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fellowshippers2006-01-21 08:55 pm
precious-rosie.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-01-21 08:55 pm
FIC:The Captain's Boy Andy Serkis/Elijah Wood (14/14) NC-17
Title: The Captain’s Boy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
precious_rosie
Pairing: Andy Serkis/Elijah Wood
Series: 14/14
Type: RPS AU
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Total fiction, from the depths of my imagination.
Summary: Set in mid 1880's, Elijah is working in a high-class male brothel. The madame has fixed him up with a very special client.
Warning[s]: prostitution, more glorious hot sex
Feedback: is always welcome! *vbg*.
Beta:shy_nerthuserce, who is as wonderful a friend as she is a trusted and respected beta. Thank you for all the hard work, comments and suggestions made throughout this story. *hugs* :-) ♥ Any mistakes are mine.
Archive:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rockabillyblue
Author’s note: This is a story that I started back in April 2003 and it received high praise. Sadly thanks to that awful thing called “real life", it's taken this length of time to finally complete it. Thanks for all the lovely comments which has fuelled me to carry on! :-)
Author's Note No.2: "Yo’m bloody yampy" literally "You bloody idiot!" Despite living in London for a number of years, Madame Louise would've retained her Black Country accent and its sayings.
Author's Note No.3: All references regarding the Jack The Ripper case have been taken from a series of books, notably The Complete Jack the Ripper by Donald Rumblelow, Prince Eddy and the Homosexual Underworld by Theo Aronson and that 'splendid' work of fiction - Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution by Stephen Knight! *eg* Sir Charles Warren *did* in fact resign shortly resign before the Millers Court murder and Chief Inspector Abberline had been taken off the case.
Author's Note No.4: Chief Inspector Abberline and Detective Sergeant Godley are based on Michael Caine and Lewis Collins' portrayals of these men respectively in the 1988 made for TV film Jack The Ripper.
x-posted torockabillyblue
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
News of the horrific double murder had not yet reached Mayfair when the house awoke the following morning. In fact, none of the boys read the papers over breakfast and were more concerned with a private party that was being hosted at No. 20 that very evening.
Some of the names on the guest list were a surprise to the boys.
“Liberals? In here?” Orlando raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “I always had Madame Louise down as a Tory.”
“You wash yer mouth out!” Hans remarked dryly as he poured coffee for himself and Orlando. “If there’s one thing we are in this line of work, Orli, it is that we strive to remain politically impartial. All gentlemen like their cock more or less the same, whatever their politics.”
Orlando stretched and yawned. “I do hate these formal gatherings. They can be so tedious. Just as long as I’m not asked to entertain some boring little bourgeoisie.”
“Ere, don’t let Madame Louise ‘ear you say that!” Hans warned him. “You know she doesn’t like snobbery in this brothel.”
“What?” Orlando raised an eyebrow. “She’s the biggest snob of the lot of us!”
“Ooh, ‘ark at the pot calling the kettle sooty arse!” Hans retorted mockingly. He snorted and turned away from Orlando’s indignant look, only to raise a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Dominic, who was shovelling bacon and eggs into his open mouth at an alarming speed. “Talk about stoking the boiler! I ‘ope you don’t eat like that in front of Prince Eddy!”
Dominic sniggered and nudged Billy, who was feeding bits of toast to Bertie, snuffling under the table and nosing around for scraps.
The tranquil scene was disrupted by the arrival of a very excited and out of breath Tom, who came bursting into the dining room waving a copy of the Star.
“I don’t fucking believe it!” he panted. “E’s only gone and done two of ‘em in, now! On the same night! And ‘im –” He pointed to a photograph of Sir Charles Warren, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. “‘E’s getting involved, now!”
Impatient for more, the boys eagerly swamped Tom, who proceeded to read out the details of the two murders with some relish, glancing over at Orlando every so often. In turn, Orlando made a point of deliberately scooping up Mitzi before making a swift exit from the room. The effect was spoiled somewhat when he almost collided with a very breathless and wide-eyed Daniel, who had come running into the dining room somewhat perturbed with some more newspapers.
And by now, Tom was well into his stride. “I’m goin’ to the next post-mortem,” boasted the blond-haired boy. “Then I can really ‘ear all the gory details. Them reporters ‘ave to leave out all the really bloody bits, so as they don’t offend no-one.”
Hans slapped Tom around the back of the head. “You insensitive little prick! These women were working girls, just like us. Show some respect!” He paused, eyes blazing angrily. “And besides – there won’t be a next post mortem! The police will catch the bastards now.”
“What’s up with you, Han-nah?” snorted Tom. “On the rag?”
This remark cost him another clip around the head from Hans. Stung, Tom decided – unwisely – to try his hand at self-defence, resulting in a pathetic slap at Hans in return.
Relieved at being spared another unwanted recital of gruesome details and sensing that it was safe to return to the dining table, Orlando returned to his chair and placed Mitzi on the floor – only for her to immediately be mounted by Bertie, who was keen to work off his breakfast.
“Someone wants to castrate that dog!” Orlando whined, gamely trying to kick Bertie off his beloved spaniel. “He’s too randy for his own good!”
“Och, come on!” Billy laughed. “He’s got more spunk in him than most of the boys here in this room!”
Hans snorted. “Orlando’s problem is that Bertie’s trying to share his with Mitzi!”
Ignoring Mitzi’s pitiful squeaks from beneath the table, Dominic took one of the papers from Daniel. “They can’t pin the blame on Eddy this time!” he commented. “’E’s not even in London! Poor sod, just because he can kill, skin and dress a deer, people assume ’e’s done the same to those women!”
Daniel nodded. “I can prepare a chicken,” he said, recalling his days as a humble kitchen boy. “Doesn’t make me a killer, either!”
“Well in that case, using that line of argument most of the aristocracy and anyone who can carve up a joint of meat could be blamed as well,” Hans said, grimacing. “You know what gossip is like, sweetheart. Those who are supposed to be up to something aren’t, those who aren’t are, and those who are spreading the rumours wish it was with them.”
“And to think Elijah is missing all this,” sighed Daniel, now seated at the table, before starting to read aloud from one of the newspapers, his finger moving under each word as he did so.
*********
Unaware of the growing unrest in London and the rest of England created by the horror of the double murders of Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride, life for Andrew and Elijah in Venice remained blissfully simple and peaceful. Though still stunned by the news, Elijah tried to block the atrocities of the previous Ripper murders from his mind. At least now both Mary Anne Nicholls and Annie Chapman were out of that soul-destroying, filthy place – just as he was.
He stirred, snuggling closer as Andrew’s voice rolled over him. Andrew was talking to Elijah about the impending visit of his ex-wife and children that morning – the very same morning as Elijah’s friends were reading of the fates of Catherine and Long Liz.
“The general feeling is that artists are rather like gardeners; we both create something that can be enjoyed by others. Only gardeners are more respectable!”
“Does that mean we’re not respectable?” asked Elijah, idly tracing lines around Andrew’s nipples, his fingers lost in the thick mass of dark, sprawling chest hair. They’d spent a delicious couple of hours making love as dawn broke into the chilly Venetian morning.
“In the eyes of decent society, we aren’t,” Andrew explained, somewhat sadly. “That’s why we couldn’t stay in London, or anywhere else for that matter in England. It’s odd that in the space of a couple of years my respectability has gone to the dogs. It isn’t Lorraine, or either of our families. They were supportive enough – and there are the children to consider. No, it was all our friends, and my ex-army comrades. They couldn’t stomach the fact that my so-called hobby was, in fact, my vocation. I’m a social outcast now!”
“Mr ‘Ill – Lorraine’s new ‘usband; what does ‘e know about us?”
Andrew shrugged. “As far as Bernard is concerned, what he doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him. He doesn’t like Lorraine to talk about my dissolute lifestyle! Fucking middle class snobbery.”
“So why is ’e joining ‘er on this trip?”
“Out of curiosity, a fascination with the bohemian lifestyle; who knows? He disapproves of us, but as far as Lorraine is concerned, I am the father of our children and he has to comply with her wishes.”
Elijah smiled. “It’ll be nice to see them again!” He regarded the Serkis children as the brothers and sister he never had and they, in return, treated him as an older brother to play with. “I don’t know why she had to remarry anyway. We were fine until then. Lorraine could visit us any time she wanted.”
Andrew sighed. “In so- called ‘respectable’ society, it makes no difference if the husband is buggering the boot boy so long as they don’t run off and become permanent bed-fellows –” He paused and looked down at Elijah. “Plus, the meagre allowance I could send to her wasn’t really covering the bills, even with the income from the house we rent out.” He leaned over Elijah. “Besides, you’re a kept boy now. Who else is going to keep you in shoe leather and fancy clothing?”
“Oooh, I might run away with a Venetian duke or somefing!” giggled Elijah – and then, seeing Andrew’s startled face, added quickly and humbly: “Nah! No-one else would put up with me ‘cept you, Andy!”
“And I wouldn’t want it any other way!” Andrew laughed as he gathered Elijah up in his arms before rolling him underneath his more powerful body, making it nigh impossible for the younger man to escape.
Three years out of the army and the former Captain was in still peak condition, taking daily walks and completing countless press-ups, usually using a very giggly Elijah as a weight on his back. The Venetian lifestyle suited his temperament. He’d become excessively more hot-blooded than he had been back in England, blaming it all on the red wine, heat and aesthetic living. Elijah was convinced that Andrew was merely enjoying the new lease of life away from British society’s respectable apron strings.
Not that Elijah was complaining; relishing the weight of Andrew’s body on his own, he merely laughed his irrepressible, infectious, high-pitched giggle as his lover took playful nips at the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder, feeling the pressure of an engorged erection digging urgently into his thigh. Purring like a kitten, Elijah wrapped his arms around that warm, solid torso, pulling Andrew closer, his hand sliding down to cup his testicles.
Feeling Elijah’s hand rubbing gently on the shaft, Andrew grunted his approval. Leaning across him, pushing his lips to Andrew’s, Elijah flicked his tongue urgently against his lover’s teeth before slipping it inside his mouth. Andrew growled, encouraging Elijah to probe further. Sweat slicked their entwined bodies as Andrew, his skin tingling under Elijah’s touch, allowed himself to be enveloped in the younger man’s caresses until Elijah broke the kiss, breathing erratically.
“I do love yer, Andy!” he exclaimed, gazing down at Andrew; his eyes, large and bright, were child-like as he made this declaration.
