Wyre shrugged. “Ruffled shirts, come to wave off some old friends.”
“They ought to be called to account, same as any common bum-bailiff.”
Wyre didn’t say anything to that. The chances of successfully prosecuting a grandling were vanishingly small. Men of Leager’s and Oakden’s station were easier.
“I suppose it explains how those two backgammoners could afford such a slick defence. As a matter of fact,” Leighton went on, as the phaeton began to move, “I thought their hired windbag was about to get the better of you. Mr Wyre here would have you believe . . .” He was a skilful mimic. “Just as well you kept the handkerchief in reserve. Got the fish-fags, heel to point.” He turned as he moved, eyes narrowing. “Entre nous, they were guilty?”
Wyre frowned. “Two witnesses swore to seed. They saw the swines wipe their yards.”
“Of course they did. And that was Leager’s handkerchief you showed the jury.” He winked. “No denying the egg-fry, but neither defendant seemed to recognize the lace. Nor did their wives.”
“If you think those two were married.”
Leighton grinned. “That cross-examination of yours was enough to make any ordinary man fall into a thousand contradictions. I might have confessed to buggery myself.”
“Sodomy, Leighton. Let’s get it right.”
The Runner was making a beeline for some sort of mechanical contraption fastened by a leather strap and padlock to the Courthouse palings. Two wheels, connected by a bright yellow wooden perch. It resembled nothing so much as an oversized hobby horse.
“Well?” Leighton said. “What do you think? The only running machine in London. Found it in the Bow Street stores. Someone was supposed to be testing it. Thought it would help me get around, till my leg’s healed properly. The lads have christened it the dandy-charger.”
Wyre eyed the mechanical gelding with suspicion. “How does it work?”
“It’s a bit like skating,” Leighton said, pulling the machine towards him. Wincing, he raised his right leg over the perch, sat forward, and extended his elbows. Using both hands to grip what Wyre took to be an iron rudder of sorts, with a sudden kick and a puff of exhaled air he moved off. Covering twenty yards with surprising rapidity, he swung the hobby horse around in a tight arc. “Better than seven-league boots,” he called up the road. “Best of all, it doesn’t need feeding or billeting. And it doesn’t shit.”
Wyre had a sudden vision of lines of redcoats all astride wooden chargers, bearing down with jutting hips and outstretched rifles on the bewildered ranks of the grande armée on the plains of Talavera.
“It suits you.” What else could he say? Besides, in an odd way, it did.
Wyre watched as the Bow Street officer attached his contraption to a rickety drainpipe outside The Sun, an alehouse on the Bromwich Road where they’d become accustomed to meeting for lunch.
“That won’t put anyone off round here.”
“We’ll see,” came the answer. A touch of pride.
The Sun’s victuals were on the unexceptional side of nothing special, but Leighton seemed to prefer the tavern to the other ordinaries and chop-houses in the area. “No fiddly French sauces,” was his explanation.
The taproom presented the usual gallery of thieves, half-thieves and ragged coats.
Wyre ordered broth and took custody of two mugs of fusty beer. They found places at the far corner of a long table. Stubby candles ebbed and flared, casting shadows over the pock-faced patrons eating off knife-scored wooden platters.
The Runner lifted his mug, closing his lips over the scum, his Adam’s apple shockingly mobile.
Wyre sipped his own beer. The innkeeper seemed to believe he’d discovered some nostrum that made his brew stand out, but to Wyre’s palate it was yeast-bitten.
A stocky waiter moved between tables with steaming bowls. He winked at the lawyer.
“Last night in bed, Kit,” Leighton began, “I imagined I was puking up tiny crouching things – claimed their names were Gimiken and Juicy Boy.”
“Not fevering, are you?” Wyre glanced nervously at the saucers of quassia dotted about on the windowsills, all swimming with dead flies. Even the Duke of York’s daughter, Princess Amelia, was sick. What would his friend William say? The angels of Albion come armed with the diseases of the earth. That would be his comment, or something very much in that vein.
“Were you anywhere near Saffron Hill? The hospitals there are turning people away.”
Leighton shook his head.
“Well, stay on the safe side. Take a few grains of blue.”
“Mercury? It was just a nightmare.” He leaned back in his chair.
