The Vice Society (36 page)

... he saw himself in a balloon high over the city, his hands gripping the edge of the basket and peering down ... he jumped, falling through the freezing air, falling without fear towards the gas lit streets . . .

The bully indicated with a jerk of his head that Hoo Chang should vacate the room, which he did, hurriedly, via the same door used by the three gentlemen. Then the be-capped ruffian extracted a razor from his inside jacket pocket and, without a trace of emotion, rested the blade’s edge against the fevered neck of Mr Williamson, whose veins throbbed conveniently at the surface in readiness for the slash . . .

Then the interior connecting door crashed from its hinges with a shower of splinters.

The bully’s razor fell to the ground with a clink.

And the would-be murderer beheld a demon before him: an immense Negro glistening with sweat and blood, his hands and face lacerated, his clothing almost entirely ripped from his formidable torso, and his single functioning eye burning with a rage so terrifying that it set the bully’s legs a-quiver.

As he bent to retrieve his razor, the bully was lifted off his feet by a punch that audibly cracked his scull and sent him almost through the wall.

Benjamin picked up the razor and cut the bonds around Mr Williamson’s feet and hands. He ripped off the blindfold and picked up the investigator as if he had been no more than a toy, hoisting him over a shoulder and carrying him.

. . . upside-down now – and through viscous haze – he saw the sofa where he had lain, the opium-smoking apparatus and the inert body next to it ... he saw the trail of destruction that Benjamin had wrought on his rampage through the building . . . he saw the barroom littered with groaning and unconscious bodies, blood splattered across walls and smeared in great arcs over the glass-strewn wooden floor ... he saw the body of that huge Hercules lying by the door . . .

... he smelled the night air: smoky, cold and putrid . . . and he knew he was home.

TWENTY-THREE

Noah Dyson folded the newspaper and smiled. He looked across at Mr Williamson, who was quite alive, albeit still somewhat fragile after the events of two nights ago. The scene was the reception room of Mr Allan’s residence, Mr Allan being a retired policeman and guardian of a house that was used by the Detective Force for covert meetings, for housing vulnerable witnesses and for divers other purposes that should not be known to anyone outside that investigative fraternity. Also present were Inspector Newsome, Mr Cullen and a heavily bandaged Benjamin.

After the briefest – and most sparingly honest – of summaries about their respective activities over the previous days, an uneasy silence had settled as the gathered gentlemen waited for Mr Allan to bring the tea up from the kitchen.

Mr Newsome was glaring at Mr Cullen, who was studiously avoiding the gaze by looking into the healthy fire in the grate. Mr Williamson, who had been suffering from a greater than usual thirst, was sipping water from a glass and cogitating upon his own death, looking occasionally at his previous superior for any clues to what he might have learned. Benjamin picked at the coverings of his multiple wounds and awaited the confabulatory fireworks.

A knock at the street door interrupted the silence: three raps of the brass knocker. All of the men registered the sound, but none stood.

‘I believe it is the letter carrier,’ said Mr Cullen to break the awkward hiatus.

‘No – the letter carrier knocks only twice. That is their habit and it does not vary,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘It will be a tradesman of some kind.’

‘I think not,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The tradesman goes first to the kitchen and rings the bell. This is likely some irregular tradesman: an upholsterer or glazier – or a delivery boy, perhaps.’

‘An interesting assumption,’ said Noah, ‘but the delivery boy tends to bang clumsily a number of times at the knocker in his enthusiasm about being away from the shop. This has the sound of a practised hand – someone used to knocking on doors. An older person.’

‘Well, now,’ said Mr Newsome, ‘I disagree. The knocking was brief, but not particularly loud, which would suggest a timidity associated with someone not used to knocking on doors.’

‘Unless, of course, the person on the step is a short person, a boy, perhaps, who has to reach up to the knocker and cannot therefore exert the force of a taller person,’ said Mr Williamson.

Mr Cullen struggled in vain for something to add and looked over at Benjamin, who was grinning at the game.

‘Might it not be a woman in that case?’ said Noah. ‘The female hand does not like to rap loudly but has a gentle touch. Perhaps she is here to interview for a position.’

‘In which case, she would call at the kitchen,’ said Mr Newsome.

‘Unless she knew Mr Allan employs no cook and that she would have to use the street door to gain his attention,’ said Mr Williamson.

‘It could be an entirely mistaken call . . .’ ventured Mr Cullen, aware now that he was entering a highly skilled arena.

‘Interesting,’ said Noah. ‘We must always consider the arbitrary and random. Perhaps the caller has confused the house with one on the opposite side of the street and knocks so lightly because he is unsure of the address – especially this particular address.’

‘The chance callers to this address are few,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Indeed, you will have noticed there is no number appended to the door.’

‘Let us settle this once and for all,’ said Noah. ‘Ben – will you go and answer the door?’

Benjamin stood with a grimace and walked to the corridor. They heard him open the street door then close it. He appeared again in the reception room and made a brief hand signal to Noah.

‘Whoever it was, they evidently tired of our procrastination,’ said Noah. ‘There was nobody on the step.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Williamson.

There was a rattle of crockery and Mr Allan entered carrying a tray. The ex-policeman was about fifty years old with prematurely greying hair and a slight limp from an injury gained while on duty.

‘Was that someone knocking at the street door?’ he asked, laying the tray on a low table in the centre of the room.

‘It was nobody,’ said Inspector Newsome. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mr Allan, but I must now ask you to leave us to speak in private.’

The venerable host, who was accustomed to such meetings, left the room without comment and the four gentlemen again began their mutual examinations.

