Hugh returned to his ale and speculated if there was a further waterman’s door at the back with access to the Thames while–
The scent of damp wool, strong gin and boiled mutton drifted as the crone decided to perch on the same bench as him.
With a grimace, he glanced aside.
Brown skirts, a hood, grey hanks of hair dangling from a woollen hat, fingerless gloves that left trails of coal dust, an old soldier’s greatcoat. The crone scratched her arm and Hugh made to rise.
“Got tuppence for a swig o’ Strip-Me-Naked, lovey?”
Gin had many monikers so couldn’t she have chosen another? The images were most disturbing.
“No,” he grunted.
“The name’s Mollie.” And she cackled, sidling up to shove an elbow in his side, the reek of gin watering his eyes. “I bet yer’d go fer anyfink in a corset, eh?”
Odd thing to say and he shifted.
She peered at him from beneath her hood.
A scarf covered her mouth; coal dust smudged her cheeks; amber eyes blinked up.
Hugh’s world tipped on its axis, a low heat swathing him, and to prevent himself yelling, grabbing or heaving, he clutched his ale and drank it down in one.
“Oh-ee,” his minx blabbered. “I likes a cove who can hold his bub.”
“Get away, crone,” he bawled in his thick Welsh accent. “I need a piss, I do.” And he rose, barging past her towards the door.
The cold air cleared his head and he stomped past the window to the far side of the tavern, far from the Pelican Stairspassage and its malevolent ears. As he’d expected, the door opened not too long after, the crone ambling to his side.
“Need ’elp with yer breeches, do yer?” She swung her skirts like a shilling-harlot.
“What the hell are you doing, crone?” he bellowed, pretending to fiddle with his falls.
“Helpin’ yer!” And she guffawed. “Me cock-bawd Rainy says to always ’elp a man with ’is breeches.”
So this was Rainham’s order to assist him, and he scowled. “A crone like you could get hurt on these streets.”
A few burly boatmen trundled the cobbles towards them and Hugh faced the wall.
“Ooh, ain’t yer got a big ’un.” She chuckled. As did the boatmen. “And I’m used to these streets, lovey.” Thecroneshoved a hand into her ragged army greatcoat and laid a most curious dulled metal object against her skirts. He’d only seen such a weapon once. A Duck Gun named for its cluster of four barrels, splayed like a duck’s foot.
Effective if not exactly accurate.
“No aim,” he said softly.
“Sorry to hear that, dearie.” She cackled once more. “But it’ll do fer me.”
“Only if you’re aiming for a flock of ducks on the Serpentine.”
“And everythin’ in between, lovey.” She tucked the gun back into her coat, adjusted her hood and winked. “’Ave a pleasant eve.” And with a swish of coal dust, she shuffled off into the fog.
Hugh gnashed his teeth.
Then let out a long breath.
She knew what she was doing. Rainham wouldn’t have sent her otherwise.
And who would accost a crone with no coin?
