The Meaning of Night (4 page)

mourn him? How had he seen his life ending? (Not in a pool of gore in a public

thoroughfare, I warrant.) Did he have parents still alive whose hearts would break at the

terrible demise of their dear son? Like a soldier in battle, I had ignored such questions in

the heat of action, as being irrelevant to the task in hand; but now, as I stared at the little

spot of dried blood on my collar, I could not prevent them rushing insistently into my

mind.

Were there other traces of the crime that I had failed to notice? I hastily took my

great-coat from its peg and hurried into the sitting-room to spread it out on my

work-table, grabbing an eye-glass from beneath a pile of papers as I did so.

By the strengthening light of morning, I pored over every inch of the garment,

turning the material methodically, occasionally bringing a piece up close to my eye-glass,

like a jeweller eagerly examining some object of great worth. Then I removed my jacket

and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and cravat: all were subjected to the same frantic

scrutiny. Finally, I inspected my hat and placed my boots on the table, washed now in

pale sunlight. I went meticulously over the upper surfaces and soles of each boot with a

dampened handkerchief, using slow circular movements and stopping every few seconds

to see if the white linen had taken up any incriminating residue of blood.

Having satisfied myself that I could find no other physical traces that could link

me to my victim, I returned to the wash-room, where I diligently soaked my shirt collar in

cold water to remove the blood-stain. In a few minutes, washed, shaved, and combed, and

with a clean shirt on my back, I prepared to face the day.

It is the twenty-fifth of October, 1854 – St Crispin’s Day. Far away in the Crimea,

though we in England do not yet know it, Lord Cardigan’s heroic Light Brigade is

charging the Russian guns at Balaclava. For me, the day passes quietly. In the morning, I

occupy myself with the subject to which I have now devoted my whole being: the

destruction of my enemy. Of him, you shall learn more – much more – in the the course

of these pages: for now, you must take it on trust that certain events had made it

impossible that he should be allowed to live. The trial of my will that had its culmination

last evening in Cain-court had demonstrated to my satisfaction that I was capable of

doing what it was necessary to do; and the time was fast approaching when he and I

would meet face to face for the last time. But until then, I must think, and plan, and wait.

In the afternoon I had a little business to attend to, connected with my

employment, and did not return to my rooms until late, with evening coming on. There

was a copy of The Times on my work-table that had been left earlier by Mrs Grainger. I

can see myself idly turning the pages of the newspaper until my attention is suddenly

arrested by an announcement, and my heart begins to thump. Hands shaking slightly, I

walk over to the window, for the light is fading fast, and begin to read:

Last evening at about 6 o’clock . . . Cain-court, Strand . . . Mr Lucas Trendle,

First Assistant to the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England . . . Stoke Newington . . .

savagely done to death . . . distinguished public servant . . . Elm-lane Chapel . . . many

charitable works . . . horror of his many friends . . . authorities confident of success . . .

He had been on his way to a meeting in Exeter Hall of some charitable enterprise

dedicated to providing copies of the Holy Scripture and serviceable footwear to the

Africans. I now recalled a throng of clerical gentlemen in subfusc gathered outside the

grand Corinthian portico of the Hall as I’d passed down the Strand after leaving

Cain-court. It was clear from the report that the police could discern no obvious motive to

explain the crime, for nothing had been taken from the victim. I drank in the details of his

respectable and blameless life; but only one thing held me, and holds me still. He was no

longer the red-haired man. He had a name.

On first reading the report, I’d paced about the room somewhat in a sulk,

unexpectedly vexed by this knowledge. I had wanted him to remain eternally immured in

his former anonymity; now I could not prevent myself picturing the possibilities of his

revealed individuality. I began to find the confinement of my attic room intolerable. At

last, I could stand no more. In these moods, I need to have the raw taste of London on my

tongue.

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,? 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 coarse 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,

passed by us like a parade of the damned.

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 lustily 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, praemunitus?

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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,? 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 attitude, 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