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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray

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BOOK: The Fiend in Human
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The ensuing pause extends longer than he expected. His hostess remains in the wide doorway, regarding him with an expression neither displeased nor pleased. Beneath the coil of thick hair he can envisage, phrenologically speaking, equally distinct formations in the regions of Amativeness and Calculation – an unusual and dangerous combination.
‘Will you take tea, Mr Whitty?’
The corners of her full mouth turn upward again to form a bare suggestion of a smile. Without awaiting a reply, she exits, leaving the
door open and affording him a view of her receding figure as she moves down the hall. She pauses at a doorway, glances quickly in his direction, then disappears, leaving the impression that he should follow.
He turns back to the portrait on the wall: he is about to take tea with a woman who stands unacquitted of having poisoned her husband. A woman to whom, a very few moments ago, he uttered a threat which was tantamount to blackmail.
Touché,
Mrs Marlowe – unless, God forbid, you are Mrs Cox.
Whitty seats himself at the tea-table, noting that china and silver have already been laid out by his hostess’s companion on a pressed linen table-cloth, with milk, lemon, sugar and an array of cakes. Everything – cups, spoons, napkins – appears immaculate and orderly, as if to offset the nature of the activities taking place elsewhere.
Like the reception room, the sitting-room has been decorated in shades of red, excepting the glass cupola in the corner looking onto the garden, where stands a lush fern identical to its colleague in the reception room: hence, the relative health of the many large plants in the house despite the almost total lack of daylight, their having been alternately placed here. Seated beneath the fern, Mrs Marlowe pours. For not the first time, Whitty experiences the discomfiting feeling that he is acting according to her script and not his own, that any strategy he might undertake will be incorporated into her overall design, like a musician improvising on a theme.
‘Cream and sugar, Mr Whitty?’
‘Sugar, please, Mrs Marlowe. Two spoons.’ He replies as though confident that the white granules in the bowl are indeed sugar.
She stirs his tea with a silver spoon in her capable fingers. Are they the hands of a murderess? Did those hands stir arsenic into her husband’s tea, day after day?
Thinks Whitty: Poison is the most intimate violence, and the most repellent, for the murderer must be sufficiently trusted that the victim will accept food or drink. Hence, it is said, poison is the weapon of women, to whom the role of providing food customarily falls. Arsenic is an especially appropriate weapon for the weaker sex: unlike strychnine, whose effects are felt after a short while, arsenic may be administered over a period of weeks, so that the victim gradually falls ill and dies, unaware of the cause of his symptoms, while the murderer feigns womanly concern, giving him his medicine, tucking him in each night as innocent and ignorant as a baby …
‘Be careful, Sir. Be careful of what you are thinking.’ Surprisingly, this warning comes, not from the lady before him, but from her bleak little guardian, hovering in front of the cabinet.
‘Mr Whitty, I believe you have met my companion, Mrs Button.’
‘Indeed, Madam, though I do not believe we have been introduced.’
‘Mrs Button, this is Mr Whitty. A journalist with an enquiring mind.’
‘That is not all that is on his mind.’
‘That will be sufficient, Mrs Button.’
The little witch executes a stiff curtsey. ‘Good-day to you, Sir.’
‘And to you, Madam. A pleasure to have met you.’
In a house of illusion, odd and disturbing encounters are only to be expected.
Mrs Marlowe sips her tea. She has not taken sugar. ‘As a newspaperman, Sir, I ask you: What is your professional opinion of Mr Acton’s report on the debilitating effects of self-abuse? The gentleman writes that it is the cause of idiocy and death, and that it is rampant among the upper classes, and that Britain is losing her leaders of tomorrow …’
‘Madam, on that matter I have no opinion, except to say that Mr Acton is a fraud and a nincompoop.’
‘Since I am only a woman I lack first-hand experience in such matters. However, it has been my experience that the more well-born a man, the more peculiar his tastes.’
‘Indeed, it is a startling paradox that high-born children suffer indignities unknown to their inferiors. Such punishments as take place regularly in the halls of Eton and Rugby, were they perpetrated in a school attended by boys of the lower orders, would inspire headlines such as
Atrocious Cruelty of a Schoolmaster.
’
‘Perhaps for the upper classes such experiences are a means of inuring one to future suffering – of oneself and of others. Such practices might also solidify membership in the class to which the boy was born. I have heard it said that in the better public schools, tradition demands that a boy must surrender his every possession to his school — including his cock.’
She pauses with a trace of amusement. ‘Oh dear, Mr Whitty, You spilled some of your tea.’
‘How clumsy. I do apologize.’
‘Allow me to refill your cup.’
Whitty sips his renewed cup of tea and swallows. It has a bitter taste.
‘More sugar, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. It is excellent.’
