“But how this works in the perpetration of larger crimes—”
“That you must fathom for yourselves.” She stepped down, with a nudge to the usher. “Lend us a shilling, will you?”
The man looked troubled, feeling for his wallet.
She tutted. “Is our gent in argent, or a gent of three inns? That is, in debt, in danger, in poverty. Has that naughty judge filched your pennies?”
Judge Fairchild, staggered, drew the usher’s wallet from his pocket.
“Misdirection, My Lord.” Molly received the spontaneous cheers with aplomb. As the applause abated, she tapped her temple. “We think we know what we seen, us as sit in judgement, well-heeled and dressed in finery, all aggrieved by the little man’s crimes. But you beaks in your lambskin gowns may tell whatever tale you wish, and the Fleet Street penny-a-liners worse still, while their hands are rooting around in pockets where they’ve no right to root. What a lot of crimes may be blamed on the wrong parties, My Lord, whilst our attentions is misdirected, by those we trust, quite the wrong way.”
THE ALCHEMICAL SAVANT
After Molly’s triumph, I hurried along to the Oddbody Confab. I found Bede alone, distraught, fumbling to chalk words upon their wall. The Pixie had vanished. He feared she had run into trouble with their employers.
I felt for the wee fellow, I really did. “Who have you told of her vanishment?”
He had told everyone, as I hoped. The poor fellow had dragged himself down to the Asylum for Deaf and Dumb Females and the Royal Association in Aid of the Deaf and Dumb. No word anywhere. “I even been to the newspapers. Begged ’em to put in a Missing Persons notice, as the editors know her, you see, and people do so love to read of a helpless mute in trouble.”
The plan Molly and I had cooked up involved certain gambits; played rightly, we might convert a humble pawn into a queen.
“You have done well, young man. You could not have done better. But, Bede, you two were not straight with me.” I put my hand on his poor sloped shoulder. We both knew that he and the Pixie had committed the automaton thefts. “You did it for money, I understand.”
“And chess,” he protested. “I do enjoy a game at chess.”
“Versus drunken MPs and aristocrats? Too easy.”
A smile broke through his misery. “You gave me a good tussle.”
“Twenty-eight moves?” I barked, which brought him to tears again. “Please God, I hope to keep you safe from danger. Have you sent word to your masters, as you promised me, that you can do such jobs no longer?”
His eyes grew round. “Problem is, our man is killed and dead. We’ve left a note for them, saying we are otherwise employed.”
I took pity on him. No matter if he had collected blackmail material. I must share my darker fears. His puppet shows with the Pixie were artful, but she took part in another type of show, after-hours. That night at Quarterhouse was mild enough: I imagined some private displays would have less artistic integrity. As people knew her deaf and dumb, what secrets she might know.
“Dumb. Not deaf.”
“She can’t talk, can she?”
“Talk, no, but—Is that what people think?”
Bede explained: Pixie could communicate perfectly well. Indeed, she understood and remembered far more than you or me. Not only could she tell Bede everything in sign language, she was perfectly able to write it down, if evidence was needed.
“But too young to give evidence in court.”
“She’s nineteen, only short as glass of gin.” His smile froze, as he remembered she was missing. “Is she all right, d’you think?”
“Come with me. Do as I ask. It’s for your own safety.”
A few stray Oddbodies helped me carry their Punch and Judy stall and affix it atop the Yard carriage. Bede himself I brought up to the driving seat.
“You, Bede,” I announced in plain hearing, “are moving in to Scotland Yard.”
We drove ostentatiously along the backstreets, where Bede was known. They catcalled as we passed: “Under arrest, Captain Cripple? What you been up to?”
Bede flushed at the attention, but his fear was evident, which was how I wanted it. I dragged him, quaking, into the Yard. Without further delay, I shoved him into the cell—where he found the Pixie awaiting him. Such a happy reunion. For they were more than friends.
