by Michael Cox
I was, no doubt, in a somewhat nervous state, for as I was proceeding past the Diorama, in Park-square, I thought I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. But when I turned round, there was no one to be seen. The street was deserted, except for a single carriage, making its way back through the fading light towards the Park. This would not do. I grasped my stick with determination, and walked on.
Back in my rooms, I lit the lamp and spread the note out on my table.
The hand had something familiar about it – some trace of memory seemed to cling to it; but, try as I might, I could not bring its associations to mind.
I investigated the paper closely with my glass, held it up to the light, even sniffed it. Then I examined every character in turn, pondered the choice and order of the words, and why the author had underlined the name Edward Glapthorn. I studied the flourishes of the signature, and sought to tease out what lay behind the choice of the pseudonym ‘Veritas’. As I write this, I am amazed by my obtuseness, by my inability immediately to grasp the truth; but there it is. The deed that I had so lately committed in Cain-court had, no doubt, produced confusion of mind, and dulled my usually acute powers of perception. In those dark autumn weeks, convulsed by the most terrible of betrayals, and in increasing fear of my own life, I was already in the grip of a kind of madness, unable to see that which was plainly before my eyes, and which will, in due course, be laid before yours. The consequence was that I spent an hour or more trying – with mounting frustration –to force the note to yield up its secret; but it defeated me. Except in this one thing: I knew, with utter conviction, that, though addressed to Bella, it had been meant for me. And so it proved.
Who? Who knew? Though I had never killed before, I was well used to living on the night-side of things. As I shall later relate, my work had hardened me to violence and danger, and I had trained myself in all the arts of the paid spy. I had therefore taken every precaution, deployed all my acquired skills, to ensure that my victim and I had entered Cain-court unobserved; but now it was clear, beyond a doubt, that I had been careless. Someone had followed us. Someone had seen us.
I paced the room, pounding my knuckles against my head, trying to recall every second of those fateful minutes.
I could remember glancing back towards the entrance to the court, soon after striking the fatal blow, and again as I had slid the knife down the grating. Memory could give me back nothing to indicate that I had been observed. Except … Yes, the slightest of sounds, though no sign of movement. A rat, I had thought at the time. But was it possible that someone had been silently watching my victim and me from the deep shadows that lay in the angles of the walls?
This thought now instantly took hold, and then led to another. How had the presumed observer identified me? The answer must be that he already knew me. Perhaps he had been watching my movements for some time and had followed me in my peregrinations that night, then tracked me to Blithe Lodge. But why, with the information he possessed, had he not already denounced me to the authorities? Why had he written to Bella in such a fashion?
I could discern only one motive: blackmail. With that conclusion came a kind of relief. I knew how to deal with such a situation. All that I required was to gain some quick advantage over my pursuer. Then I would have him. Yet it was not altogether clear to me how such an advantage could be obtained; and still I could not understand why the blackmailer had revealed his hand to Bella first. Perhaps he merely wished to torment me a little before administering the coup de grâce.
He – it must be a man, and an educated one – was clever. I was prepared to grant him that. The note had been subtly conceived. To Bella, who knew nothing of what had happened in Cain-court, it hinted at dark possibilities that might alarm any woman, even a demi-mondaine: ‘He is not what he seems …’ Women instantly distrust the unspecific, and their imaginations soon begin to transform hints and suggestions into solid fact. What would Bella’s fancy conjure up from these vague but troubling insinuations? Nothing to my advantage, certainly, and much to her disquiet. But to me, the note sent a different message: a threat to reveal to Bella what I had done if I did not come to an accommodation. This was the cleverness of it; it was intended to put us individually on the rack; and by mischievously sowing doubt and alarm in the innocent Bella, it inflicted a double punishment on me.
I returned to my table and picked up the note again. This time I held it up to the light of my lamp and went carefully over every inch with my eye-glass, searching furiously for some clue to the identity of the sender, something that would set me on his trail. I was on the point of giving up in angry frustration when I noticed a row of small holes pricked into the paper, just below the signature.
