While on most given days I would be as inclined to trust that spiv, Hargreaves about as far as I could throw him; it does appear he has a rather apt imagination well suited to the world of hospitality and entertainment.
The Den has proved to be a hit, not only with the lowly ‘Forgotten’ of our Sanctuary of Whitechapel, but also several of my former esteemed colleagues on the Clean Air Committee, Fairfax in particular. Takings were so high on our first evening of business that my senior Mayhems and I have already had to take steps to rinse every ha’penny that has crossed our palms since.
Publicity conscious as ever, we’ve chosen to focus on local real estate and businesses; thus laundering our guineas and appearing to regenerate the East End.
While it is always nice to be popular, I have had to resort to wearing a veil whenever operating under the mantle of Mayhem. I do so partially because I simply cannot afford to be recognised by my father’s colleagues and peers but mostly because I have obviously been spending too much time in the Fog Research Laboratory and as a
result, vapours from Mr Hardie’s damned chemical concoctions have turned my hair a garish hue of blue! I had best get a suitable wig before Lady Dawson’s next mind numbing social affair…
I have always been used to lurking in the shadows for profit but the implementation of the veil seems to have added an essence of mystery and theatre.
When veiled, Hargreaves insists on following what little he has gleaned of Division M protocol and has every bar wench, card sharp and punter refer to me as ‘The Mistress’. When he’s feeling particularly grand he greets me as “Mistress of the Forgotten” loudly and boldly across the already over-subscribed Absinthe atomisers. I feel I am being made a spectacle of in my own blessed bordello.
What is that weasel up to?
The Den, Clockwork Underworl