Lemprière's Dictionary

by Lawrence Norfolk

  ‘Arrived and installed,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The Lemprières have been outside the fold too long. The game, gentlemen, has truly commenced.’

  The meeting moved on to other, lengthier matters. Later, when the rest of the business had been discussed, decisions taken or deferred, courses of action resolved, when most of those present had filed out, only two wicks remained and the light in the room was even poorer than before. The large man paced restlessly while the unseen one stayed seated. His eyes followed the other’s every movement.

  ‘You do not like the business with the boy, that much is plain my friend.’

  ‘The manner of its execution is wasteful,’ he retorted. ‘Charades, games for children.’

  ‘That is your only worry?’ The larger man stopped, rested his hands on the table, working hard to keep his expression neutral.

  ‘It is worry enough,’ he replied. ‘We could accomplish what we want more simply. We should act directly.’

  ‘It is perhaps a little late to be setting precedents.’

  ‘Only the practicalities concern me….’

  ‘Of course, but we are not dealing with a peasant. Decorum has its place in this matter.’

  ‘Decorum. What’s that to do with it?’ A hint of contempt could be heard in his voice. Tread carefully my friend, thought the other.

  ‘The Ciceros and Socrates of this world rarely dispute the verdict,’ he said, laying emphasis on the last word. ‘It is the manner of its execution that offends them, the wording, the precise detail of the ritual. It is not what we do, it is how we proceed that matters.’ The larger man seemed to accept this. He nodded and moved towards the lamp. As he snuffed out one of the wicks he was surprised to hear the other’s voice again.

  ‘I grow old, Nicolas. And tired. There will be time for change.’ He fell silent again. Nicolas Casterleigh turned on his heel and left without answering. The leader was left alone at the head of the table.

  He looked about him at the stones of the walls and roof and thought of other such chambers. The sanctum of the Eleusinian mysteries, the inner temples of Orphic cults, their rituals long forgotten, courts in which no defendant appeared, the other cabbalas which had directed the course of the world’s maturation. Hushed meetings such as these had pulled the strings of puppet-despots, directed the transient wills above. The slow rhythm of decisions taken here determined the worldly pulse. The catastrophes, the wars, the deaths of kings were nothing but skipped measures, brief interruptions in the noiseless music of subtler agendas and agreements between those whose faces remained unseen. He knew this. But change too is part of the pattern, he thought. The coming months stretched ahead of him as the last idea took on the shape he had prepared for it. For there will be change, he thought as the last wick guttered. The old city rose in his thoughts, twin towers like sentinels guarding the inner harbour. There will be a return.

  Nazim awoke with the dawn and began to prepare for the day ahead. He lay back imagining the city that surrounded him. In his mind he rose from the ground and saw it as a bird would, as a plan of itself, reduced and precise. He traced its alleys and streets, its grand thoroughfares. The task was completed methodically, fanning out from the skeleton of highways to the adjoining streets, from streets to lanes, to alleys, runs and walkways. Caught far from home in the sack of Patna, Nazim still carried a jumbled memory of being borne pick-a-back through the maze of that city’s north quarter. His uncle’s expert step guided them unharmed through the swords of Mir Kasim until they had escaped the city’s walls. Now he focused himself, and when he saw the city plainly, fixed it there in his mind’s eye, a tool for the task ahead.

  Reaching into the bag that had served him as a pillow his hands found the broad-brimmed hat and cloak that he had stowed there months before. He dressed quickly, his breath sending small clouds of vapour into the cold air. He pulled his hat down over his face as he gained the street. The Ratcliff Highway was still quiet as he walked westwards towards Smithfield. Rounding a corner of the Tower his steps became more purposeful and he took the Minories at a brisk pace. The sky was cloudless. The sunlight from the wet cobbles dazzled without warming the air. As he cut through George Street a small crowd of children flowed about him. he felt a hand brush his hip and swatted it away casually. The offender, a boy of eight or nine, taller than the rest and ghostly-thin, caught his eye briefly. Nazim moved on and a chant went up instantly.

