The Vice Society (40 page)

‘I saw you looking at my collection of cards, Mr Williamson.’

‘Hmm.’

‘It is beneficial to me that I have those records of those who have visited or attempted to visit. All would deny it, of course.’

‘I am sure. If I may say so, madam, you do not seem at all surprised to see me here. You have made no denials; you have asked no questions.’

‘The fact that you are here at all means none of that need be said. There is a time for games, but this one would be neither amusing nor beneficial.’

‘And yet you are the one who started it. You do accept that you are she who sent me that letter?’

‘I will neither accept nor deny it, but you will know my answer.’

‘I see that I have entered a level of society in which conversation is not what it seems, and where one may say nothing as eloquently as something.’

‘Ha! You are a quick study, Mr Williamson. I apologize – such frivolity is my daily custom. The gentlemen enjoy it.’

‘Hmm. The fact remains that you sent me a letter. It was pseudonymous, but you must have expected that the investigation would lead back to you.’

‘In fact, there is no reason at all that it should lead back to me. I have absolutely no part in it.’

‘You signed the letter “Persephone”. The name is quite clearly the key to the Holywell-street case.’

‘O, Mr Williamson – you disappoint me. You said yourself that the name was pseudonymous. I am no more Persephone than I am the Queen. Nor am I acquainted with anyone else you are investigating. Frankly, I am surprised that you were able to make a connection where none existed.’

‘It was you who made the connection. We had no idea who “Persephone” might be. Two things led us to you: the assumption (born of ignorance) that the name was the
soubriquet
of an actress, or a pro ... or another kind of lady, and your error of having us followed by men wearing distinctive livery.’

‘I see. That is disappointing. I did tell them not to wear their uniforms at any time while engaged in that game, but, well . . . one cannot control everything, no matter how one tries.’

‘Indeed.’

‘The truth, Mr Williamson, is that your presence here may prove exceptionally difficult to me – perhaps even fatal. My men are not the only ones who have been following you. If the others followed you here, and if they have any concept why you came, my life may not be worth a farthing.’

‘Madam – if your life is in danger, perhaps it is because we have spent many days running around the city chasing a phantasm called Persephone. Had your initial letter given details and names, three more people might be alive today.’

‘It is cruel of you to throw that at my door. Cruel and unjust.’

‘Perhaps it is cruel, but it is just. If you know more, you could have informed me and kept your anonymity.’

‘If I had told you more, they might have discerned the source of the information and I would have been the first on that list of dead.’

‘You credit them with great power and knowledge.’

‘Am I not correct? What is your experience of the men you seek?’

‘They have followed our investigation so closely that it seems they briefly became a part of it.’

‘Quite. I am merely a woman; you have the Metropolitan Police as your ally.’

‘But you are no street girl, madam. Surely they would not venture to kill one such as you, even if they managed to discern that you knew something.’

‘Mr Williamson – how little you know! I may wear this diamond as large as a grape; I may own four horses and stables; I may wear dresses whose cost would feed a family – a family such as I came from – for a year and more; I may have my box at the opera . . . but what am I? Who am I?’

‘Well . . .’

‘I am nobody. I am a dream, a promise, a prize. I have no name; I am a member of no august society; I exist as long as my beauty does. Wealthy men admire me in private and abhor me in public. Wealthy ladies condemn me in public and envy me in private. My death would make as few newspaper words as those poisoned street girls – probably fewer. I am an angel to few, an embarrassment to many, and a threat to most.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Power, as I am sure you understand, is more than mere wealth, Mr Williamson. It is birth. These men you seek have power, and I know enough to fear them.’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘If you do not already know that, I fear also for your safety.’

‘Madam . . . Mary – whatever prompted you to send that letter, let it guide you now. I understand that you are afraid, but you have started something that must be finished. You cannot withdraw. If your safety is already compromised, I see little advantage in saying nothing.’

‘Ha! “Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,/ Returning were as tedious as go o’er.” Is that not it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do you not read Shakespeare, Mr Williamson?’

‘I find there is usually something else to do.’

‘You are a curious man.’

‘I am a man; I pretend no more or less. Who are “they”?’

‘Perhaps I have not made myself sufficiently clear . . .’

‘No – it is I who have not expressed myself adequately. Tomorrow we meet the men we believe to be behind the Holywell-street incident. By doing so, we put our lives at risk. Anything you could tell us about these people might be the difference between life and death . . . perhaps
your
death. Three days ago, I was led into a trap in which I was drugged and questioned under the influence of opium. I have no idea what I revealed . . .’

‘If that is a threat, it is not a particularly veiled one.’

‘It is a matter of fact. You have expressed a desire to aid me. Whatever the manner of that expression, I am still in need of the aid. Let us begin in another way: what is
your
interest? Why did you contact me? And, please, let us not speak of civic duty.’

‘You leave little room for manoeuvre.’

‘This is not a game, madam – one of those witty conversations at which nothing is risked. At least four people have been murdered as a result of this investigation: Mrs Colliver, Mr Jessop and a cab waterman named Joseph. Mr Sampson is another. And then there are the street girls poisoned with prussic acid . . . Ah . . . I see from your eyes that it is these latter deaths that are of primary interest to you.’

‘Very clever. You are indeed a pre-eminent detective.’

‘Tell me about these deaths.’

‘Very well, Mr Williamson. Very well. You understand that in my position I hear many things. This chamber has been the scene of more secrets than any parliamentary anteroom or confessional. Men talk, and I listen. It is what keeps me where I am.’

