The Vice Society (18 page)

The giant Negro escorted Mr Williamson back into the rush of Temple Bar and returned to the room.

‘What do you think, Ben?’ said Noah Dyson.

Benjamin replied with a prolonged series of complicated hand movements: a language of sorts that the two of them had created to compensate for Benjamin’s aglossal state. He ‘spoke’ thus for some time, his fleshy palms describing shapes, words and occurrences in a splendid dumb-show that had Noah variously nodding and cogitating upon the dexterous monologue.

No doubt, as dusk crept over the city, pedestrians looked up at those usually dark windows and wondered at the flickering candlelight within, creating their own tales to populate the unknown realm. Was it the bankers at work over their ledgers? Was it conspirators plotting the downfall of the capital? Or was it a murderer at work, going about his grisly task in full view of the world?

The truth about Noah Dyson, however, was stranger than any story that might have been created to explain him. We will find out more in good time, but perchance the reader would like to know that not so very long ago he had been a prisoner of the Detective Force: suspected of being (but not proven to be) a cracksman – a master thief. Compelled under threat of trial and possible hanging to work with Mr Williamson in the pursuit of a dangerous incendiary, he had contributed towards a case that veritably set the city alight with scandal. That, however, is quite a different story.

TWELVE

Six days had passed since Mr Sampson had fallen from that Holywell-street window. Today two more would be killed.

It was still dark when Mrs Colliver left her house at five o’clock that morning. The streets were crisp with frost and the city as darkly silent as a cemetery. There was a cab at the stand outside her premises and she had travelled east through Temple Bar, along Fleet-street, up Ludgate-hill, past the cathedral, down Watling-street and south to Upper-Thames-street. No doubt the London reader will have already guessed the rest of her route: further east until she was beneath the blackened column of the Monument, then south to the shore of the river and Billingsgate fish market.

As ever, it was a striking place on that dark winter morning: the leaping gas flares animating all beneath their pale and sickly light; the roaring, ruddy-cheeked vendors; the thicket of masts by the wharf; the scores of servants seeking the best prices; and the fish itself – a silvery slick-slithering array of turbot, sole, plaice, mackerel, eels, salmon and sundry monstrosities of the deep.

With her basket in hand and her woollen shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders, Mrs Colliver had entered the market with some trepidation. She was not there to buy fish, but to meet someone.

‘Best ’Olland eels, get ’em fresh!’ ‘Scots salmon just harrived from the ’Ighlands!’ ‘’Astings mackerel caught this very mornin’.’ Our lady paid no heed to these shouts. She was looking for the same man who had hit her head with his truncheon that morning six days before when Mr Sampson had fallen – the same man who had rushed from the premises and apparently not been seen again. In her basket, tightly folded, was the note he had sent her the previous evening:

Naturally, she was afraid. Certainly, she had more reason to be afraid of him than of being investigated by the Detective Force, whose worst threat was gaol and whose power was nothing compared to this man and his friends: the power of murder.

She spent a few minutes perfunctorily examining the scaly wares, casting looks around her for anyone who might have followed. Only when she felt that was making a spectacle of herself did she walk from the stalls to the edge of the wharf, where the reek of the boats and the foetid water was at its greatest. Porters hurried to and fro along gangplanks and she had to step aside to avoid being knocked into the river.

Where was he? She cast a glance along to where the throng of vessels petered out into almost impenetrable blackness. All was shadow there: just the suck of the water against pilings and the creak of hulls . . . then a figure, loitering. The silhouette of a workman’s cap was just discernible against the water’s surface.

‘I thought for a moment that you would not come,’ said the gentleman as she crunched over frozen puddles towards him. It was not only the chill that set her limbs a-quiver.

The voice was too cultured to be any common river man. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the attire – a rough pea coat and heavy boots – was also quite at odds with the voice.

‘No, sir. I am here.’

He took her arm and led her further away from the wharf to an even deeper night, where the river slapped unseen against steps.

‘I said nothing to anyone,’ said Mrs Colliver, her breath steaming about her.

‘The police have spoken to you, have they not?’

‘Yes, but I said nothing.’

‘Did they see your head?’

‘No . . . yes. I said I fell. They believed me.’

‘I see. What else did they ask you?’

‘About that night. I said I was asleep. I saw nothing. I heard nothing.’

‘They asked you about glasses that had been used for sherry.’

‘Yes . . . but how did you know?’

No matter how. What did you answer?’

‘I said the glasses were not mine. I said nothing to cause you trouble, sir.’

They were standing in almost total darkness next to a muddy bank. The river was an expanse of dark, swirling glass.

‘Watch your step there, Mrs Colliver. The ground is littered hereabouts with rope and chain.’

‘I swear I said nothing. They could never find you. I would die before I would give you up. I just want to run my coffee house and rooms. I don’t want any trouble. Won’t you say that you will leave me alone now? The matter is over now . . .’

‘You are blathering, Mrs Colliver.’

‘Why did you ask me here? What have you to tell me? What do you want with me? My shoes will be ruined.’

He did not answer. Rather, he brought down the truncheon on the top of her head. She grunted and fell to her knees, supporting herself upon one hand in the dirt.

