The Fiend in Human Read online

  ‘I do not permit the taking of stimulants in my house, Sir. Nor do I permit smoking, nor alcohol nor opiates. Can you imagine why this might be so?’

  ‘I should very much like to hear it,’ he replies coolly, returning the chemist’s packet to his pocket as though it is but a trifle, the easiest thing in the world.

  ‘I find that men take up such habits for their numbing effect on the emotive faculties. Women also, for that matter – but with a different objective in mind.’

  Steady.

  ‘Madam, if you refer to the principle of mind over matter and science over passion, then I for one am committed to it.’

  The eyes flash. ‘Do you know how a well-bred woman deals with thoughts of the sort you are entertaining now?’

  Maintain calm.

  ‘Allow me to come directly to the point, Madam,’ stammers Whitty, determined to recover momentum. ‘I shall not insult you with facile prevarication, nor by withholding facts. Put plainly, I am aware that William Ryan, the condemned murderer, resides in these premises. He has been followed here and has been seen to enter. I am aware of Mr Ryan’s past connection to yourself of – please excuse me – an intimate nature, which occurred several years ago. And I am aware, Madam, of the events which took place between then and now, of Miss Hurtle, Mrs Cox, and Mrs Marlowe – now, perhaps, with the ambition of becoming Mrs Ryan. With so many names, Madam! One would think you aspired to the German aristocracy!’

  Momentarily Whitty worries that the woman might faint, for the white skin of her cheeks and throat has turned ashen and the eyes momentarily blurred; however, after a lapse of half a second she executes a contemptuous shrug.

  ‘Congratulations, Sir. You have spied effectively. I commend you for it.’

  ‘Thank you. Now I request that you take me to Mr Ryan at once. Otherwise, I shall be obliged to notify the authorities – and of course the public at large.’

  Having thus established himself as other than a paying customer, the correspondent boldly lights a cigaret and observes his hostess with interest: a pale, statuesque woman with a remarkably smooth brow and eyes like ice floating in the North Sea – and yet the nose is a touch too long for true prettiness. With remarkably full lips, almost swollen, which turn up at the corners as though forming the beginning of a smile – and yet a chin too prominent by half, set in an expression of unbecoming, almost masculine determination. With long, lustrous, plaited hair, almost blue in colour, wound above her head with seeming carelessness (by the little widow no doubt), leaving a few dishevelled wisps in the current fashion, revealing a long, proud neck, abbreviated by a lace collar fastened with a brooch decorated with a Chinese motif; the same lace which decorates her neck reappears at the cinched cuffs above her strong, white hands, one of which taps a closed Chinese fan upon the palm of the other as though keeping time with an unheard piece of music. Her figure is a shapely one, boldly uncorseted.

  A dangerous woman. Or rather, since all women are dangerous, more dangerous than most.

  ‘You are with The Falcon, Sir.’

  ‘Correct, Madam. That is the paper I have the honour of serving.’

  ‘I regret that we have confined ourselves to The Illustrated London News.’

  ‘I assure you it is to my regret as well.’ Whitty sighs inwardly, it being one of the Deity’s little jokes that no correspondent may enter a room without a copy of the competition in sight and none of his own.

  Again the half-smile. Again the fan, tapping a brisk tempo. She makes no secret of sizing him up, therefore he sizes her up in return.

  Her dress is of silk – midnight-blue, a generosity of fabric defined by a wide belt at the waist, permitting one to glimpse the merest hint of movement in her bosom. He judges her height to be slightly above his own, enhanced by the elevated riding heels on her buttoned boots.

  The ensuing pause extends longer than he expected. His hostess remains in the wide doorway, regarding him with an expression neither displeased nor pleased. Beneath the coil of thick hair he can envisage, phrenologically speaking, equally distinct formations in the regions of Amativeness and Calculation – an unusual and dangerous combination.

  ‘Will you take tea, Mr Whitty?’

  The corners of her full mouth turn upward again to form a bare suggestion of a smile. Without awaiting a reply, she exits, leaving the door open and affording him a view of her receding figure as she moves down the hall. She pauses at a doorway, glances quickly in his direction, then disappears, leaving the impression that he should follow.

