Lawless and the Flowers of Sin

by William Sutton

By God, he was changed. Barely a fortnight since I had seen him at the theatre, wild-eyed and pale. Now he was bursting with life. The city outside was frozen; Felix was spirited and virile. Of these changes, he made no mention. Was it my place to question him? I frowned as my trousers began to emanate steam. “I’m glad to see you so cheered. The night we first met, you were sad. A little mysterious, too. I wished I could be of more help.”

  He puzzled for a moment, then remembered. “The poor wretch in the street.”

  “All dealt with, sir. You may have seen it in the papers.”

  “I believe I did.” The shadow of a frown crossed his brow. “Do you know, I’d forgotten all about it? Isn’t that terrible?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We’re inured to horrors in this city.”

  “You poor chaps must be, out on the front lines of poverty and squalor. We are terribly protected. Not just we Brothers, in the haven of Quarterhouse here, but all of my class, swanning back and forth from dinner to dinner, from opera to club; and everywhere we pass hundreds of poor wretches, like that woman, ready to drop with exhaustion and starvation, tossed aside by some careless husband or bawd house bully. It’s a disgrace that two such different worlds can exist side by side. An outrage. Not even side by side. Intermingled. Except the only time one side acknowledges the other is the fast gent abasing himself in the world of gaming and loose morals.”

  “Or the loose woman displaying an ankle to attract such gents.”

  “For which they can hardly be blamed.”

  “Oh, I have gone beyond blame and appraisal. I enter numbers on charts.”

  He smiled. “And your numbers, are they eloquent?”

  “They declare that the oldest trade is in no danger from governmental austerities. Whatever opinions we espouse when we are on top of the world, we never know how we will bend those morals when life trips us up.”

  My unaccustomed pronouncements stoked Felix’s fervour. He grasped my shoulder, told me I was the very man and demanded to know more of my census.

  “It is a strange world to visit, and stranger still to annotate dispassionately.” I hesitated. “Distressing, at times.”

  “I’m sure the women say the same.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright, and asked that I relate tales heard in the netherworld.

  These were the tales that haunted my sleep. Sweating in the unaccustomed heat, I told him of the woman with the delirium tremens who wanted to do herself in, but hadn’t the wherewithal. I told of a seduced factory girl whose child starved in her arms. To counterbalance the misery of my theme, I even told of Skittles, her fall and rise.

  He gripped the side of his chair, following my tales with a vivid intensity.

  “Felix, are you all right?”

  As if to emphasise how distant were our lives from those I had been telling, a servant chose that moment to deliver him a letter upon a tray, along with coffee and warmed brandy. A luxurious almshouse, indeed.

  Felix downed the snifter, staring into the middle distance. He poured the coffee, inspected it and asked the servant to try again, with an effort at joviality. “Would you mind terribly? I’m the European chappy and I like it to taste of coffee.”

  I sipped at my coffee, nonetheless, and found it strong enough. “Felix, sir, I’m sorry. These tales I hear every day. I forget how disturbing they can be.”

  “What now? Yes, of course. Forgive me. It’s only that such things have been weighing on my mind recently.”

  “In establishing your foundation for fallen women, no doubt? I should like to pay a visit, see how it works.”

  “The Phoenix Foundation? Well, how it’s run, the details, I haven’t a clue. Beyond my diminishing energies, I’m afraid. I’m just a name, you see. A moth-eaten old figurehead.” He blinked, but it struck me that his energies had never been more fulsome. Behind this retreat from responsibility lay something deeper. “We have employed the best people. They assure me we are finding those on the brink… those vulnerable to…” He blinked again and spluttered for breath.

  “For goodness’ sake, Felix, have another tot of brandy.” I offered my glass, which he gratefully took. “You are too tender a soul to administer the Foundation yourself. You established it, that’s the important thing. The good it does may never be apparent to anyone.”

  He smiled palely. “You’re a good sort, Lawless, old man. A good sort.” He tore open the letter. He took out a cheque book, signing a couple of pages distinctively, with a flourish like a violin. He wafted them in the air, then tucked it back in the envelope. He saw my eyes upon him. “Payments, to be countersigned. For the Foundation. Looks fraudulent, I don’t doubt. I rely upon the charity of Quarterhouse; then I sign off charitable monies to fund my Foundation.”

