Go Victorian!

For those of you that read this blog, I am alive,

So I have lots of things to talk about today, including comics, novels, memoirs, liquor and food. Bear with me, because it's all really interesting. Where do I begin?

Recently I've read a lot of old Jack Kirby Marvel cosmic stuff, as well as newer stuff like the Guardians of the Galaxy run that Abnett and Lanning have kept very interesting. The Thanos Imperative crossover event looks very promising. Suffice it to say that I haven't been a very spacey-comics reader, but I am newly converted.

I also finished Crooked Little Vein, (have I talked about that book yet?) it's good. I tend to be a little elitest about novels, and I do find the book to be much longer than it should have been (too much time spent making thinly veiled societal and political commentary with little or no relevance to the story) and I really find that a story written in first-person is just laziness unless that perspective brings something to the table. In this case, it doesn't. I did really enjoy the ending and it's something I didn't see coming so I was impressed by that. In short, if you like Warren Ellis (follow him on Twitter, enjoy his comics, etc.) you will get a kick out of this book. If not, You're better off looking for a different type of detective story.

That said, I also finished Richmond Noir, which was a tasty little smattering of all the best that The James River Writers have to offer. Great care was taken to ensure that all the stories in the collection captured that "Richmond" feel without being all gutterpunks, whitedreads and PBR. Some cool literary techniques were thrown in by some of the more experienced/talented writers and they gave me some fun ideas. "Good writers borrow, great writers steal." Particular favorites include Playing with DaBlonde, The Rose Red Vial, Homework, The Heart is a Strange Muscle, and The Apprentice.

Lots of the Richmond Noir writers and editors are associated with VCU, which very cool. Another VCU professor who deserves some credit is Dr. Nicholas Frankel, who recently published an multimedia edition of Oscar Wilde's poem, The Sphinx, which is available for viewing here, courtesy of Rice University Press. I was fortunate enough to have my Senior Seminar on Oscar Wilde and Victorian poets and playwrights with Dr. Frankel. He's great.

I finished Final Crisis too. It was weird, scary, and confusing at times, which are all the things you should associate with Grant Morrison. Morrison I think has a similar weakness in his writing that I find in Geoff Johns' writing; the emotional and driving content of the narrative is subordinate to epic clashes and special effects. Some of the most emotional moments in the story fall flat because those moments weren't really built up in the first place. In Morrison and Johns' defense, they shouldn't have to rehash years of history between characters we should already know in one little crossover event, but therein lies the weakness of crossover events, that the reader can't form a deep relationship with any one or two characters when there are dozens to hundreds of characters packed into 8-12 little issues. The only exception that I've seen is Identity Crisis by Brad Meltzer.

I just started reading Kristin Chenowith's autobiography, entitled A Little Bit Wicked. No, I'm not gay, she's just awesome. You may know her as the original Galinda from Wicked on Broadway, but I first saw her in Brian Fuller's Pushing Daisies. I haven't gotten far in the book yet, but so far, it's hilarious and fun. Really inspiring too. The tagline is "Life's too short, I'm not" which is cool from a woman who is 4'11".

Another bit of memoir I'm reading is A Woman in Berlin, which is an anonymous woman's account of what happened in the German capital in the weeks that the Soviet Army seized the city near the end of World War II. It is really hard to read. So many horrific and tragic things happened to the German people, particularly the women, after the war and it has been mostly overlooked because of the terrible things that happened in the Holocaust. If there's one thing every American should do, it's read this book and understand that no group of people should be treated as less than human, no matter what. People are allowed to be angry. People are allowed to want justice. Never confuse justice with revenge though, lest you become the tyrants yourselves.

On a less serious note, I read another trade paperback volume of Invincible. Unlike The Walking Dead, where I feel Robert Kirkman has gotten tired and run out of ideas (only time with tell if the AMC series hurts or helps that), Invincible has stayed very good in my opinion. I think Kirkman does a great job balancing the long-term villains with the short-term skirmishes. Though I wonder if it's such a good idea to isolate Invincible as a character so much. I understand emotionally putting him through the wringer, but so far as I can tell, the only characters that he can really trust are his mom, Atom Eve, and Allen the Alien. That's all well and good I suppose, but Kirkman skates on the edge of killing off these characters on an issuely (is that a word?) basis. Oh well, I still love the book.

I read Ed Brubaker's run on The Authority, which was very good. Some heavy-handedness, but that's okay. But I still can't decide whether I love that he killed off Jeroen Thorndike or hate it. He was one of my favorite characters, but I imagine people said the same when Jenny Sparks died. I haven't been keeping up with The Authority lately, but if Abnett and Lanning kill of Jack Hawksmoor, there might be blood.

Whew, well that was a lot of stuff I've been reading (not nearly all of it, but I'm pressed for time). I'll move on to the things I've written, eaten, and drank.

Here is a Victorian detective story that I wrote. It's long. I warned you. And I've been advised to rewrite the ending, which I'm doing research for this summer. Expect a much longer and very different version (perhaps a novella?) late this year.

