The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘There is no need to fight, Benjamin . . .’ began Mr Williamson with the faintest tremor in his voice, but it was clear that a battle was inevitable. He looked towards the street door, which was now blocked by a couple of bearded mariners.

  Benjamin was the taller of the two combatants, but the Hercules facing him seemed a human wall. Both raised their fists in a practised gesture and moved around each other, their eyes reading for possible weakness and error. To Mr Williamson, it had the look of ritual, almost of dance. Was it too much to hope that they would find in their opposite an equal match and deign not to fight?

  Benjamin darted forward, his arm a blur, and landed a colossal blow upon the face of Hercules. The latter blinked dumbly, dropped his guard and seemed to wobble momentarily on his legs. A rivulet of blood emerged from his nose and ran down over his lips and chin. He shook his head like a dog. Then he raised his guard again and there was the merest trace of a smile.

  A tremendous roar of approval erupted from the massed drinkers – this would be a match to talk about for years to come.

  Benjamin nodded as if say: ‘Right – now I know what I am faced with.’ He rolled up his sleeves and set his jaw.

  Hercules let forth a bellow and rushed at Benjamin swinging a fist that would have floored a rhinoceros. Benjamin dodged the blow and swung a locomotive uppercut under the chin of his assailant.

  The crunch of jaw could be heard even over the din of the audience. Hercules spat out the shattered teeth with a spray of blood and wiped his chin on the back of his arm. Anger blazed in his eyes. He reached for the neck of a bottle on the bar and smashed it on the edge.

  ‘Ben!’ shouted Mr Williamson . . . but even as the word died between his lips, a handkerchief soaked in chloroform had been pressed over his mouth and he had been taken under the arms. As they dragged him from that room, his last sensation was the raucous crescendo of the barroom and the sound of toppling furniture.

  He awoke later – whether minutes or hours, he could not have said. The cacophony of the fight reverberated distantly through the building and he deduced that he was in a lower-floor room, perhaps at the back of the building. His eyes were blindfolded and his arms and legs were tied to a long, reclined sofa. Footsteps shuffled behind him and he heard indistinct voices muttering.

  ‘Well – Mr Williamson. It is time that we made each other’s acquaintance. You have been remarkably persistent in your endeavours.’

  The voice was an educated one, but corrupted in some way as if the speaker’s throat were damaged. He sounded older than the ‘young man’ being sought as the main suspect.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Mr Williamson, attempting to keep a level tone.

  ‘Who indeed? You are looking for a young man. I am not he.’

  ‘Hmm. Then you are his accomplice in the murder of Mr Sampson, and one of the men engaged in the apparent suicide of prostitutes with prussic acid.’

  There was a hurried muttering. Mr Williamson guessed from the sounds of this and their footfalls that there were perhaps four people standing behind him.

  ‘Your reputation as a detective is well deserved, sir. Unfortunately, you have concerned yourself with matters that have nothing to do with you. You are no longer a policeman – and thus your death is of less consequence.’

  ‘You murdered my wife Katherine.’

  Silence.

  ‘What are you talking about, Mr Williamson?’

  ‘Seven years ago at the Monument. She was pushed from the top. The verdict was suicide, but I smelled prussic acid on her lips. She did not kill herself.’

  Silence. More urgent whispering.

  ‘I . . . I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘What manner of cowards are you to hide there behind me? Why does only one of you speak? Are you afraid that I will identify your voices? Which one of you would I recognize if you spoke?’

  ‘I do admire your relentless search for a solution even as you face your end.’

  ‘Then show yourselves if I am to die. Allow me the courtesy of telling me the truth about Katherine before I rest with her in eternity.’

  ‘No – it is you who will be doing the talking, Mr Williamson. You are going to tell us everything you have discovered: every clue, every idea, every discussion with your colleague Mr Dyson – yes, we know of him also.’

  ‘He will kill you. He is bound by no moral or legal code.’

  ‘What a fanciful thought – and quite misplaced. Mr Dyson is no concern of ours.’

  ‘I will tell you nothing.’

  ‘We will see.’

