The Vice Society (31 page)

‘May we interrupt?’ said Noah.

‘Yes – indeed, it is advised. His responses tend to be breathless effusions, so say “Stop!” quite firmly and he may be able to provide more detail on the most recent utterances. Miss your cue, however, and you will have to begin again.’

‘How accurate is he?’ said Mr Williamson.

‘Unerringly so. Once, at the start of his stay, we obtained an old edition of
the Times
and chose a suitably unique phrase. He identified the day and the month and the passage within moments. Shall we go to meet him?’

Doctor Norwood led his visiters towards the door where the chronologically fixated young man had earlier exited and they proceeded to the garden, which, though quite chilly, was populated with half a dozen young men engaged in a variety of improving pastimes. The aforementioned gentleman was indeed painting the oak tree from his position on the lawn; another was carefully attending to an area of shrubs; still another was engaged in drawing birds that settled in the naked branches above the garden.

Sitting apart from the others on a wooden bench was Mr Aubrey Alsthom, a prematurely balding young man with the intense expression of the intellectual. In his long, slender fingers was a miniature wooden figure of indistinct features that he held up to the light and twirled for closer inspection. The approach of the strangers drew his attention and he looked at them coolly.

‘What have you made there, Aubrey?’ asked the doctor.

‘It is a figure of Plato, Doctor Norwood.’ The voice was but a cadence.

‘I think you need to give him another chin,’ offered Noah with a smile.

‘Do you think so? I did wonder about that. I may have to start again.’

‘Aubrey – these gentlemen have come from the city especially to see you. They would like to ask you about
the Times
.’

‘Is . . . is that not forbidden? I mean . . . I should not . . .’

‘Becalm yourself, Aubrey. Let us consider it a brief clinical experiment, then we will let you return to Plato.’

A wooden bench was carried over by Benjamin and Mr Cullen, then all sat around Aubrey, whose eyes had begun to glisten either through trepidation or glee. There was a sense of commingled anticipation and fear among the four investigators. Mr Williamson had his notebook at the ready. At a nod from Doctor Norwood, Noah began:

‘Aubrey, I would like you to search for . . . “Freepass” – as a single word if you please.’

Aubrey’s eyes lost focus and rolled upwards, becoming mere flickering whites. His left eyelid twitched briefly. His mouth sagged open slightly . . . then he returned with a strange, unearthly monotone:

‘“. . . a collision between a collier and a cutter just off Freepass-stairs in the Thames Pool . . . Mr Arbuthnot’s Murder’d Moor alehouse in Freepass-alley . . . the horse fell at the corner of Cock-lane and Freepass-alley . . .”’

There was no need to shout ‘stop’. Aubrey had finished. There had been only three mentions of that place in the last ten years or so.

‘Excellent work, Aubrey,’ said Doctor Norwood, patting the young man’s knee.

Aubrey smiled uneasily as if unsure whether he should be enjoying himself quite so much.

‘Search for . . . “coal tar”,’ said Noah.

Again, the eyes took that ghastly turn and there was the twitch.

‘“. . . Johnson’s patent coal tar is the finest such product for preserving wood . . . a manufactory refining coal tar and other such products . . . Dr Parkinson’s Coal Tar Remedy for vomiting of blood . . . the timbers had been treated by numerous applications of coal tar . . .”’

‘Stop! I think we have discerned the pattern there,’ said Noah. ‘I fear the term was too generic.’

Mr Williamson made a note and seemed to be deep in thought, no doubt cogitating upon how best to use this preternatural mental resource. ‘Aubrey – please search for . . . “lavender”.’

‘“. . . Mr Nelson of Lavender-hill . . . Viners’ new Motto scents, including lavender, myrrh and cedar . . . a necklace lost in the environs of Lavender-terrace . . . Thomas Lavender Esq. presented himself to her Majesty . . . Hendrie’s Perfumed Spirit of Lavender . . . Drury’s lavender water for handkerchiefs . . . Mr William Lavender said that . . .”’

‘Stop! Hmm. I do not think that is a helpful avenue of investigation. I am beginning to understand the need for greater specificity. Perhaps we should try a name. Search for . . . “James Tattershall”.’

‘“. . . the attendees were James Smith, John Tattershall and George Plothers . . . Tattershall’s Throat Lozenges against coughs . . . shooting at Glenfiddich were Charles Booth, Henry Athers, James Brookes, James Tattershall and Sir John Smythe . . .”’

Aubrey stopped. ‘That is all. I apologize for the initial match – the proximity of the two names tricked me.’

‘You have no need to apologize, Aubrey,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘We greatly value your prodigious talent. Perhaps you could search for . . . “Major Archibald Tunnock”.’

‘“. . . the court martial of Major Archibald Tunnock on grounds of gross indecency and conduct unbecoming an officer . . . the unsuccessful Tory candidate Major A. Tunnock had to be escorted from the room . . .
My India
by Major Archibald Tunnock, an unvarnished soldier’s tale . . . a meeting to be held at Friar’s Hall by Major A. Tunnock on the question: ‘Vice and its Ends’ . . .”’

‘Stop! That is as concise a biography as we could wish for on that person,’ said Noah.

‘Hmm. Let us attempt something more detailed,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Aubrey – could you search for “suicide” and “prussic acid” in juxtaposition?’

Noah nodded his approval.

