Read The Fiend in Human Online
Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
The Fiend in Human (29 page)
‘Mrs Plant, I beg to apologize most abjectly for my condition, but I fear I am in a state of – if I may speak frankly – of complete undress.’
‘Do not apologize, Mr Whitty, for it was I who undressed you. You needed a bath. You stank and were all bloody.’
‘Dear Heaven, Madam, I hardly know what to say.’
Whitty has, in idle moments before this, imagined himself and Mrs Plant, first as lovers, then as a cantankerous married couple in endless competition for the upper hand. And now this indignity – here is this selfsame woman, having viewed his privates at leisure, having bathed him like a toddler! It does not bear thinking about. He must leave the premises at once.
‘I beg you, Mrs Plant, please return my clothes now, so that I may retire with whatever face I have left.’
‘I regret that your clothes were not wearable, Mr Whitty. Everything was burned at once.’
From below comes a muffled cackle, from either the Devil or the correspondent from
Dodd’s.
Dodd’s.
‘Do they miss my presence downstairs?’
‘No, you are there in spirit, for the number of times your name comes up.’
‘In what context? Prince among men sort of thing?’
‘A public flogging appears to be the way of it, Mr Whitty. One of your preludes to a hanging.’
‘My reputation has suffered before. Reputation is an elastic commodity.’
‘True for you, Sir. After all, you are not dead yet.’
From below comes the sound of unpleasant laughter.
The notes.
Breathing with difficulty, he resists the urge to leap from his bed and fling himself into the street. ‘Mrs Plant, I have a somewhat important question to ask you about my coat – did you burn the coat?’
‘Indeed, Sir, the coat was the first to go.’
‘Quite.’
‘Of course I removed the notebook.’
Bless you
.
.
‘There wasn’t, I suppose, a sum of money in the pocket?’
‘No money.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Do you think me a thief?’
‘No, Madam, I think you are an utterly magnificent woman.’
‘You are delirious, Sir. I have put you in mind of your mother. She too has seen you naked.’
What the Devil can she mean by such language? Naked, indeed! Is he being patronized? – For the tone of her conversation hints at a form of mockery common to base sensibilities. What unilateral power is vested in a woman through the intimate, one-sided knowledge of a man’s naked body!
‘I shall have you understand, Madam, that the word ‘naked’ is not a permitted expression at
The Falcon.’
The Falcon.’
‘Disrobed,
then. Head to toe. Back to front.’
then. Head to toe. Back to front.’
‘Quite.’
To Whitty, one thing seems self-evident: in mankind’s relations with the gentler sex, a threshold has been passed in his lifetime, beyond
which no man may feel entirely at his ease with a woman – where a man can no longer predict what she knows, and what she will do.
which no man may feel entirely at his ease with a woman – where a man can no longer predict what she knows, and what she will do.
‘Mrs Plant, I wonder if you will allow me to be candid.’
‘From you, Mr Whitty, that would be refreshing.’
‘I wish to say that I am most grateful for your assistance in the course of my difficulties. In light of what has passed between us in the past, I am truly amazed.’
‘Amazed by what, Sir?’
‘Kindness, I suppose. It is a rarity.’
‘Not for a woman. In every second house in Soho there is a sick, injured or drunk man, tended by his deluded Mary. For women, such kindness is a sort of hobby.’
‘Like tatting, I suppose.’
‘No, a frailty one is born with. Like a club-foot.’
‘Mrs Plant, you make reference to relations between the sexes in general, and I concede to your superior understanding. Yet, if you will permit me, I beg to become specific – to wit, solicit your view as to the accuracy of my suppositions on a matter of some urgency.’
‘I do not understand you, Sir. You’re talking Spanish.’
‘What I mean to say is that I beg to solicit your opinion of events as they have transpired, and what I think about them.’
‘That is acceptable. Please do so.’
‘Prior to a previous visit to your establishment, I happened to be met by a young woman of ruined character.’
‘Hardly a rare occurrence, Mr Whitty.’
