Honor's Kingdom

by Parry, Owen

  I tried to tell myself the deed might have been done even had I not been sent to England, that the crime might have been an action foreordained. But I could not believe it. The human beast who had done this thing had started out to send that hand to me, but the doing had only sparked his sickly appetites. And he had feasted on the child’s misery. It could not be denied, though: I had been the reason why the killer raised his hand, although I still could not see through the purpose.

  I felt a certain weight of blame upon me.

  How could a human do such a thing and still walk upright among us? He should be down crawling in gutters and shrieking in horror. He should . . . but let that bide. I fear I am an insufficient Christian. For there are things I never can forgive.

  Oh, how I wanted to find the man—or the men—who had done this murder. And yet, I wondered, what if that was their purpose? To divert me? To bait me with a child’s death, to distract me from a war and secret plots?

  Why not just kill me and be done with it?

  He knew me, see, the one who killed that boy. He knew me better than reason said he could. The killer, or killers, whoever that might be, had made the day entire into a theater. Twas not like Mr. Shakespeare’s stage of a world, where players strut and fret from wrong to right. All London had been nothing but a puppet show. And I had been the creature jerked on strings.

  Let that bide. Oh, let it bide, for the love of our sweet Savior.

  Walking away from the child’s corpse, I thought of my son John. I went up to Wilkie, who stood beside a lovely burst of roses. With a thorn in his heart.

  His rage had burned down to despair. When he looked at me, his suspicions paused and he spoke as a father, not as a policeman.

  “I can’t believe such a thing,” he said. “Tell me, ’ow can a man believe it? Such a thing as that?”

  I muttered something short of proper speech.

  “It ain’t as if I’m green,” Wilkie continued. “Seventeen year a policeman, and a fellow’s far from green.” His fingers touched a rose, as if softness were wanted. “I know well enough what’s done to boys. To little girls, as well. It makes a body sick.” He raised his haunted eyes. “And still call themselves gentlemen, they do. A child of ten, still fresh, won’t cost you ’alf a pound, if you ain’t particular. The poor don’t matter, Major Jones.” Those eyes of his are what I will remember. Like two flames dying down behind a grate. “I can’t believe such a thing was done. I seen it and can’t believe it.”

  The man looked lost. At least I had the solace of God’s map.

  Now, I have heard it trumpeted that the Bible is not true, because the dates are wrong and stones say otherwise. It is the fashion of our times to mock. But dates are not the meaning of the Book, no more than mathematics explain morals. And rocks are rocks, though they be old or new. It doesn’t matter if this earth is ten years old or a million. Let bitter men count up all those begettings. It is the tales in the Book that speak the truth, from Adam and Eve to Paul and all his wanderings. I read it as the Lord’s report on Mankind, with worse things done than were done to that poor boy. Each and every one of us is Cain, and when we read the Word we find ourselves. The Bible is no book of calculations, where two and two makes four, all clear as glass. It is the very storybook of Man, not a clutch of numbers to be reckoned. When Jesus stopped to teach, He did not tabulate. He sat down in our midst and told us tales, so that our simple minds might understand. The Bible shows us who we truly are: Job and David, and Judas and Herod, too. The Marys and the Esthers. And the Eves. Numbers do not figure in the least.

  If still you say the Bible is not true, I will say that no book is more honest.

  Forgive me. I speak too much of things beyond my ken. But when I am sick at heart, I lift up mine eyes. Even on the cloudiest of days.

  Inspector Wilkie would not be moved from his spot by the fragrant roses. Not one of his subordinates approached him. Perhaps he had a habit of bad temper, although he had not shown the like to me. In any case, they left us there. Apart.

  “I thought,” I began, hoping to lift him out of his slough of despond, “that we might go to the penny gaff tonight. To learn about this lass, ‘The White Lily of Kent.’ It must be done, see. Although I do not favor such entertainments.”

