White Stone Day (16 page)

11521
The Hen and Hatchet, Houndsditch He is in a bed. Under an actual
blanket, though it is a rough one. Oh the luxury of it! But where are
my towels? Rigid with panic, Whirry gropes about the mattress, and is
pathetically relieved to lay his hands upon his souvenirs of the
Alhambra – his friends, neatly folded beneath his pillow. Now
that his eyes are open, he looks about the room, only to encounter
the ruined features of the brawnier of the two man–bashers,
drawing closer, and arranged in what Will seems to think is a
pleasant expression. Will holds a tray before him containing a teapot
and a mug; there is a napkin draped over one arm. Obviously, Whitty
is in a delirium. To his right, he hears an unmistakable rustling
sound. Turning his head, he spots two examples of rattus norvegicus,
gliding along the wallboard as though mounted on tiny wheels. They
disappear through an improbably small aperture in the cracked plaster
and it occurs to him that rats have a collapsible skull . . . Where
did he learn that? Of course, rats were bound to enter his dream at
this point. Rats, or snakes, or the two together. 'Do not mind the
rats, Edmund. An amount of escapers is inevitable. Nothing to be done
I fears – poison will find its way to the main stock, don't
y'see.' Will sets the tea–tray upon a small dressing–table;
brushing away a tangle of cobwebs with his napkin, he exposes a
mirror. 'Quite,' Whitty hears himself reply, as he contemplates
Will's reflection. So realistic, this dream, one could stay in it for
life. 'I'll warrant ye slept well. Nothing like a whiff of the
chemical for a sound sleep.' 'It was much appreciated, sir.' Whitty
humours the apparition, to keep things pleasant. "Tis enfeebling
to lose one's sleep. Life loses its lustre.' 'That has been my
experience as well.' Will hands him a mug of tea, on which he scalds
his lips and tongue . . . 116 THE HEN AND HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH O
heavens! I am awake! Seeing his horrified expression, Will
executes a travesty of a smile. Frantically, Whitty peers about the
room, while waiting for his mind to clear. 'I do not see your
colleague, sir. Surely not a falling–out between you?' 'Nothing
of the sort, Edmund. Norman is on an errand concerning a welsher –
a Scotsman by the name of Menzies. Slip a rat down his trousers and
it will set him right.' 'A rat named Rodney, I presume.' 'They is all
named Rodney when used to that express purpose.' 'A sort of pun, I
suppose.' 'A pun? How so, sir?' 'Spare the Rod and spoil the child,
sort of thing.' 'Very good, sir! Good cut!' The big man explodes with
laughter, disturbing the flap on the front of his face, and affording
Whitty an unwelcome glimpse of two small holes, firing like a fowling
piece. Shifting his gaze hastily to one side, he observes a suit of
clothes draped upon a three–legged chair next to the
dressing–table. A small rat reclines on one shoulder, like an
epaulet. 'That is a fine suit of clothes, Will.' 'A real Sunday
suit,' replies the man–basher. 'Its owner fought hard to keep
it.' The Sunday suit does not fit, most notably in the area of the
crotch – which binds intolerably, so that he must reach back to
retrieve the rough moleskin from between his buttocks, or suffer the
torment known to Napoleon as the ring of fire. The adjustment is in
itself an uncomfortable procedure, for the armholes of the jacket
have been cut too high, imposing an unnatural limit to his reach. The
collar smells of macassar, a cheap pomade combining orange peel and
sheep fat, while the underarms smell of old cheese. He does not wish
to know what the trousers smell like. Overall, he much preferred his
towels. Seated at the opposite end of a black table, the Captain
smokes his yellow meerschaum pipe, no doubt contemplating Whitty's
future. It has been years since their last encounter in daylight, yet
it seems to Whitty that our man has aged well beyond that. The eyes
glitter with moisture and are shot with tiny red rivulets. This is
not a well man. 'I see the lads found yer a suit, boyo.' 'They did,
sir. It was most appreciated.' 'The cost will be charged to yer
account.' 117 WHITE STONE DAY 'Only to be expected.' The two men
contemplate each other in a silence which stretches like a slingshot
aimed at Whitty's forehead. Were he to look into a mirror he would
not be the least surprised to find that his hair has turned white.
