‘Very well. Very well. A few lines only,’ he said, with a look of extreme awkwardness. He placed a finger beside the first line to mark his place and began to read, at first with a faltering voice that seemed not to be his own in the silence of that unfamiliar room.
It was on the third day that finally I met the Sultan: a man of a mahogany hue in brilliant robes of scarlet silk and midnight velvet, bejewelled all o’er with the largest rubies and emeralds I had ever beheld. However, it was the sparkle in his eyes that was brightest.
He beckoned me closer to him and addressed me in a tongue that I did not understand. When I expressed my incomprehension, his eyes flashed with anger and he rang a tiny brass bell beside him. Upon a moment, three burly Negro attendants dressed in golden sashes entered the room and grasped my arms with iron strength.
I screamed, but this only seemed to enrage the Sultan more. He stood and, in a single motion grasped the thin cloth of my dress and ripped it from me so that I stood there quivering quite naked before his . . .
Mr Williamson’s eyes automatically scanned what followed, and heat rushed into his face. He looked at Charlotte, whose countenance had taken on an expression he had never before seen in a woman.
Her eyes were shining and her face was flushed. She had reclined into a position of such indulgent languor that her legs were positioned in a way no respectable woman would allow. The emotion she exhibited, though utterly alien to him, was fearful to behold – as if she had transformed during those brief moments into one whose moral and intellectual restraint had been replaced by something unashamedly animal.
He hurriedly reached for his hat and stood, letting the book fall to the floor.
‘Hmm. Hmm. You have lied to me, Charlotte. You have brought me here dishonestly. There is no woman living upstairs – admit it.’
‘Sir – you knew that all along. And yet you came.’
‘I did not know it!’
‘You did. I knew what you wanted from the moment I saw you on Haymarket. I am never wrong about a man. She, this woman, was simply your excuse.’
Quite apoplectic now with unvoiced emotion, and certainly too vexed to speak, Mr Williamson walked to the door and exited the building without a further word.
Even as he walked and allowed the night chill to bleed the heat of Charlotte’s fire from his clothes, it seemed that the scent of her seemed to cling persistently about him. His face burned with indignation and his fists clenched within the pockets of his coat as his mind worked at the next step – perhaps his only chance.
He did not go directly home. Rather, he went back the way he had come, along the Strand, up Fleet-street and on to Ludgate-hill, where he turned at the scarf shop to enter a small courtyard where the offices of the Times can be found. There, he managed to place an entry for the following day’s edition:
Vauxhall Judge seeks Achilles from
Manchester and his Moor.
TEN
I wonder what the reader made of that excerpt from Levantine Mysteries. Truncated as it was, no doubt it was a little too ‘warm’ for many of our finer ladies and gentlemen, who look upon such texts as indecent corruptors of the innocent mind.
The truth, of course, is that no man (or woman) can resist these narratives. Were one to hide such a book in their private libraries, and were they to find this book while alone and unobserved, they would devour its every word and phrase in a phrenzy of hunger, reading until they had explored every scandalous term, every sordid tableau, every flouting of what they call morality. O yes, they would feel guilty about it later, and they would burn with hidden shame the next Sunday in chapel – but they would go back to that book, now hidden, to read again those words that appal and enthral.
I admit it: I have myself written such books and I am not ashamed. You will not perhaps be familiar with The Bachelor’s Almanack or A History of the Rod or The Youthful Adventures of Harry Grope—— (the latter title – I concede – is indeed one of which I am not proud, but the fee kept me from gaol and so I am grateful for it). There is a skill in these works that your writer for the grander newspapers could not approach, nor your common playwright mimic. One must understand the secret desires of one’s fellow man and see that bestial, blood-raging soul within even the purest heart. For are we not all animals despite our graces?
Do not think me aberrant; I write not of flagellation (the English vice), sodomy, or tribadism. You will find no equine or canine relations in my work, nor those tales of violent intercourse to which the Frenchman is prone. No, I restrict myself to the natural machinations of man and woman, and, when I am lucky, I manage to sell them to none other than that character of whom we have twice already heard: the book purveyor Mr Henry Poppleton Esq.
He is a legend among our publishers: a champion of the free word, a pioneer of the print, and a producer of songs, poems, translations, histories, radical irreligious tracts (for which he has spent a stretch in gaol) and, yes, obscene texts of the widest diversity and richness.
Watch him now through the window of his principal shop on Holywell-street, around which there is the usual gaggle of observers looking in at the latest prints exhibited alongside the serried spines and stacks. He is quite an unmistakable man, is he not?
Amusement quivers perpetually at the corners of his mouth, rather as if he is party to a secret of which his interlocutor is unaware. Indeed, it seems that he is about to reveal at any moment that whatever he is discussing is a colossal joke at our expense. His whole demeanour, in short, is something akin to a wink, but a wink expressed by his entire body – a wink that descends like a gaudy curtain separating us from the inner machinations of his mind and leading us to wonder which side is the audience and which side the show.
