Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  “Shall we?” Barker asked, gesturing toward the front of the building.

  “Isn’t there a back entrance?”

  Barker laughed and clapped me on the back, propelling me forward. I climbed the worn staircase, feeling as if everyone I ever knew was watching me do so. I was reminded of a paradox a math tutor had tried to drub into my head when I was young, conceived by the philosopher Zeno, that if one continually halved the distance between a point and where one stood, one could never reach it. However, the philosopher didn’t have Cyrus Barker’s elbow between his shoulder blades, and before I knew it, I was through the door.

  Inside, the house had been given a coat of paint, a virulent shade of violet. Mismatched carpets lined the floors and the doorway to a parlor was hung with ropes of beads. There were men standing about with drinks in their hands, talking to youths who had kohl-smeared eyes and were in various stages of undress. One of the men, who might be a judge or a barrister, reached over and caressed the neck of one of the youths. I looked away.

  It was so crowded inside, we had to wait in a queue. A bored-sounding young man greeted people, then directed them toward another room or an upper floor. The fellow’s cheeks were rouged and he was wearing a white blouse with breeches and no hose. I had been in other establishments full of women and at least there was no attempt to show the wares therein right in the front entrance hall.

  “May I help—” the young man began, then his eyes took in my employer.

  There are larger men in London than Cyrus Barker. Not many, but some. He stands a little over six feet and weighs fifteen stone. There are probably stronger men, though one might be hard-pressed to find them. Also, there are more menacing-looking men than he, provided he is in a good mood. I suppose a tiger, a gorilla, or a crocodile spends the bulk of its days in sedate activity, and yet I would not want to be locked in a room with one, because of the small percentage of the time when it is not. Likewise, the youth looked cautiously at the Guv, not because of what he was doing, but because of what he was capable of doing.

  “I need to speak to the Countess,” Barker said.

  “He’s occupied,” the young man answered, without conviction.

  Barker leaned forward until the two of them were nearly touching foreheads. The man’s eyes went wide.

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  There had been a good deal of chatter in the lobby and the adjoining rooms, but my employer’s foggy voice has a way of cutting through it like it was cloud vapor. All talking ceased.

  “I … I suppose I could see if he’s through with his appointment.”

  “Aye, you do that, laddie.”

  The youth turned and scampered up the stairwell. My employer sniffed, opened his coat, planted a fist on each kidney, and looked about him, as at home there as he was anywhere.

  “You certainly gave him a turn,” one of the nearby youths told him.

  “I intended to do so.”

  “I haven’t seen you before. Do you come here often?”

  “This isn’t a social call.”

  Barker reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out his repeater watch. He compared it with satisfaction to an ornate standing clock in the hall.

  “I’ve given him enough time,” the Guv said, and began to climb the stair. I followed behind. It was crowded there but men gave way quickly for our progress. If they hadn’t, they might have found themselves acquainted with the carpet ten feet below.

  Just then a man appeared at the top of the stair. He was perhaps forty years of age, thin and clean-shaven, though the skin of his jawline was nearly gray. His eyes were dark and luminous. There was nothing frivolous in his attire save for a small green carnation in his lapel. His brow rose when he saw my employer and he broke into a grin of sheer delight.

  “Push, old thing! Bonne fortune! You’ve been dreadfully naughty not to visit me, but here you are, unannounced, so I suppose I must forgive you. And who is the bean cove with you, who looks as comfortable as a cat in a kennel?”

  “Henry,” the Guv said, “this is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, Henry Inslip.”

  “Welcome to my humble lattie. The one rule here is that you are free to do as you please. But I know Cyrus too well to think he came here for social purposes. You’re working, dear boy, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am,” Barker said.

  “An interesting case?” he asked, drawing out the middle word until it was laced with innuendo.

  “Quite interesting.”

  “And important?” he asked, arching a brow.

  “Very important.”

  Inslip grinned again. “We all know what little pitchers have. Follow me to my humble cell where we can dish the dirt. Would someone pass the word along to the kitchen that there are three for tea? And be certain they serve it in the best Limoges, or I’ll be ever so cross! We have guests! Follow me, gentlemen!”

  We followed him up the steep staircase and down a hall carpeted in a heavy Persian runner while cherubs disported themselves across the ceiling. We passed men in pairs, younger ones with older ones, the elders not acknowledging each other’s existence. He led us into a room painted in gold and robin’s-egg blue dominated by a painting over the fireplace of a beautiful young woman. The room seemed to be a farrago of masculine items, such as leather-lined glass ashtrays and a rococo desk, with more feminine ones: a wig on a stand and an Asian parasol propped in a corner. Inslip curled up in a chair and then eyed us speculatively.

  “All right, Push, what really brings you here? Has Philippa finally tired of us and tossed you out? You know, you really must put a ring on that woman’s finger, laddie boy. She won’t wait forever. How is she, by the way?”

  “In excellent health, when last we spoke. Now, you like games, as I recall. I propose we play one now. We shall call it ‘Vague Terms.’ First I shall say something vague and you shall say another, and in this manner, I hope we shall reach enlightenment without saying anything incriminating at all. How does that sound?”

