by Michael Cox
When all the company had entered the church, and the organ had begun to play a solemn voluntary, I left my place beneath the dripping branches of the sycamore-tree. Inside the porch, I halted. The choir had begun to sing Purcell’s divine ‘In the midst of life we are in death’,* with its anguished dissonances. The bitter-sweet sound, reverberating through the vaulted spaces of the church, tore at my heart in the most extraordinary way, and I felt angry tears welling up as I thought of the man whose blameless and useful life had been so violently cut down. Then came the resonant voice of Dr Daunt intoning the words of St John: ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’†
I remained in the porch as the congregation began to say together the words of Psalm 90, ‘Domine, refugium’, in which the Psalmist complains of the frailty and brevity of our life on earth, and of the suffering that is inseparable from our sinful nature; then, as the mourners came to the verses in which Moses speaks of God setting our misdeeds before Him, and our secret sins in the light of His countenance, I picked up my umbrella, turned away, and walked back out into the church-yard.
In due course came the sound of the church door being opened. The committal of Mr Carteret’s body was soon to commence. I moved away, tucking myself in the recess of the west door, beneath the bell-tower, from where I was able to observe the mourning party and the various attendants, along with a number of villagers, and the household servants from the Dower House, follow the pall-bearers through the rain to where the pile of earth marked the last resting-place of Paul Stephen Carteret. Lord Tansor followed directly behind the coffin, oblivious, it seemed, to the unremitting rain; a few paces back, Phoebus Daunt, now with umbrella in hand, solemnly matched him step for step, like a soldier on parade. One by one, the company began to assemble themselves about the grave.
It was a most melancholy spectacle: the ladies in their bombazine and crape huddled together under umbrellas; the gentlemen, for the most part, standing unsheltered in the rain or beneath the yew-trees that grew about the church-yard, the black bands on their tall hats fluttering in the wind; the ranks of mutes and other mercenaries supplied by Mr Gutteridge – some a little the worse for liquor – forlornly holding up their batons and soaking plumes; and the simple wooden coffin being borne towards the terrible gaping gash in the wet earth, preceded by the imposing figure of Dr Daunt. Everything contributed to a bitter sense of the futility of the mortal condition. All was black, black, black, like the smoke-black angry sky above.
I found I could not take my eyes off the coffin, and saw again in imagination what pitiless brutality had done to the round and once genial face of Mr Carteret. And now he was to be consigned to a muddy hole in the ground. I never was so despairing and comfortless, to see what he had come to, and to what we all must come. I found that I could not help but think of the deceased secretary as resembling Donne’s private and retired man, who in life ‘thought himselfe his owne for ever, and never came forth’, but who, in death, had to suffer the indignity of his dust being ‘published’ – such an apt and terrible image – and ‘mingled with the dust of every high way, and of every dunghill, and swallowed in every puddle and pond’. It was, as the preacher averred, ‘the most inglorious and contemptible vilification, the most deadly and peremptory nullification of man, that we can consider’.* I did consider it. And it was indeed so.
Miss Carteret had emerged from the church with Mademoiselle Buisson again by her side, and both ladies now stood next to Dr Daunt as he began to deliver the final part of the Order for the Burial of the Dead.
‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death …’
And so, with the rain beginning to lessen, they buried Paul Carteret at last, to the mournful tolling of a single church bell. Requiescat in pace, was all I could think. In small groups, the mourners – led by Lord Tansor, with Daunt close by his side – dispersed to their coaches, the mutes and the feathermen tramped off, and Dr Daunt returned to his church. Only Miss Carteret lingered by the grave, whilst Mademoiselle Buisson, with John Brine in attendance, began to walk back to her carriage. She turned her head as she reached the lych-gate, to see whether her friend were following; but Miss Carteret remained for some minutes at her station, looking down at the coffin. She appeared to show no external sign of grief – no tears, at least; but as she brushed aside the black silk ribbons of her bonnet, which a sudden breeze had blown across her face, I clearly saw that her hands were trembling. Then she nodded to the sexton and his assistant to do their work, and began to walk slowly back towards the church.
