David Liss - A Spectacle Of Corruption

“Is that you?” I heard a woman’s voice cry out from below.

“Mmm,” I agreed.

As I descended, I could see that the decor of the upper rooms was shared by those below. Trash everywhere, torn broadsheets, a pile of soiled linen.

The cellar was but a single room, not particularly large. The floor was of dirt, and there was little enough on it: an old straw mattress, a single chair, a table with no legs on which the oil lamp sat. Mrs. Lucy Greenbill lay on the mattress, wearing, I might add, nothing at all.

Lest my reader think this tale about to turn as salacious as the scandalous works of Mr. Cleland, I should observe that she was none the most attractive of women- far too thin, with bones jutting out this way and that from her flesh, which, despite her lean frame, hung loosely in those places it was not stretched. Her eyes were enormous, such as might have been stunning on a more vibrant face, but she had the look of a gin drinker, so they were sunken deep into her skull. This pitiable creature had all the signs of those made slaves to that vile liquor: Her nose appeared shriveled and flat, her skin dry and lifeless, so she looked more the death’s-head than the temptress. But even if her shape been more pleasing to the eye, I believe her actions might have undone nature’s good works, for she lay there picking over clothes, piled off to one side of her naked form, and plucking off lice. She then proceeded to put them in her mouth, snap them between her teeth, and spit out the bloody skins.

“Don’t be too long now, Timmy,” she said.

“Timmy,” I repeated. “Surely Mr. Greenbill would be surprised to hear of you lying without clothes and awaiting someone called Timmy.”

Lucy bolted upright and prepared to scream, but I knew better than to let her. I leaped over from the stairs and, with a quick hop, found myself on the floor next to her with one hand over her mouth. A flash of pain shot through the old wound in my leg, but I bit my lip and determined to show no weakness.

“I realize this is an awkward position for you,” I said, trying to sound more menacing than distressed, “and I will allow you to dress yourself, but you must promise not to make noise. You’ve seen I move quickly, and I will be upon you in an instant if you defy me. Before you decide to utter another sound, you must choose whether you would prefer to conduct our business, which I promise will do you no harm, with or without clothing on your body.”

I did not wait for her to respond. I merely let go and allowed her to back up hurriedly and toss her gown over her head, which she wiggled into most quickly. Now that we were both more comfortable, she moved over to her legless table and reached out with one shaking hand for a pewter cup, which from the sharp scent of it was filled with gin.

“What do you want?” she asked me, as she took a swig hearty enough to fell a man of my size. In the light of the oil lamp I could see her face more clearly. Her cheekbones were pronounced but her jaw slack, giving the impression that the lower part of her face was but an empty bladder that hung upon the upper. When she spoke I could see she had but few teeth in her head, and those were broken or filed down almost to the root. And there was a deep scar on her left cheek, which had been hidden from me upon my entry to her room- a massive H, carved by a thick blade.

“Who did that to you?” I asked.

“My husband,” she said defiantly, as though daring me to find some fault with a man who would carve letters into his wife’s flesh.

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“To mark me for a whore,” she said proudly. “Now tell me what you want.”

“I want to know where I might visit this honorable husband of yours.” I discovered myself unwittingly rubbing a hand against my aching shin and stopped at once. “He is proving a difficult man to find.”

“He’ll kill you for coming in here, and he’ll do worse if you think to do me injury. And for all that, who are you?”

“My name is Benjamin Weaver,” I said.

“Oh, Jesus save me!” she cried, and took another step back. She clutched her pewter gin cup to her breast as though for a moment confusing one savior with another. “You’ll kill him, won’t you?”

I took a step forward to match her retreat. “Why should I do that?”

“That’s what you do, ain’t it? You kill porters. Everyone says you are Dennis Dogmill’s man, and you come to kill those who stand against him.”

“You would be wise not to listen to everyone. They are none the most truthful sources. If Billy wishes to resist Dogmill, he will find no better friend than me.”

“Then what do you want with him? You ain’t looking for him to become a friend.”

“I want to ask him some questions.”

“What if he don’t want to answer?”

“I find that most men I put to the question choose to answer sooner or later.”

“Like Arthur Groston?”

I felt a chill run through my body. I forgot at once about the pain in my leg. Why should Billy Greenbill’s wife have heard of my dealings with the evidence broker? “What do you know of him?”

“That he’s dead. That you killed him.”

I struggled to control my surprise. “Last I saw Groston, he was healthy enough. Who told you I killed him?”

“Marry come up, everyone says it’s true. They say you held his head in a pot of sir-reverence until he drowned.”

“I did not drown him, but I did stick his head in a shit pot.”

“You tell me that and you think I’ll let you know where Billy is?”

“I’ll find him in the end,” I said. “You may depend on it. If you are the one who tells me where to find him, I’ll make certain you are compensated for your efforts.”

She took a more restrained drink from her mug. “How is that, compensated?”

“For one thing,” I said, “I won’t mention Timmy to him. For the other, I will give you some silver.”

She blinked at me. “How much silver?”

Why quibble? I thought. It was, after all, the judge’s money, and I knew it would take a mighty sum for her to overcome her fear of angering Greenbill. “Five shillings,” I said.

I might as well have offered her the kingdom of the Incas. She put a hand to her mouth and pressed the other against the wall for support. “Show me,” she whispered.

I reached into my purse and retrieved the coins, which I held out in my hand for her. And so she traded her lord for my silver. If she noticed any parallels to the behavior of certain figures in her scriptures, she did not choose to mention them to me.

Billy Greenbill, she had told me, was staying in the garret of a house only a few blocks away on King Street. I thought it sound to wait until it was much later, for I had no intention of walking in on Billy and his friends while they were awake. Therefore, I found a quiet spot by the river and merely sat, with one hand on a pistol at all times. No one disturbed me, though I heard the rustling of footsteps once or twice.

When it was far into the small hours of the morning, closer to dawn than not, I returned to the house Lucy had indicated and quietly forced open the lock. All was quiet and dark, as I had hoped, and I made my way up the stairs as soundlessly as I could manage. At the very top, the entrance to the garret, I made ready with my blade and gently tested the door. It was, mercifully, unlocked, so I gently turned and forced open the door.

There was but one candle burning. Had there been more, I should have been alerted to the scene that awaited me. But I had the door open and I had taken preliminary steps before I realized what lay there for me. A half dozen men, each with blades and pistols, were awake and sitting on chairs. And grinning.