by M. J. Tjia
He fastens the overcoat buttons at the front, and that’s when I realise that the bulk he encases there could not possibly be from his own thin frame. He has placed something underneath the fabric. Something bulky. Something hidden, nestled carefully at his breast. My pulse quickens. My mouth goes dry.
Could it be a bomb? But what else would he be concealing beneath his coat after a visit to the ‘scientist’?
I cast about me for… what? Mrs White? A policeman? What would I say to him, in any case? My eyes follow Ernst as he walks in the same direction he took the night before. And I wonder just how far behind him I need to travel to not risk being torn to pieces if he were to explode?
I settle on roughly ten yards. My steps are skittish because I’m pretty sure that I am still not far enough behind, but any further and I might lose him again. An icy shower catches me without my umbrella, and my shoes slip against wet cobblestones. Trailing behind him for a good twenty minutes, I need to keep up a smart trot to account for his wide, yet steady, strides. Soon, I am exhaling cloudy puffs into the cold, damp air and, although my fingers are freezing, a flush of heat warms my body.
The Prussian doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, although it does appear as though he has a goal in mind. We pass Leicester Square, rather sordid and soiled this early in the morning. Sodden food scraps, several not-so-gay girls and a drunkard or two strew the rain-soaked paths outside the slumbering music halls and theatres. It’s at night, with its glitter of artificial light and the delightful anonymity of shadowy corners, that the area is truly alive and alluring. However, the Alhambra, which the Prussian treads past with nary a glance, remains majestic. I hope today goes well so I can enjoy more evenings there in the future.
We reach Holywell Street and Ernst slows down, glancing up at the numbers above the storefronts. As usual, the street is horribly congested with men leering into shop fronts and sooty gables that pitch towards each other over the narrow road. From a distance, the shops look no less innocuous than any other bookstores to be found in London yet, closer up, titles such as The Lustful Turk, Part the First and The Seducing Cardinal reveal the true nature of the shops’ wares. It seems the Obscene Publications Act hasn’t quite found its mark here in these parts. A fat fellow wheezes up to Ernst, flaps his coat open for him to look at something, but the Prussian waves him away. The fat fellow then tries two more men idling ahead of me, but when he turns to me, he claps his coat shut. Not before I see the flat packages within, wrapped in brown paper. I try not to grin. How shocked he would be if I were to demand to buy one of his dirty little books, but I don’t have time for such funning.
Ernst crosses the road and pauses outside a shopfront that advertises Books Bought under a neat sign that says John Oates Bookseller. He looks from right to left to right again before he pushes the door open and disappears into darkness. I linger outside another second-hand bookstore above which hangs a crescent moon with a disgruntled expression on its golden face. The alleyway behind me reeks of piss and God knows what else. I know I should follow Ernst, see what he’s up to, but what if his aim is to blow up the shop? Perhaps he is a moralist. Perhaps his aim is to destroy this sordid row of shops.
I fidget with my reticule for a full minute, as though searching for something. I buy chestnuts from a passing costermonger, distractedly peeling and nibbling on three before I realise the flesh is rubbery and stale. Despite the scholarly air I’ve tried to cultivate, what with my spectacles, sober clothing and severely plaited hair, one man tries to lure me into the alleyway for a suck and, not much later, another asks me to stroke his cock. A steady glare and a reference to Jesus’s healing ways moves them each along swiftly.
And still no Ernst.
I’ll have to go in.
Waiting for two horse and carts to squeeze past, and four horsemen, I walk across the road. Tension grips my throat tight and it’s as though everything is magnified, in sharp relief – the glistening bristles of the chestnut that passes close, its rider’s boots in desperate need of a shine; how when he kicks the horse’s flank, there is a billow of dust; straw-like manure caked between the pavers; a trolley’s wheels creak as a delivery boy runs past – and all too soon I am at the entrance to John Oates’ bookstore, staring down at the litter of books that fill a trestle table on the pavement. I push the door open. A bell tinkles and my hackles prick, almost in anticipation of an exploding rush of air and destruction.
