The Meaning of Night (75 page)

It has been three years and more since I had last seen him, playing croquet with a tall

dark-haired lady at Evenwood. Dear God! For the first time, I realize that it had all been

laid out before my very eyes on that hot June afternoon, and I had failed to see it:

Phoebus Daunt and his beautiful croquet partner – my enemy and my dearest love.

He swings south to Bedford-square, and thence down St Martin’s-lane until he

comes at last to Berthollini’s in St Martin’s-street, Leicester-square, which he enters. I

take up my position just across the street. The two pocket-pistols made for me by M.

Honoré of Liège, which have accompanied me on all my midnight rambles about the city,

are in readiness. There is no moon tonight, and sufficient fog to make escape certain.

Two hours later he steps out into the street again, with another fellow. They shake

hands, and his companion walks off towards Pall Mall while Daunt takes his way

northwards. In Broad-street, he turns into a narrow lane, lit by a single gas-lamp at the far

end.

I am close behind him – no more than six or seven feet. My years as Mr

Tredgold’s private agent have taught me how to track someone without their being at all

aware of my presence, and I am confident that I am invisible to him. The lane is deserted.

I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the pistols. A few steps more. My shoes are

wrapped in rags so that my steps make no sound. He stops, just under the lamp, to light a

cigar – a perfectly illuminated target. Hidden in a doorway, I raise the pistol.

Why is my hand shaking? Why do I not pull the trigger? I take aim again, but by

now he has moved out of the yellow arc of light and in a moment he has disappeared into

the darkness.

I remain standing in the doorway, still trembling, for several minutes.

I had done many things in my life of which, God knows, I was ashamed; but I had

never yet killed a man. I had mistakenly thought it would be easy; that my hate and rage

would carry me through. My weakness appalled me; but I told myself that there is little in

this world that may not be mastered with study and application; and murder is the least of

challenges, if the injury be great enough and the will sufficient.

But could I really do such a deed? Might not my courage fail me when the

moment came to strike the fatal blow? The mere act of mentally putting the question to

myself engendered an almost imperceptible thrill of doubt. Surely I would not flinch a

second time? There – again: that momentary prick of apprehension.

At last I saw what I must do.

I must make a trial of my resolve.

Monday, 23rd October, 1854.?

I awake shaking. For an hour I lay and listen to the wind and dream I am in my

bed at Sandchurch once again. There are shadows on the wall that I cannot explain. A

woman with [tusks?]. A king wielding a great scimitar. A terrible claw-like hand that

creeps over the counterpane.

I reach for my bottle of Dalby’s. This is the third time tonight.

In the morning, Mrs Grainger knocks at the door. I send her away. I am unwell, I

tell her.

I will not go out today.

Tuesday, 24th October, 1854.

My bottle of Dalby’s is empty. I begin to weep as I shake the last few remaining

drops into my wineglass.

It will be tonight. I walk down to the river and across Southwark Bridge to take

my luncheon. I watch the waiter cutting a slice of [beef] from the platter. It is a fine sharp

knife and [gleams?] in the firelight. It will do very well. Much better than a pistol.

And so to Messrs [Corbyn?] in High Holborn. ‘A persistent headache, sir?

Nothing more unpleasant. We recommend [Godfrey’s] Cordial. You prefer Dalby’s?

Certainly, sir.’

Five o’clock by the Temple Church. On with my great-coat. Stow the knife

securely. Where are my old [gloves]?

I step outside. A sharp night, with fog coming down.

St Paul’s rises into the murk. The [lantern] is invisible, and also the Golden

Gallery where I stood with my dear girl a lifetime ago.

East down Cheapside and into Cornhill. The City churches ring out six o’clock. I

have been wandering for an hour. Him? Or him? The fellow loitering outside St

Mary-le-Bow? The old gentleman coming out of Ned’s Chop-house in Finch-lane? I am

bewildered. So many black coats, so many black hats. So many lives. How do I choose?

At length I find myself in Threadneedle-street, looking across to the entrance of

the Bank of England. I cannot do this after all.

