“Give me it. I shall see if it has any force.”
“You mustn’t show it to any lawyer who might know—” She thought better of naming names. “If anyone learns of this—” She drew her hand across her throat.
“I’m the soul of discretion.” I would tell Cora or Sabine when and where Skittles should meet me. She veiled her face. She would show me to the backstairs, which led into Burford’s Panorama, a back route to avoid the bullies’ gaze. “And the contract?”
She glanced about and drew out an envelope from under her bodice.
I smiled. “So closely watched.” I drew out my handkerchief to wrap it in.
“My handkerchief of old?” It was her turn to smile. “You carry it still?”
“Everyone longs for a hanky imbued with Anonyma’s perfume. Flash gents pay fifty guineas in the clubs.”
“Spoony chumps. That perfume was just apothecary’s tincture. Yours, on the other hand, shall have the genuine article.” She grabbed it, fiddle-faddled at her skirts and handed the handkerchief back with a wink. “Genuine cassolette du jour.”
AUTOMATON QUERIES
It was most inconvenient that my librarian friend, Miss Villiers, had moved to the countryside. She was never at the British Museum when I called, and I am not an assiduous correspondent. Her frosty postcard wishing me a happy Hogmanay inspired me to reply by letter. I made casual mention of the chess automaton. Might she rustle up something on the subject next time I popped into the library? Incidentally, my reader’s card had expired and I needed a referee to commend me; could she think of anyone?
I awaited her reply eagerly. She could never resist a mystery.
My enquiries about J.W. Brodie turned up no more, until my toothache turned into an abscess. The dentist Sir Richard sent me to was a cheerful colonial, a devotee of the new ether treatment, and rather indiscreet. His tattle took my mind off the pain: Gabriel Mauve was one of his patients, and J.W. Brodie was his tennis partner. These two he held up as the poles of discretion: Mauve continually vaunted and flaunted his hobby horses; with his vast success Brodie was reserved. When the dentist had ribbed Brodie, however, about the debacle with the Bugle, Brodie couldn’t resist an indiscreet boast. He didn’t give a damn about it being shut down. Illustrated newspapers were here to stay. With engravings ever cheaper to reproduce, he had at a stroke persuaded thousands of penny readers into paying half a sixpence for his Illustrated Police News. No, no, Brodie didn’t give a hoot about the scandal. In fact, he had encouraged the outcry, whereby his competitors advertised his papers for weeks on end. If heads had to roll, so be it. After all, for a newsman, succès de scandale was simply success.
THE VENAL MUSE
Felix had implored me not to give up; Skittles inspired my next steps.
I lost no time in seeking out Groggins. An elocution teacher by trade, Sheridan Groggins was a chancer, a Dubliner riding his wits through London society, with qualms about meddling neither in the lowest echelons nor the highest if there was a penny in it for him. To find Groggins mixed up in this business was no surprise.
I knew better than to warn him of my arrival. I watched his doorway in Mayfair a while, noting the regular comings and goings. A finely clad lady slipped out; though of course ladies and courtesans can be hard to distinguish, and both may be anxious about their vowels. Pleased with her progress, she didn’t notice me hovering near enough to catch the door before it closed.
Groggins’ study door being ajar, I peeked in. He was scribbling so furiously, writing up florid annotations, that he did not notice me wander in. I had time to cast an eye over his bookshelves, where I was not surprised to see titles from Dugdale-Hotten’s catalogue. On his desk stood a large black file, inscribed M—S—L—.
“Be-jaysus. Are you after giving me a heart attack, Sergeant?” He scrabbled the sheets away into the file and locked it with a padlock. My amused look he could not ignore. “Not that I’ve anything to hide from the likes of you.”
I sat, uninvited, in his armchair. I allowed the silence to hang between us. Groggins was a voluble soul. If I remained taciturn, he would not resist telling me what was on his mind. On the coffee table lay a cheap bound copy of Lady Audley’s Secret, part two.
“Dreadful story,” he blustered. “Only one gets so hooked. Could you believe the end of that second instalment?”
“I imagined your tastes above such sensational claptrap, Groggins.”
