Both Ways: Chapter 1

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At the point of knocking, Quentin pulled back his hand. The door was dark stained, with two plain panels and a transom overhead. It could not have looked more unspecified; it might have been the entrance to anything. And the house, the adjoining houses, the wrought iron fences and the trees growing from their spaces allotted in the pavement were fully the antithesis of extraordinary. All except him - he was the anomaly - yet for the trouble he'd taken no-one knew. That was how he wanted it. The penalty he paid was that occasionally, when there wasn't the need to concentrate, he'd grasp how mundanely he went about doing the unbelievable, and his motor functions would short circuit. He recovered quickly enough, for there was no point hesitating. It was done. Maybe it had been done already, before he was born, a concept all good time travellers doubtless grasped, and maybe he would eventually. He put his knuckles back on the door, struck the wood twice, and a butler opened.

"Good afternoon, sir," the servant said.

"Good afternoon. I have documents for the barrister," Quentin repeated the passwords, "from Messrs. Horton & Armitage."

For this information he was indebted to a barber he met only an hour ago on Regent Street. For all his research, he failed to discover any material concerning the internal rituals of Edwardian brothels. In other matters of period etiquette he was versed: he knew never to look back in the street, nor remove his coat when making morning calls nor eat anything with his hands except bread, celery and fruit. He had drilled himself in pre-decimal currency. He'd poured over newspapers on microfiche and paid a costume designer to replicate the clothes.

Knowing rules was key; it would make him less conspicuous. And rules must apply, even in a whore's house. But in the end he had to give up, since he had no idea how long his doorway to the past might stay open. He consoled himself with the thought that prostitutes probably saw and heard everything there was to see and hear. Little would surprise them. A brothel, by coincidence, was no bad place to start.

The butler offered to take his hat and coat, and he removed these carefully to appear a man accustomed to service. Then he was left alone a while to admire the décor in the hall and presently the madame came. They talked of the weather and his health as if they'd just been introduced at some polite gathering. He told her he was an American visiting London on business. She asked what he would have to drink.

She had to repeat the question. Ironic, that the subject he should overlook entirely was alcohol. Which mixed drinks were in fashion circa 1906? He probably knew enough to guess but caught off guard he could think of none. Madame would stock all the spirits: whisky, brandy, cognac. But it was early afternoon, and he hoped to visit several houses of ill repute before the day was done. He asked for beer and hoped it wouldn't taste bad.

She invited him to come with her from the hall into an empty parlour and through another door, behind which was a pair of rooms divided by a drawn curtain. To get from the entrance to the bar they would need to cross the entire space from corner to corner. Flanking their way on both sides were dark satin couches, and each couch held a woman.