The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  Benjamin nodded.

  ‘Just leave my post this moment and not return? Just walk away and forget about my duty to the Metropolitan Police that I have served for three years?’

  Benjamin nodded.

  ‘I see . . . Then let us not waste another moment!’ And the two men headed north across the bridge, a muscled Negro arm around the shoulders of the constable, who blathered on with sufficient effusion that Benjamin need do nothing but smile.

  NINETEEN

  It was just after dawn on that same day as Mr Williamson and Noah Dyson sat in a fireside nook within the smoky confines of Dick’s coffee house on Fleet-street, just a short distance from that eminent arch where they had so recently been re-acquainted. The former was in a state of some agitation.

  ‘We must go immediately to the Continental Club – with the inspector if necessary – and arrest this man James Tattershall: he with the distinctive laugh.’

  ‘Wait, George – do not be so ready to put on your coat. Let us consider everything that we know before acting precipitously.’

  ‘There is nothing precipitous about it – our murderer is a member of that club. Or at least he knows who it is – perhaps this Major Tunnock.’

  ‘We know nothing of the sort. There is a young man with a strange laugh. Perhaps he is our man – perhaps not. The prudent path is for me to arrange another meeting once I have made a more thorough study of this tract they gave me. I have been invited to do so by Major Tunnock. That is the occasion when we might learn more and strike.’

  ‘You ask me to wait as a murderer walks free?’

  ‘The deaths of Mr Jessop and Joseph tell us that they already know of our investigation, and yet they do not hide. Evidently, they do not fear us. They are not running.’

  ‘Hmm. What of this tract?’

  ‘I have read it through once. It is poor sort of amateur philosophy on the nature of erotic transgression. What is of more pertinence is that the gentlemen at the club clearly have something to hide – something that, as we have suspected, is of a morally dubious nature and may connect a number of crimes. I believe they might tell me more in a private place – particularly if they thought they could lure me there with the promise of information.’

  ‘A trap, then.’

  ‘No doubt, but we will be ready for it. If these are the men who were in the room with Mr Sampson, they have already demonstrated they will stop at nothing to preserve their freedom. We must proceed with all caution.’

  ‘I would like to take this fellow James from the street and question him. Arrest him if necessary.’

  ‘With what effect, George? Now you are thinking like Inspector Newsome. James is rich and knows powerful men. He will tell us nothing and will obtain a powerful legal counsel. But perhaps if I can talk to him in his own environment, among his fellows, he will give something more away, even inadvertently.’

  ‘Our murderer is frustratingly close.’

  ‘Indeed, but there is still no connection with your wife in sight. Tell me more about your excursion to Clerkenwell. Benjamin has told me about “Freepass”. What is it?’

  ‘I have no idea. A person? A place? I have never heard the name in any context. Is it two words or one?’

  ‘Can you be sure that the boy was not coached to tell you the word? It seems odd for him to identify, or even know, such a term so precisely.’

  ‘Of course, I have considered the possibility. But a distraction is of equal importance to a truth if seen from the correct perspective.’

  ‘Quite. Perhaps your Constable Cullen will be able to tell us more if Benjamin has been able to lure him away from his duties.’

  ‘I hope so. I would prefer to solve the case without meeting Mr Newsome again.’

  The coffee house was now filling with men on their way to work. Chill air flooded in across the floor each time the door opened, and trade was brisk as they hurriedly drank their steaming beverages before rushing to their futile labour. One hundred years hence, all their efforts would be ash – vanished and insignificant, unless they were writers.

  A familiar Negro figure appeared at the window, accompanied by an almost equally burly police constable – Mr Cullen. They entered the coffee house and made their way through the throng to where Mr Williamson and Noah sat.

  ‘Constable Cullen – welcome and thank you for coming,’ said Mr Williamson, standing and shaking the policeman’s hand.

  ‘Sir – it is an honour to be invited to work with you and Mr Dyson once again. And Ben, of course.’

  ‘You need not call me “sir”. And please sit down – you are attracting attention.’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . I mean Mr Williamson.’

