Chapter 13
Hamilton Square was deserted when Harry slipped past the door of her apartment block and made for Piccadilly.
She did not linger to admire the windows of Fortnum and Mason – a freezing fog had descended that did not encourage dawdling – but hurried on, head down, across Jermyn Street towards Mason’s Yard.
As she neared the entrance, she made out the fuzzy silhouette of a lone figure sheltering in the lee of the building.
‘Percy?’ she called in a low voice. ‘Is that you?’
The glow of a lit cigarette flared in the moist air as the figure stepped out and she was relieved to see it was indeed Percy Finchem.
‘Miss White,’ he said, flashing her a welcoming smile that the greyness did nothing to dim.
‘How splendid of you to come. Isn’t it a perfect night for a clandestine encounter? ’
Harry glanced up at the moonless sky, the stars shrouded by a blanket of featureless cloud. She shivered as the chill pervaded her coat. ‘It’s a little cold for my liking,’ she said. ‘I hope we don’t have far to go.’
‘Not far at all,’ Percy said, and extended his arm for her to take. ‘Shall we?’
She allowed him to guide her through the narrow street that led into Mason’s Yard.
The fog seemed thicker here, obscuring her vision with veil after veil of wispy grey chiffon.
Directly ahead, she could make out the glimmer of a streetlamp, the light diffused by the damp to create a shimmering golden halo.
Percy steered her to the left, where doors and shopfronts loomed amid the murk.
They passed several, shuttered and black, and then Percy stopped beside an iron railing that guarded a narrow set of stairs leading below street level.
Swinging open the gate on hinges that were clearly kept well oiled, he unhooked Harry’s hand from the crook of his arm.
‘The steps are usually salted but wet weather can make them slippery. Please take care to hold onto the rail as you descend.’
Harry stared past the shadows to a dim light that glowed a short distance below. ‘This is where we will find Miss Eccleston?’
‘That is the entrance, yes.’ His smile was cool, almost amused. ‘Were you expecting the doorman from the Ritz?’
She met his gaze squarely, refusing to be cowed. ‘No, but nor was I expecting a basement. What kind of establishment is this?’
‘I suppose you might call it a members’ club,’ he said. ‘Not specifically for gentlemen, although there are certainly more men than women. Forty years ago, it would have been known as a Hell.’
Harry fought to maintain an unruffled countenance.
She had read about such places in the work of Charles Dickens and George Eliot – gambling dens where entire fortunes could be lost in a single game of cards.
Some, like the infamous White’s or Crockford’s on St James Street, had been established in Regency times for the exclusive use of those with wealth and status, but many more had been aimed at parting the poor and working classes from what little they had.
Tireless work by anti-gambling campaigners, including Harry’s own grandfather, had improved matters; unlicensed Hells were raided and closed down but, as with illegal nightclubs, that simply meant they moved underground. ‘I see.’
Percy laughed. ‘Do I sense disapproval, Miss White?’
‘Not at all,’ she replied, trying not to consider what Oliver would say if he knew what she was about to do. It did not surprise her that Percy was evidently familiar with such establishments. ‘Is Miss Eccleston a gambler?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ Percy said. ‘Her reason for coming here is more… intimate.’
She stared at him, aghast. Sensationalised reports in the newspapers often claimed that unlicensed gambling went hand in hand with darker criminal activity but surely Percy wasn’t suggesting what he seemed to be? ‘Have you brought me to a brothel, Mr Finchem?’
Now it was Percy’s turn to look shocked. ‘Absolutely not. I hope you know I would never expose you to such an environment. Apart from anything else, Fortescue would probably challenge me to a duel, or something equally noble and archaic.’
It was intended to make her smile and it did go some way to soothing her alarm. ‘He still might.’
‘An excellent point,’ Percy said gravely. ‘But if you want to understand what is driving Miss Eccleston’s affair with Rufus then there is no other way. We shall have to go inside.’
She squared her shoulders. ‘Lead on.’
The stone stairs were narrow and steep. Salt crunched under Harry’s feet as she followed Percy down into a square well at the bottom.
The light that hung there revealed a black front door with a small glass aperture three quarters of the way up.
A brass button was set into the wall. There was nothing else, no plaque bearing a name or number, nothing at all to identify it.
