White Stone Day (17 page)

as though it were a deck of cards: the images appear to move, as
though they depicted a single, continuous act, performed by a girl of
between ten and twelve, partially or wholly naked, in various
situations both predictable and bizarre. 'Clearly it is the work of
an amateur photographer,' observes Whitty. 'The lighting is mediocre,
and the focus slightly off . . .' 122 THE HEN AND HATCHET,
HOUNDSDITCH 'The photographs be of my niece.' Whitty takes in this
information, then turns to the Captain, whose eyes glitter with
tears. 'I am very sorry to hear that, sir,' he says. 'It is a great
pity when a young girl enters that sort of a life.' 'The girl were
kidnapped,' Dermot corrects him. 'That is the problem, don't you
see.' 'What the devil do you mean, kidnapped}' 'Ye glock, is there
more than one meaning?' cries the Captain. 'My Eliza be stolen from
me and her body made into a ... a privy, for . . . O Jesus!' The
Captain finishes his rum and pours another. 'That is why you, my
delinquent Mr Whitty, have not been kneecapped and put in the cage
with the stock. Because yer be of use to me, boyo, d'you wish it
otherwise?' 'Not in the least, sir. I am entirely at your service.'
'Good.' The Captain calms somewhat, while his new employee examines
the photographs more carefully. They were taken by the Archer
process, with not a daguerreotype among them – hence, they are
not French. Notoriously difficult to execute, the Archer, thinks
Whitty, requiring a higher level of expertise than this particular
photographer possesses. Reluctantly he turns his attention from the
background to the subject, avoiding as best he can the naked body of
the captain's niece. Though lacking in expression, the face is quite
beautiful – a real English rose, just beginning to bloom,
intelligent eyes and a smooth brow beneath the dark curls . . . Now
the realisation comes: It is she. She. The same girl. The girl in the
picture with David, the same hair, the same brow, the same
expression, the same girl . . . 'Dear Jesus.' 'Well said, boyo, it is
a shocking thing.' Whitty looks closer at the face, and now he is
trembling. He cannot speak, he can only stare at the girl, for it is
the same girl. He inspects the other pictures in the stack –
the girl, the focus, the oriental wallpaper, are all the same,
exactly the same. 'When did you last see your niece?' he asks. 'Two
weeks ago.' The Captain's face starts to crumple like a leaf. Two
weeks ago, thinks Whitty. And David in his grave these six and a half
years. 123 WHITE STONE DAY

MORE
QUESTIONS IN THE WHITTY AFFAIR by Henry Owler, Correspondent The
Falcon The disappearance of Edmund Whitty of The Falcon grows more
mysterious by the day. Having been at last located in Millbank
Prison, where he was held captive on spurious charges amid a tangle
of 'clerical errors', upon investigation it appears that one of two
things has occurred: either he was never there at all, or he has
vanished once again. As ever, Inspector Salmon of Scotland Yard has
proved singularly unhelpful. After questions were raised in
Parliament, Inspector Salmon has been excused from duty with pay,
pending a resolution of the matter. In the meanwhile, the Whitty
affair appears to have acquired international significance. Concern
has been expressed by the Consulate of the United States, alerting
Britons to the presence in their midst of a colonial celebrity. In
the years following the Chokee Bill affair, Mr Whitty has become a
hero of what is known as the 'penny dreadful' – a species of
periodical more fanciful than the sensational monthlies, but which
has nonetheless assumed a position of serious influence in colonial
affairs. 'For many Americans Mr Whitty has become a symbol of the
best of our race,' attests Mr Julius Comfort, an American businessman
with close ties to the Consulate. 'Mr Whitty is, in a way, an
unofficial ambassador. Should his loss he attributable to some
official malfeasance, it could invite an inauspicious response
overseas, and a chill in the good relations between our two
countries.' 124 22 The Hen and Hatchet, Houndsditch He has thoroughly
examined the photographs of the Captain's misfortunate niece. He now
knows Eliza with an anatomical intimacy he has never aspired to with
any woman, and has made liberal use of the Captain's bottle in the
process. He has even retained one of the dreadful images for purposes
of identification; after all, it would be the height of imprudence to
reveal the existence of another photograph in his possession –
of David and Eliza, obscenely linked, years after his death. He
resolves to keep this matter to himself for the time being. To
Whitty, the notion that one might derive satisfaction from a
photograph is a puzzle. Not that he is unmoved by a well–turned
ankle, or the swelling of a bosom over a fringe of decolletage. Nor
has he lacked curiosity as to what lies beneath the layers of wool,
lace, whalebone and cotton. Yet it has never occurred to him to ask
Mrs Plant to show him an intimate part of her anatomy. Not that she
would comply; on the contrary, she might take the coal–scuttle
to him. He imagines the relation between a photograph and a living
woman to be akin to a dream. As Downy Dermot indicated, a photograph
is not like a painting or etching, which depicts an image in the mind
of the artist; rather, its purpose is to create an event in the mind
of the spectator – a dream, bought and paid for by the dreamer.
