The Vice Society (20 page)

When they emerged once more into the street, they took three directions: Noah towards that illustrious shop, Benjamin to a rag-seller further along, and Mr Williamson to see the elderly cabman.

Joseph the waterman might well have been an ancient civic statue of pitted stone and spreading lichen, worn away a little more each passing decade by the rain and wind. His bent form was hoary with age, and frost seemed to cling to his tattered overcoat as he shovelled a pile of steaming manure from the road into the gutter. Blind he might have been, but that tiny domain of his – the water trough and bucket, the kerb stone, the line of cabs and canvas sacks of hay – was so familiar that he moved within its sphere without hindrance or hesitation.

Mr Williamson approached from the opposite side of the street, his notebook at the ready, and was about to speak when Joseph turned to him. Where one might expect to see eyes, there were only narrow, empty slits in a face lined with age and dirt.

‘A cab, sir?’ said Joseph. ‘There will be a driver along presently – one has just popped off to Fleet-street. Forgive me for asking, but you are a policeman are you not?’

‘What would make you say such a thing?’

‘The sound of your walk. A policeman always walks a particular pace. It is unmistakable. Habit, I suppose, from walking the city streets. Doesn’t much matter what boots he is wearing, I can always tell.’

‘I was a policeman once.’

‘But you still walk like one, eh?’

‘Evidently. I would like to ask you about the events of six nights ago.’

‘The incident at Colliver’s? I was here at my station when he fell.’

‘There was nothing about that in the newspapers. There were only two witnesses: the constable and a drunken sailor.’

‘So says Cribb, the constable. He is not the sharpest knife, that man – though he sometimes brings me a cup of coffee. Let me ask you, sir: how many times have you passed beneath Temple Bar?’

‘Too many to count, but what . . .’

‘Could you describe the statuary of that gate to me?’

‘Why, I . . . there are four figures. They are . . . I cannot recall the exact . . .’

‘We don’t always see what we look at every day, do we? I am here all weathers and most hours, sir. But I might as well be carved in stone for all people see me. I see not, and am seen not.’

‘Hmm. What can you tell me about that night?’

‘I heard the shouts. In the upper room there.’ Joseph pointed unerringly to the window with scuff marks still etched blackly beneath it.

‘What manner of shouts?’

‘I did not hear the words at first; the window was closed, you see. I am sure I heard three distinct voices. After the window was opened, I heard one phrase repeated: “I cannot!” That was Mr Sampson. I know because it was also his voice that yelled as he held on to the window ledge.’

Mr Williamson added all to his notebook. ‘What three voices did you hear? Can you tell me more?’

‘One of them was the same gentleman who emerged shortly thereafter and made the comment about going for Mr Sampson’s friends. And one was a woman’s voice.’

‘A woman? Are you sure?’

‘I may not have eyes, but I have ears. It was a young woman. Not Mrs Colliver – I know
her
voice.’

‘What did she say, this young woman?’

‘I could not discern any words. I heard only noises. She may have been drunk.’

‘And you heard all of this through an upper-storey window at some distance?’

‘You doubt me, sir. Don’t you know the silence of the city at that time in the morning? When all are sleeping and the air is dead cold, one might hear the pigeons roosting and the very rats scuttling in the walls.’

‘Hmm. What of the fall itself?’

‘I heard the body drop and the bones crack. There was nobody in the street but I at that time.’

‘Not even Constable Cribb?’

‘Not yet. Immediately after the fall, I heard a most unusual laugh from inside that room. In fact, it was more like a yelping: a kind of high-pitched “
yip-yip-yip
”.’

‘Have you heard that laugh before?’

‘Not before or since, sir. I wouldn’t like to, either. It sounded like someone who had lost their mind.’

‘What then? What did you do?’

‘I started to walk over to where I could hear Mr Sampson groaning, and that’s when some people came out of Colliver’s in a hurry.’

‘People? I understood it was one man only.’

‘You are not listening – that was later. I heard them pause on seeing me. One of them approached rapidly as if he was to address or attack me, but I suppose he saw my eyes. In fact, he waved his hand before my face to reassure himself – I heard the material of his cuff – but he said nothing.’

‘Tell me about these people.’

‘They did not speak, but I could hear they were keen to get away. I believe – from the sound of her shoes – that the young woman was among them. Another man was with her, perhaps holding on to her because her footfalls were irregular.’

‘What else? You identified me as a policeman – what can you tell me about
their
footfalls?’

‘Only what I have told you. Not every person has a distinctive step. After pausing momentarily, perhaps to satisfy themselves I had seen nothing, the three of them walked rapidly further down the street to the carriage that was waiting there. The woman’s footsteps seemed to be dragging somewhat. No doubt you will ask me how I knew there was a carriage . . . Well, I could hear the horses breathing and the rattle of their brasses.’

‘You have a prodigious ear. What of the man who approached you?’

‘As I say: he said nothing. A curious thing, though – he smelled of perfume: not a strong scent, but something upon his clothes perhaps. It was lavender and something else – some kind of flower that I couldn’t place. And coal tar – I smelled coal tar.’

‘What manner of perfume is that – coal tar and lavender?’

‘I tell you what I smelled, not what it means.’

Mr Williamson looked dubiously at Joseph and noted down his words. The waterman’s face showed no guile or deception, though the lack of eyes made it difficult to read any emotion in that weathered countenance. ‘Has nobody questioned you about this incident? Not the police?’

‘Only you, sir. As I say, who questions a blind old man?’

‘Hmm. When did PC Cribb appear?’

‘The man is quite punctual on his rounds – it was a few moments after the other three had fled to the carriage.’

‘Did he see
you
?’

