by John Drake
Slym spotted this instantly, and for all his formidable reputation, he proved as susceptible to Lady Sarah as any lesser man. Suddenly he felt the need to explain himself.
“The name used to be ‘Slim’, ma’am,” he said, “but I found it insufficiently particular to a man o’ my talents, and so I out with the T and in with the ‘y’ for the more mellifluous sound it … er … hmm …”
His voice faded away as he realised that he was only making things worse.
“I see,” said Lady Sarah, sweetly, “Mr Samuel Slym the thief-taker.” She paused for effect, then added, “Known to all London, I believe, as ‘Slimy Sam’.”
Slym almost managed to control himself, but one side of his face twitched like a horse’s flank when it shakes off a fly.
“As to that, ma’am,” he said, “I cannot be responsible for the minds of the vulgar. But I’ll say this. I may be known as … that,” he could not say the actual words, “but nobody calls me by it.” He smiled without a trace of mirth. “Not in my hearing, leastways.”
“Oh!” said Lady Sarah with the wondering round eyes and rosebud lips of a virgin. But she believed him, none the less. She held the innocent expression and continued, “You could of course replace the ‘y’ and revert to Slim?” she suggested, and saw the pulses throb in Slym’s neck and the black blood rise up his face.
“Not I, ma’am,” he said thickly, “I stands by me guns.”
“How noble!” she exclaimed, and fluttered her lovely lashes to such effect that Slym was stopped in his anger, soothed, and nicely poised for the next drop. “And of course,” she said, “were you to change the name again, the vulgar might laugh at you even more than they do already.”
She observed his reaction with wicked glee but recognised that he was now pushed to the limit of his capacity to be deceived that the hurt was unintended, and so the game was now at an end. Torment of all kinds was one of her pleasures and she liked to explore any new acquaintance to find where the tender spots lay. With Slym, there was the added thrill of the danger. It was like jabbing a sharp stick into a tiger.
She reflected on the advantage of being a woman. Slym would never have tolerated this from a man. But enough was enough. She needed Slym’s active co-operation and it was time for business.
“Mr Slym,” she said with a dazzling smile, “I am told that you are the best man in London at your trade …”
She turned the full light of her charm upon him and soon the matter of his unfortunate nickname was forgotten and even the coarsened, barnacled emotions of Samuel Slym the gallows-feeder were stirred with the pleasure of her company. She drew him on and encouraged him to talk, and she listened carefully. Then she spoke.
“So, Mr Slym, you claim to find and catch any man who has run.”
“Mostly, ma’am,” he said modestly.
“But how,” said she, “when a fugitive has all the vast metropolis of London in which to hide, let alone England or the rest of the world?” Slym smiled and leaned forward. He was on home ground. As he spoke, his large, scrubbed fingers with their ferociously manicured nails, played with the white cards, tapping the perfectly aligned stack into a super-perfection.
“No, ma’am,” he said, as teacher to pupil, “that ain’t the way of it, at all. Let me give you two fresh instances from my work: Izzy Cohen the Whitechapel forger, and ‘Big Arthur’ Barker the meat porter, what kicked his wife to death while drunk. Two men, ma’am, as different as could be and yet both on the hop from a capital charge.” He paused and looked Lady Sarah in the eye. “Now, ma’am,” he said, “according to you, Izzy or Big Arthur could’ve gone anywhere. They could’ve took ship for China even. Am I correct?”
She nodded and Slym saw that he’d caught her entire attention.
“But where d’ye think I found ‘em, ma’am? Eh? I’ll tell you: Izzy I pulled from under his mother’s bed in the house next door to his own, and Big Arthur I took from a gin-shop not five minutes’ walk from where he lived. The only difference betwixt ‘em was that Izzy came quiet and Big Arthur didn’t. And now, next Friday, they swing together side-by-side.”
“But how can this be?” said Lady Sarah, suddenly uncomfortable. “Did they not run? Did they not realise the peril of being caught? Did they not run far away?”
“Ah, but they did, ma’am!” said Slym, relishing the chance to air his knowledge before such an audience. “They all do at first. But do you realise how terrible hard it is to run far away?