‘And you heard something that concerned you enough to contact me?’

‘A man visited me. He was referred to me by . . . well, never mind by whom. He was not typical of my customary visiters; frankly, I am more than the gentleman could afford. But he had persisted so often (via many routes) in trying to meet me, and it seemed he had managed to collect together the requisite funds . . . I was amused by his efforts and I deigned to see him for twenty minutes only.’

‘No doubt to ruin him in so short a time.’

‘O, Mr Williamson. Let us not descend to such things. Men gamble, men drink, men steal . . . their weaknesses are legion. Blame the man – not his weakness.’

‘Hmm. Twenty minutes seems rather parsimonious.’

‘Then you have never experienced what
he
did.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. Proceed.’

‘The gentleman actually took more of my time than I had intended. Poor man, he was trying to impress me with stories from his club. It seems there was a group there who had formed some manner of “secret society” calling itself . . . well, the Persephone Club. He spoke of it in tones of the utmost guardedness, unwilling at first to give me any detail, but said that he was himself to join this club. Well, Mr Williamson – I am not a woman to let a secret pass me by.’

‘He told you more?’

‘Of course! Have you discerned nothing about me? He told me everything! Or, at least, everything he knew. This Persephone Club was based upon a very particular letch: one that married carnal union with death.’

‘I am not sure I follow. Do you mean they visited cemeteries?’

‘More sinister than that, I fear. According to my gentleman visiter, the group would pay for a street girl and compel her to drink gin poisoned with prussic acid. In the interim between life and death – which time, apparently, they could measure by the dose – they would consummate their desire. The aim was to reach their end point as the girl passed into the next world.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. Why did you not contact the police immediately upon hearing this?’

‘In truth, I did not believe him. I felt he was trying to shock or impress me with some fanciful letch of which I had not heard. Perhaps he thought I would find him more interesting as a result.’

‘So what changed your mind?’

‘The girl found dead at Holywell-street. The details of her death made my blood run cold.’

‘That death was not detailed in the newspapers. How did you hear about it?’

‘Have we not established that I know many things from many sources? Besides, there is another fact that cannot be ignored – one that made me fear for my own life.’

‘Must I ask?’

‘The gentleman who visited me was Mr Jonathan Sampson.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. You knew all of this and you did nothing.’

‘On the contrary, I wrote a letter to you.’

‘And what a circuitous path it has led to. Why me? With all of your supposed knowledge, did you not know that I was no longer an officer of the Detective Force?’

‘I did know. But it was in that capacity – as a detective – that I hoped you would investigate. As you have guessed, I chose the name Persephone intending that your search for “me” – alongside any other evidence you could collect – would lead you to those men and their sordid little
clique
.’

‘And the mention in your letter of my wife Katherine? Was that just a worm to catch your fish?’

‘I hope you will allow me more respect than that, Mr Williamson. I would not lie about such a thing to trick any man. It was something Mr Sampson said. He did not mention Katherine directly, but he did talk about a death at the Monument.’

‘Tell me everything. Omit not a detail.’

‘When he saw that I was frankly incredulous at the details of this Persephone Club, he became quite conspiratorial and said he had an even greater secret. He made me swear on my life that I would not tell a soul . . . then he told me that the originators of this club had been responsible for a death from the Monument some years past.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I think
he
believed it. My impression was that somebody had passed it to him as a rumour, for he had no further details. Whoever had told him was obviously a person whose stories he trusted.’

‘Then I must ask how you know it was Katherine.’

‘After the Holywell-street incident, I realized that much of what he had said was very possibly true. I obtained old editions of the newspapers and read about suicides from the Monument. Not many have occurred, as you must know, but there was the young George Williamson at the inquest, fighting for justice against a wave of apathy. The mention of prussic acid seemed decisive.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. So it is true.’

‘You have my condolences. To lose one’s wife is devastating enough, but . . . I hope that you will be able to prove the case, and bring the criminals to justice.’

‘Yes. Madam – I must have names. Who is in this Persephone Club? Who did Mr Sampson speak about? Who was there atop the Monument?’

‘Believe me – I would very much like to help you, but he did not mention a single fellow by name. Perhaps he, too, was afraid of revealing the secret. Or perhaps he did not know the names himself – I can hardly see such men telling a loquacious fellow like Mr Sampson so much about their secret club.’

‘He gave not one single name?’

‘None. Garrulous he may have been – yes, and eager to impress – but indiscreet he was not.’

‘I see. Then we must pursue another avenue.’

‘Mr Williamson – if you are going to ask me about the gentlemen who visit me, you must understand that I cannot answer. You are not a policeman, and I cannot be compelled to speak.’

‘Calm yourself, madam. There are names that we know. I will question you on each to see whether you have any intelligence on each. If one of these is a visiter of yours, you will simply not answer and I will know not to proceed further. Is that agreeable to you?’

‘If that will relieve me of the obligation initiated by my letter, then, yes, it is agreeable to me.’

‘Very well. What do you know of a Major Archibald Tunnock?’

‘Ha! The old fool! I have met him once or twice about town and hear much talk of him. He is a thoroughly debased fellow with a taste for very young girls, though apparently his “sword” is not as rigid as he would hope. His tastes do not extend much beyond the brothel, though they tend to spend much of their time there. I believe he is a member of the Continental.’