On closer examination, I saw that these had been deliberately arranged in groups, separated by spaces. It did not take long to discern the simplest of codes: each group of holes represented a number, which in turn stood for a letter. With little trouble I deciphered the message: ez/vii/vi. Reaching for my Bible, I quickly found the verse from Ezekiel to which the message referred: ‘An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold, it is come.’
Here was a serious setback to my plans, something that I could not have anticipated, but to the resolution of which I must now divert some of my energy. Watcheth, I perceived, was a word the sender particularly intended me to take to heart. I could do nothing, for the time being, to set aside whatever fears the note had raised in Bella; but I felt sure that I would receive a further communication before long, and this, I hoped, would afford me some opportunity to begin turning the tables on the blackmailer.
I sat up before the fire for half an hour or so, smoking a cigar, then went to bed in a state of suppressed anxiety. Images came crowding in upon me: the dying smile of Lucas Trendle, elephants, Bella laughing in the autumn sunshine, a carriage making its way up a deserted street.
Then, when sleep eventually took hold, came a dream, which haunts me still.
I am walking through an unimaginably vast subterranean chamber, the echoes of my footsteps receding into endless depths of shadow on either side of what seems like an aisle or nave of titanic stone columns. In my hand is a candle, which burns with a steady flame, revealing an open space beyond the columns. Into this space, the boundaries of which are indiscernible, I now pass.
I walk on for some time, feeling a vast and oppressive emptiness pushing in all around me. I stop, and the reverberating echoes of my footsteps slowly die away in a sickening diminuendo into the surrounding immensity. The candle’s flame reveals only darkness, limitless, entire; but then, suddenly, I know that I am not alone, and a choking terror begins to take hold. There is something fearsome here, invisible but present. All is silence; I have heard no sound of footsteps other than my own; and yet I know that danger is near. Then, with inconceivable horror, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder and warm breath on my cheek and hear the faint hiss of exhaled air. Someone – some thing – standing just behind me softly blows out the candle. I drop the extinguished flame, and collapse in utter helplessness and revulsion.
I awoke three or four times from this nightmare in a sweat, my heart thumping, clutching at tangled sheets. Finally, at first light, I arose with a parched mouth and a ferocious headache. As soon as I entered my sitting-room I saw it: a rectangle of white paper, slipped under the door as I had slept.
It was a black-bordered card, written in the same hand as the note that had been sent to Bella. It seemed to confirm all my fears.
The quotation from the Burial Service at first seemed merely apt; but, as I considered it further, the words began to call to mind some other time and place – a face, already receding into the shadows of memory; a place of sorrow; rain and solemn music. It puzzled me, and worried me, though I could not say why. Then I concluded that I was seeing significance where there was none, and threw the card aside.
Seven days. There was time to prepare myself. I did not expect any further communication; the blackmailer’s next move would no doubt come
– presumably in person – on the day of the funeral. And if not in person, then he would have to reveal something more of himself in another communication in order to attain his objective; and that might allow me the advantage that I was seeking. In the meantime, I resolved to try to put all thought of this business out of my mind, as far as I could. I had other pressing matters to attend to. For the time of reckoning with my enemy, Phoebus Daunt, was nigh.
*[‘Forewarned, forearmed’. Ed.]
†[The society, founded by Sir Ashton Lever in 1781, was at the forefront of the revival of archery at the end of the eighteenth century. It obtained a lease from the Crown to establish its grounds in the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park in 1833. Ed.]
4
Ab incunabulis*
On the evening after Bella returned from Dieppe, the 2nd of November 1854, I took her to dinner at the Clarendon Hotel.† Mrs D had been enchanted by the house they had viewed and had stayed on in France to begin arrangements for its purchase.
‘She means to retire there as soon as circumstances permit,’ said Bella, ‘which of course means that my own position will change sooner than anticipated.’
