“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal for you to tell me who lives there.”
“Mrs. Hamilton. That’s Mrs. Hamilton’s house.”
Evelyn turned upon hearing those words and found herself facing an older woman with white hair and a friendly smile.
“You should be more discreet, Mrs. Prince.”
“What’s wrong with telling this young lady that that’s Mrs. Hamilton’s house? Well, I’ve just come for my William’s paper. He’s had to stay in today because he’s gotten a terrible cold and is running a fever.”
“Does Mrs. Hamilton live alone?” asked Evelyn, interrupting the conversation.
“Yes, you might say she lives alone. Of course…well, she has two or three female friends who visit her every day. And then there are those gentlemen. Some of them are very distinguished-looking. They hurry in and leave quickly. Very discreet, they are,” said Mrs. Prince maliciously.
“Are they relatives of Mrs. Hamilton’s?” asked Evelyn.
“Friends—close, old friends. I live in Number Three and I’ve been seeing the same gentlemen for years,” confirmed the old lady with a sickly sweet smile.
“Mrs. Prince, you shouldn’t! And you, missy…why don’t you leave? If you want to know something about Mrs. Hamilton, ask her directly. We don’t need journalists poking around and causing problems.”
“Are you a journalist, sweetheart? Do you work for the television? Perhaps you’re even famous…I don’t see very well and that’s why I haven’t recognized you.”
“No, I’m not famous, madam, but I am a journalist and…well, we’re investigating some things related to that house.”
“Oh! It didn’t occur to me that you might be investigating Mrs. Hamilton. She’s a good woman. She was widowed a while ago and, well, she does what’s necessary to survive. She’s very discreet, and so are her lady friends and the gentlemen. Anyway, the gentlemen aren’t from around here—we’d recognize them—but no. They’re strangers. They say things around here.”
“What sort of things?” Evelyn pressed her.
“There’s always someone who talks for the sake of it!” interrupted the man behind the counter. “Please leave if you’re not going to buy a paper.”
“I’ll buy all the papers necessary. Tell me, Mrs. Prince, what do they say about Mrs. Hamilton?”
“I don’t want to be indiscreet; she’s a good woman, a good neighbor, pleasant…No, I won’t be the one to get her in trouble. Well, I’ve said too much. I always do. My William says I shouldn’t get involved.” And the woman turned away with a satisfied look.
Evelyn watched the old woman take her paper and set off toward her house. She was about to follow but decided not to. The woman might get nervous and cause a fuss. She went back to rejoin Bob.
“Nothing. Wilson hasn’t come out. Not him, nor anybody else. How about you? How did it go at the shop?”
She told him what the old lady had said and Bob started to laugh.
“What’s so funny? You can save your breath if you’re going to make fun of me for not getting more out of her.”
“But she told you everything! For God’s sake, Evelyn, you can’t be that much of an idiot!”
“She didn’t tell me anything useful. And I don’t like being laughed at.”
“You’re very green. I don’t know why Blake gave you this job.”
“I assume it’s because he knows what I’m capable of.”
“Yes—doing whatever it takes to get ahead. You don’t have many scruples but you lack experience.”
“And in your opinion, what has this woman said that you seem to understand and I don’t?”
“Well, this Mrs. Hamilton runs a brothel. A place where she and her three friends receive certain gentlemen, with the necessary discretion. Or rather, it’s clear that Frank Wilson comes here to let off steam. It’s an hour and a half by train from his local area, so he’s not running the risk of bumping into his wife in the street. He does things the old-fashioned way.”
Evelyn looked at him, discomfited. At first she thought that Bob either had his mind in the gutter or was very clever to draw such a conclusion from Mrs. Prince’s words, but it didn’t take more than a moment for her to accept that he was right.
“My God! Blake isn’t going to believe it!”
“He’s going to believe it. He sent us here to find this—to nail Frank Wilson. You realize that Parker’s the real boss now, don’t you? They say he and his friends bought shares in the radio station and the paper. We’re small-fry but we serve his interests. Tomorrow we’ll publish a story saying that Wilson is an adulterer and the day after the Times will pick it up. Frank Wilson’s political career ends here.”
“You’re a cynic,” said Evelyn, who at that moment was feeling rather uncomfortable with the situation.
“Come on, Evelyn. Lacking experience is one thing, but playing dumb is another. We all know that you’d do anything, including going to bed with Blake, if it would help you up the career ladder. It’s just that he hasn’t propositioned you. But I will proposition you. What do you think of spending the weekend together? I can give you a few lessons in journalism.”
“You’re a pig!”
Bob shrugged. He liked Evelyn. She was ambitious, but she hadn’t completely lost her innocence yet.
“What do we do now?” she asked, trying to regain control of the conversation.
“I wait here for him to come out and snap another couple of photos of him. You try to find another source that confirms what that old lady told you. Ask in the other local shops.”
“We could do something even better,” Evelyn murmured.
“Like what?”
“We’ll look up Mrs. Hamilton’s phone number. Look, there’s a pay phone over there. Perhaps we’ll find her in the phone book. We have her address. And you’ll call saying that a friend recommended her house. That you’d like to visit her and get together with one of her friends. Tell her that you’re in the area and this afternoon would suit you.”