  “You go,” he said, surprising me. His voice was changed and chastened. “You go yourself, Major. You go on. And be so good as to tell us what you find.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “I’m going ’ome.” His eyes had but the glow of embers now. “It’s Saturday night, and I’m going ’ome to my Albert and my Alice.” His voice was almost shaking, as if he feared he might find his own beloved children dead and abused. Twas frightful to listen to the man, who had been so diligent and strong an hour before. “I need to ’ave me a think,” he told me, “and so I’m going ’ome.”

  I found I did not have a word to say.

  The inspector held out his hand. “’Til Monday morning, Major Jones. And do your best to stay clear of any more murders, at least for tonight and tomorrow. I think the town could use a bit of quiet.”

  I took the offered hand. And found the Reverend Mr. Campbell’s watch in my palm.

  “I’ll know where to look if I needs it back,” he told me.

  Off he went, slumped, with his hands behind his back. One policeman took a step toward him, then thought better of it. Others wrapped the child’s body in the canvas.

  As I was leaving, I heard a newspaper fellow arguing with a constable. The scribbler was dressed as bright as a betting man and he claimed the public had every right to learn about the misdeed there in the garden. I wonder. I think our modern world lacks the benefit of decorum. We flock to hear of scandal, but those who suffer need a bit of privacy. Why do we want to know the worst of others, and rush toward any suffering on display? The truth is we are cruel as Joseph’s brothers.

  Let that bide, too. We must have faith, and go on, and do our best.

  In the meantime, I had a tumble of things to do. The watch burned in my hand—I had to get me to a private place where I could unscrew the cover. And I would have to seek out Mr. Adams, though it was Saturday afternoon and reaching for evening. And I recalled that he had mentioned plans. Then I must get me a suit of clothing to replace my uniform, and do it before the shops closed for the night. For an officer’s honorable garments must not be seen inside a penny gaff. And, frankly, I had come to feel conspicuous.

  Next, I needed to bathe myself before proceeding upon my investigation, for twas Saturday, after all. Excuse me the indelicacy, but I believe the man who washes his every part most regular is a better man for it. The fellow who bathes himself once a week is happier and healthier, and doubtless a better companion to all he meets. Besides, my wife insists, and that is that.

  I understand a bathtub is no Jordan. We cannot scrub away our sins with soap. But a good wash always seems a proper start.

  I TOOK ME DOWN ALONG Portland Place, until I was out of sight. Then I slipped into a mews and took out the watch. Hard luck mine was. The screw that fixed the lid to the secret compartment would not be undone with a pen-knife or a fingernail. It wanted the tools of a watchmaker or jeweler. Now, I had nearly reached our legation and the afternoon was running away, with evening on its heels. High folk will not be at home on a Saturday night, for that is when they take each other’s measure and call it society.

  I decided to carry the watch to Mr. Adams, before he went off to his doings. We might open it together, for his wife must have a device to loose the screw. A good wife knows the tricks for finding out secrets, no matter how expertly they are hid.

  I met with a disappointment. The servant who answered the bell was sour as vinegar, for he did not know me and he judged me slight. With a great sniffing up and an even greater looking down, he informed me that “His Excellency” had gone to the country and wanted nothing to do with the world until Monday. Only a general’s arrogance rivals a butler’s toward those he does not believe he nee
ds to please. The difference, of course, is that servants have a purpose.

  I stepped away and things picked up a bit. On my progress toward Baker Street I found a watchmaker willing to assist me. He would not let me touch his tools, but undid the screw himself. As he worked beside his smoking lamp, his tongue peeked through his lips at his laboring fingers.

  The lid come off. And then the enamel layer fell away, just as foretold to me by Mr. Adams.

  The compartment behind it was empty.

  As I had feared.

  “Well, there’s a thing, ain’t it?” the watchmaker declared. He gave me a knowing look I did not like. “The perfect hiding place for billy-doo.” He winked. “A gent can’t tell a rascal from a saint by looking, now can he?” He held the watch toward me in three pieces. “I can let you have twelve shillings for the ticker.”

  I bid him reassemble the parts, although it made him grumble. He charged me half a crown for his work, though it did not take a tuppence of his time. But that is London, where Mammon is enthroned.

