He smiled. “And so I am.”
“Is there no way back for fallen women?” If not, my task was surely pointless: I thought of Sabine and her dream of a genteel Waterloo café.
Acton objected. “Many women only pass through prostitution, as if a station on the underground, emerging back to the daylight of respectable life. If they are detained in that subterranean twilight, it is because we guardians of respectability do not allow them to aspire.”
Mayhew shook his head. “To me, William, any woman ruined, of whatever class, remains a prostitute.”
“Nonsense,” Collins bellowed. “A woman who sells her favours is using God’s gifts to survive. What difference in my writing books, or in Watchman here unhinging mysteries? Damn it all, aren’t we all prostitutes?” He thumped the table. The next table looked over. “I don’t care if you style my writing thus. Make ’em laugh, make ’em cry, make ’em wait. That’s my literary motto. Know where I got it? From a little minx in St John’s Wood. She made me laugh, all right, and cry, for she could work a man’s mechanisms; and, by God, she made me wait—”
“Collins,” we protested. You could rely on Collins to overstep the mark—not by inches, but a javelin throw.
“Society ladies,” said Acton, “weigh up their looks, breeding and dowry to find a husband. Not so different from prostitutes.”
“Except,” said I, “that they look for love.”
The others looked at me strangely.
Mayhew turned his lugubrious eyes on me. “Acton is right that people enter upon a life of sin through poverty or desperation. If the Poor Laws would only feed and house people in need, it would halve the population of prostitutes.”
Acton agreed. “We fret about charitable acts. Make donations. Your friend Felix sets up a foundation. But any of us may fall. We totter two steps from disaster.”
We fell silent, thinking of others’ misfortune, imagining our own. I thought of Skittles. I thought of the woman in the gutter. I thought of Felix’s distress.
“There are pensions.” Collins smirked. “If you are a gambling man.”
Acton ignored his cynicism. “I take out insurance against fortune’s blows.”
Mayhew was gloomy. “You can afford it.”
“Those who have the means ought to pay the premiums for the less fortunate.” Acton became inspired. “A sort of insurance scheme for the whole nation. It need not cost the earth. Without it, we remain two nations living side by side, communing only during commercial transactions; hence the lower element’s slang, so they may hide their paltry deceptions from us, because we have cheated them in spades, grasping all the capital and leaving them to flounder in the Great Struggle for Life.”
Collins guffawed. “You old communist.”
Our candour, political and sexual, had cleared the tables around us and we left. It did me good to make light of it all. But I feared in my heart the story was worse than I’d accepted. I thought of Cora, of Sabine, of Skittles’s tales of abductions and coercion. The prostitution trade depended not on a supply of debased women but the demands of debased men.
Collins chummed me down towards Seven Dials. “Let’s research the topic in Southwark this very eve,” he said, as if suggesting a Thomas Cook outing. “Come along, you mizzling old tuft-hunter?”
“Not tonight.” I scuffed my heel against the pavement. “I’ll just take a stroll.”
“Want company?”
“Only my own.”
Collins looked at me knowingly and hailed a cab. He leaned out the window. “That book about your man, Felix. It was something to do with Secret Prisons—”
And he was gone. I crossed to the opposite corner, where another cab awaited me. The door opened and I saw her. That impish face framed by lush ringlets with their hint of grey.
“Good evening, Sergeant. Would you care to accompany me?”
I got in and, lightly, took her hand. We headed for Titchfield Street in silence, bewitched by the touch of each other’s fingers.
OUR STUBBORN SINS
I was fascinated by her underwear. The chemise, the corset, the crinoline petticoats on a whalebone cage; bloomers in midwinter, then in the old fashion, once spring came, nothing.
That day, we did not make it to the bed. Afterward, I traced my finger down the nape of her neck, where her hair was soft as silk, tresses strewn carelessly across the pillow. Down, down over the bumps of her neck, the indentations between her shoulder blades, down to the hollow of the small of her back. The thrill went right through me.
