The Fiend in Human Read online

  ‘I suppose there’s no rhyme or reason to it,’ says Sewell, ‘when one is simply looking for a hole in which to spend.’

  ‘Roo, if you weren’t the best friend a man could have, I might give up on you entirely. These women are the poetry of the age: young lovelies, brimming over with desire, unspoilt by education and manners, living for the moment …’

  Abruptly, Reggie Harewood points with his walking-stick in a way that reminds Sewell of fox-hunting. ‘Oh I say, look what we have here.’

  ‘Which one do you mean, Reggie?’

  ‘See the two little creatures reading the Empire playbill? Dark hair on one of them, quite pretty in a prim sort of a way? And her friend beside her, blonde, tits nearly falling out of her bodice? I say, Roo, the little dark-haired one might be just your cup of tea. Spirited little piece, be great fun once you get the clothes off her.’

  Before Sewell can protest, his friend has already commanded the rapt attention of both young maidens.

  ‘If I may be so bold, Ladies, we are two gentlemen from the country who are rather at a loss this evening.’

  Speaks up the blonde girl, conspicuously eager: ‘If you’re lost, Sir, my friend and I are more than pleased to give you directions.’

  Reginald Harewood smiles, eyes sparkling in that way of his. ‘How utterly kind of you.’ He offers the blonde girl a drink from his flask, which she accepts. ‘Please permit me to introduce my friend, Mr Stanley.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Stanley. Please might I introduce you to my friend, whose name is Phoebe.’

  Mr Stanley reddens in reply.

  ‘What an utterly enchanting name,’ prompts Harewood, offering the young lady a drink. ‘Is Phoebe not an enchanting name, Mr Stanley?’

  ‘Enchanting,’ replies his friend.

  ‘Why thank you, kind Sir,’ replies the darker, smaller girl, admiring the silver flask and smiling prettily. ‘Unfortunately, we both are currently engaged. Instead, why don’t you go and pork your little fat friend?’

  ‘Reggie, these people are animals.’

  ‘Indeed, were I not so enchanted by her friend, I should have taught her a good lesson with my walking-stick.’

  ‘In truth, old chap, I am feeling ill, and in the mood to retire.’

  ‘Nonsense. A temporary disappointment is part of the hunt. See? Look there – already we are in luck.’ Harewood grips the arm of his friend, turning as if to glance into a shop window displaying bonnets, situated a short distance from two young women, similarly partnered.

  Sewell watches his friend direct a beam of charm straight at the tall one with the rebellious head of chestnut hair, whose lack of a corset and straight, peasant’s waist gives her an unaffected, upright air – unaffectedness being Reggie’s principal fetish. Sewell would judge the young lady to be something over eighteen. Her companion, whom he fully expects to have foisted upon himself, cannot have attained her fourteenth year. The one shows a pleasing eye and a fair set of lips, whereas the younger girl is the worst kind of Irish drudge, features prematurely set in an expression of resentful disappointment.

  While the taller girl exchanges pleasantries with his confident friend, Sewell takes an intense interest in bonnets.

  All too soon, Harewood taps him on the shin with his walking-stick: ‘I say, damned impolite of us not to introduce ourselves.’ With a wink, he turns back to the two young women.

  ‘I am Mr Brighton. And I am pleased to present my cousin from Kent, Mr Stanley.’

  Mr Stanley screws his face into a smile.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Mr Brighton.’ The taller girl offers her gloved hand to the handsome, tipsy young clubman. His teeth are excellent. His whiskers complement a set of features that fall just short of aristocratic. There is something luxuriant in the way that his eyes linger upon her white arm, which she displays in pleasing contrast to the dark velvet of her cape. She squeezes his hand before letting go, for he is a relatively attractive prospect and not unpleasant to service, though he can barely contain himself and will require careful tending for maximum return.

  ‘Confound it, Ladies,’ says he, ‘I’m utterly charmed by your company, as is my friend – am I not correct, Mr Stanley?’

  ‘Quite,’ murmurs Sewell, resigned to the fact that Reggie must have her, and have her tonight.