  Next, I found a tailor’s shop that offered clothes readymade. The proprietor was a Pole well past his prime, with a hanging mustache and billows of ashen hair. The whole world finds its way to London, see. He kitted me up in a black frock coat that almost fit and did not seem too dear. I matched it with a sober black waistcoat, but picked gray for my trousers, since he let me have them cheaper. Now, the Pole can be a gloomy sort, when not aroused by passions, but this old fellow was positively charming. He agreed to alter the cuffs of the coat and to hem my chosen trousers on the spot. I am strong in the chest and shoulders, see, but my arms and legs have no proportionate length. For I am small, though capable.

  The winning grace was that I was an American. From the moment when I told him that, he would have altered the sun and the moon to suit me. He pinched a pair of eyeglasses onto his nose and set to work most fervently.

  It come out the fellow was a revolutionist.

  “Soon now,” he told me, as he cut and stitched. “Soon now, you will see. Everybody will see. Poland will be free, there will be a free Poland. No Austrians, no Prussians. No black cossacks with the whip. Only Polish peoples. Then we will be free, like the Americans.”

  He looked up from his battered sewing table. “Socialism is coming, the revolution. All men . . .” he drew his needle through the cloth, which seemed to sigh, “ . . . all men are brothers. Yes? As in America, I think.” Biting off a thread, he confided, “In Poland, I am professor. In Cracow. In Jagellonian University.” His eyes shone in remembrance. “It is very old, you know. Most old, our university. I am teaching the philosophy. Then comes the ’Forty-eight and the people say, ‘Now we will have freedom.’ But more of the Austrian soldiers come. Bang-bang. I go to Warsawa. To make the fight against the Russians there. But they are too many. So many killings they are making.” The hot light in his eyes might have melted all the ice in all the arctic seas. “In the prison I have been. In Siberia. Very terrible, the things I see. Still, I go back. Poland must be free. No? Is that not true? Must not all men be free?”

  I fear I was a disappointment to him. The truth is I know little enough of Poland and am not certain of its state of government, although I believe the Tsar has a heavy hand. Other foreigners were mucking about there, too, to hear that old professor and tailor tell it. But, while I do believe men should be free, I am no friend to uproar and disorder. As Mr. Carlyle has explained, most revolutions finish worse than they started. With dreams cut short, and heads cut off, and soldiers cut down by the thousands.

  I began to speak of our own war and of slavery, but that only riled him the worse.

  “Yes, yes! The black slave! He will rise up!” The fellow’s mustache trembled with excitement. “And here, here in this England, the working man soon makes the revolution. Here, right here! In Manchester, I think. In such places. To be free of the rich people and the boot of the government. The system of the Capitalism—it all comes down. Very soon, I think. It cannot go on making only the poverty for the people. The worker is the slave of the Capitalism, like the Negro. Perhaps your American war becomes everywhere a war—and then the English worker rises up. Because he is told to fight against the black man, but he will not do that. Perhaps it starts this way, you see?”

  I did not see. And I wanted no part of any bigger war. Our Union had enough to eat without a second helping. Worse, I knew full well what the English working man, given a bayonet, would do to a black or brown hide wherever he found it.

  A thing occurred to me that might both please the tailor and aid myself.

  “Would you happen to know,” I asked, “one Herr Karl Marx, a German revolutionist?”

  The tailor made a dismissive face. “I know. Yes. Him I know.” The fellow shook his head. “He makes no revolutions, that man. Once, I think, maybe he does. But he only makes the talk and goes to the library. Every day to the library. To make his foolish writing no one reads.” The tailor paused at his eye-straining labors. “The time of books is gone. Finished. I am professor, I know. Now it is time for the world revolution.”

  “Yes, but would you happen to have the fellow’s address?”

  He did. All written down in a book, which seemed an incautious practice for a conspirator. Mr. Marx might be found at 9 Grafton Terrace, in Kentish Town, which was just north of London and near the country joys of Hampstead Heath. Firebrand or no, he was not in hiding.

