The Cunning House

by Richard Marggraf Turley

  The mad-doctor’s cries turned to frantic yelps as the bulb of the Judge’s yard appeared above the seat, and scalding urine sluiced through the weave. It dripped onto Aspinall’s face and neck. He flapped again, earning a shod foot to the groin.

  “Downcast sinner,” the Judge said. “Just our luck, chummed wi’ a back-door man.”

  “Respectful of Brockton to let us know, tho’,” the pale juror remarked.

  “Brought some swag furniture wi’ him, lads.” The Judge nodded at the red-and-gold writing desk. “We could sell it.”

  Aspinall moaned. Miss Crawford had paid half a guinea to have it brought in; he’d tried to write, sought to piece together his case notes, but work in this dire hole was impossible.

  “Right. But first, we’d have t’ . . .” The pale juror looked meaningfully in Aspinall’s direction.

  The Judge nodded, and knelt beside the physician. Sliding his hands under the chair, he unfurled his fingers like birds’ wings, closing them again around Aspinall’s neck. The tattoo inked on the felon’s lower forearm showed a large map of London over which prison bars had been superimposed.

  “Shall I?” He looked up.

  “They can’t hang you twice, Ned.”

  “I want to do it.”

  Aspinall’s eyes widened as the coarse fingers tightened. His cries for help became chokes as the edges of his vision began to close in. Then everything was black. His chest felt like it was exploding inward. He slapped his palms frantically on the floor.

  A distant clattering sound, like a truncheon rattled between bars. Aspinall felt the fingers release.

  “Fainted in the heat,” the Judge said, glancing up at Suter. Collapsed at his desk.”

  “He was trying to un-man us.”

  “Can’t leave us breathing his steam!”

  The jurors untied Aspinall, and helped him to his feet. They brushed off the shreds of his shirt.

  “Don’t you be committing no more crimes now,” the Judge said as Suter returned to the shadows, “our court’s always in session.”

  Miss Crawford’s pulse kicked an irregular tattoo in the hollow of her throat. She took in the sight, her fiancé’s chair upturned, his expensive writing paper strewn across the flagstones. Robert sat huddled in the far corner, knees pulled up tightly under his chin.

  “She yours?” A voice came from the shadows.

  “We’ll help you keep her happy . . .” A tall man stepped from the gloom, his mouth twisted into a grotesque leer. “Won’t we, my hearts?”

  “Keep it down, you rogues!” The gaoler called through the grating, hoisting his bull’s eye lantern, casting bluish shadows on the unshorn men.

  Robert rose unsteadily, face bruised, framed by matted hair, and came to her.

  The tall cellmate thrust his hand into his breeches and let his eyes roll back, howling like a dog. Miss Crawford stamped her foot at him.

  “My notebook . . .” Robert whispered, leaning into her, “have you recovered it?”

  She gave a little shake of her head. “They’ve posted a soldier at the door.”

  His shoulders sagged.

  “I’ll get it,” she said quickly. “I promise.”

  Robert turned then to Brockton’s offer. What had her father said? Would he consider a loan?

  Miss Crawford pressed her lips together. How could she tell him her father had sworn to stand beneath the gallows rejoicing as Robert was launched into the ever after?

  28. Handy-Dandy

  Wyre glanced up from his files at the clerk’s silhouette in the door. The fellow hadn’t bothered to knock. Standing next to the sly ex-fusilier was a handsome young woman, slim, below average height, with a dark complexion. The skin had a peculiar soft lustre. Her eyes and lips were also dark, and her treacly hair hung in fetching, natural curls. What was most distracting, though, were her large eyes. So large they put him in mind of a primitive votive statue; though where he’d seen one of those, he couldn’t remember. What was it that lay in them?

  “Pardon th’ intrusion, Mr Wyre,” the clerk said insincerely, lifting the stump of his missing arm. “Missy ’ere wuz awful keen t’ see Mr Best. Most insistent for ’im. Would have sent her packing, ’cept it concerns Arse Street. Claims she’s engaged to one of the mollies. Aspinall. Says she’s in possession of information purs’ant to his case.” He winked.