Wyre regarded Leighton. He remained a little bemused by their friendship; nevertheless, over the past year, despite the gulf in temperament, they appeared to have developed something approaching affection. Yes, it was that, he was sure. At any rate, he knew the Runner well enough to be certain Vallon was the incubus disturbing his sleep. He also knew that while it might be the fashion nowadays for men to show themselves capable of being moved, Leighton wouldn’t welcome inquiries into the cast of his imagination.
“Look at them . . .” Leighton stared morosely around the dining room, “stuffing themselves with pigeon pie, without the least notion of what we hold at bay.” He picked up a well-thumbed pamphlet someone had left on the table. One of Joanna Southcott’s disciples, if the title – The Woman Clothed by the Sun – was anything to go by.
“You hold at bay. While you’re out swinging night-stick and knuckles, taking on scum like Vallon, I spend my days scouring provincial judgments for some obscure precedent or other, deciding between bad behaviour and prosecutable. Blue-bag and beeswax candles are about as exciting as it gets for me.”
“You do your part.” The Runner drained his mug, immediately hooking the attention of a barmaid with a motion of the hand that was perfectly languorous yet absolutely direct. Whenever Wyre tried it, it looked like writing in air. “I take ’em – ” Leighton winked at the black-eyed woman – “but you make sure they dangle.” He knocked his empty mug against Wyre’s almost full one.
At the ale counter, a thickset swad sporting a new regimental jacket had seized a bombazined tapgirl by the hand, and was now leading her in a drunken jig.
“When we held frisks in my youth,” Leighton said, nodding towards the couple, “we sprinkled ripened rose seeds on the floor before the ladies entered. The seeds would get kicked up and lodge in their nether regions.” He gave Wyre a broad grin. “The burred coats caused a fearsome itch. Did half our work for us.” A fresh mug arrived; his fingers closed eagerly.
“You’re right about the new defence counsels,” said Wyre, changing the subject. “It’s getting harder to convict. Men like Mitchell make juries squeamish about committing to the rope.”
Leighton shrugged, flicking through the dog-eared pamphlet. “William the Conqueror favoured castration over the noose.”
“The Post’s petitioning for the return of the gelding knife. We might not have seen the last of old Will’s methods.”
“Must sting, but it’s limited as a deterrent. There’s not much to see from a distance.”
“The rope’s the bigger spectacle,” agreed Wyre. Today’s two gallows-birds, Leager and Oakden, would be dropped within the week. The Post would send someone along to concoct a suitably sensational report – not that much embellishment would be necessary. Fifteen minutes to die, spasmodic evacuation of the bowels. A voiding of the offence, some said. On top of that, many creamed themselves. It was just, if unsubtle.
Leighton lifted his mug. “More mollies in London than ever before. The godly point to scripture.”
Wyre had heard the talk. End days, cities of the plain. The language was everywhere. Southcott’s lot were the worst.
“Scripture, or do you mean the rants of radicals? And don’t tell me you go along with that Southcottian bibble-babble.”
“Shouldn’t discount it, Kit. She foretold the harve
st of ’99, fulfilled just as she predicted. Surely you, of all people, would agree backgammoning is a sin in the sight of God. Men violating the divine image. Vox dei, and all that.” He laughed.
“Sodomy in the towns, bestiality in the villages.”
“Right. Whosoever lieth with a beast.”
“It’s been a while since I prosecuted one of those.” Wyre allowed himself a smile.
The Runner quaffed his beer noisily. “I once took a sodomite in Marlborough Gardens. He pleaded with me, claiming if whores’ quaints were reduced to the width of a boy’s arse, he’d happily return to women.”
“You didn’t release him?”
Leighton answered with a smirk. “When were you last squeamish? First hanging?”
Wyre winced inwardly, picturing the Sussex catamite. Wintour had been a notorious malefactor, even among his kind. For his part, Wyre had been newly articled to a small practice in Felpham. St Mary’s, where he lived with his new bride, became an island twice a day with the tides. His wife, Rose, practised piano in the drawing room – those left hand exercises, like time ticking off. The cottage overlooked a beach littered with shells. Rose collected everything from common limpets and dog whelks to the more exotic sting winkles and glistening borealis, which she strung to make necklaces for her besotted nieces. Wintour had been a handsome devil. He’d been able to pass. No one believed such things possible of him. By the end, his blackened tongue had protruded two inches from his mouth.