Yet in this cavernous silence, a curious thing happens: terror,
pushed past its limit, is superseded by curiosity. The Captain did
not go to the expense of retrieving him from Millbank, solely in
order to punish him. And he spoke of an 'account'. Unless, of course,
Whitty was dreaming at the time . . . In a pause with an adversary,
never break the silence. The advice enters Whitty's mind
unexpectedly; he has no idea who said it. He peers about this narrow,
low–ceilinged room, the private quarters of a man of the sea,
whose far wall is entirely covered by a ragged, sun– bleached
man–of–war flag. As well, the dark wooden shelves are
filled with models of ships in astonishing variety, from sloops to
galleons, white with dust, all headed in the same direction like a
squadron of ghost ships. Above them, a number of brass storm lamps
hang from the black ceiling beams. Every other horizontal surface is
stacked high with books, and more piled on the Turkey carpet; though
Whitty cannot read the titles, this unexpected love of literature
casts the Captain in an unfamiliar light. Behind every object in the
room he senses movement – a nervous rustle beneath piles of
newspapers, an industrious rattle in the coal– box, and a sound
like an army of tiny charwomen, scrubbing. As his eyes adjust to the
murky light, the creatures assume an all too familiar shape –
the arched back, the hairless tail . . . The Captain gestures to a
chair by the table. 'Come closer,' he says. Whitty sees the holes in
the chair's upholstery, and the movement within. 'Thank you, sir, but
I prefer to stand.' 'Ah, the rats. They be part of the establishment.
Yer can't poison 'em . . .' 'Or the poison will find its way into the
stock. This was explained to me.' 'And bringing in cats would
interfere with the dogs, don't ye see. We trap the vermin as best we
can, but the buggers breed remarkably.' Whitty attempts no reply, nor
is he any more inclined to take a seat. 'Now we stow the banter and
hove to our purpose,' the Captain says, turning his gaze to the back
of the room. 'Dermot! Come and speak up, boyo! Yer be in the
discussion now.' Shocked that there has been a third individual
present without his 118 THE HEN AND HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH knowledge,
Whitty turns, to face a tall, thin, silent gentleman standing
immediately behind him. He flinches, half–expecting to be
felled by a neddy; instead, the figure extends a hand at the end of a
thin, hairless wrist. Whitty shakes the hand, whose fingers are
surprisingly strong, like the tentacles of a squid. 'Good day to you,
sor.' Everything about the man is long. Even his head seems
attenuated, as though shaped by a potter, then topped with a thatch
of hair, and the body reminds Whitty of a stoat on its hind legs.
'This be Dermot, boyo. Dermot Abbott of the Mint. Downy Dermot, as
familiars knows him. And a knowing card I warrant, best snakesman in
London, best hand with a rook or jemmy, enter any toff–ken with
ease. Runs in the family, am I not correct, Dermot?' 'Aye, Captain,
that is so. And coal–mining, a narrow occupation as well.'
'More danger and less pay, I'll wager.' 'That may or may not be so,
sor.' 'In any case, you have made use of your bloodlines to good
effect.' Whitty notes that the Captain seems genuinely impressed by
the fellow. 'Conceptably so,' replies the snakesman. If only to keep
things chummy, Whitty joins in. 'Permit me to introduce myself, sir.
Edmund Whitty of The Falcon.' Dermot breaks into a smile, and again
grasps Whitty's hand in a tangle of strong fingers. 'Mr Whitty, sor,
it is with memorial gratification we make your reunion in the flesh.'
'Excuse me, but have we met?' 'Perhaps not. Yet I am obligated to you
and your coverage of the Bertram case in '56.' 'Please remind me. I
write many articles about court cases and they blur in my memory.'
'Summer of '55: we was nibbed for lifting the analytical engine from
Mr Bertram's offices on Chancery Row. A machine of great value, said
to calculate at a devilish velocitation.' 'You stole a machine?'
'Perhaps so, perhaps not.' 'I appreciate your caution, sir.
Continue.' 'Would of been fourteen years cut and dried for us, if not
for yer Amateur Clubman notating that Mr Bertram sold the machine
before we was said to have stole it.' Whitty now remembers –
vaguely, for he was deeply into the 119 WHITE STONE DAY laudanum in
'56. 'Bertram. Ah, yes. Are you referring to Chauncy Bertram, known
for defrauding assurance companies by means of bogus thefts and
fires? I believe he was transported to Van Diemen's Land, so it seems
justice was served.' 'Excepting that we did steal the machine.' 'I
beg your pardon?' 'We stole it. Yet we stole nout from Mr Bertram.'
'Are you telling me that I helped to convict an innocent man?' 'Oh
no, sir. We stole the machine for Mr Bertram, and substituted it for
the one he himself sold, don't you see. A variety of the bait–and–
switch.' 'In other words, you replaced the original engine with a
machine of no value.' 'No, the original engine were not worth the
metal it were made of to begin with. We was the intended victim, sor,
of that you may be sure.' Whitty heaves a sigh. The thing keeps
convoluting – complicated by the distorted vocabulary of an
intelligent illiterate, who envisages more than he can express. 'It
is the very devil for an independent operator these days,' offers the
Captain. 'A city operator will top him every time. Dermot were
victimised on an assurance flam, but he be safe with us, now. And we
have the benefit of his uncommon mind.' 'Congratulations, Mr Whitty,
sor,' says Downy Dermot. 'With the Captain you has retinued yorself
with an employer what is firm but fair.' 'Excuse me, sir, but I am
not aware of having been employed by anyone.' 'Nobody ever is,' says
the snakesman. 'One moment, gentlemen,' interjects the Captain. 'We
be getting ahead of ourselves. Dermot, report to Mr Whitty what we
has discussed.' 'Certainly, sor. It concerns the operation at the
Monkton Milnes establishment, 37 Holywell Street, on Tuesday last.
