The Vice Society (24 page)

Yes, a curious man, this Noah Dyson, still moving backwards in time through our narrative, no doubt watching people reversing out of shops, the hands of clocks moving against nature and the unintelligible cries of omnibus men’s ‘!thgir llA’. Finally, the cab reverses to a halt outside a small storehouse near Broad-street, Stepney, whose single chimney sucks an endless column of steam from the frigid air into its narrow aperture. Noah descends, walking unerringly without looking behind him, and the door opens unbidden so he can enter.

In forward motion now, we will become invisible witnesses to the inside of that manufactory. The first thing we notice (after the urine-like scent of the place) is that every man within is of the Chinese race: emaciated fellows in baggy white linen suits who go unsmilingly about their work like automatons. The air is thick with the hot closeness of steam, and the origin of the work appears to be a number of hide-covered chests that (we might know if we were botanists) are fashioned from mango wood.

Peering inside each chest, we see rows of rough spheres, about the size of two balled fists, wrapped tightly in moist leaves. They have recently arrived from Malwa, via Calcutta, and represent the finest raw material of their kind anywhere on the globe.

In short, Noah is one of the most prized refiners and suppliers in London of Benares opium, both to chymists and those members of the aristocracy who enjoy the pipe. We need not concern ourselves here with those tiresome debates about China and the members of that race who use the drug to their own destruction – our interest is founded upon Noah’s trade, which allows him privileged access to many of the clubs and elite chambers of pleasure in this city. True, laudanum is readily available, but it is a pale substitute and the spirit content impairs the experience. Only the finest raw opium will do for the man of taste, and if it is not exactly a crime to smoke it once in a while, a certain discretion is required in its supply and usage to avoid a slur upon one’s good name.

Prone as they are to lackadaisy, these Chinese had to be monitored closely and so we find Noah paying close attention to the vats of opium solution that, by a repetitive cycle of straining, boiling, evaporating and soaking, fill the air with their acrid steam until they are reduced and perfected into that sacred elixir of unmistakable sticky perfection.

One might legitimately ask how a man becomes a trader in opium. Perhaps when he has escaped from penal Sydney aboard a sandalwood boat and seen for himself the serried ships anchored off the coast of Macao, the enormous quantities of cash changing hands, the chests hoisted on creaking tackle from deck to deck and the masts marking time against the Oriental sky. Perhaps when he has already himself been a thief and a prisoner. Perhaps when anonymity is his most highly prized possession and ready capital his perpetual key to freedom. A man must make a living somehow, and he might as well sell pleasure of a physical kind if he is not blessed with the talent of writing.

But I digress. Having briefly glimpsed a fragment of the man’s secret life, it is time for us to quickly unspool our way back across London – rushing back through the streets in a terrifying blur to make the railways seem tardy – and arriving once again at the Continental Club, which Noah was about to enter.

‘Good evening, Mr Norman,’ said the porter, who knew every one of the three hundred members by name, and this particular non-member by a necessary pseudonym. ‘We have not had the pleasure of your company for a while.’

‘Indeed, Jackson, but tonight I feel the need of a fine meal and a good smoke.’

‘Ha ha! You are in the right establishment, sir!’

‘Could you perhaps see that this package finds its way to the secretary?’

Mr Jackson sniffed at the parcel and winked conspiratorially before putting it under his desk. ‘Yes, I will, sir. A number of the members will be most gratified.’

‘Thank you, Jackson.’

And Noah passed where Inspector Newsome had previously found it impossible to enter: into the Continental’s lofty hall, whose chequered marble floor, graceful Ionic columns and vaulted ceiling (injudiciously thick with gilt
and
fresco) were a foretaste of the place’s glorious lack of restraint. A sound of murmured conviviality echoed down the broad sweep of Carrara marble staircase, inviting the visiter to ascend towards it.

