The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  The coroner – Do you recognize either of these items?

  Mr Williamson – I do not.

  A commotion here erupted in the room and the foreman had to shout repeatedly for quiet. Even after order had been retained, there was a constant muttering of speculation.

  The coroner – Sir, do you mean to say that this Bible is not the property of your wife, and that the writing on the letter is not her hand?

  Mr Williamson – Precisely that. Neither of these items is connected to Katherine. It is not her writing; it is not her Bible.

  The coroner – I must say that your response has surprised us.

  Mr Williamson – And I must say that the evidence here points clearly to a verdict other than suicide.

  Disruption again fluttered through the room as the coroner and foreman struggled to subdue proceedings. Amidst the cacophony, a voice was heard to shout out a single word.

  ‘Murder!’

  At this, Mr Williamson’s gaze darted into the corner whence the word had come and he speared a finger into the crowd. A sudden silence sliced through the noise and every pair of eyes fell upon the husband, his arm still outstretched.

  Mr Williamson – Members of the jury . . . that, that is your verdict.

  His face remained composed, but his intelligent eyes burned. Whether it was outrage or agony that was held within them, nobody could have discerned.

  The coroner – It is the duty of the jury to decide on a verdict, Mr Will—

  Mr Williamson – Will the foreman have me express myself freely?

  The foreman acquiesced.

  Mr Williamson – My wife did not kill herself. She had no reason to do so. There are evidently three gentlemen who could verify this, but the very fact of their absence should be a warning to us. A Bible and a note were left atop the viewing platform, but as neither belonged to my wife we must assume that they were placed there to create the impression of suicide. Quiet . . . quiet if you will . . . This was poorly executed: the note was addressed neither to me or to her mother. Why, even the name is wrong – Kathleen instead of Katherine – as if someone had misheard her. I would, indeed, like to ask Mr Jenkins if he saw my wife carrying the Bible as she entered.

  Mr Jenkins (from the crowd) – In truth, I did not.

  The coroner – What you say is certainly curious, Mr Williamson, but it does not, in itself, suggest murder.

  Mr Williamson – I would like an internal examination to be made of my wife before she is laid to rest.

  The coroner – We have heard from the surgeon that your wife was killed by the fall. Her injuries were quite consistent with—

  Mr Williamson – No. We have heard that the injuries she suffered would have killed anyone – not necessarily that they killed her. The witness Mr White said that the body appeared ‘quite lifeless’ as it fell.

  The coroner – A figure of speech.

  Mr Williamson – I think not. I have seen the body of my wife and I believe I detected the faintest smell of prussic acid about her mouth. I have heard that other of the witnesses to her body at the watch house remarked upon the same thing. An internal examination would prove beyond doubt that—

  The coroner – . . . that she took the poison before she jumped – a quite understandable act, I would assume, among suicides who fear the fall. Mr Williamson . . . we understand the magnitude of your suffering—

  Mr Williamson – Hmm. Hmm. Understand it, do you? Understand your . . . your love dashed to the ground before the whole city and then exhibited as if a curious fish in a shop window?

  The coroner fell under that piercing stare, opened his mouth to speak, and was rendered mute by the drained, accusatory face before him. Its expression was held rigid only by a preternatural effort of will. Two constables moved closer to Mr Williamson and one rested a hand on his shoulder, saying something into his ear. At this word, the husband seemed to sag and let his head drop. He remained like this for a moment, shaking his head as all looked on with piteous aspect. Then he allowed himself to be led from the place without a further word.

  The coroner suggested to the jury in sombre tones that the inquest should be adjourned until the three gentlemen could be located, and that if this proved impossible a verdict of suicide would seem the most sensible.

  And though a search ensued over the coming days, along with an advertisement in the Times, no trace of the gentlemen could be found. Evidently, nobody had seen them.

  Thus, suicide was the verdict and the body itself was shortly after interred in unconsecrated ground at the Spa Fields burial ground.

  And that would have been the end of the story but for two further pertinent pieces of information. The first was that the grieving husband Mr George Williamson, a constable in the Metropolitan Police at the time, would become, in the intervening years, Detective Sergeant Williamson of the Detective Force: the most gifted and lauded investigator ever to work within those ranks.

  The second would come seven years later, when the death of Katherine Williamson would once again, in its own way, play its part in a story embroiling the husband and the police in an unprecedented case of murder, mystery and evil that would touch many with the cold fingers of death, from the most degraded gutter wretch to the finest personages in the loftiest positions . . .

  ONE

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Richard Mayne closed the book he had been consulting and leaned back in his chair, looking over the broad surface of his sturdy oaken desk. His expression, as was invariably the case, was one of stern attention, fixing his interlocutor with a stare that doubted words before they were spoken and weighed them with a barrister’s reasoning as they were. A virtual stranger to the physical world beyond that Scotland Yard office, his face had the pallor of one accustomed to meetings and hearings in camera rather than the vagaries of the elements. His eyes were sharp and missed nothing.