‘Rarity or not, this young woman – who, I hasten to add, is not to blame for her situation – provided to me information of an extraordinary character. As a result of which I have reason to believe that, whatever his character, William Ryan and the infamous Chokee Bill are not the same man. Indeed, following and as a result of Ryan’s conviction, I believe that the latter has been conducting his activities at will.’
‘Rumours of such a thing have been circulating for weeks among the Radicals.’
‘Madam, the Radicals can detect a conspiracy in the weather. However, this unfortunate went on to recount a circumstance of which the Metropolitan Police are quite aware, and which, through agreement or collusion of interest (virtually identical in effect), similar institutions chose to ignore. I believe this young woman, because to construct such a narrative from whole cloth would require a cunning quite beyond a ruined doxy on the embankment. Indeed, if the young
woman invented the tale she should be Mayor. For who can deny the feasibility of such a circumstance – in which officers of the city become selectively blind and deaf, with the blessing of officials in Whitechapel? Which would enjoy the complete co-operation of everyone who has a livelihood to lose – down to the last costermonger. By Heaven, it is even possible that the Fiend is a member of the police!’
woman invented the tale she should be Mayor. For who can deny the feasibility of such a circumstance – in which officers of the city become selectively blind and deaf, with the blessing of officials in Whitechapel? Which would enjoy the complete co-operation of everyone who has a livelihood to lose – down to the last costermonger. By Heaven, it is even possible that the Fiend is a member of the police!’
‘A quaint theory, Sir. You could be a Radical yourself.’
‘Forgive me. I have not been well.’
‘Would you care for a cup of whisky? I appreciate the exertion it requires to speak plainly to a woman.’
‘Delighted more than words can express, Madam.’
Mrs Plant proceeds to the dressing-table, allowing Whitty an unhindered inspection of her form. ‘Please continue.’
‘Shortly after having published my observations (and, I’m obliged to admit, in a condition of slight over-refreshment), I took what I thought to be a cab. Later I awoke as you witnessed me – if
witnessed
may be deemed sufficient in this case.’
witnessed
may be deemed sufficient in this case.’
Mrs Plant approaches the bed with two cups made of blue glass, smiling to herself for an unknown reason. ‘I assume you have discounted simple robbery as a motive. That would be too straightforward for Edmund Whitty.’
‘It might have been my first thought – indeed, a hurtful amount of pounds were taken from me. Yet it doesn’t narrow the possibilities: surely no scoundrel who will break the bones of a stranger would flinch at robbery.’
‘Mr Whitty, I’ve become tired. Do you object if I am seated?’
‘On the contrary. Pardon me for not getting up.’ He takes a sip of the precious liquid, which tastes of peat and old library books. He reflects that perhaps it is good to be alive, even in reduced circumstances, if only to savour a decent whisky once more, to lie in a soft bed.
Whereupon Mrs Plant, no doubt to further test his tolerance for intimacy, sits on the bed right beside him!
Whitty had not for one second expected her to do this – after all, there is an empty chair in the room; which unforeseen development causes him anxiety over the situation beneath the bedclothes – the lack of a night-shirt or other insulation increasing the danger of an unwanted tumescence, rendered readily apparent by his prone position, which he cannot alter without severe discomfort; which danger has already become a horrifying possibility for, truth be told, Mrs Plant is a well-made woman …
‘Mr Whitty, it seems probable to me that, one way or another, you have displeased people who don’t brook displeasure gladly. I do not know how I might be of assistance …’ Mrs Plant pauses, having flushed somewhat, for the room has become warm.
‘Mrs Plant, have I your leave to make an unusual request?’
‘I am willing to entertain it, Mr Whitty.’
‘Please understand that I would not for a moment impose, nor cause offence.’
‘I shall take that into consideration.’
‘Madam, having emerged from death, so to speak, I find myself uncommonly aware of the sensations of the moment … so to speak. Furthermore, having, upon an earlier occasion, made mention of my high regard for yourself, I wonder if we might put behind us one certain precipitous and tasteless request, in order to entertain another?’
‘Whitty, are you going to ask me to kiss you?’
‘Madam, that was indeed my intent.’ He braces himself against the possibility of a blow to the face.
‘That is acceptable to me. Provided it don’t lead to further liberties.’
