The Fiend in Human Read online

  Whitty sticks his head around the glass partition and signals urgently to the barkeeper: ‘A large brandy, Humphrey – now, if you please. And the usual for Mrs Plant.’

  The correspondent is out of his depth. Married men of his acquaintance confess to being utterly confounded by the women who have occupied the adjacent pillow for years: how much greater is the bewilderment of a bachelor from Christ Church?

  ‘Madam, I regret that I cannot unsay what has been said, undo the injury, or humiliation, or insult, or whatever I inflicted upon you. I do respect and admire you, and find you in no way deficient – other than in your choice of myself as a friend. Please understand, Mrs Plant, that I admire you not only as a publican, but also as a woman. This is what no doubt prompted me to misspeak myself so presumptuously. Call it besotted grandiloquence, an excess of zeal, the raving of an idiot, but do not call it a sign of disrespect.’

  Mrs Plant’s brilliant eyes shine into him with an expression both sad and amused. For some reason, he finds this as unsettling as her anger.

  ‘You poor man. What a correspondent, who digs up the truth about others, but knows not the truth about himself.’

  To this Whitty has nothing to say.

  Humphrey clears his throat discreetly. ‘Your brandy, Sir. And your whisky, Madam.’ The barkeeper has been hovering nearby, the Devil knows how long.

  26

  The Holy Land

  Situated a few steps from Rat’s Castle, the Owler garret on Scalding Lane, in more fortunate times, served as quarters for the meanest scullery maid in the service of a quality household. Such being the course of property development in the St Giles rookery, it is now the spacious domain of a superior provider, a man able to afford the privacy of three to a room, and with its own tiny fireplace. The latter convenience, with the addition of an ancient heating grate acquired by the girls from a shop in Cheapside, now serves as a stove, upon which Phoebe places her father’s two herrings side by side – and a smaller one for herself – above an accumulation of coke which she gathered in the street.

  Whatever the social milieu, a superior position exacts a spiritual penalty. In her mind Phoebe follows the aroma of the cooking food, as it wafts through the air, under the door and thence down the stairs, down, down, until at last, at the bottom of a succession of stairways, a hundred noses twitch with envy (hooked noses, bottle-noses, the dirty button-noses of stunted children), while a hundred stomachs growl, until the fragrance of the fish finally reaches the basement, whose crush of miserable humanity – eating, sleeping, dying, lying openly naked in the summer months on straw billets and mounds of swarming rags – cannot smell anything.

  Owler lights his pipe with the lucifer he used to light the coal chips, stooped over by the single window – such being the slope of the roof that he cannot reach his full height in any but one part of the room. By habit he puffs his pipe so as to fill the room comfortably with the smoke, then half-reclines on one of three ancient wooden hospital cots, lacking room for other furniture.

  For the sake of decency, the room has been divided into two sections, the two cots occupied by the girls being separated by means of a makeshift curtain strung across the room, an accumulation of colourful swatches of cloth upon whose origin Owler does not care to speculate.

  Against the far wall leans the patterer’s board, now displaying The Affecting Case of Mary Ashford, the ever-popular account of ‘The young Virgin who was diabolically Ravished, Murdered, and thrown into a Pit’.

  The three remaining walls have been covered, by his daughter and her companion, with pictures removed from books and calendars he has never seen, depicting famed performances by Charles Kean, Ellen Tree and Agnes Robertson in the plays of Shakespeare. Owler cannot help but view the famous theatrical trio as a mocking reflection of the three occupants in this attic, contrasting the squalor of one with the dash of the other. Yet comparing one’s position to that of one’s betters will not help a party get ahead in life.

  ‘The poor rogues talk of Court news, who loses and who wins, who’s in, who’s out … Who said that, my girl?’

  ‘Shakespeare, The Tragedie of King Lear, you asked me that once before today is when you asked it.’

  ‘Werily, I did. My little learning is what I have heard, my girl, and it makes me prone to repetition.’ Her father puffs his pipe in a thoughtful manner as he does when unsure how to speak to his daughter. ‘Now my mind is centred on another particular. I’m thinking on our Mr Whitty. I would have you put your mind to this, Phoebe, lest I enter in an unwise partnership, for you are a sharp judge of such things.’

