SV - 03 - Sergeant Verity Presents His Compliments

by Francis Selwyn

  'I 'eard,' said Bella, "ow constables in the parks was turning a blind eye to unfortunates there in return for making free with their fallen virtue.'

  Verity sat up in bed.

  'You no business to 'ear such things, Mrs Verity! Why, I can't think who'd say as much! And it ain't your place to 'ear. You'd a sight better give your mind to setting an example o' thrift and respectability to the labouring classes round here. That way, there might be a few less unfortunates. You gotta position to keep up, being the wife of an officer of the law!'

  At this point, the child in the cradle was woken by the outburst and began to bawl with powerful lungs. Husband and wife abandoned their discussion and turned to one another. A church clock beyond the rattle of cabs and carts on the Edgware Road struck midnight on the warm summer air. Bella gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. 'Oh, Mr Verity!' she gasped. 'Oh, Mr Verity!'

  As a concession to the heat of the day and the shortage of accommodation for officers of the Whitehall Division, the Private-Clothes detail was paraded in the police office yard.

  'So they never let you dig up Lord 'enry?' said Samson cheerily.

  'No, said Verity shortly, 'never did.'

  'Ah well,' said Samson, 'daresay he wouldn't have turned out much of a cove after all. Speaking o' which, you never missed anything o' the blackmail case while you was boarding at Portman Square. Charley's girls have all took it for themselves now. Leastways, if there is a man behind 'em, we can't flush him out. I'd say it was all down to Charley Wag. With 'im dead, I reckon the blackmail must die too. Girls like Simona and that, they ain't got the style. All of 'em gone back to spreading their legs for a living, I'd say.'

  'You ain't off the case, Mr Samson?'

  'Oh, ain't I? I'm on to something very special now. Seeing after the nobility and making sure they ain't bothered. Be there ready if there's any go at blackmail, that's how Mr Croaker sees it.'

  'Nobility?' said Verity uneasily.

  'Yus,' said Samson, 'nobility. Not anyone you'd know.'

  Inspector Swift called the parade to attention and detailed the men to their duties. Verity's heart sank as he realized that once again he was being kept back, as he had been on the day that Swift sent him to the hiring-room. But Swift's words to Samson and Verity were more encouraging.

  'Right, Samson, got your orders, then? Lord Renfrew to be seen safe through London but not to be approached by you nor spoke to.'

  'Yessir.'

  'And great care to be taken over the Bond Street business with his lordship.' 'Yessir.'

  Swift turned to Verity.

  'Now, my lad,' he said, 'I've put up surety for you, in a manner of speaking, and I shan't look to be let down. So walk smart, talk sensible, and keep your face clean. Right?'

  'Sir!'

  'You may find yourself assisting Sergeant Samson, or you may not. It will depend on events. Your duties are to keep surveillance from now until tomorrow morning upon the Temple of Beauty in Bond Street.'

  'Temple, sir?'

  'It sells preparations for ladies' faces and persons,' said Swift self-consciously. 'Oils, perfumes, soaps and so on. It says "Beautiful for Ever" over the door. But we hear it sells other commodities too. You are to maintain surveillance and prevent at all costs any untoward proceedings.'

  'It ain't to be raided nor closed down, sir?'

  'No,' said Swift, 'positively not. No action to be taken against it. The Temple of Beauty is to be protected from interference.'

  'Don't understand, sir, with respect, sir.'

  'Nor do I,' said Swift. 'Nor does your Mr Croaker, nor Superintendent Gowry, nor the Commissioner. You are indeed privileged, sergeant, for the orders which you do not understand come from on high and are to be obeyed as such. Dismissed!'

  As the two sergeants marched away, Verity said,

  'I never knew such a thing! Me to stand guard on a 'ouse of ill-fame! It ain't to be warned or closed down but protected. And me to see that nothing undignified 'appens there! Why, I might be one of Ned Roper's bullies.'

  'Better than the hiring-room, ain't it?' said Samson.

