He is stroking the nape of her neck, to which Dorcas responds in the mahogany reflection with seeming indifference: ‘What did you take me all the way here for, Mr Roo? Always before you was happy with it done in the carriage.’
‘My blossom, I wanted to be with you where nobody can hear us, and where we cannot be disturbed. For I am much taken with you, even if I am a bit cross. Why did you not come to meet me in Leicester Square yesterday as we agreed?’
‘I was ill yesterday. I drank too much spiced gin and ate too much sugar and cakes. I lied down in the afternoon.’
‘Are you sure you were not with somebody else? A pretty girl like you must receive many attractive offers from gentlemen.’
‘I only gets money from you. From nobody else. I’m not that sort of girl. I’m not gay and I have never before done things like you have me do. Never once.’ She does it for him because he is so handsome and so clean, and such fun, and because if she refused, then he would find someone else, and that would end the game, and there would be nothing left for her to do but to sit in the Crown and drink what little gin she can afford and wait for someone else. Yet there remain things she will not do for a man until he is her husband, for she is not that sort of girl.
‘Here is a golden sovereign, my darling. That comes to twenty shillings. I swear you shall have every bit of it, if you will only let me do the other. Please?’
It makes her feel strong when he begs her for it. She touches the gold coin he holds between his fingers as though it were a piece of jewellery. ‘Oh, no. I ain’t going to do that, Mr Roo. You try to make me and I’ll scream.’
‘You can scream all you like, by Heaven, for there is nobody to hear you.’
‘Then I will go where there is someone who can.’ Whereupon, to Harewood’s surprise, she abruptly gets off the bed and marches to the door, and with some determination; he has to move quickly in order to place himself between her and escape.
‘Forgive me, my dear, that was wretched of me and I am so terribly sorry. That I could say such a thing! You do not know your own power, my dear, you have a way about you that brings out the beast in a man. I am utterly at your mercy – O Dorcas, don’t you like me even a little bit?’
‘I likes you well enough and I will do some things for you, but if you become a beast and try the other then I will fight you off and scream out the window and you will be in trouble.’
‘My darling, I swear that I shall be as good as gold.’ He holds her tenderly in his arms for a long moment (she can smell the scent he has put in his whiskers), until he can feel her relax against him; now, drawing her back into the room and onto the bed, he takes out a second coin and holds it beside the first. ‘What if I gave you two golden sovereigns?’
She stares at the gold coins, more money than she is likely to see in a year, then pushes them away.
‘I won’t. That much is no good to me anyway.’
‘Why is that?’
‘My sister would know what I did for it. Already my sister is onto me with hints all the time, she knows I kiss you and suspects the rest that I do. Whatever you give me, if I cannot drink and eat it away, it’s no good to me. You stop! Take your hand away from there!’
‘Dorcas, is that what you’ve been doing with the money?’
‘I already told you as much. It is why I was sick yesterday.’
‘What is it you eat? Where do you go?’
‘I eats things my guardian cannot buy, though he works hard for what we has. Pies. And sausage-rolls – oh, my eye, ain’t they prime! And I take a cab and sit and look out while it goes through Mayfair while I eats them, and then I have spiced gin at the Crown where we first met.’
‘These two sovereigns would buy wonderful food for all three of you – for quite some time.’
‘It don’t matter. They would know what I did and would not eat it.’
‘You can wrap a sovereign in a piece of paper, make it muddy, and say you found it in the street.’
‘That might go past my guardian, but my sister is more clever. Once she seen me come out of the carriage after being with you, putting my clothes right, and I was hard pressed for an excuse …’
He sits closer to her and savours her intoxicating natural scent, nothing like perfume. As a child living in the country he once hid in a haystack, from which position he watched a stallion mount a mare. They hobbled her feet so that she would not kick the other and do serious damage, while he snorted and roared like a man in the greatest pain. Though confused by the spectacle, it was not lost on him that something extreme was taking place – frightening and painful, and yet, to go by the faces of the men in attendance and the cries of the horses, stimulating for all concerned …
‘Get your hand out of there, I told you! Don’t do that you beast, I’ll scream!’
‘Please, Dorcas, let me do it! It won’t hurt a bit, in fact it will feel jolly good, and I will give you the coins and some shillings extra.’
‘I already done enough, Mr Roo. Has any other girls done what I done with you already?’
‘At least a dozen.’
‘Lor’!’
‘In good society, this happens as a matter of course, by the time a girl is fourteen. If you and I were in society we could do it all we want and it would not be unusual.’
‘Even in the wealthy classes? Does girls of the quality do it?’
‘A girl among the well-to-do classes who bothers to hold onto her virginity does so only in order to command a higher price.’
‘How you talk, Mr Roo! Then they are but dollymops.’
‘Love removes all social distinctions, my dear. Can you not see that, Dorcas? Look about you: With so many rooms available for hire in the city, would a gentleman such as myself invite a girl into his own private rooms if he did not hold her in the highest esteem? If he did not love her very, very much?’
At this she falters, for she has not the vocabulary to argue with him. ‘That may be true and may be not …’
In her confused state of mind, she does not notice his hands at work until he has her in a fever and what is going to happen is going to happen, even though she does not know precisely what it will be.