He is often drunk, that is true, and he has an appetite out of proportion to his height, but there is no man in London to match his encyclopaedic knowledge of the erotic library, and few to rival his way with an arch word or pithy deflation of a tiresome conversation partner. Both the former and latter qualities would be called upon at that very moment, as Inspector Newsome and Constable Cullen entered the shop with a chime of the bell.
It need hardly be said that Mr Poppleton knew immedidiately that he had policemen in his midst. In plain clothes, and virtually reeking of authority, they also had the look of men quite unused to the bibliophilic environment as they stared blindly upon spines that might well have been potatoes in a barrow rather than man’s highest endeavour. The shelves of volumes stretching from floor to ceiling and forming a labyrinthine world of musty learning created an environment as foreign to them as the forests of the Orient.
‘Yes, gentlemen? Can I help you with your selections,’ asked Mr Poppleton to his latest customers, his lips twitching with a seething subcutaneous mirth.
Both policemen looked towards the counter where he stood. The taller one seemed to lack confidence – clearly he was of the lower rank. The shorter man with the curly red hair peeping from his top hat was obviously more astute. It was the former, however, who spoke (but only after a small nod of permission from the latter that suggested they had decided beforehand who would speak).
‘Yes. We are looking for information.’
‘You are in the right place; these shelves are stocked with it.’
‘I mean information from you, sir, if you are willing to answer some questions.’
‘What manner of questions might you have?’
‘It is regarding . . . regarding the “warmer” sort of writing.’
‘“Warmer” you say? I have books on Africa, on certain elements of Vulcanic geology . . .’
‘I think you wilfully misunderstand me. I am referring to books of a corrupting sort.’
‘Corruption is it? Then politics is the section for you.’
‘Is this a bookshop or a penny theatre, sir?’ interjected a now irritated Mr Newsome. ‘My colleague asks questions and receives insults masquerading as wit.’
‘I apologize, sir. I did not mean to impl
y that your colleague is an idiot. I suggest Dr Schiller’s volume on the heating of liquids – that is positively full of information on warmth. In fact, I have a copy here – the last one – for ten shillings.’
‘That is enough!’ ejaculated Mr Newsome. ‘As you are no doubt aware, we are detectives investigating a case. I would like to speak with you about your other stock: the more “curious” books that are not on display here.’
‘I fear I do not know what you are speaking of, sir. What do you mean by “curious”?’
‘You know very well what I mean: indecent and obscene publications. Affronts to public decency and corruptors of innocent minds.’
‘Ah, you refer to the Bible! I have one just here . . .’ Mr Poppleton’s smirk was now threatening to take over his entire upper body.
‘Blasphemy does not shock me, sir.’
‘Blasphemy? Have you perused the Old Testament, sir? Have you read the Song of Solomon? Have you read of Onan? Have you read the Book of Leviticus? There are indecencies enough there to corrupt the young!’
‘You know very well what I refer to.’
‘To Shakespeare perhaps? We have incest, adultery and wantonness in those pages to satisfy the most dissipated degenerate.’
‘I am losing my patience.’
‘Or are you thinking of something more classical in tone? Aristophanes and his women of Athens? Suetonius’s tales of Emperor Tiberius and his little boys. Strato? Tacitus? Or a little Boccaccio perhaps? All recognized pillars of literature, and all with veins of the obscene.’
‘Mr Poppleton – if you prefer, I could have policemen battering down your doors and searching this place for every page of filth. Or you could give me a few moments of your time.’
‘Don’t I give your men enough to leave me alone, Inspector Newsome? You are Inspector Newsome, I presume?’
‘So you know who I am. Congratulations. The fact is that you are breaking the law at this very moment and I could arrest you.’
‘Breaking the law how?’
‘That crowd at your window is causing a nuisance, and I am certain there is material displayed there that is of an objectionable nature.’
‘I believe that the Metropolitan Police Act of 1839 specifies that any such nuisance should take place in a public thoroughfare. The materials you refer to are on my private property.’
‘Yes, I recall that you have some acquaintance with the law. Two years in Newgate was it not?’
‘Man was made to read. I read what is of value to me and I know the law.’
‘I would like to banter with you all day, Mr Poppleton, but you disgust me so I will resist the temptation. The fact is that a quantity of books published by you have been found in the possession of a man recently murdered on this street.’
‘I know of no murder.’
‘I refer to Mr Jonathan Sampson.’
‘The fellow who jumped out of the window at Colliver’s? That was not murder.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘What kind of a murder would that be, throwing one’s victim out of a window?’
‘The kind of murder designed not to look like a murder, perhaps.’
‘You are the detective. I am sure I know nothing about it.’
‘On the contrary – you knew the man. Your books were at his home.’
‘I do not know everyone who walks through this shop, sir.’
‘That may be, but I am certain you know each customer who buys a copy of The Corinthian Rites or The Art of Astyanassa. I am certain of that because you sell such titles personally to ensure that they are not being bought by a policeman in disguise. And you deliver them with a handwritten bill so that your customers might not be caught in public with the books. Therefore, you have met Mr Sampson on numerous occasions.’
Mr Poppleton’s irrepressible humour appeared somewhat pressed as he glared at the inspector. PC Cullen, who had been standing beside Mr Newsome, looked on with some measure of grudging awe as the detective sprang his trap.
