by David Field
‘Or bad ones,’ Carlyle reminded him. ‘Peyote — like any other substance that works on the subconscious — can only bring to the surface what is lying just below it. Most of the people in the East End are nervous and suspicious of each other at the best of times, fearing that they’ll be robbed, murdered or sexually violated. Give them a mouthful of Peyote and they’ll be slaughtering each other by the wagonload, claiming self-defence against an imagined attack. I’m sure your precious police commissioner doesn’t want that.’
‘He has a point, Inspector,’ Matthew joined in. ‘I know these people very well and I know just how easy it is to react badly in self-defence.’
‘And finish up painted a gentle shade of iodine,’ Adelaide added sardonically.
‘That wasn’t helpful, Adelaide,’ Carlyle rebuked her and she fell silent, leaving Jennings to voice his further objections.
‘Even if we take the risk of telling the people that these visitations were brought about simply in their minds by the unlawful administration of a drug,’ he asked, ‘will they believe us?’
‘They might, if we go about it in the right way,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Although I haven’t got that far in my reasoning yet. I’m just making the general point that somehow we have to demonstrate how the trick was performed. Incidentally, I hope that you’ve got the remainder of the drug you found in the possession of that dealer safely under lock and key?’
‘Well and truly — it’s in the Evidence Room up at the Yard.’
‘Excellent. Keep it there — until I request otherwise.’
‘Those were excellent macaroons,’ Matthew complimented Adelaide as she cleared away the tea things after Jennings’s departure. Then, by way of polite enquiry and to keep the conversation flowing, he asked, ‘I meant to ask you how your address to that Ladies’ Institute went. The one you were telling us about over supper that time.’
‘Moderately well,’ Adelaide all but sniffed. ‘The problem with those organisations is that the ladies who make up the membership are too content with their lot in life. Too comfortably off financially, happy in their little world of afternoon card clubs, evening literary circles and dinner dances with the rich and famous. They have no concept of how women are being held back in the professions and other aspects of public life, because they wouldn’t want to change their way of life even if they were afforded the opportunity.
‘And before you suggest that I take my soapbox down to one of your charity clubs down among the Docks, ask yourself how a woman with five children, living on her husband’s measly wage of less than a pound a week, competing with the rats for the food in the larder and hoping that she doesn’t smell too bad, would react to my suggestion that they seek an education and aspire to be a doctor, a lawyer, or — God help us — even a church minister.’
‘That’s why I do the work I do,’ Matthew replied, his heart aglow hearing such words from such an attractive piece of young womanhood. ‘And your father likewise. We aspire to bring hope to these people, by improving their surroundings and their working conditions. Perhaps improving their education levels.’ He was alarmed to see the colour rising in Adelaide’s cheeks.
‘Hypocrites! Middle-class meddlers! Self-satisfied mumblers of platitudes! You salve your consciences by pretending to ease the conditions of the working classes, but for your own selfish purposes. Father here no doubt hopes to receive some sort of decoration from a fat Queen who knows about as much about life in working-class London as she does about the child brothels in Calcutta, while you crawl after a seat in Heaven by mumbling words from a book written on the instructions of a king who was homosexual. You have as much credibility as the man in the moon, the pair of you!’
She strode quickly across the room, wrenched open the door and stormed out into the corridor. Before slamming the door shut she fixed Matthew with an angry glare from eyes that were watering fast. ‘I had hoped that you at least were different. Another disappointment!’
‘I could have warned you,’ Carlyle said quietly from his seat in the corner. ‘But then I thought it best that you learn for yourself.’
‘I thought I might be getting somewhere by supporting her bid to get elected to the LCC,’ Matthew replied.
Carlyle smiled. ‘You probably are, but with Adelaide it’s like a dam wall breaking. First comes a tiny trickle, then a bigger flow and then finally the whole wall collapses. You’re still at the “tiny trickle” stage. Have you approached your brother yet, by the way?’