  ‘I say, this is damned bold of me, but might you trust yourself in a coach with us?’

  ‘I am sorely tempted, Sir, and pleased that you find me engaging, but it is my duty to see to my sister. Etta is a country virgin unused to the city and I am responsible for her honour and safety.’

  ‘Upon my word, we mustn’t see your sister unescorted. I assure you that my companion Mr Stanley would be only too delighted to accompany little Etta – protect her, set her on the right path and all the rest. Am I not right, Mr Stanley?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ mumbles Sewell, leaning into the shadow of the doorway, for his cheeks have turned crimson.

  ‘Capital. Then it is settled.’

  The taller girl turns for a private word with the solemn young thing, who stands close by as though hiding behind her skirts.

  ‘What do you think of the pudgy fellow, Etta?’

  ‘I does not think he likes me,’ whispers Etta.

  ‘Nonsense. Look at the blush on him. He is a baby, wetting his wick for the first time, he doesn’t know what he likes or doesn’t like. Straighten up, Etta, it isn’t as though I have not told you what to do. Get yourself in order and do as he wishes, but don’t be too willing and don’t be too quick. I shall meet you later at the usual place.’

  ‘I’ll try, Flo. But I has my doubts.’

  ‘Do not worry. Plant him a kiss with the tip of your tongue in it, and you will have your way.’

  Carefully closing the curtains of the hansom against prying Peelers, Flo adjusts her bonnet in the way that allows her chestnut hair to fall over her velvet shoulders, and turns to smile at her Mr Brighton. ‘Your friend is a bashful gentleman, Sir. I fear I cannot tell what my sister will make of him.’

  ‘Never worry, my dear, the old trout will pay well. Indeed, he pays for nothing as far as I know – though he’d die if anyone found out. Dashed good fellow, Roo, but a mere child in the ways of the world.’ Smiling, he offers her his silver flask.

  She smiles back and sips the brandy after wiping the flask with her glove. ‘But you gave me to understand that his name was Mr Stanley,’ she says, for she likes to tease men, and prides herself on her powers of observation.

  ‘You can call him whatever bloody thing you like.’ A note of sharpness, then his voice drops to a soft burr. ‘Still, I am utterly fascinated by all that you say.’ So saying, he places her hand on his thigh; she removes her hand after giving it a squeeze.

  ‘Well, my blossom, what do you say to the Crown for champagne? Damn me, it’ll be a pleasure to be seen in the company of such loveliness.’

  ‘To be candid, Sir, I don’t drink in the way of business. For that I have haunts of my own, and other sort of men for my pleasure.’

  His smile tightens, as does his grip on her thigh. ‘I say, getting saucy are we? I don’t like impudence in a girl.’

  ‘I am only looking after my own interests, Sir. Surely you would not expect otherwise.’

  The hand on her thigh relaxes. ‘Quite. Assume the standard arrangements of course. Five shillings – or more, depending.’

  ‘How much more might that be – depending?’

  ‘Oh I should think as much as ten.’

  ‘Unlike your friend, I can see that you are a man of the world.’

  A bargain having been struck, they retire to one of the many rooms for rent above the nearby coffee-houses, which no one supposes are meant for a good night’s sleep.

  Alone with him in the room, she feigns modesty, pushing him away at first, then permitting him to loosen or remove a bit of her clothing here and there. So it proceeds. As the charade becomes more playful she intrudes upon his person as well, with accidental
touches and lingering glances, while persistently refusing to submit. Notwithstanding his evident state of readiness, she increases the boldness of her teasing – until, unexpectedly, there occurs an abrupt change in the young man, as he pushes her backward suddenly and roughly onto the bed and clutches her throat in a way that is neither comfortable nor gentlemanly.

  ‘What is it, my blossom? Eh? Do you wish to be forced? Is that the way of it?’

  ‘Why no, Sir.’ Despite the shimmer of fear in her bosom she maintains an aspect of calm innocence, for that is the best way with gentlemen who are prone to turn mean. ‘It was just a game, Sir, and I thought you were fond of playing it.’

