Anatomy of Evil (17 page)

“This is all very interesting,” Barker said. “And I suppose under the Labouchere Amendment, James Stephen could be prosecuted if the Home Office has enough information to make a case beyond hearsay. However, I do not believe Scotland Yard would prefer to become involved in this matter. Is there more?”

Ponsonby ran a hand across his brow. “There is. Apparently, Stephen is subject to spells. They began at university, I understand, but he was in a carriage accident recently, and the spells have become more frequent.”

“You are being rather vague, Sir Henry,” my employer said. “How does Mr. Stephen act during these spells?”

“His behavior has been diagnosed as a form of mania. He is highly restless, full of energy almost to a fault, argumentative, and euphoric. During these periods he is known for being markedly misogynistic, but then, I understand he is critical of the fair sex at the best of times.”

“What you are implying,” the Guv said, “is that the tutor of the heir to the throne is a suspect in the Whitechapel killings.”

“We cannot be sure of Stephen’s whereabouts on the nights in question. It appears there are other members of the staff within the palace who are sympathetic to his interests.”

“And how do the duke’s father and grandmother feel about the matter as it stands?”

Ponsonby, who had been standing during our conversation, suddenly collapsed into a chair. It was as if his limbs had given out. He passed a hand over his face again.

“I have not dared to tell them,” he answered.

It was Barker’s turn to smooth his mustache, if only to hide the smile on his face. I cleared my throat.

“Indeed?”

“We—the prime minister and I—have been considering the best time and proper method of informing them. Such news would destroy his father, and as for Her Majesty, I’m not certain she understands that such things exist. The matter would have to be explained to her.”

“I do not envy you your task, Sir Henry, but I still do not know how I can help you. The Home Office is following Stephen adequately, I’m sure. If I am pulled away from the investigation to shadow one suspect, who may turn out to be innocent, I may be hampered from laying hands on the killer when he reveals himself.”

“Stephen is a lot of things,” Ponsonby said, “but I do not think innocent is one of them.”

“Innocent of the crime of murder, at least. Is there more?”

Ponsonby nodded. “I fear so.”

Barker began ticking off points on his fingers. “The royal heir may not be inclined to fulfill his duties to the monarchy, his tutor is not only a frequenter of male brothels, but might be responsible for several horrendous deaths, and the household is riddled with his supporters. What more do you fear?”

“This fellow, Littlechild. He knows everything and I am inclined to think that he will not keep silent about the matter without something in return.”

“I am a plain man, Sir Henry, and I prefer plain words. Is Inspector Littlechild blackmailing you?”

“Not yet, but I’m not sure why. He’s an oily fellow, but a straightforward one. I’ve been waiting for him to suggest some sort of payment, and then I would pounce. I could have him sacked and jailed within the afternoon. So far he has said nothing, which I find perplexing.”

Barker pondered this behind those smoky quartz spectacles. He tapped his chest, or more precisely, the pocket where his tobacco was normally kept, but not in this suit. It was just as well. I doubted one could just light a pipe in Buckingham Palace without a formal censure.

“Tell me,” he finally said. “Is the inspector acquainted with the Home Office agents?”

“They are thick as thieves. I understand they have even ridden together while following Stephen. Why do you ask?”

“Let me consider the matter.”

“What shall I do in the meantime about the Duke of Clarence and Mr. Stephen?”

“You must inform the Prince of Wales about his son’s indiscretions, and let him decide whether to tell Her Majesty. This is not a firecracker, it is a blasting cap. You do not want to be holding it when it goes off.”

Barker stood. He had bustled in and now he was ready to leave. He took out one of his cards and gave it to the Queen’s private secretary.

