Thoreau at Devil's Perch (17 page)

“We cannot be together as man and wife in this life,” Henry replied with sad resignation. “But I hope we will meet again in a future life and both be free.”

This surprised me even more. “Surely you do not think that possible, Henry. How can you give credence to such an arcane concept as Reincarnation when you value truth based on observation?”

“Did I not observe myself as an Indian who lived over two hundred years ago?”

“Your brief experience under hypnosis convinces you that we are immortals who return to this earth time and again?” I shook my head. “Oh, Henry, I should need far more proof than that.”

He did not seem the least perturbed by my declared mistrust of his conviction. “When I see Walden come back to life in the spring,” he replied most calmly, “and when I see the river valley and the woods bathed in so pure and bright a light as would wake the dead, I need no stronger proof of immortality. Methinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green.”

I could not help but smile. “I have never observed such a thing as a green soul during an autopsy. Nor one of any hue whatsoever.”

“Some truths cannot be observed, only experienced, Adam.”

“Well, I am a man of science, not metaphysics, and therefore rely on facts.”

“The facts of science may dust the mind by their dryness, Doctor. Knowledge comes to us in flashes of light from heaven, and men are probably nearer the essential truth in their superstitions than in their science. There is inherent truth in most fables too.”

“In some anyway,” I allowed. “Such as the Aristophanes fable you just related to me. I too have found my other half, Henry. And like you, I cannot marry her.”

“You refer to Julia?”

“Of course. She is the only woman I have ever loved.”

“Then I do not understand.You and she are both free to wed, are you not?'

“We are neither of us married. But we are first cousins, and in our family such unions have resulted in hideously deformed offspring. As a physician I am acquainted with techniques that can hinder conception, of course, but none are infallible. To be certain we do not reproduce such a horror, Julia and I would have to forgo sexual congress entirely, and I am not sure I could endure that. Does my frankness embarrass you, Henry?”

“Not at all. I do not respect men who make the mystery of sex the subject of coarse jest, but I am always willing to speak earnestly and seriously on the subject,” Henry said. “Several years ago I became acquainted with a young lady I found immensely attractive, and my yearning to have physical congress with her prompted me to propose marriage. She turned me down, however. She also turned down my brother before me, but that is neither here nor there. The point I am trying to make is this, Adam. I know what it is like to desire a woman. Yet I can assure you that it is possible to find great joy in a woman's companionship without carnal indulgence, if she is indeed your soul mate.”

I nodded, as if in agreement, all the time recalling the pleasure of the kiss I had shared with Julia. Frankly, I do not think I have Henry's strength of character. Despite my high principles, my lowly desires persist. Even as I write this, I am imagining the way Julia's eyes closed and her lips parted as I drew her face to mine. But why do I continue to fan the fires of Eros with that remembrance? I must try and block it from my mind.

Back to today's events. When Henry and I arrived in Boston, we asked a goodly number of gentlemen passing through the Causeway Street Terminal if they knew where Shark's Tavern was located. One finally told us it was somewhere in the infamous Black Sea district.

We walked there directly and found ourselves in a confusion of carts, wagons, and drays rattling to and from the waterfront warehouses. Laborers, hostlers, and boisterous gangs of sailors jammed the thoroughfare. Grog shops abounded. At last we found Shark's Tavern in a side alley off Ann Street. A garish sign by the door depicted a shark with a screaming, bare-chested man caught in its bloody maw.

Inside we were assailed by the stench of stale beer, tobacco, tar, and sweat. The few early afternoon customers greeted us with scowls, and when one of them abruptly left his chair and headed toward us I became uncomfortably aware that neither Henry nor I carried a weapon of defense, not even a cane.

But the glowering galoot only yelled at us to name our poison as he went right past us and took his place behind the bar. I ordered a mug of beer to give us reason to linger, but it was abstemious Henry who eventually won the truculent barkeep over with his direct, relaxed manner. Once he got the man talking, he told us all we needed to know and more. He remembered that Badger had been there last Saturday night all right. The roughneck had gotten so drunk he had fallen backwards and shattered a stout table at which several men were enjoying plates of pigs' feet and sausages. That brought on a bit of a brawl till Badger paid for his graceful faux pas with ready and new paper notes, then lurched off.

