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Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
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the Hundred Guineas, the odious creatures are so
flagrant as to take on the names of women!' 'The Hundred Guineas, do
you say?' asks Gosse, writing as quickly as he can. 'Where are the
stocks when we require them?' asks Home. 'Why has the pillory been
abolished? Why are these perverse creatures not in irons?' 'Because
it would occasion a surprising emigration from Eton to Newgate,'
replies Whitty. 'A guid cut, sir, a guid cut – and from one who
should know!' Whitty hears the scratching of pencils on notebooks,
like little teeth gnawing the table–legs. Why does Fraser's
flaccid cliche merit recording and not his own, far superior, cut?
And why the reference to 'backgammon' – used among ruffians to
describe certain sexual acts? 'I should think,' says Fraser, 'that in
cleansing the city of this outrageous conduct, the first measure
would be to abolish the Turkish baths – which are little more
than dens of uranism, as I am sure Edmund will agree.' Another round
of chuckling. Whitty has had enough. 'I say, gentlemen, there seems
to be an amusement going of which I am ignorant.' 'Not at all,'
Fraser replies, turning to the barkeeper hovering in the doorway.
'Humphrey, fetch ye a hot gin for Mr Whitty, who has advanced such a
spirited defence of sexual inversion. And a guid argument for
bestiality as well.' Then he rises from his seat and exits the room
winking at the barman as if to say, What did I tell you? 43
8
5 Buckingham Gate Bill Williams, alias Dr Gilbert Williams, alias
Herr Schrenk–Notting, occupies the gloomy back parlour of the
decomposing London town– house, in the company of a bottle of
the out–and–out and a china teacup. Uncorking his pint,
he fills the cup to the brim and downs it as though it were water.
These days, in preparing himself for a performance, gin is the spirit
he consults. His hand quivers as he refills the cup, causing it to
rattle upon its saucer, and an amount of liquid to spill upon the
table top. Williams scoops the gin from the surface, rubs his palms
together, and massages the liquid into the skin of his balding pate;
for it is proven that applications of alcohol can restore a scalp to
fertility. Williams is a stocky man with a huge head, a wide trunk,
and a pair of tiny, woman's feet. Seated he appears dwarfish and
standing he appears stout, when in fact he is neither. Thatches of
thick black bristle sprout from every region of his body except the
top of his head, the one spot he wishes it to cover. Poorly served by
nature, the medium has no faith in the Creator as a benevolent force;
his intercourse with the hereafter has provided him a living, but no
peace, nor comfort. Equipped with a wealth of experience in the
smoke–and–mirrors profession, Williams has grown
physically attuned to the natural rhythm of a dodge or fiddle –
when a particular location is about to turn rotten – and his
senses are telling him that London has reached that point, and more.
When he rises in the morning, the hairs at the back of his neck
prickle; when he ventures from the house, the hairs on his knuckles
stand on end. Such signs must not be ignored, yet to vacate the field
with profits at their peak is no way to conduct a business. It is one
of the Creator's little jokes that a location becomes unwholesome
precisely at its moment of highest return. Tonight's performance
alone stands to net the society over £80 – 400 American
dollars – even after splitting the proceeds with his sponsor,
the duke. (Williams makes a mental note to set aside 10 guineas for
Mr Fraser of Dodd's.) But is the profit worth the risk? Even more
unsettling is the other matter – a development he neither 44
BUCKINGHAM GATE expected nor wished for. On the contrary, it has
rendered him a nervous wreck. As a boy of fourteen, Bill Williams
awakened in the pre–dawn November chill of a Kentucky
lodging–house, to behold the shade of Daniel Boone, Kentucky's
national hero, at the foot of his cot. Sbarpe will be sharped!
flagrant as to take on the names of women!' 'The Hundred Guineas, do
you say?' asks Gosse, writing as quickly as he can. 'Where are the
stocks when we require them?' asks Home. 'Why has the pillory been
abolished? Why are these perverse creatures not in irons?' 'Because
it would occasion a surprising emigration from Eton to Newgate,'
replies Whitty. 'A guid cut, sir, a guid cut – and from one who
should know!' Whitty hears the scratching of pencils on notebooks,
like little teeth gnawing the table–legs. Why does Fraser's
flaccid cliche merit recording and not his own, far superior, cut?
And why the reference to 'backgammon' – used among ruffians to
describe certain sexual acts? 'I should think,' says Fraser, 'that in
cleansing the city of this outrageous conduct, the first measure
would be to abolish the Turkish baths – which are little more
than dens of uranism, as I am sure Edmund will agree.' Another round
of chuckling. Whitty has had enough. 'I say, gentlemen, there seems
to be an amusement going of which I am ignorant.' 'Not at all,'
Fraser replies, turning to the barkeeper hovering in the doorway.
'Humphrey, fetch ye a hot gin for Mr Whitty, who has advanced such a
spirited defence of sexual inversion. And a guid argument for
bestiality as well.' Then he rises from his seat and exits the room
winking at the barman as if to say, What did I tell you? 43
8
5 Buckingham Gate Bill Williams, alias Dr Gilbert Williams, alias
Herr Schrenk–Notting, occupies the gloomy back parlour of the
decomposing London town– house, in the company of a bottle of
the out–and–out and a china teacup. Uncorking his pint,
he fills the cup to the brim and downs it as though it were water.
These days, in preparing himself for a performance, gin is the spirit
he consults. His hand quivers as he refills the cup, causing it to
rattle upon its saucer, and an amount of liquid to spill upon the
table top. Williams scoops the gin from the surface, rubs his palms
together, and massages the liquid into the skin of his balding pate;
for it is proven that applications of alcohol can restore a scalp to
fertility. Williams is a stocky man with a huge head, a wide trunk,
and a pair of tiny, woman's feet. Seated he appears dwarfish and
standing he appears stout, when in fact he is neither. Thatches of
thick black bristle sprout from every region of his body except the
top of his head, the one spot he wishes it to cover. Poorly served by
nature, the medium has no faith in the Creator as a benevolent force;
his intercourse with the hereafter has provided him a living, but no
peace, nor comfort. Equipped with a wealth of experience in the
smoke–and–mirrors profession, Williams has grown
physically attuned to the natural rhythm of a dodge or fiddle –
when a particular location is about to turn rotten – and his
senses are telling him that London has reached that point, and more.
When he rises in the morning, the hairs at the back of his neck
prickle; when he ventures from the house, the hairs on his knuckles
stand on end. Such signs must not be ignored, yet to vacate the field
with profits at their peak is no way to conduct a business. It is one
of the Creator's little jokes that a location becomes unwholesome
precisely at its moment of highest return. Tonight's performance
alone stands to net the society over £80 – 400 American
dollars – even after splitting the proceeds with his sponsor,
the duke. (Williams makes a mental note to set aside 10 guineas for
Mr Fraser of Dodd's.) But is the profit worth the risk? Even more
unsettling is the other matter – a development he neither 44
BUCKINGHAM GATE expected nor wished for. On the contrary, it has
rendered him a nervous wreck. As a boy of fourteen, Bill Williams
awakened in the pre–dawn November chill of a Kentucky
lodging–house, to behold the shade of Daniel Boone, Kentucky's
national hero, at the foot of his cot. Sbarpe will be sharped!
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