The Hidden Man (14 page)

The man made Fidelis wait a little longer, as must be expected of one that regards himself as a person of importance. Pinchbeck, who had formerly been a Sergeant-Major in the Grenadiers, had begun to affect in middle life a weary manner that, while still being recognizably that of a non-commissioned officer, suggested one that bore the burden of social importance.

‘Zadok Moon, you say?' he asked, tapping his chin with a crook-finger. He had graciously acceded to Fidelis's invitation to sit down, but refused refreshment. ‘Yes, I know the name. There's been mail for him posted to and collected from here, I can say that.'

‘What does he look like?'

‘An ordinary fellow. Wears a seaman's beard, but that's not remarkable here.'

‘So he may have been to sea?'

‘I couldn't say.'

‘What is his dress?'

‘Ordinary – but not shabby.'

‘And what is his age?'

‘Middling. Closer to thirty than forty.'

They were no further on when Fidelis's meal arrived. As Pinchbeck was telling next to nothing about Moon, Fidelis abandoned the interrogation. He picked up his knife and Pinchbeck left his customer to enjoy his plate of boiled ham and pickles.

After satisfying his appetite Fidelis ventured out again. Going from coffee house to tavern to coffee house, he asked after Moon and, receiving no satisfactory answer, began to wonder why the man was so elusive. He also, as he progressed, started to suspect that there was someone following behind him. He pretended to look with consuming interest into the window of a print-seller, in the hope of noting someone conspicuously idling in the street behind him. There was no such thing. At another moment he saw a blind beggar crouching in a doorway across the street who, after a few moments' observation, he found to be just as blind and destitute as he appeared.

Fidelis walked on, past the theatre which appeared to be closed, and on to Castle Square, where he joined the audience for another kind of show, but one that required no ticket: an acrobat was tying his body into knots. Fidelis took a certain medical interest in such performances, and stayed to watch, though he glanced around from time to time. Somewhere near the theatre a few minutes earlier he'd noticed a woman dodging along in his wake, and he was keeping a sidelong eye out for her. But he was momentarily distracted by an extreme of bodily contortion and did not notice the woman was by his side until he felt her tugging at his sleeve.

‘Only a bit of silver will have me, kind Sir,' she wheedled. ‘Just a couple of shillings is all I ask and you can have my company for half an hour, you can.'

She leaned forward so that her broken-toothed mouth was beside his ear.

‘I've got a place to meself, and with a bed in it too,' she whispered.

Fidelis looked at her. She was not young, and nor was she pretty. Her face needed a wash with soap, and the ragged hem of her dress trailed on the ground. He sent her briskly on her way, for her approach had reminded him to look at his watch. He had another engagement, and in a politer part of town.

*   *   *

He left the Castle behind him and walked up Castle Street, past the Exchange and into a district whose streets were recently built, and whose inhabitants prided themselves in sobriety and respectability – at least in public. He turned into Edmund Street and approached the door of a well-kept house, the brasses on the door brightly polished, the windows clean. It was opened discreetly by a woman.

Without saying a word she led him into the parlour where the drapes were closed, and candles had been lit. A bass viol lay on the floor beside an upright chair and a stand with a sheet of music open. On a table was a salver with two glasses and a bottle of port, from which she poured. They touched glasses and drank, and then she poured again for him alone.

While he sipped the wine she sat in the chair, took up the viol, placed it between her legs and began to play a slow, beguiling, amorous tune. All through it her eyes remained fixed on his and a teasing smile drifted across her lips.

Coming to the end she lifted the bow from the strings and waited. Luke drained the wine glass and moved to her side, from where he could see the sheet open on the music stand. This was something jauntier, a sea shanty. Among Fidelis's attributes was the possession of a more than serviceable baritone voice and after a few opening notes from Mrs Butler's viol he ran through the song. I have heard my friend sing on a number of occasions and, though I cannot say he puts great feeling into it, he sings with energy and accuracy.

When he had finished, his accompanist rose and stood facing him.

‘The servants are out,' she murmured, and putting her hands on his shoulders, she raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth.

