But the Negro was probably long dead by now, or else adventures-in-many-continents past remembrance of Samuel Trevan. And even if memory persisted at all, his name would be only a footnote in a report about something infinitely bigger. No: no one significant recalled or thought about him any more.
‘Hello.’
Samuel had already noted the young couple at a nearby table. They stuck out from Higham's usual clientele and were so wrapped up in each other as to flirt with expulsion. A single public kiss between - betrothed - lovers was just about permissible, but these two, good clothes and breeding notwithstanding, were sailing close to the wind. Their mutual passion had been observed and tutted over by the regulars.
For all Trevan cared they could mount one another over the tea-things, but he preferred not to have to watch affection. 'Romantic love' was just an invention of old-maid authoresses. Moreover, it was a lie that didn't last (barring he and Mrs T, of course). Besides which, these two needed feeding up far more than smooching. They'd do better to eat what they'd ordered instead of linking lips or addressing strangers.
‘Are you talking to me?’ Samuel asked, a welcome-free zone.
‘Hello.’ It was the girl this time, smiling wider and wider. Meanwhile, her thin arm didn't cease to twine round the beloved. ‘Hello!’
Trevan took pleasure in alarm: suddenly this was no longer normal or everyday. Perhaps they were well-spoken loonies, escaped from the priory bedlam. Or maybe they'd got out of a private asylum, the sort of place where wealthy families dumped those who failed the exam of life. But thereagain, would any warder let them dress so... fashionable?
Mr Higham himself detected matters were amiss and interrupted his cutlery audit. Then the girl's swift-drawn pistol sent him back to it in comic reverse stride.
The couple stood up and embraced across the crockery, exchanging a titanic, the-tongue-as-intrepid-explorer, type kiss. Somehow Trevan sensed it was long awaited. The casually brandished gun meanwhile kept him in his seat, more fascinated than threatened.
‘I should have so liked to fuck you,’ the young man told the girl, once disengaged. Samuel had rarely heard such adoring tones. The profanity reached and hushed even the distant beer-tap bar. The yeomanry there gathered round to look on through the hatch.
‘In heaven,’ the girl consoled her sweetheart. ‘Soon.’
Both drew silver bodkins from their sleeves. Loving fingers gently parted shirt and bodice to lodge a needle-point above each heart.
Then they turned their perfect faces to Trevan.
‘We are here,’ they told him, speaking as one - and then fell forward, screaming in pain and joy.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 2
Since he didn't wish Melissa troubled, Samuel took his resultant thoughts to Pevensey - once the authorities had finished with him. A Justice of the Peace, an outlander from Surrey, had taken his deposition and, finding it supported in every way, was obliged to let him go. Trevan truthfully maintained that though the young people might have addressed him he did not know them. Higham the hotelier further testified as to their general peculiarity, and so that settled things for the moment. A King's Coroner's inquest was called for a week hence and Trevan told to be before it.
Samuel had already come to his own verdict - the most probable and horrible solution - before his feet boarded the carriage taking him away. Even so, he postponed acceptance. The chain of logic to the correct conclusion was long and vulnerable to attack in many places. Happily, there was (dishonest) comfort in that task and Samuel set about it as Haddad whipped the horses to the coast. Since the coachman loved his team dearly that hurt him as much as they, but his master had said to 'shake some action!', his face a mask drained of mercy. Poor Haddad had no alternative to cruelty and prayed for equine forgiveness even as he laid on.
Accordingly, they made good time, round Caburn and the gypsy camp at Southerham, pelting past Wilmington and its 'Long Man', barely slowing to fling out the toll at Polegate. The broad new road, commissioned to speed His Majesty to sea-bathing and mistresses at Brighthelmstone, made even January journeys feasible. Thus they travelled smoothly until obliged to branch off near Stone Cross. Thereafter, it was back to normal; progress being tempered by caution and great ruts and dips, the ravages of wear and tear. They were fortunate in that the month had so far been dry. Winter often made Sussex roads only fit for ox-carts.