All is hushed, though, inside the shop. As I look about me, at the neatly stacked bookcases and the teetering piles of books on the floor, I breathe in the dusty air. I doubt a fresh draught has ever touched upon the contents within these dark walls. A shiver shudders through me, I hope because the rain has left my bodice quite drenched and chill.
It seems I am alone. Moving towards the back of the shop, where I am sure I can hear the murmur of voices, I scan the titles on the spines of books. Harmless enough, inoffensive books, as far as I can gather. It’s not until I reach a glass-top counter at the end of the room that I find items of interest, including a generous array of Paul Pry penny weeklies fanned across moth-eaten velvet, and two publications, mysteriously unlabelled and bound in green leather, which sell for the eye-watering amount of a guinea each.
I straighten up as a woman enters from a back room, which is cordoned off by nothing more than a length of curtain across the doorway. She catches me looking at what’s displayed in the front counter and pulls a black piece of fabric back across the glass from where it is ruched to the side.
“How can I help you, madam?” The shopkeeper is a plump woman probably not much older than me, yet there is a shock of grey in her wiry hair. As far as I can see, she wears no stays or corset or undergarments of any sort beneath the white bodice that stretches over each roll and rise of her body – although this state of undress does not seem to be in any way salacious in aim, but more indicative of a slovenly manner.
The tone of her voice is helpful, yet there is a wary look to her. I realise that she is probably either suspicious I am from some moral group ready to report her more illicit doings to the authorities, or maybe she even worries I am a spy for the police. Well, I am spying, I realise, but not to uncover her trade in pornography.
“A dear friend recommended I come to you,” I say. Something clunks to the floor in the room behind, and a male voice growls ‘careful’. I can’t make out if it’s the Prussian’s voice or not. What did they drop? Sweat dampens the palms of my hands, and I swallow before I continue. “I’ve been trying desperately to obtain a copy of a certain book. A book I have had a terrible time finding. I am quite sure I caught a glimpse of it here, before you pulled this sheet over.” I tap the glass top with my finger and glance over my shoulder, as though afraid I will be heard. I turn to stare at her, pretending to be as chary of implication as she is. I lower my voice to a whisper. “I believe you have a copy of this book, Anti-Justine?”
A smile widens her lips, so much so that she resembles a toad. Her hard little eyes slowly trace my figure and I have to stop myself from cringing. “Where did the likes of you hear of such a thing?”
“Like I said, a good friend told me of it.”
“Ha. A good friend indeed.” She’s still smirking as she sweeps the black sheet aside. Pulling down a panel at the back, she lifts out the book I happened to notice before and hands it to me. I run my fingers over the coarse, brown cover. Its title is etched in black. I flip it open and see that it’s written in French and I’m not even sure if my French is up to reading it. Some of the pages seem to be gummed together too; at least I hope it’s gum.
A baby mewls from the back and footsteps shuffle across the floor. The woman looks to the doorway. I hope she’ll go in, check on what’s going on, so I can have a peep too. But she faces me again, so I ask, “How much is this?”
She takes the book back from me and pretends to peruse the front page for a pencilled price, meanwhile taking in my gown, the state of my reticule, the simple gold earrings in my lobes.
“I think my husband has it priced at £1 3s,” she says, and I’m surprised she doesn’t blush with the audacity.
I can’t help but laugh. “My dear woman, that is far too steep. Why, the book is written in French.” I rifle through the pages again. “And there are not even any illustrations.”
Because I’ve been listening keenly for noises from the back of the house, I fail to hear the racket from the front of the shop until the shopkeeper’s eyes widen and she gapes over my shoulder. Stamping hoofs, pattering footsteps, raised voices reach my ear. I too turn to gape when a wave of men – police constables clad in woollen uniforms as dark and forbidding as midnight – quite ten in all, burst through the shop entrance, shattering the glass of the door, knocking teetering towers of books to the floor. Two of the constables corral the shopkeeper into the corner, while a youngster, his helmet slipping forward over his brow, asks me politely to stay put. The rest of the men rip through the dividing curtain into the back room.
