The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘Indeed, Jackson, but tonight I feel the need of a fine meal and a good smoke.’

  ‘Ha ha! You are in the right establishment, sir!’

  ‘Could you perhaps see that this package finds its way to the secretary?’

  Mr Jackson sniffed at the parcel and winked conspiratorially before putting it under his desk. ‘Yes, I will, sir. A number of the members will be most gratified.’

  ‘Thank you, Jackson.’

  And Noah passed where Inspector Newsome had previously found it impossible to enter: into the Continental’s lofty hall, whose chequered marble floor, graceful Ionic columns and vaulted ceiling (injudiciously thick with gilt and fresco) were a foretaste of the place’s glorious lack of restraint. A sound of murmured conviviality echoed down the broad sweep of Carrara marble staircase, inviting the visiter to ascend towards it.

  No doubt the common reader has little conception of a club’s drawing room, but one might begin by picturing a crackling fire in a huge hearth; the leathery scent of numerous wing-back chairs; a womb-like comfort instilled by the burgundy carpets and curtains – and, of course, that singular atmosphere created when men group together without the refining influence of women. The fifty or so gentlemen gathered there that evening were red of face, garrulous of nature and as coarse in tone as one might expect of a ‘Continental man’.

  Noah took a seat away from the mass of people and ordered a port from the liveried waiter. Then he reclined into the arms of his chair to observe the erstwhile associates of Mr Jonathan Sampson.

  The Continental was as renowned for its eclecticism as for its eccentricity. Whereas other clubs might attract a predominantly legal, or medical, or military clientèle, the Continental drew men from across the professions – albeit the sort of men who placed pleasure marginally above reputation.

  Who amongst them might have known Mr Sampson well? The gamblers must certainly have taken his money; the drinkers would have shared port and sherry with him; the lechers would no doubt have discussed their bawdy book collections with him – but were any of these men his friends?

  Can one truly know a man? One might speak with him, eat with him, joke with him . . . but his secret thoughts, dreams and fears remain hidden within. A man who would reveal his vulnerabilities in a place like this might just as well stay at home with his wife. For all his vigour and brashness, the club man is an actor in a drama that he plays in place of his life: bellowing his lines to cover the whispers of his hollow soul . . .

  Noah’s musings were disturbed by the noise being made by a man holding court by the fireplace: a man wearing a flamboyant sandy-coloured moustache and an enormous, spirit-swollen red nose. The tarnished medals on his breast boasted a military past, and his raucous topic was one of great fondness to the soldiering fraternity: brothels.

  ‘Ah, now . . . ah, if it’s a Negro girl you’re after, you want to visit Mrs Todd of Half Moon-yard at Whitechapel. She has the best ones – direct from Paris, I hear. Can’t speak a word of English, but, ah, one doesn’t want to talk, does one!’

  An eruption of lecherous mirth went off from that seated group . . . and Noah’s glass paused abruptly on its way to his lips.

  One of the laughs was a high-pitched yip-yip-yip like a curious hiccough or an animal’s cry.

  Noah looked sharply and caught the laugh again, this time seeing the man as he leaned forward to slap his leg. Anywhere else, it would be a thing of amusement in itself, but evidently these fellows were familiar enough with it to make no comment or reaction, suggesting that its possessor was a regular visiter.

  The gentleman in question was young – perhaps twenty-three – and bore all the distinguishing traits of insouciant wealth. His suit was of the finest cloth and his boots a work of art in polished leather. His face was flushed, even at this early hour, with an excess of wine, and he exhibited those delicate features of an aristocratic line no doubt stretching back to the Conqueror: a broad, pale forehead; thin lips dyed red by his drink; and a slim, fragile nose that had never suffered a greater assault than snuff. His black hair, in odd contrast to the perfection of his dress, was quite unkempt.

  Noah knew the kind: most likely the son of a duke. The young man could not afford a house befitting his tastes on the 300 pounds annual allowance his father gave him, so he resided here at the club’s saloon rooms where everything he could desire – library, baths, fine dining, fresh periodicals and servants – within reach of his unworked fingertips. If he left the place at all, it would only be for hunting, shopping and women.

