Michael Cox (41 page)

26

The Old Man of Billiter Street

I
A First and Last Meeting

I
WAS
expected for luncheon at half past one, and it wanted but ten minutes to the time when Charlie opened the door to my urgent knock.
‘Has Lady Tansor returned from Mr Orr’s?’
‘Yes, miss,’ he replied, saluting smartly. ‘Half an hour since.’
I ran up to my room, to change my gown and re-dress my hair, then hurried back downstairs to the dining-room, just as the luncheon bell was sounding.
‘What have you been doing this morning, dear?’ Emily asked, as the soup was brought in.
I said that I had been out walking.
‘Walking? The weather is not very suited to walking.’
‘Oh, I pay no heed to that,’ I say, nonchalantly. ‘I find London fascinating in all weathers.’
‘Well,’ she replies, dabbing her mouth with her napkin to remove a trickle of soup, ‘that is a most original notion, I must say. Where did you go?’
I am all ready with my answer.
‘To the Regent’s Park, and then to the Pantheon Bazaar.’
*
‘The Pantheon Bazaar! How interesting! I’ve never been there myself, of course. Isn’t it a little – vulgar? You must remember, dear, that you should now only be seen in the most respectable places.’
‘Oh, the Pantheon is quite respectable,’ I say airily, feeling – although not expressing – resentment at her disdainful tone.
‘Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise, dear.’
She lays the napkin down, and takes a sip of cordial.
‘But it’s not quite the sort of place that I would like my companion – and friend – to be seen at. It might give altogether the wrong impression. There are shops, you know, and then there are bazaars. You should really be seen only in the best of the former. You would not see Miss Miranda Fox-More, or Miss Eleanor de Freitas, in a bazaar. They would never think to do such a thing. Did you purchase anything?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’d thought to buy a little gift, for your kindness and consideration in bringing me to London; but there was so much to choose from! I simply couldn’t decide what you might like.’
‘Well, that was a kind thought in any case,’ she said, with an air of frosty relief. ‘Which reminds me, dear; you look very well in my old dresses, but you really must now have some of your own. We shall go to Regent Street before we leave next week, to see what can be done.’
After luncheon, resuming Emily’s inviolable programme, off we went in the freshly washed carriage to see the Museum of Practical Geology in Jermyn Street, which appeared to delight her excessively, but which almost prostrated me with boredom. Thence to Westminster Abbey, which was much more to my taste, and where I could have happily remained for several hours; but of course I was soon whisked away to see some other celebrated sight, which Emily duly ticked off on the list she kept in her reticule of all the places she had decided beforehand that I – in my novitiate state as a visitor to the capital – must see. So the day wore briskly on, until it was soon time for us to attend a grand dinner in St James’s, at the house of Sir Marcus Leveret, our former Ambassador to Portugal – and grand it was.
My head began to spin at the multitude of persons of privilege and distinction to whom I was introduced: dukes and earls; ambassadors and Honourable Members; foreign princes and Nabobs; judges and bankers; generals and admirals; wives, daughters, mothers, and widowed dowagers, all superbly dressed and coiffured, and brilliantly bejewelled. In addition there was, of course, a generous sprinkling of handsome young bachelors – all of impeccable eligibility, but none of whom interested me in the slightest.
So Friday came, and another dismal morning of bumping along in the carriage from place to place, tunnelling down thickly muddied streets through swirling veils of soot-stained murk. After luncheon, however, Emily complained of feeling unwell, and her London physician, Dr Manley, was called.
‘I’m sorry, Alice,’ she said after the doctor had gone, ‘but I’m afraid that we shall have to abandon our plans for this afternoon. I know how disappointed you’ll be, as I am; but it cannot be helped. Dr Manley insists that I must rest, and so you will have to amuse yourself. You won’t mind that, will you, dear? Until I feel a little better.’
I am outwardly distraught, naturally, at the prospect of not being juddered and jounced around filthy, cacophonous streets, to spend half an hour staring at this or that object or place of supposed interest and attraction, and then to spend an evening ingratiating myself with the first ladies and gentlemen of English society.
Here, however, I should perhaps insert a little confession, as yet another demonstration of my sometimes inconveniently resilient conscience. Did I feel it pricking me when indulged, to a prodigious degree, by the 26th Baroness Tansor – one of the most admired women in London? I did. And, despite its protestations, did I continue to derive and anticipate a secret pleasure at the privileged consequences of my friendship with this extraordinary woman? Of course. For what young lady of nineteen, with limited experience of the great social world, would not feel complimented and honoured by such attentions? I was as weakly susceptible as any such young lady to the vanities of the world, and to the lure of appearances, and just as apt, on occasion, to want them very badly indeed.
Yes, I was weak enough to be myself, when it came to petting and pampering, and to allow myself to enjoy the experience, although the pleasure was not unalloyed; for, like a perpetually reprimanding second shadow, the stern spectre of Duty would trail me through the great gilded rooms, sit beside me at the laden tables, and enter secretly into my dreams, wrenching me back from shallowness and selfishness to that necessary state of determination, in which nothing mattered but to carry out my fated commission.

