‘It must have been James Tattershall who escaped you.’
‘If he was the man with the metal rod . . . I am afraid he has.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What of the other two? They who ran down Brownlow-street?’
‘Dead. One trampled by cattle, the other’s head cleaved open by an axe.’
‘O . . . I see.’
‘Did the inspector say anything about where he was going?’
‘No, sir. He looked quickly around, asked me about my entry into the building and then he left. He may have shouted something about the Continental Club to his driver.’
‘Fool. As if Mr Tattershall would return there.’
‘What do we do now, sir?’
‘No doubt Noah will contact us. I am of a mind to go home. I find myself extremely tired.’
‘And the bodies, sir? What shall we do with them?’
‘We will leave them for the surgeon. No harm can come to them now.’
And thus it was that the two men ventured south through the snows to the coldness of Mr Williamson’s empty home, where we recently saw them by the fire.
The reader will ask, however, what became of Noah Dyson on that eventful evening: how he had escaped the bullets, where he had rushed after leaving the house, and what had kept him as the snow fell thickly. Good questions all, and I would expect no less from the perspicacious handler of these pages. Since we are in the final chapter, and the covers are the boundaries of this world, I have little other option but to answer.
Or rather, I will let Noah do the speaking, for he arrived with Benjamin at Mr Williamson’s house shortly after lunch-time on that Monday. Both seemed subdued and looked tired as they took the seats offered to them and accepted cups of tea from the solicitous Mr Cullen.
‘I am glad to see you alive, Noah,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘By which tone I understand you are mildly discontented I have not come to you earlier,’ said Noah.
‘It is rather a long time to wonder whether a man is alive or dead.’
‘I was sure that Mr Cullen had advised you of my escape.’
‘Indeed he did – but to where, and why?’
‘Very well. There is no secret about it. The fact is simply that I have been busy in the name of justice. Before I tell you the story of my recent hours, perhaps you would first like to read this.’
Noah took a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Mr Williamson. The smeared bloodstains on it, though now dry, were unmistakable.
For the attention of the Metropolitan Police
I, James Tattershall, resident of The Continental Club, Pall Mall, do hereby offer my full and frank confession before the witnesses Mr Dyson and Mr Benjamin Black to the murder of Mr Jonathan Sampson at Colliver’s coffee house, Holywell-street, and sundry other murders . . .
‘Benjamin Black?’ said Mr Williamson, looking up from the sheet.
‘His own conceit,’ replied Noah for his friend. ‘In truth, he has no surname; he chose that one just for the occasion.’
‘Apt. Am I to presume that this confession was actually written by James Tattershall?’
‘He did not write it – Benjamin did. Young James, however, supplied every detail within and signed his name at the end. The signature is a little uneven, but legible and genuine. The gentleman had undergone a thorough interrogation by that stage.’
‘I do not want to know how that was effected.’
‘Indeed you do not,’ said Noah, rubbing his knuckles. ‘He was very reluctant to speak, but we managed to persuade him.’
‘Is the full confession as detailed in that first paragraph?’
‘Everything he knew; everything we could wish to know: all of the murders, the members of their disgusting little group (Poppleton among them, unsurprisingly), the incident at the Murder’d Moor, the Vice Society connection and the role of Eusebius Bean . . . everything is laid bare. Also the truth about Katherine . . .’
Mr Williamson nodded and returned his attention to the text, evidently skimming quickly through to the part he was looking for. His jaw set as he did so but his hands remained steady. The other gentlemen avoided looking at each other as he read.
. . . Another crime committed by the members of the club (though not by myself) was the murder of one Katherine Williamson. It was in 1839 when Sir John Smythe was first formulating his philosophy. He and his fellows were interested in testing the effects of prussic acid and contrived to do so in a manner where the effects would be judged a clear suicide on the part of the victim.
Sir John and two fellows not known to me ascended and engaged the lady in conversation, offering her a jolt of gin on account of the chill. Then one of them timed the period before her inevitable death and Sir John threw her over the parapet. A Bible and hastily written note were left to further suggest suicide.
It was following the furore about the incident (and the attendant risk of discovery) that the decision was taken to use prostitutes exclusively for further experimentation, though the very public nature of the event was something that had always added to Sir John’s enjoyment . . .
‘Hmm. Hmm. An experiment. Killed for an experiment.’
‘That is what James told us – what Sir John told him. There is no reason to disbelieve it.’
‘An experiment . . . as one might do on an animal.’
‘George – these were men with no moral core: animals themselves. I believe they have all received what they deserved, if I am to believe what I hear of recent events at Smithfield.’
‘I exerted no justice in those instances.’
‘Perhaps not, but justice was done. I can think of no better end for Sir John and that old lecher Major Tunnock.’
‘And what of Mr James Tattershall?’
