The Reckoning. James McGee

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       7

      Outwardly, there was nothing to distinguish the house from its neighbours. Not that Hawkwood had been expecting any sort of sign above the door. There might have been only a mile or so separating them but the square was a world away from the stews of Covent Garden and the alleys of Haymarket, where, for a pint of grog and a few pennies, you could negotiate a quick fumble in a doorway with a pox-ridden hag who was as likely to rob a man blind as to roger him senseless. Pennies bought you nothing here. The Salon provided for a far more affluent clientele, which meant there was no requirement for it to advertise. Its word-of-mouth reputation was enough, as was the locale.

      Bounded on all quarters by three- and four-storeyed townhouses, the centre of the square had been laid out in the style of a formal garden, patterned with winding pathways, ornamental shrubbery and several tall plane trees, all protected by a palisade of wrought-iron railings that looked newly painted. In the far corner, on the square’s north side, could be seen the boundary wall of an imposing brick mansion set back from the street, more evidence that the further west you lived, the more affluent you were likely to be.

      Traffic was light. A couple of carriages clattered past, harnesses clinking, followed by a trio of riders dressed in smart dragoon uniforms, while a handful of pedestrians picked their way carefully around the carpet of horse droppings that smeared the road. The smell of fresh dung lingered on the damp afternoon air.

      Watching them trying to negotiate passage on to cleaner ground, Hawkwood wondered idly how many of the square’s residents were aware of the goings on inside this particular house. Most of them, he suspected. And how many of them had visited the premises? More than might be imagined, he was prepared to wager.

      Approaching the black-painted front door, a quick glance at the windows above him revealed the drapes on the upper floors to be fully drawn. It was one indication that he’d come to the right address. In lower-ranked brothels, working girls used the windows to display their wares, leaving little to the imagination in the process. In contrast, the houses at the upper end of the scale masked their entertainments by shielding the view from the street.

      Hawkwood pulled on the bell handle and waited. He sensed he was being perused for he’d seen the spyhole in the door. Debating whether or not to wipe his boots against the backs of his breeches, he thought, to hell with it. He’d had the breeches cleaned after his graveyard jaunt and he was damned if he was going to dirty them again that quickly. If whoever was studying him through the woodwork chose not to open the door because of his less than pristine appearance, he could always hammer on it with his tipstaff and yell, “I demand admittance in the name of the law!” It wouldn’t be pretty but it would be a very effective means of gaining entry, because the occupants wouldn’t want that sort of commotion on their doorstep. It would lower the tone of the neighbourhood.

      He was reaching for his tipstaff when his summons was answered.

      The manservant, a thickset, competent-looking individual in matching grey jacket and waistcoat, looked Hawkwood up and down, paying close attention to his greatcoat and his boots. When he glanced over Hawkwood’s shoulder towards the street, Hawkwood wondered if he was searching for the carriage that had dropped him off.

      “I walked,” Hawkwood said, “all the way from Bow Street. I’m here to see the lady of the house, and don’t bother asking if I have an appointment.”

       Because I’ve had enough of that.

      At the mention of Bow Street, the manservant’s gaze flickered. The raised eyebrow that had been there when he’d opened the door was replaced by a new wariness.

      Hawkwood СКАЧАТЬ