boots on the stairs. Young men, from the noise. Behind her, she overheard Mrs Bedwin’s whispered instructions to the posing nymphs, ‘Empty their pockets, girls. Wine’s two guineas a bottle now. Remember not to tell them till after. Get to it, girls!’
Though her establishment was not as high-class as Mrs Dukes’s, Mrs Bedwin was an astute businesswoman constantly on the lookout for new opportunities. The gentlemen who frequented the house found girls who were plump, cheerful and willing to please. Want a chop? Sally will fetch it for you, sir. Only five shillings. Thirsty, sir? We have the finest wine for you, only two guineas a bottle. Every peccadillo, every taste, every craving was catered for at Mrs Bedwin’s. If a client had a particular secret urge that her girls couldn’t satisfy, she bought a girl who could and added the speciality to the menu of delights she laid out for the customers.
Several times a day a sedan chair pulled up outside and a message came that they were to collect Miss Susan, or Miss Hart, or Miss Roseanne, a black former slave who was a particular favourite. These girls climbed inside and were carried off to the bagnios and the gentleman who had requested them specially. It wasn’t long before the sedan chair started to call for Miss Rachel.
Mrs Bedwin had the magistrate in her pocket, and the house was never raided. She supplied girls for parties, transported them to some of the highest houses in London, and was said to have once bedded the Prince of Wales himself.
‘Keep your eyes on the prize, girls,’ she told them. ‘And don’t go soft on me. There’s no room for sentiment in business.’
After Rachel had been at Mrs Bedwin’s for five months, Mrs Bedwin closed and bolted the front door behind the last gentleman to leave, and called the girls together in the seraglio.
‘I have good news, girls. We’re moving on.’
‘Leaving here?’ Roseanne cried.
‘Yes, dear. Going to a fine new place, mixing with the cream of society. A place where even royalty can be found.’
She paused, and her gaze raked the room. ‘Girls, we’re going to Cheltenham.’
CHAPTER
F O U R
Monday, 5 November 2012
16:48 hours
The name shadowed him to prison. Little Jimmy. His real name was James Little, but people always called him Little Jimmy, even at primary school, even his mam’s boyfriends. When he stumbled out of the prison van, the screws cacked themselves laughing when they saw him, with his pale skin and pigeon chest, his permanent sniff and asthma.
‘Little by name, little by nature,’ the screw who searched him said.
Jimmy said nothing. People always laughed. Even Hammond had smirked.
That first meeting with Hammond haunted him. He lay in the narrow metal bed in the narrow cell, with its smell of farts and sounds of men jacking off, and watched the grey light seeping through a high window. Like drowning in dishwater. The rough blanket scratched his chin. Spots freckled his throat and there was a dab of blood on the sheet where one had spurted. He was afraid to close his eyes, because then the dreams would come.
A year ago his conviction sheet listed shoplifting, a few taking without consents, theft and a public order offence. No biggies. And then he met Dave the Nutter. Not met. Their paths crossed. Jimmy was in McDonald’s nicking a woman’s bag from the back of her chair while she shovelled soggy fries into a kid’s gob. He slid the bag from the chair and shoved it up his jumper, then strolled from the store. Soon as he was out, he legged it. Down the High Street and round the corner, up the alley near the Indian takeaway, over the bins and smack into Dave the Nutter.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ Dave said. He clocked he was running, clocked he was up to no good, and clocked the bulge in his jumper. ‘What we got here?’
‘Nothing,’ Jimmy stammered.
‘We’ll see about that.’ Dave thrust a paw down his jumper and yanked out the bag. He raised his
Though her establishment was not as high-class as Mrs Dukes’s, Mrs Bedwin was an astute businesswoman constantly on the lookout for new opportunities. The gentlemen who frequented the house found girls who were plump, cheerful and willing to please. Want a chop? Sally will fetch it for you, sir. Only five shillings. Thirsty, sir? We have the finest wine for you, only two guineas a bottle. Every peccadillo, every taste, every craving was catered for at Mrs Bedwin’s. If a client had a particular secret urge that her girls couldn’t satisfy, she bought a girl who could and added the speciality to the menu of delights she laid out for the customers.
Several times a day a sedan chair pulled up outside and a message came that they were to collect Miss Susan, or Miss Hart, or Miss Roseanne, a black former slave who was a particular favourite. These girls climbed inside and were carried off to the bagnios and the gentleman who had requested them specially. It wasn’t long before the sedan chair started to call for Miss Rachel.
Mrs Bedwin had the magistrate in her pocket, and the house was never raided. She supplied girls for parties, transported them to some of the highest houses in London, and was said to have once bedded the Prince of Wales himself.
‘Keep your eyes on the prize, girls,’ she told them. ‘And don’t go soft on me. There’s no room for sentiment in business.’
After Rachel had been at Mrs Bedwin’s for five months, Mrs Bedwin closed and bolted the front door behind the last gentleman to leave, and called the girls together in the seraglio.
‘I have good news, girls. We’re moving on.’
‘Leaving here?’ Roseanne cried.
‘Yes, dear. Going to a fine new place, mixing with the cream of society. A place where even royalty can be found.’
She paused, and her gaze raked the room. ‘Girls, we’re going to Cheltenham.’
CHAPTER
F O U R
Monday, 5 November 2012
16:48 hours
The name shadowed him to prison. Little Jimmy. His real name was James Little, but people always called him Little Jimmy, even at primary school, even his mam’s boyfriends. When he stumbled out of the prison van, the screws cacked themselves laughing when they saw him, with his pale skin and pigeon chest, his permanent sniff and asthma.
‘Little by name, little by nature,’ the screw who searched him said.
Jimmy said nothing. People always laughed. Even Hammond had smirked.
That first meeting with Hammond haunted him. He lay in the narrow metal bed in the narrow cell, with its smell of farts and sounds of men jacking off, and watched the grey light seeping through a high window. Like drowning in dishwater. The rough blanket scratched his chin. Spots freckled his throat and there was a dab of blood on the sheet where one had spurted. He was afraid to close his eyes, because then the dreams would come.
A year ago his conviction sheet listed shoplifting, a few taking without consents, theft and a public order offence. No biggies. And then he met Dave the Nutter. Not met. Their paths crossed. Jimmy was in McDonald’s nicking a woman’s bag from the back of her chair while she shovelled soggy fries into a kid’s gob. He slid the bag from the chair and shoved it up his jumper, then strolled from the store. Soon as he was out, he legged it. Down the High Street and round the corner, up the alley near the Indian takeaway, over the bins and smack into Dave the Nutter.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ Dave said. He clocked he was running, clocked he was up to no good, and clocked the bulge in his jumper. ‘What we got here?’
‘Nothing,’ Jimmy stammered.
‘We’ll see about that.’ Dave thrust a paw down his jumper and yanked out the bag. He raised his
Similar Books
