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Authors: Jess Faraday
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for now, allow me to wish the both of you a pleasant luncheon."
His laughter followed me all the way to the waiting room, where every drunk and consumptive in London seemed to have assembled. It wasn't until I was nearly to the door when Lazarus himself emerged. Planting himself in the mouth of the corridor, he called out in a nasal, slightly mocking voice that cut right through the din of the crowd,
"And regarding your little problem below stairs, Adler, you might try a little carbolic in your bath!"
Chapter Six
Carbolic indeed!
The good doctor had effectively announced to half of East London that my bollocks were crawling with lice. I hadn't spent two years recreating myself in Goddard's image only to have some underpaid quacksalver cast aspersions on my hygiene. Emerging onto Whitechapel Road, I glanced in both directions before giving my thigh a desperately needed scratch.
The sun was beating down through the smog hanging over the city like an unwholesome meringue. Through the fog of my snit I heard the sudden sound of a harsh bell, followed by a stream of Italian curses as a scruffy ice-seller swerved his dilapidated cart out of my path at the last moment. He gave me an evil look as he mopped his jowls with a stained handkerchief.
Sweating, even in the relative comfort of my threadbare Whitechapel suit, I made my way through Stepney to Commercial Road. It was four miles back to York Street--plenty of time to gather my thoughts before I'd be expected to present Goddard with a sensible report. Of course, Goddard was at that moment in the chancellor's office, receiving his promotion. He would head straight from there to the tailor for some new clothes befitting his new position. Then to his club for a celebratory port, or, more likely, the London Athletic Club to find a few young men to knock about the boxing ring until his nerves were properly settled. Who knew when the man would actually return home? I certainly didn't fancy waiting for him under Collins's watchful eye--at least not until Collins expelled the bee currently in his bunghole.
On the other hand, there was plenty of time to make it to the Criterion for luncheon.
One thing was certain, though. If I walked another block in that heat and filth, I'd be hacking up lumps of coal for a week. Raising my handkerchief to my face, I set about flagging down a cab from the slow-moving chaos of Commercial Road. Moments later, a hansom nosed horizontally through the wall of carriages and pedestrians, pulling to a stop before me.
"The Criterion, Piccadilly," I told the driver.
As I unfurled myself across the bench, the driver flicked the reins over the horse's back. The cab lurched forward. We merged into the congestion, the horse's steady clip-clop fading into the cacophony of shambling cabs, street hawkers' cries, and the rise and fall of hundreds of shabby boots.
∗ ∗ ∗
Fewer than twelve hours had separated my first visit to York Street and my last conversation with my friend Nate. It was late December 1887, and I'd just been beaten to within an inch of my life--by a constable, for a change. Trade was winding down for the holidays--sordid back-alley fucks being incompatible with the spirit of Christmas and all. My Friday night assignations with Goddard were regular by that point. Goddard was generous, but not so generous that I could afford to leave him standing, even to sleep off such a beating as that.
When I did finally turn up at our lamppost that night, Goddard didn't raise an eyebrow at my appearance. One might expect an upper-middle-class academic to at least wrinkle his nose at a blood-crusted shirt and one eye swollen shut over a nose smashed all to hell. I should have understood when he simply handed me a bleached handkerchief and packed me into the private hansom he had waiting around the corner that Cain Goddard was more than the mild-mannered teacher he'd portrayed. But I was not in any shape to ask questions, or even to listen to that
His laughter followed me all the way to the waiting room, where every drunk and consumptive in London seemed to have assembled. It wasn't until I was nearly to the door when Lazarus himself emerged. Planting himself in the mouth of the corridor, he called out in a nasal, slightly mocking voice that cut right through the din of the crowd,
"And regarding your little problem below stairs, Adler, you might try a little carbolic in your bath!"
Chapter Six
Carbolic indeed!
The good doctor had effectively announced to half of East London that my bollocks were crawling with lice. I hadn't spent two years recreating myself in Goddard's image only to have some underpaid quacksalver cast aspersions on my hygiene. Emerging onto Whitechapel Road, I glanced in both directions before giving my thigh a desperately needed scratch.
The sun was beating down through the smog hanging over the city like an unwholesome meringue. Through the fog of my snit I heard the sudden sound of a harsh bell, followed by a stream of Italian curses as a scruffy ice-seller swerved his dilapidated cart out of my path at the last moment. He gave me an evil look as he mopped his jowls with a stained handkerchief.
Sweating, even in the relative comfort of my threadbare Whitechapel suit, I made my way through Stepney to Commercial Road. It was four miles back to York Street--plenty of time to gather my thoughts before I'd be expected to present Goddard with a sensible report. Of course, Goddard was at that moment in the chancellor's office, receiving his promotion. He would head straight from there to the tailor for some new clothes befitting his new position. Then to his club for a celebratory port, or, more likely, the London Athletic Club to find a few young men to knock about the boxing ring until his nerves were properly settled. Who knew when the man would actually return home? I certainly didn't fancy waiting for him under Collins's watchful eye--at least not until Collins expelled the bee currently in his bunghole.
On the other hand, there was plenty of time to make it to the Criterion for luncheon.
One thing was certain, though. If I walked another block in that heat and filth, I'd be hacking up lumps of coal for a week. Raising my handkerchief to my face, I set about flagging down a cab from the slow-moving chaos of Commercial Road. Moments later, a hansom nosed horizontally through the wall of carriages and pedestrians, pulling to a stop before me.
"The Criterion, Piccadilly," I told the driver.
As I unfurled myself across the bench, the driver flicked the reins over the horse's back. The cab lurched forward. We merged into the congestion, the horse's steady clip-clop fading into the cacophony of shambling cabs, street hawkers' cries, and the rise and fall of hundreds of shabby boots.
∗ ∗ ∗
Fewer than twelve hours had separated my first visit to York Street and my last conversation with my friend Nate. It was late December 1887, and I'd just been beaten to within an inch of my life--by a constable, for a change. Trade was winding down for the holidays--sordid back-alley fucks being incompatible with the spirit of Christmas and all. My Friday night assignations with Goddard were regular by that point. Goddard was generous, but not so generous that I could afford to leave him standing, even to sleep off such a beating as that.
When I did finally turn up at our lamppost that night, Goddard didn't raise an eyebrow at my appearance. One might expect an upper-middle-class academic to at least wrinkle his nose at a blood-crusted shirt and one eye swollen shut over a nose smashed all to hell. I should have understood when he simply handed me a bleached handkerchief and packed me into the private hansom he had waiting around the corner that Cain Goddard was more than the mild-mannered teacher he'd portrayed. But I was not in any shape to ask questions, or even to listen to that
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