The English Monster

by Lloyd Shepherd

  He goes to a bookcase, and pulls down a heavy leather-bound ledger. Opening it, he sees that a good number of pages have been ripped out, and those that remain contain only general information, and no names. He pulls out another ledger. It is the same. The transactions of Benjamin Naar have, to all intents and purposes, been erased.

  2 FEBRUARY 1812

  Toward evening, a knock comes on the door and Abigail climbs down the three flights of stairs to answer it. Charles is out somewhere investigating, as he calls it. She knows he is working on a case with a bitter flavor of secrecy about it, and she knows better than to ask him the details, even on a night like the one just past when he came home pale and anxious, unwilling to talk about the circumstances which had made him so.

  A man is standing on the doorstep, his expensive-looking hat held in his gloved hands, dressed in a marvelous green-striped silk coat, embroidered in a most superb manner with gold and silver spangles all over, with a white silk waistcoat and green-striped breeches. The dress is somewhat old-fashioned, but deliberately so (it is modeled on an outfit worn by George III for his birthday twenty years before).

  Abigail is dumbfounded by the apparition on the doorstep. Some passersby stare at the man, and this alone is enough to embarrass her, careful as she is not to draw the attention of strangers.

  “Good evening, my dear,” says the man, amicably enough (though Abigail thinks she can detect a certain tense urgency in his manner—she has, without knowing it, taken on many of her husband’s habits of noticing). “I wonder if I might speak with Constable Charles Horton. I believe this is his residence?”

  “It is, sir, yes,” answers Abigail. “Though I am afraid he is not here at present. He is still out working.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I’ll wager he keeps odd hours indeed,” says the strange dandy with an attempted smile, and ponders for a moment. He bites his lip gently, a confused movement in stark contrast to the confidence of his bearing. “I wonder, my dear—and I would not ask this if the matter were not of some urgency—I wonder whether I might attend his return?”

  The request is so brazen that Abigail gasps despite herself. She is about to point out the indecency of the suggestion when the stranger holds up a hand.

  “Please, my dear. I hazard that you are Officer Horton’s wife?” His voice is so charming, and his urgent gaze so needy, that her outrage is snuffed out in her throat. She only manages a nod. “Then he may have spoken to you about the recent . . . atrocities in Wapping and Shadwell, which saw out the old year in such morbid fashion?”

  Again, she nods.

  “Well, my dear, I need Officer Horton’s help very badly in connection with those murders. Indeed, I believe he may hold the key to their resolution. I need to speak to him as soon as is humanly possible, and can only stress that I am not the kind of gentleman to make any form of inappropriate request lightly. If you knew me, ma’am, you would realize that my presence here is evidence, in and of itself, of the extreme gravity of the situation.”

  Abigail considers the request. The rooms upstairs are in good order, as ever, and she would feel no shame in showing even such a man as this the interior. The neighbors will talk, of course; indeed, they are probably talking even now. But this kind of gossip has never impinged on Abigail. She has no interest in it, and it holds no fears for her. She has only her strong internal sense of moral rectitude to guide her, and in this particular instance she senses a stronger compulsion—to help this man and not to turn him away.

  She decides.

  “Sir, you may await my husband inside,” she says, with the requisite amount of prim decency. “This is a mean dwelling when compared to the palaces you are no doubt used to, but if you know my husband, as you say you do, you know that what is within was honestly earned and dutifully cared for. I would ask you to remember that the same applies to his other chattels as well. Including she who stands before you.”

  The cloud which had been sitting behind the cheerful face of the gentleman lifts at that, and he grins delightedly. He takes her hand and kisses it, much to Abigail’s chagrin (and much to the obvious pleasure of two local women who happen to be walking past).

  “Constable Horton is an impressive man, and I am delighted to discover his wife is worthy of him, and more. My name is Graham, ma’am. I am indebted to you.”