‘I assure you, Madam, in my present condition I am at your mercy.’
‘Very well, then.’
And so she leans toward him, and he strains upward toward her, as far forward as the situation permits, just far enough that their lips can meet, however tentatively, while closing their eyes – not only to maintain decorum but also to give themselves fully to this exceptional moment.
Whitty is no sensualist as a rule; he avoids Turkish baths and is not partial to the scent of flowers. And yet, to hold his mouth against her soft flesh, tasting of whisky, gently moving with his own, all touch between them concentrated in an area of approximately one square inch, while the scent of her fills him like smoke, infusing his head and loins with a sensation which does not compare with the sensation of opium or laudanum or alcohol or any other medicament with which Whitty customarily renders life acceptable, awakens a sensibility of which he has only the vaguest memory, having partaken of it as a child, at which time it might have been termed
joy.
joy.
After an interval of uncertain duration, she returns to an upright position and straightens her hair. ‘Well, Mr Whitty,’ she says. ‘I’m sure I do not know what to say.’
‘I too am at a loss for words. Madam, I am at your service.’
Mrs Plant rises to her feet and smoothes her dress. Through the
corner of her eye she notes that a small military tent has been erected in the centre of the bed, despite orders to the contrary.
corner of her eye she notes that a small military tent has been erected in the centre of the bed, despite orders to the contrary.
‘Sir, might I speak plainly?’
‘Madam, you have my undivided attention.’
‘I know not what meaning to attach to this. It is a mystery and I am not sure I like it.’
‘I assure you, Mrs Plant, that I remain in the dark as well.’
‘In any case, I count on your discretion.’
‘On this matter I am as mute as the Sphinx.’
‘I’m a business woman. Smutty rumours of an attachment are not to my advantage.’
‘Indeed, Madam, I’m well aware that I have nothing whatever to offer you.’
‘You’re presumptuous, Sir. I shall decide that for myself.’ So saying, she kisses him again!
Whitty awakens. Therefore he was asleep. With eyes closed he can sense somebody standing over him – not Mrs Plant, nor the physician, Mr Gough, both of whom he would identify by smell, though not with equal relish.
He opens his eyes, and is surprised – nay, astonished – to see before him the androgynous Mrs Button. Thinks Whitty: Is he awake? For Mrs Button is the stuff of unpleasant dreams.
‘Good-day to you, Mr Whitty.’
‘Mrs Button. Such an unexpected pleasure. Is your mistress well?’
‘Mrs Marlowe is moderately well, Sir, and sends her compliments to you.’
‘To what do I owe this unexpected visit?’ (Whitty struggles to maintain composure, for the pain of his excited breathing is quite excruciating.) ‘Is it a message by any chance?’
‘Indeed, it is a message. My lady asks the honour of your attendance in two days’ time on a matter of some urgency.’ Mrs Button produces an envelope from her sleeve and lays it upon the bed beside him. ‘I am instructed to await your response.’
Clumsiness is a damnable thing with a set of broken ribs; as a consequence, some time elapses before he manages to tear open the envelope, while allowing for minimal movement and avoiding the broken finger. In the meanwhile, Mrs Button’s mien of vague disapproval does not alter, nor does she break this silent torture with an offer of assistance. But no matter: when the correspondent finally
retrieves and unfolds the message, the three words which comprise its entire content expand to fill his mind entirely, as though with a euphoric gas.
retrieves and unfolds the message, the three words which comprise its entire content expand to fill his mind entirely, as though with a euphoric gas.
MR RYAN ACCEPTS
.
.
Chester Path
Sewell alights on the Outer Circle and crosses to the iron gate. As usual, the upstairs curtains flutter.
He is beginning to feel used, like fifth business in a smutty little comedy from the Restoration. With greater frequency he returns to his rooms to find his food eaten, his drink drunk, his cigars smoked and his bed sticky. It never occurred to him that sexual intercourse might prove so messy, slipshod and insanitary; nor that two people might perform the act so often.
If indeed there are only two.
Again he reminds himself why he lets Reggie use him, why he does not complain. David and Jonathan. Friends for life.
