"Honest John Finds True Love"
by Michael Menser Dell

CHAPTER TWO

Pain.

For centuries, man has searched for means to escape the debilitating ravages of personal anguish. Whether broken bone, wounded heart, or strained intellect, this pursuit of tranquility found a pleasing destination in the sweet nectar of the opium poppy. Once harvested, opium proved a worthy match for even the most harrowing frailties of the human condition, providing the tragically tormented with momentary succor from the unbearable.

Derived from the Greek word "opos," meaning "vegetable juice," opium is actually the milky white juice contained within the capsule walls of the poppy. When the juice is exposed to air, it hardens and turns black, assuming its narcotic attributes. The dried opium can either be eaten, smoked, or mixed with alcohol to create the medicinal elixir known as laudanum, providing plenty of options for those in need. Consumed in its raw form, opium grants the user an overwhelming sense of euphoria. The gentle warmth it inspires has often been compared to being kissed by God. Sadly, as is the case with most pleasures, even peaceful serenity comes with a price. Opium users soon find themselves addicted to the numbing rapture of the poppy, forsaking all else in blind chase of the fleeting, their lives consumed in the intoxicating netherworld of delusion.

In 1803, a German pharmacist named Friedrich Wilhelm Adam Serturner was the first to isolate morphine, the principle active ingredient of opium. Named in honor of Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams, morphine proved superior to raw opium in the management of pain. With the invention of the hypodermic needle in 1853, morphine became accessible to a wider audience. Doctors, believing the drug to be a cleaner version of its predecessor, prescribed it to cure opium addictions. Its popularity raged. Chronic sufferers administered their own care, injecting themselves with any number of readily available morphine kits, furthering society's descent into chemical dependency.

Churchfield had grown accustomed to dealing with opium addicts over the years. He generally found them to be docile sorts, easily subdued and quite amicable while under the influence. The only time they demonstrated anything resembling aggression was during the fitful bouts of withdrawal that were often brought on by the drug's absence. In fact, in the course of his many adventures as first a constable and then a detective, Churchfield could nary recall a single instance when he had to resort to violence in order to control an opium smoker or someone enjoying the benefits of morphine. Alcohol, on the other hand, was the proud parent of violent behavior. Churchfield lamented not having a penny for every rowdy, obnoxious drunkard he had beaten unconscious in the name of the law, or at least in the name of good clean fun. Thinking of it was enough to make him reach for his flask.

The address Miss Grove provided was located on Brooks Street in the lower east end of London. Churchfield found the residence to be the typical boarding house of the working class, humble in aspect and aspiration. Miss Kaitlin Brown's room was on the third floor. The situation called for some tact. Miss Grove made it painfully apparent that she suspected her husband was having an affair with Miss Brown. If handled improperly, the situation could easily deteriorate into a screaming match of accusations and passionate denials. Deception was required. The dutiful detective needed to have an array of cover stories readily available. The goal would be to discover if Mr. Cain was present, or had been seen, without divulging the true intentions of the inquiry. The necessary mental preparations concluded, Churchfield announced his arrival upon Miss Brown's door with a confident hand.

A petite, drowsy-eyed brunette answered his plea, cracking the door and slurring a half-hearted "Yes?"

"Is Lowry Cain here?"

The woman's pale, drawn face showed few signs of life. "No."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No."

"Any idea where he could be?"

"No."

"Thank you."

Churchfield nodded farewell to a closed door. He could have the flat watched, but even the murkiest of investigations demanded trust. And Churchfield trusted his gut. Miss Brown's vacant expression and feeble voice confessed a laudanum dependency. Such addicts make for bad liars, especially when confronted with the unexpected. If Lowry Cain was having an affair with Miss Brown, as his wife suspected, it was of no use to Churchfield. His concern was the man, not his morality.

If one vice didn't call Mr. Cain, perhaps another did. Situated in upper Swandon Lane, The Gold Bar was one of the city's most notorious opium dens. While a speedy trap was whisking Churchfield to its door on a lovely spring afternoon, the detective knew the establishment would be as densely populated as if it were the middle of the night. The passage of time was of little concern to opium's voracious votaries.