* * *
I had taken the liberty of removing the Pixie from harm’s way, because I felt sure she was in danger. Once the Turk’s demonstrations were done, they were both expendable, but I could not understand her answers—until now. With Bede interpreting her language of signs, the Pixie told us all she could. All about the shows she had taken part in, and other activities forced upon her. She wept a little.
Bede reported her words at times falteringly, at times with anger. She was happy to confess her sins. If the court would hear her, she would testify.
I took full notes and left the statement for her to read over and sign.
My suspicions were right, only the truth was worse. Thinking that mute meant dumb too, many men had been careless in front of the Pixie: careless with their identities, careless with actions, infidelities, exploitations, and crimes. The peepholes, the midgets and the acrobats, these were things I might have expected. I had never expected the other tales she told us: of the children’s foundations she had grown up in, where their supposed protectors allowed them to be molested; of the gangs who had bought them from the foundations to be used and abused at will; of the depraved tastes of people who should know better; and of the black rumours whispered between the inmates of these institutions about friends who had vanished.
* * *
The night was black. I unlocked their cell and escorted them to a little-used detainment room, where I left the window ajar. I said goodnight at the Yard’s front office, turning for a stroll down by the river. At my whistle, Pixie lifted Bede up to the window. Never was I so glad of the foul weather, for the soupy fog enveloped the wharves, and I whisked them both out without a single soul knowing. Into the borrowed boat, and across to Westminster Pier under cover of darkness.
Thence by cab to Clapham, where I was able to install them in the back room of Felix’s apartments, leaving a tip with the matron for her discretion. They knew Felix, and he them. They would be able to keep his spirits up, chatting, and keep watch for me—with strict orders to avoid being seen by any visitors, for their own good and his.
PHILOSOPHY OF SINNING (ENQUIRY II)
Mayhew: That, sir, is a condensation of the philosophy of sinning.
Counsel: The Enquiry thanks you for presenting your extensive researches. Mr Mayhew, advise us whether these night houses are private concerns or a conglomerate.
Mayhew: Investors and speculators undoubtedly own many houses.
Counsel: Can you say which?
Mayhew: [glances around the court] Kate Hamilton’s, Lizzy Davis’s, Sam’s, Sally’s, the Carlton. And many more.
Counsel: Do such houses promote unusual illegal activity?
Mayhew: By unusual, you mean besides prostitution? Yes, sir.
Counsel: Which activities?
Mayhew: Oh, I can’t say. Scandalous iniquities.
Counsel: Come, Mr Mayhew, do not turn coy on us. What else do you accuse these houses of, and why do the police not act thereon?
Mayhew: The police regulate the night houses’ sale of illicit spirits. Nothing more. They cannot reprimand women who are there of their own free will, or claim to be. But the recent census of such women shows how little we know of what brings them to this pass.
Counsel: Enlighten us.
Mayhew: Many, I hope, will speak to this court for themselves. Some are swindled, some seduced, others bought like slaves. Some snatched as children, kept in poverty until old enough to be introduced into the life: desperate, malleable, biddable. For this degradation, who is responsible? Many assume the women themselves. I suggest blame upon the men who demand them. And those who profit by these transactions? Even in
a society where capital is king and regulation a dirty word, would we not want assurances that these middle men do not engineer the whole thing for their own gain? At one end, encouraging, titillating, licensing unruly gents; at the other, enticing, coercing, enslaving women to satisfy.
Counsel: That would be iniquitous, if it were true.
Mayhew: It is true.
Counsel: What evidence have you?
Mayhew: If women wish to leave the life, are they free to? If they become ill or lose their lustre, what becomes of them? If they have a child, what becomes of it? A woman was found beneath Waterloo Bridge only the other day. Another “suicide”.
Counsel: You suggest she was not a suicide?
Mayhew: Such claims I leave to the police, lest I be open to charges of slander.
Counsel: Mr Mayhew, gentleman, scholar and esteemed journalist, do you know who owns these conglomerates of iniquity?
Mayhew: I have signed depositions from many women.
Counsel: Depositions—from such women? We shall need more solid evidence.
Mayhew: Also from bullies, bawds and courtesans.
