Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (17 page)

Mr Mayhew laughed, drained his glass and refilled it. There was something both mournful and engaging about him.

‘Lord Allington has asked us to look into a couple of murders which the new police have given up on,’ Blake said. ‘Two printers, murdered in their shops.’

‘Printers? I’ve heard nothing of this. What is Allington’s interest in it?’

‘He tried to persuade the police to pursue the cases. They seem determined to bury them. He has retained Captain Avery and me to discover what we can. I intend to find out the truth behind this, and when I do, I can bring you the story. But now, I need intelligence.’

‘Well, well,’ Jerrold said, looking at Blake keenly. ‘What are the names of the two dead men?’

‘Nathaniel Wedderburn and Matthew Blundell.’

‘I do not know them.’

‘Maybe because the first had premises in Holywell Street, the second in Seven Dials.’

‘Ah well, they are several rungs down the ladder, even from us. There are thousands of disreputable publishers at that end of the trade constantly setting up and sinking back into the mire.
Nevertheless, I should have expected to hear something of this. And Henry spends a good deal of time in the Shakespeare’s Head tavern in Wych Street.’

‘My fellow editor Mark Lemon lives above it,’ Mayhew said hastily. ‘I did hear tell of a grisly murder nearby. But I do not recall a name, and there were no broadsheets about it and nothing in the newspapers. We have been so taken up with the paper, I must confess I had forgot it.’

Blake shook his head. ‘That is not my question. My question is, what do you know about Eldred Woundy?’

‘Now that is a most interesting question.’ Jerrold leant back into his chair. ‘Mr Woundy is leading a revolution in publishing. His paper outsells everything. He has realized that with cheaper paper, faster steam presses and the reduction of stamp duty, there is now the potential to reach a readership greater than anything we have ever seen before. I will also say that though I know almost everyone in the world of journalism, I know very little about Woundy. He has risen, as they say, without trace, though interesting rumours cling to him. Did you not work for him for a while, Henry?’

Mayhew, in the midst of eating an oyster, swallowed quickly and tried to suppress a belch.

‘I had that dubious honour,’ he said, his grey pouchy eyes dwelling on Blake, ‘some years ago. There are times when one must take what comes along, and I was short …’

‘You are always short,’ said Jerrold.

Mayhew nodded vigorously. ‘Woundy published – still publishes – penny bloods. I wrote the words to accompany the illustrations. He was a great shouter and blusterer: “More blood!” he would say. “Bigger eyes!” Not an easy man to work for, fractious, far from generous – but entertaining: large in all things, full of energy and swagger, and he knew his audience. From our pens streamed a veritable flood of tales of murders, baby swaps, cannibalism and vampires.’

‘That how he made his money?’ said Blake.

‘He certainly had a nose for what sold, but there’s scarcely a fortune to be made in such things. He had a reputation as a lively but
small-scale publisher. I should be amazed if he had made enough to launch
Woundy’s Weekly
, but he was very close with his money, and he was not the most scrupulous of men, though that is hardly a rare thing in our trade. There was talk that he had other, let us say, less salubrious interests, though we never knew quite what. Odd fellows would arrive; he would retire with them into his office and lock the door. We liked to think he was hatching nefarious plots. How he has come into his current fortune and respectability is something of a mystery. Of course, he may simply have a wealthy backer … who must be delighted with the return on his investment.’

‘Is he married? Has he a family?’

‘Never saw any sign of it. He liked to play the dandy, liked a good meal and good wine.’

‘We went to visit Mr Woundy this very morning,’ I said. ‘He mistook us for would-be investors.’

‘Did he?’ said Jerrold, raising one luxuriant eyebrow.

‘You said that there were certain rumours about Woundy,’ Blake interjected.

‘There was a story some years ago that he had an interest in the
English Spy
.’

Mayhew paused. ‘Come to think of it, I heard that too.’

‘What is the
English Spy
?’ I said.

‘A cheap scandal sheet of very low morals,’ said Jerrold, his nose wrinkling, ‘purporting to cover the world of fashion and swells. Reviews of courtesans, gambling dens and such. A breed of publication whose time, thankfully, has largely passed – it must have closed two years ago. But again, one would hardly expect it to have made the kind of money needed to buy two steam presses.’

‘Did Woundy know the two printers who died?’ Mayhew said.

Blake smiled. ‘I believe he did but I have no proof.’

