by R. N. Morris
Porrick had to admit that Novak had chosen his third-party witness well. Of course, he needed someone else there, because otherwise Lord Dunwich would have been able to say that it was just one man’s word against another’s. And the aristocrat’s word would always be preferred over a seedy Yank with Serbian antecedents. But his choice of Porrick – a man he knew to be in financial difficulties and to have few moral scruples – revealed Novak’s instinctive talent for exploiting human weaknesses. Porrick smiled ruefully.
Novak seemed to sense which direction Porrick’s thoughts had taken. ‘All I can say is I’m sorry you had to see this, Porrick.’
‘As am I,’ said Lord Dunwich.
Porrick was suddenly aware that he had sobered up entirely. His head was marvellously clear as he began to calculate the best way to play this.
‘Perhaps it’s better if you do go home. And leave his lordship and me to sort this out between ourselves. Man to man.’
Porrick pursed his lips, then nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve seen enough here.’
If he understood a man like Novak at all, he was sure he would use his advantage to touch Lord Dunwich for more than one compensatory contribution. He would become a veritable leech. So, for now, the best thing was to let Novak do his worst. The time would come when his intervention – for either party, or even for both – would reap the maximum dividends.
And now he understood at last why he had conceived such an instinctive antipathy towards Novak. The man reminded him too much of himself.
‘I’ll go then,’ he said. ‘But for God’s sake let him put his trousers back on.’
The gleaming, raw gratitude in Lord Dunwich’s eyes both touched and shamed him. As soon as he saw it he knew that he had the peer in his grip. And he knew too that he would not balk from exploiting that power to the full.
Against his better judgement, he glanced one last time at the woman on the bed. She was brushing specks of ash from her skirt. An arch of odious complacency was described in one eyebrow. She knew, as did her husband, that he would play his part exactly as they had predicted. They knew they could count on Porrick to do the base thing, if that was what his interests required.
He fled the shabby rented room in haste, as if he were fleeing the worst part of his own nature.
TWENTY-FOUR
George Bittlestone’s step slowed as he approached the entrance to the Middlesex Hospital on Mortimer Street.
It was all very well for Lennox. He claimed to be a newspaper man – and all right, he had a sound instinct for the angle that would sell. That was because he was a businessman first, and a newspaperman second. Put a notebook in his hand and send him out on the streets in the night looking for a story, and he wouldn’t have a clue where to start.
After all, you couldn’t very well just walk through the front door and march up to the admittance desk and demand to see the girl who had had her eye gouged out.
If she was there, every member of the staff would know about it. Equally, they would do everything in their power to keep you away from her.
He carried on walking past the hospital, the railings of the hospital’s courtyard to his right. The courtyard was quiet and badly illuminated: a shadowed expanse on the other side of which the hospital lights twinkled and glowed, beacons to the infirm.
Of course! That was it! The one sure way to gain admittance to where she was.
He saw ahead of him the lights of a public house. If his memory served him right, it was The George, a popular haunt of the musical and literary sets of Fitzrovia. There was a chance he might bump into someone he knew, which would be inconvenient, but not disastrous. He didn’t see any way of achieving his goal without calling in. For one thing, he needed a fair dosing of Dutch courage for what he had in mind.
The George was heaving. He could only imagine that the performance had just finished at the nearby Queen’s Hall and the place was packed with concert-goers and musicians. He believed he could discern a musical lilt to the laughter, an exuberant delight that he felt was in keeping with an evening of symphonic appreciation.
When he eventually got served, he ordered a large whisky from the barmaid. She was a young chit of a girl, dead on her feet, with dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. He held the glass up to the light. It was clean enough to the naked eye, and no doubt the alcohol would prove beneficial on that score. He downed the contents in one gulp and pushed through the crowd, sheltering his empty glass against his chest like a fairground prize.
He took the glass outside.
Very well. The easy part was done. He had formed the intention. He had acquired the means. Now he had to carry it through.
