The Vice Society

by James McCreet

  ‘It could be an entirely mistaken call . . .’ ventured Mr Cullen, aware now that he was entering a highly skilled arena.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Noah. ‘We must always consider the arbitrary and random. Perhaps the caller has confused the house with one on the opposite side of the street and knocks so lightly because he is unsure of the address – especially this particular address.’

  ‘The chance callers to this address are few,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Indeed, you will have noticed there is no number appended to the door.’

  ‘Let us settle this once and for all,’ said Noah. ‘Ben – will you go and answer the door?’

  Benjamin stood with a grimace and walked to the corridor. They heard him open the street door then close it. He appeared again in the reception room and made a brief hand signal to Noah.

  ‘Whoever it was, they evidently tired of our procrastination,’ said Noah. ‘There was nobody on the step.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr Williamson.

  There was a rattle of crockery and Mr Allan entered carrying a tray. The ex-policeman was about fifty years old with prematurely greying hair and a slight limp from an injury gained while on duty.

  ‘Was that someone knocking at the street door?’ he asked, laying the tray on a low table in the centre of the room.

  ‘It was nobody,’ said Inspector Newsome. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mr Allan, but I must now ask you to leave us to speak in private.’

  The venerable host, who was accustomed to such meetings, left the room without comment and the four gentlemen again began their mutual examinations.

  ‘Well, then – I will begin if nobody else will venture to do so,’ said Inspector Newsome. ‘Are we to believe for a moment that this spurious funeral Mr Dyson had me arrange is going to convince anyone of Mr Williamson’s death?’

  ‘They left him with a razor at his throat and had no reason to believe his death sentence was not carried out,’ said Noah. ‘I had the body of the bully removed that same evening and I suspect he will not be missed for a day or two. Besides, the notice has appeared in the Times. Nobody knows the truth but the people in this room, and people believe what they like to think is true, especially if it is corroborated.’

  ‘What was in the coffin?’ said the inspector.

  ‘Earth approximating my weight,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘They would have to exhume the box to know for sure that I am not in it.’

  ‘Well, it seems rather an elaborate hoax for very little discernible benefit.’

  ‘The merest advantage is still an advantage, Inspector,’ said Noah. ‘The illusion need last only two more days. In that time, we will have our solution . . . or be dead.’

  ‘Let us hope it is the former. Now – we have all been following paths towards the solution of this infernal mystery and I have no doubt that we have all made discoveries. I wonder if we can all fully share these discoveries on the understanding that together we may hold the answer. This puzzle needs every single piece before it will show the final image.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Noah. ‘But you will earn our trust by beginning with yourself.’

  ‘Earn your trust, Mr Dyson? I do not aspire to those lofty heights. Nevertheless, I will begin with something that may pertain particularly to Mr Williamson here. You may not have read of it in the newspapers, but another girl has been found – apparently a suicide with prussic acid. She was a dollymop.’

  ‘Why would that “pertain” particularly to me?’ asked Mr Williamson.

  ‘Because her name was Nelly Jones. You interviewed her at Milton-street ten days ago.’

  ‘I did indeed, and make no attempt to deny it. It was Mendicity Society business. Are you implying a connection of some kind? I see none.’

  ‘Only the anonymous note I received advising me that you had spoken to the girl. Evidently somebody wants me to make a connection. Could you think who?’

  ‘I cannot. Frankly, I am more and more convinced that there is a crowd of people behind this case who are observing our every move. That is something that you, more than any of us, should know.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, George?’

  ‘Come now, Inspector – will you have us believe that Mr Eusebius Bean has not been spying on almost every development in the investigation? From the moment I saw him in that opulent house at St James’s, I knew him as a spy. And I have the feeling that he has been near to me for some days past – a curious sense of being observed.’

  ‘All right, Mr Williamson – I will admit that I, too, have come to that conclusion in recent days. It explains almost all that has happened: how they have been able to follow movements so closely. Eusebius was imposed upon me, but now he has vanished.’

