The Blind Beak

by Ernest Dudley

  Settling smoothly into his new employment, Nick attempted to fathom the secret of Marianne Charpillon’s association with Casanova. It was obviously not entirely of the nature usually connected with the notorious adventurer. He began to draw his own conclusions and speculated when proof positive would be forthcoming. That the pair were, as he had surmised at the Bartholomew Fair tavern, engaged in some dubious enterprise became more and more evident to him. Casanova expended his guineas freely enough — visiting the theatre, coffee-houses and attending the most elegant salons of the bon ton, though, Nick noted, he rarely entertained at home, and then never of an evening. He was amply supplied with introductions to the leaders of London’s beau monde, he led the life of a man of fashion and appeared altogether the most genteel personage.

  Nevertheless Nick had not the faintest doubt in his mind but that the engagingly handsome Venetian, with his fascinating foreign accent and deliciously eyebrowraising reputation, was a creature of little substance, his appearance of wealth and prodigality a facade behind which he moved about some dark purpose. From the first Casanova had treated him less as a servant than as a companion. A junior partner, Nick thought to himself, in some venture. There were times when it seemed his new employer’s attitude was almost ingratiating, as if aimed at securing his co-operation against some future possible jeopardy.

  ‘I am attending Madame Corneleys’ assembly in Soho Square,’ Casanova told him one evening shortly after Nick had been installed. ‘Do you accompany me, remaining discreetly in the background to convey the impression you are my factotum, the while you observe and hear what goes on about me, what gamesters, rakes and their trulls press their attentions upon me.’

  That night, while Casanova decked himself out for the occasion in splendid magnificence and the house reeked of a dozen perfumes and pomades, Nick attired himself for the first time in his new black velvet coat and breeches Casanova had recently ordered his own tailor to make for him. As they entered Madame Corneleys’ house, all eyes turned on the Venetian. The women, quizzing one another through lorgnettes, or eating jellies, sipping lemonade and sherbets, fixed their admiring gaze on the newcomer, resplendent in his coat of dove-grey velvet falling in rich folds over a brocade waistcoat of costly lace, with more gold-edged lace frilling about his throat, down his shirt and spilling from his sleeves over beringed fingers. From his neck hung a diamond-spangled order by a scarlet ribbon. Like a shadow against this dazzling display, Nick hung back a pace or two, while Casanova, one hand resting on his jewelled sword-hilt, sauntered through the guests to pay his respects to Madame Corneleys, a delectable vision of elegance in the highest fashion. ‘We met in Holland,’ he confided to Nick on their way to Soho Square. ‘She is still mad for love of me.’ Leaning back in the carriage with a sigh, Nick pondered idly how Marianne Charpillon fitted into the picture.

  Presently the dancing began, then the guzzling and drinking, the guests proceeding in troupes to partake of the vast extravagance of foods and wines. Nick and Casanova standing aloof from the press of people, Nick quietly pointed out to the other a thin fellow in a very elegant frieze coat whom he recognized as a member of the light-fingered fraternity. Then Madame Corneleys returned from dancing, all very excited. Earl Percy of Northumberland had arrived, and was asking for Casanova, whom he had met in Turin. Casanova winked at Nick. ‘You see,’ in an undertone, ‘all sorts of persons come here,’ adding: ‘He once tried to buy a dancer love of mine from me. In the end I had to give her to him.’

  Now were the faces of the beaux becoming warm with dancing and wine, the women bright-eyed, some with their clothes somewhat disarrayed but in most inviting fashion, so a man could scarce be forgiven if his hand strayed, to the accompaniment of little shrieks and much pouting. Presently Casanova and Nick took their leave and returned to Spring Gardens. Never did the fair Marianne accompany Casanova, always it was Nick went out with his employer each night. It was as if his meeting them together at Bartholomew Fair had set in train some course of action already predetermined by the pair and which required the girl to occupy herself several hours in the evening. To Nick’s sharpened senses and razor-edged perception the house in Spring Gardens fairly reeked of intrigue but, he reminded himself, it was not to seek its solution for which he had been hired by Casanova. Every instinct warned him he was enmeshed in a web of dubious enterprise, even though he had no exact knowledge of what it was, but at least, he felt, he was leading a life which was a cut above what he had known before. He was swift to profit by his acquaintance with Casanova, absorbing from him the benefit of his worldly wise experience and something of a philosophy which on occasion went a trifle deeper than the cynical superficialities he was fond of uttering.

