Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

The Fiend in Human (31 page)

BOOK: The Fiend in Human

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The Crown

Undefeated but once in his fighting career, Stunning Joe Banks is one of a few retired pugilists in England who actually prospered from the craft. Moreover, in becoming a publican he shrewdly chose the one social arena which affords continued value – both to his former glory, and to the skills which he acquired in the process: while the Crown plays host to many a bully-boy, the most vicious tout in Britain turns diffident as a schoolboy when facing the disapproval of Stunning Joe Banks.

Despite the damage wrought by bare fists hardened in brine (which seems not to have affected his mind), Stunning Joe cuts an exquisite figure: situated behind the bar of French-polished mahogany, in a tailored lavender coat, tweed trousers and a silk neck-cloth, the publican glows as a living monument, a symbol of British pluck.

When he speaks, which is seldom, a strangled whisper issues forth – the result of a bare fist to the Adam’s-apple courtesy of Sweeny in ’44 – and yet all listen, such being the latent power of an ugly, silent, well-dressed man with a reputation.

‘The young lady before the pillar?’ he whispers into the barkeeper’s ear.

‘Indeed, Sir,’ replies the barkeeper. ‘A comely little piece. Drinks every penny she earns. Singularly well-favoured, however.’

‘And her escort?’

‘Oxford, by the accent, or pretends to be. Jolly taken with her to the tune of three gins and a twelve-shilling bottle of Moselle.’

‘A glass of the best gin and peppermint for the lady, Basil, and another for the gentleman. Later we will take the prospect aside and acquaint her with the advantages of a room upstairs. That it is safer, if this is the road she has chosen.’

The barkeeper nods agreement, drawing a cup of ‘The Out-and-Out’. Indeed, the young lady will fill out the dance floor nicely, beside Miss Fowler with the beautiful leg, the Amazonian Miss Bolton, and the singularly genteel Miss Parks – who, for an extra pound, is capable of the most uncommon exertions …

It is the proprietor’s judgement of horseflesh that enables such a
varied, spirited, profitable gathering to occur of an evening, beneath the gasoliers and the stucco rosettes.

No Peeler can vouch for one’s safety in the streets – whether it be from the thieving Irish, who will strip a clerk naked and throw him in a cess-pit; or the well-born, upper-class beast who wanders the streets with his friends, provoking fights with the lower orders; or the touts who break heads and molest women of all ages; or the roving bands of cruel children, who are the worst of all …

Within these walls, ladies and gentlemen of all classes seek their business and pleasure in a state of truce.

Unaware of her recruitment as a prospective associate under the protection of the establishment, Dorcas accompanies her escort past the dancing couples, across the floor, and out the door, just as the barkeeper was preparing to bring glasses to their table.

Thinks the barkeeper: An opportunity lost. But not to worry. He will draw the little fox aside when she comes in tomorrow, white with morning sickness, and she will be pleased by the offer of a free gin.

Plant’s Inn

No English journalist exists who does not long for the pamphlet wars of the last century, when a correspondent was truly relevant to the business of the nation: not, as obtains in the modern era, as a salesman for watches and corsets and the latest cure. Who does not wish to hold forth in the days of the Old Jewry, jousting with the emerging vocabulary of methods and ideals: Liberal, Conservative, Socialist, Capitalist, Anarchist, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity: juicy, chewy, portentous words, like fatty cuisine and a legacy of the bloody French.

Oh, for the days of Burke, Priestley, and Macintosh, who coined the term ‘counter-revolutionary’, and lived to see it in the dictionary! Oh for the days when scribblers were philosophers!

Whether or not Whitty’s current campaign will achieve its purpose in gathering support for a reassessment of the Ryan case, sufficient to the day that it has redeemed both the reputation and the marketability of its author. The latest issue of
The Falcon
has already outsold its predecessor; circulation can only increase as readers eagerly devour the narrative from one issue to the next. As for Mr Owler, the patterer’s first-hand acquaintance with a sensational case will assure the popularity of any number of revelations and lamentations.

Content for the moment, the Captain – having received Whitty’s stipend – assured him by return mail of a period of grace from the visits of Will, Norman and their little friend Rodney. His creditor denies having been party to Whitty’s thrashing – which supports the correspondent’s hitherto flimsy assumption that the attack in the blue (or black) carriage occurred as a consequence of his investigative activities.

