by Michael Cox
But it was not the face of my anonymous victim. It was the face of Phoebus Rainsford Daunt, the man whose life I was studying so assiduously to extinguish.
Leaving Bella asleep, and placing, as I always did on such occasions, a gentle kiss on her flushed cheek by way of good-bye, I made my way to my rooms. The sky was beginning to lighten over the waking city, and the sounds of Great Leviathan stirring were all about me: the rattle of milk cans; a moaning drove of bullocks being driven through the empty street; the early cries of ‘Fresh watercress!’ as I approached Farringdon-market. As the church clocks struck six, I stopped at a coffee-stall near the market entrance to warm my hands, for it was a sharp morning; the man looked at me indignantly, but I faced him down, and he retired mumbling deprecations.
On reaching Temple Bar I considered strolling over once again to the scene of my late encounter with the red-haired man, to satisfy myself that all was well; instead I chose breakfast and a change of linen. At the corner of Temple-street, Whitefriars, I mounted the narrow flight of dark stairs that led up from the street to the top floor of the house in which I lodged, from there entering a long, wainscoted sitting-room under the eaves.
I lived alone, my only visitor being the woman, Mrs Grainger, who came from time to time to undertake some modest domestic chores. My work-table was littered with papers and note-books; a once handsome, but now faded, Turkey carpet covered most of the floor, and about the room were scattered several items of furniture brought from my mother’s house in Dorset. From this apartment a door led off, first to a narrow bedroom lit by a small skylight, and then, beyond, to an even smaller space – really no more than a closet – that served as both wardrobe and wash-room.
The face that greeted me in the little cracked mirror that stood on a shelf above the wash-stand in this cubicle did not seem, to my objective gaze, to be the face of a cold-blooded murderer. The eyes looked back genially, and with calm intensity. Here was a face to trust, to confide in; yet I had despatched another human being with almost as little thought as I might crush an insect. Was I, then, some dissimulating devil in human form? No. I was but a man, a good man at heart, if the truth be told, driven to set right the wrong that had been done to me, absolved – even of murder – by the implacable fatalities to which I was then convinced my life had been subject. To me, this power was the Iron Master, forever forging the chains that bound me to actions I must take. My destiny, I believed, was to take back what was rightfully mine, whatever the consequences.
I peered a little closer into the mirror. A long lean face, with large, heavy-lidded dark eyes; olive-coloured skin; a nose perhaps a little skewed, but still finely shaped; a mouth that carried the merest hint of a smile, even in repose; black hair swept back from the forehead, innocent of Macassar oil, and abundant at the sides, but, I confess, receding fast, and greying a little at the temples. Fine moustachios. Very fine. Taken all in all, I believe that I stood before the world as a moderately handsome fellow.
But what was this? I moved my face closer to the grimy glass. There, on the very tip of my shirt collar, was a splash of dull red.
I stood for a moment, bending towards the mirror, gripped by a sudden fascinated fear. This dumb, yet still eloquent, witness to the night’s activities in Cain-court took me completely by surprise. Its pursuit of me seemed like a violation, and I quickly reviewed the dangerous possibilities that it presented.
Had it been enough to betray me? Had one of the waiters in Quinn’s noticed it when it had still been vivid and unequivocal, or the flower-seller when I had returned – foolishly, as it might now prove – to the scene of my crime? Had Bella observed it, despite the haste of passion? Any of these, on reading or hearing of the murder, might recall the presence of blood on my shirt, and suspicion might thence be aroused. I looked more closely at the incriminating relic of my experiment.
It was insignificant enough in itself, certainly, though it constituted a very world of meaning. Here was a remnant of the life-blood of the stranger I had happened upon in Threadneedle-street as he went about his business, all unknowing of what was to befall him. Had he been returning home to his wife and children after a day in the City, or on his way to join a company of friends for dinner? What was his name, and who would mourn him? How had he seen his life ending? (Not in a pool of gore in a public thoroughfare, I warrant.) Did he have parents still alive whose hearts would break at the terrible demise of their dear son? Like a soldier in battle, I had ignored such questions in the heat of action, as being irrelevant to the task in hand; but now, as I stared at the little spot of dried blood on my collar, I could not prevent them rushing insistently into my mind.
