The Vice Society (42 page)

‘Indeed they would. Such a document could put its publisher in gaol if the Vice Society were to see a copy of it in public.’

‘Ah, Mr Norman – I believe you are jesting! We both know that the Vice Society chooses its prosecutions with care. Does one ever see magistrates and senior politicians hauled into court over such things? For, assuredly, it is men like they who purchase the majority of such materials. We at the Society catch only the smaller fish in order to justify our sponsorship monies.’

‘“We”?’

‘You must know that I am a major benefactor of that Society. Surely a man of your evident intelligence would not attend a meeting such as this without first doing a little investigation into the gentlemen who had invited him.’

‘I admit that I have made enquiries.’

‘Of course you did. And what did you find?’

‘As you say: you are indeed a generous benefactor of numerous charities, with a particular focus on “fallen women”. The major here is every bit the illustrious old soldier. And I believe I heard something about young Harold Jute volunteering at the Mendicity Society. Of Mr Tattershall there, I am afraid I know nothing.’

‘I am sure James is glad of it. But what of you, Mr Norman? A supplier of “Oriental goods” is it? I take that to be opium.’

‘The finest available in London. The correct refining of it is critical to the quality, as you must know.’

‘Indeed? Why must I know such a thing?’

‘I expect that a man of your standing is knowledgeable about all fine sources of pleasure. I can smell it in the air as we speak.’

‘There is more to you than first observation would suggest, Mr Norman.’

‘I hope so.’

‘An interesting name: “Norman”. Like the conquest, yes? Or, but for the sake of a single letter, it might be “Normal”.’

‘Or even “No man” – but I was never one for word games.’

‘Excellent!’ ejaculated Major Tunnock, putting down his glass to clap his hands. ‘What good, ah, sport!’

James Tattershall maintained an almost unblinking glare at Noah, stroking his cheek with a single finger as if contemplating a particularly taxing mathematical problem. The other men present, Peter and Harold, seemed to exchange glances of apprehension and doubt at the proceedings, but said nothing.

‘Major – shall we tell Mr Norman what we plan for this evening?’ said Sir John, pouring himself a drink from a decanter of sherry.

‘Indeed! Indeed! Mr Norman – would it disturb you to learn that the philosophy described in that, ah, tract is in fact a reality?’

‘I have always believed that any good philosophy must be a reality.’

‘Quite so. Well, we gentlemen here are part of a, ah, fraternity – a society or a club if you, ah, prefer. Each of us has passed a test to become, ah, a member.’

‘A test you say? What manner of test, and what manner of fraternity?’

‘Have you ever seen a man die?’ said Sir John.

‘I have. And women, too.’

‘It is a sacred thing, the passing from life to death. One might even envy those who make that journey.’

‘I prefer life to death, especially my own.’

‘And rightly so. But if one were to experience death
vicariously
through union with one who was passing from this world . . .’

The sound of a carriage drawing up outside caused Sir John to pause. The street door banged and voices were heard approaching the room – one of them female.

Noah looked at the gentlemen around him for a reaction. Peter and Harold seemed more anxious than ever; Major Tunnock twitched with an almost childlike excitement; Sir John looked at Noah with an ambiguous benignity . . . and James Tattershall gave the slightest smirk – an expression that, on his face, seemed more chilling than any malevolent gaze.

The door opened and the servant who had taken Noah’s coat presented a street girl who was clearly already mildly intoxicated. She was holding a pomegranate with a sanguineous bite taken out of it.

A pretty enough example of her kind, she looked at the men seated there and, perhaps sensing a danger beyond her understanding, ceased her smiling.

‘O! I did not expect a party,’ she said with her best pronunciation.

‘You must be chilled to the bone, young lady. May I offer you a drink?’ said Sir John. ‘What have you been drinking this evening?’

‘A glass of gin on a cold night such as this might be just the thing,’ said the girl uncertainly.

