White Stone Day (11 page)

the back of Whitty's neck suggests a continuing presence –
perhaps the rats, perhaps not. Keeping his back to the wall, he
sidles 66 THE PITH AND PARADOX down the narrow, oppressive hallway;
it must surely lead, eventually, to the back parlour in which the
seance occurred. And sure enough, at the end he steps through a low
servant's door – which he soon recognises as the hidden door in
the wainscoting, through which the medium first entered. The room,
however, has changed somewhat. The chair from which the duke presided
now lies on its side, with one leg missing. The table has been
overturned, and the candles scattered about the floor. The drapes
have been torn from their fixtures, exposing a thick iron curtain–rod
– from which Dr Gilbert Williams now performs his last
levitation. This feat has been accomplished by a rope around the
medium's throat, from which he dangles, his tiny feet pointed like a
ballerina's, a few inches above the carpet. The trick was not
performed willingly. The broken window–panes behind the
psychic, and the rope–burns that scar his neck and palms,
suggest that Dr Williams did not cross serenely into the hereafter.
Small pools of blood spatter the floor; a trail of blood leads across
the Turkey carpet and out of the room. Given that the exit was not
effected by the gentleman hanging from the window, the blood belonged
to his assailant. Below the corpse lies a chair–leg, stained
with blood – the weapon with which the medium fought for his
life. Tied properly, a noose is not easily loosened, and will only
tighten further in a struggle. And the final tableau is always the
same, struggle or no – a face bloated with blood, a tongue
swollen and visible, a pair of eyes protruding as though comically
surprised, and the unmistakable smell of a human being who has
evacuated all organs at once. Whitty has witnessed the spectacle many
times, never without a shudder. A moment of gloomy reflection comes
over him, interrupted by the clip–clop of copper–studded
boots, tramping through the kitchen. 'In here, officers!' Whitty
calls. 'Get out your handkerchiefs!' 'Good–day to you, Mr
Whitty, sir.' Inspector Salmon bends double to enter the door in the
wainscoting, one hand with a handkerchief over his mouth, the other
clutching his stick. Highly adroit with a stick, is Inspector Salmon,
thinks the correspondent, having felt that stick on more than one
occasion. And in return, the inspector has felt the sting of his
prose. It is no secret that the inspector's fondest wish is to see
him done serious harm. Salmon inspects the figure before the window,
as though it were a side of bacon on special at the butcher–shop.
Nodding with an 67 WHITE STONE DAY expression of inexplicable
satisfaction, he turns to Whitty, while producing a piece of paper
from his coat. Now he reads the text, in the way that a preacher
reads the Beatitudes. 'Sir, would you be Mr Edmund Whitty, also known
by the name of Willows?' 'Whitty was my name when last we met,
policeman.' 'As an officer of the Metropolitan Police it is my duty
to inform you that a magistrate of the Queen has issued me with a
warrant for your arrest.' 'With what am I charged?' Whitty asks this
in all innocence, though the presence of a murdered corpse gives him
some idea. 'Have you come with anything specific, or shall we
improvise as we go along?' 'Do not toy with me, sir, I do not like
it.' Salmon's stick trembles ominously – but does not strike,
for three more policemen appear in the open door, one of whom is
Constable Stubb, a casual acquaintance and occasional source. 'A good
day to you, gentlemen. Good to see you again, Mr Stubb.' 'And you, Mr
Whitty, sor.' 'Be quiet, Stubb,' snaps Salmon. 'Can you not tell when
you are being mocked?' Again the trembling of the hardwood stick, and
it occurs to Whitty that the inspector himself resembles a stick;
with his tall hat, his long great–coat and chin whiskers, he
could serve as a giant tooth–brush. 'Sir, I charge you with the
murder of one Bill Williams, alias Dr Gilbert Williams, alias
Professor Herbert Zollner, alias Herr Schrenk– Notting.' 'And
who might that be, Inspector?' 'I shall make note of your impudence,
sir. Following a guilty verdict, it will signify a lack of remorse.'