My newly purchased gloves were, I knew, unsullied. But were there other traces of the crime that I had failed to notice? I hastily took my great-coat from its peg and hurried into the sitting-room to spread it out on my work-table, snatching up an eye-glass from beneath a pile of papers as I did so.
By the strengthening light of morning, I pored over every inch of the garment, turning the material methodically, occasionally bringing a piece up close to my eye-glass, like a jeweller eagerly examining some object of great worth. Then I removed my jacket and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and neck-tie; all were subjected to the same frantic scrutiny. Finally, I inspected my hat and placed my boots on the table, bathed now in pale sunlight. I went meticulously over the upper surfaces and soles of each boot with a dampened handkerchief, using slow circular movements and stopping every few seconds to see whether the white linen had taken up any incriminating residue of blood.
Having satisfied myself that I could find no other physical traces that could link me to my victim, I returned to the wash-room, where I diligently soaked my shirt collar in cold water to remove the bloodstain. In a few minutes, washed, shaved, and combed, and with a clean shirt on my back, I prepared to face the day. It was the 25th of October 1854 – St Crispin’s Day. Far away in the Crimea, though we in England did not yet know it, Lord Cardigan’s heroic Light Brigade was charging the Russian guns at Balaclava. For me, the day passed quietly. In the morning, I occupied myself with the subject to which I have now devoted my whole being: the destruction of my enemy. Of him, you shall learn more – much more – in the course of these pages; for now, you must take it on trust that certain events had made it impossible that he should be allowed to live. The trial of my will that had its culmination last evening in Cain-court had demonstrated to my satisfaction that I was capable of doing what it was necessary to do; and the time was fast approaching when my enemy and I would meet face to face for the last time. But until then, I must think, and plan, and wait.
In the afternoon I had a little business to attend to, and did not return to my rooms until late, with evening coming on. There was a copy of The Times on my work-table that had been left earlier by Mrs Grainger. I can still see myself idly turning the pages of the news-paper until my attention was suddenly arrested by an announcement, and my heart began to thump. Hands shaking slightly, I walked over to the window, for the light was fading fast, and began to read:Last evening at about 6 o’clock … Cain-court, Strand … Mr Lucas Trendle, First Assistant to the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England … Stoke Newington … savagely done to death … distinguished public servant … Elm-lane Chapel … many charitable works … horror of his many friends … authorities confident of success …
He had been on his way to a meeting in Exeter Hall of some charitable enterprise dedicated to providing copies of Holy Scripture and serviceable footwear to the Africans. I now recalled a throng of clerical gentlemen in subfusc, gathered outside the grand Corinthian portico of the Hall as I had passed down the Strand after leaving Cain-court. It was clear from the report that the police could discern no obvious motive to explain the crime, for nothing had been taken from the victim. I drank in the details of his respectable and blameless life; but only one thing held me, and holds me still. He was no longer the red-haired man. He had a name.
On first readin
g the report, I had paced about the room somewhat in a sulk, unexpectedly vexed by this knowledge. I had wanted him to remain eternally immured in his former anonymity; now I could not prevent myself from picturing the possibilities of his revealed individuality. I began to find the confinement of my attic room intolerable. At last, I could stand no more. In these moods, I needed to have the raw taste of London on my tongue.
With rain beginning to patter against the skylight of my little bedroom, I threw on my great-coat and ran down the stairs into the gathering night.
And a merciless rain it soon became, pouring in thick frothy streams from water-spouts and ledges, tumbling in vertical sheets from roofs and spires and parapets high above the teeming city, turning streets and thoroughfares into evil-smelling streams of filth and liquid refuse. I found my old companion, Willoughby Le Grice, lounging, as I knew he would be at this hour, at the Ship and Turtle in Leadenhall-street.
