The Night Calls

by David Pirie

  ‘Possibly it is not,’ he said holding his cane and looking straight ahead as he was wont to do when he was thinking. The flare from the gas lamps we passed in the rain illuminated odd corners of his face and he rocked slightly with the motion of the cab. ‘But how could I know that until I have discovered more? I have learned from long experience, Doyle, that need and debt often have a bearing on a crime. And in a case as odd as Miss Lowther’s I am more than happy to follow any divergent path which presents itself.’ Then he did turn to me, and I sensed the frustration he always felt when he was short of material. ‘We are not, you will agree, exactly presented with a surfeit of clues in her case.’ By this time we were already close by the lodgings and Bell leaned forward to tell our driver to stop.

  Within a few minutes we were huddled in a doorway round the corner from Esher Street. It was still raining and I was struggling to think what to say if Sally Morland walked past and saw us. However, there was not long to wait for Morland came out at twenty minutes to the hour, dressed in a heavy overcoat against the weather, and turned away towards the Vauxhall Bridge Road.

  We had agreed to scout him separately, and so, after a judicious interval, I moved off to follow. In the unlikely event that he stopped and saw me, I would have to pretend to be on some errand. But soon he was walking so rapidly there seemed little chance of this and I smartened my pace to keep up with him, reflecting that the Doctor would probably have to rely on me for his bearings. Indeed when I glanced back to where Bell had been, there was no sign of him at all.

  Spurred on by the fact that he seemed to have left the field entirely to me, and might even have some other plan afoot, I hurried after Morland’s figure. The rain and wind was an aid to me now, for I attracted little notice in these dark streets, and the man ahead of me was clearly in no mood to look round.

  He turned into Chapter Street, and I hung back as he crossed over but came closer to him again as he weaved through an endless series of residential roads. Soon we found ourselves close to the river by Fire Wood Wharf, where the water was choppy and an old trading boat rocked angrily back and forth on its moorings. Here I stopped and pretended to stare at it till he was almost out of sight, then followed on. He passed Pimlico Pier and trudged on down Grosvenor Road until at last he came to a great old stone church just within sight of Grosvenor Bridge.

  Here, then, was the place of the meeting. The door of the church hall was, I saw, opened to Martin by a dark-suited man with a beard, who closed it again firmly as I passed by on the other side, taking care he did not see me.

  I saw no way I could obtain admission, and I cursed Bell for sending me on this fool’s errand, which I noted the Doctor himself seemed to have abandoned. But I could hardly give up now, and my only hope was to try to find some way in through the church itself.

  I circled round to the back of it, where there was nobody to be seen, and stared up through the rain at the tower and a huge stained-glass bow window. Finally I arrived at a large oak door and, after yet again ascertaining that nobody was on the street, I turned the handle, only to establish that it was locked fast. This was poor luck, but I guessed that the League had made sure of it. Perhaps the meeting was destined to go unobserved, but, whatever my feelings about this mission, I did not much care for the idea of abject failure.

  I walked on round the side of the building which took me behind a clump of bushes that marked the small graveyard. There was little light here, but in the furthest corner I saw an outline of something in the stone. Coming closer, I made out it was an old vestry door, evidently little used. Here was my last opportunity and I tried the handle, but it too was locked. I was about to turn away, but, after some reflection, I gave it one more try, applying more pressure. Now I felt some movement. I pushed again. This time it definitely yielded a few inches. Unlike the other, this was not locked at all, it was merely sealed by disuse.

  Before me all was dark and I had to push the door further in order to squeeze myself through. There was noise as it scraped the stone floor, but I doubted anybody would hear, for I must be some way from the hall.

