She was delivered, still insensible, to Mother Pierce’s establishment in Chandois Street, Covent Garden. ‘I don’t know, Mr Slevin.’ Mother Pierce scratched under her violent red wig and crushed whatever she found there under her fingernail. ‘Ain’t exactly in my line of business, if you take my meaning.’ ‘Must be worth summat, Mrs P!’ Slevin’s broad bulldog brow furrowed further. ‘She’s uncommon good-looking.’ He moved her head to show the less bloody side of her face. ‘Look at that. Skin like a peach. And most likely a virgin. You can charge top bit for that.’ Mrs Pierce sighed. ‘In the ordinary way of things, that would be true, Mr Slevin, but my clients are gentlemen of a certain bent, or ain’t you noticed?’ ‘Mollies, I know that, but this one ain’t yer regular Judy. Don’t you ever get no women? I know there are such . . .’ ‘I don’t like that term being used about my clientele, Mr Slevin.’ Mother Pierce pursed her withered lips.
