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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

BOOK: The Fiend in Human
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Whitty wonders what British justice might look like should such faith infect the Chancery at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. ‘Indeed, Sir, I grant that the British judicial system is without equal. Yet surely you must see that if we turn our man over to the constabulary, and he continues to be presumed guilty, then our story is, as you might put it, coopered.’
‘Werily, Sir, but the man
is
guilty – that is the facts as they stand. For ourselves, seeking our own profit, to permit the Fiend to run loose – or even run the chance of such – and I a father with two girls? The thought is not to be entertained.’
Whitty’s eyes roll upward. ‘Dear Jesus.’
‘I ask you not to take the Lord’s name in vain.’
His patience worn past endurance, the correspondent extends this humiliating bluff to its limit: ‘Sir, in the first place, our man is severely injured and can barely walk, let alone stalk the streets with a view to murder. In addition, allow me to reveal that, before we came here I secured permission at the highest level for the course of action we are about to undertake. The highest level, Sir.’ So saying, Whitty places his finger beside his nose, indicating he must say no more.
The Falcon
The office appears precisely as Whitty left it after the previous request for funds, as though in suspension, as though even the cigars between the sub-editors’ teeth have maintained their length.
More stifling than the ever-present smoke is the atmosphere of stale contempt Whitty knows he will encounter, whatever he proposes. With his lacklustre record of return for advances, he might produce proof that the Queen were a Jewess, a Negro or a male in disguise and still it would be greeted with close-fisted indifference by Dinsmore’s college of ha’penny-clerks.
‘A Ryan exclusive would indeed be a coup,’ agrees the Editor. ‘Yet I don’t see how we can advance you on it, old chap.’ Sala rolls his eyes in the direction of Dinsmore with a long-suffering wink. ‘You haven’t delivered
The Falcon
anything on the Inquiry into the State of Girls’ Fashionable Schools, nor have you produced one instance of a wife putting rat poison in her husband’s soup. Petty I know, but there it is.’
‘Nor has Mr Whitty favoured us with his sensational series on the relationship between a condemned murderer, a patterer and a woman of low repute,’ adds Dinsmore, like a mortician inserting a tube.
Sala cleans his monocle, scowling at the correspondent from within his beard. Replacing the instrument, he executes a rueful, apologetic shrug. ‘It’s a rum business, old chap, money and all that – but that is the way of it. Speaking of money, Edmund, what on earth do you do with it all?’
‘Much research has been required at considerable overhead.’ Indeed, this last declaration approaches the truth. Between the sum owed to Mr Bigney and the money sent by post to the Captain to keep his brutes at bay, the correspondent has barely the price of his dinner.
And so to work.
Whitty executes an elaborate sigh as though at the chore of having to explain that which is obvious, seating himself, not upon Sala’s precarious wreck of a stool but upon the edge of Dinsmore’s desk, which presumption inspires much throat-clearing from the sub-editor and his college of crows.
‘Gentlemen, I invite you to make like truffle pigs while I put the facts
under your nose one by one. I have demonstrated the possibility of a connection between William Ryan, the convict known as Chokee Bill, and the Cox case. Which connection has
everything
to do with the Inquiry into Girls’ Fashionable Schools, because that is precisely the institution at which the outrage occurred. In addition, I have produced the figure of Mrs Cox – a woman with only a Not Proven verdict between herself and the gallows. And I have produced the prospect of an exclusive interview with William Ryan.’
‘A strong beginning, Edmund. Yet not a word has issued from your pen. Nothing beyond the occasional social snipe from your London clubman persona, together with a series of dark warnings, gathering clouds and all that sort of shite.’
‘Sir, would you expect me to post a narrative while the denouement awaits?’
Contributes Dinsmore: ‘Whitty, you’re like a man drawing upon one account to pay for the next. Sooner or later the game is up, Sir.’
‘Try to comprehend, gentlemen, that while you sit at your desks awaiting news of the outside world, it is my duty to enter that world. This is what a correspondent does. I don’t write stories, I find them – otherwise what would
The Falcon
print? With what would you occupy yourselves, if it were not for wretches such as myself, groping blindly for the truth? What the deuce would you
do
?’