‘No, and perhaps I needn’t bother now.’
‘Take heart, Matthew. She’s volatile, that’s all, just like her mother was. Sodium in water. She’ll probably carry on, the next time you meet, as if nothing had happened. Just be patient, be tolerant, be strong, but above all — be there. She needs to feel confident that she can go off like that and still retain your affection. But give her time — at this very moment you might wish to arrange to be somewhere else, so that she can come back in here and brood on what she’s done and hope that you won’t stay away.’
Cursing his crass stupidity Matthew decided that the East End Mission could manage for one day without its resident mumbling hypocrite and opted to go home. But his tribulations were about to multiply.
‘There’s someone here who’s just dying to meet you!’ Caroline gushed as she escorted a pale looking young man with the beginnings of a ginger moustache into the sitting room in which Matthew was gazing gloomily out of the window at the traffic rumbling up and down the street below. ‘His name’s Tim Washbourne, he’s a junior reporter on the Herald and he’s hoping to do a big story which he’s asked me to illustrate!’
‘I’m almost happy for the both of you,’ Matthew muttered sarcastically, ‘but I’m not really in the mood for socialising.’
‘The story’s all about you!’ Caroline persisted. ‘Do please say yes!’
‘And what interest could your eager friend possibly have in a poor East End preacher who’s apparently a hypocrite and a disgrace to his chosen profession?’ Matthew growled.
Washbourne stepped forward, took a seat on the sofa without invitation, opened his notebook, extracted a pencil, licked the lead point and gazed eagerly at Matthew. ‘Your sister tells me that this plague pit business is at an end. Is that true and if so, how do you come to know that?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge the precise details,’ Matthew told him with a warning stare that the news-hungry reporter didn’t even notice, given that his eyes were on what he was already scribbling down in his notebook.
‘But you could, if you wished?’ Washbourne insisted.
Matthew nodded. ‘You may tell your readers that the Fiends have been securely locked back down in Hell, which no longer has any direct access to London via Aldgate Underground Station.’
‘And your reason for knowing this? Did you perhaps exorcise them yourself?’
‘I’m a Wesleyan street preacher, not a Catholic Bishop,’ Matthew replied grumpily.
‘Is that how you got the scars on your face, perhaps?’ Washbourne persisted.
Matthew shook his head. ‘I got those when I was attacked in the street by a lunatic.’
‘I’ve already picked up on that story,’ Washbourne told him. ‘Last Saturday, wasn’t it? In Wapping High Street? And you were taken up on a murder charge?’
‘If you know all that already, why waste my time in having it confirmed?’ Matthew demanded as the anger rose in his voice.
Washbourne fixed him with a suspicious gaze. ‘You were, by all accounts, preaching against the Devil and all his works. Was it perhaps the Devil himself who took you on and who you defeated?’
‘Total rubbish!’ Matthew insisted. ‘And even if you’ve got nothing better to do, I have, so good day to you.’
‘Has your church banned you from telling the tale to the whole world?’ Washbourne asked, at which Matthew rose angrily to his feet.
‘Leave my church out of this! You’re getting no story out of me, so you may as well l
eave now and take my sycophantic sister with you.’
‘Your modesty becomes you,’ Washbourne said. ‘So did the beast have talons? Was that how you got those dreadful slash marks across your cheeks? And is the purple residue that it left perhaps Satan’s Fire?’
‘Get out! Now! Or I’ll throw you out! As for you, Caroline, choose more carefully the next time you seek to boost your career as an artist.’
16
‘Well, for a young man who has always insisted that the best work for God is that which is performed humbly, you certainly managed to create quite a stir,’ George West announced over the early edition of the Herald the following morning as he sipped his breakfast tea. ‘Although I have to admit that your sister caught your likeness very well.’
‘Give me that,’ Matthew demanded as he reached forward and took the newspaper that was handed to him over the table. He sat back in his chair and began cursing in less than ecclesiastical language as he read the front page banner story.