Churchfield alighted his conveyance a block away, choosing to approach on foot. It was an old habit. He never liked anyone, even strange carriage drivers, to know exactly where he was going. And he had an image to uphold. He couldn't let it get around that he was frequenting opium dens. After all, Churchfield liked pain.

The neighborhood was the ragged edge of nowhere. A dingy, seamy wharf region on the east end of the Thames, only opium's Siren song could lure someone as wealthy as Mr. Lowry Cain into its midst. The surrounding houses were all squat little boxes of dilapidation. The people he passed on the street were similar shades of misery. Packs of shoeless children roamed unchecked. Burly dock workers of ill disposition conversed in obscenities. Painted women displayed their wares. All malingered about, resigned to circumstance. The use of opium had long raged unchecked in the lower classes, the syringe replacing hope. Laudanum was even cheaper than gin or ale, since its classification as medicine spared it from escalating alcohol taxes. Once begun, opium was an inescapable morass. And that's where the danger was in entering groups of its denizens. Desperation can make men do strange things. The smokers themselves, swathed in placidity, were gentle enough, but the assemblage of so many tranquil targets was a magnet for criminal intent. The opium den was an oasis for thieves and pickpockets, murderers and thugs. Churchfield knew the risks, yet his step was undeterred. He had a job to do. He had a husband and father to find.

The Gold Bar occupied the dank basement of an equally disreputable boarding house. Churchfield trotted down the stairs to the front door, which boasted neither sign nor number, distinguished only by its weathered, flaking coat of yellow paint. The entrance wasn't guarded; the establishment craved accidental visitors. A small hallway, the walls marred with the scribbled writings of dementia, led Churchfield into the dark, murky underbelly. Fresh from the sun, the change was disorienting. The only light in the room was courtesy of an open fire lapping forth from a pit in the center of the dirt floor. A heavy cloud of smoke polluted the air and obscured the room's many inhabitants, rendering them faceless masses of misfortune. Out of the foggy haze came a smiling Chinese man toting a tray of pipes and hash for Churchfield's inspection. The detective declined the offer with a grimaced wave of his hand. He lifted Mr. Cain's portrait from his pocket and tilted it to catch as much of the fire's glow as possible.

"Have you seen this man?" asked Churchfield, hoping to conquer any language barriers with a loud, deliberate cadence. The Chinese man continued to smile indifferently, pushing his tray towards the detective. "No, no, I don't want any opium," barked Churchfield. He slowed his speech even further, distinctly yelling each and every word of his query. "Have... you... seen... this... man?"

"I do say, dear fellow, there's no need to shout," informed the man in a distinctly British accent. "The poor lighting does little to affect my ears."

"Oh, sorry 'bout that," apologized Churchfield. "I was thinking maybe you didn't speak English."

"Yes, of course, and shouting would easily remedy any ignorance of the language. Sound logic, indeed."

"Thanks, it's what I'm known for."

"As for your urgent petition, it is appallingly dim down here, but isn't that a photograph of Mr. Lowry Cain?"

"Yeah, have you seen him?"

"May I ask what your business is with Mr. Cain?"

Churchfield flipped a half crown onto the man's tray. "The name's Churchfield. I'm a detective. Mrs. Cain hired me to locate her husband. Is he here?"

"Lily is concerned about her husband, is she? My, that's rich!"

The comment wrinkled Churchfield's brow. "You know Miss Grove?"

"Certainly." The man pocketed Churchfield's coin. "Who do you think first introduced Mr. Cain to our lovely hell?"

"Miss Grove uses opium?"

"Like few before or since," grinned the host, the eery glow of the fire animating the folds of his aged, weathered face. "I wish all our clients had such appetites."

This revelation, and not the intrusive opium stench, had Churchfield's head swimming. "When was the last time she was here?"

"Not more than two nights ago. The woman is a terror. If Mr. Cain is missing, I hope it's because he finally had the good sense to part her company."

"There are actually some fears for his safety, that's why it's important I find him as soon as possible. Is Mr. Cain here?"