  I groped my way into a dusty room and pushed the door shut behind me, glad at least to be out of the weather. I could still see nothing, but I felt mouldy piles of paper and boxes and it seemed certain I was in some semi-abandoned storeroom. Feeling my way round the wall, I made a complete circle and yet found no door of any kind. Could it be that there was no exit from this place into the church? It seemed unlikely. There had to be a door, so I raised the level of my arms and tried again. This time I was rewarded with the touch of something metal jutting out from the stone, a handle and beside it a latch. The reason the door was so high, and I had missed it, was because it led up from a couple of stone steps that I had mistaken for an alcove. I climbed these carefully and then negotiated the latch, and the door opened without much noise.

  I was looking out at the body of the church, which was shadowy and empty. But there was light from somewhere and I could hear voices. I stepped out of the doorway and moved slowly and stealthily in the direction of the sound. The church was large and well kept, its pews gleaming in a flickering light whose source I still could not properly see.

  At last I came to a side aisle and, beyond it, was a wooden partition wall with a curtained door, separating the hall from the church. This was better luck than I could have anticipated. I heard the voices quite distinctly now and, peering through the curtain, I found I was at the back of a hall where the meeting was in full progress.

  The place was lit by large lamps, set in the walls, and I soon saw that the building was in fact less like a hall than a side-wing of the church, which is what it must once have been. There was another stained-glass window and rows of seats, mostly empty, although Martin Morland sat nervously at the front of them.

  Facing him on a dais sat five men and one woman in front of a long table, which contained an enormous ledger, various papers and a great box which obviously held money.

  These must be the dignitaries of the League, and as soon as I saw them my heart went out to Martin. I had no idea what the elders of a philanthropic society should look like but, as I studied the pinched faces ranged along that dais, with their stony expressions and cold eyes, I felt I had never before in my life seen such a collective absence of humanity. It was easy enough now to understand Morland’s attraction to the opium den if he knew he had to come before these people to plead for charity. Even their clothes were so sombre that they could have been mistaken for a party of undertakers.

  At first I was surprised to see the meeting was in full progress, but it soon became clear that they had been taking clients at short intervals and Martin’s appointment at eight was the last of the night. As a result there was only one other person present, a riverman in a coat nearly worn down to its threads, who was apparently applying to this unholy jury for a loan of twenty pounds.

  ‘And you have work on the river?’ said a man with red cheeks at the centre of the group, holding his quill pen above the ledger as if it were a badge of his estate.

  ‘Aye I have, sir. Yes. But they will not pay before the end of next week.’

  ‘I see, and can you sign your name?’

  ‘I can, sir,’ said the riverman proudly.

  ‘We will always support honest thrift,’ said the man with the pen, obviously the bookkeeper. ‘And we will charge you a modest rate of interest. Let us say thirty per cent per week. Back the sum of twenty pounds.’

  ‘Back the sum,’ intoned a sonorous grey-haired man as he proceeded to open the cash box. But I barely watched him for I was still reeling from the interest figure that had been quoted. Thirty per cent a week? At that rate, given the slightest problem, how could the man ever repay it? Was it possible that Martin Morland had been mad enough to accept such terms? And from people such as these whose guise as philanthropists seemed about as threadbare as the riverman’s coat? Whatever the detail, it certainly seemed that my friend’s situation was far more serious than he
had ever presented to me.

  The answer to my questions came soon enough for, as the riverman sat down at a little table to put his name to these pernicious documents, Martin was called. I noticed that the man with a quill seemed almost to sneer as he said his name and took out some loose documents which were evidently the papers he had signed.

  ‘So you are here before us again, Mr Morland?’ he said when Martin rose. ‘We have asked you to come at the close of our business. Are you still unable to pay?’

  I was pleased to see Martin Morland adopt a dignified tone in reply. ‘I accept I have reasons to be contrite and also that we are anxious to be quit of each other’s company,’ he said. ‘We have exchanged harsh words in the past and, as you know, if I had not been the worse for drink I would never have signed your papers. But then one of you met me with a kind smile in a tavern, not at a gathering such as this.’

  ‘We are well aware of the circumstances,’ said the man with the quill. ‘And your rate of interest was exceedingly generous.’