Summer of Love 1889

Detective Inspector Edwin Durgess suspected it was going to be a bad day when the Superintendent walked into Malley’s pub down on Reedworth Street and interrupted his breakfast of sausage and toast and a pint of brown ale. The pub was dimly lit by faint sunlight creeping in the windows. Darkly stained hardwood floors, sturdy chairs, and thick tables gave the place a less than hospitable appearance, but a pint and a warm meal more than made up for it in Durgess’s opinion.

“Finish up quick, lad. I’ve got some work for you.” Detective Superintendent Howard Connolly wore friendly mutton chops across his face, dark clothes, a brown waistcoat, and a bowler hat. He looked markedly uncomfortable in the July heat, with sweat pooling at the rolls in his paunchy physique. “You’ll have to be at the Central Telegraph Office in the hour.” he added.

“What’s it all about, Super? See the bugger’s grips are growin’ in nicely,” Durgess said. He quickly stuffed the last bite of sausage in between folded toast and swallowed before Connolly could answer. He turned to the bar and said, “All set here, Terry!” He raised a finger and pointed to his plate.

“Listen up, DI,” Connolly said, gesturing at his own bushy facial hair, “start acting like a man and mebbe you could grow your own. Find you a lass to wed, eh?”

Terry, the pubkeeper, dressed in his usual brown pants and a white apron, shuffled over and took the empty plate. “You can come here anytime. I’ll tell your mother, you done well.” Durgess saw Superintendent Connolly covered his nose as Terry walked by. Connolly hated pubs.

“Well, some telegraph lad, Charley Swinscow, were holding fourteen shillings when yon Luke Hanks was investigating some robbery.” Connolly loudly flapped the lapels on his coat, trying to cool off without much success.

“Fourteen?” Durgess perked an eyebrow. “How’d he come by that, then?”

“Theft. Or so Hanks thinks.” Connolly said and crossed his arms.

“You think different?”

“I think Hanks is a bit over his head for this one. You follow?” Connolly said, and perked his brow, “I want you talking to this Swinscow, and all his mates. I figure he and a whole lot of lads been carrying a little too much change in their pockets. I’d like to know why.”

“Does the Swinscow lad have an address I can start at?” Durgess asked. He finished his ale in a single gulp.

“Sorry, no. Work it out yerself. Hanks is on his way to London Central Telegraph Office. You’d be better be off before he arrests the lot.”

“Yessir.” Durgess got up, left a tip on the table and walked out.

There were seven people out front of the telegraph station: Constable Luke Hanks, who Durgess recognized, three young boys with their hands against the brick wall of the station, and three women acting in all manner of hysterics, two of them cursing at Hanks.

“Ma’am, please step away, these boys must be remanded.” Hanks was sweating. He was managing the screaming mothers while their sons were against the wall, petrified by fear. Durgess smelled the salty odor of urine before he even got close enough to talk. Hanks was a uniform bobby with bright gingery hair and a pocked face, which made him look all the less friendly to working class kids.

“Need a hand, Luke?” Durgess asked. He extracted a cigarette from the tin case he kept in his pocket. “Excuse me, I’m Detective Inspector Edwin Durgess,” he seized the arm of one of the mothers, “can I help you, ma’am?”

The woman was younger than the others, and while they were yelling, she was just sobbing into a hankercheif. She wore a dark modest dress that made no pretense of wealth. “I… I just can’t believe my boy is being arrested for robbery!”

A faint grin flashed over Durgess’s face. He admired the bright white astrantia she wore on her left breast. It wasn’t the prettiest wild flower, but Durgess found pleasure in unconventional gardening whenever he had free time. Any woman with a taste for such a strange calming flower would easily find herself in his affection. “No one is being arrested yet, Mrs…?” Durgess let go of her arm.

“Wright. I’m Agatha Wright.” she answered, after taking a moment to calm herself.

“Mrs. Wright, we just want to ask these boys s few questions.” Durgess struck a match and lit his cigarette. “We can’t very well let boys be stealing more than their wages, can we?”

“How kind of the boss to send another pup to help me round up the pups.” Hanks said as he eyed Durgess, not hiding his contempt for Durgess’s unprofessionalism. Durgess didn’t consider himself too young for his rank, though he could tell when others did, which had inspired him to grow a thin moustache and dress more like the Superintedent, with dark clothes and a bowler. “Abberline couldn’t be troubled himself, then?”

“What are you talking about?” Durgess turned from Agatha Wright toward Constable Hanks and furrowed his brow. He hadn’t been in London long enough to know everyone in the city’s CID branch, but the name sounded familiar. “Who’s Abberline?”

“DI Frederick Abberline? He’s to question the Swinscow lad.” Hanks shoved the middle boy in the back.

“Stop hurting him!” Mrs. Swinscow yelled while shaking a fist at Hanks.

“Well, I suppose I’m to question the others then?” Durgess asked, ignoring Mrs. Swinscow. Durgess knew it was a typical CID mistake. Nobody knew left from right or arse from mouth when it came to delegating duties, and Durgess had just been screwed out of an open-and-shut robbery case. After all, he didn’t know yet whether the other boys were even involved.

