The Meaning of Night Part 38

November the 30th, 1854.

Cold, clinging fog. Nothing to see from my window but the dim dark forms of wet roofs and smoking chimneys, and nothing to hear but the m.u.f.fled sound of people and carriages pa.s.sing unseen up and down the street, the wheezing cough of the law stationer who lives on the floor below, and the doleful sound of distant bells striking the interminable hours. The weeks are pa.s.sing, and still I have done nothing. Every day, on entering my sitting-room of a morning, my habit has been to go over to my work-table and read again the announcement from The Times of the engagement of the distinguished poet Phoebus Rainsford Daunt and Miss Emily Carteret, daughter of the late Mr Paul Carteret. Some days I have sat for hours on end staring at the printed words, and in particular at the conclusion of the announcement: 'The wedding will take place at St Michael and All Angels, Evenwood, on the first of January, 1855. Miss Carteret will be given away by her relative, Lord Tansor.' I have even fallen asleep at the table and have woken to find my cheek pressed against the black print.

But today has been different. The announcement from The Times has been consigned to the flames, along with my irresolution. At one o'clock, I walk out in order to accomplish various, ending my expedition with an early dinner at the Wellington,6 where I am not known. 'Will you take some beef, sir?' the waiter asks. 'Certainly,' I reply. He picks up a heavy, ivory-handled carving-knife, which he first brings to a nice edge with a sharpening steel, and cuts away at the joint most dextrously. It is a joy to behold the succulent slices of flesh falling onto the platter. When he has laid down his knife and brought the steaming plate to my table, I ask him if he would be good enough to fetch me some brandy and water. By the time he returns, I have gone; and so has his knife.

I make my way home via Gerrard-street, where, to my delight, I encounter great excitement. A large crowd has gathered outside Number Forty-three, and a police van is drawn up in front of the house.

'What is going forward?' I ask a post-man, bag on shoulder, who is standing on the pavement humming softly to himself as he observes the scene.

'Murder,' he says matter-of-factly. 'Occupier beaten to death and thrown from first-floor window.' At which he resumes his tuneless humming.

Silently approbating Mr Abraham Gabb and his a.s.sociates for their admirable prompt.i.tude and efficiency, I go on my way, rejoicing that the terrible violence meted out by Josiah Pluckrose to poor undeserving Agnes Baker, and to the equally undeserving Paul Carteret, has been turned back on the perpetrator. He had escaped the nozzle because of me; but I had finally brought him to account.

So much for Pluckrose. Now for his master.

45:.

Consummatum est1 __________*

December the 11th, 1854.

I awake with a start at a little after six, having dozed off in my chair an hour or so earlier. It is here at last. The day of reckoning.

My first task is to remove my mustachios. When the operation is over, I stand for some moments regarding myself in the cracked mirror above my wash-stand. I am bemused. Who is this person? The boy who dreamed of sailing away to the Country of the Houyhnhnms? Or the young man who dreamed of becoming a great scholar? No: I see clearly who I am, and what I have become. I see, too, that I do not have, and will never have, the strength to turn aside from vengeance and reclaim my former innocent self. I am d.a.m.ned, and I know it.

The street is curiously silent, and the morning light seems unnaturally bright for the time of year. Then I hear the sound of a shovel being sc.r.a.ped on the pavement. Jumping up, I rush to the window to find that the usual vista of sooty roofs has been magically transformed by a thick covering of snow, whose purity, dazzling even under a slate sky, is quite at odds with the dirt and sin that lies beneath its fleecy embrace. Well, come snow or rain or fog, today is the day I will take my revenge on Phoebus Rainsford Daunt.

Yesterday, Mr Tredgold wrote to chide me gently for neither writing nor visiting. 'Do not linger too long in solitude and in regret for what can never be mended,' he advised. 'You have great talents, and must now use them to make a new life for yourself.' There was much more in this vein, which I regret to say I skipped over; for my eye had been caught, further down the page, by this: You will, I am sure, already be aware that, following information received from an anonymous source, Jukes has been found in possession of a large number of very precious objects, every one of which appears to have been stolen, over a long period of time, from Evenwood. He claims that he merely stored these items under instruction from the person actually responsible for the thefts. And the person he names? None other than Mr Phoebus Daunt! Of course no one believes him. It is too ridiculous, and a dastardly slur on the reputation of a great literary man (so goes the general view). Jukes has certainly had opportunity to carry out the thefts over the years he has been in my employ, having often accompanied me to Evenwood on business, and at other times he was sent there alone on various errands. I very much fear his protestations will count for little when his case comes on. Nothing, I think, can lessen Lord Tansor's exalted estimation of Mr Phoebus Daunt. Jukes has of course been dismissed from the Firm, and is presently awaiting trial. I shudder that such a person was in my trusted employ for so long, and the anonymous informant, whoever he is, has my sincere grat.i.tude for thus exposing him.