  ‘Black Bird! Black Bird!’ He quickened his pace but they skipped along behind him, singing the monotonous refrain over and over. The unsuccessful thief led them, dancing in front of him in time to the tuneless chorus of his companions. He wore nothing on his feet. The stall-holders and passers-by began to take notice, shouting good-natured abuse at the gamins. Nazim felt the focus of unwelcome attention and his mind began to work furiously. They went on, showing no sign of giving up their sport. He spied an alleyway a few yards ahead and turned into it. It was empty. A little way down he slowed his pace. Instantly, he was surrounded by the chanting children. The ringleader was to his left.

  ‘Black Bird! Black Bird!’ he screamed.

  Nazim turned and reached with deceptive speed. Grasping the boy by the back of the head he drove the palm of his other hand into the nose. Too shocked to cry out, the grate of cartilage on bone was suddenly the only sound. He held him still for a second, pulling his head back further to show his companions the blood. The children stood dumb-founded as he turned to continue swiftly down the alley and out of sight.

  Lemprière had slept well. He rose reluctantly, put on his eye-glasses and boots quickly before the bed’s warmth deserted him. No expert in fire-kindling, he shivered through two unsuccessful attempts before the sticks caught the coals and their flames began to take the chill out of the air. He washed, flinching as the cold water raised goose pimples, and arranged his hair into something like order. Moving to the window, the street below had come to life with porters and car-men elbowing their way through the crowds. A dray was coming to a halt opposite his lodgings and a woman of forty or fifty years was shouting vigorous abuse at its driver. Further up the street was even more congested. The wigs of the gentlemen looked very fine, he thought.

  As Lemprière watched, his eye was caught by a figure dressed completely in black who moved quickly through the crowd in an assured manner. The figure walked down the street towards his house and turned abruptly into the doorway which was obscured from his view by the ledge of the window. The solicitor’s ‘interested party’, he thought to himself. It must be, no-one else would have business at the house at this hour. He waited by the window, expecting an entrance at any moment. A minute passed and he heard nothing. It was possible that the man had gone up to the tailor’s room. Lemprière walked to the door and threw it open. There was no-one in sight.

  ‘Hello!’ he called, feeling faintly ridiculous and craning his neck to see further up the staircase, which was narrow and badly-lit. There was no answer. I must have been mistaken, he thought as he retreated, pulling the door shut. But as the catch clicked in the lock he fancied he heard a distinct creak, as if the wooden stairs were being climbed or descended by stealth. Lemprière put his ear to the door and listened intently. Almost instantly he heard another, similar sound, louder this time. His irritation got the better of him. He flung open the door and this time was confronted by a man, his fist raised ready to strike. Lemprière slammed the door shut before the fist fell, ran to the hearth and snatched a burning stick from the fire. He braced himself, legs apart and firebrand raised, in the centre of the room, ready to strike. He waited, poised. He waited, coiled. He waited.

  Nothing happened. Lemprière remained in his pose. Then, two knocks were heard on the door and a voice, slightly muffled, enquired ‘John Lemprière?’ The door opened a foot or so and a head appeared around it.

  ‘Is this the lodging of John Lemprière?’

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the young man. ‘Why are you here?’ He was gradual
ly relaxing his gladiatorial pose. The firebrand had gone out and was filling the room with smoke.

  ‘Septimus,’ said the face, ‘Septimus Praeceps. I am here from Chadwick, Skewer and Soames. The solicitors.’ And with that he entered the room, his hand extended in greeting. Lemprière shook it, coughed and, returned his stick to the fire.

  ‘Why was your fist raised?’ he asked more calmly.

  ‘I was about to use it upon your door. My apologies if I startled you.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all.’ Lemprière coughed again, then turned and examined his visitor. Mister Septimus Praeceps stood perhaps an inch taller than himself and was dressed, as he had observed, almost completely in black. His hair, which was short and loosely curled, matched his clothes and only the white of his face, his shirt and his stockings interrupted his dark attire. His face was striking, with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. His own eyes were still watering from the firesmoke, and he dabbed awkwardly under the lenses to dry them with his handkerchief.

  ‘Are you recovered?’ asked Septimus solicitously. Lemprière nodded.

