‘Good Lord!… It’s Justice Crowther.’ The proprietor now recognized the great bulky figure who, in his time, had spent many a long night and many a handsome fortune in these very same premises. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ he ordered the flustered fellow who was cringing behind him. ‘Get this bloody door open this instant! Have you any idea who our guest is?… Well, I’ll tell you… it’s none other than the eminent Justice Crowther!’ The door was quietly swung open and the dead weight of Caleb Crowther fell into the proprietor’s arms. ‘I might tell you also that this distinguished figure of the law was a regular client beneath this roof some years ago.’ He also recalled that this same uncouth and spiteful character had caused them a deal of trouble on occasions, even scarring one of the girls when she had displeased him. That same girl was still employed here, though she was an embittered woman of more mature years, who had never been the same since her looks were so cruelly spoiled. She was not much in demand afterwards, and had been glad to accept an additional position in the kitchens. It crossed the proprietor’s mind to keep these two well and truly apart. Yes indeed, the Justice was a man who brought trouble with him. But he also brought enough guineas in his waistcoat pocket to compensate for such a curse. And as the proprietor’s only concern was that these guineas should be suitably and properly transferred from the pocket of the Justice to his own, then a body must allow for a small upset now and then.

‘I fancy one of your harlots!… No rubbish, mind!’ Caleb Crowther steadied himself between the two men, addressing the fat, balding proprietor who was short enough to be looked down on. ‘I prefer a whore with a bit of quality… I’m not after catching the pox, neither!’ he warned.

‘Now, now, Justice… sir… we don’t keep that sort here, you should know that… you being familiar with this establishment.’ The proprietor’s hardened senses were surprisingly offended, both by Caleb Crowther’s manner, and by the stench of stale booze that emanated from him. It was obvious that the Justice had been on a prolonged drinking spree, and had only happened here as a last resort, probably drawn by the smell of cheap perfume and the promise of willing, wide-open legs.

‘A redheaded whore,’ chuckled Caleb Crowther with an unseemly and lecherous expression, ‘the redheaded ones give a bit more than their money’s worth.’ Somewhere in the back of his memory he recalled another redhead on another night, in this very same club. But it was long ago and the memory was no more than an irritating blur; besides which he was presently under the influence of too much whisky. ‘Never mind what colour hair she has,’ he ordered now, his temper darkening at his own inability to remember, ‘just get on with it, man… like I said, make sure it’s quality… don’t want any old tramp!’