“Consider if it were you, ma’am!” he said. “How should you live? Where should you go? And how should you bear the separation from all that you esteem?” Slym shook his head. “No, ma’am! ‘Tis the loneliness that gets ‘em. They can’t bear to keep away from home.”
Lady Sarah’s self-control was better than Slym’s. The soft, attentive smile never wavered. So he never knew the heavy effect of his words as Lady Sarah learned three very shocking things all in one instant. First, how common were the emotions that she had thought unique to herself. Second, how close she had come to putting her head in a rope, and third how very much more deadly was Mr Slym than she had imagined. She’d been putting her hand in an adder’s nest to play with its pups.
But Lady Sarah Coignwood was nothing if not resolute. She crushed her fear and continued the inquisition.
“So is it then a simple matter to catch them?” she said. Slym smiled gravely and nodded.
“Sometimes, ma’am. The neighbours themselves’ll seize a man if they think him a villain — and he ain’t a dangerous one like Big Arthur — or they may snitch on him. But what if they take his part, as often they will? In that case he must be winkled out! But then, who’s to find his home ground? And who’s to watch over it, to spy him out? And who’s to get a magistrate’s warrant for the entering of premises? And finally, who’s to take the knocks should he fight?” He shook his head reflectively. “Five men came with me for Big Arthur, ma’am, which number I thought sufficient. But he broke the bones of three, and left his mark on every man including myself. I tell you freely, ma’am, mine is a fearful business at times, and it exercises my imagination to wonder what might become of me, some dark night!”
Lady Sarah smiled. “Mr Slym,” she said, “I seriously doubt that a man of your abilities will be seen off by common ruffians. And as to fear, I would venture to guess that you are a man of action in whom it strikes no root.” Slym smirked at this considerable compliment and bowed in his chair.
“Thank’ee, ma’am!” said he.
“And my imagination is exercised to wonder how you effect the finding of a man who seeks to hide. To me that still seems the principal difficulty. How do you do it?”
“By the careful accumulation of knowledge, ma’am,” he said. “You see, ma’am, every man thinks he’s special. He fancies he’s the only one there is. But he aint!” He slapped the table with his hand. “He’s one of a family, and he’s one of a trade, and one of a club, or a gin-shop, or a cobbler’s clientele. Or he’s the Jack-spry-dandy with a doxy-on-the-sly what he meets in the room over a baker’s shop! And by all these things he may be known … and found!” Slym’s eyes were gleaming with enthusiasm. “I goes out a lot, ma’am — a terrible lot. And I talks to people as sees things: ostlers, maids, shopkeepers, tapmen and the like. And what I learns I set down here.” He got up and opened one of the little drawers. It was filled with a row of cards. He took one out and gave it to her. “There’s your answer, ma’am,” said he. “Thousands of these, indexed and catalogued, so’s I can dig ‘em out as I want. There’s all sorts in here and I can start a search in a dozen ways: names, trades, vices ...” He broke off as he saw her puzzling over the card. He smiled. “No, ma’am, you won’t be able to read it. ‘Tis shorthand, you see. My own method. A faster version of Samuel Taylor’s of 1786.”
He sat down again and leaned back in his chair, his hands smoothing imaginary dust off the polished surface of his desk. “All my own methods, ma’am, developed by myself. No other man in Engl
and works in this way. Maybe none other in the world.”
Again, Lady Sarah shuddered inwardly at the risk she had taken in coming here. A risk so much greater than she had known. Victor had described Slym as no more than a superior thug; a tool that she might train to the application of violence where she chose. Certainly she had found a physically dangerous man, but also one possessed of intellectual gifts not far beneath her own. She had not expected the insight into human nature, nor the sharpness and creative originality of mind. But no matter. She resolved to punish Victor savagely for the fright she’d had, and as for Slym himself, he was far too gifted not to be used.
Fortunately, and early on in their conversation, she had identified the weakness in Slym’s character that would enable him to be led like a bull with a ring in his nose.
“Mr Slym,” she said, “I am come to a decision. I shall employ you to find me a man. His name is Jacob Fletcher.”