  ‘Good, shall we go?’ Lemprière nodded again, put on his coat and followed his companion down the stairs. They paused for a moment at the doorway before plunging into the crowd. Septimus walked slowly while Lemprière did his best to dodge the bodies which threatened to separate them. He thought of the marketplace in Saint Helier, and of his father.

  ‘Take care!’ warned Septimus, pulling him by the elbow. A generous mound of horse manure was sidestepped. Carriages sped past. The two of them avoided the refuse underfoot, Lemprière keeping close to Septimus, whose pace had increased. They progressed down the Strand, past Somerset house towards Temple Bar where the human traffic seemed less frenetic in temper.

  Lemprière began to gather his thoughts and was about to deliver a choice remark on the obstructive habits of the citizens when Septimus suddenly darted off to the left, hissing for him to follow. Lemprière’s path was blocked by a large individual carrying a brace of bewildered chickens. He tried to duck around his back but a young man, clearly drunk, swayed in his path, eyes unfocussed.

  ‘Septimus!’ he called.

  The drunk swivelled disjointedly at him, ‘Sebdimus?’ he parroted.

  ‘No, I.… A friend of mine, excuse me.’ Lemprière had lost sight of the black figure.

  ‘A friend of mine,’ retorted the drunk. ‘Where is he?’ Both men scanned the crowd in vain.

  ‘Here,’ said a voice, and they both turned to see Septimus smiling at them. ‘You’re drunk, Walter,’ he addressed Lemprière’s accoster. ‘Tight, raddled and cut.’

  ‘And drunk,’ agreed Walter. ‘Lend me a guinea. Good evening,’ this last to Lemprière.

  ‘Go home, Walter,’ said Septimus.

  ‘Good night and good luck and good riddance,’ slurred Walter. ‘Can I borrow your spectacles?’

  He giggled and staggered off through the crowd.

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew him …’ began Lemprière.

  ‘Walter Warburton-Burleigh, drunkard, whoremonger and my dear friend but no sport at this time of the morning. I was trying to avoid him.’ Lemprière nodded and they continued in the direction of Chancery Lane where the offices of Chadwick, Skewer and Soames were to be found.

  As they turned into the great highway Lemprière noticed that the buildings differed from those which had gone before. A greater uniformity, a difference of temper were apparent. Set within the white walls of the buildings which lined either side of the thoroughfare were small, latticed windows behind which copy-clerks diligently practised their fine hands and, from the higher ones, bewigged gentlemen peered down briefly from time to time as though to check that their own particular cubicle was still attached to the whole. Similarly attired gentlemen made up a large proportion of the passers-by, moving in animated clumps of four or five for choice, although solitary ones also were spotted.

  Septimus seemed to take particular delight in forcing passage through the middle of such colloquies. Protests followed in his wake. Lemprière was left to follow behind, trying, with scant success, to convey the impression that he was not party to his companion’s antics. When they had reached almost the top of the lane, Septimus turned into an entrance. A stone staircase faced them but, instead of ascending, they walked around it to one side and emerged through an identical doorway at its back into a small courtyard. Their destination lay via one of the staircases on the far side which Septimus climbed taking its steps two at a time. Septimus knocked purposefully on the door at the top which was opened by a small, plump individual who carried a quill in his hand.

  ‘Yes?’ he enquired absently, his mind clearly on other matters, then, coming to himself, invited them in. Septimus was obviously acquainted with the clerk, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked into the anteroom and introducing him to Lemprière as ‘the worthy Peppard’.

  The worthy Peppard’s workplace was a short corridor which looked out onto the courtyard. A large desk stood in the centre, behind it, the worthy Peppard’s chair. A long pew extended the length of the opposite wall. Peppard thus worked with his back to the window. At the far side of the room a door bore the legend ‘Ewen Skewer, solicitor’. Septimus strode towards it.

  ‘He has a visitor,’ exclaimed Peppard half-rising from his chair as Septimus reached for the doorknob. ‘I am afraid you will have to wait,’ he apologised.

  Septimus swore and Lemprière sat down on the pew. Septimus paced in an agitated manner up and down the floor, plainly infuriated by the delay. He put his ear to the door.

