The Skull and the Nightingale (41 page)

I am afraid that your godson, alone at midnight in a most respectable street, gave vent to a rousing volley of curses before turning on his heel and returning to his lodgings.

This morning finds me less sullen and more philosophical. I have observed in the past Mrs. Ogden’s extreme fluctuations of mood and motive. Being impulsive, she is always likely to venture a promise somewhat bolder than she can fulfill, and later recoil from it, as on this occasion. I have no doubt that in a very short time her conduct will catch up with her desires. Already this morning she will be regretting her own timidity. I will leave in our hiding place a cool acknowledgment that I hope may hasten such a reaction. If all goes as I wish and expect, last night’s rebuff will come to seem no more than an incidental delay. I reserve the right, however, to exact some little retribution for the slight. Rest assured that you will hear the full story as it unfolds.

I remain, &c.

Having written this letter to my godfather, I set down in my journal a full account of what had actually taken place, trying to be as precise as possible, in case my memory later deceived me.

It was a cool night. There had been one or two sharp showers, and more seemed imminent: the streets were patched with puddles. I was dressed to pass unrecognized and to be ready to defend myself, at need, in the dangerous midnight darkness. I made my approach by the same alley as before, and on this occasion watched from the corner as the watch passed along the length of Margaret Street. When they were gone, all was still. I went swiftly to the back of Mrs. Kinsey’s house, reached in our hiding place for a key—but found only a note, damp from the earlier rain. I tore it slightly as I drew it out.

Unable to read it in the dark, I hurried back along Margaret Street, but soon became aware of footsteps behind me. Anxious to avoid even the slightest chance of being accosted, I quickened my pace—but heard my follower quicken also. In response I began to run, as best I could in the dark, jumping over puddles and stumbling on the cobblestones. Feeling I would be more secure on known territory I turned into Wyvern Street, heading toward Tom Crocker’s house. After fifty yards or so I checked my steps and now heard nothing. Here it was darker yet. I stood stock-still for a minute or two, glad to recover my breath.

Calm once more, I moved on until I saw a light ahead. It proved to be attached to the great iron gates behind Crocker’s courtyard, the house itself being in darkness. I took from my pocket Sarah’s message, and with a little difficulty deciphered it:

I cannot see you tonight. After all I am not yet ready to take this step.

I am ashamed of my inconsistency, but my fear was that all might not have gone well between us now that I have felt these doubts.

Can you forgive me for having brought you here, with high expectations, for nothing? I can hardly forgive myself. Yet I need only a little more time, a little more resolve, to bring about the meeting we planned. It will happen—I promise it will.

The mere fact of lighting on a letter when I had looked for a key had prepared me for disappointment, but I nonetheless swore aloud at what I read. As I thrust the paper into my pocket and turned away I heard footsteps once more, and almost at once my pursuer emerged into the weak circle of light. To my astonishment he proved to be Ogden—Ogden sweating, hatless, and disheveled, his stockings spattered with mud.

He made directly for me till he stood within touching distance, and addressed me in a kind of whispered scream:

“I saw you, Fenwick—I saw you at the Dragon! Damn you! Damn you! You are after my wife! Give me that note!”

He lunged at me and I stepped back to elude him, my mind in confusion. I think I said: “Mr. Ogden, contain yourself. I know you are a man of strong passions.”

“You know nothing about me!” he yelped. “Nothing! You are after my wife, you devil! I will kill you!”

He threw himself upon me, clutching at my throat. I tried to fend him off, but he was heavy and strong and brought me to the ground. We rolled in the mud, but I broke away and staggered upright. As he scrambled to his own feet, panting, I stepped back and drew my sword.

Ogden’s wig had fallen off, disclosing the bald head I had seen at the masquerade. His face was twisted with rage. This huffing, dripping fat fellow my rival in love? It was an absurdity. I made to take charge of the situation, pointing my sword at him.

“Mr. Ogden, I give you fair warning! Enough, sir! I say enough!”

