The Meaning of Night (27 page)

Aretino’s sonnets, with engravings by Coiny after Carrache, something I had never seen

before in all my bibliographic searchings.

‘I have presumed, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, ‘that such a work is interesting to you –

as a scholar and collector? I hope I have not offended in any way?’

‘By no means,’ I replied, turning the volume slowly over in my hands to admire

the binding. With the content of the illustrations, as well as the accompanying verses, I

was naturally familiar: the muscular bodies, fiercely entwined limbs, and tumescent

members, the urgent couplings against tasselled cushions beneath great canopied beds.

That my employer should also be familiar with them, however, was wholly unexpected.

The production of the volume led to a more general discussion of the field as a

whole, and it soon became clear that, in this department of bibliography at least, Mr

Tredgold’s knowledge was considerably in advance even of my own. He invited me back

over to the cabinet, unlocked the doors again, and we spent a pleasant hour or so

admiring together the gems of venereal literature that he had collected over the course of

some twenty years.

‘These, too, may perhaps interest you,’ he said, taking out and opening one of the

slim green boxes I had noticed earlier.

It contained a complete collection, laid lovingly on a bed of soft embossed paper,

of those prints by Rowlandson in which the artist had depicted various accommodating

ladies in the act of revealing their charms to the fervid male gaze. The other boxes held

prints and drawings of a similar nature, by some of the finest practitioners.

My amazement was now complete.

‘It appears, sir’, I said, smiling, ‘that you have hidden depths.’

‘Well, well,’ he replied, beaming back at me. ‘The law, you know, can be a dreary

business. A little harmless diversion is certainly required, from time to time. As a

corrective.’

The conversation went on pleasantly over tea as we discussed various rarities in

the field of voluptuous literature that we were each keen to locate. Mr Tredgold was

particularly eager to augment his collection with a copy of The Cabinet of Venus, a

partial translation put out in 1658 of the celebrated Geneanthropeia of Sinibaldi. I made a

mental note of this, believing I might know where I could lay my hands on a copy, and

thinking that its acquisition would ingratiate me even further with my employer. As

matters fell out, it was to be several years before a copy was located for me; and when at

last I arranged for it to be sent to the Senior Partner – well, I must not anticipate.

At about five o’clock, much later than my usual hour for departing, I rose to take

my leave. But before I could say anything, Mr Tredgold had jumped to his feet and had

taken me by the hand.

‘May I say, Edward – I hope you will not mind if I presume to address you by

your first name – that I have been extremely satisfied by your work.’ One of his hands

continued to hold mine tightly, whilst the other he placed gently on my shoulder.

‘I am glad to hear it, Mr Tredgold, though I do not know in what way I can

possibly have rendered satisfaction.’

‘You have done what I asked of you, have you not?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘And you have done it to the best of your ability, diligently, without shirking?’

‘I believe so.’

‘So do I. And if I were to ask you a question concerning any of the documents

you have read, do you think you would be able to answer it?’

‘Yes – if you would allow me to consult my note-book.’

‘You took notes! Capital! But perhaps you found the task a little irksome? No

need to answer. Of course you did. A man of your talents should not be confined. I wish

to liberate your talents, Edward. Will you allow me to do that?’

Not knowing how to reply to this curious question, I said nothing, which Mr

Tredgold appeared to take as assent.

‘Well then, Edward, your probationary days are over. Come to my office

tomorrow, at ten. I have a little problem I wish to discuss with you.’

So saying, he wished me a pleasant evening, beamed, and retired to his study.

As I made my way down to the side-door, Rebecca appeared again at the foot of

the stairs, stepping out from a narrow corridor that led back into the clerks’ office. She

curtsied, held open the street door for me as I passed through, and then gave me such a

coolly insolent smile that I almost stopped to reprimand her. But, in the instant of turning

back, I saw that, as she was shutting the door quietly behind me, her face had once again

assumed that closed expression of perfect demureness I had previously observed.

II

Madame Mathilde

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The next morning, as requested, I presented myself at Mr Tredgold’s private

office. When I left, an hour later, it was as the Senior Partner’s confidential assistant, a

post which, as he was at pains to emphasize, would involve undertaking a variety of

duties ‘of a discreet and private kind’. These duties, to which only Mr Tredgold and I

were privy, I undertook for the next four years, with, I think I may say, some success.

It may be imagined that a distinguished, and successful, solicitor such as Mr

Tredgold often needs to lay his hand on information essential for a case that is not – shall

we say – readily obtainable through the usual channels. On such occasions, when it was

best that he remain in ignorance of the sources of such information, as well as the means

by which it came to him, Mr Tredgold would summon me and suggest a turn or two

round the Temple Gardens. A problem of particular concern for the firm would be set out

– theoretically, of course – and discussed (in the abstract).

‘I wonder,’ he would say, ‘if anything might be done about this?’

Nothing further would be said, and we would make our leisurely return to

Paternoster-row, discoursing of nothing in particular.

No formal instructions were issued, no records of conversations kept. But when

something needed doing – of a discreet and private kind – it was my task at Tredgold,

Tredgold & Orr to ensure that it was done.

The first ‘little problem’ Mr Tredgold placed on the table, as it were, for abstract

consideration, concerned a Mrs Bonner-Childs. It may be taken as typical of the work I

subsequently undertook at Tredgolds.

