‘I’m like a duck – pumping my paddles a million miles per hour yet moving poo-fuck slow.’
‘Jonathan,’ said she, by way of kindness.
‘Whether it’s beer-brewing,’ continued I, ‘bucklemaking or assault-and-battery, a man can’t get ahead.’
She patted a pile of linen between us, as though it was my head. ‘We all perspire Mr Wild, don’t drink of it.’
‘Aye.’
I interlaced my fingers over my stomach, watching the plastered ceiling emit a fine dust in keeping the rhythmic whomp of an upstairs whore.
‘Bessie, as always, you’re right. Patience was never something I abided, but abide it I must.’
I sighed and took up Lord Blee’s pocketbook. I flipped the many scrawled pages, pausing as my eyes were caught by fresh ink:
I can’t stand the sound of Mrs Blee’s lazy walking. Always in her slippers, slinking over the marble. Sliding like some Sven on ice skates. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Hasn’t she ever heard of KNEES …
And four pages thereafter:
She calls out to me like I’m the cook’s wench. ‘PETER! PETER! IS THAT YOU? PETER?’ she calls. Who does she expect to be in my study? Bishop Berkeley? William of Orange? ‘PETER! PETER! PETER, PETER! DARLING PETER!’
‘Where did you say this Blee lived?’ asked I to Miss Lyon.
‘Belgravia, I believe.’
‘Anything else you gleaned?’
‘His wife. Cannot stomach her.’
‘For the money, then?’
Miss Lyon nodded.
We locked eyes and nodded, this last question of mine auguring a potential that passed unspoken between us, tantalisingly viable, not dissimilar to the acknowledgement of love that you dare not speak of lest it escape the room like a frightened squirrel.
At the alehouse Duck & Duck & Goose, St James’s, I interrupted a circle of five landed men in powdered periwigs drinking ale from flutes to enquire after my friend Blee’s estate. They paused their rebound game of repetitious opining and peered – pun intended – upon me like a persistent fleck at the bedpan. After sufficient grumbling and eyelid fluttering, they directed me southwest, ten minutes beyond Eaton Square.
The city at once fell away, taken over by tiny tenant farms and a main street of Pork Butcher, Undertaker, Haberdasher, Barber, Notary Publick and a Milliner who had but three, very out of fashion, items for sale. A litter of boys flicked a stone marble by the steps of a parish house. To their periphery was a solitary child, engaged in a fantasy version of his own; taking aim at an imagined target, thumb cocked beneath an invisible alabaster, eyeing expertly with one lid closed. He released his shot and evidently hit the mark in a single flick, throwing his arms in victory. Picking up his marble of wet air and shining it on his belly, he then drew another starting line with a bare heel in the dirt, selecting another impossible target that I guessed he’d bullseye.
‘Boy,’ said I to the outcast.
Involuntarily he raised one arm to protect his head. I saw that his feet were pigeoned and knees not right either. His eyes were like two little pots of boot polish.
‘I mean you no harm.’
It was a farthing I couldn’t afford to depart, but took it from my pocket all the same.
‘Tell me,’ said I, pointing at a Tudor building set behind a sandstone fence. ‘Is that Lord Blee’s estate?’
The boy first looked at me, then nodded and took the coin.
‘They molest you?’ said I, gesturing to the others.
He made no reply.
‘I can see you’ve got technique at marbles. What’s your name?’
‘Cornwright,’ whispered he. ‘Jack Cornwright.’
‘You ignore those cave trolls, hear me?’
He squinted.
‘They will suffer their own justice.’
I took another coin from my pocket, this time a full penny.
‘If – when – they beat you, make no sound. They tire sooner without the satisfaction.’
The parish door swung outwards, and a short bearded man ordered the boys inside. They made haste up the stairs, ducking beneath his arm.
‘You too, Cornwright,’ growled the master.
The boy pointed his black eyes down to the two coins and back up to me, then limped off – knees outwards, feet inwards – one of his fists tight around the shiners, not letting go even when his master welcomed him with a heavy boot.
