By Gaslight

by Steven Price

  William shifted in his seat. The impresario was bent double beside the zoltascope with his wrist working, shifting the glass plates up and down. The images began to vanish and reappear more rapidly. In that beam of light a thin sheen of sweat was visible on his lip. He withdrew the last plate and reached carefully into a box at his feet and took out another. This one had a corkscrew lever.

  Ladies and gentlemen, the man announced with a flourish. There are those in the scientific community who call what I am about to show you a chromatrope. We do not usually expose it to the general public due to the dangers involved. I warn you: do not look directly into the centre, it can have a rather disturbing effect upon the more sensitive viewers. Last year a gentleman in Leipzig was hospitalized for several weeks after suffering an attack of nerves.

  Then came a beam of white light, smoke. A geometrical pattern appeared before them. It was luminous and brilliant and coloured like a stained glass window, and slowly, very slowly, it began to rotate. It turned faster and then the image was blurring into a stream of colour and light and William felt a brightness at the back of his skull and he closed his eyes.

  Then the lights came back up. Men began to laugh, ladies applauded softly in their gloves.

  Shore pinched his eyes shut, he blinked, he shifted in his seat.

  Right, he said. He set his jaw. Let’s get this done.

  William rose with the applause and walked to the front of the room tugging at his shirt cuffs. Pale faces dialing towards him, ladies with their fans shushing the air. Shore had slipped away and he came back in wheeling a serving cart on small wheels and the squeak of it was unsettling in the stillness. Set out upon that tray were the instruments of their trade. Pads of ink and paper, calipers, yardsticks, a photographic cabinet still closed. William cleared his throat. He did not look in Foole’s direction.

  He raised one arm.

  Many of you will know my excellent colleague, Mr. John Shore, chief inspector of Scotland Yard, he smiled. He added wryly, Don’t let the title fool you, he is a very able detective.

  A quiet surprised laugh from the audience. Shore shaking his head.

  Ladies and gentlemen. He clasped his hands white-knuckled in the small of his back. For over thirty years, he began, my Agency has been engaged in investigating many of the more dramatic robberies in the continental United States. My father, the late Allan Pinkerton, my brother Robert, and I myself, often have had cause to personally take part in running down the thieves. One of the problems we face in modern crime detection is what to do after a crime has been committed. How are we to identify the perpetrator? Even more, how do we do it as the days and weeks go by, and the trail grows colder? You will wonder, perhaps, how it is we can catch a man after so much time has passed. You will wonder, perhaps, how it is that the National Detective Agency has never yet failed to arrest a railroad holdup man. Witness testimonies are often contradictory. How then can we be certain we have the right man?

  In the stillness he could sense the intensity of the ladies’ eyes on him.

  It is called by some the Bertillon method, he said. It was discovered by a Frenchman of that name. You see, although as we age we change in appearance, nevertheless there are elements that do not change. Aspects of our physiognomy that stay the same despite the years. Namely, certain measurements of our faces and our hands in relation to the rest of our bodies. The distance of our eyes, for instance, from each other, as well as from our ears and our noses. The length and shape of our jawline. The length of our forearms against our palms, our fingers, our thighs. All of this when recorded carefully and noted against a criminal’s outward appearance—the colour of his eyes, his hair, his skin complexion, scars, and so on—all of this gives us the man despite his superficial changes. Who can hide himself from himself?

  The room was silent.

  Mr. Shore?

  Nobody, said Shore.

  Nobody. Exactly. And tonight we shall see how it is done. First we shall need a volunteer. Are there any criminals in attendance?

  A general soft laugh rippled through the room.

  I would ask my colleague, but I’m afraid we might find a match in our files.

  Shore’s big flushed grin. More laughter.

  William scanned the guests. Several ladies had lifted their hands but he let his eyes rove past them. You, sir, he said. You look rather suspicious. William extended his long thick finger at Foole where he lingered near the curtains at the back wall. Foole shook his elegant head, held up a hand with a casual smile.

