Back inside the library, Noah’s books and notes lay on the table for all to see. An inquisitive sort might have been tempted to look over them to ascertain what the gentleman had been studying . . .
We will leave Noah in Montague-place for the time being and transport ourselves across the city to the civilized environs of Berkeley-square, where we find the now familiar face of Mr Cullen. No longer in his habitual uniform, he cannot quite accustom himself to walking the streets without the rhythmical gait of the long-serving constable – something that certain classes of the metropolis can see at a great distance. Though Noah has warned him against this, the habit is as close to him as his skin.
He is looking for prostitutes. Or rather, he is looking for prostitutes who may have known those girls mentioned by Charlotte to Mr Williamson: Lou, Kate and Mary who had met grisly ends. Such women are easy enough to see, even in the west. They dawdle lackadaisically on the pretext of waiting for a carriage and dress finer than the morally upright ladies of the neighbourhood (much to the chagrin of the latter).
Unfortunately, our investigator has had an unproductive morning. Such girls do not pass their time chatting with strangers on the streets, and certainly not to men who are clearly constables in civilian clothes. As he strolled past a tea vendor into Grafton-street from Old Bond-street, he mused upon how Noah or Mr Williamson might have approached the task. Perhaps he should merely attempt to be himself, accepting finally that the power of the law no longer stood at his shoulder.
And there before him was another representative of the sisterhood he sought: a quite remarkably attractive young lady checking her appearance in the window of a jewellery shop, perhaps imagining which of the diamonds there she would choose when she met the benefactor of her dreams.
‘Good day to you, miss,’ began Mr Cullen.
She turned with her professional smile in place and made a lightning appraisal of her interlocutor: hat, coat, cuffs, gloves, shoes. Her judgement was not favourable. Her smile dropped: ‘You’re a policeman.’
‘No, miss—’
‘Yes. It’s senseless to deny it. Every thread of your appearance shouts it.’
‘I used to be a constable; that is true. But I am no longer one.’
‘So what do you want from me?’
‘Do you know a girl called Lou? She works around this area: a blonde girl. Pretty, like yourself.’
‘You know how to flatter, sir. Perhaps I do know Lou and can take you to her.’
‘Let us not waste time. I know that Lou is dead – found ten days ago in Holywell-street: a suicide with prussic acid. I would be grateful if you could answer some questions if you knew her.’
‘What – the police are actually investigating the death of one of our kind? Now I’ve seen everything!’
‘I am not with the police. Speak honestly: did you know her?’
‘Will you buy me a cup of tea and a cake? It’s bitter cold today,’ she said, nodding to the vendor on the corner who was wrapped in the curling steam of his trade.
Mr Cullen saw it immediately as a test. A serving policeman would not have purchased a drink for a street girl and chatted to her thus. ‘It would be a pleasure, miss.’
She smiled and they walked to the corner to take cups of tea, standing there next to the wheeled urn so the vendor could keep an eye on his cups.
‘I don’t know what your game is, or why you ask, but I will tell you this for nothing: Lou didn’t kill herself. I know that much,’ said the girl, her pale hands clasped around the mug.
‘I hear she had found herself a fine old gentleman . . .’
‘Where did you hear that? Did you know her?’
‘I have heard it from one of your sisterhood: a girl calling herself Charlotte at Golden-square.’
‘Ah, I know Charlotte, the sly little b——!’
‘Do you not like this Charlotte?’
‘O, she’s very successful, that girl. No doubt you’ve seen where she lives. We like to say that she’s better with her tongue than any of us.’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘O, look at you all flushed and red – a big man like you! I meant that she’s a better talker and liar. She could persuade a clergyman back to that room of hers . . . in fact, I believe she has. Anyway, she is right: Lou had caught a gent.’
‘Did you ever see him? Do you know anything about him? He might be implicated in her death, perhaps.’
‘Do you think so? I know only that he was old and rich. Lou said he wasn’t much to look at: a bit ugly . . . and he had some problems with his health, with his skin. But he paid well and lived in a lovely place.’
‘So she went to his house?’
‘O yes! He sent a carriage for her, if you please. And another trip to bring her back when he’d finished with her.’
‘Did she ever mention his name or where he lived?’
‘Course not! She might have expected one of us to try for him. We girls keep such secrets to ourselves. Why, if I had such a gent, I wouldn’t be standing here today with my feet numb from the cold.’
‘Did she say any more about him?’
‘He liked a good beating, and liked to whip her, too. A few times she had to rest for a couple of days, but he paid her well enough to do that. O, and sometimes he had some of his fellows there, too. Just watching, though – nothing immoral.’
‘Nothing immoral?’
‘You’re blushing again, sir! I believe you are new to this.’
‘I am an investigator.’
‘What’re you going to do about Lou?’
‘That depends on what else you can tell me. I have heard also from Charlotte that there have been other girls of this area who have killed themselves under suspicious circumstances.’
‘You mean Kate and Mary.’
‘That’s right. Do you maintain that these girls also did not kill themselves?’
