The Meaning of Night (76 page)

which (I hope) they may never rise. I suppose I could return and bring them both down,

but things are going well out here – gulls and fools just as plentiful in the Colonies as in

the mother country, I’m glad to say. And so God speed to your enterprise, following

which I hope the Devil will take you.

Here it is, then. The paid man our old Newmarket friends had put into Tredgolds

for the cheques dodge, which you asked me about. I now remember his name – can’t

think how I could have forgotten it. Jukes. A queer little pipkin. First name not known. I

believe he continued to serve our mutual friend PRD in his various enterprises after the

Tredgold dodge.

Yours, in happy exile, and fond memories of our brief acquaintance,

L. Pettingale.

Bravo Pettingale, I murmur to myself. And so a little more light is shone into the

darkness. I considered what an association between Daunt and Jukes might imply; but it

was not until the following night that everything fell into place.

For two nights past, I had awoken from that most fearful dream of mine in which

I find myself alone in the midst of a vast columned chamber in the depths of the earth,

my flickering candle revealing nothing but Stygian darkness without end on every side;

but then, as always, I realize – with suffocating terror – that I am not alone, as I had

believed. Maddened with fear, I await the expected soft pressure on the shoulder and the

little stream of warm breath caressing my cheek as it extinguishes the candle’s flame. I

could not face it a third time, and so I got up and tried to light the fire in my sitting-room,

but it would not draw and soon puttered out. Wrapped in a blanket against the cold, I took

up the third volume of the Bibliotheca Duportiana and sat before the dreary blank mouth

of the fireplace.

I had reached the letter ‘N’: Nabbes’s Microcosmus: A morall maske (1637); the

works of Thomas Nashe; Pynson’s Natura Brevium of 1494; Fridericus Nausea’s Of all

Blasing Starres in Generall, published in English by Woodcocke in 1577; Netter’s

Sacramentalia (Paris, François Regnault, 1523) . . . I lingered for a moment over Dr

Daunt’s description of this rare work of doctrinal theology – an exceptionally rare work;

a most improbable work for a solicitor’s clerk on eighty pounds a year to possess.

At eight o’clock the next morning I am standing at the top of the stairs, listening.

At last I hear it: the sound of Fordyce Jukes’s door closing behind him. Once at the

bottom, I linger for a moment or two, smelling the cold damp air coming in from the

street. The door is locked, as I expected, but I have come prepared, and am quite

unconcerned by the damage I inflict.

The apartment is as I remembered it from my last uninvited visit: neat and

comfortable, swept and polished, and containing an extraordinary number of fine and

valuable objects. But only one of them interests me at present.

The lock of the cabinet presents no difficulty for my jemmy. I reach in and take

out what I seek: Thomas Netter, Sacramentalia – folio, Paris, Regnault, 1523. It bears the

same bookplate as that of the first edition of Felltham’s Resolves secreted by Miss Eames

in Lady Tansor’s burial chamber. There are a dozen or so other books of rare quality in

the cabinet. They all bear the same plate. The books; the paintings and prints on the

walls; the objets in the cabinets – all of the first quality, all portable, and all undoubtedly

stolen from Evenwood by Phoebus Daunt and stowed away here, in the rooms of his

creature, Fordyce Jukes, until he should have need of them.

Back in my room, I compose a short letter, in capital letters and using my left

hand:

Dear Lord Tansor,

I wish to bring to your attention a most serious matter, concerning a number of

valuable items that I believe have been unlawfully removed from your country residence

over the course of the past few years. The items in question, which include several books

of great rarity, may be found, quite open to view, in the rooms of F. Jukes, solicitor’s

clerk, 1 Temple-street, Whitefriars, ground floor.

I assure you, my Lord, that this information is perfectly accurate, and that I have

no other motive in setting it before you than a sincere regard for your position as the

present representative of an ancient and distinguished family, and an earnest desire to see

justice done.

I am, Sir, your very obedient servant,

‘Chrysaor’?

So much for Fordyce Jukes.

