The Meaning of Night Part 24

'On being informed that the debt had been paid, Mr Pettingale went again to the solicitors to receive his money, which was paid to him with a cheque drawn on the firm's bankers also my own, as it so happened, Dimsdale & Co., Cornhill. Well, the cheque was duly presented, and the matter was concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.

'But then, a week or so later, a clerk in the solicitors' office noticed that three cheques, totalling eight hundred pounds, had been drawn on the firm's account without, it appeared, any authorization. The alarm was duly raised and the police were contacted. A few days later, a man by the name of Hensby was apprehended on the premises of the firm's bank attempting to present a further forged cheque, this time for seven hundred pounds.

'Suspicion immediately fell on this Mr Verdant, and so naturally the police wished to question Mr Pettingale. I accompanied the inspector to his rooms. He could not deny, of course, that he had sought payment of the original debt from Mr Leonard Verdant, but vehemently denied all knowledge of the subsequent forgeries. When asked by the inspector why the money was owed to him, he replied that he had lent the money to this Verdant, whom he said he had met several times at the Newmarket races, for the settlement of a debt.'

'And was there any reason to doubt his account?' I asked.

Dr Maunder gave me a somewhat skeptical smile.

'None the police, or I, could uncover. Mr Pettingale was required to go with the officers to London, and was called as a witness at the subsequent trial; but he could not be identified by the man Hensby, who claimed he had been casually employed by a gentleman not Mr Pettingale he had met in a coffee-house in Change-alley to run various errands, one of which was to present the forged cheques at Dimsdale & Co. and bring the proceeds back, at a pre-arranged time, to the coffee-house.'

'This gentleman: was Hensby able to identify him?'

'Unfortunately, no. He provided only a rather indistinct description, which rendered identification of this person by the police virtually impossible. As for Mr Verdant, when the police called at his address in the Minories he had vanished, and was of course never seen again. The poor dupe Hensby, for such I deem him to have been, was prosecuted, found guilty, and transported for life. A travesty, of course. The fellow could hardly write his name, let alone demonstrate the skill to carry out what were, by all accounts, most convincing forgeries of the necessary signature.'

He ceased his account and looked at me, as if in expectation of further questioning.

'From your most informative account, Dr Maunder, it certainly seems clear that the perpetrator was the mysterious Mr Verdant. Mr Pettingale appears to have been a perfectly innocent party in the business.'

'You might say so,' he replied, smiling. 'I questioned him myself, of course, on behalf of the University authorities, and could only conclude, with the police, that he had played no part in the conspiracy.'

He smiled again, and I took my cue.

'May I ask, then, if you entertained any personal doubts on the matter?'

'Well now, Mr Glapthorn, it would not be right, not right at all, you know, to bring my personal feelings into this. As I say, what I have told you is a matter of public record. Beyond that well, I am sure you understand. It does not signify in the least, of course, that I am by nature of a rather doubting turn of mind. And besides, the affair did not lay too deep a stain on Mr Pettingale's character. After going down from here, I believe he was called to the Bar by Gray's-Inn.'

'And Mr Pettingale's friend, Mr Phoebus Daunt?'

'There is no reason at all to believe that he was implicated in the crime in any way. He was certainly not asked to account for himself by the police, or indeed by the University. The only connexion I could establish, in the course of questioning Mr Pettingale, was that he had accompanied his friend to Newmarket on several occasions.'

I thought for a moment.

'For the conspiracy to have been brought off successfully, the criminals would have needed to have obtained a number of the firm's cheques, as well as a specimen of the necessary signature. The latter could perhaps have been got from the receipt sent to Verdant for payment of Mr Pettingale's original loan. As for the blank cheques, was there, perhaps, an earlier break-in?'

'You are right,' said Dr Maunder. 'There had been a break-in, some weeks before Mr Pettingale sought legal help on the matter of the outstanding debt, and, again, suspicion fell on Verdant. But the curious thing is that, after a very thorough search by the firm's senior clerk, no cheques were found to be missing. How the blank cheques were obtained, therefore, remains a mystery. Perhaps they, too, had been forged, though I think that is rather unlikely. And now, Mr Glapthorn, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Master.'

'I am most grateful to you for your frankness' I said. 'But will you allow me one final question? You have not mentioned the name of the solicitor in the case.'

'Ah, yes. I regret I cannot now remember, if indeed I ever knew.'

I thanked him again, and he showed me to the door.

Leaving Trinity College, I took an omnibus from the Market-square back to the station, and had only a few minutes to wait before the next train to London. As we rattled southwards, I felt a curious elation of spirits, as though a door be it ever so small had opened an inch or so and let in a little gleam of precious light on the darkness through which I had been wandering.