‘Well, then – I will begin if nobody else will venture to do so,’ said Inspector Newsome. ‘Are we to believe for a moment that this spurious funeral Mr Dyson had me arrange is going to convince anyone of Mr Williamson’s death?’

‘They left him with a razor at his throat and had no reason to believe his death sentence was not carried out,’ said Noah. ‘I had the body of the bully removed that same evening and I suspect he will not be missed for a day or two. Besides, the notice has appeared in
the Times
. Nobody knows the truth but the people in this room, and people believe what they like to think is true, especially if it is corroborated.’

‘What was in the coffin?’ said the inspector.

‘Earth approximating my weight,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘They would have to exhume the box to know for sure that I am not in it.’

‘Well, it seems rather an elaborate hoax for very little discernible benefit.’

‘The merest advantage is still an advantage, Inspector,’ said Noah. ‘The illusion need last only two more days. In that time, we will have our solution . . . or be dead.’

‘Let us hope it is the former. Now – we have all been following paths towards the solution of this infernal mystery and I have no doubt that we have all made discoveries. I wonder if we can all fully share these discoveries on the understanding that together we may hold the answer. This puzzle needs every single piece before it will show the final image.’

‘Very well,’ said Noah. ‘But you will earn our trust by beginning with yourself.’

‘Earn
your
trust, Mr Dyson? I do not aspire to those lofty heights. Nevertheless, I will begin with something that may pertain particularly to Mr Williamson here. You may not have read of it in the newspapers, but another girl has been found – apparently a suicide with prussic acid. She was a dollymop.’

‘Why would that “pertain” particularly to me?’ asked Mr Williamson.

‘Because her name was Nelly Jones. You interviewed her at Milton-street ten days ago.’

‘I did indeed, and make no attempt to deny it. It was Mendicity Society business. Are you implying a connection of some kind? I see none.’

‘Only the anonymous note I received advising me that you had spoken to the girl. Evidently somebody wants me to make a connection. Could you think who?’

‘I cannot. Frankly, I am more and more convinced that there is a crowd of people behind this case who are observing our every move. That is something that you, more than any of us, should know.’

‘What do you mean by that, George?’

‘Come now, Inspector – will you have us believe that Mr Eusebius Bean has not been spying on almost every development in the investigation? From the moment I saw him in that opulent house at St James’s, I knew him as a spy. And I have the feeling that he has been near to me for some days past – a curious sense of being observed.’

‘All right, Mr Williamson – I will admit that I, too, have come to that conclusion in recent days. It explains almost all that has happened: how they have been able to follow movements so closely. Eusebius was imposed upon me, but now he has vanished.’

‘Who are “they” – the people who follow?’ said Noah.

‘That is the question, is it not? I questioned Mr Poppleton in his gaol cell – the same one at Giltspur-street, incidentally, that once held you, Mr Dyson – and he said that “they” would kill him. He preferred internment to divulging their identities.’

‘I repeat: who are “they”?’

‘It seems they are wealthy. I would guess that Mr Dyson is going to tell us that they are connected to the Continental Club.’

‘Let me say what everyone is thinking,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The Society for the Suppression of Vice.’

‘It would seem so,’ said Inspector Newsome with a sigh. ‘Proving that, however, will be problematic. Eusebius, as I say, has vanished. He is no doubt watching one or all of us on behalf of his paymasters. Who knows what he has told them?’

‘Well, his observation will cease if I observe him first,’ said Noah.

‘We are getting away from my original point,’ said the inspector. ‘What do the death of Nelly and that letter contribute to our investigation? Who else knew that you visited her, George?’

‘The Secretary of the Mendicity Society, of course. And anyone who had my notes on the case. And Harold Jute, of course – a young man who was spending time at the Society to please his father.’

‘“Harold”, you say?’ said Noah. ‘Describe him.’

‘Tall, slim, sandy hair, a prominent Adam’s apple . . .’

‘Then I have most likely met the man. I was introduced to a Harold at the Continental Club. He appeared as you have described – and he was clearly part of that group surrounding a certain Major Tunnock: a lecherous old soldier.’

‘My G—!’ said Mr Cullen, seeing his chance. ‘Do you think that “they” put him alongside you at that early stage because they thought you would investigate?’

‘Why would Mr Williamson investigate if he was not even part of the Detective Force?’ said Mr Newsome with derision. ‘And while we are about it, why is Constable Cullen at this meeting? I know he has chosen to throw away his long years of service for some phantasy as a detective, but I see no benefit in having him here.’

‘Mr Cullen has provided important information on the case that you saw fit not to mention last time we met,’ said Noah. ‘We can trust
him
.’

‘I see. I see. Well, perhaps it
was
this Mr Jute who sent the note to me, though I cannot see why . . . Mr Williamson – you look as if you are about to have a thought . . .’

‘When I was constrained at the Murder’d Moor, I heard two distinct voices. One of them was a gargled, broken noise I did not recognize. The other . . . the other now seems familiar to me. I was perhaps not listening attentively at that point, but it seems clear now. I believe it was . . . Harold Jute.’

‘So we have tentatively identified one of who “they” are,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘The rest are likely to be of that group around the major. We must act quickly.’

‘Wait. Let us not be too precipitous in our actions,’ said Noah. ‘I have made arrangements to meet the major and his friends at a private residence on Sunday. That will be an opportunity to see who is part of the group and present our case to them.’

‘It is a trap, of course – as obviously as Freepass-alley was to Mr Williamson. They will try to kill you as surely as they tried with him. Did they not make that clear?’