  ‘Who are “they” – the people who follow?’ said Noah.

  ‘That is the question, is it not? I questioned Mr Poppleton in his gaol cell – the same one at Giltspur-street, incidentally, that once held you, Mr Dyson – and he said that “they” would kill him. He preferred internment to divulging their identities.’

  ‘I repeat: who are “they”?’

  ‘It seems they are wealthy. I would guess that Mr Dyson is going to tell us that they are connected to the Continental Club.’

  ‘Let me say what everyone is thinking,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘The Society for the Suppression of Vice.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ said Inspector Newsome with a sigh. ‘Proving that, however, will be problematic. Eusebius, as I say, has vanished. He is no doubt watching one or all of us on behalf of his paymasters. Who knows what he has told them?’

  ‘Well, his observation will cease if I observe him first,’ said Noah.

  ‘We are getting away from my original point,’ said the inspector. ‘What do the death of Nelly and that letter contribute to our investigation? Who else knew that you visited her, George?’

  ‘The Secretary of the Mendicity Society, of course. And anyone who had my notes on the case. And Harold Jute, of course – a young man who was spending time at the Society to please his father.’

  ‘“Harold”, you say?’ said Noah. ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Tall, slim, sandy hair, a prominent Adam’s apple . . .’

  ‘Then I have most likely met the man. I was introduced to a Harold at the Continental Club. He appeared as you have described – and he was clearly part of that group surrounding a certain Major Tunnock: a lecherous old soldier.’

  ‘My G—!’ said Mr Cullen, seeing his chance. ‘Do you think that “they” put him alongside you at that early stage because they thought you would investigate?’

  ‘Why would Mr Williamson investigate if he was not even part of the Detective Force?’ said Mr Newsome with derision. ‘And while we are about it, why is Constable Cullen at this meeting? I know he has chosen to throw away his long years of service for some phantasy as a detective, but I see no benefit in having him here.’

  ‘Mr Cullen has provided important information on the case that you saw fit not to mention last time we met,’ said Noah. ‘We can trust him.’

  ‘I see. I see. Well, perhaps it was this Mr Jute who sent the note to me, though I cannot see why . . . Mr Williamson – you look as if you are about to have a thought . . .’

  ‘When I was constrained at the Murder’d Moor, I heard two distinct voices. One of them was a gargled, broken noise I did not recognize. The other . . . the other now seems familiar to me. I was perhaps not listening attentively at that point, but it seems clear now. I believe it was . . . Harold Jute.’

  ‘So we have tentatively identified one of who “they” are,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘The rest are likely to be of that group around the major. We must act quickly.’

  ‘Wait. Let us not be too precipitous in our actions,’ said Noah. ‘I have made arrangements to meet the major and his friends at a private residence on Sunday. That will be an opportunity to see who is part of the group and present our case to them.’

  ‘It is a trap, of course – as obviously as Freepass-alley was to Mr Willi
amson. They will try to kill you as surely as they tried with him. Did they not make that clear?’

  ‘Ah, but they did kill Mr Williamson, Inspector – or so they should think after our excellent ruse. No – I will go to my rendezvous and you will be waiting to swoop upon the party. We already know that these men are too well protected to be arrested in their conventional lives. Perhaps if can catch them in flagrante delicto, we will have a case from which even they cannot escape.’

  ‘You walk willingly into danger, Mr Dyson.’

  ‘On the contrary. Once you have them in custody, they will be reluctant to tell you anything you cannot prove. If they think they have me in their trap, they may tell me what I need to know.’

  ‘All right – we can talk about that later. Now I want to hear more about Mr Williamson’s narcotic flight of fancy and who the owner of that damaged voice was.’

  ‘There is nothing remotely amusing about it, I can assure you, Inspector. I might have been killed but for Benjamin’s intervention.’

  Benjamin nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘Yes, yes – but who was the older man? Was it this Major Tunnock?’