With each exclamation I made a small jab in his direction, to prick him to a distance. But the mad booby suddenly pushed the blade aside and launched himself at me, landing a heavy blow on my jaws. Staggering backward, I raised my sword again, thinking merely to keep him off; but with the rage of a bull he threw himself forward again, and was impaled. In a panic I tried to twist the bending blade clear, but with a second lunge he impaled himself further, and fell sideways. I wrenched the sword away as he did so, but he dropped down and lay sprawled in a puddle.

I stood stock-still for a moment. Some dogs were barking nearby and there was a shrill chattering coming from Trinculo’s cage in the courtyard. It had begun to rain again. Throwing down the sword, I made to lift Ogden, but found him weighty and inert. With great exertion I managed to turn him onto his back. There was blood on his coat, though not much. I could see no sign of life in him.

“Good evening, sir,” said a voice behind me.

I leapt round to find that Pike had emerged from a side gate.

“I was disturbed by the monkey,” he added.

“I fear I have killed a man.”

“Mr. Ogden?”

Pike stooped to examine him, touching and peering. He stood and drew a long breath before saying calmly: “Yes, he’s dead.”

“But there’s very little blood.”

“He’ll have bled internally.”

Fear and shock stupefied me. I managed to say something like: “I did not mean to kill him. He ran onto my sword.”

“The gentleman seems to have been unarmed.”

“But he attacked me. I did not mean to kill him. I drew only to keep him at bay.”

“Why did he attack you, sir?”

“He thought I was after his wife.”

“An old friend of yours, as I recall.”

“I knew her when we were children.”

To my shame my voice was quavering from fear and shock.

“We must decide what to do, sir,” said Pike.

He stood beneath the lamp, frowning. I tried to regain command of myself, but my mind was numb. Trinculo and the dogs had fallen silent. The rain was steady.

“I thought Mr. Ogden was in Malvern,” said Pike.

“He left for Malvern this morning. I saw him go.”

“Then he returned secretly. Did he see you with Mrs. Ogden?”

“No!” I cried. “I have not been with her.” Then added lamely: “He saw me outside her aunt’s house, where she is staying. He chased after me.”

Pike nodded as he took in what I had said, and then stood with folded arms, still brooding. At length he sighed.

“I’ll try to help you, sir. We can have the body put where it will never be found. But I must pay those who do the business. Can you find thirty guineas by tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“He may be seen by the lamplight. We must move him.”

Together we heaved and slithered the sodden body into a dark corner.

“The job must be done before dawn,” said Pike. “I’ll take care of it. You go home, sir. Don’t let yourself be seen. Clean your sword and your clothes. Behave natural and say nothing. I’ll get word to you.”

He hurried off into the darkness, and I was left shivering. I retained just sufficient self-command to wipe my sword on a handkerchief before sheathing it, and to retrieve my hat, which was lying in the road. Fearing to be seen, I took a roundabout route to Cathcart Street through the continuing rain. My mind was with Ogden, lying in the wet mud.

Back in my rooms I cleaned the sword thoroughly, feeling sick as I did so. The handkerchief I had wiped it with I would throw away in the morning. My shoes and stockings were muddy, but that would not be a suspicious circumstance of itself. As far as I could see by candlelight, there was no blood on my clothes. Even wearier than I was fearful, I fell into bed and was at once asleep.

Chapter 23

I
woke early, cold with terror but able to think. If Pike had been as good as his word, I might yet be safe. No one but Pike had seen what had happened, and he was my ally. Who knew of the assignation? Only Sarah herself, Gilbert, and Cullen. I should use the morning to clear myself with all three before any suspicions began to arise.

As I sat upright I became conscious of a painful lump inside my mouth. I climbed out of bed and took a small mirror to the window. Peering into it, I saw that I had badly bitten my tongue—no doubt when the frantic Ogden punched me. Somehow, in the confusion that followed, the hurt had gone unnoticed. Here was yet another concern: I would need to keep this ignoble wound hidden from others.

By the gray morning light from the window I wrote a brief message to Sarah:

I returned home last night, sadly disappointed, after reading your unexpected dismissal. You had so encouraged my expectations that the rebuff hit me hard.

