Mr. Timothy: A Novel (48 page)

And still: the absurdity of it! Drowning in perhaps ten feet of water. With a good dozen people close at hand. A bubble of laughter bursts from me, and with it a belch of black muck. My heart slows to a dull, thudding lurch. My lungs swell and spike. Needles of ice drive through my brain.

All the same, there is comfort here. For is this not the old dream? The dream I first had as a child. Once again, the killing sap is rising through me. Once again, the feeling drains from my hands, the air from my chest. The heart thumps loud enough to wake the dead. Yes. Yes, the old dream at last--after so many interruptions--reaching its conclusion.

And what a surprise! Not a dream at all but an architectural plan. Here...now...the final touches on the edifice of my life, falling into place.

And all sorts of people are rushing to congratulate me. There's Sam! And Mr. McReady. Belinda and Jem. And Mother, too, moving quite expertly through the water, a matronly mermaid, with a pair of redoubtable fins.

And right behind her...who but Father? No better a swimmer than I, and yet look how easily he navigates. Doesn't even need to move his arms and legs, just cuts through the water, like a boy on a greased pole. Smiles that shy, placating smile. Cups his hand and beckons to me.

Home, Tim. Go quiet.

Chapter 25

THE GRAPPLING IRON. That was the specific means of my escape. Gully's final gift: a fierce black hook, attached to a long strand of iron hoops, dangling over the side of the boat and catching round my leg. My lifeline.

My
second
lifeline, I should say. The first was simply an agitation in the water above me. I knew immediately what it was: the paddling of human feet. I knew also to whom the feet belonged; I knew why they were there. And so I went to them--wrapped my hands round the grappling iron and hauled myself up from the river bottom, towards those two paddling bodies. towards the claims of a new family.

There was, in this arc, an undercurrent of regret that lingers with me still. And yet I cannot question the impulse, any more than I can question being born. It simply was. A predicate only, with no direct object.

These, anyway, are the thoughts that crowd in on me, many hours after the events in question. It is Christmas Day, bless you, and I am spending it, for the time being, in the office of Detective Inspector Surtees. We are seated by a rather tentative fire--the first fire this hearth has enjoyed in some time, it is clear. My host, discomfited by the intrusion of warmth, has absented himself to the far side of his own office and left me his chair, and so here I sit, with my legs stretched out, grateful for every speck of heat that comes my way.

Only now is the chill beginning to leave my bones. That it has not taken up permanent residence, I owe to the labours of the stationmaster's wife, who padded me down with blankets and kept the fire raging round me all night long. My second station-house stay was a far cry from my first. I slept for hours--days, possibly--and when I awoke, I was still at liberty, and there was a plate of devilled grill and kidneys on the table next to me. And before I left, the good stationmaster's wife insisted on lending me a starched white shirt of her husband's, two sizes too small, and by way of compensation, a pair of startlingly roomy woollen trousers, in one of whose pockets I found a drawing of a naked woman straddling the branch of an elm. The clothes I'll return, but I've half a mind to keep the drawing. Even now my fingers worm their way towards it, while the rest of me hearkens to the dry, high voice of Inspector Surtees.

--Well, the rest of us had quite lost sight of you, I'm sorry to say. But the boy and the girl, dear me! Never let you out of their bearings. As soon as you dropped, they went straight after you. Quite a willful pair of beasts, aren't they?

He totters on the heels of his boots, jangles the coins in his pockets.

--Oh, and I've had the most fascinating talk with the girl. Wouldn't say a word at first, but came round in the end when I mentioned how much I admired you. Had to quite lay it on, I'm afraid.

--Sorry.

--D'you know how she did it, by the way? --Did what?

--Escaped the dreaded coffin.

--No...I never--

--Oh, it's too degradingly fascinating, it's the stuff of cheap fiction. One grows quite religious contemplating it.

--How's that?

--The rosary beads, Mr. Cratchit.

--I'm sorry?

