White Stone Day (14 page)

New
Scotland Yard, off Parliament Street Turning down an insignificant
street, then up a narrow lane in the pre– dawn mist, Constable
Stubb enters into a little paved court, where a number of helmeted,
great–coated policemen are drawn up in a line, smoking, and
enters the outer office of Scotland Yard. Surrounded by whitewashed
walls tapestried with ragged police– notices, he reaches a
cubicle containing a dock, with a height–gauge behind. In this
cubicle sits a sergeant, writing beneath a tallow candle. Beside the
sergeant's cubicle is the office of Inspector Salmon, into which
Stubb must now enter, by appointment. The constable heaves a sigh. In
the life of a public servant there is nothing more debilitating than
to be taken under the wing of a superior one does not like. The
inspector's room is an extension of the outer office, notable only
for its utter absence of personal memorabilia. One might think it was
a common area for the force as a whole, though Salmon alone has
occupied it for twenty years. The inspector looks up from his desk,
with the pensive look of one who has been pondering weighty matters.
Defying his normally dour disposition, the corners of his mouth turn
upward, like little hooks. 'Hello, Stubb. Good of you to come at this
early hour.' 'Good morning, Inspector Salmon. It is a duty and an
honour to do so.' Stubb listens to himself speak this twaddle,
cursing his own sycophancy. 'It concerns Mr Whitty, the murderer –
or the correct thing would be to say, the accused murderer.' 'Yes,
sir. Mr Whitty: why he has not been located is a great mystery. Saw
him off to Millbank myself, I did.' 'It appears that clerical errors
were made.' 'I understand, sir.' 'No, you do not, Stubb. You do not
understand any of it.' 'Of course you are probably right, sir.' 'His
whereabouts in that institution are irrelevant. The problem is that
the prisoner has escaped.' 'That is a new development, sir.' 92 NEW
SCOTLAND YARD, OFF PARLIAMENT STREET For the life of him, Stubb does
not know why Whitty was arrested in the first place; only last week
he said so to Mr Owler, over a pint at the Tooth and Claw. 'We are
given to understand that he received assistance from within,' says
Salmon, darkly. 'Turnkeys are notorious for bribery, sir.' 'But in
whose service? By whose order? Who had the means and the motive to
penetrate Millbank and to spring a fecking journalist?' 'That is a
deep question, sir. In any case, Mr Whitty's haunts in London are
well known. It should be a simple matter to fetch him unless he is
off to Canada.' 'Not as simple as you suppose. Thanks to the
aforementioned clerical error, the escaped prisoner goes by the name
of Willows.' T see, sir. But do we not know otherwise?' 'We cannot be
seen to know otherwise. None of the affair can be traced to
shortcomings in this office. I am trying to protect you, Stubb, do
you not appreciate that?' 'We does our duty, sir.' 'Good.' 'Where do
you wish to take it from here, sir?' 'Cast your mind back to the
murder itself. The suspect is not a burly man, and is a degenerate
besides. How might Whitty have overcome the victim, single–handed?'
'Perhaps he did not, sir.' 'An unacceptable conclusion. Envisage,
Stubb, a conspiracy of interest between the sensational press and
certain criminal elements of society. The criminal enriches himself
through crime, the journalist by pandering to the public's
fascination with crime. The two support one another – don't you
see?' 'Sir, are you saying that the London underworld is made up of
people in the newspaper business?' 'That is up to you to discover.
First you will find Edmund Whitty, under whatever name. And when you
find him, you will arrest him. I am putting you in charge, Stubb.
Does that not excite you?' 'Indeed, sir, it is most exciting.' 'Of
course you will not breathe a word of it – not to your
colleagues, not to your associates, not even to members of your own
family.' 'My lips is sealed, sir.' 'And it should be obvious that you
will perform your duties out of uniform.' 93 WHITE STONE DAY 'Obvious
indeed, sir.' The Sunday clothes. 'Carry on, Stubb. When this is
resolved, I shall put you up for a commendation.' WIDESPREAD ALARM AT
WHITTY DISAPPEARANCE by Henry Owler Correspondent The Falcon The
disappearance of Edmund Whitty of this newspaper following his arrest
on spurious charges has raised a general fear that he has met with
some misadventure at the hands of certain parties. The possibility
that these malefactors are members of that service entrusted to the
protection of the public has caused alarm from several quarters,
including the United States Consul, Mr Tucker, who has taken a
personal interest in the case. Mr Algernon Sala, the distinguished
author and editor of this newspaper, observes: 'The issue goes deeper
than the disappearance of one man. The question as to the policing of
the police has acquired significance beyond our borders. It speaks to
the integrity of law, government, and Empire.' 94

17

The
Alhambra Baths, Endell Street Morning light the colour of mercury has
begun to drip through the lattice shutters and trickle across the
Turkey carpet. Swaddled in an ankle–length dishdasha and a
triangular headcloth secured with a black wool rope, Khali bin Sai–ud
applies a handkerchief soaked with cologne to his upper lip, while Mr
Whitty gingerly peels away his soiled prison clothing 'I sometimes
wonder,' remarks the proprietor of the Alhambra, 'at the stink the
English can produce from the person. In the Sudan, we would smell a
Briton at many paces.' 'It must be the food,' replies Whitty. 'The
pity of it is, we are not insensible to smelling ourselves.' 'Mr
Whitty, you remind me of a saying: Despiseth not the reek, for it is
thine own nose that contains it.'' 'There is truth in that remark.