The Editor lights the reeking end of a cigar, the better to distract himself from the discomfort of conversing in this tone to a former friend and classmate – and himself a former correspondent, besides. What a lot of formers we acquire in life! And how they come back to discomfit us!
‘Gentlemen, may I be allowed to speak from my humble corner?’ Dinsmore has been waiting for his opportunity, for there is nothing he resents more than the Editor’s friendship with the most overrated journalist in London.
‘Whitty,
The Falcon
finds it troubling that, whenever you come in with one of your so-called stunners, it happens to coincide with a financial emergency of some sort.’
‘You do me an injustice, Sir. Nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘If one may be so bold, Sir, there exists an issue of credibility. When a somewhat erratic – though of course brilliant – correspondent approaches one’s desk claiming to have a confidential connection with the Fiend in Human Form …’
Adds Whitty: ‘As well as a sensational expose of the system that set him loose. Do not omit the broad context.’
‘In any case, it all rests on whether said correspondent in fact
has
contacted the Fiend in Human, don’t you see?’
It has come to this.
‘I understand now, Gentlemen. You doubt my word. That is the case, is it not? You suggest that my report is a … a cock.’ Whitty tries to approximate the level of indignation displayed by Owler under a similar circumstance. ‘Mr Sala, I regret that I must herewith post my resignation.’
‘The Falcon
accepts
,’
says Dinsmore, with glee.
‘Easy now, Gentlemen,’ cautions the Editor. ‘This begs the fecking question.’
‘As for the first instalment, Sir, allow me to withdraw it. I shall take it immediately to Reynolds, who has expressed keen interest.’
Sala removes his cigar in order to consider the possibility of a bluff. ‘You wouldn’t go to Reynolds, would you, Edmund?’
‘I must, Algernon. I have lost the confidence of
The Falcon.
’
‘Was that your inference, Dinsmore? I did not think so.’ The Editor’s tone does not offer the sub-editor a choice of reply.
Having called Whitty’s bluff, and having his own bluff called in return, Dinsmore purses his lips as though passing lemon seeds. ‘I should be distressed if Mr Whitty were to think me disrespectful of his brilliant work. If Mr Whitty’s discovery should produce crisp copy, I should not hesitate to offer a stipend upon inspection.’
‘On inspection? I say, what a devastating insult!’
Sala winces as though pained by the meanness of it all. ‘Dinsmore, that does seem rather hard. Clearly Mr Whitty has not managed his funds well – the creative mind rarely does.’
Replies Dinsmore to the Editor: ‘If the result is as I fear, then you shall be held accountable.’
‘This man is our best correspondent. He must live on something. Edmund, what do you say to a guinea now and the rest upon inspection, as a show of good faith.’
‘That is not satisfactory, Algernon. I need two guineas now and eight upon inspection.’
‘Very well. Two guineas and eight upon inspection.’
Whereupon the correspondent promptly produces the first instalment (which he completed the previous night) and tosses it upon the Editor’s desk. At the rate he is going, he could keep the ratters at bay for months.
Algernon Sala adjusts his monocle and scans the first page.
‘Dinsmore, you’d better have a look at this.’
‘Ten guineas, please,’ says Whitty, smiling, holding out his hand.
ESCAPED MURDERER CLAIMS INNOCENCE
EVIDENCE MOUNTS
by
Edmund Whitty, Correspondent
The Falcon
Since the escape of William Ryan, the convicted murderer known as ‘Chokee Bill’, excitement has risen almost to the level of the garrotting terror which seized London prior to his capture. Were it known that a Bengal tiger were at large in Piccadilly, the reaction could be no more severe, so freely has terror blossomed anew in the public mind.
Given the opportunism rampant in these times, it will come as no surprise that the various journals comprising the cultural landscape of the city have made the murders a prime object, in their determined quest for an enhanced financial return. Even so, once the initial arrest of Mr Ryan took effect, we note the ease with which London chose to declare the subject closed. In a stroke, all questions about the gruesome murders were declared answered, and even the fevered voice of
The Illustrated London News
turned its attention to a thumb-twiddler on Mr William Acton, as though the habit of self-abuse among youngsters were equivalent to the murder of helpless women.
