‘You were led astray by him. And I was led astray by you.’ Clara thinks about this. ‘I am disappointed in you, Reginald. I had assumed that a square man might recognize a crooked one.’
‘Clara, I swear on my honour that I shall set everything right.’
‘But how is that possible, Sir? You have intertwined my life and my reputation with that of a filthy murderer and … oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about! I have been betrayed in the lowest possible way!’ So saying, she launches into a fresh round of weeping.
‘Betrayed you? Whatever do you mean? How have I betrayed you, Clara?’
‘I cannot pronounce the words to describe it. It would foul my lips to do so.’
Reginald Harewood rises suddenly to his feet with an expression of horror. ‘I understand. It was he, was it not? He set you against me!’
The weeping pauses momentarily. ‘I must confess that the facts ensued from that, that beastly man …’
‘It was he who told you that … that …’
‘That you had … another.’
‘Another damnable lie! I swear it to you upon my honour!’
‘But why, Reggie? Why would he say such a thing if it were not true? It possible for one person to be so deceitful?’
‘Oh Clara my dear, you are such a child.’ So saying, he puts his arms around her. To which she does not object.
Victoria and Wellington look to the future. The Saviour looks to Heaven.
‘What is it you came to say to me, Reggie?’ she asks, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. With her other hand she takes a mint from the bowl, and places it in her mouth.
51
New Oxford Street
As noted previously, the creation of dismal New Oxford Street bisected the great rookery, thereby doubling the population of the remaining half, while leaving the Duke of Bedford £114,000 to the good. New Oxford Street also had the inadvertent effect of re-establishing St Giles Church as the principal gateway to the Holy Land, a sort of interregnum between one world and the next.
St Giles is well equipped for this responsibility. There has been a house of prayer on this site since 1101, when Queen Matilda founded a leper hospital, whose chapel became the parish church. As well, convicts on their final passage to Tyburn for execution were traditionally permitted to stop at the Angel next door, to be presented with a St Giles’ bowl of ale, thus to drink a last refreshment before passing out of this life.
How suitable to the memory of Giles, the seventh-century Greek whose insistence on living as a leper outside the walls of the town, and whose own damaged leg, established his patronage of cripples and beggars.
So thinks Whitty, loitering in the doorway of an abandoned shop on New Oxford Street, having followed the elegantly clad figure from Regent Street to Oxford Circus, thence to St Giles High Street, and to this church, with its spire thirty fathoms high and its reeking churchyard in which lies the poet Marvell, who employed the grave as an inducement to his coy mistress, and now experiences the truth of his contention at length.
After William Ryan alighted from the hansom and disappeared through the front entrance of the Grove of the Evangelist, his former travelling companion did not order the driver to take him home; rather, he took to the street himself and settled into a bush for a sleepless night of watching; which exercise has continued ever since, for it is not in Whitty’s nature to let go of a narrative, whether it be of any use to him or not.
Hence, he proceeded to follow Mr Ryan at a distance wherever he chose to travel, over the course of nearly a week: to his tailor, to his tobacconist, to the various places of high living available to a vindicated murderer with a generous mistress. Impressive, thinks Whitty, the quickness and ease with which a man will create an agreeable daily ritual, then follow it to the point of religion.
In the meanwhile, over the course of his sleepless wandering, Whitty has gained an appreciation of the sartorial difficulties presented by outdoor living – how the poor come to appear in such a bedraggled state. Lurking in the shadows as Mr Ryan’s observer, wrapped as a blanket against the cold, Whitty’s fine green overcoat has deteriorated to the point where he may never again wear it in public. In addition, he now appreciates the importance of tobacco to ease the pangs of hunger and maintain wakefulness – and, of course, a drop or two of gin.
To be deceived so thoroughly! For Whitty this is not to be borne. If he cannot come to some understanding of what happened and how, it is an open question whether he will ever trust his instinct again. For when a writer’s pride in instinct is pricked, the spirit literally splits in two, into the prosecution and the accused, the executioner and the condemned.
The evening fog has just begun to settle as Whitty retreats into a corner of the doorway, the better to render himself inconspicuous to his quarry – which action proves unnecessary in any case, for the correspondent’s deteriorated condition renders him virtually invisible to passers-by.
William Ryan, for his part, wearing a dove-grey coat and matching top hat, spotless linen and a twice-around neck-cloth of blue silk (the current custom), cuts a figure which is the very essence of suave civility. With not so much as a glance at the figure in the doorway, he traverses the walkway, opens the heavy door of the church and disappears within.
The time approaches eight o’clock – or so says the clock. One never knows with church clocks, in this temporal era.
Having sharpened his concentration with a pinch of snuff, Whitty crosses the street and passes through the gate, noting the tableau overhead in which our Lord and Saviour presides over a tangle of human bodies, some playing harps and horns, others opening their clothes to reveal breasts of bone, all rising from their graves.
This is Resurrection Gate, through which coffins are carried to service. How appropriate.
Upon entering the church foyer he hears the unmistakable sound of a workman effecting repairs to a piece of wooden furniture. Upon entering the nave, he understands a great deal.