“I have a theory, you know. Those bemoaning sensation fiction’s baneful influence upon society, and on literature, are the very same voraciously buying the books.” He glanced at his file. “And when the government passes acts against obscene books—well, doesn’t it make you wonder about governmental reading habits? That old devil Palmerston, eh?” He wagged his finger. Seeing his own hand unsteady, he reached for the inevitable bottle of cognac. He poured me one too. “Funny thing, Sergeant. I was minded to call on yourself.”
“Problems with the parade of flowerlike womanhood through your door?”
The blood drained from his face, as if I had just signed a warrant for his death. He drank down his brandy, coughed, and poured a second. “That’s a peculiar expression, now, Sergeant, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m sure I don’t mean anything by it.”
“Ha.”
I followed his gaze back to his file. “Business weighing on your mind?”
He drummed his fingers on the desk, straining to regain his equable humour. “The government bans lewd books. There’s a positive explosion of the stuff. Why?” He blew out through pinched cheeks, and decided to confide in me. “Sensational literature is as popular in the drawing room as below the stairs, so your discerning gent feels the urge to dig deeper for titillation. Lo and behold, he hears tell of the French filth of the last century. But editions of the Marquis de Sade dent the bank balance. Hence the new publishing craze.” He looked at me penetratingly. “You’re aware of the self-published mémoire érotique, no doubt? The critics rubbish them; the public decry them; they sell by the cartload. Twitchy publishers leap on the donkey cart, sniffing for success. Invent us fresh misadventures, they tell impoverished scribblers. Seek out forgotten tomes, retitle and republish, they declaim. Or pretend you’re republishing. Lo, a new profession is born: the libertine’s scribe.”
“A post you willingly apply for.”
He sighed. “Here’s a funny thing, Sergeant. The lovely courtesans, whose vowels I have coached for so long, abruptly find themselves in possession of a second commodity, equally sellable—and less frangible than corporeal beauty. Besides their curves and unmentionables, they have a wealth of stories.”
I thought of Cora in her languorous chiffon. “An unquenchable supply.”
“Jesus, they’ve only to recount their everyday habits.” Leaping up, he paced back and forth by the French windows, regaining his swagger. “And such good recall they have, I tell you. A poetically minded whore can generate remarkable sales.”
“No doubt rephrased with your inimitable wit?”
“You’d think so. You’d imagine the public want their tales tarted up. A little prettification, remove the dismal interludes, the emotional stultification, the violence. Not a bit of it. Turns out that readers love the tawdry minutiae of amorous dalliance: the roadside piss; the dirty underwear; the washing of the quim, or not washing; the food ordered so as to stay longer abed; the chance fuck by the Pleasure Gardens.”
“No need to be coy, Groggins.” I sipped my brandy, thinking of Skittles and her unscriptural language.
He barely heard me, gazing out through the frosty panes. “The disease inadvertently passed on to a wife; the chubby thigh, the ill-matched bosoms; the lumpy nymphomaniac preferred to the heavenly prude; an uncle fond of the birch; a Latin master whose handshake lingered; bath time with Aunt’s straying hands. These ingredients, excised from erotic literature as cheap and vulgar, are the stuff of these new erotic memoirs.”
“You revel in inventing this stuff.”
“Inventing? No need. I simply set it down.” He tapped at the file. “Country girls promised marriage by raffish rakes. Parlour girls enslaved. Wife meets husband in classy bordello. The inevitable vicar’s daughter.” He put his hand to his brow. “It sells. It certainly sells. Isn’t that justification enough, that this is what people want to read? Should men seek more exalted dreams? We used to demand erudition. Enlightenment. Today’s narratives titillate and disgust. Not just erotica. Sensation novels and detective bilge, spicing commonplace truths with sexuality. Priapic clowns bestride our fiction, evicting tragic heroes: Romeo with doublet unclasped and breeches round ankles, pleasured by sirens, nymphs and muses, orchestrated by cloven-hoofed satyrs. I considered myself unshockable. By these girls, I tell you, I have been shocked.”
