Jack Lark: Rogue Read Online Free PDF Page A

room.
    Edmund had no idea where his father had brought him. He stayed close, trying not to stare at a sad-faced woman half hidden behind the shoulder of a thickset man whom he supposed to be her husband. The woman’s eyes were downcast. One bore the dark-grey smudge of a much-aged black eye, the other decked out with the blues and yellows of one much fresher. Edmund saw her small hand raised to her husband’s arm only for it to be shrugged off, the interference greeted with a snarl and a brandished fist.
    ‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ a loud woman’s voice bellowed out from behind the bar. Edmund’s father lifted a hand to acknowledge the greeting, his pace slowing as he did so.
    ‘You might like to take a pew in the saloon. I’ll send my Jack to fetch for you.’ The huge voice paused before returning with even greater volume. ‘Make way for the fine gentlemen, make way. That includes you, Johnnie Taylor, make way there, I say.’
    Edmund felt the press of the crowd ease and suddenly his father was striding forward. He glanced at the bar, his eyes roving over the complex arrangement of spiral brass pipes that led from a series of barrels lining the wall to a line of spirit taps that bore the names of their particular brew. ‘The Out and Out’, ‘The No Mistake’, ‘The Bairn’s Favourite’, ‘The True Spirit’, ‘The Sit-Me-Down’; each name seemed more fanciful that the one before, and Edmund could only wonder at the manner of beverage they alluded to.
    He followed his father into a small side room full of old barrels that had been converted to form rude seats and tables. As he passed close to the bar, he saw the owner of the huge voice. The woman could hardly have been more than five feet tall. Great ginger curls were piled high on her head above a florid, jowly face with lips tinted a bright red. Around her neck was a thick gold necklace, its chunky twists of metal clearly more concerned with displaying the owner’s wealth than any evidence of the maker’s skill.
    ‘Sit here, my boy.’ Edmund’s father tugged at his arm, pulling him down so they could sit at what passed for a table. The saloon, as the bawdy woman had so grandly titled the fetid side room, was nearly empty, the great press of bodies at the bar clearly not looking to linger. The only other occupant was a stick-thin man of an ancient vintage who nibbled around the edges of a small dark cake, one claw-like hand held underneath his puckered mouth to catch any precious crumbs that should happen to spill from the thin grey lips.
    ‘Where are we, Father?’ Edmund looked around him, trying to hide his nerves. He glanced back into the main room, his eyes widening as he saw a child of no more than five or six standing on tiptoe at the bar, a dirty grey shawl draped around her shoulders and dragging behind her on the floor. He witnessed the swift exchange of a coin for a bottle full of an opaque liquid, then the child scurried away, but not before she had popped the bottle’s cork for a sly sip of its contents.
    ‘This, dear boy, is a gin palace. I am sure you will have heard of them?’
    Edmund shook his head.
    ‘They are a thriving business. You saw the outside? The gas lights and all that plate glass?’
    This time Edmund nodded.
    ‘They draw the people in with such fancy decoration. You saw the condition of the streets; it is no wonder that they call a place such as this a palace.’
    Sir Humphrey’s eyes roved around the room constantly. It made Edmund nervous. At the club, his father was clearly in charge, his manner easy and commanding. Here he fidgeted, his hands clasped tightly together or fiddling with his stock. He was ill at ease and he was failing to hide it from his son.
    ‘I expect you saw all the pipes leading to the bar?’ he asked, his eyes resting on his son for no more than a single heartbeat.
    ‘Yes. What a list of fanciful names.’ Edmund spoke quietly. He was watching his father. ‘What are they?’
    ‘Gin. All