The Vice Society (4 page)

There at the centre of the room, sitting at a broad desk neatly arrayed with piles of papers and books, was George Williamson, previously of the Metropolitan Police’s Detective Force. He did not appear much changed from that grieving figure we saw seven years before – more careworn, perhaps; a little thinner about the face and with a harder edge to eyes that have seen more than any man should in the intervening period. Placed before him was a single sealed envelope which he was examining closely for clues that nobody else in the room – amateurs all – could possibly have seen.

The secretary approached with his youthful volunteer, and the two exchanged a glance. Yes, this was he: the same George Williamson, previously Detective Sergeant Williamson. They arrived at the desk and the ex-policeman looked up with a level stare that said he was being interrupted by the secretary.

‘George – may I present Harold Jute. His father is a most generous benefactor and Harold will be joining you for a time. He has just come down from Oxford and has expressed a wish to work with the Society.’

Mr Williamson did not stand, but appraised the young man with a swift, comprehensive glance and nodded a perfunctory assent to the secretary.

‘I am so terribly excited to be working with you, sir,’ said Harold, standing beside the desk. ‘I have been interested for some time in the work of the Detective Force, and when father told me that I might work here with—’

‘Sit down. There is work to do. Let us apply your enthusiasm to the case at hand. What do you see here, young man?’ said Mr Williamson.

‘A letter.’

‘You might have the makings of a detective yet.’

‘Er, thank you, sir.’

‘This is a letter sent to Lord ———. He receives so many importunate letters that he now sends them to the Society that we may examine them first.’

‘It is unopened.’

‘You are most observant.’

‘I . . . I mean, surely you must open the letter to begin your process.’

‘On the contrary. One may learn much of a letter before opening it. What do you see?’

‘May I touch it? Thank you. Well, it is a pre-paid envelope posted from the General Post Office at St Martin’s-le-Grand judging by the stamp. The hand looks like a feminine one and, yes, there is a faint perfume.’

‘Good. The markings, writing and odour tell as much. Inside, there are three sheets of thin notepaper with writing on one side only.’

‘But . . . but it is yet unopened. How can you be sure?’

‘The charge is one penny. That signifies a weight of half an ounce. Half an ounce equates to one and a half sheets of standard quarto notepaper or three sheets of thin notes. Experience tells us that ladies – and this letter at least pretends to be from a lady – are more likely to favour multiple sheets. The thinness of these means that the ink will often be absorbed through, hence the single sides.’

‘I see.’

‘Open it with this knife. Carefully.’

Harold opened the envelope and extracted three sheets of notepaper just as Mr Williamson had described them. ‘I say, Mr Williamson – if these fellows are as dull as this, I understand why so many are exposed!’

‘No.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘You are Mr . . . Mr George . . . I am afraid I am confused.’

‘I have been introduced to you as George Williamson. But you have never before seen me. I could be anyone at all, and yet you have accepted me as described because there is nothing to contradict the impression that I am who you believe me to be.’

‘
Are
you?’

‘Of course I am. I seek only to illustrate that nothing you see and read here is what it first seems. The people who write these letters, these “screevers” or “slums” as they are also termed, are skilled beyond the comprehension or imagination of your average criminal. They might write twenty letters like this a day, keeping logs of their targets and the details of the letters they have sent. There are letter writers like this who have escaped the police and the Mendicity Society for years: intelligent, sometimes formally educated, men who have not managed to make a living writing novels or articles for the papers. Quite frankly, they will never be caught.’

‘But we know this letter is from a lady, do we not?’

‘No. We know that it is written
as if
from a lady. The feminine hand and the scent are simple enough falsities. These writers may have a dozen different hands to call upon. Believe nothing. Now – let us read the text.’

‘A sorry tale,’ said Harold.

‘Indeed. Most pitiful – but quite clearly a fakement. Consider the weight of fortuitous coincidence within it: the last of her line; late relatives; a late husband; a late landlord . . . such unpunctuality is most suitable, is it not? None of these people are alive to be consulted upon the letter writer’s account.’

‘I suppose that is true. But we do know she is of the parish of St Anne.’

‘Do we? Might not anyone go to the parish records and pluck a name from them?’

‘I ... I imagine so.’

‘In fact, the letter is a very fine example of its sort, which is why we know it is not true. Tell me, what do we know of the widow Burgoyne from this letter?’

‘Well, she is from a respectable family, the widow of a schoolmaster and something of an educator herself. She is a mother and a Christian with a physical affliction who has fallen into hard times through no fault of her own.’

‘Quite. Nothing whatsoever deserving of reproach. It is a perfect case of need. Even the amount is modest and convincingly specific – at least, it would be a perfect case of need if the same letter had not been sent to two dozen other people.’

