Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (11 page)

“Do you know anything about this club?” he asked.

“I don't; never heard of it before,” White returned.

“Hmm. So you need to find the Liberal Club then, right?” Lestrade asked.

“We do, yes,” I said.

“How do we find this place that no one knows anything about?” Brett asked.

“We will send a message to M Division. They might be able to aid us,” said Lestrade.

“Aha!” shouted White, clapping his hands together. “I might know someone.” The three of us looked at him, bemused.

“You know someone?” Brett questioned.

“Care to be more specific?” Lestrade asked.

“Actually, no, I don't care to be,” was White's response.

“This isn't a time for secrets!” said Lestrade angrily, his face turning red.

“Just as you have Holmes and tolerate his quirks, I, too, have my man and you will tolerate his,” said I sternly. “For all his oddities White produces results for me.”

Lestrade calmed, his face returning to its natural colour.

“Gentleman, this is not the time or place to be getting angry with each other. We are, apparently, working on the same side,” said Brett, but the look upon his face showed me he was trying to swallowing his pride and get on with the work.

Lestrade gave a nod, as did I.

“It might take me a while,” said White. “I'll send you a message with my findings. But be ready when I do.” White stood and moved his glasses further back on his nose before he ran his hand through his ginger hair, and darted out of the office.

***

Whilst White was away and we waited for a response from M division, Brett and I looked through the files at the Yard to see if there was any mention of the club. Our search turned up nothing.

“What do you make of all this, Reid? Do you think White will be able to find something?” Brett asked.

“He's a savvy man,” I returned.

“He isn't conventional though, is he?”

“What's convention?” I ask.

Brett shrugged. “A sense of propriety, perhaps, or honesty?”

I put down a folder which I had been perusing through, and looked over at Brett.

“These are strong words from a man who knows little of whom my associate is,” I said.

“I do know him,” said Brett. “I'm a journalist.”

“What do you mean?”

“White has a dark past that he's tried to outrun. But it's one I'll never forget.”

The door swung open before I could question Brett further. Lestrade stood in the entry, holding his arm in the air. Pinned between his forefinger and thumb was a slip of paper.

“We've got an address,” the Inspector confirmed.

***

White had found the club and instructed that we meet him at a local public house on Peckham High Street. Jumping into a maria, Bret and I made our way towards Peckham. We passed the Houses of Parliament; the bright glow of the clock tower shone like a beacon. We crossed over Westminster Bridge and continued towards South London.

When we arrived, White was standing outside the entry, smoking a cigarette. He gave a nod and pointed for us to leave the maria down an alley. He walked around the corner, tossing his cigarette on the ground.

“Good of you to make it so quickly,” said White sardonically.

“We got here as quick as possible,” said Brett with a sharp bite in his tone. “Tell us what you know.”

“Leave it to the journalist to be the bigger ass than the police,” White remarked. Brett tensed. I put my hand up to break tension.

“Tell us what you know,” said I.

“A hundred yards up the road on the right, you'll see Elm Grove; the Liberal Club is up there across from the side entrance to the station. It's a two-storey building with a square columned entrance and a blue door. Wooden shades block out the windows. I noticed a few men in fine dress knock on the door in the same pattern. I hear there is a large hall inside, a bar, and that's it,” concluded White.

“Who is your source?” Brett asked.

“Does it matter?” White returned.

“To me, yes.”

“It matters not, Mr Brett,” I interjected. “We know the location, now we need to get inside.”

“I was told not to go in flashing your badge, Reid,” White informed. “They don't take kindly to that. We need to be diplomatic with them. They need to believe us to be prospective joiners from out of town. Our story: we're from Brighton and the club was a recommendation by Daniels and Goodtree when we had them ship cargo to South Africa.”

“Very well,” I returned. Brett nodded.

