Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (18 page)

‘How do you know it was him?’ said Blake.

O’Toole looked around the table intently. He clearly believed himself the hero of his story. I wondered what had become of the compositor.

‘I know. Next thing, the bluebottles were set on me over accusations of extortion. I was almost put out of business.’

‘But Renton, you
were
extorting.’

‘Yes, but who knew? Only I, and those who had cause to pay me. And Woundy, who had learnt everything from me. I soon found out he was behind the
English Spy
, and the rest too, though he did all he could to put me off the scent. Even in those days he wished to appear blameless.’

‘Opening a rival paper is not a crime,’ said Jerrold exasperatedly. ‘What is your proof that he tried to have you closed down?’

‘I have no actual paper proof,’ said O’Toole angrily. ‘But there was the lawsuit between the
Ironist
and the
English Spy
, which again almost put me out of business. As I was saying, I could not help wondering how it was that Woundy had come into so much capital, and so I began to sniff about. And what did I find? Mr Woundy was not merely adept at extortion, he was also a substantial publisher of obscene and lewd material, and he had a brothel in Charlotte Street that catered to interesting tastes.’ Here Renton permitted himself a knowing smile. ‘A former bookshop that he turned into a knocking-shop. I have it on
good authority that he was not above a bit of forgery and fraud too. They all fed usefully upon each other. Certain men of rank partook of certain services in which Mr Woundy had a confidential interest, then found themselves blackmailed for it. And with his various interests he amassed a small fortune.’

Jerrold threw his hands up. ‘But, Renton, you are hardly one to talk.’ I thought at once of Wedderburn’s illustrations for ‘Miss Tess Thrashington’s’ premises on Charlotte Street.

‘What I produced was not illegal,’ O’Toole persisted. ‘Woundy’s stuff was – is – filth of the first water. Extremely profitable, high priced, sold to the gentry and aristocracy – with a specialism in “birchen sports”. He goes to great lengths to hide his involvement. He stakes the cash and has others make it and sell it for him. They take the heat if the law or the Society for the Suppression of Vice comes calling. He always has two or three booksellers working for him.’

‘And you know this because …’ said Blake.

‘I have been watching the man for years, waiting for my moment.’

‘Why not publish all this yourself, Mr O’Toole?’

‘I know how people think of me. But you, Mr Blake, you have the ear of important men. You could take him down.’

‘And why should I do that? For the sake of a few dirty pictures and a few toffs blackmailed for bad behaviour?’

‘No,’ said O’Toole sulkily. ‘Because three weeks ago that poor excuse for a man, Nat Wedderburn, was murdered at his own press. Ah! You did not think I knew about that, Mr Blake? But I do. Wedderburn was one of Woundy’s creatures, dependent on his charity, selling his filth and running some moderately successful blackmailing himself. Matthew Blundell was another. A drunken, ribald oaf who died in very similar circumstances a few weeks before and then immediately caught light and burned. Did he not?’

‘You are certain Blundell worked for Woundy?’ said Blake.

‘Caught your attention now, have I, Mr Blake? There’s a good deal of money in their end of the trade, but neither of them lived as well as they should’ve. Woundy was creaming off the profits. I went so far as to pose as a client for Blundell’s publications. You know how they furnished their customers with the real filth? Hid it in a
basket under piles of dirty laundry – most appropriate – and lowered it by ropes into the backyard.’

I recalled the great baskets with ropes in Connie Wedderburn’s lodgings.

‘Why do you believe these men met their ends, O’Toole?’

‘Why, Woundy’s ambitions are boundless and he is ruthless. Now that his paper is doing so well his pet printers are no longer useful to him, and he doesn’t want them to be traced to him. He will have decided that he can no longer afford to be connected to such men, and he will not wish to continue paying them. He is a man of blunt reasoning. He cannot be certain of their silence, so he will ensure it. And he has the means to do it: you have seen his punishers. Once it was done, he ensured that no one would speak of it.’

‘You think he threatened the whole of Holywell Street and silenced the coppers?’

