Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 22: June 1888.

Twenty-Two: June 1888.

‘Dearheart, welcome… I have no idea who you are, but you know the knock, so you must be in the know…’

This latter was spoken in a fey, arch and over-preening voice, accompanied by a waggle of a finger that had an immaculately manicured nail. Though the speaker was male, Sir Francis could see that he affected to be female. Not just by the falsetto tones and the rouge, but also by the low cut dress that he wore. He could possibly have resembled a dancer at the Folies, if not for the waxed moustache and the carpet of chest hair that coiled over the delicate lace of the dress’ décolletage. Mind, thought Sir Francis, there had been many a dancer at that noble institution that…

The thought was lost as the resemblance struck him: Tristram Bloody Brackley himself. How his grandfather would have wept. No, on reflection he would not have wept: rather, he would have taken a horsewhip to the boy. There again, it seemed that young Brackley would probably enjoy that.

Suddenly aware that he had been standing there for some while, saying nothing, and that the young man before him was beginning to look a little impatient, he roused himself to speech.

‘I am, indeed, in the know as you so capably put it. I have not been to this establishment before, but my usual haunts…’

‘Ah, the blessed Peelers,’ Tristram said with an exaggerated shudder. ‘Yes, dearheart, they can be such a trial. Pity, as many of them look so splendid in those uniforms. Still, we soldier on –‘ he gave what he fondly believed to an imitation of a girlish giggle ‘- and we’ve had our share of those, too, but I digress. Yes, sweetness, we keep on going… Now come in, for God’s sakes, before anyone catches sight of you,’ he finished in a tone that was comparatively far more manly.

Varney had caught sight of some of the activity in the room over the burly shoulders of young Tristram, and so it was no surprise when he entered, hearing the door closed behind him, and took in the full vista. A chatter of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, filled the room. Voices were low, mostly he presumed through habit. It would not pay for many of the people in these apartments to fall prey to the Peelers. Even at first glance, he caught sight of three MP’s, two high ranking Armed Forces personnel, and the Editor of the Thunderer. And Brackley, of course. Their educated voices contrasted with the rougher working class tones of Cockney London. He knew that many of these boys – and they were, with the exception of Brackley, the younger elements in the room. While the older men were in male attire – albeit in various stages of undress – the younger men were in dresses. They were rouged, and made up in parodies of femininity. Many of the younger men were perched on the laps of their elders, or else had their heads buried in those laps.

Not the sort of thing Sir Francis had been privy to, even in the days when he had such lustful desires. But if nothing else had come of his bizarre experiences, it had taught him that people’s peccadilloes were nothing but their own affair. Mind, he’d still run them all through with a red hot poker.

‘Drink?’ Brackley had conjured a balloon of brandy, seemingly from nowhere, which he now waved under Sir Francis’ nose.

‘Thank you.’ Varney took it, even though it would not pass his lips. Speaking of which: ‘I wonder – you are Tristram Brackley, are you not? – if I could have a word with you. In private,’ he added, casting a jaundiced glance around the room.