Lily had all she wanted and was eager to leave. She released her grip on his neck and hair, and wiped her sticky hand on the Chinese silk at his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that. Tempted though I am by your offer of a fat bum to thrash, I think I’ll be off now. You can get up, you disgusting old toad. I’ll let myself out.’ She made for the door.
He was fitter and less drunk than she had reckoned. And much more angry.
With a snarl he was on his feet, gown flapping open, and coming after her. Lily turned, reached for and grabbed the loose sleeve of his outstretched arm. As his dash along the corridor carried him forward she pivoted, stuck out a foot, twisted and heaved. He landed full length on his back with a thud and an ominous crack as his skull hit the tiled floor. A plant stand, knocked out of kilter by his flying right elbow, wobbled. Its cargo of aspidistra in heavy pot fell to the ground and exploded like a howitzer in a shower of earth and shards by his ear. He howled. He began to raise himself, hugging his elbow, dazed but vowing retribution. ‘Who the hell are you? Just you wait, madam … I’ll see you in jail. No, I’ll get Jonas to help me drag you upstairs and teach you a lesson … Jonas!’ Filth began to flow from his lips as he embroidered on the punishment he intended to inflict.
The manservant, drawn by the yells and the crash, appeared at the end of the hallway in time to see the tart he’d just let in, one knee on his master’s chest, doing something unspeakable but clearly painful to Mountfitchet’s recumbent and semi-naked body. He stood, uncertain, unable to react. To intervene or make himself scarce? What in hell was going on? Some kind of game? He’d seen some rum scenes under this roof — participated in some, too — but this one looked a bit too real for comfort. Mountfitchet screamed again. Warminster drew his conclusions: this wasn’t playtime. The girl was making him suffer all right.
He decided to let ’er rip.
Aware of his presence, she called out to him. ‘Warminster — if that’s really your name — come closer. I need a witness. In a moment you must fetch a bucket of water and chuck it over your master. He’s not harmed. He’s just had a dizzy spell and tripped over an aspidistra. Oh, and bring a mop for the floor. It’s covered with filth of one kind or another. Now, Mountfitchet, I’ll say this clearly, and if you should later find you’re a little hazy on the details you can refer to Warminster here who is listening with commendable attention: your regiment has severed ties with you, and I for one trust their judgement. Leave those ties cut. Make no attempt to contact the officer you’ve just mentioned to me. Mrs Braithwaite has her connections — she’d set the law on you. And I’d come back and separate you from your crown jewels. Such as they are. My hat and gloves, please, Warminster.’
She paused in the shrubbery, as Mrs Colonel Belton apparently had, to hitch up her stockings and straighten her hat. If Lily had had a Balkan Sobranie available in a dolly bag, she’d have lit it. And taken a couple of nerve-calming puffs while considering her options.
Mountfitchet apparently was not a man to risk an appearance on the streets of Mayfair in his underpinnings. With no sign then, as now, of pursuit, the entirely innocent woman who’d used up so much police time and so many police handkerchiefs had made the mistake of trying to jump into the admiral’s cab. Out of the frying pan and into the line of fire. Poor woman. An encounter with Mountfitchet followed seconds later by one with Fenian gunmen? No wonder she’d been emotional. No wonder she’d stuffed her fingers in her ears, shut her eyes and screamed. And then gone underground.
Sandilands, in his lies, seemed, in fact, to have stumbled on the truth.
Mrs Belton was no more than a neglected army wife seeking cash and excitement. One of the hundreds of lonely and desperate women stepping out under the bright lights of the streets of London. Lily, out on her beat, had shared a park bench and an intimate conversation with many such. She’d heard confidences so raw, so devastating, they could only have been whispered into the receptive ear of a stranger who would listen and not condemn. The dangerous life of a London prostitute was no mystery to Lily.