The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘I am not sure I understand, sir. You do not trust the police?’

  ‘It is not that. They are a fine body, but they are a secretive organization and I would like to know that justice is being pursued with all expedience.’

  The hand upon Eusebius’s gave a squeeze and was finally retracted, allowing him the opportunity to pour himself some milk with a slightly shaking hand. He gulped this down enthusiastically as his benefactor watched with an indulgent smile.

  ‘My, you are a thirsty boy.’ And with this, ‘J.S.’ extracted a silk handkerchief and reached to dab at Eusebius’s milk-whitened lips, a gesture that caused the spy a degree of embarrassment.

  ‘I will do as you ask, sir,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Of course you will. But remember one thing: this is our little secret. You are not to tell another soul.’

  ‘J.S.’ leaned so close that his face was just inches away. Eusebius caught a waft of the man’s breath: a hideous miasma reminiscent of both rotten meat and fresh blood. It was as if that foetid air had emanated from a core quite corrupted and decayed – an eruption from an inhumed coffin rather than a living man.

  ‘Not another soul, Eusebius.’

  ‘On my honour, sir. May I go now?’

  ‘Good boy. Here is a sovereign in addition to your remuneration from the Society. I have another for you each time you bring me good information. Will you have more milk?’

  ‘No, thank you. I have business to attend to.’

  ‘Well, be on your way.’

  FIVE

  ‘What d’yer want?’

  Misters Williamson and Jute stood at the doorstep on Milton-street and beheld with undisguised distaste the slatternly girl before them. With her hair in disarray, her perpetual grimace of irritation, and with lead-blacking on her fingertips, she was among the worst servants in all of London: in short, a cheap, slovenly trollop. That was my Nelly.

  ‘Is your master or mistress at home?’ asked Mr Williamson.

  ‘’Pends oo wants ’er, don’t it?’

  ‘I am calling on behalf of the Mendicity Society. I believe—’

  ‘We don’t give to no charity. Be off with yer.’

  ‘We are not collecting, miss,’ interjected Mr Jute. ‘We are come to enquire after—’

  ‘I got a list.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand . . .’ said Mr Jute, already ruing his attempt.

  ‘I says I got a list. I am to clean the silverware – what little ’as not bin stolen; I am to beat the rugs; I am to take a letter to post; I am to buy a chop for Mr P . . . and now I ’ave to answer the door to charity beggars. An early grave for me, ain’t it?’

  ‘Listen to me, halfwit girl,’ said Mr Williamson in a tone that seemed to slap her face, ‘we are here to see your master or mistress – not engage in idiocy upon the steps. Alert them this minute or I will fetch a constable.’

  At this, Nelly’s face crumpled and she began to sniffle. Then began a high, unbroken whine as the first fat tears started to roll. She wiped a glistening streak from her nose along the back of her hand, and the two gentlemen looked at each other quite at a loss as the whine rose further in volume.

  ‘Who is bullying my Nelly?’ shrieked a voice from within.

  And the voice was made flesh when a porcine specimen of the feminine race bustled Nelly from the door and beheld her visiters with the sort of huffing belligerence that might have intimidated a bare-knuckle fighter – particularly if he owed her rent. There was a smell of pork fat about her.

  ‘Whoever you are looking for, he is not here,’ she said.

  ‘It is a man who very likely receives and sends many letters: a Mr Mann,’ said Mr Williamson, perceiving her to be the landlady.

  ‘I know the one. “Mr Mann” indeed! Hasn’t paid his rent this last month. I was just about to throw him out this very day. You can aid me – I believe he is in his rooms.’

  And she turned to walk back into the dark hallway, whereupon the two gentlemen followed her to a door. The landlady knocked and, leaving no time for a response, rattled the key in the lock and stepped inside.

  ‘The cur. He has fled,’ she said in a tone that suggested not the least surprise.

  The condition of the room suggested that someone had indeed rapidly grabbed whatever clothes they could carry, probably along with some minor possessions of dubious value. Drawers were open and a ramshackle wardrobe gaped open – as did the window.

