A shrewd customer, thinks the correspondent. An egoist, who cannot resist the urge to display his superior traits.
‘We was speaking of regrets,’ prompts the patterer.
‘Indeed, Mr Owler, one need not be a murderer to house a generous supply of regret. Let me count the ways: I regret my wasted life – which, while stopping well short of murder, did overstep any number of God’s commandments. I regret a certain meanness and ruthlessness in my approach to life, in which I take no satisfaction, though it were born of desperate circumstances. I regret my past inability to see beyond the immediate satisfaction of material desires, having felt the bite of poverty. I regret my first crime, born of a free-and-easy nature which would not settle to any youthful business other than the filching of handkerchiefs. I regret my first success, in which I stole a silk handkerchief from a gentleman’s pocket near St Paul’s …’
Impressive, thinks Whitty, and yet rehearsed, with a symmetry lacking in real life.
‘I regret my first conviction for theft, that I failed to take instruction from it – that, following my release from the Old Horse, I practised new criminal trades acquired in prison. I regret the passing of forged Bank
of England notes – that the gallows held so little terror for me, even after Cashman was topped for passing finnies on Snow Hill. I regret every man I propped upon a highway, crimes for which I might have been hanged twenty times.’
Ryan pauses – for effect, observes the correspondent.
‘Yet most of all I regret my conviction and sentencing for the one crime I did not commit. Not because my hanging will be any great loss to England, nor because I do not deserve it on other accounts, but because it provides time for another to continue his terrible work. Chokee Bill is still in London, Gentlemen. I know this for a certainty. Put a Bible on the grave of my mother and I shall swear to it …’
Thinks Whitty: Men who swear on the graves of their mothers are mostly liars. Yet just because a man is a liar it does not follow that he is not, upon occasion, telling the truth.
Throughout the above declamation, Ryan has been pacing the enclosure in an erratic, angular pattern – no doubt the stimulative effects of Whitty’s medicinal cigaret. However, this energy soon dissipates, and now he leans against a corner of the wall, appearing to study its surface, running his fingers tentatively up and down the rough stone as though by habit. Above his head is a cistern, situated on top of the wall, with the
chevaux-de-frise
bolted to either side.
‘Well, Mr Owler, have I provided you with enough regrets for the moment?’
‘It is adequate,’ replies Owler, without enthusiasm.
The bell having sounded once more and the turnkey having returned, the prisoner escorts his guests to the door as though from his Mayfair town-house. ‘I regret, Mr Owler, that my statement has not provided the news value of a confession.’
‘To be frank, Sir, it’s not worth the cost of printing.’
‘I find it odd that you have not considered the possibility of my innocence – if only to spread your risk.’
‘Give me a reason to think so, Sir.’
‘You have but to weigh the evidence fairly. Unlike others.’
The patterer has no reply, having sunk into gloomy thoughts of the workhouse. Whitty, on the other hand, remains alert and curious, having taken a medicinal cigaret himself. (Stimulants by day, depressants at night – rules to live by.)
‘Mr Ryan, allow me to ask you the most basic of questions: assuming that you are innocent, why are you here?’
‘For the protection of a lady, Sir.’
‘And which lady might that be?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
‘Indeed, Mr Ryan, you are not at liberty at all.’
Now ensues a pause in which they test each other’s ability to endure silence, like opponents prior to a game of chess.
‘I shall be pleased to enlighten you at some later date. However, I must now entertain a person from the Women’s Temperance Union who has every hope of a pledge.’
‘If I may pose one last question, Sir: If you did not kill those five women, then who did?’
‘I shall tell you that when I can hope to be believed.’
The Haymarket
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
The tall young woman with long chestnut hair concealed beneath her bonnet and a deep
décolletage
beneath her cloak, and a complexion unmarked by disease or poverty, strolls the walkway around the perimeter of Leicester Square, stopping at each shop whose darkened window contains a display of bonnets. She likes to buy a new bonnet once a week. The bonnet she is wearing this week is black – the same black as her silk cloak. Removing her bonnet will display her chestnut hair, which is her best asset; removal of her cloak will expose her white skin, which they like to stroke. Her cloak has never been pawned, nor has she had to sell her hair for wigs. Nor is she in debt, and therefore a prisoner of the keeper of her lodging on Romilly Street. She can leave London whenever it pleases her. She is an independent operative, which is more than she can say for such as her friend Etta, a slop-worker who must stoop occasionally in order to meet the monthly shortfall.
Someday Etta will learn, as Flo has, that to become a slop-worker is an uglier and less hopeful fate than this one.
Today she awakened at four p.m. in her room, dressed in a leisurely fashion, then made her way to a supper club, where she danced a little and waited for someone to approach. However, none of the gentlemen at the Holborn liked her enough on this particular evening, so she drank a little in order to dull the feeling that wells up in her when she is ignored. She did not drink overmuch, however, as that makes her sad.