Harry experienced a curious sense of déjà vu as Percy pressed the button; it appeared that Hells, like illegal nightclubs, set great store by being almost impossible to find if one did not know where to look.
After a moment, she heard the sound of a panel being slid back and sensed an eye had been applied to the spyhole.
A long silence followed, then she heard the rasp of bolts.
The door opened to reveal a gaunt, unsmiling man who did not speak but held out a hand, palm upwards in demand.
Percy placed something upon it and Harry was surprised to see it was a long black feather, glossy even in the half-light.
Evidently satisfied, the man wrapped his fingers around it and gestured them hurriedly inside.
‘After you, Miss White,’ Percy said, waving an arm as though inviting her to cross the threshold of a lavish ball.
Hoping she was not about to make a terrible mistake, Harry snatched a final lungful of moisture-laden air and stepped through the door.
The hallway beyond the entrance was barely better lit than the steps had been.
It held nothing but an old wooden chair and ended in another door, this one reinforced with dull sheets of iron.
The doorman shuffled forwards to rap upon the metal.
It was opened by another mute man, who raised an old-fashioned miner’s lamp to examine them closely before stepping back.
Once again, Percy waved Harry through and, by the glow of the lantern, she saw they were in a roughly hewn passageway paved with uneven flagstones.
The door clanged shut and their guide set off, lamp held high to send beams of yellow slicing through the absolute blackness.
‘Watch your step,’ Percy murmured from behind her. ‘The floor can be somewhat treacherous and the slope does not help.’
They walked in this fashion for several minutes, burrowing deeper underground.
Once or twice, they were obliged to step across puddles and Harry could hear the drip of water as it hit the flagstones.
Occasionally, they turned left or right and she caught glimpses of adjoining passageways that led in different directions.
She did her best to create a mental map in her mind but had to accept she was soon hopelessly disoriented.
It was a labyrinth, she thought dazedly as she focused on keeping her footing and staying dry, a maze below Mayfair that most people were entirely unaware existed.
She and Oliver must have used part of it when they had fled from Quaglino’s but she’d had no idea at the time that it might be part of a warren. Where exactly was this gambling den?
It was difficult to judge precisely how long they walked for – Harry guessed it to be a little under fifteen minutes, but she could not say how far they had travelled.
It was entirely possible that their wordless guide had led them a circuitous route to ensure their final destination remained untraceable, but at last their journey ended at another iron-plated door.
The brightness of the room beyond it momentarily blinded Harry.
She blinked hard, waiting for her vision to adjust, and realised she could hear music.
Percy’s hand rested on the small of her back, gently encouraging her to move forward, and she saw they were in a richly furnished room that put her very much in mind of a plush gentleman’s club.
Bright fleur-de-lys wallpaper adorned the walls, a rich ruby carpet covered the floor and a brilliant chandelier hung from the ceiling.
Several doors led off into more softly lit rooms where Harry glimpsed figures gathered around tables or lounging in chairs.
Cigar smoke laced the air, creating a lazy fug that made it hard to discern much detail but somehow added to the aura of decadence and unspoken wealth.
All in all, it was a stark contrast to the dank, murky passages she had just negotiated.
A middle-aged man in a well-cut dinner suit hurried forward to greet them. His russet moustache quivered as he nodded at Percy. ‘Mr Finchem, how wonderful to see you, and I am delighted to observe you have brought a most charming guest. Won’t you introduce us?’
‘This is Miss Doone,’ Percy said smoothly. ‘A close friend of mine.’
The man smiled in a manner that did not quite reach his eyes, and Harry got the impression that she was being assessed in much the same way a farmer might consider a prize cow presented for inspection.
‘Any friend of Mr Finchem is most certainly a friend of mine,’ he said.
‘Welcome to the Black Feather Club, Miss Doone.’
Harry inclined her head, understanding now the unusual calling card Percy had presented to the doorman. ‘How do you do?’
‘Very well indeed, Miss Doone, and I thank you for asking,’ he said, his smile widening. ‘What’s it to be this evening, Mr Finchem? Poker? Brag?’
Percy tapped his chin, as though considering. ‘I think poker, to begin with.’
‘As you wish. There’s an excellent game underway in the Brummell room, and another about to begin in Cavendish.’