Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

The Fiend in Human (20 page)

BOOK: The Fiend in Human

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Near Leicester Square

Tucked into a cranny down a narrow lane off Orange Street, curled up like a child in its cot, it is a wonder she was found as quickly as she was. What with the ubiquitous sight of recumbent forms in doorways and niches, it is often the case that a corpse is taken for a sleeping vagabond until it is betrayed by the stink.

The crusher, in a Peeler’s top hat and tails, stands above the young woman like a coachman attempting to awaken his drunken mistress. As is customary, he halloos three times, then employs the end of his stick to dislodge one arm, whereupon the body as a whole rolls toward him and suddenly he is looking into the ruined face. Mr Wells does not like what he sees lying there at his feet, for he has daughters of his own.

‘Dear Lord in Heaven,’ he whispers to calm himself, while he turns to the fellow Peeler at the entrance to the lane: ‘Another one, Mr Chesney.’

‘More of the same, Mr Wells?’

Mr Wells’s attention turns to the scarf, tight around the throat. The Fiend did not take the trouble to close her eyes – and the rest of it. Hence, his weary acknowledgement.

‘Correct, Mr Chesney. The silk scarf, the nose cut off, she has all the markings of Chokee Bill.’

‘Then we are to alert Mr Salmon. Them is the orders, Mr Wells. I shall go to the constabulary directly.’

Whereupon Mr Chesney disappears, leaving Mr Wells with the melancholy chore of passing time with a corpse.

Gazing into the empty eyes of his mute companion, Mr Wells reflects on the nature of death as deeply as his imagination will allow. What is now gone that once was present? For it cannot be denied that there exists an inordinate stillness to her, with a quality to it unlike the stillness of a stone or other object. It is as though someone has retired, leaving behind an old, torn coat.

In a gesture of respect, there being no witness to an unprofessional display, the Peeler removes his top hat while thinking: She must have had a pretty face. Could he not have left her with her only advantage in life?
Bless you, poor thing, wherever you are is better than where you were.

Preoccupied by these dismal thoughts, some time passes before the Peeler becomes aware of another presence nearby, in a cranny opposite and down the lane. Small, sooty hands cover her face, almost invisible in a tangle of brown hair. Tears ooze between her fingers, though she makes no sound.

The sight of intense grief being commonplace for a man in his line of work, Mr Wells secures his hat to his head and calls to her in the manner he employs to establish authority, the implacable bark of the Metropolitan Police.

‘You there! What is your business? Do you know anything of what has happened here?’

Mr Wells is about to shout at her again, but she speaks: the Peeler must draw closer for it is but a whisper.

‘No, Sir. I ’as found her and am keeping watch’

‘Were you an associate of the deceased?’

‘Aye, Sir. Her name were Flo. She were my benefactor.’

Mr Wells, who has seen much, looks her over and puts two and two together. For it is the way with whores this young that most have been abducted from the country. It is usual for such a girl to find herself reduced to nothing, owning not so much as the clothes in which she toils, so that her whoremonger may control her activities and prevent her escape. Even were she to escape, she could not return home, now that she is ruined.

‘You are being over-generous to your whoremonger, Miss. You are well rid of her. On your way, then. Make out on your own. Find for yourself a pegging crib and earn your supper.’

Thinks the Peeler: With her whoremonger gone to her reward, at least the girl can keep the profits, which is an improvement.

‘I’m not that kind, Sir. I’m a lacemaker. I done that as little as I could.’ The girl glares defiantly at the constable with an ordinary face for such as she, distinguished by a peculiar mark on the upper lip and nothing more.

‘A subtle distinction, Miss.’ At a loss for more to say, Mr Wells returns to stare at the dead woman, until comes the welcome bellow of a Metropolitan policeman at the lane entrance. ‘Well then, what do we have here, Constable?’

Upon recognizing the outline of Under-Inspector Salmon, the Peeler assumes an aspect of calm diffidence, the better to make no impression one way or the other.

‘Murder of a prostitute by garrotting, Sir. Maiming followed death
if we may judge by the lack of bleeding. Seemingly our man has wasted no time getting back to work.’

‘I’ll thank you to leave the speculation to me, Mr Wells.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replies, Mr Wells, who wonders where Chesney went, the rascal.

The under-inspector steps briskly into the lane, nudges the Peeler aside and takes a closer look at the corpse. Mr Salmon does not remove his hat. Bending down (knees crack audibly), with gloved thumb and forefinger he picks up one end of the silk scarf which has been twisted about her neck with considerable force. Slowly he unwinds the scarf, then glances at the label – then turns abruptly, having sensed the presence of Etta, still in the cranny, curled up like a tot.

‘What is this one over here, Mr Wells?’ Mr Salmon rises to approach the girl, while carrying the scarf in one hand.

‘Only a fellow judy, Sir. Appears to have been acquainted with the deceased.’

Turning his back to Mr Wells, the under-inspector contemplates the girl. Then, to the surprise of the Peeler, he leans forward and almost gently drops the scarf over the girl’s narrow shoulders.

‘It is from Henry Poole’s. You should get at least five shillings for it.’

‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but should not the scarf be retained as evidence?’

‘No need, Mr Wells. It does not tell us anything we do not already know.’

Camden Town

Climbing the stairs back to his rooms – slowly, carefully, painfully – while massaging the tender spot with one hand, Whitty reflects on the fact that there exist two versions of the myth of Pandora’s Box: one narration concludes that the opening of the box released all human evil into the world; the other claims it to have been the source of all human hope. A distinct alternative, which one would prefer to have settled before lifting the lid.

That is not Whitty’s way, if indeed his method of working can be so termed, being based neither upon observation nor deduction, nor any other form of human or even animal cognition. Instead, like an insect in trousers, he relies upon the quivering of a set of invisible antennae, which lead him forward until, well before the mind has ascertained what is happening, the body is already in the middle of it – and, as in this case, taking a beating for it as well. For not the first time in his Promethean career, Whitty curses his ‘method’, while at the same time curious as to why it provoked such an inordinate response from the under-inspector of Scotland Yard.

At the minimum, he takes satisfaction in the fact that the current line of enquiry has been settled, and that it is, as Mr Owler would say, fly.

RYAN INNOCENT

Police conceal evidence; revelations
implicate prominent gentleman.

Capital: a narrative that connects the factual dots into a plausible picture, providing its author with the possibility of selling
The Falcon
on an investigative serial — always the most lucrative form. And there is the welcome prospect of inflicting harm on a certain policeman …

So thinking, Whitty opens the door to his rooms.

Speak of the devil: before him paces the patterer in an excited manner, his ruined hat in hand, his face set in an expression of rueful melancholy.

‘Mr Owler. How do you do?’

‘Good-day to you, Mr Whitty. Are you in poor health, Sir? For I must say you do look pale.’

‘Something disagreed with me is all. Indeed, I was about to contact you about a new development.’

‘Sir, I come on the same particulars as you. I saw the police carriage outside and so gained access up the back drum. Your house mistress were listening by the hall door and did not see me as I passed.’

Confound her!

‘Mr Owler, I have it on good authority that our man Ryan has escaped from Coldbath Fields.’

‘Werily, I heard it this morning.’

‘It is a rare opportunity.’

‘Or a rare disaster.’

‘Sniff.’
Mrs Quigley, hovering in the open doorway.

‘Mr Whitty, I see that you are entertaining a second visitor. Here at Buckingham Gardens it is not customary for guests to employ the servants’ entrance.’

‘Mrs Quigley, it is a privilege to introduce to you Henry Owler, Special Inspector, City of London. Do not be misled by the officer’s appearance, for he is incognito.’

Mrs Quigley’s small eyes dart sideways, betraying a doubt, upon which Whitty pounces like a cat.

‘A murderer is at large, Madam, a fiend who preys on elderly women such as yourself. Believed to be stalking Camden Town at this very moment. Please be so good as to prepare tea while the officer and I take urgent counsel here in my rooms. Otherwise we will be forced to take tea elsewhere, leaving Buckingham Gardens unprotected.’

‘Sir, this might not be the time for tea.’ Although admittedly hungry, Owler would not dream of dining in Buckingham Gardens, whose opulence he finds intimidating.

‘Oh, but it is tea-time, Inspector. Is that not so, Mrs Quigley?’ Mrs Quigley departs to the kitchen, there to exercise her spite upon the scullery maid, while boiling her cheapest tea.

Cradling Mrs Quigley’s teacup between his palms as though it were a small, delicate animal, Owler seats himself upon the soft chair opposite Whitty’s desk and wonders at the luxurious solitude of a correspondent’s personal cocoon.

A soft, clean bed with feather comforter, on a Turkey carpet. A blazing fire of large, whole lumps, warming the air, already fragrant
with cigar smoke – that masculine incense which, to the patterer, might just as well be bank-notes, burning. How is it possible, he wonders, for a party to have advantaged himself with such comfort and ease from morning to night, to bask in such softness and warmth like the pampered cat of a duchess, and yet to scorn his life – nay,
discard
his life, as though it were a piece of bad meat?

On the other hand, thinks Owler, waste is the hallmark of a gentleman; hence the term ‘wastrel’. Such a privileged party as this is the more to be pitied, in the way one might pity a man with a huge, empty stomach, below a tiny neck, who in his life will never fill the vacancy within. It is possible that the man is not so much a wastrel as
wasted —
in the way that London has ways of wearing a party down, of laying him
waste
. On balance, Owler deems himself the more fortunate of the two, having experienced satisfaction from time to time. This conclusion Owler resolves not to mention to the correspondent, for men of the quality are a proud people, and disdain the sympathy of others.

