The Meaning of Night (78 page)

friends, you know, but now I hate her for what she has done to you. It was just a pleasant

game at first, and I was happy to help her play it, though of course much was kept from

me. But as I began to understand how things were with you, and that you truly loved her,

then I told her she must put a stop to it; but she would not. And when Mr Daunt joined us

in Paris —’

‘In Paris?’

‘Yes. I am sorry.’

‘It does not matter. Go on.’

‘When Mr Daunt came to join us, my heart began to break for you, knowing that

you would be thinking of her constantly, and believing that she was thinking of you. That

cruel note she made me write to you was the last straw. I tried to warn you, did I not? But

I think by then you were past all warning.’

‘I am grateful to you for your kind feelings towards me, Mademoiselle. But I do

not think Miss Carteret could help herself. I do not and cannot defend her – not in the

least – nor can I ever absolve her for deceiving me; but I understand what drove her to

treat me as she did.’

‘Do you?’

‘Why, yes. It was that most potent, and most plausible, of motives: love. Oh yes, I

understand her very well.’

‘Then I consider you to be most generous. Do you not wish to punish her?’

‘Not at all. How can I blame her for being in love? Love makes fools of us all.’

‘So you blame no one for what has happened to you, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘Perhaps you should call me by the name I was given at birth.’ She gave a little

nod of understanding.

‘Very well, Mr Glyver. Is no one to blame for the loss of what was rightfully

yours?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘Someone is to blame. But not her.’

‘You still love her, of course,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I had hoped —’

‘Hoped?’

‘It really does not signify. Of what interest can my hopes possibly have for you?

Eh bien, this is what I wished to say to you, my dear Mr Dark Horse. You may think this

matter is over; that, having stolen your life, your adversary is content. But he is not

content. I have overheard something that gives me great concern, and which should give

you concern also. He has taken grave exception – very grave exception – to what has

happened to his associates, and for which he blames you. I do not know, of course,

whether he is right to do so; it is enough for me to know that he does; and this being so, I

urge you – as a friend – to take note. He is not a man to make idle threats, as you must

know. In a word, he thinks you pose a danger to him, and this he will not tolerate.’

‘You have heard him threaten me, then?’

‘I have heard enough to make me walk through the snow for this past hour to

speak to you. And now I have done my duty, Mr Edward Glyver who was once dear Mr

Glapthorn, and must go.’

She rose to leave but I held out my hand to stop her. ‘Does she ever speak of me?’

I asked. ‘To you?’

‘We do not enjoy the familiarity we once did,’ she replied. ‘But I believe you

have left a mark on her heart, though it pleases her to deny it. I hope that is of some

comfort to you. And so good-bye, Mr Edward Glyver. You may kiss my hand, if you

please.’

‘With the greatest of pleasure, Mademoiselle.’

Back in Temple-street I make my preparations, happy in the knowledge that my

enemy wishes me dead. It will make what I am soon to do so much easier.

On with my wig – courtesy of Messrs Careless & Sons, theatrical costumiers of

Finch-lane, Cornhill – and a pair of spectacles. A decent but shabby suit, inside the jacket

of which is a capacious pocket, completes the ensemble (livery is kindly being provided).

Into the pocket goes the knife, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and I am ready.

I proceed first to the Adelphi Theatre, where I purchase a ticket for the evening’s

performance. Then I present myself to Mr Cranshaw who instructs me on my duties and

directs me to a small bare-boarded room where I am to don my livery and powder my

hair – or, rather, my wig. ‘Powder,’ says Mr Cranshaw loftily, ‘is insisted upon by his

Lordship.’ After I had wet the wig with water, I rubbed soap into it and then combed

through the wet mass before applying the powder with the puff provided. Once powdered

and liveried, I take up my station on the front steps with two other footmen.

