India Black by Carol K. Carr Page B

sulfurous murk.
    The morning papers were still running hysterical columns on the dangerous London streets, and Mrs. Latham was still declining comment, but some of Bowser’s co-workers had been interviewed, and all attested to their colleague’s attention to detail, exemplary work habits and astute sense of judgment. One bloke weighed in with a sugary paean to Bowser’s loyalty to the Royal Family and his “great regard” for the Prince of Wales, which brought a smile to my lips.
    The day passed quietly enough. Lucinda’s cousin Molly had arrived on the doorstep, fresh off the farm and ready for a life of glamour in the metropolis. I was grateful to have her, for Arabella’s departure had caught me short, and there were clients to be serviced who were chomping at the bit for a fling with a real Slavic princess. Molly’s eastern European accents were weak, but since her natural speech was a thick Yorkshire dialect that was nearly incomprehensible even to English speakers, I thought she might do. “Just keep the conversation to a minimum,” I advised, “and if anyone questions whether you’re really a Bulgarian countess, open your dress and show ’em your tits.” In my business, that’s sound advice in any number of circumstances. In any case, if she failed to convince the gents that she was genuine royalty from east of the Danube, she would still appeal to the tally-ho crowd, who would feel right at home saddling up a strapping maid who still had straw in her hair.
    The hours passed quickly while Lucinda and I did our best to coax Molly into some semblance of alluring eroticism, not an easy task with a milk maid with chilblains and a distressing tendency to giggle at the thought of the male anatomy. By the end of the day, she was no longer spitting in the fireplace or erupting into laughter every time Lucinda (playing the role of client) whispered risqué suggestions into her ear.
    Midway through the afternoon, Reverend Calthorp appeared, his pink cheeks aflame with virtuous dismay at the plight of the inhabitants of Lotus House, a handful of religious tracts in his hand. I was all for turning him out, but the girls wanted some sport, and I couldn’t see the harm. He’d get an eyeful of quivering boobies and lewd winks, and be gone before you know it. He settled himself demurely on the horsehair sofa, an arm’s distance from the nearest bint, and drank a cup of tea while he invited us all to attend next Sunday’s morning service.
    “What’s the topic of your sermon, Reverend?” I asked. “The Immaculate Conception?”
    Lucinda leaned over and slapped his knee. “If you need any help with some of the particulars, I’d be happy to offer my assistance.”
    The girls guffawed and Calthorp’s blush ripened into full-fledged embarrassment. Well, what did he expect from a roomful of whores? Polite chitchat about the church fete and missions among the cannibals? Serves him right, the pious little prig. He at least had the grace to smile feebly at Lucinda’s witticism, though you could tell he wasn’t amused.
    He sipped his tea perfunctorily and fixed his mild brown eyes on mine. “I’m surprised to find you all so jolly.”
    “Jolly?” I asked.
    “Yes, considering that one of your fellow ...” He paused. “Er, colleagues has gone missing.”
    Until that moment, I’d mostly forgotten the events of the previous day, focused as I was on whipping Molly into shape and dealing with the daily minutiae of running a first-class brothel in an unfriendly business climate. (The damned Contagious Diseases Act had been amended, for the third time, just a few years ago, and it was all I could do to keep my bints from being hauled in, examined for disease and registered as prostitutes. Up until 1859, soldiers and sailors were examined routinely, but in their infinite wisdom the parliamentarians deemed that exercise too humiliating for the poor fellows and decided whores were much less likely to have personal