Andrew stroked Elijah gently, planting kisses on those perfect lips as he did so. “And I love you.”
His Elijah. So perfect, so beautiful. Elijah had made him feel more alive in the past three years than he, Andrew Serkis, had ever felt in the whole of his forty one years.
His Elijah. A former child prostitute, destitute and on the streets. A former brothel whore, beloved of London society. An artist’s model, perfect in every way. His companion, his muse, his lover...his beautiful boy.
The Captain’s Boy.
That appellation, which had been the bane of Andrew’s former military career, now provided him with a welcome income in reprints on postcards. It had been Elijah’s nickname and it had stuck. One of the first pieces of artwork which Andrew had completed whilst studying at art school had been of Elijah, seated and gazing out at the world with youthful arrogance in the scarlet uniform of their first meeting.
The Captain’s Boy had been immortalised in oils and now hung in the drawing room at No. 20 Hanover Square, watching over the other whores and their clients: whilst bookshops and many houses in London proudly displayed copies of the portrait. It outsold Millais’ painting of The Jersey Lily, the artist’s famous portrait of Mrs Langtry, of whom it was rumoured that she had bought copies of Elijah’s for all her society friends.
Reflecting for a few moments more on their previous lives, Andrew smiled to himself before submitting to Elijah’s exploring fingers. Resuming the hot, urgent kisses, his artist’s eye briefly admired the play of muscle and light on their skin, their bodies now gleaming with the slick sweat forming on their flesh before he shifted Elijah’s weight, enabling the boy to sit astride his muscular thighs.
Elijah’s thin fingers circled Andrew’s hardened nipples, tugging gently on the thick, dark chest hair. He slid down the bed, rumpling the sheers as he did so, before seizing Andrew’s hard cock between his lips, sliding the ample length into his mouth.
Andrew groaned and began to thrust his hips back and forth. His musky, masculine scent was intoxicating to Elijah, who felt dizzy with pleasure – for himself and because of what he was giving to Andrew. Alternating the sucks with licking and kissing Andrew’s balls, Elijah’s nose was buried in the dark bush of pubic curls, breathing in more of the older man’s scent.
“Get on me!” growled Andrew, urging Elijah to mount him. His cock was twitching and on the verge on climax, but he wanted to be fucking Elijah when he came.
As he climbed on top of Andrew, feeling those large, gentle hands parting his arse cheeks as he did so, Elijah lowered himself onto the thick cock, wet with saliva, which seemed to have increased to twice its original hardness. Biting his lip, Andrew began to thrust gently into his young lover.
Leaning over him, his hands gripping Andrew’s brawny shoulders, Elijah’s nails dug deep into the flesh, drawing blood. Andrew started to thrust more vigorously, his cock penetrating deeper, lubricated by the saliva from Elijah’s mouth. Elijah gasped as the long, thick shaft entered him inch by delicious inch. He raised and lowered himself several times to relish the sensation of Andrew fucking him. It was Elijah who was setting the pace, gripping broad thighs as he rode his lover. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Andrew’s nipples, licking and sucking each in turn, feeling the softness of Andrew’s chest hair against his skin. “Fuck me...”
Elijah’s breathy voice seemed to Andrew, to come from afar. Grunting his affirmation, he lifted his hips and pounded into Elijah’s slight slender frame until both men bucked and cursed in a synchronised rhythm that had been perfected over the years they had been together.
With each thrust, his body arching up in response, Elijah mouthed Andrew’s name until he was filled with the overwhelming sensation of becoming fluid as he felt his orgasm begin to peak.
Andrew’s movements were now more urgent, triggering into his own explosive climax moments before Elijah’s seed splattered over Andrew’s chest leaving glistening drops against the dark hair. Murmuring endearments as his breath slowly returned, Andrew pulled Elijah closer to him, their bodies damp with films of sweat. “I love you,” he sighed, lips buried in the softness of Elijah’s curls.
“I love you too, Andy!” Elijah replied drowsily. “I’m glad Madame Louise introduced us. I’m so lucky to have you.”
“No, Elijah,” Andrew corrected him with a soft smile. “I’m the lucky one!”
*********
Whilst the former favourite of No. 20 Hanover Square and his artist lover were enjoying their mid-morning romp, Madame Louise was becoming increasingly agitated concerning Hans’ failure to appear in order to finalise the arrangements for the evening’s entertainment with her. His frequent and often ill-timed absences were becoming ever more of a concern for her and she made a mental note to speak to him on his return.
Pacing her drawing room, the Madame sent Tom and Daniel to look for him and to make enquiries at the Cleveland Street brothel. If Hans was moonlighting at another house, and a less respectable one at that, Madame Louise wanted to know about it.
“An’ tell him, I’ll dock him a week’s earnings if I find out he’s been knocking off at that fleapit!” she yelled after the youngest of her charges, who seemed only too pleased to be going out on an otherwise slow and doleful day.
*********
However, Hans’s absences from Hanover Square were soon to become the last thing on the Madam’s mind with the arrival of two policemen from Scotland Yard later that day, when it transpired that not only was one of them the Chief Inspector who was in charge of the Whitechapel murder investigations, but he had come with a very unusual request.
“Now, look!” she exclaimed after hearing what the Chief Inspector had to say. “This is a respectable business. You know that, your superiors know that – after all, most of ‘em are usually ‘ere at night!”
The sandy-haired policeman sighed. “Look love, I’m just following orders. This will keep the Chief Super ‘appy, an’ I promise I won’t bother yer again!”
“Promises is it, eh?” Madame Louise snorted. “I’ know all about your kind of promises! I’ve been in this game too long not to. Still, I know you’re just doin’ your job.” She gestured towards her private sitting room. “Fancy a drink, Fred? Or are you off the sauce again?”
Chief Inspector Fredrick Abberline grinned. “You always knew my weakness, Lou! A whisky if yer don’t mind.” He turned to where a dark-haired younger man with a fashionable moustache was sitting by the window in Madame Louise’s office, where Billy and Dominic were hindering rather than helping Abberline’s colleague Detective Sergeant George Godley in his enquiries.
Dominic, wearing nothing but an exquisite blue kimono-styled dressing gown and with Godley’s hat perched rakishly on the back of his head, was playing with the policeman’s pistol as the exasperated Detective Sergeant attempted to ask a talkative Billy questions, trying hard to ignore Bertie who was furiously humping his leg whilst the affable Glaswegian seemed more intent on telling the detective about a new play called "Jekyll and Hyde" which the two boys had seen the previous evening.
“That’ll go off if you keep playing with it!” snorted Abberline as Dominic grinned and fondled Godley’s gun suggestively. “Put it down, lad!”
“An’ I swear to ye, I ne’er saw such bad acting in all my life!” Billy exclaimed, almost indignant. “An’ this Mansfield fella, Dickie, is supposed to be a guid actor? Of course, I took the liberty of tellin’ the wee man so when we were introduced to him at dinner. I told him that even Orli is capable of more than one facial expression. And then when he found out Hans wasn’t a lassie – ye should have seen his face! It went red like a wee beetroot – I thought he was gunna explode!”
The young Sergeant just sat lost for words, wishing he was back in Whitechapel; compared to this place, its drunks, thieves, pickpockets, penny whores and their pimps were bright souls in a blissful paradise.
“I’ve never seen one before,” Dominic sulked as he gave the gun back to Sergeant Godley. “Well, not a small one.” He winked suggestively at the Sergeant, who reddened somewhat. "Madame Lou Lou has a set of guns that she keeps behind the bar. It’s a set of Purdeys. Some lord left ‘em as payment.”
“Dominic!” Madame Louise interrupted. “You’ll get us all into trouble. Billy! Shut yer gob and let the Sergeant get a word in!”
“It’s understandable,” Abberline observed blithely. “An establishment like this needs extra protection.”
“Oh yes, I know what sort of protection!” Madame Louise laughed. Unlike most brothels, which usually paid for police protection, she was in receipt of the same but free gratis. One of the benefits of having most of the highest ranked officers of Scotland Yard as customers.
“Think about my offer, love” Abberline said. “We could do with the extra – er – man power.”
“All the same, Fred.” The small Madam lowered her voice to avoid being heard. “I’m not risking any of my boys. Foolhardy and headstrong some of them might be –” She glanced towards Billy and Dominic. “But they’re not going to end up on a mortuary slab. I’m not going to risk any of them.”
Chief Inspector Abberline nodded. “If you say so, love. Godley!”
Sergeant Godley retrieved his hat from Dominic’s head and edged his way back towards Abberline, who was already heading for the door.
“By the way, ‘ave you ‘eard from that young lad lately? Elijah?” Abberline enquired. “Last I ‘eard, ‘e’d landed on his feet an’ was lordin’ it up in Venice as an artist’s model.”
“That’s right,” Madame Louise smiled. “And living the life of Reilly by all accounts.”
“Nice kid, that – ‘e only used to get himself nicked so ‘e could get somewhere to kip for the night! ‘E’s come a long way since ‘is time on the streets. Miss ‘im?”
She nodded. “I do, Fred. You see, that’s why I could never let my boys assist the police in this case, even if it meant catching the bastard who’s slicing up those poor women. I’m the closest thing to a mother they have and I couldn’t put any of them in danger!”
********
After the policemen left, Madame Louise turned to Billy and Dominic, who were still in the window seat, agog.
“We never had that conversation with the police, you ‘ear? I don’t want any of the boys thinking to make ‘eroes of themselves and getting into shit they can’t get out of.” With that, she poured herself a glass of claret from the decanter on her desk and took a swig.
“Not even if it means more women get killed, Madame Lou Lou?” asked Dominic. “I mean, what the Chief Inspector was sayin’, we would be ‘elping the police. Dressing up as women an’ that to catch this Jack the Ripper fella. None of us want to be ‘eroes.”
Billy nodded in agreement. “Och, we all want to help. After all, we’re the lucky ones; working in a place like this and bein’ looked after. It could have been so different for any of us. Ye gave us all a chance. Some of us could have still been workin’ on the streets charging a few pennies a suck, but ye took us in. And look at Elijah! ‘E’s done better than all of us!”
