The Vice Society (28 page)

‘Good afternoon to you, Inspector.’ The lady herself appeared at the doorway.

Her voice was cool and formal. She was certainly not the siren one might have expected. Rather, she had the look of a prosperous and morally vigorous widow with her greying hair drawn tightly into a bun atop her head. Her rouged lips were thin, but amused. Not for her the lace and silk of many in her profession – she was dressed almost entirely in black and presented an austere aspect to the world. It was, of course, all a masterfully subtle illusion demanded by the clients of her particular speciality.

‘Ah, Mrs Percival. We have not met, but—’

‘But I have heard your name, Inspector. Who in my profession has not? Do not remove your hat on my account.’

Mr Newsome removed his hat without embarrassment, placing it on a table beside him.

‘I did not expect to see you in person here, Inspector – I thought that your constables did your work for you. Nevertheless, what might I offer you? A little fustigation? Some scourging or flagellation? Some phlebotomy perhaps?’

‘I fear I have not come for the treatments of the house. It is information I seek.’

‘Do I not send you all that I have? You must have every aristocrat in Britain in your little book by now.’

‘I do indeed appreciate the information you supply, but this is a different matter, hence my visit.’

‘Then let us move from the reception room. I believe my customers would receive a most unwelcome shock to see a detective on entering the reception room.’

Mr Newsome followed the grand abbess to another lavish room across the corridor – one that offered further insight into the nature of her trade. A variety of implements were artfully arrayed on a low table: a short wooden shaft with twelve leather thongs; a ‘cat’ with needles woven into its ends; a brush of shiny holly; a vase full of nettles; and a variety of restraints, including some Metropolitan Police-issue handcuffs. A large container of water in one corner of the room contained strips of green birch that gave off a fresh, woody scent.

‘Do you see anything here that suits your letch?’ asked Mrs Percival with a slight arch of the eyebrows.

‘The cuffs – and those only on a criminal.’

‘So, to business. What may I do for you if not make you bleed?’

‘Have you ever, in your illustrious career, heard of a girl called Persephone?’

‘I have not.’

‘You answer precipitously.’

‘It is a strange name. I have known and employed many, many girls, but they choose more mundane names. Even the French girls have rather predictable names. What makes you think she is one of Venus’s handmaidens?’

‘It is a mere idea. I do not think she is a performer, and, as you say, the name is odd enough to be theatrical. Could it be that she is a prostitute and that you do not know of her?’

‘Of course. The name suggests an imagination beyond that of the normal street girl, so perhaps it is the
nom de lit
of that highest class of girl: a courtesan with her own apartment on Park-lane. I admit I do not know such women or what they call themselves. I am paid in pounds; they are paid in diamonds.’

‘But those women must rise to that position from
somewhere?
Surely they do not simply go from childhood into the arms of a duke. Might not this girl have passed through a number of roles and houses such as this before reaching those heights?’

‘She may have, but not with that name. A whore’s name is like a dress, Inspector: one wears it according to one’s mood and one’s liaison.’

‘I see. It seems there is no chance of me locating this girl, if indeed she exists.’

‘Perhaps. Do you know anything at all about her?’

‘She is intelligent and has access to privileged information.’

‘That describes almost every woman
I
know, Inspector.’

‘If she had passed through this house or any other house you have known to better things, how might it have happened?’

‘If a girl has beauty, grace, a shrewd sense and an ability to learn, she need set no limit on her dreams – provided she is willing to sell her body and her soul. I have known at least one such girl. I saw her walking by the river – a perfect rose growing amid the manure of this pestilential city. She had already begun by dollymopping around as a milliner’s girl. But she knew her power over men. Like laudanum to their senses, she was: men falling in love with her all about the place.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘The usual. One gentleman could no longer bear to share her and set her up with her own place. Naturally, she kept seeing other men when her benefactor was absent and, by degrees, she worked her way beyond the world we know. The last I heard, she was with an Italian prince who visited her but twice a year despite supporting her like a princess in London.’

‘What was her name?’

‘She was Joanne while she lived here. Then she was Katie. Now, I have no idea.’

‘Might any of your girls know her, or where she lives?’

‘I am certain not. A girl like her does not acknowledge where she came from. Like Venus herself, she was born from the very waves. I heard that she had a sister in the same profession, but I know nothing more about that, apart from a rumour that the sister died some years ago.’

‘Died how?’

‘I believe it was suicide.’

‘Do you know what year, or the girl’s name?’

‘No. As I say, it was just a rumour. The girls talk, as do your constables. Now – I cannot talk to you all afternoon. I have Mr ———coming for a thrashing.’

‘The magistrate?’

‘The same. There is another entry for your book, Inspector.’

‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Percival. If you remember anything else, please let one of the constables know.’

‘I will. And perhaps one day you will allow me to flay you?’

Mr Newsome smiled. It was the politest offer of violence he had ever received.

Back in his office, the inspector did something he had not done before: he took a piece of paper and began to make notes about what he knew of the case, drawing a circle around each piece of information and attempting to add lines of connection between each.

There was Mr Poppleton’s bookshop and his cryptic comments. There was the evidence of Mr Jessop. Then there was the Continental Club, the mysterious Persephone, the words of the dying Mr Sampson, the murder (or disappearance) of Mrs Colliver . . .

