I offer the following pieces in illustration of the official fascination and outrage caused (adding, with all modesty, that the first piece is my own work).
From page 7 of the Times that Wednesday:
In the early hours before dawn on Monday, a most diabolical murder was committed at a boarding house off Princes-street in Lambeth. The victim is a bicephalous girl known only as Eliza-Beth, a performer in the troupe of ‘Dr Zwigoff’s Anatomical Wonders’, currently appearing at Vauxhall Gardens. The supposed perpetrator of the murder has been described by a witness as a working man wearing a cloth cap, a waistcoat and a jacket. He has a scar vertically traversing his left eye.
The following particulars appertaining to the murder may be relied upon as correct: The murderer entered the property by breaking the street-door lock, passed by the kitchen and silently ascended the stairs. On entering the sleeping quarters, he apprehended the deceased sitting at a writing desk. Evidently surprised, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, G—! A monster!’ and assaulted her. The sleepers were awoken to discover the poor girl in the throes of death and a cry of ‘murder’ was raised. Police constable Cullen, 242 L, was the first to attend the scene and called for assistance. Sergeant George Williamson and Police Surgeon McLeod were soon on the spot and discerned that Eliza-Beth was dead, her throat having been cut by a razor. A description of the supposed murderer was elicited from one of the inhabitants and was immediately distributed to other watch houses around the city, but no progress has yet been made in his apprehension.
The reader will observe that no mention has been made of the letters or the locket. I was compelled to omit these details by a senior police officer so that the insane who habitually confess to such crimes may be eliminated on questioning.
Letter to the Times (the following day):
Dear Sirs
The late case of murder in Lambeth has captured the attention like so many infamous crimes before it, and the public scrutiny must naturally turn to the police force. Though they may be satisfactorily established as preventors of crime, their role as a detective force must still be in question. This is made evident by the following facts:-
Though a description of the killer has been released to watch houses around the city, and though his identifying characteristics are striking, no trace of the man has yet been found. The truth is that the local beat constable knows only the immediate territory and faces of his district. Should the murderer lurk elsewhere, he will languish in happy anonymity, unsought by men who are certain he does not reside there. The intelligent and skilled men of the Detective Force may have the wherewithal to rove the city without adherence to district boundaries, but they are few in number and cannot possibly have the requisite encyclopaedic knowledge of every face under their authority.
Unless the miscreant is apprehended while carelessly committing a lesser crime, it must be hoped that, as in previous cases, he will suffer a surfeit of guilt and voluntarily confess at his local watch house. If not, I fear the next we hear of him may be in connection with another murder.
A.D., Stoke Newington
Commissioner Mayne sat at the same table he’d headed those few months previously. Those very editions of the Times were spread before him, the letter of A.D. of Stoke Newington circled twice, somewhat brutally, and also partially underlined in black ink. Superintendent Wilberforce and Inspector Newsome sat either side of him.
‘Superintendent. Inspector. I trust you have seen this . . . this slur. I have marked the most offensive passages. Let me quote: “Though they may be satisfactorily established as preventors of crime, their role as a detective force must still be in question.” Or maybe you would prefer this: “They are few in number and cannot possibly have the requisite encyclopaedic knowledge of every face under their authority.” Or should I mention the writer’s hope that, “as in previous cases”, the murderer will deliver himself to the police? What are we doing to catch this killer, gentlemen?’
Mr Newsome cleared his throat. ‘Sir – a description of the killer has been distributed about the city—’
‘He has a huge scar traversing his face, man! How can he not be known to the local constables? How can we not have found this man as easily as one finds a coffee vendor on the morning streets?’
‘It is not so simple, sir. If he has gone to ground in one of the rookeries, no policeman will see him. No colleague will inform on him because the criminal brethren are united only in their hatred of the police. If we sent our men into St Giles or Rotherhithe or Whitechapel, we might spend weeks searching every grimy nook as the killer watches us from the very same darkness.’
‘What of your detectives? Cannot they infiltrate these areas?’
‘Only, perhaps, if they adopt the attire and habits of the local inhabitants, sir. But even then—’
‘Yes, yes – I know about that. We have discussed it.’
Mr Wilberforce interceded: ‘If I may make an observation, Sir Richard?’
‘Go on.’
‘The public attention upon this case is immense, as well it might be. All of London is looking to us to capture this criminal. The quicker it is done, the better. We have the means to do so rapidly and effectively.’
‘Are you referring to the situation we discussed before?’
‘Sir – the police force is being humiliated. The criminals are laughing at us. If I said I could have your killer in Newgate gaol within the week; if I said that the Detective Force could be covered with glory at the unprecedented rapidity of his pursuit and arrest, and if I said I could do this at no risk to any of our men – would you countenance my methods? You need not know how it is done, only that it is done.’
Sir Richard looked again at the newspaper. He stood and walked over to the window, casting his eyes down at the city of which he had made himself the guardian. A rag-picker was making his way along the street below, picking through the gutter with his pointed stick. The commissioner sighed heavily. He spoke without turning:
‘Proceed.’
‘The prisoner sleeps but fitfully. He sweats and shivers, and he speaks in his sleep.’
