Indeed, so unanimous and emphatic was the general opinion, it seemed to your servant that this Wednesday group betrayed a sentiment not unadjacent to their Monday morning counterparts; in eager anticipation of another sort of hanging – that of a fellow correspondent, hoisted upon his own petard.
In the role of Mr Calcraft was Mr Fraser of Dodd’s, whose evident glee crossed that boundary which separates good cheer from bad taste – especially in one who has everything to gain from his rival’s humiliation. Mr Fraser’s morbid enthusiasm proved infectious among his colleagues to an unattractive degree. Following deliveries of refreshment from the nearby Saracen’s Head Inn, and in a conspicuous lapse of objectivity, the correspondent for Dodd’s was heard to join Mr Bogg of the Monthly Packet and Mr Whidden of the Dundee Evening Examiner in a disgraceful chorus of O My! O My! I think I’ve Got to Die!
Disgraceful — and well beneath the standards of Lloyd’s, where we keep an open mind.
At last St Sepulchre sounded eleven, and hardly had the last chime echoed when up from Smithfield Market approached our protagonists (in a carriage driven by a Negro), the appearance of which was greeted with a coarse cheer of dubious welcome.
The coach having come to a smart halt before them, our men of the press produced pencils, notebooks and cigars, together with expressions of miscellaneous concern, while Mr Salmon descended the steps with his retinue:
‘Gentlemen, I am Under-Inspector Salmon of the Metropolitan Police. I respectfully direct you to step forward where we may see you. Furthermore, I advise you to refrain from suspicious movement …’ Here the under-inspector trailed to a halt, in mid-sentence, having lost his drift, his statement having no purpose other than as newsprint.
I leave you to imagine, Dear Reader, the gasp of astonishment, the choking hack of poorly inhaled cigar smoke followed by a cadaverous silence, as the Negro hopped from his perch, with all the nimbleness of his race, opened the carriage door – and our two protagonists stepped down.
First came Whitty of The Falcon, wearing a light blue coat, fawn trousers and an aspect of adamant, dry defiance:
‘Good morning, Inspector. And a good morning to you, Gentlemen. My friend and I are honoured to have piqued your interest.’
So saying, the correspondent stepped onto the street while turning gracefully to the carriage door, from which aperture, wearing a sombre black suit and an aspect of forbearance, came Mr William Ryan, the fugitive known as Chokee Bill.
In the description of such a scene, Lloyd’s regrets not having engaged Mr Dickens.
As the constables dutifully stepped forward to make fast their captive, pandemonium erupted among the correspondents on the square, with Newgate’s relentless stone wall in the background, its forlorn expanse broken only by grated windows and recessed statuary. Were these scuttling gentlemen viewed from above, they would have resembled the spectacle of a stone thrown upon an anthill — an undignified scramble for personal advantage, while the most prominent journalists in London desperately revised their positions, retroactively, of course. Suddenly each and every correspondent, thinking back on Whitty’s case, discovered himself to have viewed the Ryan trial all along with the utmost scepticism. Indeed, were it not for vague and sinister pressures from on high, these worthy men would have given voice to their thoughts long ago.
Thus do a pack of hyenas recast themselves as lone wolves, howling at the moon, each a lonely voice in the crowd.
Amid this visibly shifting atmosphere, the gentleman from Dodd’s and the under-inspector for the Metropolitan Police grew visibly uneasy. Sensing an unwelcome scrutiny, they became wary and skittish and gloomy, like workmen in a tunnel who hear the distant sound of rushing water. For surely it is evident that, should the reputation of the correspondent soar to the heavens, so will the reputations of Mr Salmon and Mr Fraser plummet to the floor.
And make no mistake: the gentlemen of the press smelled blood. Where one might have expected the notorious Mr Ryan and the victorious Mr Whitty to have dominated the scene, our recent arrivals found themselves curiously relegated to the position of spectators, while the relentless eye of the Fourth Estate turned its implacable gaze upon their accusers, now ripe for evisceration.
