‘You got somethin’ for Lester?’ The hopeful voice turned a little mournful, as if many times there had been nothing for Lester.
She could see now that underneath all the filth was a young man of about twenty-five, with thick black hair matted into hanks and a strong cleft chin. Lord Carlston had said that the vestige energy could sometimes overburden an offspring’s mind and manifest itself in fits of extreme violence, promiscuity, or, as it seemed in Lester’s case, a descent into pitiful madness. Would Lord Carlston end up in such a state if they could not find a cure? Helen pushed away the awful thought.
‘Hello, Lester,’ she said gently, then realised she did have something to offer. She held out the apple. ‘Would you like some of this?’
A female voice answered, ‘I’m not rightly sure he’s ever had one.’
Helen spun around. A girl stood just outside the kitchen door, a broad hand clutching an old pink flowered banyan robe around her plump body. Sprat stood at her side. They both flinched at Helen’s sudden turn.
‘Are you Binny?’ Helen asked.
‘Course she is,’ Sprat said, rallying. ‘You got my sixpence?’
Helen retrieved the coin and held it out. ‘Here.’
Sprat darted forward and collected it. ‘See, told ya,’ she said to Binny. She scuttled off to the gate, treasure closed tight in her hand.
Binny picked her way across the yard. Her pair of high wooden pattens, designed to raise the wearer above the muck, clunked against the cobbles.
‘You really gunna give it him?’ she asked, nodding at the apple.
‘Yes, of course. If he wants it.’
‘You gotta go up nice an’ easy,’ Sprat advised from the gate. ‘Some of the girls tease ’im and snatch stuff away, so he’s a bit grabby. If he gets yer hand, he won’t let go.’
‘He likes to spit too,’ Binny added.
‘Spit,’ Lester echoed.
Helen approached the door carefully and held out the apple. A hand, the wrist painfully thin and ingrained with dirt, shot out and grabbed the fruit.
‘Ta, ta, ta, ta,’ Lester called.
He disappeared from view. Helen heard a loud crunch of apple flesh and a low hum of delight.
‘Sprat says you’re Martha’s friend,’ Binny said softly.
Just as Helen nodded, a man’s voice, high-pitched and vicious, rang out from the kitchen. ‘For Chrissakes, girl, take the man’s money and get in ’ere. He don’t want to be standin’ in all that shite.’
Helen peered down the yard, glad that the brim of her beaver shaded her face from view. A dim figure stood in the doorway, then moved away again. Kate Holt’s husband?
The order sent Binny across the small distance between them. She clutched the banyan tighter, creasing the front of it around an ample bosom. She was perhaps a few years older than Helen, with a ruddy country complexion sprinkled with freckles. Her eyes were round, a pretty dove grey, and, at that moment, wide with fright.
‘Pretend you’re havin’ a fumble,’ she whispered and pulled aside the front of the banyan to expose one heavy breast. She grabbed Helen’s hand and pressed it against her warm flesh, squeezing her fingers around the soft weight.
Helen froze. Dear God Almighty! She felt locked in place, her eyes fixed upon the girl’s chest.
‘Mrs Gunn says I was to speak only to a lady. No one else. You seem like a decent cove, sir, but Mrs Gunn was real particular. Only a lady, so I can’t tell you nothin’.’ She stopped, watching Helen’s face. ‘Ain’t you never touched one afore?’ She bit her lip, trying to hide a smile.
Face hot with horror, Helen pulled her hand free.
‘Lordy, you never been with a girl, have you?’ Binny said.
Helen squeezed her eyes shut. How could she act as if such casual obscenity did not matter? Yet she had vowed she would put aside her sensibilities and be a Reclaimer.
Pushing past her shock, she whispered, ‘I am the lady.’
‘What?’
Helen opened her eyes. ‘I am not a man. I am the lady Mrs Gunn told you about.’
Gritting her teeth, she caught Binny’s hand and pressed it against her own chest, pushing the girl’s fingers around the small curve that the breast-band could not fully disguise.
Binny gasped. ‘Glory!’ She patted Helen’s chest again. ‘Dressed in men’s clobber. Like them actresses.’
‘Yes.’
Binny glanced over her shoulder. ‘Come with me.’
She bent and ducked under the linen, pulling Helen after her with surprising strength. They landed side by side against the wall of Lester’s cell. Binny pressed her finger against her lips.
‘I’ll tell Mr Holt you just wanted a knee-trembler,’ she whispered. ‘But you’ll need to give me the coin so’s I don’t get a hidin’. Deal?’
Although not quite sure what Binny had said, Helen nodded. The core of it was clear: she needed money to avoid a beating.
‘Sorry ’bout stickin’ yer hand on me pap. I didn’t know,’ Binny continued.
‘No, of course not,’ Helen said, feeling fresh heat rise to her face.
‘I never sent you a message, my lady. I ain’t seen no sign of the cove you want — Mrs Holt’s brother, MacEvoy.’
‘You do know what he looks like though?’
‘That I do.’ She grimaced. ‘Last time I saw him was about a month back. Mrs Holt give him little Lizzie.’ Her voice dropped to an even softer whisper, barely more than a breath. ‘He cut her up bad and did things to her here.’ She tapped her head. ‘She still screams at night. He’s real bad folk.’
Helen sounded her agreement; Lowry was the worst folk. At least her suspicion that he would come here to take refuge with his sister was right.
‘Have you seen Mrs Holt hide anything special, or has she told you to stay away from some place?’
Binny shook her head. ‘We ain’t allowed in her particular room, nor where she and Mr Holt live, but that’s always been so.’
‘Where are those rooms?’
She pointed up. ‘On the second floor. At the back.’
Helen studied the small window that Binny had indicated. ‘Did her brother stay up there too when he was last here?’
‘He spent his time down below, past the molly rooms. Him and poor Lizzie.’
‘Have you seen anyone else watching the house?’
‘I ’ave,’ Sprat said, peeking around the corner of the building.
Binny glared at the girl. ‘What have I told you about sneakin’ round watchin’ us?’
Sprat lifted a bony, truculent shoulder.
‘Who have you seen?’ Helen asked. Perhaps Philip was watching the place too. ‘A tall red-headed man?’ She touched her own hat, searching for the right cant word. ‘Wearing a gray nab like this?’
‘No. A go-by-ground, black hair. Looked real smoky.’
Helen translated, a short man with dark hair who looked suspicious. So not Philip, but perhaps the swarthy companion she had seen at his side near Edward Street.
‘Did he come inside?’
Sprat shook her head. ‘Never. Just stayed in the daffy house opposite watchin’.’
Helen floundered for a moment. Daffy house. Ah, gin house.
‘I knows where ’e lives,’ Sprat added. ‘I follared ’im one day.’
Binny clicked her tongue. ‘Mrs Holt told you not to fork no more. Leastways, nothin’ that could be traced back here.’
Fork: Sprat was a pickpocket too.