  ‘Please leave us, madam,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘If we are able to search this room carefully, I may be able to locate the missing rent arrears.’

  ‘See that you do,’ she replied, and lumbered out shouting: ‘Nelly! Nelly! Where is that chop for Mr P, you lazy dolly-mop?’

  ‘The woman did not even ask us who we are,’ remarked Mr Jute, somewhat bemused by this excursion into the lower classes.

  ‘She cares only about her rent. Now, let us see what our letter writer has left behind.’

  The room was as typical an example of its sort as could be wished – the selfsame room occupied by countless other hopeful scribes across the city. There was the fireplace so small that it would struggle to heat the chimney, the mantel populated with tasteless porcelain knick-knacks, the faded curtains thick with dust, and carpets worn through almost to the wood. It was, in short, a place for ambition to starve and die.

  A room can often say much about its inhabitant, but these rented cells at Milton-street offered slim opportunities even for a man of Mr Williamson’s perspicacity. The men who stay in them own little and leave less when they flee.

  Nevertheless, a mere member of the public could have discerned that a writer had stayed there. Witness, for example, the collection of newspaper columns collected together in a yellowing bunch, the number of words jotted on each so as to verify the earnings for that issue; witness the meagre collection of letters from sundry journals expressing interest in the article on London weather but not deigning to commission it; witness, indeed, the printer’s proofs of an article for the Times that was cut to make space – of all things – for a piece on London weather by an editor of another journal. Are not these the papers on every writer’s desk?

  What else? A pair of shoes with the sole worn through on the right foot; a leather-bound notepad (unused); a lock of hair (ah, Nelly!) slipped into the folds of an article on brandy imports. Everything else needed to make a living (pens, wit, talent) had gone through the window.

  Still, the two investigators found evidence enough. Fleeing precipitously as I had, there had not been the opportunity for me to take all of my papers and records.

  ‘See here,’ said Mr Jute, leafing through a sheaf of curling pages. ‘It looks like part of a novel manuscript. Our letter writer evidently had higher ambitions.’

  Mr Williamson peered at the uppermost page and saw the words ‘Red Jaw’ stand out from the text. He grimaced slightly. ‘They all have higher ambitions, but we are not interested in that kind of “writing”. Keep looking.’

  A warped bookshelf holding a handful of books drew the ex-policeman: second-hand copies of Dante, Virgil, Homer and sundry other classics of their kind. He took each and flicked through the pages, holding them up by the covers and shaking them to see what he could find between the leaves. A fragment of a handwritten list fluttered from the Dante.

  ‘Mr Jute – it seems we have our first piece of damning evidence. What do you make of this?’

  Argyle: [Inverary Castle] 2 Hamilton-place

  Beaufort: 22 Arlington-street

  Bedford [Woburn Abbey], 6 Belgrave-square

  Queensbury [Drumlanrig Castle], Montague House, Whitehall. . .

  ‘Why, it appears to be a list of dukes and their London residences.’

  ‘It is precisely that. Now – we are looking for a ledger of some kind. It will be hidden somewhere . . .’

  And as he spoke, Mr Williamson cast his expert eye around the room, settling finally on the edge of the bed from which the lip of the chamber p
ot peered out. He bent down on one hand and knee and peered under, catching the sharp vegetal stench of my most recent evacuation. It was a shrewd move, for there he found two further pieces of evidence.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked his companion, extracting the items.

  ‘A lady’s garter if I’m not mistaken, Mr Williamson.’

  ‘And one with lead-blacking fingermarks on it. I think we must have another conversation with young Nelly. What of this other piece?’

  In my haste to leave, I had grabbed my ledger but let half a loose leaf fall. It was this scrap that Mr Williamson took between thumb and forefinger and brought into the light. Though out of date, it would have assuredly put me in gaol if I had not leapt from the window that day:

  Dec 4 – Addressee: Lord Wyndford. I am Charles Peabody, ruined by poor investments but with a chance to pay my creditors. Asked for a sovereign. Wyndford is stingy but has paid once before. [Hand two].

