The Meaning of Night (3 page)

Signor Prospero Gallini, Bella’s father, the impoverished scion of a noble Italian family,

having fallen on hard times, had fled his native creditors, in the year 1830, and made his

way to England, where he set himself up as a fencing-master in London. He was now a

widower, and an exile; but he was determined to give his only daughter every advantage

that his limited means permitted, with the result that she could converse fluently in

several European languages, played exceptionally well on the piano-forte, had a

delightful singing voice, and was, in short, as accomplished as she was beautiful.

I had lodged briefly with Signor Gallini and his alluring daughter when I first

came to London. After his death I maintained an occasional, but friendly, correspondence

with Bella, feeling it was my duty to watch over her, in a brotherly sort of way, in

gratitude for the kindness her father had shown to me. Signor Gallini had left her little

enough, and circumstances eventually made it necessary for her to leave the little house

in Camberwell, to where her father had retired, and take employment as companion to a

lady in St John’s Wood, whose acquaintance we have already made. She had answered an

advertisement for this position, which was Mrs D.’s way of recruiting new blood for her

stable of thoroughbreds. Very few who applied found favour in Mrs D.’s discerning eye;

but Bella instantly charmed her, and was not in the least shocked when the true nature of

her employment was revealed to her. Although she began her career as the most junior

citizen in The Academy’s little state, she quickly rose through the ranks. She was

exceptionally beautiful, talented, discreet, and as accommodating as any gentleman could

wish. If there is such a thing as a vocation in this line of work, then Bella Gallini may be

said to have possessed one.

Our intermittent correspondence continued for some years after she took up

residence at Blithe Lodge. I would send a brief note every few months, to see how she

was, and if she was in need of anything, and she would reply to say that she was going on

very well, that her employer was kindness itself, and that she wanted for nothing. Then

one day, in the early months of 1853, I happened to be in the vicinity of St John’s Wood

and thought I would call on her, to see for myself that all was well, and (I confess) to see

if she was still as beautiful as I remembered her.

I was admitted to an elegant drawing-room, displaying both taste and means. The

door opened; but it was not Bella. Two giggling young ladies, unaware that a visitor was

within, burst into the room. On seeing me, they halted and looked me up and down, and

then looked at each other. They were a most ravishing pair, one blonde, the other dark;

and both had an unmistakable look about them. I had seen it a hundred times, though

rarely in such sumptuous surroundings.

They begged my pardon (unnecessary, for I would have forgiven them any liberty

they chose to take), and were about to withdraw when another figure appeared in the

doorway.

She was quite as beautiful as I remembered her; dressed to the highest point of

fashion, coiffured and bejewelled, but still possessed of a natural grace of carriage, and

displaying that warm and open expression with which she’d greeted me when I’d first

come to her father’s house. After her fair companions had departed, we walked out into

the garden and talked away, like the old friends we were, until a female servant came

across from the house to tell Bella that she had another visitor.

‘Will you call again?’ she asked. ‘I seem to have spoken only of myself, and

would so like to hear more about what you have been doing with your life, and what your

plans are for the future.’

I needed no further hint, and said I would come again the following day, if it was

convenient.

Neither of us had said anything concerning the true character of Blithe Lodge:

there was no need. She saw, by my look and tone of voice, that I was not in the least

shocked or disgusted by what she had chosen to become; and for my part, I could see that

– as she had told me so often – she wanted for nothing, and that the contentment at her lot

that she professed was unfeigned.

I returned the next day, when I was introduced to Mrs D. herself; and the

following week attended a soirée, at which were assembled some of the most eminent

and well-placed of the capital’s fast men. Gradually, my visits increased in frequency and

soon brotherly solicitation began to transform into something more intimate. By special

dispensation, I was not required to make any contribution to the domestic oeconomy of

the house. ‘You are most welcome here at any time,’ said Mrs D., with whom I had

quickly become a great favourite, ‘just as long Bella ain’t distracted from her professional

duties.’

Mrs D. being a widow with no dependants, it had long been settled that Bella,

who had become like a daughter to her, would in the course of time assume the reins of

power in this thriving carnal kingdom. On this account I’d call her my little heiress, and

she’d smile contentedly as I pictured to her the days of ease that lay ahead once the

inevitable mortal release of Mrs D., now in her sixty-first year, delivered the succession

into her hands.

‘I don’t like to think of it too much,’ she’d say sometimes, ‘seeing how fond I am

of Kitty, and how kind she’s always been to me. But, you know, I can’t help feeling –

well, a little satisfied at the prospect, though I’m sure I don’t deserve it.’

And then I would chide her for her scruples, telling her that it was folly – and

worse – to believe that we do not merit our good fortune, especially when it is ours by

right. She would kiss me and pull me close; but I would feel suddenly abandoned and

alone. For was I not also an heir, and to a far greater kingdom? Yet my inheritance had

now been taken from me, and could never be recovered. I longed to throw off the habit of

deceit, but I could not tell Bella the truth about myself, or why I had killed a stranger that

night in Cain-court; for if I did, then I might lose her too.

But he knew – my enemy knew – what had been done to me. And soon he would

also come to know how resourceful I could be.

2:

Nominatim?