The work took six assistants and a preparation of three months twelve
days.' Whitty recognises the address as that of a pornography
establish– ment which was raided last year. Peelers confiscated
near a thousand books, and four times that number of prints. The loss
kept Wynyard out of business for all of one week. This and other
seizures inspired Parliament to pass the Obscene Publications Act, in
which any magistrate can order the destruction of an 'obscene
publication' at will. 120 THE HEN AND HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH 'Mr
Abbott, if I may interrupt, how have prices for the commodity stood
this season?' 'Mr Whitty, you are a discernible one. Indeed, the
Obscene Publications Act is a windfall for the industry. Retail
prices has tripled – and photographs? One issue of The
Exquisite fetches as much as a guinea.' 'Smutty pictures are more
valuable per pound than most jewellery,' adds the Captain. Whitty
knows this to be true – in fact, last winter he tried to profit
from it himself, by dashing off an item for The Boudoir (under a
pseudonym of course). As with other attempts to stoop for easy money,
he discovered how the skills essential for one trade – literate
English prose – can be a detriment in another. 'Lacks
spontaneity and gusto,' sniffed the editor, by which he meant that
the story was told in complete sentences and not a series of grunts
and groans. Raped on the Railway having received the same response
from several others, Whitty consigned it to the fire one draughty
night when he was out of coal, along with an epistolary romance,
rejected as insufficiently heart–warming. Huddled over the
small flame, he consoled himself that, contrary to criticism
received, the work was worth the paper it was written on. 'Should we
continue, Captain?' Dermot enquires, as though broaching a touchy
subject. 'Do so.' The Captain's face takes on the hollow look of a
man bereaved, whereupon the snakesman proceeds to recite a full
account of the stolen inventory, with the prodigious memory common
among men who cannot write memoranda. 'The operation at Monkton
Milnes yielded, in quantities of printed matter, 247 volumes –
sorted according to Sodomy, Incest, Buggery, Rogering, Rape,
Flagellation, as well as the fashionable French Vices. It were a
singularly profitable run.' 'Profit,' echoes the Captain, bitterly,
and downs a quantity of rum. 'Tales of Twilight alone fetches two
guineas at competing establish– ments,' continues Dermot. 'The
Jesuit and the Nun fetches six, being illustrated.' Whitty has begun
to grasp the magnitude of the spoils – clearly, nothing short
of robbing a bank might yield such value. He examines the captain's
newly–acquired library, scanning the titles, leafing through
volumes at random, with a sense of wonder at the variety with which a
man can accomplish such a simple, animal objective. 121 WHITE STONE
DAY 'To what proclivity does this one appeal, Dermot?' he asks. 'Sub–
Venus – or Sport Amongst the She–Noodles}' 'Four guineas
it fetches among the poofsters what dress as Chinese.' The Captain
interrupts: 'Go forward to the main point, Dermot, what leads to Mr
Whitty's presence today.' 'Begging pardon, Captain?' 'The photograph,
Dermot!' 'Very well, sor. To begin, the photographs represented the
greatest value, congregated as five gross at two guineas a print,
many smuggled from France in Embassy bags . . .' 'The photograph,
boyo! Must I say more?' 'Begging pardon, sor,' replies the snakesman.
'As you knows, gentlemen, of all products with that class of appeal,
the photograph is the most precious. Only in a photograph may the
buyer be assured that the thing depicted were actually carried out,
don't you see, that he has not been duped by fiction nor
sleight–of–hand. Whether it be rogering or buggering or
what–have–you, in a photograph it is a fack that the
thing has been done –' 'Enough!' The Captain rises from his
seat like a tottering Colossus. 'Only one photograph need concern
yer! Listen the both of ye! Only one picture! Downy Dermot Abbott,
present the thing to Mr Whitty at once!' Nodding solemnly, the
snakesman reaches into his coat pocket and hands Whitty a postcard. A
naked girl lies on a couch, spread out in such a way as to leave no
doubt as to what is expected. From the spectator's assumed point of
view, the position is unambiguous, though the face is set in an
expression that is anything but a welcome. The background is a
painted wall, a study in oriental pretentiousness. 'It is part of a
series,' Dermot observes with a professional aspect, retrieving a
bundle of photographs. 'Must of arrived at the shop recently by our
reckoning, for they was stacked at random and was not yet
classified.' Whitty rifles through the stack of photographs quickly