Samuel didn't complain, for at least the lesser pace removed the cursed 'blurring' attendant on him since they left Lewes. Every time he looked from the window an emergent... shape seemed keeping pace with them. It proved so disconcerting that he almost drew the blinds, but once they’d slowed down the affliction fled. The gut-churning state of the Pevensey road was a price worth paying for that relief.
Then Trevan noticed a neat spray of bloodstains down his waistcoat; spurted droplets from the boy or girl's puncture wound. All his troubles immediately returned in formation.
In consequence, Pevensey Castle was an even more welcome sight than normal. Samuel had long ago warmed to the round of its Roman walls amidst the flatness of the 'Levels'. Plus there was a glimpse of the sea beyond. And looming up above the beach rose the 'Wizard's Palace': Papal Roman architecture improbably transported to darkest Sussex. This was the official abode of the Thaumaturgic Grandmaster for the south-east and... interesting tales were spun about it. Safely far off, Trevan could just appreciate the frisson it added to the scene, a dark mystery he need not probe.
Most of all though, Trevan liked the Castle because Susan lived beside it.
Haddad was directed to the 'Royal Oak and Castle' and given a guilt-inspired half-crown to play with. Samuel left him soothing the team, whispering to them of treats in store. Most of the money would probably go on sugar lumps.
Meanwhile, across the empty cattle-market square was Susan's cottage. Trevan sped off to burst into it - and, very shortly after, into her.
************
She was a hard-working but less-than-lucky young mother of three, left a widow by a lost fisherman. Or so it was assumed. His precise fate and whereabouts were known only to God and the fishes, although scattered wreckage washed up long after supplied a clue. It had been that kind of storm. Standing on tiptoe in Susan’s upstairs room, you could see (should you care to) his token cross in St Nicolas' churchyard across the square.
Sometimes, afterwards, Trevan did care to. He viewed the already faded memorial and wondered if the man had gone down beholding the lights of home. And, if so, had that been a consolation or torment? No one would ever know. Then, faced with that dead-end, Samuel’s thoughts would backtrack along less philosophical paths. It was ignoble and petty, but not to be denied, that tokens of his predecessor seen from that bedroom were a turn-on. Sight of that fading cross somehow made him feel Sultan-like.
It wasn’t actually quite so bald or bad as that. Samuel and Susan had come to a comfortable arrangement some while ago, and were more solicitous of each other than many a long-wedded pair. He secured commissions for her sewing and embroidery, and also ensured that she got premium prices. Numerous Lewes properties of the more aspirant sort had Susie's cushions in them (though Galen House was not amongst them). Likewise, she catered for his needs. Their different hungers were thus satisfied.
That day Susan saw the infants to her mother-in-law's and then lifted her linen as Trevan required, without demur. Later on they'd have cocoa (if he'd brought some, broth if not), and conversation. Then, when he'd left, she'd find a guinea somewhere. This last part was never ever discussed, for fear of undermining what they'd built.
That time - those times - though, for all that he was in her there was no pleasure in her - or for her, because she could tell. Samuel looked down upon her honest Sussex face and saw other, less obliging, views.
He also suffered from grave distractions, such as the 'blurring's return and its crazed cavorting on the rim of sight. Plus the persistent sense that something was standing behind him, studying the
up and down of the Trevan backside.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 3
'THE LEWES TIMES & PIOUS INTELLIGENCER'.
The 22nd of January 2021 AD.
P. Brazier. Secular and Ecclesiastic Court Reporter.
CHASTE SELF-DESTRUCTION
‘Such was the melancholy conclusion of Coroner Champion, sitting at the Crown Inn yesterday, concerning the strange demise of two young persons on the 14th inst. The sad particulars according to Mr P. LAWS (witness) were that at midday in Mr HIGHAM's establishment, High Street, Lewes….