Counsel: [looks at the judge] There is no reason to bar such evidence, I suppose.
Mayhew: There is every reason to encourage it.
Counsel: And from gentlemen, have you corroborating statements?
Mayhew: [looks at the gallery] This is surely the forum for such declarations. Gentlemen may unburden themselves here, assured of anonymity. In return for candour, let no one fear society’s censure. If we are to tackle these crimes, to eradicate them, it matters dearly how this case is reported, and who is thrown to the hounds of public obloquy. But such matters, My Lord, neither you nor I control.
INDISCRETIONS (ENQUIRY III)
While we watched Quartern Mews, the hearings went on in our absence. My wider remit for witnesses appalled Sir Richard. He wanted the evidence confined to temperance campaigners, with a few streetwalkers and criminal bullies to add colour. I summoned many of Dugdale’s subscribers, several from Groggins’ list of initials, and one or two surprises.
Mayhew and friends: Lemon, the Punch editor, Trollope, Dickens, Carlyle. Darlington was meant to attend and fill me in on proceedings, but he was ill. Contradictory opinions were aired on why women did it, why men did it. Edward Lear, Holman Hunt, Rossetti. Skittles’s duke. Collins failed to turn up, oblivious. Bertie’s sporting friends. And names less known, bankers and civil servants, industrialists and inventors.
Some denied indiscretions, others admitted, many evaded. Rather than illuminating the oldest profession, the recurring refrain was of the press intruding: reporters poking in noses, claiming public interest, sensationalising what was private and making the common man think he has a right—a duty—to read about the sins of the flesh, sins of commerce, and things that go on behind closed doors.
I popped back in time to hear Sir Richard stand up for the press. It was their nose for scandal that kept politicians honest. With regard to prostitution, he pooh-poohed statistics, which made me laugh, considering I had broken my back to gather them for him; but, of course, I hadn’t pruned the numbers quite as he wished.
Counsel asked the wider implications of my new census.
Payne declined to comment.
“Are you happy with the findings?”
“Happy? With the city still full of prostitutes? Hardly.”
“So there are further investigations taking place?”
“Nothing outside the Yard’s normal remit.”
“Is it not true that accusations have been made against prominent figures who cannot yet be named until enquiries are taken further?”
“No.” Sir Richard looked uncomfortable. Though understatement is not downright deceit, he was no card player. He struggled to conceal his ire. The atmosphere in the court was thick, as we all felt his duplicity. He gave me not a glance as he strode out.
“Who will watch the watchmen?” quoted Skittles’s duke, in an aristocratic bellow.
* * *
What had I hoped for from Sir Richard?
I wanted the police to take notice of any crime reported, even if by a prostitute; that she had rights. That if she was harmed, we would investigate. That if a girl came to us, we would believe her until she was proven to be lying. That we would pursue criminal justice. That no judgement of their sins would deprive them of protection. That even the dispossessed would one day trust police impartiality. That those who exploit in this way be never excusable, however their status protects them. That things must change.
That could have been Sir Richard’s legacy. If he would aspire to, he could end this culture of neglect. None of his own peccadillos need ever be mentioned.
* * *
Jeffcoat had anticipated these equivocations. He had Acton follow Sir Richard in giving evidence. Acton was coherent and his evidence troubling. He presented our statistics as a call for social change so cogently that the gallery sat up, half applauding and half scowling. Acton was used to it: anyone whom his testimony offended had already been offended by his books.
He raised queries about children born out of wedlock. These figures he had used to estimate prostitution. Now Jeffcoat had investigated the mismatch between children born and births registered by parish.
Such a strange shortfall should concern us all. Doubtless many grow up as an underclass, unrecognised by the state, without the stamp of officialdom. What of the rest? Hundreds of children, vanished from record. Where were they?
* * *
The court moved on to Dugdale’s subscribers. I returned to our duties, watching and waiting. Pressures were exerted behind the scenes, and the newspaper reported this stretch of the hearings as shambolic. Reported? Direct reportage was banned, of course, but the rags discovered loopholes, evaluating the gallery’s reactions, the impact on witnesses’ families, popular rancour about the waste of government monies. What a load of tripe.