This modern utilitarian age does not understand the pure, lifelong friendship that can obtain between one boy and another, akin to the instinctive bond between brothers, yet deeper in that it does not rest upon an accident of birth.
All men are naturally drawn to those examples of love in nature and in art that represent lifelong fealty and sacrifice, that exist as monuments to it: the love of a dog for its master, of a soldier for his comrade.
At Eton, Reginald Harewood rose to the defence of Walter Sewell a second time: an incident in which Sewell stood accused of putting a noxious substance into another boy’s food. Harewood swore that Sewell had undertaken nothing of the sort. It was thereafter at Sunday service – a moment he relives almost daily – when Sewell, burning within, found the courage to ask Reggie whom he liked best in their row.
‘Lumsden?’ whispered Sewell.
‘Only third best,’ replied Reggie.
‘Etheridge?’
‘Fifth.’
While the chaplain droned out the true meaning of the Eucharist, they traded names down the row to the end, until Sewell (and, he feels certain, Reggie) realized not only that each had omitted his ‘first best’, but that the only boys remaining had been each other! In that moment
Sewell experienced the thrill, not untinged with apprehension, which occurs upon first discovering the existence, or at least the possibility, of reciprocated love.
Sewell experienced the thrill, not untinged with apprehension, which occurs upon first discovering the existence, or at least the possibility, of reciprocated love.
Such absolute, unimaginable joy. Caught in the moment, Sewell laid his hand gently on the back of Reggie’s soft blue blazer, then on the waist – Oh, Heavens! Did Reggie feel Sewell’s hand, did he know what had transpired between them?
Yes. Surely, yes. Deep down, he had to have known.
Despite this heightened intensity of feeling, their association continued to adhere to the highest possible standard, as it has since. Sewell would never have allowed such a thing to take place, even had Reggie expressed such a desire – the things that other chaps did on cold nights while bedded double. Reggie and Roo did not do that appalling, dirty thing. Indeed, Sewell remained pure in body, even while his friend spent into available women, almost at random. It does not matter – do you see?
Nor does it matter that Reggie uses him. Their friendship will continue undiminished when his friend can no longer manage the grubby act with his darling wife Clara; when the latter, with a high collar to hide her wattles, is having it off with the ostler. Even then Sewell will still be there, and nothing will have changed.
Which is not to say that Sewell is enthused by the current situation.
When first he laid his rooms open for Reggie’s copulations with his cousin, he imagined the act as a relatively dry affair involving a mixture of pleasure and pain, along with a certain abandonment and noise. However, to go by the evidence, one had to wonder at the sheer outlay of human secretion. In the interests of research, one evening Sewell hid himself in the study with a glass tumbler held by the wall, the better to overhear the goings-on in his bedroom.
It turned out to be a long evening. Indeed, at some point during the activities, Sewell fell asleep on the couch. When he awakened, he resumed listening, and it became clear that the young woman in the next room was no longer Cousin Clara. Then it dawned upon him that Miss Greenwell was not the only young lady featured in these exercises. The evidence of this is now inescapable, to the extent that, having changed the sheets, still he cannot sleep for the smell.
Sewell reaches for the brass knocker, set in the jaws of a lion. After three strikes precisely, the door swings open to reveal Bryson, long-faced and impeccably liveried and impersonal as always.
‘Good afternoon, Bryson. Walter Sewell to see Miss Greenwell.’
‘A very good afternoon to you, Mr Sewell, Sir, and may I say welcome.’
‘Thank you. I am pleased to be here, and pleased to see you as well. By any chance is Miss Greenwell at home?’
‘Please step inside, Sir, and I shall be extremely glad to determine that for you.’
As always, the servant examines Sewell’s card as though he has never encountered its owner; satisfied that Sewell is not an intruder, Bryson admits the guest into the ante-room, then exits to obtain instructions. Alone, Sewell bites a fingernail while rereading the framed verse on the marble wall:
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Presently he hears the voice of the footman: ‘Miss Greenwell is in her chambers, Sir, and regrets to say that she is unwell.’
‘Quite. Oh dear. Thank you, Bryson, I shall not trouble her further. Please convey my hopes for her speedy recovery.’