“Do you recall what time Sergeant Badger left your establishment ?” Henry asked.

“In fact I do,” the barkeep said. “He often stays all night, getting uglier and drunker by the hour, but on Sadday last he left around ten.”

“There we have it,” I told Henry. “If Badger left here at ten, he could have easily made it back to Plumford before sunrise. It is less than a four-hour ride from Boston on horseback.”

The barkeep laughed. “Oh, Sergeant Badger didn't leave here to ride no
horse,
sir. He left for a far more pleasurable ride at Mrs. Scudder's. Her bawdy house is right around the corner. The brick house with the red door.”

“Ah, yes,” Henry said. “I know it.”

Astounded, I gave him a sidelong look. Henry David Thoreau had never struck me as the sort of man who would patronize brothels. Yet upon leaving the tavern he suggested that we go to Mrs. Scudder's forthwith.

“I do not wish to sound disapproving, Henry,” I replied, “but as a doctor I must caution you that a short time with Venus too often results in a lifetime with Mercury.”

He looked puzzled for a moment and then nodded. “I believe I understand your meaning. Mercury is the treatment for venereal disease, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. And a most unpleasant one.”

“But I do not intend to become intimate with any Venus employed at Mrs. Scudder's, Adam. I merely want to ascertain what time Badger left there. Surely you do not take me for a whoremonger.”

“Of course not, Henry,” I said brusquely, sidestepping a sluggish sow that was rooting about in the gutter. “However, you did claim to the barkeep that you were familiar with Mrs. Scudder's brothel.”

“And so I am. Do you not remember Trump mentioning the place? He told us that he went to Mrs. Scudder's to talk to a girl named Effie. She was the one who sent his friend Caleb to Plumford. And of all the brothels in Boston, this is the one Badger chooses to go to. It cannot be mere chance.”

“No, it cannot,” I agreed. “Badger and Caleb are somehow connected. I warrant Badger murdered him as well as Peck. All we need do is find out why and then prove it.”

“Is that all?” Henry gave me a wry look.

We went around the corner and came upon a brick row house with a red door. Henry knocked without hesitation, and the door was opened by a girl of no more than ten years, with sallow skin and sunken eyes. She wore no pantalettes beneath her knee-length sack dress, and I noted purple spots and sores of various sizes upon her bare, skinny legs. She ushered us inside without a word, her movements slow and her attitude despondent.

By contrast, a large and lively woman bustled down the narrow hall to greet us with an effusion of energy. She introduced herself as Mrs. Scudder but did not inquire of our names. “Come into my parlor, good sirs!” she exclaimed, pulling me by the arm and giving Henry an encouraging nudge on the shoulder. We entered a small room that was crowded with stuffed seats, long wall mirrors, and three scantily attired young women.

“Look at who has come to call on you so bright and early, my dears!” our fulsome hostess told them. “A fine young gentleman”—she jerked her wigged head in my direction—“and his eager country cousin.” She patted Henry's back.

Admittedly Henry did look the rustic in his dull green homespun suit and wide-brimmed hat as it had not occurred to him to change his everyday attire to go to the city. He did not look
eager
, however. But neither did he look ill at ease. He simply looked as he always did, soberly attentive yet quietly amused. If the sight of trollops wearing little more than tight corsets, lacy chemises, and black stockings made him uncomfortable, he gave no sign of it. His bright, translucent eyes scanned over them and every fixture in the room, as though recording them all to memory for future reference, as he would a phenomenon in nature.

“Being our first callers of the day, gentlemen, you will find my girls fresh as daisies,” Mrs. Scudder assured us.