  Inslip clapped his hands. “Priceless, old boy. I can hardly wait. Very well, but I demand the ability to withhold a response if I feel it may be injurious to a member of my flock. N’est-ce pas?”

  “Certainly,” Barker said. “Allow me to begin. I understand that a certain person has been at this establishment recently.”

  Inslip smiled. “Certain persons come here all the time. Really, I cannot confirm or deny.”

  “The person I’m speaking of arrived with another person who has been here many times before and probably since. In fact, the likelihood is that the other person is here now or shall be soon.”

  “That is entirely possible. People come and go at all hours.”

  “If these visits become known to a larger number of people, there could be an unpleasantness.”

  “Oh, dear,” the Countess said. “Is that a threat? Are you warning me?”

  “No, Henry. It is more a prediction. If this, then that. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, good. You nearly gave me a turn there. Very well. Back to the game.”

  “You know my profession. I am a man hunter. I am stalking someone.”

  “Aren’t we all, Push? What sort of fellow is he? Butcher, baker, candlestick maker?”

  “Oh, butcher. Decidedly a butcher.”

  “I believe I’ve read about the fellow. He certainly gets a lot of press. How does he fit into the game. Unless—”

  “Let us say some of us lead double lives. And one of us might even lead a treble one.”

  Inslip sat back, deep in thought, and tapped his lips. “Would we be talking about the first gentleman or the second?”

  “The first is out of the country. In fact, he has been this entire week.”

  “‘While the cat’s away, the mouse will play,’” Inslip quoted.

  “Until he steps into a trap. Some mice are victims of their own appetites.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “You know, it would
be a shame if this mouse, being chased by various cats, should scurry into the wrong nest and thereby endanger all the other mice.”

  Here Barker opened his hands, indicating the walls of the very establishment we were in.

  “Very thoughtless of him,” Inslip said, his brows knitting in concern. “But I know this mouse. He is very thoughtless. Also self-indulgent and outrageous.”

  “That is a dangerous combination,” my employer said.

  “How certain are you that he is the mouse you are hunting?”

  “That’s why we are here. We are trying to establish his movements at certain times and days. It would be helpful to know which mouse hole he was in at various times. You see, he has winning ways and people might be inclined to vouch for him under certain circumstances. In fact, some already have. This sort of thing hampers our enquiries.”

  “Naughty mouse,” Inslip said. “He is a sore trial to his friends, I’m sure.”

  “On the other hand, I should hate to see an innocent mouse caught in the wrong trap, if you ken my meaning.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t want that.”

  “If only someone were able to provide either a genuine alibi for an innocent man, or the proof necessary to establish his guilt.”

  “A rat among the mice.”

  “Now, now! We don’t know that,” Barker said, raising a finger. “Yet, it would be good to have this information soon, before it becomes necessary to take other, more direct approaches. One that will not end well for anybody.”

  The tea arrived. Inslip seemed deep in thought while the manservant served the cups. The tea was expensive Assam and lightly scented with vanilla.

  “Let me look into the matter,” our host finally said. “You will forgive me if I cannot simply take your word for this. I must see for myself. Oh, it would kill me if this butcher were here in my very own establishment and I didn’t know. Under my very nose.”

  “It is a predicament,” Barker admitted.

  “I enjoyed your game, Cyrus. You are always a refreshing fellow. ‘Vague Terms.’ I shall have to remember that.”

  “Come, Thomas. It is back into the cold streets for us.”

  “May I offer you any of our services tonight, Cyrus? Mum’s the word, I assure you. No? How about you, my bijou friend? Can I tempt you with something?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” I said.

  “Your young man has nice manners, Push. You’ve trained him well. We’ll talk again soon.”

  We left the room, passed down the staircase, and right out the front door. I’d have preferred to slink out of there by some back alley, but such is not my employer’s manner. We walked for several streets under a dull drizzle.

  “You’re quiet tonight, Thomas. You’ve said four words in the last hour.”

  “I scarce know how to begin. I was not aware you were acquainted with anyone of that crowd.”

  “I am acquainted with many members of the Underworld. I know murderers, thieves, poisoners, and opium dealers. Why should it surprise you that I know the mandrakes, as well?”

  I shuffled along, trying not to slip on the wet cobbles. “I don’t know. You’re a Baptist, and yet you spoke to him readily. You even drank tea with him!”

  “Of course I did. He would be hurt if I didn’t show him the courtesy. But, why not a Baptist? Have we such a stern, unbending reputation that you think I would not talk to them? Lad, we are all of us mired in sin, but each of us is redeemable. Every last one. You must believe that, you who have attended chapel these four years.”

  “But what of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

  Barker suddenly gave a great laugh at my expense. “Sodom and Gomorrah? Surely you haven’t fallen for that old superstition! If you read your Bible closely, you would learn that the sin of Sodom and Gomorrah, for which they were destroyed by God, was not sodomy. Ezekiel clearly states that the sin of Sodom was of arrogance and for not providing help to the needy.”

  “But what about the men of the town crying, ‘Let them come out that we may know them’?”