I stood alone, watching her tall figure until it reached the open ground beyond the lych-gate, where her companion was waiting for her. As she reached the door of the carriage, Mademoiselle Buisson took out a white handkerchief, gently wiped her friend’s face, and kissed her on the cheek.
I waited until Miss Carteret’s carriage had splashed its way up the lane towards the Dower House before leaving the church-yard to begin my walk back to Easton. I wished so much to see her again, to hear her voice, and to look once more into those extraordinary eyes; but, expecting that Daunt would be amongst the company gathered at the Dower House, I felt unsure of my ability to maintain my assumed identity in his presence. Yet as I reached the outskirts of the town, the desire to feed on her beauty once more overcame my misgivings. I turned on my heels and retraced my steps back to Evenwood.
As I reached the lane leading down to the Rectory, it occurred to me that I might leave a note for Dr Daunt, as a matter of courtesy, apologizing for not having read his proofs. When I knocked at the door, the girl informed me that the Rector and Mrs Daunt, as well as Mr Phoebus Daunt, were still at the Dower House, and so I requested pen and paper and was left alone in Dr Daunt’s study to write my note. When I had finished, and was about to leave, I noticed three or four thick leather-bound note-books lying on the desk, each with a label carrying the words DAILY JOURNAL. It was wrong of me, I admit it, but I could not help myself from opening one of the volumes and reading it. In a moment, I had taken out my pocket-book and had begun frantically scribbling in shorthand; for the pages contained entries relating to the Rector’s Millhead years. I expected the girl to return at any moment, but she did not; and so I continued in my task for as long as I decently could, before slipping out unseen. I had discovered nothing of great significance, except the satisfaction of knowing a little more concerning the upbringing and character of my enemy; but that, to me, had justified my actions.
Ten minutes later, I was standing within the Plantation, looking out across the lawn towards the Dower House.
Through the drawing-room window, the figure of Lord Tansor could be easily picked out, talking with Dr Daunt; behind him, I could see Mrs Daunt, with her step-son by her side. To gain a closer view of the proceedings, I moved stealthily through the dripping trees, taking up my station amongst a planting of shrubs close to one of the windows. The blind had been half drawn, but by crouching down I was able to see into the room.
Miss Carteret was standing by the fire, alone. Elsewhere, her guests – a dozen or so in all – had arranged themselves into quietly conversing groups. A young lady broke away from one of these and walked over to join her. She had blonde hair, of a most unusual paleness, which, with the unconsciously familiar way she took Miss Carteret’s hand in hers, confirmed to me that she must be Mademoiselle Buisson.
They said nothing, but remained, hands clasped, for some moments until they saw Phoebus Daunt approach, at which they disengaged and stood side by side to greet him. He gave a little bow, in acknowledgement of which Miss Carteret inclined her head slightly, and spoke a few words. Her face remained expressionless, and she merely dipped her head again in response to whatever he had sai
d. Bowing once more to Miss Carteret, and then to Mademoiselle Buisson, he took his leave. A few moments later, I saw him emerge through the front door, and make his way back down the path to the Rectory.
All through this brief scene my heart had been pounding as I strained to see how Daunt would be received by Miss Carteret; but when it quickly became obvious that there was not the slightest spark of intimacy between them, I began to breathe more easily – the more so when, as Daunt had turned to go, I had seen Mademoiselle Buisson lean towards Miss Carteret and whisper something in her ear. This had produced an involuntary little smile, which she immediately sought to hide by placing her hand over her mouth. From the rather mischievous look on Mademoiselle Buisson’s face, I made a guess that the remark had been in some way uncomplimentary to Daunt, and I was most satisfied to see how Miss Carteret had responded to her friend’s comment, even at such a time.