‘Lost for a witticism, Mr Poppleton?’ said the inspector. ‘I note that you are not denying what I say.’
‘All right – I met him. I sold him some books.’
‘And yet you denied knowing the man. Why would you do that if you had nothing to hide?’
‘There are aspects of my trade I might wish to hide, as you know.’
‘Where were you on the night of the incident at Colliver’s?’
‘At my club. All night. I stayed there in a saloon room after rather too many sherries.’
‘You will not mind telling me which club so I may verify this.’
‘The Continental.’
‘Ah, so you also knew Mr Sampson socially! That was his club also, was it not? What – no reply? You were quite garrulous when we entered and now you have become mute.’
‘I knew of him by sight.’
‘So perhaps now we can start with some truth. What can you tell us about your relationship with Mr Sampson?’
‘He was a customer, nothing more. Yes, I saw him at the club, but one need not associate with customers outside of work. I believe he was happier not to have it widely known that he purchased books from me.’
‘Understandable. Why do you think he was at Colliver’s that night?’
‘How would I know?’
‘There was a man with him, as you may know. A jovial, well-dressed man. Does that sound like a fellow from your club?’
‘Any number of them.’
‘One that you might have seen talking to Mr Sampson?’
‘I . . . cannot think of one. No.’
‘You seem very uncomfortable, Mr Poppleton. Quite a pallor has come over you. Are you unwell?’
‘I feel . . .’
‘. . . as you did after drinking too many sherries on the night of the incident, yes?’
Mr Poppleton now looked most faded. His characteristic smirk was utterly deflated and he seemed a smaller man behind the counter. Inspector Newsome cast a covert look at Constable Cullen as if to say ‘This is how one questions a suspect’.
‘I would like to see your order books, Mr Poppleton,’ continued the inspector.
‘Impossible. They are confidential. I could not possibly . . .’
‘I am not asking. This is a police investigation and you will provide me with the evidence I seek.’
‘I keep those ledgers at my printing shop.’
‘Then let us go there now together.’
‘I cannot leave the shop. There is nobody to relieve me, and I will not lose custom for this.’
‘Constable Cullen here will stay and we will go to get the ledgers. It will not take longer than an hour.’
‘I fear your constable would not be able to satisfy the needs of my customers and . . . and as far as I am aware, you would need to see a magistrate before taking property from any of my premises.’
‘So be it. I will see a magistrate this very hour and then I will see those order books, wherever they may be. And do not think you can erase them in the meantime – I have receipts you have issued and we will be seeking to corroborate those sales.’
The door closed behind the policemen with a chime that seemed less cheery than the one that had hailed their appearance, leaving Mr Poppleton quite without his usual good humour. Indeed, after checking that the gentlemen had passed out of vision, he closed the shop and hurried upstairs, where few customers ever ventured.
Had the publisher been more observant in his hurried glance at the street outside, however, he would have seen that one of the faces peering in through a patch of pane-condensed breath was none other than Eusebius Bean.
The Vice Society spy had watched the whole interview. Unwilling to expose his role by entering the shop, he was nevertheless sufficiently suited to his employment to make capital from what he saw. From his position there before the glass, he had watched it all unfold as if he had been an audience member at one of those dumb-shows of which the artistically inclined are fond, w
here each moue, each pointed finger, each blink and each minor alteration in the silent choreography of the tableaux becomes a script of the piece. To Eusebius’s unblinking eyes, it had been a story of accusation, guilt, triumph, anger, evasion, threat and fear.
And what kind of spy would he have been if he had not been able to focus on their lips whenever possible, so that the words ‘Sampson’ and ‘Colliver’ – among others – made the drama even clearer? By the time the policemen had passed hurriedly by him, Eusebius might well have been handed a transcript of what had occurred there.
He had much to report to his sponsor ‘J.S.’, though the thought of seeing the man again was one that perturbed him somewhat. Indeed, he was thinking just of that purulent breath when a carriage stopped outside the shop and the liveried driver beckoned to him. It was the same fellow who had delivered the earlier letter. Eusebius nodded to him in acknowledgement and ascended into the carriage, which was empty.
But it was not to the gentleman’s house that they travelled. Rather, it was to the address of a physician at Berkley-square. A sombre-suited gentleman was waiting for him at the door and, with wordless deference, showed Eusebius through a corridor smelling of unfamiliar medicaments to a treatment room, where his senses were further assaulted.
Lying on his back upon a table in the centre of the room was ‘J.S.’. He was covered in a white sheet, under which he seemed to be naked – ‘seemed’ because, although the shape of his body beneath showed the familiar contours of an unclothed male form, it also exhibited a multitude of small bulges in places where none should be. As Eusebius stared transfixed, it appeared almost as if these bulges were animated with the slightest pulse of their own.
‘Do not be afraid, Eusebius,’ said ‘J.S.’, turning his head to face the visiter. His wig was not in place today and his scaly, ruined scalp glistened with soothing oils. ‘Today is a day when I must undergo a rather tiresome procedure that need not interrupt our business. I know you are a broad-minded fellow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes would not detach from those aberrant bulges.
The Vice Society Page 11
