The Meaning of Night (77 page)

to accomplish various, ending my expedition with an early dinner at the Wellington,?

where I am not known. ‘Will you take some beef, sir?’ the waiter asks. ‘Certainly,’ I

reply. He picks up a heavy, ivory-handled carving-knife, which he first brings to a nice

edge with a sharpening steel, and cuts away at the joint most dextrously. It is a joy to

behold the succulent slices of flesh falling onto the platter. When he has laid down his

knife and brought the steaming plate to my table, I ask him if he would be good enough

to fetch me some brandy and water. By the time he returns, I have gone; and so has his

knife.

I make my way home via Gerrard-street, where, to my delight, I encounter great

excitement. A large crowd has gathered outside Number Forty-three, and a police van is

drawn up in front of the house.

‘What is going forward?’ I ask a post-man, bag on shoulder, who is standing on

the pavement humming softly to himself as he observes the scene.

‘Murder,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Occupier beaten to death and thrown from

first-floor window.’ At which he resumes his tuneless humming.

Silently approbating Mr Abraham Gabb and his associates for their admirable

promptitude and efficiency, I go on my way, rejoicing that the terrible violence meted out

by Josiah Pluckrose to poor undeserving Agnes Baker, and to the equally undeserving

Paul Carteret, has been turned back on the perpetrator. He had escaped the nozzle

because of me; but I had finally brought him to account.

So much for Pluckrose. Now for his master.

45:

Consummatum est?

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December the 11th, 1854.

I awake with a start at a little after six, having dozed off in my chair an hour or so

earlier. It is here at last. The day of reckoning.

My first task is to remove my mustachios. When the operation is over, I stand for

some moments regarding myself in the cracked mirror above my wash-stand. I am

bemused. Who is this person? The boy who dreamed of sailing away to the Country of

the Houyhnhnms? Or the young man who dreamed of becoming a great scholar? No: I

see clearly who I am, and what I have become. I see, too, that I do not have, and will

never have, the strength to turn aside from vengeance and reclaim my former innocent

self. I am damned, and I know it.

The street is curiously silent, and the morning light seems unnaturally bright for

the time of year. Then I hear the sound of a shovel being scraped on the pavement.

Jumping up, I rush to the window to find that the usual vista of sooty roofs has been

magically transformed by a thick covering of snow, whose purity, dazzling even under a

slate sky, is quite at odds with the dirt and sin that lies beneath its fleecy embrace. Well,

come snow or rain or fog, today is the day I will take my revenge on Phoebus Rainsford

Daunt.

Yesterday, Mr Tredgold wrote to chide me gently for neither writing nor visiting.

‘Do not linger too long in solitude and in regret for what can never be mended,’ he

advised. ‘You have great talents, and must now use them to make a new life for yourself.’

There was much more in this vein, which I regret to say I skipped over; for my eye had

been caught, further down the page, by this:

You will, I am sure, already be aware that, following information received from

an anonymous source, Jukes has been found in possession of a large number of very

precious objects, every one of which appears to have been stolen, over a long period of

time, from Evenwood. He claims that he merely stored these items under instruction from

the person actually responsible for the thefts. And the person he names? None other than

Mr Phoebus Daunt! Of course no one believes him. It is too ridiculous, and a dastardly

slur on the reputation of a great literary man (so goes the general view). Jukes has

certainly had opportunity to carry out the thefts over the years he has been in my employ,

having often accompanied me to Evenwood on business, and at other times he was sent

there alone on various errands. I very much fear his protestations will count for little

when his case comes on. Nothing, I think, can lessen Lord Tansor’s exalted estimation of

Mr Phoebus Daunt. Jukes has of course been dismissed from the Firm, and is presently

awaiting trial. I shudder that such a person was in my trusted employ for so long, and the

anonymous informant, whoever he is, has my sincere gratitude for thus exposing him.

What you may not know is that I have decided, in consultation with my brother

and sister, that I shall formally retire from the Firm on the thirty-first of this month. Mr

Donald Orr is to become Senior Partner (my sister’s views on this promotion are

extremely severe), whilst I propose to take a little house in the country and tend my

collections, though I confess they do not hold the fascination they once did. Rebecca is to

come and keep house for me, now that Harrigan has deserted her. It is an arrangement

that suits both parties very well. Leaving London is for the best, I think. Things can never

be as they once were. The world is much changed, and really I wish to have as little to do

with it as possible.

As to your own position at Tredgolds, I fear it will be impossible to offer you

employment under the new regime. However, Mr Orr has agreed, at my express request,

that you be allowed to retain your rooms in Temple-street for as long as you need them.

But if you should tire of London, then there is a cottage hard by my new residence that I

think would suit you very well, and I have money enough to support us both in the

pursuit of our bibliographical interests. It would please me greatly to think that I could

offer a life free of care – as far as that can ever be possible – to her son.

And so I shall leave it in your hands, to let me know what you wish to do.

Dear, kind Mr Tredgold! How I wish I could turn back from the path on which

my feet are now set! But it is too late. The past has been closed off; the future is dark; I

have only my present unshakable resolve, as minute succeeds minute, and the snow

begins to fall.

Tonight, Lord Tansor is giving a dinner in Park-lane. The Prime Minister? is to be

amongst the many guests. There is so much to celebrate! His Lordship has a new heir –

he has now been named, in proper legal form, in the recently signed codicil to his

Lordship’s will. This would be cause enough to kill the fatted calf; but to augment the

general joy, the heir is to marry Miss Emily Carteret, his Lordship’s cousin once

removed, who, following the tragic death of her father, will herself succeed to the Tansor

title in the course of time. Such an exquisitely fortuitous match! And then, to cap it all,

the heir has just published a new work – the thirteenth to be offered to a grateful public –

and Lord Tansor has been appointed Governor-General of the Fairwind Islands. During

his absence in the Caribbean, the newly married couple are to take up residence at

Evenwood, and Lord Tansor further proposes to place the management of his estates, and

of his many business interests, in the capable hands of his heir, Mr Phoebus Daunt.

