by Mike Ashley
In a large glass case were the prostitute’s stock-in-trade for the relief of carnal desire – whips, ropes, high boots and oddly constructed instruments whose exact purpose escaped me, but whose meaning was plain enough.
The room was a shrine of sexual abnormality. Apart from curing his patients of their ills, and foretelling their futures, it seemed that Murell also catered for their lusts. That is, if he had any connection with the Temple. Clarety had told me nothing of it and if he had an interest here, she would surely know of it.
Against one wall stood the centrepiece of the whole ensemble. A great bed, an extravagance of crimson silks and glass pillars, perfumed with essences; a bed designed for pleasure, a bed dedicated to the cult of Aphrodite. It was large enough to accommodate at least ten people and, no doubt, often had. Beneath the gleaming canopy hung a mirror, contrived to reflect the transports on the mattress below. I never saw such a bed in my life before. It could have come from the Grand Turk’s Seraglio.
I realized that I was looking at the most famous bed in London. Dr. Godbold’s Celestial Bed, designed for “the Propagation of Beings Rational and Far Stronger and More Beautiful in Mental as well as Bodily Endowments than the Present Puny, Feeble and Nonsensical Race of Christians. No One exists Frigid enough to Resist the Influence of the Pleasure of Those Transports which this Enchanting Place inspires.”
This was the notorious bed, guaranteed to restore the impaired constitutions of emaciated youths and debilitated old men, warranted to revive any constitutions that were not absolutely mouldered away. I had heard that some jaded voluptuaries had paid upwards of £500 for the privilege of fornicating on this bed. Two great lords swore that their heirs had been sired in it when all other means had failed. I tested its resilience; it seemed filled with the most springy hair, but behaved much as any ordinary mattress would.
. . . Dr. Nathaniel Godbold. What was his connection with Murrell? Or was it yet another alias? Was this Temple the real core of his blackguarding activities? This room would prove more fertile when it came to extracting secrets from his customers than the shop in Barnard’s Row. Men are at their most vulnerable when taken either in drink or in lust, and under the influence of this sense-saturating room what would they not reveal?
Yes, I felt sure that this house was the centre of the web. I moved to the door and opened it cautiously. With a shock, I started back.
In the hall a figure stood with one finger to his lips, as if bidding me to be silent. Both frozen, we outstared each other.
Then I laughed softly to myself. The figure was a statue. Hippocrates himself. The lamplight flickering on his face had made him seem lifelike.
I walked down a broad corridor, frugally lit by candles in sconces. I opened five doors leading into various rooms, all comfortably furnished, but eerie in the unsteady light of the candles.
In one room, resplendently furnished in marble, another statue of the Goddess Cloacina squatted on a marble pedestal. This, I realized, was the famed Temple of Ease, devoted to those suppliants who suffered from digestive ailments. Again the variously ambiguous instruments were in evidence.
I left the room, and walked down the corridor. A wide staircase descended to the ground floor which was shrouded in darkness. By the head of the stairs stood a heavy, mahogany door. I tried the handle gently. The door remained solidly barred against me.
A few minutes with the blade of my knife, and the door swung open smoothly. The shuttered room was stiflingly dark; a dim assembly of shapes. I struck my tinder.
My eye was caught immediately by the iron strong-box. It stood upon a solid desk.
Naturally, it was locked. It took five minutes of concentrated effort to force the lock, and my heart sank with disappointment at the result. The box contained nothing but a leather-bound book with a faulty clasp. The same neat and clerkly hand that had addressed the letter to Lady Wroth had written a jumble of meaningless phrases and figures in this book. I saw that the book was an elaborate code in the Cant Language, the thieves’ dialect. The first thing I could make sense of was a name, “Charles Winstanley” coupled with the date of 18th March 1769 and a place, “Caper’s Gardens”.1 My mind turned this information over, and I was suddenly alerted. Had there not been a notorious scandal at Caper’s Gardens concerning a certain young rakehell by that name?
I put the notebook in my pocket, thinking that I could probably break this code since I am fairly conversant with the Cant. I searched the rest of the room to no purpose, and descending the stairs, turned my attention to the lower floor.
The hall of this Temple was a testament to Godbold’s (or Murrell’s) cures. It was ornamented with crutches, walking sticks, ear-trumpets, eye-glasses, trusses and so on, all discarded by grateful patients. Had he been of the Catholic persuasion, the good doctor might have qualified for sainthood.
A bare half hour later, I let myself out by the way I had entered. The rooms below had proved to be conventional reception rooms that gave up no secrets, for they had no secrets to keep.
IX
I was taking my morning chocolate at the “Black Cat” Coffee-House in Greek Court, and searching diligently through the Gazette to see what news there was of last night’s doings. There was none, which scarcely surprised me, since murder and violent theft are rife in those streets. The people of St. Giles’ have a rat’s eye view of life, are more fearsome than any brute beast, and nearly as ignorant. The crime would have to be of a very sensational quality for it to be registered in print.
In this instance, I would do better with my ears than with my eyes. I set myself to listen in the neighbouring taverns and coffee-houses.