I tugged twice on the tasselled rope of Blee’s bell and after a momentary delay heard a plangent honking behind the walls.
‘A private matter,’ explained I to the ruddy doorman. ‘Concerning your master’s business.’
I still felt the sting of poor Jack Cornwright’s plight, like the pain of a recently extinguished ember pressed upon the skin. He still might find his way, I assuaged myself, still might be sold into a decent home or trade, might marry a middling girl with a nice dowry. But really, what hope did Jack Cornwright possess? A boy who made fantasies of marbles instead of playing with real ones?
Presently I was roused from these negligible concerns by the approach of Lord Blee, whose twiggy and towering figure moved along in gusts, like a hat blown over the lawn. His head was bandaged in lopsided calico.
‘And you are?’
‘In your parlour, sir,’ said I, bowing.
Blee blinked twice. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jonathan Wild, sir. Thief-Taker.’
‘I did not call for a Thief-Taker.’
‘At your service, Lord Blee!’
‘Huh?’
‘Might we converse more privately?’ said I, taking his elbow with conspiratorial haste.
‘If there’s something you wish to say, say it now. I don’t have time for –’
‘I am not solely a Thief-Taker, but a retriever too, of stolen items. For example pocketbooks, snuffboxes, cufflinks …’
Blee made a nervous sweep of his surroundings, then urged me to his study. I sat opposite his desk, where everything sat in its place. After a moment, I realised the entire room, including the ceiling, was painted blue.
‘I will not consort with a fencer,’ began he.
‘I am in the business of capturing felons. Information, that is my business too.’
‘Something familiar,’ said Blee, looking me over and running a finger along the blade of an ormolu letter opener.
‘Your study is very blue. This is what it must be like for birds.’
‘My wife … it doesn’t matter. Now, please, speak your piece.’
I leaned forward in my chair, rubbing my hands. ‘Sir. I’m here today to seek clarification on a certain avowal that was made, being in relation to the theft of certain items –’ here I pulled out a small piece of paper, officiously ‘– items said to be as follows: a snuffbox stamped with bucking stallions, a silk handkerchief, monogrammed. Two cufflinks, a pocket watch with chain and lastly, a pocketbook containing the journalling of a proprietor that is said to be you, Lord Blee. Should I take this information to be reliable?’
Blee cleared his throat repeatedly.
‘Furthermore,’ continued I, now crossing my legs, ‘I am told that a certain madam who operates a bordello in Dirty Lane arranged this thieving – and beating too, by the looks of your head dressing – and subsequent sale of your goods on the Clerkenwell Road soon after.’
‘Dirty Lane, you say,’ Blee said, still with a tickle in his gullet. ‘Hgghhhh. Quite … hgghhhh … impossible.’
‘Just as I suspected,’ said I, standing up. ‘These informants cannot be trusted. My apologies.’
‘Wild, is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Can I be frank with you?’
‘You have my confidence.’
‘Sit, please.’
I lowered myself once more.
‘Let us presume that these items were my own, and everything you’ve said, by some chance, was correct. How would I … eh, one … how would one go about securing their safe return?’
‘If th
e items were still within London, you can be sure I’d find the pawner who possessed them.’
‘And the charges for such a service?’
‘Commission only, on the value of the items. Plus brokerage and incidentals. Disbursements too.’
Blee tried running his hands through his hair, but was impaired by the bandage. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Commission is a fee for service, calculated at a percentage of value which can be gleaned by the division of the agreed commission into the total value of the item, mathematically arrived at by –’
‘Mr Wild, please.’
‘You wish me to state the sum total?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Five pounds, three shillings, four pence, sir.’
Blee let out a scoffing sort of lip-blow. It was all of a sudden itchy under his bandage. ‘The original value of the items is much less.’
‘Not worth it, then,’ said I, standing.
‘You are quick at standing, Wild.’
‘Shall I resume my seat?’