Madame Louise sighed. “It’s not as I don’t want to ‘elp catch that bastard, but I won’t do it at the risk of losing any of my boys. We can’t help those women, but we can be grateful for what we do ‘ave – an’ keep our eyes peeled for anythin’ that might ‘elp the Old Bill.” She turned her back to Dominic and Billy before shuffling through some papers on her desk. “Now, where did I put those menus for this evening? Mr Astin will have my guts for garters. Oh, Hans! Yo’m bloody yampy – and maybe I am, too!”
**********
Andrew stretched and yawned, as the clock from a nearby church chimed eleven. “Time to get up!” He slapped Elijah’s arse hard, causing the boy to merely grunt an acknowledgement. “The girls are due here at noon.”
“Fuck off!” Elijah growled, burying his face into the pillow and trying to ignore Andrew. “Can’t you finish the painting off without me?”
Pulling a paint-stained, collarless grey shirt over his curls, Andrew simply laughed. “I can’t paint The Judgement of Paris without a Paris now, can I?”
Elijah turned over and stuck out his bottom lip in an appealing, if childlike fashion. “You’re managing to paint the three goddesses when you can only afford two models.”
“That’s only because I’m using Lorraine as Hera,” Andrew replied, now putting on rough corduroy trousers that were as stained as his shirt. “I’m using her photograph.”
“She’s goin’ to kill yer when she finds out,” Elijah cautioned. “She ain’t gonna be pleased, you paintin’ her and that. “And ‘er ‘usband isn’t goin’ to be too ‘appy, neither!”
“I think Lorraine will be over the moon, to be honest,” Andrew replied, gazing at a small miniature of his three children depicted as cherubs that was hung on the wall in the airy bedroom. “She’s going to be immortalised.” He paused as if lost in thought before adding, “As, my darlin’ boy, are you. Now get up, you lazy little git!”
With that, Andrew threw some clothes onto a naked Elijah before leaving the bedroom.
*********
Finding some bread and cheese in the small kitchen, Elijah prepared himself some breakfast and then went to look for Andrew, eventually finding him working on his latest creation in the room at the top of their apartment, which had been converted into his studio. Overlooking one of the city’s canals, the muted noise of the mid-morning rush rose up to the tranquil haven that had been their home for nearly two years.
Andrew was applying some paint to Lorraine’s – or, rather, Hera’s, left nipple. Elijah watched, feeling slightly uncomfortable as the brush caressed the canvas, as tenderly as a lover.
“Isn’t that what we all want, Andy?” Elijah asked through mouthfuls of bread and cheese.
Andrew’s eyes never left the canvas. “What?”
“To be made immortal. To live forever.”
Andrew paused, the brush still poised over the vast canvas. “I’d like to think so. Why else do you think people get their portraits painted?”
Elijah shrugged. “They could get their photographs taken. It’s quicker and you don’t have to stand around for hours getting cramp.”
A deep, exasperated sigh indicated that Elijah had touched on one of the more controversial, sensitive topics guaranteed to get Andrew animated. Elijah almost regretted bringing the subject up.
“I suppose it does,” Andrew replied at length. “That’s not to say that photography is better than paintings. It’s just another way of immortalising the subject.” He coughed irritably. “Now come on – let’s get to work.”
Elijah looked out of the window and onto the canal and street below. “So, even though they were cut up, both Annie and Polly are now immortalised because of their photographs?”
Andrew blinked, somewhat taken aback by this remark and Elijah’s train of thought. “You know, I suppose they are, in a perverse kind of way.” He gave a sardonic chuckle. “It would be quicker using a photographer rather than getting an artist to paint those unfortunate women.” Looking across at his lover, Andrew thought for a while, brow furrowed, and then leaned across and ruffled Elijah’s curls affectionately. “Are you missing London? You know it’s difficult for us to return now, don’t you?”
Elijah nodded, eating as he did so. “I’m just missin’ the other lads, ‘at’s all. They can always come and visit, can’t they?”
“Oh, of course, Elijah! Isn’t that what I said originally when we decided to live out here?” Andrew paused and laughed. “We’ll have to start taking bookings, Lij – I feel as if we’re running a hotel!”
“I ‘ope they’ve caught ‘im,” Elijah mused quietly before taking another large bite from the hunk of bread in his hand. “’Im what’s did those murders.”
Andrew resumed his painting, mixing some colour on his palette. “I’d like to think so, Elijah. Now – are we ready to start work?”
**********
“Have you seen Hans?” Madame Louise enquired one early November morning as she passed the main drawing room.
“Have you seen Hans?” was becoming a regular question at No. 20, asked by the Madame, the boys, and, on occasion, some of the clientele. His absences were ever more of a mystery and, more frustratingly, he skilfully evaded all questioning from Madame Louise and the other boys when he did materialise. Even at Sean’s suggestion that Madame Louise fine Hans for lateness didn’t faze the culprit. He paid up willingly, worked harder than any of the other boys, and was still very much in demand with clients. Even the Madame had to admit that she would be lost without her trusted whore.
It had been a good eight weeks since the double murder in Whitechapel and even though most of London and the rest of country were still gripped by fear, the mood seemed somewhat lighter in Mayfair.
In the East End, more and more prostitutes were seeking positions in brothels for safety or simply relying on the parish for help. Those who were either foolish or brave enough, continued to ply their trade on the streets. Since being visited by Chief Inspector Abberline, Madame Louise never spoke of the strange request to Billy and Dominic again. The senior police officials at Scotland Yard who had in the past frequented her establishment were now too busy with the Whitechapel murders.
Tom and Daniel continued to follow the case. Both were avid readers of murder mystery stories in penny dreadfuls, which they consumed with relish, eagerly discussing their own theories before rushing out each week to buy the next instalment to read what had happened. This youthful exuberance made a charming addition to their credentials, since gentlemen would listen, enthralled, as the two boys retold stories of Varney the Vampire and Sweeney Todd.
“I fink it’s one of them,” Tom declared one overcast afternoon.
“One of whom?” Orlando sniffed, more interested in reading a report in one of the Society journals about himself accompanying Sir Ian McKellen to the opera.
“One of ‘em Scotland Yardies, yer tit!” Tom replied scornfully. “Look at the evidence. No one ‘ears the wimmin scream. No one sees anyfing. There’s no blood or nuffin’, so they ain’t bein’ killed where their bodies are bein’ found.”
“Good point that,” Billy observed approvingly. “But I don’t know why ye think it’s one of the coppers.”
“Why would the girls go with ‘im, otherwise?” Tom reasoned. “It’s got to be someone they can trust.”
“Like a doctor,” Daniel piped in. “Or even a priest! I mean, you’d trust one of them, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s true.” Sean Bean, who had returned swiftly from the North after the double murder in fear for his Louise and their business, acknowledged the young man. “Good thinking, Daniel!”
Orlando snorted, unimpressed. “And have you enlightened the constabulary with this oh-so- fascinating piece of deduction?”
Tom puffed his chest out. “I have! Inspector Abberline said I would make a first class detective!”
“Oh lord!” groaned Orlando. “That’s all this country needs: you in the police force!”
Sean, who had been reading one of the broadsheets, folded it up and placed it back down on the table. “It’s as if anyone who can hold a knife or frequents the East End is automatically labelled as a suspect. And just to remind you, I don’t want any of you boys going out without a companion. Or, if you are with a client, no overnighters at their place.”
There was an audible groan from the boys. Overnighters were often handsomely paid.
Billy, slapping his hand on Orlando’s shoulder, jabbed his finger at a photograph in the journal. “Och! What are ye wearing, laddie? I’d murder ye if ye were wearing that in my presence!”
“It’s the latest Parisian style!” Orlando retorted, somewhat perturbed by Billy poking fun at his fashion sense. “At least some of us are keeping up standards and not getting too involved in this murder case!”
“At least we don’t have to be worrying about what dresses are in fashion, like Hans!” Daniel remarked. “I dread to think what his clothing bills are like.”
“Most of his clothes are given 'free gratis',” Billy explained. “Usually by grateful clients. That reminds me – Madame Louise is looking for him again.”
“He’ll get chucked out if he’s not careful,” Orlando fretted somewhat despairingly, one eye fixed on Sean, who had resumed reading the paper. He never agreed with Hans on most things, but to see a fellow out on the streets was the last thing he wanted. Ever since Sean Bean had bought into the business, it was controlled more tightly than one of Madame Lou Lou’s corsets.
“Nah,” Billy replied. “’E seems to be workin’ harder than any toffer these days. And he seems to be flush. Och, and before I forget, anyone fancy goin’ to the Lord Mayor’s Parade tomorrow?”
*********
It wasn’t unusual for Madame Louise to be summoned from bed at an ungodly hour, so being woken by Hugo early on the morning of November 8th did not arouse any suspicion in her.
“It’s Chief Inspector Abberline, Madame,” the butler whispered, trying not to waken a sleeping Sean.
Madame Louise grabbed a shawl from a nearby chair and wrapped it around herself. “It’s bloody Hans! I knew it! I’ll swing for that lad one day!”
In her drawing room, the Chief Inspector was talking earnestly to Billy and Dominic who had been woken up by the front door bell. As they had taken up residence in Elijah’s set of rooms overlooking Hanover Square, they were able to see and hear the approach of visitors before anyone else.
Both boys turned as Madame Louise entered the room. It looked as if they had been crying. “Oh! Madame Lou Lou!” sobbed Billy. “It’s Hans!”
*I bloody knew it!* thought Madame Louise, who sighed, shaking her head. “What has happened?”
Inspector Abberline looked tired as he tried to calm the boys. “Please, let me continue. It’s a shock to us all. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Madame Louise paled. “I – I think I’d like a drink, Billy.” She indicated the decanter on her desk.
“I think brandy might be better,” the inspector suggested quietly, turning to Hugo who nodded and disappeared back towards the kitchen.
Sean’s broad tones cut through Billy and Dominic’s sobs and the awkward silence. “What the hell is going on?”
“There’s been another murder,” explained Abberline gently. “I am led to believe that Hans Matheson has been involved.”
“Involved? What you mean, involved?” Sean asked, wrapping his broad arms around an agitated Madame Louise. “Did the lad murder those women? Is he who you’ve been looking for?”
The Inspector closed his eyes, wishing for the floor to conveniently open up and swallow him whole. “Hans was – he was the victim.”
There was a collective intake of breath and faint, yet audible gasps of “What?”
Abberline cleared his throat. “From what clues we have established so far, Mr Hans Matheson of this address has been working as a female prostitute by the name of Mary Jane Kelly in Whitechapel for the past year. She, or rather he took rooms in Miller’s Court. Last night, or in the early hours of this morning, that’s where he was murdered.”
