I paused at his door. Jeffcoat arose, eyeing the papers on the commissioner’s desk with a pained look. He dallied as he passed me and spoke quietly. “Watchman, come and see me, will you?” My disdain must have been obvious, for he shoved his nose in my face and reiterated with sincerity, “I could do with your help.”
I looked after him in consternation. To my mind, we were at odds, he in favour and I out of it.
“Get in here,” Sir Richard barked, tugging at his whiskers.
I glanced at my watch, anxious about the timing for Skittles’s rescue. On the corner of Payne’s desk lay Buckle’s instructive History of Civilisation, the bookmark far advanced; I picked it up to find the dust jacket was in fact covering Lady Audley’s Secret. “You’re getting to the good bit,” I said.
He winced. “Don’t tell me.”
“Gets ludicrous after that. As if she hadn’t planned the ending.”
“I asked you for good news.”
He laid the Illustrated Police News over the book and huffed. SCANDALOUS DISCOVERY, the page was titled; in the engraving, police held their noses, prising open a trunk to reveal a dismembered woman squeezed in like a children’s puzzle set. Down the page, a SANCTIMONIOUS SCOUNDREL murders his own child, followed by CRUEL FATALITY OF THE IDIOT BOY: KILLED BY A CRICKET BALL—or perhaps these were two separate outrages.
“I’ll tell you what the bloody scandal is,” he muttered. “Painting us as twits.”
“How effectively Mr Brodie’s papers have been trammelled by the closure of the Bugle.”
Payne looked at me sharply. “Enough of your smart talk, Watchman. Unless you have something to contribute. It’s no wonder they make such headlines.”
“A murder a day.” My eyes flickered round after Jeffcoat. “Where does Brodie find them?”
My imputation—that these rags had peculiar access to police activity—Sir Richard did not heed. “Give Brodie good news and he’ll splash that across the news stands.”
“If you ask me, sir, J.W. Brodie—”
“I asked you for figures showing that prostitution and bawdy houses are on the decrease. Get me those; I’ll ensure Brodie publishes.”
“I’ll bring you the figures, sir, in time for the Commons Committee —”
“Ah, yes. The Committee is to be convened ahead of schedule.” He pushed the papers aside. I spotted a report written in Jeffcoat’s hand—so the layabout did some paperwork, after all, besides tipping the wink to Brodie’s newshounds. “As soon as possible.”
“When?” I blinked. “Next month?”
“Sooner, I’m afraid. We have to take the opportunity, of course.” Payne stood and began to pace. He looked harassed: pressure from above, no doubt. But someone was trying to sideline whatever I might discover. “Parliamentary situation’s uncertain. Delay on our part won’t do.”
My mind was running in circles. I wanted time to tell of the outrages Skittles had outlined. I would struggle to sum up my first reckoning of the figures, even with the 9.23 Club’s questings and the societies’ figures. My report must leave no stone unturned. It had to be compelling. To force the Committee to act—
“What have you to say for yourself?”
I shook my head in dismay. “You promised, sir, to let me do this thoroughly. A balanced report. I’ve had no help—”
“Darlington’s helped.”
“You call that help?”
“You can’t go round upsetting people, Watchman. Waltzing into a private room on business premises.”
Now I saw it: the bloody publishers, Dugdale-Hotten, had complained. “Not a private room, sir. Business contravening the Obscene Publications Act.”
“You need proof of that.”
“I have proof.”
“Why have I not seen it?”
“Because, sir, it is only the tip of a stinking dunghill.”
The silence hung between us. I found myself squinting at Jeffcoat’s report on the desk, where I read the words “infants”, “unmarried”, “forming”.
Sir Richard sucked in his breath. He gave an airy gesture. “Drop it.”
“It’s a dunghill I am excavating to build our case for the Committee.”
“We’ve had complaints.”
“From Dugdale and Hotten?”
“From their clientele. They are rather well supported.”
There was a time that a complaint made against me sent me into paroxysms of angst. These days I was disappointed when nobody complained. “Well supported?”
