Free After the Fire by John Pilkington Page B

loudly, while from the Rose Tavern came laughter and voices raised in song. Here and there bona fide members of the street-walking profession plied her trade, accosting first one man and then another. Quickly, Betsy turned left and walked along Little Russell Street towards the Piazza, and at once the broad, lantern-lit square opened out before her, thronged with people.
    On the left-hand corner by the Little Piazza was her destination: a large house which had known many uses and many owners, before Robert Jenkins turned it into his famous bathhouse, the hammam : a men’s haunt like the Coffee-houses, but one where certain women were admitted as required. In fact, a man with shillings to spend could get anything in the bagnio: not merely a steam bath, but food and drink, a bed for the night, and someone of either sex to share it with. At the entrance a broad-shouldered doorman stood, and now Betsy drew a deep breath: she was on.
    ‘Well, my duck,’ as the fellow turned to her, she addressed him in an accent that hailed from somewhere east of Limehouse. ‘Are you letting me in, or what?’
    The man frowned. ‘Who’re you?’
    ‘Mary Peach. I’ve got business with a gent within.’
    ‘Peach? Never heard of you,’ the other snapped. He was a heavy-browed man with a pocked face. ‘I don’t care to admit one I don’t know … you could be a fireship.’
    ‘I don’t know you, neither,’ Betsy told him, ‘but I’ll live with it.’ She scowled. ‘And I ain’t a fireship, fustilugs – I’m clean as silver!’
    The man hesitated, and a hint of a smile appeared. ‘So what’s it worth to let you take your goods to market?’ he asked, his eyes straying downwards to her cleavage.
    ‘What would you want?’ Betsy countered.
    ‘What d’you think?’
    She appeared to consider the matter. ‘When are you free?’
    ‘Any time you like,’ the man answered, his smile broadening. ‘I can soon get someone to take my place.’
    ‘All right,’ Betsy said. ‘I’ll be out in an hour – wait for me.’ Still grinning, the fellow stepped aside; and with a brazen step, she entered the bagnio.
    At first she could see little, for the place was dimly lit. Then she felt a blast of warm, humid air and, glimpsing a doorway ahead, stepped into a room which she guessed to be the tepidarium . There were low voices, and figures wrapped in linen sheets were visible, moving to and fro. In a far corner somebody was playing a lute. She moved slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom – whereupon, close by, a voice she knew stopped her in her tracks.
    ‘Looking for someone?’
    Betsy swung round to see none other than James Prout, the dancing-master of the Duke’s Theatre, lounging on a wooden bench. He was bare-chested, the lower half of his body concealed by a white robe. Beside him sat another man, younger, and a deal more handsome. The two men’s arms were linked and, as Betsy looked quickly from one to the other, both of them laughed.
    ‘No need to look crestfallen, Miss,’ the young one said. ‘There’s others within will be glad to see you.’
    For a moment Betsy thought of revealing herself to Prout, then swiftly rejected the idea. She had arrived incognito and would remain so. And a little thrill of satisfaction ran through her that even the dancing-master did not recognize her.
    ‘I ain’t been here before,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a friend … used to work at the old Duke’s Theatre in Portugal Row. Know him, do you? Brown fellow, name of Long Ned.’
    There was a pause before Prout blew out his cheeks and looked away. Only now did Betsy realize that he was rather drunk. But the younger man was alert.
    ‘Heavens, girl, haven’t you heard? The poor man’s dead, three days since. Expired in there.’ He pointed to an inner doorway. From within came a hissing, as of water being poured on to hot coals.
    ‘Dead?’ Betsy’s mouth fell open. ‘He can’t be!’
    The other nodded. ‘It was very