  Come now, sir, William said loudly. There’s no harm in it, I assure you.

  No, no, Foole was mouthing with a smile on his lips. A young woman beside him set a hand on his forearm and smiled. A gentleman shifted to make room. Others were turning to look.

  Shore was already moving through the crowd towards Foole.

  No, thank you, Foole called out to Shore. I have seen the thing done before, sir.

  A round of applause for our courageous volunteer, William shouted.

  Ladies applauded. Men chuckled, called out to Foole in encouragement.

  William could see the small thief’s fury beneath the smile.

  But then Shore had him gripped under one arm and was leading him down through the guests towards the front of the ballroom and William had stepped to the cabinet and started to clean the measuring calipers with a soft grey cloth.

  Ladies and gentlemen, William said, setting aside the cloth. Our brave volunteer. He made a show of studying Foole’s proportions. Ah, excellent, he said, and winked at the audience. I make it a point to never ask a volunteer bigger than myself.

  More laughter.

  And what is your name, sir?

  Don’t do this, Foole said under his breath. Still smiling.

  Mr. Adam Foole, ladies and gentlemen, William announced with a flourish.

  The room erupted in applause.

  Stand here, sir, just right here. Excellent. There are many ways, he said, seizing Foole’s wrists in a ferocious grip and twisting his arm to its point of weakness. Yes, many ways to measure a man. We shall show you all of them.

  General applause. Foole smiling through his teeth.

  Ah, now, said William, you must allow us to get a clear imprint of your fingertips. The patterns on a man’s fingertips are unique to him and do not change all his life. This is important, as we leave invisible prints of our fingers on everything we touch.

  He could see ladies rubbing the tips of their gloves together as he spoke, gentlemen studying their own hands in interest.

  Foole’s eyes were fixed on his, steady, level, vicious.

  We begin, he said, by dabbing a man’s fingers one at a time in ink, and then impressing them onto a formal paper. As he spoke he stabbed Foole’s fingers onto the dark pad, then quickly rolled the man’s fingertips onto the paper.

  Ah, yes, excellent, my good sir, William smiled. He held up the paper for the audience to admire. And now for the other hand, he said.

  Foole smiled. Perhaps, sir, a second volunteer could illustrate the difference between fingerprintings? he said loudly.

  William gripped his left wrist and drew him unwilling back to the table.

  Perhaps, William smiled.

  And rolled the thief’s fingers into the ink, onto the paper.

  When he had finished the room erupted once again into applause.

  Ah, but we’re not done yet, he smiled. He led Foole to a chair and sat him down and with a calipered instrument began to measure the distance between the man’s eyes, ears, the length of his nose, the distance of his jaw from his brow. He measured the length of Foole’s arms and of his torso and he had Foole stand and roll up his sleeves and he smiled to see a small white scar on his left forearm.

  Normally we would inspect a man and record any unique details, he said. Scars, moles, tattoos, and so on. Given the delicacy of our volunteer, we shall refrain from such behaviour this evening. But we certainly must do our best to record this gentleman’s e
ye colour, hair colour, height, and so on.

  During all this Shore’s pen scratched dryly across the formal documentation for the files. William had Foole sit and stand and extend his arms until his frock coat bent out around his waist and then sit again in the little wooden chair with his knees pressed firmly together and at last Shore unbundled a camera on a tripod using both arms and squinted through the aperture then moved the apparatus some five feet farther into the room and then leaned again into the billowing black cloth. William said, with a smile, Last but certainly not least, we always take a photograph of our criminal. In this way we can help witnesses identify possible suspects. Now, sir, I must insist you do not move. Or we shall have to take the photograph again, and show these fine ladies how we restrain uncooperative suspects.

  Foole lifted his chin. Sat very still. He stared grimly at the camera and there was in his eyes a ferocity William had not seen before. The etched grooves deep in his forehead. The raked white whiskers along his cheekbones, his stern moustaches.

  A soft crump as the bulb flared and then it was done.

