Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men. Andrew Taylor
“Some time after this, the man Poe reappears in Stoke Newington, with his circumstances miraculously changed for the better. Later, Mrs Frant sees her husband talking with a man, who may be this Poe, in Russell-square, an encounter her husband afterwards denies, and also overhears the words Wellington-terrace. Later still, a body which purports to be that of Mr Frant is discovered foully murdered in Wellington-terrace. Well? How does that strike you?”
“On the present evidence, sir, it is impossible to judge whether these circumstances are connected, whether they are in some way linked.”
Carswall hammered the heel of his left hand against the arm of the chair. “Don’t lecture me, young man. That’s the trouble with you bumbrushers, you treat the world as your schoolroom. Now – how well do you know St Giles?”
“I have walked there on occasion.”
“For pleasure?” When I did not answer, he gave another of his laughs, a strange, hard, almost inhuman sound that could have come from the mouth of a great bird. “Do you know the Fountain?”
“It’s somewhere north of the church,” I said. “Near Lawrence-street, I believe.”
“Will you go there tomorrow and seek out Mr Poe?”
“I am, sir, as you remind me, a schoolmaster, and –”
“Just so, just so, Mr Shield. You are also a man who has seen something of the world. And you are the only person I am aware of, with the possible exception of Mrs Frant herself, who knows what this man Poe looks like.”
“But Mrs Frant has charged me to look after her son.”
“God damn it, am I not paying for the privilege of your presence?”
The rich assume we are in their power, and usually they are right. For now, I was scarcely more than one of Carswall’s servants. If I aroused his ire, he would speak to Mr Bransby and I would be out of my place.
He pressed the repeater button on his watch and it emitted a tiny chime. “Besides,” he said gently, “I am not asking you to do this for me. I am asking you to do this for Mrs Frant herself. And I know you will not refuse me.”
The following morning, I slipped out of the house, made my way through the market to Oxford-street, and walked eastwards towards St Giles. I had purchased an old, patched coat from the man who brought the kindling. I carried a heavy stick, borrowed from Mr Carswall.
It was a foul day, the air rendered almost opaque by a yellow fog that found its way into the mouth and tasted like soot. I blundered along the pavements colliding with my fellow pedestrians, and on one occasion nearly losing my life to a passing coal cart.
In the days of what they were pleased to call my lunacy, I would often wander in the Rookeries of St Giles-in-the-Fields. The worst parts were north of the church in that dark lozenge of courts and alleys and lanes that lay between Bainbridge-street, George-street and the High-street. I was never molested, though, even by the dogs that ran wild in the streets. Misery calls to misery. They had known I was one of them.
As I drew nearer the black heart of the place, the smells and the noise rose up to greet me, enveloping me, sucking at me, as though they were but extensions of the fog. The Rookeries were a place where the natural order of things was reversed: where victims became beasts of prey, and preyed in turn on their natural enemy.
I turned off the High-street into Lawrence-street. A woman wearing but a shift despite the cold tore at my coat with fingers as small as a child’s. I brushed past her and in my hurry stumbled over a lean pig ambling through the pool of muck extending into the roadway from the mouth of an alley. A pair of urchins ran after the animal, shouting shrill obscenities in their excitement. I hurried on. I passed a woman swathed in grey blankets, huddled in a doorway, with a baby at her breast. She held out a bare, scrawny arm to me and beckoned. “I’ll make you happy, dearie,” she cried in a thin, reedy whine. And I heard her cursing me in the same, unchanging voice as I left her behind.
“And would you spare a copper for an old soldier to drink His Majesty’s health?” a husky voice inquired from the level of my knees.
I glanced down and saw a red-faced man without legs, huddled on a low trolley.
“Would you direct me to the Fountain? It is not far from here, is it?”
“His Majesty’s health,” the man insisted.
I found a penny in my pocket and dropped it into his waiting palm.
His fingers closed around the coin. “There’s an alley on the left halfway between Church-street and George-street: cut up there and you’ll find it.”
But his eyes darted towards a knot of drinkers spilling from an alehouse. It was enough to put me on my guard and I hurried away, swinging my stick and looking as sour and formidable as I could. Philanthropy is a luxury. You do not find it in the Rookeries, where even the indulgence of a charitable impulse may exact a price.
I reached the entrance to the alley. The way was unpaved, no more than four feet wide, and its surface was thickly covered with a tide of mud and excrement, human and animal, part moist, part frozen. The passage was densely populated with sleeping, drinking and talking figures. Two little girls sat in the filth, nursing bundles of rags and making patties from dirt. Scarcely a yard away, a man and a woman groaned and grunted in an act of copulation that seemed to bring more pain than pleasure.
With my stick held menacingly before me, I waded through the crowd. From the fog-filled court at the end of the alley came a slow dancing melody, “St Patrick’s Day”, played on a fiddle. I had heard that tune before, when we were quartered next to an Irish regiment. They called the Rookeries the Holy Land or Little Dublin because of the destitute Irish who drained into it from the rest of the city, and the rest of the kingdom.
I reached the gloomy little court at the end of the alley. The building on the right bore a crudely executed signboard showing a fountain. I pushed open the door and, stepping over yet another crawling infant, entered what appeared to be the taproom. It was low and dark, no more than twelve-foot square, and it must have contained at least thirty people. I pushed my way through the press until I came across a woman built like a guardsman with a great leather belt round her waist from which depended a leather pouch and a bunch of keys. I swept off my hat and executed, as best I could in the confined space, a courtly bow.
“Madam,” I said, “perhaps you could help me. I am looking for Mr Poe the screever.”
She took a long swallow from a tankard in her hand and set it down on a nearby shelf. Turning back towards me, she wiped the foam from her moustache and said, “I am afraid you are come too late.” Her eyelids fluttered over small brown eyes like specks of dried fruit in a pudding. “A gentleman with a wonderful fund of poetry. Such recitations we had of an evening. And such a gentlemanly hand, too, he was never short of work. A petition here, a letter of advice and admonition to a beloved child there, a plea to an aged parent beyond the seas.” She took another swallow from her tankard. “Mr Poe has a style for each eventuality.”
“But he is no longer with you, madam?”
“Alas, no, though he had the bed by the window in my second-floor front for so long he was like one of the family. ‘Maria, my love,’ he’d say to me, ‘you treat me like a king; you are my queen and this room is our palace.’”
She brought her face close to mine and grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of pink, swollen gums. I smelled the sour tang of spirits and the rich, dark odour of rotting meat.
“Why, I could show you the room, if you liked, sir. ‘Such a comfortable bed,’ Mr Poe used to say, and he had no need to share it, not unless he wished to, if you take my meaning. Well? Should you like to see it with me?”
“You’re