  It was an old scam, and the clerk was right to be sceptical of it. The first thing a clever molly did on being taken was to send word to his confederates, who arranged for some pox-ridden drab to pose as his wife. ‘Vouching for taste’, it was called. If the magistrate was inexperienced, the ruse had a chance of success.

  This woman’s dress was cut fashionably, even if its tints were brasher than the customary London duns. Like most of the furbelowed Pollies and Susannahs who drifted around the Courthouse, she’d been crying, but there was none of their brassy attitude.

  No, it was an old scam, and it wouldn’t wash. Aspinall would stand trial. He had to . . . Of the twenty-seven culprits taken in Vere Street, there was, according to Brockton, sufficient evidence to arraign only five of them. In the plainest terms, Wyre couldn’t afford to lose another molly, and especially not Aspinall. How many of the public would turn up to see a few bedraggled waiters dangle? A professional man, however, and a physician, no less . . . That was a different matter.

  But he’d have to hear her out.

  The clerk touched his finger insolently to his temple, and vanished.

  The dark woman stood beneath Wyre’s bookshelves, pressing her fingers together.

  “The clerk said you had new information?”

  “My name is Miss Crawford. I am engaged to Dr Aspinall. That is the truth.”

  A hint of sugar in her dense, intricate accent.

  “So the clerk says.” Wyre looked away.

  “My fiancé’s a respected physician at the Wood’s Close asylum – ”

  “Who was arrested with the other culprits at The White Swan, a notorious molly house.”

  Her hands began to tremble. “He was taken into custody during the raid, but he was ignorant of the nature of the premises. He – ”

  “Miss – ” Wyre interrupted again, letting her remind him of her name “ – Crawford, Robert Aspinall was arrested in the attics along with men caught in the middle of despicable acts. There can be no mistake.”

  He leaned back, waiting for the inevitable. Her fiancé had been tricked, threatened, made an uncharacteristic error of judgement. If she was hoping for an indulgence, he could do nothing for her.

  “I assure you, Robert isn’t that way.”

  “It comes as a shock when someone we think we know deceives us.”

  Miss Crawford shook her head: small, contained movements. The air was full of constraint. “Not Robert. A woman knows.”

  Wyre cleared his throat. “You say you have information.”

  She answered with a wavering voice. “I visited Robert in his cell yesterday. He was afraid for his life.”

  “Cells aren’t nice places. The company is bad.”

  “It wasn’t that, Mr Wyre . . .”

  The space around them was quickly developing the character of frozen time.

  “You must understand, there’s nothing I can do. The law will take its course.”

  “Robert told me,” she said quickly, “that Mr Brockton swore that an example should be made of him unless he paid a substantial sum of money. But my fiancé doesn’t have the means.”

  Wyre looked at her sharply. It was just as well Brockton was out. He wouldn’t take a libel easily. “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “This morning, your colleague called at my father’s house, and demanded one hundred pounds for Robert’s release. My father threatened to send for a magistrate. Mr Brockton told my father he’d just damned Robert to the drop, and we were welcome to whatever was left of him. Why don’t you ask Mr Brockton?”

  Wyre said nothing. Brockton wouldn’t be the first Courthouse
lawyer partial to a handy-dandy . . . But it was this woman’s word against his colleague’s, and Best seemed to have taken the man under his wing.

  “Legitimate expenses are incurred during an arraignment, Miss Crawford. Someone has to cover the costs of additional work.”

  “One hundred pounds?” The silence hung. “Won’t you at least look into it?”

  He pursed his lips. There was no new information.

  “For men like Mr Brockton,” she said, her voice full of scorn, “the law is an opportunity. Robert’s nothing in this, and you know it.”

  She strode to the door, her hand obscenely small as it closed around the handle.

  “Miss Crawford . . .” He called after her. “Wait. Please.” Aspinall deserved the halter, of that he was certain; but the thought of this fine-looking woman not only suffering the humiliation of being known for a molly’s dupe, but also preyed on by the likes of Brockton . . . It was too much. It was enough. “I promise nothing, and if two witnesses can be found to swear to – to what they saw, then your fiancé will find himself far beyond my help.