Who said it?' 'Humbly, it was myself. I have another saying as well:
To antagonise an Inspector of Scotland Yard is to balance a sharpened
dagger upon the end of one's most intimate member.'' 'Enough oriental
wisdom for the moment if you please, Khali. I need to cleanse myself
of recent events.' 'Cleansing is advised. Given your unpopularity in
certain quarters, may I ask what occasioned your release from the
demons of Millbank?' 'I am at a loss to explain it – but expect
that the price will not be cheap. You may think me psychic, Khali,
but I believe myself to be at someone's mercy, and he is licking his
lips.' 'A remarkable phenomenon, British commerce,' muses the
proprietor. 'Supply and demand in the most unlikely quarters.
Blessings be upon it.' With one towel around his waist and another
about the shoulders, whitty pads across the damp marble floor of the
sitting room to the bathroom, while gloomily assessing his position:
on the run, penniless, under suspicion for murder, and indebted to an
unknown party. Thus continues the downward spiral, with a fresh
cellar beneath each 9 5 WHITE STONE DAY seeming nadir; between
periods of moist contemplation in an inferno of sweat and steam. Is
he in Hell? Is this the life to come? Wracked by uncertainty, he lies
underneath a hot mound of soapy froth in a state of utter surrender,
while young Ahmed silently hoes away his burden of noxious dross. A
haze of herbal steam drifts lazily upward to the rounded ceiling;
through its small skylight appear the shadows of surrounding
buildings, and a small patch of blue. Despite the rearrangement of
his brains at Millbank, he has managed to work the events of the past
weeks into a plausible though superficial narrative: his persecution
by a rival; his betrayal by a colleague; the psychic hanging in the
window; and that beastly photograph; and their connection, however
ephemeral, to the rumoured circumstance of David's death. Yet, if
blackmail is to be discounted as the over–arching principle (a
prisoner at Millbank being a poor source of ransom), what remains?
What is to be gained, and to whose benefit? The hideous picture of
his brother infects his imagination like a worm. In despair, he
closes his eyes and puts his mind to more pleasant mental pictures –
of gin, pharmaceutical preparations, and Mrs Plant. . . He hears a
sound like a thickened hum. He opens his eyes and discovers that the
steam has become as thick as London fog, containing stripes of
coloured light as though from a stained–glass window. He
wonders if he has been moved to a church, for the sound is that of a
pipe organ. He rises and steps barefoot into the fog – and can
see the back of the organist, a thin man in elegant black clothes.
Sensing his presence, the organist turns and rises to his feet,
smiling. Somehow Whitty knows that he is confronting something
unspeak– able and vile. The organist approaches him with gloved
hand outstretched; he turns to flee but is rooted to the spot. As the
organist begins to laugh, his eyes and mouth loom larger as though
distorted by a lens. The mouth yawns like a black, fetid void –
the emptiness of a grave whose occupant has rotted to nothing; a
warm, damp, foul emptiness pours over him; he hears someone cry for
help . . . 'You were muttering in your sleep again, sir. Life is
nothing but misery, deprived of restful sleep.' This face wears a
moustache and a goatee in the shape of a T – the style affected
by officers in the American West who murder Red Indians. . . 96 THE
ALHAMBRA BATHS, ENDELL STREET The American. This cannot be happening,
thinks Whitty. It is a product of his abused, confused mind. 'Good
morning Mr Whitty, sir. You are in good health, and I am very glad to
see it.' 'Is that my name?' 'It is. And when you have awakened fully,
you will recognise Julius Comfort – at your service once more.'
'Are you certain my name is Whitty, and not Willows?' 'Mr Willows was
a pseudonym, sir. It was I who supplied it to you.' 'A pseudonym for
whom?' Whitty asks, and instantly forgets the question, for a door in
his mind has abruptly opened to admit an alarming sequence of events.