“Dugdale and Hotten remain at liberty to trade. For now.”
“You’re not going to favour them over me? Ha. I must remember to be well supported next time I break the law.”
“Lawless, don’t be an ass. Forget the dirty books. Back to your task.”
“I am at that task, sir. I lent Darlington a hand with these obscene books to investigate those awkward thefts that you’ll remember.”
The wind rattled against the window. Sir Richard gazed out. “Let’s say no more about it.”
“They’re connected to the wider crimes I’m taking census of.”
He rubbed his chops, looking pained. “Dirty books, Watchman, they’re just dirty books. For God’s sake, setting a few words to paper, it’s not really a crime.”
“I agree, mostly.” Of this, I was persuaded. As Collins and Alexandra put it, erotic writings were an outlet, not a provocation. But there was something shifty about Payne’s defence; I recalled his name on Dugdale-Hotten’s subscription list.
“There’s worse on the shelves of any gentlemen’s club. Volumes that have to be chained up so as not to be filched. And re-covered yearly.” He laughed weakly. “Don’t be such a starchy-arsed Scot. It may not appeal to you, but many right-thinking folk happily peruse these volumes.”
I looked him in the eye. “Dugdale’s struck a deal with you.”
“Confound you, Watchman.” He went to the door, to be sure it was closed. “It’s the bloody British Museum, promised some almighty bequest. An antiquarian book collector offers a Don Quixote first edition. The fellow also collects erotica. He rests his offer on us letting Dugdale trade freely.” He put his hand to his head. “The Obscene Publications Act was a rush job. People today, you and me, we can judge what is obscene and what is not. Never any need for bloody legislation.”
Word from on high: Dugdale gets immunity to secure an old book for the library. I laughed hollowly. The old Whig. Why trust Payne, if his arm could be twisted so? Damn politics and his ambitions. What other enquiries might he forestall? Dugdale’s complaint didn’t bother me; this protection did. I decided in that moment: I would confide in Sir Richard no longer, not about these investigations, nor my fears of what I might uncover. “April, did you say? I shall be as ready as I can.”
“Friday, I’m afraid.”
“This Friday coming?”
“You’re a sound fellow, Watchman.” He opened the door for me. “Sometimes, you can be too fastidious. Leave Dugdale be, whatever filth he’s peddling. We all need our friends in high places.”
* * *
“I need to talk to you.” Jeffcoat was waiting in the corridor. “About flowers.”
Skittles would be waiting. I gave him five minutes.
What he showed me in those minutes shook me. He started with Acton’s figures. Take the number of unmarried females giving birth. Compare the number of patrimony cases instigated, the smaller numbers brought to trial and the minuscule number won. Add in the number of infant deaths reported, plus suspicious deaths, dubious burials and so forth. The statistics failed to add up.
“Dark waters, Watchman. I would value your help in navigating them.”
Jeffcoat hoped I’d share my researches to help solve these discrepancies. Not a smart move, if he was planning to sell the story to Brodie’s rags. I kept my thoughts to myself. Jeffcoat was direct, amusing, unassuming. I repented of my long jealousy.
As I hurried out into the misty evening, the clerk called out that
he had a note for me from a Mr Groggins. I thrust it in my pocket, but it would have to wait, if Skittles were to be saved.
SKITTLES’S ESCAPEMENT
Cora’s appearances at Kate’s had grown irregular. First she hid her belly, then was sporadically absent; now she was vanished, and spoken of by nobody. The courtesans’ code forbade speaking of the departed, for good or ill.
So it was with Sabine that I arranged my meeting with Skittles. Her heart was set on that respectable café of hers, and took my message warmly; but Kate Hamilton’s was no place to speak of retiring, even surreptitiously.
As the clock struck nine that evening, I drew up the carriage by Burford’s Panorama, as arranged. Wisps of wintry mist gathered around the Dinning Room sign, as a demure lady emerged from the Panorama. She stepped up beside me, her face veiled. Amazing how she made herself respectable with a simple shawl drawn around her bosom. Still the damask rose in her hair, even tonight. I admired her for that.