“Do what you like. I’m sick of these lying rats.” Hanks said and pulled Charley Swinscow away from the wall. “I’m taking this one to Abberline. You can take the Wright lad.” Hanks escorted Swincow, closely followed by a frantic Mrs. Swinscow, down the block toward a carriage to take them to the police station.

“Please don’t take my son.” Mrs. Wright said suddenly and grabbed Durgess by the hand. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Well… look here, Mrs. Wright,” Durgess tapped the two remaining boys and gestured for them to come away from the wall. “We don’t have to do this in any officious capacity. Let’s take lunch at your house, and I can ask young…?” He gave the boys a puzzled look.

“George,” the shorter one said.

“We’ll talk to young George there. How does that sound?”

“That’d be most kind of you, Inspector!” she said.

“Well, lead on.”

After a brief walk through the city, Durgess and Mrs. Wright flagged down a cab to the Wright home, which on the outside looked a little ill-kept. The brick was chipped and weatherbeaten and the front door’s dark wood stain had faded.

“Please come in, Inspector.” Mrs. Wright said. She opened the door and George ran inside quickly. Durgess followed.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Durgess said, removing his hat.

“Would you like tea? We should go to the study, it’s the only place where my sister’s husband allows us to smoke.”

“You live with your sister?”

Mrs. Wright nodded. “My sister-in-law, Mary Winston. Her husband John was kind enough to let my George and I live here after my husband died,” she said. Durgess admired the grace with which she walked. He followed her toward the back rooms of the house.

“You’re a widow?” Durgess smoothed his hair as he followed.

“Yes. George was very kind to take up work at the telegraph office to help support us. These are hard times.”

“Very.”

Agatha opened a heavy door that led into what Durgess would have called a small library more than a study. Admitedly, Durgess was not much of a reader. Agatha showed him to a seat at a small table and went to put a kettle on in the kitchen. She returned quickly.

“Well, I must say, Mrs. Wright, astrantia isn’t exactly a mourning flower.” He pointed to the flower pinned on her breast.

“Oh yes,” she said, raising her hands to her chest and sat across from him, “my sister lets them grow out back and I simply adore them.”

“I grow amaranths myself. Purple ones.”

“A gardening detective… how strange!”

George came into the study and hastily reached for one of the books. He wore a plain off-white shirt and a waistcoat that was much too big for him. Durgess took hold of his hand and stopped him before he could leave.

“Now where are you going, lad? I still need to ask you a few questions.”

George sighed. “Will it take long?”

“Not at all, now sit down beside your mum, there.”

George obeyed.

“So tell me George,” Durgess said, “where did Charley Swinscow, your mate at the office, get fourteen shillings? That’s more than a week’s wages I hear.”

“Look, Officer--”

“It’s Inspector, son.” Mrs. Wright corrected.

“Inspector,” George rolled his eyes, “he didn’t steal it or nothing. Honest! He’d just done an odd job or two for Mr. Hammond.”

“Who’s Mr. Hammond? What kind of work did he have Charles do?”

“I don’t know, Charley’s friend Henry told us about him.”

“Henry who?” Durgess asked.

“Newlove. Henry Newlove.”

The kettle whistled and Agatha went to tend to it. Durgess leaned forward and propped an elbow on the table. “Did you or Ernie ever take jobs from Mr. Hammond?”

“No sir. I surely didn’t”

“Where can I find this Henry Newlove?”

“He works at the Post. As a clerk.”

“Thanks, mate. You just dodged a lot of trouble, you did.”

Mrs. Wright returned with a tray of tea and biscuits. The three of them sat and enjoyed a cup of Earl Grey with biscuits Durgess could tell were from a tin. Durgess and Mrs. Wright discussed their mutual fascination with wild flowers. She had the most precious dimples when she smiled. Durgess noted the hour and saw that George was nodding off.

Durgess stood up quickly and patted George on the shoulder. “Sorry, Mrs. Wright, but I’ve got to go.” he said. He could tell Mrs. Wright hadn’t smiled like that in a long time. “Can I call on you again if I need more from you… er, I mean, from George?”

“Of course. Thank you, Inspector.” she said.

Durgess headed for the police station.

Durgess arrived at the station in mid-afternoon. Most of the men were busy sorting through files, but Abberline and DSI Connolly looked thoroughly miffed. He now recognized DI Frederick Abberline. He had become famous for investigating the Whitechapel Murders the previous year. Durgess had never met him personally, but knew his face from the paper. Durgess took his hat off and approached them cautiously.

“Is something the matter?” Durgess asked. “I heard the Swinscow lad had nowt to do with the robbing. Did he know who done it?”

Abberline gave him a cold glance.

“Oh, something’s the matter all right.” Connolly said, straightening his belt. “Yon Swinscow was doing jobs for a Charles Hammond. But that has nowt to do with the robbery.”

“Right,” Durgess said, sitting down, “the Wright lad’s story corroborates. What’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” Connolly yelled, his eyes bulging. “The boys are sellin’ themselves!”