  Before him in that modestly furnished room, as was invariably the case, stood the celebrated Inspector Albert Newsome of the Detective Force, erstwhile superior to Mr Williamson and a man who had worked through the ranks from the earliest days of the police. Of a wiry build, and with his unruly thatch of red hair, he was a man of the streets rather than a legal theorist. He might not have had the education of his commissioner, but in a midnight alley off Ratcliff-highway, his own particular ‘schooling’ would have seen him home alive. His expression was perpetually sardonic – something he took great care to restrain in this office.

  ‘Yes, sir. As you may have heard, the incident occurred at three o’clock the morning before last on Holywell-street.’

  ‘That stinking alley. It is a moral sewer and a disgrace to modern London.’

  ‘Indeed. At that time, a gentleman named Jonathan Sampson fell from the third-floor window of Colliver’s coffee house, sustaining a fractured thigh bone and a lacerated scull. He was found lying in the street by PC Cribb and taken immediately to King’s College Hospital, where he died some hours later from his injuries. It is an unremarkable case, Sir Richard, and one that I am sure need not concern—’

  ‘I will decide what concerns me, Inspector. That street has been the subject of much comment in the highest circles. It is a suppurating wound upon the fair complexion of our city and I am eager to cauterize it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There are irregularities in the case that have come to light, are there not? On any other street, this might be the case of a mere drunk, but I am inclined to address any occurrence on Holywell-street with more scrutiny. What is this, for instance, about the victim’s words when found, and later in the hospital?’

  ‘The man was quite incoherent from his fall. He said to Constable Cribb: “What mystery is this? Why am I lying in the street?” Later, when questioned by the surgeon, he became increasingly reluctant to speak about the nature of his accident and said he would explain when he was better.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘I do not know, sir.
Presumably why he fell from the window.’

  ‘Do you not find this evasiveness suspicious?’

  ‘Not if the man was with a woman other than his wife.’

  ‘Is there evidence to suggest this?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you suspect suicide?’

  ‘I do not. There was no note, and the victim struggled for purchase as he hung from the window ledge. The scuffs can be seen there still where his shoes kicked phrenziedly in his attempts to save himself. Suicide was evidently not his intention – or he rapidly changed his mind after exiting the window.’

  ‘Am I to assume, Inspector Newsome, that there was someone else in the room with him, or are you going to make me ask question after question? Tell me everything you know. What facts have been unearthed by today’s inquest?’

  ‘Very well, sir. The victim, Mr Sampson, was aged forty-three and was a stockbroker of North-road, Hoxton. He was unmarried and described by his sister – an attractive but clearly distraught young lady – as a quiet man who lived alone. This testimony was countered somewhat by the brother, who remarked that the victim had been rather more excitable than usual of late and that he had lived his bachelor’s life “freely”.’

  ‘I dare say the brother had the more genuine version. Proceed.’

  ‘The proprietress of the coffee house and the room above it, Mrs Colliver, admitted the victim and a fellow to the room at ten o’clock. Mr Sampson had arrived earlier and was joined by the other fellow shortly afterwards. They had eaten a light meal before taking the twin-bedded room together for a single night. Neither was intoxicated, and both were described by the lady as appearing “respectable”.’

  ‘Who was the other man?’

  ‘Nobody recognized him and no name was taken. That will become relevant as I proceed.’

  ‘Then do so, Inspector.’

  ‘The next part of the story has the landlady awoken at around two o’clock in the morning by a loud moaning coming from the street. She looked out of her window and saw the victim lying upon the cobbles with a policeman, PC Cribb, bending over him.’

  ‘Wait. Did not you say the incident occurred at three?’

  ‘The constable says he found the man at three o’clock, and the victim’s watch, which was smashed in the fall, registered at five to three. We may ascribe Mrs Colliver’s confusion to being woken in the early hours.’

  ‘Perhaps. It is interesting that the watch was not stolen. Even a broken one will fetch a price.’

  ‘The constable, as I have said, found the victim insensible and bleeding from the head. At this stage, the victim was said by the constable to smell strongly of drink, though Mrs Colliver insists neither gentleman drank alcohol or had it taken to the room.’

  ‘What of the other gentleman – the one sharing the room?’

  ‘As the constable was seeing to the victim, another witness appeared on the scene: one Ned Coffin, a drunken mariner. Both he and PC Cribb saw the other gentleman, the roommate, come out of the building in an agitated state and say: “O my G—, my friend has fallen out of the window! I must go and tell his friends,” whereupon he rushed to a carriage that was stationary a little further down the street and fled in it towards St Clement Danes.’

  ‘Was this roommate at the inquest?’

  No, sir. Nor did he return with any friends of the victim. I have had a man watching the coffee house since PC Cribb reported the case, and the inquest has been adjourned until further intelligence can be gathered about his identity or whereabouts.’

  ‘Do we have a description?’

  ‘No particularly good one. Mrs Colliver could think of little else to say but that he seemed a well-dressed man of good humour. Witnesses at the coffee house said the two spoke in quieted tones. Constable Cribb saw little due to the darkness and, presumably in the case of Mr Coffin, extreme intoxication.’

  ‘Was this Coffin at the inquest?’

  ‘No. I suspect he was in a deep state of slumber. I am attempting to locate him.’