I LEFT EMILY to sleep, and went to my room, to consider how best to make use of my unexpected liberty.
I knew that, whatever I decided to do, I ought to inform Sergeant Swann; but I had somewhat taken against my protector, and considered that I would be in no danger if I confined myself to the main thoroughfares.
I was leafing through
Murray’s Guide
when an original – and thrilling – idea burst into my mind.
I would seek out Mr John Lazarus, if he still lived.
Fired by this sudden inspiration, I threw on my coat, ran downstairs, and breathlessly asked Charlie to call up a cab.
‘Destination, miss?’ he asked.
‘Billiter Street, City, if you please, Charlie,’ I returned, placing my finger to my lips.
A wink, a salute, and he was gone.

THE HOUSE STOOD near the junction with Leadenhall Street – a narrow, half-timbered, tipsy-looking building, with opaque, thickly dirtied, diamond-paned windows, and a forbiddingly studded front door, above which swung a peeling representation of a full-rigged ship, beneath which was the painted legend, ‘J.S. Lazarus, Shipping-Agent’.
I knocked, waited, knocked again, and then again, but no one came. I began to think that Mr Lazarus might be dead after all, or that the house had been permanently shut up. Then, as I was about to leave, the door-handle began slowly to turn.
An elderly man, frail and bent, a young ginger-and-white cat rubbing affectionately against his legs, stood before me.
‘Good-afternoon, miss. May I help you?’
As he spoke, his look of respectful enquiry suddenly altered.
‘Forgive me, miss,’ he said, brushing back a wisp of thin grey hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘Have I had the honour of meeting you before?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir,’ I replied. ‘But you are Mr John Lazarus, I think?’
‘Yes, I am he.’
He was alive! He was here before me – the man to whom my father had owed his life.
‘You must excuse me,’ he said, ‘if I enquire what business you have with me.’
‘I am here because you once knew my father,’ I replied. ‘I am Esperanza Gorst, the daughter of Edwin Gorst.’
He gave a delighted gasp.
‘The daughter of Edwin Gorst!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can it really be? Come in, come in!’
With many warm expressions of welcome, he showed me into a low-beamed apartment, dusty and dark, the walls of which were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings of ships, maps, sea-charts, faded illustrations of exotic birds and flowers, and sundry topographical views of the various Atlantic islands that Mr Lazarus had visited during the course of his long professional life.
Tea was offered and accepted, and we conversed for an hour or more, during which time Mr Lazarus related many small, although – to me – absorbing details of the time he had spent with my father on Madeira. His memories of those far-off days were undimmed, but added little to what I had read in his recollections. On my side, I told him something of what I knew of my parents’ history after leaving Madeira, and of how my father had died in Constantinople in the year 1862, which seemed to affect the old gentleman greatly.
There was one question that I was most anxious to ask.
‘Mr Lazarus,’ I ventured, ‘did you ever know what the box of papers contained that my father asked you to take to England, to place in the safe-keeping of his solicitor?’
‘They were of a private nature, my dear,’ he replied, ‘and so of course I did not enquire; but, from something he once said, I believe the box contained some kind of memoir – perhaps a diary or journal, or a more ambitious narrative of his life.’
My heart gave a leap.
‘Do you remember the name of the legal gentleman to whom you gave the box?’
My voice was calm; but I felt weak with nervous anticipation of Mr Lazarus’s reply.
‘Mr Christopher Tredgold,’ he replied, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I believe he was your father’s former employer. He had retired from the firm, after suffering a seizure. My impression, however, was that he was acting in the capacity of a friend, rather than a legal representative.’
‘It must be presumed, then,’ I suggested, ‘that the papers remained in Mr Tredgold’s keeping.’
‘That, of course, I am unable to say,’ replied Mr Lazarus.
‘And you had no further communication with Mr Tredgold, after you delivered the papers to him?’
‘None, I’m afraid. Will you take some more tea, my dear?’
I saw that our conversation had exhausted him, and that his enquiry had merely been the fastidiousness of a naturally courteous man. I therefore gratefully declined, and rose to go.
‘I see now that you have more than just the look of him about you,’ Mr Lazarus said, as I stepped out into the cold, wet street. ‘You have something of his spirit, too, I think – the essence of a most remarkable individual, whom I consider it to be one of the great privileges of my life to have known, even for so short a time. I have never met his like since, and am sure I never will again. God be with you, my dear. Come and see me again, if you wish. Visitors are few these days.’
It was my firm intention to return to Billiter Street, not only to try and coax more memories of the man he had known as Edwin Gorst from him, but also because I had begun to feel real affection for this enfeebled old gentleman, who had restored my father to life, hope, and purpose; but he died not long afterwards, as I later discovered, and I never saw him again.