“I can be reached at Scotland yard in a matter of minutes. Pray call me if anything new occurs.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I was growing accustomed to the routine, if one could call it that. Each day began with research in the Records Room, went on to making tea and delivering messages, lunch, interviewing witnesses, dinner, then walking Whitechapel. Sometimes the entire routine was overthrown, if there was a coroner’s inquest or a new suspect. I felt I now knew the area better than anyone who was not raised there. I could walk down most streets and know what was around the corner, though it had taken close to a month to learn it. Even the unfortunates had begun to leave off harassing or enticing us. Now they bantered with us, assuming we were local. We had invented occupations for ourselves in case anyone asked: I was an out-of-work tailor, while Barker was an ex-miner who had received a small settlement due to black lung. We walked to help improve his health and had come to London to improve our fortunes. That was our story. The incurious believed it. As for the others, those who knew Push in the East End or recognized us from previous cases, they understood our need for partial incognito, assuming we were working with the Board of Deputies or some such organization to find the killer. The reporters, the Jews, the unfortunates, the publicans, the aid society members and socialists in Whitechapel, none of them suspected we were working with Scotland Yard. Whitechapel was the center of London’s Underworld, and no matter how long the police had been there, they were still the enemy. A private agent, on the other hand, he was just a working stiff trying to make a living. There was even a chance he actually gave a tinker’s damn about what happened to the people who lived there.

I was passing through the halls of Scotland Yard when I heard my name called by the desk sergeant. When I hurried up, he handed me a telegram.

“Who for, Sergeant?” I asked.

“Your master.”

I took the note to my employer, who slit it open with a knife. He read the piece of yellow paper, covered in glued-on words, and folded it into his pocket with a look of intent on his face.

“Who is it from, sir?” I asked.

“Ponsonby,” he answered. “He’s plugged the leak in the palace staff and now has them working for him. He says Stephen is restless and shall probably go out tonight. He’s been leaving through the stable entrance, Sir Henry claims, and picks up a cab a few streets away.”

“Are we going to follow him?”

“Of course. The only way to tell where a fellow goes is to follow him. It is possible he commits murder on the nights when he is agitated.”

“But he may be going to a brothel, sir. That is, a male brothel.”

“Aye,” the Guv said.

“A male brothel,” I repeated.

“What concerns you, Thomas, that someone you know might spy you going in there, or that you might be approached by a male prostitute?”

“Both! Do we have to go in? Can we watch from outside?”

“Need I remind you that James Stephen just escaped from Buckingham Palace, which is surrounded by guards? How difficult do you think it would be for him to slip out a side entrance of an establishment that is designed to afford anonymity to its clients? In fact, if he is careful enough he could establish an alibi of sorts. One cannot be accused of murdering a woman in Hanbury Street at the same time one is accused of gross indecency somewhere else.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter how much I protest. You’re going there, anyway.”

“Where the case leads, Thomas. We go where the case leads.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

*   *   *

The Drake Club was a residence in Halifax Street built in Regency days when the wealthy were first building outside the City, where land was cheap and plentiful. It must have been an ample mansion then, with marble columns and level steps, the pride of the neighborhood. Now it was unkempt and ramshackle, like an old widow fallen on hard times. The slate roof was sagging under its own weight. In every window, however, there was a splash of color, a vase full of peacock feathers here, or an oriental fan there. It was vulgar but it achieved its purpose. As I stood watching, two men hurried furtively inside.

“Shall we?” Barker asked, gesturing toward the front of the building.

“Isn’t there a back entrance?”

Barker laughed and clapped me on the back, propelling me forward. I climbed the worn staircase, feeling as if everyone I ever knew was watching me do so. I was reminded of a paradox a math tutor had tried to drub into my head when I was young, conceived by the philosopher Zeno, that if one continually halved the distance between a point and where one stood, one could never reach it. However, the philosopher didn’t have Cyrus Barker’s elbow between his shoulder blades, and before I knew it, I was through the door.

Inside, the house had been given a coat of paint, a virulent shade of violet. Mismatched carpets lined the floors and the doorway to a parlor was hung with ropes of beads. There were men standing about with drinks in their hands, talking to youths who had kohl-smeared eyes and were in various stages of undress. One of the men, who might be a judge or a barrister, reached over and caressed the neck of one of the youths. I looked away.

It was so crowded inside, we had to wait in a queue. A bored-sounding young man greeted people, then directed them toward another room or an upper floor. The fellow’s cheeks were rouged and he was wearing a white blouse with breeches and no hose. I had been in other establishments full of women and at least there was no attempt to show the wares therein right in the front entrance hall.

