A Scandal in Battersea Page 11

  That niggling little voice telling him to go be a good boy and confess to the Elemental Masters now nicely squashed, he left his bedroom and headed for the kitchen. That was where Alf usually brought girls, and this time was no exception. Alf had gotten out a bottle of gin, there were three glasses on the table, and the bottle was mostly empty.

  There were three girls this time—so Alf was going to perform another of his superhuman feats of sexual athletics. Maybe the first thing I’ll ask for is to be able to perform in bed like Alf, he thought with amusement, as he surveyed his man and the three strumpets. Alf, as usual, was nearly as sober as a judge. The man had a head for liquor like nothing Alexandre had ever seen before. The girls, however, were tipsy and giggly.

  One was a redhead, almost, but not quite, past her prime, dressed in red satin with black lace, a gown that showed her cleavage down to her nipples. That one would be for Alf. One was an athletic looking blond, in a black-and-tan striped dress with a slightly higher neckline. And she looked familiar . . . in fact, now that he thought about it, he had the notion that they were two of the can-can dancers from his favorite music hall. That one would be for Alf too. The blond sat on his knee, the redhead beside him, leaning on him.

  The third was a waifish brunette, sitting by herself, in a slightly childish looking gown that might have been red once, but had faded to dusty pink, the kind of gown a girl who wasn’t “out” yet would wear. That one would be for him. He liked his girls either young, or looking young, and obedient.

  “Where’s yer friend, Alfie-walfie?” giggled the redhead. “Wot’s ’e doin’ thet’s so ’portant?”

  “Alf’s friend is right here, madam,” said Alexandre, emerging from the shadows into the brightly lit kitchen. “As for what I was doing, it was just a bit of very necessary work, that is now thankfully concluded.”

  “Cor, a toff!” said the blond, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  “Nothing of the sort, madam,” Alexandre replied, with a little bow. “Just a man who appreciates beautiful ladies.”

  That was probably the whiskey talking. But it made the blond and the redhead smile and giggle some more. And before they could express any preference for him, Alf swept them both up and hustled them off to his room. “Time t’ get the party started, gels,” he was saying as he vanished through the door. “There’s more gin where we’re goin’.”

  Alexandre offered the brunette his hand. Silently she took it, and let herself be led away.

  Maisie found herself propelled out of the toff’s front door by the toff’s foot on her arse, and landed facedown in the snow. A moment later her dress came flying out of the same door, and landed on top of her. She hadn’t even got so far as taking off her shoes when he’d—Oh! The filthy bastard! What he’d wanted!

  She’d whirled and told him where he could stick his wants, and the next thing she discovered, he had picked her up, carried her to the door, and kicked her out. Literally kicked her out. Into the snow. Without getting paid.

  The door slammed, and there was the decided clack of the lock being turned.

  She scrambled to her feet, so furious she didn’t even feel the cold. “Yer roight barstard!” she screamed, and unleashed a stream of profanity learned from a short lifetime of walking the streets. She continued to shriek curses as she pulled her dress on, wondering—hoping even—that a copper would come along and take notice of the row, or the neighbors would start looking out their windows. She might be helpless to do anything else against him, but embarrassing him in front of his neighbors would be partial revenge. She could just picture their avid, hypocritical faces. Cor, luvvie! Toff brought ’ome a trollop! On Christmas, if yew can believe!

  But nobody came along. And not a single light appeared at any of the windows.

  Her fury redoubled. All the way from the East End, and for what? Nothing! It had been a wretched night—she should have known better than to go out on Christmas Bloody Eve—and she’d thought her luck had turned when Alf pulled up in a hansom with two girls she knew vaguely from around the pubs. They’d had a jolly old ride out to . . . wherever this was. She was sorry now she hadn’t paid attention, but Alf had had a bottle of gin with him and a girl needed to keep warm, right? Then there’d been the pleasant surprise of the cozy, posh flat, and the second waiting bottle, and when that toff had shown up at the door, she’d thought, cor, this’ll be an easy night!