II
Pursued

I LEFT BILLITER Street, deep in thought – so absorbed, indeed, that I failed to notice that I was being followed.
It was in Fenchurch Street that, happening to glance back at the clock on the church of St Dionis, I saw him – a squat, pinch-faced fellow of about forty, with prematurely white hair, and a pair of almost perfectly rectangular, perfectly black eye-brows. I had seen him before. It was Digges, Mr Armitage Vyse’s man-servant, who had attended him during his Christmas visit to Evenwood.
I quickened my pace; but still my pursuer came on.
What did he want? Was I in physical danger from this man? Surely not – not here, in these teeming streets?
Just as when the ruffian had accosted me on the road from Easton, I felt a sudden fit of indignant anger at being pursued in this way through the public streets. How dare Digges and his master put me to this fright! Momentarily emboldened, I considered turning and confronting the man – I even began to look about me for a weapon of some sort; but discretion happily won the day.
A cab – I must find a cab.
It had now started to rain once more, darkness was rapidly coming on, the streets were thronged with home-going City men, and there were no cabs to be had. I thought at first that I knew my way, having memorized it from the map in
Murray’s Guide
; but as I moved quickly on, through an area of mean, narrow tenements, it soon became apparent that I was lost.
I remember the sound of a hammer on metal, and the sharp hiss of steam escaping from some nearby manufactory; shouts and oaths outside a public-house; and threatening faces staring at me as I hurried along.
Where was I? Where could I seek safety? There was only the slowly imprisoning gloom, windowless walls and fearful alleys, a cold stinging rain in my face, and a desperate sense of helplessness closing in around me.
Then, at last, I emerged into Fleet Street, and started to run. Digges was still behind me; but I was close now – close to where I prayed I might find safety at last.
Even before I reached the cab-stand I saw that it was empty. Should I seek out Mr Pilgrim’s house in Shoe Lane, as he had urged me to do if I found myself in need of his protection once more – as I most certainly did? But where was Shoe Lane?
Then, out of the mist, two cabs emerged and came to a halt at the stand. The driver of the second vehicle began to get down from his seat, whip in hand.
‘Please!’ I panted. ‘Can you help me? There’s a man following me.’
The cab-man pushed away his muffler.
‘Why, here you are again, missy. What’s afoot now?’ asked Mr Solomon Pilgrim, as large as life.
Relieved but still afraid, I glanced anxiously back at Digges. ‘The man with white hair.’
‘You’d best get in,’ said Mr Pilgrim, opening the cab door.
I clambered in. Seconds later, Digges came up, stopped, and eyed my rescuer belligerently.
‘Taken,’ growled the burly cab-man, closing the door, and gripping his whip in a most menacing manner.
Saying nothing, but with another warlike look, Digges slouched off. I leaned out to watch him being slowly engulfed by the stream of jostling pedestrians until it closed around him, and he was finally lost to view.
‘In a spot o’ bother again, missy?’ asked Mr Pilgrim, shaking his great round head. ‘Though now it seems it’s you wot’s bein’ followed.’
‘I don’t know the man,’ I said, trying to maintain my composure, despite being a perfect jelly inside, ‘or why he was following me; but I’m glad to see you again, Mr Pilgrim, and I thank you once more for your kindness.’
‘Always at your service, missy, and always to be found here, as I told you before. Will you walk on – which I don’t advise – or can Sol Pilgrim take you anywhere?’
I thought for a moment. Not back to Grosvenor Square, not yet.
‘King’s Bench Walk, Temple,’ I said. ‘Number fourteen.’