‘Very little. And I admit I am more confused than ever on this point. Persephone seemed initially to be an informant pointing us towards the perpetrators of a crime – now we discover that she is at the centre of some heretical sect or cabal that is killing prostitutes. What should I think?’
‘Perhaps that our letter writer is aware of the group and took that name knowing that we were bound to investigate it, thus uncovering the true criminals,’ offered Mr Williamson. ‘We have, after all, deduced she is intelligent and has uncommon knowledge.’
‘That is an intriguing idea, George, but does it help us? Who is she? Where is she? Is she as much a figure of fancy as her namesake?’
‘Fortunately, she is still watching us,’ said Noah.
‘What? Have you had further communication from Persephone?’ said Inspector Newsome.
‘At the British Museum reading room. A book was brought to me that I had not requested. This led me to a second book and there I found this note.’
He who helps
I see that you are aiding Mr Williamson in his endeavours. I do not know you, but I thank you.
You are exceptionally close to the solution of this case. I urge you to continue in the direction you are heading and you will find the killers of Katherine, Mr Sampson and the other girls.
I can tell you no more.
Persephone
An atmosphere of fevered cogitation took hold of the occupants of that room. Assuredly, some of them had already spent some time considering the note’s contents, but there was matter in it to occupy even the greatest investigator’s mind in relation to this most perplexing of cases.
‘So, Inspector – apply your detective skills to that,’ challenged Noah.
‘Firstly, have you reason to believe that this letter is from the same hand as the original?’
‘The paper and the hand are identical, though I admit that may mean nothing,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘All right. It is addressed to “He who helps”, which suggests she has been observing both of you since the first letter was delivered, but that she does not know Noah by name. However, she couldn’t have known you would be in the library that day in order to leave a message in a book.’
‘True,’ said Noah.
‘So we deduce that she, or one of her people, was following you and observing you in the library. Also, it is interesting that she makes a point of saying she does not know you, Mr Dyson . . . almost as if she expects to know everyone. And evidently she knows precisely where you are in your investigation to know that you are exceptionally close.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘But I wonder at this word “exceptionally”. It is somewhat out of character with the terseness of the original letter. Is it, I wonder, a veiled clue: that we are close to the solution but with one exception – that we have one key detail wrong?’
‘A clue it may be, but it is not a helpful one. More telling is the final sentence: “I can tell you no more.” Why not? Because she knows no more? Because she is afraid to tell more . . . because someone is preventing her by threat?’
‘Or because she knows of the perpetrators but they do not yet know of her?’ added Noah.
‘Explain yourself on that point, Mr Dyson.’
‘Everyone who has heard the name Persephone has responded in one of two ways: complete ignorance or blanched-face shock. It is my belief that our suspects know only of one Persephone: the mythological lady.’
‘I do not follow your logic.’
‘Then let me add this: when Mr Williamson challenged his erstwhile captors on the death of Katherine, their reaction was of genuine surprise. If they knew of our letter writer, might not they have already made a connection?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘So what have you found with the entire apparatus of the Metropolitan Police at your control,’ said a clearly emboldened Mr Cullen.
‘Well, well – hark how the hen crows when playing with the roosters!’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ interceded Noah. ‘It is fair question: have you any further intelligence on who Persephone might be, Inspector? You do have hundreds of men out on the streets to do your bidding.’
‘In fact, I have made enquiries. It occurred to me that if she were a prostitute as Mr Williamson initially assumed, perhaps she could be one of those lofty types of Park-lane. That assumption would at least tally with her alleged intelligence, knowledge and classical pseudonym. Those women are quite unlike the married variety – they are repositories of rumour and gossip to make the very government blush.’
‘And what have you found?’ said Noah.
‘There are a number of them, of course. And they are surprisingly reclusive. To the common populace, they do not exist except as figures in passing carriages, or as an equestrian glimpsed from afar at Rotten Row in the summer. To her accustomed audience, however – rich men with a taste for high class in every element of their lives – she is as conspicuous as the advertisements that plague the city.’
‘Go on. Have you names and addresses?’
‘I have addresses – the names are elusive. Here is the list. These women live in luxury that our Queen might envy. Approaching them is almost as difficult. They see only who they think can benefit them. Why, I have learned of one who has a retinue of servants in a unique livery, and a carriage painted with her own spurious coat of arms. I fear they will admit no investigator to their rooms.’
‘It is worth us speaking to these women if we can, even if it is only to move further towards Persephone,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘We must attempt to find a solution before Noah goes to his end on Sunday.’
‘So we have tomorrow to act. Let us formulate a plan,’ said Noah. ‘There are three names on this list of Park-lane courtesans. Mr Williamson is “dead” now and may be able to enjoy more freedom of movement, so I suggest that he pursues them. You, Inspector, are in a position to discover what you can about Major Tunnock and Sir John Smythe without actually venturing to that club. It is time we began to pursue the killers rather than vice versa.’
‘Do you trust Mr Cullen to aid you in these endeavours?’ said Mr Newsome.
