The Meaning of Night (10 page)

perhaps, who had tapped me on the shoulder outside the Diorama; and the man who had

pushed past me under the Egyptian portals at Abney Cemetery. No longer invisible; no

longer shadow-hidden: he was here, in full daylight, though still out of reach. But sweet

relief washed over me on seeing him; for now, I hoped, I could begin to turn the tables.

Come a little closer, I whispered to myself, just a little closer. Let me see your face.

‘What’s that you say?’ Le Grice was reaching back for me to hand him his coat.

‘I said nothing. Here.’

I threw his coat at him, then turned again to look back at our pursuer. If I could

lure him from the safety of his boat on to dry land, then I might contrive an opportunity

to confront him. I pulled on my coat, feeling the reassuring weight of the pocket-pistols I

always carried with me. Then one more look astern, to fix the distant figure of the

watcher in my mind.

He was exceptionally tall, with broad shoulders – even broader, perhaps, than Le

Grice’s; clean shaven, as far as I could tell, though his upturned coat collar might conceal

whiskers; and his large ungloved hands gripped the oars purposefully as he contended

with the current to maintain his stationary position. But the more I scrutinized him, the

more anxious I became. A formidable opponent, doubtless; but I am also a big man, and

was confident that I could give a good account of myself, if it came to it. Why, then, this

anxiety? What was it about this bobbing figure that discomfited me?

We gained the street and proceeded to Le Grice’s club, the United Service. He

had been kicking around for some years with no fixed prospect in view; but the opening

of hostilities in the East earlier in the year, and the despatch of the expeditionary force to

the Crimea, had suddenly stirred him to buy into the Guards, though he had yet to take up

his duties. He talked excitedly of his impending military career. Like everyone at that

time, his head was full of the great events in the Russian campaign, especially of the

Light Brigade’s heroic charge at Balaclava, soon to be so memorably evoked in Mr

Tennyson’s great ode.? For my part, I was happy to let him talk on, for my mind was

occupied with our friend from the river. I’d expected to catch sight of him by now, but, to

my surprise, no one appeared to be following us.

We reached the steps of the club, crowded with arriving members, without

incident. Lunch was excellent in every respect, and Le Grice, in fine form, called for

another bottle of champagne, and then another; but I wished to stay alert, thinking still of

our pursuer, and so let him have the lion’s share. After an hour or so had passed, it

became apparent that my companion was in no fit state to row back with me; and so, after

putting him into a hansom, I walked back down to the river alone.

Stopping every few yards to make sure I was not being tracked, I finally arrived at

Hungerford Steps, retrieved the skiff, and prepared to row back. My head was racing.

Where was he? I set off, turning my head from time to time, expecting to see him, but the

sun was bright in my eyes and I could see nothing. Arriving at Temple Pier, I stood up to

moor the craft, lost my balance, and fell back into the river. As I sat there, in two feet of

cold stinking water, the amused object of attention of a number of passers-by on the

embankment above, I saw the dark figure of the solitary rower, a hundred yards or so

downstream. Once more he stopped his craft mid-stream, laid back his oars, and sat

looking straight ahead with ominous concentration. Again, no features were discernible,

simply this alarming attitude of acute attentiveness.

Cursing under my breath, I slopped and splashed my way back to Temple-street.

At each corner I stopped and looked back, to see if the mysterious rower had

disembarked his craft and was following me, but there was no sign of him. Unable to bear

the water in my boots any longer, I tore them off in frustrated fury and walked the last

few yards to the staircase of my chambers in just my stockinged feet.

And so it was, my sodden stockings muffling the sound of my footsteps on the

stairs, that I came upon Fordyce Jukes bending down at my door, preparing to slip

something underneath it.

He screamed like a stuck pig as, throwing my dripping boots on the stairs, I

grabbed him by his miserable neck and hurled him to the floor.

Holding him still by the scruff, like the cur he was, I unlocked the door and

kicked him inside.