'Your assumption that I am responsible does credit to my physical
condition, given that the victim appears to weigh twelve stones.' 'It
is known that a man in a frenzy – let us say, over an insult to
his family's reputation – can exhibit inordinate strength. It
is also known that scandal and disgrace can unhinge a man. But your
guilt is for the courts to decide.' For the first time in their
acquaintance, the corners of Mr Salmon's mouth edge upward. 'Send for
a carriage, Mr Stubb,' he says, pro– ducing a neatly folded
sheet of vellum, 'while I document the charge.' As the constable fits
him with handcuffs and leg–irons, Whitty weighs two possible
explanations for this unhappy turn of events. It is possible, 68 THE
PITH AND PARADOX in theory, that a pedestrian spied the cadaver in
the window, notified the constabulary, and that Inspector Salmon
arrived on the scene at virtually the same instant as himself. It is
more likely, however, that the party who sent the dreadful picture of
David, anticipating Whitty's immediate response, notified Inspector
Salmon, who awaited him in the way of a duck–hunter or a
fisherman. If so, then it follows that it was this person, or his
agents, who topped the medium. While Stubb fumbles with the cold,
greasy chain, Whitty probes for information. 'You must have become
tired waiting for me, sir.' 'It was not long,' replies the constable.
'We had a good estimate of your time of arrival.' Right, then. 'By
whom, might I ask?' 'I do not know, sir. The information came
anonymously, is my understanding of it. There were something about a
photograph as well. Do you have that photograph, sir?' 'I know of no
photograph, Mr Stubb.' 'That is as may be. If it is on you or in you,
it will be found.' Indeed it will, thinks Whitty, the customary
search at Newgate is a thorough, intimate business. Whitty waddles to
the front door, clanking like Marley's ghost, aware that he has
acquired a new enemy – one who out–classes Fraser and
Cream and, for that matter, even Inspector Salmon. An enemy capable
of cold–blooded murder. Jolted to and fro in a claustrophobic
prisoner's carriage redolent with the bodily fluids of its previous
passengers, Whitty contemplates what life might have in store.
Undoubtedly he is headed for Newgate Gaol – where, without the
intervention of Sala, he may await a hearing for upwards of a year –
if he does not die of jail fever, in which case the fact of his
innocence becomes moot. (Such is the backlog in the courts that a
resourceful policeman such as Inspector Salmon can usher a suspect
from capture to effective execution without the trouble and expense
of a trial.) As it is, he is in for a miserable week, before word
reaches The Falcon; before Sala can ascertain whom to bribe. whitty
peers out the tiny, screened window of the carriage, meaning to take
a last, wistful look at grass and trees, as the van rumbles past St
Charles's Park, and is surprised to note that the vehicle seems to be
heading south on Vauxhall Road. As they turn a corner, he recognises
69 WHITE STONE DAY a sign for a mesmeric salon, as well as an
advertisement for Down's Hats – landmarks indicating that the
vehicle is on Bessborough Road on its way to Vauxhall Gardens. So
they are not going to Newgate after all. The van comes to a stop, and
the door is unbolted. The driver appears and hands the prisoner down
the step with a great clattering and clanking of chains. They are
beneath the ironwork of Vauxhall Bridge, at the top of the Hungerford
stairs which lead down to the Thames. Along the shore are the
creaking hulks of moored barges, black with coal, and the timber
yard, piled with stacks of yellow deal. He remembers a time when
periwinkles were caught here. As Whitty turns to the stone stairway
and looks across the river, a terrible premonition occurs. A boat and
oarsman are tied off at the bottom, while on the landing stands a man
of middle height – whose arms hang out from his side in the way
of a gorilla in a uniform, with a hat bearing the mysterious
inscription, W.S.B.C. On the landing beside this officer stands
Constable Stubb, who hands him a sheet of paper, then returns up the
steps. Brass it out. No time to show weakness. 'Spot of boating, Mr
Stubb?' asks Whitty. 'Duck 'im in the river,' says the officer below
while reading the charges beneath a torch. 'That'll shaht 'is mouth.'
The torch–bearing oarsman looks up at the prisoner; he would
like to see that. Shoved from behind, Whitty lurches clumsily across
the ramp to the steps; the irons are damnably heavy and chafe like
the devil. Pausing for breath, he turns to Constable Stubb, who
regards him with a curiously apologetic expression. Whitty feels a
sudden, inexplicable pang of sadness, as though he were waving
farewell to an old and dear friend. He turns back to the steps
leading to the river, which at this hour of the afternoon seems to
contain ink and not water; on the other side are the potteries of
Lambeth, Cubitt's Yard and St George's Square. To the right he sees a
shapeless mass of yellow brick, whose towers, seemingly Egyptian, are
silhouetted at uneven intervals against the darkening sky. It is the
unmistakable silhouette of the largest and ugliest building in
England. Panic wells up in his sternum; an almost irresistible urge,
first to vomit and then to flee, though the only escape is to the
bottom of the river. 70 THE PITH AND PARADOX 'Damn you, Stubb, that
is Millbank!' he cries, as descriptions of the place flash through
his mind – many of which he wrote himself. 'That were not my
decision, Mr Whitty, sor. I only takes my orders.' The Ugliest
Edifice in England by Edmund Whitty Senior Correspondent The Falcon
Always with an eye to the worst of everything, your Amateur Clubman
and his associates wish to announce a winner in the field of
architecture – Millbank Prison. Millbank is easily the ugliest
edifice in England – perhaps the world, indeed the eighteen
acres of Lambeth would be greatly improved were it to contain a
Tibetan yurt. The construction, as far as one can tell, consists of
five pentagons within an octagon, perched upon a series of triangles.