He nodded, sipping his beer.
“How did he croak?”
“It was what they called dying hard – ” Wyre squeezed his lips together. What on earth had possessed him to take Rose to the press yard? Things had changed that very morning; in all probability, she’d made her decision to leave then. At least his performance had impressed someone: a fortnight after Wintour’s turning off, a letter arrived from London, offering him a position in the Courthouse. Signed Mr Best. “When I arrived here, I thought I’d be leading treason trials within the year.” He smiled sadly. “Rose begged me to turn Best down. She was right, as usual. He had me pegged for molly briefs. Said I had a particular talent for it. Ten-shilling cases, Leighton.”
“Some would say that’s good enough recompense.” Leighton slapped his empty mug on the table.
“It’s not just the coin.” Wyre stared gloomily into his own cup. “Rose used to say . . .” No, it was too excruciating to talk about his wife, even to Leighton. Especially to Leighton.
“Be kinder to yourself, Kit. Lawyering’s an honourable profession.”
“I spend my days sifting through accounts of unnatural acts, blow by obscene blow. I doubt there’s a man in London who knows more about crimes of the arse. That’s hardly a topic a man can discuss with his wife over dinner.”
“Look at it this way, you’ll never run out of pretty ganymedes to haul before the dock. They say one man in a hundred carries the sickness.”
“That’s just scaremongering.” Wyre glanced over at the ale counter, where a burly man was casting looks in his direction. There was something familiar about the phiz.
“Well, I read it somewhere.”
“Probably in The Post,” Wyre answered. “These days, you’re more likely to find their news rats sniffing around a trouser leg than a crinoline dress. Besides, if the city seems overrun with sodomites, Bow Street’s methods are partly to blame. I know how it’s done, Leighton – agents loitering in bog-houses, waving their yards around, arresting any poor sap who clutches. You’re putting ideas in their heads.”
“Not me. We have special officers for that.”
The stocky waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of broth. A wrong turn taken somewhere in the middle of his nose gave him the look of a backstreet pugilist.
Leighton looked at Wyre for a moment. “If you’d really like a taste of my world, you could give me some advice. As a matter of fact, it touches directly on what you call our methods.”
Wyre regarded him cautiously.
“My constables found a body under New Bridge last week, down by the workings. Someone got their head knocked in.”
“That place is a known molly rendezvous. And I’d have thought getting brained was an occupational hazard.”
“What if I said this particular nodgecock was more than just a turdman out for a ride?”
“A fly?”
“In Paris, he’d be called a mouche.”
Wyre considered for a moment. “Sounds like a pinch that got out of hand.”
“It’s possible. Flies operate on their own. Supposed to be safer that way.” Leighton hesitated. “But let’s say I happen to know he was working on a case with reach.”
A flicker of movement at the bar. The bear-garden bruiser was lumbering towards them. In seconds, he loomed over the lawyer.
“Mr Wyre, ain’t it? Promised bro I’d pass on his respects, if I ever got th’ chance.”
Now Wyre was able to put a crime to the face. Silverthief: older, and larger, of the Michaels brothers. A year had passed since he’d put his twin in gaol for an assault in Marlborough Gardens. Junior had vociferously denied unnatural motives, but who didn’t?
Wyre looked at Leighton, who was toying with his spoon, his face the very model of what the Italians called sprezzatura. When he turned back, it was in time to see Michaels’ broad knuckles begin their scything swing.
Wyre was only dimly aware of Leighton rising from his seat, the soup spoon flying up in the air, Michaels’ ham-like fist being plucked from its arc in space. With a sudden transfer of weight, the Runner pressed the bigger man to the table, pinning his arm. The soup spoon clattered across the table and dropped to the floor. Leighton bent over the silverthief, bringing his lips close to the man’s ear.
“Right, piss-flap, I’ll let you up, and you’ll leave without a word, understood?” A sharp, upwards jerk produced a strangled grunt. “Let’s try that.”