‘I was going to say that, eh … yes, sit … that there is sentimental value too. One cannot discount …’
‘My father, in his wisdom, used to say some things of value are without a corresponding price. He was talking about a purple pheasant toy, King Richard we called it, a fine specimen of –’
‘My point being, Mr Wild, that I agree.’
‘I agree with it too, sir; my father was a wise and –’
‘To the price. I agree to the price.’
‘Very well, very well indeed. Now to the matter of justice. Naturally, we will need your deposition pertaining to the whore, who I’m told is quite handsome and has a birthmark like a splat of grape juice above her left breast. And her overlord, Madam Cockshot.’
‘I am not interested in making any depositions.’
‘Prithee, Lord Blee, if you will. My income is made by the incarceration of felons, not the return of goods. Surely your wife will be happy to know that you’ve contributed to the moral improvement of – ’
‘No no no no.’
‘Sir?’
His bandage was really bothering him now. ‘I require your confidence, and will remunerate accordingly.’
Now Lord Blee, presumably anxious to bring the matter to a close, took a drawstring purse from his drawer and settled it on his desk. The colour of the velvet, you may rightly conjecture, was blue.
His elongated, finely manicured fingers shook ever so slightly as he picked at the knot of his purse. Poor Lord Blee’s skin had turned a wet-glue white. I sat cushioned – equally by his vulnerability as his upholstery – and announced he might also endow two guineas to a local young parishioner, Jack Cornwright. Lord Blee, baffled by the unrelated demand, sighed and shook his head in beleaguered acquiescence.
The same night I feasted on guinea pheasant washed down with treacly wine and followed by pudding topped with unheard-of fruits. We were at Croker’s, the finest victualhouse in London. Elizabeth Lyon was in her gentry dress, and we chimed our glasses to the silent disapproval of our pudgy neighbour, who was really enjoying the sauce.
We talked of many agreeable futures, including travel by private chaise, baked goods, walking canes, and copper water-pipes recessed into the walls of a newly built country house. These fancies continued as we ambled back through Westminster, arm in arm, embraced by the night that was rich in the same flavours as our imagined fates.
It seemed likewise natural that upon our concealment in Miss Lyon’s room we should collapse into each other’s embraces, speaking the other’s praises, and coupling in a way that I hadn’t since my time with Millicent Dampier. Despite her daily occupation spent in the provision of carnality, I perceived these few moments to be a most foreign experience to Miss Lyon, as was indicated by the finger that directed my jaw to an angle so that I might lock eyes with her during the very moment of my enclosure.
WILD
I get a lick of the jampot, then reach my hand right in
1705
Notwithstanding our nocturnal affections, Miss Lyon awoke all business. We purchased a larger wardrobe that we placed in better proximity to her bed. In a new, more promising darkness, I recorded the pertinent details of her customers, which she educed with a flirtatious skill that was truly to be admired. ’Twas a wonder how quickly men – espoused the mightier gender – were so quickly heeled by Miss Lyon’s sex-boobs, which she readily employed not only as friction machine but confessional too. In only the first few hours under our new regime I listened to:
1) A Milliner from the Minories celebrate the death of his rich father, who that very day was trodden by a bull.
2) A Vicar from Southwark, disguised in the blue sleeves of a butcher, request Bessie to step upon his scrotum with her shiniest shoes.
3) A Sheep Feet vendor from Lincoln Inn bemoaning his neighbour, the Mineral Water vendor, who had a lower cost of goods.
4) A Calculator from Blackfriars who longed to be a Poet, and recited (quite impressive) lines for the whole of his visit.
Upon Miss Lyon’s announcement of our mutually agreed code word – buttonhook – I raced to the intersection of Plumb-tree to stand upon two milk crates with a cudgel. Then, with quite some force, I knocked them on their heads. My fingertips learned the intricacies of a society medallion’s emboss or the quality of a monocle chain, done swiftly in darkness before hiding the loot in a strongbox beneath Miss Lyon’s bed.
