A gin shop.
He’d hoped for a brothel. Old soakers were so much more difficult to question.
Pushing the thin door that held a fist-sized hole in it, Rakecombe sauntered in. An ashen young girl scrubbed with a threadbare cloth, her stare vacant, a bruise marring one cheek.
As they seated themselves at one of the cobbled-together tables, she hurried over.
Normally, a barmaid’s eyes gleamed with avarice at the sight of him – he may wear old clothes but they usually recognised a man’s worth solely by posture – but this young girl just gazed dully.
“Blue ruin and information,” Rakecombe growled low.
She timidly looked over her shoulder to a hulking great brute slumped over the counter.
“We will pay for both,” murmured Jack, smiling.
With a deft nod, she scuttled off to a back room and came back more promptly than a butler at White’s, with a bottle and three glasses.
“Jim don’t mind talk if yer buy us a drink. ’E’ll jus’ think yer after a tup.” She looked up hopefully. “Are yer?”
“How old are you?” asked Jack, brow furrowing.
“None of yer bleedin’ business,” she said, pouring gin with a shaking hand.
Bruises dotted her pale wrists and Rakecombe felt the usual helplessness descend whenever he came to this part of London.
Despite owning the hospital and several other places, it was never enough.
With all his titled authority, he tried to persuade government to help and although he received toadying promises, no new measures ever saw the light of day.
The powers that be blamed poverty on the war, they blamed the drink, they blamed laziness and low morals – bloody hypocrites. He’d like to stuff a couple of them down here and see how long they survived.
“Have you heard of a man called Stuart Penbury? Blond hair and grey eyes with a–”
“Talks funny?” the girl interrupted.
“He’s from Manchester.”
She scrunched her forehead. “Like I said, talks funny. Don’t pronounce fings right.”
“Indeed. Did he come here often? When was the last time you saw him?”
“First came ’ere to meet some bloke, but then ’e had the itch for Bridget, the other girl.” She leaned close and Rakecombe was surprised to smell fresh lavender. “Then Stuart jus’ fancied the bub, likes they all do.”
Sitting back, she sniffed the glass, wrinkling her nose. “Dunno why. Stuff’s rank. Smells o’ cats. Anyhows, a couple hurled in ’elter-skelter last week and they jus’ grabbed ’im. Bridget screamed but the woman – a swivel-eyed flash mort – told us she were ’is sister. And that were that. I ’eard the fella say they was taking ’im up north. Poor Stuart – they ’ave to eat grass up there, yer know.”
Jack took her calloused hand and placed some coins in her palm. “Hide them,” he said, folding her fingers over the silver.
“Ta, but ’e always finds it.” The girl jerked a thumb to the collapsed giant. “And then ’tis worse. I got thumped for ’iding a ribbon… I didn’t filch it. It were in the gutter.” A wistful expression transformed her pale features. “It were blue. Bit bloodstained and that…”
All at once, Rakecombe stood, but his – he hesitated to say comrade – remained sitting, staring at the bruised girl.
Rakecombe sighed. You couldn’t save them all, but…
Grabbing hold of her upper arm, he roughly pulled her to standing. Jack protested but bent to catch the gin bottle as it tumbled from the table whilst Rakecombe swiftly whispered in the girl’s ear, unobserved. “If you want a way out, go to the hospital on Dyott Street. Tell them Alex sent you.”
A faint nod and he pushed her away. She fell into another table with an exaggerated cry.
“Get your stench away from me, girl,” he sneered. “I’d rather swive a sow.” And he stalked out of the godawful place.