‘How apt. I have some gin just here,’ said Sir John, opening a bottle and pouring a measure into a glass. Did he look sidelong at Noah for the merest second as he handed it to her? She raised it to her lips, not taking her eyes from that group surveying her with expressions that had started to make her feel vaguely afraid.

‘
No!
’ shouted Noah, springing from his chair to knock the glass from the girl’s hand.

Gin spattered across the carpet and the glass clattered over wooden boards into the corner of the room. The girl blinked in mute surprise.

‘What a curious reaction!’ said Sir John with a smile. ‘Have you some aversion to young ladies imbibing strong drink, Mr Norman? I would not have taken you for a temperance supporter.’

James Tattershall stood and approached the girl, who – now utterly confused by the state of affairs – allowed her arm to be taken.

‘Take her away,’ said Sir John to the young man. ‘We will use her later.’

Sir John followed the two to the corridor and locked the door behind them, putting the key into his trouser pocket.

Noah remained standing where he had dashed the glass to the ground. The major’s demeanour had become significantly less jovial. Harold Jute looked as if he, too, would have liked to leave the room.

‘Shall we dispense with the
charade
now, Mr Dyson?’ said Sir John. ‘It was mildly amusing while it lasted. Please retake your seat.’

Noah did as bidden, no sign of fear in his movement. He waited for Sir John to take a seat opposite him by the fire.

‘Is this how Mr Sampson met his end at Colliver’s coffee house?’ said Noah. ‘You were there, of course. Joseph the waterman smelled those fragrant unguents you use to alleviate your pox.’

‘It is a pity about that poor old gentleman – a pity that his urge to talk was as acute as his olfactory sense. But these things will happen when one blunders into the unsafer regions of the city . . . or into other areas were one has no business.’

‘Mr Tattershall does have the look of a murderer about him. I assume it was he who murdered the old gentleman. Was it also he who killed Mr Jessop, Mrs Colliver and Aubrey Alsthom? Was it he who threw Mr Sampson through the window that evening on Holywell-street?’

‘Jonathan Sampson was a
dilettante
. He professed an interest in higher thought, but when the time came for him to be initiated, he could not embrace the philosophy.’

‘So he was thrown to his death, shouting “I cannot”.’

‘He was garrulous. He would have told others in that bragging manner of his . . . just as he told that refined lady of Park-lane. O, yes – you need not attempt to hide your surprise. Inspector Newsome was seen there yesterday and suddenly it all started to become clear. We know that Jonathan visited her once, and it would have been just like him to tell her about us to impress her with his worldliness. That is clear now.’

‘Who else was there in that room on Holywell-street? There were four glasses.’

‘I must say, your investigative pertinacity is impressive. Even now, you persist. Very well – I have no reason not to tell you. I was present, as was James, Mr Sampson, Mr Poppleton and our Mr Jute there. Harold did not drink – a weak stomach as usual.’

‘And the girl?’

‘A girl. Some girl – it matters not.’

‘She was a girl called Lou whom you had seen on a few occasions previous to her death . . . to earn her trust, I wonder? A girl, no doubt, who had partaken of the pomegranate’s flesh, just as Persephone did . . . and those other girls less divine in nature: Kate, Mary, Nelly. All of them your victims.’

‘My, my – your researches have been quite thorough. You evidently made good use of your time at the reading room the other day.’

‘So you did have your spy watching me. I am not surprised. How is Eusebius? I expected to see him here.’

‘Eusebius is not the kind to appreciate a gathering such as this.’

‘I wonder if James has killed him already? Eusebius may have been a simple sort, but I am sure he had put the story together long before I did. And I think we all know he would not have withstood an interrogation.’

‘What possible benefit is there for you in discussing these things, Mr Dyson? You will not be speaking to anyone about them.’

‘Call it curiosity. Call it perversity. I have come this far.’

‘Perhaps you think you will take this information and use it against us? Even if you were to leave this house, do you think anyone would believe you? There is no evidence, no witnesses. Who are
you
? What power do
you
represent?’

