“It does,” agreed Fanny, leaning forward in her chair. “Finally,” said Stevenson, carefully stubbing out his cigarette, “there was the remarkable business of Hallett walking within forty yards of the Whitechapel police station, with no apparent qualms at all. He clearly knows the neighborhood.”
“So either the man was drunk,” offered Fanny, “or he was emboldened by some other factor. He was effectively fearless.”
“My thought exactly. So,” Stevenson concluded, turning to their companion, “can you, dear Symonds, conjure up a plausible scenario to account for the Metropolitan Police seeming to take only a fitful interest in our man—and also for our man’s apparent disregard for the threat of the Metropolitan Police?” He steepled his hands in front of his nose expectantly.
“How could I not?” Symonds replied. “I have been thinking of little else for the past week.”
“And your theory?” “Quite the obvious one, I should think.” Symonds looked at them both with an eyebrow raised. “That the police are for some reason wary about what Hallett might divulge if he is called to account.”
“And why would the police be wary?” asked Fanny. “Hallett isn’t one of them, correct?”
“Not at all,” answered Stevenson. “But the police answer to people more powerful than they.”
“Indeed.” Symonds turned guardedly towards Fanny. “Perhaps Louis has told you about the house in Cleveland Street?”
Fanny looked to her husband before she nodded. “I took the liberty,” allowed the writer. “I hope you will forgive me.” “Of course.” Symonds blushed slightly but went on. “This establishment, as you can imagine, makes every effort to mask the identity of its clients. At the same time, one occasionally comes to learn something about one or another of them. And some, I fear, are very highly placed.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Fanny. “And Hallett himself is well connected too, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Symonds replied. “An heir to thousands. But I also know that hardly a week passes at the place without a visit from another fellow who is an equerry to the Prince of Wales.”
“And an equerry is what? I don’t think we have equerries in America.” “An equerry is a kind of aide-de-camp to a member of the royal family,” Symonds explained. “They once looked after the nobility’s horses. But their responsibilities in this day and age are considerable. This man of whom I speak is himself a lord.”
“Well, there it is,” exclaimed Stevenson, slapping his leg.
Fanny looked at her husband and nodded slowly. “So Hallett might be arrested…but unless the charges are dropped and the affair is hushed, he would go to the Times with information about this male brothel and its highly-placed clients. Provided he knows about this equerry person.”
“He is extremely likely to know,” replied Symonds. “Hallett makes it his business to know everything. If Somerset’s involvement were somehow a secret to—” His hand rushed to his mouth. “Oh my. What have I said?”
Stevenson’s look of surprise gave way to a grin. “Nothing I can even begin to remember. Can you, Fanny?”
“Can I what?” she said, grinning as well.
Symonds snorted in amusement. “Thank you. Both. I was saying that there are other men of prominence and power who use the place. There are rumors—although rumors only, mind you—that a certain young member of the royal family itself, someone rather high in the line of succession, has been a patron.”
“These are plausible rumors?” asked Stevenson. “Very.” “Well,” declared the writer as he leaned back in his chair. “There’s our plot. If it’s not the truth, it’s such a damn convincing fiction that it ought to be.”
Fanny clapped her hands in satisfaction. “I think it’s completely convincing!” Her expression sobered abruptly. “Although we’re not just discussing the fates of paper characters, are we?”
“Hardly,” affirmed Stevenson. “So what’s to be done?” she asked. “What do we do?”
The afternoon gave way to evening, and the rain moderated its assault on the glazing. The three of them entertained a number of plans, all of them based on the assumption that Scotland Yard would ultimately fail to pursue the case against Hallett. If Swanson were to surprise them, they agreed, and hauled the man in during the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, they need do nothing more. They assumed otherwise.
