‘All right. I will be frank. This is an unusual case: a difficult case. We have men watching the coffee house to see if that young man returns and they saw you attempting to question Mrs Colliver. It seemed an odd coincidence that a previous member of this force would be asking questions, so, yes, you were followed – but with good reason, for you asked the girl about Holywell-street.’
‘She told me about another incident on that street the very same morning: the suicide of a prostitute. I have not read of it in the papers.’
‘Yes, there was a death, a suicide – no doubt one of many in the city that day. But there is no indication that the two incidents are connected in any way. I am afraid the girl Charlotte was merely creating a story to extort money from a gullible client. They will tell you anything, these girls. Nevertheless, I am interested in this “Persephone” you were so eager to locate.’
‘The writer of the letter I received was “Persephone”. I thought perhaps it was a professional name so I asked the girl. As you have found – she duped me.’
‘I do not recognize the name. Is it foreign? What have you discovered about it?’
‘Nothing. Most likely it is a foreign name. Or perhaps the name is just nonsense to disguise the identity of the writer.’
‘That is all? You receive a letter telling you that Katherine’s death was a murder and this is the most you can discover about the mysterious Persephone?’
‘My investigations are ongoing, but I feel the most propitious avenue is the Holywell-street case itself.’
‘But you must have extracted some further suppositions from that letter, or you are not the George Williamson I know.’
‘The writer is intelligent and very likely has access to privileged information. However, the letter is so brief that there is little more I can say.’
‘Or will not say. What else? What did Joseph the waterman tell you yesterday?’
‘He heard the incident and was the only man on the street at the time of the actual fall – before PC Cribb and Mr Coffin arrived on the scene. He heard Mr Sampson repeating “I cannot” before he fell. The constable arrived shortly after the fall but did not see Joseph, who was resting in a doorway.’
‘“I cannot”? Cannot what?’
‘I do not know. This is the extent of my discoveries, Inspector.’
‘You have barely told me anything.’
‘I have told you more than I would normally wish. Now – I would like to know what you know. What did you find in that room, Inspector? What did Mrs Colliver tell you? What other people have you questioned? What of the other guests at the coffee house?’
‘These details are highly confidential, you understand.’
‘As is my private life, which you have invaded.’
‘All right. I reveal this information purely with the intention that you may be able to offer your combined insights and help to solve the case:
‘The room contained four empty glasses that had held sherry; Mrs Colliver denies all knowledge of these glasses. The woman herself has a nasty wound high on her forehead that she claims was accidental but which she was at some pains to conceal. And the one guest that we have been able to locate, a Mr Jessop, says that he was woken in the early morning by a man who threatened his life if he spoke of anything he might have heard. He heard little, however, because he was quite drunk. We have no useful description of the man who woke him. As for our only other witness, the mariner Ned Coffin, the man has vanished. Perhaps he is at sea; perhaps he is dead and at the bottom of the river. What do you make of all of that?’
‘Evidently Mr Sampson’s death was no simple fall.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘I would like to see any notes you made on examining the room, and I would like to speak with both Mrs Colliver and Mr Jessop with the authority of the Detective Force behind me.’
‘That will not be possible.’
‘I must insist. The solution to the crime may very well be—’
‘I do not make notes as you do – I simply remember. And it is not possible to speak to those people because Mr Jessop died shortly before midday yesterday. He seemingly fell headfirst from a window at his place of work. As for Mrs Colliver, she has gone missing, having left her premises before dawn on the same day.’
‘Hmm. Hmm. Murder, of course.’
‘It would appear so, though we have no evidence as yet, and no body.’
‘You must have ideas, Inspector,’ offered Noah, who had been reclining comfortably with his hands clasped in his lap as the conversation progressed. ‘The empty glasses, the warning to Mr Jessop, and now the apparent murder of an important witness: it all points to the perpetrator nullifying any clues that may lead back to him – a perpetrator, moreover, who is keeping a close eye on the police as they investigate his trail. What do you think is going on here? Let us dispense with proof for a moment.’
‘Well, Noah – I would be intrigued to know what you think,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘You are something of an investigator yourself, are you not?’
‘One need not be a detective to suggest a credible story, Inspector. Anyone of mild intelligence could do so. Let us say a couple of men agree to rent a room together for purposes either immoral or criminal. They are joined by two (or more) others with a bottle of sherry and some manner of disagreement occurs, the cause of which is Mr Sampson’s fall or murder. The men flee immediately and are lost in the city.’
‘That is rather an elementary story, Mr Dyson. For what purposes did they meet? Who were these other men you speak of and where were they when PC Cribb arrived? What was the argument about and why is it of such significance that witnesses have been silenced? Your story does not answer these questions, does it?’
‘You are the detective, Inspector. I asked you for your ideas.’
‘One aspect of your story is accurate: Mr Jessop did say that he heard many footsteps in the corridor that night and morning, suggesting a number of others. Who they are, where they came from and where they went are questions I currently have no means of answering.’
‘Evasive as always,’ said Noah. ‘What have you discerned about the victim himself? May I make a guess that your investigations of his lifestyle led you to Mr Poppleton?’