‘Think of me as one of the Eumenides.’

‘Ha! I may doubt your power, but I applaud your classical reading. You are one of the Furies of Greek mythology, yes? My retribution in human form? How amusing.’

‘I will take your evasion as an admission that James is indeed the murderer.’

‘I must say, I am tiring of this conversation.’

Sir John’s face had now become quite moist and reddened. Perhaps it was the heat of the room, but his countenance was glistening with an admixture of perspiration and the emollients upon it. He might have been a life-sized waxwork standing there too close to the fire.

‘You could have killed me many times, Sir John. Perhaps that was the intention when I was struck at Mr Poppleton’s shop. Or perhaps my fleeing from the library was another lost chance for you. How close did I come to death on those occasions? Should I be expecting the opium pipe to be brought out shortly?’

‘You really are rather tiresome, Mr Dyson.’

‘One more thing, Sir John,’ said Noah, reclining insouciantly in his chair as if
he
were the host and this were some genteel
soirée
. ‘What is this about the woman pushed from the Monument? You may recall that Mr Williamson mentioned it to you when you forced opium upon him.’

‘Mr Williamson?’

‘The same. He has described your voice and that of Mr Jute to the police. In fact, you may have read of his interment recently – or rather the interment of his empty coffin. He survived the razor-wielding bully in whose care you left him.’

‘Hmm.’ Sir John dabbed at his face with a kerchief.

‘Oddly enough, that is just what Mr Williamson said. He said that you, Sir John, were quite nonplussed by the mention of the incident at the Monument.’

‘Who can remember the events of seven years ago?’

‘It is oddly coincidental that you refer to the period of seven years, is it not? Evidently somebody had told Mr Sampson about it. Let me refresh your memory. Three men ascended the Monument shortly after Katherine Williamson on that day. At the top, they engaged her in conversation, no doubt mishearing her name in the wind as Kathleen. Then they offered her gin poisoned with prussic acid. How or why she went over the railings is a matter of conjecture. Perhaps she was pushed as part of some lunatic experimental “philosophy”. Perhaps she was already dead and fell. But those three gentlemen had intended her to die: they had brought with them a suitably annotated Bible and materials for a suicide message. In the
mêlée
that followed, they were able to walk away without being noticed. I do not know who those three men were, or what compelled them to enact such a wicked act, but I feel sure that one of them was you, Sir John.’

‘A pretty story, but one that has no bearing on anything.’

‘No bearing you say? But for that particular murder, your recent activities might have remained quite unnoticed. It might have been quickly and wrongly investigated by the police under your remote supervision. But news of it reached Mr Williamson, the husband. Then the husband reached me – and I felt obliged to repay a favour once done me by that gentleman. Then my good friend Benjamin was assaulted by the ruffians at Freepass-alley, adding further impetus to pursue the criminals. And now here I sit as a result of that event which has “no bearing” . . .’

‘Indeed, Mr Dyson. Here you sit. Inside a locked room with men whom you imagine to be murderers. For all of your clever deductions, you have made a bad decision in that respect.’

The lock of the connecting door rattled and James Tattershall entered. His face was a mask of impassiveness. And he was carrying a pistol.

‘You are a dangerous man, Mr Dyson,’ said Sir John. ‘I am reluctant to leave you alone with the ambiguity of a razor. A bullet is more suitable for a man of your kind. Mr Williamson will follow, and soon we will be rid of this whole graceless mess.’

‘The same gun that was used to kill poor Aubrey Alsthom, I presume?’

‘You are an odd one. Even as you stare death in the face, you sit quite calmly by the fire there.’

‘Sir John – you talk about proximity to death; you decorate your childish “philosophies” with classical allusion to lend them a veneer of authority.
I
have lived with death. I have waded in gore and walked among the cerements of the grave. I have felt hot blood fresh on my hands and the life ebbing from a body in its dying spasms. There is no mystery, no poetry, no deeper meaning in death. Only in your fancy do you pretend otherwise.’