Of Mr Lewis Pettingale's guilt in the clever conspiracy described to me by Dr Maunder, I had not the least doubt; but it was clear he had not worked alone. This Leonard Verdant, now: he had been a co-conspirator for sure, indicated, I thought, by his possession of a most unlikely name, concealing who? I had my suspicions, but they could not yet be tested. And then there was Mr Phoebus Daunt. Ah, Phoebus, the radiant one, unsullied and incorrupt! There he stood, as ever, whistling innocently in the shadows. Was he as guilty as his friend Pettingale and the elusive Mr Verdant? If so, what other iniquities did he have to his credit? At last, I began to sense that I was gaining ground on my enemy; that I had been given something that might, perhaps, give me the means I needed to destroy him.

I was returning to London with no more knowledge of why Mr Carteret had written his letter to Mr Tredgold than when I had started out; and the expectations I had cherished that the secretary might be in possession of information to support my cause had also been shattered by his death. The only certainty I had brought back was that what Mr Carteret knew concerning the Tansor succession had led, directly or indirectly, to this catastrophe. I had no choice now but to lay the matter before my employer, in the hope that he could suggest a way to inform ourselves more particularly on the nature of Mr Carteret's discovery.

As for me, what a change had been wrought in the matter of a few days! I had left London convinced I was falling in love with Bella. I returned the helpless slave of another, in whose presence I constantly burned to be, and for love of whom I must turn my back on the certainty of happiness.

Part the Fourth The Breaking of the Seal November 1853 Nothing wraps a man in such a mist of errors, as his own curiosity in searching things beyond him.

[Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii, 'Of Curiosity in Knowledge']

29:.

Suspicio1 _____________*

On my return to London I took my supper at Quinn's oysters, a lobster, some dried sprats on the side, and a bottle of the peerless Clos Vougeot. It was still early, and the Haymarket had not yet put on its midnight face. Through the window I contemplated the usual metropolitan bustle, the familiar panorama of unremarkable comings and goings of the highest and the lowest, and of all stations in between, which you may see out of any window in London at eight o'clock on a Thursday evening. But in a few hours' time, after the crowds had poured out of the Theatre, taken their supper at Dubourg's or the Cafe de l'Europe, and made their laughing way home to warmth and comfort, this broad thoroughfare of shops, restaurants, and cigar-divans, n.o.bly flanked on one side by its theatre, and on the other by its colonnaded opera-house, would take on a very different aspect, transformed into a heaving, swollen river of the d.a.m.ned and the walking dead. What is your pleasure, sir? You may find it here, or hereabouts, with little trouble, at any hour of the night after St Martin's Church has tolled the final stroke of twelve. Liquor in which to drown; tobacco and song; boys or girls, or both the choice is yours. Ah! How often have I thrown myself into that continually replenished stream!

Evenwood: had I dreamed thee? Here, lying at my ease once more on the scaly back of Great Leviathan, feeling the monster's deep, slow breath beneath me, its rumbling pulsing heart beating in time with my own, the things I had so recently seen and heard and touched now seemed as real in imagination, and as unreal in fact, as the palace of Schahriar.2 And had I truly breathed the same air as Miss Emily Carteret, when I had stood so close to her that I could see the rise and fall of her breast, so close that I only had to stretch out my fingers to stroke that pale flesh?

I loved her. That was the plain and simple truth. It had come upon me suddenly on swift wings, pitiless as death: inescapable, and undeniable. I felt no joy at my new condition, for how can the conquered slave be joyful? I loved her, without hope that she would ever return my love. I loved her, and it was bitter to me that I must break my dearest Bella's heart. For there is no mistress like Love. And what cares she for those who suffer when their dearest one betrays them for love of another? Love only smiles a conqueror's smile, to see her kingdom advanced.

A second bottle of the Clos Vougeot was perhaps a mistake, and soon after nine o'clock I walked out into the street, a little unsteadily, with a light head and a heavy heart. It had begun to rain and, a.s.sailed by melancholy thoughts, and feeling a great need for company, I headed off to Leadenhall Street, in the hope of finding Le Grice taking his usual Sat.u.r.day supper in the Ship and Turtle. He had been there, as I'd expected, but I had missed him by a matter of minutes, and no one could tell me where he had gone. Cursing, I found myself back in the street again. Normally, in such a mood of restless melancholy, I would have taken myself northwards, to Blithe Lodge; but I was too much of a coward to face Bella just yet. I would need a little time, to regain some composure, and to learn dissimulation.

