NEAR CURZON STREET
Citizens Pursue Nightwalker Slayer By William Piper The Morning Register 27 May, 1851
The talk of St Giles Street, Holborn, is of a murder discovered yesterday morning, and a subsequent chase through the streets. It began when the body of a young woman, later identified as Louise Maggs, a prostitute, was found in an alley by an early rising tradesman. Our information, gleaned from witnesses who came upon the scene shortly thereafter, is that the woman had been assaulted and then most horribly slashed by a knife or similar cutting instrument, as if her assailant had begun with one intention but then worked himself into a frenzy. Members of the Watch being summoned, a search of the area was commenced, leading to the discovery that the perpetrator had gone to ground in a nearby cellar—either for fear of discovery in his gore-soaked habiliments, or (which is thought more likely) because like a wild beast’s his instincts compelled him to watch over his kill. Flushed from his hole, he took to his heels. But the hue and cry was taken up, and chase was given by constables and members of the citizenry, who sprang instantly to their duty. For a time, the killer appeared to give his pursuers the slip, before the scent was found again and pursuit resumed. At last he was traced to a well-known house of vice and sedition in the Gray’s Inn Road, and apprehended, following a violent struggle with his friends, including a great Scottish brute who put witnesses horribly in mind of Sawney Bean, and two ancient slatterns who fought on the murderer’s behalf like shrieking harpies. The killer has been identified as Joseph Gummery, who is notorious in the district, being known as the Devil’s Printer.
The Morning Register 28 May, 1851
Upon further investigation, certain details contained in yesterday’s account have been found to be in error. The notorious house of vice and sedition in which the murderer was apprehended has been more properly identified as an academy of self-defence which serves also as the office of a laudable Christian charitable organization. The great Scottish brute referred to by our correspondent is in fact a godly Irish evangelist, bearing no similarity whatsoever to Sawney Bean, the Hibernian highwayman and cannibal. Contrary to our report, there were no ancient slatterns on the premises. The Register apologizes unreservedly to the Misses Sherwood, two mature philanthropists of unimpeachable character, who mildly urged members of the police to observe due process and decorum while carrying out the arrest. The suspect Joseph Gummery is not in fact notorious throughout the district as the Devil’s Printer. Rather he is an apprentice in a printing house, or a “printer’s devil.” The Morning Register stands by the remaining elements of the account, particularly those details reflecting upon the industry of the police and the courage of local citizens.
SPECTACLE, DEAR BOY. Never mind the mirror held to nature. If they want nature they’ll look at a tree. Bangs and whizzes—startling effects—characters who shriek and stab and get on with it. That’s what they want, and so naturally that’s what we give them. And why? Because we are not muffs.”
Edmund Cubitt peered down at the boards beneath his feet, and raised his voice. “Are we ready down there?” Silence below. Sounds of carpentry from the wings. He gave an impatient stamp. “Can you hear me? One knock for yes.”
Two muffled raps were given in reply on the underside of the stage, like goblin-knocks in a mineshaft. Cubitt rolled his eyes. “No, of course we’re not ready. We go up in two hours, and it hasn’t worked yet, so why would we be ready now?”
“About my play—”
“Could we be ready soon?” Cubitt’s voice rose into his tragedian’s register. This was the register he used for climactic moments of doomed heroism, and the hailing of cabs down the full length of crowded thoroughfares. “Could we aspire to readiness at some point in the identifiable future, or shall I just chuck it all over and go back to Punch and Judy in the provinces? I merely ask.”
Silence below.
Edmund Cubitt ground his teeth.
He was First Tragedian and Manager of the Kemp Theatre: a man of five-and-forty, brisk and brusque, with strands of boot-blacked hair painstakingly arranged upon a startlingly large head. He was already half costumed for his performance as the vampire lord in this evening’s melodrama, which meant he was kitted out in kilt and tam-o’shanter. No, don’t ask.
“My play?”
“Right. Short answer?”
“Well, yes, if—”
“No.”
I admit, this came as a blow. This time, I’d been so sure.
“You’ve read it?”
“Most of it. Enough of it. Can’t use it, dear boy.”
“Could I—could I ask why?”
I heard the damnable note of bleating in my voice, and for an instant had an image of myself as a cartoon drawing of the wretched fawning Poet: knock-kneed in supplication, clutching my scribblings in both hands, prevented from tugging my forelock only by the absence of a third hand to tug with. Christ, what is it about literary endeavour that strips a man of all dignity?
“A Scottish vampire,” Cubitt was muttering to himself. “Jimmy MacRevenant. Ah, well—why not, eh? Why not.”
He had fallen to contemplating his costume, having apparently forgotten completely about my play, which was one of the problems with him. His attention span was a hummingbird, darting incessantly from one topic to the next, and invariably returning to the one topic above all that riveted his attention: Edmund Cubitt.
“Romania—Hibernia—it’s all much the same to the gallery. Yes, they’ll like it well enough. They’ll like it a damn sight better than Shakespeare.”
The decision to mount a Scottish vampire play was not in fact an artistic one, incisive or otherwise. It came in consequence of an earlier decision to remove a production of Macbeth from the repertory, after audiences dwindled to the point at which there were scarcely enough lungs to give it a proper booing-off. This left the Kemp with both a yawning hole in its schedule and a wardrobe full of Highland costumes, which coincidence brought Cubitt darting to the honeysuckle-bush of inspiration: he would remount The Vampire, a melodrama written by Mr Planché some decades past and inexplicably set in Scotland. Cubitt had seen a pirated version as a boy, and later played it himself to some minor acclaim in the provinces. The story made relatively little sense, but it had fangs and imperilled virgins, both enduringly popular in the three-penny seats. Cubitt had added some innovations of his own, including Scottish ballads and dances, some caber-tossing, and a heroic charge by the Black Watch Regiment, complete with pipers. These had now begun rehearsing in the wings, setting up a plaintive Highland wheezing. In short it was a complete dog’s breakfast, bereft of any artistic merit whatsoever, and likely to be a great success. Cubitt was an indifferent tragedian, but a shrewd manager, occasional lapses into Shakespeare notwithstanding.
“I