What you may not know is that I have decided, in consultation with my brother and sister, that I shall formally retire from the Firm on the thirty-first of this month. Mr Donald Orr is to become Senior Partner (my sister's views on this promotion are extremely severe), whilst I propose to take a little house in the country and tend my collections, though I confess they do not hold the fascination they once did. Rebecca is to come and keep house for me, now that Harrigan has deserted her. It is an arrangement that suits both parties very well. Leaving London is for the best, I think. Things can never be as they once were. The world is much changed, and really I wish to have as little to do with it as possible.

As to your own position at Tredgolds, I fear it will be impossible to offer you employment under the new regime. However, Mr Orr has agreed, at my express request, that you be allowed to retain your rooms in Temple-street for as long as you need them. But if you should tire of London, then there is a cottage hard by my new residence that I think would suit you very well, and I have money enough to support us both in the pursuit of our bibliographical interests. It would please me greatly to think that I could offer a life free of care as far as that can ever be possible to her son.

And so I shall leave it in your hands, to let me know what you wish to do.

Dear, kind Mr Tredgold! How I wish I could turn back from the path on which my feet are now set! But it is too late. The past has been closed off; the future is dark; I have only my present unshakable resolve, as minute succeeds minute, and the snow begins to fall.

Tonight, Lord Tansor is giving a dinner in Park-lane. The Prime Minister2 is to be amongst the many guests. There is so much to celebrate! His Lordship has a new heir he has now been named, in proper legal form, in the recently signed codicil to his Lordship's will. This would be cause enough to kill the fatted calf; but to augment the general joy, the heir is to marry Miss Emily Carteret, his Lordship's cousin once removed, who, following the tragic death of her father, will herself succeed to the Tansor t.i.tle in the course of time. Such an exquisitely fortuitous match! And then, to cap it all, the heir has just published a new work the thirteenth to be offered to a grateful public and Lord Tansor has been appointed Governor-General of the Fairwind Islands. During his absence in the Caribbean, the newly married couple are to take up residence at Evenwood, and Lord Tansor further proposes to place the management of his estates, and of his many business interests, in the capable hands of his heir, Mr Phoebus Daunt.

The establishment in his Lordship's town-house is a relatively small one; and so, to ensure the smooth running of so large and splendid an occasion, extra servants have been hired. Amongst them is Edward Geddington, who recently presented a number of impressive testimonials to Mr James Cranshaw, his Lordship's butler, on the strength of which he was immediately hired. His task tonight is to attend the guests as they arrive and depart in their carriages, and to be on hand during the dinner to open doors.

I boil my kettle to make some tea, then cut myself a slice of bread and sit at my work-table to take my breakfast. There is paper all around me. 'Note on Dr A. Daunt: Feb., 1852' 'Description of Millhead, taken from F. Walker, A Journey Through Lancashire, 1833' Memorandum: Information supplied by J. Hooper and others, May, 1854' 'Evenwood: Architectural and Historical Notes, Sept., 1850' 'The Tansor Barony: Genealogical Notes, March, 1851' 'Notes on conversation with W. Le G. re: King's Coll., June, 1852'. Little black books all in a row, but not so many as formerly. Lists, questions, letters. My life, and his. Here, spread across my work-table. Truth and lies.

Le Grice left for the war last week, thankfully too late to take part in the b.l.o.o.d.y engagement at Inkerman,3 though the reports now coming back telling of the terrible privations being suffered by our troops have given me great concern for his immediate prospects. We had a farewell dinner at the Ship and Turtle and he urged me again to leave England until he returned.

'It'll be better, old chap,' he said. Like me, he had concluded that our friend on the river had been Pluckrose; but although I had confided in him concerning the action taken by Mr Abraham Gadd and company, Le Grice continued to feel that Daunt posed a threat to my safety. But I a.s.sured him that he need not concern himself on that score.

