Free The Vice Society by James McCreet

ruined by poor investments but with a chance to pay my creditors. Asked for a sovereign. Wyndford is stingy but has paid once before. [Hand two].
    Dec 6 – Addressee: Lord Holland. I am Josiah Weston, a schoolmaster reduced to penury by poor health and debt. Four children: Jonathan, Milly, Victoria, Mary (a cripple). Wife dead. Asked for 5l. Holland a benevolent fool – send fortnightly. [Hand one].
    Dec 9 – Addressee: Lord Brougham. I have expired due to his lack of charity and been buried in a pauper’s grave – written from landlord’s point of view. (Perhaps this will encourage the old miser to pay up on other letters.) [Hand four] . . .
     
    ‘He has been most industrious,’ remarked Mr Jute. ‘But what is this notation about “hands” at the end of each entry?’
    ‘It is the style of writing he employs: the written words and also the tone of voice. Perhaps he writes as a woman, or as a semi-literate fool. In this way, he can send any number of requests to the same recipient and be paid numerous times.’
    ‘Quite a skill. That’s rather clever.’
    ‘That is a crime, Mr Jute.’
    ‘Of course, of course. So what do we do now? We have evidence of his records but not the man.’
    ‘We now know what letters he has sent and to whom. We can intercept those letters, stopping the fraud, and study them for further clues. We can also arrange for the false widow Burgoyne to hand over any further letters she receives. Our writer has been stopped momentarily – that is as much as we can hope for until we can study more examples of his work. Where he might be now is quite impossible to guess.’
    ‘So we have done good work. My father will be pleased. I wonder if young Nelly might make us tea and volunteer some information about her special friend the letter writer?’
    ‘Let us find out.’
    The two gentlemen ventured downstairs to the kitchen, where they were welcomed at the table by the landlady and served tea by Nelly. The fire crackled somewhat in vain against the chill, and, in the flames’ sharp shadows, the landlady had even more of the swine about her: that broad nose of hers wrinkling and snorting bestially beneath an ill-concealed moustache.
    ‘Tell me, madam,’ began Mr Williamson as he readied his notebook, ‘what else can you tell me of this gentleman lodger?’
    ‘A cur. They all are, those writers. I don’t know why I take them in any more. Did you find any rent money?’
    ‘Regrettably not, but we may be able to find him with your help. Can you describe him?’
    ‘A sly-looking sort. I felt he was watching me all the time. Had an odd grin about him, like . . . like the way a cat looks at you. Like he was too good for the likes of us. Sly he was – it comes from thinking too much.’
    ‘I mean, was he tall or short?’
    ‘About medium.’
    ‘The colour of his eyes? His hair? Any marks that might distinguish him from another man?’
    ‘He had brown hair I suppose. Thinning a bit. His eyes I couldn’t speak of – I was nervous to look in them. He looked like all of them writers. You know what they look like. All the same.’
    ‘His voice, then?’
    ‘In truth, he wasn’t much of a talker.’
    Mr Williamson looked to Mr Jute to see if he could gain any sense from the woman, who was quite clearly an imbecile.
    ‘Thank you, madam. You have been most helpful,’ said Mr Jute. ‘Now – a few questions for your girl here.’
    ‘Nelly Jones,’ said Nelly with a coquettish smile for the younger man. ‘Will you put my name in your notebook?’
    ‘Would you like us to?’
    ‘Go on then.’
    ‘What can you tell us about the man who stayed here?’ continued Mr Jute.
    She cast a rapid glance at the landlady. ‘Nothing. He was a man. They’s all the same . . . present company expected, I mean.’
    Mr Williamson caught the glance and spoke to the landlady: ‘Madam – I wonder if you would mind going to the butcher’s on the corner and bringing I and my colleague a bacon sandwich