Down to Trafalgar Square through the dirt and murk I wandered, and then eastwards along the Strand aimlessly, as I thought; but before long I had pa.s.sed St Stephen, Walbrook, and had begun to walk at a more purposeful pace.

Welcome, welcome! I had been gone too long, the opium-master said.

And so, bowing low, he led me through the kitchen, dark and vaporous, to a truckle-bed set against a greasy, dripping wall in the far room, where, curling myself up, I laid my head on a filthy bolster whilst the master, with many soothing words, plied me speedily with my means of transportation.

In Bluegate-fields I had a dream. And in my dream I lay on a cold mountain, with only the stars above me; but I could not move, for I was held down fast with heavy chains, about my legs and feet, around my chest and arms, and in a great loop around my neck. And I cried out for ease from the bitter cold and from the pressing, suffocative weight of the chains but no help came, and no voice returned my call, until at last I seemed to faint away.

A sleep within a sleep. A dream within a dream. I awake from what? And my heart leaps, for now I stand in sunshine, warm and vivifying, in a secluded courtyard, where water plays and birds sing. 'Is she here?' I ask. 'She is,' comes the reply. And so I turn and see her, standing by the fountain, and smiling so sweetly that I think my heart will burst. In black mourning no more, but in a comely robe of dazzling white samite, with her dark hair flowing free, she holds out her hand to me: 'Will you come?'

She leads me through an arched door into a deserted candlelit ballroom; faint echoes of a strange music reach us from some unimaginable distance. She turns to me. 'Have you met Mr Verdant?' And then a sudden wind extinguishes all the lights, and I hear water lapping at my feet.

'I do apologize,' I hear her saying from somewhere in the darkness. 'But I have forgotten your name.' She laughs. 'A liar needs a good memory.' And then she is gone, and I am left alone on a drear and lonely sh.o.r.e. I look out to see a heaving black ocean, with a pale yellow light suffusing the horizon. In the distance, something is bobbing on the waves. I strain my eyes; and then, with a fearful pang, I see what it is.

A bird, stiff and dead, its wings outstretched, drifting into eternity.

Four o'clock in the morning by the carriage-clock that stands on the mantelpiece. The room is cold, and has a strangely desolate air about it, though it is full of familiar things: my mother's work-table, covered in papers as usual; next to it, the cabinet with its little drawers, full of the notes I'd made on the doc.u.ments and journals she left behind; the curtained-off area at one end containing cameras and other photographic paraphernalia; the faded Turkey rug; the rows of books, each one a well-remembered old friend; the charming Chippendale tripod-table on which I keep an edition of Donne's sermons and the copy of Les milles et une nuits that Tom Grexby had bought me for my eighth birthday; the portrait of my mother, which used to hang over the fireplace in the best parlour at home; and, on the mantelpiece, next to a little rosewood clock I had found hidden away in my mother's bedroom, the box that had once held 'Miss Lamb's' two hundred sovereigns.

I sit by the empty hearth in my coat and boots. I am troubled in spirit, and once again, as it had done on my last night at Evenwood, the sleep my mind and body crave flees from me, like some taunting nymph.

What is happening to me? I have no happiness, no contentment, only restiveness and agitation. I am adrift on an ocean of mystery, like the bird in my dream powerless, frozen. What dark creatures inhabit the unseen deeps beneath me? What landfall awaits me? Or is this my fate, to be forever pushed and pulled, now this way, now that, by the winds and currents of circ.u.mstance, without respite? The goal I had once had constantly before me simple and supreme of proving my claim to be the lawfully begotten son of Lord Tansor, seemed to have become dismembered and dispersed, like a great imperial galleon full of treasure dashed to pieces on a rocky sh.o.r.e.

There was a piece of paper lying on the tripod-table beside me, a stub of pencil with it. Seizing both, I began to compose a hasty memorandum to myself, outlining the problems confronting me that were now demanding resolution.

I read over what I had written, three, four, five times, in mounting despair. These disjoined and yet, it seemed, inter-twined and co-essential conundrums swirled and chattered and roared around my head like Satan's legions, refusing utterly to coagulate into a single reasoned conclusion, until I could stand it no more.

I stood up and was in the process of throwing off my great-coat, having resolved to see what soaking my head in a basin of cold water would do to rid myself of these pestering devils, when something fell out of the pocket and landed on the hearth-rug.

It was the package containing the proofs of Dr Daunt's translation of the De mysteriis, handed to me by the pot-room servant from the George as I was about to take train from Stamford. I threw the package on my work-table, intending to read the contents when my mind was clearer.

I doze for an hour or so. When I wake, the idea of a chop and some hot coffee suddenly thrusts itself forward for my consideration. I examine the proposal and find it excellent in every way. It is still early, but I know of a place.