‘What does he say?’
‘“Fire!” He calls out that there is a fire and moves his limbs sluggishly as if he, too, were on fire.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Only much agitation, sir. He is calmer and more composed, in fact, when awake.’
‘And the sovereigns? From where did he produce them?’
‘It was most ingenious, sir. He had them secreted between his sole and shoe. True, he had to destroy the shoes to access them, but it was a masterful hiding place. I have seen nothing like it.’
Inspector Newsome concluded his interview with the warden at Giltspur-street Compter and returned to the room where Mr Wilberforce was contentedly smoking his pipe. He stood, and together they walked to the cell of their nameless prisoner, having discussed their strategy at great length following their short meeting with Sir Richard. There was no sound emanating from inside the cell as they exchanged glances and entered.
The prisoner was sitting cross-legged like an oriental idol, an expression of sublime calm upon his face. He looked up at the officers but gave no sign of recognition – indeed, no sign of any emotion. He was the very essence of impassiveness. Mr Newsome began:
‘Henry Matthews, or should I say William Smart . . . or maybe you would prefer Harold Thackeray? Yes, we know you are using these names. We know many things about you.’
The prisoner merely adopted an amused expression.
‘You might well smile,’ continued Mr Newsome, ‘but you are not in possession of all the facts, as we are. Did you know, for example, that the constable whose uniform you were wearing has passed away? Yes – he was accosted by a Negro matching the description of he who lives at the address you dispatched the boy to. Constable Wiseman did not recover from the blow to his head, and you appear to be the direct beneficiary of his assault.’
The prisoner’s smile disappeared to be replaced wi
th a stony blankness.
‘This is enough to hang you, sir,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘Especially since you refuse to speak in your defence. But that is not all. We also have reason to believe that you are implicated in a series of incendiary attacks that have been fastidiously documented at your place of residence. You appear to know more about these crimes than any policeman in the city. Can you add illumination to any of these accusations? No?’
The prisoner shifted his position on the mat and looked to the window.
‘Your man is not coming for you,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘We have the Negro under arrest on suspicion of the murder of PC Wiseman. You are quite alone now. We have your diamond and your house; you have no more sovereigns to bribe street boys; you stand accused of murder, of possessing a cracksman’s tools, and of involvement in incendiarism. You will assuredly be transported. More likely, you will be hanged.’
At this, the prisoner evinced the first perceptible reaction of his waking time at Giltspur. He glared at his interrogators with an expression of fearsome malevolence.
Mr Wilberforce, as the two officers had agreed previously, adopted a more conciliatory tone: ‘Prisoner – whatever your name might be – you could defend yourself. Tell us that you are not implicated in these crimes. Speak to us. You seem like an intelligent man – indeed, a gentleman, if yours was the house we visited.’
No response was given.
‘No? Then there is nothing further we can do,’ sighed Mr Wilberforce. ‘The evidence will be presented in court and you will very probably find yourself in the hands of Mr Calcraft, or rather at the end of his rope. Your Negro manservant will also hang as your accomplice. I see that you have nothing to say, so we will leave you.’
The two policemen exchanged a look and made to exit the cell. Then, as the heavy oaken door swung open, they heard a cough behind them and turned to see their prisoner fixing them with an icy stare.
‘He is not my manservant,’ said the prisoner. ‘He is a free man: an American named Benjamin. I will not have him hanged on my account.’
His voice was even, bearing the authority of a judge and the restraint of a confessor. There was a peculiar accent that neither policeman could place. He showed no fear at his situation.
‘Aha! He speaks!’ remarked Inspector Newsome. ‘Are you ready to tell us all you know?’
‘Officers – I am not the dullard you may think me to be. Your presence here is extraordinary and thus I adduce you have ulterior motives in detaining me and proffering these ludicrous charges, which you know have little foundation and could be refuted by even the most mediocre barrister. ’
Mr Newsome attempted to show no surprise at the articulacy of his prisoner: ‘Perhaps you speak the truth, but you underestimate the authority behind us. Any prosecution of ours would be successful.’
‘You know that the diamond is my own – it could not be otherwise. I was seen by the arresting constable bending to pick up a set of tools – could not they have been dropped in the street by another? You implicate me in the theft of PC Wiseman’s tailcoat and his murder, but are there not many Negroes in London and many shops where second-hand clothes can be bought? Your case is hollow.’
‘Would you test your neck and that of your . . . your friend against that assumption? No? I see you are not so confident with that condition.’
‘What do you want? I perceive that you have some reason for taking an interest in my case.’
‘What we want in the first instance,’ began Mr Wilberforce, ‘is to know who you are and from where you come. In the second instance, we may have a proposal which may mitigate your case.’
‘I see. A bargain. Well, if we are to bargain, I will use whatever value I have to seek advantages for myself. That is the essence of bargaining, is it not?’
‘Continue.’