  Mr Williamson was aware of footsteps at his side. He braced himself for a blow, but none came.

  Had he been able to see, he would have seen an emaciated Chinaman extracting a blob of tarry-looking matter from a brass box with a steel probe before holding it in a naked flame to soften. He could, however, smell it.

  ‘Opium.’

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps your tongue will be loosened by this sweet intoxication. Our Oriental host Hoo Chang will administer it as skilfully as any man can.’

  ‘I will tell you nothing.’

  The Chinaman worked methodically to apply the melted matter to the small aperture inside a pipe bowl. Then he positioned the long, elegant ebony mouthpiece near to Mr Williamson’s mouth and applied the bowl directly to the flame. When he was satisfied, he nodded to his masters.

  A burly bully in a fish-scented cap stepped alongside Mr Williamson and delivered a punch under his ribs that emptied all of the breath from the investigator. As he gasped, the pipe’s mouthpiece was forced between his teeth and that bully’s hand clasped the jaw shut, covering the nose, too, with a single meaty palm.

  Mr Williamson struggled for breath – struggled not to breathe. His face flushed red and a sweat broke out on his face, but he could withhold no longer. He inhaled deeply and the intoxicating smoke rushed into his lungs unhindered.

  He coughed. He spat. He writhed against his bonds. But the onslaught began again, and again, until three times thus he had breathed the sweet, oily taste into his lungs and into his blood.

  ‘It is a curious substance, is it not?’ spoke the damaged voice. ‘It must be treated with respect and taken in the right way. Smoking it is far preferable to eating it in my experience – the effect is stronger, and inhaling it is kinder on the stomach. Yes, I think you will appreciate the experience. You will recall elements of your past in the finest detail – things that had seemingly vanished forever. And you will tell us all we ask.’

  Mr Williamson coughed and coughed, straining wrists and ankles against the straps.

  ‘It is no use – you will not expunge it from your organism now. It is coursing around your body and will soon reach your brain. But do not worry – the dose is not fatal: just three grains. That should give you about five hours of delirium, I should expect. Now we will wait for the effect to take.’

  ‘What kind of man are you that would force a fellow human to absorb this poison?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘To what depth must one descend to become a monster such as you: a murderer, a sadist . . . ?’

  ‘You misunderstand. You should ask what heights must be attained to reach the perfection of knowledge that I have. One must pass beyond these mortal realms which chain us with false gods and hollow morality. Beyond those human bonds lies true immortality, Mr Williamson. You fear death, tied to that sofa there. You fear the blackness of the end, but you should approach it with ecstasy. It is the profoundest experience. To peer into that abyss, especially when . . . well, I will not waste my philosophy on you.’

  ‘Your death will be no ecstasy, sir. It will be on the end of a rope outside Newgate Gaol.’

  ‘How comical a thought! It is you who are tied down. The police are dancing to my tune and your Mr Dyson has an appointment with death mere hours hence . . . and you say it is I who will hang! Very good!’

  Mr Williamson fancied that his breathing had become more laboured and that he was hotter. Was it the drug, or w
as it his anger? Certainly he seemed to be preternaturally alert, his senses as acute as a dog. Doorways in his mind opened. Thoughts moved at an accelerated speed. The solution to the entire case appeared to flash in and out of his inner vision too quickly for him to see it. The names of Sampson, Colliver, Jessop, Joseph, James and Tunnock tumbled and coalesced.

  And for the first time, he seemed to smell lavender; he smelled creosote; he smelled almonds and some other sweet scent. He heard the fight continuing in the barroom, which meant Ben must still be alive. And he heard the muttering of those unseen witnesses to his ordeal. Was it a stretch of fancy to expect that he who murdered Mr Jessop and Mrs Colliver was also present . . . ?

  ‘Ah, I think you are feeling the effect, Mr Williamson. I see your nose sniffing and your ears twitching. Delicious is it not? Do you not feel more alive? You are no use to us in this condition, however. We will wait until you enter a more stuporous state before we make any enquiries.’