  ‘I’m listening, Father. Continue, please.’

  ‘Mr Whitty is a smooth man, where I’m a rough-made man. Mr Whitty has been lucky in his life, whereas I have not. Mr Whitty is a party as slides through life alone, where I’m a man what has picked up attachments along the way. Given as I have you girls, your two lives being my obligation in life, what rash thing am I doing to form an association with a party what has scarce regard for his own life, let alone another? Funny thing to say, but it is a fact that he has nothing to lose. It is myself has the greater wealth, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘And there is another particular: Mr Whitty is of a crafty, subtle nature and I have no confidence that he is fly. I am not putting it well, my girl, such is the confusion of my mind in thinking through it.’

  She turns the herring over with her father’s knife and thinks upon the correspondent – who, to her eye, is a most cultivated and attractive gentleman. In the privy she touched his hand while helping him to his feet and they were like the hands of a woman, that unscarred they were, yet like the hands of a man in their shape and strength. His hair, though it had tousled about, fell into a becoming shape all on its own; his speech was likewise that of a man of quality, not to mention his smell, of cologne and good tobacco. And yet she knows him to be a man unhappy with himself …

  ‘You make me think, Father, of a piece from the Bible: My brother is a hairy man, whereas I am a smooth man. It is from the Bible, is it not?’

  ‘I’ve not read the Bible, as you know.’

  ‘Yet you told it to me – Jacob nicked his brother for the birthright, with the connivance of his mother as well.’

  ‘These stories are told to children to make them sleep. I’ve no knowledge of them, really.’

  ‘Jacob and our Mr Whitty are both smooth men.’

  ‘And what lesson do you draw from the comparison? Am I the hairy man what is deceived?’

  ‘Indeed, Jacob was smooth, and dishonest, and something of a thief into the bargain. A sorely disreputable person would you not say, Father?’

  ‘That trick he did with the goats was a wicious thing. I would never stoop to such a thing meself.’

  ‘Because you are …’

  ‘Because I am a rough man, is what you are going to say.’

  ‘It was you who said it, Father.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

  She takes two fish off the fire, places them on the tin plate and hands the plate to her father, whom she can easily reach, the walls being about two yards apart; now she spears the third fish with the knife and blows it cool. ‘I remember Jacob wrestled with a dark angel in a dream.’

  ‘Yes, my girl?’

  ‘Is it possible Mr Whitty wrestles with a dark angel too?’

  ‘I would think he might. The gentleman’s face, when in repose, turns melancholic.’

  ‘Even so, over the long run Jacob became a stunning successful man. God saw to it.’

  ‘God meant it to be is what you are saying.’

  ‘And from this we learn, Father, that even the smooth man …’

  ‘May well be part of God’s plan, whether he is fly or not. I think Mr Whitty himself would be surprised to hear that.’

  Thus does a daughter become mother to her father, she with the more nimble mind and the stolen books. Thus is a young girl drawn to an older man of the quality, as a step beyond wherever she f
inds herself.

  A moment later, daughter and father reverse places again, as a girl appeals to the hard-gained wisdom of her father.

  ‘Are we in God’s plan, Father? The place we live in – is this God’s world?’

  The patterer does not reply until after the eating of his fish, for the girl has him thinking now.

  ‘I believe so, girl, yes I do. Even I what has little to do with Him and don’t have the full particulars, and even though things is confusing in these times, what is good and what is not, I, who have never set foot outside London since I came here as a boy, have seen this one thing to be true: there is a good place, and there is a dark place, and all of London is both them places at the same time. Even we who occupy the Holy Land, even we must choose which London is ours. And out of what we have chosen … life goes on.’

  ‘How is it that there can be a plan, and yet ours to choose?’

  ‘You have me there, girl. I have not the foggiest idea.’

  Phoebe puts her own fish before Father. She is not hungry. She is thinking about smooth Mr Whitty, and of her only friend Dorcas. She is not certain whether God has a plan, and, if so, she does not wish to think about what it might be.

