“Mrs. Bell,” I asked, setting down the mutilated bar of soap. “Do you know where the Blue Boar Inn is?”
I HAD TO WAIT until Sunday after church before I could follow Mrs. Bell’s directions south of Cable Street, avoiding the swill thrown out from lodging houses. As I paused at the corner to find the right street, I became aware of someone watching me. It was a girl around my age, though her face was caked with powder and rouge that made her look older. A striped satin dress limply hung on her thin frame. She stared at me with hollow eyes. I looked away sharply. If it hadn’t been for my employment at King’s College, that might be me on the corner, waiting for my next gentleman. I leaned against a brick wall, queasy. Lucy had told me what happened at brothels. That had been my mother’s desperate solution, at the expense of the virtues she held so dear. I might not have as many virtues to lose, but I was determined that wouldn’t be my future.
The prostitute ambled down the street, coming toward me leisurely, and I hurried in the other direction, until I suddenly came upon a faded blue sign swinging above a thick door, painted with a tusked beast I assumed was once meant to be a boar.
The inn was a wooden three-story building, keeling slightly toward its neighbor. I tugged on the heavy iron latch and entered. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Little sunlight passed through windows coated with smoky residue. I found myself in a dining hall, among sullen patrons murmuring in low voices over their midday meal. The furniture was worn but made of heavy oak that had recently been polished. None of the patrons looked up except a thin man twice my age, face marred with pox scars, who stared at my Sunday dress and the Bible I clutched in my arms. It seemed the Blue Boar did not see many young ladies.
A portly woman came out from the kitchen and raised her eyebrows. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked me over, my face that hinted of aristocracy and clothes that spoke of poverty. “Come for a room?”
“No … I haven’t,” I stammered. “I’m looking for a man. A doctor.” My heart pounded, warning me not to get my hopes up. “His name is Henri Moreau.”
She peered at me queerly. I must have been the color of ripe tomatoes. “We aren’t in the habit of giving out our patrons’ information. You understand.” It was a command, not a question. Was he there, I wondered, in the same building, maybe right above our heads?
“I mean no trouble. I only need to speak with him.”
Her face didn’t budge. “No one by that name here.”
The ground fell out from beneath me. She was mistaken. She had to be. Or else I’d been a fool, thinking some old paper meant my father was here, in London, the city from which he’d been banished.
The set of her mouth softened. She took my elbow and pulled me away from the diners to a staircase that led into the shadows of the upper floors. “We’ve no one by that precise name, but there is a doctor.”
My heart leapt. “Where is he? What does he look like?”
“Calm down, now. You say you don’t want trouble, and nor do I.” Her gaze slid to the dining hall, nervously. “But if it’s the doctor you’re after, you should know Dr. James has been nothing but trouble since he arrived.”
Dr. James. Not Dr. Moreau. A pseudonym, perhaps? My mind was grasping, trying to form the parts of the equation into a reasonable solution, but there was only one logical conclusion: Dr. James was someone else entirely, one of a hundred visiting doctors in London. And yet my curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied without proof.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Perhaps if I may speak to him …”
“Mind you, the young gentleman is gracious enough. It’s that companion of his. Makes the other guests nervous, you understand.”
“Certainly.” I nodded, breathless. No one would describe Father as young. So could the odd companion she spoke of be my father, then?
She turned her attention to my dress, narrowing her eyes, and spoke in a low voice. “I won’t question what a pretty young lady wants with that pair, but I doubt you’re a relation. This is a reputable establishment. I don’t want no trouble, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” A nervous bloom spread across my cheeks at the realization of what she was implying about a young woman alone with two strange men.
Her chin jerked toward the stairs. “Second floor. Room on the left.”
I dashed to the second-floor landing, gripping the railing to steady myself. To my left was only one door, tucked into an alcove. A tarnished mirror next to the door reflected my face, wide-eyed and flushed. I looked like a madwoman. I paused. What was I doing chasing a whim? I should have been with the other girls from the lodging house, gossiping about the handsomest boys in church this morning.
But here I was. I slid my Bible into my bag and knocked cautiously.