Again, silence falls between them as Mrs Marlowe sips her tea, replacing the china cup noiselessly in its saucer. The correspondent reminds himself that the upturn of her lips does not constitute a smile.
‘This is Oolong tea, Mr Whitty. It has been partially fermented, to allow some of the bitterness to remain.’
‘I try to avoid bitterness in food. I find enough bitterness elsewhere.’
‘An ability to appreciate bitterness is the key to a cultured taste. Or rather, an adult taste. Children always display an eagerness for sweets.’
What is she insinuating?
Whatever her meaning, the intent of her manner of speaking is that of a field cannon – to wear down and weaken the position opposite. Accordingly, Whitty reaches into his coat, retrieves his notebook, opens it to a fresh page, produces a pencil, and gazes at it as though thinking profound thoughts. Not that he has anything to record in his notebook; the point being to inspire in the opponent feelings of uncertainty and a fear of the written word.
‘Mrs Marlowe, since you seem in no hurry to fetch Mr Ryan, I wonder if you might allow me to inquire: When you administered poison to your husband, was it at tea-time? Or did you make use of some other occasion to do the deed?’
The eyes remain locked upon his for eight seconds (by Whitty’s count), then break away while she sips her tea.
‘Neither, Sir. I did not poison my husband.’
A direct hit. Fire another round.
‘Then how, in your view, Madam, did your husband’s corpse come to be saturated with arsenic?’
She holds his gaze, this time for eleven seconds. A slight flush rises to the cheekbones. He braces for retaliation.
‘Mr Whitty, may I speak candidly?’
‘I assure you, Madam, at
The Falcon
our sole aim is to uncover the truth in the public interest.’
‘What utter rubbish.’
‘You are, of course, at liberty to disagree.’
‘Then here is a story for you, Mr Whitty – I believe the term is, ‘an exclusive’. My only request is that you promise to print all of it or none.’
‘If it will be of interest to the public, by all means.’
‘Mr Cox was in the habit of taking Fowler’s Solution – do you know the remedy?’
‘Arsenic in a base of oil of lavender. Said to effect an improvement in deficiencies of an intimate nature.’ Whitty has used it himself for melancholia, though arsenic must be taken with exceptional care.
‘That is correct. You see, unknown to myself previously, Henry had contracted syphilis years earlier, while sowing his wild oats. This you will find in his physician’s report, though it was not generally known, nor was it read at the trial, for reasons of public decency. Mr Cox, after all, was not on trial. Nor was it made public the various scientific remedies my fiance undertook from the point of our engagement – principally chloride of mercury and quicksilver, of which, by the day of our joining in holy wedlock, Mr Cox’s cumulative dosage exceeded a pound a day. The most noticeable effect of this valiant regimen was that my husband’s gums turned purple, while his breath assumed an odour I shall not describe. As well, by the time of our nuptials, Mr Cox had turned quite plump, and had acquired a delightfully childlike sense of humour. At dinner, he would pull chairs from under his guests to general amusement, or he would stand up suddenly and in a loud voice declare himself an onion. These antics my father enjoyed greatly. After the unpleasantness at school, of which you seem to be acquainted, he considered himself fortunate to acquire a son-in-law of Mr Cox’s rank. And besides, my husband gave exceedingly good dinners.’
‘Less scientific, perhaps, was Mr Cox’s adherence to the still-common belief that the disease might be cured through sexual conversation with a virgin. Nor was this brought to the public eye – again for reasons of decency. For as you are no doubt aware, a husband who knowingly and wilfully infects his wife commits no crime. Am I proceeding too fast for you, Mr Whitty? You do not seem to be taking notes.’
Touché again, Mrs Marlowe.
Of course there is no point in writing any of it down, since none of it will pass the Chancellor. Whitty none the less maintains an aspect of calm confidence. ‘I am, Madam, aware of such a belief. A product of that savage time in human history when children were sacrificed on Waterloo Bridge.’
‘And what do you do with your spilled salt, Mr Whitty? And what is your opinion of a black cat? Fortunately for the blushing bride, another common symptom of my husband’s disease was impotence – which frustrated Mr Cox considerably, and which he treated with the aforementioned Fowler’s Solution. Indeed, so eager was he to consummate our marriage, at times he took nearly a teaspoon, which would have
been fatal in itself for someone less accustomed to its use.’
‘An intriguing narrative, Madam. Yet, as I am given to understand, a search was undergone following his demise, with no Fowler’s Solution found on the premises.’
‘Are you familiar with the incidental effects of arsenic, Mr Whitty? Skin disorders. Anaemia. Boils and swelling in the loins. Wart-like appearances all over the body. Vomiting. Flatulence. Hardly an erotic prospect for the new bride – but then, as Mr Acton points out, the respectable woman is devoid of such feelings, is that not true, Sir?’
