The Fiend in Human Read online

  ‘The ears of ratters among them, I should imagine.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir.’

  ‘All the better for you,’ replies the correspondent, squirming uncomfortably in his chair.

  23

  Off St Giles High Street

  Our two little criminals (or ‘female operatives’ as their betters would have it) spent a mainly frustrating afternoon, owing to an article printed a few days earlier on the pages of The Illustrated London News and subsequently echoed in The Times, concerning a marked increase of pickpockets, rampsmen and other thieves, on which subject journals print every rumour going, no matter how vague or preposterous. According to the current version, so abundant are the snatch thieves in Piccadilly that, in experiencing the necessity of entering a public urinal, a party might as well throw his watch into the ditch, for it will be no longer his by the time he has taken his piss.

  Civic officials responded to this climate of alarm by loosing into the streets a competing swarm of crushers and detectives, as though the Metropolitan Police (underpaid, undertrained, overworked, and uncompensated in case of injury) did not include a sufficient number of footpads, rampsmen and bug hunters among their own ranks.

  In this way does the atmosphere of a society deteriorate with the evil expectations of the privileged, and streets which ordinary Londoners happily walked a fortnight ago are transformed in the public imagination into an untamed jungle inhabited by wild animals. Thus is the city governed by fevers of malignant righteousness, and London returns to a time when the heads of traitors and Jacobites adorned the spikes on Temple Bar.

  In sum, now is the worst possible time to be nicked.

  Phoebe and Dorcas have therefore eschewed all but the most glaring opportunities: the gentleman whose silk handkerchief was about to fall out of his pocket anyway, the fish merchant for whom Dorcas’s bodice possessed such magnetic appeal that his nose nearly disappeared down her cleavage.

  By day’s end, for all their efforts, Mrs Ealing can offer them but a few pennies. Having come to a previous agreement on disbursal of the spoils, the two girls part company according to plan: Phoebe will return home with pilfered scran for her father’s supper; Dorcas will venture to the Crown, there to invest her money in spiced gin, while in hope that a certain sporting young gentleman will be in attendance to refill her cup, in return for a talk and a bit of a look.

  As the street around them repopulates from day traffic to night traffic, the two girls kiss one another in parting, for they really are the best of friends.

  ‘Well, Miss Phoebe, I fears I must bid you good evening.’

  ‘And what suitor occupies your engagement calendar this evening, Miss Dorcas?’

  ‘My prince awaits, Miss Phoebe, to ask for a kiss. And to ask, and ask again.’

  ‘Have I met the gentleman?’

  ‘That you have, my dear. There were a handsome prince and a toad prince, and I have drawn the handsome one.’

  ‘Have you let him kiss you? I can tell by your eyes that you have.’ Phoebe blushes at the very thought of what they must be doing.

  Dorcas giggles at her innocent friend. ‘Only as necessary, Miss Phoebe. For a gentleman is run by fascination.’

  ‘And by withholding. Be careful of his behaviour and watch for signs. You know the rumours that are about.’

  ‘I shall watch him like a falcon, my dear. Wish me good luck.’ And with a giggle and a wave, Dorcas is gone.

  In Phoebe’s view, Dorcas has been over-fond of the Crown of late, a place frequented by fast gentlemen of the quality – not to mention the lowest rakes and scoundrels. There is nothing to fear, it is true, within the Crown’s four walls; but upon venturing forth from that secular sanctuary, a girl with a belly full of gin must pass through a half-dozen narrow, dark streets before she reaches Leicester Square – and there was a body found on Leicester Square, or so Phoebe has heard …

  None the less, she says nothing about her worry. Between her own dream of a career on the stage and Dorcas’s hoped-for attachment to a well-heeled gentleman, she cannot honestly say which is the more realistic. On what basis would she assume her own dream to have merit, and not that of her prettier friend?

  But the gin is a worry. In these times, young ladies have become more generally fond of gin than boys, a little fuddle on Monday being no longer a disgraceful practice – especially spiced gin, hot with lemon and nutmeg, more satisfying for some than laudanum in its languorous effect.