And yet the question remains: Does the arrest of Mr Ryan truly fulfil the demands of the evidence gathered by the constabulary – all of the evidence? If so, why has the constabulary not come forward with a complete accounting – commonalties of the method of killing, witnesses in the areas where the killings took place, the observations of acquaintances – thereby assuring the public that every one of these appalling acts can be explained through the mind and actions of one William Ryan?
To what may we ascribe this unwillingness among the gentlemen of the press to do their duty as the dissecting room of English morality? What has rendered them so squeamish?
We who are not squeamish must take up the scalpel of truth with which to cut the skin, to lay bare the muscles, to probe and to penetrate, to see all — even to the grinning skull!
AN OPEN LETTER TO WILLIAM RYAN
Edmund Whitty,
Offices of
The Falcon
,
Ingester Square, London.
Mr William Ryan,
At Large
Dear Sir,
A man flees from prison for one of two reasons: if guilty, it is because he fears the truth; if innocent, it is because he despairs of the truth’s emerging.
Evidence has come to my attention supporting your claim of innocence, and
The Falcon
has determined to take up your cause. Only your fugitive circumstance stands between you and the truth upon which you claim to stand.
I challenge you, Sir, to throw yourself upon the mercy of the British People, the conscience of the Metropolitan Police, and the courage of the British Press.
I remain, Sir, your most obedient servant,
Edmund Whitty,
The Falcon
‘That ought to hold their interest, Gentlemen,’ says the Editor.
‘It is tolerable,’ replies Dinsmore.
Someday the correspondent will enter the office with explosives covering his body: upon hearing the word ‘tolerable’, he will release the switch and level the building.
Adds Sala: ‘It depends, old chap, on what you have waiting in the wings.
Do
you have something in the wings, Edmund?’
‘The future looms before me like the dome of St Paul’s.’
‘On a foggy night.’ The Editor holds a lucifer to his stump of cigar, producing an aroma of burnt whisker. ‘Assuming that we commit
The Falcon
to your Quixotic quest, may I ask where you intend to proceed?’
‘If I knew that, Algernon, I should be writing fiction like Boz.’
‘No need to get shirty about it, old boy. We trust your judgement — is that not so, Mr Dinsmore?’
The sub-editor, immersed in a copy of
Lloyd’s,
reserves the option to declare himself strenuously opposed, in case circulation fails to meet expectations.
It has been a while since Whitty has carried so much weight in his
purse, yet he does not proceed directly to his chemist. That is because he truly smells a stunner worthy of further investment. Hence, after putting money aside with which to ward off the ratters, he has requested the additional services of Mr Bigney. (Such being the disparity of their social positions, only prior remuneration will maintain the engraver in the correspondent’s service.)
Hence, upon concluding his business in the office, he makes his way directly to the rear of the building and down the stair to the engraver’s steamy, inky, metallic domain.
In a small storage room, sheltered somewhat from the shattering noise of the presses, Mr Bigney counts the proffered money in one blackened hand, the palm a lighter shade like the palm of a Negro. ‘I see, matey, yor explorations has borne fruit as anticipated.’
‘I admit that your material has attracted mild interest.’
‘Mild, is it? Then prick up your ears for what is to come.’
‘Never mind your dramatics, what do you have?’
‘For one, I have the “undisclosed location” of the Fiend in Human.’
‘So do I. You will have to do better than that.’
‘Oh, to be sure there be more to tell.’
‘What is it about to cost me?’
‘A guinea and it’s yors.’
‘For that price it should implicate the Royals.’
‘There be an inference in the reports as to certain deceased women of low repute, what led to suspicion as how the Chokee Bill killings never stopped altogether, but that the crushers be under pressure not to make the link.’
‘What sort of pressure?’
‘The merchant class, possibly – who suffer a loss every time Madame Tweedle and Lord Dum refrain from visiting the city. The curious thing of it is, even those as know the victims keep mum on it out of the same concern.’

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