  ‘James Tattershall! Is it you standing there behind me? You are implicated in these crimes and you will hang. It was you leaving Colliver’s coffee house the night of Mr Sampson’s murder. You are the murderer of Mr Sampson, Mr Jessop, Mrs Colliver and old Joseph.’

  Silence.

  Black, gaping silence.

  In his hyperaware state, Mr Williamson fancied he could hear the very pocket watches in the room ticking and each individual’s breathing. Another door opened in his mind and another vision came to him apropos of no discernible stimulus. Was it a guess, or was it a foreknowledge born of intuition?

  ‘Eusebius Bean – are you the third man standing there? I see it all now ... I see it all despite this blindfold . . . Now – who is the fourth?’

  ‘I told you this was a bad idea!’ expostulated a new voice – in fact, not that of James, Eusebius or their master in the proceedings. This voice made no attempt at whispering. ‘I told you it could open his mind. I told you that he was no normal . . .’

  ‘Quiet!’ exploded the broken voice. ‘Congratulations Mr Williamson. You are everything people say of you, but whatever you think you know will leave this world tonight – all wasted. All I need to know is how many of these thoughts you have communicated to others, including Inspector Newsome.’

  ‘I . . . will . . . tell . . . you nothing . . . nothing.’

  What had been alertness just a matter of seconds ago was now becoming languor in the mind of Mr Williamson. His limbs took on a weight and warmth akin to being immersed in a deep bath, and the rapid flashes of thought within his fevered scull melted into pure sensation.

  He was there by Charlotte’s fireside in Golden-square, warmth permeating his coat . . . she was speaking but no sound came from her mouth . . . she was standing and moving over to where he sat, a smile on her pretty face . . . she was stroking his hair with cool fingers . . .

  ‘What have you told Inspector Newsome? What has Mr Dyson told you? Do you all know about James, about Eusebius?’

  . . . Charlotte became Katherine, his wife, sitting beside him at the fire and talking about her walks around the city. He saw her kindly face as he read to her ... he saw her walking beside him in the park . . .

  ‘Mr Williamson – tell us about the case. I believe that the inspector does not yet know about James. We are your friends . . .’

  ... he saw her atop the Monument amid the city smoke, her hair straggling from her bonnet in the breeze ... he saw three gentlemen with her there, their faces a blur, and a hand holding out a flask that she might take a tipple on that cold day ... he saw rough hands about her and saw the sky wheeling through her eyes as she went over the edge, the bitter taste of poison burning her tongue . . .

  ‘Mr Williamson! Mr Williamson? Can you hear me? . . . Hoo Chang – how much did you give him? He seems utterly insensible!’

  The Chinaman flinched and gazed at his feet.

  ... he saw himself a young policeman walking the streets, looking to the sky for the first trace of dawn and bridling at every unseen sound up every alley ... he saw bodies pulled sodden, pale and bloated from the river ... he saw a gaping throat opened by a razor ... he saw a fellow constable set upon by a group of drunken Irish and beaten to death with clubs ... he saw a two-headed girl wearing a dress soaked black with her own blood . . .

  ‘Look at his face,’ said that fourth, unidentified voice. ‘He is reliving some dark nightmares from his past.’

  ‘I told you to hush!’ shouted the fractured voice, sounding even hoarser now in its passion. ‘Mr Williamson! Mr Williamson? ... O, it is useless! The man’s pure heart has become quite stupefied at this chymical corruption. We will find our answers from the other one on Sunday. Let us leave this place with all haste. By the back entrance.’

  The three gentlemen made to leave. Their leader, the man with the damaged voice, merely nodded to the bully still standing beside the sofa. It was Mr Williamson’s death sentence.

  ... he saw himself in a balloon high over the city, his hands gripping the edge of the basket and peering down ... he jumped, falling through the freezing air, falling without fear towards the gas lit streets . . .

  The bully indicated with a jerk of his head that Hoo Chang should vacate the room, which he did, hurriedly, via the same door used by the three gentlemen. Then the be-capped ruffian extracted a razor from his inside jacket pocket and, without a trace of emotion, rested the blade’s edge against the fevered neck of Mr Williamson, whose veins throbbed conveniently at the surface in readiness for the slash . . .