‘A strange thing. You will not yet have read of it in the newspapers, but a young man will be found at the foot of the Monument stairwell this morning. A most unusual case. The young man in question seemingly smashed in the lower door shortly after dawn when the blizzard was still raging. Nobody saw anything due to the awful weather, and any other footprints were obliterated in the downfall. It seems he tried to gain access to the platform but could not. Then, inexplicably, he was precipitated down the centre of that formidable spiral staircase, striking it over and over as he rushed headlong to a most grisly death. True, the injuries are not entirely consistent with a fall, but . . .’
‘I . . . I do not condone murder, Noah – whatever the circumstances. It would not be appropriate for . . . for me to thank you.’
‘I know, George. We must assume, as will others, that James was so burdened by his sins that he could no longer live among us. I understand that another copy of the confession you have in your hand might be found inside his coat.’
‘It will not be in his handwriting.’
‘Quite, but it would not be the first time a note found after an apparent suicide was taken to be true for want of contradiction. I trust Inspector Newsome will soon come into possession of that confession. If he does not, I will say I found this one at Bedford-row. I think we can trust the inspector not to enquire too closely into where his evidence comes from.’
‘Hmm.’
‘But what happened at the house?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘We heard shots, but neither of the dead men was you. How was that possible?’
‘The events unfolded in the most unpredictable manner. James had entered the room with a pistol and was to shoot me there and then. It was your Harold Jute, George, who saved me.’
‘Jute? I cannot imagine it, knowing what we do about that Judas.’
‘He had been uncomfortable all evening. Like the late Mr Sampson, Mr Jute did not, I fear, have the stomach for what his acquaintances did. He began to protest at yet another death and started to argue for my release. And James shot him down with as little hesitation as if he had been a bird. I believe the killer did not even flinch at the sound.’
‘And the other man?’ said Mr Williamson.
‘His name was Peter. No sooner had James shot Harold than Major Tunnock extracted a pistol and shot Peter where he sat. The poor fellow had not even said a word. Perhaps something had been said beforehand about the resolve of these two. Perhaps that is why they were in attendance at this most unusually confidential meeting.’
‘This still does not explain your escape,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘Well, I clearly found myself in a most fortuitous situation. Both men had discharged their weapons and needed to reload. I picked up a vase and threw it at the window, where the curtain absorbed most of its velocity. They were quite stunned and merely stared at me. Then I threw the chair and calmly explained to the gentlemen that it had been a signal to Inspector Newsome of the Detective Force, who was outside at that very moment. Major Tunnock sneaked a look and perhaps saw you or the constables lurking. Whatever he saw, it was their signal to flee rather than be caught with guns and two dead bodies. James silenced the other witness: the girl.’
‘A terrible mess,’ said Mr Cullen.
‘Indeed. I must admit that I could not have imagined the houses were joined through the kitchens. They must have expected just such a raid one day.’
‘Did you manage to speak to either of the shot men?’ said Mr Williamson.
‘Peter was quite dead; Mr Jute could only mutter a single word over and over.’
‘“Sorry”?’ offered Mr Cullen.
‘No – “Father”.’ Whether paternal or divine, I think we may assume a degree of guilt in poor Harold.’
‘The question remains how you managed to locate the fleeing Mr Tattershall with such ease,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘As you all know, Benjamin was waiting at the Park-lane residence of our grand lady of pleasure lest anyone attempt – on that night of all nights – to sever another link to that perverted brotherhood. I guessed that James would go on just such a mission.’
‘A lucky guess,’ said Mr Williamson.
‘Perhaps. Or rather a decent expectation based upon his killing of all others who had spoken with us. Mr Tattershall did indeed go to Park-lane, where he burst into the building and upstairs . . . to discover Benjamin’s fist in his face where a beautiful lady should have been. The rest you know, or can imagine.’
‘Hmm.’
‘So the case is solved,’ said Mr Cullen.
‘I suppose it is,’ said Noah. ‘Perhaps not to everyone’s satisfaction, and at a great cost to innocent lives, but we do have a conclusion.’
‘Do you realize, gentlemen, that this is the second such time that we have worked together to solve a difficult and dangerous crime?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘It rather seems we have an aptitude for it.’
‘Are you attempting to make a point?’ said Mr Williamson.
‘Well . . . have we not solved these crimes where the Metropolitan Police have been unable to do so under their own power? Have we, together, not demonstrated skills that, though they are considerable in isolation, are increased when combined? Might not we agree to work together again when another case occurs – one that has mystified the police, gripped the newspapers and called out for justice? Might not we become a Force in ourselves? A Force of uncommon detection?’
The gathered gentlemen looked at Mr Cullen, then at each other. All seemed amused – whether at the absurdity of the idea, or at its odd attraction, one might not have said.
‘Would anyone like more tea?’ asked Mr Williamson. ‘Mr Cullen – will you oblige? I believe we have identified this as your particular skill in the uncommon Force of which you speak . . .’
That might have been a fine place to end our story, but the reader will be asking what became of Inspector Newsome’s snow-blasted carriage race to the Continental Club on that previous evening, and how far along the road to justice that investigator had proceeded. Indeed, those were just the kind of questions also being sought by Sir Richard Mayne as he gazed with disapproving eyes at the detective before him that same day at Scotland Yard.
