She would make him wait, he knew that. An hour, maybe an hour and a half, but she would see him: her curiosity would ensure that. Ignoring the morning papers, Dermot Corcoran sipped tea from a wafer-thin china cup, sitting in a room that would not have looked out of place in any of the great houses in Merrion Square—not that he had actually sat in one of those drawing rooms. Lowly police inspectors did not investigate the crimes of the wealthy. The furniture was new and in good taste, showing no wear, the heavy flocked wallpaper was unmarked and the carpet pristine. Even though the room evidently saw no use, a low fire crackled in the grate and he was sure if he ran his finger across the white marble mantelpiece, he would find no trace of ash or dust. Curiously, no art hung on the wall, and the trinkets on the occasional tables and mantelpiece were surprisingly tawdry. Crudely painted figurines, pieces of glass and pottery: they looked like gifts a child would bring back from a journey. But as far as he knew, there were no children in this house.
Dermot Corcoran stood and peered through fine lace curtains onto the street. Georgian houses lined both sides of Gloucester Street. At the top of the street, when it curved onto the main thoroughfare of Sackville Street, the houses retained all of their former glory and elegance, but as the street dipped, so too did the quality, until the once-grand houses at the bottom of the street were little better than slums. And every house was a brothel. Some, like Madam Kitten’s, were the flash houses, catering to the wealthy, where the very finest food, wines, and opiates were available, along with exquisite and guaranteed disease-free girls. The houses at the very bottom of the street and in the surrounding warren of alleyways and lanes were the kips and stews, where the alcohol was watered if you were lucky and poisonous if you were not. There, girls and boys were bought for pennies and a tryst—a knee-trembler—might last only a few minutes.
This once-elegant street was now the cancer at the heart of Dublin, the second city of the British Empire. Crime, perversion, and disease were rampant and it was ruled by a series of terrifying women: Bella Cohen, Mrs. Mack, Long Liz, and, of course, the mysterious Madam Kitten. All of Dublin, from the Viceroy in the Park to the urchin on the wharves, knew her name, but no one knew the woman. He knew a little more than most, and none of what he knew made sense. She was an enigma.
The door behind him opened and he turned, expecting the maid, but a huge shaven-headed middle-aged man stepped into the room. Dermot knew him by reputation: this was Mickey—never Michael—Woods. Former soldier, former boxer, and now Madam Kitten’s Bully. Her enforcer. The big man closed the door, folded his arms, and lay back against it, then slowly looked the police inspector up and down.
Dermot felt his heart quicken.
Mickey’s voice was a terrifying whisper. “I’m to check you for weapons—guns, knives, sticks.”
The young inspector started to shake his head.
“No one gets to see the Madam without being checked out,” Mickey continued, “and if I find they’re carrying anything they shouldn’t be, then they don’t get to see the Madam. Plus, they get their legs broken,” he added with a gap-toothed smile.
Dermot Corcoran drew himself up to his full height and shrugged out of his wool jacket. “I assure you I am unarmed.” He was pleased that his voice remained steady. “This is a courtesy call,” he said, turning in a complete circle.
Suddenly Mickey was towering over him, and Dermot found his eyes on a level with the man’s scarred throat. “No disrespect,” the bully whispered, “but I’ve found that coppers often lie.” With quick practiced movements, he ran his hands across Dermot’s arms, around his chest and then up and down both sides of his legs. Satisfied, he stepped back, picked up the inspector’s discarded coat, and checked the pockets before holding it by the shoulders for the younger man to slip into. “Madam Kitten will see you now,” he said. He stepped back to open the door, and a woman stepped into the room.
Dermot Corcoran was expecting an old crone: most of the women who ran the Dublin brothels were ex-working girls who wore their life of dissipation and excess on their faces and bodies, but he was shocked to discover that the figure in the doorway was tall and slender, elegant in a high-necked, long-sleeved widow’s black traced with hundreds of pearls around the throat and sleeves. Her face was concealed behind a thick black lace veil.
“Thank you Mickey.”
There was a second surprise when she spoke. He was expecting to hear a Dublin accent roughened by the rasp of whiskey and cigarettes; instead the voice was elegant, educated, and English.