The Vice Society (41 page)

‘Is he capable of those acts described by Mr Sampson?’

‘Mr Williamson – if I have learned only one thing about men, it is that one can never know the extent of their capabilities. A man such as he, with such a long life of lasciviousness . . . I would think him capable of anything at all.’

‘Hmm. What of Harold Jute?’

‘Would he be the son of Jacob Jute?’

‘He is a young man recently come down from Oxford – another member of the Continental.’

‘I believe Jacob was an Oxford man also, but I know no Harold. Most likely he is rather too young and under-funded to appear within my world.’

‘Hmm. In that case you may not know of another young man, a certain James Tattershall . . . Madam? Mary . . . what is it that animates you so?’

‘That man is a monster!’

‘What do you know of him?’

‘More than I wish. I have met him on occasion – just passing at the opera or at the races – and each time I have felt that I am in the presence of evil. I have heard . . . terrible things said about him.’

‘What things? Mary – this could be very important to our case.’

‘He is violent. Like many men of his class, he likes sometimes to beat a girl – but he is not content unless he draws blood. I hear that there are many places that will no longer admit him. I quiver to think where else he is finding his sport. He is waiting for his title and inheritance, and when he receives it . . . well, his power will only increase.’

‘So it is entirely conceivable that he would be involved in this club described by Mr Sampson?’

‘He more than any man. I believe he could commit murder.’

‘Very likely he already has. What do you know of Sir John Smythe?’

‘Smythe? I know the name, but I have not been acquainted with the gentleman. Wait . . . I may have heard . . . Yes – I have heard that he has the very worst case of syphilis. He may even be dead as we speak. They say he has not been seen publicly for some years. It seems his lusts have had their revenge.’

‘Do you know more about his character?’

‘I have heard him described as a
connoisseur
: a man of sophisticated tastes . . . but I really do not know anything more.’

‘What of the publisher Henry Poppleton?’

‘O, everyone knows him! I mean, every girl with a higher grade of client has one or more of his books. His customers must include almost every gentleman in London. I believe he is also one of the Continental men.’

‘Could he be part of this Persephone evil?’

‘I would not think him capable of murder, but his curiosity is such that he would not be able to resist involvement. It is possible.’

‘Hmm. These are the men we believe are involved in the death of Mr Sampson. The details of that death are still, however, largely unknown to us.’

‘Mr Williamson – you speak of “we” and “us” in your references to the case. In the interests of my own safety, how many people know what you know?’

‘Very few, and all eminently trustworthy.’

‘And the man in the library who received my note?’

‘He especially. I am sure he was quite subtle in his behaviour.’

‘Can you be sure of that? Perhaps he was being watched and his observers saw my man as he did.’

‘You may trust me. He is not easily followed.’

Mr Williamson stood and took his hat.

‘I thank you for speaking to me. I believe that this case will be solved by tomorrow evening. No doubt you will hear of the details.’

‘And my safety? If they know you were here . . . if you revealed something when they drugged you . . . are you not afraid that there will be another death?’

‘Madam, I will take measures to see that that does not happen. Whatever you have become, I believe you have the goodness of womanhood within you still.’

‘And you, Mr Williamson – however cold you may seem – have the warmth and honour of a man.’

‘Hmm. I bid you good day.’

Mr Cullen was standing duty in the corridor. As the door opened, he turned to look inside the room once again. The immaculate female herself was sitting there with her hands folded in her lap. She did not look like a sin-sodden woman of pleasure. Indeed, but for her seeming vulnerability, he reflected, she could well have been a goddess.

TWENTY-SIX

The bells on that Sunday morning chimed weakly over a city rigid with cold. A dawn temperature of
21
degrees had rendered the Serpentine quite frozen, and multitudinous streams of black smoke rose vertically into the windless aether of a sky so pure and blue that it seemed to mock the grime of the metropolis below.

Later in the day, the Humane Society set up its tents in the parks to rescue skaters who had fallen through the ice and required a hot bath to prevent their deaths. For the mendicants and common poor, however, it was already too late; their blue-lipped bodies were found frosted and stiff in numberless alcoves and arches. Cobbles were rendered lethal to horses, panes became opaque with crystal ferns, and breath steamed thickly from every mouth. The city shivered.

By dusk, the temperature had risen to just above freezing point and the air was thicker than usual with the smell of smoke as the populace struggled to keep warm. At the residence of Mr Allan, Mr Williamson had taken it upon himself to resupply the fire with a shovelful of coal, causing sparks to billow up the flue as he did so. Seated close by were Mr Cullen, Noah and Inspector Newsome – all of them digesting the information recounted to them by Mr Williamson of his extraordinary interview the previous day.

‘So, it seems we will have all of our criminals in one place this evening,’ said Mr Newsome, both of his hands round a cup of tea.

‘If they attend,’ said Mr Williamson, retaking his seat. ‘There is every reason to believe that they will not. They know that Noah has been collaborating with me, and with you also, Inspector. The fact that Aubrey Alsthom has also been killed is proof enough of how closely they have been observing us.’

‘Perhaps if you had trusted me enough to inform me of that avenue of investigation . . .’ said the inspector.

‘It would have changed nothing,’ said Noah. ‘And you have already given us sufficient evidence of your treachery. Was it not you who was turned away from a certain address on Park-lane yesterday when we had all agreed that Mr Williamson would pursue that line of questioning?’

‘I apologize for nothing. I am as keen as you are to see this case to its conclusion . . . And I might level the same accusation at you for your undisclosed visits to this lunatic.’

