The Meaning of Night Part 4

With rain beginning to patter against the skylight of my little bedroom, I threw on my top-coat and ran down the stairs into the gathering night.

And a merciless rain it soon became, pouring in thick frothy streams from water-spouts and ledges, tumbling in vertical sheets from roofs and spires and parapets high above the teeming city, turning streets and thoroughfares into evil-smelling streams of filth and liquid refuse. I found my old companion, Willoughby Le Grice, lounging, as I knew he would be at this hour, at the Ship and Turtle in Leadenhall-street. Le Grice and I had been chums since our schooldays, though we were as different as could be. Whether he had ever read a book through in his life, I beg to doubt; he did not care for books, or music, or paintings as I most certainly did; as for more advanced pursuits, I believe he considered philosophy to be actively pernicious, whilst the mention of metaphysics made him quite mad. Le Grice was a sportsman to his size-twelve boots: taller even than I; thick tow-coloured hair above a four-square manly gaze, the neck and shoulders of a young bull, and a luxuriant arc of curled hair above his top lip that made him look a very Caractacus. A true Briton, and a good man to have by you in a dangerous corner, though an innocent for all that. A strange pair, we must have made; but I could have wanted for no better friend.

We ate the grilled fowl (Indian style), for which the house was celebrated, washed down with gin-punch; then, ever biddable as he was on such occasions, Le Grice allowed me to take him across the river to the Victoria Theatre,2 just in time for the nine o'clock performance.

There is no better place than the Victoria to watch the lower orders of the city taking their pleasure; to me, it is a constantly fascinating sight, like lifting a stone and observing the insect life beneath. Le Grice is not so charmed as I; but he keeps his counsel and sits back in his seat, a cheroot clenched grimly between his teeth, whilst I lean forward eagerly. Below our box, the coa.r.s.e deal benches are packed to overflowing: costers, navvies, lightermen, hackney-coach drivers, coal-heavers, and every sort of disreputable female. A ferocious, sweating, stinking herd. Only the louder shouts of the pigstrotter woman and the porter men who patrol the aisles and stairways rise above the tumult of whistles and yells. Then, at last, the curtain rises, the master of ceremonies finally subdues the mob, and the performance sublime in its vulgarity begins.

Afterwards, out in the New Cut, the rain had begun to ease, leaving the streets awash with mud and debris brought down from roofs and gutters. Degraded humanity, with its attendant stench, was everywhere: congregating on corners, or squatting beneath dripping archways; sitting on doorsteps, hanging out of windows, or huddling in the mouths of alleyways. Faces, hideously painted by the satanic light of the lamps and flares and the glow of the baked-chestnut stoves that lit up the street stalls and public-houses, pa.s.sed by us like a parade of the d.a.m.ned.

Just after midnight we dropped into Quinn's. I wished especially to go to Quinn's. On the excuse of attempting to locate a lost pocket-book, I sought out the waiter who had served me the previous evening: it soon became perfectly clear that he had no recollection of me; and so I returned, with a lighter heart, to Le Grice and we set about the consumption of oysters and champagne with a will. But eating oysters, Le Grice declared, only made him hungrier. He required meat and strong liquor, which, at this time of night, only Evans' could supply. And so, a little before midnight, we arrived in King-street, Covent Garden.

The parallel lines of tables, laid out like a college hall, were still packed with boisterous supper-goers. The air was cloudy with the smoke of cigars (pipes being prohibited) and heavy with the aroma of grog and roasted meat. Adding to the convivial din of conversation and laughter, a group of singers on the stage was l.u.s.tily delivering a six-part glee, their strong and splendid voices rising in a resonant crescendo above the incessant clatter of plates and the rattle of cutlery. All about us, the tables were piled high with steaming sausages, sizzling cayenned kidneys, leathery baked potatoes, and dozens of glistening fried eggs, like so many miniature suns. We called for peppered chops and bitter beer, but no sooner had they arrived than it was announced that Mr Le Grice well known to many of the company would sing a comic song.

As Le Grice made his way tipsily towards the stage, to raucous applause, I slipped quietly away. The rain was falling with renewed intent; but London, the unsleeping Leviathan, with its incalculable surpluses of brilliance and vileness, together with the undemanding company of dear old Le Grice, had done its work.

