The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘The usual. One gentleman could no longer bear to share her and set her up with her own place. Naturally, she kept seeing other men when her benefactor was absent and, by degrees, she worked her way beyond the world we know. The last I heard, she was with an Italian prince who visited her but twice a year despite supporting her like a princess in London.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘She was Joanne while she lived here. Then she was Katie. Now, I have no idea.’

  ‘Might any of your girls know her, or where she lives?’

  ‘I am certain not. A girl like her does not acknowledge where she came from. Like Venus herself, she was born from the very waves. I heard that she had a sister in the same profession, but I know nothing more about that, apart from a rumour that the sister died some years ago.’

  ‘Died how?’

  ‘I believe it was suicide.’

  ‘Do you know what year, or the girl’s name?’

  ‘No. As I say, it was just a rumour. The girls talk, as do your constables. Now – I cannot talk to you all afternoon. I have Mr ———coming for a thrashing.’

  ‘The magistrate?’

  ‘The same. There is another entry for your book, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Percival. If you remember anything else, please let one of the constables know.’

  ‘I will. And perhaps one day you will allow me to flay you?’

  Mr Newsome smiled. It was the politest offer of violence he had ever received.

  Back in his office, the inspector did something he had not done before: he took a piece of paper and began to make notes about what he knew of the case, drawing a circle around each piece of information and attempting to add lines of connection between each.

  There was Mr Poppleton’s bookshop and his cryptic comments. There was the evidence of Mr Jessop. Then there was the Continental Club, the mysterious Persephone, the words of the dying Mr Sampson, the murder (or disappearance) of Mrs Colliver . . .

  The circles remained stubbornly isolated. The solution had to be there among those comments and characters and clues, but it seemed the only way to connect them was with a leap of imagination that he did not possess and could not contrive. Had he been a writer, he would have recognized the process.

  He leaned back in his chair, frustrated, and ruminated on the absence of Eusebius Bean. When the spy had not arrived at Scotland Yard that morning as arranged, the inspector had been unconcerned and had not reported it to Sir Richard. Indeed, the day’s activities had been all the more pleasant without the perpetual presence of the man at his side. Certainly, the visit to Mrs Percival would have been quite impossible with the over-observant fellow in attendance.

  A momentary thought occurred: could it be that Eusebius had himself fallen victim to the Holywell-street curse? He, too, had been on the street when Mr Williamson had questioned the waterman. Perhaps he had been observed and linked to the police investigation. If this was the case, Mr Newsome found himself unmoved at the possibility.

  There was no time, however, for further thought on the subject because he was about to receive information that would give him some lines to connect his circles.

  A knock on the door signalled the arrival of the police surgeon.

  ‘Inspector Newsome – I trust you are well,’ said the doctor, wheezing from the short walk between street and office.

  ‘As well as I was this morning, doctor. What do you have for me?’

  ‘It seems there was some truth in the prussic acid idea after all. Her stomach reeked of it – quite dangerous.’

  ‘Any other injuries to her person?’

  ‘None. The stain on her fingers was lead blacking. And she had had knowledge of a man, most likely on the evening of her death.’

  ‘By “knowledge” I assume you mean intercourse.’

  ‘Quite. But there was no sponge to be found, not as are sometimes found in the more professional girls. So your dolly-mop theory may be correct also.’

  ‘I see. Is that all?’

  ‘One more thing: she had apparently eaten an orange or some other fruit prior to her death. I found evidence of pith and seeds in her teeth and stomach – only a little, though. Evidently she did not like it.’

  ‘Do you have those seeds?’

  ‘Not with me, but I have them still. I am afraid they are masticated almost beyond recognition.’

  ‘I would like you to send them to me, whatever the condition of the remains.’

  ‘As you wish. Will that be all?’

  ‘You have a done a thorough job despite yourself, but there is one more thing – do you corporeal doctors also study illnesses of the mind? I am thinking of the urge to suicide and what causes it.’

  ‘It is something of a specialism, Inspector. Not one of mine, I am afraid.’

  ‘Who of your acquaintance would know more on the subject?’

  ‘Well, there are those physicians at the asylums, of course. And I believe that Mr Herbert takes an interest in the matter of suicide. He has even published on the subject.’

  ‘Mr Herbert the surgeon?’

  ‘The same. It is a sort of hobbyhorse of his.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. You may go now.’

  The door had barely closed when a knock came from the other door leading to the clerk’s office. It was the clerk.

  ‘Inspector Newsome, sir? I have some information.’

  ‘Good. What did you find in the Police Gazette?’

  ‘Alas, little more than you did. Magdalene deaths are little reported, as you know. There were a few, but no more in the last five years with prussic acid.’

  ‘So what information do you have?’

  ‘I took the liberty, sir, of looking through the ledger for the other thing. But I did not find any reference at all to a Persephone.’

  ‘Must I repeat my previous question?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. This letter arrived today for you. It was delivered this morning by post.’