The seance: the Brother: the hanged man. The American. 'Damn you,
sir, how dare you speak to me after what has occurred?' T see that
you hold me responsible for your recent unpleasantness. I was afraid
of that.' 'Do you have another "scoop" to offer me? If so,
pray let me refer you to Mr Fraser of Dodd's.' 'A clever remark, sir.
A tribute to your native resilience – what you English call
pluck.' As an Englishman Whitty would like to pluck out the fellow's
eyes, but his susceptible mind becomes momentarily fascinated by the
American's long forefinger, with a fingernail the colour of amber,
pointing at his face. 'Listen to me well, for I am come for your
benefit. I congratulate you, sir. You have confirmed your reputation
as a man of action, and have roused the admiration of my employers.'
'And how came I to deserve this honour?' 'You rid the world of a
dangerous fraud. You are a Christian soldier, and my employers salute
you.' 'Good heavens. You bloody well think I murdered the man?'
'Murder is scarcely the correct word in your case, sir. Let it be
rather said that you meted out justice where justice was due.' Whitty
lunges at the American – to be foiled by a quick sideways
movement that nearly sends him sprawling onto the floor. 'I suppose
it was your "employers" who effected my "escape",'
he says, picking up his towel from the floor and returning it to its
proper place. 'What am I to do now – emigrate to Kansas?' The
American appears about to speak, but thinks better of it. To 97 WHITE
STONF. DAY Whitty's surprise, he rises to his feet as though
responding to an unseen command – 'You have other business,
sir. I respect that.' A quiet word, Edmund? The voice enters his ear
like the breath of a dog. A set of calloused fingers encircle his
throat like a wrench. Whitty is staring at a set of black teeth,
displayed in what he supposes to be a smile. 'Good morning, Norman,'
he croaks. 'You seem to have found me." 'The Captain sends his
best, Edmund. His spirits were weighted by your absence. The Captain
has taken some trouble in that quarter.' 'I trust your associate Will
is not very far away?' Whitty struggles to articulate against the
pressure on his windpipe. 'Will is with yer Arab friend. Ensuring his
co–operation, like.' Norman's grip remains firm, and Whitty
must endure the fetid breath while a great weariness pours over him,
for he is well and truly finished. These two gentlemen have been on
his tail, on and off, for seven years. The sequence to come is as
predictable as the rising sun: he prepares himself for a blow to the
belly and a neddy to the noggin, the usual opening statement in a
parley with the Captain's man– bashers. Comes a familiar voice
off to the side: 'All is satisfactory with the Mussulmen in back.'
Now it is Will who looms above him – Will, whose nose has been
broken so many times that it is not a ridge but a flap, bone and
cartilage having been pummelled to dust. 'Good to see you, Will.
Surely there is no need for violence. Long– time associates –
colleagues really, when you think about it . . .' Will's hand closes
over his voice–box as he takes over from Norman. 'The Captain
is upset, Edmund. Cherishes his serenity, the Captain do.' This
Whitty knows to be true. To recover his serenity over an overdue
obligation, the Captain once locked a man in a cage with a hundred
half–starved rats for three days. For the rest of his life
(about five years), the unfortunate man refused to eat rabbit, howled
at the sight of any animal smaller than a dog, and was a fanatic for
punctuality in all things. 'Look at him, Norman. See how he wriggles
like a fish.' 'That's fear for you, Will. It rurns men into the lower
animals.' 'Shall we put him to sleep?' 'Yes.' Whitty prepares for the
blow, but it does not come. Instead, Will presses to his face a rag
soaked with a liquid. The fumes are not 98 THE ALHAMBRA BATHS, ENDELL
STREET altogether unpleasant, and presently he is wafted through
space to an enchanted land . . . He does not struggle. Glorious, the
modern era. No need for a neddy to put a man to sleep. A few minutes
later, the larger footpad, with his naked cargo draped over one
shoulder, pauses in the vestibule of the Alhambra, while the smaller
man opens the door for 'Employees and Trade' slightly and peers
outside. 'Sod it, Will, I see a crusher.' 'Surely not, Norman. The
Endell Street patrol is not due for another ten minutes.' T knows
that. Yet it walks like a crusher, and it gapes about like one, so it
is a crusher.' The taller man peers over the head of his colleague
and out the crack in the door. 'Bloody hell. It's Inspector Salmon's
bumboy.' 'So it is. I did not recognise him in plain–clothes.'
