‘Good. There is a shilling in it for you if you can identify the fruit from its seeds alone.’
‘Deal.’
The boy spat into his filthy hand and offered to shake – an invitation Mr Newsome declined, despite wearing gloves. Instead, he extracted the jar from his pocket that contained the seeds extracted from poor Nelly’s mouth and stomach. He handed the jar to the boy, who was unimpressed:
‘It’s all chewed an’ rotten, the pith an’ all!’
‘So we have no deal then.’
‘Wait! Lemme look . . .’
‘Is it an orange?’
‘Wait! I is thinkin’. There’s a libr’y of fruit in me ’ead – I must look through it, see?’
‘Continue at your leisure. I am happy to stand here in this freezing rain . . .’
The lad’s face contorted in the pain of cogitation and he squinted at the contents of the jar, turning it critically to achieve different perspectives. Once his expertise had been proved beyond question by this performance, he was ready.
‘Got it!’
‘Well?’
‘I don’t see no shillin’ . . .’
‘Very well. Here it is. But if you are not correct in your judgement, you had better not venture along Whitehall for the rest of your life.’
‘S’not an orange. Seeds are too small. Nor a clementine or any of the orange’s kin. Wrong shape. And the pith ain’t as stringy.’
‘I see that you are also a poet of fruit to speak so prolonged upon the subject. What is my answer?’
‘It’s a pom’granit.’
‘A what?’
‘Exotic fruit, ain’t it? Don’t see ’em much. Expensive. Of course, I ’ave eaten one. They’s sweet enough, but ’as too many seeds. Too much fuss. Give me an apple any day.’
‘Are you sure? I had a doctor tell me these were orange seeds.’
‘Did ’e sell fruit for a livin’?’
Inspector Newsome smiled despite himself and nodded his thanks to the coster lad, who ambled on his way. The carriage pulled up with a clatter of hooves and he was grateful to climb into its relative warmth.
Up St Martin’s-lane and along Long Acre, he thought upon the question of the seeds. If the lad had been correct in his judgement, did it add anything else to what he knew? Only in that it reinforced his assumption of wealthy men – men who had given the girls a kind of fruit they would otherwise not have bought or even recognized. Was it a bribe to lure the girls – a novelty item? Was one of the perpetrators partial to that particular fruit? The clues multiplied, and with them the questions. Perhaps his next appointment would provide illumination.
As he approached the main entrance of the Royal College of Surgeons, an eruption of young gentlemen flooded out: the doctors and surgeons of tomorrow, all a-chatter about the erudition they had no doubt just received. They flowed around him as if he were a mere lamp post, jostling and talking over him because – without even realizing it – they had taken in his clothes and manner at a glance and perceived him as one lower than they: some manner of tradesman or minor professional.
He pushed his way through the mêlée into the entrance hall and made for the entrance to the lecture theatre, from which the last remnants of the audience were trickling. The heat and smell of the absent audience was still there inside that curious wooden accordion of banked seating, and the skylight far above cast a pale light as dusk came on. The timber seating, now relieved of the weight of humanity, ticked and creaked in repose.
‘Ah, Inspector Newsome! Punctual as ever. How long is it since we last met?’
The speaker was that eminent surgeon Mr Herbert, who was wiping his chalked lecture notes off the board. A man of around fifty years, his face was flushed from the heat of the room and the exertion of his teaching.
Mr Newsome looked sidelong at the preparation table and was relieved to see no body there – just a number of jars filled with horrors suspended in chymicals.
‘Mr Herbert – I admit I cannot exactly recall the last time, but, as ever, I am grateful for your time.’
‘Nonsense! I always have time for the police. Do you mind if I continue with my work at the board? I would like to write my notes for tomorrow’s session before we lose the light. I do not want to call the man in to light the gas just on my account.’
‘By all means. As I said in my letter, I am interested in a number of matters – first among them the matter of suicide and what causes it. I would rather hear it from you than read your work on the subject.’