Its yellow brick facade and multitude of tiny windows evoke something
vaguely Oriental. Such a configuration might seem to issue from a
Masonic nightmare, yet we are assured that it is all wonderfully
scientific. For example, it is said that a great impediment to escape
is that the prisoner is too disoriented to find his way out. Yet the
mystery of Millbank does not end with its construction. Admittance is
restricted to prisoners and officials, and any interested parties
must obtain permission from the Home Secretary of State, who seldom
replies, and never complies. Designed on the so–called
Panopticon system, the Millbank keeps the prisoner under surveillance
every waking hour of his life, thanks to a complicated system of
mirrors. When not under observation, the inmate participates in a
regimen of constant cleaning. Yet at Millbank, cleanliness has little
to do with health, it being built on swamp land, suffused with
vapours that will sicken a man as easily as typhus. Prom what we are
told of this modern establishment and its innovative governor, those
fortunate enough who survive can be found barking mad with the
lunatics in Bedlam. The officer hands his prisoner out of the boat
and they cross what was once a moat (now a field of swamp–grass),
through the front gate and into a triangular courtyard covered with
crushed gravel, swarming with cleaners and trimmers and rakers, all
dressed in identical grey uniforms, with a red stripe down the seam
of the trousers. They are overseen by a warder in a blue uniform
similar to Whitty's escort, but 71 WHITE STONE DAY with a different
sequence of letters on the hat, and armed with a carbine, whose brass
barrel flashes as he moves it to and fro. One prisoner, wearing a
kind of yoke, rolls a heavy metal cylinder, which emits a loud,
metallic crushing noise. This contraption is followed by at least a
dozen men, drawing brooms behind them, marching back and forth side
by side, making the gravel and earth appear like the combed hair of a
choirboy. Past the inner gate he smells ammonia, which resembles the
smell of piss, the difference being a matter of nuance: while the
latter is putrid, the former is oppressively sanitary. The yellow
brick mass looming above them is a wide, round turret, with a conical
slate roof and a number of vertical slits for windows, like an
enormous Martello tower. He turns to his escort. 'You might at least
explain things as we go along.' 'Shaht up,' comes the reply. The
small, hooded eyes refuse to meet his – indeed, as they reach
the front door it occurs to Whitty that not one of the inmates has
cast so much as a glance in his direction; now it comes to him that
Millbank adheres to the separate system, a Puritan atrocity in which
each prisoner serves his sentence silent and alone, with only his
sins for company. The floors and walls inside the main building
likewise teem with inmates, scrubbing with the frantic intensity of
squirrels, yet not a sound comes from their mouths. The effect is
damnably eerie: in their grey uniforms and prison pallor, they
resemble a squad of hygienic ghosts. Whitty looks about with
interest, reasonably confident of his release, as soon as The Falcon
gets wind of these specious charges. What worries him is that word
might not reach Sala for weeks, due to the secrecy of the place. This
is clearly what Salmon had in mind. Situated on the second floor, the
governor's room is at the precise centre of the prison – a
monastically spare apartment, containing a large writing–table,
a small barred window, and with a thick rope stretched across the
room, where Whitty is directed to stand. Through the window he can
glimpse the Gothic points of the Houses of Parliament, and a bit of
St John's Church; further down the Thames, a lone hansom cab crosses
Westminster Bridge. With that glimpse of simple, mundane, free
movement he experiences a wave of hollow, aching despair, transformed
into a terrified child of seven, snatched from his mother and his
governess and the female servants who cared for him, and thrown into
a brutal, sterile world of fists and whips . . . 72 THE PITH AND
PARADOX Unlike the boy at Eton, Whitty does not dissolve into bitter
tears; yet it is a very near thing. 'Stand up straight and shaht up,'
says the warder. 'Here is Governor Whidden.' Whidden is a compact,
cautious–seeming individual dressed in black, with a vicar's
wig of a type that hasn't been worn since 1830. By the absence of
hair about his ears, Whitty deduces the governor is bald and that the
appliance serves double duty, serving his position and his vanity at
the same time. Without according the prisoner so much as a glance,
Whidden snatches the sheet of charges from the warder, places it on
the writing–table, and studies it silently for some time. He