The Vice Society (33 page)

Finally, it was time for Mr Newsome to be acknowledged:

‘Well? What have you got for me, Inspector?’

‘Questions, clues, mysteries and lies, sir.’

‘That is not the answer I wanted. Is it not enough that you have the entire apparatus of the Metropolitan Police at your hands? Is it not enough that you have a suspect in gaol and the aid of Mr Williamson . . . yes, you need not be so surprised. The men talk and, naturally, I hear it.’

‘The man is not helping me, sir. I merely spoke to him because I heard he was investigating—’

‘I asked you what you have. Be kind enough to tell me.’

‘Sir – you will recall that a street girl was found dead on Holywell-street the night of the Sampson incident. It now seems that there may be some connection with a number of other prostitute deaths by prussic acid.’

‘What connection?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Well, there is a connection or there is not. What has she to do with Mr Sampson?’

‘A blonde hair was found in the room, and the girl was blonde. My researches have turned up some other related deaths—’

‘These other deaths – what have they to do with the Sampson case?’

‘As yet, I do not know. I am pursuing that avenue.’

‘I hope you have something better than this. The Force is being made to look like a fool. How long is it since the incident on Holywell-street?’

‘I questioned Mr Poppleton and, though he told me little, he did make one very intriguing comment in defence of his stubborn silence. He said: “They will kill me . . .”’

‘“They”? Who are “they”?’

‘I have absolutely no idea. I can conjecture only that “they” are a group of exceptionally dangerous men responsible for the murder – a group so powerful that he feared them more than a two-year stay at Newgate.’

‘So we can be almost certain it was a murder. Is there any sign of a motive?’

‘None. But the victim was heard to shout “I cannot” before he went through the window – which would seem to suggest he was compelled to perform some activity he did not want to.’

‘What else? You must have unearthed further clues than this in the last few days.’

‘Seeds, sir. The chamber pot in the room contained some masticated seeds, and the prostitute deaths I have been investigating also involve seeds.’

‘Must I ask what significance this has?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Good G—, man! Seeds? Prostitutes? A silent suspect? Tell me you are not utterly incompetent!’

‘I am to liaise with Mr Williamson shortly to discuss the case. He has been pursuing a related matter for . . . for the Mendicity Society and may be able to aid me in my enquiries.’

‘Good. Good. He was a credit to the Force. It is a pity about his health. I hear he is still absent from his duties at Red Lion-square. Tell him your clues and see what he thinks.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And where is Eusebius Bean? Did I not tell you that he was to be at your right hand during this case?’

‘Indeed, but the man has not arrived for work the last two days. I thought perhaps the Vice Society had recalled him.’

‘That is not the case. I will make enquiries.’

‘May I ask, sir – is the Society still applying pressure?’

‘I am asked almost daily for a report on our progress, hence my agitation at having so little to tell them. I certainly do not want to return to them with tales of even more sin and filth in the city.’

‘May I ask who represents the Society in these reports?’

‘That is a question too far, Inspector. Be satisfied that I am maintaining cordial relations with them. I allowed them to raid a manufactory of obscene alabaster figurines at Smithfield yesterday. Such things placate them, and thus a number of very influential people are placated.’

‘I understand.’

‘Well – do not let me keep you. There is a murder to solve.’

The inspector returned to his office with indignation burning in his cheeks.

As the reader will have perceived, he had not told the entire truth to Sir Richard. Clearly, he could hardly mention anything touching on his secret files. Likewise, his collaboration with Mr Williamson (and particularly Noah’s involvement) was one that needed to be delicately managed. So what had he
really
discovered?

In truth: very little. His special constables had turned up nothing coherent on the name ‘Persephone’ – as he had expected. The girl Charlotte had given no additional information – no doubt because there was no financial or punitive incentive to do so. Nor had that illicit ledger of his offered any insight into the mysterious name. He drummed his fingers upon his desk as he thought, and unfolded that piece of paper upon which he had begun to jot his ideas. Little more had been added, but it was all he had:

Answers were not forthcoming. If there was any conclusion at all from this profusion of clues, it was that the perpetrators were not (with one recent notable exception) what Mr New-some was used to. No ignorant drunks or dim-witted robbers
these
killers. They were intelligent, organized, influential . . . and clearly observing every step of the dual investigations pursuing them.

Why else had Mr Jessop, Joseph the waterman and (most likely) Mrs Colliver been killed shortly after being questioned? And why had the inspector himself received a letter implicating Mr Williamson in a crime that he almost certainly had no connection with? The faceless villains seemed to know everything, see everything, anticipate everything.

Eusebius Bean. The Society for the Suppression of Vice. The inspector rolled these two entities around his policeman’s brain like two marbles and asked that question common to all of the great detectives.

What if . . . ?

What if the pressure exerted upon Sir Richard by the Society was not merely to urge an investigation but to monitor and sabotage it? What if the parasite Bean was watching every aspect of the case and feeding back all of his observations to his paymasters? What if they knew the perpetrators and were trying to protect them? What if they themselves were the perpetrators? Had not Mr Newsome seen for himself that the earnest scripture quoting of many so-called Christian gentlemen was a
charade
made comical by their hypocritical use of brothels and prostitutes across the city?