‘What tells you this? Have you seen the same letter before?’

‘Not exactly, but I am convinced of it. In part, its very perfection of form and tone is suspicious; only a professional writer would be so thorough. But also look again at that phrase “rend verily my heart”. Does that strike a note of recognition with you?’

‘It is poetry? I’m afraid I do not know it.’

‘It is taken from a song that was quite a phenomenon a few months ago: a sentimental piece entitled “My Foolish Heart”.’

‘I am afraid I do not follow your logic.’

‘I see that your fine Oxford education has taught you little about the common man. He is a garrulous sort because, as a rule, he cannot, or will not, read. His understanding of the world comes from others of his sort. Market gossip is his newspaper. Not for him the morning press – he relies upon the tradesman’s rumour, the ballad and witticism of the penny gaff. In one day, the latest song or joke can be across the city faster and more comprehensively than any news, passed like pestilence wherever people hear and speak.’

‘I see, but—’

‘But the popular taste is fickle and short-lived. Today’s phrase of the moment is tomorrow’s embarrassed silence or mocking snigger. I would say that the average lifespan of songs such as “My Foolish Heart” is about two or three months.’

‘The letter is dated two days ago.’

‘It is. But it was written three months ago when the song was popular. It had clearly stuck in the writer’s mind like mud to one’s sole and he used it without thinking. From this, we may discern that a number of these letters were most likely drafted identically at that time and posted at different times as opportunity and intelligence allowed. Certainly, the real widow Burgoyne – if she existed – would not wait three months to post this letter.’

‘Might not the writer have simply remembered the phrase and used it as he wrote?’

‘Hmm. Let me explain it in terms that you might understand. Imagine that you have been to see a play, a comedy, and a line particularly takes the fancy of you and your fellows. For weeks, you repeat it to each other until it becomes quite threadbare. Then, two or three months later, you find that you are in conversation with the same fellows and the opportunity arises to once again use this phrase. Do you do so? Would it be as amusing?’

‘I expect not. Fashion rather favours the new – unless I was satirizing the original.’

‘Is Mrs Burgoyne’s letter in a satirical tone?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Indeed. For the working man, only the most contemporary phrase or tune will do if he is to remain at the forefront of his peers.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Williamson, but is not all of this detection somewhat redundant? We have the woman’s address at St Mary’s-hill. Why not simply go there and verify the facts ourselves?’

‘And have the letter writer or one of his accomplices observe us from an upper or opposite window and flee? Such people expect the Society to come looking for them, and keep a lookout. No – we may be sure that the writer of this letter does not live at the return address itself. He is far too clever for that. In any event, the address is almost certainly a false one – the “b” is highly dubious.’

‘You say “he”?’

‘He.’

‘But . . . What are we to do now?’

‘Respond. I will instruct Lord ——— to reply this day to the given address and we will see what happens tomorrow.’

And so it was that the very next morning, Mr Williamson and young Harold Jute waited in the hall of the General Post Office at St Martin’s-le-Grand.

There can be few interiors as impressive as that vast and lofty space, its graceful Ionic pillars stretching up to the distant panelled ceiling where pipe smoke swirls lazily looking for egress. Footsteps and muted voices seem to echo about that marble vault as self-animated spirits, and human presence is reduced to entomological proportions as it passes momentarily through.

Mr Williamson watched the people. There, a man walking quickly to the Money Order Office to cash an urgent note; there, a diligent clerk sent to make a collection from the Foreign Letter Office; there, a woman impatiently opening a letter that will break her heart; there, a rural visiter to the city gaping dumbly at this cathedral of communication that is larger and grander than the nave of his home-town church.

For his part, Harold chanced a few looks at the investigator beside him. ‘Mr Williamson?’ he ventured once he had mustered the courage, ‘may I ask you why you left the Detective Force?’

‘You may not.’

‘Do you think, then, that we could talk a little about your police duties as we wait? I admit, I am quite fascinated with the work. Why, just today I read of a curious case that occurred over on Holywell-street a couple of mornings ago. I was wondering . . .’

‘No. I no longer do that work.’

‘I see. I am sorry to pry. Then . . . may I ask what drew you to the fine work of the Mendicity Society?’

‘I have a skill. The Society is able to use it. Do you have more questions?’

‘Well, I do wonder why we are waiting here rather than at St Mary’s-hill?’

‘You will see. It is about the right time. Let us ascend to the Returned Letter Office.’

Those of an inquisitive nature would do well to pay a visit to this, the most interesting room of the General Post Office. The letters that come here are lost, just as surely as many of the city’s inhabitants are lost. They are posted, start their journey, but find no destination, waiting in limbo to be read and made real in another’s mind. Who knows what news, what sentiments and what secrets find their way here like scraps whirled by the wind into the dead air of an alley?