  When Horton returns, perhaps an hour after this episode, Aaron Graham is seated in an old chair near a small, tidy but adequate fire, gazing through the window at the brick wall of the lodging house next door. Even in these surroundings he exudes quiet glamour and poise, but despite the elegantly crossed legs and the half-smile on the face there is still that pressured sense of urgency that Abigail detected. Horton enters the room (having been intercepted by Abigail on the stairs and told the story of the strange man’s arrival) and Graham stands immediately to shake Horton’s hand with his spare hand, while the other remains firmly in charge of his hat. Horton feels a direct and vicious anger toward Graham, a clear sense of violated boundaries. He takes enormous care to separate Abigail from his work, even to the extent of refusing to discuss this separation. Abigail is his refuge and his conscience. And yet here is this affable magistrate, in his Covent Garden outfit, his arrival trailed by questions.

  “My dear constable, please forgive this unspeakable intrusion,” says Graham, still shaking his hand. “And can I add my admiration for the charms of your excellent wife, who has kept me entertained and amused despite my unseemly irruption into your domestic arrangements.”

  “Mr. Graham,” says Horton. “This is quite a surprise for us.”

  “Indeed, Horton, indeed. May I?” he says, indicating the empty chair. Horton nods curtly, trying to be polite, and Graham sits. Horton goes to stand by the window. Like all great men, Graham is able to own a room containing only his inferiors without even being aware of it. For now, Horton feels he is a visitor in Graham’s apartments, and not the other way around. It does not improve his mood.

  “As I explained to Mrs. Horton, I am here on a matter of some urgency,” Graham begins.

  “So she has told me, sir.”

  “Well, here’s the substance of it. It’s a damned odd tale, Horton, damned odd. Earlier today I released a man we have been holding for two weeks, on suspicion of being an accomplice of John Williams in the late murders. This man’s name is Ablass.”

  “I know of the man, of course, sir. I have been much interested in discovering his history these past weeks.”

  “Ah, yes, no doubt. You may have also heard that I had been acting on the explicit instructions of the Home Secretary in this matter. He believes, as do I, that the Shadwell magistrates did a magnificently poor job in their investigation of these events. He also believes, as do I, that Williams cannot possibly have been acting alone.”

  Horton says nothing. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he becomes conscious of standing to attention, as if he were on the deck of a navy ship and an admiral was coming aboard.

  Graham continues.

  “I arrested two men in the course of my investigation. One was Ablass. The other was the rogue Cornelius Hart, the carpenter who had been working on the Marrs’ shop and who apparently left his ripping chisel behind on the counter there. I believe both to be liars, and strongly suspect either or both of them to have been involved.”

  “And yet you have released them.”

  “Indeed, I have released them.”

  “Why?” The question is perhaps impertinent, coming from a mere waterman-constable and addressed to a great magistrate. But Horton, whose anger has only sharpened, is feeling impertinent.

  “Why, indeed.”

  And here Graham stops and looks, without embarrassment, directly at Horton. He weighs the man up before continuing.

  “There is no direct evidence linking these men to the murders, is the first point. If this were to be tried in front of a jury, we may secure a conviction, we may not. I think, given the still febrile nature of the populace, that a
conviction may be likely. And yet, I released them.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know of these men?”

  “Hart I know of from the depositions. Ablass was arrested as part of the Williams questioning, but had an alibi supplied by a woman.”

  “He did indeed. And interestingly this woman was arrested some days afterward.”

  “On what crime?”

  Again, the impertinence. And again, Graham affects not to notice.

  “She was drunk and disorderly.”

  “Hardly surprising. It is not uncommon.”

  “No indeed. Her mode of payment is, however.”

  “Mode of payment?”

  “The tavern she was frequenting accepted her payment in a Potosí piece of eight.”

  Graham pauses, and watches Horton’s face. Horton tries to keep his counsel. He knows a good deal about Ablass from his investigations; this, though, is new to him.