  ‘And do you still maintain that this is an unremarkable case? It seems to me that there is much that remains perplexing. Or have you solved the case already?’

  ‘Sir, I have spent many years on these streets—’

  ‘Without the preamble, if you please.’

  ‘Well then, I will speak frankly. Perhaps the man was a sodomite and this good-humoured fellow was engaged with him in these unnatural practices. Naturally, neither would want to be identified as such by the police, even if it meant one of them was mortally wounded.’

  ‘You do not shock me, Inspector. But you do disappoint me. My knowledge does not extend to sodomitical tastes, but I suggest that some manner of undress is conventional. The victim was fully clothed. And I feel sure such practices do not generally involve defenestration.’

  ‘A simple transaction, sir. One fellow demands his payment, perhaps threatening the other with violence. With the door barred, our victim takes the only other escape route rather than be exposed. On being found, he naturally lies. The other fellow flees.’

  ‘Supposition, Inspector.’

  ‘The most likely explanation, I believe.’

  ‘Have you made a thorough search of the room as Sergeant Williamson was wont to do?’

  ‘I have a constable stationed there in case the young man should return.’

  ‘But you have not searched it. Have you interviewed the family of the victim and the witnesses?’

  ‘Sir, I hardly think—’

  ‘Quite. That is precisely my point. If you have ambitions of taking the vacant post of Superintendent Wilberforce – so lamentably taken from us – I expect to see better work than this. I expect the Detective Force to be a torch exposing crime wherever it lurks, not brushing mysteries into the gutter like so much dung to clog the cleansing passage of water. I sincerely regret that Sergeant Williamson has left us.’

  ‘He was not ... he was no longer suited to his duties. I am sure he is quite content in his new position at the Mendicity Society, where he does not have to contend with the violence and danger of our job in the Detective Force.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps. I have heard good things about his work there. I trust you will now be proceeding directly to Holywell-street and thence to contact whatever witnesses may shed light on this case.’

  ‘Indeed. There is only one other matter that may or may not be of relevance. On the same morning at around five o’clock, the body of a prostitute was found in a passage connecting Holywell-street with the Strand. She had taken prussic acid to end her life.’

  ‘Do you see any connection between the two cases?’

  ‘None, sir. I thought I would mention it.’

  ‘Well, she was a prostitute. Such things happen. On with the case at hand.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Inspector Newsome – I perceive that you would have me perceive something is troubling you. Are you planning to tell me what it is?’

  ‘Sir . . . this case seems odd in a way that I cannot specify. There are lies; there are secrets; there are private motivations in most lives. But I can see no evidence of a crime here, only of human nature. Why, even the newspaper reporters have shown little interest – and we know how they love a scandal.’

  ‘To express it more frankly: you cannot see why I would assign the investigation of this, a seemingly insignificant case, to such a senior detective? I praise your diplomacy in raising the issue thus, and I suppose I should reveal my reasons. You are aware, I assume, of the Society for the Suppression of Vice?’

  ‘I am. They are based at Lincolns-inn-fields.’

  ‘Quite. What is your opinion of the Society?’

  ‘In truth, they are meddlers of the highest order: holy hypocrites that will be happy only when every person in the country lives the same self-sanctified existence that they do. They are a bane to the working classes and finer sort alike, and their spies are the worst, most degraded people in this city. Even criminals have a code of ho
nour, but those spies are blood-sucking worms.’

  ‘I cannot fault your honesty, and I share some of your views. But the fact remains that the Society counts among its benefactors some of the most important people in this country: aristocrats, judges, Members of Parliament, even royalty. Shortly after this man Sampson fell out of the window, the Society contacted me through a person I am not at liberty to name – a person of considerable significance – and asked that I put my best man on the case. This person has also asked that I keep them informed of our progress. This, Inspector, is the political reality of policing, as you will no doubt discover if you become superintendent.’

  ‘I see. But why this case in particular?’

  ‘It is that street; you know its reputation. Everything that the Vice Society stands against is represented there, and they see it as a core of evil in the city. If there is illegality to be pursued there, they will do so with all their strength – and with any other power open to them. Let us conclude this case as quickly as we can; I am uncomfortable with the attention of the Society upon us. Go now to Holywell-street.’

  TWO

  London – city of impostors, false beggars, coiners, cheats, sham-goods sellers, double-tongued prostitutes and professional liars. The stranger to these streets can believe little of what he sees, and less of what he is told. Here, a man’s identity is what he says it is, and his trade is whatever you will pay him money for. Nothing is quite as it seems.

  Perhaps you are a generous sort and stricken with pity at the poverty you see. You can spare a few pennies for the beggar, and, if the case is particularly deserving, you might happily part with pounds to ease the sorry sufferings of those who dress in rags. Then the question arises: how does one know if the charity case at hand is genuine?

  Respectable people look to the venerable Mendicity Society to see that their money goes only to verifiable cases. From its offices at unassuming Red Lion-square, the Society’s roving constables – the doughty ‘Red Liners’ – ensure that acquisitive vagrants are dragged before magistrates, that the vocational beggar is put behind bars and that the truly mendicant are given work or Tickets of Entitlement to exchange for food. It is righteous work and zealously executed.