  ‘Are you certain the man’s engaged?’ he asked in exasperation. Peppard looked up from his work. ‘Oh yes, quite sure, you see he had an appointment with two gentlemen at ten, but they arrived late and so when the lady arrived who is in there now, she was unannounced you see, arrived she had to wait too, and….’

  ‘Yes, yes quite, thank you; dammit.’ He resumed his pacing.

  ‘You arrived a little early you see,’ Peppard continued to Lemprière, ‘and what with the two gentlemen and the lady and your arriving early the morning’s become quite muddled.’ This was said in such melancholy tones that the young man forgot Septimus and felt some little sympathy at the difficulties of the worthy Peppard.

  ‘We quite understand,’ Lemprière said. But Septimus was having none of it.

  ‘Pox on understand!’ he exclaimed, but as he did so the previously inaudible occupants of the far room began to make themselves heard.

  ‘You filthy scamp! You thief! Curse you!’ These words were shouted furiously in a woman’s voice and swiftly followed by a loud crash. ‘You creature! I’ll beat the truth out of you!’ A man’s voice could also be heard, trying to adopt a conciliatory tone but an abrupt change in temper was signalled as the woman presumably began to carry out her threat.

  ‘Peppard!’

  Bang!

  ‘Peppard, where … ow! Peppard!’

  But Peppard was already running to the door. He threw it open to reveal a woman in late middle-age holding the beleaguered solicitor by the collar while using the other hand to beat him over the head with her shoe. Her bonnet was awry, her face flushed. She froze at her discovery in this undignified operation. Septimus had watched these proceedings with an amused detachment which suggested this painful farce was the least the solicitor could do to alleviate the tedium of delay. He took charge of the situation. He walked over to the woman who remained poised above her victim, evidently in two minds as to whether she should allow herself the satisfaction of one more blow or preserve what remained of her decorum by desisting. Inexplicably, Lemprière hoped she would hit him again.

  ‘Madame?’ Septimus offered his arm in polite fashion to the woman, who accepted it, and together they made their way to the far door. Only semi-shod still, she limped across the room. Intuiting that any acknowledgement of the previous violence was likely to mark its resumption, Lemprière paid the simple courtesy of standing up as she passed. She sto
pped and turned to him. Her voice was quite calm, although the eyes still blazed.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she offered as he rose. ‘My actions are not those of a madwoman. My mind is clear. Clear as a bell, and that man,’ she did not trouble to point, ‘is a liar and a thief in the pay of knaves yet more vile than himself. Good day to you, sir.’

  With that she replaced her shoe, opened the door and left. They listened to her footsteps until they faded from earshot.

  The solicitor seemed not to have suffered any grievous hurt. A spindly individual with a thin, pinched look about his face, the high colour, which did not suit him in the least, was rapidly being replaced by a pallor, which did. He mopped his brow. Peppard was engaged in setting his master’s office to rights. Large folios lay scattered on the floor. A chair was overturned.

  ‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ he explained. ‘Most unseemly, the poor woman’s deranged, a widow you see, never got over the loss. Please,’ he ushered them into the office. ‘Mister Lemprière, I take it?’

  Lemprière nodded. The solicitor indicated the chairs before his desk and they sat down, Septimus crossing and uncrossing his legs several times before coming to rest. Ewen Skewer faced them from the other side of his desk, his thin lips pursed. He toyed in an agitated way with the blotters, quills and seals before him. Lemprière noticed that none of the quills had been cut.

  ‘A widow did you say?’ he asked, still curious as to the woman’s behaviour. ‘Mrs Neagle, yes. Her husband was captain of an Indiaman. It went down with all hands….’

  ‘How terrible!’ interrupted Lemprière.

  ‘A risk of the trade,’ said Skewer matter-of-factly, then, catching Lemprière’s look of reproach at this presumed callousness, continued, ‘this was some twenty years ago; but the woman’s never been the same. To begin with it was grief, but now the memory has faded and she is plainly mad still. She truly believes there is a conspiracy to blacken her late husband’s name and that I, this firm rather, have proof of his innocence, documents, maps or somesuch.’