  ‘Constable – I also extend my thanks,’ said Noah. ‘You have done a brave thing leaving your position. You may be confident that I will cover whatever wages you lose.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dyson. But I would gladly work with you gentlemen for no money at all.’

  ‘Hmm. As you may know, the case at hand is the Holywell-street murder of Mr Jonathan Sampson,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘We have spoken with Inspector Newsome about what he has learned, but this information has taken us no closer to a solution.’

  ‘Are you working with the inspector, sir?’

  ‘Certainly not. Our conversation was not voluntary; it was more a crossing of paths.’

  ‘Why this Holywell-street case? Are you in competition with the Detective Force?’

  ‘We will come to that in a moment. First, we need to know what he did not tell us. I understand you accompanied him in his initial investigations. Did that include a search of the room Mr Sampson fell from?’

  ‘It did. There was little to find: some glasses, the open window, a blonde hair on one of the beds. The inspector seemed rather at a loss.’

  ‘A blonde hair you say?’

  ‘Yes . . . did he not mention it?’

  ‘He did not. I suspect there are many other things he did not deign to mention. Constable – I want you to cast your mind back to that room and see it once more in your mind. Close your eyes if need be. What is there that a detective might notice especially? What is amiss? What evidence is left there by the departing criminals? What do you see?’

  ‘Let me think . . . it is cold on account of the window . . . I see the four glasses . . . the looking glass is smeared as if a hand or face has touched it . . . O, and there is that strange smell: sweet like a flower or something else . . . perhaps it is the orange . . .’

  ‘What orange?’ said Noah.

  ‘The orange I found in the chamber pot beneath the bed in the room – or at least the seeds and pith of one. No peel. Inspector Newsome seemed to think it unimportant so I did not pursue the matter.’

  ‘Are you sure it was an orange?’ said Noah with a curious look.

  ‘I suppose so. But the seeds were all chewed up and almost dry.’

  ‘And was that the smell identified on entering?’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘Perhaps. Though I suppose those few seeds would not leave such a strong scent on their own. It could have been . . . well, it could almost have been sweet almond. I have smelled candles scented thus as I pass certain shops.’

  ‘Constable . . . Mr Cullen – do you think that you were able to smell lavender also in that room, or some other floral scent?’ said Noah.

  ‘Lavender? Perhaps . . . it was very faint, but there was a floweriness to it.’

  ‘You are critical to our case,’ said Noah. ‘You are perhaps the only living person who has smelled the killer or killers. We must identify these scents and in some way use that knowledge to take us closer. You are to remain alive at all costs.’

  Mr Cullen could barely restrain his smile. He was ‘critical’ to a criminal case of George Williamson.

  ‘There is one more thing . . . I do not know if it is important . . .’

  ‘Speak up, Mr Cullen,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Everything is important in its way.’

  ‘Well, when we visited the shop o
f Mr Poppleton, the publisher said to the inspector: “Don’t I give your men enough to leave me alone . . . ?” I wondered what he meant by that, but I did not dare ask Mr Newsome.’

  ‘That is most interesting,’ said Noah. ‘We will have to look into it.’

  ‘So what is next? Where do we go now?’ said the delighted ex-constable.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Noah. ‘There is a man I have heard of who might be able to help.’

  The four gentlemen left the coffee house shortly thereafter, heading west. In their enthusiasm, they must not have noticed the rather plain-faced fellow who had been watching them across the smoky room the whole time. Indeed, he seemed so bland and unobtrusive that he might well have been a coat stand. But shortly after they exited, he was not far behind.

  As they make their way west, let us fill the interim in a thoughtful and soon-to-be relevant manner. Let us consider insanity.

  What is it that renders a man mad? Could it be some chymical imbalance in his brain – a cerebral shifting of ballast? Is it a cataclysmic assault of fate like the loss of a child? Or is it passed from parent to child along with similarities of appearance? Perhaps the city itself – with its relentless, maddening din and inescapable press of crowding humanity – is enough to push a man to the limit of his patience and reduce him year by year to a broken vessel. Certainly, there are those among us who, downtrodden by debt, hunger, despair and the nagging duty of a novel, have stood at the edge of a bridge and looked into the black waters as the only salve to a hopeless life.