“B-but how do you know it was Hans?” whispered Madame Louise swaying against Sean, not quite believing her ears.
“This – was found in the room.”
Abberline presented a small, bloodstained notebook, which the Madame recognised as belonging to Hans. He often carried it with him when with clients so as to record what he thought of them.
“There is more -,” the Inspector continued gently, just as Hugo returned with the brandy, which he proceeded to pour into the glasses on the sideboard. “–the body was mutilated in such a way that it is hard to distinguish exactly who it is. This book belongs to Hans.”
Taking the proffered glass from Hugo, Madame Louise tried to concentrate. It was beginning to make sense. The frequent absences and the odd behaviour. Hans was clearly living a double life as a penny whore in Whitechapel. “But why?” she whispered. “Why? Why Hans? He was no threat to anyone!”
Sean sighed heavily. “Why? Perhaps the murderer realised too late that ’e’d bought the services of a Mary Anne and not a woman and killed Hans in fit of rage?” he suggested, holding her more tightly. “I always told you that lad needed to be on a tighter leash, Lou.”
“No, no.” The Madame looked at Sean and then at Billy and Dominic. “Why did Hans want to work in the East End? He had everything here he could want. He was comfortable.” She turned to the Inspector. “I was going to leave him to run the place when we eventually retired, wasn’t I, Sean?” She looked imploringly at Sean, who was himself trying to make sense of it all.
“Maybe the thrill of workin’ somewhere like Whitechapel appealed to ‘im?” he suggested, stroking her hair. “He wanted excitement and felt he couldn’t get it here. Who knows, lass?” He jerked his chin towards the notebook. “Does the book say anything, Chief Inspector?”
Abberline shook his head. “Nothing. No indication of who he would be meeting last night. He refers to his trips to Whitechapel as his ‘jollies’. He would call himself Mary Jane and pass, very convincingly, as a woman. Even my Sergeant Godley was fooled. According to one entry, Hans writes that he arrested him one night. He saw it as a bit of a lark.”
“I’d hardly call what happened to Hans, a ‘jolly’ or ‘a bit of a lark’,” remarked Hugo quietly.
“Are you goin’ to tell the rest of lads, Madame Lou Lou?” asked Dominic, his voice ragged as he sniffed back the last of his tears. He was still comforting a sobbing Billy.
Abberline looked at the Madame and Sean. “I will. If you prefer.”
“No...” Madame Louise clutched Sean’s hand. “I’ll...I’ll tell them. It’s better coming from me than from some policeman. Oh, God! The papers! They’ll have a field day when they know!”
Abberline took a small notebook from his overcoat pocket and glanced down at it, reading his notes. “I think you ought to know Lou. There’s no way of knowing the deceased’s gender, so the Chief Super has decided...” He took a breath, and looked at Hugo. “...Get me a Scotch, will you?”
Silently, Hugo poured another glass before handing it to the Chief Inspector, who gulped it down gratefully.
“We don’t know who this killer is. We have no idea who is responsible. This unfortunate incident will only add fuel to the fires of discontent and the unrest and the suspicion that’s already stirring up anti-establishment feelings in the East End. There have been riots already – you must have read about those. And the police aren’t exactly in anyone’s good books. So, I’ve been told to keep this quiet.”
For a few moments there was a stunned silence, broken when Sean swore under his breath.
“I don’t fuckin’ believe this,” he snorted, staring at Abberline in disgust. “You mean, keep *this* murder quiet?” he asked, his own anger rising slowly. “You’re mad, man! You can’t keep this one quiet!”
“What I mean is –” Abberline sighed and wished he had some form of backup from his superior officers. “– We have been investigating murders of female whores. As far the public are concerned, this incident will only make matters worse. A Mary Anne masquerading as a woman? People will demand explanations. This place will become involved, as will a great many other houses, and a great many people will be caught up in the affair – reputations and careers will be in jeopardy –”
“– Like your fucking Chief Super and most of Scotland Yard!” barked Sean. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, man! One of our lads has been sliced up and all you’re worried about is the reputation of your fucking police force!”
Abberline nodded. “Believe me, Sean, I do understand. But it’s not just that,” he went on, trying to calm Sean down. “It won’t just be the police force. Other important members of the Establishment will be drawn in, the government and the like. It could turn out very nasty for everyone.”
“’Very nasty’?” Sean spat back, mockingly. “Don’t fucking patronise me, Abberline!”
Abberline raised his hands apologetically. “Forgive me, Sean; I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward. But you must understand that this reaches deep into the heart of English society. – “”
“Why should I fucking care about the heart of English society?” Sean scoffed. “What has it ever cared for my Lou or her lads, who only do what they do because there’s been a need for ‘ores an’ ‘orin’ ever since there’s been men an’ women an’ society looks down on ‘em even as they’re payin’ for their services?”
Abberline rubbed the tight knot between his eyes. This was proving to be even harder than he’d expected. “You don’t ‘ave to tell me, Sean,” he replied soothingly. “I’m a man of the world, just as you are. But we have to keep the details of this murder quiet! That’s what matters.”
Pulling away from Dominic’s gentling arms, Billy turned on Abberline angrily. “But what aboot Hans? Doesn’t he matter? Or is his life worthless because of what he was? Just because he was a Mary Anne?”
The Chief Inspector sighed. “No, Billy. But if what Hans was and who he was become common knowledge, it’s more than possible that he could be traced back here. And then, like a house of cards, the whole thing could collapse, as just who frequents Hanover Street becomes known. I’m sorry. I deeply regret the loss of your friend, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Ye don’t regret it at all,” Billy snarled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as Dominic pulled him back into his arms and shushed him. “Ye say it, but ye don’t fuckin’ mean it. Ye don’t understand anythin’ about us an’ how things are here.”
Straightening his shoulders, Abberline turned his attention back to Sean. “You – could be forced to close down,” he said finally. “And then you, and Lou, and your boys would all be out on the streets.”
At this point Madame Louise, who had so far maintained a dignified silence, stood up. “Fred, I want you to leave now.”
Abberline tried to placate her. “Lou, listen to me. I’m only following orders – “
“So were the fucking Light Brigade. Now go.”
“Lou, please!”
Madame Louise’s face was impassive, but her eyes told the policeman a different tale. “Don’t you think it’s bad enough for me, knowing that if I’d agreed to help you as you asked, my poor Hans might still be alive and not sliced up all over some hovel in Whitechapel? I’m surprised you haven’t already reminded me of the fact. I have to live with this the rest of my days, Mr Abberline. Lord knows I’ve done some things in my time, but for the first time in my life I’m ashamed of myself and I will regret this till my dying day.”
Abberline put out his hand. “Lou, listen to me...”
“Get the fuck out of my house!”
“As you wish, Lou – as you wish,” Abberline sighed, and then left the drawing room, followed by Hugo, who let him out of the house.
Before he left, he turned back to the butler. “I’ve been taken off the case, Hugo. Sir Charles Warren has resigned. People are baying for our blood now.”
Hugo replied by slamming the door in the Chief Inspector’s face.
********
Standing on a tiny medieval wooden bridge, Elijah gazed down at his reflection in the murky water, half-oblivious to the crowds leaving evening Mass from the small church nearby and making their way home through the ancient narrow streets. Some of them recognised him and greeted him.
It made him smile when they did. He barely recognised himself these days. Dressed in white linen with a pale lilac cravat and his chestnut curls sweeping to his shoulders, he bore next to no resemblance to the young boy who had left London three years before. Here he was treated like one of the gentlemen he had once pleasured. His face was now his fortune; soon, all of Italy and eventually all of Europe would be aware of The Captain’s Boy, the pseudonym he had gained in London.
And back in London, the remains of Mary Jane Kelly or, rather, the remains of Hans Matheson, had been laid to rest in Loughton Cemetery.
Shortly after Hans’ vicious and frenzied slaughter, the Ripper murders ceased and, slowly, the East End, London, and finally England began to regain its confidence. Very soon the name of Jack the Ripper was to become as much a part of folklore as Robin Hood and Dick Turpin.
For Elijah, the horrors taking place in London that autumn were simply something that Andy read out to him from the newspaper every morning. The letters he received from No. 20 were filled more with light gossip, the somewhat surprising news of Billy’s new paramour Lord Wenham, who had became a frequent visitor to the house, and the usual, smutty but good- humoured jokes about Orlando. News of Hans’ murder had shaken them and Madame Louise was distraught, tightening control over the boys even more. With the exception of a few favoured clients, there would be no allowances for the boys to go out with anyone or have overnighters until it could be certain that the danger was over.
As he crossed over the bridge, intent on making the journey back home, he collided with a shabbily dressed young boy, whom he hazarded a guess would be around thirteen or fourteen years of age. But the dark sloe eyes seemed older and stared at him with cool detachment. Elijah immediately knew the boy’s trade, even before the child turned to him and remarked casually, “Risvegliare il tuo umorismo, signore? Scopare?”
Elijah blinked. Having grasped the rudiments of the language, from what he could make out the boy was offering to tickle him.
“Signore?” The boy tapped Elijah’s arm, urging for a response.
“Ah, no. No!” He pushed the boy away and walked quickly on, shaking his head. “No!”
“Vaffanculo!” sneered the boy, before spitting towards him. “Stronzo!”
“Well, now – there’s a surprise!”
A familiar throaty rumble caught Elijah off guard as Andrew approached, his battered sketchbook under his arm. He was rarely without it these days. Dark, unruly curls tumbled over his forehead, which he pushed away with his free hand. All traces of the former clean-shaven Life Guard officer had been removed. He even had a beard now.
“I would never have expected to see you being approached by Trade!”
Blue eyes met blue eyes.
“An’ why not?” Elijah sounded almost insulted. “My money ain’t good enough for ‘im?”
“How much was he asking?” Andrew enquired, rubbing his chin.
“Don’t know. He wanted to tickle me, though. I got that!”
Andrew laughed again. “I tell you what. I’ll tickle you and it won’t cost you a lira!”
“Well, now – there’s a surprise!” echoed Elijah, giggling.
“What is?” Andrew wrinkled his brow.
“I never thought that you, of all people, would be propositioning me, Mister Serkis!”
Wrapping his free arm around his lover’s shoulder and laughing heartily, Andrew drew Elijah up against his warm, solid body.
