The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘I have heard of “Proserpine”.’

  ‘And so would Mr Blunt. The question is, Mr Williamson, whether we believe this letter to be a hoax.’

  ‘I have had some experience with false letters. I believe this one is real.’

  ‘But then you want to believe it. I can see little in it that convinces me.’

  ‘Hmm. Will you help me?’

  ‘I am not sure I understand the challenge. You are a greater investigator than I – and I am certain you have already pursued every clue available to you. What could I do that you have not already done? I have no more power and influence than you.’

  ‘That is a significant point, Mr Dyson. I have no authority to question people, and Inspector Newsome has seen to it – since I left the Force – that the constables of the city will offer me no help.’

  ‘As I say: I have no advantage over you in this respect. But there is something else, is there not . . . ?’

  ‘Mr Dyson . . . Noah – it is a delicate matter. My investigations have led me into the world of the street girl. It is one I am not familiar with, except as an enforcer of the law. They . . . do not respond as other people do. They . . . I am afraid I do not know what to do with them.’

  ‘I am sure they could demonstrate readily enough.’

  Benjamin let out a deep, rolling laugh from his position by the shelves, and Mr Williamson turned a crippling shade of crimson.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Williamson. Forgive my humour. I understand,’ said Noah. ‘The truth is that there is no finer liar in the whole world than the street girl, especially if she is a young and pretty one. In a moment, she knows exactly what you want of her – even if you do not – and she becomes that person. She will tell you anything, promise you anything, make you pay anything you have because she knows she can. Her power over men is quite limitless.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I see you have already experienced the effect.’

  ‘This is part of my inability to investigate fully, as your joke at my expense reveals. But there is more to it. Noah – you know this city better than any policeman . . .’

  ‘Stop. I have heard this speech before from Inspector Newsome – inside a gaol cell.’

  ‘Please – at least listen to me. You know parts of this city better than I do. I know nothing of Greek and Latin and mythology; I know nothing of . . . of women’s wiles; I cannot speak to a gentleman and seem like one. These are the places that my investigation may be taking me. I am one man – one who is cursed with an honest heart. And this is not a mere case, Noah – this is the truth of Katherine’s murder.’

  ‘I pity you, George. But I have no connection to these events. I have my own life and concerns, my own business affairs to attend to and my own issues with the police. Yes, we worked together recently – but both of us under duress from a higher power. I will be frank – why should I help you?’

  ‘I am surprised that I must remind you. You were in gaol and it was I who enabled your escape – an act that caused me, ultimately, to be ejected from the Detective Force even as I made it possible for you to locate the object of your lifelong vengeance. Is that not worth a gesture of good faith?’

  Noah Dyson looked over to his friend Benjamin, who had now closed his book and was listening closely. He nodded solemnly.

  ‘I agree to nothing yet,’ said Noah. ‘I am afraid that your lack of detective privileges is going to be an insurmountable barrier to gathering information.’

  ‘That is where I have some good news. You will no doubt remember Constable Cullen. He is working with the inspector and has accompanied him on the interrogations so far. I believe he may be persuaded to talk to us and reveal much important information.’

  ‘PC Cullen is working in the Detective Force? I find that difficult to believe.’

  ‘I, too, have my doubts. I can think only that Mr Newsome wants to keep him under close observation after the constable’s aid in our previous escapade. Or perhaps the Force admired his bold actions in that case and is willing to test him.’

  ‘Do you think he could be under the influence of the inspector?’

  ‘Inspector Newsome is certainly not to be underestimated, but the constable always admired me rather than my superior.’

  ‘Well, you at least have some clues from the newspapers to follow: the young man, the absent Ned Coffin . . . and I believe there may be something Inspector Newsome has overlooked in his investigations so far – something that has not been mentioned in the newspaper reports or at the inquest.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘There is a cab stand on Holywell-street, is there not?’

  ‘Yes – but there were no cabs there at the time of the incident. There were only two witnesses to the fall.’

  ‘Is not Tiresias proof enough that a man need not see in order to know?’

  ‘Is this another Greek you are referring to?’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps. I have an idea. What else do you have that Inspector Newsome does not?’

  ‘There is the Persephone letter itself, what little it offers. And my questioning of a street girl called Charlotte—’

  ‘Not her real name, of course . . .’

  ‘Hmm. My questioning of her has suggested a series of murders masquerading as suicides – all involving prussic acid and, seemingly, a connection with those charities aiding fallen women. She mentioned that the dead girls had attended or applied to the Magdalene Hospital, the Guardian Society, and the Society for the Protection of Young Females. One of these deaths took place on the same evening and on the same street as Mr Sampson’s. There may be a connection, and there may be more people to speak to. I feel I cannot do all of the work alone when the criminals are so close at hand.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Quite. There is also the Holywell-street publisher Henry Poppleton; I understand that many street girls possess certain books of his and he may know something about such a girl dying on his doorstep, so to speak. At the very least, he might have some ideas, and it is possible that he also knows of our Persephone if he is a bookish man. That is all I have, but I believe there is enough to solve both crimes – if only I can chase all of the clues. Noah – will you help me to do so?’