  Then the interior connecting door crashed from its hinges with a shower of splinters.

  The bully’s razor fell to the ground with a clink.

  And the would-be murderer beheld a demon before him: an immense Negro glistening with sweat and blood, his hands and face lacerated, his clothing almost entirely ripped from his formidable torso, and his single functioning eye burning with a rage so terrifying that it set the bully’s legs a-quiver.

  As he bent to retrieve his razor, the bully was lifted off his feet by a punch that audibly cracked his scull and sent him almost through the wall.

  Benjamin picked up the razor and cut the bonds around Mr Williamson’s feet and hands. He ripped off the blindfold and picked up the investigator as if he had been no more than a toy, hoisting him over a shoulder and carrying him.

  . . . upside-down now – and through viscous haze – he saw the sofa where he had lain, the opium-smoking apparatus and the inert body next to it ... he saw the trail of destruction that Benjamin had wrought on his rampage through the building . . . he saw the barroom littered with groaning and unconscious bodies, blood splattered across walls and smeared in great arcs over the glass-strewn wooden floor ... he saw the body of that huge Hercules lying by the door . . .

  ... he smelled the night air: smoky, cold and putrid . . . and he knew he was home.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The funeral obsequies of the late George Williamson, previously Detective Sergeant in the Metropolitan Police, took place at eight o’clock this morning. His remains were interred beside those of his departed wife Katherine at the Spa Fields burial ground, attended by Inspector Albert Newsome and constables who had known him. He leaves no family.

  Noah Dyson folded the newspaper and smiled. He looked across at Mr Williamson, who was quite alive, albeit still somewhat fragile after the events of two nights ago. The scene was the reception room of Mr Allan’s residence, Mr Allan being a retired policeman and guardian of a house that was used by the Detective Force for covert meetings, for housing vulnerable witnesses and for divers other purposes that should not be known to anyone outside that investigative fraternity. Also present were Inspector Newsome, Mr Cullen and a heavily bandaged Benjamin.

  After the briefest – and most sparingly honest – of summaries about their respective activities over the previous days, an uneasy silence had settled as the gathered gentlemen waited for Mr Allan to bring the tea up from the kitchen.

  Mr Newsome was glaring at Mr Cullen, who
was studiously avoiding the gaze by looking into the healthy fire in the grate. Mr Williamson, who had been suffering from a greater than usual thirst, was sipping water from a glass and cogitating upon his own death, looking occasionally at his previous superior for any clues to what he might have learned. Benjamin picked at the coverings of his multiple wounds and awaited the confabulatory fireworks.

  A knock at the street door interrupted the silence: three raps of the brass knocker. All of the men registered the sound, but none stood.

  ‘I believe it is the letter carrier,’ said Mr Cullen to break the awkward hiatus.

  ‘No – the letter carrier knocks only twice. That is their habit and it does not vary,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘It will be a tradesman of some kind.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The tradesman goes first to the kitchen and rings the bell. This is likely some irregular tradesman: an upholsterer or glazier – or a delivery boy, perhaps.’

  ‘An interesting assumption,’ said Noah, ‘but the delivery boy tends to bang clumsily a number of times at the knocker in his enthusiasm about being away from the shop. This has the sound of a practised hand – someone used to knocking on doors. An older person.’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Mr Newsome, ‘I disagree. The knocking was brief, but not particularly loud, which would suggest a timidity associated with someone not used to knocking on doors.’

  ‘Unless, of course, the person on the step is a short person, a boy, perhaps, who has to reach up to the knocker and cannot therefore exert the force of a taller person,’ said Mr Williamson.

  Mr Cullen struggled in vain for something to add and looked over at Benjamin, who was grinning at the game.

  ‘Might it not be a woman in that case?’ said Noah. ‘The female hand does not like to rap loudly but has a gentle touch. Perhaps she is here to interview for a position.’

  ‘In which case, she would call at the kitchen,’ said Mr Newsome.

  ‘Unless she knew Mr Allan employs no cook and that she would have to use the street door to gain his attention,’ said Mr Williamson.