The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  ‘What I don’t understand is, why Daunt sent me that book to give to you. Wouldn’t Miss Carteret have told him where he could find you?’

  ‘I can only guess that he is playing some sort of game with me,’

  I replied. ‘As a warning, perhaps, against trying to get back at him – to let me know that I am within his reach.’

  Le Grice looked doubtful. And then he suddenly spun round, an excited glint in his eyes: ‘I say! The copies! You still have the copies, of the Deposition and what not, that you sent to old Tredgold.’

  ‘Gone,’ I said.

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘When I got back from Evenwood, after seeing Miss Carteret, there was a letter from Mr Tredgold. There’d been a burglary – his sister and brother had taken him to the Cathedral and the house was empty. It was Pluckrose, I suppose. Nothing of value taken, only papers and documents. They were no use anyway. All in my own hand, you see. I made another copy of Mr Carteret’s Deposition, but it won’t help now. I have nothing.’

  Crestfallen, Le Grice threw himself back into his chair. But after a minute or two of silence, he slapped the arm.

  ‘Breakfast, I think. That’s the thing we need.’

  So off we went to the London Tavern to take our fill of eggs, bacon, and oyster-toast, supplemented by liberal doses of coffee.

  ‘There’s no point beating around the bush, old boy,’ said Le Grice as we walked out into the street afterwards. ‘You’re sunk. And that’s all about it.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ I agreed gloomily.

  ‘And there’s still our friend on the river. The jolly boatman. What I think is, he might be an associate of Daunt’s, perhaps, keeping an eye on you. Now what’s to be done about him, I wonder?’

  It is strange how a single word or phrase from another’s lips can sometimes throw light on a truth that we have been struggling unsuccessfully to uncover. Was there no end to my stupidity? An associate of Daunt’s? There was only one associate of his that I knew of, and that was Josiah Pluckrose. The line of reasoning that succeeded this thought was swift and, to my mind, conclusive. If Pluckrose was the man in the boat, then Pluckrose might also be the man who had tapped me on the shoulder on leaving Abney Cemetery after the funeral of Lucas Trendle, and outside the Diorama following my walk with Bella in the Regent’s Park. Miss Carteret, after all, had let slip that Pluckrose had followed me to Stamford. How long had I been marked? And then the leap. ‘An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold, it is come.’ I heard again in my head the admonitory verse from Ezekiel, to which I had been directed by a series of pin-pricked holes on the first blackmail note. Blackmail? No; a warning, from my enemy. Jukes, I now saw, had nothing to do with it. The notes were the work of Daunt.

  ‘What ails thee, knight-at-arms?’ I heard Le Grice say as he clapped me heartily on the back. ‘You look distinctly seedy, but then I’m not surprised. Mr Dark Horse indeed! But fret not. The pride of the Le Grices is by your side, come what may. No need to soldier on alone any more. There’s still some time before I join my regiment, and it’s yours, old boy, all yours. And then, perhaps you might go travelling till I return. What do you say?’

  I took his hand and thanked him, from the bottom of my heart, though my mind was already far away, reflecting on the consequences of my belated realization.

  ‘What now?’ he asked, cheroot clamped between his teeth.

  ‘I’m to my bed,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  I had unmasked my blackmailer, though it was not blackmail my enemy intended: of that I was now certain. I had nothing left to give him, and he could go to the authorities and denounce me in a moment for the murder of Lucas Trendle if he so wished. Was he merely demonstrating his power over me? I considered this question for some time, concluding at last that it would be in character for him to do so, like the spiteful little tug that he was; but I now began to perceive another, darker, danger looming behind this pleasant little prank, a danger Mr Tredgold had seen, but which I had formerly made light of. Daunt had set Pluckrose to watch me, and now he knew about Lucas Trendle. The note to Bella, and the invitation to my victim’s funeral, were simply diversions. But from what?

  Then all became clear. He had taken everything from me, but he was not satisfied. Whilst I lived, I must of course be a constant threat to him; for he could not be certain that some other piece of evidence, conclusive to my claim to be Lord Tansor’s lawful heir, might not come to light, and so sink his prospects for ever. If I put myself in his place, then only one course of action presented itself. He must take my life, to make his triumph certain.

  I had let matters drag on too long. Action was now needed, firm and decisive. I must now, at long last, strike the first – and final – blow against my enemy.

