Read Online The Affair of the Porcelain Dog by Jess Faraday - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jess Faraday
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quiet voice of better judgment reminding me the worst things happen to whores foolish enough to accompany gentlemen home.
Had I been thinking, I might also have questioned the blase manner in which Goddard's manservant disappeared with my hat, coat, and boots the moment we arrived, meeting us in the bathroom with a tray of surgical implements and a steaming bowl of carbolic. For all of Collins's faults, he had a grasp of propriety that would put the Queen to shame. That he should not vocally protest the intrusion of some lice-bitten renter onto the premises told me he'd at least witnessed such a spectacle before.
"That will be all," Goddard told the manservant, sitting me on the shelf of the mahogany box surrounding his unimaginably large bathtub.
"Very good, sir."
The manservant had taken the liberty of running a bath--a hot one also laced with carbolic. As I sat there, steam puffed up beneath my shirttail, raising a carpet of gooseflesh across my back. Goddard sat down beside me, wetting his fingers in the bowl of antiseptic, and did the same with a bit of cotton.
"Who did this?" he asked, as he swabbed my lacerations with the cotton.
It was his conversational tone I remembered: as if he often passed odd moments sewing people up. When he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the wound, he threaded the needle.
"Come now," he said genially, "Give me a name. He'll pay."
I'd heard of the Duke of Dorset Street. Who hadn't? But to me, the name Goddard meant only ten bob every Friday night. I'd no reason to connect my client with the fearsome crime lord who ruled the East End with an iron fist. All the same, the businesslike way with which the man addressed the constable's grisly work put me on my guard. A loose-tongued rentboy rarely sees his next birthday, though, so despite the insistent questioning that followed--and the half bottle of expensive brandy he poured down my throat after I'd refused laudanum--I held my peace.
"You are a tough little nut," he'd chided as he tied off the last stitch. "But when tough nuts crack, they shatter. Think about it."
I opened my mouth, but he placed a finger over my lips.
"After your bath, come to bed. We'll talk."
I did eventually stumble into someone's empty bed that night. In the morning, Goddard was gone. Collins served my breakfast in the morning room, and told me I was expected for lunch at one sharp.
Then he threw me out.
I eventually stumbled back to the 'Chapel around eleven. I found Nate on Plumber's Row stuffing his face with a baked potato. He blinked at me over his breakfast, all dusky eyes and long lashes, before delicately licking his fingers clean. Not for the first time I marveled at this combination of an angel's face and the table manners of a wild boar.
"Hullo," I said.
I shivered. It was cold as buggery, but someone had slipped four half-crown coins into my trousers, and soon I too would have a potato warming each pocket. But before I could reach for my money, Nate grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadows.
"Is you out of yer mind showin' yer face 'ere?" he demanded.
"Watch it." I jerked away, rubbing my elbow. "Ol' Wilson wrenched that arm straight to hell and back last night."
Nate's dark eyes had widened, as if with those words I'd somehow made his worst fears come true. He turned his back to the street, pulled his coat tighter around his thin shoulders, and tipped his bowler to a rakish angle. Sans potato, he could have them lining up around the block to buy him a drink.
"An' 'e 'ad it comin'," he said. "But, Ira, mate..."
It was a bright winter morning, but dread settled around us like a dark cloak as he related his horrifying tale. Constable Wilson, whose love for the bully club knew the bounds of neither decency nor fairness, had apparently dealt out one beating too many. At some point, while I'd been snoring away in Goddard's lavender-scented sheets, justice had caught up with the constable in the form of an assassin's jagged blade.
"An'
Had I been thinking, I might also have questioned the blase manner in which Goddard's manservant disappeared with my hat, coat, and boots the moment we arrived, meeting us in the bathroom with a tray of surgical implements and a steaming bowl of carbolic. For all of Collins's faults, he had a grasp of propriety that would put the Queen to shame. That he should not vocally protest the intrusion of some lice-bitten renter onto the premises told me he'd at least witnessed such a spectacle before.
"That will be all," Goddard told the manservant, sitting me on the shelf of the mahogany box surrounding his unimaginably large bathtub.
"Very good, sir."
The manservant had taken the liberty of running a bath--a hot one also laced with carbolic. As I sat there, steam puffed up beneath my shirttail, raising a carpet of gooseflesh across my back. Goddard sat down beside me, wetting his fingers in the bowl of antiseptic, and did the same with a bit of cotton.
"Who did this?" he asked, as he swabbed my lacerations with the cotton.
It was his conversational tone I remembered: as if he often passed odd moments sewing people up. When he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the wound, he threaded the needle.
"Come now," he said genially, "Give me a name. He'll pay."
I'd heard of the Duke of Dorset Street. Who hadn't? But to me, the name Goddard meant only ten bob every Friday night. I'd no reason to connect my client with the fearsome crime lord who ruled the East End with an iron fist. All the same, the businesslike way with which the man addressed the constable's grisly work put me on my guard. A loose-tongued rentboy rarely sees his next birthday, though, so despite the insistent questioning that followed--and the half bottle of expensive brandy he poured down my throat after I'd refused laudanum--I held my peace.
"You are a tough little nut," he'd chided as he tied off the last stitch. "But when tough nuts crack, they shatter. Think about it."
I opened my mouth, but he placed a finger over my lips.
"After your bath, come to bed. We'll talk."
I did eventually stumble into someone's empty bed that night. In the morning, Goddard was gone. Collins served my breakfast in the morning room, and told me I was expected for lunch at one sharp.
Then he threw me out.
I eventually stumbled back to the 'Chapel around eleven. I found Nate on Plumber's Row stuffing his face with a baked potato. He blinked at me over his breakfast, all dusky eyes and long lashes, before delicately licking his fingers clean. Not for the first time I marveled at this combination of an angel's face and the table manners of a wild boar.
"Hullo," I said.
I shivered. It was cold as buggery, but someone had slipped four half-crown coins into my trousers, and soon I too would have a potato warming each pocket. But before I could reach for my money, Nate grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadows.
"Is you out of yer mind showin' yer face 'ere?" he demanded.
"Watch it." I jerked away, rubbing my elbow. "Ol' Wilson wrenched that arm straight to hell and back last night."
Nate's dark eyes had widened, as if with those words I'd somehow made his worst fears come true. He turned his back to the street, pulled his coat tighter around his thin shoulders, and tipped his bowler to a rakish angle. Sans potato, he could have them lining up around the block to buy him a drink.
"An' 'e 'ad it comin'," he said. "But, Ira, mate..."
It was a bright winter morning, but dread settled around us like a dark cloak as he related his horrifying tale. Constable Wilson, whose love for the bully club knew the bounds of neither decency nor fairness, had apparently dealt out one beating too many. At some point, while I'd been snoring away in Goddard's lavender-scented sheets, justice had caught up with the constable in the form of an assassin's jagged blade.
"An'
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