“Rent boys.” Abberline joined the conversation but didn’t look up from the statement he’d gotten. “Hammond’s running a brothel.”

“What?” Durgess said. His eyes now were bulging too. “That’s not… but the Wright lad, he said--”

“He lied, mate,” Connolly cut in. “Swinscow said he and Wright were handing out indecent favors to well-off men for extra pay. Could be a big bust if we can get a list of the clients.”

“This is unbelievable…”

“Abberline here leaned on Swinscow to get the name,” Connolly continued, “Charles Hammond, but the lad burst into tears and hushed up before we could get an address. I think he wet his trousers again.”

“Well, I’d better get out to the Wrights’ house again before dark.” Durgess said, ignoring Connolly’s last remark. He put his hat back on and made for the front door. “Oh, and Abberline?” He turned around. “You may want to check out Henry Newlove. He’s the boys’ connection to Hammond. A post clerk, so I hear.”

Abberline raised an eyebrow.

“Nice work.” Connolly said. “Now go, keep it up.”

Durgess went back to Agatha Wright’s home as fast as he could. He hoped he wasn’t too late to squeeze more answers out of George. He knocked on the front door. A woman answered.

“Hello,” she said in a frostbitten tone, “may I ask who’s calling and why so late this evening?”

“Hello ma’am, you must be Mary, er, Mrs. Winston,” Durgess said as he took off his hat, “I’m Detective Inspector Edwin Durgess. Sorry to come by so late, but I must speak to your sister’s son, George. It’s urgent.”

She sighed and muttered, “Fatherless boys will cause trouble… do come in, Inspector.”

As Durgess stepped inside, Mrs. Wright was coming down the hall toward the door. “Edwin! I mean, Inspector Durgess, what may we do for you? We were just about to sit down to supper.” she said.

“Mrs. Wright, I need to see George again. His story had… holes.” Durgess said.

Mary Winston walked past Mrs. Wright and reappeared with Mr. Winston and George in tow. Mrs. Wright pressed her hand to her mouth. George trembled at the sight of the Inspector he hadn’t expected to see again.

“George, I need to know why you lied to me earlier. Charley Swinscow told us about Charles Hammond and the ‘jobs.’ He also mentioned you were more involved than you said.”

“Oh no…” George’s face turned white.

“What have you done now, boy?” Mr. Winston said. He seized George by the shoulder and began shaking him. “Is this about the robbery? Tell me!”

“Mr. Winston please I just--”

“Leave my son alone, John!” Agatha shouted.

Mr. Winston let go of George. Durgess noticed his own hand had instinctively gripped the Webley revolver in his coat. Mrs. Wright Mary Winston was speechless but had her hands disapprovingly perched on her hips.

“I’m sorry, Inspector.” George’s eyes started to well up and he pressed tears away with his knuckles. “I didn’t think Charley would talk.”

“Talk about what?” Mr. Winston forcefully crossed his arms.

“Charley and me,” George sniffed, “we were working as boys for rent. Only at Nighttime!”

“Why you little whore!” Mr. Winston slapped George so hard that he fell. Mrs. Wright dropped to her knees and threw herself over George, absorbing four more blows from Mr. Winston intended for the boy Mary Winston’s eyes grew large and she scowled at George.

“Mr. Winston!” Durgess pushed him away. “Stop! Immediately!”

“I’m… I’m sorry!” George sobbed. The boy was about sixteen or seventeen, but still looked like a frail little ten-year-old in his mother’s arms. “I needed the money for me and my mum!”

“It’s okay George.” Durgess said, keeping a hand on Mr. Winston’s chest to hold him away from Mrs. Wright and the boy. “Just tell me where Hammond lives and we’ll sort it all out. You won’t be in any trouble if he was forcing you.”

“Forcing?” Mrs. Winston yelled in disbelief.

“It was… at 19 Cleveland Street.”

“You need to come with me right now George. Show me.” Durgess tried to keep his voice calm in the hope that it might be contagious and settle down the riled family.

After a quick stop at the police station to gather DI Abberline and Superintendent Connolly, and Durgess were escorted to 19 Cleveland Street by George, whose face was still puffy and reddened. It was Abberline that knocked.

“Mr. Hammond? Open up please. It’s the CID.”

No answer.

Connolly tried the front door and it was unlocked. The whole group of them entered the house. Abberline searched “guest” rooms, Connolly looked through Hammond’s desk, and Durgess took George and went to the master bedroom. Durgess would never forget what he saw when he opened the door. A boy of about eighteen was lying lifeless, facedown on floor, with his trousers pulled off and a length of rope around his neck. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked as if he’d been pleading for some respite in his last horrific moments.

“Oh God! Henry!” George yelped.

“Newlove?” Durgess said as he approached the body. “No sign of Hammond. You think Newlove here came and tipped him off? Did you talk to him, George?”

“No! I swear I--”

Abberline burst in. “What’s all the noise about? Did you--” He stopped short when his eyes fell on the body whose eyes Durgess was pushing closed. “Jesus…” Abberline wiped his brow and added, “Has the DSI seen this? Where is he?”

