Michael Cox (17 page)

III
Mr Vyse Goes East

AFTER LUNCHEON, ARMED with a copy of Murray’s Guide to London and a pocket-map of the metropolis lent to me by Mr Pocock, I left the house and began to take my way eastwards, down Brook Street, and along into Regent Street. From here I proceeded to Piccadilly and then to Trafalgar Square, until at last I gained the Strand. Here I entered Morley’s Hotel, to take a little refreshment and consult my pocket-map, before resuming my journey.
I soon found my way to Chancery Lane, and at last stood before the gate-house of Lincoln’s Inn – a noble brick structure, bearing the date 1518 (which fact I duly recorded in my note-book).
Passing through the gates, I entered a charming three-sided court. Here I halted, having no particular plan in mind, and looked about me.
The court being deserted, I decided that I would walk a little further into the Inn. As I was approaching the Chapel, a portly gentleman, carrying a draw-string bag over his shoulder, and with a great quantity of papers tucked under his other arm, came out of a doorway and began to walk towards me. He had a kindly look about him, and so I stopped him as he passed to enquire whether he could direct me to the chambers of Mr Armitage Vyse.
‘Mr Vyse, you say?’
He considered for a moment.
‘Hmm. Wait a bit – yes. Vyse. Old Court. Number twenty-four. You must have passed it, if you came in through the gate-house. Number twenty-four. That’s it. Thurloe’s old chambers. Good-day, miss.’
‘Number twenty-four!’ he shouted after me. ‘In the corner.’
Retracing my steps a little way, I immediately saw across the court the doorway to which the gentleman had directed me, with the number twenty-four carved in stone above it. The door itself, and the four storeys above, were set in an angled projection jutting out into the court. As I stood wondering which of the windows were Mr Vyse’s, and what to do next, a lady entered the court through the gate-house arch, walked head down but purposefully towards number twenty-four, and ascended the stairs.
Now a lady may hide her face from the world with a veil; but she cannot disguise the day-dress that her maid has helped her into that very morning.
Well, my Lady
, I whispered to myself.
What brings you here?
There was now nothing to do but to wait, and ponder this strange and unexpected turn of events.
‘I then have a little business of my own to conduct,’ my Lady had said. That business, it now appeared, was with Mr Armitage Vyse. It might of course be perfectly innocent business; but that black veil suggested otherwise.
Withdrawing a little way, I settled myself on a wooden bench with a view of number twenty-four.
Fifteen minutes passed; and with every minute the sky grew darker with the threat of rain. As the first heavy drops began to fall, my Lady at last came out of the doorway of number twenty-four, alone, and hurriedly left the court through the gate-house. Moments later, there was a clattering on the wooden stairs, and the unmistakable figure of Mr Armitage Vyse, carrying a canvas bag, appeared in the doorway.
A little to my alarm, he began to walk directly towards where I was sitting. As hastily as I could, head bowed, I removed to the doorway of the nearby Chapel. To my relief, he appeared unaware of me as he made his way across the court.
I watched him lope off, his long coat flapping behind him, his stick tapping out each step on the wet flagstones. On a sudden impulse, I decided to follow him.

THE RAIN WAS steadily increasing, but I was determined to go on with my plan.
My quarry had now turned into New Square. As he disappeared from view, I slipped out of my hiding-place and was off after him.
On reaching Fleet Street, I thought that I might lose him in the dense crowds; but his long coat and tall hat, and his exceptional height, made it easy for me to pick him out, and I soon managed to catch up with him.
A little way along Fleet Street, he stopped at a cab-stand and spoke briefly to the driver of the first vehicle. As soon as he had clambered in, the cab set off.
Now I had never taken a hansom-cab in my life, and was alone in a city I barely knew. To follow Mr Vyse further, to an unknown destination, began to seem like the greatest possible folly; yet my incorrigible impetuosity urged me to put aside my misgivings. I had wanted a little adventure, and here was one opening up before me. Persuading myself that Madame would want me to seize the opportunity that had so unexpectedly presented itself, and as I was also in the more trivial way of becoming soaked to the skin by the increasing downpour, I took a deep breath, picked up my wet skirts, and ran as fast as I could to the cab-stand.
Having given my instructions to the next available cab-man, I was soon rattling up Ludgate Hill, my pocket-map open on my lap to follow our route, in the wake of the cab carrying Mr Vyse eastwards. From time to time, I leaned my head out to make sure he was still in view; but in the deepening murk, and the confused embroilment of vehicles – carts, cabs, carriages, coal-waggons, swaying brewer’s drays, and laden omnibuses – it was impossible to tell whether we were still on Mr Vyse’s trail, or not. In Poultry, I called back to the cab-man.
‘Can you see him still?’
‘Yes, miss,’ he shouted. ‘Just a little ahead. Don’t you worry. We won’t lose ’im.’
After passing the Mansion House, we turned into King William Street and began heading towards London Bridge. The possibility that we might be crossing the river now filled me with alarm, for the district was becoming highly unsavoury. I was about to tell the cab-man to abandon the pursuit, and take me back to Grosvenor Square, when we arrived in Lower Thames Street, the cab began to slow its pace, and we finally came to a halt.
Mr Vyse’s hansom had also stopped a little way ahead of us, at the junction with a narrow thoroughfare that appeared to lead towards the river. The overpowering stench of fish was everywhere. I looked back at the cab-man – a large, round-faced fellow, with a remarkably bulbous, purple-veined nose – to ask where we were. He saw the disgusted look on my face and began to chuckle.
‘Billingsgate, miss,’ he said; then, pointing his whip towards where Mr Vyse’s cab had stopped to let him out, ‘Dark House Lane.’