But not a murmur reached me of Murrell’s death. Not even my mistress mentioned it, though her working day is spiced with news of vice and crime. If Clarety-faced Jane has no knowledge of an event, then it has not usually taken place. But no detail of Murrell’s death had come to her, nobody had breathed a word of it. This silence intrigued me almost as much as the mystery of his death. It was as if all the world had compacted to treat his murder with the greatest possible secrecy.
Not wishing to display my own association with the affair, I made my enquiries indirectly. It is always best to question Clarety when she is lost in heat, for then her mind is only triflingly occupied with the questions and her answers fall from her lips involuntarily. Accordingly, I set myself to thoroughly arouse her that morning. When she threw her arms around me warmly, I embraced her as warmly. As she wound her arms around my neck with passion, I took her legs with equal force and passed them round my waist. I met her kisses and murmurs of pleasure with just as strong an amorous toying and sucked her tongue as readily as she sucked mine. By the time I loosed her drawstrings and got into her, she was purring with delight and in a good frame of mind to pass on any information to hand. But she knew nothing of Murrell, though I pumped her mind as thoroughly as her body.
I left her scratching herself erotically with a silver piece.
On reflection, I decided to walk back into the filthy maze of St. Giles’. I might, I thought, be better rewarded in the low drinking dens of that quarter. Information, of a sort, is always to be bought in such places, if one can cut through their barbarous jargon.
Turning into the stinking alley of Jay Row, I saw a crowd gathered by an open well. The shrill sound of their conversation rattled against the walls of the houses, making the street hum like a gigantic beehive. A woman howled fanatically, another screamed, men’s voices were raised in a righteous anger. I almost hesitated to linger there long enough to find out what disturbed their peace. For the London mob is a thing to be avoided at all times, even the king dare not stand in its way once it is aroused. And this seething mass of dirty humanity was thoroughly aroused. I began to skirt around it gingerly, feeling my way among the mud and filth of the street. The crowd stank so badly that it was all I could do not to raise my wipe1 to my nose in plain self-defence. Had I done so, they would have set about me at once. Delicacy, in that a
rea, is a red rag to a bull. And they were in a very ugly turn of mind.
Two enormous men appeared to be pulling some object from the well. As I passed by, the crowd fell back slightly and the men dumped their burden on the ground.
It was a dead man. The mob howled with fury.
“Christ a’mighty,” said a voice close-by. “ ’Tis bad enough with mice, rats and tabbies in the warter – but this dirty, buttocking bastard!”
“’ow the ’ell did ’e get in the supply?” asked another.
“This was the best warter in St. Giles’,” wailed a woman. “Now we gotta drink it an’ ’e’s warshed ’is scabby feet in it.”
The mob roared agreement. A woman kicked the sodden body.
I found myself staring at the dead man. His eyes stared back into mine, without light or sense. The head was bent at a peculiar angle to his body as if it had been struck a heavy blow. He looked like some large, pathetic doll thrown casually away by a thoughtless child. The eyes gleamed dully, and a trickle of water ran from the gaping mouth. A knife protruded from the base of his neck. There was no blood, that had been washed away; the water of the well was crimsoned, as I could see in a bucket that had been drawn up. The corpse’s skin was a bluish white from some hours’ immersion in the well.
A few hours before, he had been young, lithe, very handsome, and dangerous.
I was looking at the mortal remains of Lord Wroth’s duelling partner. Tom d’Urfey had lost his last fight. His body was already stiffening obscenely in the morning air.
“What happened?” I asked my vociferous neighbour.
A dozen outraged voices clamoured to enlighten me.
“He fell in the well!”
“Dirty maggot!”
“Pushed more like!”
“’e’s broke ’is neck, I’d say!”
“Been down there for ’ours, the block, cloggin’ the warter.”
“We couldn’t understand it. Warter just dried up.”
“Like a drought it was.”
“A visitation more like!”
“Garn! Got his dessarts, I’d say.”
A lively argument ensued as to how the dead man had found his way into the well. Under cover of it, I leaned forward to get a closer look at the body.
I could see at once that he had not bruised himself by falling. The blow had been delivered by a sharp, clean rap from a heavy instrument. It had been performed by somebody who knew what they were doing. A skull-cracking cudgel wielder. Also, he had not drowned. There was not enough water in him for that.
For whatever reason, young d’Urfey had been killed with cold deliberation rather than in a hot-blooded brawl. Concussed and then knifed. And by a dabster in the art.
X
The following morning, I again read the Gazette from the first to the last page, hoping to find some reference to Murrell’s death, but there was no mention of it. On the other hand, young d’Urfey’s untimely end had been immortalized in five well-turned paragraphs, no less – no doubt because of his eccentric burial place. When murder is a daily commonplace, it is only the unusual detail that will titillate the public’s jaded palate.
But, apart from the natural sense of outrage (only a thoroughly unsociable murderer would poison the water supply in this manner), the journal was parlously short of any real information. There was nothing to identify the body, he had neither money nor papers upon him when finally he was handed over to the Bow Street Office and, as a pauper, he was to be thrown into the common grave.
His murder was simply one more unanswerable crime in the calendar of daily violence.