  “Not at all. These are donations, from your musical admirers and illustrious colleagues, I’m sure.”

  “The last I can eke from my artistic standing. It is all I can do.” He sighed. “I only wish we could raise enough to help every last one of the poor lost women you encounter. One’s funds only go so far.”

  “And the problem is so widespread. No need to explain to me. You find the funds; women shall seek out the Foundation.”

  He nodded, placated. A trail of organ music announced a service in the chapel. “I am expected at evensong. Quarterhouse is an Anglican establishment, nominally, with few rules, but it was once a monastery, and we are expected to be monkish in a few ways. They tolerate this old papist humming along in dissonant tenor. You’ve cheered me up immensely. Thanks for your visit.”

  This was palpably untrue. I found him in a mood of elation and was leaving him downcast. “But hadn’t you something to discuss?”

  “There was something.” He grimaced, as if he had a dreadful confession to make, but again he thought better of it. “It can wait. I’ll make a clean breast of it one of these days. Yes, I’ll tell you next time I see you. We’ll have a glass of brandy and I’ll tell you all about it. I may need your help, your insight into the illicit world.” The organ swelled. He took an apothecary’s dispenser from his pocket, tipped out a pale blue pill and made a face as he took it. “From the diabolical to the heavenly. I must attend chapel or I shall be fined a shilling, you know. Won’t help the finances.”

  He stood, filled with strange energy. The fellow brought over my coat, now quite dry, and I offered to drop off Felix’s cheques, for I would pass Coutts & Co. on my way back to the Yard.

  Felix gazed out at the wintry garden. “Looks wintry, eh, and dead? But the roots nurture their secret life.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I do value your labours. Growing up in Europe, those wars we endured… We have all seen terrible things, things we would rather forget. If your census can make these poor wretches more than numbers on some chart, they are no longer worthless. They are not disposable. They have a voice. It’s a terrific thing you’re doing, whatever Payne and the others think, just by giving it your all.”

  PROGRESS TO REPORT

  “Watchman?” Sir Richard Payne grabbed me as I was trying to sneak in early of a morning. “Deuced hard to smoke you out, you wily Scot. What a state you look.”

  “Long night of it, sir.” I had spent the entire night, for the first time, with Alexandra. My heart was singing though tinged with melancholy, after seeing her to a cab to take her to Waterloo and home.

  “Investigations proceedings apace, I’ve no doubt?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m dropping off my notes before knocking off.”

  “Right-o. Well, pop in before you leave. I want a word.”

  If he heard my groan, he gave no sign of it.

  I was shattered. I had kept my promise to investigate nothing of her life; but I could not help imagining her returning to a putative husband, and thinking not of me until the next time, although she would think of me, I knew. It was the first night I had neglected my researches, and the taste of shame was in my mouth as I hovered in Sir Richard’s doorway.

  “I’ve had complaints, Watchman. It’s not like you to r
uffle feathers.” He held up a sheaf of papers. “Rather a lot of feathers.”

  I waited for him to go on.

  “Don’t be like that, you daft Celt. Sit down.” He was about to offer me a drink. He kept a bottle of gin in his desk. A second glance at my worn features and he thought better of it. “I’m not telling you off. I want to get to the bottom of it. Mauve, for instance.” He perused the first sheet with distaste.

  I did not sit down. I knew he had read the report; I had read it too. “Mauve, sir, was less than candid with me. Which, in investigating a theft, is irritating, sir. An evidently impossible theft at that, and a theft where one may not seek the stolen goods because one is told nothing about the goods, except that they are not in themselves valuable, unless as a weapon of blackmail. Not just irritating, sir, preventing a full examination of the scene, but obstructive. In my opinion, sir.”

  “True enough, Watchman, true enough. But I rely on you to be—”

  “Subservient, sir?”

  “Diplomatic, dash it. You’ve observed the peccadillos of the great and good. I don’t ask you to indulge them, just to show a modicum of tact.”

