‘Very well, then that is your task,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Only, take care – the gossip that is of benefit to you can also turn against you.’
‘I will leave this very moment!’ said Mr Cullen, finishing his tea at a gulp and striding to fetch his coat.
Ben also stood, communicating to Noah that he would accompany Mr Cullen as far as the City and make preliminary observations concerning the receivers.
Thus, with the bang of the street door, the two sat in silence: one maintaining his gaze into the fire and the other watching the reflection of the flames thereupon. Noah waited for Mr Williamson to speak. The moments became minutes.
‘What is the matter, George?’ said Noah, finally. ‘I do not believe the innocuous Mr Cullen has affected your mood so with his enthusiasm.’
‘No. It is not he.’
‘Then what is preoccupying you? I know that I am liable to become listless when I have nothing to occupy myself, but you seem to have become quite melancholy since your meeting with Sir Richard.’
‘Noah – I have never enquired too closely into your life, for it is not my business to do so. We have shared a number of experiences, but I . . . I do not even know where you live. I do not know what you do to sustain yourself. I do not know how much – if at all – the accusations Sir Richard and Inspector Newsome once made about you are true . . .’
‘George – why do you ask these things now? I cannot see how they affect our acquaintance. You are no longer a policeman to care about such things, and my past is precisely that.’
‘Call it curiosity if you will. What manner of investigator would I be if I did not enquire how a fellow of mine comes to be independently wealthy even after he is forced by the police to give up a house to protect his anonymity?’
‘That was some time ago . . .’
‘I know of few men who could give up a house and not be financially broken by it. I have heard rumours – no matter from where; they are everywhere – that you are a dealer in opium. Is this true?’
‘I will admit to being an importer and refiner of that commodity. It is not against the law and I make a good living from it. If I do not advertise the fact, it is merely because my clients appreciate discretion. The recreational use of opium, as you know, is not always associated with the greatest morality or restraint.’
‘Hmm. Hmm.’
‘And I live by the river, between Blackfriars and Southwark bridges if that further satisfies your curiosity . . . but – forgive me – I do wonder at your sudden interest after all we have seen and done. Has Sir Richard been asking questions? Is your association with me something to blacken your name?’
‘I may no longer be a policeman, Noah, but justice and truth remain important principles in my work, whatever that work may be.’
‘I understand, George. It is common enough for an intelligent man – when he looks into himself – to find doubt and conflict. We are all engaged in internecine battles between our higher honour and our base urges.’
‘What are you referring to? I asked only about your—’
‘There is no need to be ashamed. Your Christian morals asphyxiate you, George. Appeal instead to your detective’s rationality.’
‘Noah . . . I feel we are speaking of different matters. I have said nothing to you about any anxiety of mine.’
‘You were at Golden-square last night.’
Mr Williamson shuddered as if he had been struck. He reddened. Then his face became more ominously pale.
‘Have you been following me? This is outrageous! I . . . I . . .’
‘George – listen. The occurrence was quite innocent—’
‘Innocent? It is nothing short of a betrayal!’
‘Yes, you were followed – but not by my intention. If you will listen to me, I can explain.’
‘Hmm. Hmm. Explain, yes – then you may leave.’
‘Benjamin was out at Haymarket last evening (he has an inexplicable love of the theatre) and saw you standing outside on the street. He was about to approach you when he saw another fellow observing you: a man of Italian appearance wearing long hair and an earring.’
Mr Williamson came abruptly out of his reproving glare. ‘Italian, you say? And watching me?’
‘Quite so. Ben immediately perceived that you might be in danger, if only of having your pocket picked (the man looked very like a thief) and so he began to observe your observer. The man kept you in his sight for the whole time you waited, then followed you thereafter to Golden-square, leaving you only when you returned home. That is how I know. Ben feared for your life and would have sprung forth in your defence at the merest hint of danger.’
‘I was completely unaware . . .’
‘Precisely, George. You were preoccupied with other things. There was no reason to suspect you were being followed, but you were and did not notice. In itself, that is a strange thing.’
‘What . . . where did this Italian-looking fellow go after I returned home?’
‘Ben followed him back to Oxford-street – a suitably busy location, no doubt – where the man evidently perceived he was being shadowed and simply vanished. Perhaps he knew even before that point and chose to lead Ben there. Whatever the case, it was quite an impressive performance. What do you make of that?’
‘I . . . I believe I have seen that man before: five nights ago outside the Queen’s Theatre. He made a quite skilful lift while I was distracted by . . . by someone in the crowd.’
‘Distracted? You? What would distract you while you are at work? What is it, of late, that provokes you into such cogitations?’
‘I do not know. There is some . . . some plan afoot but I cannot explain it.’
‘May I ask what drew you particularly to Haymarket and Golden-square?’
‘I often take a walk in the evenings. I am surprised Ben has not seen me before if he frequents those streets.’
‘The girl Charlotte . . . the one you questioned for that recent case . . . does she not live at Golden-square? And is her pitch not Haymarket?’
‘A man might walk anywhere he likes. There are magdalenes on every street.’
‘There is no need for anger, George. Your personal affairs are no business of mine.’