The carriages begin to arrive. I hand out first the famous Madame Taglioni? (for

whom, though the lady was by no means in the first flush of youth, Lord Tansor

cherished an uncharacteristically sentimental regard), and then the fat daughter of Lord

Cotterstock (a costive old roué, with a face like weathered rock, who was already half

dead with an unmentionable ailment), followed by her equally porcine mamma. The

carriages continue to roll in through the snow and pull up under the lantern of the

porte-cochère. Ambassadors, Honourable Members, bankers, generals, dukes and earls: I

open their carriage doors and help their ladies to disembark, and no one gives me a

second look. At last the Prime Minister himself arrives, to be greeted by Lord and Lady

Tansor, followed in the very next moment by a sleek carriage bearing the Duport arms.

When I open the door of the carriage I am met first by her perfume; then, as I

bend to fold down the step, I see her feet, encased in delicate grey-kid pumps decorated

with jet beading. She gives me her gloved hand, but I am invisible to her. As she emerges

from the carriage, her warm breath mists the air; and for a passing moment, with her hand

resting in mine, it is as though she belongs to me once more. The thought makes me

forget what I am supposed to be and I begin to close my grip gently round her fingers.

She shoots an angry look at me, instantly removes her hand, and sweeps up the steps.

There she pauses for a moment and looks back.

‘You there! Hold the door!’

I obey his command and he steps down from the carriage. He is immaculate,

dressed in the highest taste and quality. I make an obeisance as he passes, and as I close

the carriage door behind him I see him take her arm at the top of the steps and lead her

inside.

After the last guests have arrived, I am sent to the dining-room to take up my

station by the double doors that lead into the hallway. There I remain, unregarded by all

who pass back and forth, even by my fellow-servants. I stand motionless but my eyes are

busy, looking for my opportunity.

She is seated at the head of the table, an evanescent figure in pale blue silk

surmounted by a barège overskirt sewn with gold and silver stars, her black hair set off

delightfully by a tulle and lace cap ornamented with pale pink satin ribbon. On her right

is poor dessicated Lady Tansor; on her left is Phoebus Daunt. The soup and fish have

come and gone, and so have the entrées and roasts. The sweets are now being cleared

away to make room for three huge branched epergnes,? tottering with dried fruits, nuts,

cakes, and sweet biscuits.

I have watched her all evening, drinking in every movement, every gesture;

marvelling at her gaiety and assurance, and at her beauty. Never so beautiful as tonight!

So lost am I in observing her that, for a moment, I do not notice that Daunt has risen from

his place and is saying something to Lord Tansor. Then he moves away, nodding

greetings to several of the guests, and begins to walk towards me. I incline my head

slightly as he passes.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ I hear Cranshaw asking him. ‘You look rather pale.’

‘One of my headaches, I fear. I’m off to take a little air before the ladies leave.’

‘Very good, sir.’

I wait until Cranshaw re-enters the dining-room and then I slip away, just in time

to see Daunt’s figure disappearing through a door at the back of the hall. Heart thumping,

I descend the stairs and find my way as quickly as I can to the room in which my suit is

hanging. In a flash I have retrieved the knife and am standing at a glazed door, through

which I can see a flight of steps leading up to a lighted conservatory. Gently, I open the

door and step out into the cold air.

It has stopped snowing, though a few fluffy flakes continue to fall. I hear a door

open just above me and smell cigar smoke on the air.

A dark figure descends the steps from the conservatory. At the bottom he stops

and looks up at the sky; then he crosses the border of light thrown out by the lamps at the

top of the steps and passes into snowy darkness beyond. I wait until he is six or seven feet

from the steps before I leave the shadowed recess from where I have been observing him.

I am amazed to find that I am completely calm, as if I were contemplating some

scene of surpassing, soul-easing beauty. All fear of danger, all apprehension of discovery,

all confusion of purpose, all doubt, has fallen away. I see nothing before me but this

single figure of flesh, blood, and bone; this one flimsy, inconsequential nothing. The

world is suddenly silent, as if Great Leviathan himself is holding his breath.