I was thunderstruck by the thought: this will not last. One day, when we come to our senses, she will end this reprehensible indulgence. She shifted ever so slightly, half asleep, responding to the touch of my fingertips. Such is the compelling touch of flesh. Yes, this soaring joy will be taken from us. I wrapped my arms around her, skin against skin, reminding myself I hadn’t lost her yet.
She told me I seemed preoccupied. I mentioned my work, a subject I usually avoided, and brought out the manuscript pages Darlington had lent me. I held my breath, lest she might be angry. Her cheeks flushed as she flicked through the pages.
I sat by, admiring her glowing skin. “Dr Acton states that most women have no interest in sexual gratification and only submit to embraces to satisfy their husbands.”
“Dr Acton needs his head examined,” she murmured absently.
“We have to confiscate such writings. You don’t think them demoralising?”
She sighed. “When Dickens publishes his latest gory tale, do you accuse him of inspiring murders? These books give pleasure. They may educate the ignorant. Think of Ruskin and his poor wife, not least. What’s so wrong with describing desire?” She pulled me to her. “It’s not just men that shop on Holywell Street.”
This indiscretion made me bold to ask of Felix. From our first meeting I knew that she admired him. I didn’t express my concern; rather that I would like to know more of his past, and Collins had mentioned a book.
“His autobiography. The Secret Prisons of Italy. A bracing read.”
“You’ve read it.”
“Oh, that’s how I know of his illustrious past, and the hardships he suffered.”
“I should like to read it.”
“Ah. It may be hard to find. It was fifteen years ago.”
“But you have a copy?”
“Yes. No. Had.” She bit her lip, tilting her head, a most becoming habit. “I gave my copy away. To a young friend.”
“An admirer, you mean?”
“No, no. To my niece.” This was the most she had ever volunteered about her family, and I smiled. She was angry. “Don’t be jealous. It doesn’t suit you.”
PREPARATIONS & DEDUCTIONS
The weather was exhausting. The winds would not give way, and spring’s warmth was still unimaginable.
The Phoenix Foundation for Fallen Women was established in a disused tannery in Whitechapel. I can’t say why, but I feared I might uncover something unsavoury.
I was mistaken. Everything was tiptop. The warden was an old fellow full of good sense, and his matron suave and competent. She showed me their ledgers, and gladly allowed me to take notes: a roll call of arrivals, possessions, previous addresses, concomitant donations and ultimate departures (with or without child).
I admired the system, which pleased her. She had been taught the technique of keeping such ledgers when she worked on a newspaper.
The whole place maintained an air of competence and efficacy. If anything it was too perfect.
* * *
I enlisted the help of the charitable societies Mayhew had commended me to: the Society for the Suppression of Vice, the Society for the Protection of Young Females, the Society for the Prevention of Juvenile Prostitution, the Society for the Rescue of Young Women and Children, London Female Preventive and Reformatory Institution, the Refuge for Deserted Mothers and Children, Urania Cottage, the Home for Gentlewomen in Reduced Circumstances, the Baptist Noel, the Home of Hope for t
he Restoration of Fallen and the Protection of Friendless Young Women, and the Friendly Female Society.
As predicted, these organisations collected information with all the detail I could wish. What I had not foreseen was how readily they would share it: that I wished to present it to the Commons Committee elicited alleluias all round.
The stories I gleaned from the societies were less rosy than the tales woven for me chez Kate Hamilton, sorry tales of coercion and violation, just as Skittles had claimed. Perhaps natural talents saw the cream rise to the top of the bottle, and Kate’s girls endured lesser sufferings. Yet it tasted sour. On my visits to Kate’s, I found Cora much changed, and unwilling to display her tattoo, for she said she was grown round through overindulgence.
At the 9.23 Club, a competition sprung up between Collins’s team (writers and painters) and Mayhew’s (journalists and doctors). They totted up numbers postal code by postal code, N, NW, EC and E (leaving WC to me).
Acton’s calculations troubled me. So many unwed mothers: what became of their offspring? I must bury the hatchet and speak to Jeffcoat, for he was doing the rounds of the asylums and foundling hospitals.
* * *
The thefts by the chess automaton had stopped, to Payne’s relief. I garnered no credit: I could not expose Bede and the Pixie, and I owed Molly a debt.
