Page 22 of Molly Boys
Slipping down a narrow alleyway, they came upon a small pub, a lopsided building tippling precariously over the narrow streets. A weathered wooden sign hung beneath a grubby upstairs window and swung slowly, buffeted by the biting wind. Its cracked and peeling paint depicted a bird, head thrown back in mid screech, tufted plumage spread menacingly and beady eyes wild.
The Fighting Cock was a rather aptly named pub situated along Liverpool Street. To any person not in the know, it was simply another rowdy tap room with watered-down beer and floors strewn with mouldy straw to soak up the occasional splatters of blood and, more often than not, pools of vomit.
As Everett and the others approached the entrance, a sudden light and blast of noise spilled from the door as it unceremoniously banged open and two men tumbled through and hit the ground with a grunt. They both skidded across the cobblestones as they twisted and rolled, each trying to land punches. Sprays and drips of blood marred the pristine whiteness of the newly fallen snow as the air was punctuated by grunts and curses.
Francis simply stepped around the two brawling men as if seeing such a display of brutality was commonplace. Everett and Dickie followed behind with Ev dismissing the two men much as Francis had. Only Dickie, Everett noticed as the boy winced at the distinct sound of a bone breaking followed by a loud howl, seemed to be more attuned to the human condition.
They stepped into the relative warmth of the small cramped space, trying not to gag on the sour smell of ripened, unwashed bodies and regurgitated beer. The noise was deafening after the silence of the snow-shrouded streets, and a piano was plunked at across the room, accompanied by a drunken and rowdy rendition ofLovely Mary Donnelly.
Moving swiftly through the throng of bodies and chairs, they reached the back door where a towering giant of a man with a greying beard and one glass eye stood, arms crossed. His good eye fell on the three of them and glared at them threateningly.
Unperturbed, Francis reached into his pocket and, without a word, dropped a few coins into the man’s meaty hand. With a grunt, the guard turned and opened the door, allowing the three men to pass into a darkened corridor.
The door clicked closed behind them, muting the loud carousing. In front of them, in the dimly lit and unadorned passageway, stood a small, scrawny maid, her hair gathered under a cap, her apron smeared with something unwholesome looking.
Silent, she turned and led them down the corridor to a door which opened out into a small walled courtyard. They once again stepped out into the cold air. Ev glanced around the small, enclosed yard and noted several empty barrels bundled together along one wall. He watched in surprise as the slight girl, clearly stronger than she looked, shifted a couple of them out of the way, revealing a small wooden trap door in the floor.
Once opened, it revealed a set of stone steps leading down into a dark passageway. The girl handed Francis a lit oil lamp and he passed her a coin in return. One by one, the three men descended into the darkness. When the last set foot into the damp passageway, the trapdoor closed with a clap of weathered wood. The grinding of the barrels being pushed back over the entrance echoed above them, indicating that the secret door was once again concealed from prying eyes.
“I do wish Louie wasn’t so bloody paranoid,” Ev murmured in distaste as he pressed his handkerchief to his nose and mouth in an attempt to block the mouldy scent of the diseased lichen and moss seeping through the cracks in the damp stone.
“If he and his predecessors hadn’t been, Mother Clap’s wouldn’t have endured for over a century,” Francis replied as he turned, leading the way down the narrow passage.
It was true, Ev conceded. Founded in 1720, Mother Clap’s had suffered several raids by the law until its then-proprietor took it further underground. The Fighting Cock’s secret entrance was only one of several concealed ways in and out of one of London’s most elusive molly houses. In fact, there were so many secret entrances, no one knew the actual address of the establishment itself except Louie.
As cumbersome as it was, it had ensured the survival of the oldest molly house in London and as one of the most secure underground establishments, it was also one of the wildest. Francis’ own modest house in Islington had to remain small and exclusive, not to mention quiet, for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention. Mother Clap’s had no such compunction. It was loud, lewd, and completely unapologetic, which without doubt suited its current proprietor’s personality.
They progressed along the narrow and damp passageway, with Francis in the front and Dickie safely between the two of them. About halfway through, Dickie glanced up and pointed to a large metal ring bolted to the ceiling above them. Attached to it was a sturdy chain which ran the length of the passageway roof in the direction they were heading.
“My lord?” Dickie asked Everett quietly. “What is that chain for?”
“Insurance,” Everett replied.
“Insurance?” Dickie frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“The chain runs through an opening in the wall at the end of the passage and is attached to a winch. In the event of a raid, the chain would be tightened until the pressure brought the roof down and collapsed the tunnel.” Dickie glanced nervously at the ceiling once again and Everett could hear him gulp.
“That seems awfully–” He searched hopelessly for the right word.
“Paranoid?” Everett chuckled. “Not entirely. You know what we risk gathering together at places like Mother Clap’s.”
“I think one of the patrons of the original establishment was a city engineer and designed a lot of the secret entranceways,” Francis added to their conversation from just ahead of them.
“It is a sensible if not overly ostentatious precaution. But then again, overly ostentatious pretty much sums up Mother Clap’s in its entirety,” Everett offered sardonically.
“I wouldn’t know,” Dickie replied. “I’ve never been.”
Everett grasped his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “You’d probably best prepare yourself for a bit of a trial by fire. Louie, the current owner, is somewhat… unique.”
“I’m not sure whether to be intrigued or afraid,” Dickie admitted, drawing up short as Francis came to a stop.
“Somewhere in between the two should be about right.” Francis lifted the lamp to reveal a heavy-looking door with rusted hinges.
Francis reached out and grasped a thick metal ring to knock three times. For a moment they stood in silence in the cold subterranean passage. It was unsettling, the silence heavy as they waited in the almost total darkness nothing disturbing it beyond the sound of their breathing and a dripping sound somewhere further down the passage. Suddenly, the quiet was broken by the shrill grating of protesting metal and a small rectangular opening in the door slid open.
Francis wordlessly retrieved his calling card and passed it through the gap, barely snatching his fingers back out of the way as the grate hissed shut again. Several long moments passed, and Dickie began to shift uneasily where he stood.
“Patience,” Ev murmured and as he did, his quiet tone was almost drowned out by the clunk and hiss of large bolts being unlatched. Finally, the door ground open to reveal a small square room.