  And the other is a worry as well – the kissing and all that follows. Oh the thought of it! In Phoebe’s mind, Dorcas stands on a border, about to cross into an unknown land from which no return is possible.

  In this way Phoebe worries over her best, her oldest — nay, her only friend.

  24

  The Crown

  Situated within sight of Cranbourne Street, amid a row of dishonourable netherskens with rentals by the hour, the Crown is a large public house frequented by an unusual variety of the London citizenry. Within its walls, affluent sporting gentlemen may disport with equanimity amid the swell mob, as well as among vagrants, whores, dollymops and scrubbing-women – the cheapness of these women acting as an aphrodisiac for the jaded palate.

  Here of an evening, there is dancing under the gasoliers, in whose seductive glimmer vastly mismatched couples cavort amid the glamour of the Crown’s chipped golden cornices, its crumbling stucco rosettes and its bright advertisements (The Famous Cordial, So Recommended by the Faculty). Here a young man of good family can satisfy a yen for the lowlife in comparative safety, thanks to the figure of Stunning Joe Banks, the proprietor, an ex-pugilist who exerts as powerful a dominion over the Crown as he once wielded in the ring.

  Cold and wet from walking, Dorcas pays the barkeeper for her cup of spiced gin ‘The Cream of the Valley’, meting out her coins one by one, calculating that she has enough money for one more. After that she must depend on the generosity of a gentleman, or go without. Choosing her customary table, next to a pillar and in sight of the door, she settles in, crosses her legs, and arranges her skirts, having already pinched her cheeks and unbuttoned her bodice one extra button, for effect.

  She takes a tentative, delicious drink of the hot gin – breathing the fragrant steam, feeling the liquid warm her chest and her head and calm her uneasiness. Already she feels her shoulders settle, while the blood returns to parts of her body which have felt nothing since morning. She half-closes her eyes, the better to attenuate the sensation that life is good … But now the uneasiness comes over her once again, for her cup is becoming cooler and lighter with each tiny sip.

  And now it is empty.

  She rises, her head swimming ever so slightly, yet still steady on her feet with her last pennies ready in hand. Should she be condemned to remain alone for the evening, then the next cup will be her last, and she must return to two people who have become her family – nearly, but not completely, for the kindness of Mr Owler will always be in some sense the charity of a strange man. One can never entirely eradicate the suspicion that the charity of a man is not without its underlying object. So imprinted is this suspicion that it requires daily testing, masked as teasing. It is not a comfortable situation for a girl; yet the presence of Phoebe makes it bearable and it is the best that can be hoped for. She must not think too long upon this subject or she will be sad throughout the whole next drink.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss.’

  Him. She recognizes the slight limp without looking directly, yet she pretends not to know the gentleman.

  ‘I beg your pardon, but would it be impertinent of me to ask if I may offer you a drink?’

  She pulls back her shoulders, the better to open the button just a bit; she smiles uncertainly, as though unaccustomed to an approach by a strange gentleman. In truth he is by no means a stranger, but that is the game he likes to play, so she does.

  ‘Oh Sir, I don’t know as it would be quite proper.’

  He leans against the pillar in that offh
and way that shows the splendid cut of his trousers. With a lucifer he lights a cigar which cost the equal of what Dorcas makes in a good week. Now he resumes playacting: ‘I confess to having admired you for an entire hour. Surely it is only fair that I pay some sort of tribute for the pleasure you have given me.’

  ‘Well, Sir. Since you put it that way.’

  ‘Capital.’ He calls to the barkeeper: ‘A brandy if you please, my good man, and your best spiced gin for a splendid young lady.’ He removes the cigar from his mouth and raises his glass to this lovely girl whom he simply has to have. And by God he will have her: it is as simple as that.

  There was a little maid,

  Looked like a little dove;

  This little maid felt something queer -

  She called the feeling love;

  There was a very little man,

  Who felt a little smart;

  He told this pretty maid

  She’d stole his little heart.