‘I think his bruisers could easily let it be known that the matter must be kept quiet. And as for the bluebottles, a little grease across palms will do wonders.’

‘What about the editor of the
English Spy
? Is he still with us?’

‘Died a few years back.’

‘Of what?’

‘Who can say?’

‘Oh really, Renton!’ said Jerrold crossly. ‘Spendhall died of old age and drink, there was no mystery about that!’

‘A very elaborate way of dispensing with one’s employees’ services, wouldn’t you say, Mr O’Toole?’ said Blake.

‘But so appropriate for the publisher of “penny bloods”, wouldn’t you say, Mr Blake? Blood and ceremony. Woundy knows all about that. He hoped no one would take an interest in such low-lifes – and the police obliged. But just in case the murders should attract further attention, do they not appear to be the work of someone crazed with disgust for these purveyors of obscenity? Certainly not someone with whom the murdered men enjoyed a fruitful financial connection.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about it all, Renton,’ Mayhew broke in, his words a little slurred.

O’Toole ground his teeth. ‘Because I have good reason to take an interest in Woundy and his ways. I’ll not let him get away with this.’

‘Do you recognize Woundy from Mr O’Toole’s account, Mr Mayhew?’ Blake said.

Mayhew chewed his lip. ‘He was a man of loud and angry passions. I must confess it does not sound quite as outlandish as it should.’

‘Do you have proof of any of this, O’Toole?’ said Blake. ‘Or is it all just hearsay?’

‘Not paper proof,’ O’Toole grumbled. ‘But there might be something. Woundy was a methodical creature. Liked to keep things written down in big black ledgers. Chances are there’s a record somewhere.’

‘Blake,’ I muttered. ‘If Woundy is indeed capable of such things, should we not be concerned for Connie Wedderburn? Blundell’s family disappeared. What if that was Woundy’s doing? I will not feel easy now unless I see that they are safe.’

Blake rubbed his ear. ‘I am not sure what to make of your story, O’Toole,’ he said. ‘But since we mentioned Wedderburn’s widow to Woundy, we cannot take the chance that he might do her harm. Mr Mayhew, Mr Jerrold, we must leave you. But before we go, O’Toole, what can you tell me about Lord Allington?’

‘Why should you take an interest in him?’ said O’Toole beadily.

‘There are marks of his charity everywhere round Drury Lane. I am curious.’

‘Pure as driven snow, so far as I know,’ said O’Toole, yawning, and I fancied not entirely convinced by Blake’s nonchalance. ‘His parents were a pair though. Father, the Earl of Pewsey, was a cruel old turk, ran through the family money, had some very interesting pastimes. I had a few guineas from him in my time.’

Jerrold rolled his eyes.

‘The story is,’ O’Toole went on, warming up, ‘that such was the coldness of the parents, the Viscount and his sister were brought up by a servant, a very devout, pious woman. Provided the only kindness they had in their whole childhood. That explains the religious mania. The sister too. It’s said the Earl, short of money, did his best to deprive Allington of a trust he was due when he was twenty-one,
and then of a legacy from an aunt. Then tried to marry the sister off to some old crony of his, twice her age. She refused. He cut her off and she took refuge with Allington. Such was the father’s reputation that brother and sister occupy the peaks of irreproachable respectability, devoting themselves to their poor little chimney sweeps and what not, while the Earl and his Lady stew in the country, contemplating their debts, relics of a freer and more permissive age. Much like myself.’ He smirked.

I stood, ready to withdraw. Mayhew got up tipsily and took our hands. ‘I hope we will meet again, Captain Avery. I shall wait with bated breath to hear the outcome of this evening. And, Mr Blake – our tour, you promised.’

Jerrold stood too, revealing a very curved, almost hunched, back. ‘Yes indeed, gentlemen, we look forward to hearing the end of the story.’

O’Toole, meanwhile, retrieved something slightly bent and frayed from his very tight waistband. ‘My card,’ he said. He proffered it to Blake, his arms describing a great arc like some tragic actor making a grand gesture. It read:

RENTON O’TOOLE
, scribe, actor, swell

‘If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me’

–
Henry VIII
, Act 1, Sc. 4.