They did not appear so fresh to me. One had a waxy pallor, another a crooked nose that must have been fractured and not reset properly, and one poor thing had a shiner that had nearly closed her right eye. There were four parallel stripes of a mottled bluish hue on her upper arm that I surmised had been left by some brute's gripping fingers. The other two also had marks on their limbs—purpureous spots of a livid color—but I did not think they were bruises. All three women seemed lethargic to the extreme, the result of drowsiness, drugs, or perhaps a medical condition.

“Perk up, my flowers, or these gentlemen will not want to pluck you,” Mrs. Scudder urged them in a tone that meant business.

Henry got right down to business too. He told Mrs. Scudder that we were neither customers nor police officers but had come to inquire about a man named Rufus Badger.

Mrs. Scudder erupted in a tornado of expletives that would put a drunken drover to shame. “Look what the bastard did to poor Lottie,” she went on to say, pointing to the young woman with the black eye. “Smacked her before he even paid for her. Badger has got a mean streak running through him so deep it is unfathomable.”

“When did Sergeant Badger hurt you, Lottie?” Henry asked the girl gently.

“Last Sadday night,” she replied, giving him a trusting look. She was a plain enough lass who would have looked far more at home in a milkmaid's poke bonnet than the false curls framing her broad, homely face. “His favorite gal ain't here no more so he turned his attentions on me. I could not help but shrink away from him when he went to kiss me, he ascares me so. That got him all haired up, so he grabbed my arm and slugged me.” She began to sob.

“Lottie is still green,” Mrs. Scudder said and smiled at Henry. “I venture she might well suit you, Mr. Green Coat.”

Before he could reply, the girl with the crooked nose spoke up. “I ain't ascared of that Badger,” she said in a boastful tone. “Afore he could slug Lottie again, I took him off to my room.”

Lottie regarded her with admiration. “And again I thank you kindly for that, Dora.”

Dora shrugged. “Never you mind, Lottie. Stinker though he is, Badger allus got plenty of money. Besides which, if he took a hand to
me
, I'd have stuck him with this.” She pulled out from the back of her corset a short dagger like an ice pick. “He didn't give me no trouble though. The drunken sod went to snoring like a trumpet full of spit soon as his old long Tom shot off.”

“We had to haul him out of Dora's bed and into the back hall,” Mrs. Scudder said, “so's he wouldn't interfere with the trade. He slept there like the pile of trash he is all night.”

“All night?” Henry said.

“Well into it anyways. He waked up a little past four and took off. Good riddance to bad rubbish says I.”

“Are you sure of the time he left, madam?” Henry asked her.

“Sir, I am most sure of it. The night patrolman gets off duty at four and always comes directly here to collect his tribute. He was here when Badger woke up. I was mighty glad of it too. Lord only knows what further torment that beast would have brought upon us if an officer of the law had not been on the premises.”

“On me, as it so happens,” boastful Dora said.

My disappointment was great, for if Badger had not left the brothel until four, he could not have ridden back to Plumford before sunrise. Hence, he could not have killed Peck.

Nevertheless, Henry plunged on with his inquiry. “Do you know a mulatto girl named Effie?” he asked Mrs. Scudder.

She suddenly got wary. “Why should I?”

“I was told she works here,” Henry said.

“Well, she don't anymore. Effie run off I know not where. Nor do I care. She was trouble.”

“She had a friend by the name of Caleb,” Henry said.

Mrs. Scudder shrugged. “Effie had a lot of friends.”

The third girl came over to us, limping slightly. As she gave Henry a searching look I noticed she had a small ecchymosis in the inner angle of each watery eye. “Do you know where Caleb is, sir?” We have been sorely worried about him.”

“I am sorry to tell you this,” Henry said, “but Caleb is dead.”

The girl hung her head and limped away without further inquiry.

Henry looked toward the other three women. “Why were you worried about him?'

They darted glances back and forth but said nothing.

“His death was deemed an accident,” Henry continued, “but we believe he was murdered.”

“By that bastard Rufus Badger!” bold Dora said.

“Shut up,” Mrs. Scudder ordered her between clenched teeth.

“You can't shut me up.”

“Well, I can sure as hell shut you
out,
Dora dear. Would you rather be walking the streets again instead of doing business under my roof?”