__________________________________________________________________

____________________

I had slept fitfully, ever aware of the soft, warm mass of Bella’s body curled up

against mine as I drifted in and out of wakefulness. Though pricked by occasional

anxieties, I remained confident that no one could connect me to my victim, and that I had

completed my experiment in murder undetected. Having consciously subdued all thought

of the man as a man, I found I had attained to a kind of indifference to the enormity of the

act I had so recently committed. I was guilty, and yet I experienced no feeling of guilt. It

was true that, when I allowed my eyes to close, images of the red-haired stranger would

rise up before me; yet even in this twilight state, between sleeping and waking, when

conscience may often call up horrors from the depths of our being, I continued to feel no

revulsion at what I had done. Later, it also struck me as odd that my mind did not keep

returning to the fatal moment itself, when the knife had entered the yielding flesh of my

victim. Instead, I would see myself following the man along a dark and deserted

thoroughfare. From time to time we would emerge into a ring of sickly yellow light

thrown out from an open door set in a tall windowless building. Then we would proceed

once more into darkness. Time and again, when uncertain sleep came, I would find

myself in this perpetual procession through dark and nameless streets. Not once did I see

his face: his back was always towards me as we walked slowly from one oasis of

jaundiced light to another. Then, just before daybreak, as I fell back once more into

half-sleep, I saw him again.

We were in a small skiff, which he was rowing lazily down a placid river on a

silent, heat-heavy afternoon. I lay in the rear of the vessel, my eyes fixed on the muscles

of his back as they flexed beneath his coat with each pull on the oars. Incongruously, on

such a day, his clothes were those in which he had died on that cold October evening,

including his muffler and tall black hat. As we entered a narrow channel, he let the oars

rest on the surface of the water, turned to face me, and smiled.

But it was not the face of my anonymous victim. It was the face of Phoebus

Rainsford Daunt, the man whose life I was studying so assiduously to extinguish.

Leaving Bella asleep, placing only a gentle kiss on her flushed cheek by way of

good-bye, I made my way to my rooms. The sky was beginning to lighten over the

waking city, and the sounds of Great Leviathan stirring were all about me: the rattle of

milk cans; a moaning drove of bullocks being driven through the empty street; the early

cries of ‘Fresh watercress!’ as I approached Farringdon-market. As the church clocks

strike six, I stop at a coffee-stall near the market entrance to warm my hands, for it is a

sharp morning; the man looks at me indignantly, but I face him down, and he retires

mumbling deprecations.

On reaching Temple Bar I considered strolling over once again to the scene of my

late encounter with the red-haired man, to satisfy myself that all was well; instead I chose

breakfast and a change of linen. At the corner of Temple-street, Whitefriars, I mounted

the narrow flight of dark stairs that led up from the street to the top floor of the house in

which I lodged, from there entering a long, wainscotted sitting-room under the eaves.

I lived alone, my only visitor being the woman, Mrs Grainger, who came

periodically to undertake some modest domestic chores. My work-table was littered with

papers and note-books; a once handsome, but now faded, Turkey carpet covered most of

the floor, and about the room were scattered several items of furniture brought from my

mother’s house in Dorset. From this apartment a door led off, first to a narrow bedroom

lit by a small skylight, and then, beyond, to an even smaller space – really no more than a

closet – that served as both wardrobe and wash-room.

The face that greeted me in the little cracked mirror that stood on a shelf above

the wash-stand in this cubicle did not seem, to my objective gaze, to be the face of a

cold-blooded murderer. The eyes looked back genially, and with calm intensity. Here was

a face to trust, to confide in; yet I had despatched another human being with almost as

little thought as I might crush an insect. Was I, then, some dissimulating devil in human

form? No. I was but a man, a good man at heart, if the truth be told, driven to set right the

wrong that had been done to me, absolved – even of murder – by the implacable fatalities

to which my life has been subject. You think there is no such thing as Fate? That we have

free will under some benign Creator God? You are wrong. We are each destined to play

out whatever part has been assigned to us by a determining power we can neither implore

nor placate. To me, this power is the Iron Master, forever forging the chains that bind us

to actions we must take, and to outcomes we must then suffer. My destiny is to take back

what is rightfully mine, whatever the consequences. For the Iron Master has willed it.

I peered a little closer into the mirror. A long lean face, with large, heavy-lidded

dark eyes; olive-coloured skin; a nose perhaps a little skewed, but still finely shaped; a

mouth that carried the merest hint of a smile, even in repose; black hair swept back from

the forehead, innocent of macassar and abundant at the sides, but, I confess, receding fast,

and greying a little at the temples. Fine mustachios. Very fine. Take me all in all, I

believe I stood before the world as a moderately handsome fellow.

But what was this? I moved my face closer to the grimy glass. There, on the very

tip of my shirt collar, was a splash of dull red.

I stood for a moment, bending towards the mirror, gripped by a sudden fascinated

fear. This voiceless, yet still eloquent, witness to the night’s activities in Cain-court had

taken me completely by surprise. Its pursuit of me seemed like a violation, and I quickly

reviewed the dangerous possibilities it presented.

Had it been enough to betray me? Had one of the waiters in Quinn’s noticed it

when it had still been vivid and unequivocal, or the flower-seller when I had returned –

foolishly, as it might now prove – to the scene of my crime? Had Bella observed it,

despite the haste of passion? Any of these, on reading or hearing of the murder, might

recall the presence of blood on my shirt, and suspicion might thence be aroused. I looked

more closely at the incriminating relic of my experiment.

It was insignificant enough in itself, certainly, though it constituted a very world

of meaning. Here was a remnant of the life-blood of the stranger I had happened upon in

Threadneedle-street as he went about his business, all unknowing of what was to befall

him. Had he been returning home to his wife and children after a day in the City, or on

his way to join a company of friends for dinner? What was his name, and who would