The Vice Society (3 page)

‘Indeed. At that time, a gentleman named Jonathan Sampson fell from the third-floor window of Colliver’s coffee house, sustaining a fractured thigh bone and a lacerated scull. He was found lying in the street by PC Cribb and taken immediately to King’s College Hospital, where he died some hours later from his injuries. It is an unremarkable case, Sir Richard, and one that I am sure need not concern—’

‘I will decide what concerns me, Inspector. That street has been the subject of much comment in the highest circles. It is a suppurating wound upon the fair complexion of our city and I am eager to cauterize it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There are irregularities in the case that have come to light, are there not? On any other street, this might be the case of a mere drunk, but I am inclined to address any occurrence on Holywell-street with more scrutiny. What is this, for instance, about the victim’s words when found, and later in the hospital?’

‘The man was quite incoherent from his fall. He said to Constable Cribb: “What mystery is this? Why am I lying in the street?” Later, when questioned by the surgeon, he became increasingly reluctant to speak about the nature of his accident and said he would explain when he was better.’

‘Explain what?’

‘I do not know, sir. Presumably why he fell from the window.’

‘Do you not find this evasiveness suspicious?’

‘Not if the man was with a woman other than his wife.’

‘Is there evidence to suggest this?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you suspect suicide?’

‘I do not. There was no note, and the victim struggled for purchase as he hung from the window ledge. The scuffs can be seen there still where his shoes kicked phrenziedly in his attempts to save himself. Suicide was evidently not his intention – or he rapidly changed his mind after exiting the window.’

‘Am I to assume, Inspector Newsome, that there was someone else in the room with him, or are you going to make me ask question after question? Tell me everything you know. What facts have been unearthed by today’s inquest?’

‘Very well, sir. The victim, Mr Sampson, was aged forty-three and was a stockbroker of North-road, Hoxton. He was unmarried and described by his sister – an attractive but clearly distraught young lady – as a quiet man who lived alone. This testimony was countered somewhat by the brother, who remarked that the victim had been rather more excitable than usual of late and that he had lived his bachelor’s life “freely”.’

‘I dare say the brother had the more genuine version. Proceed.’

‘The proprietress of the coffee house and the room above it, Mrs Colliver, admitted the victim and a fellow to the room at ten o’clock. Mr Sampson had arrived earlier and was joined by the other fellow shortly afterwards. They had eaten a light meal before taking the twin-bedded room together for a single night. Neither was intoxicated, and both were described by the lady as appearing “respectable”.’

‘Who was the other man?’

‘Nobody recognized him and no name was taken. That will become relevant as I proceed.’

‘Then do so, Inspector.’

‘The next part of the story has the landlady awoken at around two o’clock in the morning by a loud moaning coming from the street. She looked out of her window and saw the victim lying upon the cobbles with a policeman, PC Cribb, bending over him.’

‘Wait. Did not you say the incident occurred at three?’

‘The constable says he found the man at three o’clock, and the victim’s watch, which was smashed in the fall, registered at five to three. We may ascribe Mrs Colliver’s confusion to being woken in the early hours.’

‘Perhaps. It is interesting that the watch was not stolen. Even a broken one will fetch a price.’

‘The constable, as I have said, found the victim insensible and bleeding from the head. At this stage, the victim was said by the constable to smell strongly of drink, though Mrs Colliver insists neither gentleman drank alcohol or had it taken to the room.’

‘What of the other gentleman – the one sharing the room?’

‘As the constable was seeing to the victim, another witness appeared on the scene: one Ned Coffin, a drunken mariner. Both he and PC Cribb saw the other gentleman, the roommate, come out of the building in an agitated state and say: “O my G—, my friend has fallen out of the window! I must go and tell his friends,” whereupon he rushed to a carriage that was stationary a little further down the street and fled in it towards St Clement Danes.’

‘Was this roommate at the inquest?’

No, sir. Nor did he return with any friends of the victim. I have had a man watching the coffee house since PC Cribb reported the case, and the inquest has been adjourned until further intelligence can be gathered about his identity or whereabouts.’

‘Do we have a description?’

‘No particularly good one. Mrs Colliver could think of little else to say but that he seemed a well-dressed man of good humour. Witnesses at the coffee house said the two spoke in quieted tones. Constable Cribb saw little due to the darkness and, presumably in the case of Mr Coffin, extreme intoxication.’

‘Was this Coffin at the inquest?’

‘No. I suspect he was in a deep state of slumber. I am attempting to locate him.’

‘And do you still maintain that this is an unremarkable case? It seems to me that there is much that remains perplexing. Or have you solved the case already?’

‘Sir, I have spent many years on these streets—’

‘Without the preamble, if you please.’

‘Well then, I will speak frankly. Perhaps the man was a sodomite and this good-humoured fellow was engaged with him in these unnatural practices. Naturally, neither would want to be identified as such by the police, even if it meant one of them was mortally wounded.’

‘You do not shock me, Inspector. But you do disappoint me. My knowledge does not extend to sodomitical tastes, but I suggest that some manner of undress is conventional. The victim was fully clothed. And I feel sure such practices do not generally involve defenestration.’

‘A simple transaction, sir. One fellow demands his payment, perhaps threatening the other with violence. With the door barred, our victim takes the only other escape route rather than be exposed. On being found, he naturally lies. The other fellow flees.’

‘Supposition, Inspector.’

‘The most likely explanation, I believe.’

‘Have you made a thorough search of the room as Sergeant Williamson was wont to do?’

‘I have a constable stationed there in case the young man should return.’

‘But you have not searched it. Have you interviewed the family of the victim and the witnesses?’