The pulpit, to the left of the altar, is enormous, made of mahogany, constructed as a tower from which the spiritual leader, standing at the lectern on a Sunday, hovers above the congregation, having reached his perch by a winding stair.
This stairway contains two landings: at the second landing Whitty observes William Ryan, having taken off his fine grey coat, lit by the dappled light afforded by the stained-glass windows above, in the act of removing one of several carved wooden panels, fitted into frames and concealing the interior structure; this particular panel is held in place, not by pegs like the others, but by means of a piece of leather, attached on the inside and acting as a kind of hinge. After peering inside, Ryan reaches underneath the second landing and removes a canvas satchel which has been lodged there, brushing off a light coating of dust.
‘Good evening, Mr Ryan. I trust you found your blood money without difficulty?’
Having recognized the voice, William Ryan squints in the direction of the man standing in the shadows next to the rear pew. ‘And a good evening to you, Mr Whitty, Sir. You’ve arrived a bit late, I’m afraid.’
‘Late for what, Sir?’
‘Having ascertained the hiding place from Mr Hollow, clearly you were after the prize. I am sorry to have outrun you.’
‘Not at all, Mr Ryan. I learned nothing from Mr Hollow. You are welcome to the money, and welcome to go to Hell.’
‘Whitty, allow me to warn you not to trouble me nor my wife-to-be, as we prepare for our journey. I wish you well, Sir, as long as you do not present a threat or inconvenience. If such is the case, it would give me some satisfaction to reveal the full particulars, about the correspondent who freed a murderer in return for a saleable narrative – and a share in the spoils.’
‘Speaking of which, you will wish to safeguard the contents of your satchel, Sir. This is not a good neighbourhood through which to transport a large amount of money.’
‘Save your concern for your own money, Mr Whitty. I shall manage.’
Unwilling to put down the satchel even for a moment, William Ryan shrugs his dappled coat awkwardly over one shoulder and proceeds down the aisle.
‘By the way, Mr Ryan, I congratulate you on your fine suit of clothes. Especially the scarf – from Forbes, is it not?’
‘Right you are, Sir. You have an eye for haberdashery.’
‘I should have thought you would have purchased your scarf from Poole’s.’
Ryan pauses at the top of the steps to regard the correspondent, with the aspect of a tolerant man whose patience has reached its limit.
‘That is enough, Mr Whitty. Having served your purpose, you are becoming a pest. Accordingly, if I hear of you again I promise you a terrific amount of harm – in which effort I have already prepared a document as I have just described, addressed to a Mr Fraser of Dodd’s, containing revelations what will put you on the street for good, Sir – if not in transportation.’
‘I am acquainted with Mr Fraser. A good choice for a spot of blackmail.’
‘You know more than I, Mr Whitty, about the power of the press.’
Whereupon William Ryan exits the church, passing through Resurrection Gate, and disappears into the dark emptiness of New Oxford Street.
CORRESPONDENT TO TAKE HIS LEAVE
Mr Edmund Whitty, Special Correspondent
for The Falcon, begs to take temporary leave
of his position for reasons of health. In his
absence, he directs the reader’s attention to
the observations of his substitute, the eminent
and highly readable Mr Henry Owler.
52
The Grove of the Evangelist
Whitty examines Mrs Marlowe’s library. Unusually for this part of London, they are not show-books. All bear signs of use: Milton, Thomas à Kempis, a much-thumbed Keats, Quarle’s Emblems, Dante, Schiller, Tupper … The titles suggest a member of a reading set, while the Pre-Raphaelite daub on the wall suggests a Bohemian taste; no doubt the combination reflects the sensibility of the Fashionable Girls’ School, about which much has been said.
‘I compliment you on your library, Madam. Do you propose to transport these volumes to the New World?’
‘No, Sir, I have already read them. Other than the poets, I have no wish to read them again.’
Mrs Marlowe reclines in a divan beside the fire, wearing loose jodhpurs and Belgravia boots, her glorious hair piled atop her head in suitable disarray. On the tea-table is a small yet alarming horsehair whip, with a handle made of glass and brass; next to it is another volume of Keats.
‘I shall not take up a great deal of your time, for I see that I have interrupted you in the course of your studies.’
‘I don’t know why you have come, Mr Whitty, being informed that Mr Ryan is not on the premises.’
‘I have come because it is you whom I wish to visit.’
‘Oh, really? I did not take you for an Eton man.’
‘That is hard, Madam, and I resent the insinuation.’
‘I am a woman most men find of limited interest. Only Mr Ryan has ever valued me for myself. For what purpose do you wish to see me?’
‘In the interests of my own peace of mind, Madam, such as it is, not to mention your security and happiness.’
‘I am flabbergasted, Sir, by the depth of your concern.’
‘Mrs Marlowe, let us be candid: I don’t expect you to pay the slightest attention to what I am about to say. None the less, it is my duty to inform you that your husband-to-be is a murderer and a thief, though not necessarily in that order.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Whitty, but are you delirious? You seem to be in the throes of a fever. And your appearance, Sir! Had Mrs Button not recognized you at the door, my footman would have turned you away.’