  The ones that wanted girls that looked like her, usually they wanted her to at least play at being an innocent . . . maybe they’d like a little struggle, a bit of make-believe rape. Faint calls for help, and lots of “oh, no, sir, no, I bain’t loike that.” She’d feigned reluctance as he ordered her to undress, watching her avidly, hungrily. But then he’d grabbed her bum and whispered in her ear what he wanted and how she was supposed to—

  “Yer roight pervert! At least gimme back me coat!”

  The door opened long enough for her coat to smack her in the face. It slammed again. She screamed some more.

  Nothing. No coppers. No neighbors. Not even the lights from the flat upstairs came on.

  There was no sign of outrage or even disturbance from the buildings around. And now she realized that the faint cooking smells still lingering around here were fish and cabbage . . .

  So the neighborhood wasn’t nearly as posh as the flat had been, and probably people were used to the bloody bastard kicking his whores out in the middle of the night when they wouldn’t—

  Another stream of invective poured out of her mouth in an incoherent scream and she gathered herself and prepared to charge up the stairs to the door, planning to beat on it until he had to pay attention and he’d at least pay her off to go away.

  Now engulfed in a white-hot rage, she charged through the snow to the dark rectangle that was at the top of the stairs, intending to hit it full force, maybe with luck break it in, and if not, pound on it with every bit of her strength.

  She barely had a chance to gasp in shock as her arms disappeared into a black void . . . and her body followed.

  And then there was silence.

  Alexandre rose late Christmas morning, mollified by the fact that Alf had sent the much-more-compliant blond to him when his first choice had turned into a harridan at the mere mention of what he wanted from her. Harpy. She’s a whore, she’d better get used to doing what the customer wants, or she’ll find herself starving, he thought, still more than a bit irritated at her attitude. She’d screamed all the way out of the house and probably had stood there half-naked in the snow screaming for a good long while before she gave up and went away. She’d probably still be there screaming if it had been spring or summer. Well, he figured the snow would cool her temper pretty damn quickly.

  Serve her right if her feet freeze and fall off, he thought vindictively. Fortunately the bedrooms were at the back of the flat, and once the blond had turned up, he wasn’t listening to anything anyway. The other two were sane, sane enough he’d let them stay the rest of the night. Girls who pleased him got that special treatment. Alf knew to feed them as well as pay them in the morning, and come dawn, they could make their way back to wherever he’d found them.

  Though he did his best never to be a repeat customer. That was on Alf’s advice. “Ye treats ’em noice once, they’re obligin’ an’ don’ make no fuss. But come to ’em agin, they ’spect better the second time. An’ th’ third! Loik queens, they think they be! Nivir be a whore’s reg’lar, guv, unless yer got a arrangement w’ a brothel.” And Alf was probably right. When it came to strumpets, he generally was.

  He had awakened alone, which meant the girl was already gone, or—hmm. He listened, and thought he heard laughter.

  He pulled on a shirt, pants, and a dressing gown, and ambled into the kitchen. There was Alf, presiding over the stove and dishing out bacon and eggs, while the two girls put together a tray, giggling.

  “Well,” he drawled
, leaning on the doorframe. “This is a nice domestic little scene.”

  Alf turned and winked. “Iss Chrissmuss, an’ ye give the char the day orf. So she wuzn’t gonna be ’ere t’ be outraged. Figgered we’d give ye breakfuss in bed, an’ we’d be orf oursel’s.”

  “I’ll take the tray myself,” he said, and did so. The blond gave him a saucy wink as she passed it to him, then sat down to her own breakfast. Alf followed him out for a moment.

  “Lissen, guv, Oi’m roight sorry about thet liddle bitch—” He shook his head. “Iff’n Oi’d’a knowd—”

  “She’s gone, right?” he asked.

  “Not ’ide nor ’air,” Alf confirmed, frowning fiercely. “Dunno where she went, and don’ care. ’Ope she turned inter a icicle or fell in th’ bloody Thames, Oi do.”

