The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘I did not hear the words at first; the window was closed, you see. I am sure I heard three distinct voices. After the window was opened, I heard one phrase repeated: “I cannot!” That was Mr Sampson. I know because it was also his voice that yelled as he held on to the window ledge.’

  Mr Williamson added all to his notebook. ‘What three voices did you hear? Can you tell me more?’

  ‘One of them was the same gentleman who emerged shortly thereafter and made the comment about going for Mr Sampson’s friends. And one was a woman’s voice.’

  ‘A woman? Are you sure?’

  ‘I may not have eyes, but I have ears. It was a young woman. Not Mrs Colliver – I know her voice.’

  ‘What did she say, this young woman?’

  ‘I could not discern any words. I heard only noises. She may have been drunk.’

  ‘And you heard all of this through an upper-storey window at some distance?’

  ‘You doubt me, sir. Don’t you know the silence of the city at that time in the morning? When all are sleeping and the air is dead cold, one might hear the pigeons roosting and the very rats scuttling in the walls.’

  ‘Hmm. What of the fall itself?’

  ‘I heard the body drop and the bones crack. There was nobody in the street but I at that time.’

  ‘Not even Constable Cribb?’

  ‘Not yet. Immediately after the fall, I heard a most unusual laugh from inside that room. In fact, it was more like a yelping: a kind of high-pitched “yip-yip-yip”.’

  ‘Have you heard that laugh before?’

  ‘Not before or since, sir. I wouldn’t like to, either. It sounded like someone who had lost their mind.’

  ‘What then? What did you do?’

  ‘I started to walk over to where I could hear Mr Sampson groaning, and that’s when some people came out of Colliver’s in a hurry.’

  ‘People? I understood it was one man only.’

  ‘You are not listening – that was later. I heard them pause on seeing me. One of them approached rapidly as if he was to address or attack me, but I suppose he saw my eyes. In fact, he waved his hand before my face to reassure himself – I heard the material of his cuff – but he said nothing.’

  ‘Tell me about these people.’

  ‘They did not speak, but I could hear they were keen to get away. I believe – from the sound of her shoes – that the young woman was among them. Another man was with her, perhaps holding on to her because her footfalls were irregular.’

  ‘What else? You identified me as a policeman – what can you tell me about their footfalls?’

  ‘Only what I have told you. Not every person has a distinctive step. After pausing momentarily, perhaps to satisfy themselves I had seen nothing, the three of them walked rapidly further down the street to the carriage that was waiting there. The woman’s footsteps seemed to be dragging somewhat. No doubt you will ask me how I knew there was a carriage . . . Well, I could hear the horses breathing and the rattle of their brasses.’

  ‘You have a prodigious ear. What of the man who approached you?’

  ‘As I say: he said nothing. A curious thing, though – he smelled of perfume: not a strong scent, but something upon his clothes perhaps. It was lavender and something else – some kind of flower that I couldn’t place. And coal tar – I smelled coal tar.’

  ‘What manner of perfume is that – coal tar and lavender?’

  ‘I tell you what I smelled, not what it means.’

  Mr Williamson looked dubiously at Joseph and noted down his words. The waterman’s face showed no guile or deception, though the lack of eyes made it difficult to read any emotion in that weathered countenance. ‘Has nobody questioned you about this incident? Not the police?’

  ‘Only you, sir. As I say, who questions a blind old man?’

  ‘Hmm. When did PC Cribb appear?’

  ‘The man is quite punctual on his rounds – it was a few moments after the other three had fled to the carriage.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I believe not. There was something about the incident that struck me with a horror I could not quite fathom. I sensed that something . . . something evil had occurred and I was afraid . . . so I retired to the doorway over yonder at Levi’s shop. I sometimes rest there during the slow times. I was crouched there when Cribb arrived and I must have been in shadow.’

  ‘Why did you not announce your presence and give him your testimony? You were safe with a policeman in the vicinity.’