‘I agree, Madam, that I am not looking my best at this moment. None the less, I have something of value to offer.’ So saying, the correspondent produces a sheaf of paper, folded into a packet.
‘What is that, Sir?’
‘It is a narrative. An alternative narrative.’
‘Alternative to what, Mr Whitty?’
‘To the narrative advanced by Mr Ryan, which you have purchased with your future.’
‘And which narrative is the true one, Sir?’
‘I should leave that for you to decide, Madam, if indeed it matters to you. In any case there is some doggerel included which will amuse you.’
Now I lay in Newgate Gaol
As Chokee Bill to die;
Though doomed to Hell I cannot fail
To apprehend a lie,
One fiend to wear a hemp cravat,
Which the other fits;
One fiend hangs for murder that
The other fiend commits …
‘I do not wish to read it, Sir. It is not a verse form which interests me, therefore I shall not take it. Mr Ryan warned me that you might appear with fantastic claims, displaying indications of dementia – the result of a shock to the system, compounded by overindulgence.’
Whitty shrugs, returning the packet to his coat pocket. ‘As you wish, Madam. You are, it is plain to see, a shrewd woman with a hard-earned knowledge of the world, who will not be made an easy victim. As such, I suggest that you know a brutal and deceptive man when you meet one. Should you, in your travels with Mr Ryan, encounter a curiously large amount of money in his possession, or an unaccountable streak of brutality in his manner – think on me, Mrs Marlowe. Think on the events which have taken place in recent weeks, and use your best judgement, and decide who has been your friend. And now, Madam, please allow me to bid you a very good-day.’
‘And to you, Mr Whitty.’
They rise in unison. Mrs Marlowe takes the little whip from the table in her strong white fingers. Her hand trembles, but quickly regains its poise.
Whitty crosses to the door, stops, and turns as though an afterthought has occurred to him: ‘By the by, Madam, I wonder if you might allow me to present you with this.’ So saying, he produces the scarf, an expensive scarf made of silk, which has been cruelly twisted and soiled.
‘What is that, Sir? And why should I want it?’
‘It is a very fine scarf, I assure you. It came from Forbes.’ Indeed, the correspondent bought it from that establishment this morning, and a pretty price it was, too.
‘Goodbye, Mr Whitty. Perhaps my husband-to-be will have use of it.’
‘For your sake, Madam, I sincerely hope not.’
So saying, Whitty exits the room, leaving the scarf on the table, coiled like a worm.
The dark woman with the peculiar scar awaits him in the foyer. Without doubt she has been listening in on the proceedings in the sitting-room.
Whitty executes a small bow. ‘Good-day, Mrs Button. May I assume that you will be accompanying your employer to the New World?’
‘Yes, Sir. I shall accompany my mistress wherever she goes.’
‘In that case I must bid you goodbye as well. I expect we shall not meet again.’
‘I expect not, Sir. It is a big ocean.’
‘In which case, may I have permission to ask a personal question?’
‘You may, Sir, though I do not guarantee an answer.’
‘It is about your injury, Madam.’
‘Do you mean my scar?’ She touches with one finger the deep red welt, as though to be assured of its existence.
‘Yes.’ Whitty is working on instinct, drawing upon a part of the mind not usually accessed without medication.
‘A certain gentleman caused it while of unsound mind. For my mistress’s sake, I shall not tell you who he was, nor what happened to him.’
‘Mrs Button, you have been graciously forthcoming. As a token of my thanks, might you find a use for reading material on your way to America?’
‘That is possible, Sir. While at sea, the time does weigh heavily upon one’s hands.’
‘Then I beg you to accept this trifle, with my compliments.’ So saying, he removes the packet from his pocket.
‘Thank you, Sir. I shall read it with interest.’
‘See that you take care of your mistress, should she have need of you.’
‘Do not worry yourself with that, Sir. I always take excellent care of my mistress.’
THE MURDERER’S CELL, NEWGATE:
AN UNUSUAL INCIDENT
by
Henry Owler
Special Correspondent
The Falcon
Mr Robert Dow, merchant-tailor, deceased 1612, in his Will did charge the sexton of St Sepulchre’s that he should pronounce two exhortations to the person condemned, and ring the bell while the prisoner was carted past the church, for which service was left the sum of 26s. 8d., for ever.
Furthermore, an exhortation was to be pronounced to the condemned on the night before his death, as follows:
You prisoner within, who, for wickedness and sin, after many mercies shown, are now appointed to die tomorrow, give ear and understand that the great bell of St Sepulchre’s shall toll for you, to which end that all goodly people, hearing that bell, knowing it is for your death, may be stirred up heartily to pray to God. Therefore I beseech you to keep this night in watching and prayer for the salvation of your soul, while there is yet time and place for mercy, knowing tomorrow you must sit at the judgement-seat of your Creator, there to give an account of all things done in this life, and to suffer eternal torments for your sins committed against Him, unless through your hearty repentance you find mercy through the merits, death and passion of your only mediator and advocate, Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God to make intercession for those who penitentially return to Him.
The Fiend in Human Page 39