  ‘No,’ said Noah. ‘We have discussed it and the two men have quite different voices and turns of phrase. I have an entirely different theory . . . but I see from Mr Cullen’s agitation that he has something to say. Yes, Mr Cullen?’

  ‘Sirs, I went out west as we agreed and attempted to find girls who knew of Lou: the murdered prostitute with a newly acquired benefactor. One girl – whose testimony I believed – told me that the gentleman in question was old, ugly and had health problems that affected his skin. What if those health problems also affected his voice—?’

  ‘What nonsense! It could be anyone at all!’ scoffed Mr Newsome.

  ‘In fact, Mr Cullen’s report is actually rather interesting,’ said Noah, ‘as it has been since he began cooperating with us. Let me suggest some words to you, Inspector, and see what you make of them: lavender, almond, and creosote or coal tar.’

  ‘Am I a lady to know about such things? Make your point, Mr Dyson.’

  ‘Joseph the waterman told us he smelled lavender and coal tar when he encountered the murderers face to face. Both he and Mr Cullen have alluded to other scents they could not immediately place.’

  ‘What? There were others at the scene of the crime? You told me nothing of this at our last meeting!’

  ‘And you withheld facts of your own. If we had told you, Eusebius Bean would also have found out. Fortunately, Mr Cullen was able to tell us that he smelled lavender in the room Mr Sampson fell from. It was our strongest clue, and our recent researches have led us to believe that these scents – as scents often do – cover something far more unsavoury.’

  ‘You have centre stage, Mr Dyson. I await your soliloquy. But I expect to hear everything.’

  ‘In my time at the library, I did a little medical research. I found that sores of the mouth are often treated with tincture of myrrh and scented with jasmine. Lavender is used as an emollient in treatments to soothe the skin – as is creosote and almond oil, particularly on the scalp. Together, these scents account for those alluded to by our witnesses, along with the unidentified ones: jasmine and myrrh are relatively uncommon and not generally known.’

  ‘So what are you telling me – that our “broken-voiced man” is unhealthy? I think we might have guessed that.’

  ‘More than that, Inspector. Certainly, Mr Cullen’s tale of a man with skin problems is pertinent (especially coming from acquaintances of Lou), but I believe there is more to infer from this particular combination of medicaments. Are you familiar with the mercury cure, Inspector?’

  ‘Not personally, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘I am glad for you. The man who ingests large quantities of mercury develops mouth sores. His condition, when advanced, will cause his hair to fall out and his skin to be covered in sores. There is also a strong likelihood that his face will be scarred with cicatrices if he has had the condition for long.’

  ‘Syphilis.’

  ‘Indeed – all of the evidence points to our man having an advanced stage of the disease. If he is someone of note as we suspect, this might explain his relative invisibility and why I did not see anyone of this appearance at the club. Nobody likes to advertise that their very organism is rotting from the inside. Without those perfumed oils and soothing balms, his breath would be a blast from the grave and his skin a permanently suppurating sheath to a rotting body.’

  ‘You paint a graphic picture, Mr Dyson. But are we any closer? You suggest we are looking for an important man with syphilis – there must dozens in the city, all of them no doubt reclusive.’

  ‘There is more. If this is the same gentleman who killed Lou, and the same that questioned Mr Williamson, our Mr Cullen has learned from a prostitute that he enjoyed giving and receiving a beating at his place. Not only that, but he encouraged his fellows to watch. What if this was the scenario at Colliver’s coffee house that night? What if Mr Sampson’s shouts of “I cannot” related to his inhibitions in this case?’

  ‘Your reasoning is full of “what ifs”, Mr Dyson.’

  ‘You say so, but my individual research has offered more evidence in favour of it. My conversations with the gentlemen at the club (and I include my brief talk with Mr Poppleton) have suggested that the group favours the more extreme varieties of sexual endeavour. Indeed, they gave me a tract that seemed to describe their philosophy. You will note who the publisher is.’

  Noah handed the tract to Inspector Newsome, whose face took on an expression of distaste as he read the first lines. He folded it and handed it back.