The circles remained stubbornly isolated. The solution had to be there among those comments and characters and clues, but it seemed the only way to connect them was with a leap of imagination that he did not possess and could not contrive. Had he been a writer, he would have recognized the process.

He leaned back in his chair, frustrated, and ruminated on the absence of Eusebius Bean. When the spy had not arrived at Scotland Yard that morning as arranged, the inspector had been unconcerned and had not reported it to Sir Richard. Indeed, the day’s activities had been all the more pleasant without the perpetual presence of the man at his side. Certainly, the visit to Mrs Percival would have been quite impossible with the over-observant fellow in attendance.

A momentary thought occurred: could it be that Eusebius had himself fallen victim to the Holywell-street curse? He, too, had been on the street when Mr Williamson had questioned the waterman. Perhaps he had been observed and linked to the police investigation. If this was the case, Mr Newsome found himself unmoved at the possibility.

There was no time, however, for further thought on the subject because he was about to receive information that would give him some lines to connect his circles.

A knock on the door signalled the arrival of the police surgeon.

‘Inspector Newsome – I trust you are well,’ said the doctor, wheezing from the short walk between street and office.

‘As well as I was this morning, doctor. What do you have for me?’

‘It seems there was some truth in the prussic acid idea after all. Her stomach reeked of it – quite dangerous.’

‘Any other injuries to her person?’

‘None. The stain on her fingers was lead blacking. And she had had knowledge of a man, most likely on the evening of her death.’

‘By “knowledge” I assume you mean intercourse.’

‘Quite. But there was no sponge to be found, not as are sometimes found in the more professional girls. So your dolly-mop theory may be correct also.’

‘I see. Is that all?’

‘One more thing: she had apparently eaten an orange or some other fruit prior to her death. I found evidence of pith and seeds in her teeth and stomach – only a little, though. Evidently she did not like it.’

‘Do you have those seeds?’

‘Not with me, but I have them still. I am afraid they are masticated almost beyond recognition.’

‘I would like you to send them to me, whatever the condition of the remains.’

‘As you wish. Will that be all?’

‘You have a done a thorough job despite yourself, but there is one more thing – do you corporeal doctors also study illnesses of the mind? I am thinking of the urge to suicide and what causes it.’

‘It is something of a specialism, Inspector. Not one of mine, I am afraid.’

‘Who of your acquaintance would know more on the subject?’

‘Well, there are those physicians at the asylums, of course. And I believe that Mr Herbert takes an interest in the matter of suicide. He has even published on the subject.’

‘Mr Herbert the surgeon?’

‘The same. It is a sort of hobbyhorse of his.’

‘Thank you, doctor. You may go now.’

The door had barely closed when a knock came from the other door leading to the clerk’s office. It was the clerk.

‘Inspector Newsome, sir? I have some information.’

‘Good. What did you find in the
Police Gazette?’

‘Alas, little more than you did. Magdalene deaths are little reported, as you know. There were a few, but no more in the last five years with prussic acid.’

‘So what information
do
you have?’

‘I took the liberty, sir, of looking through the ledger for the other thing. But I did not find any reference at all to a Persephone.’

‘Must I repeat my previous question?’

‘Er, no, sir. This letter arrived today for you. It was delivered this morning by post.’

Mr Newsome opened the letter and folded out the single page. There was no signature:

‘Well, well – Mr Williamson has few friends in this city,’ said the inspector. ‘Sir?’ ‘Never mind. Go back to that ledger – contact the special constables if need be – and find me everything you can on the haughty girls of Park-lane.’

‘Park-lane.’

‘Is there an echo in this room?’

‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’

And as we leave Mr Newsome there at his desk rubbing his chin and pondering the news he had been given, let us spare a thought for my Nelly – poor Nelly – who was killed in a cold alley, her delicate rump left to settle on hard cobbles and her hair dirtied by Night’s damp fingers.

True, she was coarse, common and corrupt. But she was a being fuller of life than many – and often fuller of gin. I never loved you, Nelly. Giving such an emotion to you would have been like giving a fine gold watch to a monkey as a plaything. We enjoyed each other as men and women do. You listened to my words and found music in them. I pursue my story hence for your sake (as well as for my own glory and riches).

EIGHTEEN

We have accounted for the movements of our three principal players – Noah, Mr Williamson and the inspector – in the two days following their meeting at that house at St James’s, but the perspicacious reader will have noted the curious absence of two others.

First among these is the plain-faced Eusebius Bean, whom we last saw sitting silently like a well-behaved child beside Inspector Newsome as the Holywell-street discussion progressed. When those other three gentlemen left, however, the spy remained behind to communicate his thanks to the Vice Society luminary who had so generously offered his house for the
rendezvous.

It will perhaps be of little surprise for the reader to hear that the procurer of that property (though not its owner) was none other than ‘J.S.’, who appeared to Eusebius from a connecting door shortly after the investigators had left in their separate carriages. Together, they retired to the just-vacated room and sat in the seats still warm from the visiters.

‘J.S.’ appeared to be in rude health, his pale-brown eyes as solicitous as those of a kindly grandparent, and his complexion glistening with the salubrious sheen of some fragrant emollient. One might never have guessed that the scalp beneath the wig was utterly corrupted or that the mouth was virulent with decay.