22 May 1959

"I don't do that any more, Doctor Blake," she told him primly. "I'm management now. Besides, you couldn't afford me. Drink your tea."

Those words ricocheted round the inside of Lucien's head like so many tiny bullets, shattering all conscious thought, and his hands moved as if her quiet order had compelled them, reaching for his tea cup and bringing it slowly to his lips. Almost from the moment he met her Lucien had been wondering about her history, about how a woman so otherwise refined and polite and dignified could possibly be involved in such a sordid business, had been wondering just deep her ties to the Lock and Key ran, just how she had come to be in this place. I don't do that any more had answered at least one of his questions; she had, then, at one point in time, done that, had been one of those girls in their beautiful dresses who lined the walls of this place in the evening. She had stood in the dining room, just beyond the warm kitchen where they sat now, had smiled at a strange man, let him take her hand, had led him up the stairs, and collected her pay when his hour was through.

How many? Lucien wondered as he looked at her now. How long had she done such work, how much grief had it brought her, how many crumpled notes and piles of coins and dreams for a better day had she collected, only to be laid waste as she continued to live and work here at the pub? How many men had touched her, how many of them had turned her stomach, how many of them had hurt her? How many of them had been kind, how many of them had been gentle? How many of them had fallen half in love with her, tried to take her away, only for her to smile sadly and shake her head, and insist that this was her home? And did he know any of these men, these men who ventured out to the Lock and Key under cover of darkness, these men who were willing to spend ten pounds, or more, for a tumble with a girl whose face they would forget the next day? There had to be some overlap, Lucien was sure, between the clientele of the Lock and Key and the members of the Colonists' Club. How many of those stodgy old men had once been young and looking for mischief, and seen Jean, with her clear bright eyes and her wicked smile, her slim hips and neat breasts, and thought I'll have that?

In the moment Lucien was quite grateful that he did not have the answers to those particular questions, for he feared that if he did, if he knew for certain that Patrick Tyneman or Keith Morrisey or any of the others had once paid for a tumble with Mrs. Beazley, he would not be able to resist the urge to thrash them on sight when next he entered the Club. She deserved better than such treatment, no matter how willingly she accepted it, and a fierce sort of rage welled up within him, a need to right that wrong. Whether it was a simple desire for justice or some darker, less noble impulse that drove his urge to protect her Lucien could not say, and he did not dare examine his feelings too closely.

Besides, you couldn't afford me.

The words had been spoken in a cool, confident sort of way; he did not think she'd necessarily intended it as a challenge. She'd said it as calmly as if she were remarking on the weather; it was a statement of fact. It was clear that along with a dubious sort of power her position as madam also afforded her a certain amount of prestige; she was above that life, now, no longer one of the girls. And yet, the implication was that, for the right price, she could still be bought, like everything else in the Lock and Key. That price was likely extravagant - though Lucien could not help but wonder if it was quite as high as she made it out to be; his father had left him a small fortune, as well as a house and a car and two paying professions. It wasn't as if Mrs. Beazley was privy to his personal finances; her price might have been too high for most men, but Lucien Blake wasn't most men, and he had more than enough means. The only way to find out for certain, of course, would be to ask her outright what she would charge for an hour, or an evening, but even Lucien knew better than to do such a thing, not now when he'd already ruffled her feathers and she was watching him carefully over the rim of her teacup.

Anything can be purchased, for the right price, Lucien thought as he looked at her. It was a strange thought, and a sad one; whatever else Jean was or once had been, she was a person, whole and complete, and to Lucien's mind no person should ever be bought or sold. No life, no matter how small or undignified, could be worth a bare few pounds. It was a strange thought, and a sad one, but it burrowed through his mind and lodged itself somewhere deep in his subconscious, where all the ghosts and dark things that haunted him in the still of the night lived in restless agitation, and there it made its home, that wisp of a thought. Jean, lovely Jean, clever Jean, Jean with her strong, slender arms, her soft laugh, her deft hands, Jean with her red-painted nails and her red-painted lips, Jean could be had, for the right price. It would take more than a few shillings, he knew, but if he were willing to pay it, she would be willing to accept it. Just like that.

"Have I shocked you, Doctor Blake?" Jean asked quietly, still holding her tea cup to her lips as she watched him war with himself.

"Not at all, Mrs. Beazley," he answered carefully. "I knew what sort of place this was. How you conduct your business is entirely your own affair."