“May I help—” the young man began, then his eyes took in my employer.

There are larger men in London than Cyrus Barker. Not many, but some. He stands a little over six feet and weighs fifteen stone. There are probably stronger men, though one might be hard-pressed to find them. Also, there are more menacing-looking men than he, provided he is in a good mood. I suppose a tiger, a gorilla, or a crocodile spends the bulk of its days in sedate activity, and yet I would not want to be locked in a room with one, because of the small percentage of the time when it is not. Likewise, the youth looked cautiously at the Guv, not because of what he was doing, but because of what he was capable of doing.

“I need to speak to the Countess,” Barker said.

“He’s occupied,” the young man answered, without conviction.

Barker leaned forward until the two of them were nearly touching foreheads. The man’s eyes went wide.

“I wasn’t asking.”

There had been a good deal of chatter in the lobby and the adjoining rooms, but my employer’s foggy voice has a way of cutting through it like it was cloud vapor. All talking ceased.

“I … I suppose I could see if he’s through with his appointment.”

“Aye, you do that, laddie.”

The youth turned and scampered up the stairwell. My employer sniffed, opened his coat, planted a fist on each kidney, and looked about him, as at home there as he was anywhere.

“You certainly gave him a turn,” one of the nearby youths told him.

“I intended to do so.”

“I haven’t seen you before. Do you come here often?”

“This isn’t a social call.”

Barker reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out his repeater watch. He compared it with satisfaction to an ornate standing clock in the hall.

“I’ve given him enough time,” the Guv said, and began to climb the stair. I followed behind. It was crowded there but men gave way quickly for our progress. If they hadn’t, they might have found themselves acquainted with the carpet ten feet below.

Just then a man appeared at the top of the stair. He was perhaps forty years of age, thin and clean-shaven, though the skin of his jawline was nearly gray. His eyes were dark and luminous. There was nothing frivolous in his attire save for a small green carnation in his lapel. His brow rose when he saw my employer and he broke into a grin of sheer delight.

“Push, old thing!
Bonne fortune!
You’ve been dreadfully naughty not to visit me, but here you are, unannounced, so I suppose I must forgive you. And who is the bean cove with you, who looks as comfortable as a cat in a kennel?”

“Henry,” the Guv said, “this is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, Henry Inslip.”

“Welcome to my humble lattie. The one rule here is that you are free to do as you please. But I know Cyrus too well to think he came here for social purposes. You’re working, dear boy, aren’t you?”

“You know I am,” Barker said.

“An interesting case?” he asked, drawing out the middle word until it was laced with innuendo.

“Quite interesting.”

“And important?” he asked, arching a brow.

“Very important.”

Inslip grinned again. “We all know what little pitchers have. Follow me to my humble cell where we can dish the dirt. Would someone pass the word along to the kitchen that there are three for tea? And be certain they serve it in the best Limoges, or I’ll be ever so cross! We have guests! Follow me, gentlemen!”

We followed him up the steep staircase and down a hall carpeted in a heavy Persian runner while cherubs disported themselves across the ceiling. We passed men in pairs, younger ones with older ones, the elders not acknowledging each other’s existence. He led us into a room painted in gold and robin’s-egg blue dominated by a painting over the fireplace of a beautiful young woman. The room seemed to be a farrago of masculine items, such as leather-lined glass ashtrays and a rococo desk, with more feminine ones: a wig on a stand and an Asian parasol propped in a corner. Inslip curled up in a chair and then eyed us speculatively.

“All right, Push, what really brings you here? Has Philippa finally tired of us and tossed you out? You know, you really must put a ring on that woman’s finger, laddie boy. She won’t wait forever. How is she, by the way?”

“In excellent health, when last we spoke. Now, you like games, as I recall. I propose we play one now. We shall call it ‘Vague Terms.’ First I shall say something vague and you shall say another, and in this manner, I hope we shall reach enlightenment without saying anything incriminating at all. How does that sound?”