There is nothing like an unseen enemy to hone the mind: in past days, the correspondent has partaken neither of stimulants nor depressants, neither of emulsions nor amalgams, hypnotics nor narcotics, anaesthetics nor beneficial smokes. Only the occasional gin, administered to calm the nerves, sullies the purity of his rubbery vessels and veins.

Holding a handkerchief to his face to ward off the poisonous, opaque fog (it is barely mid-afternoon), Whitty swings into Plant’s, his entrance announced by the little brass bell over the door; whereupon he
perceives the babble within to decline precipitously and many eyes to turn – first in his direction, then to the rear snug, then to one another.

The degree of Whitty’s success is apparent.

Among his colleagues, with the possible exception of Mr Hicks the contrarian (who, it is said, keeps beetles in his pockets), Whitty is the most despised correspondent in London.

Excellent.

Regard the dark portentousness on Cobb’s flushed countenance, the knowing cynicism of Brewster. Regard Stubbs, Beresford, Mellon: of this spiteful congregation, Fraser has now appointed himself Pastor. And behold: there he stands in the doorway to the rear snug, a glass of gin in hand, a glitter of madness in the eye, displaying his little teeth in what passes for a smile.

‘Whitty, my good man. Lovely to see you, old chap.’

‘And yourself, Alasdair. How have you been keeping?’

‘Top drawer, I should say. And I trust you prosper?’

‘Flush with the bloom of capital and collateral.’

‘Excellent. And no wonder, with the smashing narrative you have going. I expect they are ecstatic at
The Falcon.’

‘It was not without assistance, I assure you. For instance, I had the opposition of a spoiler from
Dodd’s
. Can’t do without drama, old boy.’

Fraser absorbs this crack with that Celtic ability to think sharply while unable to walk in a straight line. ‘Taken altogether, Edmund, the narrative has a new lease on life, I should think.’

‘The game is not over, Alasdair. Plenty of turns to come.’

‘Quite.’

The collegial, ironic pleasantries continue, with the heads of Cobb, Hicks and the rest wagging back and forth, nostrils quivering for a killing shot, an artful parry. Of which there will be neither: having prepared a gin and water, the barkeeper lifts an eyebrow to the correspondent for a brief word.

‘A constable from the Peelers came to see you moments ago, Sir. Name of Mr Wells. Left word that that there has been ‘another of the same’, as he called it. Situated off the Ratcliffe Highway, on Cannon Street Road. The gentleman intimated as how you would understand.’

‘Thank you, Humphrey. Although it is a stale, trivial bit of material, it might result in a line or two.’

Thinks Whitty: This can only mean one thing, given the location.
Capital
.

Cannon Street Road

Her murderer, once he was done with her, deposited the body, dumped it rather, in a field situated in between the London Hospital for Seamen, Watermen and Dock Labourers, and the Whitechapel Mount – a Brobdingnagian dust pile dating back to the Civil War. Clearly her murderer chose the site with an eye to facility of disposal and unlikelihood of observation. Perhaps he paused here to spend extra time with her, for she has been mutilated with more than the usual savagery, as though Dorcas merited special treatment.

Primed by the reputation of the Ratcliffe Highway (the site of, among other enormities, the infamous Walker murders), interested citizens began to appear from all over, as soon as the corpse was discovered and reported by a muck snipe in a scavenger’s tent. Eager spectators arrived from Stepney and Whitechapel, then from more distant parts as word spread – like a ripple in a pond, thanks to a little-understood phenomenon known as a
chaunt.

It was only a matter of an hour before the chaunt reached the ears of Phoebe Owler.

Having made the journey to Whitechapel on foot, she works her way sideways through a kind of maze made up of the tightly packed bodies of men, stinking of sweat and tobacco and wet wool. As she squeezes through, anonymous hands grasp and feel her until she wants to scream.

Strangely, when she sees Dorcas, and what has been done to her, she does not scream …

She is lying down. For how long? Cold stone hurts her cheek. She is on the ground. Someone is poking her with a stick. Before her, the heavy boots and blue coat-tails of a Peeler.

‘Now then, Miss. Are you in need of assistance?’

She rises to a partially seated position – carefully, for she is dizzy. Her head and right shoulder throb where she hit the stones. What was it that made her faint so?

She sees the blanket on the ground – a horse-rug spread across the stones, with something under it. A foot and a hand protruding. And now she knows. By reaching out and leaning forward she can touch the
lifeless hand. Now she knows what lies under the rug and remembers what she saw …

‘Wake up, Miss. You can’t just keep falling over. This is no place to sleep.’

