Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (10 page)

Then there were two books with text and illustrations:
The History of Lord Byron’s Voluptuous Amours
and
The New Epicurean, or The Delights of Sex
. The author of the latter volume went by the name of the Reverend Erasmus Cumming, and, having described in some detail various obscene escapades, he declared his ‘credo of the cynic and realist’, announcing that virtue and honour in women were mere appearance, principle in men a mask, morals simply a cloak for the rich to do as they liked, and law was the robbery of the poor. The pursuit of hedonism and the pleasures of the flesh were the only honesty. The engravings were of surprisingly good quality, and the writing, though coarse, was larded with Latin quotations and limp attempts at
bons mots
. In my soused state I found the whole thing strangely lowering. Finally there were two more pamphlets with more of the same, entitled
Lady Bumtickler’s Revels
and
The Lustful Turk
.

Thus I discovered what Blake had understood well before me: why Nat Wedderburn was not a good man. Troubled, fatigued and depressed by my own compulsive curiosity and that the stuff failed to stimulate anything in me but a general sense of melancholy, I fell asleep.

In my dream I am standing upon a narrow ledge in bright, bright sunlight. It is so bright that I must screw my eyes up to see. My uniform is drenched in perspiration. Around me are craggy peaks and burnt rock forms. I know at once that I am in Afghanistan.

I have an intimation that something bad is about to happen.
Beside me, one of my men, Mohammed Abdoo, looks to me questioningly. The next moment he is crashing off the ledge beside me. As he falls into the deep, deep void below, he looks back at me with horror and disbelief. Then another of my men, Faisal Khan, is tumbling off the ledge; then with dreadful swiftness another, and another. I reach out to catch a hand, to warn them, to call out their names, but they go, one after the other, and I cannot stop them. I know there is something I must do if I am to have any chance of saving them. It comes to me that I must turn to see who or what is pushing them to their deaths, though I fear that if I do so I will fall. But if I do not turn, I will eventually fall too. Fighting the sickening dread, I look behind me, but as I do so I feel a pair of hands thrust me off the ledge. Then I see myself falling into the void, my face a picture of horror and disbelief.

I woke anxious and cloudy-headed. It was late morning and I was shamed by my tardiness. More of a worry, however, was that there was no message from Blake. I imagined him sickening and in need of a doctor. Then the summons came after luncheon: we would meet in the dining-room of the Crown and Anchor at four o’clock.

I imagined the Crown and Anchor would be some old tavern with a fire and cosy nooks. I could not have been more wrong. It was a vast, four-storey building in the classical style, the length of five town houses on the south side of the Strand, barely a hundred yards from the end of Holywell Street. Inside, it was a little chipped and battered at the edges, but still most impressive. The large stone atrium was lit by a glass lantern in the roof and framed by a grand ironwork staircase. The dining-room would happily have accommodated 500, and was decorated with painted panels and elaborately carved festoons, with two huge inglenook marble fireplaces at each end in which roaring fires burned. It was so large that the usual tavern smells of tobacco and beer were mere traces in the air. There were few diners and Blake was easy to find, sitting at a small table by the wall. On the table was a large bull’s-eye lamp; by his side, a large cloth bag. His colour was better though he was still pale, but he was dressed in a worse state than he had been the day before: today he did not even have a collar but wore a handkerchief tied around his neck.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said, hiding my exasperation at his get-up, but not my anxious scrutiny of his health.

‘Stop your clucking,’ he said peevishly. ‘The fever broke in the night, I am quite well.’ A waiter brought a pot of coffee and a bowl of kitcheree from which the scent of familiar spices wafted.

‘What is this place?’ I said.

‘They called it the Temple of Freedom. It was the heart of radical politics in London. They celebrated the storming of the Bastille here in 1795. And the return of Tom Paine’s bones from America in 1819. Chartists held their first London meeting here.’ He half smiled. ‘But it’s not what it was. Do not fear, I’m sure there are none lurking under the table.’

‘I suppose you are familiar with the Chartists,’ I said.

‘I have met a few.’