But the real money lay in my ledgers, where I taxonomised the details and vulnerabilities of rich men, like so:
Miss Lyon acted as recruiter to additional whores in adjoining terraces. Ledgers brimmed; the stationer could barely keep up. To provide comfort and convenience to our informants, we set up a contraceptive spa in our room. There was a chinoiserie screen for privacy, a bucket of ‘fresh’ river water, a preparation of apothecary’s douche and a wooden spoon wrapped in the softest muslin. They spoke at infuriating length as Bessie or I scribbled in the details, all to the background of a vivid pissing and squelching. If I’d once held a candle for whores, my months in Dirty Lane were wet fingertips to the wick.
As to the compensation these whores demanded for their intelligence, I was pleased and stupefied to discover that distracting conversation and a casual display of the Queen’s letterhead was payment enough. Here was a man who required nothing from their mouths but prattle.
On one particular evening as I listened to Mary Mollineaux clear out her cunny, she told me the very interesting story of a certain man in a green coat. An angry, sly and fearless man with loaded pistols at his hips. A man who had fought and overcome Blueskin Blake and was waging war in the City of London.
‘They say he has scars around his eyes,’ said she, whose teeth numbered no more than four.
‘Like these,’ asked I, pointing to the scars that had been done to me by my father and Master Dampier and now by Blueskin too.
‘Much more gruesome, I’m sure.’
‘And tell me, what else do they say?’
‘They say he is wild, sir.’
‘Wild, you say?’
‘Indeed sir, reckless and dangerous in equal measure, sir. Unpredictable too. Apparently Blueskin still doesn’t walk right.’
‘Do you have a name for this man?’ asked I.
‘I have heard a variety of names: Nathan, John, Jonathan.’
‘Pistols on his belt, a green coat, scars about the eyes. Anything else?’
‘The oddest thing.’
‘Aye?’
‘According to Eleanor Bushell, he is like a small dog: accommodates for his stature with viciousness.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘So it’s said, sir.’
I handed the punk a penny, and sent word to Bessie to procure me some pistols and two more green coats.
I no longer cared that London was home to Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey. I didn’t care that the Queen might be seen strolling through manicured shrubberies in St James�
��s Park. I didn’t care about the war in Newfoundland. I didn’t care about the new tax on wallpaper. I didn’t even care that criers now announced warnings of a man going by my own description. All I cared about were all those Johns that stumbled home without first being knocked on their heads. I had enough supply of whores; what I needed more of was me.
I remembered when Uxbridge cast shillings into the rainy sky, glittering as though electrified by lightning, before falling into the open hands of London’s denizens. Old and young, woman and man, merchant and beggar, none had hesitated to claw through the shit-coalesced mud. So, then, how hard would it be to find those willing to grasp, not at mud but around the handle of a heavy stick?
I first tried the Dirty Lane laundry boys; youngsters employed by Mrs Cockshot to launder bedclothes for a slice of stale bread and weak soup to soften it. On the promise of boiled caramels, I made a gathering of them one misty Friday, handing by turn each of them my cudgel and sending a stray tomcat to their ankles where I placed a pail of milk. Alas, despite working their arms on the sullied laundry each day, not one of them was strong enough to knock a hardy cat down (and I maimed ten of them to learn it).
‘Boys so young are better employed as runners,’ implored Bessie, who’d always had an affinity for felines. ‘Stop your cruelty.’
‘Aye,’ replied I. ‘But where shall we find our soldiers?’
I gave each of the boys a candy, their eyes suspicious at the charity.
‘Company men,’ said Bessie after some time. ‘The sea-sick ones. They’ll be right for the job.’
‘The Honourable East India Company?’
‘They are as you seek: stupid, loyal and skilled at violence.’
‘Sometimes I think you’re as cunning as my mother.’
‘I do not like how often you make the association.’
‘The similarities cannot be naysaid.’
‘You have said so about my bosom.’
‘An observation only.’
The heavy mist stirred, intertwining with us, then folded over the yard fence. Bessie looked extremely irritated, and for once it wasn’t because of my chewing (the mere sight of a chestnut now made her recoil).
Wild Page 19