Her name was Mrs Belinda Butler, a fair-haired, nicely proportioned woman of thirty-five whose husband, Captain Butler, had been lost at sea five years earlier, leaving to her the house and a sum of money from his life insurance. Luke had known Mrs Butler since the autumn, and had become a regular visitor. I do not think he had fallen in love with her in the dreamy, impractical, boyish way that I had known him fall before; but he and Mrs Butler had a firm and fond understanding that rested on the base of their mutual needs and desires.

So, as a matter of course, he took her up to bed and they gave themselves over to the conversation of the body. Then, as was their custom afterwards, they lay side by side, talking and often laughing together about odd things they had seen and done since their last meeting. But what she broached with him this evening was less of a laughing matter.

‘I have something to tell you,' she said, ‘which I fear you will not like, but I must. A gentleman has been calling on me and he has asked me to be his wife.'

I imagine Fidelis lay still for some moments, before making any reply. Then:

‘Shall you accept?'

And I imagine Mrs Butler waiting for this inevitable question, and having her answer ready.

‘I believe I shall. I have lived a good enough life since Captain Butler was lost, but my portion from his insurance shrinks by the year.'

‘Who is the man? What's his name?'

‘Mr Moreton Canavan. A merchant, a most genial gentleman and very well-dressed.'

‘I do not like him already. How long have you known him?'

‘Since last month.'

‘Then you hardly
do
know him.'

Her husky laugh pleased his ear.

‘Yes I do! He declares he has a great love of music, and also the theatre, which he attends constantly.'

‘But how can you tell he is sincere? He loves you, I hope?'

‘He has assured me that he does.'

‘And he has competent means? He can keep you fitly?'

‘I do believe so. He tells me he has his own carriage and horses, and a horse for the races too, and good land in West Derby. He plans to build a house there and hunt, and one day hopes to become Master of the Hunt.'

‘A sportsman as well as a drama-loving merchant! Who do you know that can attest to his character?'

‘He was brought to this house by the Captain's cousin William.'

‘You told me William is a halfwit.'

She sighed.

‘So he is, I fear.'

‘Does no one else know this Canavan? I am concerned that he don't abuse you.'

‘I can hardly think that he will.'

‘You must be sure. I shall make enquiries myself. Do you know anyone in his circle?'

‘I only know of a Mr Pimbo. He is a business associate of some sort.'

Fidelis looked at his mistress in extreme surprise. ‘Pimbo? You cannot mean Phillip Pimbo, the Preston goldsmith?'

‘I don't know about his being a goldsmith, but that was certainly his silly name.'

‘Well, this is extraordinary!'

‘Why? Do you know him?'

‘He is, or was, Preston's largest goldsmith. He has died. I have just left a letter concerning him at Pinchbeck's Coffee House. What do you know about Pimbo and your Mr Canavan?'

‘Very little. Mr Canavan wrote him a memorandum at my writing desk which after making a fair copy he crumpled into my waste paper basket.'

‘When was this?'

‘Last Sunday afternoon.'

‘And you read the rough copy of the memorandum?'

He heard that bewitching laugh again.

‘Of course I read it. I am a woman, a mere spectator of affairs, but I lose no opportunity to spectate.'

‘Do you have it still?'

‘I put it back in the basket. It is long gone now.'

‘What did it say?'

‘Oh, it was conveying bad news. A ship had been reported lost at sea, with all hands presumed drowned. That is why I read it – I was put sadly in mind of poor Captain Butler.'

‘What ship was it? Did he name her?'

‘No – he just called her “the ship”, I think. The memorandum told that Canavan was not sure if these reports were true, or fabricated by someone called Moon for his own gain, but at all events Pimbo ought to steel himself for some bad news about his investment.'

I imagine at this point Fidelis was quiet for a time, thinking over what Mrs Butler had told him. And, at some time after that, she would have risen from the bed and perhaps pulled on a shift, saying,

‘The servants will be home soon. It would be better not to embarrass them, doctor.'