  ‘Be not misled by a woman’s smile and flattery. Tear aside her simpering and endearments as you might strip her face of its painted complexion, and a more calculating being never appeared in view. You are fortunate that in my company you will have opportunities to advance your knowledge of the world and society,’ adding warningly: ‘never flatter yourself you know more than but a fraction. I have seen a great deal of life, but I have a great deal yet to see.’

  In the following weeks, Nick, listening and learning all he could, playing the shadow to Casanova’s larger-than-life magnificence, began to acquire quite the air of a beau himself. The lace at wrists and throat was always meticulously white against the inevitable black of his full-skirted jacket, his shoes speckless and his dark unpowdered hair always freshly combed and brushed.

  Casanova would take Nick to Henry Angelo’s famous fencing establishment at the Opera House, Covent Garden, where Nick, aided by his natural boldness and agility, proved himself to be an apt pupil at the lounge and passade. They would drive together in Rotten Row on a Sunday morning, Casanova pointing out this famous dandy and that notoriety, while Nick would show him some prigging cove. Casanova would point to a surgeon, Nick to a resurrection-man, Casanova indicate a young blood in search of adventure, Nick a procuress sporting a new selection of jilts, smiling and ogling at every passing blade from their carriage. Nick would conduct Casanova to a flash tavern where highwaymen, fresh from Hounslow Heath, Bagshot and the Windsor Road, gathered, together with footpads from the by-lanes about Bloomsbury Fields, Edgeware Road and the new route from Islington to London, and daring marauders from Birdcage Walk. Nick enjoyed Casanova’s admiration for the confident manner with which he would saunter into a tobacco-smoky parlour, heavy with the stench of liquor and the sweat of its crowded occupants. While the company might stare at him sharply, and though he might recognize here and there a face from St. Giles’s, he himself was never recognized and challenged.

  From scraps of overheard conversation and fragments of intelligence he contrived to come by, Nick learned of the discouraging effect his hated enemy, the Blind Beak, was having upon the underworld. Fielding’s Bow Street Runners were making themselves felt by enforcing law and order upon the metropolis. Once Nick and Casanova were passing a half-hour in a notorious cellar in Charing Cross when a creature with the gallows-look upon him came in excitedly waving a newspaper. ‘Does anybody here read?’ he shouted. ‘There is news for all of us in this.’ Espying Nick, he thrust the newspaper into his hand. Amused, Nick read where the man’s filthy finger indicated.

  ‘WHEREAS many thieves and robbers daily escape justice for want of immediate pursuit’ — the crew around Nick grown of a sudden quiet — ‘it is therefore recommended to all persons who shall henceforth be robbed on the highway or in the streets, or whose shops or houses shall be broken open, that they give immediate notice thereof, together with as accurate description of the offenders as possible, to John Fielding, Esq., at his house in Bow Street, Covent Garden. Immediately, a set of brave fellows will I despatch in pursuit, who have been long engaged for such purposes. It is to be hoped that all persons for the future will give the earliest notice possible of all robberies and robbers whatever, whom I am sworn to defeat.’

  As they drov
e away in their hackney from the thieves’ kitchen, to return to Spring Gardens, Casanova declared grimly: ‘Such a person as this Blind Beak would quickly end up another corpse for the canal.’ Nick merely shrugged his approval of these sentiments. He was coming to know Casanova better and he could not but help recognize the Venetian was a mere husk of his former self. Even his powerful physique and iron constitution had been weakened by his excesses: he was still suffering from syphilis, though boasting of a cure by a course of manna pills prescribed by an Augsberg doctor, whom privately Nick thought as big a quack as Dr. Zodiac; and there were many occasions when that bright eye would dim, the vigorous frame sag, the keen brain nod.