IV
The Antigallican

DARK HOUSE LANE was aptly named: dark indeed, and filthy, the wet and greasy pavements and roadway slippery underfoot with mud and scatterings of shiny fish scales, and all manner of other detritus. The whole lane was thronged with costermongers in strange leather-or hair-caps, many carrying trays on their heads piled high with fish, eels, and shell-fish, or quantities of oranges.
Lord, the deafening
mêlée
of colliding carts and horses, the shouts and calls and roars, and the rank, all-pervading reek of fish! I had never experienced such a noisome, disagreeable place in all my life and stood at the top of the lane in some anxiety, trying to pick out my route if I were to continue following Mr Vyse. Evenwood and Grosvenor Square seemed a world away in that moment; whilst my former life with Madame in the Avenue d’Uhrich took on the aspect of a dream.
As I considered whether to go on or not, I heard a footstep behind me.
‘If you’re thinkin’ of goin’ down there on your own, missy, you’d pr’aps best throw this round you.’
The cab-man who had brought me from Fleet Street was holding out a stained and torn plaid shawl, which he suggested I should put over my head and dress, to make myself a little less conspicuous. I saw the wisdom of his advice, thanked him, and took the proffered shawl.
‘That’s all right, missy,’ he said. ‘You remind me powerfully of my own dear girl, an’ I wouldn’t ’ave wanted ’er to go a-wanderin’ about Dark House Lane, for all an’ sundry to gawp at, an’ who knows what else. I’ll be blowed if I can think what you might be doin’ down ’ere. It’s one thing for that ’usband of yourn—’
‘Excuse me,’ I interrupted. ‘I have no relationship with that gentleman.’
‘You don’t say so?’ replied the cab-man. ‘Well, it’s no business o’ mine, I’m sure. But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll wait in the cab till the genlemun returns to ’is.’
‘No,’ I said, placing the shawl over my head, and recoiling slightly from the impregnated smell of beer and stale tobacco; ‘but I thank you for your kindness. If you wouldn’t mind waiting for me, I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
‘Then if
you
don’t mind, missy,’ came the reply, ‘I’ll accompany you, a few steps behind. The party you’ve been a-followin’ ’as just gone into the Antigallican, which ain’t no place for an unaccompanied young lady. And so: Mr S. Pilgrim – the initial standin’ for the wise name o’ Solomon – at your service.’
He gave a little bow, to round off his introduction.
‘There’s no need, Mr Pilgrim,’ I said, firmly; but he held up a large gloved hand to stop me from saying more.
‘No, no, missy. If my Betsy were ’ere in your place, then I trust as ’ow someone would do for
’er
what I insist on doin’ for
you
. Though of course,’ he added, with a sorrowful catch in his voice, ‘she ain’t ’ere, and won’t never be ’ere, bein’ now with the angels.’
‘Is she dead, then, Mr Pilgrim?’ I asked.
‘Taken from me these six months since, missy’ he replied, shaking his head slowly from side to side in a most affecting way.
‘A little girl?’
‘No, missy. Not little. About your own age. Typhoid.’
I tell him how sorry I am to hear it, but that I am determined to go on alone.
‘In that case, missy,’ he says, seeing that I will not be persuaded, ‘I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll put some baccy in my pipe and wait ’ere, where I can see down to the end of the lane, till you come out again. But if you’re not out in fifteen minutes, then I’m a-comin’ to get you.’
Touched by his concern for me, I agree to the arrangement. Pulling the shawl round me and placing my handkerchief to my nose, I set off down Dark House Lane towards the Antigallican.