  The clocks were striking four o’clock as he stood for the second time that day before Best’s walnut desk. The Chief Barrister’s hand formed a fingerpost tilting down at the note Wyre had written after his interview with Miss Crawford.

  “You allude to grave concerns.”

  Wyre shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps his rhetoric had been a little excessive.

  Sir, allegations have been made. They involve significant sums of money.”

  “And?” The single syllable rang.

  “Well, at first I was sceptical, but I’ve been through the Vere Street files, sir, and in the last few days, more than a dozen White Swan culprits have been released.” He cleared his throat. “Directly after being interviewed by Mr Brockton.”

  “A case of witches being weighed against parish bibles, you mean? Say it out, Wyre. Bribes.”

  “There may be a perfectly satisfactory explanation, sir, though I have to say, it stretches credulity that a properly conducted examination would exonerate practically all the men taken in the raid.”

  Best rose stiffly, and crossed to the sideboard, where he poured two glasses of brandy. “The work of a lawyer – ” he said, replacing the mushroom stopper “ – makes him inward with perverted longings.” He returned, handing Wyre one of the glasses. “Men may swim against the stream of their inclinations, but in the end their actions are always ruled by their nature.” He lowered himself into his chair, wincing. “The sodomite, Wyre, is wedded to the bowels, and thus to the bowels of the earth where men rot and decay. He can no sooner change his disposition than a fish can one day decide to breathe air instead of water. Where men act according to their natures, and offend, we must chastise.”

  Wyre left a respectful gap. “Twenty-seven culprits were arrested that night. Five remain in custody, and none from the higher ranks.”

  “Do you hold your brother in such low esteem?”

  Hot prickles rose on Wyre’s nape. “Sir, at the rate Brockton’s going, there’ll be no one left to prosecute. No one better than a customs officer and the landlord of a disorderly house.”

  “You forget the mad-doctor.” Best’s logic had the momentum of a miller’s spur wheel.

  “As a matter of fact, sir,” Wyre began awkwardly, “in that particular case, the question of guilt may indeed be . . . moot.” His throat felt thick. “As I mention in my note, it was Dr Aspinall’s fiancé who alerted me to possible irregularities in Mr Brockton’s investigation.”

  “Aspinall was caught red-handed. He was taken in the act of conspiring to commit sodomy, which lest we forget is the term reserved for intercourse with the dung passage. In plain English, he is a buggerer. The same is true of the other four who remain in detention for the public good. They are agents of their own distress.” He signed a vellum document with a sharp flick of the wrist. “Mr Brockton has sifted the men,” he said, without looking up. “These are the ones.”

  “And the others, sir?”

  “Not the ones.” The Chief Barrister dipped his quill. “Don’t let a pair of pretty eyes cloud your judgement.”

  29. Contractions

  Wyre peered into the chiaroscuro of The Sun’s dining room. Was one of the silverthief’s accomplices sitting among the motley assortment of ploughtails, joskins and drysalters? All the patrons had an oddly stitched-in appearance.

  Leighton smiled, apparently able to read Wyre’s thoughts. “Meant to tell you,” he began, “Michaels was taken a few days ago. Sap-head battered a shopkeeper who caught him palming. Victim forgot to wake up. It’s the noose for that scad now. What do you say to a spot of German duck? What Sally can do with nutmeg is a revelation.”

  Leighton raised a finger, hooking a serving-maid most men would probably call buxom. Her blonde hair was stacked up in piles in imitation of the fine style. She smiled down at Leighton, her puffy white top showing something of the ingenious hammock pushing up her ample breasts. Leighton frowned at the two mountains of flesh as if about to admonish a wayward daughter.

  “Three mugs of beer, Sally, two knuckle stews and a long, juicy kiss. Not in that order.”

  Wyre looked at Leighton, who was now tapping combinations of fingers on the table top as if practising chords on a pianoforte. It was difficult to imagine two men at greater variance in temperament, and yet the masculine bonds were strong.

  “I still haven’t seen anything in the papers about the New Bridge murder,” Wyre began.

  The Runner lifted his shoulders. “Takes more these days than a hammer to the noggin to shock the reading public.”