  He turns back to the portrait on the wall: he is about to take tea with a woman who stands unacquitted of having poisoned her husband. A woman to whom, a very few moments ago, he uttered a threat which was tantamount to blackmail.

  Touché, Mrs Marlowe – unless, God forbid, you are Mrs Cox.

  Whitty seats himself at the tea-table, noting that china and silver have already been laid out by his hostess’s companion on a pressed linen table-cloth, with milk, lemon, sugar and an array of cakes. Everything – cups, spoons, napkins – appears immaculate and orderly, as if to offset the nature of the activities taking place elsewhere.

  Like the reception room, the sitting-room has been decorated in shades of red, excepting the glass cupola in the corner looking onto the garden, where stands a lush fern identical to its colleague in the reception room: hence, the relative health of the many large plants in the house despite the almost total lack of daylight, their having been alternately placed here. Seated beneath the fern, Mrs Marlowe pours. For not the first time, Whitty experiences the discomfiting feeling that he is acting according to her script and not his own, that any strategy he might undertake will be incorporated into her overall design, like a musician improvising on a theme.

  ‘Cream and sugar, Mr Whitty?’

  ‘Sugar, please, Mrs Marlowe. Two spoons.’ He replies as though confident that the white granules in the bowl are indeed sugar.

  She stirs his tea with a silver spoon in her capable fingers. Are they the hands of a murderess? Did those hands stir arsenic into her husband’s tea, day after day?

  Thinks Whitty: Poison is the most intimate violence, and the most repellent, for the murderer must be sufficiently trusted that the victim will accept food or drink. Hence, it is said, poison is the weapon of women, to whom the role of providing food customarily falls. Arsenic is an especially appropriate weapon for the weaker sex: unlike strychnine, whose effects are felt after a short while, arsenic may be administered over a period of weeks, so that the victim gradually falls ill and dies, unaware of the cause of his symptoms, while the murderer feigns womanly concern, giving him his medicine, tucking him in each night as innocent and ignorant as a baby …

  ‘Be careful, Sir. Be careful of what you are thinking.’ Surprisingly, this warning comes, not from the lady before him, but from her bleak little guardian, hovering in front of the cabinet.

  ‘Mr Whitty, I believe you have met my companion, Mrs Button.’

  ‘Indeed, Madam, though I do not believe we have been introduced.’

  ‘Mrs Button, this is Mr Whitty. A journalist with an enquiring mind.’

  ‘That is not all that is on his mind.’

  ‘That will be sufficient, Mrs Button.’

  The little witch executes a stiff curtsey. ‘Good-day to you, Sir.’

  ‘And to you, Madam. A pleasure to have met you.’

  In a house of illusion, odd and disturbing encounters are only to be expected.

  Mrs Marlowe sips her tea. She has not taken sugar. ‘As a newspaperman, Sir, I ask you: What is your professional opinion of Mr Acton’s report on the debilitating effects of self-abuse? The gentleman writes that it is the cause of idiocy and death, and that it is rampant among the upper classes, and that Britain is losing her leaders of tomorrow …’

  ‘Madam, on that matter I have no opinion, except to say that Mr Acton is a fraud and a nincompoop.’

  ‘Since I am only a woman I lack first-hand experience in such
matters. However, it has been my experience that the more well-born a man, the more peculiar his tastes.’

  ‘Indeed, it is a startling paradox that high-born children suffer indignities unknown to their inferiors. Such punishments as take place regularly in the halls of Eton and Rugby, were they perpetrated in a school attended by boys of the lower orders, would inspire headlines such as Atrocious Cruelty of a Schoolmaster.’

  ‘Perhaps for the upper classes such experiences are a means of inuring one to future suffering – of oneself and of others. Such practices might also solidify membership in the class to which the boy was born. I have heard it said that in the better public schools, tradition demands that a boy must surrender his every possession to his school — including his cock.’

  She pauses with a trace of amusement. ‘Oh dear, Mr Whitty, You spilled some of your tea.’

  ‘How clumsy. I do apologize.’

  ‘Allow me to refill your cup.’