No doubt the common reader has little conception of a club’s drawing room, but one might begin by picturing a crackling fire in a huge hearth; the leathery scent of numerous wing-back chairs; a womb-like comfort instilled by the burgundy carpets and curtains – and, of course, that singular atmosphere created when men group together without the refining influence of women. The fifty or so gentlemen gathered there that evening were red of face, garrulous of nature and as coarse in tone as one might expect of a ‘Continental man’.

Noah took a seat away from the mass of people and ordered a port from the liveried waiter. Then he reclined into the arms of his chair to observe the erstwhile associates of Mr Jonathan Sampson.

The Continental was as renowned for its eclecticism as for its eccentricity. Whereas other clubs might attract a predominantly legal, or medical, or military
clientèle,
the Continental drew men from across the professions – albeit the sort of men who placed pleasure marginally above reputation.

Who amongst them might have known Mr Sampson well? The gamblers must certainly have taken his money; the drinkers would have shared port and sherry with him; the lechers would no doubt have discussed their bawdy book collections with him – but were any of these men his friends?

Can one truly know a man? One might speak with him, eat with him, joke with him . . . but his secret thoughts, dreams and fears remain hidden within. A man who would reveal his vulnerabilities in a place like this might just as well stay at home with his wife. For all his vigour and brashness, the club man is an actor in a drama that he plays in place of his life: bellowing his lines to cover the whispers of his hollow soul . . .

Noah’s musings were disturbed by the noise being made by a man holding court by the fireplace: a man wearing a flamboyant sandy-coloured moustache and an enormous, spirit-swollen red nose. The tarnished medals on his breast boasted a military past, and his raucous topic was one of great fondness to the soldiering fraternity: brothels.

‘Ah, now . . . ah, if it’s a Negro girl you’re after, you want to visit Mrs Todd of Half Moon-yard at Whitechapel. She has the best ones – direct from Paris, I hear. Can’t speak a word of English, but, ah, one doesn’t want to talk, does one!’

An eruption of lecherous mirth went off from that seated group . . . and Noah’s glass paused abruptly on its way to his lips.

One of the laughs was a high-pitched
yip-yip-yip
like a curious hiccough or an animal’s cry.

Noah looked sharply and caught the laugh again, this time seeing the man as he leaned forward to slap his leg. Anywhere else, it would be a thing of amusement in itself, but evidently these fellows were familiar enough with it to make no comment or reaction, suggesting that its possessor was a regular visiter.

The gentleman in question was young – perhaps twenty-three – and bore all the distinguishing traits of insouciant wealth. His suit was of the finest cloth and his boots a work of art in polished leather. His face was flushed, even at this early hour, with an excess of wine, and he exhibited those delicate features of an aristocratic line no doubt stretching back to the Conqueror: a broad, pale forehead; thin lips dyed red by his drink; and a slim, fragile nose that had never suffered a greater assault than snuff. His black hair, in odd contrast to the perfection of his dress, was quite unkempt.

Noah knew the kind: most likely the son of a duke. The young man could not afford a house befitting his tastes on the 300 pounds annual allowance his father gave him, so he resided here at the club’s saloon rooms where everything he could desire – library, baths, fine dining, fresh periodicals and servants – within reach of his unworked fingertips. If he left the place at all, it would only be for hunting, shopping and women.

Was this the man who had fled Colliver’s coffee house the night of Jonathan Sampson’s fall? Was this man a murderer? Here, in this sanctuary of pleasure and privilege, a world apart from the cold and filth of the other London, did this yelping dandy have blood on his slender hands? His was a life of ceaseless indulgence. His countenance would not show signs of age or care for many years yet. Only his eyes provided a clue to the inner man, for, despite his frequent laughter, they seemed to remain hard, black and cold like the eyes of a serpent.

Lost in his own reflections, Noah did not notice at first that his stares had been noticed and that muttered comments were being exchanged among that group. He drained the remnants of his glass and was about to summon the waiter when the dinner bell sounded.

