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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

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The Falcon
Algernon Sala is a frayed man, his spirits having fallen prey to metal fatigue, the result of trying to reconcile divergent and competing objectives over and over again. Caught forever in the tentacles of administration, Sala now lives in hope that Whitty will revive, however briefly and tenuously, the Editor’s position with the little shites.
For this reason, Sala has not grasped his friend by the collar and thrown him out the window for having reduced him to this state. As well, he is disturbed by his friend’s deteriorated appearance – the result
of a descent down a dreary vortex of drink and debt and pot-house dissipation.
‘Have you had lunch, Edmund?’
‘I never eat it. You know I hate lunch.’
‘Great mistake, that. One should eat whenever one can.’
‘Who was it said that lunch is an insult to breakfast and an injury to dinner?’
‘A confounded fool. I hate fellows who talk in epigrams. What the devil did you do to your finger?’
‘I thrust it where it was not welcome.’
‘No need to pursue the subject further. Cigar, old chap?’
‘Kind of you, Algernon, but I prefer one of my own.’
Whitty is in good spirits, having treated the effects of his injuries with a few drops of laudanum, for the ribs pain him. To offset the languor, he applies a lucifer to one of his cigarets.
‘You for one should avoid the smoking habit altogether, Edmund. I have seen corpses with a more salubrious aspect.’
‘Nothing that modern medicine cannot cure. Took a bit of a thrashing is all.’
Both men have understated the case. To enable Whitty to rise from his bed, Dr. Gough, in his wisdom, strapped the correspondent’s ribs in a kind of corset, as a result of which the patient cannot breathe properly and is easily made faint. Hence the application of new medicaments, the effects of which have lent him a gaunt, poetic, rather Keatsian mien …
‘Still with us, Edmund?’
‘Fit as a fiddle, Algy.’
‘Are you saying that because our man is a thief, it follows that he is not a murderer?’
‘Don’t be absurd. Of course he could be both. However, other facts will soon emerge.’
Maddeningly, Whitty places one forefinger beside his nose.
‘This is what troubles me, Edmund. What we seem to have here is a bubble inflated by an absence. As Dinsmore once suggested, you are like a man who borrows money from one account to the next, so that no banker becomes alert to the fact that there was no money to begin with.’
‘I say, Algy, that is very hard.’
‘Tell me, is
The Falcon
commissioning an investigation, a documentation, or a polemic? And if you call it poetry, Sir, I shall never speak to you again.’
‘An excellent question: How many facts are required to make a thing true, and in what order? I have given you the truth of cause-and-effect – and the effect is standing before you. A casual reader is not generally inspired to break the bones of a correspondent over a work of fiction.’
‘Agreed, Edmund. Excepting that cause-and-effect has inspired you to implicate the police, the aristocracy, as well as officers of the fecking City. Why stop there? Why not the Prince Consort? Or do you intend to mount a broad attack against Established Order in general, like a bloody Frenchman?’
‘I beg you to rest assured that my thinking reflects nothing remotely French. But who knows, Algy? The investigation is at a delicate stage. What can we know for certain in life?’
‘If you bring Bishop bloody Berkeley into the discussion you will get a fist in the belly.’
‘Mr Whitty is venting nothing but wind,’ says Dinsmore, his little plump hands folded before him. ‘If I were you, Algernon, I should compose an ignominious retraction for later use.’
‘Shut up, Dinsmore. Shut your fecking trap.’
‘Very gracious, I’m sure.’
Watching from behind the vacant desk of an absent sub-editor, Whitty notes how, in the interval since he last visited the office, Dinsmore seems to have acquired an air of increased strength at the Editor’s expense. Given that the sub-editor has made no secret of his disdain for his immediate superior, and given Dinsmore’s seeming
companionability with Mr Lemon, is it any wonder that the Editor is not getting his health?
In the meanwhile, bent over his desk as though against a heavy wind, Sala secures his monocle, lights a fresh cigar, and examines once again the correspondent’s collage of observation and innuendo.
‘Not a shred of this would pass in court, you know.’
‘I was unaware that we were working for the Chancery.’
