The Cunning House

by Richard Marggraf Turley

  When everything came to a standstill, the physician looked up to find an enormous, bullet-headed man bending over him. The tallest man he’d ever seen.

  ––––– Sing wack, diddly-oh!

  17. Pretty Chickens

  “I assure you, Mrs Cooke, the deepest truths are all female.”

  Sarah gave Mr Shadworth a faint smile, having no wish to encourage him. The tavern was busy this evening.

  “How we arrive at them – ” the elderly man continued blithely, “that’s the male part.”

  Sarah’s eyes swept the room. Where was the new cit in the bright yellow waistcoat? Surely he hadn’t left after a single mug?

  “Women live a life of hunches. We men, on the other hand, concern ourselves with thoughts. With reason.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of reasoning,” she murmured.

  “You are, Mrs Cooke. After all, what is thinking but basic calculation?” His brow creased into a skein of fine folds. “If I were to assert, all horses are brown, I could communicate the very same, substituting a mathematical symbol for each word. Why, I could conduct a whole conversation in such a manner. I could – ” He broke off.

  A yellow bruise like sticky pollen dust gleamed beneath one watery eye.

  “An individual thought,” he said with a melancholy smile, “is like a single move in chess. On its own it has little significance, but add a hundred of them together, and you have a master, and perhaps a mate.”

  He pushed a stray corner of fraying cambric shirt back into his breeches.

  “Whoever you’ve been playing with doesn’t seem to know the rules.”

  Sudden noise from behind the bar. She peered through the hanging beer mugs into the alcove, where a disturbance of some kind was taking place. It was that awful long-shanks who followed the Country Gentleman about like a puppy. The monster was molesting someone . . . the nice man with the yellow waistcoat!

  Sarah dashed out from the bar, hardly hearing Mr Shadworth say, “Oh, he understood the rules. He understood them perfectly.”

  Aspinall stared up numbly. Much of the height, his physician’s eyes told him, lay in the legs, as if the man were standing on stilts. But there was no doubting the tensed power in that upper torso.

  The brute lowered his forehead till it made contact with Aspinall’s own. “Kitson . . . Inspector of Hides.”

  The voice was odd and high; Aspinall suspected something had gone amiss in childhood. He tried to free his wrist. “You’re hurting me, sir.”

  The Inspector ignored him. “How d’you tell if a hide’s well dressed?” He left no gap for an answer. “Observe if the cut be shining. The inside should be th’ colour of thorny nutmeg. To spot a hide that’s badly dressed, let a drop of water fall from yer finger onto the grain. If the drop don’t remain perfectly round, but spreads, the hide is badly tanned.”

  At last the monstrous thumb and forefinger released. The mad-doctor backed away hurriedly.

  “Don’t cut too deep, or too early,” Kitson called after him. “The ooze hardens the surface. No one will buy.”

  That was it. He’d risked enough. If Mr Bolton or, worse, Miss Crawford’s father, should ever learn he’d set foot in this filthy place . . . It was unthinkable! Mrs Cooke arrived, her face a mask of concern; he pushed past her, just as he had Miss Crawford earlier that day, and weaved his way to the door. His fingers were closing around the knob when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He had what seemed an age to assess its size and pressure. Had the giant Kitson come after him? Or had some clandestine Bow Street officer stepped out of the shadows? He turned, struggling to breathe.

  “Lost a shilling on the Porpoise,” a square-shouldered man slurred, revealing a row of pebble-like teeth. “Useless bugger got himself floored in the twelfth.” He covered an eye with one finger. “What d’yer say to me standing you a glass of grog. You can console me.”

  Aspinall shrank from him. “I was, I was about to – Good day, sir.”

  The man’s grin vanished. Reaching past Aspinall’s head, he laid his palm against the door. “Oh dear, oh dear. What’s this? Too glorified for The Swan, are we?” He leaned in, placing his other hand on the physician’s lapel. The stench of sour gin made the physician want to retch.

  “Hoi!” An arm went up at the fireside table. “Tha’s right! Come over an’ warm tha’ cold brass balls.”

  Aspinall slipped under his accoster’s arms, and moved gratefully towards the hearth.

