the bottom of them there’s a hall which opens on to a courtyard and an alley which leads to the Haymarket. At the other end of the hall there’s another flight of stairs which leads to the attics—and nowhere else. That’s all.’
Cobie rose and said, ‘I’m for the backstairs, then. Goodnight, Miss Marie. You made a good artist’s model. Here’s your reward for that—for keeping quiet—and for helping me.’
She took the money he offered her, her face lighting up for a moment—and then she shrugged her shoulders at him and turned away, before making herself ready to go downstairs again. The odd little interlude was over.
Cobie found the backstairs at the end of a corridor. He had replaced his cloak—then remembered that he had left his hat and scarf with the dragon in the entrance hall. No matter, he had others, and he did not particularly wish to return to claim them.
Running lightly down the uncarpeted stairs, he found himself in another world, where soft luxury did not exist, where the light flared from unshielded gas jets, and where the floor of the corridor which led to the back door and to the Haymarket was bare boards, no rugs or mats to soften it.
At the bottom of the staircase was the small hall, from which another set of stairs rose—Marie had directed him correctly. A large free-standing mahogany wardrobe stood beside the back door, which was tightly shut. Cobie had just wrestled it open when he heard rapid footsteps running down the stairs.
He turned at the sound, to be struck amidships by a small body. High above them he could hear male voices, shouting in anger, and then footsteps thundering down.
The owner of the body was a little girl, no older than ten by the look of her. Scarlet in the face, she was panting hard. When she saw Cobie, looking like a golden angel sent to rescue her, she fell on her knees before him, to clasp his, wailing, ‘Oh, Gawd, mister. Save me. I don’t want to be hurt like poor Clara was. Don’t let him have me.’
Her face was filthy, and streaked with tears. Her dress, a garish pink thing, trimmed with silver tinsel, like a circus performer’s tutu, had been ripped from the neck to the waist. The marks of a man’s fingers were plain upon her throat and thin shoulders.
Inside Cobie something shrieked incontinent. The red rage with which he had lived since childhood was on him. It came unbidden when he was faced with cruelty or injustice, particularly to the helpless. In it he could kill; to control it took all the strength of his iron will. Its passing left him feeling empty and ill.
He controlled it now with difficulty even though his face remained impassive. The child heard the footsteps, shrieked, ‘Oh, Gawd, he’ll catch me for sure. Oh, mister, don’t let him hurt me. Please, don’t let him.’
As was usual when he was in a tight corner Cobie acted with lightning speed. He picked up the child, hissed at her, ‘Not a sound, mind,’ and, whirling around, he half-threw her onto the flat top of the wardrobe, where she lay concealed by its elaborate wooden and gilt rail. That done, he leaned against the wall, blinking owlishly at the world as though he had drunk too much of Madame’s indifferent champagne, and spent himself too much with Marie.
By now the owner of the footsteps, a hard-faced man in workman’s clothing—one of Madame’s bouncers, no doubt—had arrived in the small hall, to stare at all that was to be seen. A half-cut toff and no girl-child in sight.
‘Have you seen a little girl running away from here? Which way did she go…sir?’
This last came out in belated recognition of Cobie’s undoubted wealth and superior station.
Cobie decided to be more owlish than ever. ‘A small…girl,’ he enunciated with great difficulty. ‘What…? What…?’ He had no time to finish the sentence before another actor arrived on the scene.
‘You’re taking a devilish long time to catch the little bitch up, Hoskyns,’ exclaimed a voice which Cobie immediately recognised. ‘Damme, she nearly bit my finger off.’
It was Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, in a state which might have surprised those who only knew him in the salons of Mayfair. He was barefooted and wearing trousers and a shirt open to the waist. Unbuttoned, was perhaps the best description of him, Cobie thought. He decided to run a little interference.
‘Oh, Sir Ratcliffe, there y’are. Wondered where you’d got to.’ His hiccup at the end of this was particularly artistic.
‘Damn that, man,’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, ‘Did anyone leave while you were here?’
Cobie swayed, thought for a moment, leaned forward and grabbed Sir Ratcliffe by the collar of his shirt, stifling the desire to strangle the beast before him. He had no doubts at all about what had been going on in one of Madame’s discreet attic rooms, and wondered how much the bankrupt swine before him had paid for the use of the girl-child cowering on top of the wardrobe above the three of them.
‘Just saw a girl go by, old fellow, through the door there, running like a hare. I got lost in the backstairs, don’t you know.’
He finished with Sir Ratcliffe, and turned his drunken gaze on Hoskyns. ‘Help me to find my way out. Left m’hat with the doorkeeper. Don’ want to catch cold.’
He knew that he was risking having Hoskyns take him at his word, and that he might show him out through the main entrance—which would mean leaving the abused child behind on top of the wardrobe.
The risk had been worth taking, however, for Sir Ratcliffe roared, ‘Find your own way out, Grant. Hoskyns, go after the little bitch. She can’t have got very far. And you, Grant, get Madame to call you a cab.’
He turned on his heel to make his way back up the stairs to whatever hell-hole he had come from, where the special and curious tastes of depraved gentlemen were catered for. Hoskyns, shrugging his shoulders and mentally damning the demanding nature of the powerful in his world, did what Sir Ratcliffe bid him.
Cobie heaved a great sigh and straightened up when he found himself alone again. He turned towards the wardrobe, called up softly to the waiting child, ‘Little ’un, put out a hand, and I’ll try to get you down and away from here.’
It took some manoeuvring before she was beside him in the hall again; it was much harder to get her safely to the ground than it had been to throw her up.
Once down, the child seized his hand and covered it with kisses. ‘Oh, thankee, mister, thankee, for saving me.’
‘Not saved yet,’ said Cobie shortly. ‘Thank me when you are. We can’t leave by the easiest way, we might meet Hoskyns coming back. Now, how strong are you?’
‘As strong as you want me to be, mister,’ she said fervently. ‘Only, I ain’t got nowhere to go, that’s all. It were me stepdad what sold me to this place.’
Cobie, wondering what further disgraceful revelations the night held for him, threw back his cape, and asked, ‘If I lifted you up, and sat you with your legs around my waist and your arms around my chest and your head on it, and I arranged my cape around us like so, could you stay there, quiet like a mouse, while I walk us both out of this miserable pigsty?’
She nodded vigorously, and as speedily as he could, he hid her beneath the voluminous folds of his cape. She clutched him in a grip as strong as death. He was grateful that he wasn’t wearing his usual overcoat, but had decided to play the dandy on his first night alone, out on the town.
