The Great Stink

by Clare Clark

  I am, sir, your humble servant &c.

  ALFRED ENGLAND

  So William May had told him the truth. Hawke had accepted bribes. If he had known England was to expose him he would doubtless have wanted him dead. Rose assured himself it was relief he felt then, relief and the effervescent rush of renewed hope, but he knew it was astonishment. He bit his thumbnail savagely as he pulled out the documents he had taken from the police station and spread them across the narrow table. England's handwriting was unmistakable, the swollen unsealed manner in which he formed his 'o's, the foreshortened stems of his 'b's and 'd's, the childish sprawl of his signature. The letter was unquestionably his. More significantly still he had marked it with the date. 16th December 1858. The last day England had been seen alive. Rose turned the page over and inspected it closely. The streaks of brown. Was it possible — could it be that they were England's blood?

  The stranger smelled of unwashed linen and old fires. He watched impassively as Rose read the letter a final time. Then he took it back and tucked it into the greasy folds of his coat. Rose could hardly bear to watch it disappear. How Tom had come by it was anybody's guess, although one might be certain it had been unlawfully. Perhaps he had robbed the body. Perhaps he had been an accomplice. It did not matter. Even if, in the event of a miracle, he was able to convince the old man to testify, Rose could hardly put a sewer-hunter in the witness box. No, Tom was unimportant. It was the letter that counted. With the letter Rose finally had something. If he had the letter.

  'I's takin' it you's interested,' the stranger said, scraping back his chair. 'From the look on yer face.'

  Rose hadn't realized the size of him till he stood. His head brushed the low ceiling, leaving a sooty smear on the damp plaster. Biting his lip, Rose nodded.

  'What are Tom's terms?'

  Joe shrugged.

  'Tom? Don't think I knows a Tom.'

  Rose took a deep breath.

  'Of course not. Tom has nothing to do with it.' Rose paused but only briefly. He had nothing to lose. 'Tell him to meet me here tomorrow night, seven o'clock. I'll have the dog.'

  XXXI

  Dawn came at last, reluctantly prising up the darkened lid of the city As soon as it was tolerably light, Rose took a message to the watchman's gate and instructed that it be delivered without delay. He had not slept. His eyes ached and his mouth tasted sour but for all that he twitched with a kind of frenzied energy. It would be several hours before he could reasonably expect a reply. He should use them constructively, he told himself firmly, to prepare his argument, to put his papers in order. Instead he paced his cramped room, his toes clenching in his boots, and behind his back his hands clamped and undamped, chafing their chapped winter skin. The thundering of boots on the bare boards of the staircase outside his door rattled the glass in its peeling sash. He tried to make a fire for tea but the kindling was damp and mouldy and would not catch. The dank smoke stung his eyes. He would go to the coffee-house for breakfast as soon as he had received a reply. Anxiously he peered out of the window. On the patch of scrubby grass beneath him blackbirds pecked gloomily at the mud, ignoring the knot of barristers in black gowns that flapped past them. Rose bit his nails. Surely he would hear something soon. It was Thursday. The Sessions were scheduled for Monday. It was still possible that he might be able to secure a postponement. After the early morning flurry the lodging house was empty. In the silence the clock on the mantel ticked fussily to itself, its eager hands leaping to mark the minutes. Rose thought of William May, shackled in the filthy straw of his prison cell, and of the faceless Hawke, who walked free. He sat down, his hands dangled between his knees. He stood. He paced. And in between he stared at the path beneath the window, his hands twisting behind his back. He waited.

  The messenger came a little after ten o'clock. Mr Bazalgette's clerk acknowledged receipt of Mr Rose's request but regretted that, given the extent of his commitments, it would be quite impossible for Mr Bazalgette to meet with him before February. However, given the urgent nature of his request, it was suggested that, if he could present himself at Greek-street at noon, Mr Bazalgette's deputy, Mr Lovick, would do his best to grant him a short interview.