  A letter arrived late the next afternoon from Mr Tredgold, imploring me to come to Canterbury as soon as I was able. But what could Mr Tredgold do for me? Without the evidence that had been taken from me, my claim to be Lord Tansor’s son could never be pursued. ‘Your continuing silence has given me great anxiety,’ he wrote.I do not well know what I can do to assist you, if you will not inform me of your present circumstances. You will understand, of course, that I am unable to take up your cause directly with Lord Tansor. There would be consequences – of the most serious character – if my part in the conspiracy carried out by his Lordship’s late wife were to become known. I care nothing now for myself, or for my reputation; but the standing of the firm – well, that is a very different case. Greater than even this consideration, however, is the solemn vow I took in the Temple Church, never to betray your mother. This vow I shall never willingly break. When the truth is known, as it may soon be, then of course I shall face whatever comes, for your sake. But I cannot and will not, of my own volition, reveal it to Lord Tansor. That responsibility is yours, dear Edward, and yours alone. But I wish to speak to you so very badly, about these matters, and when and how you intend to communicate with his Lordship, and how I may offer what help I can, within the limits of my ability. Come soon, my dear boy.On the back of the letter was a postscript:I have to thank you – as I am confident that you were responsible – for the copy of the ‘C—of V—’* that arrived yesterday. The accompanying note from the bookseller announced that it had been obtained for me, after much searching, on the instructions of a valued customer of his, who wished to remain anonymous. I do not need to say how grateful I am that my cabinet now contains such a fine copy of this most interesting work, or how much I miss our regular bibliographic conversations. I have no one now with whom I can share my little enthusiasms; no one, indeed, to whom I can turn in the confident anticipation of delight in their company. But these are matters that belong to a former, and happier, time.

  With a sigh, I laid the letter on my work-table. I had nothing to say in reply, and there it would remain, unanswered. Even if I had still possessed the proof of my identity that had been taken from me, through the perfidy of Miss Carteret, I would have been unwilling to request Mr Tredgold to intercede with Lord Tansor on my behalf. I saw only too clearly that the risk of catastrophe for the firm, and of professional opprobrium and scandal for him, would have been too great; and I would not for the world, not even to regain everything I had lost, have asked him to betray the woman he loved. Now it was too late. The proof had been destroyed, and there was no help left. Feeling a sudden, crushing oppression of spirits, I retired to my bed.

  I awoke suddenly, at a little before midnight. For two nights past, I had experienced that most fearful dream of mine, in which I find myself alone in the midst of a vast columned chamber in the depths of the earth, my flickering candle revealing nothing but Stygian darkness without end on every side; but then, as always, I realize – with suffocating terror – that I am not alone, as I had believed. Maddened with fear, I await each time the expected soft pressure on the shoulder, and the little stream of warm breath, caressing my cheek as it extinguishes the candle’s flame.

>   I could not face it a third time, and so I got up and tried to light the fire in my sitting-room, but it would not draw and soon puttered out. Wrapped in a blanket against the cold, I took up the third volume of the Bibliotheca Duportiana, and sat before the dreary blank mouth of the fireplace.

  I had reached the letter ‘N’: Nabbes’s Microcosmus: A morall maske (1637); the works of Thomas Nashe; Pynson’s Natura Brevium of 1494; Fridericus Nausea’s Of all Blasing Starres in Generall, published in English by Woodcocke in 1577; Netter’s Sacramentalia (Paris, François Regnault, 1523).* I lingered for a moment over Dr Daunt’s description of this rare work of doctrinal theology – an exceptionally rare work; a most improbable work for a solicitor’s clerk, on eighty pounds a year, to possess.

  At eight o’clock the next morning I was standing at the top of the stairs, listening. At last I heard it: the sound of Fordyce Jukes’s door closing behind him. Once at the bottom, I lingered for a moment or two, smelling the cold damp air coming in from the street. The door was locked, as I expected, but I had come prepared with a large selection of skeleton keys, acquired during the course of my work for Mr Tredgold, and soon gained entry.

  The apartment was as I remembered it from my last uninvited visit: neat and comfortable, swept and polished, and containing an extraordinary number of fine and valuable objects. But only one of them interested me at that moment.