  “Tact, sir?” I gasped. “If Mauve told me what was in the papers I’m meant to be seeking, I would show tact. But he didn’t tell. I haven’t the time to waste in guessing. As it is, your census of sin is sinfully behind schedule. You have other sergeants. Why was I even called to a theft, I’d like to know?”

  “Because, you great oaf, you are trusted. It is known that you worked for the Royals; it is not known what you did for them. Thus, evidently, you show discretion beyond your fellow officers’ capabilities.”

  The echo of his voice hung in the air. As he read over Mauve’s complaint, Sir Richard could not help the corners of his mouth turning upwards. He set down the paper and gestured at it.

  “All right. This fool of an MP has done something he oughtn’t. What matter? Saint Paul had his sins. What’s worse, though, Mauve has set it down on paper, thinking to relieve or absolve his soul through confession. I don’t wish to know. Instead, said confession is whisked away. Someone somewhere is rubbing their hands, waiting for the moment that the threat of revelation will hurt most—and pay the best dividend. Is it any wonder if Mauve behaves like a pompous ass? Sometimes, Watchman, you must indulge your—”

  “Elders and betters, sir? Yes, sir.” A damn sight easier when they behave as betters.

  He leafed through the other sheets, his face darkening. “But you can’t be interviewing gentlemen when they are, shall we say, at their leisure.”

  “In disreputable places, you mean?” Now I drew back the chair and sat down. “Oh, I must, sir. Not to shame them. To find out where else they go.”

  Sir Richard’s expression pulled me up short. A moment’s silence. “You are making progress, Watchman. Let us set a date for this Commons Select Committee.” He opened up his book. “I have the spring in mind.”

  “Not so soon, sir. We said a year.”

  “I said maybe nine months, but things have changed.”

  “I’m only fathoming the depth of the problems—”

  “You have accounted for several hundred brothels already. The ’57 census counted four hundred and ten in total. Ergo you must be nearly concluded.”

  “That was only resident brothels, sir. We have to include the night houses, and accommodation houses, and board houses.” I was ranting. “Introduction houses, lodging houses—”

  “You will be done by April. Ample time not only to write your report but also to reduce these figures in advance of the Committee. Which would delight the ministers. And reflect well on all of us.” He made a note and shut his book with a triumphant clump.

  I got up to go, but stood there a moment. I was so tired, I couldn’t help heaving the truth into his view. “There are more brothels, sir, ten times more, you know as well as I do. And it’s lodge houses that are the most numerous, if we open our eyes. To count up the courtesans in Kensington Gore, housed in splendour at their lovers’ expense, this is a task I haven’t cracked. Nor how to count the Thameside wretch and the Haymarket hag, too lowly for the lowliest house. Would you want me to view the topmost rungs as beyond the law and the lowest as beneath it? These too must be numbered. You asked me to do the job, sir, and you want me to do an equitable job. Else why appoint me?”

  “Oh, Watchman.” Payne sat back, rubbing his whiskers. “I knew you might upset people. Close down a popular spot, or denounce the antics in the boxes at the Opera House. Instead, this irksome diligence.” He poured himself a gin, tight-lipped, and leaned forward. “Get your numbers, Watchman, by all means. But complete the census, and soon. I don’t care how you do it, with clairvoyants or circus monkeys. Enough questions. No more complaints from gentlemen.”

  He fell silent. I was evidently dismissed. I preferred Payne blunt like this. When he smiled and wheedled, he seemed a lesser man, under the influence of politicians or bankers, seeking advancement or even a peerage, after all he had done to transform the police. I had a sudden intuition: he was headed for retirement. This Commons Select Committee was to be his crowning glory, demonstrating statistically that Payne’s police not only had the measure of the Great Social Evil but had it tamed, and would one day vanquish it. If he could leave the Committee with that fervent fiction, that would be enough; as to the truth of it, he gave not a fig.

  I swore then and there that I would do it; the 9.23 Club and Kate Hamilton’s girls were just scratching the surface. I would follow Collins’s bidding, and call up the troops. Engage Mayhew’s societies. Engage Molly and Bede and their Oddbody Theatricals: the misshapen miscreants knew every draggletail doxy and Haymarket harlot, and they were smart. Them I would visit on the morrow.