“Fletcher, ma’am,” said Slym. He dipped his pen, wiped it neatly and inscribed a fresh card with a few bold strokes.
“But Mr Slym,” she said, “be warned! This matter is so important that you shall devote yourself to it before all else.”
“Oh,” said Slym, “shall I indeed?” He put down the pen and raised his eyebrows. “Ma’am,” said he, “if you know my reputation, you’ll know I don’t work cheap. Not even for normal services, let alone my exclusive attentions. So might I ask what payment you have in mind?”
Lady Sarah’s lips parted and her breasts rose as she breathed deeply.
“Why, sir,” she said, “your heart’s desire …”
*
That evening, Lady Sarah reclined at her ease on a sofa in the sitting room at 208 Maze Hill, Greenwich. The room was shockingly ill-furnished but at least Lady Sarah had her gowns. She was wearing a favourite “Directoire” gown, of white muslin, which clung admirably to her slender legs and swept full-length to her ankles to frame her pretty, naked feet in a web of fabric. Over these feet, her son Victor crouched, where he knelt at the end of the sofa. His coat, waistcoat and shirt lay in a crumpled heap beside him, and the thin white skin of his back and shoulders was crossed with red stripes. He snivelled and sniffed and sobbed his apologies.
“Oh, stop it!” said Lady Sarah, impatiently. “You’re steeped in hypocrisy, as all the world knows. I believe you enjoy it!”
“I don’t,” he gasped, “not when you lay on so hard.”
“Hmm,” she said, absently, considering the long slender riding-crop swinging from her right hand. “Perhaps not. I do hope not anyway.”
Victor stretched one hand awkwardly behind his neck and down the middle of his back. He probed with his fingers.
“Look!” he said, as he drew back his hand. “Blood!”
“Ah, my baby,” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet with the most affecting display of remorse. “Show me the place for Mother to kiss it. I did not know.” Victor turned himself round for her inspection.
“There,” he said.
“Where?” she asked in a voice like a dove.
“There,” he confirmed.
And CRACK! She brought the crop whistling down precisely on the spot. Victor screeched and jumped.
“There!” cried Lady Sarah, breathing through flared nostrils. She flung the riding-crop aside. “That’s better! Now you’re well served, you stupid ninny.” She smiled a heavy smile and licked her lips in satisfaction. “Next time, take care what you tell me. Now get dressed and come here. There is much to do.”
Victor recognised the change in mood and had more sense than to argue. He struggled painfully into his shirt, stifling his groans, and sat beside his mother on the sofa. She smiled and stretched her gleaming arms invitingly to him. She took his head in her lap and petted him like a baby. She ran her fingers through his hair and gently scratched his scalp with the tips of her fingernails.
Victor watched her warily through half-closed eyes and fought the delicious ecstasy that her attentions were inducing. He could never be quite sure what she would do next.
As anyone who knew him would agree, Victor Coignwood was a sadistic degenerate. But equally, any fair-minded man who learned the full details of Victor’s upbringing, would be amazed that the boy had turned out so well.
“Now,” said Lady Sarah, “I see the way forward. Three things stand between us and your father’s money.” Victor stiffened as he guessed what was coming next. He drew breath to protest, and saw his mother’s fingers hook into claws, which hovered over his eyes. And he felt the soft arms turn to steel.
He shut his mouth tight and looked up at her in terror.
“Good boy!” she said, and the slim hands stroked him again. “You weren’t going to say that we are safe here, were you?”
“No, Mother,” he said.
“And you weren’t going to say that we should not risk ourselves to seek the Coignwood fortune, were you?”
“No, Mother,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “It is true that your Uncle Williams’s house has served us well. Without it we should have had nowhere to go. And I have it from an expert that we should then have betrayed ourselves.” She tapped his nose gently in admonition. “But I have told you many times, that we cannot stay here for ever, reliant upon your uncle’s resources.”
“Why does my Uncle Williams do your bidding so completely?” Victor asked, to change the subject.
“Because he loves me, Victor, as you do,” she said and smiled down at him. Victor was stabbed with the beauty of her face, and it occurred to him that his mother had precisely the expression that popish painters tried to put on to the faces of their Holy Madonnas. He sniggered as he thought of himself as the baby Jesus. She misunderstood his emotion.