Dugdale remained on Her Majesty’s Pleasure in Berkshire and could not testify; Hotten was gone to France.
One libertarian book lover and expert on the Index of Prohibited Books spoke at length of the importance of free thought.
The next day, Sir Antonio Panizzi declared that his job was to safeguard the nation’s books, and the nation’s morality could go hang; he’d be damned if he’d fled Habsburg Italy only to endure censorship on these shores; while he didn’t admire the Dugdale-Hotten catalogue, he stood by their right to publish and to be read.
Darlington was to speak further of the trade in erotica. He had struggled with his conscience, whether to condemn its provocation or defend it as prophylactic. I told him to let the Enquiry decide.
He did not show up. The court adjourned temporarily while an urchin was sent, but they could not rouse him from his sick bed, and the day was lost. We returned to our observations at Quartern Mews.
Next would be Gabriel Mauve MP.
* * *
My ostentatious arrest of Bede to Scotland Yard did the trick. Two days later, Jeffcoat’s cat Thom attacked two intruders in the night. One got away, but the other was thrown in the cells.
It turned out to be one of my sinister friends from my coffee house chat. Despite long questioning, he would admit nothing, not his reasons, nor his paymaster; he was more afraid of them than jail. He got a short sentence for breaking and entering; but he had been looking for Bede and Pixie, no doubt, and looking to shut them up.
THE BUGLE, 10 MARCH 1864
This summer’s International Festival of Chess, at which the American challenger Morphy was due to confront the masters of Europe, Anderssen, Steinitz and perhaps even our old champion Howard Staunton, has been postponed, provoking accusations on both sides.
To top off the disappointment, the “New Turk” is unexpectedly indisposed. The automaton chess marvel has caused widespread amazement in private exhibitions, provoking accusations of witchcraft, and was expected to challenge the chess champion. The device has been recalled to its makers for maintena
nce. Public performances are postponed indefinitely.
MAUVE’S FALL
In the weeks before Mauve’s fall from grace, the thorns of rumour had entangled him. Barred from reporting overtly on the Enquiry, the press unleashed a storm of scurrilous revelations, almost as if prepared in advance.
Mauve, so lauded as the cabinet’s enfant terrible, endured a barrage of ridicule. His penchant for rhetorical declaration could no longer hide his blindness to detail. One by one, experts denounced him as a blustering, rabble-rousing fraud. His repute for cutting through swathes of fusty opposition dissolved into a fame for hot air and needless offence; his proposals were dismantled, along with the government’s strategy for bridging our “two nations” to spread the glimmer of aspiration to those dwelling in the darkness of poverty.
The Mauves’ parties dwindled, the glamour faded. The servants were dismissed amid black rumours. The grand house was shut down. He moved to the country, she to the sea. Infidelity was whispered abroad: first he, then she, then both. Divorce was imminent. The papers pawed over the legal bloodbath, awaiting the kill.
He was spotted in a disreputable night house. Not unusual for a gent, only unusual to see it reported. His cachet was evaporated. When good will deserts, no one shields you from rumour, that beast with a hundred eyes and a hundred ears. Did you hear what they did? Disgusting. Illegal! Aren’t they ashamed? Degenerates. What will be next?
What was next would have given me pause, had the details come out before the hearing. Mauve’s carriage was implicated in a traffic incident.
It was late at night, south of the river. A girl was knocked down, her legs broken. The driver didn’t stop. The carriage was incontrovertibly identified as Mauve’s. His driver was arrested and jailed for furious driving. He swore he knew nothing of the incident, nor the transpontine streets.
The papers hounded. Mrs Mauve confessed to her hairdresser. Pursued by reporters, she declared she had told the driver to go on; her train was so late, she exhausted, the streets dangerous. Why was a girl on the streets at that hour? The imputations were clear. The Mauves were innocent, victims of a hateful campaign.
Lawless and the Flowers of Sin Page 19