In replying to Mr Whitty’s analysis of the case, Mr Salmon attempted a lame defence, which crumpled like a meringue under close questioning:
Mr Hicks of Lloyd’s: ‘May I ask, Sir, what measures have been taken by your office in view of recent revelations in the Chokee Bill affair? Have you lost the scent?’
Mr Salmon: ‘Sir, I assure the public that we have taken recent events most seriously, and that enquiries are ongoing.’
Mr Hicks: ‘By “ongoing”, Sir, are we to understand that you are in doubt as to Mr Ryan’s guilt of the crime for which he has been condemned to death?’
Correspondents: ‘Hear, hear!’
Mr Salmon: ‘I am not prepared to say.’
Correspondents: ‘Shame! Shame!’
For his part, the Scotsman from Dodd’s — who, in a prematurely celebratory frame of mind, had partaken of a quantity of gin – seemed at a loss to make a case for himself in any language.
At which juncture did Edmund Whitty, the actor-manager behind this entire opus, lift one gloved hand for silence – which action caused the general uproar to cease and the gentlemen of the press to take up their pencils once again in the expectation of crisp copy.
Surprisingly, the gentleman from The Falcon refrained from his usual false bravado. On the contrary, he seemed almost diffident; when he spoke it was as a man humbled by the events in which he had played a part — and by the courage of the man standing beside him. Let it suffice to say that this was an unfamiliar Edmund Whitty before us today, a man with a newly discovered sense of purpose and destiny.
After him spoke William Ryan and, in deference to journalistic veracity, I shall here reproduce the text, delivered extemporaneously and transcribed via the miracle of short-hand by your servant, for you, Dear Reader, to judge at your leisure:
‘Mr Salmon and distinguished members of the Press:
‘It is not often a man has the opportunity of speaking to such a redoubtable gathering – especially a man born in an orphanage, the whelp of a fallen woman, whose profligacy set him upon a downhill journey to the lowest flesh-pots of London. I do not claim myself as victim, nor do I undertake to defend my actions, which have been of the lowest kind – short, I say to you, of murder. Of that one crime I am innocent, even if ‘innocent’ may seem scarcely the term to apply in my case.
‘But if innocent, why did I escape? For every Englishman knows that there is no honour in flight. Gentlemen, my answer to you consists of one word: Despair. Of British justice. Of God. Of life itself. I invite you to pass judgement, you who have passed time in a death cell.’
‘It took Mr Whitty to set me right. He has been an inspiration to me, and I should not be here but for him. Mr Whitty gave me to understand that what is at risk goes beyond the hanging of an innocent man. What is at risk is nothing short of the truth, Gentlemen – and the lives of defenceless women, who, however low they may have fallen, deserve our protection …’
Your obedient servant was unable to record the remainder, obscured by the din of sycophantic cheers.
38
The Crown
Undefeated but once in his fighting career, Stunning Joe Banks is one of a few retired pugilists in England who actually prospered from the craft. Moreover, in becoming a publican he shrewdly chose the one social arena which affords continued value – both to his former glory, and to the skills which he acquired in the process: while the Crown plays host to many a bully-boy, the most vicious tout in Britain turns diffident as a schoolboy when facing the disapproval of Stunning Joe Banks.
Despite the damage wrought by bare fists hardened in brine (which seems not to have affected his mind), Stunning Joe cuts an exquisite figure: situated behind the bar of French-polished mahogany, in a tailored lavender coat, tweed trousers and a
silk neck-cloth, the publican glows as a living monument, a symbol of British pluck.
When he speaks, which is seldom, a strangled whisper issues forth – the result of a bare fist to the Adam’s-apple courtesy of Sweeny in ’44 – and yet all listen, such being the latent power of an ugly, silent, well-dressed man with a reputation.
‘The young lady before the pillar?’ he whispers into the barkeeper’s ear.
