Whitechapel Read online

As I was splashing water on my face, there was a knock on the door. Not heavy, but firm, obviously the master of the house. “Come in,” I said.

  The round-faced man with the ruddy cheeks from the night before came in, and I was pleased to be able to remember him as my rescuer. But I could not remember his name! He was carrying my clothes over his right arm.

  “Ah, good morning, Albert! I see you are awake. Good! Much to do today, much to do. My wife took the liberty of seeing to your clothes. She felt that they were in need of freshening. You know how women are! Well, on with you then! Get dressed and meet me downstairs for breakfast. Today you shall meet ‘The Brothers’ and we’ll see about getting you started on that road to literature!”

  With that he walked out, leaving me more puzzled than before. Who was this man? Why was he being so nice to me? I had not been in London long before I learned that every kindness exacted a price, so what was his? And, damn it all, what was his name?

  I dressed quickly and, putting on my coat, found that my pockets were now empty of the stones I had picked up the night before. My host had undoubtedly taken it upon himself to remove this temptation from me. I felt a little lightened at the thought. Without their existence, I would not have to acknowledge what they meant and how close I had come to using them last night. Feeling better than I had in many a day, I made my way downstairs.

  It was no mean trick finding my way to the dining room as my stomach pulled me along to the smell of food. Entering the room, I found my host seated at the head of a small, intimate dining table (seating for eight, I counted, unless there were leaves somewhere, but the size of the room would not have permitted many more than that) with his wife seated on his right. They were both drinking their morning coffee and, true to their politeness, had waited for me to arrive before beginning their meal.

  “Mr. Besame,” my host’s wife began (and what the devil was her name?), “it’s so good to see you looking better. You were quite the sight when poor Arthur brought you home last night.”

  Arthur! His name was Arthur! But Arthur what?

  “Please,” I said, sitting in the chair on Arthur’s left behind the only other place setting, “call me Albert.”

  “And you must call me Amy, Albert.” Amy! Amy what?

  “Well, Albert,” my host began, “you are looking much better. I daresay the literary life has not agreed with you very well so far!”

  “I couldn’t say, really. I haven’t actually lived it yet.”

  At that my host broke out laughing.

  “Nor have any of us, my friend, because it doesn’t exist! Show me one Dickens (who, you’ll remember, had his own periods of privation) who can live off his writing and I shall show you hundreds scribbling away in attic garrets in vain pursuit of words. ‘The chase of the phrase,’ Albert! It shall be the death of us all!”

  “So you are also taken with literature?”

  “One could say that, one could say that.”

  “Yes, Arthur,” interrupted his wife, “but could you say that after this poor man has had something to eat?”

  Arthur laughed again, ignoring the social gaffe that many in polite society would have found appalling. For a wife to interrupt her husband’s conversation, even in these enlightened times, was still frowned upon. So I liked Amy instantly. She was a woman who was obviously used to speaking her own mind—such a refreshing change from the well-dressed society women who passed me on the street and pretended not to see me. Amy rose and returned with a girl dressed in a maid’s outfit who was carrying our breakfast. She was a young thing, perhaps around fourteen or so, with jet-black hair piled into her cap and an attractive figure somewhere behind all those layers of uniform. But I was unaware that they even had a maid. Had I misjudged them so badly? Were they really that far above me on the social scale? Were they just taking pity upon a lowly beggar as their charity for the month?

  “Albert,” Amy said, “this is Rose, our cook and occasional maid. Rose, this is Mr. Besame. I expect you’ll be seeing him around a lot from now on if Arthur has anything to do with it.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Machen,” she replied.

  Machen! Yes! That was the name. Arthur Machen! From somewhere in Wales, I thought.