She did her best to maintain her old easiness of manner, but I could see the effort that it was causing her. At length, she set aside all pretence.
‘You have read the note?’
I nodded.
‘What does it mean, Eddie? I must know the truth.’
‘The truth of what?’ I cried angrily. ‘The truth of a lie? The truth of some vague and baseless slander? There is no truth here, none, I can assure you.’
‘But who has sent me this?’
‘Someone who wishes me harm for a reason that I cannot imagine, someone whose resentment of me – or perhaps of you …’
She was taken aback by the suggestion.
‘Of me? What can you mean?’
‘Think, my love: is there any member of The Academy who might have a reason to cause you harm? Someone, perhaps, who has received a visit from Mr Braithwaite on your behalf?’ I asked the question in the full knowledge that this matter had nothing to do with The Academy.
‘No, none.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Sir Meredith Gore – you remember? – was lately ejected, but I was not the only one to complain of him. He is presently travelling on the Continent, and is not expected to return for some time, so I do not think it can be him. Besides, what possible benefit could he gain from this? And do you know the gentleman?’
I had to concede that Sir Meredith and I had enjoyed no personal contact, other than a chance meeting on the stairs at Blithe Lodge one evening; but, persisting to lay this false trail, I pointed out that it would be perfectly possible for him to invent some calumny against me without personal knowledge, to gain revenge on her for his expulsion.
‘No, no,’ said Bella, shaking her head vigorously, ‘it’s too implausible – impossible. No, it cannot be Sir Meredith.’ She paused as the waiter came up with more champagne.
‘You say,’ she continued, toying with the stem of her glass, ‘that the implied accusations are baseless. But how can I be sure? There must, after all, be some reason why the note was written to me. I know that your father died before you were born, and that your mother, whom you have told me you loved dearly, was an authoress; and you have spoken often of your years abroad. But are there things in your past – important things, perhaps – that you have deliberately withheld from me, to which the note may refer? If so, I beg you to tell me now.’
‘I thought you were content to like me just as I am, the present here-and-now me,’ I said sulkily.
‘Circumstances have changed,’ she replied, leaning back in her chair. ‘When Kitty retires to Dieppe, I shall be required to take her place at The Academy, and that will allow me to give up my gentlemen.’ She rested her steady gaze on me. ‘It is important to me, Eddie, under these new circumstances, to know everything about the man I have fallen in love with.’
It was her first outright declaration of what she felt for me; the first time that the word love had been spoken. I could see that she was waiting for some reciprocal response. But how could I tell her what she wished to hear, when my heart still ached for another, whom I could never now possess?
‘Do you have nothing to say?’ she asked.
‘Only that you are my dearest friend in the world, as I have often told you,’ I replied, ‘and that I cannot bear to see you distressed.’
‘So do you like me – love me, even – merely as a friend?’
‘Merely as a friend? Is that not enough?’
‘Well, I see that you are now starting to play the philosopher with me, so I suppose I have my answer.’
I reached out and took her hand.
‘Bella, dearest, forgive me. If you wish to call my feelings for you “love,” then so be it. I am more than content for you to do so. For myself, I am devoted to you as the dearest, sweetest friend a man could have. If this is love, then I love you. And if it is love to feel safe and comfortable in your presence, then I love you. And if it is love to know that I am never happier than when you take my face in your hands and kiss me, then I love you. And if …’ And so I went on, until I could obfuscate no more.
I smiled, in what I hoped was my most winning manner, and was rewarded by the sight of a faint animation of her lips.
‘Then I suppose, Mr Edward Glapthorn, that your many ingenious definitions of love must suffice – for now.’ She removed her hand from mine as she spoke. ‘But for the sake of all we have been together, and for all we may be, you must set my mind at rest – completely at rest. The note—’
‘Is false.’ I looked at her steadily. ‘False as hell – written by someone who wishes to do me – us – harm, for some reason we cannot yet know. But we shall defeat them, dearest Bella. I promise you shall know all about me, and then they shall have no hold over us. We shall be safe.’