  William smiled. Now sir, he said loudly to Foole, you will not want to commit any crimes on your way home tonight. Or we shall certainly identify you at once.

  The audience laughed appreciably, Shore laughed, William laughed.

  And Foole as he got to his feet was laughing too. Laughing and laughing, his thin lips pulled back, his sharp yellow teeth glinting, his eerie catlike eyes on William the while.

  An hour later in the murky gaslight William was descending the steps of Farquhar’s palatial home feeling a weariness pour through his limbs. The house was ablaze behind him, the evening still going on. He clutched under one arm a clerk’s leather satchel and inside this the Bertillon measurements of Edward Shade. Photographic plates, fingerprints, a copy of the man’s signature in alias. Something his father had failed in, his entire life. The night was very cold and there was in him a violence which he was coming to understand, gradually, as he aged, would be the condition he was to live in always. He was his father’s son. He saw again the misery in Foole’s eye as he glared at the camera. On the corner a cabman’s mare was wheezing, tired head drooping, the ridge of her spine and the drag of her reins. All the horses in London were sick. William called to the driver, climbed up. The hansom set off clattering down the cobblestones. William closed his eyes. He should have been pleased. Instead he felt his failure, thinking of Foole outside Farquhar’s study, their aborted conversation. What he should have done, he realized, was keep the man talking, hear the man out. There was a truth in any man’s lies. Even Edward Shade’s.

  No it was not finished. William swore. He would need to go back to Half Moon Street.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The night deepened.

  They were three and they moved through the fogbound streets silent and blurred. A short slight gentleman and his hulking manservant, a servant boy drifting some steps behind them. Each walked sharply in the stillness dressed in an elegant black evening coat and a silk hat though the small man with the pale whiskers was clearly the man in charge. He was not old but his face was grooved and lined with care. His eyes, yes, his eyes were old.

  They passed the gates of Green Park and then the silent edifice of Devonshire House and they did not see any other soul as they went nor did they speak nor cough nor breathe. They paused as if to converse under a gas lamp on a corner each man peering in a different direction. Then the boy stepped back into a doorway and was devoured by shadow but for the white slash of knuckles and the glint of an eye and the two men turned north along Old Bond Street, walking with a studied ease. The small man was smoking a cheroot. As they came alongside the Burlington Arcade the small gentleman paused and studied his reflection in the windows of a tall stone art gallery and adjusted his cuffs and dropped the cheroot and ground it under the toe of his shoe.

  He removed his gloves, dipped a hand into each pocket. Sifted the chalk in his fingers.

  The bearded giant glanced along the street both north and south but saw no movement and then with a nod from the smaller man he withdrew a painter’s tube from under his coat and handed it across. He crouched and interlaced his fingers into a step and the small man bit the walking stick between his teeth and looped the tube over his shoulder and stepped up into the waiting hands.

  In a single fluid gesture the giant lifted the small man high over his shoulders and the small man coiled and leaped into the air and he caught the stone sill of the second-storey window. He swung a long slow moment. Already below him the giant was melting back into the shadows. He folded his legs and swung to the left and hooked an elbow and a forearm onto the sill and hoisted himself up.

  It was a shallow sill just wide enough for him to crouch sideways on one knee and the first thing he did was to pull back on his gloves. He then quickly unscrewed the tip of his cane and withdrew the short iron jemmy there and leaned into the casement and cracked the lock in a smooth sharp powerful movement. The broken lock clattered to the floor within and he sat listening and then he tucked the walking stick under one arm and drew the window noiselessly upward. And he was in.

  It was an unfurnished room, he knew it well. There was no light but for the weak gaslight coming up from the street but even still he could see on the far wall the tall portrait of Emma Hamilton gazing sorrowfully out at him. He stood for what seemed a long time staring at her in reverie though it could not have been more than several minutes. Then he got to work.

  He walked to the door and stood listening for the guard on his rounds but at first he could hear no sound at all and then a long slow shirring like waves on a beach at night came to him and he smiled. The guard was asleep.