Now that my enemy had gone, I thought that I might after all present myself to Miss Carteret, as I had been invited to do. Then I considered that I was wet, and a little dishevelled, and that my bag was at the Duport Arms; but yet I was expected, and she would think it strange if I did not come. I dithered and dawdled for several minutes until, at last, I got the better of my misgivings. I was on the point of quitting my place of concealment when the front door opened. Lord and Lady Tansor appeared, followed by Miss Carteret and her friend, and Dr and Mrs Daunt. The party proceeded down the steps and into two waiting carriages, which then moved away through the Plantation and into the Park.
Feeling tired and dejected, and with no reason now to remain, I once more made my way back through the rain to Easton.
In the tap-room of the Duport Arms, my friend the sullen waiter was throwing fresh sawdust on the floor.
‘Has Mr Green left?’ I asked.
‘Two hours since,’ he said, without looking up from his work.
‘Are there any more guests tonight?’
‘None.’
The Peterborough coach was about to arrive, and so, dispensing with another solitary dinner, I sent the man upstairs for my bags whilst I fortified myself with a gin-and-water and a cigar. In ten minutes I had boarded the coach and was just settling myself inside, thankful that I was the sole occupant, when John Brine’s face, red from exertion, appeared at the window.
‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, I am glad to have caught you. Lizzie said I should tell you.’ He paused for breath, and I heard the driver ask him whether he intended to get in.
‘One minute, driver,’ I shouted. Then, to Brine: ‘Tell me what?’
‘Miss Carteret and her friend are to leave for London next week. Lizzie said you’d wish to know.’
‘And where will Miss Carteret be staying?’
‘At the house of her aunt, Mrs Manners, in Wilton-crescent. Lizzie is to attend her.’
‘Good work, Brine. Tell Lizzie to send word of Miss Carteret’s movements to the address I gave you.’ I leaned my head towards him and lowered my voice. ‘I have reason to think that Miss Carteret may be in some danger, as a result of the attack on her father, and wish to keep a close eye on her, for her own protection.’
He gave a nod, as if to signify his complete comprehension of the matter, and I handed him a shilling so that he could refresh himself before returning to Evenwood. As the coach moved off, I drew the tattered silk curtain against the rain, and closed my eyes.
*[‘Not all of me will die’: Horace, Odes, III.xxx. 6. Ed.]
† [Anthropometamorphosis: Man Transform’d; or, The Artificiall Changeling (1650), a history of bodily adornments and mutilations, by the physician John Bulwer (fl. 1648–54). Ed.]
*[This was probably the edition of Devotions published in octavo by William Pickering in 1840, which also included (as well as the reproduced frontispiece mentioned by Glyver and the famous ‘Deaths Duell’ sermon, preached before King Charles I, February 1631) Izaak Walton’s Life of Donne. Ed.]
†A repeating pocket watch. Ed.]
*[Hired men carrying plumes of black feathers. Ed.]
*[From the Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary, performed in March 1695. The music was performed again at Purcell’s own funeral in November 1695. Ed.]
†[John 11: 25–6. From the Order for the Burial of the Dead in the Book of Common Prayer. Ed.]
*[From Donne’s last sermon, the aforementioned ‘Deaths Duell’ (see p. 372). Ed.]
33
Periculum in mora*
‘Do you remember’ the last time we went to the Cremorne Gardens,’† I asked Le Grice.
It was now past three o’clock, and the fire had died quite down. I had been recounting the events subsequent to the violent death of Mr Paul Carteret.
Le Grice looked up and thought for a moment.
‘Cremorne?’ he said at last. ‘Of course. We took the threepenny steamer. When would it have been?’
‘November last year,’ I said. ‘A few days after I’d returned from Mr Carteret’s funeral. We played bowls.’
‘We did, and then we watched the Naval Fête. Yes, and I recall a little set-to as we were leaving. But what has this to do with anything?’
‘Well, I shall tell you,’ I said, ‘while you throw another log on the fire and refill my glass.’
The night of Wednesday, the 9th of November 1853, remained clear in my mind. We had amused ourselves most satisfactorily for an hour or two. As eleven o’clock approached, and the lamp-lit arbours began to fill up with carmined whores and their tipsy swells, I had been game to continue our jollities elsewhere; but, unusually, Le Grice had expressed a strong wish to be in his bed. And so, at a few minutes before twelve, we had made our way out of the Gardens.