  'What ain't better is not being told why. I'm to do such duties without knowing why. Same as I'm never to see Mr Jervis or have anything to do with the family, and not be told a word of why I mustn't. I keep thinking of that poor young man locked away a prisoner and vowing that one of his brothers murdered the other. And then, all on a sudden, I'm told to forget it. Who by? It ain't Mr Croaker's doing. Higher up, that's what.'

  Samson eyed the ankles of a flower-girl appreciatively as the two sergeants turned the corner of Cockspur Street. 'Ain't your worry, my son,' he said philosophically. Verity stopped.

  'Yes it bloody is, Mr Samson! It worries me that there's a smell about all this! There's a smell about Portman Square and what happened at Bole Warren as sure as there is over this Temple of Beauty nonsense. I got wind o' it all right, and I'll see you and Mr Croaker and the rest of 'em in hell before I give up!'

  Ramming the tall, dusty hat more firmly on his head, his round face purpling with indignation and exertion, Verity took his leave of Samson and strode angrily away past the tall windows of the United Service Club and the leafy opening of Waterloo Place.

  The dust of the summer afternoon, raised by the constant passage of rumbling wooden wheels with their iron rims, brought a smart to the eyes and a dryness to the throat. Standing at ease, conspicuous as a mounted guard outside St James' Palace, Verity occupied the archway of a mews entrance and kept his eyes determinedly on the object of his surveillance on the far side of Bond Street. It was the time of day sacred to the Bond Street loungers, whiling away the afternoon in quizzing the young and titled ladies who promenaded there. The tall, elegant houses were interspersed with bow-fronted shops, the pastel wash of their walls highlighted by the sparkling white paintwork of the square-paned windows. Fine gloves, bonnets a la mode, glittering and glowing jewels, cut-glass, lace, and handsomely-bound leather volumes shone with rich desirability in the window displays.

  The largest of these establishments, its double front and fine arched portico suggesting a theatre or assembly room as much as a shop, was the Temple of Beauty. From the display of gilt lettering it might have been the premises of a fashionable chemist or an expensive herbalist, serving the affluent area that lay between Pall Mall and Regent Circus. Under the golden-lettered promise of 'Beautiful for Ever', the windows offered 'Royal Arabian Soap', 'Powders for the Complexion', and 'Jordan Water, 10 guineas a bottle'. Fine ornamental boxes, tortoiseshell or lacquered, boasted 'Favourite of the Harem's Bouquet', 'Souvenir de Mariage', and 'Maiden's Keepsake'.

  Under Verity's sternly disapproving gaze, broughams and pilentums drew up before the freshly-painted facade. Liveried servants handed down their well-dressed mistresses who duly made their way into the Temple. The premises suggested the warm perfumed aromas of naked female flesh. It was also noticeable, Verity thought, that for every well-dressed woman who arrived there was also an equally distinguished gentleman. After an hour or two the couple would emerge, as they had arrived, separately. But to a careful observer it was possible to deduce from the time spent which man and which woman had had a particular assignation in one of the salons.

  Very clever, thought Verity, a place for the indiscretions of the titled and the wealthy, the jewel of a blackmail dodge that would make Ramiro's Baths seem like a child's game. Small wonder that the authorities wished to prevent unpleasantness, while at the same time insisting that the place must not be interfered with. In one form or another, the men and women who came and went were the authorities themselves.

  As an exercise in surveillance, Verity's watch on the Temple of Beauty seemed to him less than satisfactory. He was in full view of the Bond Street strollers, the women in their pink or green crinolines and bonnets, the men in their silk hats and summer suiting of cream or pale brown. There was no doubt what he was, standing at ease in his archway in the tall fraying hat and broad barge-shaped boots. But the men and wome
n who chose to deceive husbands or wives with one another disregarded him. They cared no more for what he saw or thought than if he had been a crossing-sweeper.

  As afternoon turned to evening and the dinner-hour approached, the procession of visitors to the Temple of Beauty dwindled. It was in the early dusk that Verity saw a man, on foot and alone, approach the portico and enter. There was no mistaking Lord William Jervis, the tall dark captain with his jaunty stride. Verity drew back into the shadows and waited. But Lord William was not followed by any young woman. Instead, he reappeared after several minutes and strode away down Bond Street towards Piccadilly and Pall Mall as energetically as ever.