“No…” Durgess stood and walked over to George. “No, he’s seen nowt.”

“Seen nowt of what, lad?” Connolly approached from behind Mr. Winston with a fistful of charred papers.

“The Newlove lad’s been murdered, sir.” Abberline said. “Looks as though he’s been… interfered with, as well.”

“My God… the poor boy.” Connolly scratched his mutton chop sideburns. “Can’t catch this Hammond fellow soon enough I say. I had a spot of luck.” He held up sooty papers. “Apparently he tried to burn evidence in the fireplace. Ledgers dating back a few years. Client names, the boys they were with, how much they paid…”

“I didn’t even notice the fireplace was lit, we might’ve lost incriminating evidence…” Durgess looked at the crispy remains that smelled faintly of burnt hair and were still fresh with heat.

“I could tell you who the clients were! Most of the gentlemen were well-known as it is!” George piped up enthusiastically, looking at Durgess.

“You’ve gone and helped enough, lad.” Connolly said, tousling George’s hair. “Durgess here will see you home,” he turned to Durgess, “then you’ll be off to the station to give the list a look down, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Durgess said.

The next day was no easier for Durgess, who had stayed at the Wright house a little longer that night with George prior to returning to the station, going over the list of gentlemen George had serviced and verifying with what remained of Hammond’s client list. It would be no clean work making accusations of the gentlemen George named. Among others, he recalled Lord Alfred Douglas, a rich American, and even Prince Albert Victor, the second in line to the throne. Durgess wanted arrests, if only for his reputation, but he was afraid to make false accusations and be sued for libel. No one was going to jail on a partial client list and the word of a teenage rent boy.

Durgess had been questioning George about any other evidence he might have, when Mrs. Wright came down and saw Durgess out. He admired Mrs. Wright’s strength, raising a boy all on her own. She hadn’t needed to dress herself and let Durgess out, but she did anyway, if only to comfort her frightened son. The astrantia on her breast seemed to never wilt.

In the afternoon, Durgess thought he might question some of the clients. Though the list confirmed it, he was still cautious about calling on Lord Alfred. It wasn’t as if he was questioning Prince Albert just yet, Lord Alfred was already the subject of a few sexual scandals. He hoped to refrain from involving the royal family and perhaps get a solid witness statement against The American.

The door opened briskly. “Hello. May I ask who’s calling?” Lord Alfred said. He had fair skin and was quite slender. His attire was that of a quintessential dandy, which didn’t bode well for any supposition of innocence in Durgess’s mind.

“Lord Alfred? My name is Detective Inspector Edwin Durgess. May I come inside and ask you a few questions?”

“Why yes, of course” Lord Alfred said and opened the door to let Durgess in. “Join me in the garden if you will, it’s a quite lovely day.” He wasn’t wrong. The sun was only partially obscured by clouds, making it cooler after the humid early morning brought on by a summer downpour the night before. Durgess followed him and admired the sheer variety of flowers. The green amaranth was particularly fragrant, and would likely yield perfect seeds for meal. He also had delicate scarlet anemones and Durgess considered asking if he might pick one for Mrs. Wright. He refrained.

“I like your garden, Lord Alfred.”

“Do you? I hadn’t supposed esteemed fellows of the CID appreciated beauty in any form, let alone its most natural.”

“I don’t suppose either. I grow wild flowers myself.”

“How lovely. My circle and I prefer green carnations as it were.” Lord Alfred reached down and stroked the stem of an anemone. “You say you had questions for me, Inspector?

“Yes.” Durgess straightened up and took a more officious tone. “Are you at all familiar with a man named Charles Hammond?”

“The name only, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, unfortunate.” Durgess squinted at him. “Do you know a lad that goes by George Wright? Or his mate, Charley Swinscow?”

“I’m afraid I do not. Is something wrong, Inspector?”

“Well, we’ve recently discovered evidence, backed by witness statements, that suggest that you visited a brothel within the past month that caters to a more… indecent clientele.”

“Is that so?” Lord Alfred appeared unfazed by the accusation. He simply continued strolling along, pausing occasionally to admire a flower. “Does the CID regulate a man’s taste in the fairer sex these days, Inspector?”

“I didn’t say fairer sex.” Durgess said, attempting his best imitation of Connolly’s intimidating stance with his arms crossed firmly, but the effect was more nervous than masculine. “Rent boys, Lord Alfred.”

“Oh. My.”

“Yes. You know you could serve up to two years hard labor for acts of indecency under Section 11 of the 1885 amendment to the law, Lord Alfred.” Durgess uncrossed his arms and knelt down beside Alfred and a bright yellow primrose that hadn’t quite blossomed yet. “A judge may be more lenient if you could make a statement against Mr. Hammond, or perhaps one of the other clients?”

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Lord Alfred said, “I simply do not know this Cleveland Street brothel of which you speak.”

“I didn’t say it was on Cleveland Street.” Durgess paused to make sure the message stuck.

“Didn’t you?” Lord Alfred was retained his tone of cool confidence. He might have made a great killer if he wasn’t such a dandy poet, Durgess thought. “Well, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. I am late now for a meeting with the Rhymer’s Club.”