‘Indeed, Sir,’ replies the barkeeper. ‘A comely little piece. Drinks every penny she earns. Singularly well-favoured, however.’
‘And her escort?’
‘Oxford, by the accent, or pretends to be. Jolly taken with her to the tune of three gins and a twelve-shilling bottle of Moselle.’
‘A glass of the best gin and peppermint for the lady, Basil, and another for the gentleman. Later we will take the prospect aside and acquaint her with the advantages of a room upstairs. That it is safer, if this is the road she has chosen.’
The barkeeper nods agreement, drawing a cup of ‘The Out-and-Out’. Indeed, the young lady will fill out the dance floor nicely, beside Miss Fowler with the beautiful leg, the Amazonian Miss Bolton, and the singularly genteel Miss Parks – who, for an extra pound, is capable of the most uncommon exertions …
It is the proprietor’s judgement of horseflesh that enables such a varied, spirited, profitable gathering to occur of an evening, beneath the gasoliers and the stucco rosettes.
No Peeler can vouch for one’s safety in the streets – whether it be from the thieving Irish, who will strip a clerk naked and throw him in a cess-pit; or the well-born, upper-class beast who wanders the streets with his friends, provoking fights with the lower orders; or the touts who break heads and molest women of all ages; or the roving bands of cruel children, who are the worst of all …
Within these walls, ladies and gentlemen of all classes seek their business and pleasure in a state of truce.
Unaware of her recruitment as a prospective associate under the protection of the establishment, Dorcas accompanies her escort past the dancing couples, across the floor, and out the door, just as the barkeeper was preparing to bring glasses to their table.
Thinks the barkeeper: An opportunity lost. But not to worry. He will draw the little fox aside when she comes in tomorrow, white with morning sickness, and she will be pleased by the offer of a free gin.
39
Plant’s Inn
No English journalist exists who does not long for the pamphlet wars of the last century, when a correspondent was truly relevant to the business of the nation: not, as obtains in the modern era, as a salesman for watches and corsets and the latest cure. Who does not wish to hold forth in the days of the Old Jewry, jousting with the emerging vocabulary of methods and ideals: Liberal, Conservative, Socialist, Capitalist, Anarchist, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity: juicy, chewy, portentous words, like fatty cuisine and a legacy of the bloody French.
Oh, for the days of Burke, Priestley, and Macintosh, who coined the term ‘counter-revolutionary’, and lived to see it in the dictionary! Oh for the days when scribblers were philosophers!
Whether or not Whitty’s current campaign will achieve its purpose in gathering support for a reassessment of the Ryan case, sufficient to the day that it has redeemed both the reputation and the marketability of its author. The latest issue of The Falcon has already outsold its predecessor; circulation can only increase as readers eagerly devour the narrative from one issue to the next. As for Mr Owler, the patterer’s first-hand acquaintance with a sensational case will assure the popularity of any number of revelations and lamentations.
Content for the moment, the Captain – having received Whitty’s stipend – assured him by return mail of a period of grace from the visits of Will, Norman and their little friend Rodney. His creditor denies having been party to Whitty’s thrashing – which supports the correspondent’s hitherto flimsy assumption that the attack in the blue (or black) carriage occurred as a consequence of his investigative activities.
There is nothing like an unseen enemy to hone the mind: in past days, the correspondent has partaken neither of stimulants nor depressants, neither of emulsions nor amalgams, hypnotics nor narcotics, anaesthetics nor beneficial smokes. Only the occasional gin, administered to calm the nerves, sullies the purity of his rubbery vessels and veins.
Holding a handkerchief to his face to ward off the poisonous, opaque fog (it is barely mid-afternoon), Whitty swings into Plant’s, his entrance announced by the little brass bell over the door; whereupon he perceives the babble within to decline precipitously and many eyes to turn – first in his direction, then to the rear snug, then to one another.
The degree of Whitty’s success is apparent.