‘Quite. And I do not consort with prostitutes if that is what you are implying!’
‘Even if you did, there is no sin or shame in it. A man has desires. It is nature’s way.’
‘I have no such desires.’
‘Very well, very well – we need never speak of it again. Of more immediate concern is this Italian fellow and the nature of his grander design. Who is he and why does he follow you?’
‘I have no idea. Could it be the hand of Eldritch Batchem at work?’
‘If it is, George, I am at a loss to explain his purpose. I am certain of this much, however: we will likely be seeing more of such strategies.’
TWELVE
Noah could not have been more correct in his assertion. The following day’s edition of that scurrilous rag the London Monitor (home to scandal, misinformation, gossip, and frequent litigation) was to set new standards for what might be expected in the much-pursued case of the missing brig. Only a verbatim excerpt of the offending article will suffice:
THE STANDARD OF THE MODERN DETECTIVE?
Since the astounding revelation at the Queen’s Theatre, Wych-street, four days ago, some of London’s ‘finest’ investigators have been falling over each other to surpass the esteemed Eldritch Batchem in the race to solve the mystery of the vanished vessel Aurora. But who are these gentlemen, and what are their pedigrees as ‘detectives’?
Let us first take G.W. This gentleman was once a policeman – a genuine ‘detective’ no less! – who participated in the investigation of the celebrated Red Jaw murders. He was on the very gallows platform itself when Lucius Boyle performed that notorious murder amid the pressing crowds, but could only stand by impotently as the felon strolled away! Is there any truth in the rumours that this ex-sergeant once c
ollaborated in aiding a prisoner to escape from Giltspur-street prison? We could not possibly say! Could it be the case that this is also a man who has consorted with common prostitutes in the so-called ‘investigation’ of recent crimes? Modesty (and his honour the magistrate) forbids us from stating the facts more clearly! And what of his acquaintance with criminals? More of that in a moment . . .
Then we have A.N., an active policeman – albeit one who has plummeted like Icarus from his former status as a senior ‘detective’ to find himself once again in uniform. Why has this happened? We could only speculate! Might it be his reputation for uncouth manners? Or perhaps it is his readiness with a truncheon? We cannot confirm (or deny!) the recent shameful reports of his bursting into the Continental Club like a maniac, only to be taken away by constables of his own paymaster, the Metropolitan Police. Is it true that, even now, he neglects his duty upon the river to pursue personal matters? As to suggestions that he has frequented houses of ill repute ‘in the course of duty’, this organ will say nothing . . . !
Next we have the enigmatic figure who we shall simply call N.D. – if that was ever his real name. We admit we know very little about this fellow, except that he is said not only to be a convicted criminal but also an escaped transportee! What is his profession? Why does he pursue such cases? What was his relationship to the murderer Boyle? Is it true that he owns a manufactory at Limehouse, whose produce would raise more than a few eyebrows? We cannot answer these questions, and this perturbs us! He is, after all, the man said to be working alongside the once-upstanding G.W.
And who is the dusky Negro who is often seen with both N.D. and G.W.? Nobody who has seen his horrifying countenance will forget it in a hurry, towering Cyclops that he is! While others of his ilk beg in the gutter, hoist rope at the docks or dance and jig upon the common stage, he strolls elegantly about town in the finery of a gentleman! From where does he draw his income if he is but a manservant?
Finally, there is the failed constable J.C., who has gone over to the side of those he once sought to put in gaol! No uniform for this burly fellow any longer – he prefers it when the street girls cannot see him coming!
Is this, then, the standard of the modern detective? Transgressors, failures, criminals (or their cohorts), and mockers of justice? Let us see us who reigns triumphant in this investigation . . .
It need hardly be mentioned, of course, that the London Monitor has never been blessed with the impartiality of our finer press. If a man pays rather more for an advertisement than strictly required, he might not be entirely surprised to have his own articles accepted with only the lightest editorial touch.
I would like to state that I have never written for such a base publication . . . though that would be a lie. A writer produces words as a manufactory produces bricks – he cannot be responsible for what is done with the buildings once the blocks are made. Indeed (to further labour the device), it would be my words that would eventually dismantle the walls around me, reducing my debt, brick by brick, until I could walk through the language-built aperture to freedom.
To that very end, I had been spending my days at the small card table in my cell, producing articles on investigation and other matters related to the Aurora case, and then quizzing the printers’ boys for further news when they came with the proofs for correction. These canny scamps can seldom read for themselves, but they spend most of their lives in the compositors’ room or by the editor’s side and know too well that, for a crust or a coin, they can be bribed for the very latest intelligence even before the presses begin to whir.
Thus it was that my continued incarceration inconvenienced me hardly at all in the accumulation of the news on the streets, though my loss of bread to the printers’ boys was threatening to render me dead through emaciation before I could write myself liberated. That minor hardship, along with the incessant cold that palsied my slender fingers and drove needles into my wrists, was tolerable for the time being.
In truth, I was busier than I had ever been. The fashion for all things investigatory, combined with Josiah Timbs’s challenge at the Queen’s Theatre, had generated numerous opportunities with the common press. And as one who had some prior knowledge of the Detective Force myself, I was a natural enough choice to provide a voice on Messrs Newsome, Williamson and Mayne.