‘Sir, I hardly think—’

‘Quite. That is precisely my point. If you have ambitions of taking the vacant post of Superintendent Wilberforce – so lamentably taken from us – I expect to see better work than this. I expect the Detective Force to be a torch exposing crime wherever it lurks, not brushing mysteries into the gutter like so much dung to clog the cleansing passage of water. I sincerely regret that Sergeant Williamson has left us.’

‘He was not ... he was no longer suited to his duties. I am sure he is quite content in his new position at the Mendicity Society, where he does not have to contend with the violence and danger of our job in the Detective Force.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps. I have heard good things about his work there. I trust
you
will now be proceeding directly to Holywell-street and thence to contact whatever witnesses may shed light on this case.’

‘Indeed. There is only one other matter that may or may not be of relevance. On the same morning at around five o’clock, the body of a prostitute was found in a passage connecting Holywell-street with the Strand. She had taken prussic acid to end her life.’

‘Do you see any connection between the two cases?’

‘None, sir. I thought I would mention it.’

‘Well, she was a prostitute. Such things happen. On with the case at hand.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Inspector Newsome – I perceive that you would have me perceive something is troubling you. Are you planning to tell me what it is?’

‘Sir . . . this case seems odd in a way that I cannot specify. There are lies; there are secrets; there are private motivations in most lives. But I can see no evidence of a crime here, only of human nature. Why, even the newspaper reporters have shown little interest – and we know how they love a scandal.’

‘To express it more frankly: you cannot see why I would assign the investigation of this, a seemingly insignificant case, to such a senior detective? I praise your diplomacy in raising the issue thus, and I suppose I should reveal my reasons. You are aware, I assume, of the Society for the Suppression of Vice?’

‘I am. They are based at Lincolns-inn-fields.’

‘Quite. What is your opinion of the Society?’

‘In truth, they are meddlers of the highest order: holy hypocrites that will be happy only when every person in the country lives the same self-sanctified existence that they do. They are a bane to the working classes and finer sort alike, and their spies are the worst, most degraded people in this city. Even criminals have a code of honour, but those spies are blood-sucking worms.’

‘I cannot fault your honesty, and I share some of your views. But the fact remains that the Society counts among its benefactors some of the most important people in this country: aristocrats, judges, Members of Parliament, even royalty. Shortly after this man Sampson fell out of the window, the Society contacted me through a person I am not at liberty to name – a person of considerable significance – and asked that I put my best man on the case. This person has also asked that I keep them informed of our progress. This, Inspector, is the political reality of policing, as you will no doubt discover if you become superintendent.’

‘I see. But why this case in particular?’

‘It is that street; you know its reputation. Everything that the Vice Society stands against is represented there, and they see it as a core of evil in the city. If there is illegality to be pursued there, they will do so with all their strength – and with any other power open to them. Let us conclude this case as quickly as we can; I am uncomfortable with the attention of the Society upon us. Go now to Holywell-street.’

TWO

London – city of impostors, false beggars, coiners, cheats, sham-goods sellers, double-tongued prostitutes and professional liars. The stranger to these streets can believe little of what he sees, and less of what he is told. Here, a man’s identity is what he says it is, and his trade is whatever you will pay him money for. Nothing is quite as it seems.

Perhaps you are a generous sort and stricken with pity at the poverty you see. You can spare a few pennies for the beggar, and, if the case is particularly deserving, you might happily part with pounds to ease the sorry sufferings of those who dress in rags. Then the question arises: how does one know if the charity case at hand is genuine?

Respectable people look to the venerable Mendicity Society to see that their money goes only to verifiable cases. From its offices at unassuming Red Lion-square, the Society’s roving constables – the doughty ‘Red Liners’ – ensure that acquisitive vagrants are dragged before magistrates, that the vocational beggar is put behind bars and that the truly mendicant are given work or Tickets of Entitlement to exchange for food. It is righteous work and zealously executed.

Indeed, for high-minded young men and sensitive young ladies of the city, the Mendicity Society is a place for the devout to be associated with: an opportunity to do good work. Such people are constantly arriving at the offices with fine intentions – even more so during that period when a certain illustrious ex-detective had begun work there. Let us enter the building and see the upstanding people at work . . .

Here is the secretary escorting another earnest Christian volunteer through the various rooms and describing the activity of each. It is all highly organized and laudable, yet our young volunteer cannot help but become increasingly frustrated at the delay in approaching the most famed room of the building and of the Society itself – the one he has heard all about and in which he hopes to work: the begging letters office.

It is here that more than one thousand letters annually pass across desks to be verified according to the concerns of ladies and gentlemen, lords, dukes and earls who can never be certain that the piteous entreaties they receive in the post are truths or falsehoods. Only here can expert eyes examine the letters for the warp and weft of veracity.

Finally our volunteer is permitted entry. Within, there are shelves of ledgers containing the details of letter writers and their recipients across the country. Who is this sailor, for example, who claims to have fallen on hard times and purports to need ten pounds to release him from a debt? He has written to the Duke of ——— with a story that would wring tears from the very saline ropes of an ocean-tracing brig. Is he truly a straitened tar of Ratcliff-highway, or a skilled literary gentleman in a base lodging somewhere sending off fifteen identical versions of the letter with a sly grin upon his face?

It is as quiet as a library, the silence disturbed only by the occasional shuffle of feet, the creak of a chair and the scrape of a ledger being withdrawn. Serious gentlemen examine letters before them, making notes and consulting endless columns of records for notable phrases, recurring names, prominent addresses, unusual vocabulary. By such means are the cheats trapped and brought to justice, and our volunteer is enthralled at the spectacle. He looks rapidly from desk to desk . . . at which one is seated the gentleman he hopes to meet?