It troubled me. Brodie owned the automaton. Was it he who ordered the thefts? Did Brodie not know of my closeness with Molly? Would he have hired the Oddbody duo to conduct illicit acts under our noses? He was not so reckless.
Unless he wanted the ruse discovered; unless he wanted me to know about the power he held over the rich and famous. And Groggins’ tales from courtesans—were these fuel for more blackmail? I found myself waking in the night, mulling over foolish things I’d done in my life, cowering in my bed at the thought of exposure; and I had lived a careful enough life. Which of us is spotless?
Meanwhile, I was preparing to spring Skittles. First, I had that contract of hers checked by trusty friends. Then I begged a favour from Bertie—that is, the Prince of Wales. He was busy with his anxious wife and newborn heir, but he owed me that much.
A YOUNG WOMAN
The next time, as I was dressing, she had news. “I saw Felix. At the theatre. The Lady of the Camellias. You’re right. Something’s odd…”
I waited for her to go on. “Odd?”
“He looked twenty years younger.” She began pinning her hair back up, immersed in thought. “And dapper, as if he had been born again.”
“Alone?”
She looked at me, her eyes bright. “He was with a girl. A young woman. Perhaps a relative. I couldn’t say. He has such old-world manners.”
“Did you speak?”
“Briefly. He was not his usual effusive self. Happy, though—and rather secretive. In his memoir, his family were dispersed. Lost, in all those European revolutions.” She shook off her puzzlement, and gave up pinning her hair. “Don’t let’s talk now. I must soon be off. Come back to bed, Campbell.”
* * *
If only I could go to him and beg him: Felix, what is transforming you? I requested The Secret Prisons of Italy from Mudie’s Lending Library; I read the description in their catalogue, but the sole copy was out on loan. I sent to Miss Villiers to ask her if she might look it out in the British Museum Library, and renew my pass while she was at it.
I often thought of him at the party. Society tittering indignantly over greed, power, lust and a dozen other disreputable themes: one quotes J.S. Mill, another counters with St Paul, the third umpires through Darwin. Felix laughs away their pretensions, like droplets off a swan’s back. He was magnetic. These are the ones for me: people who sparkle.
Yes, Felix was some man. He had led an exalted life, consorted with kings, dazzled from Salzburg to Sebastopol. But it was not his celebrity that drew me. It was an inner light.
In the police force, one is subject to untold criticism. One expects curses from high and low, with London as it is these days, a hothouse of petty investors arguing over interest rates, tinpot speculators banging on endlessly of mortgages and margins and properties and bubbles, news hacks pandering to chauvinist readerships, street women impossible to distinguish from debutantes, and scandals hounding government, opposition, the church, the law and everyone’s uncle to boot.
Adrift in this sea of bellyache, Felix seemed a beacon in the torrid waters of disgrace.
* * *
I contrived to see him again. Arriving at the Opera House at the second interval, I kept watch for Felix but could not espy him anywhere. I purchased a half-price ticket for the final act. The lights dimmed. I would see little of the audience. Yet, as the hero appealed to his lost love, a wild violin struck up: who should I see leaning over the upper box but Felix? And beside him, just visible, another, smaller figure.
I withdrew from the auditorium (with regret: the singing was exemplary, the costumes bold). The waiters were lolling about. I tipped one to fetch an urchin who loitered in Covent Garden, one of Molly’s associates.
Sure enough, before the audience emerged, Felix departed, shepherding beside him a poised young lady. I kept back, not wishing to embarrass anyone. At the entrance, they mounted a cab. I manhandled the urchin into a cab with me, and we set off in pursuit. They headed for Quarterhouse; but the rules of the order were strict, and I thought it unlikely that Felix would drive straight in for all the Brothers to see.
At the end of Quartern Lane, they descended. Of course, there might be nothing to it: she might be the daughter of a friend, or a goddaughter or something, but it seemed odd. I longed to see her. I was ready to risk any awkwardness.
I gave the urchin a box of matches and bade him accost them.
“Lucifers, sir. Lucifers.”