--You noticed them, I daresay. Rather chapped and altogether squashed in sections? Well, there's a very good and particular reason they are chapped and altogether squashed in sections, Mr. Cratchit. Somehow, in the act of being shut in, she managed to insert the beads between the lid and the box. From there, she was able to pry her way free. You've noticed, no doubt, she's astonishingly good at creating rudimentary levers.

--I have noticed, yes.

--I shouldn't be surprised to learn that Archimedes was one of her scions. "Give me a string of beads and I will..." Of course, this is in no way meant to demean your other confederate, Mr. Cratchit. A most indomitable, an
indivertible
fellow.

The fire is wasting quickly, and the ashes are dropping fast, and somehow this imparts a new degree of urgency to our conversation. And so, as I rake the few coals still remaining in the grate, I pose the question that has been tasking me from the moment I awoke.

--Have they found his body?

--Lord Griffyn's, d'you mean? Not yet, no...what with all the melee...and the tides, Mr. Cratchit, you know how capricious
they
can be. He may wash ashore tomorrow, he may...

And then, unaccountably, he falls silent.

--What's the matter, Inspector?

--I was only thinking how unfortunate it is that your friend...Captain Gully...isn't around to help us find him.

--Gully, yes.

--Please do accept our condolences.

--Yes. Thank you.

And with that show of deference, Inspector Surtees slaps his hands on his thighs and pulls himself into an erect position.
--You know, I've never met your Mrs. Sharpe, I'm sorry to say. I am told she is something of a legend in the halls of Scotland Yard. Held in rather high esteem for her business acumen. Which makes it rather hard to fathom.

--What?

--Why such a...such a deuced intelligent woman would, without
knowing
...well, it's such a queer sort of business for that kind of woman to get dragged into.
Innocently
, I mean. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Cratchit?

--Ah, well, there it is. Women, Inspector.

Even staring into the fire, I can feel his gaze upon me. It imparts a heat of his own.

--Yes, Mr. Cratchit. Women.

And herewith the final discharging of my debt to Mrs. Sharpe. The sin of omission. And if it be sin, well, then, add it to my account.

In the end, of course, there is only so much I can omit. The police have already been to Mrs. Sharpe's. They have confiscated the books, requisitioned the coffins. They have disposed of George's body and questioned Iris and Mary Catherine and let all the other girls go. Only Mrs. Sharpe has eluded their inquiries. The police were told in no uncertain terms that she was not "to home."

Whether this was in fact the case or whether the police, disgruntled at having to work on Christmas, refrained from pursuing the matter further, I cannot say. What I can say, with a fair degree of certainty, is that Mrs. Sharpe will not be to home for many, many evenings to come. Where she will go, how she will get by...those are matters for some future narrative...but if her story plays out as I would fain believe, she and I
will
cross paths again someday, and beyond any doubt, our first topic of conversation will be the fate of Robinson Crusoe.

In the meantime, Inspector Surtees is pulling the bag of licorice from his desk drawer, and it is as though he were proffering it for the first time. Everything has begun again.

--Well, Mr. Cratchit, my men stand at your disposal. Is there any service you require?

--As a matter of fact, there is. I have two letters I need dispatched at once. Under normal circumstances, I would ask Colin, but--

--I quite understand. Shall I send for a messenger?

--Please.

--Consider it done. And now, I believe, there are two young people waiting outside to see you. May I show them in?

The messenger boy is not so sharp or speedy as Colin, but he is a good deal more civil, and he returns with answers to both letters shortly after two in the afternoon.
An hour later, I am passing with Colin down that well-known street, which, like every other street in London, has been transformed by the ablution of snow. Dollops of gingerbread icing hang lightly from the tree branches; white-whiskered stoles stretch across the awnings and cornices and lintels. Our boots crunch softly against the walk, and our breath turns instantly to steam and wraps us round, as if every pore in our bodies was exhaling at the same time.

--Bit gloomy, ain't it?