  Some take their lives; others break. And for those of means, there is the private asylum, where one may be hidden from society by solicitous parents and coaxed gradually back to a semblance of normality. No mere hospitals these, but islands of calm and care where the sensitive sons of the wealthy may be nursed and attended to by physicians who apply the very latest medical thought to rebalancing the mind.

  The particularly handsome villa on Albert-road in the environs of Primrose-hill could well have been a private residence. Its large rear garden was hidden discreetly from view by a tall hedge, although the views from the ten bedrooms looked out magnificently over Regents-park and the adjacent countryside. There was a spacious dining room and a number of drawing rooms, but this was not a family home – it was Doctor Norwood’s Private Asylum for Gentlemen.

  As Noah, Mr Williamson, Benjamin and Mr Cullen approached the door, there was no brass plaque to announce the property’s function, nor indeed any outward clue whatsoever. Noah knew of the place only because he had recently started to deliver small quantities of his fine opium to the surgery. The stories told about the inhabitants by the staff had intrigued him greatly, as well they might.

  For their part, Mr Williamson and Mr Cullen did their best to mask any apprehension they felt, for let us remember that lunacy is often looked upon with the same kind of fear afforded to cholera or consumption – as if proximity to it might cause infection. At the very least, it is humbling to see the fragility of one’s fellow man: his body sound, but his mind broken and jagged in pieces before one.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ said Doctor Norwood, the bespectacled, grey-haired gentleman who opened the door and beckoned them into the airy hallway.

  ‘I thank you greatly for allowing us admittance,’ said Noah. ‘I know that you do not normally accept visiters.’

  ‘Quite, quite. It would upset the gentlemen greatly to see strangers too often. Routine is their greatest ally on the path back to health. But I am happy to make a rare allowance for one of our favoured suppliers.’

  Mr Williamson frowned at the ‘suppliers’ comment, but did not pursue it. ‘You surprise me, doctor. Is not routine in itself sometimes a kind of obsessive behaviour?’

  ‘Ah, very perceptive, sir! You are quite right. We discourage our gentlemen from pursuing that which plagues them and instead direct their attentions to a fresh endeavour that the diseased part of the mind might be relaxed. Thus, a man who compulsively sings might be encouraged instead to write poetry or make wooden models. In time, the mind might forget that it was ill and the man might one day sing without fixation.’

  ‘Is it true that a man may believe himself to be Jesus Christ?’ asked Mr Cullen.

  ‘Well, that is rather the common view promoted in certain newspapers. I believe they do have a Christ at Bethlem, and I think I am correct in saying that there are three Dukes of Wellington in London alone. It is rather an undistinguished form of lunacy that does not trouble my gentlemen. The educated mind is, in many ways, more prone to inexplicable madness. It feeds upon itself and becomes quite lost . . . but wait – here is one of the men now.’

  A tall and immaculately attired man walked down the stairs towards them. He had the lofty forehead and thin features of the high born. As he arrived at the bottom, he made a little bow to the visiters. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. A wonderful day today, is it not?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ replied Doctor Norwood. ‘Are you going to the garden for recreation?’

  ‘Yes, doctor. I am painting the oak tree. In watercolours this time.’

  ‘Excellent. Do not let us keep you, and remember to wear your coat – it is quite cold.’

  Mr Williamson watched the man take a coat from a stand and exit a door to the garden. ‘He seems completely normal to me, doctor.’

  ‘That is the mystery of the mind, sir. A man might function entirely normally in every other sphere of his life but become a maniac at the tone of a bell or the sight of a clock. Indeed, that very man came to us with a morbid fear of losing time – he carried as many as fourteen pocket watches and checked them perhaps two hundred times a day. Now we must not let him see a single clock or think about time at all. He has his lunch at four in the afternoon if it pleases him. He has celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday for the last three years.’