I stand up, rather shakily reaching for my great-coat, which is lying on the floor. Whoah there!

And then the floor-boards seem to fall away beneath me and I am tumbling through the air, spinning round and round, descending ever deeper into a great yawning, roaring void.

I came round to find Mrs Grainger dabbing my face with a wet napkin.

'Lord, sir,' she said, 'I thought you was dead. Can you stand, sir? There now, a little more. I 'ave you, sir, don't you worry. Dorrie 'ere'll help. Look sharp, dear. Take Mr Glapthorn's arm. Gentle does it. That's it. All's well now.'

I had never heard her say so many words to me, and never will again. Sitting back in my chair, with the wet napkin tied round my forehead, I was also surprised to see her daughter standing by her side. Then, to my complete astonishment, I learn that it is Monday morning, and that I had slept the clock round.

After I had recovered a little, I thanked them both and asked the girl how she was.

'I am well, thank you, sir.'

'As you see, Mr Glapthorn,' said her mother, smiling weakly, 'she goes on very well. A good girl still, sir.'

Dorrie herself said nothing, but seemed, indeed, in fine fettle, with a bright expression on her face, dressed in a neat little outfit that showed off her figure extremely well, and altogether looking winsome and contented.

I said I was glad to hear, and to see for myself, that Dorrie appeared to be prospering, and felt not a little satisfaction that I had done some good by the simple expedient of employing her mother, and sending a little money to Dorrie every now and again.

'Prospering?' said Mrs Grainger, with a sly look at her daughter. 'Why, you may say so, sir. Go on, Dorrie, spill it.'

I looked quizzically at the girl, who blushed slightly before speaking.

'We have come to tell you, sir, that I am to be married, and to thank you for all you have done for us.'

She bobbed sweetly, giving me such a fond and modest look as she did so, that it fair made my heart melt.

'And who is your husband to be, Dorrie?' I asked.

'If you please, sir, his name is Martlema.s.s, Geoffrey Martlema.s.s.'

'A most excellent name. Mrs Geoffrey Martlema.s.s. So far, so good. And what sort of a man is Mr Martlema.s.s?'

'A good and kind man, sir,' she replied, unable to hold back a smile.

'Better yet. And what does good and kind Mr Geoffrey Martlema.s.s do?'

'He is a clerk, sir, to Mr Gillory Piggott, of Gray's-Inn.'

'A legal gentleman! Mr Martlema.s.s holds a pretty full hand, I see. Well, I congratulate you, Dorrie, on your good fortune in finding good, kind Mr Martlema.s.s. But you must tell him that I shall expect no nonsense from him, and that if he does not love you as you deserve he shall have me to answer to.'

A little more good-humoured raillery on my part followed, after which Dorrie ran off to fetch in some breakfast, Mrs Grainger set to with mop and bucket, and I repaired to my bedchamber to wash my face and change my linen.

With breakfast over, and my chin shaved, I felt revived and ready for the day. Dorrie was off to meet her beau at Gray's-Inn, and that piece of information immediately settled the matter of what I would do with myself for the next few hours.

'If you will allow me, Dorrie,' I said gallantly, 'I'll escort you.'

I offered her my arm, an act which appeared to amaze Mrs Grainger greatly, and off we went.

It was a fine bright morning, though there was a stiff breeze off the river. As we walked, Dorrie spoke a little more of Mr Geoffrey Martlema.s.s, whom I began to conceive as a dependable sort of fellow, if a little serious in his outlook, an impression confirmed when we encountered a small man of notably anxious mien, distinguished by a pair of magnificently bushy mutton-chops,3 standing by the entrance to Field Court.

'Dorothy, my love,' he cried, in an anguished tone, on seeing us. 'You are past your time. Whatever has happened?'

Dorrie, releasing her arm from mine and taking his, laughed and chided him gently that it was only a minute or two beyond the hour appointed and that he must not worry so about her.

'Worry? But naturally I worry,' he said, apparently distraught that he could ever be thought too solicitous for the welfare of one so precious. We were introduced, and Mr Martlema.s.s, Dorrie's senior by some years, removed his hat (revealing an almost perfectly bald pate except for two little tufts of hair above each ear) and made a low bow before grasping my hand and shaking it so vigorously that Dorrie had to tell him to stop.

'You, sir,' he said, with great solemnity, replacing his hat and throwing back his shoulders, 'have the appearance of a man, and yet I know you to be a saint. You amaze me, sir. I thought the age of miracles had pa.s.sed; but here you are, a living, breathing saint, walking the streets of London.'

