The Detective and the Devil Read Online Free PDF Page B

actually Dorset Street, a place of moderately ill repute in Spitalfields, somewhat to
the north of Whitechapel and a fair walk from Wapping.
    The dwellings on Dorset Street were old and dilapidated, decent houses from the last century or earlier that had declined into common lodgings, a warren of the old and sick and infirm. Horton
estimated that three or four dozen of the rooms on the street would be taken by whores, another three dozen by common criminals, and perhaps the same amount by weavers from old families who had
failed to ascend to anything better. Some of these people were on the street, and a desperate lot they seemed.
    He found the right door and told the vicious, ancient landlord within that he must speak with Mr Beavis.
    ‘Beavis? You’ll get no benefit, speaking to Beavis,’ came the mysterious reply. He was shown, with surly reluctance, to a flight of stairs which looked like a line of dominoes
falling down a steep hill. He made his way upwards, gingerly.
    The door on which he knocked was opened by a girl whose face was so beautiful that it seemed to light up the gloomy place. Her hair was finely cut, her skin was clean and clear, and her eyes
held none of the wrenching despair of the people he’d seen outside in the street.
    ‘Miss Beavis?’ he asked.
    Her eyes widened, and she nodded, carefully.
    ‘Miss Amy Beavis? Servant to Mrs Emma Johnson?’
    Her hand came to her mouth, and she stared at him, terrified. It was answer enough.
    ‘My name is Horton, Miss Beavis. I am a constable of Wapping. I am sent to ask you some questions about the Johnsons and their terrible fate.’
    The door swung wide, and an ancient was revealed, dressed in grey underthings and swinging what looked like a poker.
    ‘I see you! I see you!’
    ‘Sir, please, I only . . .’
    ‘Come at last, have you? Come at last? Where is it?’
    The old man shoved past him out into the hallway, and looked up.
    ‘Roof still there. Roof still there.’
    He turned back to Horton.
    ‘Where’s your machine, Jacques? Where’s your bloody machine?’
    The girl was beside him now, rubbing his shoulders while he glared at Horton.
    ‘Come now, father. Come now. This is not Jacques.’
    Her voice was soft, precise, well spoken, purest silk to the East End rasp of her father.
    ‘Not Jacques? Of course it’s Jacques! He’s come for me, and he’s not having me.’
    ‘Sir, my name is Horton, not . . .’
    ‘Barbarian!’
    This with a shout and a lunge, accompanied by a shriek from the girl, but the lunge was in truth more like a fall. The poker went to the ground as the old fellow collapsed into Horton’s
arms. He was as light as new-baked bread, and smelled like ancient dried leaves.
    ‘Please, sir,’ the girl said. ‘Please. Bring him within.’
    ‘Bloody Jacques. Come to bloody take me away. Bloody Jacques,’ muttered the old fellow, but he already seemed half-asleep.
    Horton took the man under the armpits and half-dragged, half-lifted him into the room. Within, there was a bed next to a fireplace, a single armchair, a dresser with some plates and bowls upon
it, a small table with a pile of books. A cheap and ancient etching hung on the wall, which must once have depicted St Paul’s but was now little more than a round blur inside a fog.
    ‘Please sir. On the bed.’
    Horton took the old man over to the bed, and laid him down upon it. Once horizontal, the old man’s eyes opened again, and his hands reached for Horton’s throat.
    ‘Jacques! You’re not taking me in your machine! No, Jacques! I’ll bloody kill ye!’
    Horton felt a scratch as one crooked finger flicked over the skin of his neck, but then the man’s eyes closed once again, his hands fell back and his head lolled into the foul-smelling
pillow. He began to snore. The girl sat in the armchair and put her head into her hands.
    ‘Oh, forgive him, sir! Forgive him! He is overtaken by strange fancies.’
    ‘Pray, do not concern yourself, miss. There is no