  Anger flared in him, but he let it die down. “That makes two of us. But you made it up to me, so all’s even.” In fact, now that he was fully awake, the pleasant smell of well-cooked eggs and beans and bacon were wafting up to his nose, and knowing he had triumphed in his magic last night—all things considered, last night’s little dust-up was a mere trifle. The blond had been . . . very satisfactory. Even imaginative. “It’s all right. And . . . my business last night went well enough. When the house is empty again, I’ll show you.”

  “Roight.” Alf hesitated. “Ye moind if I keeps ’em around a liddle longer?”

  Dear god. If such a thing is possible, I really am going to ask for his sexual stamina, I swear. “Suit yourself, Alf,” he replied. “As long as they don’t get too comfortable. You are the one who told me about not letting whores stay too long.”

  “Roight ye are, guv.” Alf gave him a two-fingered salute, and headed back to the kitchen. Peals of giggles greeted his arrival.

  With an amused snort, Alexandre took his tray to the sitting room. This might be a good chance to peruse The Book, and determine exactly what first to ask of the entity in exchange for his services in . . . strengthening it.

  7

  KENSINGTON Garden on Christmas Day, late morning was, as predicted, deserted. Those who had assembled to see the Swimming Club swim the hundred-yard “Peter Pan Cup” race in the freezing water of the Serpentine were long gone, and winner and losers alike were probably on their third or fourth “medicinal” brandy. The Park was dotted with snowmen and snow forts, all deserted. An overcast day promised more snow later. Suki romped on the path ahead of them, bags of breadcrumbs stuffed in both pockets to feed the birds, eyes bright as she looked everywhere for Robin.

  They had both decided to bring Suki along. After the excitement of opening presents was over, and breakfast was eaten, when the time came for the (hoped-for) rendezvous with Robin Goodfellow, Nan and Sarah just couldn’t leave Suki behind. She adored Robin, and he for his part seemed to have a soft spot for children. And they didn’t like to ask Mrs. Horace to either take Suki with her to church, or stay behind and watch her. So when Mrs. Horace went off to her midday church service, the three of them walked until they could summon a cab and drove the rest of the way here.

  “Where do you think he might choose to meet us?” Sarah asked, shading her eyes to peer ahead.

  Nan was going to answer with her best guess—when a sprightly voice spoke up from practically in her ear.

  “Look behind you!”

  Her heart jumped into her throat and she and Sarah both whirled to find Robin standing behind her, grinning.

  Today he looked just like any sort of ordinary adolescent boy you might find in the Garden on a late Christmas morning; cap pulled down on his head, muffler tied around it and wrapped around his neck, mittens, stout coat, corduroy trousers and waterproof Wellington boots. But Sarah and Nan would have known him anywhere, for surely there was not a single living soul on this earth that had those brilliant, emerald-green eyes.

  Suki must have heard him too, for they heard her scream, “Robin!” in delight, and a moment later, she hit Robin like a little cannonball. He caught her effortlessly, and just as effortlessly swung her around several times before putting her down.

  “Did you bring crumbs for the birds and sweeties for my friends?” he asked her, for the moment paying no attention to the adults. When she nodded vigorously, he turned her around and pointed over her shoulder at a congregation of wild birds (strangely, none of them pigeons, which was unheard of in this park), some rabbits and squirrels, and two creatures of the sort that had appeared in Beatrice Leek’s house. “Go play!” he ordered, and with a squeal, Suki pelted toward them.

  “Are those brownies?” Nan asked, incredulously.

  “Hobs,” Robin corrected. “brownies won’t leave housen if they can help it, except t’move. Mistress Leek’s brownie brought the note to her hob, and her hob brought ’em both to me. She don’t know she got a hob; he minds her garden and her dovecote.” He eyed them both gravely. “You were right to be troubled. Something dark’s on the move. Dunno what it is, neither, but I can feel it, pushing to come through.”

  “What do you mean, ‘pushing to come through?’ Pushing on what?” Nan asked, bewildered.

  “There’s worlds and worlds, lying right up against this one,” he replied. “One of ’em’s where the Fey creatures go, when your Cold Iron and crowding get too much for ’em. But there’s others, worlds that I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. What’s trying to get here is from one of those worlds. I’m the Oldest Old Thing in England . . . but there’s Older Old Things in those other worlds, and most of them are none too nice.”