She has surrendered! He has won!
Reginald Harewood reflects upon the advantages in bringing a girl to a room of one’s own – that he then has the time to bring her over to his way of thinking, and then he can enjoy her cries fully, in the certainty that no one will hear them but himself. Her expressions of pain upon his entering her caused him inexpressible pleasure, and he spent almost immediately. Now they are lying together under the sheet as though they were lovers, while he kisses away her tears to silence her whimpering (You’ve done for me now, Mr Roo, I’m undone for certain!), and an all too familiar uneasiness begins to creep over him, which he knows will grow, until one day it will be too much to bear …
With affecting naivety, now she begs him to take her away, swears she would live alone in a room if he would see her but once a month. Momentarily his uneasiness verges on remorse, but this too passes, giving way to a general anaesthesia, with hardly a tinge of any feeling in particular.
Now comes a slight distaste. He reflects upon the knowledge that she will spend the money he gives her to gorge herself with food, will use his tribute to her beauty to become fat and pasty, like the pies she consumes; that her breasts, now so firm and delicious, will take on an unappetizing, mealy consistency, like pears that have missed their season.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
29
The Grove of the Evangelist
Seated opposite at the tea-table, manifestly debilitated by loss of blood (and open to death by blood-poisoning), William Ryan presides over the meeting by virtue of his pistol, a .44 calibre by Nock if Whitty is not mistaken, of the type known as an ‘overcoat pistol’ and common to officers in the Royal
Navy.
‘I did not know you served in the Navy, Mr Ryan.’
‘Another example of your clairvoyant powers, Mr Whitty?’
‘No. Your pistol is Navy issue.’
‘Is it, now? Pure luck, in actual fact. I borrowed a coat from a party, stuck my hand in the pocket, and there it was.’
Whitty remains unperturbed by the pistol, reasoning that if he has not been poisoned then he is unlikely to be shot. ‘The existence of an advantage depends not upon what is present, but upon what will come next. While the machine at your disposal confers an unassailable advantage at present, other machines mean certain doom later on.’
‘How so?’ asks Mr Ryan, picking up the pistol and if to examine it.
Says Mrs Marlowe, ‘I am curious about those other machines.’
‘As an example, the electric telegraph.’
‘I had thought the electric telegraph an instrument of communication, not a weapon.’
‘And yet, what communication it offers! Since the beginning of time, the maximum distance anything might cover – whether a man or a word – was that which could be accomplished on horseback. A fugitive on a fast horse – or, better yet, a fast train – could flee his pursuers indefinitely. But with the telegraph, information is instantaneous and the world is the size of London.’ So says Whitty, striving to recall Sala’s excellent rhetoric on the topic. ‘As a fugitive you will never outrun your name, Sir. Wherever you go, your past will await you, in every station, every dockyard, every constabulary in Britain.’
Whitty can discern Ryan’s quick breathing, the rattle within; clearly the man is not getting his health at all. Desire, not biology, is keeping him in the game. But desire for what? For vindication? Revenge? Mrs Marlowe?
The latter, in all probability. The correspondent discerns an uncommon heat in the way they gaze at one another.
‘I had not thought of fearing that, Sir.’
‘But you must, Mr Ryan, include it in your plans. Assuming that you recover; assuming that you venture farther than the back garden …’
Mrs Marlowe interrupts: ‘What is your reason for relating this information, Sir? I had not taken you for a scientist. Surely you have something in mind, other than to provide a reason for it to be Mr Whitty who remains in the back garden.’
She sits back, exchanging with Mr Ryan a smile of mutual understanding. Whitty feels an unwelcome chill. That was not the understanding he sought.
‘Let us be candid: I am not suicidal. I notified a colleague of my intended destination, with the proviso that he should contact the police should I fail to return. But even absent that precaution, surely such precipitous action is against your own interests: why should I have placed myself in the present position, were I not confident that I can be of use to you? Before you embark upon your brief, doomed elopement, will you entertain an alternate course of action?’
‘What be your suggestion?’ Ryan places the pistol upon the table.
‘Give yourself up to the police. Reassert your innocence, with the support of The Falcon.’
‘In a pig’s eye, Sir. Go to Hell.’
‘How predictable, Mr Ryan. You would rather drown than accept a life-line.’
After a tactical pause, the correspondent performs his standard speech in overcoming the reluctance of a potential source: the power of the press, etc., its capacity to right wrongs, exculpate the wrongfully accused, etc., etc., the moral weight of posterity, etc., etc., etc …
‘Mr Ryan, in your cell at Coldbath Fields you declared an overriding intention to protect a certain lady from harm, that your lack of a defence in determining your guilt or innocence had a chivalrous origin. May I be so bold as to assume the lady in question to be present in this room?’
‘You may, Sir. Die for her I would, and without regret.’
Mrs Marlowe’s cheeks flush slightly as he covers her hand with his.
Mrs Button has appeared with hot water to add to the tea; having witnessed the previous exchange, she raises one eyebrow approximately a quarter of an inch.
‘What harm might come to me, my dear, that has not happened already?’ enquires Mrs Marlowe.