Gently closing the door, they light the ends of their cheroots and
proceed to talk things through. 'Them is good clothes he has for a
copper, Will. A real Sunday suit, I'll warrant.' 'This one here could
use some clothes. Eord knows how he'll pay for them, tho'.' 'Aye. And
yet, when such an opportunity pops up, it is a spitting on one's luck
to refuse it.' Nodding agreement, the larger man unceremoniously
drops his burden: Whitty's inert body flops onto the marble floor
like a wet sheet, head meeting stone with a soft thump. At a nod,
Norman opens the door and the two men proceed casually down the lane
to Endell Street without a glance at the figure opposite; proceeding
further down the walkway, they nod good morning to the milkman as he
passes, then turn down a lane in the direction of the Care Ward,
discussing race results in muted tones. Constable Stubb fidgets
uneasily in his Sunday clothes as the milkman passes by, two covered
pails hooked to a yoke about his shoulders. Stubb would feel much
more self–assured were he in uniform, though he has brought
with him his neddy and his policeman's rattle – a kind of
ratchet which, when swung, will attract every Peeler in the borough.
He eyes the milkman's burden hungrily. He would not at all mind a 99
WHITE STONE DAY bowlful of that fresh, wholesome liquid. It is likely
to be a very long time before he has another chance, this being but
the first of several localities he is to inspect for signs of Mr
Whitty – his club, Plant's Inn, the family seat in Mesopotamia
. . . As the milkman's receding back approaches High Holborn, Stubb
turns to hail him; at that moment, and with the improbable speed of a
wild boar, a stocky figure in a long coat pounces upon his
unsuspecting back, wraps a garrotte about his neck and pulls it taut,
precisely above the Adam's apple so that no sound may escape. At the
same time, a larger man thrusts a brine–hardened fist into
Stubb's belly, then another, and proceeds to remove his coat. This
being the constable's Sunday best, the garrotting does not proceed
entirely without resistance; by wriggling, pig–like, the victim
manages to free one arm and to deliver a punishing blow to Will's
kidney. As Norman tightens the garrotte further, the constable's
fingers grip the sleeves of his coat with remarkable tenacity, so
that it takes several more blows of Will's fist to persuade him to
accept the loss. 'A pity to die for a suit of clothes, Jimmy,' Norman
whispers into his ear, as the constable is undressed like a child and
left naked in the lane, grasping feebly for his rattle, a testament
to the disadvantages of plain– clothes work. Having cleared the
field, the larger footpad returns to the trade entrance of the
Alhambra, while his partner proceeds to the corner to look for a cab.
In the vestibule, Will heaves the insensible corre– spondent
over one shoulder, then returns to the lane – where he meets
with unexpected resistance from, of all things, the British Army.
'You there,' speaks the officer with white hair. '1 command you to
surrender Mr Whitty and withdraw at once.' 'You are mistaken, sir,'
replies the ex–pugilist, one smashed face confronting another.
'You are making a very serious mistake.' 'No mistake, sir. We have
been on reconnaissance at this location for several days, with
standing orders to seize that man. Our orders come from the highest
quarter.' 'Be on yer way me bucko and go frig yerself.' The
lieutenant–colonel turns to the corporal. 'Good God, Mr Weeks,
the fellow takes us for dirty diddiki like himself.' 'Native
mercenary or I'll be whipped, sir.' 'Keep a watch for the stocky one
while I teach this oaf a lesson.' 'Yes, sir. Hazar, sir!' Advancing
upon the big man with neddy raised, Robin executes a 100 THE ALHAMBRA
BATHS, ENDLLL STREET vicious swipe at the man's temple; Will dodges
the blow easily and, with the economical movements of a professional
athlete, taking full advantage of size and skill, promptly executes
two piston–like jabs straight into Robin's face with his left
fist; this he does while still carrying the unconscious Whitty over
his right shoulder. 'Oh! Mr Weeks! I am down!' Unhappily, the
corporal is otherwise engaged, as Norman's forehead smashes into his
face with the momentum of a cannon–ball. 'It is good that your
uniform is red, sir,' Norman says for a joke, as they step over the
two bleeding soldiers in the lane, heave their limp cargo onto the
floor of the waiting cab, clamber inside, and shut the door. 101 18
Crouch Manor, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire Must he then only live to
weep, Who'd prove his friendship true and deep, By day a lonely
shadow creep, At night–time languish, Oft raising in his broken
sleep The moan of anguish? The day having been set aside for games
and photography, Boltbyn arrived at the nursery with a collection of
false noses, constructed from papier mache and of every conceivable
type: the freckled snout of the Nordic, the Roman ridge of the Iron
Duke, the velvety dumpling of the sot. These proved a resounding
success with both Emma and Lydia – not to mention Boltbyn
himself, who almost did himself damage from laughing, as all the
morning a succession of grotesques paraded through the room,
superimposed upon the exquisite form of a little girl. An hour before
luncheon, he brought out the puzzle of the day, in which the girls
were challenged to rearrange the words NOR DO WK into one word. With
the girls consumed with puzzling, Boltbyn prepared his rosewood
camera, glass plates and chemicals, in order to be ready for that