  His eyes were grave as he said that, and Nan swallowed. Robin had a habit of understatement, and when he said “most of them are none too nice,” she knew these things were probably terrible indeed. “Can you help us?” she asked.

  “Gonna try,” he replied. “But this isn’t a ghostie, that Sarah and I can send onward, or I can wish the Wild Hunt on, at least not while it’s on its own ground. And ’tisn’t a thing of the Fey, that I can command. Like I said, I can feel it pushing, but I can’t tell where it is, or even if it’s in a where at all. It’s kind of a general feeling, y’see—like I feel it seeking for thin spots, sometimes finding them, but not that it’s come all the way through.” He shook his head. “’Tis mortal hard to describe, and that’s probably because it is what it is, and I am what I am. I’m rooted deep in this world, and this thing’s . . . not.” His chin firmed with determination. “But I’m the Oldest Old Thing in all England, and this is my place to defend, and defend it I will!”

  His tone was brave, and there was no doubt he meant what he said—but would he have the power to make them a reality? If he was afraid of this thing. . . .

  . . . then maybe it did have the ability to lay waste to all of London.

  “So, we’re still where we were before we asked to speak with you,” Nan replied, wishing she felt more relieved. “Though at least you have been warned, and through you, all creatures of the four Elements. I just wish we knew more.”

  “Don’t despair! It hasn’t come through yet, and it may never. Unless it has help on this side, the barriers between the worlds are mortal hard to breach. Them as has the Second Sight will be of aid, I reckon,” Robin said confidently. “Their Sight is tied to things being as they should be. It’s when things go awry that the visions come.”

  Well, that certainly sounded like what was happening to young Amelia. Nan glanced over at Suki, who was practically covered in birds and being aided by the hobs. “I suppose we’re done here for now . . . how can I quickly contact you if we find out something, Robin?”

  Robin smiled slightly again. “Well, that’s why I brought yon hobs. They don’t mind housen, they don’t mind Cold Iron, and they like the company of Big Folks. If you need me, you tell one of them, and I can be with you quick as you can say knife. I reckoned one could live in your dwelling, and one can go to Memsa’b’s School with Suki. They’ll make themselves handy, too, it’s what they
like to do, to pay for their keep. Tidying up, things of that nature. Tending gardens and crops. Fixing things.”

  Nan blinked at him, and Sarah looked amused. “And how do you think Grey and Neville will feel about this?”

  “Same way the other birds yonder feel about it,” Robin said promptly. “Birds like hobs. Hobs like birds.”

  “I think it would be lovely if the hob could keep the toys at the school in good repair,” Sarah told him. “The children are mostly very good about trying not to break things . . . but they are children.”

  “That’ll suit a hob down to the bone.” Robin cast another look in Suki’s direction. Nan followed his gaze. It appeared that the breadcrumbs had been exhausted, for the birds had all taken to the trees, where they sat preening themselves in contentment. Robin waved a hand as one of the hobs happened to look at him, and a moment later, both hobs and Suki were trudging happily through the snow toward them, like something out of a Snow White panto.

  “So,” Robin began, when all three stood before them. “I’m sure the lads have already introduced themselves to you, Suki, but Grown Folk need proper introductions.” He cleared his throat, and waved at the two hobs. “Mistresses Nan and Sarah, I make known to you Durwin and Roan.”

  Each hob made a little half bow when his name was spoken. Both came about as tall as Nan’s waist and were wearing stout boots, heavy, gray canvas trousers, heavy oatmeal-colored woolen tunics, and the sort of soft felt hats that farmers wore in winter. Both were bearded. Durwin had a shorter beard than Roan, and Roan’s hair and beard were a dark red, as opposed to Durwin’s straw-color, but otherwise they were so very much alike Nan was afraid she’d never have been able to tell them apart if it hadn’t been for hair color. Both had heavy, bushy eyebrows, and at the moment, both had slightly anxious expressions, as if they were hoping to please.