private joke in his head and Sir Jasper glumly looking out at the rolling downs. He hated the countryside: It was only fit for cows, yokels and those of little intelligence. Gentlemen were best displayed in cities, where their wit and breeding would be appreciated.
“We are here,” Kemel announced and jumped down from the carriage. Before them was a house, with ivy-covered walls, yews trees in long avenues and an air of foreboding about the place. In the distance a dog howled, high pitched, into a grey sky, skimming over the gnarled trees on the far hills. Kemel led the way, pushing at the dark oak door and walking into an entrance hall that immediately echoed to his precise and measured steps.
“This way, Sir Jasper; there is no need to look so apprehensive. We have arranged everything with full knowledge of your particular desires.”
It was said with an air of assuredness that Sir Jasper found presumptuous.
The hall was dark. The room they went into provided a total contrast. It was lavishly furnished and considerable money had been spent on it. The taste of the decorator, however, was disputable. Each individual item was both costly and exquisite but there were too many of them and they did not compliment each other in the slightest. Kemel saw Sir Jasper admire the contents but missed his amusement at the vulgar excess it represented.
“I am particularly pleased with the set of eight Regency mahogany dining chairs – so elegant with those sabre legs and upholstery in rope-twist – but just wait till you see the collection of silver: Monteiths and tureens, and the most delicate matching pair of entrée dishes with gadroon and foliate decoration. Priceless, my dear Sir Jasper, and talking of exquisite things, let me introduce you to something special I know such a connoisseur as you will appreciate.”
He clapped his hands like a eunuch in a harem.
From a far door, a vision of swirling silk caught both eye and ear. Sir Jasper watched, enthralled, as a beautiful young woman, dark of skin, deep of promised experience yet nascent sensuality glided towards them.
“Sir Jasper, this is Sulanni. I know you British like to conclude a bargain with your handshakes…but in the Ottoman Court we like to offer something more, shall I say, munificent to remember and savour; but that is for later. Sulanni, fetch coffee…and tell O’Neil and Reardon our guest is here.”
Kemel elegantly waved Sir Jasper toward a satinwood drum-top table and gestured for him to sit. Two men shuffled into the room and came over to them.
“Mr. O’Neil and Mr. Reardon. I want to introduce you to this gentleman. He has considerable influence; but listen carefully and let us four mutually help each other in this difficult life.”
Sir Jasper disliked the flowery manner of Kemel’s speech. He detested the two men even more because, once they uttered a few words, he knew them to be Irish.
Kemel took the lead.
“You, Sir Jasper, are in need of a considerable amount of money. That is a commodity, which I can supply. These gentlemen, here, have an attribute of which my masters would like to make use. It is a very simple circle to complete.”
Akenfield became agitated. He did not like games.
“Explain, Kemel,” he demanded.
“Of course, I will willingly give you the money…not as a loan, but a gift. For your part, Sir Jasper, you are near to the heart of decision-making in the British Government. In the world we live in, knowledge is power. Who is allied to whom, whether the Great Powers of Britain, France, Ru
ssia, Prussia or even the decadent Austrians will take action in some particular little war is of vital importance to the Ottoman Empire. If we had prior knowledge of how the mighty British felt about incidents in Serbia or Wallachia or even Greece, it could prime us as to how we might best take action.”
“That is spying, Kemel!”
“No, no, Sir Jasper–calm yourself–it is merely the oiling of diplomatic wheels. And twenty-thousand pounds would make a lot of cogs turn more easily,” he grinned, once again displaying his broken teeth like a monkey pretending human characteristics.
“And these two?” Akenfield indicated the Irishmen.
“Yes, that is more delicate,” Kemel began. “Again, the policies and possible action of your Prime Minister toward the Irish question would help them in their cause. Sensitive information, you understand. Not spying, just redistributing a little knowledge, and in return, they would use their skills on our more troublesome borders to ferment unrest in unfriendly countries. So, you see, all would then be complete. I help you, you help O’Neil and Reardon, and then they render me a favour. How wonderful is the world?”
The final flourish from Kemel made Sir Jasper feel sick.
“Have we a deal, Sir Jasper?” Kemel asked. The door opened and in came Sulanni.
“Yes, Sir Jasper, she is included. I told you we knew your pleasures. Sulanni has many arts and you may stay in this house for the rest of the day counting your twenty-thousand pounds and discovering what a harem woman can, and will do.”
Jasper looked at the three men and at the alluring woman. He thought about the money and how much freedom it would purchase him. Then he thought about the government he owed allegiance to. Jasper had never considered himself to be an especially patriotic man, nor a devoted follower of the party line. He had gone through life with an eye to his own interests and with little regard for the way in which his behaviour damaged those around him. Being an intelligent man, he understood that once these men had him in their sway, he would be their man, their spy, for as long as his position made him useful. He had a fair idea what sort of people he was dealing with and what that might mean for his future.