I decided to pay another visit to Murrell’s shop, and an hour later I faced his uncivil assistant. The red eyes gleamed more ferociously than ever, and his hair stood up as though brushed backwards by some unseen hand. His smile, though resolute, was skeletal.
“Is your master ready to meet me now?” I asked.
He looked over my shoulder towards the door, almost as if he expected the ghost of his master to waft into the room. His manner, though uncouth, was distinctly more polite than it had been yesterday.
“No, Sir. He is not here. If you will tell me your business, he has empowered me to act for him.”
“And I have been instructed to deal only with your master.”
“He is not here,” he repeated, much subdued.
“Then where may I find him, man?” I snapped impatiently. “This business could have been settled twenty-four hours ago. Twenty-four hours would have made all the difference.”
A look of blind panic swept over his foxy face. His Adam’s-apple ran up and down his skinny throat until I thought it must surely pop out of his flapping mouth. With a great effort, he set himself to answer me. His voice was like that of a broken bell.
“He is not here. He is not in London . . . You must come again.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked ironically.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated vacantly.
I stared at him severely. “Where,” I wondered, “will you be tomorrow?”
Tipping my hat to him, I turned and left the shop.
It was time to take up my position behind the wall again. I did so, and adjusted my spy-glass.
My patience was soon rewarded on this occasion. From the back access to the shop emerged the strapping Negress, garlanded much as she had been upon the previous night. But today she was pulling a small handcart which was packed tight with boxes. Behind her walked the red-haired assistant, wearing a small-sword and, I suspected from the bulge in his pocket, sporting a loaded pistol.
I allowed them to gain the full length of the street before I emerged from my hiding place. For the rest of our journey together, I kept a street length respectably between us, for I had no desire to confront the Negress again. And as for her fiery attendant, he looked too jittery altogether to be entrusted with fire-arms.
Following them through the rank warrens of St. Giles’ proved to be more difficult than one would expect. Apart from the natural hazards of walking through such streets in the darkling light, there was always the possibility of running blindly into them round each crazy twist and bend. Indeed, this almost happened on at least two occasions, the nervous assistant having loitered behind the Negress, obviously fearful of being followed.
I felt relieved when they had left the hideous tangle of St. Giles’ and Soho behind them, and we turned into the more spacious quarters of Mayfair, though shadowing them here presented a new hazard, for in the long wide walks I was the more exposed. Trying valiantly to keep them in sight, I began to hang back, hugging the walls. And in the shady reaches of Newick Square, I lost sight of them entirely. I walked along all four sides of the leafy square, looking into the great mews on each side of it, but with no success at first. Then, on the southern side, towards Green Park, I looked into a mews and saw the handcart leaning against a hitching post. I walked under the archway, keeping a watchful eye on the windows. Fortunately, the walls to either side were largely blank-faced.
The yard was empty, as was the handcart. A few wisps of straw stirred limply on the bottom planks. A few wisps of the same straw led me directly to the back door of No. 12, Newick Square. The door was closed, the studs of which looked at the world dead-eyed.
I retraced my steps into the street and stood looking at the even more imposing front door of No. 12, Newick Square, wondering moodily what sort of house it was and what manner of people lived there. Nobody at all respectable, I eventually decided. But somebody with an imposing income – or remarkable wits.
XI
As I reached the door to my chambers, a familiar voice hailed me. It was as crisp, cool and arrogant in my quarters as it had been in his own stable yard. The eyes were as hard and bright above the proud nose, but his manner was a touch more conciliatory. He bowed almost politely.
“I should like to talk to you, if you are at liberty,” he said.
I bowed in reply and waited. Mr. Oliver Wroth was obviously experiencing the greatest embarra
ssment in seeking me out. Wroth was the sort of man who can define a gentleman as dispassionately as one can define a kipper. He could claim coat-armour, I could claim nothing – not even a decent trade. I watched him writhe for a moment or two. He had no clear idea of how to treat me.
I unlocked my door at last, and allowed him to precede me into my rooms. He seemed impressed by my spartan taste in furnishings (the pure result of my impecunious state). He looked about with interest at my spoils and trophies, the mementos of my travels and adventures, that lay dotted about the room.
“You aren’t, I take it, a man of any great property,” he said bluntly.
I waved a hand about the room and said airily: “You see before you the full extent of my fortune.”
He was amazed at my candour and at my raillery.
“Do you hope to make money from your trade?” he asked at length.
“If there is any to be made.”
He looked at me carefully, as if weighing up my chances.
“I should think you could make opportunities,” he said guardedly.
He waited for me to make a reply. I disobliged him. After a moment he went on uneasily: “I’ve been trying to reach you for the last six hours. You’re a hard man to track down.”
“I have that talent,” I said drily and waited again.
He seemed to have fallen into a profound mood.
“Has something happened?” I asked eventually.
“Happened?”
“I gather your cousin’s friend is now your cousin’s late friend,” I said bluntly.
He looked up, startled.
“D’Urfey?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes.”
He gnawed at his nether lip for a while and he then seemed to shrug the matter away.
“Well, he’s no great loss to the world,” he said. “No doubt he met a just end.”