  Abruptly, Rose was thrown into a fever of anxious anticipation. He cast his papers frantically around, shuffling together the documents he had taken from the police, the hastily scrawled version of England's letter that he had written from memory as soon as he had returned from the coffee-house the previous night. Still it was a slim sheaf, no more than a few sheets. As for the dog — he was no closer to establishing what he might be able to do about the dog. There was no time for breakfast. He had thought to take a cab to Soho but near Westminster the road was up and the narrow streets were knotted with traffic. He arrived at the Board's offices painfully short of breath, his pale hair standing away from his head. The clerk who took his name raised an eyebrow and stared at him through spectacles that gave his eyes the hard sheen of polished pebbles. Left alone, Rose licked his palms surreptitiously and ran them over his scalp. The hard chair provided was low and uncomfortable. Rose perched on its edge, hugging his briefcase to his chest. Around him on the walls were displayed architectural drawings for what looked to be churches or palaces, all soaring towers and domes and enough fancy decoration to put a Byzantine mosque to shame. There were no pictures of sewers but then why would anyone want to look at sewers? The palaces were attractive. The architect had drawn trees around them, and people in the foreground. A woman in a white dress walked along a path, a parasol held in one tiny hand.

  The clerk cleared his throat.

  'You may come up now, sir.'

  Rose's stomach churned as he followed the clerk up a narrow staircase and along a corridor. At a closed door they stopped. The clerk knocked and opened it a crack.

  'A Mr Rose to see you, sir.'

  'Ah. Show him in.'

  The small office was dominated by a huge mahogany desk. Like a ship in a bottle, Rose thought, and he glanced distractedly behind him at the doorway, wondering how it had possibly been squeezed through the narrow space. Mr Lovick sat behind it, frowning at some papers. He did not trouble to look up but instead waved a hand at the clerk, dismissing him. Rose hovered uncomfortably, eyeing Lovick's profile as he read. He was a dark man with thick black whiskers without a trace of grey. Beneath them his face was severe, an origami face folded into sharp points and edges. Rose swallowed.

  'Mr Rose.' Lovick looked up at last, the frown still etched between his dark brows. He did not suggest that Rose sit down. Rose wrung out his hands behind his back. 'How can I help you?'

  'Firstly, Mr Lovick, I want to thank you for seeing me. I know you are a very busy man.'

  Lovick twisted his bloodless lips into a smile.

  'Ah, a charming speech but unfortunately expressed to the wrong person. Mr Lovick has been called away on urgent business which will detain him for the remainder of the day and tomorrow too, I fear. In his absence I suggested to the clerk that perhaps I might be able to oblige you.' He inclined his head, watching Rose's face. 'My name is Hawke.'

  Rose's eyes bulged and his Adam's apple scraped painfully against his collar.

  'But —'

  'You are Mr May's lawyer, I understand.' Hawke shook his head ruefully but still he fixed his eyes intently upon Rose. To his agitation Rose felt the flush rise in his neck.

  'Excuse me, Mr Hawke, but I think it would be more appropriate if I —'

  Hawke gave no sign of having heard him.

  'It hardly seems necessary to go to the expense of a lawyer,' he observed instead. 'Given the circumstances.'

  'And what circumstances would those be, Mr Hawke?' Rose demanded, patches of red blotching his pale cheeks.

  Hawke's smile stretched a little.

  'An open-and-shut case, isn't that what they call it?'

  'Only when it is one,' Rose retorted. He glared back at Hawke, determined to keep his nerve.

  Hawke's smile did not falter but his eyes narro
wed.

  'Oh?'

  'When there is written evidence to the contrary, evidence that incriminates another, they call it something quite different,' Rose said, clutching his portfolio to his chest like a breastplate. 'They call it reasonable doubt.'

  'Do they?'

  'Oh yes. Particularly when that evidence is written in the hand of the dead man himself and stained with his own blood.'

  'How very ghoulish. So might I see this fascinating document?'

  'I don't have it with me. But I wouldn't make any assumptions quite yet, Mr Hawke. Not if I were you.'

  'You don't have it at all, do you, Mr Rose?'

  'But I will have. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've a witness to interview. Interesting character, actually. A fount of fascinating information. Appears to know the sewers like the back of his hand.'

  His heart pounding victoriously in his throat, Rose marched to the door. On the threshold he paused and then turned around.

  'I don't suppose the name Long Arm Tom means anything to you, does it, Mr Hawke?'

