Gibbous House

by Ewan Lawrie

  Gesturing at the heaps of tunics, I asked him, ‘A strange place to be sewing uniforms for the British Army, is it not, Salomons?’

  ‘A man would not get rich making fine clothes in Northumberland.’

  Miss Pardoner was now holding a tunic to her torso and admiring herself in a mirror.

  I addressed the tailor, ‘Now, you know me, sir. My clothes; are there items ready for use?’

  I leaned over the rough table that struggled to bear the weight of his machine. He shrank a little, licked dry lips and croaked, ‘One or two, if... if... you would go to the garderobe.’ He gestured at a curtained-booth to the rear.

  It was cramped. I saw no reason to discomfort myself further by drawing the curtain. I removed Maccabi’s boots, trousers and topcoat and let them fall to the floor. Miss Pardoner, more the pity, continued to preen in the mirror. Salomons brought me an armful of clothing. The quality of work was surprisingly good: the nap of the material was exquisite to the touch, and the fit, if not perfect, showed my figure to good advantage, at least judging by Miss Pardoner’s sudden loss of interest in the looking-glass.

  ‘These clothes are acceptable, Mr Salomons.’ My words brought him up sharp. ‘I should like to wear these; would you parcel whatever else is ready?’

  He began nodding and hopping from foot to foot, and set about packing the clothing. Presently, he handed me a parcel of easily manageable size – had the chaise been larger. No matter, it would improve the upholstery for our return to Gibbous House.

  The hopping did not stop, and I wondered if there were some peculiar quality to the flags of the shop’s floor. In the event it was not so: the tailor was merely summoning the courage to ask for payment. I left him my promissory note, which he was foolish enough to accept.

  Maccabi’s finest apparel still lay on the floor of the booth and I felt a fair exchange was no robbery.

  The chaise stood in front of the window containing the infamous ‘dirty bottles’, proving that Robson was capable of fulfilling a simple instruction. The state of the vehicle itself indicated that the liverymen were not. It was so filthy that it was quite conceivable that the fellow with the low forehead – doubtless some relation of the landlord – had merely driven the chaise to the nearest common land and left it unattended. Still, a polished carriage was hardly required to visit a gaol.

  The horse made incremental progress uphill on St Michael’s Lane to Green Batt; Miss Pardoner kindly pointed out the location of the Alnwick Scientific and Mechanical Institute, informing me that the professor had been known to lecture there in the past. I turned our carriage up Percy Terrace and we drew to a halt after about a furlong. To our left was a grimly grimy building constructed in the ubiquitous sandstone. It was small, but looked secure.

  I looked to Miss Pardoner. She was plucking at her lower lip with a gloved thumb and forefinger, and remained distracted the while I helped her to the ground.

  It seemed a building of no great antiquity, despite the grime. A utilitarian cube, it looked exactly what it was: a place of refuse, a gaol in a provincial town. There was little evidence of adherence to the precepts of the late Bentham, a fact that I remarked upon to Miss Pardoner. Her reply was succinct.

  ‘So advanced a thinker’s theories are scarcely likely to have been adopted here.’

  I reflected that she might have held some affection for his outlandish theories concerning the equality of the sexes.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The entrance did, in fact, boast something so sophisticated as a bell pull. It was hardly a surprise to see that for decoration the handle bore a facsimile of a lion. I grunted with the exertion required to operate the mechanism, and Miss Pardoner covered her mouth with a hand.

  The summons was not answered with any particular promptness and I was grateful that the weather was clement. The nag seemed quite content to shuffle its hooves and remain contemplative in its traces: I didn’t doubt it was far too lazy to walk a yard or two, much less bolt.

  In the due course of time the sturdy door swung wide and a lugubrious visage appeared atop a giant of painfully thin figure. Such were his dimensions that his head seemed enormous by comparison. His etiolated complexion was not improved by a cast of features that suggested only the most esurient of characters. He held out a grasping hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Moffat.’

  I took his hand, saying, ‘You have the advantage of me, sir.’

  ‘Gideon Catchpole, at your service.’

