Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 20: June 1888

Twenty: June 1888.

He made his way through the busy streets as the shadows lengthened under gas lamp, and the streets grew more raucous with the cries of those who had been steadily imbibing. In the West End, the theatre crowds milled around the imposing lobbies, waiting for their carriages to take them either to their homes, or on to meals in expensive restaurants, and thence to gaming rooms. It was a world that he had once known, and in which he had revelled. Yet where had it got him in the end? To this point. And would he find what he was looking for within that realm? No. The gaming rooms were too well guarded, the restaurants far too open and public. There were other places where those such as the man he had once been could seek their pleasures. Pleasures of a more solitary kind.

He had already imbibed from a female this night. He needed something stronger. Not just the richer blood of the sleek, well-fed and rich, but something which carried the strength of a male.

With a baring of his hideous fangs that may possibly have been a smile, he acknowledged to himself that he knew just such a place.

It was off Jermyn Street. A rich, respectable area which housed, behind its painted and varnished doors, any number of things that men would pay to keep hidden. Including, in one block where the concierge would turn a blind eye for a few sovereigns, a molly house. Here, he knew, he could gain the privacy he needed. And there would be little trace of those to whom things might… happen.

He entered boldly, rapping on the front desk with his whitened knuckles. The concierge shuffled from his quarters, casting a curious glance back to wards his dog, a small terrier, which would not accompany him as normal, but now stood hard, teeth bared in a low growl.

‘Excuse my Fred, sir,’ he said ingratiatingly, ‘but he’s sometimes shy of strangers.’

‘No matter,’ Varney said imperiously. ‘I have no concern for dumb animals.’ Which includes you, he added to himself. But, aloud, he continued: ‘I have come in search of a friend’s sister, who I have been told now resides in these quarters. A Molly, by name. My friend – you may have heard of him – is Tristram, Third Earl of Brackley.’

The concierge gave a knowing grin. Dammit, thought Varney, the man almost tapped his nose. Impertinent little shit.

‘I know who you mean, sir,’ he said slyly, winking. ‘A very well-known gentleman in these parts. As is his lovely sister. You’ll find her on the third floor, rooms 17-24. Knock once, then three in quick succession. She has many visitors, some of them not very welcome. I’m sure you understand.’ He indicated the staircase with a nod, and held out his hand, expecting a tip. It was, after all, usual procedure.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ sniffed Sir Francis Varney, going on his way and pointedly ignoring the outstretched hand.

‘Wanker as well as a bugger, then,’ the concierge muttered at Varney’s retreating back.

As he climbed the stairs, deciding to ignore that which he had not been meant to overhear – yet also glorying in the old mans sheer impertinence – he reflected on how fortunate it had been for him to pick up a little gossip about the grandson of a man, now long dead, that he had once known. It made it so much easier if you could enter by the front door, rather than the back. Apt, in the circumstances…

He reached the door to number 17. Faintly, he could hear carousing, and the squeals of those drunk on more than wine.

Smiling once more to himself, he gave the knock.