  27

  The Grove of the Evangelist

  The house is one of several stone structures of a dark and anonymous appearance on the east side of Portland Place, whose street façade has been made to appear as though the occupants are absent, or ill, or dead.

  In the case of the Grove of the Evangelist, so carefully contrived is the illusion of disuse that, upon peering into the cast-iron letter-box, Whitty descries a pile of out-of-date advertisements and unopened invitations, as though the occupant were unavailable or unable to reply; which impression is belied by the fact that, in two days’ scrutiny from across the street, Whitty and Owler (the latter burdened with papers and sandwich-board) witnessed sixteen gentlemen to enter the building and fifteen gentlemen to exit – all of whom disappeared with all dispatch in their carriages (which magically appeared from a nearby lane), south in the direction of Warren’s Hotel, or north to Park Square and the Outer Circle.

  ‘In the last of the carriages rides a member of the legal profession. I have seen him hold forth at the Chancery.’

  ‘Werily, that would be the operator with the buff waistcoat. And did you catch the stunning silk choker on the toff what went off in the brougham?’

  ‘Sir Charles Boyle is his name. Prominent in the Freemasons, I am told.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘God may blind you indeed, Sir. He has blinded many to the sins of the mighty.’

  ‘It is shocking to see the quality in such a light.’

  ‘I am touched by your idealism, Mr Owler,’ says Whitty. ‘I could do with some of it myself.’

  Having returned to their post across the street, a lengthy period having passed without the furtive arrival of another visitor, Whitty determines that it is time to make his move.

  ‘Wait here if you please, while I put a theory to the proof.’

  ‘With respect, Sir, I hasn’t earned my supper yet, nor supper for my girls.’

  ‘Can you not sell your deuced papers while keeping watch? There are pedestrians and carriages here as well.’

  ‘This is not my territory. It is no good to work outside one’s territory. A party gets a sense of a place, what is called for in certain weather. There is no good in my working this territory any more than a riverman working the sea.’

  ‘Mr Owler, try to appreciate the situation. Chokee Bill may lurk behind these walls. It is a rare opportunity for us both.’

  ‘I don’t see it as such. For one thing, I can only watch the front. The moment he gets a whiff of us he’ll be out the back drum for certain.’

  With effort Whitty remains patient with the sheer conservatism of the man, the unwillingness to move beyond his habits of mind and body for the sake of a lucrative piece of work, even to the extent of leaving his customary corner. Odd, the way common knowledge and biblical teaching depict the poor as wastrels and indigents, when the truth may be that they are poor simply because they are too careful.

  ‘Listen to me please, Mr Owler. In the first instance, your purpose here is to note who comes and goes generally, and whether or not anyone else is watching the house. In the second place, if his condition is as you describe, it is a miracle he has enough blood to go from one room to the next. Our greater fear is that he is dead.’

  ‘True for you there. ’T’will be days before he is moving by the accounts I hear.’

  ‘In any case, where on earth would he escape to?’

  ‘I deem he has a plan in that particular, and that the destination must needs be foreign, for he will come to no good in the city, nor in the country, neither. There lives many a man in England what would like to tell his mates what he is the one what did for Chokee Bill.’

  The correspondent produces a coin as an end to the discussion. ‘Quite. Excellent analysis. Here is a shilling so that you will not concern yourself with supper.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sir, it is not my practice to take charity.’

  ‘That is tiresome of you, Mr Owler, I have never shied from it myself.’

  ‘Good evening, Sir. And how I may assist you, please?’ The liveried footman is of Caribbean origin, to judge by his accented English and his features – sharper and lighter than the African, taller than the Indian. A handsome, athletic specimen, Whitty judges him to be in his late teens, but with a face inscrutable beyond its years. Indeed, the eyes betray only a flicker of interest, with a trace of mild amusement.

  Whitty places his card into the white-gloved palm of this muscular impediment. ‘Edmund Whitty of The Falcon, here to enquire after Mrs Marlowe.’ Under one arm he carries a copy of that newspaper with which to fortify his position.