  But I had little time to reflect on that as I attacked the breakfast that Rose set before me. I think I may have embarrassed her with my profuse thanks. but I had not seen such a breakfast before in my life. It was what would become known to me as a typical Welsh breakfast. That is, large amounts of everything! There were bangers, eggs, toast, meats, some fish, kippers, biscuits, muffins, fried bread—more food than I had ever seen in one place! How much money did these people have? Amy ate a small portion and took her time. Arthur, on the other hand, decimated his huge plate and began to look hungrily for more. He was evidently a man who took great enjoyment in his food and I—I am proud to say—kept pace with him. Slowly, however, we came to the limits of our belts.

  “Ah!” sighed Arthur. “Wonderful as always, Amy! Let Rose know that she has surpassed herself yet again. And now”—he pulled a watch from his waistcoat—”we must be going. You know how The Brothers are once they get going on their day. You can’t pull them away from their books if the devil himself were knocking on their door. I shall be back shortly.”

  With that he stood up and kissed Amy on her cheek. I could barely keep up with Arthur as he bolted from the room. How could a man who had eaten such a large meal move so quickly? He was out the front door and down the steps before I could catch up with him.

  “Arthur,” I said, “I want to thank you for last night. It was really very generous of you.”

  He looked pained that I had even mentioned it.

  “Think nothing of it, Albert, nothing at all. If you are determined to throw your life away chasing letters, then I owe it to the world to make sure you have a fair chance of finishing the race! Who knows what great works we might have lost if I hadn’t found you?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or insulting. But one look at his open face, beaming with amusement, convinced me that there was no malice in him. Indeed, I wondered if he had ever had an evil thought in his life. Strange how such thoughts come to you and are remembered later with the sting of irony and regret.

  “Well, one can only hope. Arthur,” I asked, “just where are we going?”

  “Oh, not too far. Just over to Leicester Square. Not too far of a walk.”

  “Leicester Square? Um, where’s that exactly?”

  Arthur stopped in his tracks and looked at me.

  “Albert, how long have you been in London?”

  “Ah, a little over three months or so.”

  “I see. And you mean to tell me that you do not know Leicester Square? Do you know where you are right now?”

  I looked around me. We were obviously on a major street, as the traffic had gotten heavier as we walked. The people were bustling around us. Many of them were dressed nicely but not extravagantly so. I apparently wasn’t in a rich commercial street, but the people were neat and respectable and the street itself was full of hansoms running back and forth. The buildings were nothing different from any of the others I had seen in London. They were in relatively good shape and the shops were clean and busy. None of which told me where I was. I had to confess to Arthur that, ever since I left my flat last night, I had been lost.

  He shook his head.

  “The most amazing city in the world and you have not taken the time to explore it! Albert, what am I to do with you?” He started walking again. “Listen, I am in the habit of taking long walks—something I picked up during my early days in the city. Unfortunately, few people can keep up with me for long, but I propose that you come along with me on some of these walks and I’ll show you a bit of what I’ve learned about London. It may do you some good.” His tone left no room for debate. “Just what have you been doing all this time?”

  “Trying to find a position,” I replied. I was feeling a little put out by his manner even though
I knew he was only being playful. A fruitless search for work can be frustrating and even more so if someone demands that you justify it.

  “And how did you get around?”

  “By asking people in the street, constables and such.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, they may not be good for many things, but I suppose the ‘peelers’ are good for directions.”

  “‘Peelers’?”

  “Um? Oh, yes. Ah, ‘peelers’ is another name for the London policeman. Comes from the name of Sir Robert Peel, who started the force. It’s not generally used in a favourable manner, and I’m not so sure if it’s because of the men who work as policemen or the man who started the whole thing. Mind you, Sir Robert’s been a bit of a bother himself. Anyway, stick with me, Albert. I’ll have you knowing this city like a native! One should always know everything about one’s home, even the ugly parts. And here we are!”

  I looked up and saw that we had stopped in front of a small shop. It was a secondhand bookstore (the type I had passed by enviously many times since arriving in London) with the name ‘Robson & Carslake, Booksellers’ on the sign. The windows were filled with books and, from what I could see, there was a veritable explosion of books inside. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “This,” Arthur said, opening the door and ushering me inside, “is where we find The Brothers!