  His voice was as sickly sweet as laudanum – and would undoubtedly have been as soporific if suffered at length. He turned to Miss Pardoner and took her hand in both of his.

  ‘Ellen, it is so long since you have come to succour the unfortunates.’

  A certain glee surfaced through the laudanum as he uttered the word ‘unfortunates’, and I thought any guest of Mr Catchpole’s establishment might indeed consider themselves unfortunate. I resisted any temptation to ask how the man had guessed my own identity and hoped that it irked him that I did so.

  ‘So, Catchpole, are you gaoler, turnkey or some other functionary here?’

  There was no sign of outrage at the insult, save a slight stiffening of his pitiful body, whereupon he said, ‘None of these, least of all gaoler, Mr Moffat, since my establishment is not a gaol, but the Alnwick House of Correction.’

  It was a petty thing, but neither did I give him opportunity to inform me of his station, and merely enquired whether Miss Pardoner and I might have a tour of the building. He led us inside; it was as dark and damp as a cave and this, perhaps, accounted for Catchpole’s invalid colouring.

  The accommodations lined the outer wall of the building. Each heavy, iron-bound door was shut and would have opened onto a large stone-flagged area seemingly dedicated to Mr Catchpole’s comfort whilst at his post. A comfortable-looking winged chair was too far from the large desk in the centre of the room to encourage much endeavour.

  On the other side of the chair a sandstone column rose to the rafters. It was decorated with sundry rings, which in turn were festooned with chains and manacles various. A filthy boy in scarcely less filthy rags cowered at the foot of the column.

  The cells seemed unlikely to allow more than the rudest of cots within and numbered some thirty. There was a further door to the exterior in the rear wall between two of these tiny rooms. Catchpole’s fiefdom was the Model Asylum writ exceedingly small, and I had to strain hard not to shudder at the sight of it.

  ‘Tea!’ he bellowed, but we were hard put to discern the word, for the cacophony that had erupted on the inmates realisation that someone had entered the House of Correction was injurious to the ear. It truly was like a Bedlamite hospice, and far worse than any gaol I had had occasion to visit in the past.

  Miss Pardoner and I nodded our assent, since to speak was futile. Catchpole despatched the boy with a kick: he scuttled on all fours to the door at the rear. He left it banging in the breeze, but I was glad of the little light it allowed into the dingy place. Catchpole picked up a large staff bound with iron. It was like a beadle’s staff, but appeared less suited to ceremonial than to brutal functioning.

  Which theory was short in the proving, as he hammered the head with menace on the first cell door. He himself said nothing, but the sound was greeted with shrieks and shouts of ‘The Warden’, before a silence less comfortable than the earlier pandemonium descended.

  Catchpole spoke, his right hand stroking the staff all the while. ‘While we await the tea, Mr Moffat, what is your business here?’

  ‘I require a menial, possibly two, for service at Gibbous House,’ I replied.

  ‘How can I provide these? All are here for expiation of crimes,’ he sneered.

  ‘Not so, Catchpole, surely you have a trollop or indigent that may be released on my parole?’ I looked him keenly in the eye and the hand stopped its movement on the staff.

  ‘But, sir, my stipend is dependent on the number of guests I entertain.’

 
The soporific voice betrayed just enough avarice to leave me in no doubt as to his meaning.

  It was evident what he was; the cringing boy had been proof enough of that, without considering the behaviour of the inmates. I cared not for their fate at this man’s hands, but I grabbed his throat, knocking the staff aside.

  ‘Know me, Catchpole, for one who would have you as that boy, on all fours, a cringing, whimpering dog.’

  Really, I did require some release of passion soon. I had meant only to terrify the skinny wretch, but still knew it would have given me a great deal of pleasure to encounter him in the dark of night. Of course he followed my argument beautifully, replying, ‘Yes, of course, sir, would you like the tour?’

  I released him, and he continued to babble. ‘Damn that boy! Where is the tea?’

  Miss Pardoner drew up beside me, and I felt her hand brush against mine. My manner of persuasion must have affected her, as she was fully flushed. There was more to this woman than I had previously thought, or I was very much mistaken.

