A Broken Vessel (32 page)

“Don’t you? I’m devastated, Mr. Rawdon. Good afternoon.”

He strolled out of the office, down the stairs, and into the narrow court outside the tobacconist’s. Only then did he allow his face to express something of his feelings. He had little doubt now what Rawdon’s business was. Tonight he would know for sure.

CHAPTER
23

J
ulian arrived in Windmill Street at a quarter after ten that night. Punctuality would not have been in keeping with the character he had assumed. He got out of his hackney coach at the address Rawdon had given him. It was a grey brick house, with shuttered windows that let out no gleam of light. The place was so dark and silent, Julian wondered if anyone was there to meet him.

He rang at the front door. Someone must have been waiting just inside, for it opened at once, though only a little way. A pair of yellowish eyes surveyed him. Then the door opened fully, and the owner of the eyes beckoned him in. “Good evening, monsieur.”

She was a woman of about forty, dark-haired, with a pointed nose and chin. Her clothes were fashionable, in a matronly style. Her French accent sounded genuine. With her was a man a whole head taller than Julian, with broad shoulders and arms like tree-trunks. He had thick black brows and side-whiskers, and smelled of tobacco and sweat. A yellow silk kingsman round
his neck half hid his grubby shirt-collar. His gloves and boot-tops were yellow, too, and his waistcoat was white with red spangles.

“Good evening.” Julian sauntered in, giving the woman his tall silk hat, his evening cloak, and his ebony walking-stick. While she disposed of them at a hat-tree by the door, he took quick note of his surroundings. The front hall was lined with wood panelling, painted to look like mahogany. A stairway wound to the upper floors. The backdoor at the far end of the hall was boarded up.

The Frenchwoman ushered him into a small front parlour, furnished in an elegant, impersonal style. Her hulking companion followed at their heels. “You are late, monsieur,” she said. “Bart and I, we were becoming anxious.”

“I was otherwise engaged. Where is the—article—I came for?”

“It is upstairs, monsieur. We will wait here until you have finished with it. I hope you have brought the money?”

“Yes, madame, but you really can’t expect me to pay for something I haven’t seen.”

“You pays afterward,” said the giant. “I sees to that.”

Julian lifted his quizzing-glass and looked him up and down. “My dear fellow, is that a waistcoat, or are you coming out in a rash?”

The giant’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I wouldn’t mind turning the hands on your dial,” he croaked.

And you could probably do it with one hand tied behind you, thought Julian ruefully. If it comes to a rough-and-tumble between us, I’ve no more chance than a cat without claws.

The Frenchwoman intervened hastily. “Will you have a drink, monsieur—some cognac, perhaps? Or would you like to go upstairs at once?”

“I think I shall go upstairs.”

“There is one small formality. A few of our clients bring weapons with them, and you must see, monsieur, that is not
convenable
. I am afraid I must ask you to be so good as to let Bart search you.”

Julian’s brows shot up, in the manner that made upstart dandies tremble. But realizing that they would not allow him upstairs unless he submitted, he stood with a pained expression on his face and his handkerchief to his nose, while the giant patted him down.

“
Très bien
, thank you, monsieur. Here is the key. The room is the first floor back.”

“I hope it’s understood that I’m not to be disturbed—that I’m to have complete privacy?”

“Oh, but of course, monsieur! We pride ourselves on our discretion. We have no need to come looking for you. We know you must come back to us in the end. The front door is the only way out of the house.”

Smiling, she settled herself on a sofa, from which she could look out into the front hall. Clearly, she meant to make certain he did not leave the house unseen. Picking up an embroidery frame, she began tranquilly stitching. The giant hunkered down in front of the fire with a dice-box.

Julian left them. Taking up a lighted candle from the hall table, he mounted the stairs. The first-floor back room had a thick oak door. He turned the key in the lock and went in. The room was nearly dark; the only light came from the coals gleaming redly in the grate. He held up his candle and looked about.

A small girl, no older than twelve, stood flattened against the opposite wall, staring at him in utter terror. She wore a white muslin party frock, with pink ribbons and lacy pantalettes. Her blond hair hung in curls on either side of her face.

For a moment, he could only stare back. Then he found his voice. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I won’t even touch you.”

Her huge frightened eyes remained fixed on him. She was shaking.

“Whatever they told you I might do,” he went on steadily, “it isn’t true. I won’t harm you. I’m going to help you. Look, I’m just locking the door to ensure we’re not disturbed, and I’m going
to come a little closer, so that we can talk very quietly. But I shall move very slowly, and not come too near.”

He sidled round to a chair against the wall and sat down, giving the bed a wide berth. “How do you do? I’m Julian Kestrel. What is your name?”

“Emily,” she whispered. “Emily Wickham.”

“Where do you come from, Emily?”

“W-Wiltshire.”

“How do you come to be so far from home?”

She made a hiccoughing sound. He took out his handkerchief and laid it on a table between them. She clutched it to her face and burst into tears.

He forced himself to stay seated and keep his distance. He must not risk forfeiting whatever trust he had gained. He wished he had some of that brandy the Frenchwoman had offered: Emily could do with a few drops to calm and warm her. But he dared not leave her to go and get it. Besides, he hardly trusted himself not to break the bottle over the woman’s head.

Emily’s sobs died down at last. She held out his handkerchief gingerly, as though offering a morsel of food to a dog that might bite. “Keep it for a bit,” he recommended. “You might need it again. Do you feel well enough to tell me a little about yourself?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Eleven, sir.”