He cowered in the corner, his hand across his face.

‘Mr Glapthorn! Mr Glapthorn!’ he whimpered, ‘whatever is the matter? It is I,

your neighbour Fordyce Jukes. Do you not know me?’

‘Know you?’ I snarled back. ‘Oh yes, I know you. I know you very well for the

villain you are.’

He leant back a little into the corner, letting his hand drop away from his face to

reveal a look of genuine alarm. I had him now.

‘Villain? What can you mean? What villainy have I done to you?’

I advanced towards him, as he frantically forced himself back yet further into the

corner, the heels of his boots scraping noisily on the boards, in a futile attempt to escape

the beating I was now preparing to administer. But something held me back.

‘Well, let us see now,’ said I. ‘Perhaps this will serve as an instance.’

I turned away from him and went back to the door, picked up the paper he had

been pushing under it when I’d arrived unnoticed behind him, and began to read it.

It was written in a highly distinctive hand; but it was the distinctiveness of the

professional scribe, the practised hand of a solicitor’s clerk. It bore no resemblance at all

to either of the notes Bella and I had received. And the message it contained? An

invitation for Mr Edward Glapthorn to join Mr Fordyce Jukes, and a few other friends, at

a dinner to celebrate his birthday, at the Albion Tavern, on Saturday evening, November

the twelfth.

I stood in silent befuddlement.

What on earth could be happening? I had caught the rogue red-handed, or so I

thought; and now – this! Was it some kind of diabolical variation on his usual game to

throw me off the scent? And then, as I considered the matter, the clearer became the

possibility that I might have been mistaken – dangerously mistaken – about the identity

of the blackmailer; but if not Jukes, then who?

My stomach tightened as the threatening figure of the solitary rower rose up

before my mind’s eye. The anxiety I had earlier experienced returned; and then,

gradually, like blood seeping slowly from a wound, the truth began to form itself, and I

saw what I should have seen when I had tried to force the blackmail note to give up the

identity of its author.

Still Jukes cowered in the corner, but he had seen my discomposure on reading

the invitation, and his attitude had relaxed somewhat.

‘Mr Glapthorn, please. Allow me to stand.’

I said nothing, but walked instead over to my armchair by the fire and threw

myself down, still clutching the piece of paper.

I heard him pick himself up from the floor, dust himself down, and walk across to

where I was sitting.

‘Mr Glapthorn, please, I meant no harm, no harm at all. Perhaps coming on me

like that – it is quite dark on your landing, is it not? – I can see – that is, I expect you

mistook me for some house-thief or such. A shock, I’m sure, to find someone here. But

no harm intended, sir, no harm at all, no, none at all . . .’

And so he went on, repeating the same sentiments over and over, and wringing his

fat little hands to emphasize his contrition and regret at the trouble caused.

Fordyce Jukes: a mystery to me still. Was he my blackmailer? Perhaps I had

misconstrued the glimpses of his private passions I had obtained. By what means he had

managed to assemble his little museum of treasures, I could not tell; but I no longer felt

as sure as formerly that he had been plotting to augment them at my expense, by

exploiting his knowledge of the doings in Cain-court. This uncertainty cut through me

keenly, and made me fearful. The business I had been about that night had clearly

affected my judgment more than I’d thought. I must be on my guard for any such lapse in

the future, for it might prove fatal.

I took a deep breath, rose from my chair, and faced my neighbour.

‘Mr Jukes, I apologize. Sincerely and completely. It is I who have done you

wrong. Much wrong. You are right. In the gloom of the landing I thought that someone

was attempting to break into my rooms. I have been on the river, you see, and am a little

fatigued and dizzy from the exertion. I did not recognize you. Unforgivable.’

I screwed up all my willpower and held out my hand.

He limply reciprocated, at which I immediately withdrew myself to my

work-table and sat down again.