Comments Dinsmore: ‘Edmund appears to have accorded the status of fact to an alcoholic hallucination. By the way, the piece reads like a translation – is it a crib from the French?’
‘No more French than your masseur at the baths, Mr Dinsmore.’
‘Haw!’
Though uncertain what he meant by that last cut, Whitty is pleased that it amused the Editor. A vague recollection inspired his mouth to move: anything for a defence. Which motto –
Keep them Startled and Brass it Out —
might appear on the Whitty family crest: a mouth rampant on a field of brass balls.
‘Algernon, allow me to sum up the narrative as it has unfolded thus far: other than William Ryan – and the question of his guilt or innocence for the murders of Chokee Bill — who is the principal character in the drama? Through whose eyes does the reader view the world?’
‘Please out with it, Edmund. I detest riddles as much as epigrams.’
‘He is making this up as he goes along,’ comments the sub-editor.
‘The thread, Gentlemen, is your servant. Myself.’
Dinsmore groans, theatrically. ‘I am becoming nauseous. Mr Whitty’s megalomania knows no bounds.’
‘Shut up, Dinsmore,’ snaps the Editor. ‘It may be a new idea. Something outside the perimeter of your bantam mind. Pray continue, Edmund, what are you talking about?’
‘The survival of
The Falcon
, Sir.’
‘Survival, in what sense?’
‘The dailies have taken the field in an unholy alliance with the electric telegraph. You have remarked upon this many times. No man in London today opens
The Falcon
in expectation of news.’
Dinsmore groans again. ‘Might I remind you, Algernon, of the employer’s directive: ‘to render common sense to the common man.’ I do not see how Mr Whitty’s theory takes us in Mr Ingram’s direction.’
Whitty notes that the sub-editor has addressed the Editor by his Christian name twice this afternoon. And he recalls grotesque rumours
rattling about the printers – that the porcine Mr Dinsmore and the epicene Mr Lemon have entered into, if such an expression may be decently employed, a bath-house alliance, as well as a quest for dominion.
Dinsmore’s smile is of an assured victor who has decided to humour the vanquished before crushing him like a beetle.
Sala focuses upon Whitty with a desperate intensity.
‘Carry on, Edmund. Ignore the little shite.’
‘I remind you that life is, by definition, chaotic. This fact makes a correspondent necessary – one who digests facts as they appear, mulls them over and brings them forth as a coherent mass.’
‘You make it sound like a problem of the bowels, but continue.’
‘A correspondent is not a factory worker, nor a clerk, nor a dustman. He is a lightning-rod, Sir, constructed and placed to receive and to channel the prevailing current, the latest signals – to sensational effect.’
Noting the correspondent’s dilated pupils, the Editor marvels at Whitty’s ability to render plausible a viewpoint which is his alone; the narrative has drawn the Editor into a world defined by Whitty’s self-conception – an achievement not to be sniffed at. Contrary to his own judgement, the Editor is giving in.
If the little shites would pay for a secretary to record these conversations for later study, perhaps the Editor might discover how it is done.
‘Edmund, if you don’t mind I shall attempt to untangle the narrative you have put before me. First, we have the business of the scarf from Poole’s. A fine scarf – indeed, a rather popular scarf about town; an object of theft, I imagine, for every jail-cropped buzzer on Oxford Street.’
‘Possibly. However, the facts indicate otherwise.’
‘What facts?’
‘I’m in the process of stirring them up.’
‘Jesus wept, Edmund. You’re an
agent provocateur.
’
‘I beg you, Algy, to heed your own warning: when an electric telegraph is situated in every home in London, where will Londoners turn for the latest shipwreck, and the biggest turnip in Scotland? And for what will they require a newspaper? By reporting the news,
The Falcon
dooms itself. To survive,
The Falcon
must
be
the news.’
Like any worker on the front lines of an institution, Whitty fails to fully appreciate the underlying strength of his position, based on the fact that no editor truly wishes to know how little anybody knows for
certain. The thought that a substantial investment rests on such a precariously shifting foundation does nothing for investor confidence – to say nothing of the little shites.
‘You should be in politics, Edmund. Perhaps you already are.’