  The hallooer rose to greet him. “Mr Thomas, your most humble – ” He trailed off with a swan-like arc of the arm. Bottles, glasses and newspapers were pushed aside on the table. A platter of jellied meats appeared from nowhere, then a chair.

  ––––– the rest of the chink is named the perineum

  “Pretty waistcoat!” said the plump one, eyes lost in rolls of flesh. He rubbed the yellow braid between thumb and forefinger. “Tres bon!”

  “Ignore t’ bacon-faced sirrah,” the one who’d called himself Thomas said, jerking his thumb. “Oracle of the pot-house, our Mr Donne.”

  ––––– by the holy prepuce

  Donne harumphed, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve.

  “What shall we call thee?” Thomas took a swig of brandy, his eyes fixed on the physician.

  ––––– Mr Pinker’s about to blow!

  A crumpled sheet of paper lay next to Thomas’s elbow – a diagram of some kind. Something was scribbled in one corner. Lines of Torres Vedras. It meant nothing to Aspinall.

  “Tha’ name, sir?”

  Aspinall felt like a river about to lose itself in the sea. He plucked a name out of thin air, aware how absurd it must sound. Xenophon.

  ––––– Look at th’ pretty chick’n!

  Thomas winked. “Xenophon it is, then. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Quite right, an’ all,” he said, looking round as if the room were filled with covert agents. “Dun’t hurt these days t’ be careful. At this table, tho’,” he added, “we all go by our Christian names. I’m Thomas – ” he clapped a hand to his breast “ – this scoundrel is Francis – ” he pointed to the thin man “ – and this round villain is Donne.”

  The plump man, who was busy renovating the physician’s glass with the inside of a flapping shirt sleeve, looked up and grinned.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the recent turnings-off? We had front row seats. Proper wriggle, it was. Poor ol’ Leager, poor Oakden. You’ll find The Dispatch’s account upstairs in the privy, where it serves as bum fodder.”

  ––––– no surgeon would attempt anything with a knife in there

  “A pox on the editor,” declared Donne. “That rag’s a drain for other newspapers to carry off their worst trash.”

  The fiddler called a switch.

  “Pinch of tha’ sentry-box?” Thomas said, helping himself to Donne’s snuff. An image of Napoleon was embossed on the silver case.

  “Francis fetch’d it back from th’ campaigns,” Thomas said, seeing Aspinall’s alarmed face.

  Donne tugged at his collar. “This heat! Bingo and water, anyone?”

  ––––– mumming with the fetishes

  Francis held up a creased copy of The Times. “Woman in India, placed between two boards, sawn in ’arf.” He turned to Aspinall. “Third Regiment o’ Foot. Pleas’d to make yer acquaintance.”

  ––––– milk-maiding with the vishnoos

  “What wor her crime?” Thomas goosed Aspinall’s thigh.

  Another stool arrived from above. To Aspinall’s horror, it was his pebble-toothed accoster.

  Thomas nodded. “ ’Ow do, Jameson?”

  The broad-shouldered man leered around the table. “Caught at a game of flats wi’ her mistress, would be my guess.”

  “Occult rituals?” Donne offered.

  ––––– I don’t like the smell

  “There yer go again,” Thomas said. “Told yer before, the occult ain’t jus’ the reserve of savage nations. The forward-looking c
ity’s also a place of superstition. Take them disciples of Southcott, now . . .”

  “I pity anyone gullible enough to purchase seals from that impostor,” said Donne primly.

  “Southcott’s lot hate us,” said Thomas. “They’d queue for a week t’ see a molly man choke.”

  Donne pulled a face. “And do they ever tire of the ‘coming apocalypse’? Sword, famine and plague marching through the land. I wouldn’t spend a single afternoon, let alone eternity, with those glum Johns.”

  ––––– Look for the golden ball hanging over his back door

  “I remember conjuring parsons as a boy.” (Donne refilled his glass.) “Met Mary Bateman once, an’ all . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Aye, thass right, the Witch of Leeds. Kept a hen that laid eggs inscribed wi’ the words, Christ is coming.”

  Jameson gave a loud sigh. “I thought they stretch’d that embezzler’s neck in York last year.”

  ––––– Mercury is king!