He held the glass up to his face and ran the rim of it along his forehead.
Yes, somewhere there. Above his eyes.
But not the forehead. No.
He was going for immediate spectacle, rather than permanent disfigurement. No story was worth that.
He dashed the glass against the wall. The distinctive brittle explosion of sound interrupted the flow of joviality inside the pub. There were noises of mock solicitude and then laughter. The smashing of a glass was a trivial catastrophe after all.
In the glow from the pub windows, Bittlestone could see the jagged edge of the broken glass in his hand. He felt suddenly nauseous. A familiar, safe, useful object – a vessel for containing liquid – had been transformed into a dangerous weapon.
He stood and swayed on his feet. Either the alcohol was beginning to kick in, or he was about to faint. He knew that he would have to act quickly, and decisively, or not at all.
He felt with a finger around his eye, probing the loose skin beneath the bony ridge of his forehead.
Yes, there. Dangerous. But convincing.
He raised the glass and touched one point – the longest, most savage-looking – delicately to the place he had just explored. If he pushed it upwards he would avoid the eye. He would not need to go deep to produce the effect he wanted.
He felt the tip of the point bite his skin. His hand shook. The whole of his arm ached from the tension of holding that glass against his face.
The door of the pub creaked and sprang open. Bittlestone moved his hand away from his face and waited for the group which had emerged to make its way down Great Portland Street.
There was no more time for hesitation. That departure no doubt presaged a more general exodus.
It was now or never.
He brought the glass up briskly. Every vein in his body pulsed as his heart pounded and pumped the blood into and away from itself, in a fierce, vital roar of protest. As his hand went up, he felt a soaring exhilaration fill him. This was the most alive he had ever been. Even when he allowed himself to be pierced by lovers, he did not experience this intensity of being.
The moment the point broke through his skin was one of exquisite pleasure. His hand was no longer shaking. And so he was able to control the depth and angle of the intrusion.
He moved the glass slightly to one side, increasing the first shallow nip to a gash of – he judged – a quarter of an inch in extent.
He felt the hot liquid begin to trickle over his eye and down his face. He pulled the glass sharply out and let it drop, smashing to pieces on the pavement.
He held out a hand to fend off the wall. For some reason, the left hand side of his body went icy cold for a moment. His legs felt as if the bones had been removed from them and replaced with particularly elastic springs.
There were more people coming out of the pub. He turned his back on them. And began to grope his way back towards the dark quadrangle of the Middlesex Hospital.
TWENTY-FIVE
The following day, Saturday, the weather was dreary again.
Quinn woke from a dissatisfying dream which was understandably coloured by the events of the previous night. Something troubling, a residue of horror lingered. He drew back the edge of his curtain to escape it, confronting the meagre gleam of the day.
He could hear raised voices
coming from outside his door; high, anxious cries of female agitation. It was this altercation that had woken him.
He could make out Mrs Ibbott’s voice, though not what she was saying. The other voice, well, it was a while since he had heard that other voice. It was not recognizable as belonging to any of the other residents in the lodging house, but it did.
Quinn felt a dreadful sinking feeling as he put on his dressing gown and went out on to the landing.
He found Mrs Ibbott on the landing below, outside Miss Dillard’s room. There was a ferocious, oath-littered stream of invective coming from the other side of the door.
‘She’s drunk,’ said Mrs Ibbott bluntly.
‘But …’
‘Yes, I know. It’s not even eight o’clock yet. I do believe she has been drinking through the night.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Mr Quinn, I am not a hard-hearted woman. I hope that I am not.’
‘Of course not, Mrs Ibbott.’
‘I have made allowances over the years. Considerable allowances. You would not know.’
‘Oh, but I do know, Mrs Ibbott.’
‘Well, I don’t mean to bring that up, but yes, there were months, when – because of her weakness – she had insufficient money for both rent and food, and I … I …’
‘You made allowances.’
‘I could not see a lady lodger of mine starve to death in my own house. Neither could I see her turned out on to the street to die in a gutter somewhere.’