'I am certain positively certain that Daunt will do no harm to me. What possible reason can he have? He is to be married soon, and I am nothing to him any more, having taken everything from me. I can never forgive him, of course, but I intend to forget him.'

'And Miss Carteret?'

'You mean the future Mrs Phoebus Daunt? I have forgotten her too.'

Le Grice's face darkened.

'Now look here, G., I mayn't be the sharpest blade in the armoury, but I know when I'm being lied to. Forget Daunt? Forget Miss Carteret? You may as well say you intend to forget your name.'

'But I have forgotten my name,' I replied. 'I have no idea who I am.'

'd.a.m.n you, G.,' he growled. 'I can't do more than this. For the sake of our friendship, I urge you to go travelling. You may think you're safe from Daunt, but I don't. If I were Daunt, I'd want you dead for what you know about him. Even though you can't prove what you know, things might be made jolly awkward for him if you had a mind to do so.'

'But I don't,' I said quietly. 'Really, I don't. There's nothing to fear; so now, drink up, and here's to the next time you and I sit down together over grilled fowl and gin-punch.'

We parted on the pavement. A handshake, a brief 'Good-night!', and he was gone.

I sat for a while at my table, wondering where Le Grice was now, and what he was doing. 'May the G.o.ds keep you safe, you old bonehead,' I whispered. Then, feeling like a boy again, I threw on my great-coat and m.u.f.fler and went out into the snow to look upon Great Leviathan in his winter clothes.

London is going about its usual business, despite the beautiful inconvenience of the weather. The ice-carts are out, loaded with glistening frozen fragments from ponds and streams instead of produce from the green-market; and the omnibuses are being pulled through the rutted acc.u.mulations of dirtied snow in the roadways by extra horses. People walk along head down through the biting cold, with m.u.f.flers for those who have them wound tight over their mouths. Hats and coats and capes are flecked and dabbed with white, and every public house carries notices advertising the provision within of hot spiced ale or similar warming potations. It is not a day to be without coat or shoes, though there are many who must do so; and the misery that is ever present in the metropolis is made more miserable still by the stinging cold. And yet the wondrous sight of roofs and towers, spires and monuments, strees and squares, painted over by snow that has been shaped and scooped by the bitter east wind, elates me as I walk down Long Acre with the smell of baked apples and roasted chestnuts in my nose.

I am still hungry after my frugal breakfast and the pleasant sight of a coffee-house tempts me in to take a second breakfast. Afterwards, I saunter back through snow-laden streets and courts to the Strand. It is not long before I become aware that I am being followed. In Maiden-lane I pause by the stage-entrance to the Adelphi Theatre to light up a cigar. Out of the tail of my eye I see my pursuer stop a few paces behind and quickly look into the window of a butcher's shop. I throw down the cigar and walk calmly towards the hooded figure.

'Good morning, Mademoiselle Buisson.'

'Mon Dieu, how extraordinary!' she exclaims. 'To meet you here! My, my!'

I smile and offer her my arm. 'You seem to have been out in the snow for a considerable time,' I said, looking down at the soaking hem of her skirt.

'Perhaps I have,' she says. 'I have been looking for someone.'

'And have you found them?'

'Why yes, Mr - Glapthorn. I think perhaps I have.'

In the Norfolk Hotel, Strand, we call for coffee and she throws back the hood of her cloak and removes her snow-dusted bonnet.

'I do not think we need continue to pretend,' I say. 'I believe your friend will have informed you concerning recent events.'

'She is no friend of mine,' she said, shaking out her blonde curls. 'I consider her to be well, I do not wish to say what I consider her to be. We were once the closest of friends, you know, but now I hate her for what she has done to you. It was just a pleasant game at first, and I was happy to help her play it, though of course much was kept from me. But as I began to understand how things were with you, and that you truly loved her, then I told her she must put a stop to it; but she would not. And when Mr Daunt joined us in Paris -'

'In Paris?'

'Yes. I am sorry.'

'It does not matter. Go on.'

'When Mr Daunt came to join us, my heart began to break for you, knowing that you would be thinking of her constantly, and believing that she was thinking of you. That cruel note she made me write to you was the last straw. I tried to warn you, did I not? But I think by then you were past all warning.'

'I am grateful to you for your kind feelings towards me, Mademoiselle. But I do not think Miss Carteret could help herself. I do not and cannot defend her not in the least nor can I ever absolve her for deceiving me; but I understand what drove her to treat me as she did.'

'Do you?'