  Catchpole moved to open the door that he had earlier belaboured with the staff. The cells were as cramped as they appeared from the exterior. This one had no cot, only straw; a figure, apparently female, lay atop it surrounded by a litter of infants of whom the eldest might have been five. Catchpole waved his staff, the children shrieked and the woman shrank into the corner.

  ‘Thief, three penny loaves at the Shrove Tuesday market.’

  He slammed the door. The next cubicle contained a male. He seemed catatonic, his hair must have passed the scapulae and he sported a beard of like proportions.

  ‘Horse thief, gypsy, does not speak. Does not move. I check him from time to time.’

  ‘He is newly here, I think,’ Miss Pardoner said. ‘Less than a trimester.’

  ‘You are correct. I have never seen him eat or drink, although he must, else he’d be dead.’ He sounded disappointed.

  The next door revealed a young woman of about Miss Pardoner’s age. She herself had turned away from the sight. She was chained about the waist and wrists. It was easy to see why; she still bore the marks of the damage she had earlier inflicted upon herself.

  ‘Murderess, awaiting trial. Drowned her own in the Coquet.’ He slammed the door with some vigour.

  The third door revealed a columnar recess; a woman of about thirty sprang out to the length of her own chain as we all leaped back as one. She screamed a name.

  It was the most surprising thing about our visit, not least because there was no one present by the name: ‘Jedediah!’

  Catchpole employed his staff of office to encourage Jill to return to her box. I raised an eyebrow at Miss Pardoner, who shook her head. I took this to mean we would not yet discuss the coincidence. I tugged at the fellow’s sleeve; his shoulders, such as they were, heaved after the exertion of returning his captive to her rightful place.

  ‘Catchpole, I want some harmless trollop and a strong-backed dolt; kindly show me someone suitable. We are not here to marvel at curiosities.’

  The boy arrived with the tea. The china looked remarkably good, if ill matched, and the boy carried it in on a silver salver of fine quality. He deposited this on the table, and there being only one chair we remained standing to partake of the infusion. Duty done, the boy dropped to all fours and scuttled to his former post.

  ‘What about him?’ I said.

  Catchpole spilled the greater portion of his tea. ‘Ah, nnnn-nno, ah that is... ’

  I stepped toward him.

  ‘It’s my son!’ he shrieked.

  ‘We’ll take him too, I think. Shall I ask him?’

  But the boy was already at my knee like some hound by its master. Catchpole seemed disinclined to argue. We finished our tea as Catchpole brought out a woman of, it seemed, middle years.

  She had been engaged as a pot-woman in the past in several of the town’s places of entertainment, and had been incarcerated for supplementing her income by providing additional diversions. It was hardly to be believed, to look at her. Perhaps the depredations of Catchpole’s hospitality had not been easily borne. Mary Cotton was her name, and she dipped a clumsy courtesy on pronouncement of it.

  The second party to emerge from durance vile was a broad-backed fellow with a high forehead but no sign of intelligence behind it, his eyes dull and flat. It was all he could do to utter his name: ‘James Bill’.

  I asked him if he were kin to the mute in the Coble Inn, but might as well have asked the sandstone pillar, for he answered only ‘James Bill’. I informed Catchpole that the parolees were to be ready at ten of the following morning, at which time a carter would await their persons outside the House of Correction. Miss Pardoner and I made our way out, the dog-boy scampering at my heels.

  The boy’s animal characteristics did not confine themselves to the canine: he hung from the rear of the carriage like a performing monkey all the way to the Cross Inn. I enjoined Robson the landlord to find somewhere for the chaise and instructed him in the matter of the cart for its human cargo. He was pleased to offer us rooms for the night, but not so pleased as I to accept them.

  We dined in much the same style as on my previous visit to the inn: simply but well. My pleasure was only ruined by a loud and, in time, quite drunken fellow who was making great play of approaching the ‘dirty bottles’, pretending to touch them but running away at the last minute. It was a childish pursuit and I became so heartsick of the nonsense I repaired to my bed, faithful dog-boy at my heels.