LOWLY MAN OF GOD SMITES THE DEVIL!
Yesterday afternoon, in the modest surroundings of a sitting room in Clerkenwell, an inspired and courageous clergyman from the Wesleyan East End Mission spoke exclusively to our reporter Timothy Washbourne about how he smote the Devil in his own playground and removed the plague pit curse forever from the streets of Aldgate, Whitechapel and Wapping.
It is a matter of record that early on Saturday afternoon last, the Reverend Matthew West was preaching from his customary position outside the entrance to the London Docks in Wapping High Street and had taken as his theme the work of Satan in promoting the return of those victims of the Great Plague in 1665 who had been dumped unceremoniously in a pit on a site currently occupied by the Aldgate Underground station.
For the past few weeks, innocent citizens going about their lawful business have been attacked by horrible Denizens of the Deep intent on dragging them down to the Pit of Hell and Rev West was assuring the good people making their way to and from the local Saturday Market that they need not fear any of this if they simply turned their eyes back to God, when he was attacked by a Fiend.
Eyewitness accounts tell in breathless tones of how the two men wrestled each other to the ground, the Fiend hissing, cursing and tearing at the humble preacher’s face with long talons that left indelible scars still visible to our reporter two days later and still bearing horrible red marks that are surely from the fires of Hell.
When asked for his account of this deadly encounter, the modest Man of God denied that he had done battle with Satan himself and told our reporter, in strict confidence, that the elders of his denomination had sworn him to silence.
Thanks to the bravery of this humble preacher, we are now free of any future visitations from the depths and it is safe once again to take the Underground to work. It is only a pity that the superiors of his church are not prepared to admit that the Devil has been overthrown by the courage of one bold warrior in a cassock. It is even more of a public disgrace that the only response of the representatives of the Metropolitan Police was to charge him with Murder.
All this is further proof — if any were needed — of the disregard of the authorities of this fine city to the dangers encountered daily in this Devil’s Kitchen that ordinary decent folk are required to live in.
Below this was what Matthew would have admitted, in any other circumstance, was a fine reproduction of his face in ‘stern’ mode. But given that he was also depicted in flowing robes that he was not authorised to be wearing, grappling with a creature from Caroline’s sickest imagination that was decked out in shiny horns and baring long talons, he was less than impressed.
‘Did you really fight with Satan himself, dear?’ Alice asked as she emerged from the kitchen bearing more toast.
Matthew hurled the newspaper down on the table, narrowly missing the milk jug. ‘No I did not!’ he yelled, ‘and you can thank Caroline’s idiot young man for the fact that I’m now almost certainly out of any contention for elevation in my chosen profession. Perhaps I’d better learn how to set type in Father’s workshop, because it’ll be some time before I’m able to walk the streets again!’
It was Thursday before Matthew’s self-imposed house arrest came to an end. His daylight hours, when not attempting to eat the meals laid out for him by his concerned mother, had been spent staring morosely down at the street, so he was not entirely taken unawares when his father entered the sitting room looking suitably impressed.
‘There’s a coach outside for you and the fine gentleman who alighted from it says he’s a surgeon from the London Hospital come to fetch you. Is it about your scars?’
‘No, Father,’ Matthew told him. ‘Surgeons from the London Hospital don’t do house calls. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute — I have to clean up and get suitably attired.’
As he reached the pavement, Collins was waiting to open the coach door for him and he climbed in, then looked surprised as he discovered that it had two occupants.
‘Ask your daughter what she’s doing here,’ Matthew asked coldly of Carlyle. ‘Or is she just here to gloat?’
‘His daughter can speak on her own behalf,’ Adelaide replied with matching formality. ‘And she’s here to apologise for her outburst the other day.’
‘Now that I’m famous?’ Matthew asked with a hollow laugh.
‘More like “infamous”,’ Carlyle replied, as the coach pulled out into the line of traffic. ‘Hence our visit this morning. You have — I assume unwittingly — provided us with just the opportunity we need to advise the people of the East End that their plague terrors are at an end.’
