The Vice Society (17 page)

Benjamin pointed to the door ahead of them, which was ajar, and Mr Williamson was first to enter a close, murky room lined entirely with shelves of ledgers and books of assorted sizes. There was a dusty reek of antiquity about the place and it occurred immediately to the investigator that he must have been one of just a handful of men ever to have entered in almost two centuries – this room that a million people looked up at each year.

‘Welcome, Mr Williamson. Will you take a seat?’

The speaker was sitting at the table in the centre of the room. Before him was that day’s edition of
the Times
, a frontpage notice circled boldly in pencil. To one unacquainted with him, he seemed an unusual specimen indeed. Though attired as a gentleman, his face seemed to be that of a wily street character, its crooked nose evidence of at least one violent encounter, and his intelligent smoke-grey eyes suggesting a good education – whether at the university of the London gutter or at Cambridge, one might not have said. His grin was sardonic but friendly as he stood and held out a hand.

Mr Williamson shook it warmly and took the offered seat. ‘Mr Dyson. I am glad to meet you again, though I believed I never would. This is a most curious location.’

‘Is it not? Mr Cornwell of Child & Co. bank holds the only key to this room and he was kind enough to lend it to me for this meeting. Think of it: there are two sets of leaded windows each side of us – one facing east and the other west. There are two circular windows above us – one facing north and the other south. Where are
we
? We are nowhere – neither of the land nor of the air. We see all and nothing sees us. It is a Divine seat, is it not?’

‘I will thank you not to blaspheme, Mr Dyson.’

‘Ah, Sergeant! Your rigid moral backbone has not relaxed a bit. And I believe you could call me Noah after all we have been through together.’

‘I am no longer a sergeant – nor a policeman, as I am sure you know.’

‘Yes, yes, I had heard as much. Was it Inspector New-some’s doing?’

‘Hmm.’

‘A pity. You were the better detective.’

‘I am surprised that
you
have not heard more from the inspector.’

‘He knows that my invisibility is something he should not seek to expose.’

‘I gather you had to leave your house in Manchester-square as a result of that business. Are you still resident in the city?’

‘It was indeed a regrettable, and expensive, course of action – but necessary for me to escape the observation of the Metropolitan Police. You will forgive me if I do not reveal my current address to you at this moment.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

‘Now, George – what is this notice in
the Times
all about? I congratulate you on your witty conceit: referring to the costumes – or rather, the disguises – we wore at that Vauxhall Gardens masquerade when last we collaborated.’

‘I thank you for responding . . . for trusting me sufficiently to do so.’

‘Trust has nothing to do with it – we can see everything up here and we observed your approach with half a mind that it might be a trap of the inspector. In truth, I replied to your message in
the Times
partly out of fancy and partly out of the knowledge that you are no longer a detective. In fact, Benjamin and I were highly curious as to why George Williamson might want to see
us
once again.’

Benjamin had not joined them at the table, but was reclining upon a lower rung of a library ladder and reading a cobwebby volume on his knees. He smiled and said nothing, primarily because his tongue had been violently extracted some years before.

‘Mr Dyson – I will be frank: I need your assistance.’

‘You recall, of course, that the Metropolitan Police have “asked” for my assistance once before? That ended badly for a number of people, including me. I lost my house at Manchester-square in the name of anonymity.’

‘I have told you that I am no longer a policeman. This is not a police matter. It is personal.’

‘Then I am intrigued, albeit still uncommitted. Tell me the story.’

‘My wife was murdered seven years ago, though the inquest called it a suicide from the Monument. Two days ago, I received a letter informing me that it was indeed murder and that the solution lies in the solution to another crime: that of Jonathan Sampson who fell from a window in Holywell-street five days ago.’

‘I have heard about your wife and I am sorry for your loss. I am also aware of the ambiguity surrounding that inquest. As for the incident on Holywell-street, it was certainly most unusual. Do you have the letter with you now?’

Mr Williamson took it from his breast pocket and pushed it across the table to Noah.

‘Ah, an amusing classical allusion,’ said Noah after scanning the text.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Persephone: the queen of the Underworld, the bride of Pluto.’

Mr Williamson noted the curious pronunciation:
Per-SE-phone-ee
. ‘You know the woman?’

‘I forget that you have no Greek. She is a figure from mythology, tricked into spending a season in Hell, during which winter reigns on Earth.’

‘Why would somebody choose such a name?’

‘Who can guess? I doubt that it is the writer’s real name, but the choice of it here is interesting for a number of reasons. It seems she claims to be a voice from beyond this world (but below it rather than above): the same world where the truth of your wife’s death resides – and evidently Mr Sampson’s also. It is a mere metaphor, but a telling one if we expand upon it in the context of the letter. The writer is in a position of possessing privileged and possibly secret knowledge. She (for it is certainly a she) is a woman of grace and power, as well as one of considerable erudition. And – if we are to follow the allusion still further – one in thrall to a power greater than her own: a power of evil. Fascinating, Mr Williamson. It is truly a mystery for a man of your talents.’

‘Hmm. I spoke to Mr Blunt at the Haymarket Theatre and he had never heard the name. Why do you know it and not he?’

‘That is what I mean. “Persephone” is from the Greek. We are accustomed to using the Latin deities: Pluto for Hades, Vulcan for Hephaestus, Proserpine for Persephone. Only a true classical scholar – very likely one who has knowledge of the ancient language – might recognize the Greek deity.’

‘I have heard of “Proserpine”.’

‘And so would Mr Blunt. The question is, Mr Williamson, whether we believe this letter to be a hoax.’