  Mr Newsome opened the letter and folded out the single page. There was no signature:

  Inspector Newsome

  The girl you found dead this morning was one Nelly Jones, a maid in the service of Mrs Scarrock of 12 Milton-street. Just six days ago, Nelly was visited by a certain Mr George Williamson, who spent time alone with her while Mrs Scarrock was out.

  It is my duty as a citizen to offer assistance in this way.

  ‘Well, well – Mr Williamson has few friends in this city,’ said the inspector. ‘Sir?’ ‘Never mind. Go back to that ledger – contact the special constables if need be – and find me everything you can on the haughty girls of Park-lane.’

  ‘Park-lane.’

  ‘Is there an echo in this room?’

  ‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  And as we leave Mr Newsome there at his desk rubbing his chin and pondering the news he had been given, let us spare a thought for my Nelly – poor Nelly – who was killed in a cold alley, her delicate rump left to settle on hard cobbles and her hair dirtied by Night’s damp fingers.

  True, she was coarse, common and corrupt. But she was a being fuller of life than many – and often fuller of gin. I never loved you, Nelly. Giving such an emotion to you would have been like giving a fine gold watch to a monkey as a plaything. We enjoyed each other as men and women do. You listened to my words and found music in them. I pursue my story hence for your sake (as well as for my own glory and riches).

  EIGHTEEN

  We have accounted for the movements of our three principal players – Noah, Mr Williamson and the inspector – in the two days following their meeting at that house at St James’s, but the perspicacious reader will have noted the curious absence of two others.

  First among these is the plain-faced Eusebius Bean, whom we last saw sitting silently like a well-behaved child beside Inspector Newsome as the Holywell-street discussion progressed. When those other three gentlemen left, however, the spy remained
behind to communicate his thanks to the Vice Society luminary who had so generously offered his house for the rendezvous.

  It will perhaps be of little surprise for the reader to hear that the procurer of that property (though not its owner) was none other than ‘J.S.’, who appeared to Eusebius from a connecting door shortly after the investigators had left in their separate carriages. Together, they retired to the just-vacated room and sat in the seats still warm from the visiters.

  ‘J.S.’ appeared to be in rude health, his pale-brown eyes as solicitous as those of a kindly grandparent, and his complexion glistening with the salubrious sheen of some fragrant emollient. One might never have guessed that the scalp beneath the wig was utterly corrupted or that the mouth was virulent with decay.

  ‘Could I offer you a glass of milk, Eusebius?’ said ‘J.S.’.

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  ‘You are good boy. It was a capital idea to bring those men here, and to contact me directly. We must provide our investigative colleagues with every opportunity to pursue this case, even if it means working with civilians.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have remembered everything that was said.’

  ‘Of course you have, but it is unnecessary. I heard and saw everything.’

  ‘But . . . when?’

  ‘Look there, Eusebius, at the painting of the hunting scene on the east wall. A fine rendering, is it not? But if you were to look closer at the undergrowth where the hounds forage for a fallen bird, you would see a small aperture with a larger one in the wall behind it. From that small room, I was able to observe all. It is why I suggested this property. The man who owns it likes to . . . well, never mind about that.’

  ‘Ingenious, sir.’

  ‘I knew that a man of your temperament would appreciate such a ruse. It is important, you see, that we at the Society know everything about this case.’

  ‘Could you not simply ask the policemen?’

  ‘Ah, you are too innocent! Men like Inspector Newsome dislike men such as we “intruding” in his work. He likes to keep the details to himself so that he may take all the glory when the case is solved. It is pure arrogance. Fortunately – thanks to you, Eusebius – we are now able to pursue the case ourselves. A solution is certain with more people investigating the case.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It is a curious case, is it not? You have heard all of the evidence – what do you make of it?’

  ‘I, sir? I am sure I have no idea.’

  ‘Come, now! That is not the Eusebius I know. I see your eyes and I know that all the information is being absorbed into that pretty head of yours. Tell me: what do you think happened in that room at Colliver’s coffee house?’

  ‘Well, it seems Mr Sampson embarked upon an adventure he was not prepared for. Too late, he decided he would like to change his mind, hence his “I cannot”. His fellows were angered and he was either pushed or jumped from the window. They subsequently fled.’

  ‘You are a clever boy. What of the girl?’

  ‘Which girl? She of Golden-square, or the one found dead that morning?’

  ‘My, you were listening very carefully! I refer to the one found dead.’

  ‘I cannot see any connection.’

  ‘Good. That is good. I believe the policemen are chasing a phantasm there.’

  ‘Sir . . . I admit that I am a little afraid . . .’

  ‘Afraid, my boy? Why ever is that?’

  ‘It seems that many people are dying who have a connection to this case. Mr Jessop, Mrs Colliver, Joseph the waterman . . .’

  ‘But you have no connection to the case, Eusebius. You did not hear or see the incident. Who do you think is killing these people?’

  ‘The men who were in the room with Mr Sampson.’

  ‘Who do you think those men might be?’

  ‘I . . . I really cannot guess.’