‘That so-called reporter was lying through his — his — backside,’ Matthew replied hotly. ‘I admitted that I’d been arrested for brawling with Morrell and that was all. If it helps, you can also blame my stupid sister, who thought she’d promote her career at the expense of mine. That was her drawing of me doing battle with the Devil.’
‘She shows great promise as an artist,’ Adelaide commented. ‘You must introduce me to her.’
‘She also displays great promise as an addle-brained idiot who’s not worthy of your high ideals,’ Matthew replied bitterly. ‘Apology accepted, by the way. Where are we going, as a matter of interest?’
‘Scotland Yard,’ Carlyle told him, ‘before my idea grows cold.’
Less than half an hour later they were admitted to the small office allocated to Inspector Jennings, who ordered tea and biscuits and turned to Matthew. ‘I take it that you were not responsible for those unkind words regarding the tireless work of the police?’
‘Don’t push it,’ Matthew growled. ‘If I can smite the Devil, I’m more than capable of decking you on your own carpet.’
‘Think so, sonny?’ Jennings challenged him. ‘I may be getting a bit long in the tooth, but those teeth were cut on street brawlers bigger than you, so mind your tongue.’
‘On that pleasant note, let’s get down to business,’ Carlyle suggested. ‘We now have the perfect means of spreading the Gospel according to Saint Matthew. The new one, that is, not the First Century scribbler.’
‘I haven’t yet had the courage to enquire,’ Matthew interrupted sourly, ‘but I’d place even money on the prospect that your new saint is about to be de-frocked.’
‘I’d never thought of you wearing a frock,’ Adelaide quipped, to be instantly silenced by a glare from her father, who picked up his point.
‘There can’t be a literate person in London who doesn’t believe that Matthew somehow has the inside track on all this plague pit business.’
‘It’s the illiterate ones I’m concerned for,’ Matthew observed, to a warning click of the teeth from Carlyle. ‘Sorry, go on.’
‘As I said, everyone believes — rightly or wrongly — that Matthew has the key to this entire business, which is happily well behind us. What I propose is that we organise a public meeting at which Matthew does what he does best, while Inspector Jennings here follows up with an explanation of ho
w we caught the man who was dropping Dreamy Juice in the peoples’ beer — and why.’
‘Can’t we just leave it to the inspector?’ Matthew complained. ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is.’
Carlyle sighed. ‘Were you listening? You’re the star turn — the big draw card. Five years ago a police inspector proclaimed in a very public forum that “The Ripper” was no more, but no-one believed him.’
‘And why should they believe me?’ Matthew asked sceptically. ‘I’m a laughing stock, surely?’
‘You think so?’ Adelaide suddenly chirped up. ‘Whether you’re prepared to believe it or not — and much though it pains me to admit as such — you’ve become the peoples’ hero. The white knight who saved the timorous maiden. The Saint George who slew the dragon.’
‘So I’m Saint George as well as Saint Matthew — what of it?’
‘Publicity value,’ Carlyle told him. ‘If we put you up on a public platform in the largest hall we can find and invite all the leading pencil pushers from the daily press, we can get our message across to the largest audience.’
‘Will you also be advising them about the Peyote?’ Matthew asked.
For a brief moment Carlyle looked uncomfortable. ‘I haven’t reached a final decision on that point.’
‘So it’s down to me and the inspector, is it?’ Matthew summarised bitterly. ‘We stick our heads above the parapet and you count the bullets afterwards? If it comes to that, surely the police commissioner won’t want you to admit that the man responsible for all this was killed before he could be charged?’
Jennings coughed uncomfortably. ‘Sorry to remind you, young man, but he was killed by a civilian.’
Matthew gave another hollow laugh. ‘Saint George and Saint Matthew rolled into one civilian “humble preacher” with a right fist that contains more strength than he ever imagined?’