‘I believe not. There was something about the incident that struck me with a horror I could not quite fathom. I sensed that something . . . something evil had occurred and I was afraid . . . so I retired to the doorway over yonder at Levi’s shop. I sometimes rest there during the slow times. I was crouched there when Cribb arrived and I must have been in shadow.’

‘Why did you not announce your presence and give him your testimony? You were safe with a policeman in the vicinity.’

‘Truth be told, sir, I do not like to be mixed up with the police. Questions take time; then one must stand before the magistrate or judge and repeat oneself. My horses need me here always.’

‘You speak as one who has experience of legal proceedings.’

‘I am old. My memory fails me.’

‘Hmm. What of the mariner Ned Coffin?’

‘Aye, he came a-singing down the road shortly after. I could smell him even from my doorway.’

‘This is hardly a street for a sailor to be walking drunk, is it? He should have been over Wapping way or at the Minories.’

‘A man may drink wherever he likes. He, too, saw the body – presumably with the constable bent over it – and he shouted “murder”. He must have misinterpreted what he saw and thought the policeman had knocked Mr Sampson down.’

‘Is this when the young man emerged and made his comment about going for friends?’

‘That’s right. He ran towards that waiting carriage and it set off with a lash of the whip.’

‘What can you tell me of the young man? This is important.’

‘It is as you said. I have nothing more to add. Perhaps the strange laugh was his. It is possible.’

‘Hmm. Why were you not at the inquest into this case, Joseph? Your testimony is important to see justice done.’

‘Nobody asked me. And, besides, my duty is here with the horses. They must eat and drink as we do. I have no time to be going to inquests.’

At that moment, a cab rounded the corner from St Clement Danes and rattled towards them. Joseph jerked at the sound and stepped into his habitual space from where he could open the door.

‘I must work now, sir. I believe I have told you all there is to tell.’

Mr Williamson looked at his copious notes and nodded to himself. ‘Thank you, Joseph. I may return with more questions.’

‘Whatever you wish, sir. Keep warm, won’t you? I feel that we’re going to get snow – and plenty of it.’

The cab arrived with a clatter of hooves and wheels. Joseph began his eyeless ritual as if the conversation had been no more than birdsong interrupting one cab’s departure and the arrival of the next.

Noah no longer appeared to be a cabman. With the aid of a reversible coat and some minor adjustments to his dress, along with a smart top hat he had brought with him in a bag, he was now a gentleman about town. He paused briefly at the window of Henry Poppleton’s shop, affecting an interest in its contents, then entered.

Inside, he made a show of looking at some titles on animal husbandry while occasionally looking around in a self-conscious manner. He sensed rather than saw Mr Poppleton watching the new customer from his position at the counter.

‘May I help you, sir?’ said the publisher.

‘Why, yes. I . . . I am looking for a book for a friend: a university friend of mine. He is fond of certain . . . exotic literature.’

‘Exotic, you say? Drama, is it? Poetry?’

‘No, no . . .’ and here Noah looked around to check what he already knew: that the shop was otherwise empty. He whispered nevertheless: ‘He has a taste for something “warmer”.’

‘“Warmer” you say? Would your “friend” be acquainted with
The Adventures of Sir Henry Loveall
? Or perhaps
The Lustful Turk
?’

‘They are rather old titles. My friend wanted something newer.’

‘Well, sir – it rather depends how “warm” your “friend’s” tastes are. Would they extend to algolagnia or klismaphilia? Nymphomania perhaps?’

‘I . . . that is,
he
is partial to depucelative literature.’

Mr Poppleton nodded approvingly. ‘Has your “friend” read
The Seven Sins of Sarah
?’

‘He is more appreciative of the Aretine style.’

‘I see. He likes his descriptions bluntly to the point . . . so to speak.’

‘Rather so. And illustrated accordingly.’

The publisher smiled and reached behind him to where a rope dangled beside a tall wooden bookcase. He pulled on it without sound, but a few moments later a door opened above and a young man walked down the stairs to where they stood.

‘John will watch the shop while I accompany you to the alternative shelves,’ said Mr Poppleton.

The two ascended and passed into a tiny room in which the books were laid out flat on tables so that the lover of such works might take a seat and appreciate the contents at their ease. The door closed behind them and Mr Poppleton eased a bolt into the jamb.

‘I speak with all modesty when I say that I both sell and print the finest stock in all of Britain,’ said the publisher. ‘Only in Paris or Brussels will you find a greater selection.’

‘I see you have images by Raimondi,’ said Noah with suitable deference, opening the cover of a large leather-bound edition.

‘Not original, of course – but true to the master.’

‘And is this a copy of
Venus Mirabilis
? Quite rare.’

‘Indeed it is. Permit me to say, sir, that you certainly know the literature well.’

‘I have travelled a little on the continent and have a small library of my own. Of late, however, I have found myself wanting something new. I feel I have read all there is to read.’

‘What you say is a profound truth, sir. A man’s appreciation of the carnal arts feeds upon itself and is never satiated. What fulfilled us a year ago is now but a preliminary course, and what seemed to us thrilling three months past is today a commonplace.’

‘I have come to the right man, I see. Would you recommend something?’

‘Every man is different. It is difficult to know.’

‘An acquaintance of mine told me that he had recently discovered something of interest at your shop, but he unfortunately passed away before he could tell me what it was. Perhaps you knew him: Mr Jonathan Sampson.’

Mr Poppleton’s retail demeanour hardened into something less amenable. ‘I do not discuss my customers.’

‘Of course. Quite understandable – although this one is no longer among us. Do you know, when I read of his death on this street, my first thought was that the man was most likely engaged in some kind of lurid endeavour! He was always one for the more
outré
activities was old Sampson.’