The Vice Society (26 page)

‘Fleet,’ said their guide in a voice so deep it seemed to come from beneath their feet: so devoid of feeling that it might be a ruminant’s moan. He pointed at the ditch where that hideous course had been exposed to the sky. Then he began to walk away.

‘Wait! Did you see an old man with white hair? It would have been two evenings ago . . .’

But the large fellow simply continued on as if the two others did not exist and the encounter had never occurred. They did not attempt to stop him.

‘This is no place for humankind,’ said Mr Williamson, as much to himself as to his companion.

The Fleet passed before them: a glistening black ribbon about ten feet across that steamed in the early-morning chill. Its banks were steep and obstructed with the mess of the demolitions, but a rudimentary ‘bridge’ had been fashioned from a large timber and thrown across the gulf. Muddy footprints went across it.

‘Look around, Benjamin. Look on the ground and see if you can see anything – anything at all that might help us, even a hair.’

They separated and went poking around the damp rubble, all the while uncomfortably aware of the river’s putrid proximity. Soon their boots and gloves were saturated with an admixture of water and substances that were worth not questioning too closely.

No more than two minutes had passed before Benjamin signalled that he had found something.

Mr Williamson came to where he stood pointing at the ground. Despite the night’s rain, it was obvious that a quantity of blood had been spilled at that spot. It had spattered across some blocks of stone and stained the water held in the fissures. Mr Williamson made sure by sniffing at the stains.

‘Blood. And . . . look here, Benjamin. Are those white hairs stuck on the corner of that block? He must have fallen after . . .’

A strange laugh punctuated the silence: a child’s laugh.

Both men looked up.

The laugh came again and Mr Williamson searched the opposite bank until he saw where it had come from. A boy was sitting on a crumbling wall and observing them. At least, it was the figure of a boy, albeit with the appearance of a filth-caked imp.

‘Boy! Do you live hereabouts?’

‘What yer lookin’ for?’ answered the child, who appeared quite amused by the
charade
occurring there by the river.

‘I asked if you live here. There was an old man here two evenings past – a blind man with white hair. He would have been with others. Did you see anything like that?’

‘Might of . . .’

‘I have a coin for you if you can tell me more.’

‘You’ll ’ave to come over this side. I don’t cross on account me old man’ll ’it me ’til I’m blue.’

Mr Williamson looked uncertainly at the weighty plank spanning the seething blackness. Benjamin put a warning hand on his forearm.

‘It’s safe!’ shouted the boy.

Mr Williamson approached the bridge and put down an exploratory boot. It seemed solid enough. He took a step, then another until he was above the water that rushed with surprising speed beneath. The bloated corpse of a dog bobbed obscenely in an eddy between rubble and the bank.

‘Come on!’ yelled the boy, almost making Mr Williamson stumble.

But he crossed safely, and was followed by Benjamin, whose weight made that single beam flex alarmingly in the centre.

‘Are yer a devil?’ the boy asked Benjamin as the two men approached him. ‘Father sez they’s devils the other side.’

‘Quiet, boy!’ said Mr Williamson, beholding that diminutive figure in detail. His hair was so matted that it stood from his head in stiff peaks, and his face was a mask of dark smears that abated only where the back of his hand had wiped frequently at nose or mouth. The eyes, however, were small and lively points of inquisitiveness.

‘Do you live here?’ repeated Mr Williamson.

‘Over this wall ’ere. On Black Boy-lane.’

‘How apt. Do you sit here often looking at the river? Did you see any strange men here as I described just now?’

‘Me name’s Roger.’

‘Very well, Roger – will you answer my question?’

‘’Ave yer got that coin yer was talkin’ about?’

Mr Williamson impatiently fumbled for a shilling and laid it in a palm that had seldom seen water. Either the boy was shrewd, or an idiot. He closed his fist around the coin as if it were a diamond.

‘An old ’un oo ’ad no eyes – I saw ’im. He was ’ere with another feller, young feller. Just the two of ’em.’