Leighton leaned back, and Michaels rose, scowling. Tugging at his rumpled jacket, the bruiser took a heavy step towards the bar. When his right hand re-appeared, it was as if from outside the frame of a picture. Wyre watched dumbly as the enormous fist slewed towards the Runner’s jaw.
With stoat-like agility, Leighton slipped the punch, letting it pass harmlessly in front of his face. He played two hands to Michaels’ ribs, robbing the man of air. A short right followed, exploding above the silverthief’s cheekbone, the sound brutally hollow. It was a flush, knock-down blow. Michaels sat dazed on the floor, one eye a tumid ring. Wyre had known plenty of felons crippled by blows to the head, doomed to drag their feet or slur their curses for the rest of their lives. Perhaps Michaels would be one of them.
The springs of Leighton’s action returned to their source somewhere deep inside. He shrugged off Wyre’s gratitude, merely raising his hand again in that manner that brought a barmaid scuttling.
When Leighton finished his ale, they made their way through the tavern’s subfusc, Leighton with his customary confidence, Wyre more warily.
Outside, the yellow dandy-charger was still there, as Leighton predicted. In bleaching light, the officer unfastened it from the rickety downpipe, and swung his leg over the wooden perch.
They parted on the corner of Tenby Street. Wyre watched his friend’s coat billow out behind him. Half-runner, half-rider.
5. Marrow Bones
By sticking to side streets they’d managed to avoid the worst of the mobs. Just Blackfriars Bridge to clear now . . . Through the glass-sliders, Parson’s keen eyes, sharpened by years of caution, spotted trouble crouching at the entrance. He banged on the folding roof, signalling to the jarvis, who’d been hand-picked for just such an eventuality. The hearse, lighter now by Oakden’s and Leager’s bodies, picked up speed. Trailing from foot-long staves, little adventures of silk fluttered outside in the still air.
The bridge faction, Southcott’s people, he was sure, were busily chalking slogans on the flagstones. Before they noticed the hearse’s approach, it was practically o
n them. The sect jumped to its feet, hoisting placards and grabbing cudgels, swiping ineffectually as Parson and the principal mourners flew past.
This last obstacle negotiated, the remainder of the journey was conducted at a more sedate pace. They entered Southwark, rolled along Gravel Lane, past Mr Hill’s alms houses, and juddered to a halt outside The Hat and Feathers, where Parson was led away by supporters into the tavern’s dark.
Seated, he accepted a mug of hot gin and ale. Huckle n’ buff, the locals called it. The room buzzed.
Yes, the turning off was bearable.
Yes, Oakden went as quickly as could be hoped.
No, forty-five years old wasn’t bad for a sodomite in these times.
Harmless as a fly.
Who ain’t?
Smile on his lips as he climbed the ladder.
Poor bugger only showed it when they dropped the rope over his head.
Very dignified, Parson.
The pomp of the gay world, and all its pursuits.
Indeed.
Oakden’s passing had in truth been easy. To slip from the world with barely a struggle . . . Parson was half in love with the idea. Leager’s end, though . . . Dear God! Fitter, he’d fought the knot. Parson screwed his eyes shut, but couldn’t put the morning to flight, picturing on the back of his lids how, to a rousing cheer, his sweetheart began to tread furiously with his feet as if trying to climb a particularly steep flight of stairs, his beautiful hands clenching and unclenching . . . the eventual diminishing of the furious motion to a slow, swinging ellipsis of the rope . . . the blackened face, tongue protruding idiotically.
“Through bloodshed we’ll be reborn, eh? Eh?”
He lifted his head to find a drunken scaramouche standing at his table. “Aye, reborn in the Word.” He managed a pale smile.
Leaning over, the scaramouche passed him a scribbled note. Parson glanced down at it. With a frown, he excused himself.
Other than for the two men seated at a revolving card table, the side room was empty. Parson approached like a ship dragging its anchor.
The taller, muscular-looking man was clad in something blue that resembled a regimental jacket. He leaned on a silver-headed cane, a skull-and-marrow-bones ring glinting unpleasantly from his little finger. An aura of brutal air hung about him. The other made a more subdued impression in a faded black coat and patched canvas trousers. Handsome and heavy.
The Cunning House Page 2