Elijah breathed in the familiar comforting smell of oil paints, thinners, musk and Andrew’s own odour, and smiled.
Finally he was truly at home.
Fin
Author:
precious_rosiePairing: Andy Serkis/Elijah Wood
Series: 14/14
Type: RPS AU
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Total fiction, from the depths of my imagination.
Summary: Set in mid 1880's, Elijah is working in a high-class male brothel. The madame has fixed him up with a very special client.
Warning[s]: prostitution, more glorious hot sex
Feedback: is always welcome! *vbg*.
Beta:
shy_nerthuserce, who is as wonderful a friend as she is a trusted and respected beta. Thank you for all the hard work, comments and suggestions made throughout this story. *hugs* :-) ♥ Any mistakes are mine.Archive:
rockabillyblueAuthor’s note: This is a story that I started back in April 2003 and it received high praise. Sadly thanks to that awful thing called “real life", it's taken this length of time to finally complete it. Thanks for all the lovely comments which has fuelled me to carry on! :-)
Author's Note No.2: "Yo’m bloody yampy" literally "You bloody idiot!" Despite living in London for a number of years, Madame Louise would've retained her Black Country accent and its sayings.
Author's Note No.3: All references regarding the Jack The Ripper case have been taken from a series of books, notably The Complete Jack the Ripper by Donald Rumblelow, Prince Eddy and the Homosexual Underworld by Theo Aronson and that 'splendid' work of fiction - Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution by Stephen Knight! *eg* Sir Charles Warren *did* in fact resign shortly resign before the Millers Court murder and Chief Inspector Abberline had been taken off the case.
Author's Note No.4: Chief Inspector Abberline and Detective Sergeant Godley are based on Michael Caine and Lewis Collins' portrayals of these men respectively in the 1988 made for TV film Jack The Ripper.
x-posted to
rockabillyblueChapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
News of the horrific double murder had not yet reached Mayfair when the house awoke the following morning. In fact, none of the boys read the papers over breakfast and were more concerned with a private party that was being hosted at No. 20 that very evening.
Some of the names on the guest list were a surprise to the boys.
“Liberals? In here?” Orlando raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “I always had Madame Louise down as a Tory.”
“You wash yer mouth out!” Hans remarked dryly as he poured coffee for himself and Orlando. “If there’s one thing we are in this line of work, Orli, it is that we strive to remain politically impartial. All gentlemen like their cock more or less the same, whatever their politics.”
Orlando stretched and yawned. “I do hate these formal gatherings. They can be so tedious. Just as long as I’m not asked to entertain some boring little bourgeoisie.”
“Ere, don’t let Madame Louise ‘ear you say that!” Hans warned him. “You know she doesn’t like snobbery in this brothel.”
“What?” Orlando raised an eyebrow. “She’s the biggest snob of the lot of us!”
“Ooh, ‘ark at the pot calling the kettle sooty arse!” Hans retorted mockingly. He snorted and turned away from Orlando’s indignant look, only to raise a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Dominic, who was shovelling bacon and eggs into his open mouth at an alarming speed. “Talk about stoking the boiler! I ‘ope you don’t eat like that in front of Prince Eddy!”
Dominic sniggered and nudged Billy, who was feeding bits of toast to Bertie, snuffling under the table and nosing around for scraps.
The tranquil scene was disrupted by the arrival of a very excited and out of breath Tom, who came bursting into the dining room waving a copy of the Star.
“I don’t fucking believe it!” he panted. “E’s only gone and done two of ‘em in, now! On the same night! And ‘im –” He pointed to a photograph of Sir Charles Warren, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. “‘E’s getting involved, now!”
Impatient for more, the boys eagerly swamped Tom, who proceeded to read out the details of the two murders with some relish, glancing over at Orlando every so often. In turn, Orlando made a point of deliberately scooping up Mitzi before making a swift exit from the room. The effect was spoiled somewhat when he almost collided with a very breathless and wide-eyed Daniel, who had come running into the dining room somewhat perturbed with some more newspapers.
And by now, Tom was well into his stride. “I’m goin’ to the next post-mortem,” boasted the blond-haired boy. “Then I can really ‘ear all the gory details. Them reporters ‘ave to leave out all the really bloody bits, so as they don’t offend no-one.”
Hans slapped Tom around the back of the head. “You insensitive little prick! These women were working girls, just like us. Show some respect!” He paused, eyes blazing angrily. “And besides – there won’t be a next post mortem! The police will catch the bastards now.”
“What’s up with you, Han-nah?” snorted Tom. “On the rag?”
This remark cost him another clip around the head from Hans. Stung, Tom decided – unwisely – to try his hand at self-defence, resulting in a pathetic slap at Hans in return.
Relieved at being spared another unwanted recital of gruesome details and sensing that it was safe to return to the dining table, Orlando returned to his chair and placed Mitzi on the floor – only for her to immediately be mounted by Bertie, who was keen to work off his breakfast.
“Someone wants to castrate that dog!” Orlando whined, gamely trying to kick Bertie off his beloved spaniel. “He’s too randy for his own good!”
“Och, come on!” Billy laughed. “He’s got more spunk in him than most of the boys here in this room!”
Hans snorted. “Orlando’s problem is that Bertie’s trying to share his with Mitzi!”
Ignoring Mitzi’s pitiful squeaks from beneath the table, Dominic took one of the papers from Daniel. “They can’t pin the blame on Eddy this time!” he commented. “’E’s not even in London! Poor sod, just because he can kill, skin and dress a deer, people assume ’e’s done the same to those women!”
Daniel nodded. “I can prepare a chicken,” he said, recalling his days as a humble kitchen boy. “Doesn’t make me a killer, either!”
“Well in that case, using that line of argument most of the aristocracy and anyone who can carve up a joint of meat could be blamed as well,” Hans said, grimacing. “You know what gossip is like, sweetheart. Those who are supposed to be up to something aren’t, those who aren’t are, and those who are spreading the rumours wish it was with them.”
“And to think Elijah is missing all this,” sighed Daniel, now seated at the table, before starting to read aloud from one of the newspapers, his finger moving under each word as he did so.
Unaware of the growing unrest in London and the rest of England created by the horror of the double murders of Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride, life for Andrew and Elijah in Venice remained blissfully simple and peaceful. Though still stunned by the news, Elijah tried to block the atrocities of the previous Ripper murders from his mind. At least now both Mary Anne Nicholls and Annie Chapman were out of that soul-destroying, filthy place – just as he was.
He stirred, snuggling closer as Andrew’s voice rolled over him. Andrew was talking to Elijah about the impending visit of his ex-wife and children that morning – the very same morning as Elijah’s friends were reading of the fates of Catherine and Long Liz.
“The general feeling is that artists are rather like gardeners; we both create something that can be enjoyed by others. Only gardeners are more respectable!”
“Does that mean we’re not respectable?” asked Elijah, idly tracing lines around Andrew’s nipples, his fingers lost in the thick mass of dark, sprawling chest hair. They’d spent a delicious couple of hours making love as dawn broke into the chilly Venetian morning.
“In the eyes of decent society, we aren’t,” Andrew explained, somewhat sadly. “That’s why we couldn’t stay in London, or anywhere else for that matter in England. It’s odd that in the space of a couple of years my respectability has gone to the dogs. It isn’t Lorraine, or either of our families. They were supportive enough – and there are the children to consider. No, it was all our friends, and my ex-army comrades. They couldn’t stomach the fact that my so-called hobby was, in fact, my vocation. I’m a social outcast now!”
“Mr ‘Ill – Lorraine’s new ‘usband; what does ‘e know about us?”
Andrew shrugged. “As far as Bernard is concerned, what he doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him. He doesn’t like Lorraine to talk about my dissolute lifestyle! Fucking middle class snobbery.”
“So why is ’e joining ‘er on this trip?”
“Out of curiosity, a fascination with the bohemian lifestyle; who knows? He disapproves of us, but as far as Lorraine is concerned, I am the father of our children and he has to comply with her wishes.”
Elijah smiled. “It’ll be nice to see them again!” He regarded the Serkis children as the brothers and sister he never had and they, in return, treated him as an older brother to play with. “I don’t know why she had to remarry anyway. We were fine until then. Lorraine could visit us any time she wanted.”
Andrew sighed. “In so- called ‘respectable’ society, it makes no difference if the husband is buggering the boot boy so long as they don’t run off and become permanent bed-fellows –” He paused and looked down at Elijah. “Plus, the meagre allowance I could send to her wasn’t really covering the bills, even with the income from the house we rent out.” He leaned over Elijah. “Besides, you’re a kept boy now. Who else is going to keep you in shoe leather and fancy clothing?”
“Oooh, I might run away with a Venetian duke or somefing!” giggled Elijah – and then, seeing Andrew’s startled face, added quickly and humbly: “Nah! No-one else would put up with me ‘cept you, Andy!”
“And I wouldn’t want it any other way!” Andrew laughed as he gathered Elijah up in his arms before rolling him underneath his more powerful body, making it nigh impossible for the younger man to escape.
Three years out of the army and the former Captain was in still peak condition, taking daily walks and completing countless press-ups, usually using a very giggly Elijah as a weight on his back. The Venetian lifestyle suited his temperament. He’d become excessively more hot-blooded than he had been back in England, blaming it all on the red wine, heat and aesthetic living. Elijah was convinced that Andrew was merely enjoying the new lease of life away from British society’s respectable apron strings.
Not that Elijah was complaining; relishing the weight of Andrew’s body on his own, he merely laughed his irrepressible, infectious, high-pitched giggle as his lover took playful nips at the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder, feeling the pressure of an engorged erection digging urgently into his thigh. Purring like a kitten, Elijah wrapped his arms around that warm, solid torso, pulling Andrew closer, his hand sliding down to cup his testicles.
Feeling Elijah’s hand rubbing gently on the shaft, Andrew grunted his approval. Leaning across him, pushing his lips to Andrew’s, Elijah flicked his tongue urgently against his lover’s teeth before slipping it inside his mouth. Andrew growled, encouraging Elijah to probe further. Sweat slicked their entwined bodies as Andrew, his skin tingling under Elijah’s touch, allowed himself to be enveloped in the younger man’s caresses until Elijah broke the kiss, breathing erratically.
“I do love yer, Andy!” he exclaimed, gazing down at Andrew; his eyes, large and bright, were child-like as he made this declaration.