‘Describe the young man.’

‘Wearin’ a topper. Quite tall. Black coat like your mate chimney chops.’

Mr Williamson exchanged a glance with Benjamin, who was evidently the ‘chimney chops’ referred to.

‘And what did you see?’

‘Cut ’is throat, din’t ’e?’

‘The young man cut the old man’s throat?’

‘Jus’ like when father does the calves – sprayin’ everywhere!’

Young Roger’s eyes glistened with the thrill of it and he fidgeted excitedly on his mural perch as a civilized child might if passing a toyshop window.

‘This was murder, Roger. A very serious crime.’

‘Father lets me watch sometimes. I like to break the calves’ tails – it makes ’em moan so terrible! Once, when father was away, I ’it a lamb with the poleaxe an’ its ’ead—’

‘Roger! I want you to tell me about what you saw. Did the men speak before the murder? Did you hear any words?’

‘They spoke. The old ’un asked where ’e was, said ’e could smell a river.’

‘Are you sure? Could you hear the words clearly?’

‘Course. I ’eard
you
, din’t I?’

‘Hmm. Is that all you heard? Perhaps I should have my dusky friend here see how well you float?’

‘I ain’t finished! The old ’un said somethin’ what I missed, an’ I ’eard the young feller say somethin’ somethin’ . . . Free-pass somethin’.’

‘“Freepass” – are you sure that was the word?’

‘I ’eard it with this very lug,’ said Roger, indicating a fungal-like growth on the side of his head that might well have been a human ear. ‘Then the young ’un took out the razor real slow so the old ’un wouldn’t ’ear, an’ . . . he slashed it like
this
. . . an’ the old man opened his mouth . . . an’ there was no words . . . and ’e fell . . . but the blood, the blood . . .’

‘Roger!’

‘An’ when ’e was bled dry, the young feller pushed ’im to the river –
splash!
’E was away off to the Thames.’

Mr Williamson could not help but picture that woeful corpse washing through the mephitic darkness beneath King’s Cross, Holborn, and Ludgate Circus; beneath houses where people were talking or eating; beneath the busy streets where life proceeded with its usual dust and racket; beneath a city that itself was built upon the bodies of countless forgotten souls – then into daylight and the Thames.

‘Why did not you report this immediately to a constable or to your father, Roger?’

‘What’s a “con-stable”?’

‘Hmm. Where did the young man go after committing this crime?’

‘Back the way ’e come from, easy as yer like.’

‘Did anybody else see the incident? Were there any other people in the vicinity?’

‘Was jus’ me. No, wait – there was a prossie an’ her feller across the bridge there jus’ before, but they went afore the other two gents come.’

‘A prostitute was here with her client?’

‘Did it standin’ on account of the wet. She saw me ’ere an’ winked at me over ’is shoulder. Lucy is ’er name. When I am old enough, father sez—’

‘But they did not see the young man and the old man?’

‘Dunno. P’raps. Don’t think so. They left before.’

‘If you are lying to me, I will ask my companion Benjamin to come and turn you black when you are sleeping.’

‘I ’ave a knife.’

Mr Williamson smiled. ‘Benjamin – would you show young Roger your neck for a moment?’

Perceiving the ruse, Benjamin maintained a stony expression and slowly unwrapped his scarf so that the scars about his neck became visible, the skin striated and stretched from its horrifying trauma.

‘Can you see that, Roger? Do you know what happened there? Benjamin’s head was once cut completely off. But he just picked it up and replaced it as calmly as he liked . . . then he ate the man who did it.’

Roger’s eyes goggled at the injury and he licked at dry lips, finally lost for words. Benjamin’s monocular glare was quite terrifying.

‘Now – are you telling us the truth, Roger?’

‘On my father’s knives.’

‘Well, I suppose that will do.’

A voice was heard from behind the wall: ‘Roger! Where are you?’