“Yes. Yes of course.” Durgess stood up to leave. “I’ll come back later, Lord Alfred.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that.”

Though the afternoon hadn’t been particularly fruitful, Durgess was happy to have won a battle of wits with an aesthete. He could say with confidence that Lord Alfred was a sodomite, but he didn’t spook easily and that made him seem less likely to have been the one to tip of Hammond or kill Newlove. The theory that Hammond was the murderer seemed more than likely. Durgess couldn’t understand these impulsive men whose carnal desires would lead them to seek indecent behavior with innocent boys. The thought of it angered him all the way to the pub, where he heard from George was frequented by The American. His hope was that at least he’d have caught one pervert and with any luck could then find the murderous Hammond.

The American wasn’t hard to find. Durgess simply sought out the loudest man whose cigarettes were more potent than everyone else’s. He was a big man, with brown bushy hair and square features. He didn’t look wealthy, but that was just the way of Americans; they never looked like what they were.

“Excuse me, may I ask you a few questions?” Durgess asked.

“Who’re you?” The American said. He apparently enjoyed his whiskey; Durgess noted the stink on his breath.

“I’m Detective Inspector Ed Durgess.”

“Oh yeah! You’re one of them what you call ‘em… bobbies!” The American laughed.

“Sorry, no.” Durgess said as he stroked his moustache. “I’m a detective. Do you know a Charles Hammond?”

“Eh? No, ‘fraid not, Bobby. I only been here in London a week. Stayed in Yorkshire to avoid the Civil War, y’know?”

“Yes, of course.” Durgess steeled himself for his next tactic. “But you see, I have a client list, and a respectable lord as corrocborating witness that say you paid a visit to a rent boy on Cleveland Street nearly a month ago.”

“Sorry. Your limey lord must be a limey liar.” The American chuckled. Durgess lost his patience.

“Listen here you bloody Yankee,” Durgess said, grabbing The American by his shirt, “a lad is dead and the only suspects right now are you and Hammond, so unless you’d like your vacation in London to last fifteen more years, you’d better say owt but ‘you don’t know!’”

“Okay!” The American sobered up quickly. “I admit it! I paid for a boy, all right? I didn’t force anybody, he was willing and I paid! But I sure didn’t kill anybody!”

Durgess was pleased. Americans would confess to anything short of murder. “And do you know where Hammond is?”

“No, and that’s the truth!” The American finished his whiskey.

“Then I’m placing you under arrest--”

Mrs. Wright rushed in the front door of the pub with sweat and tears soaking her face and dress. She looked left and right and screamed when she saw Durgess. “Edwin!”

“What is it, Mrs. Wright? Calm down.” Durgess loosened his grip on The American.

“You have to help! You have to!” She clutch Durgess by the arm. “My George! Someone’s shot my George! He’s been shot and he’s dead!”

“Ain’t that a kick in the balls?” The American said.

Durgess was swimming in a river of accusations. He saw to it that The American was arrested and in the hands of Connolly, but that meant that the chief suspect for killing George might the abusive Mr. Winston or possibly Lord Alfred.

He had taken care of George’s body when he found him in his room at the Winstons’. It was punctured in the upper chest by a bullet from a small pistol. He consoled Mrs. Wright in the Winstons’ study while Mr. and Mrs. Winston slept. Utterly exhausted, he and Mrs. Wright had fallen asleep there.

In the morning, after convincing Mary Winston that nothing inappropriate happened between himself and Mrs. Wright, he asked Mr. Winston what he was doing when George was shot. Mr. Winston insisted he had been asleep until Mary Winston woke him. Durgess decided that arresting Mr. Winston on suspicion alone would be more drama than Mrs. Wright could handle. He would revisit Lord Alfred first.

Durgess arrived too late. A neighbor confirmed that Lord Alfred had left for Paris early in the morning.

Durgess returned to the police station defeated. He went to inform Abberline what had happened.

“It’s just as well,” said Abberline, twirling his moustache.

“What do you mean it’s bloody ‘just as well?’”

“The Swinscow lad is dead. Strangled by The American, I suspect.”

“What?” Durgess began to panic.

“What did you expect?” Abberline spoke as coldly as ever, despite the heat outside. “Once you start throwing accusations of indecency around, somebody’s like to panic and start trying to cover his tracks.”

“So you’re sure that it’s a client? Hammond’s not a killer on the loose?”

“Hammond’s fled the country. Besides, do think a cowardly degenerate, hungry for lads, is capable of murder? We have the killer. The American.”

“He was with me when the Wright lad was shot!”

“Then I suppose you should keep interviewing clients. The American killed Newlove and Swinscow.”

“Abberline,” Durgess leaned close and whispered, “it could have been Prince Albert--”

“You know bloody well we can’t go arresting the Prince on suspicion of murder. What would it look like? It’s best to stick to the truth that’s easy to swallow; The American did it. People get their murderer, and we don’t get sent to jail making false accusations.”

“This isn’t right, Abberline.”

