The Great Stink

by Clare Clark

  'Silence!'

  Vickery's voice rattled the bars of the window and for a moment the room was silent. When the mutterings and the weepings resumed they were more tentative, muffled by anxiety. His large body moving awkwardly in the narrow spaces between the cribs, Vickery fumbled and wrenched each man's wrists roughly into their canvas straps. Finally he came to William but instead of seizing his wrists he grabbed a handful of his hair and brought William's face up close to his candle. William felt the heat of the flame scorching his cheeks and he tried to pull back but Vickery tightened his grip, forcing the candle closer. The attendant's breath smelled of whisky and stale sleep. William stared in disbelief into the dark centre of the flame and then closed his eyes, unable to prevent himself from crying out as the heat blistered against his skin. Cursing, Vickery pushed him backwards so that William struck his head against the rails of the cot. He slid down into the bed, the darkness closing like water over his head, but before it could swallow him up he was hauled up by his tunic and thrown down on to the floor. He heard his own gasp as a sharp kick to his ribs knocked the breath from his body. Then a hand pressed his face down hard into the pool of vomit on the floor. It filled his mouth, his nostrils. He couldn't breathe.

  'You want every freak in the whole damned madhouse ranting and raving, you bloody troublemaker?' Vickery spat. 'This room stinks. And don't fool yourself there's going to be anyone changing no bedding this time of night. Far as I'm concerned you can rot to death in it, you filthy bastard. And if I hear so much as a whimper out of you before morning it's the douche. Get it?'

  The hand pressed down so hard that William was certain his nose would break. Then it was gone. The door slammed. William lay on the floor, the cold vomit congealing upon his face. It was a frozen moonless night and the room was dark and bitterly cold. William's limbs jerked and trembled and his ribs throbbed but his head, free of chloral, was clear as ice, thoughts caught in its frozen surface like fish. He stared at them and found himself at the same time troubled and lured by their perfect shape and clarity. He should call for more chloral. But he did not. Instead he reached out to touch them, turning them over. They did not crumble. There were no monsters lurking within them, no terrible swirling sense of foreboding blurring their edges. They were simple and coherent, ordinary thoughts with beginnings and ends where beginnings and ends might be expected to be. Thoughts of buildings, mostly, of the places he had known before. The shop in which he had spent so many boyhood afternoons with its dusty sacks of flour and smell of turning butter. The offices in Greek-street with their crammed carrels. The cupola and elegant chimneys of Abbey Mills, their reality so absolutely imprinted upon his memory it seemed to William impossible that they did not yet exist. The house in Lambeth. Very carefully, William stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hand upon the banister, and breathed in its familiar smells. He had not yet courage enough to look towards the kitchen or seek out his son. But he let himself think of Polly and the swell of her pregnant belly. He had a powerful longing to sweep them up in his arms, his wife and his unborn child. But perhaps the new baby had come. He felt the soft tears starting to gather at the back of his throat and they eased the bitter bile taste that lingered in his mouth. Perhaps it was a girl. Lily Rose. Tomorrow, in the morning, he would ask someone what day it was. Perhaps tomorrow Polly would send word. Perhaps she might come. She would look at him without disgust and she would hold out her arms to him and hold him to her. She'd kiss his forehead, his eyelids, the palms of his hands, as she kissed Di when he sat upon her lap, and he would be forgiven. When at last William roused himself from the icy floor and sought to warm himself beneath his vomit-slicked blanket his face was crusted with dried vomit and blistered bubbles shone like white tears upon his burned cheek, but the space between his brows was smooth and his lips were curved, just faintly, into a smile.

  In the morning Vickery as usual was yellow-faced with dark shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes. He administered the chloral carefully, holding his head stiffly upon his neck as though he feared it might fall. When he came to William's bed he instructed him brusquely to stand. Peake would take him to the laundry where a warm bath had been drawn for him. Fearful that he was being taken instead to the douche, William stared at the bath in disbelief. There was even a worn cake of soap. He winced as he tore off his stained tunic. It was painful to raise his arms. Purple bruises bloomed down the right side of William's chest and his face stung when he splashed it with water. Peake surveyed the damage without curiosity before slouching against the wall and probing the upper reaches of his nostrils with a questing forefinger. Vickery came in just as the bath was losing the last of its warmth. Peake hurriedly wiped his finger on his trouser leg and stood to attention. Vickery dismissed him.