  ‘Certainly better …’ But Martin broke off, eyeing the poor riverman who did not even look up from where he was busy signing away his life. ‘Well, I shall not say more, and I beg the committee’s grateful pardon, but I will, I must, have more time. I have paid off a little.’

  ‘That was some weeks ago,’ said the man with the quill.

  ‘And I cannot pay more for at least a month or—’

  ‘Impossible,’ said the man, putting down his quill with a defining movement. ‘Utterly, rankly, impossible.’

  His words were echoed by others.

  ‘We made it quite clear when you last appeared here,’ the bookkeeper went on.

  But Morland did not seem to hear him and continued unflinchingly in words I found horrifying, for I believed them. ‘You must, for you are meant to give hope and the alternative is too dreadful. If I were to pay you, my wife and children would starve. I need my income for them and I cannot give it all to you. I will never make such a mistake again …’

  ‘I fear it is too late for that. Indeed we have already decided,’ said the bookkeeper, who had clasped his hands in front of him on the table. And now I could swear I saw a brightness in his eyes, which had until now been so cold. I was sure that I recognised it too. It was pleasure. And, looking along that ugly group I could see the same vicious little glow in several of the faces staring down at Morland.

  The bookkeeper continued, ‘We will apply for a public order for all your possessions which will not, however, I am sure, meet the full sum owing. I am afraid, therefore, it is the workhouse.’

  The words sent a chill of fear through me. I expected Martin to shout back at them, for surely they could not hound him in this way. But to my horror he merely flinched and his eyes filled with tears. And then I knew for sure that he had never allowed to anyone, not even his wife, how bad things were. The meeting was at an end.

  I did not know what to do. The idea of that little family being destroyed was more than I could bear. Should I intervene? Yet I had not the money to help them. I sat there paralysed by a storm of opposing thoughts, when a sudden noise came from the side of the hall.

  A figure had stepped out from somewhere and one of the chairs in its path went over with a clatter as he came forward.

  ‘I am afraid these proceedings cannot be allowed to continue,’ pronounced the Doctor, his eyes locked on the astonished committee as he strode towards them. He must have been behind a pillar and, even from where I was, I could see the rage on his face.

  The riverman stared up from his papers with amazement at this spectacle. Morland looked a little puzzled, but it was obvious he could hardly take it in for the weight of his sorrow still gripped him.

  ‘You have no business interrupting us,’ said the bookkeeper, who had taken up his quill again, no doubt to give himself a more official air. ‘This is a private meeting of a private charitable society.’

  ‘It is nothing of the kind,’ said Bell. ‘But I little wonder that you care to keep it quiet. You are practising extortion masquerading as respectable charity and neither the press nor the courts would view it as anything else.’ He turned to the riverman. ‘This man could obtain more generous terms from the worst magsman in Seven Dials.’

  The riverman could not follow but I was pleased to see a flicker of doubt cross some of the faces on the dais. And the red-cheeked bookkeeper had certainly heard more than he liked.

  ‘I have no idea who you are, sir, but your presence and manner are highly offensive. If you have any complaint against us, I suggest you apply to law.’

  ‘Yes,’ echoed the grey-haired man with the money, ‘we are careful to abide by it.’

  Now Bell hesitated for just a fraction of a second as he decided on his tactic. Nobody else there would have registered the pause, but it told me what I suspected: namely that he had stormed out of his hiding place driven by his own sense of justice without seriously planning how he would or could proceed. ‘So you will consent to have your books examined?’ he said.

  It was the best he could do and it worried them, for their books would certainly have made shameful reading. But the man with the quill sensed his opening. ‘Not by you, sir. But we have nothing to hide. Now shall we throw him out?’

  As he rose to his feet, he seemed to unwind, and for the first time I saw how very tall he was, at least six and a half feet. Other men got up from the table too.

  With a silent prayer I pulled the curtain aside. ‘Then perhaps,’ I shouted, ‘you will consent to their examination by my constabulary.’