I was myself again.

3:.

Praemonitus, praemunitus1 __________________________________________________________________________.

The following day, Bella and I walked out in the Regent's Park. It was an unusually fine afternoon for October in London; and so, after looking at the elephants in the Zoological Gardens, we sat for some time by the ornamental water, talking and laughing in the pale autumn sunshine. Towards four o'clock, the air began to grow chill, and so we made our way back towards the gates that lead out into York-terrace.

Near the entrance to the gardens of the Toxophilite Society,2 Bella stopped and turned to me.

'Kitty wishes me to go with her to Dieppe tomorrow.'

'Dieppe? Whatever for?'

'Dearest, I have told you before. It is where her mother was born, and she has determined to retire there. There is a house she has coveted this past year, and it is now for sale. She wishes me to go with her to view it.'

'And you will go?'

'But of course.' She laid a gloved finger gently across my cheek. 'You don't mind, do you, dear? Say you don't it will only be for a day or so.'

I told her I did not mind in the least, though in truth the thought of not having the comfort of her dear person near me at this time of impending crisis unsettled me. But I hate to show weakness or dependence, even to those I am fond of it is a fault of mine that I have often tried to mend, without success; and so I told her, with convincing nonchalance, that I would be out of town myself, managing thereby to insinuate that I would be too occupied with my own affairs to give heed to any thought of her that might arise. I feigned my indifference too well, however, for she instantly removed her hand from my cheek and looked at me sternly.

'Well, then', she replied, 'I may as well stay on in Dieppe a little longer, as Kitty wishes me to. I'm sure there will be gentlemen aplenty who will be glad to entertain me.'

Now it had never before troubled me that Bella's profession required her to be, shall we say, companionable to other fellows; what services she performed for Kitty Daley's select circle of gentlemen had concerned me little. Not wishing to be possessed by her, I had gladly acknowledged Bella's liberty to follow her chosen employment for as long as she wished. But this accommodating att.i.tude, I already knew, had begun to irk her somewhat, and from time to time lately she had tried to arouse in me some spark of jealousy which I believe ladies often interpret as a form of flattery. Her present attempt was transparent enough, but the truth was that it was unnecessary. I could no longer affect indifference: I was jealous of others enjoying that sweet body; and yet, once again, my foolish inability to admit what I truly felt made me say entirely the wrong thing.

'You must do as you please,' I told her, in a hard, careless tone. 'I have no hold over you.'

'Very well,' said Bella, 'I shall indeed please myself.'

With which she gathered up her skirts and walked angrily away.

Now this I could not allow, for I hated to see her upset and angry; and so I forced myself for some portion of me still revolted against any sign of capitulation to call after her.

She turned. Her cheeks were reddened, and I saw clearly that I had hurt her.

A quarrel was a new thing for us, and I did not well know how I could resolve matters. We had rubbed along nicely in our present way of things for a year or so, with neither of us expressing any wish to the other that the liberal basis of our friendship should be altered to something of a more conventional character. But now I sensed a change in Bella. She had taken to heart something she would formerly have brushed aside with hardly a thought.

I tell you all this to show that I am not a monster. I could kill a stranger, but I could not bear to see Bella distressed. And so I folded her in my arms it was growing dark, and we were alone on the stretch of path that led out of the park and kissed her tenderly.

'Oh, Eddie,' she said, tears welling up in her eyes, 'do you not like me any more?'

'Like you?' I cried. 'Of course I like you. More than more than I can say.'

'Truly?'

'Truly,' I replied. I told her I hated myself for upsetting her so, that I would indeed miss her while she was away, and that I would count the hours until she returned.

She gave a little laugh.

'Now, now,' she said in mock admonishment, 'don't come the poet with me, sir. An occasional thought in the course of the day will be quite sufficient.'

We kissed again, but as she withdrew her lips from mine I saw again that look of seriousness in her eyes.

'What is it, Bella?' I asked. 'Is something wrong?'

She hesitated for a moment. 'No, not exactly wrong.'

'You are not '

'No by no means no.' She reached into her pocket. 'I have received this. It came yesterday morning, after you left.'

She handed me a folded piece of paper.

'I must go. Kitty is expecting me. I hope you will call when we are back.'