  His hand relaxes as he reconsiders. ‘A game. Of course. My dear, I am terribly sorry. That was wretched of me. Though you do bring up the beast in a man.’

  ‘That is the entire point, is it not?’ She relaxes now that the danger, if any there was, is over.

  By the end of it she has earned her shillings painlessly, having satisfied his requirements by means of her hands and thighs, and him sufficiently fevered with randiness and drink not to detect the absence of actual penetration.

  While he lies against her, satiated and limp, she thinks about his display of meanness and the way he took his pleasure. Many men, in her experience, love women as much for malice as for lechery. Still, a girl does not have to like it, nor does she have to put up with it.

  So she decides she will rob him, not so much for monetary gain as a form of trophy-taking.

  However, her young stallion will not co-operate. In a surge of renewed vigour he proposes to rendezvous with his companion, who will provide him with funds for further refreshment and entertainment.

  Having hired another hansom and having instructed the driver to return to the Haymarket and Orange Street, she watches her Mr Brighton sink at last into a sodden sleep.

  After making certain the curtains are well closed, she goes to work, deftly removing his silk handkerchief, gold ring, pocket-watch – and of course the now-empty silver flask with the coat of arms. She takes care to place each object in its own pocket inside her cloak, so that they will not bump one against the other.

  She unlatches the door and prepares to jump – hesitant, reluctant to damage her good shoes on the cobblestones – when Providence comes to her assistance, as the cab abruptly pulls to a halt on a narrow street to permit another coach to pass. While the drivers exchange the time of day, quality of business and hours of work remaining, she climbs softly down onto the cobbles, silently refastens the door, and hurries up the lane in the direction of Leicester Square, smiling to herself …

  ‘You there, Miss! Just a word, if you don’t mind!’

  The unmistakable voice of the Metropolitan Police. The sudden stab of fear causes her to gasp, for here lies a greater danger than anything she experienced with her young man this evening.

  ‘Yes, Sir? What is it you would have of me, Sir?’ As usual when there is trouble, she chooses an aspect of innocence and ignorance as her best defence.

  ‘Step under the lamp where I can see you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. And what is it you wish? For I am but a poor woman. Please, if you’re a thief I have no money to give you.’

  ‘Don’t play the idiot. State your business.’

  In the light of a nearby lamp, by his height alone she recognizes Mr Salmon, who is well known on the Haymarket and whose presence bodes well or ill, depending. Mr Salmon is not a regular Peeler but another kind of policeman, which means that he will not bring her in capriciously as a prostitute; but should he suspect her of some other crime, he can be bribed neither with money nor with flesh. This too is well known. She is ever so glad to have packed her stolen things in separate pockets where they will not rattle, for they are enough to bring her ten years’ transportation.

  Standing in his long shadow, she understands why Mr Salmon is called an ‘inspector’, for she can feel his eyes looking her up and down as though she might be a stray animal or a possibly stolen cart.

  ‘I’m a lacemaker, Sir. On my way home from work. I live in Perkin’s Rents.’

  ‘A lacemaker, do you say? Who is your employer?’

  ‘I work for Mrs Blossom of Whitechapel.’ Indeed, Flo once worked for Mrs Blossom, who operates one of the better-known slop shops in the city. Lies are always best when they stop just short of the truth.

  ‘And what might a lacemaker be doing, travelling about London by cab? And why should she disembark in such haste?’

  He saw. That is why he stopped her. Now she must think quickly, for the rest of her life hangs in the balance of probabilities as he weighs them back and forth.

  ‘It was a young gentleman, Sir. Of the quality. He invited me to take supper at the Crown, and I accepted because I was hungry. But on the way there he made an improper suggestion, and improper advances too, so I left him. That is the honest truth, Sir, I swear.’ Indeed it was a young gentleman, and he was heading for the Crown; again, she chooses near-honesty as her best defence.

  ‘A chance meeting, was it? For that is not the dress of a lacemaker.’

  To this she has no reply.

  ‘Very well, Miss. I see that we’ve come to the truth at last. No, I’m not on a quest to rid London of its whores. Carry on, then, do you hear me? Don’t just stand there gaping. Go about your business.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ She swallows hard to contain the tears of relief rising up in her.