For Whitty’s part, his recent acquaintance with police brutality, now past, has caused his spirits to rebound with a renewed sense of purpose, not to mention the possibility of material redemption. The correspondent pours a measure of gin into his tea, then into the cup of the man opposite, not without a pang of pity for Owler’s limited potential. Whitty is careful that his expression does not reveal such thoughts, for the poor are not lacking in dignity – but what a filthy cubby-hole of a world such a man must occupy! With what limited movement, with how low a sky! Fleetingly, Whitty attempts to picture the depleted psychic universe of such a man as this. Having one suit of clothes, does he dream of having two? Festering and itching throughout the summer night, does he dream of a private bath? As a man of thirty-five who looks sixty, is it his ambition to see his forty-fifth year? How does life appear to a man whose hopes for his daughter have no greater object than that she might keep her body as her own, and not as a thing to be sold on the street?

In this way do men of divergent stations in life pity and patronize one another, simultaneously.

‘Mr Owler, may I suggest that we consider our options at this stage calmly. I am certain you can discern the wisdom in such a move.’

‘Indeed, Sir, though there’s a powerful uneasiness to be certain. It is no easy thing to trim the mind against so complete a disaster.’

‘Would it alleviate some of the uncertainty were I to assure you that,
whatever the outcome, you will turn a better profit than that which would accrue on your own?’

‘That would indeed be very fly, Sir, but I have no confidence of such a thing. I’ve not ever called out a Sorrowful Lamentation but that it is
’orrid
or
stunning
. My readers are wery conservative in these matters, Sir.’

‘Be that as it may, Mr Owler, in this case you will be working with a writer with
The Falcon
, whose task it is to lash the ignorant, the presumptuous and the corrupt, with a rod pickled in classic brine.’

‘You don’t half go on, Mr Whitty, Sir.’

‘My point is this: unlike the rabble who devour your ’orrid particulars, our readership looks to
The Falcon
for the truth, and damn the consequences. We go to battle, and damn the wounded. I invite you to join me: put your confidence in this enterprise and you will not regret it.’ So says Whitty with assurance, having little of it himself. While lighting a cigar, he can only marvel at the fabulous mirages he is capable of spinning, in snaring for himself a reliable source.

‘To speak the truth, Sir, I have no option but to join in your enterprise. With Ryan escaped from Coldbath Fields, I have no enterprise on my own.’

‘Allow me to put a splash more gin in that tea, Mr Owler, it will buck you up.’

‘Thank you, Sir, that is welcome. In the matter of which we speak, what particulars do you wish to know from me?’

‘I need to understand what is known of the escape itself, not what is reported in the press, but what is heard on the ground – for it has spread about the Holy Land, has it not? The nearer to its source, the closer a rumour is to fact.’

‘From what I can discern, Sir, it were a stunning escape – though hardly a clean one, for he left a deal of blood in his wake. Scaled the wall like a salamander, then took the spikes and blades with his body as need be is what he did. Succeeded to the roof of the house adjacent, walked down the stairs while the family was eating their dinner, like he was the lodger in the attic. The young nipper ’as confirmed the party was slashed wicious, so bad that, as he walked, the blood hit the floor without dripping. From Mount Pleasant, the Fiend must have kept to the alleys, for he remained unseen by a soul until he stole a coat at the Maurice, from a gonoph, name of Lanky Hillman, a rampsman and footpad known to possess a powerful thirst.

‘Lanky’s was a heavy Navy coat with extra pockets, conwenient for
stolen goods. Soon after, a strange operative in Lanky’s coat was sighted in the Holy Land, once by the stick-man on St Giles High and the other by a whore on her way to Nailer’s Lane. Just west of Nailer’s Lane, some Irish toffs contemplated lifting Lanky’s coat off the fellow, but he was gone before they ’as made up their minds to it. From there, he headed more or less in the direction of Regent’s Park, and that is all that is known.’

‘Going back a distance, you say that our man was on a roof and covered with blood, having scaled the wall with its various steel deterrents.’

‘Exactly so, Sir. Them things is like razors, you saw it yourself. He might yet die from it, I expect.’

‘Then it follows that he must have known exactly where he was going. With no refuge to be gained in a timely fashion, either he would be quickly recaptured or his body would be found in the street next morning. This much is excellent.’

‘I don’t know what is excellent about it. Even if caught, he’ll wind up in Newgate for sure, in the hole, out of communication.’

‘Forget your Sorrowful Lamentation, Mr Owler. Now you can have a half-interest in a far more propitious story than the self-pity of a condemned man.’

‘With respect, Mr Whitty, half of naught comes to naught, is my calculation.’

‘You are sinking into despair, Sir. I have a medicament that tones the system wonderfully.’

‘Just the tea and gin for me does fine.’

‘Take some more, then. When did you avail yourself of what you call the ‘full particulars’ of the escape?’

Owler gratefully pours another splash of gin in his tea. ‘It was known within the hour, I should think. Blind Dalton came to me with it by dawn, and all St Giles was a-buzz of it by nine. I left my girls to ascertain the way of it further, then walked directly to where we now sits.’

‘How did it come about that you knew where to find me?’

‘The coster at Fleet Street heard you give directions to your cabman. As a party seasoned to the city you must surely be aware that nothing is said aloud but has more than two ears to hear it.’

‘The ears of ratters among them, I should imagine.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir.’

‘All the better for you,’ replies the correspondent, squirming uncomfortably in his chair.

BOOK: The Fiend in Human

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