  ‘Truth be told, sir, I do not like to be mixed up with the police. Questions take time; then one must stand before the magistrate or judge and repeat oneself. My horses need me here always.’

  ‘You speak as one who has experience of legal proceedings.’

  ‘I am old. My memory fails me.’

  ‘Hmm. What of the mariner Ned Coffin?’

  ‘Aye, he came a-singing down the road shortly after. I could smell him even from my doorway.’

  ‘This is hardly a street for a sailor to be walking drunk, is it? He should have been over Wapping way or at the Minories.’

  ‘A man may drink wherever he likes. He, too, saw the body – presumably with the constable bent over it – and he shouted “murder”. He must have misinterpreted what he saw and thought the policeman had knocked Mr Sampson down.’

  ‘Is this when the young man emerged and made his comment about going for friends?’

  ‘That’s right. He ran towards that waiting carriage and it set off with a lash of the whip.’

  ‘What can you tell me of the young man? This is important.’

  ‘It is as you said. I have nothing more to add. Perhaps the strange laugh was his. It is possible.’

  ‘Hmm. Why were you not at the inquest into this case, Joseph? Your testimony is important to see justice done.’

  ‘Nobody asked me. And, besides, my duty is here with the horses. They must eat and drink as we do. I have no time to be going to inquests.’

  At that moment, a cab rounded the corner from St Clement Danes and rattled towards them. Joseph jerked at the sound and stepped into his habitual space from where he could open the door.

  ‘I must work now, sir. I believe I have told you all there is to tell.’

  Mr Williamson looked at his copious notes and nodded to himself. ‘Thank you, Joseph. I may return with more questions.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, sir. Keep warm, won’t you? I feel that we’re going to get snow – and plenty of it.’

  The cab arrived with a clatter of hooves and wheels. Joseph began his eyeless ritual as if the conversation had been no more than birdsong interrupting one cab’s departure and the arrival of the next.

  Noah no longer appeared to be a cabman. With the aid of a reversible coat and some minor adjustments to his dress, along with a smart top hat he had brought with him in a bag, he was now a gentleman about town. He paused briefly at the window of Henry Poppleton’s shop, affecting an interest in its contents, then entered.

  Inside, he made a show of looking at some titles on animal husbandry while occasionally looking around in a self-conscious manner. He sensed rather than saw Mr Poppleton watching the new customer from his position at the counter.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ said the publisher.

  ‘Why, yes. I . . . I am looking for a book for a friend: a university friend of mine. He is fond of certain . . . exotic literature.’

  ‘Exotic, you say? Drama, is it? Poetry?’

  ‘No, no . . .’ and here Noah looked around to check what he already knew: that the shop was otherwise empty. He whispered nevertheless: ‘He has a taste for something “warmer”.’

  ‘“Warmer” you say? Would your “friend” be acquainted with The Adventures of Sir Henry Loveall? Or perhaps The Lustful Turk?’

  ‘They are rather old titles. My friend wanted something newer.’

  ‘Well, sir – it rather depends how “warm” your “friend’s” tastes are. Would they extend to algolagnia or klis
maphilia? Nymphomania perhaps?’

  ‘I . . . that is, he is partial to depucelative literature.’

  Mr Poppleton nodded approvingly. ‘Has your “friend” read The Seven Sins of Sarah?’

  ‘He is more appreciative of the Aretine style.’

  ‘I see. He likes his descriptions bluntly to the point . . . so to speak.’

  ‘Rather so. And illustrated accordingly.’

  The publisher smiled and reached behind him to where a rope dangled beside a tall wooden bookcase. He pulled on it without sound, but a few moments later a door opened above and a young man walked down the stairs to where they stood.

  ‘John will watch the shop while I accompany you to the alternative shelves,’ said Mr Poppleton.

  The two ascended and passed into a tiny room in which the books were laid out flat on tables so that the lover of such works might take a seat and appreciate the contents at their ease. The door closed behind them and Mr Poppleton eased a bolt into the jamb.