Underneath there was an address in Old Street. I caught Blake’s eye and was forced to choke back my amusement.

‘Do not forget, Mr Blake,’ said O’Toole, quite oblivious to our mirth, ‘you owe me, and I shall not be slow in calling upon you when the need arises.’

A reed of light shone from between the shutters of the Wedderburns’ rooms. I ran up the stairs to the side door, Blake trailing behind me, and knocked. No reply. I battered upon it and called out. There came the sound of footsteps.

‘Who is it?’ asked Connie Wedderburn from the other side of the door.

‘Mrs Wedderburn, it is Captain Avery. We were concerned about you.’

‘Captain Avery, you cannot pursue us at such hours. You must leave us alone.’

‘Connie,’ Blake called through the door, ‘we’ve heard some worrying intelligence and we wanted to be sure you were safe.’

There was a pause, a whisper, a scraping of locks and bolts, and the door opened slightly. Connie Wedderburn stood in her nightdress, her hair a penumbra of dull fire; on either side stood the oldest daughter and the silent son. She gazed at us for a moment, pushed the children back inside, took up a blanket and, wrapping it around herself, stepped out to us, closing the door behind her.

‘Is Daniel here?’ I said. ‘We saw him. He said he would come.’

‘He came, then he left.’

‘We hoped he would stay.’

She shivered. ‘I think he meant to, but we argued. He is so angry with me he can hardly bear to be near me.’

‘What did you argue about?’ said Blake.

She pulled the blanket tighter about her. ‘About his father. About Eldred. Things he doesn’t understand but won’t take on trust.’

‘What time did he leave?’ Blake said.

‘I don’t know. It was dark. Not long ago.’

‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ I said, ‘we are worried that Eldred Woundy may intend some harm to you in his desire to keep his association with your husband a secret.’

‘You are concerned about Eldred?’ she said. ‘I thought …’ She trailed off.

‘We cannot address the matter properly until tomorrow, but we wanted to keep watch tonight.’

‘Believe me, Captain Avery,’ she said, ‘Eldred would never harm us.’

‘Nevertheless I would not feel right if we were to leave you and something happened,’ I said. ‘We would be like sentries, guarding the gate. We do not wish to alarm you on our account; we will simply be outside.’

‘But it is perishing cold,’ said Connie Wedderburn.

‘I insist,’ I said.

Blake produced a pitiful dry cough. I ignored him.

‘I tell you, it isn’t needful,’ she said. But I would not be deflected and so she found us two old moth-eaten blankets and shaking her head gave us the key to the shop, then returned inside.

I took the first watch outside the side door. Blake said not a word, but went to sit in the shop lest someone try to enter by the back door.

It was too chill to sleep. I remembered how I had yearned for the cold in the headache-inducing heat of May and June in India. Gloomy thoughts of home pressed upon me. I pushed them away and other, more immediate, questions surged in their place: Woundy’s intentions; O’Toole’s and Jerrold’s stories; Daniel Wedderburn and his anger.

Blake relieved me at around two, still wordless and grey with fatigue. I moved into the shop where the wind did not cut, and I dozed at last and for once did not dream. I heard a clock strike. It was still dark. Blake stood over me, holding a lighted candle. He was pale, haggard and feverish.

‘You look ghastly,’ I said.

‘And I slept so well,’ he said.

‘Was I wrong?’

‘No. Come, we’ll visit Woundy.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Just after five. We will get into the works before anyone else, see if we can find his papers. And then we’ll plan to beard him when he arrives.’

‘What about the Wedderburns?’

‘The coffee seller is outside.’

I picked myself up, feeling the creases in my clothes and body. I had become soft. We bought coffee, which was gritty and bitter. The light beginning to illuminate the city was of a sinister hue – an odd bruised yellow as if presaging worse weather – and the biting easterly blow found its way to our necks and ears.