  “That practice wasn’t particular to those cities. It was common in wartime throughout the entire Middle East, a brutal punishment for strangers, not the sexual predilection of the populace. Whoever came up with that interpretation is wrong. It is not scriptural from the original Hebrew.”

  “I would have thought you’d believe such men worthy of damnation.”

  “Oh, they are. So are you. So am I. ‘All have fallen short of the glory of God.’ But His grace is sufficient.”

  “But that building is illegal,” I argued.

  “It is. Unfortunately, there is no other place for them to congregate. They are a consistently small percentage of the population, but they do not go away. They have remained so throughout history. Fortunately, the police generally choose to overlook the ‘crime,’ unless for political reasons they choose not to.”

  “Such as the Duke of Clarence appearing at a brothel, or the Whitechapel Killer being one of them, or both at once,” I suggested.

  “Precisely. I would not have made use of such information as I did unless I felt his particular group was in danger. Whitechapel is a powder keg. Its citizens are overwrought. I am concerned for Inslip’s ‘flock,’ and for the Jewish population here, should the killer prove to be of either group. We must be careful what we say, either to Scotland Yard or the palace.”

  “I didn’t understand a good deal of what he said.”

  “He speaks Polari. It is a secret language of downtrodden people: mandrakes, circus performers, sailors, Jews. You’ll pick it up.”

  “I didn’t even know such a thing existed,” I admitted.

  “Welcome to the Underworld, lad.”

  “But it must be dangerous to live this way. Why should any choose to do so?”

  “I don’t think one would choose to do so if one could help it. Most men with this preference choose to marry to hide what they consider a weakness, but then slip out at night to come here.”

  “Much like the married men who slip out to attend more conventional brothels, who have no such excuse. Such a man who sullies his marriage vows should be horsewhipped.”

  “You and I agree on that, yet Whitechapel teems with unfaithful husbands. They outnumber the men with no wives, who visit the district for companionship.”

  “Underworld,” I said. “Underbelly, more like. It makes me sick.”

  “It should. What is the Underworld but Man’s Weakness, and those who would prey upon it for profit?”

  “I feel sorry for the Jews who are forced to live in such a place, amid squalor and vice.”

  “In their former countries, before the pogroms, they were bankers and doctors and jewelers. Now they unload barges at the docks, or collect night soil. But there is a saving grace. There is no more gentrifying influence than a synagogue full of Jews anxious to reform the neighborhood. Respectability illuminates vice better than a lantern. The bawdy houses will eventually move to some other district, along with their inhabitants.”

  “Unless there is a pogrom in the East End.”

  “We’ll do our best to avoid that,” the Guv said.

  “There’s two of us. They don’t stand a chance.”

  Barker nodded. “That’s the spirit, Thomas.”

  “That was sarcasm, sir.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning, we caught another hansom and Barker asked to be taken to Downing Street. We would not be speaking to the prime minister, but visiting the Home Office on the southern side of the street. Barker planned to beard the lion in his den.

  “You’re really going to drop in on Munro unannounced?” I asked.

  “The better to catch him plotting his next stratagem.”

  I had been several times on the Foreign Office side, but not on the Home Office side. There was a clerk in an alcove, a small scattering of chairs, and a staircase. Barker did not hesitate but took the stairs. The easiest way to get around a guard is to act as if you belong there. I did not mak
e eye contact when the clerk called out, but he did not follow us, so we were in. On the first floor, my employer passed down the hall until he came to an open door. Inside, two men were having some sort of discussion.

  “Is Munro on this floor?” Barker asked, sounding put-upon, as if he’d been stalking him for a while.

  “Last I saw, he was in his office on the third floor,” one of them said.

  “I tried there,” he insisted. “He wasn’t in. Oh, well, I’ll try again. Thank you.”

  We climbed two more flights of stairs. Barker sauntered down the hall, his hands folded behind him, until we approached a door with Munro’s name on it. It had no title. What did the fellow do there? Was there even a name for his position? This was a strange case, I reasoned. We spent our nights circling the lowest section of London and our days in glamorous institutions such as the Home Office and Buck House. Barker knocked, and a voice inside told him to enter.

  “Barker!” Munro said as we stepped inside. “What kept you? I was expecting you days ago!” He seemed almost jovial. I had only seen him the other way before, as angry as a swarm of hornets. He is a compact man, with a bull neck, a sturdy frame, and bandy legs. His hair was plastered to his head and he had a small mustache. Like many in Scotland Yard, he was a Scot and a nonconformist, though to what denomination he belonged, I did not know. They were being polite so far, but I was certain that would not last.

  “There didn’t appear to be any reason to hurry,” Barker replied. “And I did have a few things to occupy my time.”

  “Congratulations on your appointment, by the way. There was a time when I would have said Cyrus Barker would never wear regulation blue.”

  “That was your recommendation, anyway,” my employer answered.

  “Still holding that against me? Water under the bridge, old man.”

  “I am not concerned over that, but rather the fact that your name keeps cropping up in my work.”

  “I’m a popular fellow.”

  Munro opened a humidor and helped himself to a cigar. I didn’t want one, but I noticed he didn’t offer any to us.

  “What is it you do here at the Home Office?” I dared asked.