The establishment in his Lordship’s town-house is a relatively small one; and so,

to ensure the smooth running of so large and splendid an occasion, extra servants have

been hired. Amongst them is Edward Geddington, who recently presented a number of

impressive testimonials to Mr James Cranshaw, his Lordship’s butler, on the strength of

which he was immediately hired. His task tonight is to attend the guests as they arrive

and depart in their carriages, and to be on hand during the dinner to open doors.

I boil my kettle to make some tea, then cut myself a slice of bread and sit at my

work-table to take my breakfast. There is paper all around me. ‘Note on Dr A. Daunt:

Feb., 1852’ – ‘Description of Millhead, taken from F. Walker, A Journey Through

Lancashire, 1833’ – Memorandum: Information supplied by J. Hooper and others, May,

1854’ – ‘Evenwood: Architectural and Historical Notes, Sept., 1850’ – ‘The Tansor

Barony: Genealogical Notes, March, 1851’ – ‘Notes on conversation with W. Le G. re:

King’s Coll., June, 1852’. Little black books all in a row, but not so many as formerly.

Lists, questions, letters. My life, and his. Here, spread across my work-table. Truth and

lies.

Le Grice left for the war last week, thankfully too late to take part in the bloody

engagement at Inkerman,? though the reports now coming back telling of the terrible

privations being suffered by our troops have given me great concern for his immediate

prospects. We had a farewell dinner at the Ship and Turtle and he urged me again to leave

England until he returned.

‘It’ll be better, old chap,’ he said. Like me, he had concluded that our friend on

the river had been Pluckrose; but although I had confided in him concerning the action

taken by Mr Abraham Gadd and company, Le Grice continued to feel that Daunt posed a

threat to my safety. But I assured him that he need not concern himself on that score.

‘I am certain – positively certain – that Daunt will do no harm to me. What

possible reason can he have? He is to be married soon, and I am nothing to him any more,

having taken everything from me. I can never forgive him, of course, but I intend to

forget him.’

‘And Miss Carteret?’

‘You mean the future Mrs Phoebus Daunt? I have forgotten her too.’

Le Grice’s face darkened.

‘Now look here, G., I mayn’t be the sharpest blade in the armoury, but I know

when I’m being lied to. Forget Daunt? Forget Miss Carteret? You may as well say you

intend to forget your name.’

‘But I have forgotten my name,’ I replied. ‘I have no idea who I am.’

‘Damn you, G.,’ he growled. ‘I can’t do more than this. For the sake of our

friendship, I urge you to go travelling. You may think you’re safe from Daunt, but I

don’t. If I were Daunt, I’d want you dead for what you know about him. Even though you

can’t prove what you know, things might be made jolly awkward for him if you had a

mind to do so.’

‘But I don’t,’ I said quietly. ‘Really, I don’t. There’s nothing to fear; so now,

drink up, and here’s to the next time you and I sit down together over grilled fowl and

gin-punch.’

We parted on the pavement. A handshake, a brief ‘Good-night!’, and he was

gone.

I sat for a while at my table, wondering where Le Grice was now, and what he

was doing. ‘May the gods keep you safe, you old bonehead,’ I whispered. Then, feeling

like a boy again, I threw on my great-coat and muffler and went out into the snow to look

upon Great Leviathan in his winter clothes.

London is going about its usual business, despite the beautiful inconvenience of

the weather. The ice-carts are out, loaded with glistening frozen fragments from ponds

and streams instead of produce from the green-market; and the omnibuses are being

pulled through the rutted accumulations of dirtied snow in the roadways by extra horses.

People walk along head down through the biting cold, with mufflers – for those who have

them – wound tight over their mouths. Hats and coats and capes are flecked and dabbed

with white, and every public house carries notices advertising the provision within of hot

spiced ale or similar warming potations. It is not a day to be without coat or shoes,

though there are many who must do so; and the misery that is ever present in the

metropolis is made more miserable still by the stinging cold. And yet the wondrous sight

of roofs and towers, spires and monuments, strees and squares, painted over by snow that

has been shaped and scooped by the bitter east wind, elates me as I walk down Long Acre

with the smell of baked apples and roasted chestnuts in my nose.

I am still hungry after my frugal breakfast and the pleasant sight of a coffee-house

tempts me in to take a second breakfast. Afterwards, I saunter back through snow-laden

streets and courts to the Strand. It is not long before I become aware that I am being

followed. In Maiden-lane I pause by the stage-entrance to the Adelphi Theatre to light up

a cigar. Out of the tail of my eye I see my pursuer stop a few paces behind and quickly

look into the window of a butcher’s shop. I throw down the cigar and walk calmly

towards the hooded figure.

‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Buisson.’

‘Mon Dieu, how extraordinary!’ she exclaims. ‘To meet you here! My, my!’

I smile and offer her my arm. ‘You seem to have been out in the snow for a

considerable time,’ I said, looking down at the soaking hem of her skirt.

‘Perhaps I have,’ she says. ‘I have been looking for someone.’

‘And have you found them?’

‘Why yes, Mr — Glapthorn. I think perhaps I have.’

In the Norfolk Hotel, Strand, we call for coffee and she throws back the hood of

her cloak and removes her snow-dusted bonnet.

‘I do not think we need continue to pretend,’ I say. ‘I believe your friend will have

informed you concerning recent events.’

‘She is no friend of mine,’ she said, shaking out her blonde curls. ‘I consider her

to be – well, I do not wish to say what I consider her to be. We were once the closest of