“It was Connolly’s call, Ed. You’ve got nowt.”

“I’ve got another suspect, is what.”

Durgess was furious. If just one person could confirm Prince Albert as a suspect, he would have a case against him, but as it stood, everyone was hushed about the whole thing. The American was sure to go to jail for being indecency, but it would have been a crime in itself to let him hang for murder. Lord Alfred and Hammond were lost causes, and unlikely if they thought fleeing the country was the best solution. Why murder a witness if you’re going to skip town anyway? But he knew Winston might still have murdered George and he was intent on finding out. It was still curious to Durgess how a killer might have sneaked inside the house and out again without Mrs. Wright, Mary Winston, or Mr. Winston noticing. This was enough evidence for Durgess that Mr. Winston had been the killer.

Durgess stopped at his house to pick an amaranth for Agatha. He might not have been able to save George, but he could at least find him a little justice. Careful not to scare off Winston, he would pretend he was calling on Mrs Wright.

Durgess knocked loudly. It took several moments before Mary Winston answered the door. He asked to see Mrs. Wright and Mary Winston informed him she was sulking in George’s room.

Durgess limited conversation with Mary Winston to just that. She had a sullen look and on his way to the stairs, he noticed why. Mr. Winston was deep in an opium induced sleep in his study. That explained his irritablity when he wasn’t smoking, Durgess thought. Perhaps he should delay the accusation until Winston woke up.

He peeked in each room until he found Agatha sitting right on the spot where George’s body had been laying the night he’d been shot. She looked as if she had been weeping but he hadn’t heard her.

“Mrs. Wright?” he called.

“You may call me Agatha, Edwin.”

He knelt beside her. “I brought you one of my purple amaranths.” He presented the flower as if it was on fire.

“How kind of you…” Agatha took the amaranth, inhaled its fragrance and placed it on George’s bed.

“May I speak with you outside, Agatha?”

She sighed. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

They passed the study on the way out. Mr. Winston was still asleep and Mary was reading. Agatha led them around the side of the house.

“I’m curious Agatha, how well do you know Mr. Winston?”

“He’s been married to my husband’s sister for nearly seven years, but they fight often. She has been without child for this long and well…”

“It’s ok, you don’t have to speak on it.” Durgess cleared his throat. “What did you say you were doing that night George was shot?”

“It’s like I said, I was asleep until the sound of the shot woke me.”

“Did the Winstons wake up as well?”

“Mr. Winston did. Mary was asleep in the study.”

“And did you know that Mr. Winston is addicted to opium?”

“Yes. It’s why he’s always so short-tempered.”

“Does he smoke every night?”

“Yes, before bed. But sometimes in the afternoon, like today.”

“Interesting.” Durgess stroked his moustache.

“Why is that?” Mrs. Wright stopped walking.

“Interesting that Mr. Winston woke up when the pistol fired, you woke up when the pistol fired, but Mrs. Winston did not.”

“I supoosed she’s a heavy sleeper.”

“Heavier than a man high on opium?” Durgess looked at Mrs Wright. Her eyes widened and shifted to the side. She tried to walk away but he stopped her with his hand. She pushed his hand away and tried to walk but again he stopped her. He grabbed her by her arms. “Agatha?”

“If what you are saying is true, then Mary shot my son!”

“Agatha, wait!” Durgess called after her as she ran down the stairs.

Mrs. Wright found Mary Winston clearing Mr. Winston’s opium paraphernalia off the desk in the study. “Mary!” she shouted, “What have you done?”

“I’m sorry?” Mary turned to face Mrs. Wright just as Durgess ran in. He gave her an intense look. “Oh…” she continued, “that.”

“Now wait a minute, everyone--” Durgess started.

“You think I’d let that little boy-whore soil my brother’s name?” Mary said. “Your husband’s name?” She aimed a finger at Agatha Wright venomously.

“I can’t believe you!” Mrs. Wright burst into tears.

“So you confess, then?” Durgess was stunned.

“Confess?” Mary walked toward one of the larger bookshelves. “Is that what you want, Inspector? A villain? I just rid London of one little sodomite whore because my husband was too doped to do it himself.”

“Who are you to judge my child?” Agatha Wright shouted.

“Why did you protect him?” Mary took a book off the shelf.

“I-- Oh my God…” Agatha stopped.

Mary turned around with a small pistol in hand. Durgess felt sweat bead on his temple and his eyes bulge in panic. She pointed the pistol at Agatha Wright first, then at Durgess. Before he could reach for his own revolver, Agatha drew a small dagger from the folds of her dress and charged at Mary’s throat.

A shot rang out and both women fell to the floor. Durgess quickly ran and kneeled by Mrs. Wright. Mr. Winston’s eyes perked up.

“Agatha!” Durgess cried. He propped her head up in his hand and held the wound in her stomach.

“Edwin…” she gasped, “I’m sorry. I should have… should have told you… everything…”

“What? What is it?” Durgess said, ignoring Mr. Winston rushing to Mary, whose warm blood was pooling beneath her lacerated neck.