  Thomas sniffed. “Crowd rushed fer strips of her flesh, cured ’em in jars t’ sell as souvenirs.” He leaned towards Aspinall. “A friend of ours, the Bricklayer, wor found down at the bridge last week. Someone had taken a hammer t’ him. Comely lad, loved t’ chat.” He looked round the company. “Some might say tha’ wor his problem.”

  ––––– If your water’s clear, you’ve nothing to fear from the doctor

  Silence.

  “Don’t let Thomas put you off,” Jameson scoffed. “He’s just a Covent Garden waiter who thinks he’s a scholar. The man would bow to a Quaker hat. Even his accent’s sham.”

  “Born ’n bred in’t north,” said Thomas with a grin. “But I’ve bid farewell to my loiner brogue. Sound as queer in Leeds today as if they’d exiled me t’ Peking.” He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, and proceeded to stand them up on their edges.

  “Farts in French, tho’,” Jameson added.

  Thomas looked away. “Tha’ must be confusing me wi’t Bricklayer.”

  ––––– like butter in a hot skillet

  Aspinall suddenly became aware of an elderly man standing at his elbow. His skin reminded him of old legal parchment. How long had he been there?

  “Navia aut caput, Mr Thomas?” the gentleman said, peering down at the coins. “Ship or head? Neither, I suppose, in your case.” He rested a liver-spotted hand on Aspinall’s forearm. “Remember, in The Swan all bets are suspended. Shouldn’t you be getting home?”

  “Daft old bugger,” Thomas said, as the man turned and disappeared in the alehouse’s twilight. “Don’t mind ’im, Xenophon.”

  Donne turned to the physician. “Are you married?”

  ––––– easily the bigger of the two

  “Yes. Betrothed . . .” Aspinall faltered.

  “Don’t fret,” Francis said, misprisioning his discomfort. “We wun’t think any less o’ you. We’re all married men here.” He hoisted his glass. “Besides, a wife can always serve as an improvised man, if you ask her nicely enough.”

  ––––– Oil your rods in the summer. Take care the parts lie flat

  “My wife swears it makes no difference if she’s deep enough in gin.” Donne smirked, showing the wattles of his neck.

  “Worse than ol’ Bum Cutter,” Jameson said, wrinkling his nose.

  Thomas set his glass down loudly. “In Turkey tha can get fer a few shillings what we’re forced daily t’ risk our necks fer.” With a deft movement he swiped the coins into his cupped hand.

  ––––– taken with a certain cow

  From the bar, an unkempt man was making a stumbling beeline for their table. Donne nudged Thomas.

  ––––– a square building seen at a distance appears round

  “Miserable fornicators – ” the newcomer slurred, peering down with rheumy eyes “ – wae’d stiffen tae aye well-groomed horse.”

  “This grum friend,” Donne said in a stage aside to Aspinall, “is known to her friends as Miss Pasiphäe. If it couldn’t hang with propriety between the hind legs of a bull, she isn’t interested.”

  ––––– a young Colossus to be seen at the sign of the French horn

  Francis giggled. Aspinall, despite himself, joined in the mirth. Miss Pasiphäe rounded on him.

  “Whae’s this, eh?”

  “Now, now, don’t pester,” Thomas chided, placing a protective arm around Aspinall’s shoulders. “This one’s the pea under t’ tumbler.”

  “Or the lady in the pack,” Francis added.

  “Wouldnae last a minute i’ the Crochallan Fencibles,” Miss Pasiphäe pronounced, pinching Aspinall’s cheek. “Noo but a tom-turd man.”

  ––––– avoiding the gibberish of physics

  Thomas cleared his throat, and extended an arm in the declamatory style. “When at the Despot’s dread command bridg’d Hellespont his myriads bore – ”

  Donne gave a snort of derision. “Who’s responsible for that crambo?”

  ––––– Eh! you dear little toad. Come buss!

  “Why, only Mr Pye himself, his celebrated meditation on th’ finitude of existence.” Thomas winked at Aspinall.

  “It’s a snapping-turtle of a poem,” Donne replied. “Cowper, now there’s a poet.”

  “Verse shood turn th’ emotions loose,” Miss Pasiphäe said, and belched loudly.

  “It ought to be an escape from the emotions,” Donne suggested.

  “A good florencing serves that purpose,” Francis said.

  ––––– Tight-built, an’ out in all weathers

  “Modern poetry – ” Donne pulled a face “ – always slippery without being sweet.”