‘My love, I wonder if you might leave Mr Whitty and me for a moment, to discuss this delicate matter. Only a moment, I promise you.’
‘Very well, William, but if there’s something I ought to know …’ At a warning look from Ryan she stops in mid-sentence. ‘Excuse me please, Gentlemen.’
Mrs Marlowe exits the room with a troubled aspect; her little woman like a shadow, following close behind.
Whitty takes a sip of his cold tea. ‘I assume, Mr Ryan, that the lady views you as something other than a murderer evading the just outcome of his misdeeds, or a coward who permits others to die while he savours his dubious freedom.’
‘No, Sir, for I am nothing of the kind. No woman has ever died by my hand.’
‘And Mrs Marlowe believes you? You are a charming and persuasive man if I may say so, Sir.’
‘To this I swear on my honour and before God.’
‘Quite. Allow me to appeal to your honour then, such as it is. Have you given any thought to the notion that, if you are not Chokee Bill, someone else is?’
‘Indeed I have, Mr Whitty. It is the police who have placed innocent women in peril by pegging me for it.’
‘But now, Sir, you are not without influence in this. Mr Ryan, do not underestimate the power of the Fourth Estate. Your escape, while a doomed prospect in itself, provides you with an opportunity of public vindication, and all that follows. The opportunity to live in freedom, with the woman you claim to love. I suggest to you that a man who would refuse such an offer is a liar, a coward, a murderer, or all three.’
Ryan grows thoughtful. Weariness overtakes him. His handsome features have turned the colour of stucco. ‘I shall think upon what you say, Sir. I shall give you an answer presently. I am not yet fit for a stay in Newgate I am afraid.’
Indeed, thinks the correspondent, you would not last a night in that fine institution.
‘Mr Whitty, assuming we enter into some sort of arrangement – and I do not admit to this – I insist that anything you write or do on my behalf must exclude any mention of Mrs Marlowe’s name, history, or current employment.’
Whitty agrees to this easily, for few of Mrs Marlowe’s particulars would pass the Lord Chamberlain.
‘Nor may you inform Mrs Marlowe of our arrangement, for she is a proud woman.’
‘You have my word of honour. In return, may I invite you to reveal the name of the gentleman you and your murdered accomplice attempted to swindle.’
‘I shall not.’
‘For the protection of a lady, no doubt.’
‘Because I have reason to believe that the gentleman in question is the Fiend in Human Form.’
‘Quite.’
Whitty can hardly contain his excitement at the emerging outline, an assembly of narrative fragments which combine into a stunner of the first water.
A condemned murderer executes a daring escape from the most modern prison in England. Metropolitan Police are at a loss. After a period of public alarm and at the daring behest of a prominent member of the press, our man surrenders, still resolutely proclaiming his innocence – which claim gains weight by his surrender. The correspondent eloquently takes up the challenge, sowing doubt as to the guilt of the condemned man, together with hints of a conspiracy to conceal the Fiend’s true identity. Editorials appear. Questions in Parliament. London is a-twitter.
As the execution date approaches, the public devours each successive report on the case. The correspondent is the focus of a cause célèbre which reaches a shuddering climax on the day of the hanging.
At which point the true Fiend is brought forward. Or not, as the case may be.
Most likely, Ryan is hanged. Whitty has not forgotten Mr Hollow’s description of Ryan (over the most dreadful meal he has ever eaten) as an unregenerate scoundrel who should have been hanged a dozen times already
had justice prevailed.
Any journal in London would pay a considerable sum for this. Prepare the presses, Sala! Open the coffers, Dinsmore! Look upon your rival, Fraser, and weep!
Having accomplished that which he set out to achieve, Whitty takes his leave of William Ryan and proceeds down the hall, there to encounter his hostess as she emerges from a room whose door is ajar just enough to afford the correspondent a momentary, unwelcome glimpse of an elderly gentleman in a woman’s corset.
After a murmured good-day from Mrs Marlowe and an inscrutable nod from the widow at her elbow, then having retrieved his hat and stick from the liveried footman, Whitty rejoins Owler across the road, positioned as Whitty left him over an hour ago, his sandwich-board proclaiming a Most Sanguinary Outrage of the Laws of Humanity.
Despite the damp and chill of late afternoon (it is raining again), despite the weight of the murderous menu he carries, Owler has remained as watchful as a Beefeater on duty. Not for the first time is the correspondent struck by the man’s tolerance of discomfort.
Whitty, for his part, is in a state of preoccupation. Notwithstanding the heady elation that accompanies a potential triumph, he is bothered by the same curious unease that disturbed his equanimity upon entering the Grove of the Evangelist: that somebody’s plan is proceeding perfectly; that somehow he is performing as somebody expects.
‘And what were the situation as to the fugitive, Sir?’
‘Though I don’t quite have the particulars, fundamentally it is as suspected: Mr Owler, our man is within.’
‘Lord dismiss us. We must go to the constabulary at once.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ With a cigar and a lit lucifer poised in mid-air, Whitty watches in astonishment as Owler makes for the corner. ‘Where are you going, Sir? What the deuce do you intend to do?’
The Fiend in Human Page 22