‘Benjamin will not be prosecuted. He will be judged innocent of all charges against him and released immediately. After you have finished with me, I, too, will be judged entirely guiltless all of the spurious charges you have prepared against me and I will be given my freedom. My property will be returned to me. Since I have no reason to trust you, these promises will be presented to me and to Benjamin in letters signed by Sir Richard Mayne himself. You will also outline your plans for me before I reveal a word about myself. On these points, I am unmovable.’
‘You bargain like an Arab, sir,’ said Mr Wilberforce, who knew something of Arabs and their tricks. ‘And you value your worth highly. ’
‘Why does a superintendent and an inspector of the Detective Force examine a common prisoner? Yes – you might well evince surprise that I know who you are. Why search him and send men to his house in order to search it, as I perceive that you have? Why threaten him with the gallows and use the death of his friend as a tool of persuasion? Why? Because, for some reason that I cannot yet discern, I am clearly of inestimable worth to you.’
‘Your demands are ambitious,’ remarked Mr Newsome.
‘And you seek to coerce a free and innocent man into some scheme that the police cannot manage by itself, using dubious methods into the bargain. I value myself at a suitable rate. Can you deliver my requirements? I would like to see Benjamin appear at these very bars and tell me in his own tongueless way that he is free. Next, I would like to see that letter from Sir Richard. Then we can speak again.’
‘Why, you are an impertinent—’ started Mr Newsome, but the superintendent held his arm and interrupted:
‘We will approach Sir Richard. In the meantime, grant us the luxury of at least knowing your name.’
The prisoner seemed to ponder his decision for a few moments, holding his fingers to his temples and closing his eyes. He remained like this for some moments as the two officers exchanged perplexed looks. Then he opened his eyes and looked from one policeman to the other. He cleared his throat.
‘My name is Noah Dyson.’
NINE
Haymarket after dark presents a glittering display, though its illuminations vary in brilliance. At its northern end, the muddy streets provide pleasures of a baser kind, its gin shops spilling raucous revellers out into the street to be enticed by prostitutes into alleys for a fumbled encounter – or a cudgel to the scull. Harsh words are exchanged under the influence of spirits, and blows are inevitably exchanged in a blasphemous Babel of expletives. At this end of the street, near Regents-circus, pickpockets lurk away from the identifying light of lamps, and coffee shops hide upper rooms that are rented by the quarter hour.
Compare, however, the southern end near Pall Mall, where swells in silk top hats and doeskin trousers strut arm-in-arm with ladies newly made acquaintance with. With its champagne and oyster bars, this locale exchanges grubby upper-floor rooms for well-appointed hotels, and common street girls for practised courtesans in fine silks and bonnets. Midnight sees the gaslit parade reach its apogee after the theatres have disgorged audiences into a street thronged with barrow vendors and peripatetic brass bands, rattling carriages and cabs, street-sweepers, lurkers and police. The unattended lawyers, students, tourists, lords and City men among them head immediately for the notorious dancing halls such as the Argyll Rooms and the Alhambra, hoping to meet locally residing ‘ladies’ at the polkas and waltzes.
And midway along this festive thoroughfare, between the glamour and the gloom, between profligacy and wantonness, lay Mary Chatterton’s Night Rooms: a place for supper, a place for dancing – a place for illicit encounters engineered by the great lady herself.
It was a cool night, that Thursday – cool enough, perhaps, to warrant a scarf worn over the lower face and a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over the eyes. Cool enough, certainly, to be wearing a shapeless old overcoat large enough to distort one’s true shape, especially when hunched and hobbling artificially like a knock-kneed beggar. Cool enough to strike a match to light a pipe, pausing just a little too long to watch the dancing flame burn out.
In a back room smelling strongly of eau de parfum and the sickly pall of dyin
g flowers, Mary Chatterton herself held court. The muffled sounds of the orchestra and the thumps of a hundred dancing pairs of feet echoed through the walls to where she sat, enthroned on a gilt and scarlet velvet armchair. Two effeminate young men attended her: one offering cut strawberries to her mouth with a silver spoon, the other holding a glass of French champagne from which to sip.
Once a great beauty, she had lured many a man to the tempestuous seas of her rooms, her fiery red tresses and that pale bosom being the rocks upon which many a bark had foundered. It was said that she had been courted by men of rank and power. Now she was fat. Her soft fingers were gaudy with jewels and her second chin glistened stickily with strawberry juice. True, there might have been traces of hair about her upper lip, and that slender waist may have ballooned, but she was still a true voluptuary: a living embodiment of the shameless and always dubious pleasures of her Night Rooms.
‘More champagne!’ she shouted, as the last sluiced down her throat. ‘More champagne, my boys! More strawberries!’
Her attendants scuttled to fetch more treats for their mistress, leaving her momentarily alone in the room. It was a shrine to her conquests: over-spilling boxes of billets-doux, jewellery lying carelessly on the mantel, and calling cards from countless men – most of them ignored. It was said that she held more secrets than anyone in London and that, as long as she lived, there would be men all over the city who would continue to seek her favour. She was an illustrious lover, but not a woman to have as an enemy. Who can forget the case of the young doctor who attempted to blackmail her over an alleged indiscretion? His dead body, pulled black and bloated from the river, was a warning to any who would slight her.
The Incendiary's Trail Page 8