So says the Editor, having been drawn disastrously into a general discussion of journalism, which subject cannot but advantage the correspondent. Trained by hours of gin-soaked debate, such questions are mother’s milk to men such as Whitty.
Situated at his desk behind an opened newspaper, Dinsmore permits himself a small smile. Mr Ingram will appreciate this.
The Grove of the Evangelist
‘Good evening, Sir. And how may I be of service?’
The Caribbean footman, neither sympathetic nor unsympathetic, steps aside, allowing the correspondent to enter the foyer. As a born Englishman, Whitty shudders at the inscrutability of the man, who, for aught he knows, would as soon tear out his throat as take his coat.
‘Edmund Whitty of
The Falcon,
at the invitation of Mrs Marlowe.’
‘Very good, Sir. I shall enquire if she is in.’
The correspondent does not have to tarry long. In a moment he is whisked into the sitting-room, where Mrs Marlowe awaits, in a dress of red satin cut to emphasize an unexpected
décolletage.
Beside her stands William Ryan, in a sober black suit, his beard trimmed and his health noticeably improved: indeed, Whitty would like to know the name of his physician.
‘Mr Ryan. I am glad to see you in improved health.’
‘I fear that I cannot return the compliment, Sir.’
‘I concede the victory. My congratulations to you.’
‘Not to me but to my dear Eliza, who has been my saviour.’
Whitty turns to Mrs Marlowe, who wears a distinctly unangelic expression upon her full lips.
‘How do you do, Madam?’
‘I am tolerably well, Sir.’ The tension, not to say malevolence, is evident. Clearly she is not pleased to see Whitty – hence, whatever is about to transpire will take place at Mr Ryan’s insistence.
‘May I be so bold as to conclude that a decision has been made on the subject of our previous meeting?’
‘You may, Sir, and it has. It is my intention to surrender myself to the police and to accept your offer – which I assume to have been an honourable one.’
Excellent.
‘If I may be candid, Mr Ryan: While my offer stands, it contains no guarantee against the gallows.’
‘I am ready for the gallows, Sir, if that is my fate.’
Whitty is momentarily nonplussed at such a sentiment expressed by
one of his ilk. Has he misrepresented the man as a scoundrel? How easily is an opinion dislodged by an incidental remark!
The pause which follows is broken unexpectedly by Mrs Marlowe: ‘Mr Ryan read of another atrocity in the pages of
The Falcon.
It altered the cast of his intentions.’
‘I believe I am the author of that report, Madam.’
‘Indeed, and I believe it was written to achieve exactly this sentiment in Mr Ryan. Sir, you display admirable cunning.’
‘You do me too much honour, Madam.’
William Ryan shakes his handsome head, sadly amused. ‘Mrs Marlowe and I are of two minds about you, Mr Whitty.’
‘Indeed, Sir. I am of two minds about myself.’
‘Mr Whitty, when last we met you advanced a telling argument – that my escape serves as a mask for the Fiend. I cannot in conscience run away, physically or morally, and leave such a legacy behind. I must see the thing through. I pushed the thought aside for a time. But then came …’
‘Then came news of another,’ says Mrs Marlowe with unusual bitterness. ‘You timed it perfectly.’
‘A sixth woman dead in the most beastly fashion.’ Ryan’s face struggles for composure. ‘Why are you not laughing, Sir? Do you not see the humour in my position? An innocent man stands convicted of murder – yet the longer he asserts his innocence, the more women will die. While free, he becomes a murderer’s accomplice – and freedom becomes a crime.’
Mrs Marlowe speaks with undisguised bitterness: ‘Whatever his past, my husband-to-be is a man of integrity, Mr Whitty. You have seen this, and have used it against him, and in so doing have overpowered a woman’s love. I congratulate you, Sir. Now you may reap your reward.’