  ‘Very good, Sir. I shall see if Madam is in.’ So saying, the young man disappears from the entryway into a decor which, from what the correspondent can discern from the doorstep, appears to consist of nothing but the colour red in various shades and textures. Absentmindedly, Whitty extends one hand, causing the heavy mahogany door to swing further open. Purely in order to return the door to its former position, he steps into an entryway of white marble, whereupon he feels magnetically drawn into a receiving-room, for it is like entering the interior of a woman’s mouth …

  His upper arm is clamped by iron fingers in a white glove. ‘I do not recall your having been given leave to enter, Sir. I hope that this is not a prelude to unpleasantness and that you will go now.’ So saying, with his other hand the servant deftly places the calling card between the correspondent’s lips.

  Whitty removes the card and turns to face the footman, whose grip on his upper arm has tightened and whose eyes no longer reveal a trace of amusement. ‘I beg your pardon, my good fellow, I can see that I may have been in error.’

  ‘Indeed, you are seriously in error, Sir. Please leave now.’ And the correspondent finds himself gently but surely propelled back whence he came.

  ‘Upon consideration, it may not be Mrs Marlowe I seek, but rather a Mrs Cox. Or then again, perhaps I should enquire after Miss Eliza Hurtle. One can so easily become confused when confronted with a bevy of assumed names.’

  The face reveals no surprise, yet the hand behind Whitty’s back hesitates. ‘Please you will wait upon this spot.’

  This time the door closes firmly and the latch slides shut.

  Whitty turns to face the street, where a well-maintained brougham slows to a halt, curtains part, and a man’s face appears in the window, unrecognizable but for the twice-about white neck-cloth of a clergyman. Noting the presence of the correspondent, the face disappears abruptly and the brougham resumes its journey at a brisk pace. Whitty notes with satisfaction that, across the way, the patterer has just sold a Shocking Outrage to a gentleman walking his terrier.

  At length the mahogany door opens, and in place of the athletic young man in livery now stands a strange little widow wi
th hair cut short in the way of men who work with machinery, and a curious scar on one cheek. Not Mrs Marlowe, surely – and yet such a thing is possible. Whitty has nosed out many a notorious seductress only to be confronted with a moustache, hare lip or advanced tooth decay, rendering incomprehensible her vaunted allure.

  ‘Have I the honour of meeting Mrs Marlowe? Mrs Cox? Miss Hurtle?’

  An unnaturally long consideration ensues before the woman does him the favour of a reply. When it comes, it is by no means an enthusiastic welcome.

  ‘Please enter.’

  Whitty steps into the red reception room again, having surrendered his hat, stick and gloves to the footman, who has been lurking behind the door.

  The little woman turns to Whitty with kernel-like eyes. ‘Wait here, please,’ she bids him in a dry voice, and disappears down a hallway. Her footsteps recede out of hearing. A door opens, then closes faintly in another part of the house.

  He directs his gaze from the Chinese carpet embroidered with red dragons to the portrait of Victoria above the fireplace, to a replica of something by Michelangelo beneath the fern in the corner; a surprisingly lush fern for a house lit solely by gaslight, in which the night, and its conjunctive desires, obtains from dusk to dusk. As well, he notes the lack of a mirror or other reflecting surface to remind the visitor as to his true identity and station. The red walls above the wainscoting and the red velvet drapes (red velvet being at one time restricted to the gentry by law) overwhelm the white gauze curtains and the cream tablecloth like blood on a sheet. As an example of interior design the effect goes well over the top, yet it is undoubtedly effective, like the decor of a theatre in its intention to arouse anticipation of the coming entertainment – not a comedy but a melodrama, a tale of shameful desire in a foreign setting, indulged with utter abandon.

  Of course: De Sade. Bound in human skin.

  Footsteps. More decisive footsteps now, not the brisk click of the little widow. To effect an offhand appearance, the correspondent examines the second painting in the room, a water-colour by that pretentious ape Rossetti; he maintains this position until an odd sensation in the nape of his neck causes him to turn and to greet his hostess – who is the selfsame woman in the water-colour. Thinks Whitty: A splendid entrance and a splendid effect, orchestrated to perfection. He becomes aware of how closely she has been regarding him. Touché, Mrs Marlowe. Whereupon Whitty reaches into a pocket for his packet of powder, to steady the nerves.