Read Online India Black by Carol K. Carr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol K. Carr
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, England, London, International Relations, spy stories, Brothels, London (England) - History - 1800-1950, Brothels - England - London
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with my parasol and clobbered him on the left ear, dislodging his billycock and sending it flying. He staggered a few steps, put his hand to his earlobe and stared incredulously at the smear of blood on his fingers. He shook his head like a horned Hereford bull and looked at me reproachfully. “I’m nearly vexed, I am. Now either you settle down and be quick about it, or you’ll force me to take drastic action.”
I pointed the tip of my parasol at him. “Do your best, you bloody baboon.”
Then strong arms encircled me from behind, pinioning my own arms to my sides. I’d forgotten about the driver.
It was a sullen group that occupied the hansom cab. Billy sat with his hands in his lap, bemoaning the decrease in value of the family jewels and pausing only long enough to glare venomously at me. The other fellow’s ear was beginning to resemble a cauliflower, and his collar was rusty with dried blood. We rode in silence. I strained to see out the window, trying to track our progress through the city, but the thug with the damaged ear leaned over and pulled down the shade.
“This is kidnapping,” I said. “I most certainly intend to press charges against you.”
The man fingered his ear gingerly and snorted. “Righto. And we’ll tell the officer we picked you up in the Haymarket and already agreed to a price when you got stroppy.”
There are disadvantages to being a whore, and one of them is that relations with the Metropolitan Police Force are, shall we say, delicate. After that, there was nothing to do but wait and wish that Billy and his friend hadn’t had sausages and beans for lunch.
After half an hour, the cab stopped with a jerk, and the man raised the shade and peered out, nodding in satisfaction. “We’re here, Billy.” The only answer from Billy was an inarticulate groan. The driver jumped down and opened the door, and I was bundled roughly out of the cab and onto the street, before a great pile of grey stone that shimmered wetly in the light from the gas lamps. Before I had a moment to look around and orient myself to my surroundings, the two men each grabbed an elbow tightly (Billy displayed an enthusiasm that brought tears to my eyes) and hustled me inside the building.
Relief swept over me immediately once we were inside. I’ve more than a passing familiarity with most of the stations of the Metropolitan Police Force, and this wasn’t one of them. It looked more like a bank or trading house or government offices. There were no signs of activity about. The place felt as empty as a tomb, an impression that was reinforced by the echo of our footsteps. The floors were a dingy black-and-white tile, worn and scuffed from the tread of many feet, and the narrow hall was dimly lit by electric bulbs. Heavy oak doors, each numbered with a brass plate, opened off the passage, revealing cramped offices. The desks inside were strewn with papers and neat stacks of documents tied with black ribbon.
“I swear I’ve paid my property tax,” I said. “If you gentlemen hadn’t been in such a hurry, I could’ve produced my receipt.”
Billy grunted and dug his fingers into the soft skin just above my elbow. “That’s a regular comedy routine you’ve got there. I wonder why you ain’t on the stage.”
Deep in the bowels of the building, we came upon a marble staircase with a banister of filigreed iron that wound upward into the gloom. We proceeded to climb, the two men lugging me between them like a sack of meal, my boots barely touching the steps. At the top of the stairs we turned down another long hallway, but at the end of this one, a wedge of light could be seen spilling out into the passage from an open doorway, and the distant murmur of voices reached our ears. The sound of our footsteps must have been equally audible to the persons in the room, for a shadow blotted out the light and a split second later a figure appeared in the hallway. With a sinking heart, I recognized my
I pointed the tip of my parasol at him. “Do your best, you bloody baboon.”
Then strong arms encircled me from behind, pinioning my own arms to my sides. I’d forgotten about the driver.
It was a sullen group that occupied the hansom cab. Billy sat with his hands in his lap, bemoaning the decrease in value of the family jewels and pausing only long enough to glare venomously at me. The other fellow’s ear was beginning to resemble a cauliflower, and his collar was rusty with dried blood. We rode in silence. I strained to see out the window, trying to track our progress through the city, but the thug with the damaged ear leaned over and pulled down the shade.
“This is kidnapping,” I said. “I most certainly intend to press charges against you.”
The man fingered his ear gingerly and snorted. “Righto. And we’ll tell the officer we picked you up in the Haymarket and already agreed to a price when you got stroppy.”
There are disadvantages to being a whore, and one of them is that relations with the Metropolitan Police Force are, shall we say, delicate. After that, there was nothing to do but wait and wish that Billy and his friend hadn’t had sausages and beans for lunch.
After half an hour, the cab stopped with a jerk, and the man raised the shade and peered out, nodding in satisfaction. “We’re here, Billy.” The only answer from Billy was an inarticulate groan. The driver jumped down and opened the door, and I was bundled roughly out of the cab and onto the street, before a great pile of grey stone that shimmered wetly in the light from the gas lamps. Before I had a moment to look around and orient myself to my surroundings, the two men each grabbed an elbow tightly (Billy displayed an enthusiasm that brought tears to my eyes) and hustled me inside the building.
Relief swept over me immediately once we were inside. I’ve more than a passing familiarity with most of the stations of the Metropolitan Police Force, and this wasn’t one of them. It looked more like a bank or trading house or government offices. There were no signs of activity about. The place felt as empty as a tomb, an impression that was reinforced by the echo of our footsteps. The floors were a dingy black-and-white tile, worn and scuffed from the tread of many feet, and the narrow hall was dimly lit by electric bulbs. Heavy oak doors, each numbered with a brass plate, opened off the passage, revealing cramped offices. The desks inside were strewn with papers and neat stacks of documents tied with black ribbon.
“I swear I’ve paid my property tax,” I said. “If you gentlemen hadn’t been in such a hurry, I could’ve produced my receipt.”
Billy grunted and dug his fingers into the soft skin just above my elbow. “That’s a regular comedy routine you’ve got there. I wonder why you ain’t on the stage.”
Deep in the bowels of the building, we came upon a marble staircase with a banister of filigreed iron that wound upward into the gloom. We proceeded to climb, the two men lugging me between them like a sack of meal, my boots barely touching the steps. At the top of the stairs we turned down another long hallway, but at the end of this one, a wedge of light could be seen spilling out into the passage from an open doorway, and the distant murmur of voices reached our ears. The sound of our footsteps must have been equally audible to the persons in the room, for a shadow blotted out the light and a split second later a figure appeared in the hallway. With a sinking heart, I recognized my
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