  ‘Interesting. But what do we do without a name? His fellows – if they are his fellows – are unlikely to offer his identity.’

  ‘Ah, that is where I have more information,’ said Noah. ‘Although the girl Mr Cullen spoke to did not know where the gentleman lived, you will recall that Charlotte told Mr Williamson about how the dead girls had visited certain charities for girls of their profession, and that their deaths were connected in some way?’

  ‘Yes. An improbable suggestion.’

  ‘Perhaps. Purporting to be a wealthy manufacturer looking for a suitable recipient of my munificence, I wrote letters to the secretaries of these charities asking for lists of their major benefactors and supporters in order that I could be sure they were respectable and deserving of my own considerable charity.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Here are the replies: lists of some our most notable men and women. I have no doubt you recognize many of the names. But only one name appears on every list as a prominent supporter of “fallen women”. I have circled it as you see.’

  ‘Sir John Smythe.’

  ‘Precisely. He is also a senior sponsor of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, though I cannot say I have heard the name before.’

  ‘Nor I, though I find myself oddly unsurprised at the Vice Society connection. What does it prove that he is on the charitable lists of these bodies?’

  ‘It proves that Charlotte was telling the truth,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Or, at least, that the truth can be found somewhere in this web of unlikely coincidence. True – we still do not know why these murders are being disguised as such, unless it is somehow part of the unholy philosophy outlined in that tract.’

  ‘I am afraid to admit that George is right,’ said Noah. ‘All we have is coincidence at present. We could locate and speak to this John Smythe, but I suspect he currently feels confident in his anonymity. We might guess at the others involved, but we are supposed to know nothing about him. I suggest we keep it that way for the time being. Instead, tell us what you have discovered, Inspector.’

  ‘With so much untruth and subterfuge going on, I admit that I am as baffled as you—’

  ‘Enough of that! What has the case of poor Nelly shown you about this case?’

  ‘All right. Her body was found with an empty glass nearby. It smelled of gin and
prussic acid. The cause of death was poisoning. Sexual activity had taken place.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmm,’ intoned Mr Williamson with a sombre air.

  ‘I suppose that you see another connection with those girls and Katherine, George, but what possible connection can there be? Katherine’s death was a fall; these are not. That death was years ago; these are much more recent.’

  ‘We will come to that in a moment,’ said Noah. ‘In the meantime, Mr Cullen has told us about the chewed seeds he found. You might have dismissed them at the time, but I suspect you have revisited that clue as the only one you have. Have they been found on other girls?’

  ‘Another betrayal from Constable Cullen. I see. Well, in fact, the body of Nelly also had seeds in the mouth. I have made enquiries and I must say that my findings have been most enlightening. The fruit in question is not an orange, as Constable Cullen thought, but—’

  ‘A pomegranate,’ said Noah.

  ‘Yes. I see you have done your own research. But did you also discover that in ancient mythology a number of these seeds were consumed by Proserpine . . . also known to the Greeks as—’

  ‘Persephone,’ said Noah.

  ‘Well . . . we have the same information, but where does it get us? Are we any closer to the Persephone of that letter? Are we any closer to the death of Katherine? Are we any closer to finding our syphilitic villain, or discerning the reason for these deaths of prostitutes? Do we know why Mr Sampson leaped from the window, and who the mysterious young man was? No – we know none of those things.’

  ‘Perhaps . . . and perhaps not. Joseph the waterman told us something else that we have not revealed to you – most likely the thing that led to his death. He heard an unmistakable laugh coming from that room after Mr Sampson fell. Inspector – I have heard that laugh . . . at the Continental Club. It belonged to one of Tunnock’s group.’

  ‘Then we must go there immediately and arrest the man.’

  ‘For having a distinctive laugh? You have already said that these men will not talk to policemen. Let us assume for the time being that he will be there at my meeting – the trap – with Major Tunnock. Of more relevance at this moment is how we locate Persephone that we may discover more about the connection to Katherine. What have you got, Inspector?’