  “So, I recalled your own particular interest in pieces of eight, and how they seem to be popping up all over this saga. So I began to ponder this situation, while Mr. Ablass sat in my cells. He has an unusual history. Did you know, for instance, that he was a shipmate of Williams’s?”

  “I had heard something of this.”

  “Yes. Aboard the Roxburgh Castle. Which plied its trade along the coasts of what we used to call the Spanish Main. It was a ship badly served by its crew. Mr. Williams was one of the miscreants; he was arrested in Rio de Janeiro pretending to be the ship’s second mate and attempting to extort money from locals in such a capacity. And later, off the coast of Surinam, Mr. Williams and Mr. Ablass were involved in an attempted mutiny aboard the ship. The mutiny was only ended by the sharp thinking of the captain, Hutchinson, who brought the ship to under the guns at Braam’s Point, and applied for protection from a naval frigate anchored there. It was touch and go, apparently. There was some danger that Ablass and his associates might have seized the ship.”

  “Did Ablass lead the mutineers?” Horton has known of the Roxburgh Castle mutiny for some days, and has asked himself this question several times. Now, it seems, is the opportunity to ask it of someone else.

  Graham looks at him, bemused.

  “An interesting question, Horton. A seagoing question, if I may.”

  Does he know about me? thinks Horton. He says nothing, and holds Graham’s gaze.

  “Well, what sparked the mutiny, as you say, is unclear. But by the end of it the bulk of the crew was implicated, and Ablass seems to have been acting as their de facto leader, although his behavior in the midst of the mutiny was odd, to say least.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “He and Williams disappeared for an entire day while the mutiny was in full blood, and said nothing of where they had been when they returned. Ah, my dear Mrs. Horton.”

  Abigail has entered with a tray on which are placed cups and an ancient jug. Horton leaves her to pour out the coffee while he ponders the evening’s developments. Graham looks smilingly at his wife, calibrating his eyebrows and mouth into the exactly correct and decent amount of admiration. When she hands a cup to Horton, Abigail brushes his fingers and smiles, suggesting to Horton that his face has the old mask of concern on it. He follows Graham’s example, and sets it into something less severe.

  “This is interesting, Mr. Graham. Fascinating, perhaps. But it only serves to make your decision to release Ablass even more bizarre. And we have not arrived at your reason to be here this evening.”

  “Ah, yes, you are demonstrating the already renowned Horton investigative technique. Harriott told me I should see it in action. I saw him just last night for dinner. He always speaks very warmly of you, you know.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  “Yes, very warmly. He knows of my visit today, of course. Indeed he wanted to come, but I impressed on him that it is I, and not he, who must make this request of you. When you know the details I am about to impart to you, you will understand why I do not want Harriott to be any part of this. It would taint a great man. So now we come to the nub of it.”

  For the first time, Graham’s poise is at question. His hands become slightly more exercised. His eyes look down.

  “After our trip to Sheerness at the end of December, I made certain inquiries. It seemed extraordinary to me that a single man, this ‘Morgan,’ could have acquired a ship and stayed out of the awareness of the crowd of merchants and insurance-men and shipowners who run things along the river. You know of these men. They financed the new dock, the docks along the Isle of Dogs. They are the men who put today’s London together.”

  Graham looks at Horton at this, but the officer gives nothing back. Graham mulls this, and then continues.

  “But I like to think of myself as someone with decent connections. It did not take long to find someone who knew of this old slave ship and the transaction which took place over it. There is a certain cadre of merchants who have found themselves disrupted by recent legislation.”

  “Legislation?”

  “Legal changes, my dear Horton. We have already discussed—on that doomed ship, no less—the unavoidable fact that certain previously lucrative commercial activities have become constrained by parliamentary actions.”

  “You’re talking about slaving.”

  “Indeed I am. Indeed. The trade has been legally ended, and we can all I am sure feel tremendously pleased with ourselves as a result. But the stark reality is that this has led to some economic changes for some of these old slave merchants. Most of them are in Liverpool and Bristol, but many of them are in London. And many of them are seeking to release their investments.”