  'Nothing at all.'

  Hawke's answer came smoothly, without hesitation. But his eyes flickered as though he had been struck. Rose clenched his fists in triumph as he clattered back down the stairs. It was only when he stood outside, and the raw morning chill cooled the flush upon his neck, that he began to wonder what on earth it was he had gone and done.

  XXXII

  It was Brassey who told Binks, the proprietor of the chop-house, who told Tom that there was rumours doing the rounds that the Captain was planning to take Lady to the fight that Saturday night. Blustering like an autumn gale Brassey had been, Dawson said to Tom, his eyes fair popping out of his head and spluttering about how he'd thought of not letting the cheating scoundrel so much as put a foot through the door. According to Binks the Captain'd not showed up at the Badger for months. There was all kinds of debts unsettled, wagers not paid out. If the Captain thought he could just walk back in there, cool as you like, as if there'd been nothing awry, he had another think coming. Having said that, Brassey'd conceded he'd have a better chance of getting back his money if he let the bastard through the door. Principles was all very well in their place but sometimes a man had to give a little ground to get back what he was owed. Same was true of Tom. Brassey wasn't saying he'd been wrong, not exactly, but there was things he'd gone and done back then that he'd do different these days, knowing what it he knew now. He wanted Tom to know that. And if Tom wanted to come back to the Badger, so as he could see justice done in the matter of the dog, then Brassey wasn't going to stop him. He wasn't a man to bear grudges. He might even think about taking up the rats again, he'd added casually then, shrugging his round shoulders. Business was still business, if the price was right.

  Tom smiled then, a dry little twist of the mouth. So that was Brassey's game. Tom'd heard rumours about the lads supplying the Badger, how they was always bringing the crates at the last minute and then pushing the prices up, when it was too late for Brassey to get himself a load of the beasts anywhere else. It came as no surprise that the publican was dangling the lure of the Captain so as to get Tom back through the door. No doubt these days a penny a rat didn't seem so poor a bargain after all.

  But for all his scorn of Brassey's clumsy methods Tom felt a flicker of excitement. The lawyer'd said to Joe that he'd have Lady for him at the coffee-house on Narrow-lane, seven o'clock, but Tom'd not let himself believe it. It didn't seem possible, somehow, that gawky youth mustering the full strength of the law to bring the Captain to book. Lads like that, all knuckles and scarlet ears, there were lads like that in the rookeries too, from time to time, lads who'd thought to find themselves a future in the city. Lads who was always looking in the wrong direction when trouble came creeping up on them. The Captain'd only have to sneeze and the force of it'd send a lad like that blowing clean off course. But now it didn't matter. Tom didn't need the lawyer no more, not now. He could twist and turn in the wind as frenzied as he pleased. It wasn't no concern of Tom's. Tonight Lady would be at the Badger. A few hours and he'd see her. He'd touch her. His stomach squeezed.

  He'd see the Captain and all. It was time Tom took negotiations into his own hands. The letters were back where they belonged, safe and sound in their hiding place in the tunnels. But Tom had every intention of making them work for their keep. Joe'd said the lawyer's face'd lit up like Moses & Son when he saw the letters. One in particular he'd read over and over, his eyes blazing and the colour standing out on his cheeks for all the world like it was a billy-doo from his sweetheart. Joe had stretched his fingers then, cracking his knuckles and laughing. His hand'd fair exhausted itself holding the paper up so as the lawyer could keep on a-gawping at it, he told Tom, and there was more than one time he'd had to place a steadying hand on the man's shoulders so as the lawyer might recall himself and lay his own greedy hands back flat on the table the way they'd agreed. If Joe'd let him he'd've been out the door with them before you could say sewer. As it was the lawyer'd thought them worth the dog, without so much as a hesitation. How much more valuable would they be to the Captain? Surely a dog and forty guineas? Cheap at the price.

  Tom went to the coffee-house at seven o'clock. Not because he expected the lawyer to have Lady, because he didn't, but because the more he knew, the harder the bargain he could drive with the Captain. He did not take the letters. They were safer where they were. The moment he ducked through the low door he saw a white dog curled up under a table in the corner. Straightways, his breath stopped and his heart knocked sharply against his ribs, straightways before he'd even looked at it right and seen it was a sour-faced bulldog that bore not even the faintest resemblance to Lady. Cursing to himself he spat on to the sawdust floor and waited.