‘On that matter,’ said Noah, ‘I have corroborated what we have all assumed: that Sir John retired from public life a couple of years ago, most likely due to his advanced disease. What have you discovered, Inspector?’

‘I have made some enquiries and discerned much the same. This Smythe fellow was once a public figure: a notable benefactor and gentleman with many connections who has, of late, rather vanished. Some say he is dead. I have, however, discerned from . . . from a certain source that he pursues a life of secret vice among street girls. He has been seen by constables.’

‘Hmm. The fact remains,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘that whatever we have discovered or suspect, I believe these men will not be at the meeting. Are they so foolish?’

‘The same may be said of your appointment at the Murder’d Moor,’ said Noah. ‘They knew who you were, what you knew and who you had been working with – but they attempted to kill you all the same. Perhaps they will want to question me as they tried to question you. With me dead, they have only Mr Newsome to deal with, and we have already seen how easily the Metropolitan Police is manipulated by the Society for the Suppression of Vice. I would not be surprised if the whole thing was merely forgotten provided I could be successfully murdered this evening.’

‘I will not let this crime go unpunished,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘And nor will Sir Richard when he knows the full extent of its ramifying evil – whatever the influence of these men and their connections.’

‘Then he does not already know?’ said Mr Cullen. ‘How is it that I, a “disgraced” former constable, know more than the Commissioner of Police?’

‘You,
Constable
Cullen, are indeed a disgrace. If you were of a higher rank, you would know that Sir Richard will not be burdened with supposition. He wants facts.’

‘Gentlemen! Let us not begin this again,’ said Noah, raising placatory palms.

‘Yes, let us go over the plan before Noah leaves us,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘How many men will be accompanying you, Inspector Newsome?’

‘Three of my specially selected constables will be on hand. Shortly after Noah is admitted, you and I will position ourselves in a carriage at the end of Princes-street, from where we will be able to observe the house on Bedford-row. Two constables will loiter out of sight at the front, and one on the alley at the rear. We will all pounce if the signal is given.’

‘Good. Noah – I trust you have given sufficient thought to a signal that will be unequivocal?’

‘Indeed. It is no use taking something into the house because they will most likely search me. When I feel that I have learned the information I need, or if my life is in immediate danger, I will simply endeavour to break a window with whatever comes to hand. That will be your signal.’

‘It is not much of a signal,’ said Mr Newsome.

‘Perhaps not in St Giles’s, where a breaking window can be heard almost constantly after dark. It is less of an occurrence, however, in the environs of Red Lion-square.’

‘And if they take you below street level?’ said Mr New-some.

‘I do not believe that a kitchen
rendezvous
is in the nature of these gentlemen.’

‘Very well – it is your life. At the sound of that signal, I and my men will enter the building and catch either the men we seek, or the murderers they have sent in their stead – in which case we will proceed to the Continental Club or wherever else to collect the men on our list for questioning.’

‘And what will be my role?’ asked Mr Cullen.

‘You will be hiding at the rear of the house with one of the inspector’s men lest an escape be attempted from there,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘If that happens, you are to raise a hue and cry and prevent their flight.’

‘Yes, sir. May I also ask what we are to do if there is no signal given?’

‘We are to wait. Noah may be engaged in prolonged conversation if these men have attended. If, on the other hand, he is murdered immediately upon entering, then he will be dead and there is nothing we can do. We will enter the house after two hours. All we can do between this time and that is pray.’

‘You can pray; I will have another cup of tea,’ said Noah, looking at his pocket watch.

Sleet was blowing in on a north-east wind when Noah got out of the carriage at Bedford-row. Icy fragments spattered against his coat and stung his face as he rapped the knocker, wondering if this night would be his last.

The door was opened by Major Tunnock, his face already flushed with spirits.

‘Mr Norman! So glad you decided to accept my, ah, invitation. Come in, come in out of that horrible weather!’

‘Yes, I found the tract you gave me most intriguing,’ said Noah, entering and handing his exterior garments to a servant. ‘It is an altogether more sophisticated concept than one is accustomed to reading.’

‘Indeed, what! I think you will find yourself among men of, ah, similar predispositions this evening. And here they are now . . .’

The major led Noah from the corridor into a large reception room at the front of the house that was thick with smoke: tobacco and the mildest scent of opium. Around the hearth – their figures illuminated by the flickering firelight – were seated some of that group from the Continental Club: the fresh-faced youth previously introduced as Peter, a nervous-looking Harold Jute, and James Tattershall. The latter gave Noah a dead-eyed stare and nodded a greeting. Eusebius Bean was nowhere to be seen.

Noah greeted each of the men in turn and was invited to sit with them. A glass of sherry was pressed into his hand and a fine cigar lit for him.

‘There is, ah, one more gentleman I believe you would enjoy meeting,’ said the major, swirling his drink and inhaling the aroma. ‘He is, in fact, the very gentleman who wrote the tract I gave you: a man of quite considerable, ah, standing and intelligence.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Major.’

A connecting door opened and the man already known to us as ‘J.S.’ entered. His scarified face seemed to writhe and twitch as the light from the flames animated the disrupted skin. A sheen of soothing oils covered all, and Noah caught the unmistakable
bouquet
of lavender as the gentleman extended a smooth hand to shake.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Norman. I am John Smythe. The major told me that he had found a kindred spirit at his club, and I am always happy to meet a kindred spirit.’ The voice was as Mr Williamson had described it: a wet, glottal instrument – a diseased faculty from which bubbled disease.

‘As am I, Mr Smythe. I found your piece of writing most interesting.’

‘Some would call it shocking or blasphemous.’