‘It speaks volumes for your humanity, Mrs Ibbott.’
‘Mr Quinn, I ask you … do you hear … do you hear what she calls me?’
‘I do. I’m very much afraid I do. Would you like me to … would you like me to see if she will speak to me?’
‘Oh, Mr Quinn, I am not sure that is a good idea. You know, do you not, that Miss Dillard is rather … soft on you?’
‘I … I didn’t …’
‘Oh, come now, Mr Quinn. Surely you realized?’
Quinn felt himself blush. Thankfully, he noticed that it had gone quiet inside Miss Dillard’s room, so was able to change the subject. ‘Perhaps she’s gone to sleep?’
But it was not entirely silent within. A small regular throb of weeping came to them.
Quinn rapped gently on the door. ‘Miss Dillard? May I come in? It is I, Mr Quinn. Silas.’
Mrs Ibbott shook her head dubiously. ‘She will not want to see you, Mr Quinn,’ she whispered. ‘She will not want to see you like this.’
But as if solely to contradict Mrs Ibbott, the door to Miss Dillard’s room began to open.
Quinn had never been in any of the other residents’ rooms before. What shocked him most about Miss Dillard’s room was how small it was. The dimensions of his room seemed palatial in comparison. But, of course, he was a lodger who always paid his rent on time, and could afford the greater rent required for a larger room. He was a working man, in fact, a solidly respectable officer of the law. He may have fallen from the social class of his parents, but in so doing he had become his own man. He wasn’t dependent on the crumbs of a tiny private income, from a pitiful inheritance divided by God knows how many sisters.
His eye darted around the gloom-soaked room like a buzzing fly looking for an escape point. The curtains were open, but the window was so small and grimy that the light barely penetrated it. It looked as if it had never been opened. The air was cloying. Sour and sickly sweet at the same time. At first he thought it was the smell of gin. But he began to suspect it was the smell of gin-drenched vomit. Where was that? he wondered. What had she done with it? He found the question vaguely preoccupying.
But, God, it was untidy in there. The vomit could have been anywhere. It was probably in a pot under the bed. She might have had just enough presence of mind to push it out of sight. It amazed him how much chaos could be packed into a tiny space. This was a corner of the universe that had let itself go. The single bed was a mess of grubby sheets and bedding, rucked up to expose the stained mattress beneath. The floor was littered with clothes, and – embarrassingly for Quinn – underclothes, some of which were exhibiting evidence of soiling. He had to look away quickly, pretend he hadn’t seen, and resist the temptation to look again.
He looked instead into her eyes, which were pink and moist from crying. The beautiful pewter grey of her irises eluded him. She would not meet his gaze. It was her turn to be ashamed now. She hid her face in her hands, and then, as if that wasn’t concealment enough, turned her back on him.
‘Miss Dillard …’
She groaned.
‘Are you all right, Miss Dillard?’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘You let me in, Miss Dillard.’
‘It’s all a terrible mess.’
‘It’s nothing that can’t be … sorted out.’
‘I don’t have any money. I don’t have any money to pay her. She’s going to turn me out on the street.’
‘No. Mrs Ibbott would never do that.’
‘But I don’t have any money, I tell you! What else can she do?’
‘Perhaps your sisters …?’
‘My sisters!’
Quinn tented his fingers on either side of his nose and breathed in deeply. The sound was amplified by the vibration of his nostrils against his fingers. It caused Miss Dillard to turn round. Her eyes solicitously sought out his. ‘Are you all right, Mr Quinn?’
‘Me? Why, yes, of course.’
‘You sound as though you have a cold.’
‘I am perfectly well, I assure you.’
Miss Dillard gave a weak smile. It was almost as if his answer consoled her for whatever else was wrong in her life. She sank down on to the bed and then lifted her legs, turned over and in less than a minute was snoring loudly.
Quinn let himself out.
Mrs Ibbott greeted him with an inquisitive arching of her brows.