  ‘I speak with all modesty when I say that I both sell and print the finest stock in all of Britain,’ said the publisher. ‘Only in Paris or Brussels will you find a greater selection.’

  ‘I see you have images by Raimondi,’ said Noah with suitable deference, opening the cover of a large leather-bound edition.

  ‘Not original, of course – but true to the master.’

  ‘And is this a copy of Venus Mirabilis? Quite rare.’

  ‘Indeed it is. Permit me to say, sir, that you certainly know the literature well.’

  ‘I have travelled a little on the continent and have a small library of my own. Of late, however, I have found myself wanting something new. I feel I have read all there is to read.’

  ‘What you say is a profound truth, sir. A man’s appreciation of the carnal arts feeds upon itself and is never satiated. What fulfilled us a year ago is now but a preliminary course, and what seemed to us thrilling three months past is today a commonplace.’

  ‘I have come to the right man, I see. Would you recommend something?’

  ‘Every man is different. It is difficult to know.’

  ‘An acquaintance of mine told me that he had recently discovered something of interest at your shop, but he unfortunately passed away before he could tell me what it was. Perhaps you knew him: Mr Jonathan Sampson.’

  Mr Poppleton’s retail demeanour hardened into something less amenable. ‘I do not discuss my customers.’

  ‘Of course. Quite understandable – although this one is no longer among us. Do you know, when I read of his death on this street, my first thought was that the man was most likely engaged in some kind of lurid endeavour! He was always one for the more outré activities was old Sampson.’

  ‘As I say, I do not speak of customers. Will you be making a purchase?’

  ‘There is a book I have heard spoken of, but I am not sure of the complete title.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Maddeningly little, I am afraid. I have heard it mentioned, but in tones suggesting it is something rather special. It would appear to be a book with a classical theme, or at least I assume so from a word in the title: “Persephone”. Do you know it?’

  Outside on the wintry cobbles of Holywell-street, Mr Williamson looked at his watch and at the shopfront of Henry Poppleton. Noah was inside for around twenty minutes. Benjamin – who was clearly of limited use for interrogative purposes – continued to loiter outside the rag-sellers further up the street towards St Clement Danes, ready to come for help if needed.

  As Mr Williamson watched the activity on the street, he slowly became aware of a character not following the typical rhythm of the human traffic. The man had walked past two or three times without showing any particular inclination to reach a destination – and he was clearly neither a beggar nor a vendor. His attire gave little away as to his profession, but he seemed curious rather than suspicious to Mr Williamson, who soon disregarded the oddity as a common element of this most unusual street.

  That man, inevitably, was Eusebius Bean. He, too, had taken careful note of two unusual characters – a lofty Negro, and a top-hatted man with a pocked face waiting near Popple-ton’s bookshop. The latter had previously been speaking to the waterman Joseph, and Eusebius now perceived, with his vulpine intuition, that both the interrogator and Negro were somehow working in collaboration. Perhaps it was the darting glances between the two, or the positions of their bodies . . . whatever the evidence, he sensed a connection.

  Benjamin was the first to understand what was about to happen when he heard a distant chatter of boots upon the road – many boots. A whistle sounded three shrill blows from a remote upper storey and was followed at close intervals by the same signal all along the street so that the message could be unmistakable:

  The police were coming. There was going to be a raid.

  A phrenzy of activity gripped certain bookshops along the street. Shopkeepers ran outside with assistants and began to affix boards over their windows. Iron grilles were dropped on to hinges and a rattle of chains echoed along that narrow thoroughfare as if it were a transport ship. And those habitants of Holywell-street who had witnessed the spectacle before made themselves secure behind closed doors and curtained windows.

  By now, the terrible onrush of feet was audible to all. The Negro made a series of urgent gesticulations that meant nothing to Mr Williamson. Should he rush into the shop – which at this moment was being battened against the impending onslaught by Mr Poppleton’s assistants – or should he flee and leave Noah to make his own escape?

  He rushed towards Mr Poppleton’s doorway, the sound of boots coming ever closer.