Their hope was that Hallett could somehow be dissuaded from further butchery. He evidently had no fear of the police, so there was no use in threatening to do in the future what they had already fruitlessly done in the past. Somewhat more promising was the threat to go to the press with the story of Lizzy Stride; but, as Stevenson pointed out, there was no knowing if the papers would be any more willing than the police to risk turning a sizeable stone—which might then turn another even more sizeable one—under which a member of the royal family might be sequestered. Perhaps the best strategy, they concluded, was to threaten Hallett with the public exposure—by whatever means—of his own sexual inclinations and practices. Once that story was out, with whatever further revelations and consequences it yielded, the police themselves would be all the more likely to move on him. Symonds, of course, was all but certain to go down in the fray. Nevertheless, he bravely reiterated his earlier promise to take that devastating chance if all other steps failed.
They ordered supper brought up: thick beefsteaks with two bottles of fine cabernet. As they dined, Stevenson, with a wineglass in his hand and the vivid example of Walter Ferrier very much in his thoughts, commented on what could be the insuperable strength of Hallett’s addiction. Even if this man could somehow be intimidated into standing down from his dreadful compulsion, who was to say that he would not resume it in the months or years to come—or simply carry it across the Channel the very next week? When Fanny insisted they must nonetheless take some definitive action or count themselves morally bankrupt, Stevenson felt there was really nothing holding them back.
“If we are resolved to proceed, then,” he said, setting down his glass and pouring himself a cup of coffee, “what is our plan?”
“Well, to begin with,” observed Symonds, “the confrontation must be in a private setting.”
“Agreed,” replied Stevenson. “Despite the potential danger of dealing with Hallett in an isolated spot.”
“Surely we can enlist some others to be there,” suggested Fanny. “And there are already three of us. And just one of him.”
Stevenson turned to his wife with concern. “I would suggest, love, that it would be extremely unwise for the both of us to be involved.”
“And why is that? Because I’m a woman?” “Because you are Sam’s mother. If something untoward were to happen, we would risk leaving him alone in the world.”
“That means you think there’s likely to be trouble?” “I would certainly hope not. But it’s difficult to predict.” “Well,” said Fanny, “we’ll see.” “Yet Fanny is right,” said Symonds. “We can surely enlist some aid.” Stevenson tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “I hesitate to bring too many others into the affair. As you yourself felt earlier, no? Some compromising information is bound to be bruited about.” He looked sympathetically at Symonds.
“I don’t agree at all,” countered Fanny. “I’d think a show of force might cow the man. Make him more inclined to go along.”
Symonds frowned. “I am not at all certain that Hallett is a man to be cowed. Still, I agree it would be best for there to be four or five of us present. And perhaps some men of physical stature.” He looked apologetically at Stevenson, then spread his hands to his sides as though to acknowledge his own unimposing physique.
Stevenson nodded matter-of-factly. “And location? A private room at the Athenaeum will hardly do,” he noted with a smirk, “and Portman Square is out of the question. He will have a substantial household.”
“You have no home in London, John?” asked Fanny. “No longer. And, aside from that, I cannot imagine Hallett being prevailed upon to pay me a visit
in any case. He has a rather low regard for me, I fear.”
“That is probably to your credit,” said Fanny with a gracious smile. She lit a cigarette. “So what would lure him out? What is this particular wolf’s goose?”
“We certainly know what draws him to the East End,” mused Stevenson. “But that seems to be very much on his own timetable. And this is not a conversation for a public thoroughfare, no matter how crepuscular.”
“The establishment on Cleveland Street?” suggested Fanny. Symonds shook his head. “I think, though, that you’ve likely hit on your goose.”
“A boy,” exclaimed Stevenson. “New boys.”
Symonds nodded. “Where?” asked the writer. “I don’t know. But we can certainly find a place.” “And how do we get him there?” asked Stevenson. “I expect my telegraph lad might be the means,” Symonds offered. “He could tell Hallett that he has learned about a new den of pleasures. Perhaps with some exotic fare. Lads from Bombay? Mormon youths from Utah?”