  Sally returned with two mugs of hot beer.

  That was true enough. All the rags this week were leading on the arraignment of the Vere Street gang – column after column speculating on the nature of the charges, the range of punishments available to the judge, the predicted size of the crowd.

  These very topics were being rehearsed around them. A pinkish sort seated opposite was recommending to his neighbours that the felons’ testicles be cut away like gangrenous flesh. Let their French masters see what we do to filthy bastards.

  Wyre glanced at Leighton. Had such jack o’lantern talk resulted in Thomas’s murder in Crispin Street?

  Leighton gave him a noncommittal look. “It’s possible, but then everything is.” He drank a deep draught. “It was commendable, you finding Thomas’s letter, Kit. But don’t get your hopes up. Slayings of that kind are rarely brought to a resolution.”

  Wyre frowned. He’d never heard defeatist talk from Leighton before. “You knew the fly. Surely you’ll keep going till you’ve got your felon?”

  The Runner shrugged. “He wouldn’t have expected it.”

  The waiter with the bent nose arrived with their bowls of meat and potatoes, setting them down roughly.

  “What about the Palace man?” Wyre lowered his voice. “Sellis. Did you get anywhere with them?”

  Leighton looked up, his face all acute angles. It was easy to see why women liked him. With a pang, Wyre recalled his initial reluctance to introduce the Bow Street officer to Rose. He needn’t have worried. Leighton had been subdued as they’d all sat together in those cramped Southwark lodgings. Wyre and Rose, fresh from Felpham. He pictured his wife pouring tea from her mother’s china teapot.

  Leighton moved his spoon listlessly through his stew. “’Fraid not, Kit.” He looked up. “I’m under surveillance. Better you’re not seen with me till I sort things out.”

  Wyre stared blankly. “The Palace? You said they wouldn’t appreciate you sniffing around.”

  The Runner’s expression was suddenly savage. “Not the Palace. Try Bow Street . . . my own fucking office.”

  Wyre pressed for details, but Leighton’s mood had turned inward. For the rest of their meal, he did no more than play with his broth, leaving Wyre to eat in silence.

  Outside, the sun had filled the street with furtive shadows. Leighton winced as he lifted his le
g over the dandy-charger’s perch. Wyre watched him move deftly along the pavements in the direction of the Public Office. It hadn’t taken him long to become a skilled operator.

  The pain began as spasms in the legs, creeping up to his belly. At first, Wyre tried to hide his discomfort from Brockton, who was observing him with evident interest. When a stabbing sensation sent Wyre’s hands to his midriff, he admitted defeat. Through clenched teeth, he announced he was going home for the afternoon.

  By the time the growler prowling for illegal fares outside the Courthouse dropped Wyre off at Mrs Mason’s apartments, it felt as if the integuments of his belly were unknitting beneath his fingers. He struggled through to the foyer, and collapsed against Mrs Mason’s desk. With alarm in her eyes, his landlady called for a porter to help him to his room while she went for a doctor.

  Wyre waited in bed, coverlet pulled around him, shivering and sweating at the same time. Schüttelfrost, the Prussians called it. Was this the fever? God knows, he’d been to some bad districts this last week.

  The porter had lent him his copy of The Gazette. More electric strokes from Vere Street:

  Mr Mellish, the Member for Middlesex, has expressed his determination to bring in early in the next Session a Bill for making the attempt to commit a certain horrid crime punishable by transportation for life. This, however, will not be sufficient. The monsters must be exterminated, or a curse will fall on the land, contaminating even our colonies.

  As he read, pearly drops pattered onto the pages, and were absorbed into the coarse weave. Slowly, the sentences flew apart before his eyes.

  Monsters. Curses. Stones.

  30. Interlude

  Looking down, he finds himself dressed in full lawyer’s robes, as if about to step to the bar . . . He ducks to avoid densely overhanging waxy green leaves, each with a spike that could put his eye out. Absurdly coloured flowers dangle above the foliage in a suspended explosion of scarlets, mauves, carmines and pepper reds. His captor’s face is half-hidden beneath a broad-rimmed umbrella hat.