‘Well, in my opinion they are dangerous. They encourage the disruption of relations between master and men, and landowner and tenant. They foment dissatisfaction among ordinary people. They preach the confiscation of property and the destruction of the propertied class. They are the rule of the mob.’

‘Ah, the mob,’ said Blake. ‘Do you know what your hero Byron said about the mob? “It is the mob that labour in your fields, and serve in your houses – that man your navy, and recruit your army – that have enabled you to defy all the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob; but do not forget, that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people.”

‘In my opinion,’ he said quietly, ‘the Chartists have good reason to be angry, but what they want is the vote for all, not merely the rich and privileged. They believe, foolishly perhaps, that if they could vote, Parliament would for once address their needs and act in their interests.’

‘Parliament acts in the interests of the whole country.’

‘Does it.’

‘Are you saying it does not?’

Blake closed his eyes in irritation.

‘Tell me what you think then,’ I said. ‘Explain it to me. I ask you honestly. I wish to know.’

‘Parliament functions to allow the privileged to maintain their privileges,’ he said. ‘It has consistently fought Lord Allington’s attempts to shorten working hours for the labouring class; it forestalls his attempts to regulate children’s work in mines and factories and votes down his plans to introduce universal education
for children. It fights tooth and nail to maintain the Corn Laws which keep bread prices high, so landowners like your father are secure in their wealth. Meanwhile the harvests fail and the poor go hungry. In whose interests are these things done?’

‘But the children of the poor need to work to help feed their families. Everyone knows that.’

Blake gave me his look. I looked away. We lifted our cups and sipped our coffee.

‘Was it really necessary to come dressed as a tramp again? Admit it, there are times when you do it merely to provoke consternation.’

Blake scratched his ear. I assumed that, as so often, there would be no answer, but then he said, ‘Now and then I tire of dancing for Collinson’s clients. Now and then I tire of making a good impression.’

‘Have there been many clients?’

‘It’s how I earn my keep.’ From out of a pocket he brought a small silver case and drew out a card.

‘Jeremiah Blake, Private Inquiry Agent’. Underneath was written, ‘Messages may be left at Jenkins’s, 62 Dean Street, Westminster’.

‘And Sir Theo?’

‘To do the work I need a licence from the coppers. Sir Theo has connections.’

‘If you dislike it, why do you do it?’

‘I’m good for nothing else,’ he said.

‘But surely this case is different – a death among the poor, help for the neglected and the needy. What is there to complain of?’

Blake pursed his lips slightly.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Nothing.’

‘Something. You do not like Lord Allington’s religion, granted. But let us agree he is unlikely to enjoy much success in converting the Hindoos, and you cannot deny he does real good. Your Lascars were fed and sheltered.’ He nodded. ‘So what is it?’

He thought for a moment. ‘He has the god-given arrogance of his class.’

‘As I recall, arrogance is a quality in which you are not exactly deficient, Mr Blake.’

‘Someone’s been sharpening your wit, Captain Avery.’

‘I found a whetstone and did it for myself, Mr Blake,’ I said tartly.

He almost smiled.

‘I assume that you knew all along that Nat Wedderburn was a seller of obscene books, but you did not see fit to tell me,’ I said.

‘It is what Holywell Street is known for, but I could not be sure until we saw his wares. Now you have confirmed it. You said you wanted to play your part. What are they like?’

‘You expect me to describe them?’ I said.

He shrugged. I thrust the packet into his lap. He unwrapped the paper and leafed quickly through the contents.

‘This is high quality of its type. The paper, the engravings, the claims to learning, the particular tastes. This comes at a price. No wonder Matty Horner said Wedderburn’s customers were swells. There’s money in this. He should have made a good living.’

‘It begs a question, don’t you think?’ I said.

‘It does?’

‘Do you really believe Lord Allington will wish to continue with this matter when he discovers what kind of man Wedderburn was?’

‘He should have an idea already. Holywell Street’s wares are hardly a secret.’

‘But, Blake—’

‘If you wish to walk away from this, you can.’

‘Damn it, Blake, will you stop saying that!’ I collected myself. ‘What of the other murder?’

‘Matthew Blundell, printer, five weeks ago, in Seven Dials.’

I remembered Seven Dials from
Sketches by Boz
. ‘Is that not a particularly grim place?’