‘May I say, Madam, you have a charming and baroque way of avoiding questions which you do not wish to answer.’
‘Who made the bottle disappear, you ask? I am surprised, Sir, I had thought you clever. Why, Henry did, of course. When he understood what had happened, when he divined the truth, he smashed it to pieces. My husband’s little joke, don’t you see. His childlike sense of humour.’
‘Why on God’s earth, Madam, would your dying husband do such a hideous thing?’
‘Because his bride was not a virgin, Mr Whitty. Because the damned fool had poisoned himself for nothing.’
Whitty has no reply at hand. His notebook remains blank …
‘Good evening, Mr Whitty. I trust that my fiancée has kept you entertained.’
Ryan.
The speaker has situated his entrance so that Whitty must turn awkwardly in his chair, thereby exposing his back to Mrs Marlowe. Again, the correspondent experiences the sensation of playing a part in a performance.
‘Good-day, Mr Ryan.’ Whitty addresses the handsome, haggard gentleman as though his appearance were a minor and not unpleasant surprise. ‘I am glad to see you up and about.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Ryan places the pistol on the table and sits. ‘How did you know where to find me? And what do you hope to accomplish, now that you have?’
The Haymarket
It is not an uncommon practice for a gentleman, in seeking to purchase the favours of a lady, to do so under an assumed name; indeed, it may not be an exaggeration to suggest that it is a rare gentleman who does otherwise. The names chosen for such an alias might someday make a potential area for academic study.
In such a study, Reginald Harewood would belong to that category of gentleman who adopts a new cognomen for each encounter, out of an impulsive need for novelty and variety, not to mention the innate caution shared by all Harewood men.
Hence, it is no great wonder that Reginald Harewood chose to pursue his flirtation with Dorcas under a name other than his own; what stands out as unusual in this particular is that on this occasion the name he produced as his own was the name of his good friend Roo.
He will never know why he did such a thing. Upon receiving the girl’s not-unexpected enquiry, the name ‘Roo’ sprang forth all on its own. A slip of the tongue, a human error – one which cannot be subsequently amended, for that is the way it is with pseudonyms.
In any case, the situation is not without its poetic aspect: Reginald Harewood, boffing a girl in his friend’s rooms, in his friend’s bed, in his friend’s name, as if Sewell were losing his virginity by proxy …
– You talk improper, Mr Roo
.
– Mr Roo, you old beast, let me go
.
– I must go home, Mr Roo, or I’ll catch it
.
– What is the matter Mr Roo? You’re all red
.
– I cannot do that, Mr Roo. My sister would catch me.
Although wildly out of her element at a Mayfair address, Dorcas takes care not to stare about, for she would rather the gentleman think she is accustomed to such luxury, that such places are nothing special to her. Instead of trying out the furniture as she wants to, she lolls indifferently upon the soft bed and smells the clean linen. She longs to look at herself in a mirror, but the room has none – strange for a gentleman’s room not to have a mirror, how does he keep his whiskers so perfect? Still, the dark mahogany wainscoting has been waxed to
such a shine that she may see her reflection almost as clearly as though it were a looking-glass.
He is stroking the nape of her neck, to which Dorcas responds in the mahogany reflection with seeming indifference: ‘What did you take me all the way here for, Mr Roo? Always before you was happy with it done in the carriage.’
‘My blossom, I wanted to be with you where nobody can hear us, and where we cannot be disturbed. For I am much taken with you, even if I am a bit cross. Why did you not come to meet me in Leicester Square yesterday as we agreed?’
‘I was ill yesterday. I drank too much spiced gin and ate too much sugar and cakes. I lied down in the afternoon.’
‘Are you sure you were not with somebody else? A pretty girl like you must receive many attractive offers from gentlemen.’
‘I only gets money from you. From nobody else. I’m not that sort of girl. I’m not gay and I have never before done things like you have me do. Never once.’ She does it for him because he is so handsome and so clean, and such fun, and because if she refused, then he would find someone else, and that would end the game, and there would be nothing left for her to do but to sit in the Crown and drink what little gin she can afford and wait for someone else. Yet there remain things she will not do for a man until he is her husband, for she is not that sort of girl.
‘Here is a golden sovereign, my darling. That comes to twenty shillings. I swear you shall have every bit of it, if you will only let me do the other. Please?’
It makes her feel strong when he begs her for it. She touches the gold coin he holds between his fingers as though it were a piece of jewellery. ‘Oh, no. I ain’t going to do that, Mr Roo. You try to make me and I’ll scream.’
‘You can scream all you like, by Heaven, for there is nobody to hear you.’
‘Then I will go where there is someone who can.’ Whereupon, to Harewood’s surprise, she abruptly gets off the bed and marches to the door, and with some determination; he has to move quickly in order to place himself between her and escape.