  ‘Only a moment, while I offer you a piece of advice.’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘I would not wander about the empty streets alone if I were you. Not after dark.’

  ‘I understand, Sir.’

  ‘No, Miss. I don’t think you do.’

  8

  The Holy Land

  The appalling stench burns his nose and lungs alarmingly and penetrates his eyes, though they remain tightly closed. And he is retching. He was retching even while he slept. This symptom has occurred to him before of course, yet he hates it no less for the acquaintance. As he regains consciousness he becomes aware of a hand, a large, callused hand. How strange – the hand is clutching the back of his neck, holding his head steady within a circular opening about the size of a horse’s halter. A stable? No, that cannot be right …

  In truth, these awakenings are becoming insupportable, the blackouts, the nausea, now this.

  ‘Give him air, Father. He is retching.’

  ‘That is to the good, my dear. The natural ammonia is doing its work. Better than smelling salts, ammonia is. Quick now, my angel, define ammonia.’

  The young girl with the pale skin, long dark hair and the dress made from many dresses, transforms from angel to pupil. Daughters of all classes assume such roles for Father’s benefit, especially when approaching womanhood. When a girl develops in certain places, she cannot be herself any more with the men of her acquaintance. This is not entirely a bad thing. (Secretly, she plans for a career on the stage.)

  ‘Ammonia, Father, is a noxious gas.’

  ‘Wery good, Phoebe. And where is it commonly found?’

  ‘Ammonia is a by-product of the coke ovens, and from certain … bodily functions.’

  ‘Speak it right out, my angel, there is no profit for the scientist in squeamishness. Meantime,’ Owler adds, turning to Dorcas, ‘do you, Miss, have anything to add to the discussion?’

  Holding the correspondent’s head down the hole with one hand, Owler removes his own crooked hat with the other, revealing a ruddy bald head and a fringe of reddish hair. He passes the hat to Phoebe’s friend, who is of the same age and complexion as her contemporary, but with hair the colour of the sun after rain, and with a languorous quality – a family inheritance no doubt, as is her fondness for spiced gin. The latter tendency he cannot control, alas, for Dorcas is not his daughter but his ward, taken as company for his child when Phoebe’s mother drank bad water and they expected the worst.

  ‘Aye, Henry? What is it you wish from me?’ Dorcas
smiles at him experimentally, in a way a young woman ought not to smile at an older man.

  Owler sighs wearily. He has spoken to these two about modesty in dress and the folly of a prematurely provocative demeanour. As with the drink, his authority in such matters is diminished with Dorcas; hence, a wariness on his part, an aspect of decorum in the presence of his daughter’s blooming young companion, thereby to safeguard the innocence of his daughter, and of himself into the bargain.

  It is the environment to blame, thinks Owler, the time and place we live in, when the poor can no longer afford to be respectable. With every imaginable sort of indecency proceeding in plain view, the most intimate acts on display in the gas-lit shadows of a normal evening, what is left to protect? Having cost the young their childhood, who are we adults to begrudge them their sad, partial sophistication?

  And yet the streets are more dangerous now, with all manner of beasts lurking about.

  Pushing these troubling thoughts to one side, the patterer removes the head of his guest from its pungent container. ‘Well now, Mr Whitty, or should I say, Mr Special Correspondent: are we ready to regain our senses?’

  Whitty breathes deeply the comparatively fresh air, while gazing about the small, windowless room (morning light filtering through cracks in the walls), striving to assess the situation. He recognizes the standing patterer, even without his crooked hat, as the party who has been following him all day.

  Suddenly the correspondent for The Falcon becomes sensible of the nature of the hole to his right, which he has occupied for an uncertain amount of time. ‘We’re in a bog-house, Sir! You have put my head down a privy!’

  ‘It is indeed a privy, sir,’ comes a feminine voice to Whitty’s left. ‘You should consider yourself fortunate that Father did not throw you into the cess-pit below, for it is over a fathom deep and you would have drowned.’