“I knew…” Agatha said, “I knew all along… about George.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Hammond didn’t rent… just boys…” Agatha reached and touched Durgess’s face, smearing it with thin blood. She gagged and coughed. “It’s been… so hard.”

“You… too?” he asked with a perplexed look. “You’re a…” He pushed her hand away from his face and let go of her head. She continued reaching up to him as he stood and fled from the house.

Durgess was panting heavily when he ran into the police station. Smiles had returned to the faces of the CID because as far as they knew, the American boy-hungry murderer was caught and held in a cell downstairs. Durgess had to prove them wrong.

“Connolly!” Durgess shouted across the office.

“Settle down, settle down, lad. What is it?”

Durgess ran to Connolly and tried to catch his breath. “Agatha, er, Mrs. Wright… she’s dead. Mary Winston murdered the boy. The American is innocent.”

“Where is Mrs. Winston now?”

“Dead as well, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Come inside my office. Now.” Connolly opened the door for them and they entered. He closed the door behind them. “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble we’ll see if the people at the papers get news that we shot a civilian?”

“Sir, she--”

“Lad, I think this case has gotten to you. First you come in here screaming about The American were innocent and Prince Albert’s a sodomite, — Abberline told me about that, by the way — and now you’ve gone and killed a woman? A woman!”

“No I didn’t! Sir, if you let me see the client list again, let me talk to the other rent boys, I can--”

“You can nowt, lad! You’ve got blood all over you! The public sees another bloody American hung out to dry, a rent boy brothel is shut down, it’s best for everybody to just sweep the whole thing under. You follow?”

“Why are you ignoring all of this?” Durgess shouted.

“Lad, there’s more than one reason to see this all blow over, like a summer storm.”

“What are you talking about?”

Connolly sat silent a moment and scratched his beard. Durgess wouldn’t break eye contact. “Albert were on that bloody list okay?” Connolly leaned in close and grabbed Durgess by the face.

“You… you burned the list? You--”

“I protected the Prince of England? I avoided riots in the streets? You’re bloody well right I did! Now toe the line, boy! I’m in no mood to argue about this!”

“And Newlove? And Swinscow…?” Durgess stepped away from Connolly.

“What about them?”

“They were two innocent lads!”

Connolly grunted. “Innocent lads don’t take shillings for bummings…” He turned around and walked toward his desk. Instinctively, Durgess pulled his pistol out and pointed it at Connolly’s back. Connolly felt the metal pressed to his spine. “Have you gone bloody mad? Stop this!”

“They were innocent!” Over the commotion, Durgess barely heard the door open behind him before he felt a hard hit to the back of his head. He stumbled and fell on the floor. He looked up to see Abberline holding a pistol from the wrong end. Abberline hit him again.

The courtroom was loud and unruly. The people of London were scared and rightly so in Durgess’s opinion. There was a killer covering the secrets surrounding a little whorehouse on Cleveland Street. Unfortunately for Durgess, that killer would end up going free while he ended up in jail for it.

The trial was a mockery of justice for Durgess, and he put most of it out of mind.

“Lord, I put it to you that my client is innocent on the grounds that he suffers from a deviant mental degeneration, and that his indecent actions were dictated not by his conscious, but rather an inability to discern, as you and I are able, what is proper.”

The defence had been his solicitor’s idea. Durgess was backed into a corner and he knew that any attempt to argue his innocence or Connolly’s guilt would be fruitless and a waste of tax money. The cruel irony of it was that all it took to convince the public he was guilty was blood on his face, Mr. Winston’s testimony, and a flower in a dead boy’s bedroom. Connolly had seen to it that The American took the fall for murdering Newlove and George Wright.

“I recommend that in lieu of a prison sentence and hard labor, that my client be treated for his psychological impairment by the esteemed board of Oxford surgeons.”

Durgess was no longer afraid of what was coming. Nothing hurt quite like Agatha being a whore like her son, and he suspected hard labor would have been therapeutic if nothing else. It seemed that the trial was coming to an end.

“I find the accused innocent on these grounds and recommend immediate treatment at the Kiplinger’s Institute for the Criminally Mad.”

Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline received credit for the arrest. He’d make Chief Inspector for such a catch.

Here's a liquor I recently tasted; Juniper Green, an organic gin. It was pretty tasty. It has less of that "piney" taste that most gins have. I understand that it's that flavor that turns some people off to gin, but it usually doesn't bother me. It smells very floral but with a nice punch of alcohol, which brings me to what I really love about it; it's strong. Not by much, but it has a higher proof than normal gin, meaning it takes less gin & tonics to get the job done. Juniper Green makes one tasty gin & tonic too.

Finally, I had an awesome lunch today, my own recipe for potato tacos.

I used diced potatoes with jarred jalapenos and a diced yellow bell pepper that I pickled in my own special mix of brines. I seasoned them with adobo spices, crushed red pepper, salt, black pepper. I pan-fried them in bacon fat and tossed them in flour tortillas with queso blanco and shredded iceburg lettuce. Yum.

And that is what I've been up to. More to come next week. Have a good one.

-Steve