  25

  Plant’s Inn

  The smoke-cured wooden panels that envelop the establishment reflect the watery light seeping from a window in the roof, for it is audibly pelting outside, a painful mixture of rain and hail – Ah, spring!

  The warm glow of gaslight and firelight, reflected off the coloured bottles behind the bar, does not present the welcoming prospect it did, before the unfortunate incident with Mrs Plant – of which Whitty still retains no recollection. None the less, something must be done, for a clubman’s drinking-quarters is of vastly greater significance than his sleeping-quarters, or any other quarters for that matter. The significance of this particular venue to Whitty’s well-being is not lessened by the face and form of its owner.

  Standing in the doorway while surveying the room, he shakes out his hat and gloves in an assured manner, nodding in the direction of his colleagues who have paused to look over the new entry, before turning once more to the exchange of non-sequiturs and bon mots:

  – The unemployed are becoming unpleasant.

  – The institution of aristocracy is based on injustice and moral debasement.

  – That demented scribbler has long since lost the way to Bohemia.

  – He is an old bottle-nose, and a braggart besides.

  Whitty is uncertain how to proceed with Mrs Plant. Unlike the gentlemen-commoners, with their gold tassels and their ample allowances, Whitty was required actually to study while at the university; this, during the years when young men are expected to acquire temporal experience. Therefore he can boast of no greater, and more often less, experience with the opposite sex than that of his contemporaries.

  This much he knows: Mrs Plant is a proud woman, capable of inflicting not inconsiderable damage, both mental and physical.

  What must be done, will be done. He will not be removed from the premises unless it be to the mortuary.

  Looking on the positive side, recent events have lent the correspondent confidence, a result of success and not medicine.

  Suitably impressed by Bigney’s research (presented as Whitty’s own, of course), Sala, over the inevitable objections of Dinsmore, jumped like a trout – with the result that the correspondent exited The Falcon with a mandate for a six-part series; in return he is to receive a stipend sufficient to mollify his creditors and their little friend Rodney for at least a month.

  Time to move forward, with the wind at his back, to score a triumph of Wellingtonian scope.

  The barkeeper, engaged in the studious wiping of a glass, notes the correspondent’s approach with misgiving: ‘Still bad weather for a visit if I may say so, Sir. Chilly hereabouts.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Humphrey. The weather notwithstanding, I wish to speak privately with Mrs Plant, please.’

  The correspondent leans across the bar to effect a confidential whisper, not to attract undue notice from patrons from competing publications; he descries Banning and Cobb watching from a corner table, with Hicks surely not far away.

  ‘Man to man, old chap, how do you rate her disposition?’

  The barman’s eyes swivel sideways, meaningfully. ‘As I said, Sir, it is rum weather, damnably chilly.’

  Having failed to heed the barman’s ocular warning, he is startled by the voice at his shoulder, though it speaks sotto voce:

  ‘Whitty, you have some nerve coming in here.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Plant, the very person I seek. I’m very glad to see you, Madam.’

  Which is for the most part true. Despite her advanced age – easily thirty, well into her middle years – Mrs Plant remains an unusually comely specimen of her sex, with straight features, a generous crown of copper hair, and remarkable skin, the latter lending radiance and freshness to what he imagines to be a taut yet womanly physique, somewhere beneath the petticoats and corset.

  ‘Get out of here afore I take the tongs to you.’

  Speak calmly. Do not feed the fire.

  ‘Mrs Plant, if something I may have said or done has in any way contributed to your distress …’

  ‘Of course it’s all about my distress isn’t it? And I’m not the blowhard killing myself with drink.’

  ‘I assure you, Madam, I have absolutely no memory——’

  ‘I am not surprised. It is the source of all your happiness, that you can do or say or write anything you like and not remember a shred of it.’

  ‘I beg you, Mrs Plant, if you would at least intimate to me what it was I did to offend.’

  ‘Oh you are a slippery one …’

  So saying, Mrs Plant, unaccountably, lapses into tears.