  ‘Closed for today!’ said a youth about to drop an iron gate into place across the doorway.

  Mr Williamson pushed past him and entered the shop just as the metalwork clashed into position.

  Inside was almost dark, the windows now being barricaded. Henry Poppleton himself paced animatedly shouting orders to his boys.

  ‘John – pile the special books in the yard, but keep them clean and dry. If these brutes break through, you are to set light to all of the volumes. Yes, all of them. Peter – have you checked the window on the upper floor? Those ——— will bring ladders if I know them . . . O! Who are you?’ said the publisher, noticing Mr Williamson for the first time.

  ‘I am a customer.’

  ‘We are closed.’

  ‘So it would seem, but I am locked within the shop.’

  ‘No matter. It is the fault of the police. We will endeavour to weather this storm and hope they do not get through. Keep away from the windows . . . and, please, take the opportunity to browse.’

  With this, Mr Poppleton banged up the stairs to that upper-storey room, where he began to help young John carry armfuls of books down and through a corridor to what must have been an enclosed court at the rear.

  Mr Williamson looked quickly around and could not see Noah. There was an uneasy silence in the shop, all sound muffled by the books and by the boards outside. The rattle of boots had now become an ominous shuffling outside the window. Daylight came only dimly through the slats of the boards. Numerous shadows shifted.

  Then a truncheon rapped three times on the iron gate outside and a man spoke: the unmistakable voice of Inspector Newsome.

  ‘Henry Poppleton – I have a warrant signed by the magistrate entitling me to enter on suspicion of finding indecent books and prints sold to the general public from these premises. If you do not admit us, we will be forced to gain entrance. I will give you exactly one minute to open this door.’

  The publisher paused halfway down the stairs, his arms full of books. He remained there as if frozen. The silence of that anticipatory tableau was such that a man of fancy might have thought to hear the very ticks of the inspector’s watch outside.

  ‘You there!’ said Mr Poppleton to Mr Williamson, ‘come and help us get these books to safety. Quickly, while there is a hope.’

  Knowing exactly what the
books contained, and that destroying them would aid the criminal, he was reluctant to participate – particularly because a senior member of the Detective Force was about to come through the door at any moment. But that room upstairs might be the place where Noah had gone. He nodded his acquiescence.

  The room was as last we saw it, albeit somewhat depleted of stock. There was also one other notable difference.

  ‘Sir, there is an unconscious man on the floor here,’ said Mr Williamson with unfeigned surprise as he saw the prostrate form of Noah.

  ‘Pay no mind to him,’ said Mr Poppleton. ‘He had an accident. Now – take this pile of books and follow John out to the yard. He will direct you what to do.’

  ‘But this man has a bloody wound to his head! What manner of accident did he have in a mere reading room?’

  ‘We have not the time to discuss this matter. Take these books to the yard before the police burst in upon us!’

  But it was too late.

  A tremendous crash marked the beginning of the assault on that fortress of words. There came the sound of breaking glass as the barricades bowed under the massed onslaught, and the very building seemed to rock with the violence visited upon it by boots and clubs and pry bars.

  Mr Poppleton dismissed his customer and the unconscious man with a contemptuous backhanded gesture and set off down the stairs with his incriminating texts.

  Mr Williamson knelt to the insensible form beside him, slapping the face. ‘Noah! Noah! Wake up!’

  No response.

  More windowpanes shattered. Light began to appear in the shop once more as boards were ripped away. The batter and rattle of attack was relentless.

  Resorting to an old trick from his days on the beat, Mr Williamson pinched Noah’s nostrils and held his jaw closed so that no breath could enter his inert form. Either he would asphyxiate, or his body would wake itself with urgency to avoid extinction.

  Noah snuffled and his eyes darted open. His hand went to the wound on his head and he looked at the blood on his palm.

  ‘George? Why—?’

  ‘We have no time. Inspector Newsome is smashing down the shopfront, as you can hear. I would prefer him to catch neither of us here. I believe there is a yard at the rear – can you walk?’