  ––––– all handsome wi’ his baubles dangling

  “Hear about the captain who lost the sea?” Thomas said.

  ––––– Paris could be anywhere

  Donne gulped at his brandy. “Horse-piss,” he said, wiping his lips.

  “You’d know,” said Francis.

  “A true friend should be like a privy . . .” Thomas looked at Aspinall. “Open in a necessity.”

  “You’ll pay dearly for licking honey from thorns,” Donne muttered.

  ––––– hot-shot in a mustard pot

  Thomas raised his glass. “Tie up your stockings, my dears. She ain’t a good ’ousewife as won’t wind up her bottom!”

  ––––– his mouse-trap smells of cheese

  Jameson hoisted the brandy bottle. “May the yard-arms be long – ”

  “ – an’ the sterns be steady!” said Miss Pasiphäe, finishing the toast.

  ––––– Oh, go at it, my jumbo!

  The bar-door flew open on its hinges and three brawny men burst in.

  18. Campaigns

  The six-fisted maelstrom rushed into the tap-room, cuffing drinkers indiscriminately. Mrs Cooke shot out from behind the ale counter, and was dashed unceremoniously to the sawdust. She lay there, dazed.

  “Turd-suckers!” roared the stockiest intruder. One side of his face was a hatch-work of jagged, blue-edged scars. “Laldy t’ ye all!”

  Aspinall began to rise, but Thomas put out a restraining arm.

  “The fistic universe’s nowt fer thee, lad.”

  “But Mrs Cooke . . .” Aspinall protested weakly.

  “Used t’ far worse from her husband.”

  The tars cut a deep swath into the bar, a circle of panicked drinkers forming a receding tide before them. Victims were hauled out at random, the mollies falling beneath flurries of looping blows. It dawned on Aspinall that the bruisers’ slogging course was set to arrive at the chimney. Even Thomas seemed to shift nervously.

  An enormous form stepped from the demi-light. The stocky tar weighed anchor, sizing up the Inspector of Hides. He turned to his mates. “Big bastard here, Jez.”

  “Bigger they come, Sutton,” the other answered philosophically. “Lemme n’ Sam have a go at the scaly rip. We’ll stow ’im on top o’ the others, bilge to the cunt-line.”

  Sutton
shook his head, stretching his arms out like a bird about to take flight. Without warning, he delivered a right hook to the Inspector’s chest that would have stunned a whale.

  Aspinall gasped in horror, but the only sign the colossus had even registered the clout was a slight shifting of his muscles, a redistribution of weight between the feet.

  Sutton’s next blow was fired straight off the shoulder. A concussive third concluded the salvo.

  “Whop ’im!” Jez roared with approval. “Draw his fookin’ cork!”

  Kitson shrugged one shoulder, then the other, methodically. Started to advance . . . Forced to work laterally, Sutton strung together a vicious sequence of hooks and rabbit punches, but Kitson seemed content to soak up the punishment, pressing ever forward. The tar – with a look of immense concentration on his face, as if sitting an exam – resorted to pecking and feinting, conceding ground until, with an audible thud, his heels made contact with the skirting board.

  The giant threw his first punch. Easily read, it struck only a glancing blow to the tar’s cheekbone, but its slant weight was such that the whole upper part of Sutton’s face seemed to slip to the side, leaving the right eye bulging from its socket. The sailor steadied himself, then slumped. Seeing his man lose bottom, Kitson dropped a vast left hand over his shoulder, and pulled him in, driving a slow right fist repeatedly up into the tar’s soft parts. Sutton’s slack face was a totem of expunged colour.

  Aspinall stared – was he witnessing a murder? He tried to get to his feet, but again Thomas prevented him.

  Sutton’s mates launched a desperate rescue party. Sam broke off the leg of a stool, and swung it wildly at the giant’s shoulder blades, while Jez kicked at the vast shins. Terriers baiting a bear. Kitson felled Sam with a hammering fist to the top of the head. Then, as Jez stared stupidly, the colossus leaned over, clamped two plate-sized hands over his ears and, with a high-pitched squeal, raised the sailor clear from the sawdust.

  Aspinall instantly realized what the brute had in mind: a sideways jerk that would dislocate the sailor’s head at its articulation with the neck.