“Skittles, thank God. That contract of yours: it’s worthless.” I had had it checked by her duke and Bertie’s own lawyer. “Doubly so, as you did not know what you were signing.”
“I may walk away?”
“They have no hold over you.”
Her grip on my arm relaxed, and her dark eyes looked up at me. In this light, the make-up hid the bruises. “Still, better run for safety, eh?”
“Yes. We have all heard of girls thrown off Waterloo Bridge, as if a suicide. But you’ve nothing to fear tonight.”
“Oh, I have everything to fear. They protect their investments.”
She was right. Anyone might sell her out, even an honest cabby. But this was no ordinary cab, and I had her retreat meticulously planned.
The Prince of Wales had not let me down, despite his Danish in-laws’ crisis. This was the royal carriage; to interfere with it would be treason. Bertie’s own driver was to drive Skittles to Paris. There, Bertie himself would introduce her to people who would protect her and her reputation. If they encountered trouble, well, I had cooked up a plan with the driver, which he would explain en route.
Why go so far on Skittles’s behalf? I might need an ally one of these days. Instinct told me I couldn’t do better than Skittles. Besides, she was worth it.
She kept talking about paying me back.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t like to be indebted. I’ve arranged some interviews for you.” She had put word around about my quest to hear girls’ stories—their real stories. “I shan’t forget your help, Watchman. Once I get a few bob together, I’ll buy Sabine her café by Waterloo. Once she’s established, she’ll ask the girls there for you.”
I gave her some banknotes, a spare shawl and a big straw hat. We were sat very close. I was about to comment on her perfume, but thought better of it. She touched my cheek, just for a moment, then I descended.
The doorman of the Dinning Room, a familiar bully, was watching the carriage as it pulled away; I made sure to stroll past him with a friendly nod and was tolerably sure I had been recognised.
PART IV
CIRCLES CLOSE
FEBRUARY–MARCH 1864
The depravity of manners amongst boys and girls begins so very early… The precocity of the youth of both sexes in London is perfectly astounding. The drinking, the smoking, the blasphemy, indecency and immorality that does not even call up a blush is incredible, and charity schools and the spread of education do not seem to have done much to abate this scourge.
Henry Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor
The children of the poor, almost as soon as they can walk or talk, are sent to the workhouse. For girls, these are the primary schools for prostitution… On the countenance of these girls, nothing but joy and animation can be seen, while the very vulture of misery is gnawing—hour after hour—day after day—at their hearts. Originally seduced from a state of innocence, and then abandoned by everyone who held them in any degree of estimation, they are left upon the world, and have no alternative but to go on in the way they have commenced.
W. O’Daniel, Ins and Outs of London
COMPLAINT OF AN INTEMPERATE YOUNG MAN
“Officer, officer!” I call, as I catch sight of your joker, Lawless. My heart is pounding as I burst out of the doorway, pretty much déshabillé, onto Gerrard Street. A couple of girls are passing, French, or Belgian, I’d say, with their crinolines, satin mantles and pork-pie hats. They catch my eye and titter, for I’m sans breeches, I must tell you, clad only in my striped waistcoat. Thank God for the fog, eh?
Your half-witted slogger Sergeant Lawless is passing right by, his bullseye lantern useless in the fog. I grab at his shoulder. “There’s been a theft,” I say.
“Really, sir?” And damn it, if the blighter doesn’t look over my shoulder, as though he’d rather be in the pub. He’s on his way to some assignation, no doubt about it. “Do tell,” he says, loath as you like, and looks at me as if I’m some kind of gigolo.
I’m furious by now, and the sorry tale pours out, as I steer him to the door. “The blighters are doubtless on the point of escaping.”
“We’ll do our best if you just slow down.”
“Arrest ’em. God damn it, shift, man.”
He drags his heels. “You say, sir, you went willingly to this woman’s room?”
And the canting blockhead begins to tilt the whole blame on my head. I tell him how she eyeballed me. The free drinks. Virtually ravishment, don’t you know. I’m choosy about my fillies.