‘Why would you suggest such a thing?’
‘I deduce from your expression that this is so. Nevertheless, a single man of his age . . . his interests would no doubt have extended in that direction. Did he belong to a club?’
‘The Continental.’
‘That seems fitting; the place does rather have the reputation of being a nest of vice. Have you questioned anyone there?’
‘Not yet. Gaining access to the place has been more difficult than expected.’
‘I know a member. I feel sure I will be able to gain access.’
‘That could prove very useful. What could also prove useful is what you learned from your conversation with Mr Poppleton yesterday. Can we at least agree that you were there to interrogate him?’
‘I questioned him about Mr Sampson and asked whether the victim had been a customer. He became agitated, but I could proceed no further, however, because I was struck from behind and knocked unconscious. Whether it was my particular questions that caused the attack, or something else, I cannot say. I did not see or hear my assailant.’
‘Another useless piece of testimony. If nothing else, it suggests more time should be spent talking to Mr Poppleton. We have him in custody, although it is not his first time in gaol and I fear he would rather serve his customary two years than speak to me about this case. Nevertheless, I will try.’
Noah cast an almost imperceptible glance at Mr Williamson, who, although seemingly deep in thought, appeared to acknowledge it with an affirmative blink.
‘It seems we are in a position to begin negotiations,’ said Noah with a smile that caused the inspector to once more grip the arms of his chair.
‘What negotiations?’
‘I will be able to gain access
to that club and question its familiars on the lifestyle and acquaintances of the late Mr Sampson, one of whom might know our mysterious young man. I might also add that I am likely to be more successful in this endeavour for not being an investigating policeman. They do not like authority much at the Continental. No doubt this would help both of our cases. You, on the other hand, have access, via the Metropolitan Police, to the whole city – if you cannot locate a Persephone, then she must not exist. Do we have an agreement?’
Mr Newsome looked from Noah to Mr Williamson as if he were being tricked in some way. Neither could be trusted in his experience.
‘There is one more piece of information I should share with you, gentlemen. If I did not know for certain that you were both incarcerated last night, I would be highly suspicious. As it is, this latest occurrence further inclines me to agree to the terms and participate as you describe.’
‘What occurrence are you referring to?’ said Mr Williamson.
‘The body of Joseph the waterman was washed out of the mouth of the Fleet River just after dawn this morning. His throat had been cut. Whoever is behind this Holywell-street murder, they are standing invisibly at our very shoulders and seeing to it that the solution cannot be found. And I will not be prevented from solving this crime.’
‘Nor I,’ said Mr Williamson, his eyes focused inward upon a different time and place.
‘Well then – if Mr Dyson is to investigate the club and I the name, where will you focus your attention, Mr Williamson?’
‘I will look into this murder of Joseph.’
‘Look into what? The river? All we have is a corpse.’
‘I may no longer be a sergeant of your Force, Inspector, but I have lost none of my sense. If the unfortunate Joseph was indeed washed from the mouth of the Fleet, he must have been dropped into it at Clerkenwell.’
‘What makes you think so? That disgusting sewer is entirely covered over within the city as far I know.’
‘Almost entirely. There is much demolition work proceeding east of Field-lane, and a stretch of the river has been temporarily uncovered as they clear the houses. It was in yesterday’s Times. I will go there and see what I can find; it is the only place where a man’s body may have been introduced to the river and washed to the Thames . . . provided your information is correct about the body emerging just at that point.’
‘It is correct.’
‘Then I will begin there.’
‘That is no area to be venturing alone, unless one is a professional criminal,’ said Noah. ‘I suspect even the inspector’s men do not venture there after dark. You will take Benjamin to protect you.’
‘Let us waste no more time chatting, then,’ said the inspector. ‘The sooner we can solve this case (whatever our reasons), the sooner we can dispense with each other’s company. I suggest that we meet again next Friday to compare what we have found and see if we are any closer to a solution. We can meet at the house of Mr Allan – Mr Williamson knows it.’
‘What about this gentleman here?’ said Noah, indicating Eusebius Bean. ‘What role does he play, Inspector?’
Eusebius, who had been sitting quite placidly absorbing the conversation, showed no sign that his name had been spoken. He did not react or reply.
‘He is merely an observer. You need not concern yourself with him.’
‘See that he does not observe us,’ said Noah. ‘London is a dangerous city, especially after dark. A loitering figure might be a friend or a foe.’
‘Is that a threat, Mr Dyson?’
‘You may decide, Inspector.’
Mr Newsome looked to Eusebius, whose expression said nothing at all.
FIFTEEN
Noah stepped down from the cab on Pall Mall and beheld the Continental Club before him. And what an aspect it presented in the winter twilight: gaudier (if that can be imagined) than the Hellenic Club, and as lacking in gravitas as the Oxford and Cambridge Clubs were distinguished. Its profusion of columns and capitals, its porphyry, Portland stone and pediment made it an architect’s crazed dream of clashing styles. The members did not seem to mind. Rather, the façade, like the singular reputation of the place, drew a certain sort.