‘She’s sleeping now.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. At least I will be spared her abuse.’
‘Mrs Ibbott …’
‘Yes, Mr Quinn?’
‘If it is a question of her rent …’
‘What are you saying, Mr Quinn?’
‘If it is a question of her rent, and whatever other expenditure, you may come to me for it. Until Miss Dillard is feeling quite well again.’
‘But, Mr Quinn, I cannot permit you to do that. I do not believe that Miss Dillard would want you to do that. Charity is not the solution.’
‘Miss Dillard will never know.’
‘But what if she asks?’
‘She will not ask. If you cease to trouble her for her rent, she will not – I think – trouble you.’
‘I cannot have someone else’s generosity ascribed to me.’
‘Then say it is her sisters’ doing.’
‘She will not believe that.’
‘Then say … then say it is a secret benefactor. But do not mention my name.’
‘But is this not simply indulging her in her weakness?’
‘We shall take steps to help her, shall we not? I feel that it is her sense of hardship and financial misery that prompt her to seek recourse in the bottle. If we alleviate that, then perhaps …’
‘I fear it is not that, Mr Quinn. I fear it is something else entirely.’
Quinn frowned in confusion.
Mrs Ibbott shook her head impatiently. ‘Ah, for a police detective, you are awful dense. But then you’re a man, are you not?’
TWENTY-SIX
Harry Lennox breakfasted on kippers, washed down with coffee. He liked to start the day with a strong taste in his mouth. It was his habit also to take his breakfast in the conservatory, surrounded by potted palms and sweating panes. It did him good to feel the sun on his bald patch as he bent over his copy of the Daily Clarion. And on a day like today he was at least protected from the chill that the season seemed unable to shake off.
His conservatory was an elaborate wrought-iron-and-glass affair.
Its design suggested a distant pavilion in some eastern outpost of the Empire. It was a fantasy that Lennox enjoyed. In his mind it was not the British Empire, of course, but the Empire of Harry Lennox. He saw himself as a pioneer, pushing forward the boundaries of his influence and success. Hacking through a forest of terra incognita. He dreamt of a global newspaper empire, with a Lennox title in every major English-speaking city in the world. It might have seemed a ludicrous ambition to some. But he had achieved it in London, which was to all intents a foreign capital to him. At times, a hostile capital, even. He had had his fair share of anti-Catholic – and anti-Irish – prejudice to overcome, especially in the early days. But if Harry Lennox had a talent for anything, he had a talent for making the right friends. There were few people who would call him a jumped-up Mick nowadays. At least not to his face.
Somehow breakfasting in the conservatory reinforced his myth of self-creation. The conservatory looked out not just on to the well-tended garden of a well-to-do house at the foot of Primrose Hill, but on to the future. And Harry Lennox’s future was going to be every bit as spectacular as his past had been so far.
Lennox began his newspaper career as a boy on the streets of Cork, selling the Echo. Inspired by the example of Thomas Crosbie, he charmed his way into a job as a cub reporter, at the age of fifteen. But right from the start his sights were set beyond the city of Cork, beyond the shores of Ireland even. What Crosbie had achieved in Cork, by the age of forty-five, Lennox was determined to emulate in London, by an even younger age. In fact, he would be thirty-seven when he founded the Clarion. It was an exceptional, breathtaking ascendancy.
Charm is a valuable asset for a newspaper reporter to have, especially when it is combined with ruthless ambition, and an entire lack of moral scruple, which is only another way of saying ‘clarity of purpose’.
His first job in London was with the Thunderer, which gave him the serious reporting chops he needed to get on in the business. From there he moved to the fledgling Daily Mail, and within a year had risen to be its Society Editor. His talent for making friends was put to professional use. It was at that time that he met Hartmann, and through him was introduced to the Jewish financiers who would, five years later, back his own plans for a new title. He realized that it was unlikely that he would ever achieve the editorship of one of the established papers, so he had decided to bypass that stage of Crosbie’s career, and go straight to proprietorship.