The young man was paler now than when the questioning had begun. Perhaps it was the cold, but there was a slight shivering in his form. Nevertheless, he raced through the volumes of his mind and returned:

‘“. . . the lady was found lying in the street having taken a phial of prussic acid . . . the girl Juliet, a mere seventeen, took the poison because she was
enceinte
. . . in addition to taking prussic acid Mrs Cotton had strangled herself with a cord . . . the woman was seen drinking from a phial of what was believed to be prussic acid before she jumped and was dashed against the buttress of the bridge . . .”’

‘Stop!’ said Noah. ‘I am afraid, George, that this avenue will yield hundreds of such matches. By all means return to it and elicit some dates from Aubrey for further research, or refine the search, but I fear we will exhaust him thus.’

‘Hmm. Perhaps you are right.’

‘I believe Aubrey is becoming fatigued,’ said Doctor Norwood. ‘Perhaps we should stop and recommence another time if need be.’

The young man did indeed now look quite deflated and pale.

‘Just one more, if we may,’ said Noah, glancing at Mr Williamson. ‘Aubrey – search for . . . “Persephone”.’

A pause. The eyes flickered. The mouth opened and the lips moved as if he were speaking silently. Then . . .

‘Nothing. I am sorry,’ said Aubrey.

‘What do you mean, “nothing”?’ said Mr Williamson as politely as he could.

‘It means there is no occurrence of that word in the last ten years’ editions, sir. Not in headlines, advertisements or features.’

‘Hmm. Should we spell it differently?’

‘I have searched for the possible phonetic variations, hence the slight delay.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘There is, I am afraid, only one way to be sure: one must read all of the last ten years’ editions.’

‘Hmm. Hmm.’

‘I think we should now leave Aubrey to his whittling,’ said the doctor, standing.

The others followed suit, albeit reluctantly, and thanked the young man in turn before making their way back to the house.

‘Did you manage to elicit the information you wanted?’ asked Doctor Norwood as they strolled.

‘I fear that we would need much more time with Aubrey to fully exploit his knowledge,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I was only just beginning to fathom how the questioning could work.’

‘Alas, we are playing with the delicate sanity of a young man. We may already have asked more of him than he can bear. Perhaps you can return again later, in a week or so.’

‘We do not have a week—’

‘Thank you, Doctor Norwood, for the generosity you have shown,’ interjected Noah. ‘In truth, we had so little information before that this has helped to some degree.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I apologize for my tone, doctor. We are frustratingly close to justice. Thanks to Aubrey, I will now be able to locate this Freepass-alley and venture there.’

‘I, too, have had further thoughts on the case as a result of this meeting,’ said Noah. ‘I think my next port of call will be the British Museum reading room.’

TWENTY

Is there any other place in London that has such resonance to the writer as the reading room of the British Museum? Not in a dozen lifetimes could one read its half-a-million volumes, and yet those endless shelves are a multitudinous reminder of one’s own failure to achieve posterity in a leathern spine.

If we lean on the balustrade of the gallery and look down upon the hushed readers below, what do we see? It is a veritable human encyclopaedia of hacks, scribes, copyists, journalists, novelists, diarists, biographers, historians, cataloguers and plagiarists – monomaniacs all, surviving on a meagre diet of thin hope and sugared dreams.

There is a musty scent of books and damp clothing, for most are here to escape the bitter cold of their lodgings. If they are currently reading their way through the newspapers on offer, it is merely a preliminary to the colossal
opus
they will begin later that day, or tomorrow, or next year. See the copyist, almost as blind as a mole, squinting at the tome he is reproducing for a publisher; see the student of University College debating whether he should copy that page of Greek or simply tear it out; see the aged author glancing around to see if anyone has recognized him as the progenitor of that shoddy novel that sank in a mire of indifference last year.

And, of course, I. I have had a productive morning researching a new list of likely benefactors for the begging letters I am to start writing once more. I will try the Literary Fund again, I suppose, and target the Royal Society – those old gentlemen of science have not the wit to see through a piece of masterful prose unless it has an erroneous equation in it.

But let us not lose track of the story. It is the day after that strange episode at Doctor Norwood’s place, and immediately below us is Mr Noah Dyson, his desk stacked with an interesting array of books. There is one on medicine and another on herbal remedies; there is an edition of
the Times
from seven years past; there are a number in indecipherable Greek, and a directory of London charities. He has already written a number of letters that are safely in envelopes inside his jacket: one to Major Tunnock accepting the invitation to converse further, and three others ... of which we will hear more in good time.

Is he not a curious fellow, this Noah Dyson? One day we see him in the east of the city at his opium manufactory; another day we see him at the library desk as comfortable among books as if he had always been a university man. There must be few who can inhabit such different worlds with equal ease, but then he is a man who has seen the world as few have.

Those hands that turn the page so delicately have hoisted rope in the uncharted frozen wastes of Lancaster Sound, have clung to the splintered wreckage of a whaler sunk by behemoths, have been tanned almost black on Antipodean decks, and wielded weapons against pirates off Cape Matapan and Jamaica. Those eyes that scan the page with such application have seen vistas and horizons we could never conceive: the Morea, Pernambuco, Honduras, Buenos Ayres, Exuma, Tortola, Demerara, Bahaia, Madras . . .

Now, however, he is looking again at that tract given to him by Major Tunnock – a particularly nasty and radical piece of writing: