The Vice Society (25 page)

‘You are indeed a “Continental man”, sir, even if you, ah, rarely attend. What have you read recently?’

‘I enjoyed
The Venusian Acolytes,
though I admit it was a little too genteel for my tastes. Before that I was pleased to acquire a series of images under the title of
The Scullery Maid’s Education
– a fine and detailed study that I have shared with my Golden-square girl, if you understand my meaning . . .’

There was a murmur of recognition and approval around the group, unfathomable glances being exchanged between them all. If this gathering was an assessment of their new smoking fellow, it seemed he was performing suitably.

‘Indeed! Indeed! I know both titles and the latter is, ah, very fine. Very fine. Tell me, Mr Norman, what was the nature of your, ah, discussion with your fellow the other day? About becoming, ah, accustomed.’

‘We were of the opinion that a man’s tastes do not remain static but develop and progress. What seems exciting today is
passé
in a month or two. Novelty is critical, and so is . . . how should I put it? . . . An element of the forbidden.’

The major looked meaningfully around the group as if an earlier point of his had been proved by Noah’s words. The end of his cigar crackled and flared red. He ejected a cloud of smoke from the corners of his mouth. ‘What you say is, ah, quite right, sir. It is something that I and my fellows have discussed on many occasions. And is it not like any, ah, pleasure? I may drink this whisky for a year or so, but then my fancy is taken by Barbadoes rum, or something stronger still.’

‘You are quite right, Major. I am fortunate, however, that my regular girl is open to new ideas.’

‘She sounds like a good girl, but every girl has her, ah, limits. Does she like a whipping? A sharp spanking?’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘Forgive me, sir! I have made you, ah, blush. I am an old soldier and I have travelled further down that, ah, road than many men.’

‘It is quite all right, Major.’

‘We speak frankly here at the club. We men of the, ah, city need not be genteel about such things.’

‘Well, quite.’

The major again stroked his moustache and looked pointedly at James, who had been examining Noah with unnerving attention throughout the entire conversation. At the major’s look, James nodded in wordless acquiescence, excused himself and walked towards the library.

Noah applied himself to his cigar for a moment and accepted another glass of whisky from the waiter. James’s momentary absence seemed like an opportunity.

‘Jackson the porter tells me that one of the members has recently passed. I am afraid I miss that kind of news being absent so frequently. Did any of you fellows know him?’

‘Sampson was his name – Jonathan Sampson.’ The major’s tone was flat.

‘The name is unfamiliar.’

‘He was, ah, a quiet one.’

‘Sampson, you say? Wait – was he the same who fell from the window in Holywell-street?’

‘The same.’

‘That was a curious case, was it not? There was much discussion among my fellows about it.’

‘Curious indeed. But as I say, he was not among our, ah, group.’

‘Even so – there must have been a good amount of speculation in the smoking room about his fall. Was it merely an accident? Was he with a girl, do you think – or a man?’

The end of the major’s cigar again glowed red and he surveyed ‘Mr Norman’ with eyes that suggested the exterior of the windy old soldier was, like his medals, something he might choose to wear according to his mood. There was another twirl of the moustache.

‘You are right, Mr Norman. It was a most unusual incident. Speaking for myself, I think the man was a sod and was caught at it.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps. Certainly he was up to some mischief there. We will never know.’

‘Quite.’

At that moment, Major Tunnock looked across the room to see James returning with a paper in his hand. And the convivial smile returned like a gas flame springing into life.

‘Mr Norman – James has something for you. It is, ah, something from the “confidential” section of our library that you might like to read – but not here at the club if you please.’

‘Really? What is it?’ Noah took the pamphlet from James and glimpsed the title:
The Gentleman’s Poetics of Transgression.
There was no author, but the publisher was Henry Poppleton of Holywell-street.

‘It is an, ah, idea. It touches on what we were discussing just a few moments ago and it might be of, ah, interest to you.’

‘I will read it with interest, Major. Thank you.’

‘And here is my card. If you find the contents to your, ah, taste, you may contact me either at the club or at the address on the card. We can meet again. I like to make the acquaintance of fellows such as you who have such, ah, refined tastes.’

‘You are all too kind. I am having a most pleasant evening. I regret now that I do not attend the club more often.’

Noah did not proceed directly home from the club later that evening. He first made a short visit to the office of the secretary to receive his payment for the earlier delivery of opium.

‘It is a pleasure to see you in person, Mr Norman,’ said the secretary. ‘Is your usual man, the Negro, unavailable this evening?’

‘No – I felt the need of some company tonight. Indeed, I made the acquaintance of your Major Tunnock.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘You disapprove of the major?’

‘Between you and me, he does rather lend certain associations to the club. You know how these old soldiers can be.’

‘Quite. I was speaking with one of his young acolytes: James . . . I did not manage to learn his surname. A sartorial sort.’

‘I suppose you mean James Tattershall – one of our residents.’

‘A pleasant fellow: intelligent, lively . . .’

‘And quite a distinctive laugh!’

‘Indeed. Do you know much about him?’

‘He is, as you say, a pleasant fellow. I believe that he is waiting for an inheritance and is spending his bachelorhood enjoying London before he retires to the family seat.’

‘Does he share the major’s interests, do you think?’

‘He is a young man. It is not my business to know what he does away from the club as long as he is more discreet than the major. Nor is it your business, Mr Norman.’

‘You are right. Forgive me. I am naturally curious.’

‘Quite permissible, but you understand that I must maintain my secretarial duties with honour.’

‘I thank you for that. Good evening to you, sir.’

It was much later that evening, after the visiting members had returned home and the boarding guests had retired to their rooms, that young James gained access to the secretary’s office and discovered that the infrequent member calling himself Mr Norman was not – as suspected – a member at all. Nevertheless, there was an Adam Norman listed as a supplier to the club under the category of ‘Oriental materials’. Whoever he was, the man seemed to be neither a policeman, nor a gentleman, nor a tradesman. And he asked the most inappropriate sort of questions.

SIXTEEN

As we have heard, Mr Williamson had determined to visit Clerkenwell, or rather that disgusting, Irish-infested rookery bordered by Field-lane at its west and Smithfield at its east – a part of our modern city that would likely be recognized today by the lowest Londoners of two hundred years ago.

Naturally, no man but an inhabitant would venture there at night unless he wanted to be knocked on the head and robbed of his very shoes, so Mr Williamson had made the sensible decision to set out shortly before dawn and arrive just after first light. Much against his initial protestations, the estimable Benjamin walked at his side, quite dwarfing him in comparison.

The Negro was truly an impressive specimen. Well over six feet tall (but seeming taller in a fine black overcoat and a top hat worn at a quirky angle), he seemed as lithe and muscular as some exotic beast. That milky eyeball of his attracted almost as much attention as his build, but few dared to stare – even when they became aware of the scaffold scars about his neck. A scarf covered those today, and Benjamin strolled as if the excursion were merely a morning errand to purchase bread.

The city was eerily silent as the first streaks of light appeared in a cloudy sky. No omnibuses were running at that time, and the cabs were absent. The shutters of shops were still down; upper windows looked out blackly upon the world; the gaslamps hissed impatiently to be extinguished; and frost crunched under their boots. Here and there, they caught the scent of charcoal and coffee from a corner vendor or the yeasty-moist aroma of new bread. Occasionally, they would see some wretched figure swaddled in shawl or blanket harvesting rags, ash or bones from the street. In short, it was one of those winter mornings when it feels as if the light will never come – that this city of sin will remain forever in night.

‘It is bitter, is it not?’ said Mr Williamson as they turned north on to Bridge-street at Blackfriars.

Benjamin made an affirmative response.

‘Hmm. I admit, Benjamin, that I feel awkward when talking to you. I see that you prefer to use your language of hand movements with Noah rather than articulate your thoughts verbally.’

Again, the affirmative response.

‘I am curious, however. I have met men without tongues before and they speak. True – it is a mangled and inelegant noise they make, but they can be understood. Is it, perhaps, the case that you simply prefer not to do so? I suppose there is a certain pleasure in retiring from the world in that way. It is, after all, a dirty and hateful place not worthy of our finer thoughts or actions.’

A vast hand settled on Mr Williamson’s shoulder and remained there as they walked. It was, perhaps, another affirmative.

Dawn began to settle weakly over the chimneys as they progressed up Farringdon-street – and soon they began to smell their destination. It was the stench of poverty, of the cesspit, the pigsty and the stopped gutter, the slaughterhouse and the rat-ridden ragman’s yard. Within this warren of lanes and yards were practised the unspeakable trades of the gut-spinner, the bone boiler, the tripe dresser, the tallow-melter, the paunch cooker, the glue reducer and the trotter scraper.

‘I would cover your nose and mouth as we venture forth,’ said Mr Williamson, doing so with his scarf.

Benjamin’s nostrils twitched at the scent of death and decay, and he followed the advice.

They took Cow-lane and passed eastwards around the rookery, cutting across the lower corner of Smithfield’s bleak expanse before venturing down West-street into the rotten core of that place. The street itself, its very buildings as black and decayed as if they had been submerged in the Thames for decades, was all but deserted. Only a slovenly street girl leaned against a wall, either too drunk or cold to lift her head to the strangers. Mud splashed about their feet.

‘We proceed to where the demolitions continue,’ said Mr Williamson, his voice sounding oddly unfamiliar to him in the dank air.

And soon they were among the devastation: timbers askew, masonry littering the ground, and a great gaping hole where a row of buildings had once stood. It was as if, Mr Williamson reflected, a giant beast had taken the fabric of the city in its maw and ripped out a jagged mouthful. Was this the unholy place – not even to be found on maps hereafter – where poor Joseph had taken his final faltering steps?

Benjamin pointed and made a noise.

There among the truncated walls and puddle-filled pits was a figure making his way awkwardly through the ruins. Even from some distance, the man seemed huge – not as tall as Benjamin to be sure, but as squat, square and solid as if he had sprung from the massy stonework about him. Mr Williamson and Benjamin exchanged looks; the man did not appear to be a threat.

‘I will speak to this Hercules,’ said Mr Williamson, again his voice seeming an alien presence there. ‘You! Yes, you there!’

The giant fellow paused and looked towards them. There seemed no expression on his face, nor, indeed, any capacity for emotion. He approached without haste through the scattered bricks and cast dead eyes over them, revealing nothing in his gaze. Close up, he seemed a barrel of muscle and bone dressed in rags.

‘Sir, do you live hereabouts?’ asked Mr Williamson.

The man looked at his questioner as if the words had been mere noise. Were it not for his occasional blinking, he might well have been a figure of wax.

‘Hmm. There were people here two evenings ago. An old blind man with white hair. Did you see them perchance, or hear about the strangers from your, er, neighbours?’

No response. The man was like some beast of burden that had wandered here from the market and become lost in these relics of a community.

‘His body was thrown in the Fleet among these fallen houses, where the buildings have been knocked down.’

At the word ‘Fleet’, a flicker of recognition seemed to pass across that broad face.

‘Yes, the river – the Fleet. Where might the body have been thrown in? Is there access to the water hereabouts?’

The man turned, gestured in the direction he had come from, and bade them follow. They did so, stepping over lumber and the detritus of destruction as the ground fell away into a natural depression. And soon they could smell it: a ferric scent suggestive of blood and viscera commingled with the evacuations of countless beasts, both animal and human.