‘Kind of you, Sir, but Miss Greenwell indicates her wish that you should follow me.’
It has already occurred to Sewell that Clara knows about Reggie’s indiscretions, for she possesses a fair degree of animal cunning. If so, what now? Of course a woman is less blinded by love and has a higher tolerance for physical messiness. Thus, it follows that Clara will seek not to end the problem, but to limit the damage. If so, why is she about to perform a sick-bed scene for his benefit? What will she ask of him now?
He follows Bryson upstairs, wiping his palms with his handkerchief to keep them dry. The stairwell seems unheated and smells strongly of varnish. They proceed onto the landing and down a hallway, rendered tube-like with its rounded Paladin ceiling and maroon velvet wallpaper.
Having entered Clara’s boudoir, he stops to assimilate the unfamiliar feminine hideaway, a decor he has not visited since his mother’s dressing-room, to which he would be summoned for periodic chastisement; both rooms redolent with that peculiarly feminine reek of perfume, powder, musk and scented linen. Lit by gaslight, doubled by a large mirror, sit a row of dolls in frilled dresses, staring fixedly at him with painted blue eyes, while the curling iron steams on its iron stand.
Not too ill for hairdressing, seemingly.
Comes a weak voice from within the bed-curtains: ‘Roodie, is that you? I beg you to come closer so that I may see you.’
He hates the way Clara has further diminuated his schoolboy name, which he never gave her permission to use in the first place. To her he is less than a schoolboy, more like a prodigious toddler. He pushes these caustic thoughts to the side upon the appearance of Miss Brown, with her perpetual crewel work.
‘Roodie, you remember Miss Brown — my companion, protector, and confidential friend. Miss Brown, perhaps you recall Mr Sewell, an acquaintance of my cousin Reginald.’
‘Delighted to see you, Miss Brown. And to see that you are looking extremely well.’
‘I am well within reason,’ replies Miss Brown. ‘I am obliged to you, Sir.’
Holding his gaze a further instant as though to read his thoughts, Miss Brown parts the bed-curtains; in reaching out she reveals a pair of white arms with the bones clearly visible beneath transparent skin, like a membrane through which the skeleton is about to emerge. Having performed this service, she retreats to the corner of the bed, whereon she sits, motionless as though she has become a part of the bedpost.
Filled with misgiving, Sewell peers through the curtains.
Reclining upon a bolster and pillows, Clara Greenwell has become in her own mind the consumptive heroine of a French novel. Her breasts are clearly outlined beneath the silk bedclothes, lit by a candelabra on the side-table so that her features are thrown into relief, her golden ringlets spread about the pillow, dishevelled yet symmetrical, the eyes gently closed, the lips slightly pursed as though she is waiting to be awakened by a kiss from a prince.
‘Is it you, Roodie?’ she whispers, as though asleep.
‘Clara. What has happened? What is wrong?’
‘Don’t you know, Roodie?’
‘I assure you that I don’t, Clara.’
‘Such a child, so innocent and kind. That is why I love you so.’ She opens her eyes slowly and quotes in a whisper:
‘I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.’
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.’
‘Dear Heaven, Clara, you frighten me! When last we met, you were never better.’
‘Give me your hand, Roodie, that I might hold it.’
He wipes his palm hurriedly with his handkerchief and feels her little soft hand slip into his. He wonders how firmly he is expected to hold it, while Clara resumes her ghostly monologue.
‘Three times it appeared to me. Last night I beheld it for the third time. ‘Prepare, Clara,’ it said. ‘Prepare for death.’ I know you must think me a foolish girl …’
Stooping awkwardly within what amounts to a small, heavily perfumed tent (to sit upon the bed is out of the question), grasping the young woman’s hand, Sewell makes sympathetic, pigeon-like noises, while Clara whispers half-remembered passages from novels featuring spectral appearances and premonitions of death.
At length, she focuses her lovely eyes upon his. ‘Dear Roodie, please, you mustn’t worry.’
Comes a voice from the foot of the bed: ‘Miss Clara has received a severe shock to the system, which occasioned an ague, which weakened the young lady’s heart.’ Miss Brown pronounces the memorized sentence crisply, for it will earn five shillings.