He struck again, directed more by sound than by sight, and imagined the blood blossom black upon her bonnet. She fell face down into the riverside mire and was still. He looked around, saw nobody, and wrapped a length of heavy chain around her middle, cursing as the cold mud seeped into his gloves. Then, checking once more that he had not been seen, he rolled the body down the stairs with his foot so that it toppled head-first into the river and disappeared below the surface – just another soul swallowed by that ceaseless Styx.

Later the same day, Inspector Newsome was in his office at Scotland Yard with his secret vice ledger before him on the desk. The foregoing days’ bulletins from constables around the city had been entered by his clerk and he was scanning the entries for anything of particular interest.

Apart from a noisy squabble at a place in Holborn, where gentlemen of a curious letch were encouraged to dress as ladies, there seemed little of note. Indeed, he was about to close the book with a sorry shake of the head when the most recent entry caught his eye. At first, he thought he was mistaken, but the name was quite clear. So unexpected was the revelation that an involuntary laugh escaped him:

Curious indeed. There could be no question of the constable mistaking the client in this case. Such street encounters were not generally reported unless the gentleman was of note – and many of the constables knew the ex-detective by sight or by description. The mystery of the matter was that it was utterly inconceivable to Mr Newsome that his old colleague would ever engage in such an act. Unless . . .

One possible conclusion immediately suggested itself: Mr Williamson was investigating a case. It seemed unlikely to be anything concerning the Mendicity Society, for there was little reason to accompany the girl to her rooms when she could have been questioned just as easily in the street (or during daylight hours by two men to avoid accusation of impropriety). Besides, the latest rumour was that Mr Williamson had been absent from the Society for some days with an unspecified illness.

Despite cogitating upon the matter for some minutes, the inspector was unable to think of any reason for the odd behaviour of that most moral of men. And the lack of an explanation was a potent irritant to him – such an irritant, indeed, that he decided to send a man to that address at Golden-square and question the girl Mary (or Madeline or Charlotte) on what had been discussed. Wherever Mr Williamson was involved, there was very likely a crime – one to be claimed and solved by the Metropolitan Police.

A discreet cough from the clerk’s office interrupted such musings and told the inspector that Sir Richard was now in his office to receive his regular bulletin. Mr Newsome closed the ledger and handed it to the clerk before heading two doors down the corridor to the office of his superior.

He was about to knock when he heard voices inside: Sir Richard’s, and another he did not recognize. Debating for a moment whether he should enter, he leaned closer to the door to catch a detail . . . and the conversation inside stopped.

‘Enter!’ called Sir Richard.

Inspector Newsome entered, rather embarrassed at the idea that his eavesdropping had been detected. ‘Sir – I was just about to enter.’

‘So I gather. Our guest here alerted me to your presence, though I admit I heard nothing. He has the keenest hearing of any man I have met. May I introduce you to Mr Eusebius Bean, a representative of the Society for the Suppression of Vice.’

The inspector took Eusebius’s lifeless hand in his own and could not hide an expression of distaste at the quality of the greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

‘Be seated, Inspector. Eusebius has joined us on the recommendation of . . . of a senior member of the Society. He will be aiding you in your investigation.’

‘Sir?’

‘Now, I want none of your insolence, Inspector.’

‘The Detective Force is quite able to investigate the case on—’

‘I said that the gentleman will be aiding you.’

‘Could you tell me, sir, on what basis the “gentleman” will be aiding me? I am sure, as you say, that he has hearing to challenge a dog, but does he have any police experience? Any investigative experience?’

‘Eusebius is an agent of the Society. He is quite used to an investigative role.’

‘Ah. A spy.’

‘Inspector – this is not a request. I am taking Constable Cullen off the case – he has proved to be quite inadequate to the task, as you know well enough. In his place, Eusebius Bean will work with you. He knows the streets of London as well as any beat constable – perhaps better – and he is acquainted with many of the chief suspects in cases of vice.’

‘I am certain he is.’

‘He may see patterns in your investigation that you have not seen. He may be able to provide aid from the generous benefactors of that Society.’

‘The law and its application is the only pattern I follow.’

‘Eusebius – I am so very sorry for the inspector’s behaviour. Would you mind leaving us alone for a moment? You may have a cup of tea in the room there.’

Sir Richard rang a small brass hand bell on his desk and a clerk appeared at a connecting door. Eusebius rose without expression and accompanied the clerk into the room beyond. The door closed.

‘Do you not think that I am thinking exactly what you are thinking?’ said Sir Richard with whispered urgency. ‘Do you think I am content to allow this stranger into our ranks in this way? His Society, and, yes, the Mendicity Society also, are becoming a menace with their private constables and spies. Soon, every charity in the city will have its own private force and the Metropolitan Police will be just one of many. I will never allow that!’

‘Have we really no choice, sir?’

‘None – and keep your voice down. This temporary appointment comes from a high authority. Legally, I need not comply – but politically it is advisable to do so. My only recourse is to see that the case is solved and this man Bean is taken away from us as soon as possible. You must aid me in this. You
will
aid me.’

‘Who is this Eusebius Bean? I have never heard of the man.’

‘He is, as you say, one of their spies. A very successful one, by informed accounts.’

‘There is something about him . . . something I cannot place. I do not trust him.’

‘Inspector – you have only just met the man.’

‘I have met men like him – many of them now in gaol.’

‘Enough. Constable Cullen will be returned to his divisional duties – see that you explain it to him – and you will take Eusebius Bean with you on all future inquiries.’