‘That is father. I ’ave to go or ’e will beat me.’ And young Roger disappeared over the wall with a flash of grimy leg.

Mr Williamson looked lugubriously to Benjamin, who was rewrapping his neck against the chill. ‘Let us return over the bridge to West-street and see if that slattern we saw is the Lucy referred to by Roger.’

Benjamin nodded, smiling to himself at the story of his beheading, despite Mr Williamson’s solemn mood.

‘Have you heard that word before, Benjamin? “Freepass”?’

The answer was negative.

‘Neither have I. Let us hope that Noah has – or that he knows somebody who can tell us.’

The two men descended to cross the Fleet once more, unaware that another had observed the whole episode with Roger.

Over on Black Boy-lane, young Roger was quite giddy with excitement as he stood before the gentleman who was assuredly not his father. The man was old enough to be a grandfather, and his face appeared damaged by some manner of illness, perhaps the pox.

‘Did you tell them everything, Roger?’

‘I did. ’Ave you got me prize?’

‘Wait a moment. What did you tell them?’

‘What yer said: about the old ’un, about the razor, that “Freepass” word . . . all like yer said. ’Ave yer got my prize?’

‘You are a good boy. Your prize is just there.’

A canvas bag wriggled of its own accord by a wall. Roger skipped over to it and delicately opened the cord at its neck. A lamb’s head emerged bleating into the light, and the expression of the boy’s face was further from tenderness than one could possibly imagine.

‘Enjoy it, Roger.’

‘I will. And . . . mister – might a man lose ’is head and still be alive?’

‘Anything is possible, Roger. Anything. The devil has many guises.’

SEVENTEEN

And while Benjamin and Mr Williamson were over in Clerkenwell, the body of a young female was found slumped against a wall in a grubby court just off Moor-lane, north of Fore-street. It seemed as if the girl had simply sat for a rest in the night and expired there in the frost. Her head had slumped forward suggesting sleep, but she was cold to the touch and would never again wake. A broken gin glass lay about five yards away from her.

Inspector Newsome tilted the head back to look upon her face. She was young and not entirely unattractive, her features showing none of the anguish or pain one might associate with dying at night in a freezing metropolitan alley. Spittle glistened icily on her chin.

‘A whore,’ said the police surgeon. A corpulent fellow in a too-small top hat and with his coat buttons straining to restrain his stomach, he was clearly not suited to the early hour.

‘I think not. She was a dollymop,’ said Mr Newsome, referring to that class of girl who resorts casually to the streets for occasional income as their whim takes them.

‘What makes you say so, Inspector?’

‘Her clothes. Were she a prostitute, a girl of this age and relative good looks would be making enough money to dress better than this. Look: her stockings are cheap, her shoes are heavily worn and the dress has been washed and repaired so often that it should be in pieces. And look at her fingers – she spent most of her last day blacking boots or the fireplace for the residents of whatever low-rent abode she worked in. No doubt it is close – they seldom venture further than they have to.’

‘A servant?’

‘I would say so. Yes – look at the calluses on her hands from the scrubbing brush.’

‘Indeed. I see why you are a detective. But I fail to see why I have been abruptly woken to attend to the body of a mere servant, dollymop or otherwise.’

‘Because, doctor, my observations go only so far. I need you to discern the cause of death and discover anything else about this girl that is of physiological interest.’

‘The cause of death is simple. She emerged from a gin palace of some description, slumped here to gather her wits and most likely froze to death. There are no visible wounds. I need not have got out of bed for this.’

‘No. That is an assumption unworthy of your position, doctor. You see her class and the broken gin glass in the court and you automatically decide that she must have dropped it. Have you smelled it to see if it contained gin – or smelled her mouth?’

‘Inspector Newsome – this is quite preposterous. The girl is a nothing. There will not even be a headline about her. Perhaps people will gossip for a day or two, and then an upturn in the weather will give them something better to speak of. Why should I spend my time seeing to this?’