“There are ‘special offerings’ like that?” Fanny asked. “And that would attract him?”
“Yes on both scores. You can be sure.” “This would require quite a deception on the part of your young friend,” observed Stevenson. “Is he up to it, do you think?”
“My boy Matthew has…a certain dramatic flair.” The shade of another blush rose on Symonds’s face. “One day he might well leave the telegraph office for the stage.”
Stevenson looked over at Fanny, who sat there ruminating, her cigarette held up next to her face. She raised a brow, and then nodded.
“Well, then,” said Stevenson, sliding to the front of his chair. “It sounds as though we have our plan. One thing remains. Or two.”
“And they are?” asked Symonds. “Finding a location—” “I will make that my business,” declared Symonds. “Together with finding a pair or three of good men. And then?”
“And then a means of getting Hallett there.” “That’s for my lad, didn’t we say?” “No. I mean a conveyance. We can’t have Hallett riding there in his landau. We don’t want a carriage man or his men involved.”
“A hansom, then,” suggested Fanny. “Engaged by John’s young friend and stopping at Portman Square to pick Hallett up. Wouldn’t he spring at the chance to travel anonymously in a new situation like this?”
“Brilliant,” exclaimed Stevenson. He turned to Symonds. “Do you see, John? Here is the true genius of the Stevenson clan. Odysseus in a dress, conjuring up a Trojan whore.”
Four days later, the details had all been attended to. The uncle of Symonds’ telegraph boy was a builder, just finishing a pair of terraced houses in West Hampstead. They were not quite ready for occupancy, but one of them could easily be made to look inhabited from the outside. The street was quiet and isolated, perched on a steep rise above Shoot-Up Hill and very close to the railway. Symonds had also had luck recruiting a pair of men to augment their numbers. George Lusk’s Whitechapel Vigilance Committee met every evening at nine at The Crown in the East End. It had been a simple matter to secure the services of a couple of its members who, Symonds felt, could be counted upon to believe strongly in their cause. He had offered them a significant advanced payment, and assured their discretion as best he could through a promise of more, were they to keep their endeavor completely sub rosa.
That evening at ten, Stevenson and Symonds were riding in a hansom cab up Edgware Road. Each of them carried a substantial stick. Symonds’s, in fact, concealed in its shaft a narrow sword.
“Here’s hoping I shan’t have to resort to it,” he confessed, drawing the blade halfway out to show his companion.
“Are you at all practiced in its use?” “Not particularly,” shrugged Symonds. “I was rather counting on being inspired in the moment. Should the need arise.” He smiled sheepishly.
“I shall trust to this.” Stevenson slapped the heavy head of his cane into his gloved hand. “Although I dearly hope, as you do, that words will suffice. You are certain of your men?”
Symonds nodded. “They should be there when we arrive.” “And of your boy?” “Matthew will not fail me.”
They soon reached Shoot-Up Hill, where they turned east through a thickening fog. Gas lamps along the way glowed inside balls of gauzy vapor, the sum of them strung out like burning pearls on a long black wire. St. Elmo Mansions sat a hundred yards up the first road of the left, just short of a streetlight, its name readily legible in the backlit fanlight over the door. The bow windows on the first floor were illuminated as well. While there were no plantings as yet in the narrow front garden, the place could well pass for occupied. Stevenson nodded approval to his companion as they stepped down from the cab.
“Thank you,” said Symonds to the driver. “If you could attend us around the corner there, we should be finished close to half past eleven. Let us come to you, though.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, and the horse clopped off.
The two of them stepped through the gate and up to the front door. “It should be unlocked,” said Symonds. He tested the handle and the door swung inwards into an illuminated atrium. Another door, half glass, led to the tiled inner hall, where two men stood leaning against the wall.
“Batchelor. Laughton. Thank you for coming,” said Symonds, walking up to them. “This is Mr. Stevenson.”