‘It is not impossible to imagine that Woundy might have had connections in that line.
English Spy
did, after all, make a point of writing up the best-known brothels and courtesans.’

A small dumpling of a man was pushing his way through the crowd towards us. His red face and a slight list in his walk – he righted himself with the use of a silver-topped cane – proclaimed
him to be an admiral of the red. That is to say, he clearly liked a drink.

‘This is a coincidence indeed,’ said Mr Jerrold, staring at the tubby little man. ‘Here is someone who might well know more about Eldred Woundy, though he may not be minded to help you. Renton O’Toole, vulgarian, rogue and charlatan. If anyone knows whether Woundy was engaged with the flash press, it would be him.’

The little man made straight for our table.

‘Jerrold, Mayhew,’ he said, combatively picking up one of our glasses and taking a mouthful of wine. ‘Not bad,’ he declared. He pointed at Blake. ‘I know you. The inscrutable Mr Blake. Pacer of the streets. Possessor of secrets, and two missing fingers. Some say they were bitten off by a tiger. What say you, Mr Blake?’ There was no mistaking his Irishness.

‘You behave yourself, some day I might tell you.’

‘Promises, promises,’ said the little man, swivelling round and pointing to me. ‘You, I do not know.’

‘Mr Blake and Captain Avery,’ said Mr Jerrold, disapprovingly, ‘may I introduce Renton O’Toole, former proprietor of the
Ironist
. Have you nowhere else to be?’

‘Douglas Jerrold, you know I have the hide of a rhinoceros. I am unsnubbable. Avery, eh?’ He put his finger to his nose and then mimed great surprise. ‘Surely not Blake and Avery, the brave companions of the great Xavier Mountstuart in his final struggle against the murderous Thugs of India? Am I right? I know I am.’

He gave a little curtsey, in the midst of which he almost lost his balance.

‘Good heavens!’ said Mayhew. ‘All this time you were
that
Blake. I cannot believe we did not realize – and you never said a word! Why, we saw Benjamin Haydon’s painting just last week!’

Jerrold looked at Blake with one bristling eyebrow raised. Blake gave a tiny shrug.

‘Well, Mr Blake, you surprise us yet again!’

‘And you, Captain Avery,’ said Mayhew warmly, ‘you are the one who shot the tiger and saved the Maharaja! What a story!’
Then he said more quietly into my ear, ‘
Were
Mr Blake’s fingers bitten off by a tiger?’

I shook my head.

‘I must say,’ said O’Toole, drawing up a chair, ‘that you look nothing like your portraits.’

‘Since Mr Haydon has not met either of us, that is hardly surprising,’ I said.

Jerrold nodded sagely. ‘Engaging man, Haydon. Dreadful painter.’

‘I am most wounded, Captain Avery,’ said O’Toole, ‘that you have not heard of
me
. I am very well known in London: writer, actor, man of fashion, satirist, seeker-out of truth—’

‘Blackmailer,’ said Jerrold.

O’Toole raised his – our – glass. ‘I pride myself on knowing everyone’s business, and I will not deny that I made tidy sums from encouraging the rich, powerful and not so well behaved to recompense me in return for keeping certain unfortunate escapades out of print. But of course that is all over now.’

‘It is said that Renton extracted five thousand pounds out of half a dozen courtiers over some court scandal a few years ago,’ said Mayhew, beaming. Douglas Jerrold looked disgusted.

O’Toole waved his arms about extravagantly. ‘I’ll not deny it. I am no hypocrite. I am a man of many talents, among them a gift for a telling phrase.’

‘He means he never stints on heaping abuse on those he takes against,’ said Jerrold. ‘Renton has been horsewhipped at least twenty times by those he has attacked in print.’

‘Is it twenty times?’ said O’Toole. ‘I cannot recall.’ He lifted his cane and essayed a rather lopsided attempt at a sabre thrust.

I struggled to restrain a smile.

‘What Renton is chiefly famous for is inflicting scabrous reviews,’ said Jerrold severely. ‘The
Ironist
was a nasty item – I am glad its day is done. The readers want something different. Humour that is not coarse, immoral or malicious.’

‘Like that bleeding-heart excuse for a humorous rag you persevere with,’ O’Toole snorted contemptuously. ‘What is its name?
Pinch
?
Hunch
?’