  “What ho!” Arthur shouted. “Where is everyone?”

  I saw a small elderly head pop up from behind a pile of books. “Arthur!” it exclaimed. “Look, Robert, Arthur’s here!”

  A second head emerged from behind another stack on the opposite side of the room. “Eh? Oh! Arthur! Come to deliver the Casanova already?” Robert said in a laughing tone.

  “No, no,” Arthur said. “I may be good, gentlemen, but even I am not that good! It will take me some time to translate all twelve volumes of that contemptible French.”

  “Twelve? Nonsense!” said the first man as he came through the maze of books. “Why don’t you just use the translations of the first three volumes that that German (what was his name?—oh, yes, Tolliab) did? Then it would only be nine volumes.”

  The second man likewise emerged from his stacks. “You know why, Wendell. Arthur doesn’t work that way. No challenge then, eh?”

  Arthur smiled. “Tolliab,” he began, “was—to be kind—quaint. His English is so poor as to be either unreadable or sleep-inducing. Now, if you’re only interested in using the translation as a sleep aid, then by all means let’s use Tolliab! I had no idea we were producing medicines instead of books!”

  The two men laughed. I was completely confused. Arthur had called these men The Brothers, and yet there was no sign of any family relation between them. I couldn’t even begin to figure out what they were talking about.

  “And who have you brought us today, hmm? A wealthy customer in search of rare editions?” asked Robert, rubbing his hands in mock greed. He was the taller of the two. Well dressed, with a pince-nez on his nose, he gave the impression of being a caricature of a bookseller. He had very little hair on his head, and the skin on the top of his skull was the most vivid pink I had ever seen.

  “This,” Arthur began, “gentlemen, is Albert Besame . . . your newest victim for the ‘Black Hole.’”

  “Indeed!” cried Wendell. He seemed most pleased at the announcement. He was a smaller man with a bit of weight about him. I didn’t doubt that many festivals would have asked him to play Father Christmas if they could have seen him.

  “So,” Robert said, “you think that because we allowed you to escape that you can simply throw another victim in your place?”

  “Not at all!” answered Arthur. “This is Mr. Albert Besame who, I’m sure you will find, is well schooled in books and the perfect man for the job. In addition, he is a man in need of a position and you have a position in need of a man! A perfect fit, to my mind.”

  “Yes,” said Robert, “and we know the ways in which your mind works, Arthur.”

  “Well,” Wendell drawled, looking me over, “I don’t know. Mr. Besame, let me begin by asking you a few questions.” He put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets in perfect lawyerly fashion. “If it please the court,” he bowed to Arthur and Robert, “Mr. Besame, in what year was ‘The Rape of the Lock’ published?”

  “Oh, please, Wendell, give him something harder than that!” mocked Robert.

  I thought for a moment. Pope was never one of my favorites. “Um . . . 1712 . . . I think? I believe it was in Lintot’s Miscellaneous Poems and Translations, and then followed by separate editions (each revised) in 1714 and 1717.”

  “Just so,” said Wendell. “Now try this.” He picked up a book from a nearby table. “Is this a first or fourth edition of Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner?”

  I took the book from Wendell and looked it over. It was in superb condition. Not many signs of ageing. The covers were tight and clean and the interior pages showed no signs of weathering or sunlight. It had been very well kept. I looked quickly at Arthur, who was trying to hide an amused smirk. As I went through the pages, I felt myself tremble a little with excitement.

  “Well,” I explained, “it’s in beautiful condition but it is not a first edition.”

  “And how do you come by that conclusion, young man?” asked Robert.

  “Because The Rime of the Ancient Mariner has no ‘true’ first edition. It first appeared in the Coleridge-Wordsworth volume Lyrical Ballads in 1798. Moreover, this book contains the Doré illustrations, which only appeared in a separate edition of 1870. Which, of course, was only eighteen years ago, so not particularly ‘rare.’ However, I personally feel that the Doré illustrations complement the poem in such a way as to make it a ‘definitive,’ but not first, edition.”