  Whitty sips his renewed cup of tea and swallows. It has a bitter taste.

  ‘More sugar, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you. It is excellent.’

  Again, silence falls between them as Mrs Marlowe sips her tea, replacing the china cup noiselessly in its saucer. The correspondent reminds himself that the upturn of her lips does not constitute a smile.

  ‘This is Oolong tea, Mr Whitty. It has been partially fermented, to allow some of the bitterness to remain.’

  ‘I try to avoid bitterness in food. I find enough bitterness elsewhere.’

  ‘An ability to appreciate bitterness is the key to a cultured taste. Or rather, an adult taste. Children always display an eagerness for sweets.’

  What is she insinuating?

  Whatever her meaning, the intent of her manner of speaking is that of a field cannon – to wear down and weaken the position opposite. Accordingly, Whitty reaches into his coat, retrieves his notebook, opens it to a fresh page, produces a pencil, and gazes at it as though thinking profound thoughts. Not that he has anything to record in his notebook; the point being to inspire in the opponent feelings of uncertainty and a fear of the written word.

  ‘Mrs Marlowe, since you seem in no hurry to fetch Mr Ryan, I wonder if you might allow me to inquire: When you administered poison to your husband, was it at tea-time? Or did you make use of some other occasion to do the deed?’

  The eyes remain locked upon his for eight seconds (by Whitty’s count), then break away while she sips her tea.

  ‘Neither, Sir. I did not poison my husband.’

  A direct hit. Fire another round.

  ‘Then how, in your view, Madam, did your husband’s corpse come to be saturated with arsenic?’

  She holds his gaze, this time for eleven seconds. A slight flush rises to the cheekbones. He braces for retaliation.

  ‘Mr Whitty, may I speak candidly?’

  ‘I assure you, Madam, at The Falcon our sole aim is to uncover the truth in the public interest.’

  ‘What utter rubbish.’

  ‘You are, of course, at liberty to disagree.’

  ‘Then here is a story for you, Mr Whitty – I believe the term is, ‘an exclusive’. My only request is that you promise to print all of it or none.’

  ‘If it will be of interest to the public, by all means.’

  ‘Mr Cox was in the habit of taking Fowler’s Solution – do you know the remedy?’

  ‘Arsenic in a base of oil of lavender. Said to effect an improvement in deficiencies of an intimate nature.’ Whitty has used it himself for melancholia, though arsenic must be taken with exceptional care.

  ‘That is correct. You see, unknown to myself previously, Henry had contracted syphilis years earlier, while sowing his wild oats. This you will find in his physician’s report, though it was not generally known, nor was it read at the trial, for reasons of public decency. Mr Cox, after all, was not on trial. Nor was it made public the various scientific remedies my fiance undertook from the point of our engagement – principally chloride of mercury and quicksilver, of which, by the day of our joining in holy wedlock, Mr Cox’s cumulative dosage exceeded a pound a day. The most noticeable effect of this valiant regimen was that my husband’s gums turned purple, while his breath assumed an odour I shall not describe. As well, by the time of our nuptials, Mr Cox had turned quite plump, and had acquired a delightfully childlike sense of humour. At dinner, he would pull chairs from under his guests to general amusement, or he would stand up suddenly and in a loud voice declare himself an onion. These antics my father enjoyed greatly. After the unpleasantness at school, of which you seem to be acquainted, he considered himself fortunate to acquire a son-in-law of Mr Cox’s rank. And besides, my husband gave exceedingly good dinners.’

  ‘Less scientific, perhaps, was Mr Cox’s adherence to the still-common belief that the disease might be cured through sexual conversation with a virgin. Nor was this brought to the public eye – again for reasons of decency. For as you are no doubt aware, a husband who knowingly and wilfully infects his wife commits no crime. Am I proceeding too fast for you, Mr Whitty? You do not seem to be taking notes.’

  Touché again, Mrs Marlowe.

  Of course there is no point in writing any of it down, since none of it will pass the Chancellor. Whitty none the less maintains an aspect of calm confidence. ‘I am, Madam, aware of such a belief. A product of that savage time in human history when children were sacrificed on Waterloo Bridge.’