The picture of naked Eliza in David's company has the quality of a
dream, not least because it could not possibly occur in waking life;
yet Whitty saw it with his own eyes, visible evidence that the thing
was done. On the bright side, he has shared the Captain's bottle; on
the dark side, he has had to endure the dismally common tale of his
wayward niece. Still, it is an incalculable relief to be, for the
moment, without fear. Dermot having left on other business, relations
between the correspondent and the Captain have assumed the quality of
old comrades–at–arms. 'Eliza be the youngest girl of my
brother Tom. Tom were into the horses at Tattersall. Took a fall over
the Running Rein affair, pickings 125 WHITE STONE–: DAY very
lean. Eliza be given me for raising – Tom thought me well
suited, Eliza having much spirit and mischief in the eye. Thought I
might steer her on a safer course, avoid the worst. Which I failed to
do, to my shame.' The Captain takes a drink of rum. Whitty joins him.
T am familiar with the type, sir,' he says. 'A pity there exists no
place in society for spirited young women but as whores or actresses
or suffragettes.' 'Whore would be the correct word in this case, I
fear. The villains will have her locked in a brothel on Lewkner Lane
by now.' 'It is shocking, the increase of child–brothels
throughout White– chapel. It is more shocking to think that one
may be acquainted with their customers.' 'Now, boyo, I have a piece
of the business meself, and the clients be worthy gentlemen on the
whole.' 'Quite.' Whitty chooses not to highlight the Captain's double
standard at this time. 'Why are you so certain that Eliza was
kidnapped?' 'Days before, she spoke of being followed – by
uniformed men, she said. I put it down to soldiers on the randy.'
'Might she have gone with them willingly?' 'No, she were repulsed by
the ugliness of them. In any case, were she of a mind to run off to
such a life, I would know from my people in the trade. No, she were
nicked, for certain. These days there are parties who will fetch a
good–looker to order. I have dealt with them meself . . .' As
the Captain's face again begins to crumple, Whitty searches for an
uplifting phrase. 'A good–looker she certainly is, sir. And a
clever, resourceful child, I have no doubt.' 'Oh, Eliza were a bright
one, that is the truth. Could read and write I'll warrant, though I
cannot reckon where she learned it. And count? In the ring
downstairs, the girl could compute the odds on a mongrel faster than
meself – and she but a tadpole, not yet twelve! Were she a boy
I'd of had him in a situation inside of an hour, off the streets and
out of trouble's way. Yet I did not. And for that I let her fall into
the hands of . . . don't ye see . . .' At the memory of what he did
not do, tears again fill the eyes of this terrifying old warrior, who
employs man–bashers with razors in their boots in every part of
the city, yet was powerless to protect his own flesh and blood. 126
THE HEN AND HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH Whitty searches for a comforting
noise with which to break the silence. 'It is not possible to raise a
girl as though she were a boy. Society will not permit it. Persons
who live as the opposite gender face a dismal life.' 'Not so dismal
as what were done to Eliza.' 'That is true.' The old man is weeping
openly now. Though unnerved by the sight, Whitty takes a deep breath
and dives into the main issue. 'It is time for us to speak plainly,
sir. How may I be of assistance to you?' 'Go to the bottom of it, the
sorry tale of my girl, like it were one of yer reports. I'll warrant
yer people will pay ye, bad news is popular and the worse the better.