‘Quite sensible. Well, the first thing to say is that self-murder is a sin – there can be no equivocation on that matter. The Bible is quite clear, so we can discount others of my profession who chatter to the contrary.’
‘A sin, yes. But what is its cause?’
‘Ah, that is the interesting part, Inspector. I, and others also, believe that it is caused by a momentary lapse in sanity: a loss of the logical and emotional faculties that control us under normal circumstances. The suicide – either through pain, loss, sadness or a cumulative aggregation of suffering – becomes mentally unbalanced and takes his life.’
‘Can one be guilty of sin when one is insane?’
‘Sin is sin, Inspector. There is no dispensation.’
‘I see. What of the method? Are there any conclusions to be drawn on the choice of death: any patterns dividable by class or sex?’
‘A fascinating question, Inspector. One would expect that a suicide would seek the fastest and least painful route to Damnation, but, as I have said, rationality has no part of it. Indeed, many such deaths are quite hideously brutal. A man will cut his throat with a razor (a very common choice, this); a woman will leap from height or take prussic acid. Why, there was a case in the newspapers just the other day of a man who, while returning home from the public house, wrapped a length of heavy chain about his neck and jumped into the Thames. Can you imagine?’
‘I cannot. Those examples you gave – are they typical? Will a woman jump from height where a man will cut his throat?’
‘I have made no study into the subject, but I believe that is broadly accurate, yes. A man’s suicide is often more violent – he will leap in front of a train, cut his throat, shoot himself . . . whereas a woman will seek to ingest her end or take a leap. I need hardly remind you of the reputation Waterloo-bridge has for female suicides.’
‘Quite. How does one explain these choices based on sex?’
‘Frankly, I have no conception, Inspector.’
‘As for method – what is the nature of prussic acid as a tool of death? What is its effect?’
‘It is quite lethal of course. Even the brands sold by a chymist are utterly fatal, and they are typically only a six per cent solution. Continental brands can be as high as twenty-five per cent. Just inhaling the former dilution can cause dizziness, whereas the latter would cause death without ingestion. You know, of course, that the smell is of bitter almonds.’
‘Indeed. What does such a death look like?’
‘A strong dose would lead to rapid unconsciousness and death within seconds. A reduced dose might give the victim up to two minutes, during which time they would manifest glistening eyes, a weak pulse and lifeless limbs. There may be a few moments of lucidity, some foaming at the mouth perhaps. A lucky victim might reflexively vomit, but would, I fear, die all the same.’
‘What of the taste?’
‘Ha! I have not spoken to anyone who has lived to describe it. I have heard of a Frenchman who drank a diluted version that he might document the sensation – but he died almost immediately. That is French medicine for you! I imagine it is very bitter, perhaps even a scalding sensation.’
‘Might it be adequately disguised with an admixture of gin so that the drinker was insensible to the taste and smell?’
‘Gin? I suppose so. If the victim was already a little drunk, and if the drink were taken quickly . . . yes, it could be. Does this pertain to a case you are working on?’
‘Perhaps. Anothe
r question if I may: if a woman were to take a draught of prussic acid and then attempt to leap from height, would she have time to move her limbs to jump after ingesting the poison?’
‘An interesting problem, albeit somewhat gruesome. If the dilution were sufficiently weak, she might have time to vault over a parapet before she lost the power of motion. Indeed, it would be quite ideal: she would fall without fear and land without pain, provided the dose were tailored to the height of the drop. A highly effective death.’
‘But a sin all the same.’
‘Well, quite. I am afraid it is becoming quite dim in here, Inspector. If you would like to talk further, I suggest we move to the museum, which is illuminated.’
The lecture theatre had indeed become quite stygian, its banks of seats creating a well of darkness from where hundreds of unseen eyes might stare down upon that space containing the two gentlemen. They closed the door behind them and ventured back across the entrance hall to the museum – that lofty and unnerving exhibition of death prolonged in life.