Andrew stroked Elijah gently, planting kisses on those perfect lips as he did so. “And I love you.”
His Elijah. So perfect, so beautiful. Elijah had made him feel more alive in the past three years than he, Andrew Serkis, had ever felt in the whole of his forty one years.
His Elijah. A former child prostitute, destitute and on the streets. A former brothel whore, beloved of London society. An artist’s model, perfect in every way. His companion, his muse, his lover...his beautiful boy.
The Captain’s Boy.
That appellation, which had been the bane of Andrew’s former military career, now provided him with a welcome income in reprints on postcards. It had been Elijah’s nickname and it had stuck. One of the first pieces of artwork which Andrew had completed whilst studying at art school had been of Elijah, seated and gazing out at the world with youthful arrogance in the scarlet uniform of their first meeting.
The Captain’s Boy had been immortalised in oils and now hung in the drawing room at No. 20 Hanover Square, watching over the other whores and their clients: whilst bookshops and many houses in London proudly displayed copies of the portrait. It outsold Millais’ painting of The Jersey Lily, the artist’s famous portrait of Mrs Langtry, of whom it was rumoured that she had bought copies of Elijah’s for all her society friends.
Reflecting for a few moments more on their previous lives, Andrew smiled to himself before submitting to Elijah’s exploring fingers. Resuming the hot, urgent kisses, his artist’s eye briefly admired the play of muscle and light on their skin, their bodies now gleaming with the slick sweat forming on their flesh before he shifted Elijah’s weight, enabling the boy to sit astride his muscular thighs.
Elijah’s thin fingers circled Andrew’s hardened nipples, tugging gently on the thick, dark chest hair. He slid down the bed, rumpling the sheers as he did so, before seizing Andrew’s hard cock between his lips, sliding the ample length into his mouth.
Andrew groaned and began to thrust his hips back and forth. His musky, masculine scent was intoxicating to Elijah, who felt dizzy with pleasure – for himself and because of what he was giving to Andrew. Alternating the sucks with licking and kissing Andrew’s balls, Elijah’s nose was buried in the dark bush of pubic curls, breathing in more of the older man’s scent.
“Get on me!” growled Andrew, urging Elijah to mount him. His cock was twitching and on the verge on climax, but he wanted to be fucking Elijah when he came.
As he climbed on top of Andrew, feeling those large, gentle hands parting his arse cheeks as he did so, Elijah lowered himself onto the thick cock, wet with saliva, which seemed to have increased to twice its original hardness. Biting his lip, Andrew began to thrust gently into his young lover.
Leaning over him, his hands gripping Andrew’s brawny shoulders, Elijah’s nails dug deep into the flesh, drawing blood. Andrew started to thrust more vigorously, his cock penetrating deeper, lubricated by the saliva from Elijah’s mouth. Elijah gasped as the long, thick shaft entered him inch by delicious inch. He raised and lowered himself several times to relish the sensation of Andrew fucking him. It was Elijah who was setting the pace, gripping broad thighs as he rode his lover. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Andrew’s nipples, licking and sucking each in turn, feeling the softness of Andrew’s chest hair against his skin. “Fuck me...”
Elijah’s breathy voice seemed to Andrew, to come from afar. Grunting his affirmation, he lifted his hips and pounded into Elijah’s slight slender frame until both men bucked and cursed in a synchronised rhythm that had been perfected over the years they had been together.
With each thrust, his body arching up in response, Elijah mouthed Andrew’s name until he was filled with the overwhelming sensation of becoming fluid as he felt his orgasm begin to peak.
Andrew’s movements were now more urgent, triggering into his own explosive climax moments before Elijah’s seed splattered over Andrew’s chest leaving glistening drops against the dark hair. Murmuring endearments as his breath slowly returned, Andrew pulled Elijah closer to him, their bodies damp with films of sweat. “I love you,” he sighed, lips buried in the softness of Elijah’s curls.
“I love you too, Andy!” Elijah replied drowsily. “I’m glad Madame Louise introduced us. I’m so lucky to have you.”
“No, Elijah,” Andrew corrected him with a soft smile. “I’m the lucky one!”
Whilst the former favourite of No. 20 Hanover Square and his artist lover were enjoying their mid-morning romp, Madame Louise was becoming increasingly agitated concerning Hans’ failure to appear in order to finalise the arrangements for the evening’s entertainment with her. His frequent and often ill-timed absences were becoming ever more of a concern for her and she made a mental note to speak to him on his return.
Pacing her drawing room, the Madame sent Tom and Daniel to look for him and to make enquiries at the Cleveland Street brothel. If Hans was moonlighting at another house, and a less respectable one at that, Madame Louise wanted to know about it.
“An’ tell him, I’ll dock him a week’s earnings if I find out he’s been knocking off at that fleapit!” she yelled after the youngest of her charges, who seemed only too pleased to be going out on an otherwise slow and doleful day.
However, Hans’s absences from Hanover Square were soon to become the last thing on the Madam’s mind with the arrival of two policemen from Scotland Yard later that day, when it transpired that not only was one of them the Chief Inspector who was in charge of the Whitechapel murder investigations, but he had come with a very unusual request.
“Now, look!” she exclaimed after hearing what the Chief Inspector had to say. “This is a respectable business. You know that, your superiors know that – after all, most of ‘em are usually ‘ere at night!”
The sandy-haired policeman sighed. “Look love, I’m just following orders. This will keep the Chief Super ‘appy, an’ I promise I won’t bother yer again!”
“Promises is it, eh?” Madame Louise snorted. “I’ know all about your kind of promises! I’ve been in this game too long not to. Still, I know you’re just doin’ your job.” She gestured towards her private sitting room. “Fancy a drink, Fred? Or are you off the sauce again?”
Chief Inspector Fredrick Abberline grinned. “You always knew my weakness, Lou! A whisky if yer don’t mind.” He turned to where a dark-haired younger man with a fashionable moustache was sitting by the window in Madame Louise’s office, where Billy and Dominic were hindering rather than helping Abberline’s colleague Detective Sergeant George Godley in his enquiries.
Dominic, wearing nothing but an exquisite blue kimono-styled dressing gown and with Godley’s hat perched rakishly on the back of his head, was playing with the policeman’s pistol as the exasperated Detective Sergeant attempted to ask a talkative Billy questions, trying hard to ignore Bertie who was furiously humping his leg whilst the affable Glaswegian seemed more intent on telling the detective about a new play called "Jekyll and Hyde" which the two boys had seen the previous evening.
“That’ll go off if you keep playing with it!” snorted Abberline as Dominic grinned and fondled Godley’s gun suggestively. “Put it down, lad!”
“An’ I swear to ye, I ne’er saw such bad acting in all my life!” Billy exclaimed, almost indignant. “An’ this Mansfield fella, Dickie, is supposed to be a guid actor? Of course, I took the liberty of tellin’ the wee man so when we were introduced to him at dinner. I told him that even Orli is capable of more than one facial expression. And then when he found out Hans wasn’t a lassie – ye should have seen his face! It went red like a wee beetroot – I thought he was gunna explode!”
The young Sergeant just sat lost for words, wishing he was back in Whitechapel; compared to this place, its drunks, thieves, pickpockets, penny whores and their pimps were bright souls in a blissful paradise.
“I’ve never seen one before,” Dominic sulked as he gave the gun back to Sergeant Godley. “Well, not a small one.” He winked suggestively at the Sergeant, who reddened somewhat. "Madame Lou Lou has a set of guns that she keeps behind the bar. It’s a set of Purdeys. Some lord left ‘em as payment.”
“Dominic!” Madame Louise interrupted. “You’ll get us all into trouble. Billy! Shut yer gob and let the Sergeant get a word in!”
“It’s understandable,” Abberline observed blithely. “An establishment like this needs extra protection.”
“Oh yes, I know what sort of protection!” Madame Louise laughed. Unlike most brothels, which usually paid for police protection, she was in receipt of the same but free gratis. One of the benefits of having most of the highest ranked officers of Scotland Yard as customers.
“Think about my offer, love” Abberline said. “We could do with the extra – er – man power.”
“All the same, Fred.” The small Madam lowered her voice to avoid being heard. “I’m not risking any of my boys. Foolhardy and headstrong some of them might be –” She glanced towards Billy and Dominic. “But they’re not going to end up on a mortuary slab. I’m not going to risk any of them.”
Chief Inspector Abberline nodded. “If you say so, love. Godley!”
Sergeant Godley retrieved his hat from Dominic’s head and edged his way back towards Abberline, who was already heading for the door.
“By the way, ‘ave you ‘eard from that young lad lately? Elijah?” Abberline enquired. “Last I ‘eard, ‘e’d landed on his feet an’ was lordin’ it up in Venice as an artist’s model.”
“That’s right,” Madame Louise smiled. “And living the life of Reilly by all accounts.”
“Nice kid, that – ‘e only used to get himself nicked so ‘e could get somewhere to kip for the night! ‘E’s come a long way since ‘is time on the streets. Miss ‘im?”
She nodded. “I do, Fred. You see, that’s why I could never let my boys assist the police in this case, even if it meant catching the bastard who’s slicing up those poor women. I’m the closest thing to a mother they have and I couldn’t put any of them in danger!”
After the policemen left, Madame Louise turned to Billy and Dominic, who were still in the window seat, agog.
“We never had that conversation with the police, you ‘ear? I don’t want any of the boys thinking to make ‘eroes of themselves and getting into shit they can’t get out of.” With that, she poured herself a glass of claret from the decanter on her desk and took a swig.
“Not even if it means more women get killed, Madame Lou Lou?” asked Dominic. “I mean, what the Chief Inspector was sayin’, we would be ‘elping the police. Dressing up as women an’ that to catch this Jack the Ripper fella. None of us want to be ‘eroes.”
Billy nodded in agreement. “Och, we all want to help. After all, we’re the lucky ones; working in a place like this and bein’ looked after. It could have been so different for any of us. Ye gave us all a chance. Some of us could have still been workin’ on the streets charging a few pennies a suck, but ye took us in. And look at Elijah! ‘E’s done better than all of us!”
Madame Louise sighed. “It’s not as I don’t want to ‘elp catch that bastard, but I won’t do it at the risk of losing any of my boys. We can’t help those women, but we can be grateful for what we do ‘ave – an’ keep our eyes peeled for anythin’ that might ‘elp the Old Bill.” She turned her back to Dominic and Billy before shuffling through some papers on her desk. “Now, where did I put those menus for this evening? Mr Astin will have my guts for garters. Oh, Hans! Yo’m bloody yampy – and maybe I am, too!”