ON EITHER SIDE of me, as I gingerly pick my way down the lane, are fish-stalls and terrible places of steam and heat, where lobsters and crabs are being cruelly plunged into cauldrons of boiling water. It is almost with relief that I finally reach the low, mean-looking building within sight of the river that Mr Vyse has just entered – the Antigallican public-house.
Pushing open the door, I stand for a few seconds on the threshold, observing the scene within.
Through a thick haze of tobacco-smoke, I finally make out the figure of Mr Vyse sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the room, his back towards me. He has exchanged his tall hat for an old forage-cap, and is wearing a black muffler across his face and a stained and patched coat, which I suppose have been carried here in the canvas bag.
The sawdust-strewn room – heaving, like the street outside, with costermongers and fish-stall holders, their numbers swelled by groups of river-people – is close and airless, being low-beamed and windowless, the only light coming from a few tallow candles on the bar, and from the sickly yellow glow of three dimly burning lamps hanging by rusty chains from the ceiling. Several of the house’s patrons turn to look suspiciously at me as I enter, and I begin to regret my foolhardiness in not agreeing to Mr Pilgrim’s accompanying me.
As I take a few nervous steps into the smoky gloom, uncertain what to do next, a grimy, red-faced woman comes staggering over to me, roughly lifts away my handkerchief, and cries out to the assembled company, ‘Why, ’ere’s a little beauty!’ To a raucous reception of shouts and whistles, she embarks upon a brief dance of her own drunken devising and then, having availed herself of a nearby spittoon, stumbles back to the bar, cackling to herself in the most vile manner.
Still Mr Vyse sits, alone and unheeding, in his dark corner. I am feeling quite sick from the room’s choking atmosphere, but I force myself to continue watching him, for he has clearly come here for a purpose, and I am determined to discover it. Minutes pass, and still he sits there, hunched over his table, impatiently drumming his fingers.
The door behind me creaks open. I turn slightly, to find myself staring into the eyes of a cadaverous young man wearing a peaked leather cap, from beneath which several long strands of greasy black hair hang down about his ears and neck.
We remain for a moment, face to face, eye to eye; and then, with a most vicious look, the young man pushes past me and goes over to the table where Mr Vyse is sitting.
I am shaking with fear, for I know that I have looked into the eyes of a conscienceless killer. Do not ask me how I knew then, by instinct, what was later confirmed to me as fact by others. I can only swear that it was so. What I have glimpsed in those black slits roots me to the spot with sheer terror.
The newcomer sits down opposite Mr Vyse. Heads leaning towards each other, they begin to talk.
As there is no possibility of my hearing what is being discussed in that dark, smoke-filled corner, and as I do not wish to risk being recognized by Mr Vyse, I am about to leave when I see the barrister reach into his pocket and pass a number of coins over the table to his companion. At the same moment, the young man looks across at me, our eyes meet again, and my blood freezes.
Without saying a word, his eyes still fixed on me, he begins to rise from his seat. Sensing the danger I am now in, and before Mr Vyse can turn to see where the young man is going, I immediately run to the door, out into the din of Dark House Lane once more, and into the outspread arms of Mr Solomon Pilgrim.
‘Whoah there, missy!’ he exclaims as he releases me. ‘What’s afoot?’
I have no time to answer him, for the young man has now come out of the Antigallican and is scowling menacingly at us. Mr Pilgrim instantly grabs my hand and begins to hurry me back up the lane towards the safety of his cab.
‘Billy Yapp,’ he shouts, grimly, as we push our way through the teeming hubbub. ‘Known hereabouts as “Sweeney”.’
‘“Sweeney”?’ I shout back.
‘Of the barbering persuasion.’
He draws a finger across his throat, and then I catch the allusion to the legend of Sweeney Todd, the infamous barber of Fleet Street, which I remember being told as a child by Mr Thornhaugh.
‘Young Billy would slice his granny up, feed her to the fishes, an’ not lose a wink,’ Mr Pilgrim elaborates. ‘A bad lot, through an’ through. What your fine genlemun ’as to do with such as Billy Yapp would be a thing to know.’
Raising his bushy eye-brows, he gives me a look clearly intended to encourage me into favouring him with some little confidence concerning Mr Vyse, and why I have followed him; but I pretend not to take the hint. Like Mr Pilgrim, however, I can conceive of no good reason why a respectable gentleman of means and reputation like Mr Armitage Vyse should have come in disguise to this foul and dangerous place, to pass money over to such a person as Billy Yapp, and to do so immediately after having received my Lady in his Lincoln’s Inn chambers. As I wonder if she knew where he was about to go, and whom he was going to meet, I cannot help feeling a little swell of satisfaction; for here, surely, is something my Lady does not wish to be known – a secret to be uncovered, and exposed.
As we approach the top of the lane I look back, but there is no sign of Yapp. We soon gain Lower Thames Street once more, where I hand Mr Pilgrim his shawl and climb, shaking still, into his cab. In another moment, with a sharp crack of his whip, we have left Dark House Lane and the Antigallican behind us and are heading westwards again.
As we pass St Bride’s Church, I hear the bells striking out five o’clock. The sound immediately makes my heart thump with a new anxiety.
I have missed my time; and now I am late to dress my Lady.