  There was confusion and I moved quickly forward, desperately praying I could capitalise on it. ‘This man you scorn has been assisting us in our enquiries into the more fraudulent lending societies. We now wish to impound your books and papers, pending possible prosecution.’

  The Doctor was smiling at me, which was a good sign. I did not dare to look at Morland. Instead I walked to the table, delighted to see my presence had caused even more consternation than Bell’s. Perhaps I was still a little flushed, but they had probably never seen a plainclothesman in their lives and now everyone had sat down except the bookkeeper, who eyed me with what I hoped was anxiety.

  ‘But why do you think we have broken the law?’ he said

  ‘By charging terms,’ Bell said quickly, ‘that cannot possibly be met and plainly exceed those stipulated in the Act of 1871.’ He had come back without a pause, which was just as well for I had almost nothing to say. ‘It may well be prison for most of you. We have more men outside.’

  This caused a real ripple of anguish around the table. There were yelps of horror as those pompous, self-regarding people contemplated a wholly new prospect. The only woman gasped.

  ‘You should have told us, Jim,’ said the sonorous man with grey hair to the tall bookkeeper. ‘This is your fault, not ours. You said the terms were up to us. I am prepared to swear it.’

  The tall man opened his mouth to reply. He was the one I feared most and I was sure the best course was to help him. ‘No, I am afraid if the decision is made to take this forward, it is not just one but all who will be liable,’ I said.

  The bookkeeper evidently saw his chance. ‘If we agreed to close our books now, shut down new business, would you consider leaving it at that?’

  I turned to Bell, who of course deferred to me. I turned back to the man, praying I would not overplay my hand.

  ‘You must destroy the books and write off all outstanding debts.’

  The man opened his mouth to protest, so I leaned forward as if to take the money. ‘Well, it is all the same, but if we go forward, all of this is the property of the Crown till the matter is resolved.’

  The idea of their money being confiscated was enough. ‘Yes!’ the grey-haired man shouted. ‘We will write off the debts. Jim, tell him.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the bookkeeper with obvious pain. ‘If no more is said.’

  Now I risked a look at Morland. The hope in his eyes gave me new ze
al. I went to the table, passing the box with the money, and laid my hand down firmly on the ledger and the pile of signed loan papers, including his own, which was on the top ‘These will be destroyed. You may take your money and do with it what you will.’

  The riverman had been watching everything, his eyes fairly popping out of his head.

  ‘The League is therefore dissolved,’ Bell intoned, turning to join me in this happy destruction. ‘None of its customers will hear of it again. All the papers are forfeit.’

  And with this, he snatched the astonished seaman’s signed papers and tore them up. ‘These are of no value now, sir, you may take your money and go.’

  The man was speechless but needed no further encouragement. He got up, clutching his money, barely able to believe his luck that what had been a loan was suddenly a gift, and almost ran from the place. The bookkeeper’s face was now a picture of horror at seeing his latest victim leave with twenty pounds and no debt. Meanwhile Bell had turned to Morland, who was on his feet. ‘Your business with these people is at an end, sir,’ said the Doctor with just the hint of a gracious smile. Morland nodded and left too, taking care to avoid my eye.

  But all the tall bookkeeper’s suspicions had been reawakened, indeed he was enraged. ‘This is all a sham,’ he cried suddenly, trying to snatch the papers from me, although I held them firmly now and had taken the additional precaution of pocketing Morland’s document. ‘How do we know they are who they say?’

  Fortunately for us he had left his move too late. His colleagues were only concerned with their share of the remaining money, and his remonstrances were drowned out by their squabbling, as they attempted to extract what each felt was rightfully theirs from the box. Meanwhile, as Bell seized a list of the League’s debtors from the table, in case of a mention of Harriet Lowther, I was taking a candle to the papers and the ledger itself. The pages burned quickly and merrily, and I rejoiced to see them do so, knowing justice was being done and the poor people in that book would never hear from the League again.