  “So slave ships are becoming available for purchase?”

  “My point exactly, Horton. These ships could be refitted for other cargo, of course. But these men have little incentive to make such an investment. They would rather realize their assets, quickly and quietly.”

  “Quietly?”

  “Quietly, Horton. Whatever some of us may think, there has been a stench around the slave trade ever since that blasted ship came back to England with its sordid little history. Slave merchants may have provided the economic grease for our national machine, but they are not being thanked for it.”

  “So, this Morgan acquired an old slave ship, and you found the man, or men, who sold it to him.”

  “Just so.”

  “Which leads us where, Mr. Graham?”

  “It leads us here, Horton.” And now Graham stands and walks to the window, turning his back on Horton. He cannot look anywhere else.

  “Some men sold the vessel. This we now know. But other men funded it.”

  “Other men?”

  “Yes, other men. Other men invested in the ship’s next mission. Considerable amounts, I am told.”

  There is no sound from the room next door, and Horton is convinced that Abigail is listening to this conversation. The fire crackles in the hearth, and Horton watches Graham’s fingers as they clutch each other behind his back. The grand green-striped jacket is slightly hunched, almost supplicant. The wig is immaculately placed, but a curl of gray hair is peeking out from beneath it, a shocking sartorial error. Graham dressed in a hurry.

  “So, this Morgan got investors for his journey, with help from some quarter or another,” says Horton. “We could have guessed this much.” He says nothing of Naar and his suicide note. Not just yet.

  Graham is still looking out of the window.

  “It is rather more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

  Horton waits. The elegant man bows his head, and then turns to Horton, as if by some act of will.

  “I have been given certain information by a party which must remain anonymous. The information relates to the history of William Ablass and has led me to a certain conclusion. Ablass is Morgan.”

  Horton cannot stop himself. He lets out a single, harsh laugh. Graham looks at him, somewhat sadly.

  “Ablass is Morgan?” says Horton to him, all thoughts o
f social deference departed. “This is your information?”

  “It is.”

  “You are informed that a mutinous sailor living in poor circumstances in Wapping has been able to secure backing for a slaving trip?”

  “That is the sum of it. But Ablass is rather more than a mutinous sailor.”

  “So, what else might he be, Mr. Graham?”

  “This I cannot say.”

  Horton considers this. His mind is racing to incorporate this new information, and one question above all presents itself.

  “Why are you here, Mr. Graham?”

  “Ah, Horton. You have a forensic ability to sniff out the hardest question.”

  At that Graham stops, sits back and watches Horton, who looks back at him without blinking or moving, as if waiting for the next act in an extraordinary theatrical drama. There is silence from outside the door, but it is a very full, very watchful silence, the silence of a careful woman with her ear to the door. The fire crackles and squeals in the grate. Horton notices that Graham is sweating, and that a nervous tic has commenced above his left eye. The passion has seeped out of Graham’s voice, and the old composed visage, the half-smile and the mots justes, they are all gone. He is speaking with great care and great precision, but his face is damp and his left eyebrow is dancing like a duck skidding on ice. Horton notes this, and notes with care everything he now says.

  “My hands are tied, Horton. I can pursue this case no further because certain gentlemen do not wish it to be pursued. They are fearful for what I may uncover. I have released Ablass because I have been instructed to do so.”

  “These being gentlemen who have invested in this undertaking, and do not wish this investment to be revealed, since it is both illegal and immoral.”

  Graham says nothing to this.

  “I believe,” Graham continues, “the connections between Marr, Williamson, Williams, and Ablass are clear and that Ablass was certainly involved in the killings. I also wish to state that I have my suspicions that Williams did not take his own life in that cell. If he did not, the murderer is even now making his way to Sheerness. And I can do nothing to apprehend him.”