***

We walked up to the blue door. A light hung outside, illuminating the entrance. There was a bell which Brett pressed. We waited a few moments before White pressed the bell for a second time. Just as my patience was about to break, the door creaked open. A short woman of around five and twenty years answered. Her hair was turned up and styled. She wore a loose gown which hung by a single strap across her left shoulder, exposing a large portion of her right breast. Her gown ended at the top of her thigh, revealing striped lace stockings and high-heeled shoes. Her face was painted, and her lips were red.

“‘Ello fellas. What can I do you for?” she asked.

“The club came recommended to us, so we've come to look around,” said White.

“Who told ya about the club?” she asked, making a pouty face which she finished off with a smile.

“Business associates of ours, Daniels and Goodtree, God rest their souls,” said I.

The woman squinted her dark eyes, and bit her red lips.

“Why are ya here?” she whisper.

“We told you, woman, we're here upon the recommendation of our associates! Are you going to play games or let us in?” Brett snapped.

She stepped back and put a hand on her chest as she gasped. “Well, you've got some fight, I like that,” she said as she moved close to Brett and put her hands upon his chest. I looked over at White, who had a smirk upon his face.

“Our friend has had a rough couple of weeks. He needs a bit of relief, my sweet,” said White to the woman. Brett gave him a fierce look of disapproval. “My friend found his wife with another man - it's not been good for him,” White continued.

“Well, I'm sure we can help with that,” she said, taking Brett's hand and tugging him inside. We followed, Brett turned to back and gave White an angry look.

Directly inside was a corridor. Immediately to our left and right were two closed rooms. At the end was a stair, which led both up and down. She led us down the stairs and into a large hall. The room was filled with well-dressed and prestigious looking men. Dotted about the room were more women dressed similarly to the one who led us. She showed us to a table and asked us for a drink order before leaving.

I watched as the perky woman scampered away. Several men called out to her and reached for her as she darted past them. By the look upon her face, she enjoyed the teasing and taunting. As I observed the room, the men had all drunk themselves stupid; it was the women who were in control. The combination of bare flesh and alcohol shot them up as dominators within this tiny kingdom. How long this power could last before one of the drunkards used their brute force to get what they wanted. Time would tell.

“What the hell were you doing?” snapped Brett at White.

“Calm yourself, man. You don't want to draw attention. All that matters is that we got in. You don't have to do anything with the bird. Besides, you probably couldn't afford it,” White retorted. He pulled his glasses off and rested them upon his head.

“What do you make of this place?” Brett asked, looking at me.

I glanced over the room again.

“It has the air of a prestigious brothel; chambers for rich bigots to go and indulge themselves in intoxications and sexual encounters. This entire establishment wreaks of destitution and filth,” said I.

A hand rested upon my shoulder.

“I would hope that a prospective member would have more positive things to say about my establishment. Clearly this place is not your forté.” A tall woman with fiery red hair gently squeezed my shoulder before she walked around to face us. She wore a green velvet scarf draped around her neck and wrapped through her arms. Her upper half was pressed tight by the aid of a corset, exposing her breasts seductively, as most Whitechapel whores would. The lower half of her dress was covered in a pattern made up of red roses. She wore lace gloves, which cut off at her knuckles.

“Who might you be?” I asked.

“Not nearly as interesting as who you are,” she returned softly. A maid followed her with a tray of drinks, which were placed onto the table. “Please, gentlemen, drink and tell me about yourselves.”

“I'm Mr White, this is Mr Brett, and the gentleman with a coloured outlook on your establishment is Mr Reid. We're in the shipping business. An associate recommended this club to us, so we came to see for ourselves.”

“And where do you hale from?” she asked.

“Brighton,” said Brett.

“I suppose all that sea air keeps you boys fresh. How are you doing with this dense London air?”

“Clogs the mind a bit,” said I.

“Well, maybe we can unclog it?” she returned with a coy flutter and biting of her lower lip.

“My flower, are you going to grace us with your name?” White asked, extending his hand.