Daunt’s footsteps are marked out in the pristine snow. One–two–three–four–

five–six . . . I count them as, oh so carefully, I place my own feet in them. And then I call

out to him.

‘Sir! Mr Daunt, sir!’ He turns.

‘What do you want?’

‘A message from Lord Tansor, sir.’

He walks back towards me – six paces.

‘Well?’

We are face to face – and still he does not know me! There is not the faintest

glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Just a moment longer, dear Phoebus. Then you will

know me.

My right hand slips inside my jacket and round the bone handle of the freshly

sharpened knife that had last been used to carve beef at the Wellington. The smoke of his

cigar curls upwards to the cold sky. The end glows as he inhales.

‘Don’t just stand there, you stupid fellow. Give me your message.’

‘My message? Why, here it is.’

It is done in a moment. The long pointed blade easily penetrates his evening suit,

but I am not sure the wound is fatal. So I instantly withdraw the bloodied blade and then,

as he staggers forward slightly, I ready myself for a second thrust, this time at his

uncovered throat. He looks up at me, blinking. The cigar falls from his lips and lies

smouldering on the ground.

Still upright, though swaying a little from side to side, he looks at me

disbelievingly and opens his mouth, as if to speak; but nothing comes out. I take a step

towards him, and, as I do so, his mouth opens again. This time, with a kind of breathless

gurgle, he manages three words:

‘Who are you?’

‘Edward Geddington, footman, at your service, sir.’

Coughing slightly, he is now leaning his head against my shoulder. I find it rather

a touching gesture. We stand there for a moment, like lovers embracing. For the first time

I notice that his thick black hair is brushed to conceal a little bald patch around the crown

of his head.

Cradling my enemy in one arm, I raise the knife and strike the second blow.

‘Floreat Etona!’ I whisper as he slips slowly down into the snow.

I return to the conservatory steps, taking care to use Daunt’s own tracks, and then

back down to the servants’ hall. In an earthenware bowl, on a table outside the kitchen,

are dozens of dirty knives and forks soaking in hot water. Casually, I drop the carving

knife into the bowl as I walk past.

I am standing nonchalantly by the front door when I see Cranshaw, followed by a

white-faced footman, hurrying into the hall from the conservatory and turning into the

dining-room. There is a sudden scraping of chairs and an anxious hush descends on the

guests. Then there is a scream and the sound of shouting. Lord Tansor appears in the

doorway with Cranshaw, followed by three or four gentleman. One of the gentleman

walks towards me while the others head for the conservatory with his Lordship.

‘You, fellow,’ drawls the gentleman, whom I recognize as Lord Cotterstock’s

youngest son. ‘Run and fetch an officer. Quick as you like.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The young man then marches off towards the rear of the house, thinking of course

that I have gone off to do his bidding. But I have not.

The hall is crowded now; and in the general commotion I slowly make my way

through the throng until I am at the door that leads below stairs. At that moment,

happening to look back to assure myself that no one is taking notice of me, I see her. She

is standing alone in the doorway, alabaster pale, the tips of her fingers placed against her

lips in a gesture of shock and disbelief. Oh my dearest girl! I am become Death because

of thee! And then a little crowd closes round her and she is lost to my sight, forever.

I had no difficulty in making my way unobserved to the bare-boarded room next

to the pantry, where I quickly removed my wig and livery and put on the evening clothes

that I’d brought with me in a small leather bag. Leaving the shabby suit hanging on its

peg, I took up my bag and slipped unseen through a side door leading out into a narrow

yard. In no time at all I was in Park-lane hailing a cab.

‘Quinn’s, Haymarket,’ I shout to the cabman.

‘Right you are, sir!’

That night, with the snow beginning to fall once more, shrouding the city in

silence, I dreamed I was standing on the cliff-top at Sandchurch There is our little white