  Dec 6 – Addressee: Lord Holland. I am Josiah Weston, a schoolmaster reduced to penury by poor health and debt. Four children: Jonathan, Milly, Victoria, Mary (a cripple). Wife dead. Asked for 5l. Holland a benevolent fool – send fortnightly. [Hand one].

  Dec 9 – Addressee: Lord Brougham. I have expired due to his lack of charity and been buried in a pauper’s grave – written from landlord’s point of view. (Perhaps this will encourage the old miser to pay up on other letters.) [Hand four] . . .

  ‘He has been most industrious,’ remarked Mr Jute. ‘But what is this notation about “hands” at the end of each entry?’

  ‘It is the style of writing he employs: the written words and also the tone of voice. Perhaps he writes as a woman, or as a semi-literate fool. In this way, he can send any number of requests to the same recipient and be paid numerous times.’

  ‘Quite a skill. That’s rather clever.’

  ‘That is a crime, Mr Jute.’

  ‘Of course, of course. So what do we do now? We have evidence of his records but not the man.’

  ‘We now know what letters he has sent and to whom. We can intercept those letters, stopping the fraud, and study them for further clues. We can also arrange for the false widow Burgoyne to hand over any further letters she receives. Our writer has been stopped momentarily – that is as much as we can hope for until we can study more examples of his work. Where he might be now is quite impossible to guess.’

  ‘So we have done good work. My father will be pleased. I wonder if young Nelly might make us tea and volunteer some information about her special friend the letter writer?’

  ‘Let us find out.’

  The two gentlemen ventured downstairs to the kitchen, where they were welcomed at the table by the landlady and served tea by Nelly. The fire crackled somewhat in vain against the chill, and, in the flames’ sharp shadows, the landlady had even more of the swine about her: that broad nose of hers wrinkling and snorting bestially beneath an ill-concealed moustache.

  ‘Tell me, madam,’ began Mr Williamson as he readied his notebook, ‘what else can you tell me of this gentleman lodger?’

  ‘A cur. They all are, those writers. I don’t know why I take them in any more. Did you find any rent money?’

  ‘Regrettably not, but we may be able to find him with your help. Can you describe him?’

  ‘A sly-looking sort. I felt he was watching me all the time. Had an odd grin about him, like . . . like the way a cat looks at you. Like he was too good for the likes of us. Sly he was – it comes from thinking too much.’

  ‘I mean, was he tall or short?’

  ‘About medium.’

  ‘The colour of his eyes? His hair? Any marks that might distinguish him from another man?’

  ‘He had brown hair I suppose. Thinning a bit. His eyes I couldn’t speak of – I was nervous to look in them. He looked like all of them writers. You know what they look like. All the same.’

  ‘His voice, then?’

  ‘In truth, he wasn’t much of a talker.’

  Mr Williamson looked to Mr Jute to see if he could gain any sense from the woman, who was quite clearly an imbecile.

  ‘Thank you, madam. You have been most helpful,’ said Mr Jute. ‘Now – a few questions for your girl here.’

  ‘Nelly Jones,’ said Nelly with a coquettish smile for the younger man. ‘Will you put my name in your notebook?’

  ‘Would you like us to?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the man who stayed here?’ continued Mr Jute.

  She cast a rapid glance at the landlady. ‘Nothing. He was a man. They’s all the same . . . present company expected, I mean.’

  Mr Williamson caught the glance and spoke to the landlady: ‘Madam – I wonder if you would mind going to the butcher’s on the corner and bringing I and my colleague a bacon sandwich – we had a terribly early start this morning. Nelly would go, but she must answer some important questions.’

  ‘You will be paying for them, of course? And for my time in walking there?’

  ‘Naturally, madam. Nelly will be safe with us.’

  And with much huffing, snorting and wrinkling, the malformed harridan banged up the stairs and out of the house. Her servant relaxed visibly, slouching back in her chair and looking with a renewed lascivious air at the younger man.

  ‘Was he a friendly man to you, Nelly?’ asked Mr Jute.

