Fire was a possibility, though a daunting one. Even if he managed to light the dank straw with his candle, it would be a slow, painful, lingering death. In any case, the smoke was likely to arouse suspicion before the fumes could take their effect on him. That left another potential way of departing the earth. Villemot could spurn one hangman by taking on the office himself. All that he needed was a ligature. In the gloom of his cell, he stripped to the waist and tore the sleeve off his shirt, looping it until it formed a noose. By way of experiment, he slipped it around his neck. It felt strong enough to dispatch him. He thought that it would be a merciful end.
Tearing the other sleeve from his shirt, he tied it to the noose then stood on tiptoe so that he could reach the highest point on the bars. With the noose around his neck, he slipped the end of the other sleeve through the bars, intending to use his own weight to throttle himself. His hands were shaking and he had difficulty tying the knot. By the time he finally succeeded, his heart was racing and his whole body was running with sweat. After offering up a silent prayer for the salvation of his soul, he kicked his legs forward and let the noose bite into his neck. The sudden pain made him gasp.
The attempt was soon over. As the turnkey walked past on patrol, he held up his lantern and saw the figure squirming in the cell.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, unlocking the door and rushing in to cut Villemot down. ‘You can’t escape as easily as that, you French cur. You’ll be hanged proper and I’ll be there to cheer with the rest of ’em!’
Christopher Redmayne had been past the house hundreds of times without ever once asking himself what lay behind its front door. It was a large, high, nondescript building, only five minutes’ walk from Fetter Lane, and they could see light blazing in some of the windows. He was relieved that it was night. Henry loved to disport himself in public but his younger brother felt far too conspicuous in the red doublet and matching petticoat breeches that he had put on. They belonged to his younger days when he was a more adventurous dresser. Christopher was pleased when they reached their destination.
‘Let me do the talking,’ suggested Henry.
‘Why?’
‘I speak the language.’
‘Is this a foreign establishment?’ said Christopher.
Henry laughed. ‘Entirely foreign to you,’ he replied. ‘Brace yourself for a surprise, dear brother. You are about to enter Mother Pilgrim’s domain.’
‘What exactly is this place?’
‘It’s a Molly House.’
Christopher was alarmed. He had heard about such haunts of effeminate young men and sodomites, and could not imagine why he had been brought there. He had no time to protest. Henry had already pulled the bell-rope and the front door swung open. Dressed in ornate livery, a black boy, no more than three feet in height, beckoned them in. They went into a large hall that was lit by candelabra and charged with a sweet perfume.
Fanny Pilgrim glided towards them. Tall, stately and with a blonde wig of enormous dimensions on her head, she wore a dress of such regal magnificence that it dazzled their eyes. She held an ivory fan in one hand and waved it beneath her chin. Henry beamed at her with unassailable confidence but Christopher felt far less comfortable. Though their hostess appeared to be a shapely woman, encrusted with jewellery of all kinds, the architect was certain that he was, in fact, looking at a man.
‘Welcome, darlings,’ said Fanny, her deep, rich voice confirming Christopher’s diagnosis. ‘What brought you to my house tonight?’
‘A kind word from a friend,’ said Henry.
‘And who might that friend be?’
‘Samson Dinley.’
‘Ah, yes — dear Samson, our very own Delilah. You’ll find her in one of our rooms. If you are recommended by Samson, you are doubly welcome.’
‘Thank you, Mother Pilgrim.’
‘To my friends, I am known as Fanny.’
‘Then Fanny it shall be.’
She extended a gloved hand and, to Christopher’s chagrin, his brother actually kissed it. The visitors had clearly passed some kind of test. Fanny Pilgrim’s house provided a form of entertainment that was highly illegal, so any strangers had to be subjected to intense scrutiny before being allowed in. Henry’s foppish manner and his friendship with a regular denizen of the house had got them admitted. Christopher found himself wishing that they had been turned away.
They were taken across the hall to a room that was dimly lit and filled with the excited babble of a dozen or more men and women. Some of the men were so garishly attired that they made Henry’s suit look rather subdued. Their hair was brushed back from their forehead and combed into the high, curling waves of a woman’s coiffure. They had made heavy use of cosmetics to paint their faces. The women were even more decorative, wearing beautiful dresses, exaggerated wigs, glittering jewellery and an abundance of powder and perfume. It took Christopher only a second to determine that all the occupants of the room were men.
‘Why have we come?’ he said, nudging his brother.
‘To broaden your education.’
‘We do not belong here, Henry.’
‘Pretend to and all will soon be explained.’
A slim young woman in a scarlet gown came across to them and sized up Christopher with a roguish eye. She turned to Henry.
‘You never told me how handsome your brother was,’ said Samson Dinley with a titter. ‘Has he been to a Molly House before?’
‘No,’ answered Henry.
‘Then I’ll take good care of him.’
Dinley’s short, slight build and delicate features allowed him to assume the mantle of womanhood with comparative ease. His stance and gestures were genteel and ladylike. His voice was light and teasing. In the normal course of events, Christopher would have taken care to avoid such a person. That was not an option now — Samson Dinley was in a position to help them.
‘Henry tells me you know where Lady Culthorpe’s portrait is.’
‘I do,’ said Samson.
‘Is it still here?’
‘It will be on view upstairs any moment.’
‘How did it come to be here?’
‘What an inquisitive man you are, Christopher! I like that.’
‘Are you sure that it’s her?’
Dinley giggled. ‘Darling,’ he replied, arching an eyebrow, ‘do you think any of us would ever make a mistake about Araminta? She is our goddess. We worship her. We love, honour and reverence her. She has the beauty to which we all aspire.’
‘Araminta is an icon here,’ explained Henry. ‘Unbeknown to her, she has many acolytes in Fanny Pilgrim’s house. Araminta is a true emblem of womanhood in all its glories. She’s incomparable.’
‘She carries all before her.’
‘Did someone from here steal the portrait?’ said Christopher.
‘We have something far better than a portrait,’ said Dinley, taking Christopher by the arm. ‘We have Araminta in the flesh, a painting that moves and breathes as much as she herself. Come — let me show you.’
In spite of his misgivings, Christopher allowed himself to be led into the hall and up the wide staircase. Henry followed behind them. As they walked along the passageway, it was obvious from the noises emanating from every doorway that the rooms were occupied. Music was being played in one of them and Christopher caught a glimpse of two men dancing together. Samson Dinley stopped outside the room at the end of the passageway and rapped on it with his knuckles. It inched open.
‘I’ve brought some friends to see Araminta,’ he said.
An eye was applied to the crack between door and frame, and the visitors were subjected to a close inspection. Christopher was glad that the light from the candles was dim. He shrunk back slightly. Henry, on the other hand, took a bold step forward and grinned at the unseen gatekeeper. It seemed to impress the man because he opened the door and waved the three of them in.