He pushed open the doors to the balcony, as if afflicted by these sordid tales. An easterly wind cut through the cosy room; Groggins didn’t seem to notice. He leaned against the frame of the French window, toying with the hanging basket, where the lobelia was absurdly in bloom, despite the winter gales.
“Pleasure,” he said, “is all. Pleasure justifies itself. If these tales of abasement and abomination disturb? Away with you. They’re just stories.”
I drank down the brandy. “Just stories.”
“I do love my flowers,” he murmured, clutching the edge of the hanging basket. “I’m a fool for them, so I am. It’s sinful.” He swallowed tightly, as if he had said too much. He glanced at me, feigning carelessness, and set about watering with a scarlet jug. “Who’s sent you this time, Lawless?”
I mustn’t land Skittles in deeper trouble. “Unless there is more you wish to tell me, you’ve answered my questions.”
“Have I, now? Then, if you’ll excuse my language, get the hell out of my apartments.” He glanced out the window, and gave a laugh. “I wouldn’t wish my premises to get a reputation for beastly respectability.”
AND LEWDNESS
The fifth time, she arrived late and avid for me, tearing off my clothes within minutes. Not uniform; I never went in uniform. She took her pleasure with delicious serendipity, covering me with delicate, deliberate kisses.
The next time, we were both early.
The next, earlier still. After the first sating of our hunger, we would dwell on each other’s body, exploring and searching and seeking each other’s pleasure with a dreamy indolence, until I felt I knew every inch of her skin, every imperfection on her arm, every mole on her back. I would stroke her skin, massage it, scratch it—how she loved to be scratched.
But I promised myself I would write nothing of these intimacies. Only that to recall them is to relive them; now that they can never be any more, such riotous recollection is an indulgence. Her neck, her soft thighs, the delicate perfume of her hair where I so loved to bury my face.
But this has nothing to do with the case. No indiscretion, nor blackmail, as you might fear; as, perhaps, I should have feared. Simply that I am not immune to the lure of the female form. And the unease that grew to haunt me: that I am part of the problem, not the solution. That perhaps we all are.
I knew nothing of her beyond her name. It seems wildly improbable, or foolish, but she had asked me, and I had kept my word. She was a lady—nothing could be gained by knowing more. If she were widowed, she might be too high to consider me a suitor. If she were married, that was only to be expected. If she were unmarried, then… we must answer further questions when they arose.
She entwined her finger into my lapel. “We should end it.”
“You’ve tired of me.” I smiled as she pulled me toward her.
A SIGHTING
I saw Felix briefly on my rounds, as I ducked out of the gales into the Opera House.
He had popped out to call for drinks. The waiter was following him patiently, with champagne and two glasses.
“Lawless.” He glanced about in nervous excitement. He was not discomfited by seeing me, but rather distracted; so different from our last meeting, it seemed strange not to comment on it. There were no anecdotes, no quips, though his warmth was unreserved. “Can’t stop. Second act. Thrilling stuff.”
I asked if he had news of his foundation.
All well, as far as he knew, but he had handed over the reins entirely. “My own energies are failing, you see. But, thanks to your party, I have able helpers. Such capable people. They have it working like a charm, I’m told.”
“You haven’t inspected?”
“No. Ought I?”
I offered to visit in his stead.
“Capital, young man. Yes, you do that, when you have a moment.” He beamed, his silver hair gleaming with oils. His evening dress was ornate, far from the unadorned tweed he had worn when first we met. His eyes flickered past me. “Would you mind terribly, young man, if I excused myself?”
AUTOMATON ANSWERS
Miss Villiers looked dramatic in her red winter coat. I was glad to see her, though she had her brisk air on, as if she would stand for none of my usual joshing. The angora scarf wrapped around her lustrous hair, to stave off the winds, increased her theatrical aspect. I found it easy to compliment her, for once.