Mr Newsome cast his eyes about the innumerable specimen jars glinting on shelves in the powerful glare of the gas. Sickly, pale things glistened within: bloated tissues, filmy membranes, knotty veins, gelatinous organs and mottled masses lined the walls amid the faintest scent of formaldehyde. It was a hideous shop window of biological preservation to rival any collection in the world – and it shrank the inspector’s stomach.
‘Splendid, isn’t it?’ said Mr Herbert, gesturing with an expansive arm towards the larger room with its countless reassembled skeletons of birds and mammals. A colossal megatherium on a podium stalked towards them, frozen in time and bereft of flesh. In another case, the formidable skeleton of a man stood perhaps seven or eight feet tall, its huge chin jutting out like the prow of a boat.
‘I suppose it is,’ said Mr Newsome, grimacing at a shrunken membrum virile lying forlornly at the bottom of its imprisoning jar.
‘What else can I help you with, Inspector?’
‘Seeds. Would the ingestion of seeds also act as a poison if need be?’
‘Well, no doubt there are numerous plants whose seeds are toxic to mankind – but they are usually processed to access the compounds within. I suspect it would take thousands of seeds to produce a useful drop of poison.’
‘I see. I suppose that is why we eat apples, say, without risking our lives.’
‘Quite – though the bitterness of the seed is a reminder of the killer within.’
‘Would you happen to know if some fruits are more dangerous than others?’
‘I hardly think that any we buy are dangerous. What are you thinking of?’
‘A pomegranate.’
‘Well, that is your fruit for seeds, certainly. It must have more than most. In fact, I do believe the etymology alludes to the seeds: the “grainy apple”.’
‘Mr Herbert – I am working on a case in which the victim has very likely eaten pomegranate seeds. I cannot understand why this particular fruit has been chosen, though I assume some importance owing to the rarity.’
‘Interesting . . . I presume you have not had the benefit of a classical education.’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘But you have heard of Proserpine, of course: the mythological lady who was the bride of Pluto, king of the Underworld? She was forced to eat a number of pomegranate seeds so that she would be unable to remain away from him, returning for a season each year: winter in the living world.’
‘Continue . . . why the pomegranate?’
‘I cannot say. It is a highly symbolic fruit if one wants to venture into it. In the Bible, it represents both birth and death – perhaps the transition between them. The Jews say it was the forbidden fruit growing on the Tree of Knowledge – a symbol simultaneously of carnal intercourse and death. Just look at one: in health, it has the blush of youth (or of shame) – but its skin is quick to corrupt into decay. Cut it and it seems to bleed . . . yes, a fascinating symbol. I would wager it is for this reason that you have found it upon victims rather than any toxic quality it may possess.’
‘This is most interesting. Thank you, Mr Herbert.’
‘Happy to help, Inspector. It must be something out-of-the-ordinary for you, what? Not just the usual theft and stabbing.’
‘Yes – though the “usual” is easier to solve. I will look into this Proserpine element further.’
‘Well, do let me know how the case proceeds . . . and perhaps it will help you to know that the name Proserpine is a later version: the Latin. Not many people realize that it derives from the Greek.’
‘Which is . . . ?’
‘Why, “Persephone” of course! Inspector . . . ? Are you all right? You have become quite pale . . .’
TWENTY-TWO
If one were an adventurous soul not afraid of filth, depravity and the ever-present threat of violent robbery and death, one might take a stroll past St Katharine’s Dock to Wapping. There, by the muddy shore, the wooden houses of centuries past absorb the dank atmosphere and bow under their own weight. No police walked these cobbles.
Nevertheless, on that same evening that Mr Newsome was quizzing the surgeon, one would have found Mr Williamson stepping through the stinking mire accompanied by his dusky shadow Benjamin. They were looking for the Murder’d Moor, the alehouse and sailors’ inn run by the Mr Arbuthnot mentioned in Aubrey Alsthom’s other-worldly recollection from the Times.
‘No doubt the name comes from some actual incident,’ mused Mr Williamson as they walked. ‘Though that apostrophe suggests it is of some antiquity. I would not be surprised if the buildings hereabouts pre-date the Great Fire.’