  ‘Are your patients not dangerous?’ asked Mr Cullen.

  ‘If you mean violent – no, not at all. Though they can be passionate in their speech. The only danger we face is that all of the gentlemen are highly intelligent and skilled at dissimulation. In many cases, they spent years hiding their infirmity from those around them. Only last month, one of our gentlemen almost escaped by pretending to a visiter that he was me. All doors are locked in the evenings.’

  ‘Do they receive Christian learning?’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘There is a sermon morning and evening for those of the inclination, but we have found that a number of our gentlemen find the notion of the Resurrection a greater insanity than anything affecting their own brains. The Lord to them is just a quaint lunacy.’

  ‘Does not the fool sometimes speak a profounder truth than a king?’ said Noah, as much to himself as the others.

  Mr Williamson scowled and Doctor Norwood concealed a smile.

  ‘What can you tell us of Aubrey Alsthom, doctor?’ said the former.

  ‘Yes, yes – the reason for your visit. Let us go to my office for a moment.’

  The doctor led them to a small study with a solid wooden desk by the window and an array of comfortable seats. A fire blazed comfortingly in the grate. The gentlemen sat, Doctor Norwood at his desk.

  ‘Aubrey is a highly unusual case. His parents brought him to us a few months ago with a chronic case of monomania that manifested itself in astonishing feats of memory. Aubrey had managed to absorb around ten years of the Times newspaper and could recall a single word at a moment’s notice, even if that word occurred on relatively few occasions. If one were to ask him a more common word such as “street”, he would go into a state of paralysis as he attempted to recall every instance. Laudanum was the only way calm him.’

  ‘So I presume he is now permitted no access to a newspaper,’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘Quite right, quite right. He is not even permitted a book. Rather, he has taken to working wood with small knives. Quite a beautiful chess set he has made. Of course, we take the knives from him each evening so they cannot fall into the wrong hands.’
>
  ‘Doctor Norwood – you have my received my letter on this subject and you know what we propose to do. You have kindly acceded to the request, but I must ask once again: will it harm Aubrey or hinder his treatment?’ said Noah.

  ‘I fear it will agitate him, but if we limit the session to less than thirty minutes, I hope he will be unaffected. I understand that his help in this case might lead to the capture of a murderer, and I am keen to lend any assistance I can. In addition, this may be a useful opportunity for me to see how much he has healed in these past weeks. However, and I must be firm on this point – if I see that Aubrey is in danger of a paralytic episode, I will call everything to a halt and give him the laudanum.’

  ‘Of course, doctor,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘How should we question him? Is there a particular method?’

  ‘Indeed. Indeed. The process is highly specific. You must say to him “Search for . . .” and add the word or phrase you wish to locate in the volumes of his memory. But a warning: it must be a word that is likely to be relatively uncommon. Consider carefully what context you are seeking within and avoid generalities. Wherever possible, provide another word that might appear in juxtaposition with the one you seek. Thus “Victoria” will raise numerous occurrences, but “Victoria-street, Lambeth” will limit the search. He will think for a moment and then begin to reel off a list of matches in chronological order.’

  ‘May we interrupt?’ said Noah.

  ‘Yes – indeed, it is advised. His responses tend to be breathless effusions, so say “Stop!” quite firmly and he may be able to provide more detail on the most recent utterances. Miss your cue, however, and you will have to begin again.’

  ‘How accurate is he?’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘Unerringly so. Once, at the start of his stay, we obtained an old edition of the Times and chose a suitably unique phrase. He identified the day and the month and the passage within moments. Shall we go to meet him?’

  Doctor Norwood led his visiters towards the door where the chronologically fixated young man had earlier exited and they proceeded to the garden, which, though quite chilly, was populated with half a dozen young men engaged in a variety of improving pastimes. The aforementioned gentleman was indeed painting the oak tree from his position on the lawn; another was carefully attending to an area of shrubs; still another was engaged in drawing birds that settled in the naked branches above the garden.