The Prince of Eden (16 page)

At the end of the hall, encountering a dead end, he turned again. At the opposite end, he thought he saw a faint light which had not been there before, as though a door had been opened. Keeping his eye on the faint illumination, he started forward. With every step, he prayed fervently. Don't let us find him here.

As he drew nearer the partially opened door, he stopped. From someplace he heard a different sound, a soft voice continuously murmuring, no words, merely syllables of comfort.

Again Daniel brushed aside the uneasy feelings within him and stepped toward the open door. Before him, in a room which more nearly resembled a stable, containing no furnishings but a mat of straw, he saw him, lying on his back, his eyes opened, though unseeing, staring fixedly up at the ceiling, his hair mussed, his clothes foul-smelling with remnants of his own sickness, his head resting in her lap, her hand continuously stroking his brow.

At Daniel's appearance, she looked up with grieved astonishment. "I was hoping it wouldn't be him," she murmured. "But here he is."

Beyond the man himself, scattered about the floor, Daniel saw the

evidence of his indulgence, several flagons of wine, and close by, numerous vials, all empty, the residue of liquid still coating their sides.

Edward seemed to be stirring now, trying to lift himself from his prone position. His eyes, glazed, made a slow, deliberate circle, encompassing both Daniel and Elizabeth. At first a smile of recognition brightened his face, as struggling upward, he managed a half-suspended position, then fell back again onto Elizabeth's lap.

Quite suddenly, without warning, the smile faded. His eyes filled with tears. As Elizabeth huddled protectively over him, Daniel closed his eyes. He knew little of the addiction save for one point. Prolonged use led to one of two places, either to the grave or the madhouse. He'd heard men order it openly in pubs—"a glass of laudanum negus, warm, and without sugar." And he'd seen the effects differ from man to man, one morose and dejected, the other volatile and full of high spirits. There seemed to be two distinct periods throughout indulgence; the first, a greatly increased activity of the mind, and the second, the stupor, the descent into hazy and usually emotional abstractions.

As Daniel again assessed the scene, he felt anger rising. Heading the list of questions which surfaced out of his rage was who had led Edward here? But there were no answers, certainly not in the face of his friend, whose mouth was mutely working, as though he were trying with all his might to form words.

Unable to endure the sight, Daniel gruffly ordered Elizabeth, "Help me lift him. Let's get him out of this place."

Obediently she was on her feet, the two of them, one on each side, laboriously struggling to raise him. Finally after great effort, they had him suspended between them, Daniel taking most of the weight on his own shoulders, calling out for Elizabeth to open the door. After a few steps forward, Edward seemed aware that effort was required of him, and Daniel felt his weight lifting, at least partially assisting with his own exit.

As they approached the stairs, Daniel renewed his grip and ordered Elizabeth to run ahead and fetch John Murrey. At first she seemed loath to abandon his side, but when half in anger, half in despair, Daniel raised his voice to her, she scampered lightly down the stairs, passed the gaping, grinning dwarf, and disappeared through the boards in the door.

At the top of the stairs, Daniel tried to hold him upright, but he seemed on the verge of losing all consciousness. He slumped forward and before Daniel could grasp his arm, he slipped down two steps, Daniel breaking his fall at the last minute by reaching out and grasping his hand.

Below, the dwarf laughed. "His wings is failin'," he chirped,

performing again the bizarre little dance, as though he took genuine delight in seeing a whole man fall.

Daniel ignored the jibe and hurried down the steps where, with effort, he scooped Edward into his arms and lifted him up, intent only on fleeing the place. Just as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the boards parted, letting in a blinding light of morning sun, and John Murrey appeared, being dragged by the girl.

Quickly his old eyes took in the scene before him. As his attention was drawn to the vast room filled with addicts, he breathed a quick, hoarse prayer, "God have mercy—"

"John, help," Daniel called out, trying to summon his attention to the task at hand.

"Is he hurt, sir?" John asked, taking his share of the weight, Edward now suspended between them.

"I don't think so. Hurry, let's get him out of here."

Together the two men carried him to the door, where Elizabeth had already drawn back the boards. As they angled the limp figure through the narrow opening, Daniel glanced back at the dwarf. "Do you recall the name of the man who brought him here?" he asked, making no attempt to mask the coldness in his voice.

Again the dwarf grinned. "No names here. Guv, and I don't know nuthin', not even when the wurld was made or how anybody could do it. No names. I have nuthin' to say about payin' customers." The grin broadened. "Like him there. He'll be back. They flies off* and flies back." At this the dwarf dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Daniel listened and watched. "You'll not be seeing this one again," he shouted back. As they carried Edward toward the carriage, the last thing Daniel heard was the dwarf, still laughing, a shrill, unearthly sound.

At the carriage, he saw Elizabeth waiting, door flung open, her face still creased in concern. As they placed him inside, she slipped around to the other door and sat quickly in the seat, ready to receive him, his head again resting in her lap.

Winded from his effort, Daniel stood back as John closed the door. "If I'd a known, sir," the old man began. "I mean, that night, I had no idea-"

Daniel dismissed his apology. "It's not your fault, John. Take us home, as quickly as possible."

Inside the carriage, Daniel looked back at the gray crumbling mansion, more ominous-looking than before, now that he knew what it contained. Across from him, Elizabeth continued to cradle Edward in her arms. "Will he be all right, sir? I mean, why is he—"

With a confidence that he did not feel, Daniel tried to reassure her. "He'll be fine. He needs rest and food."