'Why, yes. It was that most potent, and most plausible, of motives: love. Oh yes, I understand her very well.'

'Then I consider you to be most generous. Do you not wish to punish her?'

'Not at all. How can I blame her for being in love? Love makes fools of us all.'

'So you blame no one for what has happened to you, Mr Glapthorn?'

'Perhaps you should call me by the name I was given at birth.' She gave a little nod of understanding.

'Very well, Mr Glyver. Is no one to blame for the loss of what was rightfully yours?'

'Oh yes,' I replied. 'Someone is to blame. But not her.'

'You still love her, of course,' she said with a sigh. 'I had hoped -'

'Hoped?'

'It really does not signify. Of what interest can my hopes possibly have for you? Eh bien, this is what I wished to say to you, my dear Mr Dark Horse. You may think this matter is over; that, having stolen your life, your adversary is content. But he is not content. I have overheard something that gives me great concern, and which should give you concern also. He has taken grave exception very grave exception to what has happened to his a.s.sociates, and for which he blames you. I do not know, of course, whether he is right to do so; it is enough for me to know that he does; and this being so, I urge you as a friend to take note. He is not a man to make idle threats, as you must know. In a word, he thinks you pose a danger to him, and this he will not tolerate.'

'You have heard him threaten me, then?'

'I have heard enough to make me walk through the snow for this past hour to speak to you. And now I have done my duty, Mr Edward Glyver who was once dear Mr Glapthorn, and must go.'

She rose to leave but I held out my hand to stop her. 'Does she ever speak of me?' I asked. 'To you?'

'We do not enjoy the familiarity we once did,' she replied. 'But I believe you have left a mark on her heart, though it pleases her to deny it. I hope that is of some comfort to you. And so good-bye, Mr Edward Glyver. You may kiss my hand, if you please.'

'With the greatest of pleasure, Mademoiselle.'

Back in Temple-street I make my preparations, happy in the knowledge that my enemy wishes me dead. It will make what I am soon to do so much easier.

On with my wig courtesy of Messrs Careless & Sons, theatrical costumiers of Finch-lane, Cornhill and a pair of spectacles. A decent but shabby suit, inside the jacket of which is a capacious pocket, completes the ensemble (livery is kindly being provided). Into the pocket goes the knife, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and I am ready.

I proceed first to the Adelphi Theatre, where I purchase a ticket for the evening's performance. Then I present myself to Mr Cranshaw who instructs me on my duties and directs me to a small bare-boarded room where I am to don my livery and powder my hair or, rather, my wig. 'Powder,' says Mr Cranshaw loftily, 'is insisted upon by his Lordship.' After I had wet the wig with water, I rubbed soap into it and then combed through the wet ma.s.s before applying the powder with the puff provided. Once powdered and liveried, I take up my station on the front steps with two other footmen.

The carriages begin to arrive. I hand out first the famous Madame Taglioni4 (for whom, though the lady was by no means in the first flush of youth, Lord Tansor cherished an uncharacteristically sentimental regard), and then the fat daughter of Lord Cotterstock (a costive old roue, with a face like weathered rock, who was already half dead with an unmentionable ailment), followed by her equally porcine mamma. The carriages continue to roll in through the snow and pull up under the lantern of the porte-cochere. Amba.s.sadors, Honourable Members, bankers, generals, dukes and earls: I open their carriage doors and help their ladies to disembark, and no one gives me a second look. At last the Prime Minister himself arrives, to be greeted by Lord and Lady Tansor, followed in the very next moment by a sleek carriage bearing the Duport arms.

When I open the door of the carriage I am met first by her perfume; then, as I bend to fold down the step, I see her feet, encased in delicate grey-kid pumps decorated with jet beading. She gives me her gloved hand, but I am invisible to her. As she emerges from the carriage, her warm breath mists the air; and for a pa.s.sing moment, with her hand resting in mine, it is as though she belongs to me once more. The thought makes me forget what I am supposed to be and I begin to close my grip gently round her fingers. She shoots an angry look at me, instantly removes her hand, and sweeps up the steps. There she pauses for a moment and looks back.

'You there! Hold the door!'

I obey his command and he steps down from the carriage. He is immaculate, dressed in the highest taste and quality. I make an obeisance as he pa.s.ses, and as I close the carriage door behind him I see him take her arm at the top of the steps and lead her inside.

After the last guests have arrived, I am sent to the dining-room to take up my station by the double doors that lead into the hallway. There I remain, unregarded by all who pa.s.s back and forth, even by my fellow-servants. I stand motionless but my eyes are busy, looking for my opportunity.

She is seated at the head of the table, an evanescent figure in pale blue silk surmounted by a barege overskirt sewn with gold and silver stars, her black hair set off delightfully by a tulle and lace cap ornamented with pale pink satin ribbon. On her right is poor dessicated Lady Tansor; on her left is Phoebus Daunt. The soup and fish have come and gone, and so have the entrees and roasts. The sweets are now being cleared away to make room for three huge branched epergnes,5 tottering with dried fruits, nuts, cakes, and sweet biscuits.

I have watched her all evening, drinking in every movement, every gesture; marvelling at her gaiety and a.s.surance, and at her beauty. Never so beautiful as tonight! So lost am I in observing her that, for a moment, I do not notice that Daunt has risen from his place and is saying something to Lord Tansor. Then he moves away, nodding greetings to several of the guests, and begins to walk towards me. I incline my head slightly as he pa.s.ses.

'Are you all right, sir?' I hear Cranshaw asking him. 'You look rather pale.'

'One of my headaches, I fear. I'm off to take a little air before the ladies leave.'

'Very good, sir.'

I wait until Cranshaw re-enters the dining-room and then I slip away, just in time to see Daunt's figure disappearing through a door at the back of the hall. Heart thumping, I descend the stairs and find my way as quickly as I can to the room in which my suit is hanging. In a flash I have retrieved the knife and am standing at a glazed door, through which I can see a flight of steps leading up to a lighted conservatory. Gently, I open the door and step out into the cold air.

It has stopped snowing, though a few fluffy flakes continue to fall. I hear a door open just above me and smell cigar smoke on the air.

A dark figure descends the steps from the conservatory. At the bottom he stops and looks up at the sky; then he crosses the border of light thrown out by the lamps at the top of the steps and pa.s.ses into snowy darkness beyond. I wait until he is six or seven feet from the steps before I leave the shadowed recess from where I have been observing him.

I am amazed to find that I am completely calm, as if I were contemplating some scene of surpa.s.sing, soul-easing beauty. All fear of danger, all apprehension of discovery, all confusion of purpose, all doubt, has fallen away. I see nothing before me but this single figure of flesh, blood, and bone; this one flimsy, inconsequential nothing. The world is suddenly silent, as if Great Leviathan himself is holding his breath.

Daunt's footsteps are marked out in the pristine snow. Onetwothreefour fivesix . . . I count them as, oh so carefully, I place my own feet in them. And then I call out to him.

'Sir! Mr Daunt, sir!' He turns.

'What do you want?'

'A message from Lord Tansor, sir.'

He walks back towards me six paces.

'Well?'

We are face to face and still he does not know me! There is not the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Just a moment longer, dear Phoebus. Then you will know me.

My right hand slips inside my jacket and round the bone handle of the freshly sharpened knife that had last been used to carve beef at the Wellington. The smoke of his cigar curls upwards to the cold sky. The end glows as he inhales.

'Don't just stand there, you stupid fellow. Give me your message.'

'My message? Why, here it is.'

It is done in a moment. The long pointed blade easily penetrates his evening suit, but I am not sure the wound is fatal. So I instantly withdraw the bloodied blade and then, as he staggers forward slightly, I ready myself for a second thrust, this time at his uncovered throat. He looks up at me, blinking. The cigar falls from his lips and lies smouldering on the ground.

Still upright, though swaying a little from side to side, he looks at me disbelievingly and opens his mouth, as if to speak; but nothing comes out. I take a step towards him, and, as I do so, his mouth opens again. This time, with a kind of breathless gurgle, he manages three words: 'Who are you?'

'Edward Geddington, footman, at your service, sir.'

Coughing slightly, he is now leaning his head against my shoulder. I find it rather a touching gesture. We stand there for a moment, like lovers embracing. For the first time I notice that his thick black hair is brushed to conceal a little bald patch around the crown of his head.

Cradling my enemy in one arm, I raise the knife and strike the second blow.

'Floreat Etona!' I whisper as he slips slowly down into the snow.

I return to the conservatory steps, taking care to use Daunt's own tracks, and then back down to the servants' hall. In an earthenware bowl, on a table outside the kitchen, are dozens of dirty knives and forks soaking in hot water. Casually, I drop the carving knife into the bowl as I walk past.