Andrew stretched and yawned, as the clock from a nearby church chimed eleven. “Time to get up!” He slapped Elijah’s arse hard, causing the boy to merely grunt an acknowledgement. “The girls are due here at noon.”
“Fuck off!” Elijah growled, burying his face into the pillow and trying to ignore Andrew. “Can’t you finish the painting off without me?”
Pulling a paint-stained, collarless grey shirt over his curls, Andrew simply laughed. “I can’t paint The Judgement of Paris without a Paris now, can I?”
Elijah turned over and stuck out his bottom lip in an appealing, if childlike fashion. “You’re managing to paint the three goddesses when you can only afford two models.”
“That’s only because I’m using Lorraine as Hera,” Andrew replied, now putting on rough corduroy trousers that were as stained as his shirt. “I’m using her photograph.”
“She’s goin’ to kill yer when she finds out,” Elijah cautioned. “She ain’t gonna be pleased, you paintin’ her and that. “And ‘er ‘usband isn’t goin’ to be too ‘appy, neither!”
“I think Lorraine will be over the moon, to be honest,” Andrew replied, gazing at a small miniature of his three children depicted as cherubs that was hung on the wall in the airy bedroom. “She’s going to be immortalised.” He paused as if lost in thought before adding, “As, my darlin’ boy, are you. Now get up, you lazy little git!”
With that, Andrew threw some clothes onto a naked Elijah before leaving the bedroom.
Finding some bread and cheese in the small kitchen, Elijah prepared himself some breakfast and then went to look for Andrew, eventually finding him working on his latest creation in the room at the top of their apartment, which had been converted into his studio. Overlooking one of the city’s canals, the muted noise of the mid-morning rush rose up to the tranquil haven that had been their home for nearly two years.
Andrew was applying some paint to Lorraine’s – or, rather, Hera’s, left nipple. Elijah watched, feeling slightly uncomfortable as the brush caressed the canvas, as tenderly as a lover.
“Isn’t that what we all want, Andy?” Elijah asked through mouthfuls of bread and cheese.
Andrew’s eyes never left the canvas. “What?”
“To be made immortal. To live forever.”
Andrew paused, the brush still poised over the vast canvas. “I’d like to think so. Why else do you think people get their portraits painted?”
Elijah shrugged. “They could get their photographs taken. It’s quicker and you don’t have to stand around for hours getting cramp.”
A deep, exasperated sigh indicated that Elijah had touched on one of the more controversial, sensitive topics guaranteed to get Andrew animated. Elijah almost regretted bringing the subject up.
“I suppose it does,” Andrew replied at length. “That’s not to say that photography is better than paintings. It’s just another way of immortalising the subject.” He coughed irritably. “Now come on – let’s get to work.”
Elijah looked out of the window and onto the canal and street below. “So, even though they were cut up, both Annie and Polly are now immortalised because of their photographs?”
Andrew blinked, somewhat taken aback by this remark and Elijah’s train of thought. “You know, I suppose they are, in a perverse kind of way.” He gave a sardonic chuckle. “It would be quicker using a photographer rather than getting an artist to paint those unfortunate women.” Looking across at his lover, Andrew thought for a while, brow furrowed, and then leaned across and ruffled Elijah’s curls affectionately. “Are you missing London? You know it’s difficult for us to return now, don’t you?”
Elijah nodded, eating as he did so. “I’m just missin’ the other lads, ‘at’s all. They can always come and visit, can’t they?”
“Oh, of course, Elijah! Isn’t that what I said originally when we decided to live out here?” Andrew paused and laughed. “We’ll have to start taking bookings, Lij – I feel as if we’re running a hotel!”
“I ‘ope they’ve caught ‘im,” Elijah mused quietly before taking another large bite from the hunk of bread in his hand. “’Im what’s did those murders.”
Andrew resumed his painting, mixing some colour on his palette. “I’d like to think so, Elijah. Now – are we ready to start work?”
“Have you seen Hans?” Madame Louise enquired one early November morning as she passed the main drawing room.
“Have you seen Hans?” was becoming a regular question at No. 20, asked by the Madame, the boys, and, on occasion, some of the clientele. His absences were ever more of a mystery and, more frustratingly, he skilfully evaded all questioning from Madame Louise and the other boys when he did materialise. Even at Sean’s suggestion that Madame Louise fine Hans for lateness didn’t faze the culprit. He paid up willingly, worked harder than any of the other boys, and was still very much in demand with clients. Even the Madame had to admit that she would be lost without her trusted whore.
It had been a good eight weeks since the double murder in Whitechapel and even though most of London and the rest of country were still gripped by fear, the mood seemed somewhat lighter in Mayfair.
In the East End, more and more prostitutes were seeking positions in brothels for safety or simply relying on the parish for help. Those who were either foolish or brave enough, continued to ply their trade on the streets. Since being visited by Chief Inspector Abberline, Madame Louise never spoke of the strange request to Billy and Dominic again. The senior police officials at Scotland Yard who had in the past frequented her establishment were now too busy with the Whitechapel murders.
Tom and Daniel continued to follow the case. Both were avid readers of murder mystery stories in penny dreadfuls, which they consumed with relish, eagerly discussing their own theories before rushing out each week to buy the next instalment to read what had happened. This youthful exuberance made a charming addition to their credentials, since gentlemen would listen, enthralled, as the two boys retold stories of Varney the Vampire and Sweeney Todd.
“I fink it’s one of them,” Tom declared one overcast afternoon.
“One of whom?” Orlando sniffed, more interested in reading a report in one of the Society journals about himself accompanying Sir Ian McKellen to the opera.
“One of ‘em Scotland Yardies, yer tit!” Tom replied scornfully. “Look at the evidence. No one ‘ears the wimmin scream. No one sees anyfing. There’s no blood or nuffin’, so they ain’t bein’ killed where their bodies are bein’ found.”
“Good point that,” Billy observed approvingly. “But I don’t know why ye think it’s one of the coppers.”
“Why would the girls go with ‘im, otherwise?” Tom reasoned. “It’s got to be someone they can trust.”
“Like a doctor,” Daniel piped in. “Or even a priest! I mean, you’d trust one of them, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s true.” Sean Bean, who had returned swiftly from the North after the double murder in fear for his Louise and their business, acknowledged the young man. “Good thinking, Daniel!”
Orlando snorted, unimpressed. “And have you enlightened the constabulary with this oh-so- fascinating piece of deduction?”
Tom puffed his chest out. “I have! Inspector Abberline said I would make a first class detective!”
“Oh lord!” groaned Orlando. “That’s all this country needs: you in the police force!”
Sean, who had been reading one of the broadsheets, folded it up and placed it back down on the table. “It’s as if anyone who can hold a knife or frequents the East End is automatically labelled as a suspect. And just to remind you, I don’t want any of you boys going out without a companion. Or, if you are with a client, no overnighters at their place.”
There was an audible groan from the boys. Overnighters were often handsomely paid.
Billy, slapping his hand on Orlando’s shoulder, jabbed his finger at a photograph in the journal. “Och! What are ye wearing, laddie? I’d murder ye if ye were wearing that in my presence!”
“It’s the latest Parisian style!” Orlando retorted, somewhat perturbed by Billy poking fun at his fashion sense. “At least some of us are keeping up standards and not getting too involved in this murder case!”
“At least we don’t have to be worrying about what dresses are in fashion, like Hans!” Daniel remarked. “I dread to think what his clothing bills are like.”
“Most of his clothes are given 'free gratis',” Billy explained. “Usually by grateful clients. That reminds me – Madame Louise is looking for him again.”
“He’ll get chucked out if he’s not careful,” Orlando fretted somewhat despairingly, one eye fixed on Sean, who had resumed reading the paper. He never agreed with Hans on most things, but to see a fellow out on the streets was the last thing he wanted. Ever since Sean Bean had bought into the business, it was controlled more tightly than one of Madame Lou Lou’s corsets.
“Nah,” Billy replied. “’E seems to be workin’ harder than any toffer these days. And he seems to be flush. Och, and before I forget, anyone fancy goin’ to the Lord Mayor’s Parade tomorrow?”
It wasn’t unusual for Madame Louise to be summoned from bed at an ungodly hour, so being woken by Hugo early on the morning of November 8th did not arouse any suspicion in her.
“It’s Chief Inspector Abberline, Madame,” the butler whispered, trying not to waken a sleeping Sean.
Madame Louise grabbed a shawl from a nearby chair and wrapped it around herself. “It’s bloody Hans! I knew it! I’ll swing for that lad one day!”
In her drawing room, the Chief Inspector was talking earnestly to Billy and Dominic who had been woken up by the front door bell. As they had taken up residence in Elijah’s set of rooms overlooking Hanover Square, they were able to see and hear the approach of visitors before anyone else.
Both boys turned as Madame Louise entered the room. It looked as if they had been crying. “Oh! Madame Lou Lou!” sobbed Billy. “It’s Hans!”
*I bloody knew it!* thought Madame Louise, who sighed, shaking her head. “What has happened?”
Inspector Abberline looked tired as he tried to calm the boys. “Please, let me continue. It’s a shock to us all. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Madame Louise paled. “I – I think I’d like a drink, Billy.” She indicated the decanter on her desk.
“I think brandy might be better,” the inspector suggested quietly, turning to Hugo who nodded and disappeared back towards the kitchen.
Sean’s broad tones cut through Billy and Dominic’s sobs and the awkward silence. “What the hell is going on?”
“There’s been another murder,” explained Abberline gently. “I am led to believe that Hans Matheson has been involved.”
“Involved? What you mean, involved?” Sean asked, wrapping his broad arms around an agitated Madame Louise. “Did the lad murder those women? Is he who you’ve been looking for?”
The Inspector closed his eyes, wishing for the floor to conveniently open up and swallow him whole. “Hans was – he was the victim.”
There was a collective intake of breath and faint, yet audible gasps of “What?”
Abberline cleared his throat. “From what clues we have established so far, Mr Hans Matheson of this address has been working as a female prostitute by the name of Mary Jane Kelly in Whitechapel for the past year. She, or rather he took rooms in Miller’s Court. Last night, or in the early hours of this morning, that’s where he was murdered.”