  Verity puzzled over this. The windows of the Temple of Beauty were now bright with gas in the thickening twilight, so that it looked more than ever like a discreet private theatre. Groups of well-dressed men and women, noisy after-dinner parties, arrived by brougham or cab and went inside. In his mind, Verity began to compose the complaint he would make to Inspector Swift next morning on the waste of a whole day's duty.

  He was engaged in this mental composition when a cab drew up on his own side of Bond Street and Sergeant Samson got down from it, looking about him anxiously.

  'Over 'ere, Mr Samson,' said Verity softly.

  Samson, breathless but businesslike, took his colleague by the arm.

  'Right, my son,' he said, 'this is where I want your 'elp, as Mr Swift was saying, you're to get in that place and stop in there. It ain't difficult, no more difficult than getting into a penny gaff nor a chanting crib. They don't charge till you're in. Then you pays your way. Once in there, you're to act like a servant or one of the house bullies. Right?'

  'And what should I want to be in there for, Mr Samson?'

  'You're to be in there to make sure that Lord Renfrew ain't, and that he don't get in there. That's all.'

  'But I don't know 'im!' said Verity plaintively.

  'I shall be with 'im,' said Samson. 'You'll know when you see me. And you'll know better than that a-cos Lord Renfrew is with two cronies. One's a fair-haired young gentleman, Lord Renfrew being darkish, and the other is Lord William Jervis.'

  'You wouldn't know, Mr Samson, that Lord William been here and gone not half an hour since?' inquired Verity sceptically.

  Samson pressed his finger to the side of his nose.

  'Arrangements,' he said with a wink, 'arrangements for Lord Renfrew to be shown the spicy side o' town life. Only we know, don't we, Mr Verity, that the dear young fellow ain't never going to set foot over the threshold? 'im a mere boy o' eighteen!'

  'I don't see 'ow he's to be stopped, Mr Samson, not if 'e's set his heart on such wickedness.'

  Samson laughed uproariously.

  'Don't you tell me, Mr Verity, that you can't change a boy's mind for 'im. You with your experience!'

  And with this genial encouragement, Samson swung himself back into the cab and was driven briskly away in the general direction of Pall Mall. At least the plan of the operation was clear enough. Lord William had arranged to take the young, and no doubt rich and well-connected, Lord Renfrew to the display offered by the Temple of Beauty. The Renfrew title meant nothing to Verity, probably a form of courtesy bestowed on some elder son who had become a midshipman on Lord William's ship. Why Lord Renfrew's moral welfare had become the primary concern of the Private-Clothes detail was beyond Verity's comprehension. But such were his orders. Crossing the street, he entered the portico of the Temple of Beauty.

  Once inside, it seemed that the shop itself was a mere foyer leading to a grander salon within. A man with the biceps of a coal-heaver and the shoulders of a drayman, barred his way.

  'And 'oo might you be, fellow?' he inquired, the muscles of his face contorting in a grimace of doubt.

  'You "fellow" me and you'll have something to answer for,' said Verity calmly, playing out the role he had chosen for himself. 'I'm the valet of Lord William Jervis, I am. And where he goes, I go. His Lordship just gone to fetch Lord Renfrew and the other gentleman, and if he comes back and I ain't here, he won't half set the cocks a-going.'

  At the mention of the names, Verity's challenger stepped back a pace and let him pass, though taking care to follow close behind. As they entered the inner shell of the building,

  Verity was surprised how accurately his impression of its being a private theatre matched the truth. There was a carpeted semi-circular space, free of all fittings but capable of seating two hundred people if seats had been provided. Where the proscenium arch might have been, there was a platform curtained off from the makeshift auditorium, and round the auditorium itself rose a series of boxes in two tiers, offering the only accommodation other than the open pit itself. The carpeted semi-circle was filled with the chatter of elegantly-attired men and women, drawn by gossip and curiosity to see the display. What that display might be was not indicated in any way.