Quickly Fidelis dressed and they went downstairs where Mrs Butler drew him by the hand into the parlour.

‘Just one more tune before you go,' she said and sat down again to her bass-viol. This time it was a jaunty, optimistic air she played, and she smiled all the while, even laughing at one point when she caught his pensive eyes fixed on her face. When she had dragged her bow across the strings in the last chord she laid the instrument carefully aside.

‘Dear doctor,' she said in a soft voice. ‘I hardly need say that my marriage to Mr Moreton Canavan would necessarily bring an end to … this.'

She gestured not very precisely at the space between them. He nodded his head.

‘Of course. Yes. I understand.'

‘Shall you mind?'

‘I am a grown man and will live. You shall always be in my memory as a true and treasured friend and an accomplice in pleasure.'

With these eloquent words – which I cannot swear to, but only hope he spoke, or words very like them – he kissed her one more time and left without glancing back. For her part I am sure she stood at the door looking after him as he made his way along the street.

*   *   *

Fidelis's sense that he had been followed earlier in the day was immediately rekindled as he walked away from Mrs Butler's house along Edmund Street. While she had been so pleasantly entertaining him indoors, a sharp shower of rain had fallen and the dampness now made footsteps crunch audibly on the ground. This was what he heard behind his back as he turned the corner into Old Hall Street. Determined to discover his pursuer he stationed himself with his back to the wall immediately around the corner. The footsteps approached. At the very moment that the one making them would turn the corner Fidelis raised his leg. The fellow was caught at shin height and went sprawling down.

‘Good God! Jacob Parkin – is it you?'

The fallen man lay for a moment with his nose in a puddle, immobilized by the embarrassment of his situation. Then he placed both palms on the ground and pushed himself up. Back on his feet he smiled nervously at Fidelis, shook the water off his hands, and wiped his muddy nose dry.

‘Yes, doctor, it's me.'

Jacob Parkin who, with his brother Esau, was one of the two constables appointed at Preston to assist Sergeant Mallender in his duties, looked like a boy expecting the birch from his governor.

‘So, you must explain yourself,' demanded Fidelis. ‘Why are you dogging my steps?'

‘Mr Mallender asked me to keep an eye on you. In case you came to harm, so he said.'

Fidelis roared with laughter.

‘What harm would that be? I wonder. That I might fall into the dock and drown? Come, come. He sent you to spy on me, admit it.'

Jacob's hands let each other go and dropped to his side. He straightened himself and his voice acquired a measure of defiance.

‘He was concerned for your safety, doctor.'

Briefly Fidelis's face darkened with anger but then, without warning, his manner changed. He smiled, took a gentle hold on Jacob's arm and began to steer him along the road. At this stage kindness was more potent than curses.

‘Come across to my inn, Jacob. We need to have a talk, you and I.'

The Mermaid Inn stood nearby, on the other side of the street. It was a comfortable but by no means palatial house where, a few hours earlier, Fidelis had engaged a bedroom. The two men found a table in the dining room and Fidelis ordered wine, cold meats and pickles. Jacob would not be used to wine and it would be sure to loosen his tongue.

‘Having you follow me all the way to Liverpool cannot have been Oswald Mallender's idea, Jacob,' he said after a few draughts had gone down. ‘Who gave him the order? Was it the Mayor?'

Jacob again drained his glass.

‘Happen so, doctor, happen so. Sergeant gets his orders from no one but the Corporation, and Mayor's at the top of that. In Preston, as we know, it is the Mayor rules all, and so it must be.'

I have noted it in men that, as the drink goes down, they tend to load mundane remarks with the weight of philosophical truth. Now, having pondered his own wisdom for a moment, Jacob held out his empty glass like a child for more. Fidelis obliged.

‘And did Mallender mention a man called Zadok Moon at all?' he asked.

‘Oh, aye. Zadok Moon. He is wanted in Preston. We want him. The Mayor wants him.'

‘So it is not my safety you are most concerned with, after all. It is the whereabouts of this Moon. You lied to me, Jacob.'

Jacob's admission was sheepish.