"Not to my knowledge. You're free to look for yourself, perhaps he slipped in while I was otherwise engaged. Mr. Cain is a kind, gentle soul. If there truly are fears for his safety, I will gladly help in any way possible to facilitate his safe return."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"It's been months. He and Lily used to be regulars here years ago, before Mr. Cain found such fame. I have seen them occasionally since, but not very often, and I haven't seen him for many, many months." A soft rustling sound could be heard in one of the corners of the room, followed by a moaned plea for attention. The opium master bowed politely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I am wanted elsewhere."

Churchfield nodded his appreciation. This chamber of darkness suddenly cast Miss Grove in a whole new light. So she was one of them, one of the pitiable victims of the demonic drug, as ensnared in its shameful clutches as the prone, lifeless bodies scattered about him. He began to make his way through the depravity, studying the senseless, squinting their shameful features into focus. How did these poor creatures allow themselves to reach such depths? How could they permit themselves to wallow in such depressive self-pity? And was there room for one more?

"Honest John Churchfield!"

The slurred exclamation rang the walls of the slumbering tomb. Churchfield searched the abyss, straining his eyes to find the source. He stepped towards a scrawny pile of rags heaped against a crowded wall. "Chappy?"

"Church!" The man struggled to pat the ground next to him. "Have a seat, old boy. It's been years."

The friendly overture came from none other than Bernard G. Chapton, esquire. Mr. Chapton was a middle-aged man of many professions, most of which could be found enumerated at Scotland Yard. Chappy was a miserable pickpocket, a second-rate forger, and a poor excuse for a coiner, but a more affable failure was never born. His tireless attempts to skirt the law did result in the accidental discovery of a powerful homemade gin. Naturally, this rare gift for distillery only further solidified Churchfield's fondness for Chappy, an affection rooted as far back as Churchfield's first year on the constabulary. The two initially became acquainted when Churchfield helped bring down a gambling ring involving Chappy and several of his associates. Subsequent arrests, all for petty, harmless infractions, created a bond, and Chappy's numerous connections in the criminal class had proven invaluable to many an investigation. Still, despite Chappy's questionable background, Churchfield was surprised to find anyone he knew in the dismal den. He knelt next to his friend, taking unexpected amusement in Chappy's drowsily delighted expression.

"I thought you gave up the pipe?"

"I did," mumbled Chappy, taking a deep puff. "But the pipe didn't give up me. And if it's one thing I respect, Church, it's loyalty." He offered to share the instrument of intoxication, but Churchfield politely declined. Chappy took another long drag and passed it to the man next to him. "What was that I heard you saying to Li Chin?"

"I'm looking for Lowry Cain."

"The singer? Haven't seen him."

"What about Lily Grove?"

"Lily who?"

"Lowry Cain's wife."

"Ooh, she's a nasty one."

"What do you mean?" Churchfield's question caught Chappy mid-yawn, requiring repetition. "What do you mean she's a nasty one?"

Chappy began nodding off. "Checkered past," he added, dreamily. "Rough girl. Don't pay to cross her none." The enticing narcotic was clearly cutting the interview short.

"All right, Chap, you take care of yourself. And ask around and see what you can find out about Cain and his wife. You know where to find me."

"Sure thing, Church. You can count on me."

The detective, taking genuine consolation in the somnolent promise, resumed his inspection of the room, leaving Chappy to enjoy his lethargic dormancy. His eyes having long since adjusted to the subterranean cavern, Churchfield had few troubles in discerning that Mr. Cain was nowhere in sight. The room's obsession with staring at the community fire made the task all the easier, allowing for unmistakable viewing of the dulled, drooling faces. Churchfield widened his exploration, branching off into a corridor lined on both sides with individual cubicles. Makeshift curtains consisting of ill-matching blankets draped over pieces of chord provided privacy. Discretion was not counted amongst Churchfield's scant virtues. He experienced no qualms in tossing aside the first cloth barrier, uncovering a dreary cell of squalor.

A lone candle burned in the center of the room, its faint, flickering flame serving as both a source of light and entertainment for the elderly gentleman languishing next to it. He was the picture of desolation, lying prostrate on a filthy, tattered mattress, his aged face turned admiringly to the dancing orange wisp. He was a loose collection of bones, gaunt limbs dangling from disheveled coat sleeves and rumpled trouser cuffs. His glazed eyes saw only the fitful turns of the flame. Churchfield was about to drop the curtain and resume his search when he suddenly detected something familiar in the man's cadaverous countenance. Something in the way his hawkish nose perched menacingly above his cruel lips and hatchet chin prompted a glimmer of recognition, harkening Churchfield back to his distant school days.