  'And where may Lord William's place be appointed?' asked Verity sharply.

  The bully in his tight-fitting jacket stepped round him and led the way to the right-hand box, level with the stage and nearest to it. The vantage-point, Verity thought, was perfect, while the semi-darkness of the box itself effectively concealed him in its shadows.

  The place was the size of a private ballroom, such as lay behind many of the grand facades of Piccadilly and the streets which ran off it. The theatrical structure was no more than wood and plaster painted over, but the effect was significant. The entire auditorium was draped in black with phallic torches upon the pillars, and ornamentation which seemed unremarkable until more closely scrutinized, but which then appeared to be of ingenious obscenity. A hot, musky smell of incense drifted over the velvet and the dark silk.

  Somewhere beyond the screened platform a gong beat three times. Slowly the conversation in the boxes and among the close-packed groups in the carpeted pit dwindled and died. Behind the gauze curtaining of the platform there was a sudden flaring of light as the gas was turned up, illuminating a horned figure upon a throne with attendants surrounding him. Verity snorted with indignation. A cheap 'occult' trick to attract the rich young gulls of the West End. He saw that apart from the horned 'beast' on his high throne, there were several men and half a dozen girls, all naked except for the goat-masks worn by the men. These actors gave a sudden cry. 'Lord Lucifer!'

  The horned figure on the throne raised its head, the face covered by a mask of inexpressible evil, done in bronze which Verity suspected on closer examination would appear to be cheap tinsel. Two of the naked girls turned, took the halves of the gauze curtain and ran them back to the wings.

  'Why!' said Verity softly, 'if it ain't Miss Simona and 'er little baggage!'

  He felt a great exultation in the discovery. And whatever else he had failed in, he had now identified the last of the four glass-plate photographs in the late Lord Henry's bureau. The devil-masks, the auditorium, the faces of the men and women in their evening clothes. This was where it had happened. The camera must have been in the wing on the far side, facing diagonally across the stage, directly towards the box in which Verity was sitting. Very neat. Whoever sat in that box was number one for being a participant in some kind of satanic celebration.

  'O' course,' said Verity softly to himself, 'just to be sitting here watching wouldn't be enough for a real blackmail squeeze, so they had 'im up there, stark naked. To be caught just watching ain't enough, except for a very great man indeed. And for 'im it's more 'n enough.'

  'O Mighty Satan, Lord of the Dead, Master of Night, Prince of Darkness. . . .'

  Verity snorted again, both with distaste and at the tawdriness of it.

  'If they wanted the real fear o' hell,' he muttered, 'they should a-heard some of the old preachers in the great ring on Bodmin Moor!'

  'Master, hear us!'

  The words were coming from a speaking-trumpet held somewhere off-stage. On the platform itself a black-draped altar with black candles and sticks was set before the throned figure of Lord Lucifer. Also off-stage, several voice
s began to drone an indecipherable liturgy to the light rapid drumming of feet.

  The sounds produced behind the scenes transformed the setting into a great pagan shrine filled with the murmuring of a host of worshippers at the feet of their dark idol. Still intent on the details of the photographic glass-plate which he had seen in Lord Henry's bureau, Verity peered about him in the gloom. Even by the light reflected from the stage he could make out the most obvious inconsistency. In the glass-plate there had been the outline of the box, behind the faces of the spectators. But the two boxes on either side of the stage and level with it were not identical. The one in which Verity sat was a plain opening draped with velvet. The opposite box was the one in the photograph, with an elaborate beading. It was further identified by a crack in the paintwork on one side.

  'Only thing is,' said Verity to himself, 'that box is to the right of the stage and they took the picture looking to the left. So 'ow the mischief can a box walk from one side of the theatre to the other?'

  Then he snorted with derision again.

  'Reversed!' he said contemptuously. 'They couldn't even print it right but got a mirror-image instead. What I don't see, 'owever, is how a man might take a picture in so little light. Why, he'd need to leave a plate exposed for ten minutes at least. They never 'eld still that long!'