Someone is crying, in great, gasping sobs.

‘Knew the victim, did you? Pity you had to see that. Sit over there and keep warm. And stay back from that thing, Miss, you don’t need to see it again.’

So saying, Mr Chesney turns to address several onlookers: ‘Gentlemen, show some human feeling if you please. Step back and make room so that this young lady may breathe. She has, as you can see, sustained a bad shock to the system.’ With a Peeler’s tone of authority he forces the crowd to retract somewhat, though they are certain to inch forward to their former position the moment his back is turned.

Thinks Chesney: Where in bloody London is Wells?

Whitty alights from the cab at the corner – gingerly, to avoid the pain that accompanies sudden movement. Mr Wells awaits, as agreed, at the kiosk north of the intersection. (With informants, clarity and reliability are essential.)

‘Excellent, Mr Wells. Good to see you. Good of you to inform me of this new development.’

‘As agreed, Sir, for I am a plain man with children to feed.’

‘Well done. Here’s a crown for you.’

‘Be so good as to slip it into the left coat pocket, Sir, while looking in another direction.’

‘I trust you’ve given the situation the benefit of your experienced eye?’

‘I have indeed. All consistent, Sir, a procession of familiar object. The scarf was twisted for slow strangulation. A silk scarf from Henry Poole’s.’

‘Are you certain, Mr Wells? Are you certain it was from Poole’s?’

‘Do you suggest that I cannot read the label on a scarf?’

‘I mean no such thing.’

‘It is not as if I did not see Chokee Bill’s work before this. Though for the first five I was off-duty.’

‘Mr Wells, you are a stalwart ally and the press salutes the good that you do.’

‘I hope it is good, Sir. I have a daughter of fifteen.’

The crowd thickens as they approach Whitechapel Mount, then
peters out as they reach the site, having wearied of the spectacle and craving a drink. Even front row spectators have turned away from the horse-blanket and what lies beneath.

Having examined the corpse, Under-Inspector Salmon, a lean, black column bent double, tosses the horse-rug back in place and straightens to full height. He replaces his top hat – which he removed, not out of respect for the dead, but against the chance of its falling into the dirt.

Salmon notes Whitty’s presence with neither surprise nor pleasure.

‘Good-day, Under-Inspector. Such a relief to see that you are conducting enquiries. It appears as though you have another scarf to give away.’

The under-inspector’s mouth forms a lipless line. Whitty notices for the first time that he has no eyebrows.

‘Good-day, Mr Whitty. There has been a murder, as you see.’

‘Indeed, Policeman. Seven murders. Five plus two. On this occasion, I trust that you can accept the notion that William Ryan may be otherwise occupied.’

‘I take your point, Sir. Yet this does not disprove him of any of the others.’

‘You leave out of account, Sir, the existence of a scarf with a specific label.’

‘Thanks to you, Mr Whitty, scarves from Henry Poole’s are familiar to anyone in London. With such a cover, I should be surprised if a garrotter used anything else.’

‘For this you blame the press, Sir?’

‘Do we blame a hyena for chewing dead meat?’

‘You have supplied
The Falcon
with crisp copy, and we thank you for it.’ Whitty is about to add something scathing, when he notes that the under-inspector’s attention has shifted to someone else, someone immediately behind him …

How long has she been standing near the blanket on the ground, watching and listening with that peculiar expression on her face?

The deuce
.

‘Crisp copy is it, Mr Whitty? Otherwise you should not be here, wallowing among us lower orders. How much you care! And Mr Policeman – the both of you. What bloodsuckers!’ Phoebe wheels about and disappears into the crowd. Whitty lunges forward to detain her, but is immediately prostrate with the pain in the chest.

‘You seem sadly out of condition, Sir. Who was that young judy – an acquaintance of yours?’ Salmon views Whitty’s discomfiture with bitter
satisfaction, a small recompense for the trouble which must be dealt with as a result of this. ‘I see that in speaking to the debauchery of the lower orders, you write from experience.’

The correspondent does not reply, being occupied with getting sufficient air.

‘On reflection, I am not surprised, Mr Whitty,’ continues the under-inspector, ‘that a notable such as yourself might run in such company as that thing under the blanket.’

With difficulty the correspondent turns to the horse-rug, drops to one knee and lifts up the corner, so that he can see.

And now he knows.

BOOK: The Fiend in Human

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