“Yes, darling,” she said, “your uncle is very afraid of you. “
“Is he?” said Victor with much interest.
“Oh yes,” she said. “When I go to him, he always asks if you are with me, and always I reassure him that you are not.” Victor sat up, intrigued.
“Why do you never let me see him?” he asked.
“Because I am reserving you for a purpose, Victor. At present your uncle does my bidding. He signs papers as he is told. But if ever he proved difficult, I might let you go to him.”
“Why?” asked Victor.
“Because he is so very old and weak, my dear,” she said. “He is broken by the death of your brother Alexander, whom he seems truly to have loved, despite all. But his horror of yourself is so great that I think your appearance at his bedside would see him off … should ever the need arise.”
“Ah,” said Victor, “I see. Poor old fellow! And if the fright didn’t do it, why, I am sure a helpless invalid might be drowned in his bed with any convenient liquid. One would bind his arms with his sheets, sit on his legs, pinch his nose shut, and fill his mouth.” He waved a hand airily. “Soup would do, and would look perfectly natural.”
“Bless you, my boy,” she said, “I knew I might rely on you.” Then the mood changed again and Victor went cold with fright.
“Now listen!” she said. “I shall not sit here and await events. I shall act. We must crush the charges of murder, we must overturn the will that gives everything to the Brat, Fletcher, and we must be rid of Fletcher himself.”
Victor was terrified and fascinated all at once.
“But how?” he said. “We were seen doing murder before witnesses. All the world is ranged against us.”
“I shall make it clear, my love,” she said, “so that even you shall understand … Up!” she said, and pushed him to his feet. She clapped her hands like a governess with her charges, “Pen and paper! At once!”
Victor fetched what she wanted and spread them on a small table, convenient for her use. She smiled like an angel, stroked her son’s cheek, and inscribed a few lines in her stylish, elegant handwriting. When she was done, she nodded in satisfaction at her work:
Mr Forster the magistrate
Mr Pendennis the Polmout
h merchant
Mr Richard Lucey the solicitor
Mr Taylor the bookseller (& wife)
Mr Forster’s Constable
The Constable’s two brothers.
Victor watched in a thrill of fascination and growing excitement as his mother lectured him upon this list, and her pen moved decisively over it.
“First the threat,” she said, “the people who keep us in danger of our lives. You, my dear, were seen by Mr and Mrs Taylor on the night of 19th July when you emerged from 29 Market Street, having murdered Edward Lucey …”
“Murdered?” said Victor, shrinking from the ugly word. She laughed.
“What word would you prefer?” she said, and continued, “Having murdered Edward Lucey and wounded his son Richard.”
“And Andrew Potter,” interrupted Victor anxious that no good deed of his should be forgotten. “He also. I did kill him too.”
“Of course, my dear,” she said, “Potter, your playmate.” She paused and looked at him with a little smile. “A gentleman of the back door like yourself.” Before Victor could wonder if he were being sneered at, she was talking rapidly. “So, Richard Lucey and the Taylors could give evidence against us for the events of that night. And now we turn to 29th July, and Mr Magistrate Forster’s attempt to arrest us. On that occasion, you shot dead one man and wounded another.” Victor smirked and shrugged his shoulders modestly. “The following could give evidence of this: Forster, his Constable, the Constable’s two brothers … and of course, our old friend Mr Nathan Pen-dennis, Lord Mayor of Polmouth, who came with them.
“Thus the problem,” she said. “Now the solution.” She drew quick lines upon the page, striking out the Constable and his brothers. “This matter must come to court,” she said, “and no English jury will take the word of these clods against mine. They are of no account.”
“Come to court?” gasped Victor whose face had lost its colour and whose eyes showed white around the pupils.
“Of course,” she said. “How else may things be resolved?” She pressed on, “As to Pendennis and Lucey, I have power over them, as we know. And this power I shall reinforce very soon.” She smiled confidently at her son. “Which means, my dear, that this formidable list reduces thus, although the Brat’s name must be added at the head.” Victor looked down at the list.