Nor had I been dormant on the matter of Eldritch Batchem, who, it seemed, was highly selective in his availability to the gentlemen of Fleet-street. Following his acceptance of the challenge by Mr Timbs, he had not spoken to anyone but the merchant himself. Was he a genius of self-mythology, or had he something to hide? My journalistic nose rather suggested the latter.
I had been unable to extract more information from the turnkey who had worked at Whitecross-street (a dull fellow with a duller memory), but he assured me there was a fellow of his on another corridor of Horsemonger-street who had also worked at Whitecross at the same time and who might have more to say about the inmate called ‘Crawford’ or ‘Cowley’ or ‘Crowell’. And since there was not the least likelihood of my trusting an interview to anyone but myself, I had no choice but to engineer a temporary transfer to that corridor – the one with the solitary cells – in order to effect that conversation.
It was, fortunately, a matter of the greatest ease. The law may inform us that only dissenters and those of the Popish persuasion may be excused from Sunday service in gaol, but the warden and chaplain were of a different view: all debtors were to attend chapel or face three days in a solitary cell on half rations. Accustomed as I was to perfunctorily mumbling Old Testament platitudes for the sake of my gruel, it was but a matter of letting forth an inventive (and generally rather artful) blasphemous tirade the next Sunday in order to find myself immediately escorted to the solitary cell.
On taking up my new residence – quite by chance in the lunatic cell with coir matting and canvas on its walls – I was soon able to locate the turnkey in question, who proved to be somewhat more cogent than his colleague. He did indeed recall the fellow who may have been an earlier incarnation of Eldritch Batchem, and, better still, the dubious debtor had been a resident on his very wing. Yes, I was told, the inmate had been highly methodical; yes, he had also been rather secretive and irritable if disturbed in his rituals. But there was more . . .
It seems that this Crawford (‘I feel sure it was Crawford . . . or Crowley’) was possessed by disturbing dreams that would cause him to speak or even shout in his sleep. It had been the nightly bane of neighbouring debtors, who quite disliked the man anyway for his haughty demeanour, and was altogether disturbing to the guards, who eventually took the unorthodox step of removing him to a private room.
As to the nature of these nocturnal exclamations, they were largely incoherent, as oneiric monologues are wont to be. Nevertheless, there was a tone and inference that was clear enough to the guards who pressed ears to the cold iron door so they might perhaps afford a glimpse into the tortured soul of the curious fellow under their charge. For all of his diurnal order and control, the sleeping man was a vortex of despair.
Assuredly, I pushed the turnkey for more detail regarding the words, the names and the terms used in those midnight cries, but he recalled only the broadest tenor: discomfort, unease and great sorrow. I persisted. Was there not something that remained in his memory of those nights – some teasel-like expression or otherwise distinctive nomenclature he had not heard before or since? Was there not one salient phrase he could repeat to me that would capture the spirit of this Crawford’s pillow-smothered, sheet-twisting agonies of sleep?
‘Liveridge.’
That was all. Was it a name? Was it a place? Was it an imperfectly heard and misremembered conglomerate word: a mere accretion of inchoate phonemes? Was it ‘Live Ridge’ or ‘Liver Edge’? Regrettably, it was all my turnkey could offer in terms of detail on those somnolocutionary outbursts.
I had worked with such meagre tools before, and would again. Somehow, later, it would all coalesce. And if I could sustai
n myself long enough in that wretched penitentiary to pay off my debt, I would be the man to deliver the story into print for a sum fully deserving of its exclusivity.
As for the whereabouts of my subject Eldritch Batchem, he was undiminished in his search, and could that day be found in the place where the Aurora should have arrived if such ill fate had not befallen it: St Katharine Dock.
With its towering, all-encircling warehouses and retractable bridges, its clanging cast-iron paving, its many hundreds of vessels and many thousands of workers, its clatter of commerce and the relentless rumble of the treadmill cranes, St Katharine’s might almost be a city unto itself. Seek the sky here and one instead sees multiplicitous spars, yards, cross-trees, masts, wrapped sails, limp pennants, loose rigging and the endless jib-festooned brickwork behind which is stored the produce of the globe. One smells molten tar, musty oakum, salt-soaked timber and the feral reek of sailors – all carried upon the river’s earthy perfume.
Along these characterful wharfs did Eldritch Batchem stroll, conspicuous in his appearance even among the carnivalesque maritime spectacle of tattooed torsos, turbans, sashes, and skins of every hue. Here, the oddities of the world commingled, and yet the investigator was no less strange in their company.
Perhaps it was his assumption that the brig had in fact docked here regardless of what the documentation maintained. It would have been a simple enough matter to land under a different name – commodiously effected via those fraudulent landing warrants – and to unload without the merchant being any the wiser. Had Mr Timbs or his agents made their way to the warehouse to collect his cargo, they would simply have been told that no such stock and no such ship existed. Meanwhile, the vessel itself would by then have long sailed away to be used again, or scuttled mid-Channel on some moonless night.
The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) Page 13