Next she proceeded to the Haymarket, where she wandered from one café to the other, from Sally’s to the Carleton, to Barns’s, on to the Turkish divans and then back again …
Hallo
. By the feeling at the nape of her neck, she has attracted the attentions of a gentleman. Yes, there he is – at the window two doors down to her right.
When he turns in her direction, she knows him at once and is about to move on quickly – yet he does not seem to place her in return – all
to the good. She reminds herself that, in such situations, it is best to affect an aspect of artless innocence.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss, but might I ask you for directions to the Haymarket?’
‘Why certainly, Sir. It isn’t far, and in the direction you’re now facing.’
As he draws closer, his face betrays no sign of recognition. Perhaps he never really looked at her face in the first place, for that is often the case.
‘This is good luck, for I find myself rather at loose ends. Might I be so bold as to ask if you will accompany me?’
‘Since you are a gentleman, Sir, I trust you to behave as such.’
‘You may rest assured on that score, Miss. Indeed, am I to understand that you find yourself alone in the city as well?’
‘Aye, Sir.’
‘From the country, perhaps?’
‘A disgraced millinery girl. Anything you wish.’
‘I count myself a lucky gentleman to find myself in such attractive and flexible company.’
‘You’re generous, Sir, but it is a dark night and perhaps that has deceived you.’
‘It is not quite so dark as that. Indeed, you are easily the prettiest girl I have seen this evening. I confess to having followed you while I summoned the courage to tell you so.’
‘You flatter me overmuch with these attentions. I am quite overwhelmed.’
‘No more than you deserve. Indeed, if we were able to share a few moments in seclusion, I should like to favour you with a small present. As a token of my esteem.’
‘How thoughtful. And if I might ask, what might be the value of such a token, Sir?’
‘That would of course depend on you, Miss. Might I persuade you to step into this doorway so that I might show you my little present? Which, I am certain, an independent assessment would value at no less than a sovereign.’
Eager to earn such a reward, yet unwilling to risk accompanying him to a room, she takes his hand in hers and draws him into the doorway, placing her other hand beneath his coat, near the bottom button of his waistcoat.
‘Actually, it is a scarf,’ he whispers, removing his white silk
gentleman’s scarf from inside his coat and wrapping it around her neck.
‘A white scarf. So very pretty. Is it a bit too tight, do you say? Does it chafe somewhat? I am sorry, you will have to speak a bit more clearly, for I can hardly understand a word you say. What beautiful eyes you have. How wide they are – not a trace of a squint. And how rosy your cheeks are becoming. Do I make you blush? Was it something I said? Have I embarrassed you? By Jove, I see you are positively faint. Perhaps you should rest a moment, for you seem to have lost your breath …’
He pushes her against a display window containing ladies’ shawls and bonnets, with sufficient force to crack the glass. Lying on her back in the shadow of the arch now, she can no longer make out his face, but she knows who it is, and knows he is smiling …
A still, small voice spake unto thee,
Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?
Crooning verses, he pulls the scarf more tightly and her tongue begins to swell. He is indeed smiling. His arms and shoulders are surprisingly strong – a rugby player, perhaps. As a demonstration of his power, he executes a sudden sharp twist, causing her to lurch sideways, puppet-like. Her bonnet falls onto the steps. Her long chestnut hair splashes across the slate floor.
‘Oh you are an impudent one with your pretty little tongue sticking out! Making fun of me are you? Oh, I say!’
Coldbath Fields
A thoughtful correspondent, a dispirited patterer and a well-lubricated turnkey make their way in the gloom of evening past the oakum-picking shed, from which a line of female prisoners files past in the company of a warder, having completed their shift, to judge by their red and bleeding fingers.
‘A most instructive outing,’ Whitty observes.
‘Indeed, Squire, I hope it will lead to a most salutary article on the modern prison.’
‘At the very least, Mr Hook. Not to mention an appreciation of its heroic staff, performing correctional miracles under trying circumstances – with of course a generous reference to the theories of your enlightened Governor Cornwallis.’
‘Oh, that is a stunner, Squire. Such a mention would do me no harm, professionally speaking.’
‘Consider it done.’
‘Laying it down a bit thick, aren’t you?’ observes Owler under his breath.
‘Only as required,’ whispers the correspondent, while the turnkey struggles with the rusted metal door.
‘What is your judgement of the situation?’
‘Our man Ryan spins a clever tale,’ observes Whitty. ‘Note his long confession of crimes – falling just short of the crime of which he is convicted.’
The turnkey chuckles. ‘They all does that, Squire. Very free they is with their past regrets and their sorry upbringing – it adds to the look of sincerity, don’t you see.’
‘Very full of secrets they is, too,’ observes Owler, who has resumed puffing on his dreadful pipe. ‘Always some unsavoury truth, kept secret by Certain Parties, concerning a Prominent Person.’
‘Still, Mr Ryan tells his story well.’
‘Our man was in the crim-con business, Sir. Such was established in the trial itself.’
‘So I understand. In partnership with a woman of ruined character.’
‘Name of Sally Hunger,’ says Owler. ‘A woman not unlike Mr Ryan in character.’