  ‘’Pends what yer mean . . .’

  ‘Did you spend time together talking? Did he help you in your duties, perhaps? Did he tell you anything of his writing?’

  Nelly exhibited a smile that would have had her thrown out of church, had she ever attended one. ‘He were nice enough to me. He told me pretty words from books. I dunno what some of ’em meant, but they was ever so pretty.’

  ‘Do you know if he had friends in the city? People he spoke of who he would visit?’

  ‘Ha! That’s a good one! Friends, yer say? He hated everyone! Yer should have heard him when he come back from the coffee house: “So-and-So says he is to publish his history of Sussex, the ———.” Or, “That ——— Mr Thingummy is to receive an advance on his volume.” Or, “Mr Wotsitsname, the talentless ——— got three pound for his piece in the Chronicle.” Friends? He had none.’

  ‘Which coffee houses were these?’ asked Mr Williamson, his pen poised above the notebook for a salient fact.

  ‘Dunno. Just coffee houses.’

  ‘Tell me, Nelly,’ said Mr Jute, ‘if you were to go to him now, where would you go?’

  ‘I never saw him outside the house. Truth be told, sir, I am mostly here in this very room, or in the rooms upstairs cleaning out the grates and suchlike.’

  ‘We have reason to believe that his name was not really “Mr Mann”,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘What did you call him?’

  ‘I called him “Mr Mann”. Missus says I am to call all tenants by their names so.’

  ‘But when you were alone . . . when madam was not listening . . . did you call him something different? You have no need to be ashamed.’

  ‘Well . . . I called him Andrew.’

  ‘Ha! A capital joke,’ expostulated Mr Jute.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said Mr Williamson somewhat fractiously.

  ‘Well, it might be a coincidence, but “Andrew” comes from the Greek. It means “manly” or “man-like”. That would make him “Manly Mann”.’

  ‘Amusing, I am sure. A joke at everyone’s expense. May I ask you a delicate question, Nelly, now that your mistress is out of the house? Were you and the gentlemen more than conversational acquaintances? More than friends?’

  ‘Oh sir! What do you take me for?’ said Nelly (my Nelly!) with sparkling eyes and a leer that answered the question more honestly. ‘I am a good girl.’ She flashed Mr Jute a look that suggested she was indeed as ‘good’ as he might expect.

  ‘Hmm. I think we have gathered as much information as we can here,’ said Mr Williamson, standing. ‘Short of taking Nelly around every coffee house in the city in
search of the man – and it might well come to that – I cannot think of anything else at present that will further our case.’

  ‘I could stay and press Nelly further if you think it might be of benefit,’ said Mr Jute.

  ‘I think not. I dare say the man has already imagined that we might one day question the girl, which is why he has told her nothing of consequence – including his true name. That is the extent of his foresight and duplicity.’

  ‘Do you think we will ever catch the man, sir?’

  ‘Patience, Mr Jute. Patience and reason. He is somewhere close. These gentlemen are parasites upon the body of the city. They need its journals and publishers to survive. Why, he is most certainly sitting in a coffee house somewhere fewer than two miles from this place.’

  SIX

  In fact, Mr Williamson was quite correct. After leaping from that window at Milton-street, I had fled to one of my habitual locations: the Cathedral coffee house, just a few steps from the writers’ paradise and purgatory of Paternoster-row and in the very shadow of St Paul’s. Assuredly, I would not be returning to that lodging house – not least because a constable of the Mendicity Society had been situated nearby (there, and at the false widow Burgoyne’s) lest I do so.

  I am, as will have been discerned, a writer: of begging letters by necessity, of newspaper copy by inclination, and of novels by destiny. The reader may have been acquainted of late by a work of mine detailing a case in which Mr Williamson, then Detective Sergeant Williamson, was a prominent player. I would like to say the sensation of that work has made me a rich man, but I was obliged to sell my copyright at perilously short notice to save myself from an impending stay at Whitecross-street debtors’ gaol. The publisher, I hear, has become a moderately wealthy man.