  ‘And what do you do with your spilled salt, Mr Whitty? And what is your opinion of a black cat? Fortunately for the blushing bride, another common symptom of my husband’s disease was impotence – which frustrated Mr Cox considerably, and which he treated with the aforementioned Fowler’s Solution. Indeed, so eager was he to consummate our marriage, at times he took nearly a teaspoon, which would have been fatal in itself for someone less accustomed to its use.’

  ‘An intriguing narrative, Madam. Yet, as I am given to understand, a search was undergone following his demise, with no Fowler’s Solution found on the premises.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the incidental effects of arsenic, Mr Whitty? Skin disorders. Anaemia. Boils and swelling in the loins. Wart-like appearances all over the body. Vomiting. Flatulence. Hardly an erotic prospect for the new bride – but then, as Mr Acton points out, the respectable woman is devoid of such feelings, is that not true, Sir?’

  ‘May I say, Madam, you have a charming and baroque way of avoiding questions which you do not wish to answer.’

  ‘Who made the bottle disappear, you ask? I am surprised, Sir, I had thought you clever. Why, Henry did, of course. When he understood what had happened, when he divined the truth, he smashed it to pieces. My husband’s little joke, don’t you see. His childlike sense of humour.’

  ‘Why on God’s earth, Madam, would your dying husband do such a hideous thing?’

  ‘Because his bride was not a virgin, Mr Whitty. Because the damned fool had poisoned himself for nothing.’

  Whitty has no reply at hand. His notebook remains blank …

  ‘Good evening, Mr Whitty. I trust that my fiancée has kept you entertained.’

  Ryan.

  The speaker has situated his entrance so that Whitty must turn awkwardly in his chair, thereby exposing his back to Mrs Marlowe. Again, the correspondent experiences the sensation of playing a part in a performance.

  ‘Good-day, Mr Ryan.’ Whitty addresses the handsome, haggard gentleman as though his appearance were a minor and not unpleasant surprise. ‘I am glad to see you up and about.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Ryan places the pistol on the table and sits. ‘How did you know where to find me? And what do you hope to accomplish, now that you have?’

  28

  The Haymarket

  It is not an uncommon practice for a gentleman, in seeking to purchase the favours of a lady, to do so under an assumed name; indeed, it may not be an exaggeration to suggest that it is a rare gentleman who does otherwise. The names chosen for such an alias might
someday make a potential area for academic study.

  In such a study, Reginald Harewood would belong to that category of gentleman who adopts a new cognomen for each encounter, out of an impulsive need for novelty and variety, not to mention the innate caution shared by all Harewood men.

  Hence, it is no great wonder that Reginald Harewood chose to pursue his flirtation with Dorcas under a name other than his own; what stands out as unusual in this particular is that on this occasion the name he produced as his own was the name of his good friend Roo.

  He will never know why he did such a thing. Upon receiving the girl’s not-unexpected enquiry, the name ‘Roo’ sprang forth all on its own. A slip of the tongue, a human error – one which cannot be subsequently amended, for that is the way it is with pseudonyms.

  In any case, the situation is not without its poetic aspect: Reginald Harewood, boffing a girl in his friend’s rooms, in his friend’s bed, in his friend’s name, as if Sewell were losing his virginity by proxy …

  – You talk improper, Mr Roo.

  – Mr Roo, you old beast, let me go.

  – I must go home, Mr Roo, or I’ll catch it.

  – What is the matter Mr Roo? You’re all red.

  – I cannot do that, Mr Roo. My sister would catch me.

  Although wildly out of her element at a Mayfair address, Dorcas takes care not to stare about, for she would rather the gentleman think she is accustomed to such luxury, that such places are nothing special to her. Instead of trying out the furniture as she wants to, she lolls indifferently upon the soft bed and smells the clean linen. She longs to look at herself in a mirror, but the room has none – strange for a gentleman’s room not to have a mirror, how does he keep his whiskers so perfect? Still, the dark mahogany wainscoting has been waxed to such a shine that she may see her reflection almost as clearly as though it were a looking-glass.