"Sean McMullen - Slow Famine" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

"Ha ha, you'd be the cove who caught Mrs. McGuire's tongue a half-hour back," drawled a loafer that
I approached. "So, you'd wantin' to find our nymphs of the pave, old cock?"
"Might be," I replied, flipping a shilling into the air. "I like nice girls, who stay overnight and tell no tales
later."
"Try Mother Newberry's, in Flinders Lane near Market Reserve. There's two big berries painted on
the door, like."
He combined a wink and a leer, and I tossed the coin to him and departed. Surprise was still my ally,
yet I was appalled at how fast word of the incident with Mrs. McGuire had spread. Mother Newberry's
establishment was a stone and timber cottage of three rooms, and I paid in advance to question her.
Rather than asking about Lord Southern, I invented a fictitious wife for my fictitious son and pretended to
be searching the world for her.
"Nah, I seen no nymph as yer describe, Mr. Maynard," responded Mother Newberry, a surprisingly
young ex-convict from Sydney. "Girls' looks change real quick in the game, though, so who knows? Yer
say she'd be likely ter work gentlemen?"
"Caroline was well brought up," I said anxiously. "She would not lie with mere sailors and navvies."
"Dunno 'bout that, sar. Times is 'ard."
"Please, stop!" I cried, putting my hands over my ears. "Just help me find her."
"Cor, all right then, easy! Ye're sure she's out 'ere, then?"
"She was a servant. My son and-- well, they eloped and married against my wishes. I am a man of
means, so I-- I arranged for her to be sent her away. I told my son that she had run off with a sailor but
he learned the truth. Melancholy has been consuming him for five years, and now he is close to death. I
repented, and began searching the world for his lost darling. I tracked her to here: a ship's officer that I
met in Liverpool said that he talked with a tipsy harlot in Port Phillip in 1841. She said her real name was
Caroline, and that she was really married to a very important gentleman..."
I allowed my voice to trail away.
"Yeah, yeah, I sees the problem," Mother Newbury sighed, sounding convinced.
"He met her at Woolpack Inn." I had heard a sailor on the Alpha mention the place.
"That's in Williamstown. Commander Gorden cleared out the houses o' pleasure in Williamstown
about this time last year, damn 'is eyes, so most nymphs came 'ere ter Melbourne. Look, if Caroline's the
type ter work gentlemen, I got a list of nymphs for 'appointment', as I calls it. They're good girls in honest
employ as scrubbers and such, not the type ter lie with sailors and troopers but, well, money's money,
and there's gentlemen about who likes an occasional night with a clean nymph who won't tattle. They
sends a man with a gig, and I arranges a nymph. For ten pounds I'd let yer see me list and write down
such names as yer fancied."
I gave her the money and copied the list. For the rest of the day I negotiated the foul puddles, mud,
tree stumps, savage dogs and insolent loafers of Melbourne Town as I visited each of the 'appointment'
women in turn. To these I said that I was searching for a long-lost brother, an exiled nobleman. I had
thought that Lord Southern would stand out like a beacon in such a frontier setting, but Melbourne Town
turned out to be flush with exiled aristocracy. Just as Sydney and other Australian towns had been penal
stations where the criminals of Britain were dumped, so now was Melbourne Town a place where the
odd, dissolute, demented or spendthrift embarrasments of the English upper class were sent. It was not a
widely known fact, but it made sense. The settlement was remote and dangerous, but with good
prospects for the industrious. A compulsive young gambler from a good family could be sent there,
ostensibly to make his fortune-- but he would also be safely out of sight and liable to be dead within a
year or two.
By evening I had a lead. The undead never allow portraits to be made of them, but I had seen Lord
Southern at a ball five years earlier. Later I had done a sketch of his face from memory, and it was a fair
likeness. At least two dozen men had Mother Newberry's 'appointments' stay overnight from time to
time, but three of the women thought that they recognised the face of my sketch. All three named Mr.
James Slater of Brighton, south of the city. I bought a horse, then called at the Lamb Inn for dinner and a