Sisterhood of the Underworld

Sisterhood of the Underworld

Geoffrey Pease

Copyright © Geoffrey Pease 2020

Contents

1. Mr Coningsby

2. Dudley Street

3. My Opponent

4. The Fight

5. Mr Coningsby Again

6. Worlds End

7. Mr Coningsby Never again

8. Old Habits Die hard

9. Benbow

10. The Mud-Lark

11. Contraband

12. Betrayal

13. Conflagration

14. Dr Gore

15. The Threshold Crossed

16. Bereavement

17. Riches to Rags

18. Lillian

19. Thwarted

20. All At Sea

1

London, August, 1855

Mr Coningsby

The fight was due to start at eight o’clock sharp. There were no rules or referee. The contest was over when it was over. The venue was in the yard of a public house situated half-way along an alley in the Seven Dials. If you are familiar with that part of London, you will know its reputation as second only to the great St Giles rookery home to every criminal and ne’er-do-well that God ever made. I have many friends there, and just as many enemies, I can assure you.

Protected by four, high blank walls topped with broken glass, the yard was admirably suited to stage cat-fights. Such was the demand that an overhead balcony had been erected around three of them reached by a winding staircase from inside the pub itself. On Saturday nights up to a hundred and fifty people crammed its railings, and another hundred or so stood at ground level. Bare knuckle cat-fighting was illegal and had been since the Regency when it reached its zenith, but in the Underworld it had never wholly died. Look-outs were posted in the alley and at the pub doors, and if anyone was foolish to turn nose they did not live long afterwards.

My opponent that night was known as Carrotty Kate, standing five foot three inches on her bare feet, built like a block-house, and so called after a huge flock of red hair. For reasons that I have never been able to fathom, the denizens of the Hope and Anchor loved unequal contests, and so by contrast, I am just over four foot and eight inches in height, slim and wiry, with raven black hair.

It was not yet seven and I sat in the tap-room busily fashioning my hair into a bun when the pub musician broke into a jig. People were off their seats, boots thumping the floor, bodies jerking awkwardly around the tables. The faster he scraped his violin, the faster they moved until an elbow sent my half-pint of porter crashing to the floor. Under any other circumstances I might have socked her, but reserving my strength for the main event, I got up and went into the smoking-room where men were puffing clay pipes blackened with age, and the women hand-rolled cigarettes daintily held between their fingers. I knew most of them by sight. My very presence and reputation temporarily brought the conversation to a halt. One of the whores wished me luck. The rest raised their glasses, probably because it seemed the right thing to do. I nodded in return and went on tying my hair. Thus far, I had managed to keep it all without having it torn from my skull. Likewise, most of my teeth, although I had a receding black eye and fading bruise on my left cheek from my previous bout with a blonde woman known as Haystack. They had names for all of us. Addy was a diminutive of Adelaide, but that was just being polite. I had finished tying my hair when Jem the self-appointed Master of Ceremonies dumped himself beside me. The news was not good. The betting in the public bar was going heavily in Carrotty Kate’s favour who was proclaiming in a boastful voice that she was going to rip off my head and hurl it over the top of the wall.

‘It’s twenty to one against you, Addy,’ he said sadly, as if the outcome was already a forgone conclusion.

Digesting the fact that in everyone’s eyes I was already in the morgue, he patted my knee and slunk back into the public bar. The whore had the grace to offer me a cigarette. I lighted it and let the smoke drift lazily upwards to the ceiling. I had already formulated my tactics; speed and agility. That was the key to success. Wear the bitch down by degrees and then move in like lightning.

I opened my eyes to find the room had quietly emptied. The cigarette had extinguished itself in my fingers.

‘Time,’ Jem announced, peering around the door. ‘You’ll be awright. Don’t you worry.’ His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘She’s been drinking.’

I thanked him for the tip and headed into the yard. It was crowded to excess. The news, having spread faster than a plague that I was matched against Carrotty Kate, had gathered spectators from as far away as Limehouse Reach and Shadwell. I stripped to my cambric corset and tattered petticoat, and by way of encouragement men slapped my shoulders and back wishing me well. One of them belched in my face and I boxed his ear. Above, men and women leaned precariously over the gallery railings. I would’ve laughed myself hoarse if they had given way and sent them tumbling pell-mell onto the flagstones.