Other clubs might attract those of a military background, or perhaps those with a taste for exotic travel. Other clubs prided themselves on their exclusivity, or upon the unique accomplishments of their limited membership. But the Continental existed purely for pleasure. Here could be found the finest food, the choicest wines and liqueurs, the best Havanah cigars, and the most dissipated fellows with the bawdiest approach to a life that was not worth living except under the constant influence of a surfeit of indulgence.
Noah had said to Inspector Newsome earlier that same day that he was not himself a member but knew one. That was a lie of sorts. He was, however, known to its committee and welcomed (regardless of the membership rules) on the rare occasions when he visited. To understand why this was the case, it will be necessary to learn a little more about this man who first materialized in our story in that musty room at Temple Bar. And it will therefore be necessary to turn back our story momentarily, like thread on a spool, and have him climb backwards into the cab from which he has just exited.
Let us imagine, if we can, those horses trotting in reverse back along the Strand, led by their carriage through Temple Bar (a smile playing upon Noah’s face inside), along Fleet-street and up Ludgate-hill, past St Paul’s and onwards east until the roads narrow and become less straight. Now we are passing – still in retrograde manner, the horses inhaling their own steaming breath through flared nostrils – the Tower and St Katharine’s Dock, the lofty warehouse walls of London Dock and the seething miasma of those mariner-haunted rookeries.
Perhaps one might not expect it, but the young Noah had once called streets like these his home and roamed them with his gang of diminutive thieves. Poorly shod and often cold, he had nevertheless been a king among his kind until the police had caught him at the scene of a brewery fire and sent him off to the hulks of Woolwich to wait for the next transport ship and his ticket to a fugitive life of adventure.
A street boy he might have been, but he could read. For every watch or handkerchief he stole, he purloined two books also – and read them. Not just in English, but in Latin and Greek, too. On occasion, and if the attire came into his hands, he could quite easily pass himself off as the spoiled son of a gentleman, lost in the busy streets while collecting books for his father. Many an ‘omnibus fare’ he made that way, charming well-to-do ladies with poetry and scripture recited from memory.
Yes, a curious man, this Noah Dyson, still moving backwards in time through our narrative, no doubt watching people reversing out of shops, the hands of clocks moving against nature and the unintelligible cries of omnibus men’s ‘!thgir llA’. Finally, the cab reverses to a halt outside a small storehouse near Broad-street, Stepney, whose single chimney sucks an endless column of steam from the frigid air into its narrow aperture. Noah descends, walking unerringly without looking behind him, and the door opens unbidden so he can enter.
In forward motion now, we will become invisible witnesses to the inside of that manufactory. The first thing we notice (after the urine-like scent of the place) is that every man within is of the Chinese race: emaciated fellows in baggy white linen suits who go unsmilingly about their work like automatons. The air is thick with the hot closeness of steam, and the origin of the work appears to be a number of hide-covered chests that (we might know if we were botanists) are fashioned from mango wood.
Peering inside each chest, we see rows of rough spheres, about the size of two balled fists, wrapped tightly in moist leaves. They have recently arrived from Malwa, via Calcutta, and represent the finest raw material of their kind anywhere on the globe.
In short, Noah is one of the most prized refiners and suppliers in London of Benares opium, both to chymists and those members of the aristocracy who enjoy the pipe. We need not concern ourselves here with those tiresome debates abo
ut China and the members of that race who use the drug to their own destruction – our interest is founded upon Noah’s trade, which allows him privileged access to many of the clubs and elite chambers of pleasure in this city. True, laudanum is readily available, but it is a pale substitute and the spirit content impairs the experience. Only the finest raw opium will do for the man of taste, and if it is not exactly a crime to smoke it once in a while, a certain discretion is required in its supply and usage to avoid a slur upon one’s good name.
Prone as they are to lackadaisy, these Chinese had to be monitored closely and so we find Noah paying close attention to the vats of opium solution that, by a repetitive cycle of straining, boiling, evaporating and soaking, fill the air with their acrid steam until they are reduced and perfected into that sacred elixir of unmistakable sticky perfection.
One might legitimately ask how a man becomes a trader in opium. Perhaps when he has escaped from penal Sydney aboard a sandalwood boat and seen for himself the serried ships anchored off the coast of Macao, the enormous quantities of cash changing hands, the chests hoisted on creaking tackle from deck to deck and the masts marking time against the Oriental sky. Perhaps when he has already himself been a thief and a prisoner. Perhaps when anonymity is his most highly prized possession and ready capital his perpetual key to freedom. A man must make a living somehow, and he might as well sell pleasure of a physical kind if he is not blessed with the talent of writing.
But I digress. Having briefly glimpsed a fragment of the man’s secret life, it is time for us to quickly unspool our way back across London – rushing back through the streets in a terrifying blur to make the railways seem tardy – and arriving once again at the Continental Club, which Noah was about to enter.
‘Good evening, Mr Norman,’ said the porter, who knew every one of the three hundred members by name, and this particular non-member by a necessary pseudonym. ‘We have not had the pleasure of your company for a while.’
The Vice Society Page 17