In this wise, Mr Martlema.s.s began to heap praises upon my head for, as he put it, 'rescuing Dorothy and her estimable parent from certain death or worse'. I did not enquire of him what he conceived could be worse than death; but the warmth of his grat.i.tude for the little I had done to remove Dorrie from the life in which I had first found her was most apparent, and rather affecting. I then learned that he was a member of a small philanthropical society that took an especial interest in the rescue and rehabilitation of fallen females, as well as being a churchwarden at St Bride's,4 where he had first encountered Dorrie. Normally I can't abide a treacly do-gooder, but there was a simple sincerity about Mr Martlema.s.s that I could not help but admire.

I let the little man rattle on, which he seemed determined to do, but at last proclaimed I must leave them, and so made to go.

'Oh, Mr Martlema.s.s,' I said, turning back as though struck by an afterthought. 'I believe an old College friend of mine has chambers in Gray's-Inn. We have lost touch, and I would so like to see him again. I wonder if you know him by any chance Mr Lewis Pettingale?'

'Mr Pettingale? You don't say so! Why, certainly I know the gentleman. He has the set above my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, Q.C. Mr Piggott is in court today,' he added, lowering his voice somewhat, 'which is why I have been allowed to take an hour or so for an early fish ordinary at the Three Tuns5 with my intended. Mr Piggott is a most considerate employer.'

He directed me to a black-painted door in a range of red-brick houses on the far side of the court. I thanked him and said I would try to call on Mr Pettingale tomorrow, as I had some urgent business to attend to in another part of Town.

We parted and I walked off towards Gray's-Inn-lane, dirty and dismal even on such a bright day. Stopping at a book-stall, I began idly turning over the mouldering tomes there displayed for a minute or two (ever hopeful, like all bibliophiles, of unearthing some great rarity). After five or ten minutes I returned to Field Court.

The court was deserted, the love-birds had flown; and so through the black door I went, and up the stairs.

30:.

Noscitur e sociis1 ______________*

A painted name-plate greeted me: 'Mr L. J. Pettingale'. I put my ear to the door. Someone within coughs. An inner door closes. I knock softly it wouldn't do simply to walk in but no one answers. So I enter.

It is a large, well-appointed chamber, with oak panel-work, a stone fireplace, and a fine plaster ceiling. To my left as I enter are two tall windows that give out onto the court below. A fire blazes pleasantly in the dog-grate on the hearth, on either side of which two comfortable chairs are set. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a bay horse, a terrier at its feet, standing in a park landscape. In the corner of the room, to my right, is another door, closed, through which I can hear the sound of someone attempting, in a thin tenor voice, a version of the aria Il mio tesero,2 to the accompaniment of water splashing.

I decide to leave the singer to his ablutions, settle myself in one of the chairs, feet on the fender, and light up a cigar. I have almost finished smoking it when the door in the corner opens and a tall, thin man emerges wearing an ornately fashioned brocade dressing-robe, Persian slippers, and a ta.s.selled skull-cap made of red velvet, from beneath which a few meagre strands of straw-coloured hair descend almost to his shoulders. He is about my own age, but looks prematurely aged. His skin is sallow and papery, and from where I am standing I am not sure he possesses eyebrows.

'Morning,' I say, smiling broadly and throwing my cigar b.u.t.t into the fire.

He stands for a moment, disbelief on his skull-like face.

'Who the devil are you?'

His voice, like everything else about him, is thin, with a reedy, querulous tremor about it.

'Grafton, Edward Grafton. Pleased to meet you. Cigar? No? Oh well, bad habit, I'm sure.'

He is taken aback for a moment by my coolness, and then asks haughtily if he knows me.

'Well, now, there's a question,' I reply. 'Are you of a philosophical turn? For we might spend a good few hours considering the nature of knowledge. It is a large subject. We might begin with Aquinas, who said that, for any knower, knowledge is after the fashion of his own nature; or, as St Augustine put it . . .'

But Mr Pettingale seems disinclined to enter into a discussion on this interesting question. He angrily stamps a slippered foot, threatens to call for a.s.sistance if I do not leave at once, and grows quite red almost replicating the colour of his skull-cap with the exertion of it all. I tell him to calm himself; that I have merely come to seek a professional opinion; and that I knocked at the door but could not make myself heard. Somewhat calmer, he asks if I am in the profession myself an instructing solicitor, perhaps? Alas, no, I tell him: my interest is personal, though it is a matter of law on which I wish to consult him. I invite him, with a broad smile, to sit down, which he does, a little reluctantly, looking pleasingly foolish in his dandyish get-up. As he takes his seat, I vacate my own chair and stand with my back to one of the tall windows, through which soft sunshine is now pouring.