‘Forgive me, my dear, that was wretched of me and I am so terribly sorry. That I could say such a thing! You do not know your own power, my dear, you have a way about you that brings out the beast in a man. I am utterly at your mercy – O Dorcas, don’t you like me even a little bit?’
‘I likes you well enough and I will do some things for you, but if you become a beast and try the other then I will fight you off and scream out the window and you will be in trouble.’
‘My darling, I swear that I shall be as good as gold.’ He holds her tenderly in his arms for a long moment (she can smell the scent he has put in his whiskers), until he can feel her relax against him; now, drawing her back into the room and onto the bed, he takes out a second coin and holds it beside the first. ‘What if I gave you
two
golden sovereigns?’
She stares at the gold coins, more money than she is likely to see in a year, then pushes them away.
‘I won’t. That much is no good to me anyway.’
‘Why is that?’
‘My sister would know what I did for it. Already my sister is onto me with hints all the time, she knows I kiss you and suspects the rest that I do. Whatever you give me, if I cannot drink and eat it away, it’s no good to me. You stop! Take your hand away from there!’
‘Dorcas, is that what you’ve been doing with the money?’
‘I already told you as much. It is why I was sick yesterday.’
‘What is it you eat? Where do you go?’
‘I eats things my guardian cannot buy, though he works hard for what we has. Pies. And sausage-rolls – oh, my eye, ain’t they prime! And I take a cab and sit and look out while it goes through Mayfair while I eats them, and then I have spiced gin at the Crown where we first met.’
‘These two sovereigns would buy wonderful food for all three of you – for quite some time.’
‘It don’t matter. They would know what I did and would not eat it.’
‘You can wrap a sovereign in a piece of paper, make it muddy, and say you found it in the street.’
‘That might go past my guardian, but my sister is more clever. Once she seen me come out of the carriage after being with you, putting my clothes right, and I was hard pressed for an excuse …’
He sits closer to her and savours her intoxicating natural scent, nothing like perfume. As a child living in the country he once hid in a haystack, from which position he watched a stallion mount a mare. They hobbled her feet so that she would not kick the other and do serious damage, while he snorted and roared like a man in the greatest pain. Though confused by the spectacle, it was not lost on him that something extreme was taking place – frightening and painful, and yet,
to go by the faces of the men in attendance and the cries of the horses, stimulating for all concerned …
‘Get your hand out of there, I told you! Don’t do that you beast, I’ll scream!’
‘Please, Dorcas, let me do it! It won’t hurt a bit, in fact it will feel jolly good, and I will give you the coins and some shillings extra.’
‘I already done enough, Mr Roo. Has any other girls done what I done with you already?’
‘At least a dozen.’
‘Lor’!’
‘In good society, this happens as a matter of course, by the time a girl is fourteen. If you and I were in society we could do it all we want and it would not be unusual.’
‘Even in the wealthy classes? Does girls of the quality do it?’
‘A girl among the well-to-do classes who bothers to hold onto her virginity does so only in order to command a higher price.’
‘How you talk, Mr Roo! Then they are but dollymops.’
‘Love removes all social distinctions, my dear. Can you not see that, Dorcas? Look about you: With so many rooms available for hire in the city, would a gentleman such as myself invite a girl into his own private rooms if he did not hold her in the highest esteem? If he did not love her very, very much?’
At this she falters, for she has not the vocabulary to argue with him. ‘That may be true and may be not …’
In her confused state of mind, she does not notice his hands at work until he has her in a fever and what is going to happen is going to happen, even though she does not know precisely what it will be.
She has surrendered! He has won!
Reginald Harewood reflects upon the advantages in bringing a girl to a room of one’s own – that he then has the time to bring her over to his way of thinking, and then he can enjoy her cries fully, in the certainty that no one will hear them but himself. Her expressions of pain upon his entering her caused him inexpressible pleasure, and he spent almost immediately. Now they are lying together under the sheet as though they were lovers, while he kisses away her tears to silence her whimpering (
You’ve done for me now, Mr Roo, I’m undone for certain!
), and an all too familiar uneasiness begins to creep over him, which he knows will grow, until one day it will be too much to bear …
With affecting naivety, now she begs him to take her away, swears
she would live alone in a room if he would see her but once a month. Momentarily his uneasiness verges on remorse, but this too passes, giving way to a general anaesthesia, with hardly a tinge of any feeling in particular.
Now comes a slight distaste. He reflects upon the knowledge that she will spend the money he gives her to gorge herself with food, will use his tribute to her beauty to become fat and pasty, like the pies she consumes; that her breasts, now so firm and delicious, will take on an unappetizing, mealy consistency, like pears that have missed their season.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
BOOK: The Fiend in Human
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