‘Would you like to explain yourself, Inspector? Not only do you attempt to gain access to the Continental Club, but you do so with intemperate violence unbecoming of a detective. Can you imagine how humiliating it is for me to have constables called to arrest an inspector?’
‘Sir – I was pursuing a fugitive named James Tattershall: the man who murdered Jonathan Sampson, Mrs Colliver, Mr Jessop and a number of others touching on this case. He is a resident at the club.’
‘Wait – I feel I have missed something. What makes you think he was the murderer? We have not spoken of this man before.’
‘You will recall that Mr Williamson was helping me briefly with my enquiries. Well, it seems the waterman on Holywell-street – he who was murdered – had heard an unusual laugh immediately after the incident. By a stroke of luck an . . . an acquaintance of Mr Williamson was able to link the laugh to this Tattershall and learn that he was a resident at the club.’
‘A laugh? That is hardly conclusive. Were there no actual witnesses to justify your insensate rush to the Continental Club?’
‘No, sir. However, James Tattershall was found at the foot of the Monument stairs earlier today. He was dead. Upon his person was found this letter – I am afraid it is somewhat soiled but its contents are quite revelatory. If you would care to read the first paragraph . . .’
‘Whatever it says, you obtained it after your reckless assault on the Continental. Here – let me read it . . . Wait . . . is this “Noah Dyson” the same who was involved in that recent case . . . ? Is he that escaped convict who goes about with the Negro fellow? Inspector – if I find that you have been colluding with criminals . . .’
‘Sir – if these men have participated in any part of this investigation, it has been without my knowledge. It is pure coincidence that their names appear. Please – read the rest of the document.’
Sir Richard applied his keen attention to the stained sheet and his face passed through a range of expressions as he did so: from grim focus, through shock, to disgust and finally to surprise.
‘Katherine Williamson, too? So George has been right all along in his suspicions. Has he seen this document? Have you informed him of the news?’
‘I will, sir. But you see: James Tattershall was our villain.’
‘What of these other men he names?’
‘Two were found dead – shot – at a house on Bedford-row. Two more died in quite horrible but inexplicable circumstances at Smithfield last night.’
‘Do you not find all of this extremely suspicious, Inspector? All of the conspirators dead in a single night, two of them apparently murdered? A confession found upon a man who died in the same way as one of his group’s victims?’
‘It is indeed all highly questionable, sir, but the case is indubitably complete – all answers provided. Let us also remember that this was a group who made a fetish of death. Perhaps they chose their own ends. Of more concern to me are the references in that document to the Vice Society and the spy Eusebius Bean.’
‘Yes. I would prefer not to discuss that, and I would caution you from mentioning it to anyone at all. This is a matter for me to take up at a much higher level. If indeed the Society has been manipulating this investigation – rather than one immoral member – then discussions must be had. What do we know about the whereabouts of Mr Eusebius Bean?’
‘Nothing, sir. He has not been seen for some days.’
‘That bodes ill. It seems nobody connected to this case returns once they have vanished. I will put out a notice to all watch houses.’
‘Quite. It has been a strange case, but I hope we can take some comfort from its conclusion and not gaze too closely at the details.’
‘At present, I am inclined to agree.’
‘Well, I have matters to attend to and I am grievously fatigued. May I be relieved, Sir Richard?’
‘Not quite yet. There is one more question that needs to be answered. I wonder if you can explain the purpose of this ledger that was found locked
in your office.’
‘I . . . I have never . . .’
‘It appears to be a surveillance catalogue detailing the movements of a number of highly notable personages and their visits to certain establishments. I wonder how such information was gained, and on whose authority? Is that a question you can answer?’
‘I . . .’
‘Do you realize what levels of illegality, treachery and deceit this ledger constitutes, Inspector Newsome? Do you realize what you have done?’
‘How . . . ?’
‘I received a letter informing me that you were running an unofficial group of constables who apprised you of this information in return for you turning a blind eye to their particular schemes. All of those men have been identified and dismissed in shame. On the assumption that this knowledge must have been stored somewhere, I had your clerk brought before me and the truth came out. Now – what penalty are you to face?’
‘Sir . . . I . . . Who sent that letter? May I see it? I fear it is a fakement.’
‘That is hardly a concern of yours at this moment. It was anonymous. It may have come from any one of the properties you were observing, or from any one of those people who perceived themselves observed. It matters not. What matters is whether you go to gaol.’
Sir Richard folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. In fact, it was not anonymous at all. In addition to being a denunciation of Mr Newsome, it was also a letter of resignation from one Mr John Cullen, previously a constable of Lambeth.
And so we come to the end of our story. Let us finish where we began, gazing down upon the metropolis from the chill aether of the Monument’s viewing platform.
It remains mostly white down there, an immense page writ with the black letters of a million lives. Trails of smoke trace lines, ash heaps make blots, the river churns ice angrily against the bridges’ buttresses in an endless flow. Life continues, and the snows slowly thaw to reveal the grime: the truth hidden below.
The Vice Society Page 33