by Cripplegate, just outside the City gates, Julian finds a bench between the side of the church and the Roman wall and drops down. He needs a prayer. But how does one pray for help in a situation like this? He needs to hide the money is what he needs to do, and then he must persuade Mallory to run away with him. He was able to persuade Josephine to marry him, almost against her will, and he was able to persuade Mary—when it was too late. This time, he must do better, try harder. That’s why he’s been given a second chance! Where is it safe for him to stash it? He gazes around the empty garden, the quiet alley. The stone church stands silently, its grounds wilting with heavy, end-August browning leaves, the London Wall a few yards away. The last time, Julian wanted to take Mary to Italy. This time, with £700, they can go anywhere. They’ve been offered a new life. They can travel like the Pilgrims across the sea, to Massachusetts Bay Colony. But run they must; they can’t stay where they are, that’s for sure. He’s been lulled into a false sense of immortality, he knows that now, the bathwater in the brothel too warm, the girl too addicting. Now he must act.
Julian stares into the distance a few more seconds—and then shoots up and bolts, the crowns and guineas jingling in his pocket. He knows what to do. He needs to find a mason; he needs a hammer, a chisel, a trowel, some lime-based mortar. He has figured out where to hide the money. All will be well. He will fix it. He will fix everything.
GRIMY, SWEATY, PANTING, GROSS, JULIAN RETURNS LATE TO the Silver Cross.
The Baroness is ready to send him to Newgate for his day-long absence just when she needs him most. Not only had he vanished, but he’s come back with no flowers! And in his absence, a nasty fight has broken out between the girls, the constable has come by twice, inquiring about a possible death on the premises, Ilbert has been making strange noises about blackmail, and Carling and Ivy did such a poor job disinfecting the room that an early client has just stormed downstairs demanding a refund.
In the corner of the tavern, Father Anselmo stands, loudly pleading to the men present. “My fallen angels, have you already forgotten that pestilence was retribution for your wicked ways?” he cries. “It was punishment for your wrongdoing. I beseech you, good gentlemen and a lady—turn from your stinking and horrible sin of lechery! Which grows daily in this stew by your continual employment of strumpets, all to the one misguided and idle women. How long can this continue—until you’re all dead of syphilis or the plague? A conflagration will not be enough to punish you for your sins. How long do you intend to dwell in your odious wickedness? Until there is more death? Don’t you know that wanton lust, divorced from civilizing forces, leads to errors in judgment, to compromised honor, to blackmail, to murder! All the deadly sins are boiling under your roof, and you call yourselves reputable men. Repent! Repent before it’s too late.”
The Baroness, her face unpainted, perspiring, aggravated, folds her hands together in a frantic plea to Julian. She looks as Julian feels. “I’m going to throw myself into the River Thames if that miserable wretch doesn’t shut his gob this instant!” she exclaims about Anselmo. “Where have you been all day, Julian? Why do you look as if you’ve been swimming in mud? Why aren’t you dressed for the evening? It’s Saturday night. You know how busy we get. We have no flowers, and Room Two still smells of corpse. The girls are ripping each other’s hair out—and I mean that in the most literal sense. Ilbert is more insolent than ever, you’re nowhere to be found, and look like a leper. Please—go change into your evening attire. Blimey, one little death, and everything’s gone to pot!” The woman fans herself wildly, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “Bloody helpers, it’s hot! I’m praying for a little rain and for that beastly man to lose his tongue. Is that really so much to ask, O Lord?”
Julian pats Tilly’s arm. On the outside, he remains composed. “I think some of your prayers may already be answered,” he says. “There was a strong east wind as I was returning. Rain is around the corner. About everything else, Baroness, don’t worry. I’ll take care of the constable and the girls and the smell. Give me an hour. I’ll take care of it all.” Calmly he starts up the stairs. “Which girls are fighting?”
“All of them. But mainly Margrave and Mallory. Tell them to stop hollering or they can leave right now and go work at the Haymarket. They beat their girls there, soundly, like gongs.”
“Mallory is fighting?” Julian hurries.
On the second floor, thirteen girls are yelling in the corridor. Margrave is soaked from head to chest as she and Mallory scream at each other. Julian’s first instinct is to defend Mallory, but a more careful listen tells him that Mallory is the attacker. Apparently, she threw a bucket of putrid water into Margrave’s face. It’s gone into the girl’s eyes and nose and mouth and is burning her. Instead of apologizing, Mallory stands and shouts. Julian has never seen Mallory this red-faced and enraged.
Julian steps between the two women, separating them and pulling Mallory away. She doesn’t want to hear it, not even from him. But he’s had enough. He raises his voice to show the girls he means business. “Stop it, you two. Margrave, go clean yourself up. Mallory, you too, downstairs. You look a fright. You’re scaring off the customers.” He frowns. “What’s the matter with you?” he says to her quietly. “Go.” And louder, “Carling, Ivy, come with me—the rest of you, get back to work. Show’s over.”
The Baroness is right. Fabian’s room still smells awful. Death must have seeped into the floorboards.
“We tried, sire!” Carling and Ivy cry. “We used up all the vinegar you gave us and all the lye.”
Julian sighs. “Let’s declare this room occupied for the rest of the night. Put a sign on the door. We’ll work with nine rooms tonight, nothing we can do.” The Baroness won’t be happy with the loss of earnings. And tomorrow is Sunday, and all the markets will be closed. Nowhere to buy more lye. Exasperated, Julian follows the maids downstairs. He hasn’t gotten himself cleaned up as he had promised the Baroness, but he needs to speak to Mallory. He finds her in the servants’ kitchen, still irate. “Mallory?”
“Go away.”
“Why are you upset? What has Margrave done?”
“She’s a thief.”
“I thought she was your friend?”
“She hates me. She’s always hated me.”
“What could she possibly steal from you? You have nothing. You barely have a change of clothes.”
“Yes, by all means, demean me.”
“I’m not demeaning you,” Julian says, chastised, “I’m trying to understand.”
“Please, sire, can you leave so I can do my job?” She won’t look at him.
As he’s about to head upstairs, he hears the Baroness sharply calling his name from the ground floor of the tavern. She’s still in her pink velvet robe, but now Constable Parker stands by her side. Julian’s mood worsens. He wasn’t expecting to face Parker so soon. He can’t deal with the constable at the moment, not least of all because he is so disheveled.
Usually Parker is delightfully apathetic. He comes every week, Julian gives him a drink, a meal, and a cut of the week’s earnings. For this, Parker looks the other way if a fight breaks out, or if there’s some petty theft. But tonight Parker says he can’t really look