Sufficient is my need, that upon learning of what was done and who
done it, yer debt will be forgiven. Yer free and clear, boyo, free
and clear.' Words entirely foreign to Whitty's understanding: free
and clear. 'And if I refuse, or fail?' To judge by the look he
receives, there is no need to probe further. 'Quite.' 'We will absorb
all reasonable expenses.' 'May I have another drink of rum?' 'Ye
may.' The Captain's offer, though compulsory, seems more than fair –
and all else aside, Whitty truly wants to know; not for the Captain,
for himself. Father is in California – which is to say, on the
moon. Mother is in Heaven. David's bones reside in St Marylebone, his
restless soul at an undisclosed location perhaps last seen at
Buckingham Gate. Edmund the disgrace, Edmund the disappointment, is
the last Whitty alive and kicking in London. And will remain so –
if only to spite them all. 127 23

The
Falcon 'Edmund! I had begun to despair! Come here, sir, and let me
embrace you!' In a fit of emotion, Sala manages to pry himself out of
his chair, lumber around the desk, and envelop the correspondent in a
voluminous blanket of moist tweed. 'Most touching, Algy. Please
relinquish me now, and give me a cigar.' Cream watches the spectacle
with revulsion, and says nothing. Whitty accepts a light, seats
himself on Sala's desk, and puffs his cigar. It is a moment to
savour; the year has contained few such moments. 'You must reveal
all, old trout. Everything you endured must appear on the pages of
The Falcon. Name your price, sir . . .' Sala pauses, thinking twice
about that last statement; while doing so, he notes Whitty's
appearance. 'That is a novel suit of clothes, Edmund. Ill–smelling
and ill–fitting at the same time.' Whitty selects a second
cigar from Sala's humidor, which he puts in his chest pocket for
later. 'It is the latest fashion – the accustomed look. The
line of the jacket and trousers have been redefined by the Erench.'
'One never knows with fashion,' Sala muses, cleaning his monocle with
the tail of his shirt. 'I have yet to understand what my wife means
by the sentimental look, other than fabric draped over everything
living and dead, in ruinous abundance.' Cream peeps over his copy of
Dodd's. 'Perhaps Mr Whitty is attempting to emulate his colleague, Mr
Owler – the costermonger look, in preparation for his next
occupation.' 'Shut your cake–hole, Mr Cream,' says the editor.