"Yes, it is," she told him. "I am grateful for your help, Doctor Blake, and your friendship, but judgement will not serve either of us."

"I don't mean to judge you," he said then. "The world can be hard, and cruel, and we all do what we must to survive." A memory rose up in his mind, then, a dented can of pineapple clutched tight between two hands that hardly looked like his own, all skin and bones after two years of starvation and desperation. He could still feel it, even now, the corrugated metal cool under his fingertips, the way the contents sloshed when he lifted the can, the shattering pain of rifle butt connecting with his knee, the sound the can made when it toppled from his grip and rolled across the bare wood floor. Lucien had nearly traded his own life for a can of fruit, and yes, he knew what deprivation and isolation and hunger could do.

"When you say that I can almost believe that you mean it," Jean told him softly, sitting her teacup down on its saucer and folding her hands together in her lap. "Most of the men who come through that door don't know the first thing about survival. Why do I feel as if you do?"

Lucien smiled at her, a bit sadly. "My dear Mrs. Beazley," he said, "you aren't the only one who can keep a secret. Now, Is Sarah up and about? I have the results of her tests and I think we've kept her waiting long enough."


Once more Jean led Doctor Blake up the stairs, once more knocked softly on Sarah's bedroom door, once more opened that door and ushered Doctor Blake inside. He had not spoken again, as they ventured upstairs to check in on their patient; he had slid back into his jacket, placed his hat upon his head, and followed along behind her without complaint. They had passed a pleasant few moments together, unloading the delivery, talking over their tea, but something about their conversation had made him quiet, and contemplative, and that quiet unnerved Jean now.

She hadn't meant to say it. It had been over a decade since last Jean had entertained a customer, and though more than a few gentlemen had tried to talk her round in that time Jean had remained firm in her conviction that the lady of the house ought not stoop to such means - except in cases of direst calamity. And yet she had not said as much to Doctor Blake, had not told him just how long it had been since she was one of the girls, had not let it go at I don't do that any more. She should have done, but she hadn't. She'd meant those next words flippantly - besides, you couldn't afford me - had intended only to make a jab at his ego, after he jabbed at hers. It was Doctor Blake, after all, who'd asked her what she was worth, and he deserved it, she thought, to hear that the answer was more than you could dream to offer, Doctor. But it hadn't come out like a jibe, or an admonition; those words had left her lips, and in them she could hear a sort of challenge she hadn't meant to make.

What if he could afford her, after all? What if he dared to make such an offer?

Rule number one, Jean always told her girls, is no matter what, no matter when, you can say no. You can say no to anyone you want, for any reason. They knew when their rent was due, and what it would cost to keep their rooms another month, and how the girls came up with the money was entirely their own affair, as far as Jean was concerned. If they played their cards right and the customers were in a good mood most of the girls could get by working only two or three nights a week. There weren't a lot of aspects of their own lives those girls could control, but that one thing Jean gave them. You can say no.

Would she say no, if Doctor Blake offered? Would she want to?

"Good afternoon, Sarah," the doctor said softly, taking off his hat and bowing his head politely to the girl. "I've got the results of your tests back."

His calm, professional demeanor reminded Jean of their purpose here, and so she crossed the room quickly, perched on the side of Sarah's bed and took hold of her hand. God had given Jean Beazley two sons and no living daughters, and yet she'd had two dozen, three dozen of them over the years, girls of all ages from all corners of the world who had come to light, however briefly, upon her doorstep. Whether they stayed for a month or a year or seven made no difference; Jean loved them all, dearly, and treated them as her own flesh and blood. The world had not been kind to any of them, and Jean did her best to make up for that hardship where she could.

"I'm afraid you're anemic, Sarah," Doctor told her, and the corner of Jean's mouth quirked up in a triumphant sort of way. Doctor Blake's fancy education and convoluted tests had only confirmed what Jean already knew. Jean had been pregnant three times herself, and had overseen the delivery of at least eight babies during her tenure at the Lock and Key. She knew what to look for, the warning signs of so many different illnesses, could diagnose and treat most maladies as deftly as any nurse.

The doctor droned on, about the supplements he'd brought for Sarah to take, how he was concerned about her blood pressure, how he thought she might closer to nine months along than to eight, despite her vehement protests. He was gentle, and kind, and he listened when Sarah spoke, and all the while Jean just watched him, the deft movements of his broad, strong hands, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the soft parting of his lips beneath his beard. He is a very strange man, she thought, but a good one, just the same.