It was high summer and the air close and fetid, tainted with the stench of open sewers and the acrid throat-catching scent of soot and stale unwashed bodies. But I must not judge too harshly. At the end of the fight I would stink like a ferret. I nodded to some of the people I knew and eased my way to the front. Jem, pompous as ever in his purple velvet frock-coat and yellow cravat, stood ready to announce the proceedings.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he bawled, swinging round on his heels. ‘Welcome to the world famous Hope and Anchor, famed throughout the land for its fine ales and spirits, not to mention its most select clientele.’ Hoots of derision and swearing drowned him for a second. ‘And not least tonight’s contestants. I give you the Misses Katey O’Mara and Adelaide Dickens, no relation to the great writer.’

It was a joke he told whenever the opportunity presented itself. Someone in the gallery hurled a bottle at his head, narrowly missed, shattering it to shards. One of the pot boys hurriedly swept them into a heap, away from where the fight would start. It wouldn’t do having our bare feet cut into ribbons before we had even begun.

To my way of thinking Carrotty Kate looked downright hideous displaying a pair of heavy, pendulous breasts under a thin grubby vest, rolls of fat around her midriff and unkempt hair tumbling over her bucolic face. But there was no denying the strength in her muscular arms and shoulders. She could easily fell a bull. Sending a fat gob of yellowy-brown spit flying from the corner of her mouth, she advanced to the very spot previously occupied by Jem and beckoned me forward.

‘Got yor coffin ready,’ she hissed at me. ‘Cos yor going to need it.’

It was no idle threat. We hated each other’s guts.

‘I got you a dustbin. It’s all yor fit for,’ I yelled back.

And so it went on for almost a quarter minute, trading foul insults and threats much to the amusement of the spectators who joined in with obscenities of their own. Having exhausted our supply of verbal filth, we advanced, eyes fixed and fists bunched. Strangely, the spectators always fell into silence just before the first blow was struck as if anticipating a sort of Armageddon. Then, as we drew closer, the clamour began to rise. For a fleeting moment, I had a peculiar sensation of going insane. It was like Christmas Eve in a mad-house, all those distorted and ugly faces mouthing bloodlust and scornful remarks about my impending defeat. Briefly, I made a mental remembrance of the worst that I would catch up with later.

Getting the measure of each other, we moved ever so slowly at first. Our emotions were the same; a grim determination to win, and behind our hardened eyes the certainty that one of us would lose.

Suddenly, Kate charged at me like a runaway furniture van. I side-stepped her and landed a swift punch on the side of her enormous head. It had no effect whatsoever. She returned a glancing blow catching me on the shoulder. I reeled backwards and leapt out of range. Keeping to my plan of wearing her down, I danced nimbly around the yard whilst she pursued me screaming and cursing. Someone called me a coward and I should get stuck in. I never saw who it was. This lasted for what seemed an eternity, but was probably no more than a minute before we engaged. She hadn’t weakened in the least. Snarling and spitting, we exchanged blows, arms swinging at full length, knuckles cracking against bone with that horrible sickening crunch. I saw Carrotty Kate bleeding from her nose.

‘Addy’s tapped the claret,’ a voice joyously yelled amid a roar of approval.

That maddened her, and we broke into close-quarter kicking, aiming into our groins and bellies. Breaking through her defence, I grabbed her hair and head butted her. The shock of the blow had her falling to earth. I was on top of her at once, kneeling astride and laying in with my fists. Sweat ran into my eyes and, whilst I paused to wipe it away, she found strength I never knew was there. One mighty thrust of her hips sent me sprawling into the crowd. Hands reached out and hauled me to my feet. She chased me around the yard, arms and fists swinging through the air like a demented windmill. It did not last long. I made a sudden turn and lashed out catching her in the throat. Four or five rapidly pursuing blows had her staggering. This time I was wary about getting in too close. Power still lurked in her arms. But her sheer bulk was her undoing. It took a lot of effort keeping it moving, all fourteen stones of it. Weighing in at a mere eight, I expended less effort for the same result. On her face I saw surprise that I was still standing, well and truly bloodied, but on my feet. Beyond the savage face, I detected a flicker of doubt that I mightn’t be beaten after all.