  'Here,' Vickery muttered, not meeting William's eyes. 'I thought — if you're interested. Only in here, though. I see it in the dormitory, it's solitary.'

  Already halfway to the door he thrust on to the one chair a dog-eared copy of the Morning Herald, its pages already cut and its print smudged with use. William picked it up. His eyes were unused to reading and he had to force them to focus upon the small print. He looked first at the date. 14th January 1859. A new year. Christmas Day had passed and he had had no notion of it. He was growing tired and was preparing to close the pages when his attention was caught by an article on page five.

  INVESTIGATORS 'CLOSING IN' ON KILLER

  Police officers investigating the death of Alfred England, the London brickyard owner whose body was recovered from the Thames two days ago, have confirmed that the businessman was the victim of a murderous attack. Although no details were given, a leading detective confirmed to this newspaper that Mr England's throat had been cut, thereby severing the man's windpipe. In addition there were found a number of other wounds to the chest and shoulders indicative of a violent struggle. The detective also disclosed that, subsequent to death, the body had been subject to considerable mutilation by rats, suggesting that it might have been at some stage concealed in the metropolitan sewer system. Indeed, the damage to the facial area was such that a positive identification of the body was made possible only by the laundry marks stitched into Mr England's shirt and undergarments.

  Mr England, whose brickyard was troubled by severe financial difficulties, was first thought to have fled from creditors when he disappeared without warning on the night of the 16th December. Scotland Yard expressed confidence that an arrest will be made without delay.

  XXIII

  'You know that dead cove they pulled out the river, the gent with the brickyard? The traps've only gone and found the one what did it. They've got him lodged down the Moor-street lock-up.'

  'You sure they's got themselves the right one? Them crushers down that station couldn't catch themselves the cholera if they lived in a sink-hole and filled themselves to bustin' with the stink.'

  Both men laughed and took another draught from their mugs. Tom, nursing a drink at the end of the counter closest to the fire, remained where he was but he turned his head slightly so as to catch their words more clearly.

  'They're useless buggers and no mistake,' the first man agreed. 'Most likely the one they pulled in didn't do nothin' of the sort. Prob'ly some poor gudgeon they dragged out o' bed so as they looks like they's got things all sewed up and can get themselves off 'ome afore their dinner turns cold.'

  The proprietor of the chop-house shook his head as he gathered up their mugs for a refill.

  'It's the right one, all right. Not that them fancy officers of Scotland Yard 'ad much doin' in the way of an investigation. From what I 'ears from Eddowes, what runs the coffee-stall end o' Moor-street, the murderer told his missus the whole bleedin' story. Chapter and verse, in a letter. A letter! I mean, I ask you. What kind of lunatic writes down their crimes in a letter and hopes to get away with it, eh? They'd've 'ad more difficulty identifyin' a dog in a topper pickin' pockets on its back legs.'

  'Who is 'e then, the murderer? Another gent, is it?
They says the dead 'un 'ad a score o' debts and men all over London arter 'im for the payin' of 'em.'

  The proprietor shrugged. Whatever else Eddowes knew, and in his line of work he heard it all, the identity of the murderous creditor remained a mystery. The first man scratched his head thoughtfully before thrusting his fingers into his ears and jerking them roughly up and down as though he was certain that, if he could only dislodge enough of the rubble, he'd have himself the answer right there in his head.

  'So the missus went an' shopped 'im.' The second man snorted glumly. 'Charmin', that is. What kind of a world is it when yer wife squeals yer straight up to the traps? Used to be a man could expect proper loyalty and the respect 'e was due but what 'appened to that, I ask yer?'