I watched her walk away, waiting until she was out of sight before I unfolded and read what she had handed to me.

It was a short note, written in a small neat hand: The note was signed 'Veritas' and was addressed simply to 'Miss Gallini', with no direction, suggesting it had been delivered by hand.

Here was a thing, and I own that it knocked me back for a moment or two. I read the note again; but as the light was now nearly gone, I decided to go straight back to Temple-street and take stock.

I write to you as a true friend. Beware of Edward Glapthorn. He is not what he seems. As you value your happiness, you would do well to sever all connexion with him immediately. I know of what I speak. Take heed.

I was, no doubt, in a somewhat nervous state, for as I was proceeding past the Diorama, in Park-square, I thought I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. But when I turned round, there was no one to be seen. The street was deserted, except for a single carriage making its way back through the fading light towards the Park. This would not do. I grasped my stick with determination and walked on.

Back in my rooms, I lit the lamp and spread the note out on my table.

The hand had something familiar about it some trace of memory seemed to cling to it; but, try as I might, I could not bring its a.s.sociations to mind.

I investigated the paper closely with my gla.s.s, held it up to the light, even sniffed it. Then I examined every character in turn, pondered the choice and order of the words, and why the author had underlined the name Edward Glapthorn. I studied the flourishes of the signature, and sought to tease out what lay behind the choice of the pseudonym 'Veritas'. As I write this, I am amazed by my obtuseness, my inability immediately to grasp the truth; but there it is. The deed I had so lately committed in Cain-court had, no doubt, produced confusion of mind, and dulled my usually acute powers of perception; and in these dark autumn weeks, convulsed by the most terrible of betrayals, and in fear of my own life, I was already in the grip of a kind of madness, and could not see what was plainly before my eyes. The consequence was that I spent an hour or more trying with mounting frustration to force the note to yield up its secret; but it defeated me. Except in this one thing: I knew, with utter conviction, that, though addressed to Bella, it had been meant for me. And so it proved.

Who? Who knew? Though I have never killed before, I am well used to living on the night-side of things. As I shall later relate, my work has hardened me to violence and danger, and I have trained myself in all the arts of the paid spy. I had therefore taken every precaution, deployed all my acquired skills, to ensure that my victim and I had entered Cain-court un.o.bserved; but now it was clear, beyond a doubt, that I had slipped up. Someone had followed us. Someone had seen us.

I paced the room, pounding my knuckles against my head, trying to recall every second of those fateful minutes.

I could remember glancing back towards the entrance to the court, soon after striking the fatal blow, and again as I'd slid the knife down the grating. Memory could give me back nothing to indicate that I'd been observed. Except . . . Yes: the slightest of sounds, though no sign of movement. A rat, I had thought at the time. But was it possible that someone had been silently watching my victim and me from the deep shadows that lay in the angles of the walls?

This thought now instantly took hold, and then led to another. How had the presumed observer identified me? The answer must be that he already knew me. Perhaps he had been watching my movements for some time and had followed me in my peregrinations that night, and then tracked me to Blithe Lodge. But why, with the information he possessed, had he not already denounced me to the authorities? Why had he written to Bella in such a fashion?

I could discern only one motive: blackmail. With that conclusion came a kind of relief. I knew how to deal with such a situation. All I required was to gain some quick advantage over my pursuer. Then I would have him. Yet it was not altogether clear to me how such an advantage could be obtained; and still I could not understand why the blackmailer had revealed his hand to Bella first. Perhaps he merely wished to torment me a little before administering the coup de grace.

He it must be a man, and an educated one was clever. I was prepared to grant him that. The note had been subtly conceived. To Bella, who knew nothing of what had happened in Cain-court, it hinted at dark possibilities that might alarm any woman, even a demi-mondaine: 'He is not what he seems . . .'. Women instantly distrust the unspecific, and their imaginations soon begin to transform hints and suggestions into solid fact. What would Bella's fancy conjure up from these vague but troubling insinuations? Nothing to my advantage, certainly, and much to her disquiet. But to me, the note sent a different message: a threat to reveal to Bella what I had done if I did not come to an arrangement. This was the cleverness of it: it was intended to put us individually on the rack; and by mischievously sowing doubt and alarm in the innocent Bella, it inflicted a double punishment on me.