I know you too well to suspect mere fickleness or provocation; but where we now stand I cannot tell. For the present I am utterly discouraged, but I must hope that at some future time there will be further communication between us.

I left the house to deliver the message immediately. Early as it was, the streets were already busy. I hurried along with bowed head. The rain had stopped, but the cobbles were still wet and the kennels were flowing freely. I contrived, unremarked, to drop my bloodied handkerchief into a workman’s brazier, and saw it flare up. On reaching the quieter district near Margaret Street I trod warily, but saw no face that I recognized and attracted no attention. From outward appearances it seemed that nobody in Mrs. Kinsey’s house was as yet awake. I hid my message with shaking fingers and hurried on. A morbid impulse almost took me on to Crocker’s house to see whether Ogden’s carcass had been removed, but I resisted it and returned to my lodgings.

When the servants had risen I breakfasted as usual, although the tea sorely burned my damaged tongue. All the time I was telling myself
I must think—I must think: everything must be calculated.
It was in this spirit that I wrote to Mr. Gilbert the letter already recorded, and then set down a true account of what had taken place. Aware that my memory was already willfully clouding over certain details, I wanted to preserve the facts while I still could. It had occurred to me that should the worse come to the worst, I might one day need such a statement to assist me in constructing a defense. I also felt that capturing the wretched episode on paper might help me to stop thinking about it.

The hope was partly fulfilled. Having completed my account and locked it safely in a drawer, I found myself less concerned with the events themselves than with their likely causes and consequences. Ogden had been made suspicious by seeing me at the Dragon—what a fool I had been to allow myself to be noticed. Perhaps his suspicions had already been stirred by something in Sarah’s manner—or had he even seen something at the masquerade? But I had certainly seen him depart. It seemed that he had become increasingly agitated as the journey proceeded and had therefore left the coach at one of the earlier stopping points to return to London. If he had gone to his house, he would have been missed in the morning, and a search would be in prospect, but he might have stayed away from it in his determination to take his wife by surprise.

Sarah must have found my note by now, and her sole anxiety would be the rift between us. If Pike had succeeded in his task, she would have no further cause for concern or suspicion until word came from Malvern that Ogden had failed to arrive.

Thinking back, I did not know what I would have done had Pike not appeared—surely nothing sensible or honorable. I had been stunned. Ogden was dead and beyond help. To confess to what had happened would have been to incriminate Sarah as well as myself. If I had simply run away, the body would have been found soon after daybreak, Sarah would have been questioned, and I would now be sitting in panic waiting for a knock at the door.

All my hopes rested with Pike. I respected his resourcefulness and knowledge of the city’s underworld, but I did not know how far I could depend on him. It seemed that he had elected to help me merely upon a whim. How far would that impulse take him? If he had encountered unforeseen difficulties, would he not have given up? I was impatient to hear from him. Had he been successful, his task would have been completed in the hours of darkness. Unfortunately I could not wait in the house for a message: I had to obtain the thirty guineas I had promised—a substantial sum, but no doubt a fair reward for disposing of a rich man’s corpse.

Reluctantly I went out again into the crowded streets. As I walked toward Charing Cross I became aware of a tall fellow alongside me and in step with me. When his arm distinctly brushed my own, I noticed a piece of paper held loosely in his hand. I took it from him and he was gone. We had not exchanged a word, nor had I seen his face.

At the first opportunity I stepped into a side alley to read the note:
St. Gregory’s Church, Trent Square, tomorrow morning at 10.
Here was Pike’s message. Why not simply
All well
? There was to be a further night of suspense, which would be hard to bear—but I might have been reading
Escape while you can!
I walked on to procure the money.

By the time I had done so, I was seriously fatigued, confounded by the shocks of the previous eighteen hours. If I had returned to Cathcart Street, I would surely have fallen into a deep sleep. Instead I went doggedly in search of Matt Cullen, knowing that it was vital for me to see him before the day was out, if I was to secure him as a potential witness. He was not in his lodging, but I found him soon enough in a nearby tavern, where we withdrew to a quiet table. For all my weariness I was primed to perform.