No dancing around the yard now. Time to move in fast. Another exchange of furious blows, blood running in thin rivulets, but remarkably, even under that horrid welter, I managed to deflect most of them and landed the killing punch square under her jaw. I heard it break. That finished her. Against all odds I had done it. I had beaten the fat bitch. Half blinded with blood, I accepted a pint of porter from an unseen hand and drank it in a single pull. Fighting is thirsty work. It had lasted twenty minutes. Carrotty Kate lay unconscious. Two of her clan moved into the ring and knelt at her side shaking their heads in dismay. Idly, I wondered how much my earnings were. My face, fists and head throbbed like a drum. I felt my teeth to make sure they were all still intact and unwound my hair from its bun. My petticoat and corset stuck to me, and as the sweat began to cool they felt clammy and cold.

More than ever I needed the privy, but it was so vile in there that even the flies thought twice. I let myself out by the yard gate and did my business in the alley where everyone else, it seemed, had the same idea. I washed my filthy hands and face under the pump. The water fetched from the Thames had a brownish colour and smelled faintly of sewerage. As it was the only available water supply, people used it for everything. Small wonder then that those who could afford it drank only beer, and the rich boiling their water for twenty minutes before they made their tea.

Annie, the young girl employed to scrub the yard flags, had minded my clothes during the fight and handed them to me.

‘You don’t ‘alf lay in wiv yor fists,’ she said, with beaming admiration. ‘Yor a real tigress, if ever I seed one.’

‘Sometimes,’ I said, ruffling her hair and getting into my skirt and blouse and slipping her a penny.

I went into the public bar where I met Jem who informed me that my winnings amounted to ten guineas. Ten guineas! It was twice what I expected.

‘I niver thought you’d do it, Addy. Honest I didn’t,’ he complimented.

‘Shows ‘ow wrong you can be,’ I retorted with a measure of pride.

He reached under his purple coat and handed me a small leather bag clinking with gold coins. I tipped a couple into my palm and then bit them between my teeth. Jem looked hurt.

‘If any of these is dimmicks, I’ll crack yor ‘ead,’ I warned.

‘All of ‘em pure gold as gold can be,’ he assured.

I believed him, but would check them all the same. The coiners did a roaring trade in and around Seven Dials. You never really knew what you were dealing with.

‘Oh, by the way, there’s a regular gent wants to see you in the snug,’ he added, suddenly remembering.

‘Oh, really,’ I said, with withering disinterest. ‘And wot does he want?’

‘Says he wants to drink yor ‘ealth.’

I tidied my matted hair, fingered away blobs of blood sticking obstinately to my eyebrows, and cleared my nostrils onto the floor. Hands clapped my back. Mouths voiced congratulations. All lies. Most of them had lost their bets. I went into the snug and saw him sitting alone in a corner. A bottle of brandy was on the table and clean empty glasses beside it.

‘Miss Dickens,’ he smiled, revealing good teeth, ‘I’m pleased to meet you. Won’t you join me for a drink?’

‘And who might you be?’ I snorted, noticing that he cleverly down-dressed for the occasion, wearing corduroy trousers and a plain pea jacket. With ten guineas I could afford to be supercilious.

‘Ralph Coningsby, at your service.’

I reeked of sour sweat. Not that I gave a rat’s turd about that. I thought I might tap him up for a crown or even half a sovereign.

His hands, I saw, were soft and pink, unused to hard labour, nails finely pared. On the third finger of his right hand was a gold ring that I guessed was probably genuine. Apart from that he sported no other ornament. I folded my hands in my lap. There was a dull ache in my lower knuckles and I hoped they weren’t broken, but on the whole I was in good condition for a woman of my profession. I had seen others with lacerated chests and faces, bones smashed and skin permanently scarred. Some women fighters had taken such a pounding they were reduced to imbecility and ended their days either begging or whoring at the docks.

‘To your success,’ he said, bringing me back to where we were.