And what a table they laid forth at the Continental. Only the finest Staffordshire china, Sheffield silver and Italian crystal graced that expanse of pure white linen. Throughout the meal, Noah was careful to note whether the group he had observed were observing him, and was glad to see that they were. By the final course, he was quite dizzy with satiation after a well-cooked steak with oyster sauce, wonderfully fresh peas, crisp asparagus, Dublin stout and a glutinous pudding that quite finished him off.

Much as he would have liked to sample the further array of sauces by Burgess and Lazenby, he simply could not spoon another mouthful into a taut stomach. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and looked around a table that was depopulating as members retired singly and in groups to their card games and post-prandial drinks. As Noah had hoped, the military man from the living room was preparing to address him.

‘I say! Are you, ah, a new member, sir?’

‘I attend very rarely . . . Mr . . . ?’

‘Major. Major Archibald Tunnock, retired. I, ah, have not seen you before and, ah, I am here most evenings.’

‘I am Norman – Adam Norman. I should come more often, if only to enjoy the table and the cellar.’

‘Yes! A fine repast, what! I say – would you, ah, like to join me and some of my fellows in the cigar room? They have some, ah, rather fine Havanahs.’

‘I believe I would like that very much.’

And thus it was that Noah found himself, precisely as he had hoped, with the group he had observed in the drawing room, reclining together in the infernal semi-darkness of the cigar room, where blue-grey skeins of smoke twisted lazily in an atmosphere of whisky-scented languor. Major Tunnock had introduced each fellow by Christian name only (a Peter, a Harold and a John) and all of them seemed to be fresh-faced graduates greatly impressed by the bluster of the old fighter. The young man with the unusual laugh – identified merely as James – was among them, but now seemed somewhat reticent in front of this stranger. As they all spoke together, James had evaded every direct address of Noah’s with a non-committal response, those black eyes searching his interrogator with cool speculation.

‘And what do
you
do for pleasure, sir?’ Noah had asked him.

‘O, I go about the city with my fellows.’ ‘Do you have use of a carriage here at the club?’ ‘There is one, I believe, but I generally take a cab.’ ‘Do you enjoy the library here? I understand it has a fine collection in Greek.’

‘So I hear, but I rather tired of the ancients at university.’ ‘What of girls? I suppose a young man like you has the pick of them.’

‘I visit the supper rooms from time to time, or the parks in the summer.’

Only that final answer had elicited any kind of expression from James: a thin and secret smile that flickered briefly across his face like a shadow.

Noah had been more assiduously pressed on his background by the group, presenting himself as an importer of Oriental foodstuffs, and suggesting with consummate vagueness that his was a privileged but not especially illustrious background. By this, he meant them to understand that he was the illegitimate offspring of some nameless notable whose identity none of them would be so tactless to enquire after.

‘Are you, ah, a married man?’ the major asked Noah.

‘I am not. I am afraid I cannot find one woman I can settle on.’

‘I find that I like to, ah, settle on a different one each evening!’

The group laughed dutifully, albeit without as much abandon as they had when they were surer of their company.

‘O, I see: the major is a romantic!’ said Noah.

‘Romance has little to do with it, my boy! But it is, ah, difficult to find a good woman, don’t you find?’

‘I visit a regular girl. She has a place in Golden-square.’

The major nodded and thoughtfully twirled an end of his moustache. ‘Golden-square you say? There are some French girls thereabouts. That is good. A regular girl, ah, learns what one likes and can be depended upon. Though I do tend to become, ah, bored.’

‘Bored, Major? I could never become bored of a good girl.’

‘Ah, yes – but don’t you find that you get, ah, accustomed to a certain, ah, practice and yearn for something, ah, different?’

‘It is interesting you should mention that, Major. I was discussing the same thing with a fellow just the other day. We were talking about books.’

‘Books you say? I trust you are referring to, ah, a special kind of book?’

‘It is true, I am a collector of ... of particular varieties of literature, shall we say.’