Scarlet Widow Read Online Free PDF Page A

face! She looks like she’s still screaming at them!’
    ‘No – no thank you. I’d rather not.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Bea! You never saw such a sight! It’s better than a freak show! And it’s free!’
    Beatrice had seen dead bodies carried into the back room at The Fortune of War more than once, especially after low tide. Her father had told her that the pub had been officially appointed by the Royal Humane Society for the ‘reception of drowned persons’ found in the Thames. If their bodies went unclaimed, the surgeons would come round from St Bartholomew’s Hospital to see if they were suitable for dissection. If they were, resurrectionists like John Welkin would be paid ‘finishing money’ for their trouble, sometimes as much as four guineas.
    Her father had told her all this in a strangely distracted way, which had made Beatrice wonder if he was secretly thinking of buying a body for himself in order to solidify it, like that bristly brown rat. She had changed the subject and said that she needed to tend to the suet pudding that she was boiling.
    Robert shrugged and said, ‘Please yourself. I’d best be gathering up some pots in any case.’
    He went over to the nearest table and started to collect up dirty tankards and glasses. As he did so, however, the porter in the huge floppy cap heaved himself up from the bench where he was sitting and approached the bar.
    ‘Well, now, my pretty little lamb!’ he exclaimed. He was swaying with drink and he came to stand so close that Beatrice could smell the urine that soaked his britches. He turned to her, grinning, and then without warning he hooked his arm around her waist and wrenched her roughly towards him. His eyes were yellow and his brown teeth were crowded together like some neglected graveyard.
    ‘You could give me a kiss, my little innocent, couldn’t you? What harm would a kiss do? About time somebody introduced you to the pleasures of the flesh, wouldn’t you say?’
    Beatrice tried to wrench herself away from him, but he tightened his grip around her and laughed, so that she could feel his spit on her face.
    ‘Come on, my little charmer! Don’t deny that you want to!’
    He tugged her closer still, but as he did so Robert crossed over to the counter and promptly put down all the tankards that he had been collecting up. Without a word he came around from behind Beatrice and punched the porter on the right ear. The porter shouted out, ‘ Shite !’ He let go of Beatrice and lurched heavily back against the counter, his floppy cap falling over his eyes. Robert punched him again, on the bridge of the nose. Blood spurted out of both his nostrils and sprayed over his filthy grey waistcoat.
    ‘You maggot!’ the porter snorted, dragging off his cap and pressing it against his nose to stem the blood, ‘I’ll cut your tallywags off for that!’
    Three or four other porters rose from their seats and gathered around Robert, with threatening looks on their faces. They were all just as ugly and filthy and just as drunk.
    ‘ You ,’ said one of them, pointing at Robert with a blackened fingernail. He looked as if he were smiling, like a clown, but he had deep horizontal scars each side of his mouth, as if somebody had dragged a butcher’s cleaver sideways between his lips. ‘You are on your way to get your neck wrung, boy!’
    Robert glanced quickly from one of the porters to the other. The greasy-looking porter reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a large clasp-knife, which he opened up with an elaborate flourish, like a conjuring trick. Blood was still running from both of his nostrils and he had to lick his upper lip every now and then to stop it dripping down his chin.
    ‘You’ll be singing a different tune from now on, sunshine,’ he said. He gave a bubbly sniff and then he added, ‘A very high tune, like a maiden, because that’s what I’m going to turn you into!’
    Robert edged back, his fists half raised to defend himself, but he