  This contrast between the prematurely aged adventurer and Marianne Charpillon, sharp-witted and alert as could be, gave Nick considerable food for reflection. Casanova’s manifest infatuation for her, despite his characteristically feverish liaison with Madame Corneleys and other promiscuous dalliances with bordello strumpets, was obvious. She treated him with indifference, not to say scorn, and forced Nick to fear that whatever the outcome of the enterprise the pair were engaged upon, Casanova might emerge from it with less profit than Marianne Charpillon. Since he himself was bound to be involved, he felt he had every reason for a certain uneasiness about future prospects.

  That night Nick and Casanova were at Drury Lane. Casanova’s main interest lay not in seeing the great David Garrick, but in spending an amusing hour or two behind the scenes in the green room. Standing for a moment in the auditorium by one of the boxes, Nick was gazing down at the stage lit by hundreds of tallow candles, when Casanova, gorgeously apparelled as usual, and talking loudly, distracting most of the audience’s attention from the play, lowered his voice a trifle to tell Nick: ‘There is that extraordinary creature we saw at Bartholomew Fair.’

  Nick’s head came round with a jerk. For a few moments he was unable to speak. A genteel-looking fellow nearby, noting the direction of Casanova’s gaze, leaned forward. ‘That is our famous magistrate, the Blind Beak. You may attend his court in Bow Street at any time, where he dispenses justice with fine impartiality. Being a great friend of Davy Garrick, he is here tonight to enjoy his acting, which he follows marvellously well.’

  Casanova nodded thanks for the information and, with a glance at the massive figure who seemed to fill the box opposite, followed Nick, already edging towards the nearest way out. Casanova took him by the arm. ‘Shall we shift our ground?’ giving Nick a quizzical look. ‘Let us see what entertainment the green room at Covent Garden can offer.’

  Presently they were pushing their way through the crowd of beaux and rakes, women of the town and Covent Garden’s actors and actresses who were hobnobbing with their friends during the interval before they appeared on the stage. Casanova’s arrival brought the entire green room, it seemed to Nick, swarming about them. Among the various jilts was a young creature who affected an elegant muff and plume of feathers. ‘Fanny Brilliant,’ Nick told Casanova, explaining how the story went that the girl refused cash for her favours, accepting only diamonds. The Venetian observed her with some amusement ogling him outrageously, positively dazzling in her necklace and ear-rings, bracelets and rings — all of diamonds. Neither Fanny Brilliant nor any other strumpet taking Casanova’s fancy, he was murmuring presently to Nick they should seek elsewhere for entertainment.

  They left the shrill chatter of the women and the laughter and raucous jokes of the men-about-town behind them for the rattle and rumble of Covent Garden’s night traffic. In the glare of the torches held aloft by the link-boys, sedan-chairs took up and set down their fares, richly dressed women and elegant blades contrasting vividly with the decrepit and ragged wretches skulking in the shadows to slouch forward whining for alms. Casanova hailed a link-boy, directing him to conduct them down Long Acre. They halted before a house standing slightly back from the street, several steps ascending to its front door, ornamented on either side by a brightly burning red lamp.

  Entering, they were greeted in the dimly lit hall by a gross creature whom Casanova addressed as Mother Sulphur. Her face, sunk between mountainous shoulders, was wrinkled and begrimed with powder and paint beneath a pink-ribboned mob cap. ‘Welcome, my handsome bucks,’ she leered, ‘and are you all arut for my pretty little dears?’ Behind her, Nick noticed a Tyburn-visaged fellow hovered watchfully. There was some whispered haggling between Casanova and the bawd, the jingle of guineas, and the waddling monster led the way, calling for a bowl of arrack punch, through rich curtains into an anteroom, its walls decorated with pictures of nymphs and satyrs depicted in various obscene contortions. Having partaken of some of the liquor, served by a negro boy, with many winks and knowing looks, Mother Sulphur chattered the while in innuendoes: ‘All my goods are excellent peaches, fresh and ripe, yet not a rotten fruit among them, that I do vow.’

  Nick followed Casanova into the Mirror Room. The walls, ceiling and even the floor were covered with mirrors.

  Several large divans, draped in various colours and spread with cushions were placed about the room, lit by candelabras, reflected over and over again, so it appeared to Nick at one moment the room expanded vastly and the next it contracted again. From somewhere music began to play, part of one of the mirrored walls swung back and some half a dozen simpering girls cavorted into the room. Nick was nauseated by their archness, their painted smiles, their ill-simulated passion. The negro boy was snuffing out the candelabra, until the room was suitably dim.