  The lawyer was late. And he was alone. Although he'd known it all along Tom scowled at the lawyer and swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth.

  'You came," Rose said.

  'Alone, are you?'

  'Yes.'

  Rose twisted his hands together. He'd almost forgotten about the dog. All afternoon he had squirmed uncomfortably, guilt and anxiety smearing his stomach and prickling greasily in the roots of his hair. A man like Tom had a pauper's mistrust for the law, likely with good reason since he seemed hardly the kind to trouble himself with its strictures, but he had sent the letter all the same. He had acted upon his conscience to save an innocent man, trusting Rose to serve him well in return. Rose had betrayed that trust. Hawke would surely not let it pass. He would come after Tom. And it would be Rose's fault.

  'I'm sorry,' Rose mumbled. 'I — things have been more difficult than I had hoped.'

  Tom waited.

  'I can do nothing without the letter,' Rose blurted abruptly. 'Please. I beg you. If I have the letter we have a chance of getting your dog back. Without it — without it I have nothing. Which means I cannot help you.'

  'What letter?'

  'Please. Let us not play games. There is so little time.'

  Tom blinked, his eyes round.

  'Don't think I understands you, mister.'

  'For pity's sake, man, stop this! I beg you.'

  'I think you must've mistook me for some other cove, mister. I don't know nothing about no letter.'

  Rose could contain himself no longer. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over one another.

  'Tom, it's too late for this. He knows, do you understand me? Hawke, your Captain, he knows. He knows I'm on to him. That we have written evidence. And he knows about you. That I have talked to you. It's too late. We can't turn back now. But if I have the letter we have a chance. We can get him. I know we can get him. If I have the letter I can take things further with the Board. At the very least we could get him for corruption. He'd go to gaol. The man cheated you, Tom. Surely you want him in gaol. And if you were to take me down the tunnels, if we could find the evidence my client claims is hidden there, then perhaps —'

  Tom held his palms upwards, playing for time. His head spun.


  'This letter — it's bad for the Captain?'

  'Bad? It exposes him as having accepted bribes in exchange for contracts. It was never sent. The man who wrote it is dead. Do you not see? It could hardly be worse.'

  Tom saw and his heart skipped. So that was what the letter had contained. And now the Captain knew about it. No wonder Brassey'd been so careful to make sure Tom knew about the fight. Things happened at places like the Badger that no one ever found out about. But there was always two sides to every coin. The Captain could lay any trap he liked but it was Tom still had the letter. A letter like that, it'd be worth a dog at the very least.

  'I'd like to help you,' Tom said, his face studiously blank. 'Gaol's too good for a rogue like that. But I think you mistook me for someone. I don't know nothing about no letter. And I told you —1 don't go down the tunnels no more. It's against the law.'

  Rose stared up at Tom as he stood, wrapping his ragged coat around him.

  'But —'

  'I hope you finds the cove what's got your letter. Good night to you, mister.'

  'No!'

  Rose reached out to try and seize Tom's sleeve but the tosher was too fast for him. By the time Rose reached the door of the coffee-house the old man was gone.

  XXXIII

  The Strand was lurid and frantic, caught in the glare of the gas-lights. The shop windows screamed in one thousand garish colours and the doors of the theatres stood open, their gold and scarlet mouths inhaling a swarming mass of people. The road was locked with vehicles. Cabs jostled for position. Horses skittered, their harnesses clattering, their heads lost in glittering white clouds of their own breath. Drivers bellowed to one another, a pandemonium of pleasantries and rebukes. Streetwalkers plucked at Rose as he walked, begging for a glass of gin or a little something for the rent. Beside him an omnibus driver hied at his two horses, urging them forward, while the conductor beat ferociously upon the brightly painted green roof. Rose huddled into his coat, his eyes on his boots, as the wilful brightness buffeted him, paddling its fingers gaily in his misery. As he turned down King-James-lane a group of swells in fancy evening dress almost knocked him off his feet. Their rowdy laughter echoed in his ears, sharp with mockery.