  Was this the man who had fled Colliver’s coffee house the night of Jonathan Sampson’s fall? Was this man a murderer? Here, in this sanctuary of pleasure and privilege, a world apart from the cold and filth of the other London, did this yelping dandy have blood on his slender hands? His was a life of ceaseless indulgence. His countenance would not show signs of age or care for many years yet. Only his eyes provided a clue to the inner man, for, despite his frequent laughter, they seemed to remain hard, black and cold like the eyes of a serpent.

  Lost in his own reflections, Noah did not notice at first that his stares had been noticed and that muttered comments were being exchanged among that group. He drained the remnants of his glass and was about to summon the waiter when the dinner bell sounded.

  And what a table they laid forth at the Continental. Only the finest Staffordshire china, Sheffield silver and Italian crystal graced that expanse of pure white linen. Throughout the meal, Noah was careful to note whether the group he had observed were observing him, and was glad to see that they were. By the final course, he was quite dizzy with satiation after a well-cooked steak with oyster sauce, wonderfully fresh peas, crisp asparagus, Dublin stout and a glutinous pudding that quite finished him off.

  Much as he would have liked to sample the further array of sauces by Burgess and Lazenby, he simply could not spoon another mouthful into a taut stomach. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and looked around a table that was depopulating as members retired singly and in groups to their card games and post-prandial drinks. As Noah had hoped, the military man from the living room was preparing to address him.

  ‘I say! Are you, ah, a new member, sir?’

  ‘I attend very rarely . . . Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Major. Major Archibald Tunnock, retired. I, ah, have not seen you before and, ah, I am here most evenings.’

  ‘I am Norman – Adam Norman. I should come more often, if only to enjoy the table and the cellar.’

  ‘Yes! A fine repast, what! I say – would you, ah, like to join me and some of my fellows in the cigar room? They have some, ah, rather fine Havanahs.’

  ‘I believe I would like that very much.’

  And thus it was that Noah found himself, precisely as he had hoped, with the group he had observed in the drawing room, reclining together in the infernal semi-darkness of the cigar room, where blue-grey skeins of smoke twisted lazily in an atmosphere of whisky-scented languor. Major Tunnock had introduced each fellow by Christian name only (a Peter, a Harold and a John) and all of them seemed to be fresh-faced graduates greatly impressed by the bluster of the old fighter. The young man with the unusual laugh – identified merely as James – was among them, but now seemed somewhat reticent in front of this stranger. As they all spoke together, James had evaded every direct address of Noah’s with a non-committal response, those black eyes searching his interrogator with cool speculation.

  ‘And what do you do for pleasure, sir?’ Noah had asked him.

  ‘O, I go about the city with my fellows.’ ‘Do you have use of a carriage here at the club?’ ‘There is one, I believe, but I generally take a cab.’ ‘Do you enjoy the library here? I understand it has a fine collection in Greek.’

  ‘So I hear, but I rather tired of the ancients at university.’ ‘What of girls? I suppose a young man like you has the pick of them.’

  ‘I visit the supper rooms from time to time, or the parks in the summer.’

  Only that final
answer had elicited any kind of expression from James: a thin and secret smile that flickered briefly across his face like a shadow.

  Noah had been more assiduously pressed on his background by the group, presenting himself as an importer of Oriental foodstuffs, and suggesting with consummate vagueness that his was a privileged but not especially illustrious background. By this, he meant them to understand that he was the illegitimate offspring of some nameless notable whose identity none of them would be so tactless to enquire after.

  ‘Are you, ah, a married man?’ the major asked Noah.

  ‘I am not. I am afraid I cannot find one woman I can settle on.’

  ‘I find that I like to, ah, settle on a different one each evening!’

  The group laughed dutifully, albeit without as much abandon as they had when they were surer of their company.

  ‘O, I see: the major is a romantic!’ said Noah.

