'Oh, you 'ave come to the right place, Mr ... ?'

'Waters, Madam, Captain Waters ... in the Baltic trade ...'

'Oh, ain't that nice. Let the Captain in, Jem.' She smiled, an insincere stretching of her carmined lips, and took his arm. 'What does the Captain fancy, then? I 'ave a new mulatto girl an' a peachy little virgin as might have just bin specially ordered for your very pleasure.'

Drinkwater followed her into a brightly lit room. It was newly papered and an India carpet covered the floor. Over the fireplace hung a large oil painting, an obscene rendering of the Judgement of Paris.

Four of Mrs Hockley's 'girls' lounged in various states of erotic undress on chaises-longues and sofas with which the room seemed overcrowded. The light was provided by an incongruously elaborate candelabra which threw a cunningly contrived side-light upon the bodies and faces of the waiting whores. Of the mysterious Fagan there was no sign.

'A little drink for the Captain,' Mrs Hockley ordered, 'while he makes his choice.'

Drinkwater grinned. 'No, thank you, I did not come here to drink, Mrs Hockley ...'

'My, the Captain's a wit, to be sure, ain't 'e girls?'

The whores stared back or smiled joylessly, according to their inclination. Drinkwater swiftly cast an eye over them. He was going to have to choose damned carefully and he was aware that his knowledge of the female character was wanting.

'This is Chloe, Captain, the mulatto girl of whom I spoke.' She had been handsome once, if you had a taste for the negro, Drinkwater thought, her dark eyes still contained a fire that suggested a real passion might be stirred by even the most routine of couplings. She would be dangerous for his purpose, a view confirmed by her sullen pout as he turned his attention away.

'And this is Clorinda ...' Bored and tired, Clorinda stared back at him through lacklustre eyes, her pseudo-classical trade name sitting ill upon her naked shoulders. 'And this is Zenobia ...'