Colin is right, of course. It is a grim, sunless block in all weathers. A second generation of buildings has been built atop the first, and any infusion of light now arrives purely by accident. The pavements are empty, the trees gnarled and stunted, and I would wager that the now-obviated sundial in that tiny bricked-in corner will carry its fringe of snow straight through to April.

And yet I so long ago absorbed all this intelligence that to hear the place called gloomy is a kind of personal affront. I cast my eyes about, seeking some recess of beauty to which I can call Colin's attention, but after much searching, the only thing I can point to is Uncle N's knocker, which, under the influence of snow and holly, has cast aside its usual gargoyle role in favour of St. Nicholas.

Or so it seems to me. Something of its original character must still come through, however, for Colin scowls and backs away a step.

--Holy Christ! Looks like he's a-goin' to eat us.

--Well, yes. He takes getting used to.

Mrs. Pridgeon has been given the week off, and so it is Uncle N himself who answers the door. The season has had its usual beneficent effect on his appearance. His spine has straightened, his eye gleams with snow-light, and the bluish tint of his skin has been chapped into ruddiness. He swings the door open as far as it will go and sets his feet a yard apart and stands fully revealed, a garland of tiny silver bells still tinkling from the belfry of his lapel.

--Tim.

The touch of his hand renders me mute suddenly, and so I turn to Colin in the hope of making introductions. But the boy, in a rare fit of reticence, has stationed himself directly behind my back, and so Uncle N carries on as though I were alone.

--Disappointing news, I'm afraid. Peter and Annie have just sent word they can't join us. We shall...we shall just have to pin them down another time, perhaps. And in the meantime, this is--ha!--
ample
recompense.

--Merry Christmas, Uncle.

Over his shoulder, I can make out a latticework of laurel leaves and, facing the doorway, a "Happy Christmas" motto on a wooden frame covered with red calico. Mistletoe hanging from the chandelier and garlands of ivy, rosemary, box and yew snaking up the staircase.

And more: the sounds of revelry. Clinking glasses and the accidental plunk of a piano key and a woman's chiming voice:

--Don't keep us in suspense. Tell us who it is!

Uncle calls out:

--Wait just a moment and you'll see!

And then, inclining his head towards mine, he murmurs:

--You mentioned...in your letter...a sum of money.

--Not for me, Uncle. For a cabdriver named Adolphus. I'm afraid we inadvertently caused him to lose his cab and horse the other night. I was hoping, with your help, to replace them.

Eager to make a clean breast of it, I add:

--He's not likely to
thank
you for it. He's not a thanking sort of man.

--Well, if you...if you think it would...

--It's the last thing I will ask of you, Uncle. No, pardon. The next-to-last thing.

And with that, I reach behind me and grab Colin by the sleeve of his knickerbocker suit and drag him, wriggling and writhing, into the naked light of the old man's gaze.

--As promised, Uncle. Your new boarder.

A second or two of gentle shock, that is all, and then Uncle is beaming from every corner and bending halfway down and a quarter of the way round and wringing the boy's hand as vigorously as he might a water pump.

--Oh, good day! Good day to you, young man!

--If you say so.

--I think I must have failed to make your acquaintance last night.

--Well.

--So nice to have you with us.

--Thanks, I'm sure.

--Now, I hear tell you are quite the musician. This is most fortuitous because, you see, my little party here has punch and eggnog aplenty, but we are parched for song. Do you think you might do us the favour of performing a selection or two?

Colin draws his hand away, smothers it beneath his arm.

--I gets half my fee up front.

--Oh, a wise little man of business, it is. Very well, then. Shake hands, and there's two pounds on it. The rest on satisfactory completion.
To see Colin's eyes widen in that extreme fashion is to journey straight back to our initial encounter by the Hungerford Stairs. Back to that first meeting of gold and palm, transfusing him through, alchemising his future....

I whisper to him now:

--There's more where that came from.

He gives this all due consideration. Then he whispers back: