Sewell’s rooms, off Bruton Street
Having spent an hour in the accomplishment of her errand, Phoebe smiles upon exiting the house off Bruton Street, imagining Mr Whitty’s surprise were he to know to what degree he had served as her supplier of information and not the reverse – that the net gain had been hers. For though she knew precisely where Mr Roo lived, it is thanks to the correspondent that she now possesses a better picture of him, and a worthier commodity than her body with which to lure him in.
Of course, even with the knowledge of the flask to attract Mr Roo’s interest (assuming it is the same flask he made such good use of on the night they met), still she faced the same difficulty as to how contact might be effected; therefore she took the simple expedient of slipping her message beneath every single door in the house.
With renewed hope, she runs to New Bond Street and thence back to the Crown. Were she to have proceeded at a more leisurely pace, she might have met the hansom cab containing the very gentleman she seeks – albeit in a somewhat dishevelled state – making its way to the house off Bruton Street.
Sewell finds it a worry whenever his friend fails to appear at his lodgings for several days in succession, at the minimum for a glass of brandy and the loan of a few bob. Unwanted images invade the mind, of Reggie garrotted in a ditch, or taken with cholera; in this instance Sewell’s unease has been multiplied by the mysterious, cryptic note which someone slipped under his door, addressed to ‘Mr Roo’ in a female hand – which, together with his vague familiarity with the name ‘Dorcas’, induced the young man to experience that peculiar pulling in the chest which has occurred with greater frequency of late.
The message has remained open on the table in the sitting-room all day, awaiting an explanation from his absent friend.
Finally he hears Reggie’s knock – three fast, two slow, one firm – a code they devised as schoolboys at Eton.
‘Reggie, old man. Thank Heaven. I have just received a curious note concerning a young woman.’
‘Confound your note. For the love of Jesus let a fellow in.’
‘You do look a fright. What in Heaven has happened?’
‘I’ve suffered the most beastly ill-luck in the world.’
Indeed, the young man standing unsteadily on the landing little resembles the dashing young Harewood whose face and form Sewell knows as if they were his own. This is not the irresistible rogue who chases Haymarket whores, watched over by his appreciative chum; this is not the sport on whose behalf Sewell gladly bet and lost £10 at cards a week ago. On the contrary, this is the face of a man who has been diagnosed with an incurable disease.
‘I beg you, dear fellow, come in at once. By Heaven, you look as if you could make good use of a stiff brandy.’
‘A capital suggestion.’ Harewood stumbles into the room while lighting a cigaret with a trembling lucifer, his limp more pronounced than usual. ‘It is a hellish thing, Roo. I’ve been most grievously used and am in dire peril.’
Sewell follows his friend into the drawing-room: by the rank smell of gin, tobacco and sweat, not to mention his friend’s unkempt state, it is clear that Harewood has slept in his clothes – if indeed he has slept at all.
Sewell fetches a bottle and glasses, having noted that his friend has been drinking steadily and heavily enough to literally foam at the corners of his mouth. When a fellow has drunk this deep and this long, there lies a danger in attempting to become sober too quickly; indeed, such sudden abstinence can lead to dementia. Thus, additional alcohol is warranted.
Sewell administers to his friend two quick brandies in succession, then sits on the couch opposite, placing the bottle on the table next to the mysterious message.
‘Reggie, you really must tell me what dreadful thing has put you in such a state.’
‘I shall, indeed. But you must promise not to become cross with me, for it really is a devil of a thing that has happened …’ Harewood’s face once more crumples with despair.
‘My dear fellow! Did Jonathan forsake David?’
‘It’s no laughing matter. I beg you not to joke about it.’
‘Quite,’ replies Sewell, for his friend appears inordinately serious, not like Reggie at all.
‘Do you recall my speaking at one time or another of a … a certain young woman, in whom I had taken a … a certain interest?’
Indeed, how could Sewell forget, his normally impeccable bedroom having been drenched by their encounters.
‘By this I take it you don’t refer to your dear cousin.’
‘I assure you, Sir, had I confined myself to Clara, I should not be as you see me now.’
‘You did mention having relations with another female.’
‘Actually, you might remember her yourself, from a fortnight or two back. Pair of ripe ones – except that one of them had a deuced filthy mouth.’
‘That vile little thing? Dash it, you haven’t taken up with her surely!’
‘Hardly, I should say. No, the other. The blonde one.’
‘What of her?’
‘I’m blest if she isn’t dead.’
‘Dead? I say, that is hard. Not by violence, surely?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Well that certainly takes the fun out of it for you.’
‘I say, Roo, at times your mode of expression is almost inhuman.’
‘Sorry, old chap, don’t mean it to be. Didn’t know you were that fond of the girl.’
‘How fond I was of the girl ain’t the point. It’s a rum thing to have your girl strangled, but that ain’t the end of it. Damn it, Roo, I am associated with a grisly murder!’
‘Such an association will go down poorly with the Governor, I am certain.’
‘The Governor? Frig the Governor! I’m afraid, Roo, you lack a full appreciation of the gravity of our situation.’
Sewell notes with foreboding his friend’s use of the first person plural. ‘I beg you to explain the position more fully.’
‘Sir, the young lady in question, with whom I have been seen in a public house upon various occasions and in transit to these very rooms, was done for by Chokee Bill.’
‘That is impossible. The man was recaptured a week ago.’
‘Then it was someone very like him.’
‘An imitator is indeed possible, and the press will take care of the rest. Anything to put the masses in a frenzy.’
‘To Hell with the masses.’
‘No criticism intended, Reggie, but I do think you might appreciate the value of your social position
before
you get yourself into these things and not after.’