  ‘Romance has little to do with it, my boy! But it is, ah, difficult to find a good woman, don’t you find?’

  ‘I visit a regular girl. She has a place in Golden-square.’

  The major nodded and thoughtfully twirled an end of his moustache. ‘Golden-square you say? There are some French girls thereabouts. That is good. A regular girl, ah, learns what one likes and can be depended upon. Though I do tend to become, ah, bored.’

  ‘Bored, Major? I could never become bored of a good girl.’

  ‘Ah, yes – but don’t you find that you get, ah, accustomed to a certain, ah, practice and yearn for something, ah, different?’

  ‘It is interesting you should mention that, Major. I was discussing the same thing with a fellow just the other day. We were talking about books.’

  ‘Books you say? I trust you are referring to, ah, a special kind of book?’

  ‘It is true, I am a collector of ... of particular varieties of literature, shall we say.’

  ‘You are indeed a “Continental man”, sir, even if you, ah, rarely attend. What have you read recently?’

  ‘I enjoyed The Venusian Acolytes, though I admit it was a little too genteel for my tastes. Before that I was pleased to acquire a series of images under the title of The Scullery Maid’s Education – a fine and detailed study that I have shared with my Golden-square girl, if you understand my meaning . . .’

  There was a murmur of recognition and approval around the group, unfathomable glances being exchanged between them all. If this gathering was an assessment of their new smoking fellow, it seemed he was performing suitably.

  ‘Indeed! Indeed! I know both titles and the latter is, ah, very fine. Very fine. Tell me, Mr Norman, what was the nature of your, ah, discussion with your fellow the other day? About becoming, ah, accustomed.’

  ‘We were of the opinion that a man’s tastes do not remain static but develop and progress. What seems exciting today is passé in a month or two. Novelty is critical, and so is . . . how should I put it? . . . An element of the forbidden.’

  The major looked meaningfully around the group as if an earlier point of his had been proved by Noah’s words. The end of his cigar crackled and flared red. He ejected a cloud of smoke from the corners of his mouth. ‘What you say is, ah, quite right, sir. It is something that I and my fellows have discussed on many occasions. And is it not like any, ah, pleasure? I may drink this whisky for a year or so, but then my fancy is taken by Barbadoes rum, or something stronger still.’

  ‘You are quite right, Major. I am fortunate, however, that my regular girl is open to new ideas.’

  ‘She sounds like a good girl, but every girl has her, ah, limits. Does she like a whipping? A sharp spanking?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Forgive me, sir! I have made you, ah, blush. I am an old soldier and I have travelled further down that, ah, road than many men.’

  ‘It is quite all right, Major.’

  ‘We speak frankly here at the club. We men of the, ah, city need not be genteel about such things.’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  The major again stroked his moustache and looked pointedly at James, who had been examining Noah with unnerving attention throughout the entire conversation. At the major’s look, James nodded in wordless acquiescence, excused himself and walked towards the library.

  Noah applied himself to his cigar for a moment and accepted another glass of whisky from the waiter. James’s momentary absence seemed like an opportunity.

  ‘Jackson the porter tells me that one of the members has recently passed. I am afraid I miss that kind of news being absent so frequently. Did any of you fellows know him?’

  ‘Sampson was his name – Jonathan Sampson.’ The major’s tone was flat.

  ‘The name is unfamiliar.’

  ‘He was, ah, a quiet one.’

  ‘Sampson, you say? Wait – was he the same who fell from the window in Holywell-street?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘That was a curious case, was it not? There was much discussion among my fellows about it.’

  ‘Curious indeed. But as I say, he was not among our, ah, group.’

  ‘Even so – there must have been a good amount of speculation in the smoking room about his fall. Was it merely an accident? Was he with a girl, do you think – or a man?’

  The end of the major’s cigar again glowed red and he surveyed ‘Mr Norman’ with eyes that suggested the exterior of the windy old soldier was, like his medals, something he might choose to wear according to his mood. There was another twirl of the moustache.

