Free Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness by Sally Spencer Page A

taking a slip of paper and pencil out of his other jacket pocket. ‘That will be much easier.’
    ‘What you really mean is that not only don’t you want me to know your full name, you don’t even want me to know where I can contact you. Isn’t that right?’
    ‘No, I—’
    ‘Of course it is, and I’ve already said that I don’t blame you. I didn’t trust you when you first walked in here, did I? But now I’ve got the measure of you, and I do. And in time, when you’ve become a regular customer, you’ll learn to trust me, too, and we’ll develop what’s called a “mutually beneficial relationship”.’
    ‘I’m sure we will,’ Patterson agreed, handing her the slip of paper.
    ‘Is this your home?’ the madam asked, glancing down at the numbers he’d written down.
    No, Patterson thought. Not my home at all. In fact, it’s a special number that the London Telephone Company has just assigned to Scotland Yard, and you’re the only one who can ring it.
    But aloud, he said, ‘It’s a friend’s home.’
    ‘And will you tell this friend of yours to be expecting a call from me?’
    ‘No, I’ll tell him to expect a call from my sister’s dressmaker, about the dress I’m having made for her as a surprise.’
    The madam looked at him with fresh suspicion. ‘You’re not quite as bubble-headed as you seemed when you first walked in here,’ she said.
    Damn, Patterson thought; he’d made the mistake of sounding too much like himself—and too little like the spoiled rich boy with a weakness.
    ‘I’m—I’m not bubble-headed at all,’ he said, improvising wildly. ‘I just act like an idiot when I’m nervous—and who wouldn’t be nervous in a house of ill-repute?’ He put his hand over his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re...’
    The madam laughed again. ‘Let’s call a spade a spade,’ she said. ‘This is a house of ill-repute. A whorehouse, if you like. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, now would you? And now we’ve got any little misunderstandings we might have had out of the way, I’m sure the two us will get on famously.’
    ‘I’m sure we will,’ Patterson agreed, standing again. ‘Well, since we seem to have finished our business for tonight—’
    ‘We haven’t quite finished,’ the madam interrupted. ‘I will have to go to a great deal of expense to obtain the girl you want, and if you don’t turn up, as you’ve promised...’
    ‘If virgins are as rare and prized as you claim they are, you can always sell her to one of your other customers,’ Patterson said.
    He was sounding too clever again, he thought in a panic—too much like a policeman. But fortunately, Madam seemed more interested in defending her own position than examining his.
    ‘It’s true there’ll be a ready market for the girl,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ve taken rather a shine to you, and I’d like you to have her.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Still, as I said, business is business, and I’d feel much happier if you’d leave a deposit, just to show good faith on your part.’ The madam paused for a second, as if assessing how much she thought she could get away with. ‘Shall we say, twenty-five pounds?’ she ventured.
    ‘Why not?’ Patterson agreed, reaching into his pocket for the money that the Home Office had so willingly provided.
    *
    It was a mixture of sympathy and annoyance that finally made Cathy approach the girl huddled in the corner—sympathy because she could still remember how she’d felt herself when first brought to this place, and annoyance because the girl’s sobs were really starting to grate.
    ‘What’s yer name?’ she asked.
    The other girl looked up. ‘Lizzie.’
    ‘An’ I’m Cathy. How did yer get here, Lizzie?’
    The new girl had stopped crying, but was still sniffling. ‘I was an inmate at the workhouse,’ she said. ‘A lady came to visit an’ said she was lookin’ for a girl she could train up to be her personal