‘I thought that we see so little of each these days, Mr Glapthorn,’ I heard him say,

though my mind was already far away from the stunted figure in old-fashioned breeches

and tailcoat standing on my Turkey rug, wringing his hands still, and looking about him

nervously. ‘You are so rarely in the office now, and I used to so enjoy our little chats. Not

that we have ever been friends as such, I realize, but we are neighbours, and neighbours,

you know, should be neighbourly. And so I thought, perhaps Mr Glapthorn is in need of

some company? And then I thought, couldn’t I bring together a few friends to partake in

a little celebratory dinner – it being my birthday on Saturday – and invite Mr

Glapthorn–– ’

He had paused.

‘I’m afraid I am not free on Saturday, Mr Jukes, but I thank you for your

invitation.’

‘Of course. I understand, Mr Glapthorn. You are a busy man, I’m sure.’

He edged a little towards the door.

‘Well,’ he said, in an effort to brighten his tone, ‘I shall take my leave.’

I was preparing to apologize again for my rough behaviour, but he forestalled me

with a rapid shake of his head. ‘Pray, say no more, Mr Glapthorn. All a mistake. No harm

done, none at all.’

I nodded. Then a thought struck me.

‘A moment, Mr Jukes.’

He looked up.

‘Are you a religious man?’

‘Religious?’ he said, evidently surprised at my question. ‘Well, I suppose I am as

observant in that way as most. Brought up strictly, though perhaps I have relaxed a little

in my ways. But I attend the Temple Church every Sunday morning, and read my bible

every day, sir – every day.’ He raised his head as he said the last words, and pulled his

shoulders back in a little gesture of defiance, as if to say, ‘There now. Here is villainy!’

‘Every day?’ I said, quizzically.

‘Every day. Regular as clockwork, a few pages before I take Little Fordyce for his

walk. It is surprising how much one gets through. Having now got as far as Ezekiel, I am

coming towards the end of the Old Testament for the second time this twelvemonth.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘that is excellent. Excellent. Good day, Mr Jukes, and –– ’

He held up his hand again. ‘No need, sir, no need at all.’ With which he turned,

smiled wanly, and closed the door.

I sat, still in my dripping clothes, looking out of my little dormer window at rags

of clouds, drifting overhead like smoke over a battlefield, until I heard him descend the

stairs and bang his own door shut.

8:

Amicus verus?

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The following morning, a note came from Le Grice apologizing for his

over-consumption of champagne the previous day, and announcing that he would be at

the Ship and Turtle at his usual hour that evening, if I cared to join him.

He was in voluble mood, and I happily let him regale me with reports of what this

fellow or that had been up to, who had said what at the club, and where so and so had

been, the gossip supplemented by an excited account of all the business he was engaged

upon preparatory to leaving for the war. I was sorry he was going, and was of course

anxious for his safety; but it was impossible not to become caught up in his enthusiasm,

to the extent that I almost began to regret that I had never thought of going for a soldier

myself.

We parted just before midnight. He was heading back to his rooms in Albany?

when he suddenly stopped short.

‘By the by,’ he called back, ‘I almost forgot. This was sent to me at the Club. It’s

for you.’ Reaching into the inside pocket of his great-coat, he handed me a small wrapped

package, obviously containing a book.

‘You’ll never guess who it’s from.’ I looked at him blankly.

‘That fearful tug Daunt. You’ll remember him, of course. Pretty thick at school,

weren’t you, for a time? Scribbles poetry for a living now. Sends his compliments to me

with a request to pass this on to you. Haven’t written back yet, of course. Thought I’d

speak to you first.’ He instantly saw that his words, and the package, had produced an

effect, and he reddened.

‘I say, G., is anything the matter? You look a little upset.’ I delayed my reply as I

turned the package over in my hands.

‘Has he written to you before?’

‘First time, old boy. Not quite my sort. Never expected to hear from him again

after going down from the Varsity. Damned unpleasant blighter, always putting on airs.