"Mr. Woodman?" Just speaking his former schoolmaster's name had Churchfield's knuckles fearing the ruler's lash. It also had a curious effect on the pondering fellow, causing him to drift his eyes away from the candle and onto his uninvited visitor.

"Mr. Woodman, it's me, John Churchfield. Don't you remember?" The man's reluctance to respond prompted a further stroll down Memory Lane. "Wow, I guess it has been about sixteen years. But I was the clever lad who always used to call you Mr. Woodface. Don't you remember? You always used to say I'd never amount to anything and how I was too stubborn for my own good." The man didn't flinch. Churchfield brushed his hair from his face and stood tall. "John Churchfield! Anything? Anything at all?" The old man's eyes fell back to the candle. "Yes, well, it was good seeing you again. You look great. Give my best to Mrs. Woodface. And good luck with that whole opium addiction thing you've got going there."

Churchfield carefully replaced the cloth partition, making sure it was hanging straight and neat so as to provide Mr. Wooman his desired privacy. The detective couldn't fathom finding his elderly pedagogue in such iniquity. Had he still kept in touch with any of his former classmates, and was the type to converse with others, he was sure they'd all take guilty pleasure in knowing Mr. Woodman's fate. Churchfield couldn't help but feel sorry for the old goat. Opium was a harsh mistress. Any meaner and he'd be tempted to give her a whirl himself.

So occupied was Churchfield with the plight of his former teacher, he opened and closed the drapes of the second chamber before he even realized what he had witnessed. When the image finally did make its way to his gin-soaked brain, he quickly threw the curtains open to gaze upon the glory of two scantily-clad Asian women dancing luridly to the delight of a plump, round-faced Englishman, their seductive gyrations apparently playing the part of Mr. Woodman's candle. The man, while no personal relation to Churchfield, certainly was recognizable.

"Pardon me," said Churchfield, delaying his departure as long as possible. The women didn't seem to mind an additional observer, and the man was far too enraptured to care. "Forgive me. My mistake. Carry on." Churchfield reluctantly closed the curtain, peeking around the edge as it shut. Once more in the shadowy corridor, he let out a whistle of disbelief and stopped the nearest passerby.

"I voted for that guy," declared Churchfield, tossing a thumb in the direction of the thoroughly entertained public servant.

"What? Oh, Church, is that you?"

Honest John squinted the stranger into clarity. The random passerby was none other than Inspector John Blunton, respected police officer and all-around good guy. Churchfield had assisted Blunton only a few months earlier in breaking up a smuggling ring. The Inspector was a tenacious bulldog of a man, indefatigable in his gallant pursuit of justice. He once tracked the infamous murderer James "Ginger" McDougle for three days after catching a faint glimpse of the criminal on a passing train. Blunton tirelessly pursued the ne'er-do-well, finally pouncing and delivering a terrific beating before singlehandedly placing him under arrest. And had that man truly been James "Ginger" McDougle, the commendations would have been endless.

"Blunts! Hey, have you seen Lowry Cain?"

The inspector shook his blockish head. "I don't really go in for that kind of music. I like the quieter stuff."

"No, I mean have you seen him around here? His wife hired me to find him."

"He's married?"

"Yeah, she's a real looker, too. But I'm starting to think looks can be deceiving."

"Well, I haven't seen him." Blunton flagged down Li Chen, who was making his usual rounds, and casually purchased a bag of hash. "But I'll keep an eye out for him."

Churchfield looked confusedly from the bowing opium distributor to his crime-fighting colleague. "You here on a case?"

"What's that? Oh, yes, of course." Blunton stepped inside the nearest vacancy. "I'm working on a very important case. It's a big, big case." The flash of a curtain brought the conversation to a close.

"Am I the only one who gets drunk anymore?"

Undaunted, Churchfield continued his search of the premises, finding a priest, a lawyer, two doctors, and several other notable citizens, but no internationally renowned entertainers. He left through a rear exit, emerging into the disorienting world of sunshine with a slight opium buzz and plenty of questions.