  “Exactly so!” exclaimed Arthur. “You see? He is a man who knows his books.”

  “I don’t know, Arthur,” said Robert. “You remember that you didn’t care all that much for the work yourself. That’s why we gave you the Casanovas to do.”

  “Explain it to him, then. Let him decide if the work is for him.”

  “All right,” began Robert, his face becoming very grim. “We are booksellers, Mr. Robson and I. As such, we have many books that need to be catalogued. You are familiar with antiquarian book catalogues, I assume?” I nodded. I wasn’t all that acquainted with them, but if it mean a paying situation I would learn! “Very good. You would be cataloguing our not inconsiderable stock. The stock is in the cellar. There is a desk down there and the cellar is gas-lit. But, as Arthur is so fond of calling it, it is a ‘Black Hole.’ The ceiling is low and there are no windows. You are not claustrophobic, I hope?”

  “No, not at all,” I replied, trying to keep my excitement hidden. “I don’t think that would be a problem.”

  “Very well, give us a moment please.” Robert and Wendell went to the back of the store and talked quietly. After a few seconds, Arthur motioned to me to keep silent and joined them. I noticed Arthur looking in my direction more than once and felt that the next few minutes would decide my fate and my very life. If I did not get this position, I would be reduced to returning to my former life and the prospect of a quick end.

  They returned in short order; a decision had apparently been made.

  “All right, Mr. Besame,” said Wendell, “here’s the offer. For the princely sum of sixty pounds a year, you may be our cataloguer. You will have the right to work hard, learn more about books than you probably ever cared to know, and spend nearly every waking moment in a cellar. What say you?”

  I could not speak. My mouth hung open until I remembered that I once had had the ability speak. Sixty pounds! “I . . . I would be pleased to accept, sir,” I stammered. Sixty pounds! Not a king’s ransom, to be sure, but enough to allow me to live decently and maybe even find a new home.

  “Excellent. Then we shall begin.” Robert grinned. “And may God have mercy on your soul.” He intoned with all the gravity of a hanging judge. “I am Mr. Robert Carslake, and my asso
ciate is Mr. Wendell Robson.”

  “Oh, I think he’s probably gathered all that by now, Robert,” Wendell chided. “Come on, let’s get him settled. Arthur, off with you! There’s work to be done here and you, my friend, you have a Casanova to translate!”

  “All right, yes, Wendell, I’m going.” Arthur came over and shook my hand. “Good luck to you, Albert, you’ll need it in ‘the Hole’! I’ll be back around six to collect you for supper and the first of your instructional walks around London.” With that, he pulled me aside a bit. “They’re good men, Albert. Work well and they’ll treat you well.”

  Like a will-o’-the-wisp, he was out the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the bookstore with my two new employers whom I had just met and the spectacle of ‘the Black Hole’ looming before me.

  “Wendell, why don’t you take him down and show him around? I’ve still got these Swinburnes to get through.”

  “Yes, well, come along, Albert.” He started walking towards the back. “This is our main store up here and we keep some of the mid-range books here. Anything expensive is in these locked cases in the back and the cellar contains all the miscellaneous stuff as well as most of the things we haven’t gone through yet.” The floor was covered in piles of books. There were books everywhere in every corner of the store. Towards the back, I could see several locked cabinets where I presumed they were keeping the expensive items Wendell had mentioned. There were a few chairs about, but they were generally covered in books and papers.

  “You can put your coat on the rack over there.” He pointed to a large, handsome mahogany rack that, astonishingly, was not covered in books. I hung up my coat and followed Wendell as he moved further into the back and through an open doorway. “This,” he said, “is the path to hell. ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter.”

  “It’s ‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here’! Get it right, Wendell!”

  Wendell snickered. “He hates when I do that. Right fond of Italian poets, he is. I prefer the English poets myself.”

  “Wendell!”

  “All right! All right! I’m getting on with it. Come on, Albert, it’s down here.”