... enquiries conducted by the coroner's staff revealed that both were of good, Bristolian, family (whose name is here withheld in deference to their inconsolable state) of the rank of Gentry (Saxon), from whom they might expect every blessing and preferment in life, either together in matrimony or no. Testimony was also received from their parish priest and neighbours of quality attesting to each one's sovereign virtues and piety. Furthermore, a surgeon gave evidence of the young female's intacta state, thus disarming the malignant of any sordid speculation.
… Mr S. TREVAN (witness) of Galen House, Lewes, was formally reprimanded by the coroner for his taciturnity and 'sullen disposition'. Threatened with proceedings for contempt of court, TREVAN saw fit to quip that such a verdict would be 'uncanny reading of his inmost thoughts'. The witness was then discharged amidst most inappropriate merriment from the public gallery.
A suicide verdict was unavoidably reached, mitigated by references to a destablement of mind caused by falsely perceived barriers to their earthly love.
The cadavers are to be conducted west to their grieving families for burial, alas at a crossroads. The Bishop of Lewes, inspired by Christian charity, nevertheless granted an indulgence that they might receive a blessing and rest beside one another, awaiting the judgement of their infinitely merciful Creator.'
Samuel set the paper down. Of late he’d taken to keeping a pistol close by. ‘Chaste Self-Destruction’ inspired him to check it still sat in his office desk. It did: ready and waiting. He had nothing to worry about. Samuel read on
He found only reassuring stuff: cattle-feed prices and banns of marriage: Lewes life going on, running smoothly along its Sussex rut. Which lasted until the ‘Personal’ column on the back page. Normally it only amused him: endless pleas to St Jude for lost objects or self-defined ‘gentlemen’ seeking love. Therefore nothing whatsoever to do with Samuel Trevan.
Today though, he was involved. He was even impudently addressed. To his face! In front of everyone!
Trevan tried to but could not resist it. Another pointless but soothing revisit to his desk draw. Had his gun dematerialised in the last few minutes? No.
He read again, though he knew that nothing would have changed there either.
'To Mr S. T, citizen of Lewes.
Greetings from old friends who desire to renew a WELCOMBE acquaintance.
We are here.
Reply c/o Box 23. 'The Intelligencer' Offices.'
The paper went into the privy and Samuel (pistol in frockcoat pocket) went to 'Sharp's Ironmongers (Estab. 1685)' in the High Street. There he spent like a lottery winner on new house and window locks of their sturdiest kind.
He also no longer deluded himself on another score. It ceased to be safe to deny it. Something on the periphery of vision was taking form and following him.
************
‘You took your bloody time, Fynn. What's your game? The knocker went ages back!’
‘Samuel!’ Melissa chided him - though cautiously. He'd been like a bear with toothache lately; even marginally so with her. ‘Pas profanum devant les domesticus!’
With only a weak grasp of any of them, Melissa Trevan tended to mix and mangle her ‘polite languages’. She took refuge in confidence that the lower orders wouldn’t realise.
‘It is the sheer multiplicity of locks, sir,’ said the butler, in his own defence. He felt no call to shoulder blame that didn’t belong. His brother ran a doing-nicely-thank-you print shop in the town: he'd see him alright if need be. ‘Opening the front door after nightfall is now a complex task.’
Trevan glowered.
‘You watch your lip, Mr Fynn, or you'll be going through that door yourself, open or otherwise. And who is it anyway?’
‘They had no card, sir, but claim acquaintance. It may be merely business of course, but one cannot quite place their status. Accordingly, I thought it best to confer with you.’
‘They're waiting?’
‘On the doorstep, sir. And none too patiently, if I may say so.’
Melissa put down her book. Miss Austen’s ‘Pride & Piety’ had been causing her eyes to droop in any case, and now duty called. Galen House was her business and under Samuel's new interventionist regime it was all going to pot.
‘Fynn! You may not leave visitors in such rude limbo. Either show them into the hallway or to the side door, but don't-....’