  Faced with a weeping publican, utterly at a loss, Whitty becomes uncomfortably aware of other patrons, competitors in the trade who have now grown quiet, their eyes scrupulously averted yet recording every detail, none of which favours his reputation.

  ‘Mrs Plant, I beg of you …’ He places his hand on her arm as though to comfort her, which she rejects with a vehement slap. ‘Madam, I entreat you that we may discuss this in the privacy of your snug. Please believe me, I would not for all the world have caused you a moment’s anguish or concern.’

  Removing from her sleeve a handkerchief with which to dry her eyes, Mrs Abigail Plant turns away so that he will not see how flushed her cheeks have become; and indeed she does retreat to her snug, behind the glass window etched with angels, having said nothing to render him specifically unwelcome.

  Whitty follows. On balance, he has made progress.

  Seated at the table opposite, after taking a restorative sip from her ever-present glass of whisky, Mrs Plant dabs her eyes, blows her nose in a ladylike manner, then settles into a brittle silence, eyes cast downward as though reading a message in the table’s scarred surface. Whitty determines silence to be the best course, while not in full possession of the facts.

  At length she speaks calmly, while steadfastly refusing to look at him, for fear that the sight of him might provoke a new outburst.

  ‘You are a fool, Whitty, which is more dangerous than a devil. A devil knows the damage he does while a fool remains happily ignorant.’

  ‘I regret, Madam, that I am at a loss to explain myself, even to myself.’ Whitty adopts a penitent yet watchful stance, certain that she will come out with the information soon. And sure enough, she leans toward him to speak in a sharp whisper, the lower part of her face in shadow, her aquamarine eyes watching him closely, glittering in the firelight with a renewed welling of tears.

  ‘For one thing, you asked me to marry you.’

  Oh, the deuce!

  ‘I beg your pardon, Madam. I did what?’

  ‘Asked me to marry you. As though it would make up for what he did. As though you would make a decent woman of me.’

  ‘To make up for what he did? Of whom do you speak?’

  ‘Your friend, the swell – the one who thinks his hands belong on any woman he pleases.’

  Whitty is dying for a drink, but to signal for a gin now would betray weakness. He must think clearly and calmly: of the many indiscreet utterances
a man can commit, save a challenge to a duel, a rash offer of marriage is the most unnerving.

  ‘I beg you, Madam. Please refresh my memory.’

  ‘It was after the last hanging. You reeled in with your young toff and his friend. Introduced them as classmates – easy to see why, as the fat one paid for the gin.’

  Thinks Whitty: These details have a familiar ring; Harewood, Sewell. It is starting to come back.

  ‘The handsome one took a look around, saw nothing better in the room, and so became increasingly familiar while you muddled yourself with drink. I slapped him off me and was reaching for the coal shovel when, momentarily sensible, you leapt between us in a righteous fit; suddenly you, as my self-appointed protector, denounced your companion as a knave (yes, you used the word knave), breaking several cups into the bargain. Whereupon the two of you faced off like boxers. Your friend knocked you down without difficulty.’

  ‘A man collects unsavoury companions when he is half seas over.’

  ‘And toadying to the quality besides.’

  ‘Quality? I tell you I was utterly mortified by Harewood’s behavior, that your protection was uppermost in my mind.’

  ‘My protection? The impudence of it! The nerve!’

  ‘Madam, I am confounded by your response.’ Which indeed he is. In vino veritas, indeed.

  ‘Mr Whitty, I had thought ours an acquaintance with respect on both sides. I will not bore you with a review of the path which led me to where I am, but I can promise you it was not an easy one, and with many a reptile on the wayside. And what respect do I receive from you? First you presume to defend my honour, then you insult me with facetious and maudlin talk of marriage! Get out of my sight! Kill yourself! Get it over and be done with it! Hang yourself from the chandelier, you surely know how to do it, you’ve seen enough of Mr Calcraft …’ Again her voice falters and she falls to weeping.