‘Social position?’ Reggie laughs – a hollow sound, thoroughly
lacking in merriment. ‘It is the fecking gallows I’m thinking about!’
‘Reginald Harewood? Murdering women? I say, that would be a waste of horseflesh wouldn’t it, old chap?’ So says Sewell, affecting his man-of-the-world stance.
‘Upon my word, Roo, there you go again. That you can joke about such a thing …’
Reginald Harewood begins openly to weep.
It would be an understatement to suggest that this development renders Walter Sewell uncomfortable. For an English gentleman of any breeding, such a display is like stumbling upon one’s friend
in flagrante delicto
. Sewell notes, as though for the first time, an infantile quality to the trembling chin which does not show Reggie to good advantage.
He none the less does his duty, comforting Harewood with reason and patience, while thinking: A friendship sorely tested.
‘Really, old chap, there is no point reckoning the position to be worse than it is. Granted, you were seen with the lady in a compromising circumstance – as were many other men, given her profession. Yet it don’t follow that you choked her to death; indeed, the length of your association would weigh entirely against such a conclusion. A gentleman who murders his own mistresses? It flies in the face of good sense.’
Harewood reaches for the bottle of brandy. ‘I’m less than confident that the Metropolitan Police will see it that way.’
‘Very well, dear fellow, then allow me to put your mind at rest. In the unlikely occurrence of such an eventuality, I shall vouch for you. It is as simple as that. I shall say that you were with me the entire evening. How does that sound?’
Harewood nearly weeps anew, so sudden is the relief. ‘Trusty old Roo! Dear old friend, may I say that you are simply the most capital fellow in all the world!’ Harewood reaches across the table and gives his friend a pat on the knee. Now he raises the bottle in a toast, drinks – but another thought comes to mind, and he becomes solemn again.
‘Actually, there remains something else about Dorcas which you need to know.’
‘Dorcas, you say? What might that be?’
Sewell has picked up a curious scrap of paper and appears to be having some difficulty in breathing.
Harewood takes the missive from his friend’s outstretched fingers, and reads it. ‘Ah. Oh dear. There is another piece of beastly luck.’
‘What beastly luck, Reggie? What beastly luck is that?’
‘Shouldn’t blame you if you’re cross. Stupidest thing to do. But
you’re a man of the world, old chap. It was early days and I was desperately hot for a feel at any cost – deuced coy little piece don’t you know, that was the beauty of her. Finally, by brute force I get my hand inside her petticoats and suddenly, apropos of nothing, the little tart asks me my name! Caught me utterly by surprise, don’t you see, and while trying to put my hand further, I opened my mouth to come up with Stanley or Simpson or one of the usual monikers – and I’ll be blest if what popped out wasn’t Roo!’
Sewell is perspiring freely, cheeks burning, with that tightening in the chest; indeed, he thinks he may grow faint …
Harewood continues, oblivious to Sewell’s distress: ‘Stupidest damned thing. An accident really, when you think about it, a momentary lapse like a sort of fit. Not something to hold against a fellow, surely. Meant to say “Simpson” or whatever, and it came out “Roo”. Simple as that. Once said, of course, no way to put it right.’
‘For the love of Jesus, Reggie, would you kindly shut up?’
Unable to follow his friend’s discourse for the sound of rushing water in his ears, Sewell downs a large brandy – too quickly, for the glass slips from his fingers and shatters on the maple floor, which sound alerts Harewood at last to the condition of his friend, now leaning against the mantel, supported by both hands, breathing in short, sharp gasps.
‘My dear fellow, you’ve gone all red in the face! Can see why you’re cross of course, but no point crying over spilled milk …’
‘Shut up! Shut up! There is some powder in the top left drawer, bring it to me, now!’
The voice contains not the deference he expects of Roo but another timbre entirely, one which Harewood thinks it best to obey – indeed, he does not hesitate to do so. He retrieves the chemist’s packet as requested and unfolds it upon an open notebook on the mantel, whereupon his friend takes two large doses as though it were snuff.
‘Should I fetch a physician?’
‘Wait, damn you!’ The powder begins to do its work and each successive breath becomes easier. At the same time, Sewell appears to draw new strength from within, as though from a reserve supply kept for an emergency.
‘Reggie, you’ve sorely tested our friendship with this blunder. I doubt whether vouching for you over the dead whore will be adequate to the situation.’
Reginald Harewood regards his junior colleague with incomprehension. It has never occurred to him that Sewell could lead an
independent existence, let alone that he might feel ill toward him.
‘Come now, old chap, you wouldn’t refuse to vouch for your best friend in the world. Don’t even joke about it!’
‘Give us the facts, please. The object in question: can you think what it is?’
‘It was the flask. Silver flask, don’t you know, stolen by that dishonest whore. She took my rugby ring, damn her. Beside such a loss, never thought to bother my head about the flask.’
‘Would that flask by any chance have carried the family crest?’
‘Of course, old boy, never had any other one.’
‘Quite. Let me sum up the situation as I understand it: first off, in addition to your dear cousin, you’ve been rogering this young Dorcas in my rooms.’
‘Didn’t think you’d mind, old boy. Same thing in a way, isn’t it?’
‘And in addition to admitting her into my rooms, in a moment of animal stupidity you identified yourself to the strumpet as Mr Roo.’
‘I beg you not to harp on that. It makes me look something of a goat.’
‘Now we’ve received what amounts to a demand for a pecuniary reward, from a person in a position to articulate a suspicious relationship between a dead whore and the inadvertently identified Mr Roo, as well as the Harewood silver flask.’
‘A rum run of luck I must say, so many bad turns in one go.’