‘It is called
Punch
, as you well know,’ said Mayhew, thumping the table. ‘It is a good deal more amusing than your sorry publication. Comicality and satire do not need to be ribald and dirty.’

‘Well said, sir!’ said Jerrold.

O’Toole assumed a tragic look. ‘Ah, the times are against me. And yet I scrape a living. How many does your pathetic publication sell?’

Mayhew hung his head.

‘I heard
Pinch
is losing money hand over fist each week, and that you went to your publishers to ask them to buy you out, but they refused because your debts are so high. How much longer can you last, Mr Mayhew? Hmm? But enough of this. It is Mr Blake I came to see. A little bird tells me that you paid a somewhat curtailed visit earlier today to the premises of Mr Eldred Woundy.’

‘Why,’ said Jerrold, ‘we were just speaking of him.’

Blake sat up, his eyes hooded in shadow.

‘If you are looking for intelligence about Woundy, I am your man. I could tell you many, many things that he would prefer to remain unknown.’

‘You dislike him,’ said Blake.

O’Toole put his forefinger on his chin as if pretending to think. ‘I do. I should go so far as to say I loathe him. And I am willing to talk. But I’ll need a good bottle of claret, a plate of beef and oyster stew, and something more on account. But we can discuss that later.’

Jerrold sniffed. ‘I should not bother if I were you, Mr Blake. At best, Renton’s intelligence is worth a couple of oysters.’

‘Please yourself,’ said O’Toole.

‘I’ll stand you dinner,’ said Blake quietly.

O’Toole called for wine and stew, made a great fuss of settling himself and tucking into his dinner, then looked up with the expectation of our avid attention. He had it.

‘Mr Blake,’ he said. ‘You have a certain reputation. I may be in need of your skills one of these days. If I help you now, I expect to be able to call upon you in future. I believe Dean Street in Soho is where you reside?’

‘You’re well informed,’ said Blake.

‘I make it my business to be.’

‘So. Woundy.’

O’Toole leant forward, his voice suddenly urgent. ‘Such a low-life swindler as ever existed. Capable of anything. You think I am without principles, Jerrold, but Woundy … And now he seeks respectability and influence with his cheap little weekly. Well, I know a few things about his past that would put paid to that.’

‘Why should you reveal them now?’ said Blake.

‘Who before was interested? Two months ago, Woundy was a nobody whose ostensible business was penny bloods. Now he is currency and I know how he made his money. He was secretly the proprietor of the
English Spy
. Old Spendhall was merely the editor. You think I was bad; Woundy made an art of blackmail, he was engaged in moneylending, forgery and he kept a brothel. The journal was merely another medium for amassing money. He turned up a story then demanded payment for keeping it out of print.’

‘The
English Spy
was the
Ironist
’s chief rival,’ said Mayhew.

‘The
English Spy
my rival? Please. My publication was a thing of wit and elegance. The
English Spy
was a coarse and shabby copy.’

‘You were had up for corrupting public morals,’ protested Jerrold.

‘Oh, indeed,’ said O’Toole, ‘the Society for the Suppression of Vice had me in its sights. But I exposed the hypocrisies and crimes of the rich and titled, and surely, Douglas, you cannot argue with that?’

‘How did he turn up enough stories to make a fortune out of it?’ said Blake.

‘He had a finger in many pies. But first, let me tell you what he did to me. He stole my ideas and tried to put me out of business.’ O’Toole’s voice throbbed with emotion. ‘Some six years ago, when old King William was still alive, I was setting up the
Ironist
and he approached me about becoming joint proprietor. However, he wanted his role to be secret. He had a good deal of capital, to which I shall return. We worked together for some months and were on the point of publication when he suddenly withdrew his funds without explanation. My plans were in ruins, but I managed to
scrape together enough to launch. The next thing I knew, the
English Spy
had started up. Its editor, Spendhall, tried to lure my people away, then began to chase my stories, and the sources I had cultivated. I had a very damaging story about old Ernest of Cumberland. You would not have believed it. And he was about to pay me for it too, but just to spite me the
English Spy
printed parts of the stories, incomplete and without the evidence, so no one benefited, and the old devil simply shrugged them off.

‘Then I began to receive threatening letters demanding that I close down my publication. I am used to such menaces. I made myself scarce for several weeks. One night two nobblers arrived at our offices. They broke my chief compositor’s foot. I know it was Woundy who sent them. Nevertheless, I persisted.’