‘Oh, Roodie, I don’t understand any of it. Am I dying?’
‘Dear Heaven, Clara, please tell me what happened.’
‘He has another. I am certain of it. Did you not know?’
‘Reggie? Surely not! It is not possible!’
Clara begins to weep genuine tears, in great, childish sobs – for, beneath the performance, she feels truly humiliated. ‘You are much too kind to admit that it is so. Hold me, Roodie! Hold me, for I am betrayed!’
‘I assure you, Clara, Reggie has never spoken of you in other than the most affectionate terms.’
‘You are so good. You do not see the evil in others. But I saw the marks of his betrayal.’
Thinks Sewell: To what, exactly, is the woman referring?
‘Roodie, I am undone! Hold me, my dear, for I am dying!’
Out comes another torrent of sobbing until even Sewell becomes aware of what is expected. With the greatest reluctance he sits on the edge of the bed, whereupon she wraps her bare arms around him and sobs into his chest.
‘There, there …’ Sewell, whose chest has tightened and who has reddened considerably, is at a loss for words, as well as for an appropriate
place to put his hands. His arms, of necessity, wrap themselves about the soft flesh encased in warm silk, whereupon she pulls him downward, gradually but inexorably, onto the bolster.
place to put his hands. His arms, of necessity, wrap themselves about the soft flesh encased in warm silk, whereupon she pulls him downward, gradually but inexorably, onto the bolster.
‘Hold me, Roodie! Please hold me!’
Miss Brown crosses to the window and examines carefully the traffic swishing back and forth on the Inner Circle; for supper she will have a joint from the master’s table.
Reeling from the shock of Reggie’s betrayal, and against the possibility that she might not succeed in reawakening his affections, Clara determined it the wisest course to prepare other arrangements just in case. Sadly, upon resuming her at-homes with various young gentlemen, it became apparent that word of her indiscretions with her cousin had reached their ears, in however vague a form, thereby depreciating her value. Having reviewed Sewell’s family history and his considerable establishment, Clara Greenwell has begun to view Reggie’s friend in a new light – not as a laughable foil but as an alternative position. Indeed, if necessary she could come to find him rather adorable and sweet.
As the position becomes clear in Sewell’s mind, he resists the urge to flee pell-mell out of the house. Of course it is inconceivable to Clara that this unlovely young man might be moved by anything other than desire for her.
Thus, Reader, we leave our two young people, holding each other in a most intimate posture, each wishing the other were somebody else.
WHITTY TO FRASER: ‘PUBLISH AND BE DAMNED’
Questions Spark Vicious Attack
by
Edmund Whitty
Senior Correspondent
The Falcon
by
Edmund Whitty
Senior Correspondent
The Falcon
Your correspondent begs the reader’s absolution for having failed to reply promptly to the vile calumnies uttered in print by the columnist for
Dodd’s,
then to be aped by his desperately vacant imitators, an absence necessitated by a period of recovery from serious injuries arising from differences with certain parties – who, like Mr Fraser, disagreed with our presumptuous scepticism, albeit with sharper teeth than any yapping Scotch mongrel.
Dodd’s,
then to be aped by his desperately vacant imitators, an absence necessitated by a period of recovery from serious injuries arising from differences with certain parties – who, like Mr Fraser, disagreed with our presumptuous scepticism, albeit with sharper teeth than any yapping Scotch mongrel.
For our presence on this page and not the Obituary page we owe
nothing to our libellous friend and much to the estimable physician Dr Gough, together with the most modern medical equipment British ingenuity can devise.
nothing to our libellous friend and much to the estimable physician Dr Gough, together with the most modern medical equipment British ingenuity can devise.
In keeping with
The Falcon’s
standard of utter integrity (as opposed to another organ, its eye peeled for ever-darker shades of black), we propose to set down a series of unembroidered facts, later to be followed by irrefutable proof, when health permits.
The Falcon’s
standard of utter integrity (as opposed to another organ, its eye peeled for ever-darker shades of black), we propose to set down a series of unembroidered facts, later to be followed by irrefutable proof, when health permits.