I returned to my table and picked up the note again. This time I held it up to the light of my lamp and went carefully over every inch with my eye-gla.s.s, searching furiously for some clue to the ident.i.ty of the sender, something that would set me on his trail. I was on the point of giving up in angry frustration when I noticed a row of small holes p.r.i.c.ked into the paper, just below the signature.

On closer examination, I saw that these had been deliberately arranged in groups, separated by s.p.a.ces. It did not take long to discern the simplest of codes: each group of holes represented a number, which in turn stood for a letter. With little trouble I deciphered the message: ez/vi/vi. Reaching for my bible, I quickly found the verse from Ezekiel to which the message referred: An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold, it is come.

Here was a serious setback to my plans. Something I could not have antic.i.p.ated, but to the resolution of which I must now divert some of my energy. Watcheth, I perceived, was a word the sender particularly intended me to take to heart. I could do nothing, for the time being, to set aside whatever fears the note had raised in Bella; but I felt sure that I would receive a further communication before long, and this, I hoped, would afford me some opportunity to begin turning the tables on the blackmailer.

I sat up for half an hour or so before the fire smoking a cigar, then went to bed in a state of suppressed anxiety. Images came crowding in upon me: the dying smile of Lucas Trendle, elephants, Bella laughing in the autumn sunshine, a carriage making its way up a deserted street.

Then, when sleep eventually took hold, came a repeated dream, which haunts me still.

I am walking through an unimaginably vast subterranean chamber; the echoes of my footsteps recede into endless depths of shadow on either side of what seems like an aisle or nave of t.i.tanic stone columns. In my hand is a candle, which burns with a steady flame, revealing an open s.p.a.ce beyond the columns. Into this s.p.a.ce, the boundaries of which are indiscernible, I now pa.s.s.

I walk on for some time, feeling a vast and oppressive emptiness pushing in all around me. I stop, and the reverberating echoes of my footsteps slowly die away in a sickening diminuendo into the surrounding immensity. The candle's flame reveals only darkness: limitless, entire; but then, suddenly, I know I am not alone, and a choking terror begins to take hold. There is something fearsome here, invisible but present. All is silence; I have heard no sound of footsteps other than my own; and yet I know danger is near. Then, with inconceivable horror, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder and warm breath on my cheek and hear the faint hiss of exhaled air. Someone some thing standing just behind me softly blows out the candle. I drop the extinguished flame, and collapse in utter helplessness and revulsion.

I awoke three or four times from this nightmare in a sweat, my heart thumping, clutching at tangled sheets. Finally, at first light, I arose with a dry mouth and a ferocious headache. As soon as I entered my sitting-room I saw it: a rectangle of white paper, slipped under the door as I slept.

It was a black-bordered card, written in the same hand as the note that had been sent to Bella. It seemed to confirm all my fears.

Mr Edward Glapthorn is cordially invited to the interment of Mr Lucas Trendle, late of the Bank of England, at 3 p.m. on the third of November, 1854, Abney Cemetery, Stoke Newington.

'In the midst of life we are in death'

The quotation from the Burial Service at first seemed merely apt; but, as I considered it further, the words began to call to mind some other time and place a face, already receding into the shadows of memory; a place of sorrow; rain and solemn music. It puzzled me, and worried me, though I could not say why. Then I concluded that I was seeing significance where there was none, and threw the card aside.

Eight days. There was time to prepare myself. I did not expect any further communication; the blackmailer's next move would no doubt come presumably in person on the day of the funeral. And if not in person, then he would have to reveal something more of himself in another communication if he was attain his objective; and that might allow me the advantage I was seeking. In the meantime I resolved to try and put all thought of this business out of my mind, as far as I could. I had other pressing matters to attend to. For the time of reckoning with my enemy, Phoebus Daunt, was nigh.

4:.

Ab incunabulis1 *

The evening after Bella returned from Dieppe, I took her to dinner at the Clarendon Hotel.2 Mrs D. had been enchanted by the house they had viewed and had stayed in France to begin arrangements for its purchase.

'She means to retire there as soon as circ.u.mstances permit,' said Bella, 'which of course means that my own position will change sooner than antic.i.p.ated.'

She did her best to maintain her old easiness of manner, but I could see the effort it was causing her. At length, she set aside all pretence.