“B-but how do you know it was Hans?” whispered Madame Louise swaying against Sean, not quite believing her ears.
“This – was found in the room.”
Abberline presented a small, bloodstained notebook, which the Madame recognised as belonging to Hans. He often carried it with him when with clients so as to record what he thought of them.
“There is more -,” the Inspector continued gently, just as Hugo returned with the brandy, which he proceeded to pour into the glasses on the sideboard. “–the body was mutilated in such a way that it is hard to distinguish exactly who it is. This book belongs to Hans.”
Taking the proffered glass from Hugo, Madame Louise tried to concentrate. It was beginning to make sense. The frequent absences and the odd behaviour. Hans was clearly living a double life as a penny whore in Whitechapel. “But why?” she whispered. “Why? Why Hans? He was no threat to anyone!”
Sean sighed heavily. “Why? Perhaps the murderer realised too late that ’e’d bought the services of a Mary Anne and not a woman and killed Hans in fit of rage?” he suggested, holding her more tightly. “I always told you that lad needed to be on a tighter leash, Lou.”
“No, no.” The Madame looked at Sean and then at Billy and Dominic. “Why did Hans want to work in the East End? He had everything here he could want. He was comfortable.” She turned to the Inspector. “I was going to leave him to run the place when we eventually retired, wasn’t I, Sean?” She looked imploringly at Sean, who was himself trying to make sense of it all.
“Maybe the thrill of workin’ somewhere like Whitechapel appealed to ‘im?” he suggested, stroking her hair. “He wanted excitement and felt he couldn’t get it here. Who knows, lass?” He jerked his chin towards the notebook. “Does the book say anything, Chief Inspector?”
Abberline shook his head. “Nothing. No indication of who he would be meeting last night. He refers to his trips to Whitechapel as his ‘jollies’. He would call himself Mary Jane and pass, very convincingly, as a woman. Even my Sergeant Godley was fooled. According to one entry, Hans writes that he arrested him one night. He saw it as a bit of a lark.”
“I’d hardly call what happened to Hans, a ‘jolly’ or ‘a bit of a lark’,” remarked Hugo quietly.
“Are you goin’ to tell the rest of lads, Madame Lou Lou?” asked Dominic, his voice ragged as he sniffed back the last of his tears. He was still comforting a sobbing Billy.
Abberline looked at the Madame and Sean. “I will. If you prefer.”
“No...” Madame Louise clutched Sean’s hand. “I’ll...I’ll tell them. It’s better coming from me than from some policeman. Oh, God! The papers! They’ll have a field day when they know!”
Abberline took a small notebook from his overcoat pocket and glanced down at it, reading his notes. “I think you ought to know Lou. There’s no way of knowing the deceased’s gender, so the Chief Super has decided...” He took a breath, and looked at Hugo. “...Get me a Scotch, will you?”
Silently, Hugo poured another glass before handing it to the Chief Inspector, who gulped it down gratefully.
“We don’t know who this killer is. We have no idea who is responsible. This unfortunate incident will only add fuel to the fires of discontent and the unrest and the suspicion that’s already stirring up anti-establishment feelings in the East End. There have been riots already – you must have read about those. And the police aren’t exactly in anyone’s good books. So, I’ve been told to keep this quiet.”
For a few moments there was a stunned silence, broken when Sean swore under his breath.
“I don’t fuckin’ believe this,” he snorted, staring at Abberline in disgust. “You mean, keep *this* murder quiet?” he asked, his own anger rising slowly. “You’re mad, man! You can’t keep this one quiet!”
“What I mean is –” Abberline sighed and wished he had some form of backup from his superior officers. “– We have been investigating murders of female whores. As far the public are concerned, this incident will only make matters worse. A Mary Anne masquerading as a woman? People will demand explanations. This place will become involved, as will a great many other houses, and a great many people will be caught up in the affair – reputations and careers will be in jeopardy –”
“– Like your fucking Chief Super and most of Scotland Yard!” barked Sean. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, man! One of our lads has been sliced up and all you’re worried about is the reputation of your fucking police force!”
Abberline nodded. “Believe me, Sean, I do understand. But it’s not just that,” he went on, trying to calm Sean down. “It won’t just be the police force. Other important members of the Establishment will be drawn in, the government and the like. It could turn out very nasty for everyone.”
“’Very nasty’?” Sean spat back, mockingly. “Don’t fucking patronise me, Abberline!”
Abberline raised his hands apologetically. “Forgive me, Sean; I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward. But you must understand that this reaches deep into the heart of English society. – “”
“Why should I fucking care about the heart of English society?” Sean scoffed. “What has it ever cared for my Lou or her lads, who only do what they do because there’s been a need for ‘ores an’ ‘orin’ ever since there’s been men an’ women an’ society looks down on ‘em even as they’re payin’ for their services?”
Abberline rubbed the tight knot between his eyes. This was proving to be even harder than he’d expected. “You don’t ‘ave to tell me, Sean,” he replied soothingly. “I’m a man of the world, just as you are. But we have to keep the details of this murder quiet! That’s what matters.”
Pulling away from Dominic’s gentling arms, Billy turned on Abberline angrily. “But what aboot Hans? Doesn’t he matter? Or is his life worthless because of what he was? Just because he was a Mary Anne?”
The Chief Inspector sighed. “No, Billy. But if what Hans was and who he was become common knowledge, it’s more than possible that he could be traced back here. And then, like a house of cards, the whole thing could collapse, as just who frequents Hanover Street becomes known. I’m sorry. I deeply regret the loss of your friend, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Ye don’t regret it at all,” Billy snarled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as Dominic pulled him back into his arms and shushed him. “Ye say it, but ye don’t fuckin’ mean it. Ye don’t understand anythin’ about us an’ how things are here.”
Straightening his shoulders, Abberline turned his attention back to Sean. “You – could be forced to close down,” he said finally. “And then you, and Lou, and your boys would all be out on the streets.”
At this point Madame Louise, who had so far maintained a dignified silence, stood up. “Fred, I want you to leave now.”
Abberline tried to placate her. “Lou, listen to me. I’m only following orders – “
“So were the fucking Light Brigade. Now go.”
“Lou, please!”
Madame Louise’s face was impassive, but her eyes told the policeman a different tale. “Don’t you think it’s bad enough for me, knowing that if I’d agreed to help you as you asked, my poor Hans might still be alive and not sliced up all over some hovel in Whitechapel? I’m surprised you haven’t already reminded me of the fact. I have to live with this the rest of my days, Mr Abberline. Lord knows I’ve done some things in my time, but for the first time in my life I’m ashamed of myself and I will regret this till my dying day.”
Abberline put out his hand. “Lou, listen to me...”
“Get the fuck out of my house!”
“As you wish, Lou – as you wish,” Abberline sighed, and then left the drawing room, followed by Hugo, who let him out of the house.
Before he left, he turned back to the butler. “I’ve been taken off the case, Hugo. Sir Charles Warren has resigned. People are baying for our blood now.”
Hugo replied by slamming the door in the Chief Inspector’s face.
Standing on a tiny medieval wooden bridge, Elijah gazed down at his reflection in the murky water, half-oblivious to the crowds leaving evening Mass from the small church nearby and making their way home through the ancient narrow streets. Some of them recognised him and greeted him.
It made him smile when they did. He barely recognised himself these days. Dressed in white linen with a pale lilac cravat and his chestnut curls sweeping to his shoulders, he bore next to no resemblance to the young boy who had left London three years before. Here he was treated like one of the gentlemen he had once pleasured. His face was now his fortune; soon, all of Italy and eventually all of Europe would be aware of The Captain’s Boy, the pseudonym he had gained in London.
And back in London, the remains of Mary Jane Kelly or, rather, the remains of Hans Matheson, had been laid to rest in Loughton Cemetery.
Shortly after Hans’ vicious and frenzied slaughter, the Ripper murders ceased and, slowly, the East End, London, and finally England began to regain its confidence. Very soon the name of Jack the Ripper was to become as much a part of folklore as Robin Hood and Dick Turpin.
For Elijah, the horrors taking place in London that autumn were simply something that Andy read out to him from the newspaper every morning. The letters he received from No. 20 were filled more with light gossip, the somewhat surprising news of Billy’s new paramour Lord Wenham, who had became a frequent visitor to the house, and the usual, smutty but good- humoured jokes about Orlando. News of Hans’ murder had shaken them and Madame Louise was distraught, tightening control over the boys even more. With the exception of a few favoured clients, there would be no allowances for the boys to go out with anyone or have overnighters until it could be certain that the danger was over.
As he crossed over the bridge, intent on making the journey back home, he collided with a shabbily dressed young boy, whom he hazarded a guess would be around thirteen or fourteen years of age. But the dark sloe eyes seemed older and stared at him with cool detachment. Elijah immediately knew the boy’s trade, even before the child turned to him and remarked casually, “Risvegliare il tuo umorismo, signore? Scopare?”
Elijah blinked. Having grasped the rudiments of the language, from what he could make out the boy was offering to tickle him.
“Signore?” The boy tapped Elijah’s arm, urging for a response.
“Ah, no. No!” He pushed the boy away and walked quickly on, shaking his head. “No!”
“Vaffanculo!” sneered the boy, before spitting towards him. “Stronzo!”
“Well, now – there’s a surprise!”
A familiar throaty rumble caught Elijah off guard as Andrew approached, his battered sketchbook under his arm. He was rarely without it these days. Dark, unruly curls tumbled over his forehead, which he pushed away with his free hand. All traces of the former clean-shaven Life Guard officer had been removed. He even had a beard now.
“I would never have expected to see you being approached by Trade!”
Blue eyes met blue eyes.
“An’ why not?” Elijah sounded almost insulted. “My money ain’t good enough for ‘im?”
“How much was he asking?” Andrew enquired, rubbing his chin.
“Don’t know. He wanted to tickle me, though. I got that!”
Andrew laughed again. “I tell you what. I’ll tickle you and it won’t cost you a lira!”
“Well, now – there’s a surprise!” echoed Elijah, giggling.
“What is?” Andrew wrinkled his brow.
“I never thought that you, of all people, would be propositioning me, Mister Serkis!”
Wrapping his free arm around his lover’s shoulder and laughing heartily, Andrew drew Elijah up against his warm, solid body.
Elijah breathed in the familiar comforting smell of oil paints, thinners, musk and Andrew’s own odour, and smiled.
Finally he was truly at home.
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