“The dowdy clothes I wear for library duties are not of my choosing.” Seeing me silenced by this bristly response, she softened her expression. “I must make haste. I am due down the line for dinner with the aunt. The original Turk automaton was never reliably exposed. In 1827, two boys claimed they watched for hours after the game, and saw a man climb out. The Federal Gazette identified him as Schlumberger, a German chess master. But would Schlumberger have endured such constraints? The National Intelligencer called it another promotional stunt. Historians have puzzled ever since. I’ve read the explications by Dr Silas Mitchell, Robert-Houdin, Fiske and Kummer. Not to mention our friend, Mr Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Edgar Allan Poe?” I smiled. She had once lent me Poe’s tales. His involvement not only gave the thing an air of enormity in Ruth’s eyes, but it reignited our old detective connection. She knew me for a slow reader, and I was always grateful for her researches. “And have you a solution?”
“I have thought of little else all week. I have read and reread all the commentators. The mechanics are advanced. Of that there’s no doubt. After all, the Turk inspired the Spinning Jenny, the analytical and difference engines. But to play chess? Could a machine beat a human? Mr Poe tested each theorem, through his powers of imagination. I’m convinced: he surmised the only way the automaton can be worked.”
And she told me.
It was too audacious. It was so audacious that it was inescapably the truth.
I cast my mind around the criminal fraternity. Who had such a conjunction of attributes physical and mental? “It’s so hard to credit any individual with the wherewithal to pull it off.”
“Ah, but you make an assumption. Why an individual?” Her eyes sparkled. Ruth liked nothing better than a puzzle. “Might not two people work together? Imagine a diminutive couple, for example, with differing expertise. One agile, the other a chess fiend. Plenty of needy folk would endure discomfort and privations for the right fee. Do we know of a paymaster?”
The pleasure of discovery animated her pretty face. I looked at her. I could not tell her the full story, but I hinted at the dark waters of blackmail, without mentioning Mauve and the others and their foolish memoirs. “Whoever is the architect of the scheme has much to gain: power and influence.”
“Keeping his hands clean of the entire business. I knew it.”
“You have it. A mechanism controlled by forces we cannot fathom. Your perspicuity, as always, has set me right.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking for the irony behind my compliment, but there was none. “How will you seek the perpetrators?”
“I shall begin by asking Molly.”
Ruth could not restrain a smile. “Do.”
I knew it. She must have already consulted the smudge-nosed little tyrant.
“But I must run for my train.” She squeez
ed my hand with the old fervour of our previous investigations. In my excitement, I had forgotten to ask about my reader’s pass. As I watched her elegant figure run up the Waterloo steps, a pensive mood overtook me. Oh, yes. She had intimations of who was involved in the automaton racket, for Molly and Ruth were pretty tight.
A POOR LIFE
The winds brought an Arctic cold straight off the North Sea. My police greatcoat seemed a thin cardigan. The shoots of new endeavours were frosted on the branch, flowers nipped in the bud. On and on it went. A winter too hard. Tempers frayed, and people died in their beds. The river froze again, but those who moaned were reminded they didn’t know much: this wasn’t nothing like the old freezes London used to suffer year in, year out.
It was weather to make the curmudgeon congregate. Protests everywhere. One influenza followed another: cow flu, sheep flu, Brazilian parakeet flu. Protectionists said we’d all die from the next: too much commerce with the filthy East and their bubonic plague; or was it the Indies? Wherever the natives no longer wanted to buy our opium, which was a terrific liberty.
I turned up early at the Adelphi Arches on the day appointed for the Oddbody get-together. I was idling through a game at their chess board. No sign yet of the promised congregation, but Molly’s timings were beyond science.
Bede shuffled in, disconsolate and alone. From every part of his coat hung cheese slicers and nutmeg graters. This was his trade when the theatricals dried up. Round his neck was a sign: BORN CRIPPLE. Without the Pixie to dress him and shift him, he cut a pitiable figure.
I could not help but marvel at his fortitude. Bede was scarcely more than head and trunk. His arms and legs were withered. His hands bent inwards, sinews contracted, fingers curled like bird’s claws. He shuffled on his knees, clogs on leather caps strapped around thighs thin as wrists. He cast an eye over Molly’s message board: auditioning for Blind Gospel Reader at Richmond would not make the most of his disabilities; Human Cannon Ball was a short-term contract; but Midget King Lear at Savile House might be more his line.
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