  I awoke in sudden fashion. The dog-boy was at the foot of the bed, dreaming of chasing rabbits or perhaps his own father, whimpering and growling emanating from him in equal degree. I did not think that this had awakened me.

  There was a knock at the door, tentative and light of touch. I was not displeased to discover Ellen Pardoner as the author of it. Her face was flushed and she was in her nightgown. The moonlight shone through the hall window behind her. I savoured the outline of her limbs and waited.

  ‘Let me in, at once.’ I did so willingly. Miss Pardoner sat on the bed and looked at me. I said nothing.

  ‘Lie with me,’ she said. ‘Tell me of the evil you have done.’

  We passed an hour enjoying the comfort of strangers. Her quiet moans were stifled by a bolster and, where necessary, my hand. She left the moment her breathing had steadied and did not look back as I watched the door close behind her.

  The dog-boy slept through our most satisfactory encounter, and long after. I, on the other hand, did not enjoy a long return to sleep. I woke with a start, but did not know why. Although my room was above the public bar, there was no sound of carousal or dispute to indicate that Robson was still at his post. I dressed quickly: shirt, trousers, but no boots, and felt in my pocket for an item that might prove useful, if I were lucky.

  As I descended the stairs, cat-footed, a noise gradually increased in volume. By the time I had reached the foot of the stairs, it seemed to be the dying breaths of a water buffalo. In fact it was the foolish drunk who had earlier been playing with the cursed bottles. He lay supine, maw agape on one of the longer tables in the room, one of the nearest to the self-same glassware.

  I heaved him to his feet using the front of his waistcoat. He seemed barely sensible to his surroundings or to me. I pivoted him away from me using his shoulders and pushed him to the floor. In no time the yellow scarf was around his neck and my knee was in his back. Just before the death-rattle came I dragged him upright and swung him nearer to the bottles, until his flopping arm draped gently over the neat stack.

  ‘It appears to be true, one shouldn’t touch those bottles, my friend.’

  I made my way back to the room, where I was greeted by a sleepy eye from the dog-boy. The sleep that came, although it may not have been that of the just, was surely that of the sated.

  *

  The knock at the door awoke us both before the meagre light crept through the dusty window. I had not undressed, but called out that I was as yet in my déshabillé. I told
the boy to guard the door. After a suitable time, I opened it. It was Robson, looking a little piqued.

  ‘Sir, thiz summat ah-full happent! Doonstairs.’

  ‘What is it that it may not wait until a man has shaved?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s turrible, ah-full, a divvent na... ’ he spluttered.

  Caring not what he did or didn’t know, I told him I would shave before descending and slammed the door in his face. The water in the porcelain was clean but very cold; soap and a mug had been provided, but best of all a bone-handled razor. It proved very sharp and I pocketed it once I had made use of it.

  I made to leave the room, noted the dog-boy at my feet, took hold of an ear and lifted him so that he might look me in the face.

  ‘Dog-boy, do you think you might walk like a man in public? At Gibbous House you may do as you please, but until then you will walk upright in civilised manner. Do you have a name?’

  I would have sworn he intended to bark. Instead, he gave answer in a voice as rusty as an unused hinge:‘Job.’

  ‘Well, Job, pleased to meet you,’ I said, offering a hand. His own came up like a terrier’s paw, and then took mine more or less like a gentleman.

  In the public bar the deceased drunkard was still embracing the infamously cursèd flasks; Miss Pardoner was standing near the entrance; I smiled, but she did not. Nor did she blink, frown or acknowledge our recent intimacy in any way. I was not entirely sure whether I was pleased – or not – at this reaction. Robson was smearing tankards whilst standing behind the bar. Also in attendance was the coroner and a policeman. I wondered that he had not buckled under the undoubtedly heavier burden that Constable Turner’s unexplained absence must have placed upon him.

  The coroner eyed me nervously. ‘Mr Moffat, we meet again. My cousin – ah – enjoyed your visit to his humble place of work.’

  Although dissimilar in shape and size, the cousins shared a certain curve of avarice to the mouth and a glint of greed in the eye, and I realised why the warden had known who I was.