I could not hear what they replied. There was something in her movements that I recognised: a cultured laugh, half-covering her mouth, so as to suggest your joke has been, ooh, too much, but she appreciates your daring. As for Felix’s manner to her, it was neither untoward, nor uncomfortable. On the contrary, he was attentive, and so delighted by her company that it was touching; his old face was lit up with her every comment, and the wee thing seemed to revel in her ability to bring him such joy.
They turned the corner into a sleepy little side street: Quartern Mews, the urchin reported. I gave him a ha’penny, promising another if he reported faithfully where they went, with further observations potentially profitable.
Half an hour later he rejoined me, where I waited in The Sutton Arms.
Felix had escorted the girl genteelly to the door of 17 Quartern Mews, EC. There the landlady admitted them without comment. She served tea, standing by in the front room.
As a chaperone?
Not at all, the boy reckoned. More in the way of a servant.
Indeed, it was Felix himself who saw the girl upstairs, after she had played him an air on the fiddle. He descended soon after, more like a doting father seeing his child to bed than one of the seducing fiends in Darlington’s erotica. During his watch, the keen-eyed boy noted two other shapely young tenants of Quartern Mews arriving home, escorted by gentlemen older than themselves.
As Felix walked away back towards Quarterhouse, the boy reported, he breathed in the night air with the deepest satisfaction. He glanced back toward the house, where the girl stood, silhouetted in the window, waving goodnight. He waved back, then stumbled quickly away, seemingly overcome, gazing up at the stars in wonderment.
I promised the boy I’d report his good offices to Molly. His descriptions set me wondering, and I paid him half a sixpence.
INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW
Irregular winds blew in the last week of February. On the last extra day of the month, I happened to be strolling past Quarterhouse with Molly. I was bending her ear on the urgency of my census.
“Your Oddbodies might want to help out.”
“Might they, old cove?” She wrinkled her nose at me. “In return for?”
�
��In return for my discretion on other matters.”
She pursed her lips, feigning unconcern; but I knew Bede had confessed his sins to her, and she knew I knew.
At that moment, we chanced to spy Felix up ahead, on Quartern Lane, ducking into the Mews. We followed him into the courtyard. I attempted a hulloah, but he did not hear me through the weather’s blasts. He dived straight into the elegant little house, with no ceremony, as if he owned the place. Within a few moments, the middle of three doors on the balcony opened. He emerged with infinite sadness on his features.
“Ho there, Felix,” I called up. “We saw you in passing. Ho there.”
He stared about, in distress, like a bird discovering the nest has been robbed. On seeing us, his face turned white. “Who told you I was here?”
“Nobody, sir.” I was taken aback by this unaccustomed tone. “As I said, we were just passing.”
He shook his head and gave such a look to Molly that I thought he had gone out of his wits. He breathed an almighty sigh and blinked rapidly, as if a cloud of damnation had passed over him. “You must forgive me. This is very good of you. I should like to ask you both up, but the place is really not fit. I have been so… Well, I only ask that you ignore my ill conduct.”
The pallor of his face was rapidly overtaken by a livid flush, spreading visibly up through his features; and as if fearing that a fit was taking him, he withdrew in terror. The fear on his face was so palpable, so graphic, I would have thought I had imagined it, had Molly not witnessed the same.
I had promised her a quiet supper of pie and mash at a Spitalfields hostelry, but we turned on our heel, and neither of us said a word all the way back to town.
SIR RICHARD’S COMPLAINT
Of course, Payne had to call me in. Skittles would be at the Panorama at nine; I was in no mood for complaints. All was arranged. I was only stopping at the Yard for fear of a message from Bertie.
Jeffcoat was sitting in his office as I passed. Bloody Jeffcoat, cosy and intimate, chatting to the commissioner about their latest bridge game, no doubt, like the fearful Masons that they were. “Marvellous, Solly. Anything you need—Ho there. Watchman!” Payne spotted me slinking past. He barked his summons as if I were a yeoman on parade. “Lawless, get your backside in here. You’re in trouble.”
Lawless and the Flowers of Sin Page 14