  ‘It does sound intriguing. But as I have said: I have my own life and affairs. Do not think me ungrateful for what you did for me – I must think carefully before I entangle myself once more in any affair concerning Inspector Newsome. He has had a deleterious impact upon my own life, to be sure. I will give you my final decision tomorrow.’

  ‘When and where?’

  ‘Well, Holywell-street seems to be the centre of our mystery; let it be there. We will meet at the Old Dog tavern at noon.’

  ‘Noah – I thank you for meeting me today. You did not need to do so.’

  ‘George – I told you once that I considered you a good man, an honest man. I believe it still – but I am slow to trust anyone. Benjamin will show you out.’

  The giant Negro escorted Mr Williamson back into the rush of Temple Bar and returned to the room.

  ‘What do you think, Ben?’ said Noah Dyson.

  Benjamin replied with a prolonged series of complicated hand movements: a language of sorts that the two of them had created to compensate for Benjamin’s aglossal state. He ‘spoke’ thus for some time, his fleshy palms describing shapes, words and occurrences in a splendid dumb-show that had Noah variously nodding and cogitating upon the dexterous monologue.

  No doubt, as dusk crept over the city, pedestrians looked up at those usually dark windows and wondered at the flickering candlelight within, creating their own tales to populate the unknown realm. Was it the bankers at work over their ledgers? Was it conspirators plotting the downfall of the capital? Or was it a murderer at work, going about his grisly task in full view of the world?

  The truth about Noah Dyson, however, was stranger than any story that might have been created to explain him. We will find out more in good time, but perchance the reader
would like to know that not so very long ago he had been a prisoner of the Detective Force: suspected of being (but not proven to be) a cracksman – a master thief. Compelled under threat of trial and possible hanging to work with Mr Williamson in the pursuit of a dangerous incendiary, he had contributed towards a case that veritably set the city alight with scandal. That, however, is quite a different story.

  TWELVE

  Six days had passed since Mr Sampson had fallen from that Holywell-street window. Today two more would be killed.

  It was still dark when Mrs Colliver left her house at five o’clock that morning. The streets were crisp with frost and the city as darkly silent as a cemetery. There was a cab at the stand outside her premises and she had travelled east through Temple Bar, along Fleet-street, up Ludgate-hill, past the cathedral, down Watling-street and south to Upper-Thames-street. No doubt the London reader will have already guessed the rest of her route: further east until she was beneath the blackened column of the Monument, then south to the shore of the river and Billingsgate fish market.

  As ever, it was a striking place on that dark winter morning: the leaping gas flares animating all beneath their pale and sickly light; the roaring, ruddy-cheeked vendors; the thicket of masts by the wharf; the scores of servants seeking the best prices; and the fish itself – a silvery slick-slithering array of turbot, sole, plaice, mackerel, eels, salmon and sundry monstrosities of the deep.

  With her basket in hand and her woollen shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders, Mrs Colliver had entered the market with some trepidation. She was not there to buy fish, but to meet someone.

  ‘Best ’Olland eels, get ’em fresh!’ ‘Scots salmon just harrived from the ’Ighlands!’ ‘’Astings mackerel caught this very mornin’.’ Our lady paid no heed to these shouts. She was looking for the same man who had hit her head with his truncheon that morning six days before when Mr Sampson had fallen – the same man who had rushed from the premises and apparently not been seen again. In her basket, tightly folded, was the note he had sent her the previous evening:

  Mrs Colliver

  Touch your forehead and you will know who I am. You will meet me at five-thirty tomorrow morning on the Thames shore at Billingsgate market. If you are not there alone, I will return to you one night when you are not expecting me. Do not be followed.

  Naturally, she was afraid. Certainly, she had more reason to be afraid of him than of being investigated by the Detective Force, whose worst threat was gaol and whose power was nothing compared to this man and his friends: the power of murder.

  She spent a few minutes perfunctorily examining the scaly wares, casting looks around her for anyone who might have followed. Only when she felt that was making a spectacle of herself did she walk from the stalls to the edge of the wharf, where the reek of the boats and the foetid water was at its greatest. Porters hurried to and fro along gangplanks and she had to step aside to avoid being knocked into the river.

  Where was he? She cast a glance along to where the throng of vessels petered out into almost impenetrable blackness. All was shadow there: just the suck of the water against pilings and the creak of hulls . . . then a figure, loitering. The silhouette of a workman’s cap was just discernible against the water’s surface.

  ‘I thought for a moment that you would not come,’ said the gentleman as she crunched over frozen puddles towards him. It was not only the chill that set her limbs a-quiver.

  The voice was too cultured to be any common river man. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the attire – a rough pea coat and heavy boots – was also quite at odds with the voice.

  ‘No, sir. I am here.’

  He took her arm and led her further away from the wharf to an even deeper night, where the river slapped unseen against steps.

  ‘I said nothing to anyone,’ said Mrs Colliver, her breath steaming about her.

  ‘The police have spoken to you, have they not?’

  ‘Yes, but I said nothing.’