‘Sir – we are killed often enough (not that you police would care) but when have you known us girls to kill ourselves? We’re thrown on the streets from a young age and we know how to survive. We look out for each other. There’s nothing we cannot overcome with our natural advantages of beauty and good sense. Suicide is for pregnant servant girls and unfaithful wives. We don’t kill ourselves.’
‘So how do you explain these deaths? Who is responsible?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. There is talk of the charities, of course.’
‘What talk?’
‘They are funny places, those homes and hospitals for “fallen women”. Never trust a Christian – that’s what I say. They have a strange look in their eyes, those gents: looking down on us even as they hide their lechery behind their scripture. I went to them once. I never will again.’
‘Why would they kill you girls? They want to help you.’
‘So you say. Does the rat-catcher help the rat? They will not be happy until we are all gone. And what happens then, when men cannot release what it is natural to release? That’s when the world will end – just remember I said that.’
‘Will you do something for me, miss?’
‘I have the use of rooms just round the corner . . .’
‘No . . . no . . . I . . .’
‘I am teasing you, sir.’
‘Of course. If you hear more about this old man of Lou’s, tell nobody what you know. I may visit this area again in a few days to see what you have heard.’
‘Do you think I am in danger?’
‘I hope not. And, miss – if that carriage comes for you any time, do not get in it, no matter how much money you are offered. Can you promise me that?’
‘You are a sweet man . . .’
‘I am serious. Whoever this man is, he is evil and a murderer.’
The look of seriousness on Mr Cullen’s face dissuaded another witty remark.
‘Thank you for the tea and the kindness, sir. Unfortunately, I do not get paid for talking.’
‘I know. I thank you for speaking with me.’
&n
bsp; The girl strolled back to her place at the jeweller’s shop window with a coquettish glance back at Mr Cullen. A bachelor himself, he could not help but be affected by her, but he turned away to wipe the rapidly forming images from his mind. When he married, it would be to a fine girl: a virgin who would bear him fine, strong boys.
And as he stamped his feet and looked into the gritty sky, he was warmed by the realization of what he had said to the girl: ‘I am an investigator.’ He looked at himself in the reflection of an adjacent shop window: broad shoulders, barrel chest, his top hat making him seem even huger. There were no numbers on his collar, no insignia on his buttons, no truncheon at his belt . . . no organization at his back giving him authority to act.
Was this what freedom felt like?
‘I am an investigator.’
‘What was that, sir?’ asked the tea vendor.
‘I am an investigator.’
‘Very nice for you, sir. How is the money?’
TWENTY-ONE
The fire crackling in the grate seemed to intensify the already ominous silence. The clock on the mantel ticked maddeningly. Inspector Newsome stood with his hands clasped behind his back before Sir Richard’s desk while the commissioner busied himself with some papers. As a reprimand, it was far more effective than a raised voice.
Finally, it was time for Mr Newsome to be acknowledged:
‘Well? What have you got for me, Inspector?’
‘Questions, clues, mysteries and lies, sir.’
‘That is not the answer I wanted. Is it not enough that you have the entire apparatus of the Metropolitan Police at your hands? Is it not enough that you have a suspect in gaol and the aid of Mr Williamson . . . yes, you need not be so surprised. The men talk and, naturally, I hear it.’
‘The man is not helping me, sir. I merely spoke to him because I heard he was investigating—’
‘I asked you what you have. Be kind enough to tell me.’
‘Sir – you will recall that a street girl was found dead on Holywell-street the night of the Sampson incident. It now seems that there may be some connection with a number of other prostitute deaths by prussic acid.’
‘What connection?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Well, there is a connection or there is not. What has she to do with Mr Sampson?’
‘A blonde hair was found in the room, and the girl was blonde. My researches have turned up some other related deaths—’
‘These other deaths – what have they to do with the Sampson case?’
‘As yet, I do not know. I am pursuing that avenue.’
‘I hope you have something better than this. The Force is being made to look like a fool. How long is it since the incident on Holywell-street?’
‘I questioned Mr Poppleton and, though he told me little, he did make one very intriguing comment in defence of his stubborn silence. He said: “They will kill me . . .”’
‘“They”? Who are “they”?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. I can conjecture only that “they” are a group of exceptionally dangerous men responsible for the murder – a group so powerful that he feared them more than a two-year stay at Newgate.’
‘So we can be almost certain it was a murder. Is there any sign of a motive?’
‘None. But the victim was heard to shout “I cannot” before he went through the window – which would seem to suggest he was compelled to perform some activity he did not want to.’
‘What else? You must have unearthed further clues than this in the last few days.’
‘Seeds, sir. The chamber pot in the room contained some masticated seeds, and the prostitute deaths I have been investigating also involve seeds.’
‘Must I ask what significance this has?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Good G—, man! Seeds? Prostitutes? A silent suspect? Tell me you are not utterly incompetent!’
‘I am to liaise with Mr Williamson shortly to discuss the case. He has been pursuing a related matter for . . . for the Mendicity Society and may be able to aid me in my enquiries.’