I said nothing, but clinked my glass against his. Harbouring an inbred suspicion for men of his class, I wasn’t attracted to him in the least, but some women might’ve found him handsome. His voice was gravelly and resonant that again, some women would’ve found enticing in bed. In and around the Dials were houses of assignation that gentlemen visited and even kept a woman there, but mostly they were in the Haymarket or Leicester Square, conveniently close to the casinos and night-houses. He could easily have hired a whore in any of those places, there were droves of them, which made me wonder why he was spending time with me.

‘You fought well, but to tell the truth, I didn’t think you had much of a chance against what’s-her-name. She was twice your size. In another time and place you might’ve made quite a name for yourself, in the Colosseum for example.’

‘I don’t know where that is,’ I said, trying to remember where I had seen a pub called the Colosseum.

‘Never mind, it’s not important. You know, you ought to let me take care of you. I know a good doctor who could patch you up. Any bones broken?’

I flexed my fingers. The dull ache was beginning to recede. Involuntarily, I rubbed my forehead and jaw.

‘I don’t need a quack, I’ve taken worse,’ I remarked testily, not asking for his sympathy. ‘You ‘aven’t come in this rat hole just to drink my ‘ealth, so why don’t you piss or get off the pot.’

‘Now, now,’ a painted whore trilled. ‘That ain’t no way to speak to a gentleman.’

‘You shut yor gob,’ I rounded on her.

There was no competition there. One hit would have laid her out.

‘Mind who yor talking to, Luce,’ the man sitting beside her whispered and looking alarmed. ‘No insult intended,’ he smiled at me.

‘None taken,’ I grunted. ‘Now clear off, the pair of you.’

Instantly taking my advice, he lifted her from the bench and steered her into the passage. The rest followed like mice. I thought it funny and laughed. I folded my arms under my breast and said, ‘Well?’

There was mild shock on his face that I had so easily emptied the room by voice power alone, but then, I was a successful prize-fighter and there wasn’t a living soul in there who would take me on. I mean women, of course.

‘Very well, I’ll tell you why I’m here,’ he said, speaking at normal pitch now that we were the only occupants. ‘I’d like to make you an offer that just might put a considerable amount of money your way.’

The snug door opened and Jem poked his head around it. ‘Just thought you’d like to know Kate’s been carried off to the infirmary.’

‘Serves the bitch right. Now bugger off Jem. There’s a good boy.’ The door softly closed. I turned to Mr Coningsby. ‘You were saying?’

I stretched my arms and yawned as if I had better things to do.

‘An acquaintance of mine who, for the moment, shall remain anonymous but both rich and respectable, wishes to engage your services at his private residence, which again, for the moment, shall remain anonymous and…’

‘Wot services exactly?’ I interrupted.

I was unhappy that everything was, for the moment, remaining anonymous.

‘Why, your trade, of course,’ he brightened. ‘A boxing match and we might be looking at as much as five guineas.’

I almost choked. ‘Yor taking me for a glock. Five guineas, paah. I made ten out there. If your acquaintance is as rich as you say, then I wouldn’t accept less than fifteen.’

Apart from a raised brow there was very little reaction. He had probably anticipated that I would ask a lot more than his original offer even though it was no mean sum. I knew girls down on their luck who dabbed it up for a shilling just to keep from starving.

‘It’s still a risk,’ I hedged. ‘You don’t tell who the acquaintance is, nor where he lives, or even who my opponent might be, if you can find one. And anyway, do you think I’d go there alone?’

‘You are perfectly at liberty to bring along an associate, but you must understand things from my acquaintance’s point of view. If you were in his position would you reveal these things? But I think he might agree to your terms. As for an opponent, I shall arrange that in due course.’

Fifteen guineas were not to be sniffed at. My money was hard-earned. I had been fighting for six years and at twenty-four I was still on top, but it wouldn’t last forever. I calculated that another ten fights plus the money I already had saved would give me about two hundred guineas. Another fifty and I’d be made. I had it in mind about owning my own respectable accommodation house in Bond Street or the Strand. Charging ten shillings a room, I could cater for sensible clients that wouldn’t cause any trouble. I rather fancied myself decked out in yards of watered silk and owning a carriage.