RYAN SURRENDERS, ELOQUENTLY PROCLAIMS
INNOCENCE
Correspondent Vindicated, Denounces Metropolitan Police
by
Alfred Hicks, correspondent
Lloyd’s Weekly
The eleven o’clock chime at St Sepulchre’s on Wednesday serenaded an unusual throng of journalists gathered together before the massive, solemn entrance to Newgate Prison – fewer in number, it is true, than the
thousands who arrive of a Monday morning to witness a hanging, and yet representing thousands of readers all over the Realm – of
The Times
, the
Telegraph, The Illustrated London News
,
Lloyd’s,
down to the most scabrous weekly in Scotland, who wish to understand the event, to know more about the subject than an Aberdeen crofter.
No less empty, in its vacant portentousness, was the presence of Under-Inspector Salmon of the Metropolitan Police, presiding over the ritual of an arrest, with a battery of uniformed constables ready to join the choir.
Resentments and rivalries temporarily put aside, this diverse assemblage of press and police, of comment and custody, maintained an easy familiarity; normal distinctions of rank and protocol having been o’ertaken by a universal satisfaction in the event to come – to wit, the final denouement of a narrative which has throttled the public interest for months, and is certain to provide crisp copy, an enhanced reputation and a generous stipend.
None of these august gentlemen can maintain a non-partisan spirit, having so much to gain from the result. In this regard, a log of the company present revealed that detractors of Mr Whitty’s claim outnumbered any other opinion by a factor of fifty to one: a not indefensible position, given the spotty reputation of the gentleman at whose summons the gathering has taken place; for Mr Whitty has conducted surely the most visibly chequered career of any journalist in London.
Indeed, so unanimous and emphatic was the general opinion, it seemed to your servant that this Wednesday group betrayed a sentiment not unadjacent to their Monday morning counterparts; in eager anticipation of another sort of hanging – that of a fellow correspondent, hoisted upon his own petard.
In the role of Mr Calcraft was Mr Fraser of
Dodd’s,
whose evident glee crossed that boundary which separates good cheer from bad taste – especially in one who has everything to gain from his rival’s humiliation. Mr Fraser’s morbid enthusiasm proved infectious among his colleagues to an unattractive degree. Following deliveries of refreshment from the nearby Saracen’s Head Inn, and in a conspicuous lapse of objectivity, the correspondent for
Dodd’s
was heard to join Mr Bogg of the
Monthly Packet
and Mr Whidden of the
Dundee Evening Examiner
in a disgraceful chorus of
O My! O
My! I think I’ve Got to Die!
Disgraceful — and well beneath the standards of
Lloyd’s,
where we keep an open mind.
At last St Sepulchre sounded eleven, and hardly had the last chime echoed when up from Smithfield Market approached our protagonists (in a carriage driven by a Negro), the appearance of which was greeted with a coarse cheer of dubious welcome.
The coach having come to a smart halt before them, our men of the press produced pencils, notebooks and cigars, together with expressions
of miscellaneous concern, while Mr Salmon descended the steps with his retinue:
‘Gentlemen, I am Under-Inspector Salmon of the Metropolitan Police. I respectfully direct you to step forward where we may see you. Furthermore, I advise you to refrain from suspicious movement …’ Here the under-inspector trailed to a halt, in mid-sentence, having lost his drift, his statement having no purpose other than as newsprint.
I leave you to imagine, Dear Reader, the gasp of astonishment, the choking hack of poorly inhaled cigar smoke followed by a cadaverous silence, as the Negro hopped from his perch, with all the nimbleness of his race, opened the carriage door – and our two protagonists stepped down.
First came Whitty of
The Falcon
, wearing a light blue coat, fawn trousers and an aspect of adamant, dry defiance:
‘Good morning, Inspector. And a good morning to you, Gentlemen. My friend and I are honoured to have piqued your interest.’
So saying, the correspondent stepped onto the street while turning gracefully to the carriage door, from which aperture, wearing a sombre black suit and an aspect of forbearance, came Mr William Ryan, the fugitive known as Chokee Bill.
In the description of such a scene,
Lloyd’s
regrets not having engaged Mr Dickens.