‘I trust him more than I trust you. Perhaps you will surprise me, Inspector.’
‘What will you do, Mr Dyson?’
‘Of all of us, I am perhaps the one in most danger. I will be pursuing my own investigation and trying to remain unseen to preserve at least some semblance of doubt in the minds of our suspects. If we have been successful, they may think I have been cowed by the death of Mr Williamson.’
‘And if our researches unearth nothing of worth, you will still attend this obvious trap on Sunday? Are you not afraid that they know everything we know? Who knows whether that whey-faced fool Eusebius Bean was also watching you in the library?’
‘It is a risk, but after Mr Williamson’s encounter with them, I believe they will be more circumspect – and very likely more lethal. We are all in danger, but we have been followed before and lost our pursuers. I will go to my rendezvous, but certainly not alone. Be reassured that I have plans to turn the villains into your hands, Inspector, while providing all the answers we seek.’
‘Tell me – what really interests you in this case, Mr Dyson? Why do you risk your life for a man who would once have put you behind bars?’
‘The fact that you have to ask means you could never comprehend the answer, Inspector. We meet again on Sunday afternoon in this same place, if not before.’
TWENTY-FOUR
It had been an inadvertent comment of Inspector Newsome’s that Noah had returned to later once he and Mr Williamson were alone.
‘When the inspector made that comment about the unique livery, it struck a note,’ said Noah. ‘At the library, shortly after I received the note, I told you I glimpsed a figure fleeing – a figure wearing some manner of scarlet decoration.’
‘A scarf, perhaps. A coloured handkerchief? It is hardly conclusive,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘What
man do you know that wears scarlet in any form? A uniform jacket, yes – or perhaps some clerical garb . . . but a hat or a scarf or an epaulette?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘No – it seems to me that a man would wear such a thing only if he had been dressed by a woman: if he was wearing livery designed for and by a woman. How many women are there in London who would dress a man thus?’
‘I can think of none. Black tends to be the fashion.’
‘Quite. But these kept women of Park-lane advertise their power by such subtle means. In this way, they lord it over those matrons of the upper classes who must beg and wheedle their husbands for a show of luxury.’
‘You know more about the subject than I, Noah. I am reluctant to admit it, but Mr Newsome was right upon one point: if Persephone is anyone, she is likely to be one of these women. They have the power, the knowledge, the education . . . Everything about our case points to this world of privileged immorality. Only the connection with Katherine’s death is utterly inconsistent.’
‘And that, George, is what you are to discover tomorrow morning.’
‘I would rather you undertook the action in this . . . this particular adventure.’
‘We have discussed this. You are dead to our observers; I, on the other hand, am their main focus as they methodically kill anyone touching on the case. And have you forgotten – it was to you that she first addressed her information. Of all of us, you are most likely to gain access.’
‘I understand all of that, but . . . Hmm. Hmm . . .’
‘I know: your interview with Charlotte went badly, but she is a different girl altogether, George. She is a predator and you were her prey. These Park-lane girls are also pretty – perhaps the most beautiful in the world – but they have no interest in a man like you. The most you have to fear from her is that her intelligence will quite eclipse your own.’
‘Thank you, Noah.’
‘These women are experts with men. She will see in a moment who you are, what you know, what are your strengths and weaknesses. She will see this and she will adopt a fitting tone. It is her unique talent to be the woman that every man feels comfortable with.’
‘Hmm. We will see.’
‘The challenge, of course, will be achieving an audience with her at all. If she wanted to meet, she would have engineered it already. Indeed, everything she has done thus far has shown an exceptional disinclination to be associated with any part or person pertaining to this case – though she clearly is associated. You will not be able to gain access merely by knocking on her door. And nor would Inspector Newsome, I fear. She probably has more power than he.’
‘You have said that these women are often to be seen at the opera or theatre . . .’
‘Yes, but they attend as male diversions: showing themselves to prospective benefactors. A man such as you would not come within ten feet of her silk dress.’
‘Let us say I do gain admittance and present to her that she is Persephone. Notwithstanding the livery of her servants and our suppositions, there is nothing I can do to prove she is who we seek if she refuses to admit it.’
‘And that, George, is where you prove your reputation and resolve as a detective. That is when you discover the truth behind Katherine’s death. Tomorrow ends the uncertainty of seven years – you will succeed. You must succeed.’
‘Hmm. Tomorrow.’
And the following morning did indeed find Mr Williamson alone in the post-dawn stillness of Park-lane. No traffic troubled that hallowed thoroughfare, whose balconies gazed from loftily haughty façades upon the hoar-frosted expanse of Hyde-park. A few words with a shivering sweeping boy had been enough to discover that those distinctively liveried footmen emerged from a residence close to the corner of Mount-street that, superficially at least, appeared little different to its neighbours.
It hardly seems necessary to say that our investigator was not dressed in his habitual top hat and greatcoat. Strangers were conspicuous on this street of conspicuous wealth, so he was standing on the opposite side of the street beside a barrow of fresh fish and dressed in the garb of one associated with that piscine trade. Every now and then he would push the barrow further along and yell out ‘Eels! Get yer eels’ in a somewhat self-conscious approximation of the commercial demotic.