  But the revolutionist tailor tried to warn me: “He wastes your time only, this Marx. Always talking. Talking and writing.” He tapped his head. “He is more professor than me. Too much thinking. Now it is time for the war and the Socialist revolution! Here, take this. You try, yes? I think they fit you now, your coat and trousers.”

  They sat all proper and I paid the fellow. Although it pinched to count the money out.

  Fortunately, I conserved the price of an omnibus, for Baker Street was but a stroll away. Before I went back to the hotel, with my parcel and my fears of what I might find, I bought a meat pie from a vendor and ate it in the street. I was determined to pursue a proper economy, see. All London was a horror of high prices, and I near expected to be charged a toll for walking and taxed for every breath I took of the air.

  The pie made a good repast and was filling enough, although I spit some gristle on the pavings.

  I went up the hotel stairs in trepidation. Concerned that I might find the boy’s other hand—or worse—upon my bed. But my room was neat and orderly, though stuffy as the punishment cell in Delhi. Down I went again and asked the porter if I might have a tub of water in my room. Twas queer. The night before, the man had been gay and friendly, at least until he tired of our conversation, but now he was as sullen as a bear. He made it clear he did not want to be bothered, which hardly seemed a proper hospitality. To be fair, he doubtless had been questioned by the police about severed hands and dark-of-the-night intruders. Likely, I was no longer a favored guest.

  Finally, he offered a tub of water. “Hardly used,” he said, and left in a room just vacated by a lodger. Now, you may think me particular, but I will not bathe in another’s leavings, except, of course, on bath day with my family. It required the production of some shillings—the city was extortionate to an outrage—to prevail upon him to haul up a tub, though a small one, and a bucket for me to carry my own water.

  My bath smelled before I got in it, for London is a city poorly piped. Nonetheless, the experience was salutary. A cold bath always sets a man to rights. I drew on a change of linens and my new clothes, and started on my way to the depths of sin.

  SIX

  THE CRUSH OUTSIDE THE PENNY GAFF WAS SHAMELESS, with male and female pressed in a pack and hollering loud as recruits on pay-day night. I fear some were intoxicated and, sadly, not only the boys. Oh, colorful they were, that squirming mass of apprentices and laboring lads, of chambermaids off for the night and huckster girls freed of flower carts and fruit trays. Got up bright in cast-off clothes, a benefit of certain domestic employments
, the best-appointed females paraded the fashions of seasons past. Some of the boys affected velvet coats, despite the summer’s heat, while others, mannered worst of all, had stripped off their jackets and turned back their sleeves in public, with all the license of secluded artisans. But the herding together it was that struck me deepest, a mixing of the sexes indiscriminate, with bodies pushed up tight to one another, close as soldiers on a freezing night. Those young girls, some of them fair in the common way, did not display the least regard for modesty.

  There were fights, of course. For some male hands explored beyond all permissible boundaries in that tangle. But, mostly, there was laughter and good feeling of a depth that proper folk would hardly credit. Twas Saturday night, and even joyless lives seemed full of hope.

  “Which ’un was it, Mabel? Tell me, an’ I’ll put ’is teeth out ’is arse.”

  “Go on with you. Ain’t you the fresh one, Charlie?”

  “I told ’im, I did, ’e could put ’is lips right ’ere, but to leave ’is bloody ’ands off me.”

  “Oh, you din’t!”

  “I sent Bill off for an ice, so we got two minutes.”

  “Joanie? Where are you got to, Joanie-girl?”

  “I put an ’alf couter down on the Lion of Lambeth, though I couldn’t get no odds. Knock down Joey Bones, ’e will, so’s the bastard won’t get up.”

  “Don’t be afraid to flash it, ladies. That’s what we’re all ’ere for.”

  Such was their talk, to the limits of my understanding. For many spoke true cockney, the maddening tongue of those born to the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow. The penny gaff itself appeared no more than a private house, altered to serve an alien purpose. Above that steaming rumpus in front of the doors, a great span of canvas displayed a painted female form, with blond locks and a finger raised to her chin. The lettering read:

  Dr. Beezil’s Universal Musical Theater Proudly Presents

  For the Amusement of the Discriminating Public

  Miss Polly Perkins