  Both he and his friend were silent then, both falling to thinking on their own women and giving them something in the way of a once-over, considering them in much the same way they were like to consider the merits and weaknesses of a dog or a horse. Neither came away much reassured by the certainty of a win. It put them both in poor humour. They were both occupied with declaring the universal perfidy of wives and children and police officers when Eddowes himself came in. The proprietor greeted him warmly, calling into the kitchen for a plate of liver and bacon and setting his usual mug of stout upon the counter.

  'So I was just tellin' these gentlemen 'ere 'bout the traps pullin' in the brickyard murderer. 'Eard any thin' more on that score, then?'

  'Bless me, what a tale that one is,' declared Eddowes, leaning back and taking a long draught of stout. He shook his head as he drank, his belly stuck out before him and one hand placed proudly upon its swell as though it were full to bursting with delicious morsels of news. 'What a tale!'

  'Go on then,' the proprietor urged, propping his elbows on the counter. 'What tale?'

  'Ah!' Eddowes took another drink and very slowly set his mug down upon the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'It's a tale, I'm tellin' you. A tale an' a half.'

  'What tale?' the proprietor demanded again. Tom edged closer, careful to keep his mouth shut. It didn't pay to call attention to yourself.

  'What tale?' the proprietor asked for the third time. This time he couldn't keep the edge of exasperation out of his voice.

  'Steady yerself, my friend,' drawled Eddowes. 'Fetch us another of these and I'll tell you. It's a tale, though, there's no mistakin' that.'

  Sucking contentedly on his teeth, Eddowes moved along the counter and settled himself so that his wide behind drew most of the warmth from the fire. Tom moved up a little to give him room.

  'So.' Eddowes spread his hands on the counter and admired them. The proprietor cleared his throat briskly by way of encouragement. 'So.'

  Eddowes stretched his story with as much sighing and shaking of his head and spreading of his fingers and rinsing of stout and liver around his mouth as he could manage but the heart of the tale was this. The murderer was indeed a gentleman, and a right fancy one too by the sounds of it, from a grand family. Something high up in Parliament or some such. The shame of it, Eddowes sighed happily, shaking his head, and the other men shook their heads too. The shame of it, they echoed, barely able to contain their glee.

  When they had had their fill, Eddowes continued. It was true that this gent had written a letter which had been taken to the police but the letter had not contained a confession, not a jot of it. No indeed. On the contrary, it was what you might call an out-and-out denial. What the letter had claimed, and here Eddowes was so generous with pauses and reflective sucking of his teeth that his audience was convinced he knew a great deal more than he was prepared to tell, was that it was someone else done it and that the lunatic knew who. When the men around him demanded to know who it was he'd tried to finger, Eddowes just smiled mysteriously, a veritable sphinx, and repeated what he had already told them. What he would say, and this he was certain of since it had raised many an eyebrow and more than one disbelieving chuckle amongst the officers who frequented the coffee-stall, was that the murderer himself had had the nerve to suggest in his letter that he might be of considerable use to Scotland Yard in pursuing their investigations. Why? Because he'd been there. He'd not done nothing, of course, not touched no one. He was innocent as the infant Christ himself. But he'd been there and he'd heard the whole thing!

  'What? 'E told 'em 'e was there? The cove's got to be some kind of lunatic!' marvelled the proprietor, rolling his eyes.

  Eddowes looked at the proprietor with undisguised dislike. He had no intention of being upstaged. Shaking his head like a beak about to pass sentence, he took a mouthful of liver and chewed slowly, patting the delicious tale in his belly.

  'Story'll keep, o'course. P'raps I ought'a be getting' along,' he said at last, pushing away his plate.

  Hurriedly, the proprietor placed another mug in front of him, compliments of the house, and apologized for the interruption.

  'Go on, then,' urged his audience.

  Eddowes paused a little longer, till the men was positively frothing for it, and then he told them. The gentleman murderer was indeed a lunatic. He was being held in a private gents' asylum somewhere west of the city.

  'An asylum? Wouldn't 'e be locked up then?'

  'Must've escaped, mustn't 'e? 'E escaped, right?'