  He took off his frock coat and laid it open on the floor. Its arms loose and sprawled, like some collapsed victim. From the coat lining he withdrew the wooden doorstop and wedged it under the door. He crossed to the wall and hoisted the velvet rope aside and with great care he lifted the painting from its hook and set it face up on the floor. The gilt frame was heavy and worth several hundred pounds itself. He removed from his coat pocket the small jar of paste and a sharp folding knife and he opened the blade. The canvas was strong and thickly woven and he sawed slowly and he did not hurry. He was careful to cut behind the edge of the frame and not to damage the visible image in any fashion. When he had finished he turned the painting upside down and unscrewed the jar of paste and dabbed the end of the velvet rope into the paste. He moistened the back of the canvas to make it more supple. Every few minutes he would pause and lift his face to listen.

  He rolled the painting with its image turned outward to keep the paint pliable and to prevent its cracking. Slid the canvas into the hard tube, screwed a cap onto its end, left the frame lying shabby and ravished on the floor of the gallery.

  He did not hesitate. He put back on his coat and collected the doorstop and his walking stick and he paused at the sill to be certain he had left nothing behind. Then he folded his legs out the window, drew the casement shut, bit down on his walking stick and rubbed his forearm over the edge of the sill until his chalky fingerprints had been wiped clear. Then he swung himself down with a casual grace until he was again hanging from the windowsill by his fingertips and let go and dropped the fifteen feet to the ground.

  The giant reappeared. Smoothed the back of the man’s coat, adjusted the collar. At the corner the boy stepped out of the shadows and joined them. No one spoke. They walked unhurriedly back along Piccadilly, paused at the corner of Half Moon Street just long enough for the small man to light a second cheroot and glance about for witnesses, and then all three slipped away among the houses there and were gone.

  Seventeen minutes had passed.

  Any man lurking on that street would have seen a light go on in the second-floor window of number 82. And then the heavy drapes pulling shut, and the house again going dark.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Y ears later when he would think of the funeral and all that attended it a fog
would descend, brown and slow, blurring the edges of his grief. Somewhere in that haze were the facts of it. His father fallen hard and having bit through his tongue and the gangrene setting in. The septicemia that killed him. That. But when William later recalled those weeks in July of 1884 there was always that other thing, a haze of sorrow, obscuring all. Had it seemed so in the moment? He could not recall. Moments are like that, Margaret liked to say. Moments are seeming or they are nothing.

  On the second morning after his father’s death he had stood before the pier glass in the hall while Margaret adjusted his collar and set her cool hand at his heart and he had looked down at her. Her eyes like sunlight on green river stones, her eyes like the quiet after long applause. He asked her if it wasn’t too early to go across. She told him he was a good man. He asked if the coffee in the carafe was still warm and she told him she would see.

  Fireworks had lit up the sky for two nights running. It was the Independence celebrations. They had sat on the verandah of his mother’s house in silence while the girls slept within and had watched the spill of broken light and felt the tracers on their eyelids in the warm air. After each explosion his brother Robert had cleared his throat and coughed until William could not stand it and he had got to his feet and bid them all good night. His mother had risen from the old swinging bench and come to him and held him and he had felt embarrassed by the heat of it all.

  A small funeral, she said to them in the morning kitchen, och, that would be best. Immediate family only, he agreed. Robert brooded, Robert disapproved. He thought a show of public mourning more suitable. You’ll not, their mother insisted. I’ll not see that for the poor man ever. The block of butter melting languidly in its dish. A fly battering itself against a pane. Robert meeting William’s eye over her head and holding it while the clock on the landing sounded the hour.

  By then the obituaries had already begun in the national dailies and the international papers as well and their mother clipped each one with her ancient heavy sewing shears and pasted them into a memory book with thick leather covers and wide pages and a ghoulish lock of their father’s hair. William could not bring himself to go to it though Margaret sat with her for hours leafing through it. The obituaries were posted over from the New York office and Robert thought to instruct them to cease but William told him to leave it alone.