The Vice Society (7 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let us first go out into that alley and see if we find anything that will tell us who else is interested in this case.’

FOUR

Who had been that man listening at the door?

There are many in this city of ours who are criminal: men (yes, and women) who would cheat, lie, steal and beat their way to a living. There are the poor, the ignorant, the godless, the callous, the heartless and the cruel – none of them strangers to the magistrates’ court and the gaol cell. They drink, fight, cheat and wear morality loosely as a second-hand coat. It gives little comfort, but it has certain superficial benefits.

But none of these characters are as bad, as reprehensible and parasitical as the Society for the Suppression of Vice spy, whose role it is to prevent or prosecute infidel lectures, immoral congregations, profanity, licentiousness, drunkenness, obscene songs, swearing and – above all – the publication and supply of indecent literature. It is not the opportune pocket that he picks, nor the easy chance he exploits, nor the back-alley brawl that fills his stomach – no,
he
feeds off the desires of his fellow man at Haymarket, at Regents-street, at Fleet-street.

Here is one of the opprobrious race now. He ranges across the entire city, but Holywell-street is his preferred hunting ground, particularly of late. Let us observe him in the manner he observes others: dishonestly, anonymously, secretly.

See how he moves, insinuating himself among the passers-by as they stand before a window or wait for a cab. See how he peers over a shoulder, or at the reflection in a window to catch a questionable transaction. Watch his eyes dart and his ears twitch as he lingers just within range of a whispered exchange. He is waiting, always waiting, for a law to be broken.

And you can be sure he knows all the laws by rote. All that is required is for him to see the briefest glimpse of an indecent image being transacted, or for the street traffic to be held up for the merest instant by unhealthy interest in a shop window, or to overhear an exclamation of distaste at such a window, or to note a comment that might be interpreted as unChristian – and then he can run off to the magistrate or constable like an obsequious schoolboy to report his outrage. The culprit will be arrested and charged while he, the spy, will remain unnamed and free to continue his ‘good work’.

We will allow this one to remain anonymous for not a moment longer. His name is Eusebius Bean.

No other Vice Society spy has prompted so many convictions and no other is as omnipresent wherever the scent of vice may lurk. Perhaps his success is due to his remarkable blandness: a face that, beneath his wide-brimmed hat, has nothing whatsoever remarkable about it; clothing that is nothing out of the ordinary; a manner that is unassuming to the point of invisibility – why, the man might well be a tailor’s straw-filled model.

Only his tongue, flicking at the corner of his lips occasionally like a serpent, shows his anticipation of the next transgression to be observed. Will it be a plaster medallion showing Leda and the over-familiar Swan? Or an ornamental meerschaum pipe bowl featuring an Oriental scene requiring no imagination? Or perhaps an indecent print slipped briefly from its brown envelope by a hawker so that a gentleman customer might verify his purchase?

To the people strolling and shopping, he is just another of the street’s insalubrious characters along with the beggars, the flute-playing fool and the blind knife-sharpener. But the shopkeepers and kerb-dwellers of the street know him for what he is and they are careful to avoid him. No doubt they would like to beat him half to death in a dark yard, but they fear the power behind him.

As well they might, for, as we have already seen, Eusebius Bean has been following Inspector Newsome and Constable Cullen. It is something out of the style of his usual work but he has all of the necessary skills, and – as we will soon see – a particular impetus to act so.

We may be sure that he had heard quite enough before fleeing from the corridor outside Mrs Colliver’s rooms. But the reader may be wondering why this man, whose common province was the explicit print and saucy sonnet, was following the two policemen in the first place.

As a rule, those of Eusebius’s ilk exist almost independently of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. Paid weekly, ignorant of each other’s identities, and kept at a sanitary distance from the respectable people at Lincolns-inn-fields (who might find distaste in their methods), they seldom meet their paymasters in person – so it was a great surprise to Eusebius when, the day before Inspector Newsome’s visit, a gentleman wearing smart livery had approached him wordlessly in the open street and handed him a letter, then loitering as if for a response.

Vocationally fearful of observation, Eusebius had stepped into the doorway of a closed shop and – after checking the liveried gentleman was not watching him – unfolded the paper.

The signature did not mean anything to Eusebius, but then he knew virtually nothing of the Society itself apart from its money in his pocket. The letter-bearer stood discreetly at a distance while he read, then motioned that they should walk a little to a waiting carriage.

Unaccustomed to such travel, Eusebius sat uncomfortably upon the fine leather seat and tried not to touch any of the lacquered wood about him as they headed west along the Strand, along Pall Mall and towards the parks. The sweet-smelling interior of the carriage was a pocket of luxury amidst the noise, smoke and stench of the city passing by the windows. Was this, he wondered, how a gentleman sees the world? His tongue quivered at his mouth’s edge, tasting the air of refinement.

If the carriage had impressed him, the letter writer’s abode cowed him. Its stone
façade
towered over him and he felt quite naked once divested of his broad-brimmed hat and damp gloves by an unsmiling male servant. He patted his hair, which, unused to seeing the light, was quite slicked to his head.

The room he was shown into was empty. A healthy fire crackled in the grate and evidence of wealth and taste adorned every surface: oil paintings upon the oak-panelled walls, a rug with Oriental designs in the centre of the room, and furniture with inlays and curlicues that made his own rough chattels look like firewood. There was a smell of flowers or some Oriental scent in the air

Not wanting to sit in any of the beautiful chairs, he remained standing with his hands clutched before him. Nobody came. He began to shuffle. Had his presence not been announced to the master of the house?

