Free Bloody Relations by Don Gutteridge Page A

ill repute, dependin’ on which vice they’re interested in or can afford.”
    â€œSo that’s how young Ellice and the blackguard who led him this far found their way to Madame Renée’s?”
    â€œHer real name’s Norah Burgess, though that wouldn’t do fer the con-see-urge of a fancy hooer-house,” Cobb said, starting across the street. “But Ellice wasn’t taken there in the usual way. That’s just one of the queer things about this business.”
    They had reached a scraggly clutch of hawthorn trees, their bright pink blooms just beginning to shrivel and tarnish.
    â€œAs you said earlier,” Cobb continued, “one of them gents from the ball must’ve lured the silly fella from Spadina down to here. Then, accordin’ to the Burgess woman, the gent must’ve known the way to her place in the dark, ’cause he come right to her door, give the secret knock only her regulars know, shoved the lad inta the parlour, and skedaddled.”
    Cobb pointed to a gap between two trees and, ducking to avoid the thorns, led Marc onto a narrow path that meandered through the scrub ahead of them.
    Marc picked up the narrative. “My guess is that this gentleman did not want to be recognized last night—not even by the madam or one of her trackers. That suggests to me that we are investigating something more complex and sinister than a prank or a piece of mischief designed to embarrass Lord Durham before he begins his work here.”
    â€œWell, we shouldn’t go jumpin’ to conclusives, Major.”
    Marc smiled at being reminded of one of his own homilies, however mangled.
    They were now out of the bush and into the shantytown proper. While Marc stared in disbelief—he had seen worse slums in London but did not expect to encounter such communities here—Cobb was again struck by how much less intimidating and how much sadder the place was in the revealing light of afternoon.They had come out onto a wide pathway that, while it curved about carelessly, was nevertheless a street of sorts—with makeshift huts and jerry-built shacks arrayed on either side, each with a flimsy and stinking outhouse tucked in behind. Where there was glass in a window, it was invariably broken. Most of the dwellings simply had gaps in the side walls to let air in and the stench out. A few were clad in oiled paper in faint hope of stemming the tide of blood-sucking mosquitoes in the night. Middens and festering garbage pits lay in squalid view between or in front of the hovels, where dogs, pigs, and rats contended for a meal.
    Nonetheless, children, oblivious to the rags their unwashed little bodies were clothed in, sprinted along the roadway, kicking a ball or darting among the houses in the squealing pursuit-and-retreat of an age-old game of tag. One tilting, barn-board cabin sported a set of red-checked curtains that lifted and fell in the soft breeze. But any trees or shrubs that had once been native here had long since been hacked down and used for firewood. The city council had given up trying to discourage the poaching of hardwood from the university parkland to the north and west of Irishtown—the sheriff having more vital concerns since the Rebellion in December—so the sun blazed down upon the inhabitants here without interruption or pity. The squall of exhausted and overheated babies mingled with the happier shouts of the children outdoors. So far they had seen no adults but were certain that every step they took was observed.
    â€œYou lookin’ fer somebody?” A scruffy lad of twelve or thirteen had stepped out onto the path in front of them, not belligerent but wary.
    â€œMadame Renée’s place,” Marc said.
    â€œThey don’t work in the daytime.” He was speaking to Marc but his gaze was fixed on Cobb’s truncheon.
    â€œWe wish to speak with Madame Renée.”
    The boy looked puzzled.
    â€œYou’re one