‘Good. Good. He was a credit to the Force. It is a pity about his health. I hear he is still absent from his duties at Red Lion-square. Tell him your clues and see what he thinks.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And where is Eusebius Bean? Did I not tell you that he was to be at your right hand during this case?’
‘Indeed, but the man has not arrived for work the last two days. I thought perhaps the Vice Society had recalled him.’
‘That is not the case. I will make enquiries.’
‘May I ask, sir – is the Society still applying pressure?’
‘I am asked almost daily for a report on our progress, hence my agitation at having so little to tell them. I certainly do not want to return to them with tales of even more sin and filth in the city.’
‘May I ask who represents the Society in these reports?’
‘That is a question too far, Inspector. Be satisfied that I am maintaining cordial relations with them. I allowed them to raid a manufactory of obscene alabaster figurines at Smithfield yesterday. Such things placate them, and thus a number of very influential people are placated.’
‘I understand.’
‘Well – do not let me keep you. There is a murder to solve.’
The inspector returned to his office with indignation burning in his cheeks.
As the reader will have perceived, he had not told the entire truth to Sir Richard. Clearly, he could hardly mention anything touching on his secret files. Likewise, his collaboration with Mr Williamson (and particularly Noah’s involvement) was one that needed to be delicately managed. So what had he really discovered?
In truth: very little. His special constables had turned up nothing coherent on the name ‘Persephone’ – as he had expected. The girl Charlotte had given no additional information – no doubt because there was no financial or punitive incentive to do so. Nor had that illicit ledger of his offered any insight into the mysterious name. He drummed his fingers upon his desk as he thought, and unfolded that piece of paper upon which he had begun to jot his ideas. Little more had been added, but it was all he had:
Suicides: prostitutes/dollymops (outside their common pitch?) killed by prussic acid/gin glass. Why? By whom? Connection to Mr Sampson?
Murder of ‘Nelly’: any significant connection with Williamson? Who wants to cause trouble for him and why?
Victim: shouted ‘I cannot!’ Why? To whom?
Suspects: the young man; ‘they’ who will kill Mr Poppleton: wealthy (have their own carriage) and intelligent (associates of Mr Poppleton and probable club members). Powerful and highly placed?
Persephone: is this a real person or an aspect of Williamson’s relentless pursuit of his dead wife? Could she be a Park-lane courtesan? If so, why would she write to Williamson?
Answers were not forthcoming. If there was any conclusion at all from this profusion of clues, it was that the perpetrators were not (with one recent notable exception) what Mr New-some was used to. No ignorant drunks or dim-witted robbers these killers. They were intelligent, organized, influential . . . and clearly observing every step of the dual investigations pursuing them.
Why else had Mr Jessop, Joseph the waterman and (most likely) Mrs Colliver been killed shortly after being questioned? And why had the inspector himself received a letter implicating Mr Williamson in a crime that he almost certainly had no connection with? The faceless villains seemed to know everything, see everything, anticipate everything.
Eusebius Bean. The Society for the Suppression of Vice. The inspector rolled these two entities around his policeman’s brain like two marbles and asked that question common to all of the great detectives.
What if . . . ?
What if the pressure exerted upon Sir Richard by the Society was not merely to urge an investigation but to monitor and sabotage it? What if the parasite Bean was watching every aspect of the case and feeding
back all of his observations to his paymasters? What if they knew the perpetrators and were trying to protect them? What if they themselves were the perpetrators? Had not Mr Newsome seen for himself that the earnest scripture quoting of many so-called Christian gentlemen was a charade made comical by their hypocritical use of brothels and prostitutes across the city?
But what to do? He was just a policeman, albeit a high-ranking one. Sir Richard had made it quite clear that there was a political element to the whole case – that promotion might depend on acquiescence. There was little other choice: he would simply have to catch them and prove their guilt beyond all doubt. Not even Sir Richard would baulk at clear evidence of murder, whatever the perpetrators’ standing. And in this endeavour, he would have to start immediately lest the next corpse be his own. He left a message for his clerk to have that information on the Park-lane girls waiting for him when he returned, then he took his coat and went out into the cold.
Whitehall was a drear spectacle indeed: grey and dark in a thickening sleet. He stamped his feet as he waited for the carriage to be brought round and watched the dogged progress of a coster lad pushing his barrow of fruit up the street. The boy was a ruddy-faced example of his breed: all brawn and no brains, but with an indomitable spirit that kept him alive in this urban wilderness. As the barrow passed by, Mr New-some looked upon the sleet-flecked produce and an idea occurred:
‘Halt there, boy!’
‘I got p’mission to be ’ere so don’t be gimme no lashin’,’ offered the lad.
‘I am not trying to arrest you. I merely have a challenge for you.’
‘What challenge?’
‘How well do you know your fruit, boy?’
‘I’m the ——— lord of fruit, ain’t I! There’s not a barrow-boy in the city knows ’is fruit like I does. Tasted it all, sold it all – I seen fruit as you wouldn’t dream of.’
The Vice Society Page 24