  Eddowes sighed and was silent. A dish of gooseberry pie was brought. A leather-armed chair was provided for the coffee-stall owner's greater comfort. Tom moved further away from the fireplace so that Eddowes could enjoy the warmth uninterrupted. And at last the story continued. They'd only had the lunatic locked up a matter of days before he wrote that letter. Of course, writing it was all the proof you needed that he was a lunatic, in Eddowes's opinion, because of course the physicians wasn't about to let no letters go out without having a read of them, was they? Matter of procedure. And natural enough they took this one straight to the traps. It wasn't what you might call a difficult case after that. Turned out the man was crazier than a crateful of March hares. Once they found out he was a long-standing enemy of the dead cove, what else did they need? Turned out he'd been rampaging round Parliament or whatever for months, terrorizing the clerks, frightening the life out of all the other gents. There'd been bribes, dodgy business dealings, threats, all sorts. The dead 'un wasn't the only one, just the one that got it in the neck. Literally. Eddowes permitted himself a chuckle at his own wit before continuing. Through some devious plot the lunatic had lured his victim down the sewers where he'd proceeded to cut his throat, thinking the body'd never be found. When they pulled him in he'd been covered in cuts all over, result of the struggle. And they reckoned it weren't the only time neither. Again Eddowes waved his hands, suggesting a wealth of secret information, before lowering his voice. The police reckoned there might be hundreds of bodies down there, hidden in the tunnels, all rotting away, all victims of the one maniac. Eddowes shook his head. They'd taken him out of the asylum, of course, got him down the lock-up. He was going to be held in Newgate, that was the word, till they could bring the trial. But it'd be a formality. The officers who came to the coffee-stall was already talking about the hanging.

  'We'll be taking the room over your brother's place, o' course,' Eddowes said to the proprietor who nodded hastily. 'Best view in the 'ouse that's got, and I'd challenge anyone who tried to tell it otherways. You'd have to be standing on the scaffold itself to get better.'

  'Ah, but there you're like to have a cloth over yer 'ead which ain't goin' ter improve your eyesight any,' joked one of the men, jabbing his friend in the ribs with his elbow.

  Draining his mug Tom slipped out unnoticed. He walked the long way home but still he couldn't figure it. A favour for a friend, the Captain'd said. Well, naturally Tom'd nodded and sucked his teeth and known exactly what was meant. There were friends like that strewn all through the rookeries, friends who didn't have a name but had a way of getting themselves into a nasty bit of trouble and needing a hand out of it. Men who wouldn't spit on you if you was on fire suddenly came over al
l self-righteous for friends like that. Oh yes, Tom'd caught the Captain's meaning sure enough. Except now the traps'd gone and banged someone up for the killing, by all accounts an open-and-shut case. Surely this friend the Captain had put himself out for, the friend in a fix for whom he'd shown such regretful sympathy, surely this friend couldn't really exist? What were the chances? Tom'd sensed the slipperiness in him from the off. He'd been certain that the Captain had to be the last man in the capital to do another a favour, out of the goodness of his heart. He'd counted on it. It was Tom's insurance, the only reason he had for trusting the bastard. And yet, was this the one time that the double-crossing maggot had troubled to tell Tom the truth? It seemed impossible and yet Tom could find no other explanation. He'd set his trap and he'd caught a madman while the Captain walked free. Tom could barely credit the injustice in it.

  The bastard still had Lady. No doubt he'd turn up at the Bridge Saturday next, one hand on her back like she was his fair and square, and the other held out for the winnings that were rightfully Tom's. Tom huddled beneath his blanket and inhaled the faint memory of her hayfield smell. After a while his hand crept out from beneath the blanket to seek out the empty space behind his knees. She had liked to wedge herself there of a night, tight in the snug curve of his legs, her nose resting on his ankles. Her claws had snagged the rough wool of the blanket into little loops. He stroked them, and fancied he felt through the wool the shape of her skull. There was a hole inside him tonight and its raw edges ached. There wasn't any comfort for an ache like that, not in the heat of rage nor in the cold clink of money neither. Lady'd grinned when she saw him, always, like he was the only thing in the world she wanted. Tom turned on his side, dragging the blanket up to his chin. He had to find another way. There wasn't any point to any of it otherwise. No point at all, if he didn't have her.