Then I see him, and my heart begins to thump. He is [dressed] the same as all the

others, but something seems to distinguish him. He stands, looking about him. Will he

cross the street? Perhaps he intends to take the omnibus that is now approaching. But then

he pulls on his gloves and walks smartly off towards Poultry.

I keep him in sight as we walk westwards, back along Cheapside, past St Paul’s,

and down Ludgate Hill to Fleet-street and Temple Bar. Then he turns northwards a little

way, up Wych-street and across to Maiden-lane, where he takes some refreshment at a

coffee-house and reads the paper for half and hour. At a few minutes after seven o’clock,

he leaves, stands for a few moments on the pavement in the [swirling] mist to adjust his

muffler, and then is on his way again.

A little further we go, and then into a narrow court that I have never noticed

before. I stand at the entrance, taking in its high blank walls, its deep shadows. The court

seems to close in round the solitary figure of my victim as he walks towards a short flight

of steps leading down to the Strand. At the head of the steps is a fizzing gas-lamp that

throws out a weak smudge of dirty yellow light into the foggy dark. Where is this? I look

up.

‘Cain-court, W.’

My hand is on the knife.

44:

Vindex?

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Le Grice stood up and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight streamed into the room.

It is now November the thirteenth, 1854. The night had passed away in talk, and by the

time the new day had broken forth I had placed the true history of Edward Glyver before

my old friend, sparing him only the despatching of Lucas Trendle, and my resolve to do

the same to Phoebus Daunt.

‘This is a tale, and no mistake, G.,’ he said. ‘But what I don’t understand is why

Daunt sent me that book to give to you. Wouldn’t Miss Carteret have told him where he

could find you?’

‘I can only guess that he is playing some sort of game with me,’ I replied. ‘It is a

warning perhaps against trying to get back at him, and to let me know that I am within his

reach.’

‘I say!’ Le Grice had spun round, an excited look in his eye. ‘The copies! You

still have the copies, of the Deposition and what not, that you sent to old Tredgold.’

‘Gone,’ I said.

‘Gone?’

‘When I got back from Evenwood, after seeing her, there was a letter from Mr

Tredgold. There’d been a burglary – his sister and brother had taken him to the Cathedral

and the house was empty. Nothing of value taken, only papers and documents. They were

no use anyway. All in my own hand, you see.’

Crestfallen, he threw himself back into his chair. But after a minute or two’s

silence he slapped the arm.

‘Breakfast, I think. That’s the thing we need.’ So off we went to the London

Tavern to take our fill of eggs, bacon, and oyster-toast, supplemented by liberal doses of

coffee.

‘There’s no point beating around the bush, old boy,’ said Le Grice as we walked

out into the street. ‘You’re sunk. And that’s all about it.’

‘It would seem so,’ I agreed gloomily. ‘Mr Tredgold is much of the same mind.’

‘And there’s still our friend on the river. The jolly boatman. What I think is, he

might be an associate of Daunt’s, perhaps, keeping an eye on you. Now what’s to be done

about him, I wonder?’

It is strange how a single word or phrase from another’s lips can sometimes throw

light on a truth we have been struggling unsuccessfully to uncover. Was there no end to

my stupidity? An associate of Daunt’s. There was only one associate of his that I knew

of, and that was Josiah Pluckrose. The line of reasoning that succeeded this thought was

swift and, to my mind, conclusive. If Pluckrose was the man in the boat, then Pluckrose

might also be the man who had tapped me on the shoulder on leaving Abney Cemetery

after the funeral of Lucas Trendle, and outside the Diorama following my walk with

Bella in the Regent’s Park. And then the leap. ‘An end is come, the end is come: it

watcheth for thee; behold, it is come’. I hear again in my head the admonitory verse from

Ezekiel, to which I had been directed by a series of pin-pricked holes on the first

blackmail note. Blackmail? No: a warning, from my enemy. Jukes, I now see, had

nothing to do with it, though the mystery of how he had come by the treasures I had seen

in his room remained. The notes were the work of Daunt. He has set a watch on me, and

the consequence is that he knows about Lucas Trendle. But why was he watching me? He

has taken everything from me. Is he not satisfied? Does he want to take my life as well, to

make his triumph certain?