  I would seek out Skittles—though of late, I’d heard nothing of her. I was afraid she might have met a bad end.

  There was one more person whose help I could use: Jeffcoat. I could go next door and ask him. What murky corners of the city might his backstairs researches illuminate? But I couldn’t bring myself to cease my quarrel with him.

  All this I thought. I went to leave, but found myself standing in the doorway. “Whether there be one board house by Waterloo or fifty makes no difference, I suppose, sir, nor whether ten girls lodge there or a thousand. But I know that a thousand girls work here, there or under the very bridge; and I shall count them and talk to them and include them in the records for the committee, God damn it. Then you and your politician friends can decide what to do about it.”

  ODDBODY CONFAB

  After Sir Richard’s complaints, I longed to see a friendly face. I used to head for the British Museum, and the solace of Miss Villiers’ bright conversation. Being no longer in her good books, I turned instead toward the Adelphi Arches, beneath which Molly held her impromptu court.

  “Watchman, old cove, that’s a melancholy face.” She broke off pinning and repinning bits of paper across a corkboard. “Hast thou hexertions with which we might hassist thee?”

  “Oh, Molly, I fancy I am beyond hassistance.”

  To distract me from my woes, she showed me her ingenious Oddbody system of messages, professional, personal and cryptic. Each member of their loose collective had a patch of wall, adjacent to their friends’ patches. Here they scratched messages social and occupational in charcoal or chalks. Thus anecdotes, scandals and job news circulated with rapidity among the city’s theatricals, showmen, cripples and beggars.

  WATSON’S MUSEUM OF

  LIVING CURIOSITIES REQUIRES:

  FAT BOY, WORLD’S TALLEST WOMAN, AND AUSTRALIANS

  ART PHILLIPS seeks a Living Mermaid

  MUTE GIRL requires dwarf, able-bodied, for private shows; flexibility essential

  HARVEY’S MIDGETS: need accommodation; current too small

  To express interest or appreciation, members initialled messages, inscribed their personal symbol or sketched a self-portrait.

  Cheered by their invention, I told her my troubles. Overwhelmed
by the census of sin, I could not think straight. I was exhausted, and found myself complaining about the theft at Mauve’s house, and his pig-headedness.

  “What else was found in your man’s room?” Molly loved a good mystery. A locked chamber, mysteriously thieved—this puzzle was right up her street, and she delved for details. I divulged a few tidbits, though I hedged over mentioning Mauve and the sensitive nature of the stolen papers; I was sworn not to mention the chess automaton, but mentioned that a borrowed contraption was in residence. Molly smiled at these evasions. “Anything similar at these other thefts of yours?”

  I hadn’t mentioned the other thefts.

  “Saw ’em in the papers, didn’t I?” Thinking that covered her gaffe, she began rolling out a poster for Ang and Ana, the Siamese Siamese Twins. “Clear as day. Someone’s hidden in the room.”

  None of the thefts had been mentioned in the papers: not the theft I was called to, nor Darlington’s, nor even Jeffcoat’s, though he might yet sell his tale. I blinked. “Nobody was in the room.”

  “Misdirection. That’s what you’re meant to think.” She bit her tongue between her teeth. She knew something. “But I wouldn’t want to spoil your detectional fun.” She returned to her work on the wall, connecting seekers and sought, offers and pleas.

  Such were the differences between Molly’s help and Miss Villiers’. Ruth was an indefatigable ally, deploying her remarkable intellect and insights on my behalf. She could not resist tireless researches. Molly, on the other hand, liked me well enough, but she knew where her loyalties lay: I could not expect her to welch on colleagues. Besides, I had omitted telling details. If there were a connection, Payne must have spotted it. The automaton? Even if it had been in each room, it was too small for a person to hide in. “Heard tell of a chess automaton, Moll?”

  She sniffed, as if surprised by my changing the subject. “Couldn’t say I have.”

  “Bluff and flam, Molly. There’s this automaton doing the rounds. A contraption so miraculous that those who borrow it must swear to keep it secret.”