Feeling bolder, he walked to a large window and looked out into a garden. Still nobody came. Finally, Eusebius could not resist. His sensitive ears alive for the merest creak of approach, he moved to a sideboard and opened a door to peer within at a selection of bottles. Then, after looking around, he opened a drawer to see some leather gloves and a pile of silk handkerchiefs. Theft was not his aim – only knowledge. Then he walked silently across the rug to a door leading to another room. A sound was coming from within and – being no more able to stop himself than a cheap harlot can resist a glass of gin – he could do nothing else but bend to the keyhole.

A man sitting with his back to the door could be seen from the shoulders up. His head was almost completely bald but for a few wisps of thin pale brown hair clinging to the scalp. The skin itself did not seem quite human – at least, not living. It was yellowish, flaky and encrusted all over with pimples at various stages of either pustulence or desiccation.

As Eusebius crouched at the keyhole, the man slathered some manner of unguent over his naked head with quivering fingers until the whole was anointed with the glistening stuff – a sight that even our observer found curiously repugnant. Then the man took a dark brown peruke from the table before him and positioned it on his head.

At that moment, the door was opened suddenly from the inside and Eusebius was caught leaping to a standing position as the man, in fact the signatory ‘J.S.’ of the letter, turned around. The servant within who had pulled the door open attempted to suppress a grin as Eusebius reddened dramatically.

‘Do not be ashamed, Eusebius,’ said the man in the wig, facing him now. His voice was half rasp, half gargle – as if he had not quite swallowed something.

‘I am sorry, sir. I . . .’

‘I said do not be ashamed. This was a test and you have passed. I need an observer just like you: a man who is inquisitive, a man who will not let a closed door stop him from learning what he must – even when he finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings.’

The man’s face was similar in appearance to his scalp, only the skin was more scarred with cicatrices denoting a history of disruption. There was an aromatic air about him, but Eusebius tried to concentrate only on the diluted brown eyes, which were intelligent and amused.

‘Come and sit by me, Eusebius. Would you like some tea?’

‘Do you have milk?’

‘Ah, a milk man, are you? I will get you milk if that is what you wish, but I hope it is not the milk of human kindness that sustains you.’ He nodded to the servant by the door, who left without a word.

Eusebius, not discerning the allusion, made no response except to sit close by the man. The room was decorated in the same luxurious manner as the reception room, with the one difference that this one had many freshly cut and aromatic flowers arrayed in vases about the space. They were of exotic, and presumably expensive, types never before seen by the spy on his peregrinations about the city.

‘Well, to business. You are apparently a close observer of Holywell-street,’ said ‘J.S.’.

‘I spend much of my day there. There is plenty of vice.’

‘So I hear, so I hear. Have you heard of the accident that lately occurred there?’

‘The man falling from the window? Everyone on the street is speaking of it.’

‘What are they saying, Eusebius? Tell me all you know. You are my eyes and my ears there.’

‘An accident, as you say. The man was drunk and fell from the window. Some say he was a sod . . . I mean, he was of an abhorrent persuasion . . .’

‘Do not be embarrassed. I have seen all manner of vice. The words of the street do not shock me. Has there been any talk of foul play in this case?’

‘Do you mean murder? No, sir.’

‘Good. Then let us not use that word outside this room. That is how rumours begin and we would not want to influence any investigations into the case with a false scent.’

The bewigged man smiled and placed a hand over Euse-bius’s on the carved wooden arm of the seat. Though the back of his hand was blotched and scabrous with the same canker that affected his face, the palm was curiously soft, dry and warm. It remained there, covering the clammy paw of Eusebius, even as the servant entered carrying a porcelain jug of milk and a glass on a silver tray. If the servant noticed the gesture before he left, he did not show it.

‘The police are already involved, Eusebius. Soon, I expect the Detective Force will be visiting the premises of Mrs Colliver. It is of the utmost importance to me that their investigation is thorough. We know that there is vice lurking in every crevice of that poisonous alley and I want to see that it is all brought to light.’

‘Yes, sir. But what can I do? I am not a detective.’ Eusebius looked at the perspiring milk jug and flicked out the point of his tongue. His hand was still imprisoned gently under that of ‘J.S.’.

‘It is quite simple, Eusebius. I would like you to follow the policemen as they go about their duties. Whenever you are able, listen to what they find; talk to the people they talk to; keep note of where they go – and report all to me personally. Put nothing in writing. You may come here any time you wish – I seldom leave the house.’

‘I am not sure I understand, sir. You do not trust the police?’

‘It is not that. They are a fine body, but they are a secretive organization and I would like to know that justice is being pursued with all expedience.’

The hand upon Eusebius’s gave a squeeze and was finally retracted, allowing him the opportunity to pour himself some milk with a slightly shaking hand. He gulped this down enthusiastically as his benefactor watched with an indulgent smile.

‘My, you are a thirsty boy.’ And with this, ‘J.S.’ extracted a silk handkerchief and reached to dab at Eusebius’s milk-whitened lips, a gesture that caused the spy a degree of embarrassment.

‘I will do as you ask, sir,’ he said quickly.

‘Of course you will. But remember one thing: this is our little secret. You are not to tell another soul.’

‘J.S.’ leaned so close that his face was just inches away. Eusebius caught a waft of the man’s breath: a hideous miasma reminiscent of both rotten meat and fresh blood. It was as if that foetid air had emanated from a core quite corrupted and decayed – an eruption from an inhumed coffin rather than a living man.