  The lock of the cabinet presented no difficulty. I reached in and took out what I sought: Thomas Netter, Sacramentalia – folio, Paris, Regnault, 1523. It bore the same bookplate as that of the first edition of Felltham’s Resolves, secreted by Miss Eames in Lady Tansor’s burial chamber. There were a dozen or so other books of rare quality in the cabinet. They all carried the same plate. The books; the paintings and prints on the walls; the objets in the cabinets – all of the first quality, all portable, and all undoubtedly stolen from Evenwood. I carefully replaced the book, re-locked the cabinet, and then the stair-case door.

  This, then, had been Daunt’s ‘new tack’, as revealed to me by Pettingale. Like the despicable ingrate that he was, he had removed these rare and exceedingly valuable items from his patron’s house, and had stowed them away here, in the rooms of his creature, Fordyce Jukes, until he should have need of them. How he came to employ Jukes in this way did not concern me; but it was now clear to me how my enemy had been apprised of all my movements. There would be no trail leading back to Daunt, that was sure. But Jukes – who had no doubt also been engaged to watch me – was a different matter.

  Back in my room, I composed a short letter, in capital letters and using my left hand:DEAR LORD TANSOR, —I WISH TO BRING TO YOUR ATTENTION A MOST SERIOUS MATTER, CONCERNING A NUMBER OF VALUABLE ITEMS THAT I BELIEVE HAVE BEEN UNLAWFULLY REMOVED FROM YOUR COUNTRY RESIDENCE. THE ITEMS IN QUESTION, WHICH INCLUDE SEVERAL BOOKS OF GREAT RARITY, MAY BE FOUND, QUITE OPEN TO VIEW, IN THE ROOMS OF F. JUKES, SOLICITOR’S CLERK, I TEMPLE-STREET, WHITEFRIARS, GROUND FLOOR.I ASSURE YOU, MY LORD, THAT THIS INFORMATION IS PERFECTLY ACCURATE, AND THAT I HAVE NO OTHER MOTIVE IN SETTING IT BEFORE YOU THAN A SINCERE REGARD FOR YOUR POSITION AS THE PRESENT REPRESENTATIVE OF AN ANCIENT AND DISTINGUISHED FAMILY, AND AN EARNEST DESIRE TO SEE JUSTICE DONE.I AM, SIR, YOUR VERY OBEDIENT SERVANT,‘CHRYSAOR’*

  So much for Fordyce Jukes.

  Windmill-street, dusk.

  The drabs, all rouged up for business, were beginning to swarm out of the surrounding courts and into the streets. I lingered for a while in Ramsden’s coffee-house, and then sauntered along to the Three Spies.† A dirty little gonoph* tried to pick my pocket as I stood lighting my cigar, but I turned just in time and knocked him down, to the general amusement of all around.

  Several of the drabs gave me the eye, but there was nothing that took my fancy. Then, as I was about to move off, a girl came out of the Three Spies, carrying an umbrella. She looked up at the sky, and was preparing to walk past me when I stopped her.

  ‘Excuse me. Why, of course! Mabel, is it not?’

  She eyed me up and down.

  ‘And who, may I ask, wants to know?’

  And then she smiled her recognition.

  ‘Mr Glapthorn, I think. How do you do?’ Delightfully, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of soap and eau de Cologne.

  I replied that I was all the better for seeing her and asked after her employer, the enterprising Madame Mathilde, and also her sister Cissie, for I had a sudden strong hankering to reacquaint myself with these most accommodating soeurs de joie.

  Cissie was in Gerrard-street, I was informed, and so after some refreshment at the Opera Tavern, we repaired thither through the rain. Up the stairs we went, to find Miss Cissie warming her pretty toes by the fire.

  ‘Well, ladies,’ I said gaily, removing my hat and gloves, ‘here we are again.’

  Afterwards, I walked down to Leicester-square. Minded to take some supper, I turned into Castle-street and entered Rouget’s, having briefly inspected the offerings in Mr Quaritch’s window en route.† I took my seat by the window, and ordered up supper – Julienne soup, some pâté d’Italie, bread, and a bottle of red wine. For an hour or more I sat in gloomy contemplation of my desolation; then I called for another bottle.