If only it could be so. She was, as I had sincerely maintained, my dearest friend in the world; and perhaps what I felt for her was a kind of love. But in order to spare her from hurt and scandal, and perhaps for her own safety, I could not tell her that I had just killed one man in preparation for killing a second, or that I was not who I claimed to be, and that my heart would always be enslaved to another. But she deserved to know something more about me, to set her mind at rest until such time as I could unmask the blackmailer, and put the danger from us permanently. And then? Even when I had vanquished my enemy at last, and revenged myself for what he had done to me, could she ever replace what I had lost, dear to me though she was?
The Clarendon was a respectable hotel, and we had no luggage; but the manager was an old acquaintance of mine and discreetly secured us a room.
We sat up late into the night. This, in summary, is what I told her.
My mother’s family, the Mores of Church Langton, were West Country farmers of long standing. Her uncle, Mr Byam More, was land-agent for Sir Robert Fairmile, of Langton Court near Taunton, whose only daughter, Laura, was nearly of an age with my mother. The two little girls grew up together and became the closest of friends, their friendship continuing when Laura married and moved to a Midlands county.
Within a month or so, my mother also married, though hers was a much less grand match than her friend’s. Laura Fairmile had become Lady Tansor, of Evenwood in Northamptonshire, one of the most enchanting houses in England, and the seat of an ancient and distinguished line; my mother became the wife of a wastrel half-pay officer in the Hussars.
My father – always known as ‘the Captain’ – served inconspicuously in the 11th Regiment of Light Dragoons, the celebrated ‘Cherrypickers’, which later became famous, as the 11th Prince Albert’s Own Hussars, under the command of Lord Cardigan, though the Captain was long dead before the regiment’s immortal action in the Russian War. He left the regiment after sustaining injury in the Peninsula, and was promoted to half-pay; but his leisure was productive of nothing except a renewed dedication to a long-held love of st
rong liquor, which he pursued vigorously, to the exclusion of all other occupations. He spent little time with his wife, could settle at nothing, and, when he was not engaged with his local companions at the Bell and Book in Church Langton, was away visiting old regimental comrades, and partaking of the usual lively debauchery that such occasions afford. The birth of a daughter, it appears, did not encourage him to mend his ways, and on the evening of her untimely death, at only five days old, he was to be found in his usual corner at the Bell and Book. He compounded his iniquity by being absent – I know not where, but I can guess why – on the day of the poor child’s funeral.
My mother and the Captain, on the latter’s insistence, left Church Langton soon afterwards for Sandchurch, in Dorset, where remnants of the Captain’s family resided. The change brought no improvement in his behaviour; he merely exchanged the Bell and Book in Church Langton for the King’s Head in Sandchurch. I have said enough, I hope, to demonstrate the Captain’s execrable character, and his utter contempt for the duties of a husband and father.
In the summer of 1819, my mother accompanied her friend, Laura Tansor, to France, where she stayed for several months. I was born there, in March of the following year, in the Breton city of Rennes. Some weeks later, the two companions travelled together to Dinan, where they took lodgings near the Tour de l’Horloge. Lady Tansor then departed for Paris whilst my mother remained in Dinan for several more days. But just as she was preparing to leave for St-Malo, she received terrible news from England.
The Captain, returning home late one pitch-black night from the King’s Head in an extreme state of inebriation, had wandered off the path, missed his footing, and tumbled over the cliff not twelve yards from his door. Tom Grexby, the village schoolmaster, found him the next morning, his neck quite broken.
The Captain appears to have been perfectly content to let his wife gad off to France with her friend. He found it not in the least inconvenient to have the house to himself, and to be able to spend his leisure unencumbered by even the few domestic duties required of him when his wife was at home. And so he died, a miserable mediocrity.