  ‘Did they see your head?’

  ‘No . . . yes. I said I fell. They believed me.’

  ‘I see. What else did they ask you?’

  ‘About that night. I said I was asleep. I saw nothing. I heard nothing.’

  ‘They asked you about glasses that had been used for sherry.’

  ‘Yes . . . but how did you know?’

  No matter how. What did you answer?’

  ‘I said the glasses were not mine. I said nothing to cause you trouble, sir.’

  They were standing in almost total darkness next to a muddy bank. The river was an expanse of dark, swirling glass.

  ‘Watch your step there, Mrs Colliver. The ground is littered hereabouts with rope and chain.’

  ‘I swear I said nothing. They could never find you. I would die before I would give you up. I just want to run my coffee house and rooms. I don’t want any trouble. Won’t you say that you will leave me alone now? The matter is over now . . .’

  ‘You are blathering, Mrs Colliver.’

  ‘Why did you ask me here? What have you to tell me? What do you want with me? My shoes will be ruined.’

  He did not answer. Rather, he brought down the truncheon on the top of her head. She grunted and fell to her knees, supporting herself upon one hand in the dirt.

  He struck again, directed more by sound than by sight, and imagined the blood blossom black upon her bonnet. She fell face down into the riverside mire and was still. He looked around, saw nobody, and wrapped a length of heavy chain around her middle, cursing as the cold mud seeped into his gloves. Then, checking once more that he had not been seen, he rolled the body down the stairs with his foot so that it toppled head-first into the river and disappeared below the surface – just another soul swallowed by that ceaseless Styx.

  Later the same day, Inspector Newsome was in his office at Scotland Yard with his secret vice ledger before him on the desk. The foregoing days’ bulletins from constables around the city had been entered by his clerk and he was scanning the entries for anything of particular interest.

  Apart from a noisy squabble at a place in Holborn, where gentlemen of a curious letch were encouraged to dress as ladies, there seemed little of note. Indeed, he was about to close the book with a sorry shake of the head when the most recent entry caught his eye. At first, he thought he was mistaken, but the name was quite clear. So unexpected was the revelation that an involuntary laugh escaped him:

  Haymarket, seven o’clock: George Williamson, previously Sergeant of the Detective Force, seen standing on Hay-market in front of the theatre. He was approached by a local girl called Mary (or Madeline or Charlotte) and then accompanied her to her rooms on Golden-square. He stayed there until after nine o’clock and left alone . . .

  Curious indeed. There could be no question of the constable mistaking the client in this case. Such street encounters were not generally reported unless the gentleman was of note – and many of the constables knew the ex-detective by sight or by description. The mystery of the matter was that it was utterly inconceivable to Mr Newsome that his old colleague would ever engage in such an act. Unless . . .

  One possible conclusion immediately suggested itself: Mr Williamson was investigating a case. It seemed unlikely to be anything concerning the Mendicity Society, for there was little reason to accompany the girl to her rooms when she could have been questioned just as easily in the street (or during daylight hours by two men to avoid accusation of impropriety). Besides, the latest rumour was that Mr Williamson had been absent from the Society for some days with an unspecified illness.

  Despite cogitating upon the matter for some minutes, the inspector was unable to think of any reason for the odd behaviour of that most moral of men. And the lack of an explanation was a potent irritant to him – such an irritant, indeed, that he decided to send a man to that address at Golden-square and question the girl Mary (or Madeline or Charlotte) on what had been discussed. Wherever Mr Williamson was involved, there was very likely a crime – one to be c
laimed and solved by the Metropolitan Police.

  A discreet cough from the clerk’s office interrupted such musings and told the inspector that Sir Richard was now in his office to receive his regular bulletin. Mr Newsome closed the ledger and handed it to the clerk before heading two doors down the corridor to the office of his superior.

  He was about to knock when he heard voices inside: Sir Richard’s, and another he did not recognize. Debating for a moment whether he should enter, he leaned closer to the door to catch a detail . . . and the conversation inside stopped.

  ‘Enter!’ called Sir Richard.

  Inspector Newsome entered, rather embarrassed at the idea that his eavesdropping had been detected. ‘Sir – I was just about to enter.’

  ‘So I gather. Our guest here alerted me to your presence, though I admit I heard nothing. He has the keenest hearing of any man I have met. May I introduce you to Mr Eusebius Bean, a representative of the Society for the Suppression of Vice.’

  The inspector took Eusebius’s lifeless hand in his own and could not hide an expression of distaste at the quality of the greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

  ‘Be seated, Inspector. Eusebius has joined us on the recommendation of . . . of a senior member of the Society. He will be aiding you in your investigation.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Now, I want none of your insolence, Inspector.’

  ‘The Detective Force is quite able to investigate the case on—’

  ‘I said that the gentleman will be aiding you.’

  ‘Could you tell me, sir, on what basis the “gentleman” will be aiding me? I am sure, as you say, that he has hearing to challenge a dog, but does he have any police experience? Any investigative experience?’

  ‘Eusebius is an agent of the Society. He is quite used to an investigative role.’