Julian recalled that Rawdon had said the “tea-chest” came in eleven days ago. Perhaps that was part of the code. “Gilded” might refer to the colour of Emily’s hair, “porcelain” to her fair skin. The meaning of “new” as opposed to “cracked” seemed reasonably clear.

He went on asking questions, till after a while her story flowed of its own accord. She was from a small village near Salisbury. Her father was a tenant farmer, her mother a laun-dress. They had six children besides Emily to provide for. One day Mme. Leclerc passed through the village, with two other girls about Emily’s age. She said she was a dressmaker from London and was looking for young girls to train as apprentices. She made much of Emily, praising her small fine stitches, and assuring her parents she had taste and talent far beyond her years. If they would allow her to go to London and study dressmaking, she would make a good living, and even have a bit of money left over to send home. Madame would provide her with decent clothes and a comfortable place to sleep, and would chaperone her carefully. The city can be a dangerous place for children, said Madame, if they are not properly looked after.

Emily’s parents thought it a good opportunity for her. Madame even paid them a small advance on her wages—to thank them, she said, for letting her take their daughter away on such short notice. So Emily bade farewell to her family and left for London.

Madame was very kind to the three girls on the journey. At an inn where they stopped, she ordered them a good supper, and gave them each a paper to sign. It was a contract of apprenticeship, she said. The girls did not understand the words very well, but Madame assured them it was all right, so they signed.

When they reached London, they went to stay at a sort of lodging-house. Emily could not say where it was, except that it was on the other side of the river. Mostly women and girls lived there, but Emily did not see much of them. She and the two girls she came with were locked up together in a bare, shabby room.

Madame was not kind to them anymore. She said they were not to be trained as dressmakers yet. They were to do other work first. They would each be presented to a gentleman, and they must do anything he asked, or Madame would punish them. She would beat them till they were black and blue, and not give them anything to eat. They had to obey her orders, because they had signed a contract of apprenticeship, and if they were naughty or tried to run away, they would be put in gaol.

“That isn’t true,” said Julian. “No contract could force you to do this kind of work.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m absolutely certain.”

“We didn’t know that. Madame said we’d be put in a bridewell, and be whipped in front of everyone. We were afeard.”

“Of course.”

A day or two after they arrived at the lodging-house, a man came and looked at them and said they would do. He was very thin and had brown hair and wore gold-rimmed spectacles. “Then I was put in a room by myself. Madame came once and— looked at my—without my—my—”

“I understand.”

“Then she went away. And I think a few more days went by, and nothing happened at all. Then tonight Madame came and woke me up and made me wash myself and put on these clothes.

“And then she came with a very tall man with side-whiskers, and they put me in a carriage and brought me here. She s-said I was going to meet the gentleman—the one I—I would have to please. And she told me again what would happen to me if you weren’t pleased with me.” Her voice rose on a trill of fear. “Are you?”

“My dear girl—” Words failed him. “You mustn’t worry about that anymore. I’m going to take you away from here. I’m going to see that you get safely home to your family.”

“Home?”

“Yes. But we have to make a plan, and you must try to follow it exactly. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

He thought briefly. “We’ll leave this room together. Then you must wait at the top of the stairs, while I go down and speak with Mme. Leclerc and her friend. When you hear me call to you to run, run as fast as you can down the stairs and out the front door. Don’t wait for me to follow. Turn right and run down to the end of the street, and wait for me there. If I don’t come in—oh, about ten minutes—don’t on any account come back here. Stop a hackney—one of those broken-down coaches with a number-plate behind—and tell it to take you to this address.” He wrote
it down and gave her some coins to pay the fare. “When you get there, ask for Dipper, and tell him what’s happened. Do you understand?”

She was concentrating with all her might. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Don’t be afraid—we’ll manage famously. Now then.”

He put a finger to his lips, went to the door, and peered out cautiously. Then he beckoned to her. “Keep behind me,” he whispered, and walked down the hall to the stairway, Emily following.

He left her at the top of the stairs. Halfway down, he paused, revolted by the part he had to play. What kind of man would pay fifty pounds for the privilege of debauching a child? And yet there must be scores of such men in London, to judge by Smith and Company’s thriving trade. All those ledgers—but he must not think about that now. Gathering his blasé, indolent manner about him, he descended to the front hall. He stopped to retrieve his hat, cloak, and walking-stick, then strolled into the parlour.

Mme. Leclerc rose gracefully, putting aside her embroidery. The giant, who had been warming his trouser-seat at the fire, strode up to Julian purposefully.

“I trust everything was satisfactory, monsieur,” the Frenchwoman purred.

“Tolerable,” said Julian, with a shrug. “You won’t allow me to vowel you, I suppose?”

“I am afraid we cannot take an I.O.U. We must insist on immediate payment.”

The giant raised an enormous fist. “If you won’t pay one way, I makes you pay another.”

“Now, Bart, I am sure monsieur means to be reasonable. Do you not, monsieur?”

Julian looked up at the giant looming over him. “You don’t leave me a great deal of choice.”

He took out his pocket-book, opened it, and blew. A cloud of snuff flew into the giant’s face. The giant clapped his hands
over his eyes, sneezing convulsively. In that moment, Julian struck him sharply with his walking-stick: once at the knees to fell him to the floor, and once on the head to stun him.

“Run, Emily!” he cried.

He heard the child’s frantic footsteps on the stairs. Mme. Leclerc leaped toward the door, but Julian pulled her back, pinning her arms behind her. She struggled, kicked, and tried to bite him. He pushed her onto the sofa face down and thrust his walking-stick under her nose. “If you move again before I give you leave, I’ll serve you in the same manner as I did your friend.”

“
Salaud!
” she spat at him. “
Merdeux!
”