“No sense in going too long without it,”Madame replied, “when it’s readily available here every night ofthe week.”
Just as the three Cavaliers were slippingtheir gloves on, Sally Butts came out of a back room, fully dressedfor the outdoors, and walked past them and out the front door,leaving a little shudder of pleasure in her wake. The gentlemenwere especially taken with her blond curls, whose tips could stillbe seen at the edges of her kerchief.
“I’ve sent her home for the evening,” Madamesaid. “But she’ll be here tomorrow night for sure. And in finevoice, I promise you.”
“So shall we, Madame.”
Moments later, as the three gentlemen steppedout into the snow, Madame LaFrance turned to Nell and Sarie andsaid with a rasping laugh, “If those fellows are cavaliers, then myarse is the ace of spades!”
“Their money is good, though,” Nellsuggested.
“And Lancelot they don’t,” Sarie chippedin.
Madame LaFrance slammed the door shut againstthe snow.
***
On the stoop, the Cavaliers said their goodnightsand parted company. Pugh went west towards Church Street, Clougheast towards Jarvis, and Whitemarsh south towards King. But nonehad a straightforward walk, for Devil’s Acre was a rabbit warren ofcrooked streets and mismatched alleys. It sat like a seething boiljust north of St. James Cathedral, a shanty town that had sprung uphaphazardly in the respectable heart of the city. It was rumouredto be populated by thieves and desperate men, but since everysecond structure was either a makeshift tavern selling bootlegbooze or a house of pleasure where gambling and prostitution werede rigueur, there were not that many shanties housing eithercriminals or deadbeats. In fact, most of the traffic — principallyat night — was from the precincts of town to thepleasure nodes of Devil’s Acre, and then out again when dawn orexhaustion arrived. So lucrative were the dives, opium dens andbrothels that there seemed no need for theft or violence. Gentlemenwere pleased to part with their money peacefully.
And so Gawain, Lancelot and Galahad feltperfectly safe in leaving one another to walk unescorted throughthe maze of alleys to the respectable streets that would see themhome. Likewise, Sally Butts, who walked home alone every midnightwhen her stint at Madame LaFrance’s was completed. The brothelitself was in the dead-centre of Devil’s Acre and was the onlybrick building in the complex, a substantial two-storey structurethat had originally been the manor house of an estate onceoccupying the “acre,” but abandoned years before. Madame LaFrancehad seen her chance and actually had title to the place. Herexperience as a madam in England had held her in good stead as sherefurbished it and turned it into a palace of pleasure.
Certainly it was grander, warmer and cosierthan Sally’s own house, her parents’ log cabin on Newgate Street.She felt safe in the brothel and here on the streets of Devil’sAcre. In the warm haven of Madam LaFrance’s, she was known andadmired; so unlike the poverty and rancour of her own home. Herfather was a drunk who took her board money happily while railingagainst the ungodliness of her occupation. It was no good Sallytrying to explain that she was not a whore, that all she did wassmile at the gentlemen and sing her heart out. For she truly lovedsinging. Even her fiancé had had trouble with her occupation, butit was she who had broken off the engagement.
She walked west towards Church Street,familiar with every bend and ell of the warren. It was snowing,giving the dark a false brightness, but she knew the shape of everygable and roof-pitch in the area, and moved steadily along, hummingto herself despite her sore throat. She didn’t know exactly whenshe first heard footfalls somewhere in the snowy darkness behindher, but soon they were quite distinct — and frightening. Sheclutched her kerchief about her blond curls and shouted back, “Isanybody there?”
No answer. And no footsteps.
Sally turned and began striding steadilywest. She was only two turns from Church Street and safety. Shestopped abruptly. The footsteps were now loud and very near. With athrill of fear running all through her, she began to turn to facethe menacing sounds of the footfalls.
Something powerful grabbed her by theshoulder. She tried to twist away, but an arm quickly wrappeditself around her chest. She raised her head to scream, and feltsomething slash across her exposed throat. For some reason thescream that had begun boiling up in her chest did not reach hertongue. She heard a wheezing gasp, the arm released her, and sheslumped slowly into a nearby drift. The footsteps, heavy andmasculine, thumped on in the direction she had been going.
Sally lay where she had dropped. Slowly butsurely the life-blood flowed out of her and stained the steadilyfalling snow.
***
Horatio Cobb was having a lovely dream — he and Dorawere naked in a sea of feathers that tickled and tantalized — whenthe knock came at the door. He felt Dora roll off the bed and heardher padding away towards the front room. The sudden cold draft leftby her absence brought him fully awake and silently cursing hiswife’s addiction to midwifery. He squeezed his eyes tight and triedto re-enter the dream.
“It’s for you this time,” Dora shouted intohis ear. “It’s a lad sent here by your chief to fetch you to thepolice quarters.” She sounded a bit too gleeful for Cobb’sliking.
“But I’ve done my shift fer today,” hepleaded.
“So you have, Mister Cobb, but I ain’t yerboss. Cyril Bagshaw is, if I recall rightly.”
“No need to get scar-castic, MissusCobb. Tell the lad I’ll be a moment gettin’ inta my uniform.”
“Must be a riot in the town or somethin’ likeit to have you dragged outta yer bed,” Dora said moresympathetically.
“Or it could be Bagshaw’s in need of adetective,” Cobb said, getting up and reaching for histrousers.
Cyril Bagshaw had been the new chief ofpolice since January, having arrived then from London, England,where he had been hired away from the Metropolitan Constabulary. Hehad, he informed all who would listen and those who had to, servedthat ground-breaking force since its inception in 1829. He had beena patrolman and then a desk sergeant, serving also as an exemplaryconstable who inducted trainees into the service. So he had been agood catch for the Toronto city council when Wilfrid Sturges hadretired as chief. Cobb had become great friends with Sturges, andmissed him terribly. But before leaving the post, Sturges hadrecommended to the council that the Toronto force be doubled, fromfive to ten, with round-the-clock patrols. In addition he suggestedthat a new position, that of plainclothes detective (modelled onthe experiment just begun in London, England) be instituted, andthat Cobb be given the job. Bagshaw had accepted the reorganizedforce happily, though the status of the detective was left up tohim to implement as he saw fit. Until then, Cobb was ordered backon the street — in his uniform. If a serious crime requiredinvestigation, Cobb was to switch roles, but so far no crime hadapparently fit this category, in the chief’s view. But perhaps thatwould change this evening (Cobb noted it was only a little pasteleven-thirty), as short of a full-scale uprising, Cobb could notthink of any other reason as to why he would be called out at thishour.
Cobb finished dressing, went to the frontstoop, where he tipped the messenger boy, then started off westwardfor the police quarters. The snow that had come down for much ofthe early evening had stopped. There was no traffic on King Streetand the slushy, rutted roadway was now a pristine, white ribbonbetween rows of houses and shops. Fifteen minutes later found himat the City Hall on Front Street, the rear portion of which nowhoused the expanded police force. A candle flickered in thereception room as he opened the door and walked in.
“Well, Cobb, it took you long enough to gethere,” Bagshaw snapped. The room was icy cold, the fire in thestove long since gone out. “The body will be frozen stiff bynow.”