The Path of Filth: Extract from #FlowersofSin

Star and Crescent published this excerpt from Lawless and the Flowers of Sin , William Sutton’s second Victorian mystery, published by Titan Books and launching on 12th July 2016. Sergeant Lawless explores the nightlife of Soho in his role as inspector of vice. 

The Path of Filth

Now we had removed to the gilded upper chamber of the Argyll. Artistically clad women held poses plastiques in velvet alcoves, temples of voluptuousness based on classical art, though stirring the psyche rather more directly.

The lights dimmed. The ensemble struck up an exotic rhythm. Onstage chugged a miniature train, driven by the famous Chouchoute. She sweated as she stoked the furnace, the orange glow glistening on her brow. She bent over, flesh gleaming through choice gaps in her attire, as the train-rhythm grew hotter.

What was Darlington hoping to show me? Did he think my Edinburgh upbringing so provincial I should never have seen the like? True, Edinburgh is small: that makes the louche night spots closer and affordable to frugal apprentices such as I; my schoolfriends were well acquainted with the Cowgate, beneath the castle, notorious for explosive displays.

Chouchoute threw off another garment. Hat, jacket, shawl, chemise. She stood before us, gleaming golden in her bodice, gloves and new-fangled bloomers. She looked up at us and wiped her brow.

“Get ’em off.”

She squared up to us, much as a navvy might look at a pile of dirt. A flutter flew through the audience; the separation between viewer and viewed seemed flimsy. Chouchoute threw down an immaculate white gauntlet. The music faltered, the house lights rose; she peered out from the stage, offended, and raised a finger.

“Who?” she said abruptly, gazing down lasciviously. “Who has spoke?”

“Him there!” Jocular voices called, and the guilty gent was shoved toward her outstretched finger.

Chouchoute drew a cane from her high boot. She leant down, catching the hapless fellow’s chin with the tip of the cane. His gaze was directed onto the twin orbs above him, brightly lit, swelling beneath the bodice. There was no escape. The music resumed. She kneeled on the edge of the stage, drawing him forward in rhythm, until his face was against her muscular thighs. The fellow’s eyes were bulging.

“Such close inspection.” She spoke in a faux French accent. “One really should have shaved.” Her eyes flashed. She whirled around and knelt, the stays of her corset within his reach. The fellow gaped upward, practically panting. Chouchoute gave a quizzical frown. “Is he trying to see what I ate last night?”

This show, I admit, was more shameless than Edinburgh’s equivalents.

“Get ’em off,” cried Darlington.

Chouchoute glanced over her shoulder, right at us.

I froze. My worst fear was to be dragged onstage. Of this danger Darlington seemed heedless. He was heedless of so many dangers, I would realise soon enough.

Holding our gaze, she untied the bow on her corset lace with a flourish. The fellow’s hands were trembling as he reached for the lace. She grabbed his hands and had him pull the stays asunder. Inch by inch, the ivory skin of her back was revealed, arching up from her waist. The crowd bayed for satisfaction. The corset loosened; her milk-white breast was sure to be revealed; she winked at me.

The lights went out.

A flash of light. We caught our breath. The show unfolded in a series of photographic flashes. Flash: she turned. Flash: his face against her bosom. Flash: her legs wrapped round him. We gasped.

Flash: the bloomers—gone.

Pandemonium.