‘All the want, degradation and sins of London crammed into a few dismal crowded courts. That’s what
The Times
says. I went by there this morning. The fire did a good job of bringing down the whole building. There’s little left but some blackened walls. The neighbours say his wife and children escaped but left a few days later. They had nothing and it would have been the pan otherwise.’

‘The pan?’

‘The workhouse. He had had his shop six years or so – same as Wedderburn. No one knew where he was from, but he was thought to be an educated man or even a preacher fallen on hard times. They knew him as a drunk and clown; in his cups he would make great blaspheming and lewd speeches which kept the street amused. A couple of prosecutions for theft and fraud. Seems he was in the same business as Wedderburn – lewd books sold illicitly.’

‘Had the neighbours heard of Wedderburn?’

Blake shook his head. ‘But several described seeing the body, and their description is almost identical to Wedderburn’s with one difference. Blundell’s hair had been covered in red paint. Then someone brought in a candle to get a better look and the room just seemed to catch fire.’

‘Good God! Spontaneous combustion?’

‘I suppose it is a possibility.’

‘And nothing from the police?’

‘As I say, they did not arrive until after the fire and concluded the man died in it.’

I found such talk dispiriting. ‘What must we do next then?’

‘I plan to see the school-master Dearlove, and then to go to the rookery behind Drury Lane. If the men were murdered over a feud or money owed, it would be the crims who’d likely know. But if you’re to come with me dressed like that, you’ll be a walking magnet for every gonoph and rampsman.’

I took another sip of coffee and did my best to look as if I did not mind.

‘Here,’ he said, and he hauled out of his cloth bag a long, worn velveteen coat and an old cloth cap such as the kind labourers wore. ‘Put this on. You’ll have to take off your collar and necktie and put this on instead.’ He handed me a well-used, brightly coloured silk handkerchief.

‘I shall look like a labourer!’

I will not describe the look he gave me. Hurriedly I took off my coat and put his on; it had a damp, musty odour like Abraham Kravitz’s shop. A number of other diners gave us wondering looks.

‘Put your money and anything else you value in the deepest inner pocket and do up the coat nice and tight.’ He permitted himself a sneaking smile. ‘You did say that I was a master of disguise.’ He picked up his bull’s-eye lamp and we walked into the still crowded and darkening Strand.

‘How can you stand the noise?’ I said, as we picked our way through the carts and carriages.

‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘And there are the side streets to take refuge in.’

‘Was it always like this – before, when you were a child?’

‘I cannot remember.’

‘It makes me long for the countryside.’

Thomas Dearlove’s school lay at the end of a grim alley that led off Newcastle Street, a draughty thoroughfare that passed west of Holywell Street. Ashes and filth were heaped up by the sides of the flat-faced, ugly tenements; not an unbroken pane of glass was there anywhere. Halfway up the lane a cluster of pinched, insolent-looking boys leant over some game, passing about a pipe. They watched us approach with an unwavering surly gaze.

‘Got a penny for us, have ya?’ one said, and two more came swaggering towards us.

I would have dismissed them, but Blake said, his accent smoothly thickening into those of the London street, ‘I’ve got a penny. But I want to know wotcha think of the school-teacher up there.’

‘The holy groaner?’ said one, and the others laughed.

‘Goes on about the Lord and that. Looks like he’s never had a woman, know what I mean?’ said another, his profane words at odds with his diminutive stature – he looked barely twelve.

‘He’s all right,’ said a third. ‘There’s a fire, and we get bread and butter and tea.’

Blake leant over the game and tossed three small coins into the air. The boys went skittering after them.

The school’s premises were a former stables. Boards had been laid to cover the hard earth. There were low stools and long deal tables with the legs cut down so they were low enough for the
stools. On the walls, spotted with damp, were large printed cards showing the alphabet and a number of admonitory and encouraging texts: ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’, ‘Try, Try Again’ and ‘God Goes with Thee’. It was a poor, grim place indeed. At the back a fireplace had been contrived. Over it was hung a tripod and next to it stood a large kettle. It was to this that a slight, black-clad man – the teacher, I supposed – was now attending.