‘Master's orders, madam,’ the servant dared to interrupt. ‘And there’s been so many callers sent away of late I'm no longer clear who’s to be admitted and who’s not.’
‘What?’ That was news to Mrs Trevan and she wanted to hear more.
‘I'll deal with them,’ said Samuel, detecting a good time to be away. Meanwhile, Melissa detained Fynn to tell all.
‘Traitor!’ Trevan whispered to the butler as their paths crossed.
‘Truth,’ came the hissed riposte. Yet again, his employer wished the Sussex servitor classes weren't so Leveller-minded.
Standing before the front door Samuel took a deep breath and then lifted the new and heavy latch. The callers were revealed. This time there was a pair of them.
‘Come with us,’ they said.
‘No,’ replied Samuel.
‘Please.’
‘Never.’
The youngest of them, a stunning girl dressed in London high fashion, pleaded with him. Her exhalations frosted in the air.
‘You may have anything you wish of me! The flesh is of no account: we may give all quite freely. All! Imagination is the only fetter. And I can-....’
Trevan impatiently waved her to silence. She obeyed with lowered head. Jet-black curls tumbled down from her bonnet.
‘What-do-you-want?’ Samuel asked, an element of desperation in his voice. Their predecessors would only say in the most general terms, but these two looked more senior. Time was short though: soon Melissa would be down to pry.
‘The future!’ answered the male, bluntly. He looked like an elderly undertaker. Trevan's first action had been to check that the man's boots connected with the ground.
Getting no response the man had to expound. ‘One future, much to our taste, flows only through you,’ he said. ‘We wish to describe its beauty and persuade you to let it be.’
‘There's no common ground here!’ Samuel exploded, though trying to keep his voice down. ‘I don't share your cack beliefs!’
That caused them to wince, but they rode it in the interests of a higher cause.
‘But you shall,’ said the beautiful fanatic. She leant forward, her eyes fiery with the desire to save him. ‘They are such sweet reason when embraced!’
There was food for thought in that, especially coming from her. But then Samuel noticed that underneath all her finery she was just skin and bone. The carefully contrived glimpse down her bodice showed a wasted landscape.
‘Convinced or not,’ said ‘Undertaker’, hurriedly, observing the failure to beguile, ‘the promised days will come through you. All we ask is that you be informed of your destiny.’
‘And do as I'm told.’
‘And be yourself, Mr Trevan,’ said the girl. It was hard to argue with her: she was so brimful with respect. ‘What could be more natural than that?’
‘Go forth: build businesses,’ suggested the man, full of fervour, ‘make things - anything. Employ slaving hordes-....’
That got Trevan’s attention. ‘But I’m not allow-....’
&nbs
p; Undertaker swept all that aside. ‘We have people in the highest places who will shield you. Be busy and bring on the new age!’
Samuel was troubled and confused. The now familiar fuzzy shape was coming up his drive to stand behind the two. They seemed to know it; the man-like form being back-up to their appeal.
‘First off you try to kill me,’ Trevan protested, ‘and now you expect-....’
‘Mistake! Mistake!’ cried Undertaker, in honest regret. ‘Our god put us to the test but we failed to perceive his sublime design. We have long mortified ourselves for that lapse….’
To prove it - and badly misjudging his audience - the old man whipped off one glove. The hand inside came with it. The remaining stump was moulded to mount a false extremity.
‘I gave this for our wicked failure,’ he said, ‘and for your forgiveness. Come with us!’
‘Come with us,’ echoed the girl, and licked her blue lips.
‘Samuel?’ said a far more feared voice from behind. ‘Who is it?’
Trevan kicked the door shut in their faces and turned on Melissa to stand in her way.
‘Peddlers,’ he answered her.
She looked round him, as though the truth could be discerned through solid oak. Predictably the attempt failed.
‘Peddling what?’ she asked, far from convinced.
Samuel shooed her back. Reluctantly at first but then more freely, Melissa permitted it.
The Two Confessions Page 28