Windmill-street, dusk.

The drabs, all rouged up for business, are beginning to swarm out of the

surrounding courts and into the streets. I linger for a while in Ramsden’s coffee-house,

and then saunter along to the Three Spies.? A dirty little gonoph? tries to pick my pocket

as I stand lighting my cigar, but I turn just in time and knock him down, to the general

amusement of all around.

Several of the drabs give me the eye, but there’s nothing that takes my fancy.

Then, as I’m about to move off, a girl comes out of the Three Spies carrying an umbrella.

She looks up at the sky, and is preparing to walk past me when I stop her.

‘Excuse me. Why, of course! Mabel, is it not?’

‘She eyes me up and down.

‘And who, may I ask, wants to know?’ And then she smiles her recognition.

‘Mr Glapthorn, I think. How do you do?’ Delightfully, she gives me a kiss on the

cheek. She smells of soap and eau de Cologne.

I reply that I am all the better for seeing her and ask after her employer, the

enterprising Madame Mathilde, and also her sister Cissie, for I had a sudden strong

hankering to reacquaint myself with these most accommodating soeurs de joie.

Cissie was in Gerrard-street, I am informed, and after some refreshment at the

Opera Tavern, we repair thither through the rain. Up the stairs we go, to find Miss Cissie

warming her pretty toes by the fire.

‘Well, ladies,’ I say, removing my hat and gloves and smiling, ‘here we are

again.’

Afterwards, I walk down to Leicester-square. Minded to take some supper, I turn

into Castle-street and enter Rouget’s, having briefly inspected the offerings in Mr

Quaritch’s window en route.? I take my seat by the window, order up supper – Julienne

soup, some pâté d’Italie, bread, and a bottle of red wine. For an hour or more I sit in

gloomy contemplation of my desolation; then I call for another bottle.

At half past eleven, the waiter opens the door to the street for me to pass through

and holds out his hand towards me as I mount the step, but I push him away with a curse.

For a moment or two I am unable to remember where I am. A crowd of bravoes roll

towards me and look me up and down, thinking perhaps that I’m ripe for picking. But I

am still able to eye them back, defiantly spitting out my cigar butt as I do so. They

continue on their way.

‘Looking for business, sir?’

Damn it. I’ve nothing else to do, and Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie are already dim

memories. She’s young, not too dirty, and has a pretty smile.

‘Always looking for business, my dear.’

What’s that? I turn as quickly as I can; but in my somewhat inebriated state I lose

my balance and fall against the girl. She tries to hold me up but I’m too heavy, and we

both end up on the pavement.

‘’Ere, wot’s your game?’ she asks indignantly.

But I am no longer interested in a piece of cheap cunny. That tap on the shoulder

has brought me to my senses.

I see him reach into his pocket, and in another second the cosh is in his hand. The

girl, screaming obscenities, scrambles up from the pavement and starts to kick at him. As

he turns to push her away, I draw out my pistol and point it straight into the ugly face of

Josiah Pluckrose.

We stand thus, eyeball to eyeball, until he gives me an evil smile, calmly replaces

the cosh in his pocket, and walks off whistling.

Mr Abraham Gabb is a short, lean-shanked, gimlet-eyed gentleman possessing the

vicious aspect of a terrier perpetually on the look-out for something to sink his teeth into

and shake until its back-bone cracks. The public-house in Rotherhithe of which he is lord

and master is, like himself, small, dirty, and vicious by reputation. Mine host regards me

warily as I approach the bar; but I am used to such places, and to men such as him, and

have only to look him in the eye, slap down some coins, and say but a few choice words

before I have his complete attention.

Why am I here? First, because of something Lewis Pettingale had said, in passing,

during our meeting in Gray’s-Inn. Second, because, on the day following my encounter

with Pluckrose, I had called again on Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie in Gerrard-street. As I

stood in the street afterwards, pulling on my gloves, I had suddenly throught of the poet

Dryden. Now Dryden is not an author for whom I have ever harboured much enthusiasm,

and I was at a loss as to why he was thrusting himself into my thoughts with such

persistence. But an answer was not long in coming.