‘What ails thee, knight-at-arms?’ I hear Le Grice say as he claps me heartily on

the back. ‘You look distinctly seedy, but then I’m not surprised. Mr Dark Horse indeed!

But fret not. The pride of the Le Grices is by your side, come what may. No need to

soldier on alone any more. There’s still some time before I join my regiment, and it’s

yours, old boy, all yours. And then, perhaps you might go travelling till I return. What do

you say?’

I took his hand and thanked him, from the bottom of my heart.

‘What now?’ he asked, cheroot clamped between his teeth.

‘I’m to my bed,’ I said.

‘I’ll walk with you.’

A letter arrives the next day from Mr Tredgold, full of sympathy for my situation

and imploring me to come to Canterbury as soon as I can. But what can Mr Tredgold do?

Without the evidence that has been taken from me, my claim to be Lord Tansor’s son can

never be pursued. And so I leave his letter on my work-table, unanswered.

Sitting in my chair by the fire, I begin to consider my neighbour, Fordyce Jukes. I

had concluded, to my own satisfaction, that he had had no hand in what I had mistakenly

thought was an attempt to blackmail me. But how could a nothing such as Jukes – a mere

clerk – have accumulated the precious items I had seen displayed in his rooms, except

through extortion or embezzlement, or plain theft?

I give up trying to solve the conundrum of Jukes and, to divert myself, I pick up

the volume of poems Daunt had given to Le Grice at the United Services Club and start

to read: ‘Ode to Apollo’; ‘Zenocrates’ Garden’; ‘The Sorrows of Odin’; ‘Evenwood: A

Sonnet’ (at the puerility of which I laugh out loud); ‘Sennarcherib: A Fragment’; ‘The

Song of the Assyrian Slave’. Such soaring imbecility! Such plangent vagueness! And

then I come across some lines (spuriously ‘translated from the Persian’)::

The night has come upon me.

No more the breaking day,

No more the noontide’s glare,

No more the evening’s ray,

Soft as lovers’ sighs.

For Death is the meaning of night;

The eternal shadow

Into which all lives must fall,

All hopes expire.

Amen to that! I copy the lines out on a piece of paper, which I place in my

pocket-book, as a kind of talisman, and in sure anticipation that they will soon

memorialize the late Phoebus Rainsford Daunt. As I close the book, my eye rests again

on the written inscription: ‘To my friend, E.G., with fondest memories of old times, and

hope of early reunion’. On a sudden impulse, I snatch up my magnifying-glass and

examine the writing with the minutest care. Then I fetch the anonymous note that was

sent to Bella and do the same. The hand that wrote the latter had been brilliantly

disguised; but I had no doubt now that the author had been Phoebus Daunt.

The following evening, just before six o’clock, there is a knock on the door. It is

Dorrie Grainger.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but a letter ’as come for you, care of Mr Gillory

Piggott, my Geoffrey’s employer.’

I had immediately seen that the envelope bore an Australian stamp, and so

guessed who it might be from. Having thanked Dorrie and closed the door, I opened the

envelope. Inside was another, which I also tore open.

Sir,—

I direct this little note to you via my former neighbour Piggott, as I have reason to

believe you are acquainted with his man, Martlemass.

I regret that I did not feel it to be in my interests to help you bring evidence

against a certain literary gent in respect of his past misdemeanours. But, believing that

you may be set on giving my erstwhile colleagues what for, I am magnanimously sending

you a piece of information I had forgotten but which may perhaps still be useful to you –

not in the least because I esteem you (far from it: I hope most earnestly that your carcass

may rot in unhallowed ground for a thousand years), but in the hope that it might assist

you to deliver a hammering to D. and P., with my compliments, for old times’ sake, from