‘True for you, Squire. Such women make it their business to appeal to the flaws of a propertied man, for whom a charge of criminal conversation would mean ruin. To effect the dodge they require a male accomplice to play the outraged husband, and to provide protection for the female operative,’ replies the turnkey. ‘The female party lures the victim into a most depraved situation, then, at the moment of greatest possible mortification … you may imagine what follows.’
‘Quite,’ agrees Whitty. ‘Am I to assume that Mr Ryan performed the role of the outraged husband?’
‘The same. However, according to Mr Ryan, the gentlemen took exception to the dodge and refused to pay. What is more (and this is where credulity splinters, if my opinion has any credit), our man claims that there is another woman, very near and dear to him, whom the would-be mark will surely murder if Mr Ryan tells all. Of course it is all a cock.’
Cock or no, Whitty’s mind has assumed a state of heightened interest, having combined the various impressions of this afternoon with his recollection of Ryan’s trial; the result is a plethora of intriguing, plausible narratives, each capable of eliciting keen interest in
The Falcon
.
‘Mr Owler, if I recall correctly, did not this selfsame Sally Hunger fall as a victim of the Fiend?’
‘Precisely, Sir. Your mind is working at high throttle at last. Sally were found in a lane near the Strand, the fifth victim, choked like the rest and mutilated in Chokee Bill fashion. She were Ryan’s undoing, of course. By similar fact, the cloud of suspicion spread to the other murders.’
‘It does seem rather a blunder – to kill so close to home.’
‘Who knows what rage might move the Fiend? All five was women of low character. All five was choked with a scarf. And there was things done to their faces. The murders was in every aspect identical.’
‘But Mr Ryan offers another explanation.’
‘Wictimization by the failed object of blackmail, yes.’
‘Oh, he has a tale for everything, Squire,’ says the turnkey. ‘That he will hang rather than see harm come to her.’
‘An elegant irony – that the blackmailer should die from extortion.’
‘Werily, Sir. Too elegant to be true.’
Comes a contemptuous cackle from the turnkey: ‘The protection of a lady? It is not elegant, it is the oldest cock in The Steel!’
‘I expect that is true,’ agrees the correspondent. ‘We all strive to place our ugly little tale in a favourable light.’
‘All the same, Squire, one expects better from such a clever man. Sworn to a gentleman’s silence? Did you ever hear of anything so fishy in your life?’
Having made their way in silence down Mount Pleasant, our partners in journalism now warm themselves with spiced gin at the Hare and Razor, a small, near-empty pub near Guilford Street, frequented by what look to be Coldbath Fields alumni, to judge by the drawn pallor in the faces and the concentration with which they take their liquor.
About Mr Ryan, Whitty is of two minds. On the one hand, here is a man with as wily and ruthless a nature as one will find on the Ratcliffe Highway, a man spiritually capable of treachery even to the point of killing. Yet there exists a discontinuity between the man and the crime. The correspondent judges Ryan to be, above all, a tactician – a man who does nothing unless it be for money (he was a coiner after all), or some other objective in his own interest. This is hardly the sort of man who kills purely for gratification – as, seemingly, did Chokee Bill. Unless, of course, our man represents a new kind of villain, peculiar to the modern era; something as yet unforeseen.
Whitty signals the barkeeper for another tot, as the nutmeg and lemon are in perfect combination. At the same time he reminds himself to be careful with spiced gin, for experts claim it to be more addictive than opium.
‘From what I have heard this afternoon, Mr Owler, I think you can rest more easy on the hanging. That a whole new story is about to erupt around our man.’
Owler stares gloomily into his cup. ‘What might produce such an optimistic conclusion, Sir?’
‘Our man is an athlete in training – that much is clear. I find it unlikely that he is preparing his body for the grave.’
‘True, there is a futility to it.’
‘Therefore I have no choice but to conclude that our man is preparing his escape.’
A LOOMING CRISIS IN BRITISH PRISONS
by
Edmund Whitty
Correspondent
The Falcon
Much has been written concerning the failure of the British Prison system, notwithstanding the millions of pounds afforded it, to produce any social benefit other than as a tool for moralists, a playground for thugs and a laboratory for sadistic experimentation. However valid, such objections are soon to be eclipsed by a scandal of sheer incompetence, the which is destined to jolt London to its foundations.
For indeed, despite the righteous huffing and puffing in the Fourth Estate over a ‘wave of crime’ in the city and the need for sterner measures against evildoers, scant attention has been paid to the incompetent enforcement of those laws which already exist. As a consequence, despite the unprecedented construction of new Houses of Correction and the gaoling of seventeen thousand British men, women and children, no discernible decline in the rate of criminal activity has occurred. More ominously, there is reason to suspect that, in the meanwhile, due to rampant negligence and petty corruption from the highest official to the lowest crusher, the public remains at the mercy of the true fiends who stalk the streets.
Information has reached the ears of your correspondent indicating that the comedy of errors of which we speak is shortly to come to an explosive and sensational climax.