This lady had been a patron of an establishment in Regent-street called the Abode

of Beauty, run by a certain Sarah Bunce, alias Madame Mathilde.? Here, Madame enticed

gullible females dedicated to the pursuit of eternal beauty (a not inconsiderable market,

one would suppose) into parting with their – or more often their husband’s – money by

dispensing ingenious preparations with exotic names (to effect the complete and

permanent removal of wrinkles, or to preserve a youthful complexion in perpetuity) at

twenty guineas a time. The establishment also offered a room sumptuously fitted out as

an Arabian Bath. The unfortunate Mrs Bonner-Childs, having been tempted to partake of

this last amenity, had come back to her clothes to find that her diamond ring and earrings

had vanished. Upon confronting Madame Mathilde she was informed by the proprietress

that if she made a fuss over the loss, then Madame would inform Mrs Bonner-Childs’

husband – Assistant Secretary at the India Board no less – that his wife had been using

the bath for immoral assignations.

The success of Madame Mathilde’s establishment – like Kitty Daley’s Academy –

depended on the fatal spectre of public scandal doing its work on those unfortunates who

succumbed to this and to other similar ruses; but in this case, Mrs Bonner-Childs

immediately informed her husband of what had happened, and he, trusting completely in

his wife’s innocence in the matter, instantly consulted Mr Christopher Tredgold.

My employer and I took a turn in the Temple Gardens one February afternoon.

Mr Bonner-Childs was ready to prosecute if it came to it, but had expressed the hope that

Mr Tredgold might be able to suggest a way by which this might be avoided, and his

wife’s jewels returned. Either way, the question of the firm’s fee – at whatever level it

might be set – was immaterial.

‘I wonder if anything might be done about this?’ mused Mr Tredgold aloud,

whereupon we returned to Paternoster-row, conversing as usual about nothing in

particular.

I duly set about observing the daily round of entrances and exits at the Abode of

Beauty. In due course, I saw what I was looking for.

The late-morning drizzle had slowly thickened into rain. All around, the city

thundered and roared. At every level of human existence, from the barest subsistence to

luxurious indolence, its inhabitants crossed and re-crossed the clogged and dirty arteries

of the great unsleeping beast, each according to his station – trudging through the murk

and mud, insulated in bobbing curtained carriages, swaying knee to knee in crowded

omnibuses, or perched precariously on rumbling high-piled carts – all engrossed by their

own private purposes.

Though not yet midday, the light seemed already to be failing, and lamps were

burning in the windows of houses and shops. It is a dark world, as I have often heard

preachers say, and today the metaphor was made flesh.

I had been standing in Regent-street for some time, and was somewhat aimlessly

glancing into the window of Johnson & Co., thinking perhaps I might make a present to

myself of a new hat,? when I saw a reflected image in the glass. She was about thirty

years of age and, passing just behind me, had stopped before the Abode to look up at the

luridly painted sign above the door. She hesitated, and then proceeded on her way; but

she had only taken a few steps when she stopped again, and then returned to the door of

the establishment.

She had an open honest face, and was wearing a fine pair of emerald earrings. I

immediately stepped forward to prevent her entering. She looked momentarily shocked,

but I quickly persuaded her to step back from the door. This was my first lesson in

boldness, and I learned it well. I also found, to my surprise, that I possessed a natural

persuasiveness in such situations and quickly gained the confidence of the lady, who

agreed, after we had retired a little down the street to discuss the matter, to fall in with my

plans.

A few minutes later, she re-entered the establishment and immediately requested a

bath, taking off her clothes and jewellery in an adjoining room, as Mrs Bonner-Childs

had done. Having observed that Madame Mathilde was the sole person within the

premises at that moment, I had entered behind my accomplice and, waiting a few

moments for her to enter the bath chamber, had the satisfaction of surprising Madame in

the act of helping herself to the lady’s emerald earrings.

We exchanged a few words, with the result that Madame appeared to see the error

of her ways. She lived exceptionally well from the Abode of Beauty, and could not risk

prosecution, which I assured her would now be a simple matter to accomplish.

‘A mistake, sir, a simple mistake,’ she said, plaintively. ‘I was just on the point of

puttin’ them away for safety – like the girl did with the other lady’s, only I wasn’t aware

at the time that she’d done so . . .’

And so on until, at last, she produced Mrs Bonner-Childs’ jewellery, with much

self-pitying hand-wringing and fervent promises to send the girl packing who had been so

thoughtless as to hide away the items without telling anyone.

Mr Tredgold expressed great satisfaction that the matter had been resolved so

quickly and quietly, without recourse to public prosecution, and Mr Bonner-Childs

promptly settled a substantial bill from the firm for services rendered, a satisfactory

portion of which was remitted to my account at Coutts & Co.

I must also mention, briefly, the matter of Mr Josiah Pluckrose, as being

illustrative of the kind of work I undertook for Mr Tredgold, and for other reasons, which

will later become clear. The case came to my attention a few months after the business

with Madame Mathilde. This Pluckrose was a common sort of man, a butcher from a

long line of butchers, who had managed to amass a good deal of capital by means that Mr

Tredgold described, in a whisper, as ‘dubious’. He had given up the art of butchery at the

age of twenty-four, had done a little boxing, had worked as a waterman and as a

brush-maker, and had then, miraculously as it seemed, emerged from the mire as a

pseudo-gentleman, with a house in Soho – the house, indeed, in which the poet Dryden

had died – and more than a few pennies to his name.

He was a tall, brawny cove, this Josiah Pluckrose, with reptilian eyes and a livid

scar across one cheek. He had a wife who had previously been in service at some great

house or other, and whom he treated abominably. One day this poor lady was found dead

– beaten around the head in a most terrible way – and Pluckrose was arrested for her

murder. He had previously engaged Tredgolds on a number of business matters, and so

the firm was naturally retained as the instructing solicitors for his defence. ‘An

unpleasant necessity,’ Mr Tredgold confided, ‘which, as he has introduced a number of