'You have read the note?'

I nodded.

'What does it mean, Eddie? I must know the truth.'

'The truth of what?' I cried angrily. 'The truth of a lie? The truth of some vague and baseless slander? There is no truth here, none, I can a.s.sure you.'

'But who has sent me this?'

'Someone who wishes me harm for a reason I cannot imagine, someone whose resentment of me or perhaps of you . . . '

She was taken aback by the suggestion.

'Of me? What can you mean?'

'Think, my love: is there any member of The Academy who might have a reason to cause you harm? Someone, perhaps, who has received a visit from Mr Braithwaite on your behalf?'

'No, none.' She thought for a moment. 'Sir Meredith Gore you remember? was ejected some months ago, but I was not the only one to complain of him. He is presently travelling on the Continent, and is not expected to return for some time, so I do not think it can be him. Besides, what possible benefit could he gain from this? And do you know the gentleman?'

I conceded that Sir Meredith and I had enjoyed no personal contact, other than a chance meeting on the stairs at Blithe Lodge one evening; but I pointed out that it would be perfectly possible for him to invent some calumny against me without personal knowledge, to gain revenge on her for his expulsion.

'No, no,' said Bella, shaking her head vigorously, 'it's too implausible impossible. No, it cannot be Sir Meredith. A drunken old fool, incapable of such subtlety.' She paused as the waiter came up with more champagne.

'You say', she continued, toying with the stem of her gla.s.s, 'that the implied accusations are baseless. But how can I be sure? There must, after all, be some reason why the note was written to me. I know that your father died before you were born, and that your mother, whom you have told me you loved dearly, was an auth.o.r.ess; and you have spoken often of your years abroad. But are there things in your past important things, perhaps that you have deliberately withheld from me, to which the note may refer? If so, I beg you to tell me now.'

'I thought you were content to like me just as I am, the present here-and-now me,' I said sulkily.

'Circ.u.mstances have changed,' she replied, leaning back in her chair. 'When Kitty retires to Dieppe, I shall be required to take her place at The Academy, and that will allow me to give up my gentlemen.' She shot a steady gaze at me. 'It is important to me, Eddie, under these new circ.u.mstances, to know everything about the man I have fallen in love with.'

The directness of her words stumped me for a moment. I had been right, then, to detect a change in her, during our afternoon in the Park; but I had not expected such an outright declaration, fool that I am. I should have remembered the poet's dictum: that a woman's friendship ever ends in love.3 She was waiting for some reciprocal declaration. But how could I tell her what she wished to hear, when my heart still ached for another, whom I could never now possess?

'Do you have nothing to say?' she asked.

'Only that you are my dearest friend in the world, as I have often told you,' I replied, 'and that I cannot bear to see you distressed.'

'But do you like me love me, even merely as a friend?'

'Merely as a friend? Is that not enough?'

'Well, I see you are now starting to play the philosopher with me, so I suppose I have my answer.'

I reached out and took her hand.

'Bella, dearest, forgive me. If you wish to call my feelings for you "love", then so be it. I am more than content for you to do so. For myself, I am devoted to you as the dearest, sweetest friend a man could have. If this is love, then I love you. And if it is love to feel safe and comfortable in your presence, then I love you. And if it is love to know that I am never happier than when you take my face in my hands and kiss me, then I love you. And if . . .' And so I went on, until I could obfuscate no more.

I smiled, in what I hoped was my most winning manner, and was rewarded by the sight of a faint animation of her lips.

'Then I suppose, Mr Edward Glapthorn, that your many ingenious definitions of love must suffice for now.' She removed her hand from mine as she spoke. 'But for the sake of all we have been together, and for all we may be, you must set my mind at rest completely at rest. The note '

'Is false.' I looked at her steadily. 'False as h.e.l.l written by someone who wishes to do me us harm, for some reason we cannot yet know. But we shall defeat them, dearest Bella. I promise you shall know all about me, and then they shall have no hold over us. We shall be safe.'

If only it could be so. But she deserved to know a little more about me, to set her mind at rest until such time as I could unmask the blackmailer, and put the danger from us permanently. And then? When I had vanquished my enemy at last, revenged myself for what he had done to me, and taken back what was rightfully mine, could she ever replace what I had lost?