As the constables dutifully stepped forward to make fast their captive, pandemonium erupted among the correspondents on the square, with Newgate’s relentless stone wall in the background, its forlorn expanse broken only by grated windows and recessed statuary. Were these scuttling gentlemen viewed from above, they would have resembled the spectacle of a stone thrown upon an anthill — an undignified scramble for personal advantage, while the most prominent journalists in London desperately revised their positions, retroactively, of course. Suddenly each and every correspondent, thinking back on Whitty’s case, discovered himself to have viewed the Ryan trial all along with the utmost scepticism. Indeed, were it not for vague and sinister pressures from on high, these worthy men would have given voice to their thoughts long ago.
Thus do a pack of hyenas recast themselves as lone wolves, howling at the moon, each a lonely voice in the crowd.
Amid this visibly shifting atmosphere, the gentleman from
Dodd’s
and the under-inspector for the Metropolitan Police grew visibly uneasy. Sensing an unwelcome scrutiny, they became wary and skittish and gloomy, like workmen in a tunnel who hear the distant sound of rushing water. For surely it is evident that, should the reputation of the correspondent soar to the heavens, so will the reputations of Mr Salmon and Mr Fraser plummet to the floor.
And make no mistake: the gentlemen of the press smelled blood. Where
one might have expected the notorious Mr Ryan and the victorious Mr Whitty to have dominated the scene, our recent arrivals found themselves curiously relegated to the position of spectators, while the relentless eye of the Fourth Estate turned its implacable gaze upon their accusers, now ripe for evisceration.
In replying to Mr Whitty’s analysis of the case, Mr Salmon attempted a lame defence, which crumpled like a meringue under close questioning:
Mr Hicks of Lloyd’s:
‘May I ask, Sir, what measures have been taken by your office in view of recent revelations in the Chokee Bill affair? Have you lost the scent?’
Mr Salmon
: ‘Sir, I assure the public that we have taken recent events most seriously, and that enquiries are ongoing.’
Mr Hicks:
‘By “ongoing”, Sir, are we to understand that you are in doubt as to Mr Ryan’s guilt of the crime for which he has been condemned to death?’
Correspondents:
‘Hear, hear!’
Mr Salmon:
‘I am not prepared to say.’
Correspondents
: ‘Shame! Shame!’
For his part, the Scotsman from
Dodd’s —
who, in a prematurely celebratory frame of mind, had partaken of a quantity of gin – seemed at a loss to make a case for himself in any language.
At which juncture did Edmund Whitty, the actor-manager behind this entire opus, lift one gloved hand for silence – which action caused the general uproar to cease and the gentlemen of the press to take up their pencils once again in the expectation of crisp copy.
Surprisingly, the gentleman from
The Falcon
refrained from his usual false bravado. On the contrary, he seemed almost diffident; when he spoke it was as a man humbled by the events in which he had played a part — and by the courage of the man standing beside him. Let it suffice to say that this was an unfamiliar Edmund Whitty before us today, a man with a newly discovered sense of purpose and destiny.
After him spoke William Ryan and, in deference to journalistic veracity, I shall here reproduce the text, delivered extemporaneously and transcribed via the miracle of short-hand by your servant, for you, Dear Reader, to judge at your leisure:
‘Mr Salmon and distinguished members of the Press:
‘It is not often a man has the opportunity of speaking to such a redoubtable gathering – especially a man born in an orphanage, the whelp of a fallen woman, whose profligacy set him upon a downhill journey to the lowest flesh-pots of London. I do not claim myself as victim, nor do I undertake to defend my actions, which have been of the lowest kind – short, I say to you, of murder. Of that one crime I am innocent, even if ‘innocent’ may seem scarcely the term to apply in my case.
‘But if innocent, why did I escape? For every Englishman knows that
there is no honour in flight. Gentlemen, my answer to you consists of one word: Despair. Of British justice. Of God. Of life itself. I invite you to pass judgement, you who have passed time in a death cell.’
‘It took Mr Whitty to set me right. He has been an inspiration to me, and I should not be here but for him. Mr Whitty gave me to understand that what is at risk goes beyond the hanging of an innocent man. What is at risk is nothing short of the truth, Gentlemen – and the lives of defenceless women, who, however low they may have fallen, deserve our protection …’
Your obedient servant was unable to record the remainder, obscured by the din of sycophantic cheers.

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