“There’s a bomb,” I say quietly to the young constable. “There’s a bomb. Tell them to be careful. Tell them to stand back.” He responds to the urgency in my speech but seems to hesitate at the words.
“A bomb?” he repeats.
I nod vigorously. My heartbeat hammers now and it’s with anguish that I watch the back room, half expecting an explosion to decimate the policemen. To destroy me. I try to wrench past the constable, try to flee, but he takes hold of my arm, “Sorry, miss, but you can’t go anywhere. Sorry miss.”
I’m stopped in my tracks by a familiar voice.
“What on earth are you doing here, Mrs Chancey?”
Relief washes over me, almost dousing the panic. Detective Inspector Hatch. His pale eyes gawp at me and he looks a little aghast to see me in such a place. Comprehension finally settles over his nice face. “You must be on a case,” he says in hushed tones, so only I can hear him amidst the shopkeeper’s screeching and the yelling and crashing furniture that come from behind.
He is curt when he tells the constable to unhand me and ushers me towards the bookcases that line the side of the room. I cling to his arm as we walk.
“There is a Prussian back there,” I say. “I think his name is Ernst. He carries a bomb from a place in Green’s Court.” I’m not making much sense, but I need to put forward the most salient points as quickly as possible to the detective inspector.
Hatch looks baffled. “Ernst? What makes you think he has a bomb?”
“Well, I’ve seen him…” Seen him what? Visit the Green’s Court ‘scientist’. Leave there with something bulky hidden beneath his coat? “I am on a case for some War Office people,” I whisper to him. “We’re investigating a threat of some sort planned for tomorrow.”
Amusement lightens Hatch’s features. “And you think Ernst is implicated?” he says. The incredulity in his voice gives me pause.
“Yes. I am sure of it.” Although, of course, now I am not.
Hatch looks over his shoulder to the back room, where a number of constables still teem. “Come with me, Mrs Chancey.”
He leads the way, and the constables move to the side as he enters the back room. We stand in a poky, squalid room. The walls are covered in a horrendous wallpaper; it’s difficult to see where the brown pattern leaves off and the grime picks up. There is an objectionable smell and, as I edge closer into the room, I realise it comes from the baby who squalls in the corner, from where it lies on a bed of filthy sheets in a drawer placed on the floor. One policeman holds Ernst fast, his hands pinned behind his back, while another two policemen grasp each arm of, I presume, John Oates, proprietor of this charming bookshop.
“What have we got, Detective Wilson?” Hatch asks of another man who, like Hatch, doesn’t wear a uniform. He leans over the round table in the middle of the room.
“Thousands of indecent photographs, Detective Inspector,” he says, flicking a couple towards us. Glancing up, he sees me and quickly tries to withdraw them again, but not before I catch a glimpse of two couples enjoying a parlour orgy, and a woman cupping her ample, bare bosom. “Begging your pardon, Miss.”
“And what has Ernst here provided for us today, Wilson?” asks Hatch.
Wilson pushes forward two large tomes. One purports to be a book of natural history for children, while the other is an illustrated book of birds. However, lifting open the sumptuous cover of the bird book, Hatch reveals a neatly cut-out space within. And nestled in this void are tens, perhaps hundreds, of further erotic photographs and pictures.
Hatch looks to the owner of the shop. “Did Ernst bring you these this morning?” But John Oates keeps mum. Doesn’t even lift his eyes from the floor.
Hatch turns to me. “Mrs Chancey, did you see Ernst bring these books into the shop?”
My eyes search Ernst’s body. His overcoat hangs open. I can only assume that these large books – these secret caches – are what he actually hid against his skinny frame. Damn it!
I nod.
Pornography! I’ve been chasing this damned man around Soho over some bloody pornography.
Hatch escorts me back out into the shop. “We’ve had our eye on Ernst for a while. We thought he was bringing in obscene literature from the Continent. He stores it or sends it to a man in Soho.”
“In Green’s Court?”
“Yes,” he says, surprised. “How do you know that?”
“That’s where I first encountered him. I thought… I thought, seeing as the people on the street think that the man in number eight is a scientist, that perhaps he was the maker of the bombs that were used near the palace and the police station just lately.”