‘I have had some experience with false letters. I believe this one is real.’

‘But then you
want
to believe it. I can see little in it that convinces me.’

‘Hmm. Will you help me?’

‘I am not sure I understand the challenge. You are a greater investigator than I – and I am certain you have already pursued every clue available to you. What could I do that you have not already done? I have no more power and influence than you.’

‘That is a significant point, Mr Dyson. I have no authority to question people, and Inspector Newsome has seen to it – since I left the Force – that the constables of the city will offer me no help.’

‘As I say: I have no advantage over you in this respect. But there is something else, is there not . . . ?’

‘Mr Dyson . . . Noah – it is a delicate matter. My investigations have led me into the world of the street girl. It is one I am not familiar with, except as an enforcer of the law. They . . . do not respond as other people do. They . . . I am afraid I do not know what to do with them.’

‘I am sure they could demonstrate readily enough.’

Benjamin let out a deep, rolling laugh from his position by the shelves, and Mr Williamson turned a crippling shade of crimson.

‘I am sorry, Mr Williamson. Forgive my humour. I understand,’ said Noah. ‘The truth is that there is no finer liar in the whole world than the street girl, especially if she is a young and pretty one. In a moment, she knows exactly what you want of her – even if
you
do not – and she becomes that person. She will tell you anything, promise you anything, make you pay anything you have because she knows she can. Her power over men is quite limitless.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I see you have already experienced the effect.’

‘This is part of my inability to investigate fully, as your joke at my expense reveals. But there is more to it. Noah – you know this city better than any policeman . . .’

‘Stop. I have heard this speech before from Inspector Newsome – inside a gaol cell.’

‘Please – at least listen to me. You know parts of this city better than I do. I know nothing of Greek and Latin and mythology; I know nothing of . . . of women’s wiles; I cannot speak to a gentleman and seem like one. These are the places that my investigation may be taking me. I am one man – one who is cursed with an honest heart. And this is not a mere case, Noah – this is the truth of Katherine’s murder.’

‘I pity you, George. But I have no connection to these events. I have my own life and concerns, my own business affairs to attend to and my own issues with the police. Yes, we worked together recently – but both of us under duress from a higher power. I will be frank – why should I help you?’

‘I am surprised that I must remind you. You were in gaol and it was
I
who enabled your escape – an act that caused me, ultimately, to be ejected from the Detective Force even as I made it possible for you to locate the object of your lifelong vengeance. Is that not worth a gesture of good faith?’

Noah Dyson looked over to his friend Benjamin, who had now closed his book and was listening closely. He nodded solemnly.

‘I agree to nothing yet,’ said Noah. ‘I am afraid that your lack of detective privileges is going to be an insurmountable barrier to gathering information.’

‘That is where I have some good news. You will no doubt remember Constable Cullen. He is working with the inspector and has accompanied him on the interrogations so far. I believe he may be persuaded to talk to us and reveal much important information.’

‘PC Cullen is working in the Detective Force? I find that difficult to believe.’

‘I, too, have my doubts. I can think only that Mr Newsome wants to keep him under close observation after the constable’s aid in our previous escapade. Or perhaps the Force admired his bold actions in that case and is willing to test him.’

‘Do you think he could be under the influence of the inspector?’

‘Inspector Newsome is certainly not to be underestimated, but the constable always admired me rather than my superior.’

‘Well, you at least have some clues from the newspapers to follow: the young man, the absent Ned Coffin . . . and I believe there may be something Inspector Newsome has overlooked in his investigations so far – something that has not been mentioned in the newspaper reports or at the inquest.’

‘What is that?’

‘There is a cab stand on Holywell-street, is there not?’

‘Yes – but there were no cabs there at the time of the incident. There were only two witnesses to the fall.’

‘Is not Tiresias proof enough that a man need not see in order to know?’

‘Is this another Greek you are referring to?’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps. I have an idea. What else do you have that Inspector Newsome does not?’

‘There is the Persephone letter itself, what little it offers. And my questioning of a street girl called Charlotte—’

‘Not her real name, of course . . .’

‘Hmm. My questioning of her has suggested a series of murders masquerading as suicides – all involving prussic acid and, seemingly, a connection with those charities aiding fallen women. She mentioned that the dead girls had attended or applied to the Magdalene Hospital, the Guardian Society, and the Society for the Protection of Young Females. One of these deaths took place on the same evening and on the same street as Mr Sampson’s. There may be a connection, and there may be more people to speak to. I feel I cannot do all of the work alone when the criminals are so close at hand.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Quite. There is also the Holywell-street publisher Henry Poppleton; I understand that many street girls possess certain books of his and he may know something about such a girl dying on his doorstep, so to speak. At the very least, he might have some ideas, and it is possible that he also knows of our Persephone if he is a bookish man. That is all I have, but I believe there is enough to solve both crimes – if only I can chase all of the clues. Noah – will you help me to do so?’

‘It does sound intriguing. But as I have said: I have my own life and affairs. Do not think me ungrateful for what you did for me – I must think carefully before I entangle myself once more in any affair concerning Inspector Newsome. He has had a deleterious impact upon my own life, to be sure. I will give you my final decision tomorrow.’

‘When and where?’

‘Well, Holywell-street seems to be the centre of our mystery; let it be there. We will meet at the Old Dog tavern at noon.’

‘Noah – I thank you for meeting me today. You did not need to do so.’

‘George – I told you once that I considered you a good man, an honest man. I believe it still – but I am slow to trust anyone. Benjamin will show you out.’