I was quite quick at arithmetic and was calculating in my head that if I could wheedle the fifteen guineas out of him I’d be a lot closer to my target. And a lot closer still if I could repeat the performance. One private fight was worth three or four in the Hope and Anchor. It was a chance that might never come again.

‘Is this what you do for a living, arrange fights in rich men’s homes?’ I asked, already thinking of another plan that might enrich my purse.

‘Not a bit of it,’ he dismissed. ‘It’s purely an entertainment, rather like the ones staged in the wealthy houses of ancient Rome. Gladiators and even gladiatrix fought to the death to entertain guests at dinner. As I remarked earlier, in a different time and place you might’ve become fabulously rich.’

‘If I lived long enough,’ I said cynically. ‘Did they really do that?’

‘So the historians say. But you would not be expected to go that far. Merely a repetition of tonight’s event. All very honest and above board. A carriage will collect you and bring you back again. Your expenses paid. I can’t be fairer than that,’ he said modestly.

‘Fifteen, then,’ I got in quickly.

‘Yes, I think so, and you never know, perhaps a little more in tips if you put on a good performance. The longer you can make it last, the better. Do you think it possible you could stretch it to half an hour or forty minutes, if say, the bout wasn’t continuous, but broken into rounds?’

‘That’s perfectly possible,’ I said. ‘But it all depends who I’m fighting. She might want to get it over and done with a lot quicker than that, unless I knock ‘er cold first.’

He bit his lip in thought. ‘But you could make it last a good while if you chose?’

He again referred to the gladiators about which he seemed to know a good deal, that they often prolonged bouts to warm up the crowd, giving them their money’s worth, so to speak.

‘Look,’ I said, leaning in a bit closer. ‘If you let me find a fighter who’s willing to go with this, I could make it last all night,’ which was an exaggeration, but clearly his patron was expecting something of the sort.

‘And am I to assume that she will want the same terms, another fifteen?’ he asked slyly.

That had already gone through my head. If I could find some fighter down on her luck who’d snatch the chance even for a finny, I’d keep the other ten without her knowing it. In my mind’s eye, I was piling up the guineas as if they were going out of style. At that moment my guts rumbled like an angry volcano. ‘If you’re hungry, I can order food from the chophouse,’ he suggested.

Having not eaten since breakfast, I slavered at the thought. He went into the bar to have one of the pot boys fetch dinner. All of this had happened so quickly that I began to wonder if he was a bit touched. For all he knew, I might’ve suspected he was and half in mind to punch his nose, or have him dragged to the pump and drowned.

‘So we’re looking at thirty guineas here, all in,’ he said, pursing his lips.

‘And not a farthing less. You know, you won’t find many fighters willing to take this on. Oh, I know the gay-girls in town put on shows for wealthy gents, taking off their clothes and even going so far as dabbing it up for all the world to see, but fighting is a different thing.’

‘True,’ he acknowledged, placing his hands flat together like one in prayer. ‘That’s very true.’

For one fearful moment, I thought I’d shot myself in the head and he might now be thinking along those lines.

‘Listen to me,’ I said, placing a hand on his arm. ‘I can get you another fighter, and I’ll make it last. You can trust me on that.’

‘Trust you,’ he laughed.

It was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, placing trust in a woman of my background and profession, and I laughed along with him. The suggestion was downright absurd, but out of laughter arose an understanding.

‘All right, I think I can accept your terms,’ he said at length, and much to my relief. I had almost blown it with my big mouth.

‘So when’s the fight supposed to take place?’ I asked, closely inspecting my nails.

‘A week from today. The eighteenth, to be exact. I am perfectly serious Miss Dickens, should you be thinking otherwise,’ he said boldly, as if announcing an event already set in stone that no one could possibly dispute.

‘It ‘ad crossed my mind,’ I said dully.

It was quite uncanny the way he seemed able to read my thoughts and could answer them so readily. I was coming to the conclusion that he might be a dangerous man to cross. He wasn’t built like an ape, but there was muscle there if he chose to use it.