“You’re sure you have been robbed, sir?”
I gesture at my bare knees, apoplectic.
“And this is the house, is it, sir?”
“Do you take me for an idiot?”
He doesn’t answer, checks his watch and bangs intemperately at the door. “What are we saying has been stolen exactly, sir?”
“My money. My trousers.”
“And your watch, sir.” He nods at my chain dangling free.
“Oh, blast.”
The door opens. A demure old she-goat peeks out. “What is it, officer?”
Is this the harridan I paid for the room? I try to push past her, but the policeman only goes and restrains me. “Is this the woman who robbed you, sir?”
“What do you take me for? Let us in, you old hag. Your floozy’s stitched me up proper.”
“My!” The harridan bats her eyelashes at the policeman. Shameless. “This is a genteel house. Tell this filthy yob to try his improper talk at a more suitable address.”
She gave the plate by the door an ostentatious wipe—Ladies’ Finishing School, my arse.
The police fellow sighed. “Madam, it will make less of a scene if we unravel it in your drawing room rather than on your doorstep.”
The whole house was quite changed. I jest not. Within five minutes. And would you believe that the layout of a night house so usefully corresponded with a private ladies’ academy? The parlour, whose sofas were filled with girls lolling perpendicularly, boasts two bespectacled frumps reading philosophical volumes. A wholesome lass arranges flowers. Upstairs, the erotic woodcuts have gone in favour of worthy engravings of the Seven Wonders.
The room itself, well, it’s the same, but not the same. With the lamp low, the bedspread looked louche and continental. Under a less forgiving light, I must admit, it looks quite the boarding house standard. I stare about in confusion. Fresh linen, fresh pillows and a modest screen around the chamber pot.
He asks the harridan to give us a moment. She and I lock eyes: I know my story is true and she knows it; I know she knows. But out she strolls, brazen as you like.
To my amazement, the policeman hazards a guess at what has happened and hits the nail on the head.
The girl espied me at the Holborn, a little tipsy. She set her cap at me, outdrank me, put something in my gin, I’d wager. She brought me back to have her way with me. I have a well-heeled look, I suppose. Her frontage looked seventeen, but her rump and calves proved more mature. She str
ipped and I plugged her. Though young, she was well trained, and her free manner pleased me, even the way she washed, pissed and dressed afterward. “What’s this?” she said, when I gave her a half crown. “More than you were promised,” said I, for the room was dear enough.
All of a sudden, she demanded a sovereign; I’d not promised two farthings. She was incensed: look at her shape, she said, and her face; gents gave five pounds to see this beauty. What sort of a gent was I?
“A gent with no more than ten shillings,” was the reply.
She stood against the door, limbs handsome in their bright silks, plump breasts squeezed into her stays. She fumbled in my pockets and roused my blood. I got my hand up her petticoats, until she gave her full attentions. Had she pleased me, I would have given her a half sovereign, but as the crisis neared, she called, “Mrs Smith, here’s a bilk.”
In came the bilious harridan, as I was buttoning up. She wouldn’t have her girl insulted. If I’d no argent, they could pawn my watch. I raised hell till she called out, “Bill!”
Her bully, Bill, appeared and I lost my rag. He came on all menace and knavery, and I was sore afraid.
I tore aside the curtains and bellowed, “Police! Murder!” I smashed him about with the poker, but I was finally overcome and battered out of doors. Defrauded, detumescent, debagged.
As I go over the tale with Lawless, I find myself red-faced with fury.
The sergeant is sanguine. “Your possessions are miles hence with the perpetrators. Nothing to be done, sir. Some girls lift more than their skirts. If you’ll excuse me, I advise you to throw yourself on this lady’s mercy. Borrow a garment. Call a cab.” He looks at his watch. “I’d speak no further on it, unless you wish to waste your time and money—and be known to your friends as the halfwit who hocked his hose to the Holborn hoofer.”
Lawless and the Flowers of Sin Page 15