The empty words seemed to bring her comfort. She continued to stroke his brow with her injured hand, apparently uncaring now who saw it.

The shadows of the morning flitted through the carriage. Two words continued to press against Daniel's brain. An addict. Moving in and around those two words, like the shadows themselves, was the memory of the dwarfs parting laughter. Once bitten, they stays bit. He'll be back.

Edward moaned, apparently discomfited by the rocking motion of the carriage. Elizabeth leaned over him in concern.

Daniel watched, trying with all his might to crush the heavy uneasy feelings of anxiety which had arisen within him ...

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It was the night that frightened her most. Dawn was her saviour, dressing the ugly prison walls in earliest light and beginning to redden with the deep luster of a May morning.

Yet even mornings had hazards. Like now. For the last four days, the turnkeys had pushed the prisoners in the Common Cell against the wall and one by one had covered their faces with coarse brown masks, each fitted tightly over the head and down onto the shoulders, with two small slits for the eyes, one for the mouth.

As Charlotte had discovered, breathing was difficult. With the nose tightly obscured, it had to be accomplished through the mouth. After several hours of this, the lips became parched, the mouth itself useless.

Still, the anonymity comforted her. They looked alike now in their prison garb, the men in shapeless black suits, the women in black dresses with gray aprons and curiously stitched white darts covering all. Thus masked, she was no longer singled out and stared upon by the other prisoners as "the different 'un."

During the four days in which she had inhabited this wretched Common Cell, not counting the lost number of hours in which she'd lain senseless upon the straw, her mind rendered mute by the magistrate's harsh sentence, she'd observed certain changes. The fatherly old turnkey whom she had seen through terrified eyes that first night had not been present for three days. Nor had she observed the young turnkey, the lad who had looked upon her with such pity.

On this the fifth morning, she noticed other changes as well. The two

ruffians who had squatted nearby in guardlike positions were gone. In fact, looking sharply at the line of prisoners still being masked, she saw not one familiar face. Apparently over the night, the entire Common Cell population had changed. Only she remained.

As she made her way back to her straw in the far corner, she sidestepped the piles of human dung left during the night. The stench was overpowering. She felt her stomach turn, the sour gruel from the night before rising in her throat in a burning stream.

She collapsed onto the straw and tilted her head back and tried to breathe deeply. But the odor was poisonous, a combination of matter passing into decay, an accumulation of urine-soaked straw and cabbage leaves.

During the trial she had thought that endurance would be possible. She'd even grown accustomed to the daily humiliation of the prosecutor, an arrogant, bewigged gentleman who had looked at her as though she were all the world's scourges rolled into one.

Mrs. Longford, how many times have you committed adultery? With whom and under what circumstances? And isn't it true that you crossed Oxford Street, heading toward the disreputable Ragged School, looking for more than a way to serve?

She groaned audibly. A faceless man passing her by stopped and stared down. "Is it lonely you are?" he asked, his eyes shining behind the mask.

Quickly she drew herself into a sitting position, hugged her knees, and made herself into a tight, unresponding knot. A moment later, the man passed, but she kept her eyes on him.

High above on the catwalk, she saw three turnkeys pacing. They weren't familiar. She'd never seen them before. Her eyes fell again on the huddle of male prisoners about halfway down the cell. Their whispers continued, their smooth brown faceless heads all turning in her direction.

The large Common Cell was as empty as she had ever seen it, less than twenty prisoners, all male except for the three old women who kept to themselves at the far end by the door. Still, she had nothing to fear as long as sunlight streamed through the high barred windows. She was safe in day.

But the silence of the room alarmed her. Usually by mid-morning the prisoners were chatting among themselves, games of chance going on here and there. Now? Nothing.

Nearby something rustled through the straw. She turned her head in that direction, forgetting for the moment the uselessness of her peripheral vision. When the rustle came again, she drew herself up to her knees and faced the spot directly. A large black rat scurried forth,

darting back into the straw, then emerging again a distance away.

A soft scream escaped her Hps as she drew reflexively back, her heart beating too fast. As she scrambled in the opposite direction, the male prisoners laughed, pointing their fingers in her direction.

Long minutes passed before she could still her breathing. As she took refuge in the opposite corner, she carefully kicked the straw to one side, and sat on the stone floor. She tried to draw a deep breath and turn her mind in another direction.

The distant past was relatively safe, her childhood spent in Hampstead, the youngest daughter of a fairly prosperous grocer, the pretty red silk umbrella she'd carried as a child, the holidays to Brighton, the smell of the sea, no lasting pain except the day that her small brown terrier. Dash, had been run over by a coach. Still, she had survived. The rest of it was a blur of warm sunshine and lilacs, and lovely teas and whispered secrets with her friends at the bottom of the garden, nothing, absolutely nothing preparing her for her present plight.

She even remembered the day that Samuel Longford had come to her father's house, her father's friend. Clearly he had been appreciative of the young woman who had blossomed from the little girl he had carried on his shoulders. She had not even been aware that marriage had been discussed between them. The surprising thing, even now, was that she had not particularly objected when the subject had been broached, when Mr. Longford had walked with her in the garden and kissed her for the first time. It had been like kissing Papa, warm and paternal. He had given her a handsome ruby ring and the pledge that he would spare jio effort in his attempts to make her happy, that quite obviously he would die first and leave her a comfortably rich widow.