“Look at you, little missy! Blake’s chosen well. But no, I’m not going to do your job. You can do it yourself. If I was still working for the Sunday Times I’d do it. The salary there was worth it. But I won’t do it for what Blake pays me. I wouldn’t do it for you either, even if you promised to spend the weekend with me.”
Evelyn hurried over to the phone booth. Right next to the telephone hung a phone book for the local area. It didn’t take her long to find Mrs. Hamilton’s number, insert a coin, and call from there.
“Mrs. Hamilton? Good afternoon. I’m sorry to disturb you but a mutual acquaintance told me you might be able to use my help. He’s a gentleman who’s paid you visits on occasion and…well, I need work. Perhaps you’d like to see me.”
Evelyn waited, expecting an answer as the silence at the other end of the line grew longer. Then she heard a voice asking her which gentleman she meant.
“No, I can’t give you the gentleman’s name, at least not over the telephone. You know how these things are. Discretion is paramount. You don’t need anybody? I assure you that I’m as discreet as I am accomplished and I need the work. I’m from a neighboring town and…well, I can’t work there—everyone knows me—but I could here, and since you run such a well-regarded house, if you would give me a chance…”
The conversation lasted barely a few minutes longer before Evelyn hung up and returned to the car.
“What happened?” Bob wanted to know.
“She’s very clever. She told me that she didn’t have any work to offer, that I must have made a mistake because she’s a widow and barely leaves the house. She said that she doesn’t know any gentlemen outside her family and that if I couldn’t give her a name then I must have the wrong number. You should have been the one to call her.”
“You haven’t done that badly. Look.” Bob pointed toward one of the house’s windows, and started clicking away with the camera at the same time.
Visible in the window were the silhouettes of a man and a woman, who seemed to be brushing her hair. They were difficult to make out.
“Is it him?”
Bob tried to visualize the photos he’d just taken and made an annoyed face.
“No, it isn’t. It’s another guy spending the afternoon at Mrs. Hamilton’s house.”
It didn’t take long for the door to open, and this time it was Frank Wilson who hurriedly left the house, barely taking his leave of the woman, who quickly shut the door.
They followed him to the station, where Wilson caught a train.
“Now what?” Evelyn asked Bob.
“We can go back to the house and wait to see who comes out. If these friends of Mrs. Hamilton’s don’t live with her, they’ll have to leave at some point.”
“I’m exhausted and hungry. You’ve at least eaten the sandwich you brought with you.”
“You’ll soon learn that when you’re following someone you have to go prepared.”
Another man visited Mrs. Hamilton’s house at four. And another at five. Just like Frank Wilson, they hurried up the steps, rang the bell, and the door opened a few seconds later. Someone they assumed must be Mrs. Hamilton invited them to come in and quickly shut the door.
The two men left, one at six and the other at seven, and it wasn’t until eight, when Evelyn was exhausted and starving, that three women left the house. They were chatting in low voices and Evelyn felt they seemed a bit worried. Her call may have put Mrs. Hamilton on alert. If Bob was right and these women were running a discreet prostitution service, they would indeed be concerned.
“What now?” she asked Bob, who hadn’t stopped taking photos.
“You follow one and I’ll follow another; we’ll see where they go.”
“Should I talk to her?”
“Improvise, Evelyn. Journalism isn’t an exact science. There isn’t a protocol to follow. You react to the circumstances. You already know where I’ve parked the car. We’ll meet here. Whoever gets here first will just wait.”
Bob left her standing and walked briskly across the street so as not to lose one of the women, who had started to walk as if she were in a hurry.
Evelyn decided to follow the shorter of the two women who were still talking outside Mrs. Hamilton’s house. She was a woman in her fifties with dyed blonde hair and the inoffensive appearance of a housewife. She was wearing a gray skirt, a black wool coat, and modest heels.
The woman walked calmly, as if she weren’t in a rush in spite of the hour. She kept going for a good while until she reached a row of cheap houses, the kind built for workers in the seventies. She opened her bag and took out a key. She suddenly turned and looked at Evelyn, who was barely a few steps behind her.
“Why are you following me?” The woman’s voice was nervous.
“I…well…I’m not following you. It’s just that…Excuse me, but do you work for Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m a journalist. My paper has put me in charge of an investigation and…Well, it’s to do with Frank Wilson. He was at Mrs. Hamilton’s house this afternoon.”
“So you’re after Mr. Wilson. You’re ambitious for someone so young. What are you looking for?”
“It’s very strange that Mr. Wilson should come to Mrs. Hamilton’s house. What happens in that house? What do you do?”
“Seriously, what cheek! What makes you think you have the right to ask me?”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“Exactly, I can choose not to answer you. I can also report you for following and harassing me.”
“But you won’t, because…Well, it’s obvious what goes on in Mrs. Hamilton’s house.”
“So it’s obvious, but you ask just in case. And what’s so obvious?”
Evelyn had the impression that the woman was making fun of her, in spite of her serious tone of voice and the tension in the lines of her face.
“Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton and…well, and her friends receive men there who are in search of a good time,” Evelyn said hurriedly, with a flash of shame. Whatever she may have been doing, the woman had a dignity that disarmed Evelyn.
“I don’t know where you get these ideas from, missy. But you ought to look around you. What do you see? There used to be work in this town, but now the men spend the day in the pub and the lucky ones find work from time to time. But life goes on. You have to pay the rent, send the kids to school. Food’s expensive. You have to keep living as best you can. There’s no work for the men and even less for the women. People around here try to get by on welfare payments, but it’s not enough. Most of the families don’t exactly live in harmony. You must know, when money’s short, problems bloom. Men get desperate and the children…the children don’t respect their fathers, who they see wasting their lives drinking beer and complaining about the lack of work. And we women…well, in addition to complaining, women have to put food on our children’s plates every day. So we do what we can. But we don’t steal and we don’t swindle anyone. The fact is, the only damage is what we suffer to…That’s life. We don’t have a choice.”
“And you earn money by going to Mrs. Hamilton’s house where…where certain gentlemen visit.”
“That’s what you say. I see that you don’t understand a word I’ve said. It doesn’t really matter to me. What paper do you work for?”
“For Radio East and the Eastern Daily. I double up.”
“A miserable little paper and a station no one listens to. But you’re young and you want to get out of a rut and you don’t mind what you have to do, so anything I might tell you is pointless. You have a goal, which is to get out of here. I don’t blame you, and I assume you know that Frank Wilson is your passport to greatness. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
“Do you know Frank Wilson? He was at Mrs. Hamilton’s house this afternoon and so were you. You must know him.”
“Good night.”
The woman crossed the threshold and smoothly closed the door. Evelyn didn’t know what to do. In truth she didn’t even know exactly where she was. She retraced her steps until she reached a road, where she asked a passerby how to get to the address where they’d parked the car. It took her twenty minutes to get there.
Bob was leaning against the car, smoking. He seemed tired. But it didn’t matter to Evelyn how Bob was feeling. At least he’s had a sandwich, she thought.
“Did you get anything?” she asked Bob as he got into the car.
“Not much. I followed the brunette to the suburbs, to a dump of a house. There were several teenagers who like to play at being badass in the street, smoking a joint. She told one of them to go into the house. He didn’t even look at her. She hung her head and went in. End of story. This isn’t a prosperous town. These women are just trying to feed their families, and the only thing they can do in a place like this is go to Mrs. Hamilton’s house to entertain the Frank Wilsons of this world. It’s a disgrace.”
“People need to know about this.”
“Do you know what will happen?” Bob asked, without looking at her as he accelerated, searching for the main road.
“Frank Wilson’s political career will be over. What a hypocrite! The article will also bring attention to the situation in this area: the unemployment, the desperation. It’ll be a good story.”
“Take care writing it. You can’t accuse Mrs. Hamilton without proof.”
“You said yourself that it was obvious what’s going on in that house.”
“And it is. But you need proof or that woman will demand compensation that will leave Blake quaking no matter how much money Parker’s giving him.”
“But—”
“You’re dumber than you look. You’ll have to write the story without statements, just questions. For example: ‘What is candidate Mr. Wilson doing at Mrs. Hamilton’s house?’ or perhaps, ‘Who is the mysterious Mrs. Hamilton whom Frank Wilson visits once a month?’ ”
“Fant
astic!”
“You’ll have to put it like that.”
“You’re a genius!” exclaimed Evelyn excitedly, giving Bob a grateful look. She wondered whether perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to go to bed with Bob and learn a few things about journalism along the way. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was starting to find him attractive. The guy really knew what he was doing.
“The damage you’re going to do doesn’t bother you?” Bob asked, more of a statement than a question.
“Damage?”
“These women’s husbands will give them a good beating. It may be that they suspect that if there’s food on the plate it’s because their wives are up to something, but they prefer not to know what.”
“I don’t know their names—just Mrs. Hamilton’s.”
“Once you cast the first stone, there’s no going back. Their names will come out alongside Mrs. Hamilton’s. They won’t just get a flogging from their husbands, but their children…in the end, those poor things will have to put up with people telling them their mothers are whores.”
“Why are you trying to make me feel guilty? I’m not responsible for what happens. It’s just an article.”
“Go ahead, girly. You don’t have a heart.”
“Come on, Bob, don’t wind me up.”
Evelyn called Christopher Blake from a phone booth. It was late but she was sure he’d want to know what they’d found out.
Blake congratulated her, telling her to go straight to the editorial office and start writing. She would also have to take part in the radio news broadcast first thing in the morning, explaining how much they knew about the “Wilson case.”
“Okay, so the boss sends his congratulations, and he likes your headlines.”
“Yes, they’re good. We’ll cast the stone then hide our hands behind our backs.”
“Tell me, Bob, why did you leave London to come to Derbyshire and work on a dying paper?”
“Because I didn’t care anymore. Journalism used to be my great passion—getting the photo no one else could, pushing boundaries. I’ve played my part in ruining a number of reputations. And I don’t regret it. Those guys deserved it. I can’t stand those jumped-up little boys who spend public money giving lessons in morality to everyone else and think they can do whatever they like.”