But what to do? He was just a policeman, albeit a high-ranking one. Sir Richard had made it quite clear that there was a political element to the whole case – that promotion might depend on acquiescence. There was little other choice: he would simply have to catch them and prove their guilt beyond all doubt. Not even Sir Richard would baulk at clear evidence of murder, whatever the perpetrators’ standing. And in this endeavour, he would have to start immediately lest the next corpse be his own. He left a message for his clerk to have that information on the Park-lane girls waiting for him when he returned, then he took his coat and went out into the cold.

Whitehall was a drear spectacle indeed: grey and dark in a thickening sleet. He stamped his feet as he waited for the carriage to be brought round and watched the dogged progress of a coster lad pushing his barrow of fruit up the street. The boy was a ruddy-faced example of his breed: all brawn and no brains, but with an indomitable spirit that kept him alive in this urban wilderness. As the barrow passed by, Mr New-some looked upon the sleet-flecked produce and an idea occurred:

‘Halt there, boy!’

‘I got p’mission to be ’ere so don’t be gimme no lashin’,’ offered the lad.

‘I am not trying to arrest you. I merely have a challenge for you.’

‘What challenge?’

‘How well do you know your fruit, boy?’

‘I’m the ——— lord of fruit, ain’t I! There’s not a barrow-boy in the city knows ’is fruit like I does. Tasted it all, sold it all – I seen fruit as you wouldn’t dream of.’

‘Good. There is a shilling in it for you if you can identify the fruit from its seeds alone.’

‘Deal.’

The boy spat into his filthy hand and offered to shake – an invitation Mr Newsome declined, despite wearing gloves. Instead, he extracted the jar from his pocket that contained the seeds extracted from poor Nelly’s mouth and stomach. He handed the jar to the boy, who was unimpressed:

‘It’s all chewed an’ rotten, the pith an’ all!’

‘So we have no deal then.’

‘Wait! Lemme look . . .’

‘Is it an orange?’

‘Wait! I is thinkin’. There’s a libr’y of fruit in me ’ead – I must look through it, see?’

‘Continue at your leisure. I am happy to stand here in this freezing rain . . .’

The lad’s face contorted in the pain of cogitation and he squinted at the contents of the jar, turning it critically to achieve different perspectives. Once his expertise had been proved beyond question by this performance, he was ready.

‘Got it!’

‘Well?’

‘I don’t see no shillin’ . . .’

‘Very well. Here it is. But if you are not correct in your judgement, you had better not venture along Whitehall for the rest of your life.’

‘S’not an orange. Seeds are too small. Nor a clementine or any of the orange’s kin. Wrong shape. And the pith ain’t as stringy.’

‘I see that you are also a poet of fruit to speak so prolonged upon the subject. What is my answer?’

‘It’s a pom’granit.’

‘A what?’

‘Exotic fruit, ain’t it? Don’t see ’em much. Expensive. Of course, I ’ave eaten one. They’s sweet enough, but ’as too many seeds. Too much fuss. Give me an apple any day.’

‘Are you sure? I had a doctor tell me these were orange seeds.’

‘Did ’e sell fruit for a livin’?’

Inspector Newsome smiled despite himself and nodded his thanks to the coster lad, who ambled on his way. The carriage pulled up with a clatter of hooves and he was grateful to climb into its relative warmth.

Up St Martin’s-lane and along Long Acre, he thought upon the question of the seeds. If the lad had been correct in his judgement, did it add anything else to what he knew? Only in that it reinforced his assumption of wealthy men – men who had given the girls a kind of fruit they would otherwise not have bought or even recognized. Was it a bribe to lure the girls – a novelty item? Was one of the perpetrators partial to that particular fruit? The clues multiplied, and with them the questions. Perhaps his next appointment would provide illumination.

As he approached the main entrance of the Royal College of Surgeons, an eruption of young gentlemen flooded out: the doctors and surgeons of tomorrow, all a-chatter about the erudition they had no doubt just received. They flowed around him as if he were a mere lamp post, jostling and talking over him because – without even realizing it – they had taken in his clothes and manner at a glance and perceived him as one lower than they: some manner of tradesman or minor professional.

He pushed his way through the
mêlée
into the entrance hall and made for the entrance to the lecture theatre, from which the last remnants of the audience were trickling. The heat and smell of the absent audience was still there inside that curious wooden accordion of banked seating, and the skylight far above cast a pale light as dusk came on. The timber seating, now relieved of the weight of humanity, ticked and creaked in repose.

‘Ah, Inspector Newsome! Punctual as ever. How long is it since we last met?’

The speaker was that eminent surgeon Mr Herbert, who was wiping his chalked lecture notes off the board. A man of around fifty years, his face was flushed from the heat of the room and the exertion of his teaching.

Mr Newsome looked sidelong at the preparation table and was relieved to see no body there – just a number of jars filled with horrors suspended in chymicals.

‘Mr Herbert – I admit I cannot exactly recall the last time, but, as ever, I am grateful for your time.’

‘Nonsense! I always have time for the police. Do you mind if I continue with my work at the board? I would like to write my notes for tomorrow’s session before we lose the light. I do not want to call the man in to light the gas just on my account.’

‘By all means. As I said in my letter, I am interested in a number of matters – first among them the matter of suicide and what causes it. I would rather hear it from you than read your work on the subject.’

‘Quite sensible. Well, the first thing to say is that self-murder is a sin – there can be no equivocation on that matter. The Bible is quite clear, so we can discount others of my profession who chatter to the contrary.’