Whitty leans over the desk and speaks in a confidential tone,
sufficiently loud for the sub–editor to overhear. 'Actually,
old chap,' he whispers, 'I am incognito.' 'What the devil do you
mean, incognito?' 'If one is to infiltrate the criminal classes, one
must appear as one of them. You're an old hand, Algy, surely this is
obvious.' 'Yes, I suppose it is.' 128 THE FALCON 'Linger in the Hen
and Hatchet with the clothes and manners of a newspaperman, and you
will likely get a shiv in the belly.' 'The Hen and Hatchet? Not
gambling on the rats again, surely?' 'Certainly not. However, past
experience with that odious sport has put me in touch with certain
parties.' 'What sort of parties?' 'Can I depend upon your
discretion?' 'Really, Edmund, you affront me with your suspicions. My
God, we rowed on the same eight!' 'Please keep your voice down, sir,
my life would not be worth a shilling if this reached the wrong
ears,' whispers Whitty. 'Quite,' the editor whispers back. Sala's
leonine head is now so close to his face, Whitty can smell the kipper
he had for breakfast. T have established a connection between the
affair of Dr Gilbert Williams (in which I found myself entangled, to
my cost), and a notorious pornographer on Holywell Street.' 'The
devil, you say!' 'Again, Algy, I must ask you to keep your voice
down.' 'Sorry, old chap, but if what you say is true, it is a stunner
of the first water.' T quite agree. For it appears that blackmail
lies at the heart of it. The medium in question had managed to entice
members of the upper classes into his circle. In due course, the
prospect of scandal loomed over several parties.' 'By Jove, that
might be a motive for murder, I should say.' 'Indeed, you have got to
the crux of it.' 'Please continue your narrative, old chap, my heart
is in my mouth.' 'First, there are practicalities to discuss –
if I may assume this to be of interest to The Falcon. I beg you not
to feel pressured by our friendship; other publications have
expressed keen interest.' 'Believe me, Edmund, The Falcon stands
foursquare behind your project.' 'To the tune of, shall we say, a £30
advance?' Sala grows pale. 'Are you jesting? Have you taken leave of
your senses?' Whitty well knows that every shilling invested in a
narrative must be defended before Mr Ingram and his corps of little
shits. 'Twenty–five is the lowest I can manage. At that price,
I forgo a more generous offer from Lloyd's.' 'Fifteen.' 129 WHITE
STONE DAY 'Twenty. And expenses.' 'On approval.' 'Not to be
unreasonably withheld.' 'Done. I pray, Edmund, that you come up with
something more than a shell–game of miscellaneous facts. This
has occurred before, might 1 say.' 'To set your mind at rest, I am
prepared to reveal that in three days' time – Thursday
afternoon to be exact – I am to meet a gentleman named Will at
the Hen and Hatchet, to whom I shall present myself under the name
Menzies. I am then to ask for a Mr Rodney – a gentleman who has
plumbed the very depths of that filthy industry, and is prepared, for
a price, to reveal its inner workings in stunning detail –
including the involvement of our deceased medium, and his subsequent
demise.' 'I say, old chap, that sounds absolutely splendid!' Behind
his copy of Lloyd's, Cream takes copious notes: Thursday Afternoon.
The Hen and Hatchet. . . Fraser will pay well for the nom de guerre
of Menzies, and for access to the party by the name of Rodney. 130 24
Bissett Grange, Oxfordshire Sister, do not raise my wrath I'll cook
you into mutton broth I'll kill you easy as a moth. Since the move
from Upper Clodding, Birdie has rarely been out of the house except
to go to church. As a result, a carriage ride at a gallop is an
unnerving experience. She can barely look out the window of the
brougham as it rattles up the long driveway to Bissett Grange, for
the elms are a blur and she must sometimes hold her breath not to cry
out. Turning her head to the left, she beholds the equally unnerving
sight of her husband looming above her; the air in the carriage is
sticky with clove oil, an ingredient in the emulsion he rubs into his
gums for the toothache. Seated opposite, Emma watches her mother for
signs of panic. It is the first time since the move that she has
forgone use of her veil. Certain of Father's disapproval, Mother
enlisted Emma's help, and together they wound the veil of transparent
muslin into her hair, so that it appears as an adornment and nothing
else. 'It need not cover my face,' she said. 'But I need to know it
is there.' 'Mother, will I be as beautiful as you?' asked Emma. 'Yes
you will,' said her mother, 'and you will manage it much better than
I have.' Emma hopes so, for she does not wish to live the way her
mother does. If it is true that one is a combination of both
forebears, she wonders where in her do Father's traits reside. With
Lydia it is obvious, having Father's long, straight nose and, it
seems to Emma, his impatience with description and poesy. Emma, on
the other hand, is a dreamer like Mother, with what Mr Boltbyn calls
the power of fantasy. 'Lydia,' she whispers to her sister. T just
looked out the window and I saw a ghost.' 'You did not,' whispers her
sister. 'There are no ghosts.' 'Look for yourself and see.' T don't
believe you,' replies Lydia, who cannot resist looking out the window
nonetheless. 'But I see two deer by the copse.' 131 WHITE STONE DAY
'Where?' Emma must admit that her sister has the sharper eyes, though
whether they come from Father or Mother she cannot tell. Meanwhile
opposite, Birdie shuts her eyes, the better to drift from one thought
to the next and to ignore the smell of clove oil. The entire village
of Upper Clodding turned against her when she married the Rev.
Lambert – including, it must be said, Lambert himself. It seems
that, for a man of the cloth, female beauty is best appreciated in
the dark of an empty church. The memory of her fall from grace is
entirely without a visual component – just the feel of his
hands upon her, the scent of sweat as he removed his wool coat, the
snort at the end . . . In the Bible, the greater sinner was Eve, who
not only succumbed to temptation, but sided with the serpent to tempt
Adam. Not entirely fair, Birdie thinks, given that the serpent was
attached to Adam. She stifles a giggle with a cough. 'Are you not
well, Mrs Lambert?' 'I am well enough, thank you, Mr Lambert.' 'Do
you expect to be coughing at dinner? Otherwise it might be better for
you to rest at home.' 'I have no intention of coughing.' 'See that
you do not, madam, or I shall regret having brought you.' 'I think
you regret it already.' Emma listens with eyes closed, or she will
get a lecture on eavesdropping. She feels as though, for most of
their lives, she and her sister have acted as spectators at a fencing
tournament. Between matches, Father works on improving his game,
while Mother rests in her bedroom. 'You are intoxicated, madam. You
have taken opium, have you not?' 'I took some Godfrey's Cordial. You
yourself said it would calm me and that I should.' 'Not half the
bottle. How much have you on your person?' 'None. Do you wish to paw
through my things, for reassurance?' Emma knows that a gentleman
would never stoop to opening a lady's purse, therefore Mother has won
the round. Birdie smiles to herself, for she has become better at
answering back – a result of her increased reading. At first,
her husband confined her to the Bible and editions of the great
sermons; when she turned to poetry he would want to know what it was,
as though a poem must be sniffed for poison before one ate it. But
the reading did her good, and he grew weary of screening her
selections. 132 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE The coach comes to a
halt; after a short pause the carriage door swings away, the step is
lowered, and a uniformed, powdered footman hands down Emma and her
sister, while in the dark of the carriage Lambert gives his wife the
benefit of some last–minute advice: Do not touch a utensil in
advance of the host. Do not speak unless spoken to. You are not
excused by your ignorance of proper manners . . . Standing on the
magnificent portico, Emma and Lydia stare up at the house, eyes wide
in disbelief. It is a dream–house – a knight's castle and
a theatre and a haunted mansion all in one. It is the most wonderful
house Emma has ever seen and she would like ever so much to explore
it. Climbing the steps, Birdie stumbles on her unaccustomed heels; a
footman's gloved hand steadies her, while Lambert springs smartly
forward to take her arm. When the family has gathered at the front
door it swings as though of its own accord and, before them, framed
by the open doorway and back–lit by gaslight, stands the most
high–born gentleman in the shire, with the most land and the
most money and the purest, most precious blood, who gave Emma a rose
in front of everyone. 'Good evening, your Grace,' Emma says, as
instructed. 'I have brought you a book, as you requested.' From the
pocket of her dress she produces an edition of the sermons of John
Henry Newman, wrapped with a blue ribbon. The duke accepts the book
with a cordial smile and hands it on to a footman. 'Extraordinary
girl,' he says, to no one in particular. Behind her, Father murmurs
agreement – after all, the book was his selection. Now the Duke
of Danbury's attention turns to Mrs Lambert. Birdie tries not to
flinch as he moves forward and extends a tailored arm to the wife of
the most prominent guest. 'Mrs Lambert. My compliments to you.' The
Reverend relinquishes her arm to the duke, and the nobleman conducts
them into his house. Birdie notes how he remains focused entirely
upon on her, as though she were all that mattered, and she basks in
the unaccustomed warmth of his attention. To avoid committing an
indiscretion, however, she confines her own gaze to the maroon
carpet. Only when they enter the reception room does she dare look at
his sculptured profile. To think that, if she dared, she could plant
a kiss upon that cheek! 'Is there something you find amusing, madam?'