There were no customers. There was, however, a carriage approaching.
Mr Williamson busied himself with his semi-frozen wares so that the brim of his hat partially covered his face as the carriage passed . . . but he was able to see that it was a Metropolitan Police conveyance.
The carriage stopped outside the house by Mount-street and no lesser a personage than Detective Inspector Albert Newsome stepped down. He cast a rapid glance up and down Park-lane, not registering the fish barrow, and approached the street door, rapping sharply three times upon it.
Mr Williamson watched from under his brim and found himself entirely unsurprised that Mr Newsome had ignored their suggestion to stay away from this particular avenue of investigation. The door opened and a girl of impressively elegant appearance evidently asked the gentleman’s business. He handed her a card, which she took, and the door closed with the inspector on the outside.
Minutes passed. Inspector Newsome breathed steam into his hands and stamped his feet. He rapped once again at the door, this time with increased vigour. More minutes passed. And the door remained stubbornly closed. With a final kick at the door and a muttered oath, a furious Mr Newsome strode back to the carriage and it set off, presumably back to Whitehall.
Mr Williamson could not help but smile. His approach would hopefully be more successful, albeit less conventional. He looked south towards Piccadilly and saw a burly figure approaching, also dressed as a purveyor of fish. As the man drew closer, both smiled and shook scaly hands.
‘Was that the inspector in the carriage?’ asked Mr Cullen.
‘Indeed. He was just shunned most shamefully by the house girl.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘Your smile says otherwise. Well, let us attempt this madness before he has time to return with constables or some manner of judicial order. Are you ready, Mr Cullen?’
‘I am, sir . . . though I must say I feel uneasy acting without the authority of the law at my back.’
‘You will become accustomed to that soon enough. Let us go.’
Mr Williamson wrapped five eels in newspaper and the two men approached the kitchen door of the house. He knocked at the glass and a young man in splendid scarlet-detailed livery opened it.
‘Deliv’ry of eels for the mistress of the ’ouse,’ announced Mr Williamson.
‘We ordered no eels! Off with you, you malodorous cur,’ said the youth.
Mr Cullen pushed the door inwards with sufficient force to knock the servant over. Before he could get up and shout, a handkerchief of chloroform had been pressed with great force over his mouth and nose and he had been dragged under a large oaken table upon which vegetables were waiting to be cleaned. The room was otherwise empty.
‘Upstairs,’ whispered Mr Williamson, making for some stone steps.
The stairwell emerged into a corridor, which was also mercifully free of servants. They briskly took the next flight of steps and tiptoed past a room that had just been used for breakfast – inside two women were clearing away the dishes and chattering so contentedly that they did not notice the shadows flash by the doorway.
To the next floor they proceeded, and were faced with a corridor of four closed doors. Mr Williamson, now breathing heavily from the exertion of the steps and the fear of discovery, tried the nearest door and found it locked. He crossed the corridor on shaking legs and pushed open the second, glancing inside at the breathtaking opulence.
‘Empty,’ he whispered.
To the third door.
The blood throbbing in his ears seemed to fill the very house with its boom, and his palms were sticky with apprehension. He turned the knob and pushed the door open . . .
. . . And there she was, sitting at her looking glass.
We will pause there for a moment, though I admit some readers may find the momentary halt infuriating. Much as I would like to continue with the remarkable discoveries made by Mr Williamson in the company of that incomparable woman of pleasure, I have a responsibility to another pertinent thread of my story, namely, that of Noah Dyson.
He had told Mr Newsome that he was going to pursue his own investigations while trying to remain unseen, which is precisely what he was doing. We find him in a cab on his way to a location already familiar to us on Albert-road, his mind working through the previous day’s meeting with the inspector.
Mr Newsome was not to be trusted. He might be genuine in his attempts to capture the villains behind the Holywell-street case, but his attitude to his temporary accomplices was a matter of far less certainty. Mr Cullen had betrayed him, Mr Williamson had always been the better detective, and Noah himself was considered something of a threat. Such things could not be discounted in the sly machinations of that policeman’s mind.
The cab stopped outside the asylum of Doctor Norwood . . . and Noah immediately sensed that something was amiss. Though the house itself looked unchanged, there was an unearthly sound emanating from the garden at the rear: something like a babble of conversation, but with the fraught inflection of utter derangement.
He walked briskly around to the garden and found his view blocked by the tall, thick hedge that had been cultivated there. The odd sound was louder: human voices but somehow changed, somehow disconnected. Undeterred, he parted its heavy frondage, snapping twigs aside until he could gain a view of what was taking place beyond.
And what he saw through that leafy portal was a piteous fracturing of the delicate structure of sanity that Doctor Norwood had worked so hard and so long to build. Immediately to Noah’s right, a young man was in the process of haranguing a shrub that had evidently caused him offence, striking it blows with one hand while holding on to its twigs with another as if to prevent its escape. His eyes were quite expressionless.
The Vice Society Page 28