White Stone Day (33 page)

The
Alhambra Baths, Endell Street, London Everything's got a moral, if
you can only find it. Wearing two delightfully fresh towels, Whitty
patters across the wet marble tiles of the sitting room, feeling less
hunched–over than normal, thanks to the removal of a £500
debt from his shoulders, and with it, the need to slouch about
incognito. For it has turned out that the Captain, like most hardened
criminals, is a man of his word. 'Yer done yer duty too well, boyo,'
blubbered the Captain while Whitty pretended to study his collection
of model ships, thereby avoiding the disconcerting sight of the old
man in tears. 'It be to my regret that there be no villain alive to
deal with. Our man deserved another fate than to drown while asleep
in a nice warm bath.' 'The quality are different from you and I, sir.
They do not answer for their actions in the normal way.' Behind the
bookcase, Whitty could hear the usual squeaking and rustling of rats.
'May I hope that this does not detract from our original agreement?'
'No, boyo, yer be in the clear and free of debt – though
welcome to return to the sport if so–minded.' 'Should I appear
so–minded, I beg you to throw me into the cage with the rest of
the stock, and leave me there.' On that note Whitty left the Captain
to his rats and his regrets, with his head held high for the first
time in several years. It was with a similarly erect posture that he
made his entrance into Plant's, in the turn–out of a gentleman
– coat of robin's–egg blue, trousers the colour of faint
sunlight – sans the taint of outrageous rumour and distasteful
quips about backgammon. His meeting with Mrs Plant at her table
behind the glass partition proved more than cordial, with a welcome
aspect of amusement in her sharp green eyes, and a note passed
beneath the table that said, One o'clock in the morning, side door.
281 WHITE STONE DAY Upon entering the rear snug, however, he noted
the conspicuous absence of Mr Fraser and was met with troubling news
from Mr Cobb, who disengaged his forehead from the table long enough
to inform him that the correspondent for Dodd's had suffered an
infirmity and remained bedridden, thanks to a mysterious malady –
arising, by all reports, from a daring but ill–advised
investigation into the sport of ratting. To which Mr Gosse of the
Yokel's Preceptor produced from his pocketbook a piece of doggerel
intended for publication in Punch, hinting that Mr Fraser's illness
might be of an unmentionable nature: A Hiberian writer of twaddle
Must his figure in bandages swaddle A rattus addendum Hath nipped his
pudendum And now he must walk with a waddle. 'A poor excuse for
humour,' Whitty observed. 'In atrocious taste . . .' Upon entering
the bathroom of the Alhambra, he avoids the glances of two epicene
gentlemen in towels, lest he come upon a familiar face. Breathing the
salubrious vapours, he settles into a marble armchair in a gentle
reverie of orientalism – such a comfort after weeks spent in
the mysterious Occident, by the end of which the town of Oxford, and
the university by that name, had become as foreign to him as the
temples of Angkor Wat. . . 'Excuse me, Mr Whitty, sir, but I wonder
if we might have a quiet word – uninterrupted by your manly
acquaintances?' The American. The feeling of languor evaporates,
while his neck retracts turtle–like into his shoulders and his
back arches in the way of a startled cat. Nonetheless, Whitty's eyes
remain closed, in the hope that the American will take the hint and
disappear for ever. 'Julius Comfort, at your service once again,'
continues the gentleman, without a qualm. 'Would you care for a
cheroot?' 'No cheroot, thank you,' Whitty replies, smiling tightly at
the tall southern gentleman. Taking Whitty's rebuff as an invitation
to settle in, the American undertakes a genial ramble. 'Speaking as a
visitor to your fair land, sir, I have often noted that the
Englishman has been unfairly marked as a cold creature. In truth,
beneath the phlegmatic veneer lies a passionate, 282 THE ALHAMBRA
BATHS, ENDELL STREET, LONDON excitable spirit, with an outlook akin
to the fellows of Arabia.' 'How interesting,' Whitty replies. 'May I
remind you, sir, that since we first met, I have encountered my dead
brother, and stood accused of murder. I have been driven mad in
Millbank. I was set upon and shot at by man–bashers, and
suffered an injury to my ankle which continues to give me trouble.
God forbid that I might have met my Maker without hearing your
opinion of the English national character.' 'Oh, that is a good one,
sir. A good crack, as you might say. But we have more important
business to discuss. In awaiting your return, I have become such a
frequent visitor to this establishment, I feel as if my skin is
turning to sponge.' With a wink, Mr Comfort retrieves a damp
envelope, paper, pen and ink from a spot on the floor beside his
chair. 'In my official capacity with the Pinkerton Group, I stand
engaged by the same family who underwrote the pursuit of Bill
Williams – also known as Dr Gilbert Myers, Professor Zollner,
Herr Schrenk–Notting, and so forth. My employers wish to reward
you, sir, for your part in bringing to justice a dangerous fraud, who
had eluded agents of law enforcement on two continents.' 'The deuce!
You still think I actually hanged the man, don't you? – or
rather, lynched him, is the way I think you people express it.' 'You
are a man of action, sir, the breed of man who is taming the West as
we speak.' 'I am nothing of the kind, sir. I am an English gentleman.
I will have you understand that a gentleman does not go about
lynching people or taming the West.' The American effects a wry
smile. 'May I suggest, sir, that it is a foolish man who makes a
fetish of his own innocence. Especially when he is about to receive a
good deal of money.' A pause, while the latter sentence sinks in.
'How much?' 'A gold certificate in the amount of $5,000.' 'Is that a
good deal of money? I have no grasp of exchange–rates.' 'By my
calculation, sir, that would come to approximately 225 troy ounces,
or £1,000 sterling. Unless, of course you wish to pound the
gold into jewellery and wear it on your person.' He smiles, pleased
by his play on the word pound, rises to his feet, gives Whitty's hand
a damp shake, and is gone. Envelope in hand, Whitty lies on his back
and gazes upward at the skylight directly above him. He can feel a
weak beam of sunlight, 283 WHITE STONE DAY trickling through the
transom, dripping warmly upon his cheeks and forehead. Closing his
eyes, he can feel his naked body lift from its marble chair and soar
upward, through the panes of glass and up the light–well, to
smile upon the face of London. 284

Epilogue
At the age of eighteen, Emma Lambert married Eric Alger Mindon, a
graduate of Christ Church and a champion cricketer for Hampshire,
where they settled at Cuffnells, the Mindon family estate. She gave
birth to three sons, two of whom died in the Great War. Emma
Pleasance Mindon died in 1933, at the age of eighty–six. Lydia
Maude Lambert did not marry. She died in 1876, of peritonitis, aged
twenty–five. Birdie Lambert, nee Root, returned to her home in
Upper Clodding where she assumed responsibility for the family
business upon the illness of her father. She died in 1877 of a fever
at the age of forty–four. Lieutenant–Colonel Robin and
Corporal Weeks established a firm, Robin & Weeks, on Duke of York
Street, London, dealing in provisions and equipment for foreign
travel, at which the partners enjoyed moderate success. Alasdair
Fraser recovered fully and resumed his position with Dodd's. Soon
thereafter, his expose concerning 'Corruption in the Fourth Estate'
ended a number of careers, including that of Mr Cream of The Falcon.
The Reverend William Leffington Boltbyn never took another
photograph. 285