Among his colleagues, with the possible exception of Mr Hicks the contrarian (who, it is said, keeps beetles in his pockets), Whitty is the most despised correspondent in London.
Excellent.
Regard the dark portentousness on Cobb’s flushed countenance, the knowing cynicism of Brewster. Regard Stubbs, Beresford, Mellon: of this spiteful congregation, Fraser has now appointed himself Pastor. And behold: there he stands in the doorway to the rear snug, a glass of gin in hand, a glitter of madness in the eye, displaying his little teeth in what passes for a smile.
‘Whitty, my good man. Lovely to see you, old chap.’
‘And yourself, Alasdair. How have you been keeping?’
‘Top drawer, I should say. And I trust you prosper?’
‘Flush with the bloom of capital and collateral.’
‘Excellent. And no wonder, with the smashing narrative you have going. I expect they are ecstatic at The Falcon.’
‘It was not without assistance, I assure you. For instance, I had the opposition of a spoiler from Dodd’s. Can’t do without drama, old boy.’
Fraser absorbs this crack with that Celtic ability to think sharply while unable to walk in a straight line. ‘Taken altogether, Edmund, the narrative has a new lease on life, I should think.’
‘The game is not over, Alasdair. Plenty of turns to come.’
‘Quite.’
The collegial, ironic pleasantries continue, with the heads of Cobb, Hicks and the rest wagging back and forth, nostrils quivering for a killing shot, an artful parry. Of which there will be neither: having prepared a gin and water, the barkeeper lifts an eyebrow to the correspondent for a brief word.
‘A constable from the Peelers came to see you moments ago, Sir. Name of Mr Wells. Left word that that there has been ‘another of the same’, as he called it. Situated off the Ratcliffe Highway, on Cannon Street Road. The gentleman intimated as how you would understand.’
‘Thank you, Humphrey. Although it is a stale, trivial bit of material, it might result in a line or two.’
Thinks Whitty: This can only mean one thing, given the location. Capital.
40
Cannon Street Road
Her murderer, once he was done with her, deposited the body, dumped it rather, in a field situated in between the London Hospital for Seamen, Watermen and Dock Labourers, and the Whitechapel Mount – a Brobdingnagian dust pile dating back to the Civil War. Clearly her murderer chose the site with an eye to facility of disposal and unlikelihood of observation. Perhaps he paused here to spend extra time with her, for she has been mutilated with more than the usual savagery, as though Dorcas merited special treatment.
Primed by the reputation of the Ratcliffe Highway (the site of, among other enormities, the infamous Walker murders), interested citizens began to appear from all over, as soon as the corpse was discovered and reported by a muck snipe in a scavenger’s tent. Eager spectators arrived from Stepney and Whitechapel, then from more distant parts as word spread – like a ripple in a pond, thanks to a little-understood phenomenon known as a chaunt.
It was only a matter of an hour before the chaunt reached the ears of Phoebe Owler.
Having made the journey to Whitechapel on foot, she works her way sideways through a kind of maze mad
e up of the tightly packed bodies of men, stinking of sweat and tobacco and wet wool. As she squeezes through, anonymous hands grasp and feel her until she wants to scream.
Strangely, when she sees Dorcas, and what has been done to her, she does not scream …
She is lying down. For how long? Cold stone hurts her cheek. She is on the ground. Someone is poking her with a stick. Before her, the heavy boots and blue coat-tails of a Peeler.
‘Now then, Miss. Are you in need of assistance?’
She rises to a partially seated position – carefully, for she is dizzy. Her head and right shoulder throb where she hit the stones. What was it that made her faint so?
She sees the blanket on the ground – a horse-rug spread across the stones, with something under it. A foot and a hand protruding. And now she knows. By reaching out and leaning forward she can touch the lifeless hand. Now she knows what lies under the rug and remembers what she saw …
‘Wake up, Miss. You can’t just keep falling over. This is no place to sleep.’
The Fiend in Human Page 29