  ‘You are right, Mr Norman. It was a most unusual incident. Speaking for myself, I think the man was a sod and was caught at it.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps. Certainly he was up to some mischief there. We will never know.’

  ‘Quite.’

  At that moment, Major Tunnock looked across the room to see James returning with a paper in his hand. And the convivial smile returned like a gas flame springing into life.

  ‘Mr Norman – James has something for you. It is, ah, something from the “confidential” section of our library that you might like to read – but not here at the club if you please.’

  ‘Really? What is it?’ Noah took the pamphlet from James and glimpsed the title: The Gentleman’s Poetics of Transgression. There was no author, but the publisher was Henry Poppleton of Holywell-street.

  ‘It is an, ah, idea. It touches on what we were discussing just a few moments ago and it might be of, ah, interest to you.’

  ‘I will read it with interest, Major. Thank you.’

  ‘And here is my card. If you find the contents to your, ah, taste, you may contact me either at the club or at the address on the card. We can meet again. I like to make the acquaintance of fellows such as you who have such, ah, refined tastes.’

  ‘You are all too kind. I am having a most pleasant evening. I regret now that I do not attend the club more often.’

  Noah did not proceed directly home from the club later that evening. He first made a short visit to the office of the secretary to receive his payment for the earlier delivery of opium.

  ‘It is a pleasure to see you in person, Mr Norman,’ said the secretary. ‘Is your usual man, the Negro, unavailable this evening?’

  ‘No – I felt the need of some company tonight. Indeed, I made the acquaintance of your Major Tunnock.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘You disapprove of the major?’

  ‘Between you and me, he does rather lend certain associations to the club. You know how these old soldiers can be.’

  ‘Quite. I was speaking with one of his young acolytes: James . . . I did not manage to learn his surname. A sartorial sort.’

  ‘I suppose you mean James Tattershall – one of our residents.’

  ‘A pleasant fellow: intelligent, lively . . .’

  ‘And quite a distinctive laugh!’

  ‘Indeed. Do you know much about him?’

  ‘He is, as you say, a pleasant fellow. I believe that he is waiting for an inheritance and is spendin
g his bachelorhood enjoying London before he retires to the family seat.’

  ‘Does he share the major’s interests, do you think?’

  ‘He is a young man. It is not my business to know what he does away from the club as long as he is more discreet than the major. Nor is it your business, Mr Norman.’

  ‘You are right. Forgive me. I am naturally curious.’

  ‘Quite permissible, but you understand that I must maintain my secretarial duties with honour.’

  ‘I thank you for that. Good evening to you, sir.’

  It was much later that evening, after the visiting members had returned home and the boarding guests had retired to their rooms, that young James gained access to the secretary’s office and discovered that the infrequent member calling himself Mr Norman was not – as suspected – a member at all. Nevertheless, there was an Adam Norman listed as a supplier to the club under the category of ‘Oriental materials’. Whoever he was, the man seemed to be neither a policeman, nor a gentleman, nor a tradesman. And he asked the most inappropriate sort of questions.

  SIXTEEN

  As we have heard, Mr Williamson had determined to visit Clerkenwell, or rather that disgusting, Irish-infested rookery bordered by Field-lane at its west and Smithfield at its east – a part of our modern city that would likely be recognized today by the lowest Londoners of two hundred years ago.

  Naturally, no man but an inhabitant would venture there at night unless he wanted to be knocked on the head and robbed of his very shoes, so Mr Williamson had made the sensible decision to set out shortly before dawn and arrive just after first light. Much against his initial protestations, the estimable Benjamin walked at his side, quite dwarfing him in comparison.

  The Negro was truly an impressive specimen. Well over six feet tall (but seeming taller in a fine black overcoat and a top hat worn at a quirky angle), he seemed as lithe and muscular as some exotic beast. That milky eyeball of his attracted almost as much attention as his build, but few dared to stare – even when they became aware of the scaffold scars about his neck. A scarf covered those today, and Benjamin strolled as if the excursion were merely a morning errand to purchase bread.