fellow running from the corridor.’
‘A thief?’
‘There is nothing in this corridor to steal . . . unless he was listening at the door.’
Mr Newsome ran to the alley door and looked out. It was empty. He hurried along its length, looking for recesses as he went, and emerged into the street. Nobody there was conspicuously hurrying away from the alley.
‘Pardon me, sir – did you see a man emerge from this place a moment ago?’ Mr Newsome asked a passer-by.
‘Why, yes – then he asked me if I had seen a man emerge a moment ago, ha ha!’ replied the man with powerful gin-scented breath.
The inspector grimaced and fought an urge to violence. He turned back down the alley.
‘Describe him to me, Mrs Colliver,’ he said on returning.
‘I saw only his back. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, dark trousers ... he looked like anyone.’
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘It is hard to say without seeing his face. I think not.’
‘Very well. See to that list, and fetch your girl.’
Mr Newsome returned to the fug of the private quarters and smiled at Mr Cullen. ‘What do you make of her testimony, Constable?’
‘It is not very helpful.’
‘It is lies from beginning to end – that’s what it is.’
‘It is certainly lacking detail, but how can you be sure it is all lies?’
‘Look at what she did not say. Her sentences are clipped as if she is frightened of giving too much away. She has an answer to every omission. That ludicrous comment about the ghost of her husband was pure theatre – I am sure someone else has put it in her mind. Then there is her general manner and that wound on her head, no doubt put there by the person who has silenced her. Still, there is little we can do, I suppose. We could arrest her, but no magistrate would gaol her for this.’
‘You suspect the other fellow – the one who fled and said he was going for friends?’
‘I can think of no one else who might benefit. Could it be that he visited her shortly before he fled and warned her not to tell the police anything? Could it be that the fellow who appeared to be listening at the door just now was the very same person? I have no idea.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘We investigate, Mr Cullen. We investigate further. Did Mr Williamson teach you nothing?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let us first go out into that alley and see if we find anything that will tell us who else is interested in this case.’
FOUR
Who had been that man listening at the door?
There are many in this city of ours who are criminal: men (yes, and women) who would cheat, lie, steal and beat their way to a living. There are the poor, the ignorant, the godless, the callous, the heartless and the cruel – none of them strangers to the magistrates’ court and the gaol cell. They drink, fight, cheat and wear morality loosely as a second-hand coat. It gives little comfort, but it has certain superficial benefits.
But none of these characters are as bad, as reprehensible and parasitical as the Society for the Suppression of Vice spy, whose role it is to prevent or prosecute infidel lectures, immoral congregations, profanity, licentiousness, drunkenness, obscene songs, swearing and – above all – the publication and supply of indecent literature. It is not the opportune pocket that he picks, nor the easy chance he exploits, nor the back-alley brawl that fills his stomach – no, he feeds off the desires of his fellow man at Haymarket, at Regents-street, at Fleet-street.
Here is one of the opprobrious race now. He ranges across the entire city, but Holywell-street is his preferred hunting ground, particularly of late. Let us observe him in the manner he observes others: dishonestly, anonymously, secretly.
See how he moves, insinuating himself among the passers-by as they stand before a window or wait for a cab. See how he peers over a shoulder, or at the reflection in a window to catch a questionable transaction. Watch his eyes dart and
‘A thief?’
‘There is nothing in this corridor to steal . . . unless he was listening at the door.’
Mr Newsome ran to the alley door and looked out. It was empty. He hurried along its length, looking for recesses as he went, and emerged into the street. Nobody there was conspicuously hurrying away from the alley.
‘Pardon me, sir – did you see a man emerge from this place a moment ago?’ Mr Newsome asked a passer-by.
‘Why, yes – then he asked me if I had seen a man emerge a moment ago, ha ha!’ replied the man with powerful gin-scented breath.
The inspector grimaced and fought an urge to violence. He turned back down the alley.
‘Describe him to me, Mrs Colliver,’ he said on returning.
‘I saw only his back. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, dark trousers ... he looked like anyone.’
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘It is hard to say without seeing his face. I think not.’
‘Very well. See to that list, and fetch your girl.’
Mr Newsome returned to the fug of the private quarters and smiled at Mr Cullen. ‘What do you make of her testimony, Constable?’
‘It is not very helpful.’
‘It is lies from beginning to end – that’s what it is.’
‘It is certainly lacking detail, but how can you be sure it is all lies?’
‘Look at what she did not say. Her sentences are clipped as if she is frightened of giving too much away. She has an answer to every omission. That ludicrous comment about the ghost of her husband was pure theatre – I am sure someone else has put it in her mind. Then there is her general manner and that wound on her head, no doubt put there by the person who has silenced her. Still, there is little we can do, I suppose. We could arrest her, but no magistrate would gaol her for this.’
‘You suspect the other fellow – the one who fled and said he was going for friends?’
‘I can think of no one else who might benefit. Could it be that he visited her shortly before he fled and warned her not to tell the police anything? Could it be that the fellow who appeared to be listening at the door just now was the very same person? I have no idea.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘We investigate, Mr Cullen. We investigate further. Did Mr Williamson teach you nothing?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let us first go out into that alley and see if we find anything that will tell us who else is interested in this case.’
FOUR
Who had been that man listening at the door?
There are many in this city of ours who are criminal: men (yes, and women) who would cheat, lie, steal and beat their way to a living. There are the poor, the ignorant, the godless, the callous, the heartless and the cruel – none of them strangers to the magistrates’ court and the gaol cell. They drink, fight, cheat and wear morality loosely as a second-hand coat. It gives little comfort, but it has certain superficial benefits.
But none of these characters are as bad, as reprehensible and parasitical as the Society for the Suppression of Vice spy, whose role it is to prevent or prosecute infidel lectures, immoral congregations, profanity, licentiousness, drunkenness, obscene songs, swearing and – above all – the publication and supply of indecent literature. It is not the opportune pocket that he picks, nor the easy chance he exploits, nor the back-alley brawl that fills his stomach – no, he feeds off the desires of his fellow man at Haymarket, at Regents-street, at Fleet-street.
Here is one of the opprobrious race now. He ranges across the entire city, but Holywell-street is his preferred hunting ground, particularly of late. Let us observe him in the manner he observes others: dishonestly, anonymously, secretly.
See how he moves, insinuating himself among the passers-by as they stand before a window or wait for a cab. See how he peers over a shoulder, or at the reflection in a window to catch a questionable transaction. Watch his eyes dart and
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