Le Grice and I had been chums since our schooldays, though we were as different as could be. Whether he had ever read a book through in his life, I beg to doubt; he did not care for books, or music, or paintings – as I most certainly did; as for more advanced pursuits, I believe that he considered philosophy to be actively pernicious, whilst the mention of metaphysics made him quite mad. Le Grice was a sportsman to his size-twelve boots: taller even than I; thick tow-coloured hair above a four-square manly gaze, the neck and shoulders of a young bull, and a luxuriant arc of curled hair above his top lip that made him look a very Caractacus. A true Briton, and a good man to have by you in a dangerous corner, though an innocent for all that. A strange pair, we must have made; but I could have wanted for no better friend.
We ate the grilled fowl (Indian style) for which the house was celebrated, washed down with gin-punch; then, ever biddable as he was on such occasions, Le Grice allowed me to take him across the river to the Victoria Theatre,* just in time for the nine o’clock performance.
There is no better place than the Victoria to watch the lower orders of the city taking their pleasure; to me, it was a constantly fascinating sight, like lifting a stone and observing the insect life beneath. Le Grice was not so charmed as I of such things; but he kept his counsel and sat back in his seat, a cheroot – as always – clenched grimly between his teeth, whilst I leaned forward eagerly. Below our box, the coarse deal benches were packed to overflowing: costers, navvies, lightermen, hackney-coach drivers, coal-heavers, and every sort of disreputable female. A ferocious, sweating, stinking herd. Only the louder shouts of the pigstrotter woman and the porter men who patrolled the aisles and stairways could be heard above the tumult of whistles and yells. Then, at last, the curtain rose, the master of ceremonies finally subdued the mob, and the performance – sublime in its vulgarity – began.
Afterwards, out in the New Cut, the rain had begun to ease, leaving the streets awash with mud and debris brought down from roofs and gutters. Degraded humanity, with its attendant stench, was everywhere: congregating on corners, or squatting beneath dripping archways; sitting on doorsteps, hanging out of windows, or huddling in the mouths of alleyways. Faces, hideously painted by the satanic light of the lamps and flares, and by the glow of the baked-chestnut stoves that lit up the street stalls and public-houses, passed by us like a parade of the damned.
As we crossed back over the river, I suggested that we might drop into Quinn’s. I wished especially to go to Quinn’s. On the excuse of attempting to locate a lost pocket-book, I sought out the waiter who had served me the previous evening. It soon became perfectly clear that he had no recollection of me; and so I returned, with a lighter heart, to Le Grice, and we set about the consumption of oysters and champagne with a will. But eating oysters, Le Grice declared, only made him hungrier. He required meat and strong liquor, which, at this time of night, only Evans’s could supply. And so, a little before midnight, we arrived in King-street, Covent Garden.
The parallel lines of tables, laid out like a College hall, were still packed with boisterous supper-goers. The air was cloudy with the smoke of cigars (pipes being sensibly prohibited) and heavy with the aroma of grog and roasted meat. Adding to the convivial din of conversation and laughter, a group of singers on the stage was lustily delivering a six-part glee, their strong and splendid voices rising in a resonant crescendo above the incessant clatter of plates and the rattle of cutlery. All about us, the tables were piled high with steaming sausages, sizzling cayenned kidneys, leathery baked potatoes, and dozens of glistening fried eggs, like so many miniature suns. We called for peppered chops and bitter beer, but no sooner had they arrived than Le Grice was persuaded by some of the other fellows to sing a comic song.
As he made his way tipsily towards the stage, to raucous applause, I slipped quietly away. The rain was falling with renewed intent; but London, brilliant and beautifully vile, and the undemanding company of dear old Le Grice, had done their work.
I was myself again.
*[‘By name’. Ed.]
*[Built in 1816, it opened in May 1818 ‘under the patronage of H.R.H. Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg’, and was consequently known as the Royal Coburg Theatre. In July 1833 it was formally renamed the Royal Victoria Theatre. It was situated in Waterloo Bridge Road, Lambeth. Ed.]