She placed her gloved hand into his. He pulled it to his lips and kissed it. I noticed that she wore a ring of unique design. It was silver with a dazzling red gem inside its centre. Wrapped around the gem was a silver snake, the serpent's teeth holding the jewel in place.

“My name is Miss Osgen. Some people here call me Mother,” she replied.

“Well, Miss Osgen, who might be in charge of this establishment?” Brett asked.

“Isn't it obvious?” she returned

“Is there a Mr Osgen or a, err, Father?”

“Dear man, you are quite funny and naive,” Osgen returned. “Fathers, men, they think they are on top both in terms of domination and sex. They are fools. It is women, the all-mother who rules this world. Take women away, and men would starve, their fat bellies would shrink, their organs would drop off, their lusts and desire would evaporate like a cloud. Men are our puppets, and we rule the world through them. The hierarchy does not go father mother, nay, it goes mother and her children.”

“So you are in charge?” I asked.

“Correct, Mr Reid.”

“Clarify something for me, darling. You run this parade, you say you control the men, but your girls give the men what they want,” remarked White.

“I give the men what they think they want. They are like pups; I give them a bone to play with, then put them in a cage. Please, you haven't touched your drinks. I'm offended!” Osgen said. White and Brett shot theirs down. I sipped mine slowly.

“We don't want to lose our faculties just yet,” said I. She smiled a charming smile my way. “What is membership like? How does one get in?”

“Initiation, as always,” she said, resting her hand on my should and squeezing gently.

“Which is what?” Brett asked. She removed her hand from me and looked towards Brett.

“You'll see and experience it soon enough, my boys. If we think you're right material for our club.”

“Do people every get kicked out of the club?” I asked.

“You want to know the limits, eh?” Osgen returned.

“Always good to know how far things can be pushed,” said White taking another sip of his drink.”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Phillias Jackson, Miss Osgen?” I asked.

Her face turned briefly sour when I mentioned the name.

“I believe he was one of our children - but I thought he sadly passed from this world into the next?”

“Has he now? What a shame,” said I, “He was partners with our friends. I had hoped to meet him. Do you know what happened?”

“This isn't really the place to speak of the dead, Mr Reid. If you'll come with me, I'll take you into my chamber and we can discuss this further,” she offered.

“I shan't leave my friends,” said I.

“Don't be daft, Mr Reid. Look at them, they will be fine.”

“Go on, Reid,” said White. “We'll have another drink and marvel some more.”

“Come, Mr Reid. I'll take care of you.” She extended her hand. I took it and departed from my colleagues.

She took me back up the stairs and then up to the first floor. We entered a warm and well furnished room. She lit a few candles and opened the wooden shades. Below was Elm Grove, the soft glow of the gas lights illuminated the empty street. Osgen took a seat upon a sofa. She motioned for me to come over and sit next to her.

“Please, sit. I won't bite.” Hesitantly, I walked over and sat next to the woman. “Tell me then, what do you want to know about Jackson?”

“Tell me why you wrote to Mr Goodtree about Jackson's removal from the club.”

Her face grimaced. “He was a bad boy. He needed to be punished.”

“And did you... punish him?”

“I didn't need too,” she replied.

“Oh yes, because he's already dead?”

She nodded. “He is.”

“How did you hear of his death?” I asked.

“People talk.”

“Except a body was only recovered today.”

She raised her eyebrow at my response. “Shall we get a drink?” She stood without waiting for me to respond, and walked over to a table.

“So why was Jackson being removed?” I pressed. She poured two glasses of brandy, eyeing me thoughtfully.

“Who are you, Mr Reid?” she asked as she walked back over with the brandy. “You're not an associate of Daniels or Goodtree.” She handed me the drink. She put her red lips to the glass and sipped. She nodded for me to join her. I did.

“I'm just curious, that's all,” I returned setting the brandy to one side. I then felt a surge of heat through my body.