‘I want the money in ‘and before I go there just in case yor acquaintance bottles out and things turn to custard,’ I said, knowing my intended opponent wouldn’t step out of doors unless she saw the money first.

‘My, my, you are a cautious one,’ he said, slightly narrowing his eyes. ‘I’ll pay you half in advance once you’re inside the carriage and the other half on conclusion of the fight. Will that satisfy you?’

Knowing he might even then be reading my mind, I added that if the money wasn’t handed over I’d have him roughed up for wasting my time, and anything on him would be mine to keep. So there.

‘You drive a hard bargain, but in your line of work I can’t say as I blame you. What would you do with so much money?’ he asked, seemingly not put out at the threat of being kicked half to death.

I didn’t have the chance to invent a story, and I wasn’t going to let on about my wanting to own an accommodation house, because dinner arrived; a steaming plate of mutton chops, oysters and greens brought in by the pot boy. I was so hungry I wolfed down my food in no time. As I forked the last of the greens, I let free a loud belch and said sorry, and wondered why I’d said it. Belching, farting and swearing came as natural to me as the finely clipped speech of the ladies riding in Rotten Row.

‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ he said, glancing at the snug clock. ‘Ten minutes to ten. I must take my leave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Dickens. Don’t forget, a week from now, say at about seven o’clock. I’ll leave the arrangements with you. I hope I can rely on your discretion in this matter.’

‘Not a word beyond this room,’ I confirmed.

He took out his pocket book and placed a half-sovereign in my hand. ‘For the time thus expended. Good night to you, and again, it’s been a pleasure.’

‘Yes, Mr Coningsby,’ I returned, bowing my head slightly.

He sidled out and was gone like a will o’ the wisp.

I thought about going to the bar for a half pint of gin, but I was sure to be questioned who he was and what he wanted. The only person in the whole of the Dials I could trust to keep her mouth shut was Dolly, my room-mate in Dudley Street, and so there I went and feeling mightily pleased with myself. I had won a fight, been paid twice as much as I thought I would, and met a smooth talking masher whom I had successfully gainsaid.

Things like that didn’t happen very often.

2

Dudley Street

We were fortunate to have our own room situated on the top floor where the ceiling sloped to the window and was barely above head height. The only furniture in there was an ancient four-poster bed and a washstand. They were all we needed. The door had a sturdy lock, not that it was ever broken and the room burgled, because there was nothing to steal. My savings I kept hidden behind a loose brick in the chimney. The garret window overlooked the curving street where the inhabitants dealt in second-hand shoes. The air was always thick with musty smells of used leather and stale feet. The coiners had their dens hidden away in attics or cellars protected with trap doors, false steps, secret tunnels and, more often than not, savage dogs that could be released from their chains in a second. The prettiest of the girls were prostitutes, schooled into their profession at an early age and seasoned whores by the time they were fourteen. I was known to everyone in the street and relished my reputation as a hard woman not to trifle with. In short, I was left in peace, such as could be found in the midst of such a teeming pestilence.

When I arrived home at half-past ten, the inhabitants were sitting on their doorsteps to escape the stifling heat within. Many had disregarded their crawling clothes and bug-ridden beds and sat about in various stages of undress. It was by no means uncommon to find a score of people of both sexes and all ages crowded into one room where, I was reliably informed, indiscriminate sexuality was rife.

I nodded to those who greeted me, and climbed the rickety stairs to the garret, keyed the lock and went in. Dolly was, of course, out at that hour, working her trade in and around the streets north of Leicester Square where rooms were let by the hour, paid for by the client in addition to her fee. In the harshest of winters with its freezing fogs and soot-laden rain, she barely made enough to eat, and so I often bailed her out, but as soon as the trade picked up, she made a point of paying me back. The trouble was, her line of business was hopelessly overcrowded. There were thousands upon thousands of whores in London, but prize-fighters were far and few between. Sometimes I made more from a single fight than she made in a fortnight. Given the virulent diseases picked up by whores and my own battered injuries, it was a toss-up which one of us would outlive the other.

Our room, directly below the slated roof, was like an oven. Stripping naked, I poured myself a glass of porter from our stock on the washstand and set to