  As if experiencing some terrifying nightmare, Nick felt trapped in some mirrored hell, the shrieks and laughter in his ears, the guffawing Casanova and his companions filled him with horror. Unmindful of the vixenish cries which swiftly gave place to the giggles and simpering, the pointed nails that reached for him, he sprang to the door of the Mirror Room and slammed it behind him. As he headed for the front door, the sinister-looking individual he had seen earlier appeared. ‘You are departing this early?’ The crafty face darkened with suspicion. ‘Why so hasty?’ Nick observed his hand unobtrusively shift to inside his jacket as if reaching for a dagger concealed there as he said: ‘It is usual to leave some token with the keeper of this cage of love.’

  ‘Then here is my token,’ and Nick caught the other a terrific blow in the mouth so that he was knocked half-way across the hall. At the same moment the dagger he had drawn flew from his grasp and skidded along the floor. The creature let out a yell of pain and alarm, blood pouring from his mouth, and two men appeared as if from nowhere and advanced upon Nick. Already, long knives gleamed in the pair of bullies’ hands and murder from out of their eyes. Nick, wearing no sword or dagger, would have been powerless against them. He had gained the door and, wrenching it open just as the two men threw themselves at him, he leaped down the steps into the dark street.

  8.

  Behind him, Nick heard the door open again, shouts and rushing footsteps. He darted across the road in front of an oncoming post-chaise. As it swept past between him and his pursuers he jumped for the step, found it with one foot and, grabbing the door-handle, hung on grimly. The vehicle gave a lurch, but the post-boy apparently decided they had merely encountered a deep puddle in the road. Glancing back Nick saw two shadowy forms dashing wildly about the street, vainly seeking him. He was awaiting an opportunity to slip quickly off the post-chaise, which now turned into a quiet street off Piccadilly, when it pulled up outside a house, the post-boy jumping down to attend to one of the horse’s harnesses.

  A footman appeared from the house carrying a flambeau, behind him a feminine figure, a hooded cloak about her. Nick was about to vanish into the darkness when the hood fell back and he saw the girl’s face. He stopped, staring. She could be aged no more than seventeen years. As he stood there transfixed by her extraordinarily appealing loveliness she called out to him:

  ‘I did not expect anyone to escort me such a short distance and since I am so late.’ She spoke haltingly, with a French accent he found enchanting. For a moment he did not a
nswer, then, realizing she was mistaking him for someone who had arrived in the post-chaise for her, he stepped forward with a little bow. The footman, with a ‘Good evening, sir,’ opened the carriage door, then turned to the girl. ‘Good night, Comtesse,’ whereupon Nick’s eyes glinted, and as he put out his hand to help the girl into the carriage, he found his voice:

  ‘Permit me, Comtesse.’

  The footman paused with an expectant glance at Nick, who grinned to himself, climbed in and took his place beside the girl. As the footman closed the door he heard him instruct the post-boy: ‘Back the way you came to Lady Harrington’s,’ and they set off.

  Nick recalled Casanova had said something earlier to him about a ball Lady Harrington was giving at her house that night. Obviously this was a carriage sent for the Comtesse, who had mistaken him for one of the guests. He thought for something to say which would prompt her to tell him more about herself. ‘I regret I did not catch your first name when Lady Harrington sent me along. Any more than when she described you,’ he added, his gaze holding hers. ‘I did not realize you were so fascinating as you are.’

  ‘I am called Chagrin.’ The way she spoke the name, it sounded as if it were a sigh, so that his heart seemed to constrict with a rush of tenderness he had never before known. ‘I am sorry,’ she continued, ‘to be late. But the boat from Calais was delayed. I arrived in London but two hours ago.’

  Nick inquired after her journey. Had the crossing been rough, the coach journey from Dover interrupted by any accident? She replied the Channel had been stormy, but she was a good sailor and was not much alarmed. The coach journey had been uneventful. Chagrin who? Beyond having learned she was some French Comtesse, who was she? ‘Unfortunately,’ he hesitated, showing a disarming frankness, ‘I do not speak French and I was puzzling how you would spell your name.’