Hatch shakes his head. “No. He’s no scientist. I left more of my men at his place, which we raided on the way here. I think you’ll find he’s nothing more than yet another snake oil man, concocting serums to trick the poor and less knowledgeable people of London.”
We stand back as the constables march Oates and Ernst through the shop. The bell on the door tinkles as they leave. Damn. I’ve wasted my time chasing someone with a few rude pictures under his belt.
Hatch instructs the others to allow the woman to collect her baby, and then follow on to the police station.
I feel a bit sorry for the proprietress as she walks past, the baby pressed to her breast. I admire Hatch, I really do, but surely there are more worthy criminals for him to chase down. The woman throws me a resentful look as she leaves the premises and I feel like calling after her that I had nothing to do with this. That I have better things to do than report a few salacious photos.
CHAPTER 20
AMAH
Amah stirs from a heavy sleep and rolls onto her back. Stretches her legs out straight.
Her eyes spring open. She can stretch her legs.
She turns her head and sees that she is lying on the hard ground. Feeble light flickers from a tallow candle that’s been placed on the little table, and the ropes that bound her are now draped across the arms of the wooden chair. Her fingers press into the cool dirt floor and she pushes herself up into a seated position. She feels dizzy and holds her head in her hands. She can just remember Joshua untying her sometime in the night and helping her to the ground where she thankfully sank into a deep slumber. Slumber. Amah’s mind might still feel foggy, but her guess is that they added a generous dose of laudanum to that cold tea she drank. The teacup still rests next to the bottle of ink and notebook on the table. Amah’s mouth is furry with thirst and her stomach quakes with hunger, but she knows not to drink whatever those two have left behind.
Her legs tremble as she pulls herself to her feet with the help of the chair. She wonders why they’ve untied her.
Her eyes fly to the door. Perhaps she is free? They have given up on her and left this place.
She totters to the door and rattles its handle. It holds fast. Her hopes and her legs give way and she buckles to the floor. She beats the flat of her hand against the doors’ splintery timber, and her voice is hoarse when she c
ries, “Let me out! Help! Let me out!” Resting her forehead against the door, she gulps in three large breaths, fights the tears that press at the back of her eyes.
The fury she felt the day before – was it the day before, or another day? How long has she been cooped up here? – the fury she felt is almost doused, grey and weak in a cold grate. She doesn’t even have the energy to be angry with John anymore, for his desertion of her and their cosy life on Henderson Street.
She sits with her back to the door and allows her mind to wander, picking through the memories she usually shuns: the scent of him, caught in the cleft between his jaw and collarbone; how he pressed his ear to her growing belly; how amber Heloise’s eyes were when she was born.
What was that song he used to croon to the baby, seated in front of the fire? Nonsense words come back to her. Fol lol, diddle diddle dol. Something about an old woman and the market and a pedlar and her dog? She can’t remember, but the tune comes back to her. She hums it, a little glumly. Stupid song.
She scrambles away from the door when she hears footsteps descending the steps. Grasping the wall, she pulls herself to her feet, panting, her eyes searching the gloom for anything she can use as a weapon. The chair? She feels she might be too weak to brandish it around. The ink? She can throw it at Joshua’s eyes, momentarily blind him. She’s half way across the room when the door swings open.
The woman stands there, with that malicious smile Amah dearly wants to slap from her face. In her hand she carries a pistol, which she aims at Amah. To Amah’s untrained eye, the gun looks a little antiquated, but she would never doubt the dastardly woman’s determination to use it.
“So you’re awake. Finally.” She moves into the cellar, closely followed by Joshua. “Take a seat, please.” She gestures towards the chair with the pistol, and Amah thankfully sinks into it.
Joshua nudges the ink and book aside and places a plate of sandwiches and a jug of water on the table. The woman tosses the remnants of the cold tea onto the ground and fills the cup with water. Amah’s throat convulses when she hears the water’s splash. But she can’t trust it. Can she? What does it matter if they ply her with more laudanum? No. No, she won’t take it.