  At half past eleven, the waiter opened the door to the street for me to pass through, holding out his hand to assist me as I mounted the step, but I pushed him away with a curse. For a moment or two I was unable to remember where I was. A crowd of bravoes came rolling down the street towards me, and looked me up and down, thinking perhaps that I was ripe for picking. But I was still able to eye them back, defiantly spitting out my cigar butt as I did so. They continued on their way.

  ‘Looking for business, sir?’

  Damn it. I had nothing else to do, and Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie were already dim memories. She was young, not too dirty, and had a pretty smile.

  ‘Always looking for business, my dear.’

  What was that? I turned as quickly as I could; but in my somewhat inebriated state, I lost my balance and fell against the girl. She tried to hold me up but I was too heavy, and we both ended up on the muddy pavement.

  ‘’Ere, wot’s your game?’ she asked indignantly.

  But I was no longer interested in a piece of cheap cunny. That tap on the shoulder had brought me to my senses.

  I saw him reach into his pocket, and in another second the cosh was in his hand. The girl, screaming obscenities, scrambled up from the pavement and started to kick at him. As he turned to push her away, I drew out my pistol and pointed it straight into the ugly face of Josiah Pluckrose.

  We stood thus, eyeball to eyeball, until he gave me an evil smile, calmly replaced the cosh in his pocket, and walked off, whistling.

  My encounter with Pluckrose stung me into action, and I soon devised a plan, which, I hoped, would deprive Daunt of his formidable protector.

  A man like Pluckrose, I reasoned, would have made many enemies. As I turned over this likelihood in my mind, I remembered something that Lewis Pettingale had said in passing, during our conversation in Gray’s-Inn, concerning Isaac Gabb, the youngest member of the Newmarket gang to have been despatched by Pluckrose, known then as Mr Verdant.

  According to Pettingale, Gabb the Younger’s brother had kept a public-house in Rotherhithe; a moment’s consultation of the Directory on my return to Temple-street quickly identified the establishment and its location. Knowing from my own experience the general disposition of the population of Rotherhithe, and knowing also from Pettingale that Gabb Senior had expressed a clear desire to return the favour to his brother’s killer, if only he could find him, it seemed most probable that this gentleman might not be averse to knowing Mr Verdant’s real name and present whereabouts.

  So far, so good. But where was Pluckrose now residing? He had surely moved from Weymouth-street, where he had been living when he married poor Agnes Baker. I consulted the current issue of the Directory and, to my amazement, found him listed therein. Confirmation that Mr J. Pluckrose was the pres
ent occupier of Number 42, Weymouth-street, was soon provided by the scullery maid from Number 40; Mr Pluckrose, it seemed, had not vacated the house after the death of his wife but had brazenly remained there, in defiance of his neighbours’ disapproval, ever since.

  Armed with this salient fact, I set off for Rotherhithe.

  Mr Abraham Gabb was a short, lean-shanked, gimlet-eyed gentleman, possessing the vicious aspect of a terrier perpetually on the look-out for something to sink his teeth into and shake until its back-bone cracked. The public-house in Rotherhithe of which he was lord and master was, like himself, small, dirty, and vicious by reputation. Mine host regarded me warily as I approached the bar; but I was used to such places, and to men such as Mr Gabb, and had only to look him in the eye, slap down some coins, and say but a few choice words before I had his complete attention.

  As he digested the information that I put before him, his terrier eyes began to glint – no doubt in eager anticipation of renewing his acquaintance with the gentleman who had undoubtedly cut short his brother’s life. My plan succeeded more easily than I could have anticipated. As he had only ever known Pluckrose by his soubriquet of ‘Mr Verdant’, it had hitherto been impossible for Gabb to hunt down his brother’s killer. Knowing now where he lived, and under what name, the landlord was in a position to mete out the vengeance that he had long contemplated. Throwing back my brandy, I expressed myself heartily gratified that I had been able to perform this trifling service to him.

  But Mr Gabb was wary, and said nothing by way of reply; then, calling over two ugly-looking, bull-backed bruisers who had been leaning together, deep in conversation, at the other end of the bar, he left me alone, and the three of them engaged in a huddled conference. At length, after much whistling and pursing of lips, the landlord, nodding knowingly to his two compatriots, turned back towards me.

  ‘You’re sure Verdant is there?’ Mr Gabb, still wary, fixed me with his eye while he stroked his dirty chin as an aid to comprehension.