By the pay-box, at the King’s-road entrance, we had come upon an altercation. A group of four or five women – whores every one, as I quickly judged – and a couple of fancy roughs were disputing in a rather bellicose fashion with a small man sporting a prominent pair of mutton-chop whiskers. As we approached nearer, one of the roughs grabbed the man by the collar and threw him to the ground. By the light of the large illuminated star above the pay-box, I immediately recognized the anxious face of Mr Geoffrey Martlemass, fiancé of Dorrie Grainger.
Our arrival had heated up the proceedings somewhat, but the roughs were quickly persuaded, by a brief demonstration of our combined force and determination, to leg it, while the whores swayed away into the darkness, shouting and jeering as they went.
‘It’s Mr Glapthorn, isn’t it?’ asked the little man, as I helped him to his feet. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence!’
Much against the advice of his inamorata, the philanthropic Mr Martlemass had been on a mission that night to bring the light of Christ to the whores of Cremorne – a task that would have taxed St Paul himself. He was rather crestfallen at his failure, but seemed manfully inclined to dust himself off and attempt the task again. It was only after a good deal of persuasion that he consented to let the uncaring objects of his crusade abide in darkness for a little while longer, and accepted our advice to return home.
‘We took a hansom,’ said Le Grice, ‘and you dropped me off in Piccadilly. What happened then?’
After Le Grice had been deposited safely at the Piccadilly entrance to Albany, Mr Martlemass and I continued our way eastwards. ‘The night has been a failure,’ he said, shaking his head mournfully, as we passed through Temple Bar, ‘but I am glad, at any rate, that our paths have crossed again. I wished to ask after your poor friend.’
I could not think to whom he was referring, whereupon, seeing my puzzlement, he enlarged upon his statement.
‘Your friend Mr Pettingale. Of Gray’s-Inn?’
‘Ah, yes. Pettingale. Of course.’
‘Are the injuries extensive?’
I had no idea what the little man was talking about; but my interest had of course been roused by the mention of Pettingale’s name, and so I decided to feign comprehension of the matter.
‘Extensive? Oh, moderately so, I believe.’
‘
All the members of the Society have expressed condemnation and concern – an attack upon a member in his chambers is an occurrence that is believed to be without precedent – and naturally my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, as a near neighbour of Mr Pettingale’s, feels the outrage particularly keenly.’
‘Quite.’
A little subtle probing on my part soon elicited enough information for me to grasp the story in outline.
A few days after my interview with him, Mr Lewis Pettingale had returned to his chambers one evening at about eight o’clock. His neighbour, Mr Gillory Piggott, happening to come into Field-court half an hour later, noticed a large man leaving the stair-case leading to Mr Pettingale’s set. The next morning, as usual, a waiter from the coffee-house near Gray’s-Inn-gate ascended those same stairs carrying Mr Pettingale’s breakfast, but, on knocking at the lawyer’s door, received no answer.
The door was found to be unlocked. On further investigation by the waiter, the body of Mr Pettingale was discovered slumped across the corner of the hearth. He had been beaten, with some violence, about the face and head, but was still alive. A doctor had been called, and that afternoon the injured lawyer had been taken away in a coach to his house in Richmond, there to be attended by his own physician.
We had now reached the corner of Chancery-lane, and Mr Martlemass, insisting that he would not allow me to be taken out of my way, descended from the cab and, after shaking my hand with his customary vigour, marched briskly off towards his lodgings in Red Lion-square.
During the last leg of the journey to Temple-street, I mused on what the attack on Pettingale might signify; but, as so often of late, I felt as if I were groping blindfold in the dark. I could not say for certain that there was a connexion with the lawyer’s former associate, Phoebus Daunt, though instinct strongly urged me to that conclusion. Perhaps Pettingale’s criminal past had simply caught up with him. A trip to Richmond, I decided, might be both pleasant and instructive.