William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

There were shadows in the doorways, beggars settling for the night. Considering that she was in the immediate vicinity of exactly the kind of brothel she would have inhabited herself, had she been driven to the streets, the chances of her being misunderstood were very high. But she had passed a constable less than a hundred yards away. Certainly he was out of sight, but his presence was sufficient to deter the kind of customer who came here even more than most.
    She leaned against the brewery wall, keeping away from the edge of the narrow curb, where the light from the street lamp shone pale on the wet cobbles. With her shawl covering her head and concealing most of her face, she did not look as if she were hoping to be noticed. The lane was a couple of hundred yards long, leading into the Gray’s Inn Road, a busy thoroughfare, traffic running up and down it until midnight or more, and the odd hansom cab even after that. The town hall was just around the corner. Squeaky Robinson was more likely to have his house in the shadows up one of the alleys at this end, opposite the brewery. His clients would want to be as discreet as possible.
    Did such men feel any shame at the exercise of their tastes? Certainly they would wish it secret from society in general, but what about each other? Would they come if their equals with similar tastes were aware? She had no idea, but perhaps it would be clever of the proprietor of such a place to have more than one entrance—more than two, even? If so, the alleys opposite would be perfect. This end, not the other, where there was a large, very respectable looking building and a hotel beyond.
    Now that she had decided as much, there was no point in waiting. She straightened up, breathed in deeply, forgetting the sweet, decaying smell, and she wished she had not, as she coughed and gasped, drawing in more of it. She should never forget where she was, not even for an instant! Cursing her inattention, she crossed the road and walked smartly up the first alley right to the end, where any building would lie which opened onto both lanes, and onto the narrow streets at the farther side.
    The alley was narrow, but freer of rubbish than she would have expected ordinarily, and there was a light on a wall bracket about halfway along, showing a clear path up the uneven stones. Was that coincidence, or was Squeaky Robinson taking care of the physical sensibilities of his clients by seeing they did not have to stumble over refuse on their way to their pleasures?
    She reached the end of the alley, and on the outer edge of the light from the lamp she could see steps and a doorway. She already knew what she was going to say, and there was nothing to hesitate for. She went to the door and knocked.
    It was opened immediately by a man in a dark suit, scuffed at the edges and too large for him, even though he was at least average in build. From the way he stood, he was ready for a fight any time one should seem necessary. He looked like a ruffian aping a down-at-heel butler. Perhaps it was part of the image of the establishment. He regarded her without interest. “Yes, miss?”
    She met his eyes directly. She did not wish to be taken for a supplicant in distress, seeking to use the brothel to rescue herself from debt.
    “Good evening,” she replied stiffly. “I would like to speak with the proprietor. I believe he is a Mr. Robinson? We may have business interests in common where we could be of service to one another. Would you be good enough to tell him that Mrs. Monk, of Coldbath Square, is here to see him?” She made it an order, as she would have done in her old life, before her sojourn in the Crimea, when calling upon the daughter of a friend of her father whose servants would know her.
    The man hesitated. He was used to obeying the clientele—it was part of their purchase—but women were stock-in-trade, and as such should do as they were told.
    She did not lower her eyes.
    “I’ll see,” he conceded ungraciously. “Yer’d better come in.” He almost added something further, then at the last moment thought better of it and merely led her to a very small room off the passage, little more than a wide cupboard furnished with one wooden chair. “Wait there,” he ordered, and went out, closing the door.
    She did as he said. This was not the time to take risks. She would learn nothing by exploring, and she had no interest in the interior of a brothel yet, and hoped she never would have. It