Benjamin held his counsel. If he was perturbed about visiting an inn so named, he did not show it. Indeed, there were perhaps more black faces in this locale than any other in London, though they seemed rather abject specimens in comparison with his animal health and sartorial elegance. They looked at him in awe and seemed to nod slightly as he passed, whether in deference or in some unfathomable communion of the ebony-skinned, Mr Williamson could not say. It was almost as if he were a king come among them, but risen from among their ranks.
‘Do they respect you, or fear you, Ben? Do you feel a kinship with them?’
Wordless, Benjamin stopped and lifted his trouser leg slightly so that Mr Williamson could see the iron ring that he wore perpetually about his ankle – a grim memento of a past when he spoke and sang, of a past still further back beyond history itself when he and his kind were perhaps the first among men.
‘Hmm.’
They turned down towards the river and saw the sign of the inn hanging askew from the wooden building. Only the word ‘Moor’ was legible on its board, which was faded and rotted by untold years of damp. The guttural grunts of a rutting couple or a man being strangled to death came to them from somewhere close.
‘Let us enter. I will ask about the young man with the curious laugh and we will see what we can see. I have no intention of spending much time here. And, Ben – be prepared for anything. These places are utterly lawless.’
Benjamin grinned and Mr Williamson took confidence in his companion’s apparent lack of fear. Benjamin had, in fact, spent more time among this kind than the investigator could ever have guessed.
It will surprise few to learn that the interior of that place was a seething den of sodden mariners. There was a sour reek of beer, gin, oakum and bodies unwashed for months at a time. Foreign eyes assayed the strangers. Smoke hung thickly about the low beams.
‘Opium,’ muttered Mr Williamson to himself as they approached the bar.
‘Yes, gents! What can I get yer?’
Mr Arbuthnot had the look of a man so corrupt that one would count one’s fingers after shaking hands with him. His carious leer was all yellowed teeth and arched-eyebrow suggestion. His dented top hat shone with an accumulation of grease around its brim.
‘Two gins and water,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘Right yer are! Not locals,
are yer?’
‘No.’
‘I guessed it right off. Yer don’t ’ave the look of the alley – Freepass-alley, that is. ’Ere yer go – two gins and water.’
The drinks had been adulterated with water drawn directly from the river and were a greenish-brown in colour.
‘Do you have many visiters – I mean people who are not locals?’ asked Mr Williamson, following the cue given to him.
‘Not as a rule. ’Tis a particular sort comes to the Murder’d Moor.’
‘Have you had any strangers here recently, or heard of them?’
‘A policeman are yer?’
‘I am not.’
‘Lookin’ for yer daughter?’
‘I beg your pardon? What do you mean?’
‘’Ad a feller in here once looking for his daughter. She ’ad turned whore and was living upstairs with No-Legs Jack.’
‘No – I have no children. I am doing a tour of the shipping districts with my friend here . . . he has no tongue so I am afraid he has little to add. I am a writer.’
‘A writer, eh? Will yer put the Moor in yer book?’
‘Perhaps. I believe an acquaintance of mine was here recently: a young man by the name of James, perhaps with his friend Major Tunnock – a fellow with a moustache.’
‘If ’e’s yer acquaintance, why don’t yer ask ’im yerself ’stead of coming down ’ere to ask me?’
‘He has gone missing. Have you seen him?’
‘I ’ave not seen ’im, but I ’ave a message from ’im.’
Mr Williamson perceived a door opening at the end of the bar and had a sudden sensation of danger. Benjamin, too, tensed in alertness.
‘Aye – ’e said if some copper-type feller came ’ere asking questions, we should see to it that he left in a coffin.’
A figure emerged from the opened door: the same immense fellow they had encountered in the ruins by the Fleet River, his taurine shoulders flexed for an onslaught and his face a mask of impassive threat.
In a flash, Benjamin had shrugged off his coat and stepped in front of Mr Williamson. Tables and chairs were scraped back over the wooden floor to create a gladiatorial arena. A great hubbub had begun to animate the room.
The Vice Society Page 25