The two men nodded. While it was certainly good to have the numbers, neither of them looked to be much more imposing than the average man. Batchelor was almost the writer’s height and certainly of a stouter build, but there was something halting about his manner, a man to be led but not to lead. Laughton was short and markedly overweight, with the red face of a drinker and a cheery manner to match.
“Shall we go upstairs?” asked Symonds. “I see from the window that the flat is already lit.”
“We done that, sir,” affirmed Laughton. “We brung lamps and lucifers, just like you said.”
“Excellent.” He looked at his watch. “10:25. We may expect our visitors at eleven. Has either of you two gentlemen thought to bring a deck of playing cards?”
The time passed quickly enough. Stevenson stood near the window, listening for the sound of a carriage and struggling, now and again, to hide the strange yawns that came with his overwrought nerves. Symonds and Laughton, seated next to the rough table, engaged in small talk over the lantern that rested there. Batchelor meanwhile leaned against the mantle on which the other lantern glowed brightly, inspecting, then nibbling, each of his fingernails in turn.
Eleven o’clock. 11:05. 11:10. No sounds rose from the street. Stevenson looked uneasily at Symonds.
“They will be here,” the latter declared with assurance. “Matthew can be trusted.”
Just short of 11:15 a hollow clop of hooves echoed up the street, growing steadily louder. It had to be them. Stevenson longed to look out the window, but Symonds peered at him sternly, motioning him back against the wall.
The hansom stopped just below, its horse dancing nervously for a moment before it settled and stood still. They could hear the iron gate open and close and, a moment later, the front door. The faint sound of voices swelled to audible conversation as the inner door opened.
“It’s just up the stairs, sir,” said a high tenor voice graced with an affected lilt. “The first-floor flat.”
“It sounds awfully damn quiet to me,” growled a much deeper voice. Stevenson flinched as he recognized it. He stared over at Symonds, who had risen from his chair and grasped his stick in both hands.
“What? Is everyone asleep?” the voice went on. “Tucked up all tidy in their beds, are they?” The low laugh made Stevenson want to retch.
Footsteps echoed up the first flight of stairs to the landing and then back around.
“They’re a quiet lot,” said the lighter voice. “They does their work in silence. Not knowing English and all.”
“No English! Now, that should be amusing.”
They arrived on the first-floor and approached the door. “I
t should be that for you, sir. Very amusing.”
The knob turned and the door swung open. The first to enter was Symonds’s friend, still wearing a telegraph company uniform under his heavy overcoat. He was small and fair with what looked to be blue eyes and features of a girlish delicacy. In the second he entered, he caught Symonds’s eye and stepped quickly off to the side, making way for his companion.
Stevenson was prepared for Hallett to be a large man, but the figure that followed Matthew into the room made the door look as though it had been scaled for a lesser race. He was well over six feet tall, with massive shoulders the muscling of which was evident even beneath his heavy cloak.
“What mischief is this?” he scowled, looking around the room. “There are no boys here.” It was an exceedingly handsome face: high brow with a long, narrow nose and prominent cheekbones. The moustache was neatly trimmed, but the man’s expression was the essence of arrogant cruelty. He wheeled around as Batchelor pushed the door shut and retreated a full two steps, his diffidence growing more apparent by the second. Hallett raised his stick in threat, and the man stumbled back almost to Stevenson. Hallett wheeled again, leveling his gaze at Symonds.
“You!” he hissed. “You sniveling bitch. I thought I had put you on notice to stay clear of me.”
Symonds pulled his shoulders back and faced up to the man, his stick still gripped tightly in his hands.
“Well?” snarled Hallett, taking a step closer. “What exactly is afoot, then? Why are we all here?” He scanned the room with a mocking sneer. “We merry gentlemen. And then these…others.” He stared with disdain at Laughton, who met his gaze with ruddy determination.
“We know who you are,” said Symonds, just managing to find his voice. “And what you have been doing.”
Seeking Hyde Page 34