When one’s accuser’s viewpoint is limited to the bottom of his glass of gin, how may he be disproven by rational argument?
We find ourselves likewise paralysed when we attempt to unravel our friend’s self-serving pieties and fortuitous suppositions, which belong to another era, in which men believed that the world was flat and the plague was caused by the Jews. Let it suffice to note that, if Fraser’s proof will sink a reputation, then heaven help Her Majesty’s Navy; and if our Mr McSodden supposes that his flaccid assertions amount to penetrating journalism, then heaven help his employer.
By way of contrast to our friend’s amalgam of unfounded pronouncements, behold the particulars by which any reasonable citizen might question William Ryan’s guilt of the offence for which he is condemned to die. We appeal to the Englishman’s native common sense and inborn judgement of character – quantities notably absent from consideration in today’s criminal courts, as well as upon the pages of certain journals.
William Ryan, to be sure, is an unsavoury character whose fellows may be seen on any evening, propping up the bar of a Soho gin palace, men characterized by a distaste for honest work, a gift for fraudulence, and a lack of common morality.
I have seen Ryan, in the flesh. I have sat across a table from him, and I can tell you that his fingers are permanently scarred, as a result of skinning them for the purpose of deciphering a marked deck of cards. This is the sort we are dealing with. I have spoken with this reprehensible cad at length and can report one fact with utter assurance: here is a man inspired by one consideration alone – Money.
Is this not obvious? Can any man who has spent a day in London deny the existence and the ubiquity and the mentality of such a character?
However, does such a man commit murder? Possibly – but under what circumstances?
Dear Reader, place in your mind for a moment the spectre of five, then six women, murdered in the most foul and barbaric manner, with disfigurements inflicted for the sheer devilish pleasure of it, the signature of satiated rage. Identify these women with William Ryan – who never made a move since he took his first step but for personal gain!
Now let us direct our gaze to the Metropolitan Police, whose investigation of the murders subsequent to Mr Ryan’s arrest, under the direction of the phlegmatic Mr Salmon, was conducted in such a half-hearted manner as to suggest that Mr Ryan’s trial had already taken place.
And yet, what a tangle of dangling threads remain!
The victims were all murdered by strangulation, which outrage was accomplished by a silk scarf – which, in each and every case, had been purchased at Henry Poole’s. (The Fiend cannot be faulted for his haberdashery.) Yet, when your correspondent took the minor trouble of consulting with the proprietors of that excellent establishment as to the existence of a customer with Mr Ryan’s distinctive aspect and station (a swell, as opposed to a dandy), Poole’s can recall NO SUCH CUSTOMER.
(And yet, what superior official of the City does not frequent that fine establishment?)
Now let us turn to the melancholy, fallen creature, discovered by police and subsequently contacted by your correspondent, seated beside the body of her murdered friend on the morning following Ryan’s escape, her friend strangled by means of a scarf WHICH CAME FROM POOLE’S. Undoubted proof of Ryan’s guilt, were it not for the fact that our fallen young woman had, by this time, conducted her lonely vigil beside the body of her friend, for TWO DAYS!
Reader, are you in possession of a calendar? If so, then you have the advantage of Under-Inspector Salmon, and my Gaelic detractor, for whom it must set an uncomfortable precedent that
The Falcon
might uncover for itself a prospect unavailable at the bottom of a bottle.
The Falcon
might uncover for itself a prospect unavailable at the bottom of a bottle.
And the crowning argument: With his simple mind and his naive enthusiasm for British justice, your correspondent appears to have occasioned the vituperation of certain parties, to the extent that he was set upon and injured within an inch of his life. Coincidence, I ask Mr Fraser?
Accusez-moi, Monsieur?
Fraser,
J’accuse.
Fraser,
J’accuse.
Other books
Triple Threat by Regina Kyle
Sure Fire by Jack Higgins
All In: Playing the Fool (Gambling With Love) by Hart, Lane
Sheikh With Benefits by Teresa Morgan
Sweet Song by Terry Persun
Connections by Hilary Bailey
Frozen Stiff by Annelise Ryan
Beg Me by Jennifer Probst
Cross Justice by James Patterson
Tumblin' Dice by John McFetridge