  ‘Working men, perhaps?’

  ‘Rather not. I believe the carriage they escaped in was their own. And the working man prefers gin to sherry.’

  ‘You are right, of course. What a young detective you are! I was right to choose you as my special observer. I do not want you to be afraid. We must endeavour to do everything in our power to bring these men to justice so that you need be afraid no longer. You will be instrumental in that.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You are to cease your partnership with Inspector New-some for the time being and pursue Mr Williamson. I sense that he is the finer investigator, and I think we both know that he knows more than he has told.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And Mr Dyson?’

  ‘He is no concern of yours. No – you should keep your hawk-like eyes upon Mr Williamson. Report to me all that he does.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Your place in Heaven is secure, Eusebius. You are truly an angel of righteousness in this wicked city of ours.’

  The second of our temporarily absent characters is, of course, Constable Cullen. It had been three days since he had once again reluctantly adopted the uniform of his rank and been ignominiously returned to L Division as a common beat policeman. At that moment where we left Inspector Newsome cogitating in his office, the constable was out alone upon the familiar streets. But where?

  Let us indulge ourselves and, in fancy, fly as a spirit over the city in search of him. It is dark and chilly. London is a tapestry of charcoal and ashes far below us, its larger streets illuminated with gas and a blanket of smoke lying over all as invisible millions gather round fires in their homes, or freeze to death on the open road. The river is a black serpent slithering inexorably through the desolation, countless ships’ masts harrowing the sky at the Thames Pool. But for the hopeless sigh of the upper air, there is silence on our flight.

  We descend through smoke and fly low along the frigid river, beneath the bridges – London, Southwark and Black-friars – until the nine graceful arches of Waterloo-bridge approach . . . and there he is, standing alone at its mid-point, looking east at the chimneys and spires against the sky.

  Within that top hat, and within that stately scull, Constable Cullen is perhaps recalling the interview that brought him to this point: that final briefing in the office of Inspector Newsome.

  ‘As you know, Constable, your time with the Detective Force has been a trial period. How do you think you have performed during this time?’

  ‘I have learned much, sir. We have searched the scene of a murder and questioned witnesses. I feel that I have begun to learn many of the skills of a detective.’

  ‘Your questioning of Mr Poppleton was not especially effective.’

  ‘The man was quite rude and obstructive, sir. He was mocking me.’

  ‘Indeed he was. But I’m sure you would find a drunken Irishman considerably ruder and more obstructive if you had to interrogate one. A detective must exhibit an unquestioned authority.’

  ‘Does this mean that I am not to remain with the Detective Force, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Constable Cullen. You are a fine policeman, but not for the Detective Force. I thought that perhaps you had learned from Mr Williamson, but I see now that it was your loyalty rather than your brain that he prized.’

  ‘Sir . . . I believe that with further experience I will—’

  ‘Well – that is all I have time for, Constable. You will return to L Division with my commendation on good work done. And you will speak to no one – absolutely no one at all – on the subject of this case. I am quite serious on this point. If I find that you have passed any information to Mr Williamson or his cohorts, I will see to it that you are thrown out of the police. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  So now the forlorn constable stood leaning on the parapet above the cold water, his breath steaming about him in the stillness. It would soon be dawn and time for him to return home to sleep. But not before his life had been changed irrevocably.

  A man was approaching from the north on the same side of the bridge that Constable Cullen stood
. Even from a distance the shadowy, top-hatted figure was tall and solidly built – a column of blackness even in the lamplight. The policeman assumed his full height and touched the truncheon at his side.

  And as the figure came nearer, it became clear that he was indeed a walking shadow: a Negro.

  ‘Hello, Ben!’ Constable Cullen immediately recognized Noah’s dark friend by his ghostly eye. The two formidable gentlemen exchanged a handshake that might have crushed the bones of lesser men. ‘How long is it since we worked on that case together with Mr Williamson?’

  Benjamin shrugged good-naturedly.

  ‘I will tell you, Ben: I miss those times. What I would not give for some real investigation. What brings you to . . . ? O, what is this?’

  Benjamin was holding out a letter to the policeman. Mr Cullen felt an anticipatory prickle of excitement across his neck and moved closer under a lamp that he might read more clearly.

  Dear Mr Cullen

  I understand that you have been working with Inspector Newsome on the Holywell-street case and that he has now returned you to the streets. That is his way. You may or may not know that I am also pursuing a solution to that case for my own personal reasons.

  I wonder if, on the strength of our former association, you might like to leave your tedious post there on the bridge and accompany Benjamin to a place where more details will be given and where you will be invited to contribute what you know as we pursue justice together once more.

  No doubt you are apprehensive about leaving your post, not least the consequences of doing so. All I can tell you in consolation is that if we find the solution, you need no longer worry about Inspector Newsome.

  George Williamson

  Constable Cullen was taken with rush of giddiness that he tried his best to conceal in front of Benjamin. It hardly seemed possible: Mr Williamson wanted his help on a case!

  ‘I am to go with you, Ben?’