Chapter 59

“Do come in, ducky.” Nell popped out of the stairwell and grabbed Wesley by the neckcloth. One pistol discharged into the ceiling as she reached down and unbuttoned the front of his pants. He dropped the second pistol as Betty yanked his pants down from behind.

By the time Tope and his associate gained control of themselves, after having fallen all over each other again at the sound of Wesley’s pistol shot, Wesley was on the floor with his pants around his ankles. Nell sat on his chest with her legs posed in a very unladylike manner. Betty sat back to back with Nell. She had her knees raised somewhat higher than her shoulders. She placed her feet well apart so what little clothing she was wearing stretched provocatively. She rubbed the insides of Wesley’s naked thighs. All this time the body of the costermonger lay quietly in the corner by the cupboard. And Percy Wesley clung to his recently fired pistol.

Immediately behind Tope and his mate, the most fully endowed of the ladies from the Society for the Prevention of Vice rushed in. “You hussies!” she yelled. She raised her umbrella over her head. The girls jumped like frogs in a lily pond and hid behind Tope’s massive form. The umbrella came down on Wesley’s right shoulder as he was attempting to pull up his pants. He fell back to the floor, exposing all he possessed to the Vice lady.

“Hallelujah!”

Now two of her companions came into formation behind her. One of them uttered a less exuberant “hallelujah,” followed by “Oh, my!”

“I know you!” one of the other ladies shouted. As the others looked askance at her, she corrected herself. “I mean, I know your face. You are the Duke of Wellington’s cousin. Shame on you, consorting with the likes of these.” She pointed to Betty and Nell as they were making their exit, stage right, through the door to the stairway.

Just in time to see the girls disappear, the newspaper reporters pushed their way into the room. Nell, delayed her exit to give one of them a wink. He waved sheepishly. His comrade behind him noticed the exchange. “Ah, you know Nell. Do you know her friend, Betty? They are a lovely team.”

“Look here,” the first reporter said, “a murdered man, and there’s Percy Wesley with his pants off and a pistol in his hand.”

The young men of the press had seen enough and hurried to get out of the room and meet their deadlines. On the other hand, the ladies from the Vice Society were just warming up. They were putting their umbrellas to use, inflicting the wrath of the Lord on Wesley. Because of the repeated blows he still was unable to get his pants up. Each time he reached to pull them over his private parts, one of the ladies would smack him in such a way that he would fall back, enhancing the display the ladies found so despicable.

The last of the reporters departed, and patrons from the gin shop next door started to notice the ruckus. The bravest, or the drunkest, ascended the steps, not without some difficulty. He poked his multicolored nose (mostly red but with streaks of blue and a touch of black soot on the very end) through the door the departing reporters had failed to close. “Lordy, dey is a-beating a peer naked feller. Comes an’ watch, now. Dey is a-gonna beats his balls offen ’im.” The crowd began gathering as people started staggering out of the gin shop. Pushing and shoving, hair pulling, and fist fighting was the natural result. That’s when the police arrived.