3
Praemonitus, praemunitus*
The following day, Bella and I walked out in the Regent’s Park. It was an unusually fine afternoon for October in London; and so, after looking at the elephants in the Zoological Gardens, we sat for some time by the ornamental water, talking and laughing in the pale autumn sunshine. Towards four o’clock, as the air began to grow chill, we made our way back towards the gates that led out into York-terrace.
Near the entrance to the gardens of the Toxophilite Society,† Bella stopped and turned to me.
‘Kitty wishes me to go with her to Dieppe tomorrow.’
‘Dieppe? Whatever for?’
‘Dearest, I have told you before. It is where her mother was born, and she has determined to retire there. There is a house she has coveted this past year, and it is now for sale. She wishes me to go with her to view it.’
‘And you will go?’
‘But of course.’ She laid a gloved finger gently across my cheek. ‘You don’t mind, do you, dear? Say you don’t – it will only be for a day or so.’
Now even though the thought of not having the comfort of her dear person near me at this time of crisis unsettled me badly, I told her I did not mind in the least; but this, of course, was exactly what I should not have said, and I saw that she had taken exception to my feigned indifference, for she instantly removed her hand from my cheek and looked at me sternly.
‘Well, then,’ she replied, ‘I may as well stay on in Dieppe a little longer, as Kitty wishes me to. I’m sure there will be gentlemen aplenty who will be glad to entertain me.’
Now it is curious but it had never before troubled me that Bella’s profession required her to be, shall we say, companionable to other fellows; those services that she performed for Kitty Daley’s select circle of gentlemen had concerned me little. But my accommodating attitude, I already knew, had begun to irk her somewhat, and from time to time she had tried to arouse in me some spark of jealousy – which I believe ladies often interpret as a form of flattery. Her present attempt was transparent enough; but tonight, wrought to such a pitch by recent events, I was suddenly jealous of others enjoying that sweet body; and yet, in my confusion of mind, I found myself saying entirely the wrong thing.
‘You must do as you please,’ I told her, in a hard, careless tone. ‘I have no hold over you.’
‘Very well,’ said Bella, ‘I shall indeed please myself.’
With which she gathered up her skirts and walked angrily away.
Now this I could not allow, for I hated to see her upset and vexed; and so I called after her.
She turned. Her cheeks were reddened, and I saw clearly that I had hurt her.
I am not a monster. I could kill a stranger, but I could not bear to
see Bella distressed, even though I had not treated her as she deserved. And so I folded her in my arms – it was growing dark, and we were alone on the stretch of path that led out of the Park – and kissed her tenderly.
‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes, ‘do you not like me any more?’
‘Like you?’ I cried. ‘Of course I like you. More than – more than I can say.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly,’ I replied. I told her I hated myself for upsetting her so, that of course I would miss her while she was away, and that I would count the hours until she returned. It was the complete truth, but it brought forth a chiding laugh.
‘Now, now,’ she said in mock admonishment, ‘don’t come the poet with me, sir. An occasional thought in the course of the day will be quite sufficient.’
We kissed once more, but as she withdrew her lips from mine I saw again that look of seriousness in her eyes.
‘What is it, Bella?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong?’
She hesitated for a moment. ‘No, not exactly wrong.’
‘You are not—’
‘No – by no means – no.’ She reached into her pocket. ‘I have received this. It came yesterday morning, after you left.’
She handed me a folded piece of paper.
‘I must go. Kitty is expecting me. I hope you will call when we are back.’
I watched her walk away, waiting until she was out of sight before I unfolded and read what she had handed to me.
It was a short note, written in a small neat hand:
The note was signed ‘Veritas’ and was addressed simply to ‘Miss Gallini’, with no direction, suggesting that it had been delivered by hand.
Here was a thing, and I own that it knocked me back for a moment or two. I read the note again; but as the light was now nearly gone, I decided to go straight back to Temple-street and take stock.