Number Forty-three Gerrard-street was that answer. Not only was it the house,

two doors up from the residence of Madame Mathilde and her girls, in which Dryden had

died in the year 1700: it was also the house in which Josiah Pluckrose was living when he

was married to Mary Baker’s sister, Agnes. Was it possible that he was living there still?

The answer to my question was soon provided by the scullery maid from the

house next door: Mr Pluckrose had not vacated Number Forty-three after the murder of

his wife but had brazenly remained there ever since, to the general disapprobation of his

neighbours.

Not wishing to keep this interesting piece of information to myself, I had resolved

to share it as soon as possible with the brother of the late Isaac Gabb, the last member of

the Newmarket gang to have suffered fatally at the hands of Josiah Pluckrose. According

to Pettingale, the boy’s brother had kept a public-house in Rotherhithe; a moment’s

consultation of the Directory on my return to Temple-street quickly identified the

establishment and its location.

At first, Mr Abraham Gabb had received the news of Pluckrose’s whereabouts in

glowering silence; but then, as he sifted the information more carefully, his terrier eyes

began to glint – no doubt in eager anticipation of renewing his acquaintance with the

person who had undoubtedly done for his brother. My plan succeeded more easily than

I’d anticipated. It quickly appeared that mine host needed no proof of Pluckrose’s guilt to

rouse him to action. Having only ever known Pluckrose by his soubriquet of ‘Mr

Verdant’, it had hitherto been impossible for Gabb to hunt down his brother’s killer.

Knowing now where he lived, and under what name, the landlord was in a position to

mete out the vengeance he had long contemplated. Throwing back my brandy, I express

myself heartily gratified that I have been able to perform this trifling service to him.

The landlord says nothing by way of reply, but, calling over two ugly looking,

bull-backed bruisers who had been leaning together, deep in conversation, at the other

end of the bar, he leaves me alone with the old woman while the three of them engage in

a huddled conference. At length, after much whistling and pursing of lips, the landlord,

nodding knowingly to his two compatriots, turns back towards me.

‘You’re sure Verdant is there?’ Mr Gabb, still wary, fixes me with his eye as he

strokes his dirty chin ruminatively.

‘As sure as I’m standing here.’

‘And wot’s your int’rest in the matter?’ he growls suspiciously.

‘Hygiene!’ I declaim. ‘It is a passion of mine. Filth – physical and moral – appals

me. I am an eager promoter of clean water, clean thoughts, and the proper disposal of

waste. The streets are awash with filth of every description. I simply wish to enlist you

and your comrades in my crusade, by encouraging you to make a start on the permanent

removal of filth from Number Forty-three Gerrard-street, at your earliest convenience.’

‘You’re mad,’ says Mr Abraham Gabb, ‘stark mad.’

November the 30th, 1854.

Cold, clinging fog. Nothing to see from my window but the dim dark forms of

wet roofs and smoking chimneys, and nothing to hear but the muffled sound of people

and carriages passing unseen up and down the street, the wheezing cough of the law

stationer who lives on the floor below, and the doleful sound of distant bells striking the

interminable hours. The weeks are passing, and still I have done nothing. Every day, on

entering my sitting-room of a morning, my habit has been to go over to my work-table

and read again the announcement from The Times of the engagement of the distinguished

poet Phoebus Rainsford Daunt and Miss Emily Carteret, daughter of the late Mr Paul

Carteret. Some days I have sat for hours on end staring at the printed words, and in

particular at the conclusion of the announcement: ‘The wedding will take place at St

Michael and All Angels, Evenwood, on the first of January, 1855. Miss Carteret will be

given away by her relative, Lord Tansor.’ I have even fallen asleep at the table and have

woken to find my cheek pressed against the black print.

But today has been different. The announcement from The Times has been

consigned to the flames, along with my irresolution. At one o’clock, I walk out in order