asks the duke. 'No, your Grace,' she replies, returning her gaze to
the carpet, 133 WHITE STONE DAY covering her mouth with one gloved
hand as though to stifle a cough. She can feel the skin above her
bodice redden and her cheeks flush. Behind her, the girls are
giggling about something or other, and behind the girls, there being
no hostess to take his arm, Lambert enters in the company of Boltbyn.
Birdie smiles to herself, knowing that Mi– Lambert tolerates Mr
Boltbyn for the prestige he brings the house, when in truth he cannot
stand the sight of him. 'I am given to understand, sir,' she hears
her husband murmur to the vicar, 'that we have you to thank, in part,
for the honour we are about to receive, praise God.' 'How do you
mean, sir? I cannot think how I can have been responsible for your
dinner.' For some reason the sight of Mrs Lambert on Danbury's arm
gives Boltbyn a peculiar chill. Lambert continues, oblivious to
everything but his status and his toothache: 'It is well known that
his Grace is an ardent student of photography. Is it not true, sir,
that one of your photographs of Emma elicited the admiration of a
certain prominent person?' 'No, I don't think that is what happened
at all.' 'You are too modest, Mr Boltbyn. I myself have seen your
photographs of both my daughters, and they display the children to
excellent advantage.' 'That is true.' 'Which is why I have you to
thank for our good fortune.' Lambert raises his voice as though
speaking to the deaf. 'I have it on good authority that our Emma has
attracted the notice of his Grace. He, in his turn, has taken a warm
interest in the welfare of the family.' 'And you suppose me to be the
matchmaker?' Passing through the door into the central hall, Emma
senses Mr Boltbyn watching her. When she turns to him, he appears
vexed. As Birdie enters the reception room with her hand in the warm
crook of the noble elbow, she detects a peculiar smell, incompletely
masked by the heavy sweetness of hyacinths. As well, she sees two
liveried servants across the carpet, standing with silver trays
balanced on the tips of their gloved fingers – facing the wall.
She would like to ask the duke about these things, but fears
appearing ignorant. The servants turn away from the wainscoting to
serve the company; as a further challenge to her powers of
concentration, she must now endure introductions to several strange
gentlemen. A painter named Crede, with a limp, feverish handshake and
a woman's wrist. An architect whose name escapes her and whose
buildings she has never '34 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE seen. A
literary gentleman whose essay on Blenheim Palace she once tried to
read, with an abnormally narrow chest, so that his shirt–front
appears stuffed with a small pillow. Also among the company is the
estate manager, Mr Lush – a wire–haired gentleman with a
common demeanour but an accent nearly as refined as his employer.
Following introductions, all except Boltbyn revolve about the duke
like the moons of Jupiter. So many men in one room! More than she has
encountered at one go since she was a child, when her father's
friends, storekeepers and tradesmen, would hoist her onto their
aproned laps (covered with the dross of their calling), to make jokes
she did not understand, while fingers like sausages would pinch her
cheeks and, when her father left the room, accidentally open the top
button of her dress. Wandering about the gloomy reception room with
its black wainscoting and beams, Birdie believes herself to be the
only grown woman in the house. Nearby, under the Buhl clock, Lydia
watches intently while Boltbyn (on his knees) demonstrates a puzzle